Winterwood (16 page)

Thirteen: These Are My Mountains

I
WAS VERY MUCH at ease now with the world and with myself. Which is why, when one of the cabbies in the office happened to
say to me one day:

—We were wondering, Pappie, if you weren't too busy, might you come along to one of our prayer meetings?

I had no problem at all accepting the invitation.

And why, for months afterwards, I made it my business to attend with regularity, adding my voice to their thriving little
congregation. They all kept telling me how delighted they were to have me. I assured them humbly that the pleasure was all
mine and that perhaps one day I might bring along my family. Cara, of course, and Owen, my little son.

I told them I was looking forward to the day of Cara's first Holy Communion.

—She'll be seven next birthday, I said.

They agreed it would be a very special day.

Every Sunday after our prayers, we had tea in a little hall. We sat and talked about the state of the world in general.

—Perdition seems to me just around the corner, a sad-eyed old man remarked, nipping a biscuit as he added: I've lived through
two world wars and I never thought I'd see things like this. Men of God in this once-innocent little isle. To think of the
things they've been accused of doing.

Those lusty old priests and their rampant tally whackers, I thought to myself.

—It's dreadful, I agreed with him, absolutely dreadful.

—It is, Pappie, he agreed. It's worse than that, I'm telling you. Far worse.

I nodded and laughed ruefully, in that convincing and practised Auld Pappie way.

I always made sure to kneel up at the front, where everyone had a good view of me, thrusting out my chest as I chanted 'Let
Me Lie in the Arms of Jesus'. A photograph was mounted of me devoutly praising Our Saviour. Why, I seemed the loveliest old-timer
you ever laid eyes on. With nothing but goodness and decency in my heart, undiluted love for the world and its neighbour.

I was standing in the office one day, leafing through a copy of
Homer Simpson's Scrapbook
- I had repeatedly searched the shops and hadn't been able to find anything about
Sweet Valley High
- which I'd just bought for Imogen, when I overheard one of the drivers saying:

—It's hard to even get him to come out for a pint.

I received that as a compliment. But didn't acknowledge it. Just smiled warmly, from ear to ear. But then I heard:

—I wouldn't be so sure about him. I wouldn't be so sure about that fellow at all.

I immediately froze, but I didn't have to look. I knew straight away who the commentator was - the driver I'd caught interfering
with my property. It was hard not to react, I won't pretend it wasn't.

But I was a different man now. Auld Pappie didn't react in impulsive, foolhardy ways.

—
Ha ha,
I laughed.

And just went off about my business.

The more time passed, though, the more I found myself brooding over the incident. I became jittery and on edge, and it grew
more difficult to keep up the Auld Pappiness, as it were. Like the smart-ass cur I had in the car the other night. Mouthing
out of him to impress his intoxicated girlfriend, so hopelessly drunk she hardly even knew her own name. I was playing some
music and the next thing you know, what do I hear him saying?

—What's that on the tape, grandpa? What kinda shit's that you got playing on there?

The girlfriend started laughing. I flipped the cassette out, and found something modern to keep the morons happy. But, as
I say, it wasn't easy either. I mean, I could just as easily have stuck the car to the road and told the little bastards to
get out of the cab.

—Get out of the car this minute, scum!

I could have said that. Or something along those lines. But I didn't. Like I say, I quietly and simply ejected the tape.

—We like Britney Spears, they slobbered.

—So you don't like the country and western music at all! I laughed. You leave the like of that to old-timers such as me!

They didn't reply. Too busy skitting semen on to the back seat.

The song I'd been playing was 'Nobody's Child'. It meant a lot to me, for reasons which I presume are obvious. I often sang
it in the cab to myself. It's a lot of old nonsense, they'll tell you about that song — a load of embarrassing sentimental
twaddle. It's like 'Snakes Crawl at Night', they'll say. You couldn't possibly go around taking songs like that seriously.
I mean, ordinary wives just don't do things like that — simply go off and make love to snakes. Someone like Catherine Courtney
might. But not Casey Breslin.

Most certainly not Casey Breslin, sophisticated lady-about-town. But I have to say, the second year we had spent living together,
Casey and I - it was amongst the most rewarding of my life.

Once again I was deliriously happy. I just couldn't believe it. Life being so good that anyone observing me that morning on
the train to Slievenageeha would have been prompted to remark:

—There are few times in your life when you are lucky enough to witness such a calm and peaceful expression on a man's face.
He must be in love. That's all you can conclude.

And it was true — I was in love. Very much so. As was Casey. Blowing kisses after the train, to the husband she so loved and
respected and adored.

The theme of the documentary
These Are My Mountains,
which I was off to start shooting, was the rapidly changing face of modern Ireland, how an old, almost ancient, way of life
was vanishing in front of our very eyes. The completed film juxtaposed images of the vibrant new valley - in the foreground
the Gold Club, a vast glass-fronted nightclub on five floors, bathed in blue light at the foot of the hills, set in the midst
of a plethora of business parks and apartment complexes, hi-tech plants and German hypermarkets, the entire place buzzing
twenty-four hours a day — against old grainy monochrome footage orchestrated by nostalgic strings. The closing image, in time-lapse
sepia, depicting the rugged, magisterial mountain peaks slowly fading into the mist, as though returning to some lush and
blistered paradise, an evanescent, primordial Eden, along with them a tumbledown stone cottage, where Florian had gambled
far into the night, smiling lasciviously at his nephew as he reached for his fiddle, sawing out wild solos that leapt untamed
like screeching gales.

Neither of us expected the extraordinary success which was to come the way of that little documentary, already having moved
on to other things. In a way I had seen it as drawing a line underneath the past.

—Slievenageeha, I'd said to myself, sweet and peaceful mountain:
au revoir
for ever.

Even when early indications had seemed favourable - its first outing had been unanimously praised in the papers - I had not
attached all that much importance to it. Then one day while working at home I'd received an unexpected phone call from Casey.
She excitedly informed me that
These
Are My Mountains
had been shortlisted for the Irish Film and Television Awards, and was being tipped in Montrose as very likely to win.

Which was exactly, in fact, what came to pass.

The reception was held in the Westbury Hotel. I could barely stand up when I heard my name called out.

—And the winner is . . . Dominic Tiernan for
These Are
My Mountains,
in the documentary and features section.

When I looked up, I could see her clapping through the haze, in a long lame gown with her blonde hair tied back.

—Dominic! I heard her cry.

Then she was standing beside me, taking my arm and kissing my cheek.

—I'm so
proudl
she told me.

I put my arm around her waist: all of my colleagues were sharing in the moment. The noise of the applause was a triumphant,
invigorating storm. It was wonderful. So much so that it took me a minute or two to focus on James Ingram. James was tall.
About six foot four. Originally from London. He informed us - with no need of prompting — that of late he had cut down on
a lot of his foreign travel.

—I'm seriously considering moving out of foreign correspondence altogether, he said, adding: I'm getting too old, I'm afraid
— and that's all there is to it.

Then he laughed and congratulated me again.

—I'm so pleased for you, Dominic! he said, I really and truly am delighted!

He had a great dignity about him, James Ingram: the neatly combed silver hair, the cut-glass accent — and those unflinching,
steadfast eyes, reflecting that unmistakable Saxon sense of self-worth.

—Oh, darling! cried Casey, I'm so over the moon about all this. I'm like a teenager, I swear. I don't know what to say!

I smiled and swept a glass of champagne from a passing tray. If anyone has ever been given a second chance, I thought, it's
me — Dominic Tiernan.

I sipped my sparkling champagne and smiled.

And, best of all, no one ever found out about winter-wood, I thought to myself. Our happy home, it remains unspoiled.

Permitting myself a little private moment of self-congratulation as I thought of that empty Bournemouth beach, and my clothes
so poignantly folded on the sand. The exhaustive searches of the police having come to nothing.

To my amazement, however, despite those comforting and reassuring thoughts, the champagne glass began quivering in my hand.
A hand that, I successfully persuaded myself, could only be doing that for one possible reason. Not because, for one split
second, I had thought I had heard:

—Daddy, I'm cold. Daddy, please, I don't like it up here. Please, Daddy, can I go home now?

But because I was happy I thought of Catherine. I thought of the award. I thought of Imogen, my precious little girl sound
asleep, with a scarlet ribbon fluttering softly above her head.

For a second or two Casey appeared uneasy. She pushed back her hair and stared at me intently.

—Dominic? she said.

—Yes, dear? I replied.

—Are you OK?

—I'm absolutely fine, I assured her.

—Are you sure?

—I said I'm fine! Tell me Casey, are you deaf or something?

It wasn't the reply I ought to have given. I knew that.

If only Catherine had believed in me, I kept thinking.

But did not dwell on it. For those days were gone. That was the past. It was onwards and upwards now, no place for self-indulgence.
There were just too many new heights to be scaled, thanks to this magnificent, truly blessed second chance.

—Casey, I said, as I took my wife's hand.

—Yes, my love?

—I want to thank you for being my wife. I want to thank you for everything you've done.

—My Dominic Tiernan. I love you so much.

Casey was a picture. A lovely living walking dream.

Fourteen: Heaven's Golden Halls

I
HAD LAST THURSDAY off so I decided to go drinking. I ended up in a lap dancing club, not far from the Temple Bar area where
I spent the whole day quaffing wine, near the restaurant where Rudyard's used to be.

The lap dancing club was lit in dim aquamarine, with ultraviolet strip lighting and swirling staircases panelled in chrome.
I was sitting in a corner banquette nursing a whiskey when a blonde in a tasselled bikini arrived over, wiggling her ass.
She looked grotesque, with a swipe of lipstick put on with a trowel. The display of 'erotica' continued for a few minutes.
Then she leant over and kissed me full on the lips, lifting her breasts and juggling them like fruit. She gave her genitalia
a stroke or two before asking me for money. Wondering might I be interested in the privilege of an even more exciting, more
intimate dance? I was on the verge of asking might she be interested in the privilege of getting herself hurt and perhaps
hurt very badly, when, out of nowhere, I heard this voice which I recognised at once as Larry Kennedy from the base.

His arrival was fortuitous for I was in no mood for talking to strippers, especially not anaemic-looking wretches from Eastern
Europe or anywhere else. He signalled that he and his friends wanted to join me. I beckoned them over and ordered a drink
right away. His companions were two middle-aged women, the pair of them quite tipsy and clearly over-stimulated by their exotic
surroundings. They'd never been to a lap dance club before, they informed me. One of them was enjoying herself so much that
she shoved ten euro into the lap dancer's waistband. Before settling herself into the seat beside me. The dancer cast me a
suspicious, reproachful glance, before disappearing into a dimly lit alcove with a staggering fat punter she was leading by
the arm.

Larry Kennedy was in upbeat form. He lit a cigar and said to the women:

—Say hello to Auld Pappie! He's a terrific character so he is! A great man for the stories altogether. And certainly not the
sort of fellow, I have to say, you'd expect to run into in a place like this! But then we all need our fun, even the hardworking
family men! Isn't that right, Pappie? I'm telling you, ladies, a decenter man than this you'll never meet. Fucking mad about
them kids of his, aren't you? You don't mind me saying that - do you, Auld Pappie?

I laughed and said:

—No, of course I don't, Larry, you know me better than that.

—Sure I do, friend. And all I can say is, you're a lucky man. That bitch of a wife of mine cleaned me out so she did, took
everything. All because of a bit of a fling. Fuck her, that's what I say. One of the women rolled her eyes and giggled. The
other lay back and kicked her heels in the air.

—Oh, you can laugh, girls. But it's no joke. Not when you're going through it. Shafted me proper over a one-night stand. I'm
a bollocks for doing it that's what I am. But she's an even bigger one, to do the like of that to her husband. Now - who's
for another drink?

The women ordered Bacardi-and-Cokes and tried their best to talk to me. But I had been drinking far too much and had become
somewhat — no, excessively — morose and introspective. Despite my best efforts, I could not shake the gloominess off and presently
the pair of them lost interest in me. I heard one of them whispering:

—He's too old. He wouldn't have any lead in his pencil, Jackie.

—You know there are rumours going around about him? My husband says he's not all that he seems.

I stiffened sharply the minute I heard her saying that. Because it had just dawned on me who her husband was none other than
the interfering driver. I felt my fist clenching but restrained myself admirably:

—Auld Pappie, I said, now be a good Pappie.

As I drove home from the club in the early hours of the morning, I cheered myself by thinking how absolutely perfect it had
been for Ronan Collins to play a John Martyn record that day I'd found Catherine, when my search had come to an end. Or one
which had sounded very much like him - husky and kind of deeply spiritual, otherworldly.

—May you never lay your head down without a hand to hold, I sang softly to myself.

It was a long way from the oppressive, furtive atmosphere of an obnoxious nightclub with its covetous, duplicitous, scrawny-legged
dancers. And suspicious taxi drivers' wives muttering accusations against you. All inhabiting a place that held no attractions,
a place that was dead and redundant, calcified.

For that was how it seemed to me now - a world of ash.

When compared with our crystal castle of the heart, our winterwood home where we'd endure for ever and beyond.

As Ned would say:

Till the very last pea was out of the pot, Till the angels quit heaven's golden halls.