Bishop's Delight

Patrick McGinley

• Éditeur: New Island
• Année: 2016
• ISBN:
  9781848404922
• Sujet: Letteratura
• Sous-sujet: Letteratura generale

'All a politician needs to know about hacks is that the best story wins. They're only entertainers who've wrapped themselves in the flag of truth…' Taoiseach Jim Maguire has disappeared under suspicious circumstances. Two rival journalists, Kevin Woody and Tony Sweetman, struggle to find the best story to tell about Maguire's vanishing act. As Woody and Sweetman navigate their turbulent personal lives while trying to keep the story of Maguire's disappearance alive for another day, it begins to emerge that there may have been more to the missing Taoiseach than his political career. What is the truth about Maguire, and what is the mysterious Bishop's Delight? Bishop's Delight shows novelist Patrick McGinley at his mesmerising best, showcasing his formidable literary style, his ever-present dark humour and his uncanny ability to explore uncomfortable truths.

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 who’d 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.

‘You’re puffed, Bill,’ 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.

‘I came here for a stroll on Wednesday afternoon,’ the tall one said. ‘As I was passing a bench, a man with a dog waved to me and said, “Will you come and talk to me?” He turned out to be the most boring man I’d ever met. His conversation was a series of questions to which only he knew the answers. His first question was, “What is the area of this park in Irish acres?” and his next was, “Who first made soda water as a manufactured product?” Who else but a Dubliner called Augustine Thwaites in 1776, or so he claimed.’

‘And now you’re telling me, Jim!’ the porky man laughed. ‘Never talk to strange men. That’s what my mother told me as a boy.’

‘The quiz was only the start of it. He said he’d been hearing terrible stories about goings-on in government. “Everyone knows there’s a scandal brewing. There’s a new rumour every day of the week. What I’d like to know is where they’re all coming from.” ’

‘What did you say?’

‘There will always be rumours. It’s the nature of democracy, the nature of party politics.’

‘I’m sure he must have recognised you.’

‘I don’t think so. He wasn’t the cheeky sort, but in case my speaking voice might give me away, I thanked him for an interesting conversation and made my escape.’

‘Rumours come and go. I don’t pay any heed to them.’

‘These are different, Bill. They’re too close to the bone for comfort.’

‘There’s a libel law in the land. They wouldn’t dare publish what I’ve heard.’

‘Don’t you believe it. The age of decorum is dead. Modern journalists are happiest dishing the dirt. All they’re interested in is sex and scandal—and whatever someone somewhere doesn’t want to see published.’

‘While readers pay money to read trash, journalists will write it. We’re all part of the same vicious circle.’

‘It’s 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.’

‘We’ve both been here before. It will blow over.’

‘This time it’s different. I’ve even heard talk of photos. In the popular imagination, photos don’t lie.’

‘In these days of computers they can and do. Every problem has a price tag. Surely you’re not worried about the cost?’

‘What I’m worried about is my reputation, my political legacy.’

‘Your 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, “There’s no ailment in life that a touch of nature can’t cure.” He was right.’

‘I 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 used—soiled, I mean—as if you’d been looked at by too many beady eyes?’

‘I may feel used at times, but not because too many people have been trying to catch my eye. You’re a lucky man, Jim. You’re the centre of attention wherever you go.’

‘And you’re the only person I can talk to. Anna is away with the fairies, writing her children’s books and preparing talks for radio. If it weren’t for you, I’d go mad.’

‘We all need a sympathetic ear, a listener rather than a lecturer. Why don’t we do some sleuthing, investigate the source of the leaks?’

‘Too risky. In fact, it’s occurred to me that we should give up our Thursday jog. Anything that attracts the attention of cartoonists soon becomes a caricature of itself.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve thought of retiring? Quitting while you’re ahead?’

‘There’s nothing the young Turks in the party would like better. In the past year I’ve seen off two attempts at a coup. The word “quit” isn’t in my vocabulary. No, I’ll stay and face whatever music is to be faced. I’m a fighter, not a quitter. Always do the unexpected. It’s the way to confound the enemy.’

The porky man got to his feet. He had obviously heard it all before. ‘I must be getting back,’ he said. ‘I’m taking Maggie out to dinner. It’s my way of keeping her happy.’

‘Dinner 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.’

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 didn’t 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 bellman’s 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 Maguire’s predatory and idea-thieving nature, was no common or garden biography. He had taken as his model Lytton Strachey’s 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 Maguire’s 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 Crooks’ Party. Some even joked that Maguire, like Milton, belonged to the Devil’s 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 Maguire’s sights were set on higher things. He had been selected to contest his father’s old seat in East Mayo on behalf of the Crooks’ 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 wasn’t 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 Dáil, 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 Maguire’s 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. Maguire’s 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 Maguire’s 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 wasn’t 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 ‘an early start on the weekend’. Sweetman was a TV journalist, good for the memorable sound bite, the cocktail sausage and the canapé 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 wouldn’t show any curiosity. He would be his usual cool-headed, slow-spoken self.

They met upstairs in Neary’s because it suited their pockets and because it wasn’t 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.

‘Reading something sexy?’

‘If only. I’m ploughing through a biography of de Gaulle. I’m 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 Gaulle’s bons mots.’

When they’d ordered lunch and settled down to their drinks, Sweetman gave him a long look of cool appraisal. ‘When did you last see Maguire?’ he whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially in his chair.

‘Just over a week ago. He was his usual urbane and blasé self.’

‘When are you meeting him again?’

‘I don’t 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.’

‘A week, never mind a month, is a long time in politics, as another old twister once said. I’ll bet he won’t be as blasé next time. There’s a raincloud on the horizon that could drench him. I’ve had it from a little bird who had it from a bigger bird who shall be nameless. I thought I’d tip you the wink. It’s no more than you’d do for me.’

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 didn’t know. Woody thought it time to cast a few cru...