Chapter Sixteen #2
‘You were,’ says Bernard. ‘Now you clearly need to get out of the office and walk around, listen to people. Get that Dublin dialogue back in your ear.’
‘When should we do that?’ says Art, impressively calmly.
‘Today, obviously,’ says Bernard.
‘What?’ says Art.
‘But our final drafts are due on Friday!’ I say.
‘I’m aware of that,’ says Bernard. ‘All the more reason to get out there now so you don’t embarrass yourselves further.’ He sniffs. ‘I’ve asked British and American scriptwriters to do this before. It’s a necessary part of the process for many new writers.’
I’m about to ask if he ever made them do it four days before a deadline, and also remind him that we are neither British nor American, but before I can say anything Art says, ‘Well, if that’s what you want, then sure.’
I’m not going to give Bernard any excuse to accuse me of not doing my job. I say, ‘Fine.’
Bernard doesn’t even bother to answer. He just nods at us and stalks out.
As soon as the door closes behind him I say, ‘What the fuck was that?’
‘More of his bullshit,’ says Art. ‘But it’s just mind games. I mean, we don’t actually have to go into town. It’s not like Bernard will know.’
He’s right, of course. ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘We can just work from home. I mean, it’s not like we really need to do this immersion nonsense.’
We don’t, do we?
But …
Oh God, could Bernard possibly be right?
I was only thinking last weekend that I’d never written for Irish characters before.
Maybe I’m genuinely not tuned into my home town anymore.
Maybe it would actually do me good to get out in Dublin for a few hours.
Apart from that night with my college friends, I’ve only been around my family, Roo and my new workmates. I’ve barely been in the city centre.
‘Have you ever written anything set here?’ I say. ‘Since you emigrated, I mean.’
‘No,’ says Art.
‘Same here.’ I put my coat on. ‘Do you think you’ve, like … forgotten how to do it?’
‘What? No!’ he says, a little too emphatically. ‘Of course not. One “gotten” doesn’t mean anything. I’d have noticed it if we hadn’t been working to such an insane deadline.’ He looks at me. ‘You’re not thinking of actually doing this, are you?’
‘But … maybe we don’t really know the vibe of the city anymore,’ I say. ‘Northside was always so authentically Dublin, and we haven’t lived here in years.’
‘We grew up here!’
‘Yeah, and that was a long time ago!’ I say. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just … walk around for a bit.’
‘Are you serious?’ says Art.
I’m aware that I may not be thinking rationally.
I’m aware I might be fixating on this issue.
But I’m also aware that now the idea is in my head, I’ll worry that I’ve somehow jinxed my script if I don’t go.
That I missed an opportunity to soak up some authentic Dublin atmosphere and it’ll somehow show.
That Bernard really was right.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Just for a few hours.’
Art looks at me for a long moment and then sighs. ‘Well, it’s not like staring at my laptop all day yesterday made his notes make any more sense. Fine. Let’s go into town.’
Fifteen minutes later I’m sitting on a crowded, overheated bus.
Art is cycling in, and we’ve arranged to meet in O’Connell Street.
It’s only now it hits me that there’s no real reason for us to do this immersive Dublin outing together.
But somehow it never occurred to either of us that we wouldn’t be meeting up.
Before I can ponder this too deeply, I realise the bus has stopped.
And not at the lights or at a bus stop. It’s stopped in the bus lane just before the Griffith Avenue junction in Drumcondra.
‘Sorry, folks.’ The driver’s voice comes through the intercom. ‘We’ve got a problem with the engine and we’re going to be here for a while.’
Sighs break out among the passengers and, rather than wait, I decide to walk down the road to the next stop and get another bus.
I pause for a moment when I reach Griffith Avenue.
When I look down that long tree-lined boulevard, I can see the gates of my old school.
I felt sick every day I went through those gates.
I feel slightly sick looking towards them now.
‘McDermott?’
I whirl around to see Art, who has pulled up on his bike.
‘Aren’t you meant to be on a bus right now?’ he says.
‘I was on a bus!’ I tell him what happened.
‘So why are you standing here, gazing into the distance like you’re waiting for your husband to come back from the war?’ he says.
‘I wasn’t gazing,’ I say. ‘It’s just … I went to school down there.’
I immediately regret having said this because Art says, ‘Oh, that’s where you went? I knew some girls who went there.’
Given that we grew up in the same suburb it’s surprising this subject hasn’t come up before, but I never want to talk about school. And I certainly don’t want to hear if Art was best mates with the girls who made my life a misery. So I say, ‘Yeah, my friend Roo and I both went there.’
Luckily this distracts Art from the topic of schooldays because he says, ‘Is she the tarot card person? How did your thing go with her at the weekend? I hope she predicted a glorious future for our Northside scripts.’
‘Yes she is and it went very well, thanks,’ I say, ignoring his facetious tone. ‘Anyway, I’m going to get the bus now.’
Art is silent for a moment and then he says, ‘Why don’t we walk into town? I mean, it’s not too far. Bernard wanted us to immerse ourselves in north Dublin.’ He looks back at the busy main road. ‘Well, this is our bit of north Dublin.’
‘I suppose it is.’ To be honest, the thought of a walk sounds more appealing than sitting on a stuffy bus. ‘Okay, sure.’
We set off, Art wheeling his bike with one hand.
‘Look at us.’ He gestures towards the large, comfortable houses on both sides of Drumcondra Road. ‘Roaming the mean streets to reconnect with our roots.’
‘If you’re just going to take the piss,’ I say, ‘feel free to keep cycling.’
‘Oh, come on, it’s a bit funny,’ says Art.
‘The idea that we could ever forget this city. Especially coming from Bernard. You know he’s spent his entire life in the poshest depths of south County Dublin?
He lives down the road from Chris de Burgh.
I think it’s safe to say we know the actual northside better than he does. ’
I think of how far away Art’s been since our shared college year.
‘Did you miss Dublin?’ I say. ‘When you were over in sunny California? Not just, like, family and friends and stuff. The city itself.’
Art swerves his bike to avoid some dog poo. ‘I didn’t spend the last decade and a half yearning to move back,’ he says. ‘I mean, I missed people I love, but Dublin felt very … small. In every sense.’
‘Oh right.’ I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at this, coming from the former golden boy of indie cinema. ‘Well, nobody ever claimed it was like LA.’
As if to prove this, a double-decker bus rumbles past with an ad for Brennans white sliced pan on it.
‘It sure isn’t,’ says Art. ‘What about you? Did you always want to come home?’
‘Not at first,’ I say. ‘But yeah, I’d been thinking about it for a while before I got the call from Bernard.
I didn’t want to live in Newcastle forever and my folks are getting older and of course …
’I gesture across the road. ‘How could I resist living near glitzy locations like the Skylon Hotel? You may not be familiar with it seeing as you basically grew up in the Royal Canal, but my mother had her very glamorous retirement party there.’
I expect Art to make a joke back but he doesn’t say anything. He can’t be offended, can he?
‘Art?’ I say.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘It just hit me that the last time I was in the Skylon was my dad’s funeral.’
I stare at him, aghast. ‘Oh shit, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have—’
‘Stop that, McDermott,’ says Art, but not unkindly.
‘It’s fine. I’m sorry for dropping that one on you.
’ He glances back at the large white building.
‘You know, I cycle past that place almost every day now and I don’t even look at it.
Or think about it. Probably because I don’t want to think about it. ’
A gang of students cross the road, swamping the pavement, and when we emerge on the other side of the crowd, Art says, in a more cheerful voice, ‘Anyway. I suppose this place is full of memories for both of us.’
I think of Art, having to cycle every morning past the place where he mourned his dad. I think of the school gates that still make me feel queasy.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It is.’
We walk past a string of restaurants (neither of us can quite believe there are so many restaurants in this neighbourhood now, and yet there they are) and the pub where we went for a pint with our colleagues – God, how is that only a few days ago?
Neither of us mentions that night, though when we reach the junction where Art offered to walk me home he meets my eye, just for a second, and I feel a little jolt.
‘My house is up here,’ says Art, as we cross the bridge over the Tolka river.
‘Yeah, I know,’ I say.
Art looks slightly taken aback. ‘You do?’
‘I was at a party there when we were in college,’ I say.
‘Oh right.’ I’m not surprised he doesn’t remember talking to me at his party. He was peak golden boy at the time, after all. ‘Well, I’ll leave my bike there.’
A few minutes later, Art is double locking his bike to the railings outside his family home.
‘You didn’t want to call in to your mam?’ I say as we walk on.
‘She’s not there,’ says Art. ‘She’s at bridge club. She’s always off doing some ridiculous activity.’
‘Oh my God, same with mine!’ I say. ‘I wanted to check in on my parents last week but they’re out, like, every night. And day. Bridge club, book club, choir trips …’
‘It’s outrageous,’ says Art. ‘How dare they have such active, healthy social lives!’
He grins at me and I can’t help laughing back. ‘Mine almost seemed annoyed I was so worried about them.’