10

That evening when Philip is driving home along the coast road, the sun has come out and is making the most of the Auburn houses that dot the hillside, but he hardly notices them. He is playing over in his mind the hangdog look on Egan’s face while telling him he is being shafted.

A group of women jogging on the green strip between the road and the mudflats at Dollymount distract his train of thought: they are struggling to keep up with the bobbing ponytail of their blonde leader, whose firm body contrasts with the quivering rolls of flesh inside their tracksuits.

A voice on the radio grabs his attention. The words ‘justice’ and ‘concern for human dignity’ sweep him back a quarter of a century to raw nights in February when stray pages of the morning’s newspaper are whipped off the pavement and sent floating across Baggot Street. As if someone has flicked a switch and an old black-and-white newsreel is before his eyes, he sees stubble-rough men lurching from doorways and from under the bridge, squinting and peering into the winter streets, while frisky nurses from St Vincent’s are tripping down the steps from their flats in Waterloo Road. He, Sam and others from the Commerce Soc. are lifting the lids off soup cauldrons at the back of the Transit, and releasing clouds of steam into the frosty air.

The voice on the radio is as strong, and Donegal-determined, as ever. The message is the same: a government that grants privileges to the well-off, such as tax reductions for investing their thousands, and allows horse breeders go scot free and, at the same time, refuses to redress the condition of the homeless, is a disgrace. ‘Thanks, Father Tom,’ says the radio woman. ‘Great work you’re doing; no doubt we’ll hear more about this. And now for the sports results. Here’s Des.’

Eyes full of fear, and alcohol-induced tremors come back to him. ‘Blessins a God on you,’ when Sam filled their paper cups. Names and faces surface in his head: Smokey and Johnno. And Keaveney, who wore a tattered naval officer’s tunic and believed he was an Admiral of the Fleet.

It was Philip who introduced her to the work, one evening after a lecture. She was reluctant at first, but threw herself into it, making up Christmas gifts of socks and underwear for the Admiral and others. Ponytail busy, she issued instructions as she ladled out the steaming soup. Philip, in his beard and torn jeans, handed around paper cups, and tidied up afterwards.

In corduroy trousers and sandals, Father Tom talked about ‘Option for the Poor’ at the prayer group in Newman House. And after singing hymns they headed for Kirwan’s where they planned their manifesto, while being handed pints over the heads of other students looking for tickets to the Five Nations.

When Ronald Reagan arrived to trace his relatives, the Newman Group appeared in the newspapers picketing the American Embassy, Sam gripping her placard – Justice for Nicaragua; she went head to head with an amused Garda Inspector.

Instead of turning in for Auburn, Philip drives up Beresford Road and parks at the Summit. There he sits and scans the Dun Laoghaire coastline and the Three Rock in the background. A ferry is heading for Dublin Port, leaving a slipstream in the sparkling water.

One Holy Week, when other students were disappearing to Connemara and Dingle with rucksacks, they had done a forty-eight-hour fast outside the Bank of Ireland for Father Tom’s homeless people. Then back through empty streets to Newman House on Holy Thursday: starving but high on self-sacrifice. For Mass, they sat around on bean bags or with their backs propped against the wall, bright-eyed in the flicker of candlelight; grapes, loaves of bread and wine on a low table at the centre. A tweed Jesus from Nicaragua with arms outstretched hung from one of the walls. The air was filled with perfumed incense.

Squatting among them was Father Tom; over jumper and slacks he wore a stole – the only vestment that showed he was the celebrant. Guitars at the ready for the opening hymn: ‘Give Me Joy in My Heart’. They shared in the homily: how they would live out the implications of their Christian commitment to the poor. Everyone received from the earthenware chalice.

For this and for ‘a flagrant disregard for the rubrics of the liturgy, such as celebrating the Eucharist without being properly vested’, the bishop withdrew faculties from Father Tom to offer a public Mass or hear confessions for six months, and directed him to go to a monastery in North Wales ‘to reflect on your being a source of scandal for impressionable young Catholics’. Instead of North Wales, he went to Kenya until the bishop retired, and a more reasonable man took his place.

Upstairs, in one of the Georgian rooms with swags in plaster and wine-coloured drapes, they devoured pizzas, chips and soft drinks while ‘Libera Me’, the ‘Miserere’, ‘Gabriel’s Oboe’ and other pieces of music played in the background.

When they stood at the door, the street was filled with promise.

‘Happy Easter, Tom.’

‘Happy Easter.’

The priest watched while they went off, then he closed the heavy door and left the light on in the hallway, rather than face the dark silence of the house.

Philip and Sam slunk away on their own. A half-moon was hanging over the budding magnolia at the corner of St Stephen’s Green where they turned into Grafton Street. They hardly spoke lest they break the spell.

In front of the Central Bank, they stopped and held each other, and sealed their covenant to the plans already laid in the Georgian room: when they graduated, they would go for a year to Tanzania to help Philip’s uncle, Father Anselm, who was building a health clinic and a new school there.

Now, as he sits in the isolation of his bmw, gazing out at the empty bay, Philip remembers the letter he wrote Anselm about how much he enjoyed the summers he spent in Tanzania, and that he would go out for a year to help him build the clinic. That was when Una stepped in.

‘Better get your Master’s first, Philip. Yes, good to help Father Anselm, but what seems bad to us … well, those people are used to that way of life.’

‘They feel hunger like anyone else; and they die so young. Surely one should try and – ’

‘Yes, but … you’d then be forfeiting your Smurfit scholarship. Have you thought of that?’

‘I’ve promised him.’

‘Who?’ She was irritated.

‘Father Anselm.’

‘Oh, Father Anselm will understand.’

‘Easy to say.’

Being the eldest child, Philip enjoyed a firm bond with his mother. She relied on him more than the others, even sharing small worries, so he was reluctant to spoil that privilege. Nevertheless, he held out, and for a week or so they were skirting around each other.

Eventually he came round. ‘You may be right,’ he conceded when they were alone again in the kitchen. ‘Next year. I’ll go next year.’

‘Yes. Good decision, Philip.’ She was relieved to see the look of acceptance on her favourite child’s face.

In the same kitchen many years before, he had rushed in while she was peeling potatoes: ‘Mam, we had a priest in our class today to tell about the hungry boys and girls in Africa.’

‘Oh, had you?’

‘When I grow up, Mam, there won’t be any hungry boys and girls. I’ll get them food.’

‘Good man yourself, but go up to your room now and do your homework, and I’ll go over it with you.’

Sam was doing her Masters also; both, along with Egan, had got scholarships to the Smurfit Business School. And during that year, the Holy Thursday night of Option for the Poor and soup for the down-and-outs got crushed beneath a pyramid of glittering prizes for the young and talented, when the slump came to an end; or if not at home, then in London or Boston. The excitement of marketing ideas, of the bond market, share prices, and bonuses at Christmas was too tempting to resist.

That was the lean nineteen eighties: they couldn’t afford to spend any more time on Option for the Poor, not for the present anyway – what mattered was getting a job. When Barclays replied to his application, Philip, along with Egan, hopped on the stepping stones. Sam was changing also – working long hours. Already she was making her mark with High Res. In Doheny & Nesbitt’s, college friends told her she was made for it; she purred and sipped her gin and tonic.

Before Philip and Egan left for London, the Newman Group got together for a farewell party in Kirwan’s pub. They were clean-shaven and in suits: no sign of torn jeans anywhere, and no mention of the Admiral. When someone said in a throwaway manner that Thatcher was needed to put some control on the uk economy, that the trade unions were holding the country to ransom, there was general agreement.

Philip and Sam phoned each other every Friday; their promises were still on course, but over time the phone calls became less frequent. He joined Egan on the town. Weekends were for the chase: summer evenings when their pints of beer were golden outside The White Hart, where the new wave of Irish drank with their English colleagues. The slanting sun was glancing off the side mirrors of London taxis when they were swinging round the corner or stopping for a fare.

Many of the Irish had postgraduate degrees, and one or two European languages. They shared little with their countrymen who dug trenches and laid cables for Murphy around Willesden and Camden Town. They came across a Longford chap, Dolan, who worked for hsbc, who told them about Haughey’s talk of a financial centre for the Dublin docks.

‘Go on, pull the other one,’ said Egan.

‘Honestly, cross my heart,’ said Dolan. ‘Things are looking up. I’m going back to get a piece of the action. My own brokerage in Dublin. There’s a guy over from Ireland; he’s recruiting for … let me see.’ He took a business card from his wallet and peered at it: ‘Sharkey,’ he declared. ‘Looking for guys for a new bank just down the road from the rds: small outfit, but if my hunch is right – not for long.’ He put his pint to his lips and then rested it on the window ledge. ‘Sly-looking bollix, but, hey, you’re not going to marry him, so if the price is right …’ He shrugged.

The following evening, Sharkey appeared. ‘Will you stay farting around here for the rest of your lives, giving out credit cards, chequebooks and arranging mortgages?’

‘No.’

‘I’ve done my homework on you, and if you’re prepared to work, guys, I’m talking big bucks. Not wasting your life with little old ladies and their savings.’ He announced his primary rule of life: ‘Guys: you are what you have,’ and went on to set out his stall. ‘Medium-sized companies are my target, but I’ll not rest. I’ve no interest in sprat. I’m going after fucking Moby-Dick. Now if you come on board – and you’d be very stupid not to – you’ll meet the bank chairman, St John Dunleavy. Anglo-Irish type of gent – went to that school …’ He lowered his head. ‘Downside Abbey. Anyway, ok behind it all.’

He wasted no time. ‘Now here’s the deal. No fucking unions. Amalgamated will remain open during lunchtime. Lookit, fuck up and I shoot you.’ He had authority from the board to hire and fire. ‘There’s a gap which I aim to fill. Ireland is getting back on its feet. No longer the sick man of Europe.’ He grinned. ‘Companies need loans in a hurry: the big guns keep them waiting. We Harvard men don’t believe in sitting on our brains.’

He had other commandments: No to those who want a loan to go with their families to see Mickey Mouse in California; no to those who want to convert the fucking attic.’

His raw strength and charm excited them. They would give it a whirl.

‘What about the interview?’ Philip asked as Sharkey was going away. ‘Where will it be held?’

‘The interview!’ Sharkey turned and for the first time they heard his famous guffaw. ‘This is the fucking interview.’ He had to raise his voice to be heard above the din. ‘I’ve already boned up on you, guys. I know my men when I’ve had a pint with them … By the way, do you play poker?’

‘Kevin is your man,’ said Philip. ‘Count me out.’

‘Oh, we’ll have to teach you then. Won’t we, Kevin? How can anyone be a banker if he doesn’t play poker? Risk is the name of the game, guys. Calculated risk. The nature of the beast, Philip. The buzz. See you in Dublin if you’ve any sense. Stay here and become a fucking cabbage; the knitted cardigan in forty years’ time, when you’re pissing yourself. Join me and you won’t be sorry. Remember, guys, Sharkey’s motto: You are what you have.’

Philip turns the key in the ignition, and the high-powered motor springs to life. He makes a quick plan for the evening. With Sam away in London until the following day, he has no intention of mooching around the house on his own, getting angrier by the minute with Dylan if he is upstairs with his deafening music.

La Salle is silent when he steps inside his hall door. Through the French windows at the back, he can see Zara and her friends having a great laugh: one of them is doing a mock version of a model on the catwalk. Thank God, at least, she’s not in a state. He makes a salad, pops a burger in the microwave, and sits in front of the flat screen, surfing the channels while he eats. Ramsay is swearing at kitchen staff whenever they make a mistake; a couple has found bliss in moving from Dunleer to the south of France; they’ve even started a vineyard. ‘Getting away from the rat race; best decision we ever made. Mimosa in our garden in February,’ says the woman. Another couple is standing outside their converted dream house in west Cork: ‘this is it’ they are saying to the design expert. ‘All my boxes ticked now. And the water feature really, really works.’

He knows the script from memory, so he stands, takes his tray to the draining board and decides, after making a final call to Robin Hill about the American Evening, he will go for a long cycle: one that will exhaust every muscle in his body, and take him away from the suffocating world of contracts for difference, share prices and the guff about water features that really, really work.