1
The two joggers slowed down as they came within sight of a seat under a beech tree. In making for it they overtook a pensioner on a stick whoād had the same idea. The shorter of the two flopped down on the seat and pulled a bottle of water from his belt. The tall one watched him drink.
āYouāre puffed, Bill,ā he said, sitting down next to his friend.
With legs outstretched, they observed the other joggers and walkers in silence. The park was a gift from a more spacious time; they met here for a jog once a week, and sometimes the taller of the two came alone because he set store by solitude. Approaching his fifty-eighth birthday, he still could be mistaken for a younger man. He had a full head of steel-grey hair, and he was inclined to think that, like his hero, Charles de Gaulle, he retained a military bearing. In looks he did not in the least resemble de Gaulle: his face was lean, the taut skin pale, and the eyes narrow and piercing. It was not the face of a man who could ever have been mistaken for a matinee idol. His porky friend was red-faced, and with his left bow leg cut a clumsy figure while jogging. They had known each other for over twenty years, and they helped each other when either needed help, as you would expect from close friends.
āI came here for a stroll on Wednesday afternoon,ā the tall one said. āAs I was passing a bench, a man with a dog waved to me and said, āWill you come and talk to me?ā He turned out to be the most boring man Iād ever met. His conversation was a series of questions to which only he knew the answers. His first question was, āWhat is the area of this park in Irish acres?ā and his next was, āWho first made soda water as a manufactured product?ā Who else but a Dubliner called Augustine Thwaites in 1776, or so he claimed.ā
āAnd now youāre telling me, Jim!ā the porky man laughed. āNever talk to strange men. Thatās what my mother told me as a boy.ā
āThe quiz was only the start of it. He said heād been hearing terrible stories about goings-on in government. āEveryone knows thereās a scandal brewing. Thereās a new rumour every day of the week. What Iād like to know is where theyāre all coming from.ā ā
āWhat did you say?ā
āThere will always be rumours. Itās the nature of democracy, the nature of party politics.ā
āIām sure he must have recognised you.ā
āI donāt think so. He wasnāt the cheeky sort, but in case my speaking voice might give me away, I thanked him for an interesting conversation and made my escape.ā
āRumours come and go. I donāt pay any heed to them.ā
āThese are different, Bill. Theyāre too close to the bone for comfort.ā
āThereās a libel law in the land. They wouldnāt dare publish what Iāve heard.ā
āDonāt you believe it. The age of decorum is dead. Modern journalists are happiest dishing the dirt. All theyāre interested in is sex and scandalāand whatever someone somewhere doesnāt want to see published.ā
āWhile readers pay money to read trash, journalists will write it. Weāre all part of the same vicious circle.ā
āItās their high moral tone that gets me. The gutter journalists dig the dirt and the so-called serious journalists hold their noses and rehash the dirt the gutter journalists have already dished.ā
āWeāve both been here before. It will blow over.ā
āThis time itās different. Iāve even heard talk of photos. In the popular imagination, photos donāt lie.ā
āIn these days of computers they can and do. Every problem has a price tag. Surely youāre not worried about the cost?ā
āWhat Iām worried about is my reputation, my political legacy.ā
āYour place in history! You may as well say it. What you need is a few quiet days to get things back in perspective. When life gets too much for me, I go down the country to do some hillwalking on my own. A day in the open is the best panacea I know. I come back to the village in the evening with my tongue hanging out for a pint. My father used to say, āThereās no ailment in life that a touch of nature canāt cure.ā He was right.ā
āI might just take your advice. I need a few days to myself, looking at the sea and the sky with the mountains somewhere in the background. Do you ever feel usedāsoiled, I meanāas if youād been looked at by too many beady eyes?ā
āI may feel used at times, but not because too many people have been trying to catch my eye. Youāre a lucky man, Jim. Youāre the centre of attention wherever you go.ā
āAnd youāre the only person I can talk to. Anna is away with the fairies, writing her childrenās books and preparing talks for radio. If it werenāt for you, Iād go mad.ā
āWe all need a sympathetic ear, a listener rather than a lecturer. Why donāt we do some sleuthing, investigate the source of the leaks?ā
āToo risky. In fact, itās occurred to me that we should give up our Thursday jog. Anything that attracts the attention of cartoonists soon becomes a caricature of itself.ā
āI donāt suppose youāve thought of retiring? Quitting while youāre ahead?ā
āThereās nothing the young Turks in the party would like better. In the past year Iāve seen off two attempts at a coup. The word āquitā isnāt in my vocabulary. No, Iāll stay and face whatever music is to be faced. Iām a fighter, not a quitter. Always do the unexpected. Itās the way to confound the enemy.ā
The porky man got to his feet. He had obviously heard it all before. āI must be getting back,ā he said. āIām taking Maggie out to dinner. Itās my way of keeping her happy.ā
āDinner always works wonders. Whenever Anna feels unappreciated, I whisk her out of the kitchen. Wives are precious, but they need pampering to keep them from asking awkward questions.ā
2
What other journalists wrote was only for the day; what Kevin Woody was writing was for posterity, or so he liked to tell himself. To keep body and soul together he had to write some things for the day, of course, but every evening he returned to his lonely house in Drumcondra to commit to paper the words that would give weight and substance to his magnum opus: the biography no one knew he was writing. He had spent the last ten years writing and rewriting, adding a paragraph here and deleting a sentence there; now all he was waiting for was the ending. For that he must outlive his subject, a requirement he sought to fulfil by taking good care of himself. He didnāt overeat, and unlike some of the other hacks he knew, he did not drink himself into a stupor every night of the week. Though he stood over six foot tall in his socks, he weighed only twelve stone four before breakfast. He went for a walk in the park from time to time and pumped iron at the gym once a week. For a man in his forty-ninth year he was in good shape, and, equally important, his mind was as sharp as ever.
His subject was none other than the Taoiseach himself, the battle-scarred Jim Maguire. He had been leader of his party for seventeen years, and Taoiseach for four terms in the coalition governments he was so good at putting together. He was now fifty-seven, eight years older than Woody, and in less than perfect health. It was rumoured that he had a mild heart condition. Last year he was admitted to hospital with arrhythmia, only to be released again after two days. Still, no one really knew the minute or the hour. It was rather exciting. You could say that all he was waiting for was the bellmanās signal to write the final appraisal. Meanwhile, he would carry on honing and making perfect.
His book, which he had provisionally called Political Magpie in acknowledgement of Maguireās predatory and idea-thieving nature, was no common or garden biography. He had taken as his model Lytton Stracheyās Eminent Victorians, and nothing would convince him that he himself had not set an even higher benchmark in acerbic wit and stylishness. Although it was no part of his ambition to perpetuate Maguireās memory, he felt certain that his book would be read for its literary grace long after its subject was forgotten.
He had known Maguire at university. They shared digs and went everywhere together. A mature student because of a polio setback, Maguire was stimulating company. He was reading history and French, but even then everyone knew that his future lay in politics. He was an accomplished mimic, a witty and resourceful debater, and a keen supporter of what more radical students saw as the Crooksā Party. Some even joked that Maguire, like Milton, belonged to the Devilās Party without knowing it. Not that Maguire cared. He was impervious to the jibes of lesser men; he used to say that a thick skin was the best legacy anyone could have from his parents.
After graduating, he and Maguire founded and edited a political monthly from a small basement office in Nassau Street, but from the start he could see that Maguireās sights were set on higher things. He had been selected to contest his fatherās old seat in East Mayo on behalf of the Crooksā Party, which naturally their magazine supported. Then, in the midst of rejoicing, disaster struck. Their magazine was sued for malicious libel, and there was no money in the kitty to defend the case against them. After weeks of hard bargaining they settled out of court, which cost Woody every penny of his savings. Maguire said he needed whatever funds he had to fight the election. In coming to his rescue, Woody wasnāt being entirely selfless: he had told Maguire that the price he must pay for having his political life saved was to stay away from Anna Harvey, their attractive young secretary. Within weeks, the magazine folded. Maguire was elected to the DĆ”il, while Woody found himself jobless and penniless. Unbeknown to him, Maguire was still seeing Anna. They got married the following year.
He was badly bruised by Maguireās perfidy, but he did not let Maguire or Anna see it. They invited him to their wedding, and he accepted their invitation. He even bought them a present he could ill afford. It was all part of his plan; he was in no hurry, he was playing a waiting game. Maguireās career blossomed while Woody did his best to get by on a slender income derived from political journalism and occasional book reviewing. Though a bond of trust had been broken, he and Maguire still met for drinks because it was in the interest of both of them to keep the lines of communication open. Maguire found him useful when he wished to discuss a new policy or plant the germ of an idea in the public domain that would later blossom to the detriment of a political rival. Woody was more than willing to fall into his prescribed role because he was often the first recipient of the titbits that fell from Maguireās table. In time he came to be respected by his colleagues for his prescience and confident analysis of complex political issues. He knew that he was being used, but still he smiled, telling himself that revenge is a dish best served cold.
Today he wasnāt thinking of Maguire. Instead, he was wondering why Tony Sweetman had phoned him with such urgency. They were in the habit of meeting every Friday to make what Sweetman in his uninspired way described as āan early start on the weekendā. Sweetman was a TV journalist, good for the memorable sound bite, the cocktail sausage and the canapĆ© as opposed to a solid three-course dinner. He was a tireless networker; he knew everyone and trusted no one, and as a consequence no one trusted him. It was only Tuesday, so what was on his mind that could not wait till Friday? He wouldnāt show any curiosity. He would be his usual cool-headed, slow-spoken self.
They met upstairs in Nearyās because it suited their pockets and because it wasnāt a haunt of their fellow hacks. Sweetman had already arrived, looking his usual suspicious self, turning his head and stretching his neck like a vigilant cormorant on a rock. He was the type of man who was at his best on television. An envious colleague once observed that he never relaxed except in front of the cameras. Now he was seated at the corner table with his back to the window and the light. He was reading a paperback, which he slipped into his briefcase the moment Woody appeared at the door.
āReading something sexy?ā
āIf only. Iām ploughing through a biography of de Gaulle. Iām just curious to know what Maguire can see in the cold-blooded old Froggy. They say he knows by heart every last one of de Gaulleās bons mots.ā
When theyād ordered lunch and settled down to their drinks, Sweetman gave him a long look of cool appraisal. āWhen did you last see Maguire?ā he whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially in his chair.
āJust over a week ago. He was his usual urbane and blasĆ© self.ā
āWhen are you meeting him again?ā
āI donāt make dates with Maguire. His secretary rings me. The traffic is all one way. It could be months before I see him on his own again.ā
āA week, never mind a month, is a long time in politics, as another old twister once said. Iāll bet he wonāt be as blasĆ© next time. Thereās a raincloud on the horizon that could drench him. Iāve had it from a little bird who had it from a bigger bird who shall be nameless. I thought Iād tip you the wink. Itās no more than youād do for me.ā
Sweetman actually winked at him as if he knew more than he was letting on. The purpose of the meeting had finally become apparent; he wanted to find out if Woody knew something he himself didnāt know. Woody thought it time to cast a few cru...