Chapter Eighteen
INT: NORTHSIDE OFFICES / EXT: NORTHSIDE SET
I start to hope that maybe, just maybe, my luck is turning the next day. Because at around half ten, when I go into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, Róisín is pouring water from the kettle into a mug.
‘Hey!’ she says. ‘How are you? Do you want some tea?’
‘I’d love some,’ I say. Róisín pops a teabag into another mug. ‘Actually,’ I continue, ‘I was hoping I’d bump into you.’
‘Oh, yeah?’ Róisín hands me the mug. ‘I’ll let you do your own milk and sugar.’
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Yeah, I was wondering if you could introduce me to that sound guy you mentioned the other day – was it Derek Smyth?’
‘Des,’ says Róisín. ‘And sure, I’d be happy to. He should be finishing up in the lot around lunchtime – I can take you to meet him if you like?’
‘That would be brilliant.’ I smile at her. ‘Thanks, Róisín.’
When I return to our office Art is sitting hunched over on the couch chewing a pen. He’s wearing his French fisherman outfit again.
‘Bonjour,’ I say.
‘Bonjour to you too,’ says Art, running a hand through his messy hair.
‘So,’ I say, ‘I’ve thought of something. Well, my friend Roo did.’
‘Did she read it in her tarot cards?’
‘No, she did not,’ I say. ‘She said we should talk to the crew about Bernard rather than the other writers. Everyone else has been in this weird abusive relationship with Bernard apart from them. They’ve been permanent staffers at IBC since before Bernard’s era, so they haven’t had to please him to keep their jobs. They might be able to help us.’
‘Hmm, not a bad idea,’ says Art. ‘How do we find them? Aren’t they shooting the previous block to ours right now?’
‘Don’t worry, Monsieur Sullivan,’ I say. ‘I’ve already sorted that out.’
True to her word, Róisín knocks on our door shortly before one o’clock and a few minutes later we’re on the edge of the shop set, where filming is still taking place.
‘Sorry,’ she whispers, as the crew adjust the lights. ‘I thought they’d have finished by now.’
But I don’t care. This is the first time I’ve seen Northside being filmed and I’m utterly entranced. There’s Mozzer McCaul chatting to her bestie, Indira! An iconic Northside duo, bantering a few metres away from me.
‘Wow,’ says Art, as the crew finish setting up. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look this happy before.’ I look at him, expecting mockery, but he actually seems weirdly pleased for me.
Eventually someone calls ‘Cut!’ and a few minutes later a burly older man with a friendly face mostly covered by a majestic white beard walks over to us.
‘So you’re the newcomers!’ says Des Smyth, after Róisín introduces us and heads off to the canteen. ‘I hear the tinpot tyrant’s been giving you a hard time.’
This feels promising.
‘He has,’ I say. ‘Could we have a quiet word with you?’
‘Sounds mysterious,’ says Des. He looks at his watch. ‘I’ve only got a short break today but I can give you five minutes, if that’s okay.’
Des leads us to the Donnelly’s beer garden on the far side of the lot and I try to contain my excitement about sitting down in the very spot where, back in the noughties, Paddy Cusack’s wife famously demanded a divorce on Christmas Day.
‘So,’ says Des, ‘what’s Bernard done now?’
‘Do you think,’ I say, ‘it’s possible he would ever sabotage the show to prove a point? Like, deliberately?’
Des ponders the question for a moment, his expression thoughtful.
‘Yes, it’s possible. Since Triona Clancy brought in this new regime he’s lost his bleeding mind.
So it’s more than possible. I’d say it’s pretty likely.
I’ve been here for almost forty years and I’ve never met a control freak like that man. ’
I feel my shoulders sag with relief. Someone actually believes us!
‘We overheard him talking about sabotaging the anniversary episode,’ says Art. ‘And he wants to blame us.’
After we tell Des what we heard, he lets out a low whistle.
‘Jaysus,’ he says. ‘I knew that prick would never go quietly but I didn’t think he’d try to take everyone down with him. I don’t suppose you recorded this conversation, did you?’
‘No, we did not,’ says Art, meeting my eye for a second.
‘You didn’t get any more details of this doctor business?’ says Des. ‘Or what exactly he plans to do next?’
‘Afraid not,’ I say.
Des looks at me with sympathy. ‘Look, you know and I know we can’t do anything without proof. But I’ll say this. If the pair of you think of a way to call a halt to his gallop and we can help you with it, just say the word.’
‘Thanks, Des,’ I say, with more confidence than I actually feel. ‘We’ll think of something.’
‘Listen, I’ve got to grab lunch now,’ says Des, ‘but I’ve thought of someone you should talk to if you want more insight into Bernard. Hand me your phone there, I’ll give you her number. I think she’d definitely like to talk to you.’
‘Who?’ I say.
‘Honoria Quigley.’ Des laughs when he sees the awestruck expression on my face. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Ma Cusack herself.’
‘Well,’ I say, when Art and I are eating lunch in a corner of the canteen, ‘at least we have allies now.’
‘Allies and no plan,’ says Art.
‘Maybe if we talk to Honoria Quigley we’ll think of something,’ I say. ‘She might know Bernard’s Achilles heel.’
‘I suppose we could arrange to meet her,’ he says.
‘Are you okay?’ I say. ‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’
Art sighs. ‘What’s the point, McDermott?
’ he says. ‘Seriously, what’s the point?
Des just admitted Bernard’s out of control.
We’re putting ourselves through hell to try and write something decent even though our boss literally wants our scripts to be shit.
So fine, let’s give him what he wants. It’s not like the viewers will fucking notice. ’
No. No. Art did not just slag off the Northside audience.
‘Art,’ I say. ‘You’ve made it clear how you feel about this job, but Northside means something to the people who watch it.’
He looks slightly unnerved as he takes in the ferocity of my expression. ‘Yeah, every programme means something to the people who watch it. That’s called being a fan. I get it.’
‘No,’ I say, ‘I don’t think you do. A series like this, that’s been on for fifty years …
it’s different to other programmes. These characters are in the viewers’ sitting rooms for decades.
There are people out there who think of the McCauls and the Cusacks as their family.
’ I know I’m sounding emotional but I don’t care.
‘You know how many people are going to read some academic study on, I don’t know, coercive control?
Neither do I! But I do know that a storyline about it in a soap will get people talking, even now.
It’ll be on radio phone-ins, it’ll genuinely raise public awareness.
It’ll make people feel less alone.’ I think of seeing Mozzer McCaul trouncing Amanda’s bullies, the exhilaration I felt, the validation at this reminder that kids weren’t actually meant to treat other kids like that and good people could do something about it.
‘Say what you want about the show itself, I know you despise it even though you’ve watched five minutes of Ma Cusack,’ I say. ‘But if I hear you say one more word like that about our viewers, you can find a new officemate.’
I expect a facetious joke or an eye roll. But instead Art nods and says, ‘Sorry. You’re totally right.’
Did he say what I thought he just said?
‘What?’
‘You’re right,’ says Art. ‘I shouldn’t have said that about the audience not noticing. I’m tired and I’m pissed off and I said it out of habit.’
‘Okay,’ I say.
I must sound unconvinced because Art sighs. ‘Look, I’m not saying this show is perfect. But I didn’t just watch five minutes of Ma Cusack. I’ve watched a fair bit, actually. Not just of her. There are whole episodes from that era online. I watched lots of them over the past week.’
‘Really?’ I say.
Art nods. ‘Yeah. It was what you said last week about Northside having once been great. And me never thinking it could possibly be great. Which was true.’
‘Oh,’ I say.
‘So I watched loads of it,’ Art goes on. ‘And … yeah. There was some good writing there. Really good writing.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘There always was.’
Neither of us says anything for a moment.
Then Art says, ‘I never despised Northside, you know. Not really. I mean, yes, I will admit I … dismissed the programme itself. I’ll admit I didn’t respect it as art. And maybe that wasn’t fair.’
‘It wasn’t.’ I think of the way he talked about Northside on our first day here. ‘You acted like you were slumming it. You literally said I shouldn’t take the work seriously.’
‘I meant you shouldn’t let it get to you,’ says Art. ‘Not personally. I meant you should think of it as your job, not, like, your soul.’
‘You told me I should think of it like working in a factory,’ I say. ‘And you literally changed your name so IMDb wouldn’t show you’d worked on it.’
Art sighs again. ‘The name … that’s about my own issues.
But the factory thing … yeah, Northside is a bit of a factory.
But I don’t despise the labour of people who work in factories.
Or the people who do it. I would never sneer at that.
It’s like Billy Wilder said. You have to get up just as early to make the bad movies.
Billy Wilder’s a film director and writer, by the way. ’
‘Oh my God, Art, do you think I don’t know who Billy Wilder is?’ But then I catch his eye and realise he’s taking the piss and I laugh, despite myself.
‘No, McDermott,’ says Art, grinning back at me. ‘I don’t think you don’t know who Billy Wilder is.’
‘Good to hear,’ I say. ‘Though I notice you implied working here was the equivalent of one of the bad movies.’
‘It’s not exactly great right now,’ says Art. ‘You’ve basically admitted that. Especially with Bernard’s antics.’
‘True,’ I concede.
‘Go on,’ he says. ‘Let’s see if Honoria whatshername will meet us.’
‘Honoria Quigley, you philistine.’ I pick up my phone. ‘I’ll text her now.’
‘Maybe you should ring her,’ says Art. ‘She must be almost eighty by now. Texting might be beyond her.’
He can’t help patronising someone. ‘Seventy-somethings can text! Doesn’t your mother forward you memes from her retired teacher friends? Or is that just me?’
Art laughs. ‘No, mine does it too. Fair point. How did you know she’s a retired teacher?’
‘I didn’t,’ I say. ‘But mine is.’ I remember what he said about his dad. ‘So were both your parents actually teachers?’
‘Yeah,’ says Art. ‘Why do you look so surprised?’
Because I’d somehow been thinking of him as a pampered rich kid for years but it turns out he’s basically just a fellow middle-class north Dublin suburbanite whose parents had jobs like my own?
‘I dunno,’ I say. ‘Your massive posh house on Drumcondra Road? The private school?’
‘McDermott,’ says Art, ‘you didn’t see that house when my parents bought it.
It was a derelict shell. We lived on one floor for years while they did up the rest of the building themselves.
And by “did up” I mean put up new walls with their bare hands.
Also my grandparents contributed to the school fees.
They had notions. And, yes, I am privileged, I’ll fully admit it.
’ He gives me a sidelong glance. ‘But, you know, so are you. I know the leafy suburb where you went to school. I bet you and your sister didn’t have to struggle to get to college.
And who paid for your master’s? That wasn’t cheap. Did you get a grant?’
‘My parents paid,’ I admit. ‘Fair point.’
There’s a slightly awkward silence.
‘Anyway,’ says Art, ‘do you want to text Honoria now?’
‘Sure,’ I say.
A few minutes later, after we’ve agreed on the wording, the text is sent.
Hi Honoria, my name is Annie McDermott and I’ve just started writing for Northside. My colleague Art Sullivan and I are having a little trouble with Bernard. Des Smyth suggested we contact you to get some insights. If you were free for a chat, that would be great.
‘Well,’ says Art. ‘At least we’ve done something.’
We have. To my surprise, this realisation actually makes me feel better.
We’ve just got back to our little office when my phone rings. I hold it up to show Art the caller ID.
Honoria Quigley. Ringing my phone. Honoria Quigley. What is life?
‘Go on,’ says Art. ‘Answer it!’
I swallow – this is Ma Cusack calling me! – and answer.
‘Annie McDermott?’
It doesn’t sound like Ma Cusack. Maybe a bit, but the accent is totally different. Much more grand.
‘Yes, this is Annie.’ I clear my throat and put the phone on speaker.
‘This is Honoria Quigley,’ says the TV legend. ‘I hope you don’t mind me ringing you instead of texting, but I hate texting back and forth without my specs.’
Art gives me a pointed look. His expression is smug.
‘Of course I don’t mind,’ I say. ‘Thanks for calling.’
‘Now, I can’t stay on the phone for long because I’m in the middle of the French countryside and the reception is dreadful, but you say you’re having some trouble with my old nemesis Bernard.’ There’s a hint of amusement in her voice.
‘We are,’ I say.
‘And you were hoping I might be able to give you some advice on how to handle him?’ says Honoria.
‘Something like that,’ I say.
‘I’d be honoured.’ Honoria’s laugh sounds like tinkling bells, nothing like Ma Cusack’s trademark gleeful cackle. ‘Though I’m not sure how much use I’ll be. I’ll be back from France on Friday night. Would you and your friend – was it Arthur?’
‘Art,’ I say.
‘How charming. Well, would you and Art like to come for lunch at my house on Saturday?’
Our final drafts are due on Friday so a Saturday meeting is too late to help with the scripts, even if Honoria could tell us anything that might do that.
But she might give us some information about Bernard that could help foil his scheme.
And let’s be honest, there’s no way I can say no to this invitation.
I feel like I’ve been asked for an audience with a queen.
No, better than a queen because I have a big problem with hereditary royalty. TV royalty, however …
I glance at Art, who nods.
‘We’d love to,’ I say.
‘Wonderful,’ she says. ‘I’ll text you the address now, if my elderly eyes can manage it. And I’ll see you both on Saturday at one.’
‘Thanks so much,’ I say.
‘It’s nothing, darling! Looking forward to it.’
I hang up and shrug my shoulders. ‘Well, it’ll be interesting at the very least.’
‘I can’t wait,’ says Art, and he actually sounds like he means it.
My phone buzzes as Honoria texts me her address. It turns out she lives on a famously fancy road in Ballsbridge. Very unlike Northside’s Charlemont Street.
‘Now that,’ says Art, pointing at the street name, ‘is posh.’