The broomstick, it turned out, was a pink Mini. 1963 reg. The three aunts drove. Possibly all three at once. It was that kind of drive. For Hayden and Rusty it was a traumatic experience: a bare-knuckle ride surrounded by over-excited ancients. This sort of thing is standard cinematic fare for devotees of Level One10, but not so funny if you have to live through it – which Hayden and Rusty did. They also had to sit through some pretty explicit reminiscences involving long-forgotten pop stars of 1960’s vintage, the three aunts, and the back seat of the Mini. I hope I never succumb to the urge to write them down, but if ever I do, I promise to observe the thirty-year rule.
Skip this bit if you have no interest in silent cinema, comic genius or early twentieth century left-wing politics. Before you do, however, know this: you ought to be ashamed of yourself. I’m almost tempted to tell you who – if anyone – killed Eddie, because quite frankly The Inquisitive Bullet narrative deserves a better class of reader. But that would mean spoiling the story for the rest of us, and I’m not prepared to do that.
In a fit of skittishness, the three aunts stopped the car on the tram tracks at Amiens Street station. Smack in the centre of Dublin.
‘Oh no, Hayding. We’re stuck.’
‘Get out and push or we’ll all be deaded.’
‘You alone can save us, we being tree wizened little ladies of a certing age and you being a big hairy man.’
‘Save us.’
‘For pity’s sake save u-u-u-ussss.’
Hayden stared out the window onto the deserted street, then exchanged long-suffering glances with Rusty, who may have commiserated. He might equally have been nursing his own secret sorrow.
‘The car isn’t stuck,’ said Hayden. ‘The first tram is not for another four hours. The driver sets off from about twenty feet away and might be reasonably expected to see us in time. Need I go on?’
The venerable Mini roared into life and bounced happily off.
‘Tanks, Hayding.’
‘Hayding saves the day.’
‘Our hero.’
I mention this because it replicates, in a quintessentially modern way, the story arc of Finlay Jameson’s 1917 masterpiece, Tram, in which our intrepid and permanently furious hero chains himself to the tracks only to find that the tram drivers have called a three-day strike for better pay and conditions. The film in question was denied an American release – no drama – but lauded as political cinema of the highest order and compulsory viewing in the nascent USSR, leading to Finlay’s so-called red phase, and the freedom of the city of Minsk. I’ve seen the film, all three days of it, and despite being a lifelong leftie myself, I have to admit political discourse doesn’t always produce the best art. Particularly in silent cinema.
10 Prof. Larry Stern, Laughter and Wealth: The Lowest Common Denominator Theory of Comedy.