Straight Down

What was most vexing about being a professional checker was seeing the errors you’d missed, those rogue commas and run-ons, the misspellings and data fails.  As an editor, you were holding others to a particular standard and that meant you were held to the highest standard, especially by masons of the quill who were sensitive to criticism and prone to dissent (currently we only had two of them, all said).  So with this in mind I purchased a copy of The Martlet (I usually did) to review it at home and cope.  The Democrat too, for good measure.  And a cheap umbrella that probably wouldn’t last the walk home but would do until the wind blew it out.  On this occasion, chance intervened to prevent that happening and when I got in I laid down the unmutilated parasol at my doorway like it was a stray pup I’d taken home with me.     

Once in place to review what was fresh off the press, it wasn’t long before the errors came.  Beginning with the tiniest thing, the kind you might be forgiven for not catching.  If you were not the paid copyeditor.

On Thursday afternoon, the newly refurbished Presbyterian Church Hall was formally reopened.  At the proceedings, Rev. J Frances was in great spirits and was seen generously carousing with every God-respecting woman in attendance . . .

[ed. Francis, not Frances]

How did that get away from me?

Shit!  It was enough to make you want to quit the job simply to avoid the burning humiliation of it. 

The Democrat was a much more respectable paper than ours.  For a start, it was older, occupied more real estate in the town’s recorded history, but for many decades it lost that position and was replaced as the paper of record by The Martlet.  This changed again, however, in the era of Arthur Lavery whose tabloid style brought the press down a peg somewhat, and so The Democrat would regain its old standing.  It didn’t hurt matters that they kept to the broadsheet format, which The Martlet had long ago left behind.  What The Democrat had going against them was that they were a wretchedly dull organisation.  Never in a million years would you have seen something as compelling as a Scouring Tout column between its pages, and they certainly had their own shortcomings in the editing department, now that we’re on the subject. 

Fine Gael have formally selected five candidates [ed. six, to be precise] from the Carrickphelimy North and Carrickphelimy West areas for the Local Council elections to be held in June [ed. July, in fact] next year.  In the Carrickphelimy constituency, sitting counciller [ed. councillor, to be accurate] Fiona Dullaghan is expected to . . .    

And another.

On the Saturday of this coming weekend, a vigil will be held at the Square in rembrance [ed. remembrance, actually] of Ernest Gilgan who sadly passed in Europe some weeks ago following the publication of falsehoods and drivel in The Martlet.  Father Graham Harney, who this Friday will preside at the month’s mind for Mr Gilgan in St Owen’s, is slated to be in attendance where he will formally . . .

Ah yes!  Ernest Gilgan’s vigil.  What time was that to be?  Six?  I had no reason to attend.  And yet there was more than one reason to stay away.  More were given to contemplate my own personal involvement now.  And there was still that nasty air about.  Like an old factory had burst.  Had to keep all the windows closed.  Truth is I was not one to stand back from a parade.  Nor had I lost my core faith in the people of Carrickphelimy.  I would ask for the support of the few hopefully good senses that I maintained still existed in the town.  I’d argued this a bunch of times with Phyllis.  The town is lousy, she would say, a word I believe she got from the Billy Wilder films.  Not to mention crummy.  I would not have used either of those words, but not because I lacked the desire to use them (I too liked those Billy Wilder films); I simply had a more neutral stance.  In Carrickphelimy there dwelt some kind hearts, I knew it to be so, and though once upon a time they outnumbered the foul ones, it was difficult to pick them out now – how sad that a substantial demographic of moral goodness in the place was presently unknown to me.

I should really have just stayed at home, or went to the Berrills house to watch a film with them.  But if I was anything I was a nosy bastard and would not have objected if you’d said it.

After dinner, I donned my old army coat and wool hat and headed out.  You might call it a disguise, but would it really matter?  If they were so inclined to recognise me, they’d more than likely see past my young soul rebel get-up and knock my block off regardless.     

The lad was dead, but the town sure was alive.  They were all out and about and happy while at the same time primed to put on their glum face when the time was right.  Lights, cameras, loudspeakers.  A small stage with a lecturn and the band gear.  Ray Wilmott’s jam group had been hired to do some of Ernest’s favourite tunes during the vigil.  Expect an Oasis number or two. 

I had to admit it: there was a sense of togetherness.  As there usually was after an individual ended their ability to be.  Congress and a knees-up.  Send the poor soul off with a cheer.   

I walked through the crowd towards the stage.  Someone was going around giving out free candles.  I accepted one as it came by.  I’d no coppers on me so if they’d cost any money I would’ve had to stand there looking like one cold-hearted sack. Not only did the people beside me in the crowd have their candles held aloft but many were sporting various shades of purple and lavender.  I presumed this was in reference to Ernest’s now-soon-to-be-published novel A Sudden Lavender, a quiet and moving tale about the hardships of modern life. 

The Screaming Deanes were there, of course, standing by Carswell’s Dressmakers.  They’d surrendered their signage temporarily, put the placards down and had them facing the wall to pay respect.  The first of them I noticed was Stephen looking ready to bite someone’s head off.  If they were the right height for him.  He was shorter than me after all, though stocky, and muscular, a kind of up and breathing Mighty Mouse.  One thing I knew of Stephen was that he smelt like gone fruit but he wasn’t near enough now for me to pick up on the odour.  Behind him, Mary stood with her face in a constant pucker like there was a horrible taste in her mouth at all times and the hair like brown twigs all tied together and broken.  The older one, Sue Ellen, like your one out of Dallas, looked nothing like her Texan counterpart, face on her like a block of blue cheese, yet despite that not completely unpretty.  Forgive me for describing them in such a grotesque manner, but I believe others would be less judicious if given the reins.

The factions were out in force for the vigil.  I saw Fagans, Govers, and Dry Hags represented.  But there was no Gulliver presence as far as I could see.  And this was not at all surprising.  They were the most vicious, so they generally hid themselves well, lurking, which as it happens allowed them to strike out more effectively when the time came, be that against others or one of their own.  They showed their faces only at the worst of times.  At the right hand side of the stage, I spotted the Colreavys.  Caitriona saw me too and bowed her head softly in acknowledgement.  But she didn’t smile. It appeared she was galled still after my (frankly mild) accusations earlier in the week.  Brendan was with her.  He didn’t spot me, thank fuck.  I shrunk back a little in the crowd so as he’d continue not to see me.

Miserable day, said a voice to my side.  It was Russell Kerley with his camera.

Alright, Russ, how are you? I called him Kerley when we were at work.  But since it was a weekend and I was seeing him on the outside I chose to call him by his first name, or at least its sobriquetical alternative. 

Miserable.  Were you caught in that shower earlier?

I wasn’t, no.  I just left the house.  I saw some of it earlier in the day though.  It was pissing down about eight this morning.

Jesus, what had you roaming around at that hour?

For the stroll, you know.  Up the back of the wall. 

Well, there you are.  I took you for a pisshead at the weekends.  Not one who’d be up at the crack of dawn. 

He raised his camera to the stage and snapped a photo of Ray Wilmott in the process of tuning his guitar. 

He played our wedding, said Kerley.  Can’t remember a single song they played but they put on an okay show.  Um.  Wait.  Actually, they played that 10CC one, I seem to recall.

I’m Not In Love?

No, Dreadlock Holiday.  I hadn’t thought about it before but Ray kind of looks a bit like 10CC, so he does.

They’re a band, not a man.

Anyway, finest jobbing musician in town, no question.

He then turned and took a photo of the crowd behind us with the courthouse in the background and the sun going straight down.