THOMPSON
An extract from
Deirdre O’Dare meets film director TP
O’Reilly with a view to being cast in his film, The Revenge of Irish Bob
‘Howdy!’ The following Wednesday morning TP O’Reilly, the director, producer
and screenplay writer of the Famine film leaned across the boardroom table
of a soulless hotel function room to shake Deirdre’s hand. He was a florid,
avuncular-looking man in his early fifties.
‘Hi!’ Deirdre gave him a big smile. ‘Nice to meet you! I’m Deirdre O’Dare!’
She had sensed immediately that exclamation marks might be a good idea.
‘Big TP O’Reilly, Deirdre!’ he said in a drawly Texan accent, pumping her
hand vigorously. ‘The name’s officially Thomas Patrick, but everybody just
calls me Big TP. I’m big in stature –’ he patted his large paunch with both
hands and grinned at her – ‘and big in heart. And I’ve a larger than life
personality!’ He gave her a big wink. ‘Take a seat, Deirdre.’
She sat down opposite him with her smile still in place. Behind the smile
she was thinking that Big TP probably had an ego to match everything else
that was big about him. In the far corner of the function room a rather
flushed-looking PA was sitting working on a laptop. A mobile rang and the
woman picked it up crossly. She muttered into it briefly, then returned her
attention to her computer screen.
‘Well, Deirdre,’ said TP O’Reilly in a jocular tone. ‘Let’s see if we can
find you among all these other lovely young things.’ He indicated a stack of
photographs on the table and picked up Suki Hayes’s from the top. ‘A real
pussycat.’ He did a bad imitation of a growl, looking at her with his teeth
bared and his eyebrows raised. Deirdre refused to betray her discomfort. She
wasn’t going to blow this interview. Maybe she could contrive to let him
know that Suki Hayes wasn’t available. Big TP set Suki’s photograph
carefully to one side and started leafing through the others, making
appreciative noises as he did so. Her smile faded as she watched him.
‘You’ve a great smile,’ he said, when he finally located her photograph.
‘Thank-you, Mr O’Reilly,’ she said, switching it on again. Her facial
muscles were starting to feel stiff.
‘No, no, no – Big TP.’
‘Of course. Big TP.’ Deirder felt extremely foolish calling a man she’d only
know for two minutes Big TP. It felt as if she was addressing an Indian
Chief.
‘D’you know something, Deirdre?’ He put her photograph on the top of the
pile and extracted a large cigar from the breast pocket of his checked
jacket. ‘It’s great to be back in the country of my forebears. It truly is.
It’s like coming home.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Can you credit it,
Deirdre? My ancestors were forced to flee their native land without a penny,
and a century later here I a returning a millionaire. A multi-millionaire.’
He repeated the mournful head-shake and then flicked on a lighter and held
the flame to the cigar, sucking hard on the end. ‘There’s a word for that,
isn’t there, Deirdre?’ he said between sucks. ‘I’m not very good with words.
I prefer to express myself through pictures. That’s why I make films. What’s
the word I’m looking for?’
‘Ironic?’ suggested Deirdre.
‘Yes, yes, yes! Ironic! That’s the word.’
‘Ironic, to be sure,’ said Deirdre, thinking it was probably a good thing to
sound a bit more Irish.
Across the table from her Big TP had gone very quiet and nostalgic-looking,
obviously lost in some reverie of the Emerald Isle. The silence went on and
on, and Deirdre decided she’d better kick-start the interview again. She
cleared her throat. ‘You know, I’ve a feeling that you a man after me own
heart, Big TP. Someone told me that you have a passion for horses.’
The effect the word ‘horses’ produced on TP O’Reilly was metamorphic. He
lifted his head at once and beamed at her. ‘A passion! That’s some
understatement, Deirdre! If I’d lived in the time of the Greek myths I’d
have been a centaur, that’s for sure! Ha ha ha!’
‘They are magnificent beasts, horses,’ replied Deirdre, with a faraway look
on her face. ‘I sometimes feel that I was born to ride.’ She suddenly
realized what she’d said and stopped short, giving TP a quick glance to see
if he’d registered her gaffe , but he was rummaging in a wallet he’d
produced from his inside pocket.
‘Here. Take a look at these,’ he said, throwing a handful of snapshots onto
the table between them. ‘My wife often jokes that I never travel with a
picture of her or the kids in my wallet – I only ever travel with pictures
of my horses!’
Deirdre picked up the photographs with a foreboding heart and a fascinated
expression. What on earth was she going to say about them? One horse was
indistinguishable from the next as far as she was concerned. ‘Oh my God –
what magnificent animals!’ she exclaimed. She thought Big TP’s horses looked
like – well, like horses.
‘Ain’t that the truth,’ Big TP concurred, leaning back in his chair and
stretching his arms above his head. ‘They’re almost dearer to me than my own
children.’
Deirdre didn’t doubt it. ‘I just – I’ll just have to admit it, Big TP. They
have rendered me absolutely speechless. I have never seen such magnificent
creatures. I am gobsma… - absolutely dumbfounded by their sheer – their
incredible – you know…?’
‘Yeah. I know just what you mean.’ TP smiled and nodded at her slowly.
‘They’re magnificent, aren’t they?’
There was a photograph of a goldy-coloured horse amongst the bunch. Suddenly
something came back to her in a flash. She remembered a story that had been
serialized in Bunty years ago, when she’d been about ten years old. It had
been about an orphan girl who’d escaped from the circus run by her wicked
foster mother. She hadn’t wanted to leave her favorite circus pony, so she’d
stolen him and taken him on her travels through the lonely Scottish
highlands in an endeavour to trace her real parents. It hadn’t been
Deirdre’s favorite series because it had had a horse in it, but it was
better than the one about the girl steeplejack. It had been called ‘Paloma’s
Palomina’.
‘The palomino is particularly magnificent,’ she hazarded, sneaking a look at
Big TP to make sure she hadn’t got it wrong. She also thought that she might
be over-using the word ‘magnificent’. ‘I’ve always thought that the palomino
is a truly – um – majestic breed. They have real –’ Deirdre searched around
for another good word ‘-charisma. And mystery,’ she threw in for good
measure.
‘I can tell you know your horses, Deirdre. I handed over a lot of bucks for
that little lady.’
He blew a couple of smoke signals out of his mouth, and Deirdre suppressed a
cough. ‘I can well believe it,’ she said in a knowledgeable way. The cigar
was probably top-of-the-range, but it still stank.
To her relief he stretched his hand out across the table and reappropriated
the snapshots. He gazed at them lovingly for a minute or two before
replacing them in his wallet. ‘Well, that’s enough about our mutual
passion,’ he said jovially. ‘For now, anyway,’ he added. ‘I’ve a feeling we
might be spending more time together in the future, Deirdre.’ He gave her
another wink, and Deirdre brightened. That seemed like a good omen, she
thought., as she tried to dimple. She’d begun to realize that she wasn’t
particularly good at dimpling. Sophie Burke had the monopoly on that. She
wondered if Sophie had been in to see Big TP yet.
‘There was another actress in here today who knew about horses, Deirdre. She
prattled on for a long time before I realized that, although she knew a lot
about them here –’ Big TP pointed at his head ‘-she knew nothing about them
here.’ He pointed to his heart. ‘I can tell a horse lover at a thousand
paces, Deirdre, and you have horses in your soul. I’m right, aren’t I?’
‘That you are, Big TP.’ Deirdre nodded solemnly, but her heart was starting
to hum a tiny little tune. It was Home, Home on the Range.
‘Anyway, she was a blonde, and I don’t want a blonde in the part. Gentlemen
may prefer blondes, but gentlemen marry brunettes, ha ha ha, as the famous
Dorothy Parker once said.’ Deirdre knew for a fact that it was Anita Loos
who’d said it, but she wasn’t going to enlighten him.
Big TP leaned his elbows on the table. ‘Let’s talk some business, Miss
Deirdre. I’d better start about telling you about the part I have you in
mind for.’ He sent her another wink and she dimpled quite well this time.
‘It’s the part of the daughter of the local wealthy landlord – (Uh-oh,
thought Deirdre. She’d better start phasing out the brogue.) – ‘who takes
pity on the local starving peasants, and visits them with food and drugs.’
(Drugs? thought Deirdre in astonishment. Why would she offer them drugs if
she’d taken pity on them?) ‘You know, those herbal remedies and – uh, what
d’you call them? – tissons and stuff like that they used back then.’ (Tissons?
Oh – tisanes.) ‘Then her father finds out and tries to stop her from doing
it because he’s a really evil British officer as well as being a landlord so
he has shit-loads of power. But his daughter Tracey’ – Deirdre was starting
to hear warning bells – ‘defies him because she’s fallen in love with one of
the local peasants, so they escape his wrath on horseback. Then Bob gets
killed by evil British GIs – ’
‘Excuse me, Big TP,’ said Deirdre politely. ‘Sorry to interrupt you, but
who’s Bob?’
‘Bob’s the peasant. I decided to name of the film Tracey after my daughter
and the hero Bob after my son.’
‘Oh – I see. What a nice idea.’ Deirdre nodded brightly.
‘Anyway, Bob’s dead, right? So Tracey decides to seek revenge on her father
and becomes an outlaw. From being the fabulously wealthy and beautiful
daughter of the local landlord she goes to nothing. Just like that.
Nothing!’ Big TP thumped his fist on the table and Deirdre jumped. ‘All she
has left in the world are her wits and her trusty horse.’ (Uh-oh, she
thought.) ‘So she roams the country on the Lady Tara, helping the poor and
setting up traps for the Brits and then one day her father stumbles across
one of the traps and gets blown into a thousand smithereens!’ Big TP sat
back in his chair with a challenging expression on his face. There was a
long pause.
Then: ‘Is that the end?’ Deirdre enquired tentatively.
‘No! We find out that Bob didn’t really get killed – he’s been an outlaw all
this time too, setting traps for the Brits just like Tracey. They meet up by
accident one day when they’re both setting a trap in the same place – this
is the bit that I’d like you to read for me – and realize that they’re still
crazy about each other despite all they’ve been through, so they get
married. Then the Famine’s over and they both go back and live in the big
house.’
For a while the only sound was the tip-tapping of the PA’s fingers on her
laptop. ‘It sounds fascinating, Big TP,’ said Deirdre finally.
‘I knew you’d think so! OK – let’s read it together. Here’s the scene I told
you about where Tracey and Bob meet up. It’s only a couple of pages, but
that’s all I need to tell whether an actress has got what it takes or not.
I’m a very perceptive when it comes to recognizing genuine talent, and I’ve
a feeling you’ve got just what it takes, little lady!’
He pushed a couple of printed pages across the table to her and Deirdre
looked at them cautiously. She was starting to feel slightly panicky. She’d
have to remember to do a sort of posh voice. She took a deep breath. ‘Bob!’
she exclaimed. ‘It’s you! But it can’t be you. Bob’s dead.’
Big TP’s Texan drawl had been replaced by an execrable Irish accent. ‘No,
Tracey – don’t go! I’m Bob. I am Bob. Believe me I am Bob.’
‘How can I believe you when I saw your dead body with my own eyes. This is
some trick of the Brits. I’m getting out of here.’
‘No! (He seizes her by the arm).’ Oh, God, thought Deirdre. He’s going to
read all the stage directions as well. ‘You mustn’t go after I’ve found you
again after all these years. Look!’ (He rolls up his sleeve to show her his
birthmark.) Here is the proof!’
‘I must believe you. There could be no other Bob.’ Deirdre decided that
since Big TP was reading the stage directions aloud, she’d better do so too.
‘(She falls into his arms. They kiss passionately.)’ Oh God, she thought.
Who was going to be playing Bob? At least she knew it wouldn’t be Rory
McDonagh. ‘(They draw apart. She strokes his face tenderly.) But Bob, how
could this be? How come you’re still alive after all this time?’
‘I feigned death to fool the Brits. But it’s a long story, Tracey. We don’t
have time right now. The Brits will be here soon.’
‘You’re right, Bob, we must go. Have you still got Old Madge your horse?’
‘No, Tracey. Sadly Old Madge lay down and died that time I had to feign
death to fool the Brits. (He looks away from her, obviously moved.) Old
Madge died of a broken heart, Tracey, but it was really the Brits that did
it. I’ll never forgive them for what they did to her.’
‘I’m so sorry, Bob. I’ll never forgive the Brits either. I’ll never forgive
them for what they’ve done to you. I’ll never forgive them for what they’ve
done to me. And I’ll never forgive them for what they’ve done to my
country.’
‘Your country? But you are the daughter of a noble Englishman, Tracey.’
‘Correction, Bob. Was the daughter.’
‘(He gives her a quizzical look),’ interjected Big TP.
Deirdre resumed. ‘Yes, Bob. I blew my father to bits. I am as Irish as you
now. The blood that flows through my veins is no longer the blue blood of a
noble English Earl. It is the green blood of Ireland. (She produces an Irish
passport from her handbag and brandishes it.)’ Deirdre wondered if she ought
to mention that Irish passports didn’t exist until the 1920s and then
decided against it.
‘Tracey I love you.’
‘Bob I love you too. (They kiss again.) But we had better hurry. It is
growing late.’
‘You’re right, Tracey. Ah – I see your horse The Lady Tara in the next
field. Make haste and flee this place.’
‘I’m not going anywhere without you, Bob. Not ever again. The Lady Tara is
strong enough to carry us both. (They cross quickly into the next field,
mount The Lady Tara, and gallop off over the horizon.)’
‘Wow, Deirdre!’ Big TP blew out more smoke. ‘You read that like a dream.
That’s just the way I’ve always imagined those words would sound some day.’
Deirdre didn’t bother with the dimple this time. She wasn’t sure that she
shouldn’t have blown this interview after all. ‘Thanks, Big TP.’
Big TP got to his feet and stretched out his hand. ‘Well, little lady, it’s
been a pleasure meeting you. And I can say with every confidence that I’m
sure we’ll meet again. He gave her another enormous wink, which she found
herself automatically returning. ‘Ha ha ha!’ roared Big TP. ‘You surely are
my kind of gal, Miss Deirdre O’Dare!’
And as he showed her to the door he rested an avuncular hand just
fractionally too low on the small of her back.
© 2005 Kate Thompson
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