It Was Ten Years Ago

"Celebrating Ten Years In The Big, Bad World!"

The banner above the assembly hall door looked as tacky as the school buildings around it. From the school yard, you could hear the laughter and music inside the hall.

Jerry Flanaghan stood at the door welcoming his former pupils. A taxi pulled into the school yard and Paul O’Toole and Sean Murray stepped out. Both looked like life had been treating them well; they were wearing sharp, expensive suits and shirts. Paul’s glasses alone looked like they cost £400.

"How are you keeping, Mr Flanaghan, sir?" said Paul, shaking hands with his former headmaster.

"Oh, there’s no need for that ‘sir’ stuff now, lads. You can call me Jerry."

"And you can call me Mr Murray," said Sean, walking straight past Jerry into the hall.

Paul followed Sean in. The room seemed to be roasting after the chill outside. Quite a crowd had already arrived and the drink and conversation seemed to be flowing easily. There was a long table full of buffet food and people were grabbing what they could as they walked around. Kevin Kearney’s band was providing the music; he’d been at the game since forming the band when he was at school.

"There was no need to be so nasty just then," said Paul to Sean, taking off his glasses and wiping the mist off them.

"Why not?" Sean lit a cigar. "That old coot always hated me. He used to tell me I’d come to nothing. Well, I showed him. I’m probably earning twice as much as he earns. Did you see him eyeing the suit? He’d never be able to afford one like this."

"Lighten up, will you?" Paul said, as he grabbed a salad sandwich. "You won’t have much of a night with that sour attitude. Do you think Charlie will show? No one seems to have heard from him since we left here."

"No great loss," grunted Sean. "He always thought he was above us all."

"By all accounts, he is now. Apparently, he’s CEO or something of some American software company."

"Yeah, sure. CEO at twenty-seven. And probably president of America at thirty. I’ve never really bought all that rubbish people say about him. Hey, there’s Boyler! I haven’t been talking to him in ages. I’ll talk to you later."

Sean walked over to Joey Boyle, who was stuffing a mince pie into his well-rounded face. Sean couldn’t help noticing that Joey had put on a bit of weight all round; his beer belly seemed to have settled in for the long haul. He had his hair combed forward, but this couldn’t disguise the definitely receding hairline.

"Boyler, what’s up?"

"Hey, Seano!" Joey shouted through his full mouth. "You look great. Like the suit. It must have set you back a bit."

"It was well worth the two grand." Sean couldn’t help trumpeting. "Appearance is very important in my line of work. You can’t be meeting hyper-rich people if you’re wearing a cheapo. It gives a bad impression."

"Two grand!" Joey involuntarily fingered his own £50 second-hand suit. "God, you obviously have it to throw around. Me, I have to scrutinise every penny. I’m not sure how I’m even going to pay the rent this month."

"Ah, money’s one of life’s smaller problems when you look at the greater scheme of things."

"Only people with plenty of it come out with crap like that. Anyway, glad life’s being nice to you. I’ll natter with you later. I’m going over to have a word with Roger."

Joey felt a tiny sense of relief as he walked away from Sean. He grabbed a few cocktail sausages on his way over to Roger Kilbride. Roger had been the school soccer hero and was also regarded as being the class stud. Not surprisingly, he was now a fitness instructor. He looked as impressive as ever.

"Roger, you old sod," shouted Joey, slapping him on the back. "Good to see you again. Good God, you’re not drinking mineral water, are you?"

"Yup, never really took to alcohol," smiled Roger. "We didn’t all stampede to the nearest beer keg when we left school, you know."

"What, you’ve never had alcohol?"

"Never touched the stuff. And when I look over at Billy and Fred in the corner there, I can’t help thinking I made the right decision."

Joey looked at the two guys sitting in the corner. Fred was well gone already, his face flushed and his shaky hand holding a glass of brandy. Billy was knocking back most of a pint in one long, experienced swallow, and had two more lined up before him. Both were known to be alcoholics. It didn’t really surprise anyone - both of them had been drinking cider in St Andrew’s Park when they were thirteen. Apparently, Fred’s wife had left him a few months ago, taking the young boy and her two black eyes with her.

"It’s not the same way we all turned out," sighed Joey, shaking his head. "Sean was boasting earlier about his two-grand suit, to me who hasn’t had a steady job in the last three years. And those two in the corner are stuck in their factory lives. How’s the fitness training going for you, Roger? You getting by?"

"Oh, just enough to chug along without panicking. Probably chicken feed compared to what Charlie Burke makes, though."

"I hear he’s some hotshot lawyer in Chicago. Probably rolling in it, the git."

"I heard that he was some Wall Street fast-track whiz kid, living the stratospheric life in New York."

"You hear all sorts of stories. That guy seems to be hidden behind some veil. Anyway, he probably has done the best out of us all."

"Not really surprising, though, is it? He left us all in his wake at school. I always knew he’d end up on Easy Street. Oh, I’ve just seen Jeff coming in. Sorry, Joey, but I want to catch up with him. Talk to you later."

Jeff looked as bohemian as ever, with his beard and stringy hair. His idea of formal wear seemed to be torn jeans, a yellow t-shirt, and a red jacket. Roger hadn’t been talking to Jeff since they’d shared rooms at Trinity, nearly seven years ago. He walked over to him and enthusiastically shook his hand.

"Hey, Jeff, I see you decided to come back to the old town again."

"Roge, man, I wouldn’t have missed this for the world!" said Jeff, eyeing up the room. "Is that Kearney’s band on the stage?"

"Yup. Quite good, aren’t they?"

"Not bad. Though they didn’t take over the world, did they? Kearney always claimed his band would be as big as U2."

"Well," laughed Roger, "they are huge on the local circuit. They sold out Fitzroy’s pub last Saturday."

"Ouch! A fate worse than death. So is everyone here?"

"More or less."

"Has Superboy Burke made an appearance?"

"What do you think?"

"Probably better off without him. Everyone would waste their time getting jealous of him. What did he end up as, anyway? Some big engineer in Dallas, I heard."

"He could be God’s accountant, if you listen to the stories. I’d love to know what his secret was. All we know is that the family moved to America after he quit school. The da got some mega job offer or something. But to hell with all that. How’s the painting going?"

"Still cool," said Jeff, grabbing a bottle of beer. "I sold a few at the exhibition in Dublin last week."

"Nice. And still getting as much bedroom action as ever?"

"Oh yeah!" Jeff grinned. "Everything’s rolling nicely in that department. Got a bit of a health scare last year - you can always get caught when you’re not careful at that game - but the tests were clear, so I can still sow those wild oats."

"Still haven’t found Mrs Perfect?" Roger struggled to keep the jealousy out of his voice. He thought he’d found Mrs Perfect five years ago, but he wasn’t so sure now. He was glad that this reunion gave him an excuse to get out of the bloody house and away from her whining.

"No, I haven’t found her yet, but still looking. So, everything still well with yourself and Jenny? I hear you got married last year."

"Yup, as sweet as can be," Roger lied. "You know yourself, when you find something you want, you grab it and hold on."

"You know, man, you’re really lucky. I don’t think I’ll ever find the woman for me. I’ll probably always be looking."

"Sure, but it’s a pretty fun search."

"I don’t know," Jeff said, finishing off his beer. "You begin to wonder why you’re doing it. You search so long that you forget exactly what it is that you’re searching for. That’s a big theme in my paintings these days, you know. Anyway, at least you found it quite early on. Lucky git! Oh, I see the town alcoholics in the corner. I’ll go over and have a word with them. Later, man."

Fred looked like he’d already gone over the edge - he was drifting in and out of a drunken doze. Billy was more in control and was looking for someone to talk to when Jeff finally managed to make his way through the crowd.

"Well, if it isn’t Picasso," grinned Billy. "No barbers up in Dublin, then."

"It’s my latest image," laughed Jeff, stroking his hair. "So how’s tricks, Billy of Vodka and Orange? I see Fred has fallen into Flintstone cartoon land already."

"Don’t mind him," said Billy, in disgust. "He thinks he’s a big shot knocking back his double brandies and then just knocks himself off the horse into this state. It happens all the time. He passes out and someone has to carry him home. Usually me!"

"What are you doing when you’re not carrying Fred Flintstone home?"

"Still working in that lousy ZenTen camera factory on the Alphonsis Estate. Christ, that job is so boring that it’s no wonder I run into the pub every evening. You were lucky to get the hell out of here, Jeff. I’ve often regretted not moving to Dublin before I got stuck in this poxy rut."

"Dublin’s no garden of roses either, you know. There are plenty of thorns up there also. It can be quite tough at times."

"You did alright out of it. You still at the painting?"

"Yeah, making enough to get by. It’s an expensive city."

"Obviously not making as much as our star pupil, then," said Billy sarcastically, as he reached for another pint. "How come he didn’t show tonight?"

"He was hardly going to come home from America for this. He probably doesn’t even know about it."

"Well, there was an ad in the local rag about it. And he gets it sent to him, because I saw he had a letter in it a few months ago. You’d think he’d come back and share a bit of his fortune with his old friends."

Jeff couldn’t help laughing. "But I thought you always hated him. You bullied him!"

"Time’s a great healer. I’ve forgiven him for making me have to bully him. And he should be able to forgive me. He’s got enough money to forgive anyone."

Before Jeff could answer, Kevin Kearney’s voice boomed from the stage.

"Hi, you guys. Hope you’re enjoying the music and having a groovy time. Great to see everyone again. As you can see, we haven’t really become the new U2." Laughter roared through the assembly hall. "But we stayed true to our roots, man, true to our spirit." Tongue-in-cheek cheers greeted this. Nearly everyone had a soft spot for Kearney’s ludicrous musical ambitions. They couldn’t help admiring the guy for never taking the hint and giving up.

"Anyway," continued Kearney, scanning the hall, "I see Charlie hasn’t made it. He’s probably signing some multi-million real-estate deal in Seattle. I was hoping he’d show because, as you may remember, he had an okay singing voice. I still remember him singing Long Black Veil at the school concert back in 1986, back when things were easy... Well, I’d like to sing that song now as a way of saying Charlie, we remember you and wonder what happened to you. How did you do it, you sod? If you can hear this on some cosmic highway, send us some of your millions because, well, our equipment is getting a bit old, and we could do with a bit of money."

The hall erupted into laughter at this. The band began playing a slow, folky melody and the hall gradually grew silent. Kearney took a sip of beer and began singing.

It was ten years ago

On a cold, dark night,

There was somebody killed

’Neath the town hall light.

Jerry Flanaghan had come inside and was listening to the song. Paul saw him standing there on his own and walked over to him.

"Well, Jerry, looks like your favourite pupil isn’t going to show."

"I didn’t really think he would," Jerry sighed, taking the glass of whisky Paul offered him. "I often wonder about him, though. Did he really become as successful as people say or is he actually sleeping rough in Central Park?"

"You know," said Paul, "maybe we’re better off not knowing. I think we all need to believe that at least one of us really made a go out of life. That way, we know that we’re not cursed."

"What are you talking about? Yourself and Sean seem to have done okay for yourselves."

"Really? We’re on a roll at the moment, but we spend every day taking risks, sometimes huge risks, with other people’s money. You only need to foul up once or twice and you’re out on your ear. Is that success? Constantly watching your back, keeping track of who’s sharpening the knives."

"Well, Sean’s obviously a bit surer of himself than you are."

"Sean’s so full of himself that he can’t see the mess he’s in. He thinks the entire world spins on his axis. If it does, then why does he have to spend so much money in the brothels around Dublin? He doesn’t even realise how empty he is. All he cares about is buying new suits!"

"And what makes you think that Charlie is any better than the rest of you, then, if your view of life is so jaundiced?"

"Because we have to believe it. It offers hope to us. If at least one of us has won, really won, then there is hope that some others of us might win in the future."

Jerry was glad to hear a car pulling up outside. Paul was beginning to depress him. "I’d better go outside and see who this is."

When he got outside, he saw a black car parking. A middle-aged man got out, carrying an envelope. He walked over to Jerry.

"Are you Mr Gerard Flanaghan?"

"Yes."

"I’m Mark Burke, Charles Burke’s uncle." He handed Jerry the envelope. "He sent me this letter and asked me to give it to you. He apologised for not being able to make it to this and asked if you would read out this letter."

"Er, yes," said Jerry, somewhat lost for words. "Em, how’s Charlie keeping? What has he been up to?"

"Charles is fine," said Mark, getting back into his car. "I’m sorry, Mr Flanaghan, but I’m really in a hurry. I’m sure the letter will give you an idea of what’s what. Thank you and good night."

With that, the door closed and the car started to pull out of the yard. Jerry turned the envelope around in his hands as he watched the car drive out the gates.

He went back into the hall. Luckily, Kearney was just finishing his rendition of Long Black Veil. Jerry walked up to the stage and signalled to Kearney that he wanted to say a few words.

When the applause following the song had died down, Kearney told everyone that "our beloved, evil former headmaster" wanted to address the hall.

Jerry cleared his throat before speaking. "Hello, everybody. I wanted to wait until the end of the night before making my speech. I knew that by that time you would perhaps be drunk enough to listen to me." This was greeted with laughter and smart remarks from the crowd. "However, I’ve just this minute been handed this letter by Charlie Burke’s uncle. Apparently, Charlie wanted me to read it out tonight."

That completely silenced the crowd. The sound of Jerry tearing open the envelope was like thunder. Everyone stared expectantly at the stage as Jerry unfolded the letter and put on his reading glasses.

"Well, here goes. Ahem... ‘Hello, former classmates. My uncle sends me over The Reporter every week and I recently saw the ad about tonight. God, is it really ten years since we split up? Unfortunately, I’m too busy these days to make it over. I hope you’re all having a great time.

"‘It would have been really great to talk to you all again. I often wonder what happened to everyone. Then again, I’m sure you’ve all wondered what happened to me. My uncle keeps me up to date on some of the wilder rumours around town concerning me.

"‘I’m afraid my story isn’t all that exciting. As you know, we moved to America after I left school. Dad shot up the career ladder in his new job and we were well off. After college, I followed Dad into the business and I did extremely well. I got very lucky with some shares and stocks and, with clever investing, I’ve made a lot of money in the last five years. My career in the company is very promising and I really won’t have money worries for a long time.

"‘So, that’s it. Nothing spectacular. My life hasn’t been all that special, just an ordinary good-luck story that you’d find in any cheap, airport novel. So you can forget those stories about me living in millionaire’s paradise. In some ways, my life is still quite tough.

"‘I know that sounds rich, but I’ve been bouncing between a few psychiatrists, trying to get a handle on the depression that sometimes crushes me. I take too much medication for someone my age. I’ve married a beautiful lawyer over here, but I’m not sure any more how long the marriage will last. Dad is now dying of prostrate cancer and we can’t buy back his health.

"‘Well, there you have it! The ten-year-old mystery is solved. Very disappointing final scene, I know, but that’s how it is. Life has been very good to me in some ways and very cruel to me in other ways. There is no Easy Street. I certainly haven’t found it. I don’t know where the secret key to the hidden treasure is. Does anyone?

"‘Have a really terrific night! I’ll look you up if I ever make it back to Ireland. Sometimes I really miss you guys.

"‘Take care. Charles "Charlie" Burke.’ And that’s the end of his letter."

Jerry slowly folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. He took off his reading glasses and put them back in his coat pocket. There was utter silence. He looked into the crowd and saw puzzled, disappointed faces. Jerry turned to Kearney and told him to start playing again.

The band kicked into an upbeat rock number as Jerry got off the stage. He went over to the table and poured himself a generous glass of whisky. He carried the glass outside. The frosty air was almost welcoming after the atmosphere inside. He took out a cigarette and lit up, blowing the smoke across the dark, silent yard. He noticed another cloud of smoke beside him. He turned and saw Paul lighting a cigar.

"Well," said Paul, slowly exhaling the smoke, "so much for giving us all hope. The poor guy sounds even more miserable than the rest of us."

They both smoked in silence for some minutes, each thinking of Charlie Burke.

"Do you remember," said Jerry suddenly, "that old song? ‘When Quinn the Eskimo gets here, everybody’s gonna jump for joy.’ Well, Paul, maybe you’re better off knowing that the Mighty Quinn isn’t that special after all, that he has his own problems and foul ups."

"And that’s supposed to give us hope?"

"Well, it’s good to know that Charlie doesn’t have the answer after all. It’s good to know that he is actually no more special than the rest of us. Lucky, maybe, but not special. He finds life as tough as the rest of us. Everyone has some pain hidden beneath the veil."

"Christ, you’re in a poetic mood tonight!"

"Well, isn’t there something poetic in all this? You all came here tonight thinking Charlie would give the answer, and all you got was another ordinary story. All you got was disillusionment. You all have been comparing yourselves to an illusion for these last ten years. But perhaps that’s what should give you hope. Knowing that no one is special, that in some way we are all equal. We all get our time in Easy Street and in Tough Alley."

"Will you still be saying that when we have the next reunion?"

"Maybe. Then again, I am due a few years on Easy Street and that might change my outlook."

Paul took off his £400 glasses and rubbed his eyes. He smiled as he watched his cigar smoke disperse in the darkness. Maybe he was also due trip down Easy Street.

^