The Truth Commissioner (15 page)

It feels as if she is leading him, leading him the way she always did when she wanted him to come and admire something she
was proud of, and he wonders why it always took that compulsion, the press of her hand in his back or the tug at the cuff
of his sleeve. Then the moment comes when he has to give her over and he hesitates for a second and as her arm slips out of
his it feels like the untying of a knot and he knows she is gone like some small boat unmooring and setting out to sea. He
tries to think of himself as the harbour but cannot hold the momentary comfort the image brings because he knows that he was
never the provider of safety but rather the person who put her at risk, the father who always put her needs second to what
he saw as the bigger needs of the cause. He punishes himself with the assertion that Justin, even Justin, deserves her more
than he does so let him not hesitate now, or be begrudging in his giving, and as he takes his seat in the pew he silently
promises himself that he will atone for the past through the love and time he will give to her child.

As Father Hagan begins the ceremony he tells himself that he will do what all the rest have done and buy himself somewhere
in the west of Ireland, maybe even in the Gaeltacht, and that Christine and the child will come over every summer and spend
a long time with them. So as Father Hagan intones in a voice that sounds even more surly than normal, he lets his mind flood
with images of white strands where seas embrace the outstretched arms of the shore and there are castles to be built and kites
to be flown. If it comes to it he will even play cricket before the bat gradually gets replaced by a hurley stick. Marie whispers
to him that Father Hagan's nose is out because Christine has devised her own order of service and insisted on having her own
ideas. So now after one of her friends finishes reading a passage from the Song of Solomon, Hagan greets it by remarking on
its beauty but then informs them that Solomon had seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines. Someone sniggers but in
the face of the priest's stern gaze it quickly fades into silence. Gilroy focuses again on a child playing on a beach, this
time slightly at a distance from him, silhouetted against the sea, and then he calls and the child comes running, his feet
splashing up little squirms of sand. So while Father Hagan rambles on about the sanctity of marriage and itemises the responsibilities
involved as if to put off anyone else who might be thinking about it, there's a warm smile on his face as if by blowing sparks
from the ashes of a fire he's able to flame the images into life.

The ceremony is over. Now another man walks her down the aisle. Walks her away from them so they have to angle their heads
to follow their path and all eyes are on the couple and for the first time no one is looking at him. Marie squeezes his hand
and dabs her eyes with a paper tissue and he is a little shocked that she should almost cry when she's a woman who never lets
the world see her without her face on. He pats her twice on the shoulder and then feels the inadequacy of the gesture, thinks
that it's a hopelessly meagre thing to give to a woman who has supported him with everything she possesses and never blamed
him, so he touches the nape of her neck but she drops the tissue into her bag and tells him to watch her hat. He lets his
hand fall again and then they're standing up and making their way down the aisle and people at the end of the pews reach out
to shake his hand or slap him on the back. He begins to think about his speech but when he pats his pocket there's only an
emptiness and he realises that he's left it on the kitchen table but the realisation brings no sense of panic. There would
be time for Sweeney to call and collect it before he has to deliver it but he decides to leave it where it is. It was no good
anyway, it was not what he wanted to say: full of platitudes and cliches, it was someone else's voice. And on this day he
should speak in his own voice and he should speak from the heart so let it be different from all the times he rises to present
a speech. Let him speak simply and sincerely, let him speak truly without artifice or guile, let him not have to talk with
the purpose only of saying nothing that has not been said before. So no codes and no set phrases, no old familiar refrains
that get sung by rote. Today he will make a speech that will touch the hearts of all who hear it and it will be a delicate
thing that will rise up on the lightest of wings like that child's kite on the beach and it will hover over his only daughter
wherever she might go in the world and she will always be able to call it to mind. So as he walks into the sudden bright frieze
of light that frames the entrance of the church he blinks at first and then puts all thoughts of the speech out of his mind
because he knows that when he needs it, it will come as complete and fresh as the sea-salted air.

The confetti fountains sideways in the wind, mostly landing on the throwers. Some of it flutters skywards above everyone's
head before swirling back to land. The couple are caught in a cat's cradle of outstretched hands that rise up to throw the
coloured snow across their path and by the laughter that breaks boldly free of the solemnity of the church. The feathers in
Marie's hat flutter and threaten to take flight until she grounds them with her hand. Then it's into the cars and on to the
reception which is to take place in a hotel on the outskirts of the city and as he sits with Marie she picks flecks of confetti
off his jacket, then checks her make-up in a little mirror she carries in her bag.

As they sweep into the grounds of the hotel he's pleased to see that they have people already there, pleased too that Sweeney
has succeeded in getting them to blend in and look discreet. Even on this day nothing is to be taken for granted or left to
chance. Marty is stationed at the front door of the hotel and even Micky standing at his shoulder looks suitably sober and
alert.

‘Everything OK?' he asks.

‘No problems,' Marty says as he opens the door for them. ‘Everything looks good.'

‘Come in to the disco later on,' Marie says. ‘And there'll be some supper served so you can grab some of that.'

‘Disco?' Gilroy asks.

‘Disco,' she says. ‘After the meal is over all her own-age and casual friends come – it's what happens. We can pass ourselves
for a while then disappear into the night. Though I think we should have booked a room in the hotel – it would have made more
sense.'

‘Too many problems with security,' he says, glad that when it's all over he will sleep in his own bed.

He endures the endless permutations of photographs which seem to put the meal interminably on hold. When finally they are
summoned to the table Father Hagan seems determined to assert his authority and treats them as if they are know-nothings about
the necessary processes and rituals. However, he lightens his tone and as he stands up to launch proceedings after the meal
even digresses into a joke that involves a cowboy and his new bride and which spins on a series of incidents where the cowboy
is let down in various ways and responds each time by saying, ‘I've warned you once, I've warned you twice,' and then shooting
the offender. It culminates in the wife dropping a series of plates and the same punchline left hanging in the air. Everyone
laughs but Gilroy winces and thinks it inappropriate.. He winces again through the best man's speech which is delivered in
an accent that grates against his ears and which he sees provokes embarrassed smiles in the audience. He pretends to laugh
at the tales of his prospective son-in-law's career disasters and youthful japes and sits rigid in anticipation of potential
slights when Justin's father rises to speak but he's only on his feet a matter of a few minutes and sounds sincere in what
he says. The applause is generous and as it fades away he know this is his moment so he pauses a second before he rises.

He greets everyone in Irish and then reverts to English, trying to strike a physical pose that suggests a relaxed confidence
but already his hand is nervously patting the pocket of his suit in a final confirmation of the speech's absence. He is conscious,
too, of the video camera that is pointed at him so he straightens his back and lifts his head high. Trust his own voice, that
is what he must do now, but it feels as if he's standing at the edge of deep water and as he stares at its hidden depths he
is uncertain of whether he will sink or swim. But as he looks at the room of upturned faces he knows there can be no further
hesitation so he strikes out for the far shore and tries to make bold strokes that will carry him to what he wants to say.

‘I'd like to welcome you all here today. It's good to see so many old faces and none getting older more quickly than my own.
Good, too, to see new friends and I'd particularly like to welcome Justin's mother and father, Kyle and Elizabeth. I'd like
to thank Kyle for his generous welcome into his family of my daughter Christine. I'd also like to thank Justin for finally
taking this girl off my hands and I salute his bravery and know that he will take good care of her as they build a new life
in London. When Christine first told me that she was going out with someone in advertising my first thought was that she was
romantically engaged with someone who posted those giant ads you see all over town. But I've got to know Justin a little bit
better – he always calls me Franky as if he's known me all his life and tries to tell me that cricket is the greatest sport
in the world. Now, Justin, there are a lot of things you could say about cricket but I don't think you're ever going to convert
me; in fact I read somewhere that someone once said cricket was invented to give the English, who are essentially an irreligious
people, a sense of eternity. It certainly lasts a long time but it's hardly going to catch on in Ireland if you can't play
it when it rains.'

He pauses and takes a sip of water. Everything seems to be going well. They have laughed politely at his jokes and the vibes
from Marie beside him are positive.

‘Now at this point I should say something about Christine, but where to start? As you know Christine is our youngest child.
Maybe she got spoilt because of this or maybe we were just too worn out to look after her properly but whatever the reason
I can honestly say that Christine turned out to be entirely unique. Whether this was a good thing or a bad thing I will leave
it to others to judge. And I'm just going to pause a moment here to ask Father Hagan to convey the family's apologies for
all the heartache she caused the Sisters at school, particularly that unfortunate business about the uniform.' He waits until
the laughter subsides. ‘She always had a bit of a rebel heart – no idea where she got it from. But when all is said and done
Christine has been blessed with the very best of hearts because she has survived everything the world has thrown at her, held
her head high and never lost sight of what is important in life. She's always been true to herself and what she believes and
she's always championed fair play, always spoken out against injustice. So today I want to tell you, Christine, that your
father and mother are very proud of you and know that whatever you choose to do in life you will make a big success of it.
I also want to say a genuine sorry for all the times when it was not possible for me to be there for you. I hope in time that
you will be able to understand that this was not by choice but by necessity and come to believe that the sacrifices we all
made will finally be fully rewarded.'

He wants to say that she will be a great mother but knows he cannot and the thought of the coming child makes him stumble
a little so he disguises it by taking another sip of water.

‘I'm not a man to stand between people and their entertainment so there are only a few more things I want to say, so I know
you'll bear with me just a few moments longer. Marriage has got to be considered an old-fashioned thing in some quarters but
I believe it to be the best and most important institution in society and at the very heart of the Irish nation. And if we
are to be a great nation in the future we need to find a new respect for the marriage vows. Too many people say their vows
and then when the first problems arise they forget that they have taken each other for better or worse. A good marriage has
to be worked at and it would be remiss of me now if I was not to pay tribute to Marie who has stood loyal at my side through
the good times and the bad, who has never wavered in her support. No man could have a better wife and my hope today for Christine
and Justin is that they, too, will find in their marriage some of the same happiness that I have found in mine.'

He glances at Marie who does not return his look but stares at the tablecloth in front of her. At the back of the room waitresses
are starting to move about. Light suddenly burnishes in a raised glass.

‘We are building a new future for our children and perhaps this marriage which spans two nations is a symbol of this new understanding.
So let us raise our glasses now to the bride and groom and drink a toast to them and the future.'

Glasses blossom up like bouquets of white roses and voices join in the toast. He has almost made it to the shore but still
there's something he wants to say, something that he doesn't totally understand but which feels that it carries the demands
and weight of the profound. It's something to do with beauty, something to do with what he glimpses inside himself but doesn't
fully grasp. He knows that he cannot let the moment slip away, that he has to try.

‘As you no doubt know I now serve you as Minister for Children and Culture. As, too, you no doubt know, I have been labelled “the Lemonade Man– by local wags.' This gets a raucous, good-humoured laugh that momentarily threatens to knock him off balance. ‘I don't know about lemonade but it has meant that I have had the opportunity to read some more books than I've previously been able to. And I've been reading a bit of poetry recently.' He pauses to listen suspiciously for more laughter but none comes and he tries to keep going. ‘Now no country has better poets than Ireland but it's been an English poet called Philip Larkin that I've been reading and Larkin wrote a poem called “The Whitsun Weddings” about all these marriages taking place on the same day and by chance they're all on the same train heading towards London. Now unless they've built a tunnel that I don't know about Christine and Justin won't be taking a train to London but it's where they're heading, so it feels appropriate almost that the poem includes them,' God, he's out of his depth, doesn't know where he's going, and as he starts to flounder he berates himself for not stopping when he was ahead of the game and just how does he expect to say something to these listening people when he does not fully know what it is himself. ‘Larkin calls it a “travelling coincidence”, the fact that all these newly-wed couples are on the same train and they're all heading off to start new lives together.' But he doesn't know any more where he himself is going or how he's going to extricate himself and he pauses to sip nervously at the water, the glass shaking in his hand, and then he remembers something from the end of the poem, something about ‘all the power that being changed can give', and as the first rustle of impatience slips from his audience, he feels a sudden surge of relief as just with a second's clarity he glimpses what it is he now must say.