Authors: Joseph O'Connor
Ghost Light (23 page)
The maidservant returns – but no, it is a different one, older, thinner, more tired. She looks like your mother. Striking, the resemblance. She gestures that you are to follow and you do as you are commanded, down a dark mildewed passageway lined with portraits of magistrates, hunting scenes, prints of portly boars. Past the doorway to a library lined with leather-bound tomes and a long black table stacked head high with papers. You can smell French tobacco, his must, his sickness. And suddenly, now, it is like looking at his face.
His uncle gazes up at you appraisingly. He is dressed all in black. Miss Havisham in the clothes of a man. He looks broken, dead-eyed, like his nephew near the end.
—Please be seated. He gestures. You do as you are told.
—You had an efficient enough journey from the city, Miss Allgood?
—Sir.
—The trains are not always reliable.
—No, sir.
—Personally one ascribes the difficulties to the agitators in the trades unions. The trains were far more punctual previously.
—Sir.
—I should have preferred for you and I to have this talk with a male relative of yours present, Miss Allgood. But there it is. We must rub along as best we can.
—Sir.
—I am to inform you that my late nephew willed a bequest to
you, Miss Allgood. You are to receive a small annuity from the performance royalties of his works. I may tell you I disagreed with the proposition but my nephew would not be countered. I am of the unfashionable view that outside of a family one’s income ought to be earned, not given. Nevertheless, you are to receive a sum of eighty pounds per annum. In full settlement and acknowledgement of your occasional assistance to my nephew. It should be enough for you to employ a parlour-maid or a person of that nature. Should you marry, that amount shall be halved. Do you understand?
you, Miss Allgood. You are to receive a small annuity from the performance royalties of his works. I may tell you I disagreed with the proposition but my nephew would not be countered. I am of the unfashionable view that outside of a family one’s income ought to be earned, not given. Nevertheless, you are to receive a sum of eighty pounds per annum. In full settlement and acknowledgement of your occasional assistance to my nephew. It should be enough for you to employ a parlour-maid or a person of that nature. Should you marry, that amount shall be halved. Do you understand?
—Sir.
—I think you have in your possession a number of letters my nephew would have sent to you. It is a matter for a later time. But I should like to acquire them for his archive. Naturally you would be compensated for any material loss.
—I would never want to sell them, sir. They are private.
—Quite. As I say: it is a matter for a later time.
—And my own letters, sir. The letters I wrote him?
—Yes?
—I should like to have them returned. There would be several hundred of them, I believe.
—A literary man’s papers comprise part of his estate.
—But they were private, sir. They are mine. Not to do with his work. I should not like to think of anyone else reading them.
—I can set your mind at rest on that score. They have been destroyed by the executors. So as to protect the confidentiality of the friendship and its particular circumstances. It was thought, should they fall into unscrupulous hands and so on, that they could be vulnerable to exploitation or misunderstanding. I hope you will agree that this was the only correct course. At any rate, what is done is done.
—I –
—This is why one would have preferred you to have a male relative present. A male relative would be able to see that the executors
have acted correctly. You will understand it yourself, Miss Allgood, in the fullness of time. Perhaps when you are married. Perhaps when you are a parent. Would you like to see his books, perhaps? Now that you are here?
have acted correctly. You will understand it yourself, Miss Allgood, in the fullness of time. Perhaps when you are married. Perhaps when you are a parent. Would you like to see his books, perhaps? Now that you are here?
—His books, sir?
—Have you washed your hands this morning? Some of his books are rare editions and so forth. There is a visitors’ cloakroom with lavatory at the end of the hall. Be sure and use the soap provided, won’t you? Good girl.
The bed in which he sweated. That is what you would like to see. To sink your face into his pillowslip, touch his sheets, his clothes. But the upstairs of the house would be forbidden you. As you rinse your clean hands and come back through the hallway, you wish you were anywhere else.
—Miss Allgood – there is something further I have a duty to say to you. It is a delicate matter. —Sir?
—I am speaking on behalf of the Synge family. For my nephew’s whole family. It would not have been the intention to cause offence to you, Miss Allgood, in appearing not to have invited you to be among us at my nephew’s funeral. It was felt that a private family service would be best. In the circumstances.
—In which circumstances, sir?
—In the circumstances of great sadness. A family closes its ranks. No offence would have been intended, and I have been asked to convey that to you most sincerely. If these things could be approached again, they might be approached with more thought. I would very much wish to apologise if we have behaved with insensitivity regarding your feelings.
Don’t go crying now, Molly, whatever you do. You’ll be back on the train in a few minutes. Look at him, don’t be harsh. He is elderly and frail. He has suffered a loss, too. He is doing his best. The thing he wants to say, he doesn’t have words for. It isn’t his fault. He didn’t write the lines. He is speaking them the only way he knows.
—My late sister – Johnnie’s mother – she married for love. That isn’t always easy. In the old days, these matters were regarded differently. There were many other considerations in the background of a marriage. The world is changing greatly, of course.
You look at the old man. It is like seeing your lover. The dark, pained eyes, the inhibited stance; the way he holds his beautiful hands. And you wonder what would happen if you ripped open his liar’s face with your teeth. Nothing, probably. He would pretend not to have noticed.
—It might interest you, this collection of Mr Yeats’s poems, Miss Allgood. I cannot affect to understand them, I am sorry to say. Some of the earlier ones are melodious enough. The swans and so forth. He is clearly a gifted rhymer. The music, I mean. But I confess that I have little feeling for these modern complexities in verse. Do you understand them yourself, at all?
—Some of them, sir. I know Mr Yeats.
—Oh yes. I suppose you would. Tell me, what is he like?
—Like a priest, sir.
—A priest? How queer. Figure of speech, do you mean?
—It is hard to express in words, sir. He feels things very deeply. He is a very great man. But I do not know him well. I only work for him at the theatre. I have played in some of his works. He would be a fairly changeable person. I am only an employee.
—Somewhat distant is he, then, Yeats? Head in the clouds?
—He has been extremely kind to me, sir, since your nephew passed away. Himself and Lady Gregory have been goodness itself. I don’t know how I would have managed without their tenderness and help. My own family could not have done more for me.
—Would you like to have that book, then? As a keepsake and so forth?
—It’s gracious of you, sir, but I have a copy of it already.
—Something else, then. If you wish. I have been authorised to offer you something from the library as a memento. Anything up to the value of five pounds or so. But we shan’t quibble if it’s a
few shillings more. Only don’t go too mad about it, will you?
few shillings more. Only don’t go too mad about it, will you?
—There is nothing I want, sir, thank you.
—The matter I raised with you previously, concerning my nephew’s funeral arrangements and so forth. We approach these things a little differently from the Roman Catholic Church. I had intended to say that to you. We regard these things more privately. We are rather set in our ways. I suppose one would term it a tradition.
—Yes, sir.
—In your own faith – as I understand it from my Roman Catholic friends – a funeral is regarded as an opportunity for a very wide gathering of the deceased person’s acquaintances; whereas in ours the approach is one of family and those with very close relationships only. Misunderstandings can sometimes arise as a result.
—There is no misunderstanding at all, sir.
—That is good. Thank you, Miss Allgood. I am glad that we have been able to have this little talk. It has put my mind at ease. At this difficult time.
—It’s my opinion they’re all the same, sir. One as bad as the other. And the sooner this heartbroken country is rid of all filthy hypocrisies of God, the better it would be for everyone.
—I can see that you are distressed. We can sometimes come to rash conclusions when we are upset by a loss.
—Yes, sir. We can. May I go now?
—I should like to express my gratitude to you, Miss Allgood. My nephew was a difficult man. Always very difficult. His temper was choleric. One had bright hopes, of course, but they were not to be realised. And now, of course, they shan’t be.
—I cannot say I found him difficult. Myself, I mean.
—Nevertheless, he was. Poor Johnnie.
Agnes beatae virginis
natalis est, quo spiritum
caelo refudit debitum
pio sacrata sanguine …
natalis est, quo spiritum
caelo refudit debitum
pio sacrata sanguine …
You look at the clock on the post office gable. You must gather yourself, Molly. There is no time to mourn. The other actors will be hurrying through London now, in the tube trains, on foot, minds brimming with lines. You are thinking of your room. The cat staring at the window. You turn down Great Portland Street, in the cold.
BROADCASTING HOUSE
4.38 p.m.
The vast lobby has an ordered and brutal imposingness, like a battleship’s stateroom designed by the politburo as a gift for the tyrant’s birthday. You speak your name to the security commodore, who has clearly never heard it before and asks you to repeat it and then to spell it. He pages through his register of those who are expected today, occasionally glancing up to beckon through a messenger or someone bearing a pass or a parcel.
‘And you are an actress, are you, Miss?’
‘So I have been told.’
He looks at you uncertainly. Are you joking?
‘An actress. Yes. I am here for the transmission of a play.’
‘Lord, I don’t see any Allgood, Miss. Definitely not.’
‘I may be listed under my professional name – Maire O’Neill?’
‘No, I don’t have an O’Neill, Miss. Now that is curious. That
is
curious. By whom is the play in question?’
is
curious. By whom is the play in question?’
‘It is by the Irish author Sean O’Casey. It is for the World Service, I believe. The piece is called
The Silver Tassie—
perhaps you see the title listed there? The producer is Kenneth J. Hartnett.’
The Silver Tassie—
perhaps you see the title listed there? The producer is Kenneth J. Hartnett.’
‘Ah yes. Indeed. Here it is on my list. You’ll be wanting Room S—1, Miss, in the sub-basement – you probably knew? Transmission to commence at 1800 hours. I’ll just telephone down to the greenroom and let them know you’ve arrived.’
‘I say,’ she attempts, ‘it’s a little like trying to talk one’s way into Paradise, isn’t it?’
‘In which sense, Miss?’
‘Well, St Peter and so on. You are the guardian at the gate.’
He grins at you good-humouredly. ‘I hadn’t ever thought of it in those particular terms, Miss. But I dare say we’ve our share of angels inside.’
Nice man. Handsome. Soldierly in his uniform. Pleasant to watch him dialling the number and speaking quietly into the receiver, a calming sense of properness and efficiency and order, and his neatness and his amiable decorum. Great improvement on
some
of the staff at the BBC. Fellow they used to employ to drive you home after a performance looked like a lavatory attendant’s slightly stupid apprentice.
some
of the staff at the BBC. Fellow they used to employ to drive you home after a performance looked like a lavatory attendant’s slightly stupid apprentice.
‘You will have worked with Mr Hartnett previously I expect, Miss, have you?’
‘Many times, yes. It is always a pleasure.’
‘I’ll tell you a thing about Mr Hartnett, Miss. He’s a gentleman. And a professional.’
‘Indeed.’
‘Married to his career. I declare, that’s true.’
‘Quite.’
He guides you through the barrier and indicates the way on a wall map, despite you knowing every detail of the way already. But indulge him a moment. It’s his job. Make him happy.
Over to the door, you say, sir? And two flights down? I’m most awfully grateful. What a saviour you are.
You go slowly, with care, for the steps are unusually steep, your hand gripping the banister as though a life-rail on a ship. Through the corridors and landings, past the heating ducts and stairwells and the women polishing the linoleum floors. Yes, you know the building well, have been here many times. Several nights, during the Blitz, you slept here. You enter the little basement elevator and it descends with a whine. You find the Women Artists’ Dressing Room. It is empty and cold. You had been hoping there would be food. There is none.
Over to the door, you say, sir? And two flights down? I’m most awfully grateful. What a saviour you are.
You go slowly, with care, for the steps are unusually steep, your hand gripping the banister as though a life-rail on a ship. Through the corridors and landings, past the heating ducts and stairwells and the women polishing the linoleum floors. Yes, you know the building well, have been here many times. Several nights, during the Blitz, you slept here. You enter the little basement elevator and it descends with a whine. You find the Women Artists’ Dressing Room. It is empty and cold. You had been hoping there would be food. There is none.
You wait.
You think.
You look at the walls.
Photographs of famous actors in heavy wooden frames. Household names. Heroes of everyday England. A fire bucket in the corner, rusted, punctured, full to the brim with cigarette ends. An odour of lichen and eau de toilette. Coffee grounds collected in a cone of old paper that is actually the title page of a script. You run the tap several minutes but the water stays cold. It plashes on the metal of the sink. You bathe your hands and throbbing eyelids but the towel is too dirty, so you dry yourself on the hem of your blouse. Then you sit at the table. But nobody comes. And the strange thought strikes you that you are far under the ground; that beyond those walls with their smiling, posed portraits is the black, wet clay of London. Everything is quiet. You can hear your own heart. You are hoping that the peppermint has taken care of your breath. For a moment, you close your eyes.
Receive unto your love the soul of Ernest Michael Duglacz and may all the souls of the good through the mercy of God rest in peace this day. Blessed Mother, intercede for the soul of my broken John Synge, the soul of his mother, of my son, my father, of all who need forgiveness, of all who were hurt, and Jesus, Mary and Joseph assist me in my last agony and angel of God my guardian dear to whom God’s love commits me here ever this day be at my side to light and guard to rule and guide, amen.
You cross the corridor to S – 1. All the lights are off. Is it possible you have made a mistake?
But the porter would have known. It was there, on his list. You throw a switch – the room is flooded with hard, cold whiteness. There is the faintest metallic hum from the vents. You leaf through the script but the hunger is distracting. Often there is food at the BBC: a curled-up sandwich, a cake, a cup of tea. You had been banking that there would be something. Perhaps the girl has forgotten. Usually there is a girl whose job is to bring food. Is there a way of asking someone that would not seem impolite? Where has everyone gone?
Deep in your right ear a hard spangling of pain. Shocking. So sudden. Is it your eardrum or a tooth? Out of the wince, somehow, Yeats’s voice comes to you.
If in doubt, speak the text. Do not gesture or flounce. Our purpose is not to entertain; it is the creation of beauty. Praise may be the result; it must never be the aim. Biddy and her Pat may go to the pantomime. Our quest is not that of the jester.
If in doubt, speak the text. Do not gesture or flounce. Our purpose is not to entertain; it is the creation of beauty. Praise may be the result; it must never be the aim. Biddy and her Pat may go to the pantomime. Our quest is not that of the jester.
What a silly he was sometimes, like all Great Men in that way. How very, very little he knew. Never done howling for solitude in his poems, but he forever jaunting to London and manoeuvring himself onto committees and
talking
incessantly and getting mixed up with women and writing letters about important matters to the newspapers. He’d no more stick a day of solitude than would a monkey without his troop. Fond old divil. And yet so kind.
talking
incessantly and getting mixed up with women and writing letters about important matters to the newspapers. He’d no more stick a day of solitude than would a monkey without his troop. Fond old divil. And yet so kind.
Never saw the everyday, the warp and weft of a life, the forgettable conversations and meaningless glimpses few storytellers could include in a tale. Afraid of a drapery window, a conversation on a tram, an old man’s non-sequiturs, a cat crossing floorboards. And yet, you have come to feel that those nothings
are
the story. Mahler, yes, but the cry of a newsboy; that has its music too. A woman walking hungry through snowblown streets. Is this not a drama worth playing? And where in the world is the sculpted Michelangelo that compares to a weary seamstress on the Tube? You are the daughter of a junkshop, a child of rag and bone, raised amid the tat no one wanted any more, the bric-a-brac and clutter, the ugly and expendable, but give the junk a little rub and you’ll see your reflection. A bit of spit and polish works wonders.
are
the story. Mahler, yes, but the cry of a newsboy; that has its music too. A woman walking hungry through snowblown streets. Is this not a drama worth playing? And where in the world is the sculpted Michelangelo that compares to a weary seamstress on the Tube? You are the daughter of a junkshop, a child of rag and bone, raised amid the tat no one wanted any more, the bric-a-brac and clutter, the ugly and expendable, but give the junk a little rub and you’ll see your reflection. A bit of spit and polish works wonders.
Close your sore eyes, Moll. What do you see? A pretty girl in a tenement bedroom, bent over an old copybook she still has from Mary Street School. Can you make out the phrases she is secretly writing?
‘Mrs John M. Synge—Mrs Molly Synge, Kingstown – Maire Synge-O’Neill—Mrs Synge.
’ The poor smitten dote. The dreams you’d be swimming through. And if you had borne him a child – yes, there is still that thought sometimes – he would be middle-aged
now. You always imagine a son. Why is that, Molly, when he understood women so well? Catch a hold now, Molls, someone’s coming. Buck up. Am I laughing or crying? I don’t know. Well, gather, Molls, gather, and beam like the sunshine on a summertime fairground in Kerry. Because it really wouldn’t do to be letting down your guard, especially when the door is opening.
‘Mrs John M. Synge—Mrs Molly Synge, Kingstown – Maire Synge-O’Neill—Mrs Synge.
’ The poor smitten dote. The dreams you’d be swimming through. And if you had borne him a child – yes, there is still that thought sometimes – he would be middle-aged
now. You always imagine a son. Why is that, Molly, when he understood women so well? Catch a hold now, Molls, someone’s coming. Buck up. Am I laughing or crying? I don’t know. Well, gather, Molls, gather, and beam like the sunshine on a summertime fairground in Kerry. Because it really wouldn’t do to be letting down your guard, especially when the door is opening.
‘Ah, Molly, my auld pet and you radiance entirely.’
He shuffles into the waiting room, his left hand in a glove, his right leaning hard on a walking stick. ‘I had a little fall a couple of weeks ago, made a royal hames of my ankle. Oh I’m fine, not a bother, it’s just a bloody nuisance getting about. Oh, but look at you, how beautiful. You’re growing lovelier with the years.’
‘You tell such pretty lies, darling.’
A fond embrace is exchanged.
‘I don’t know how you do it, Molly. Have you a portrait in the attic?’
‘Get away, you outrageous charmer. I look like Methuselah’s mother.’
‘We shall never be as young as we are today, my love. But – is something the matter, darling? You look sad?’
‘A little shock, Ken, that’s all. I was just in town earlier seeing to an errand or two and I heard a friend had passed away not too long ago.’
‘Oh my dear, I am so sorry. Anyone I knew?’
‘No, a bookseller, a darling man. He was elderly and so on, but still, just knocked me slightly. There it is.’
‘Would you like a few minutes? I can let you alone if you wish? I’d say go home but it’s a tad late for me to find a replacement at this stage.’
‘You know me better than that, Ken. We always give the show.’
‘You’re certain now, Molly? You’re up to the job?’
‘Never funked a performance in fifty years, darling, hardly going to start today.’
‘Good girl, there’s my stager. We’ll have a little drink afterwards, you and I? We might trundle around to the Bunch of
Grapes for a bite of supper if you’d like. Richard might join us; I’d mentioned I was seeing you.’
Grapes for a bite of supper if you’d like. Richard might join us; I’d mentioned I was seeing you.’
‘And how is my princely Richard? It’s been too long, it really has.’
‘Oh he had a little stroke a while ago but he’s terrifically on the mend. Do you know we’re twenty years together in January, isn’t that an astonishing and ghastly thing? We’re like an old pair of slippers, that’s what he always tells me. I’ll ring him up and we’ll make a trio, if you’re game?’
‘Lovely, darling.’
‘Now, before the others descend, there’s the little question of the source of all evil. The usual rate would be two guineas but I went and said I can’t offer that. This is strictly
entre nous
, by the way, not a word to the others. “This is Maire O’Neill,” I said, “
the
Maire O’Neill, I simply will
not
insult an artist of her calibre,” so I hope you can accept three pounds ten. You’ll be paid in cash this evening, immediately we’re finished the broadcast. And I’ve told them I won’t stand for any of their pen-pushing nonsense, I’ll be up to the comptroller’s office with a blunderbuss.’
entre nous
, by the way, not a word to the others. “This is Maire O’Neill,” I said, “
the
Maire O’Neill, I simply will
not
insult an artist of her calibre,” so I hope you can accept three pounds ten. You’ll be paid in cash this evening, immediately we’re finished the broadcast. And I’ve told them I won’t stand for any of their pen-pushing nonsense, I’ll be up to the comptroller’s office with a blunderbuss.’
‘Thank you, Ken; that will be useful. It was good of you to think of it.’
‘We are privileged to have you, Molly. We don’t see you often enough. And how is the beautiful Pegeen keeping? In the pink?’
‘I do miss her now she’s in Aberdeen; she was always my lovely girl. And her husband can be a little austere – we’ve never quite hit it off. Funny thing, like most convinced atheists one has come across down the years, he has rather a touch of the Reformation.’
‘Ah.’
‘Still, the chicks must flee the nest, and we have to let them go. They’re living out of a tin of beans, of course, but she’s happy, that’s what matters. Tiny one-bedroom flat. Not much room for old Mum. We’ve to sort of shove up in the bed when I visit.’
‘The boys must be getting a fine size? Do you know, I remember them as babies.’
‘Turned seven in August, great gallumping galoots. But the sweetest pair of naughty monkeys you’d meet in a leap year’s travel. I shall go to them for Christmas. Hope so, anyhow. If son-in-law hasn’t barred me as undesirable.’
‘And I noticed the Abbey are in town. You’ll be attending the party, of course?’
‘Oh, I mightn’t bother really, darling. These affairs are such a bore. They bombarded me with invitations to this and to that, as you can imagine. A lecture by Professor Something of Something College Somewhere. Do you know, I’d just as soon stop at home with the cat and a book. All the hoo-hah rather gives me a headache.’
‘Molly, you’re a card. Oh, here are the others now. Mr Doyle I believe you know, and Miss Hargreaves and Peter Eglantine.’
‘Delighted, Miss Allgood.’
‘Deeply honoured, Miss O’Neill.’
‘Lovely to see you again, Molly.’
‘All present and correct, then,’ the producer says amiably. ‘Well I think we know what we’re about, unless anyone’s got a question? No? Good. Yes, Peter, of course. Just be sure of the tone when we get to that speech, give me a lot of colour in the voice and nice and sharp and clear, and really sing it strong in that lovely Welsh way, we’ll keep a welcome in the hillsides, you know? Same with you, Helen, keep it crisp as a knife and really let me know what she’s feeling in that little bit in Act Two. But that’s teaching granny to suck eggs of course, you’ll be wonderful, I know. All shipshape with yourself, Bob? Good man, that’s the ticket. Anything else, then? Molly, you’re all right? Of course you are, darling. Excellent. Well, I believe ladies and gentlemen that we will do our work well, and perhaps if you would do me the honour we’ll just run through a couple of the cues. I have the finest cast in London and I hope that you will enjoy yourselves immensely and I have every confidence in your wonderful abilities.’
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