On The Hill

From:           Tony O’Leary 

Created:        Tuesday, June 03, 2006 11:45:GMT

To:               Clara O’Leary

Subject:        On The Hill

 

Dear Clara,

 

There are about fifteen people here now. Some of them have brought their drinks up from Queens. Apparently it is an open bar down there and everyone is tuned to Radio One. Terry Wogan has remained on-air, feeding us traffic reports and spreading a cloak of routine over the whole mess. We all agree he is a consummate professional. If by some miracle he survives this, he’s certain to get a Knighthood.

 

I hope you receive this before the server connection is lost. I have found a sunny spot right at the top of Primrose Hill, beside the viewing plaque. The grass beneath me feels like fresh, warm linen and London is spread out before me under a majestic, azure vault. I can see the Millennium Wheel, arrayed like a necklace on the horizon. I can even spot the green dome of St Paul’s rising from between the apartment blocks near Regents Park. Big Ben is glinting in the sunlight like a flaming sword. I can see St. Pancras Station and Westminster Cathedral too. You always loved this view.

 

I would love to send you a picture but I left the digital camera in the flat; it is too late to go back. I hobbled up here as fast as I could. (My last moment in that apartment, a place your mother and I shared for nearly twenty five years, was spent selecting a cane for my walk up the hill. I picked the one you gave me for Christmas, the crook cane with the Vietnamese dragon.) I am sitting here in the sun now with a bottle of Romanee Conti chilling in my backpack. I am enjoying a glass of it right now as I type.

 

Your mother is in Edinburg so she is safe. If you hear from her, tell her I said ‘Adieu’ and ‘Good Luck’.

 

Helicopters have started to fill the sky. The roads around the hill are quiet now but in every direction there is a growing cacophony of car horns and sirens, muffled by the distance and the heat of the day. Several cars have been abandoned on Regents Park Road. Down below, I can see a Land Cruiser tried its luck up on the pavement but got jammed on the railings at the turn. I can see smoke rising into the sky from Chalk Farm Road.

 

I did not expect to meet anyone up here. But it appears that I am not the only one who has decided to face this with dignity and a modicum of typical London restraint and poise. Richard and Adam from the beauty saloon have joined me. Richard says everything will be fine and this is all just a hoax but Adam is shaking so badly that he cannot dial his parents number in Oxford; Richard is helping him. I’ve told them they should get off the hill and out of the line of sight but they have politely refused. I’ve just remembered that Adam is already very sick. I wonder how he feels about Richard joining him. I have to say, it is nice to have someone familiar up here with me. We’re all sharing my wine as I type this.

 

Adam cannot get through. All the lines must be jammed. I saving this email onto our server in Berlin; it should get to you if the company satelite stays on-line long enough.

 

Richard is counting the Army helicopters; it is like a game. We can see twelve at the moment. They are all down by the Thames, hovering and swooping, hopelessly hunting. Their rotors are flickering like fine intricate wings in the sunlight. It would be a beautiful sight if the circumstances were not so appalling, so desperate.

 

My word. That was impressive: two Tornado jets have just screamed right overhead. They’ve banking to the south now. Richard thinks they’re heading over to support the search parties near St Paul’s Cathedral. We’ve already lost them in the sun.

 

There is a horn blaring somewhere in the distance. Someone in the bar told Adam that the keepers in London Zoo have opened the roof of the Aviary but none of the birds will fly away. Someone is trying to scare them off with a klaxon. That is very gallant but I believe it’s futile; the creatures won’t be able to escape very far. (I haven’t shared this opinion with the others).

 

Do you remember meeting Alice the last time you were here? She is the young woman from the apartment below mine. You might remember her from the book launch. She has just arrived with her cello. She is a music student originally from Finsbury Park. I’ve heard her play from the roof garden many times and she is a fine musician. Her pieces are always very thoughtful. If she starts playing, I do not think I will be able to stand it.

 

At the moment, there is a serene calm up here on the hill, fuelled by simple hope and complex disbelief. You would be forgiven for thinking we are all attending a picnic. Perhaps the Blitz survivors bred into Londoners an ability to face imminent disaster with stoic humour. Maybe I am watching a genetic fragment asserting itself.

 

I know this sounds strange, but I wish you were here! You are always so clear-headed in a crisis, particularly for someone so young! Of course, your decision to move to New Zealand is now revealed to be an inspired choice. World events have stepped right in between us. I hope you receive this last little dash for your affections. It does seem, however, that this crisis has robbed you of the last word.

 

Terry Wogan has told us that the deadline is indeed twelve noon. That is only six minutes away. Army helicopters have joined the tumbling mirth. Some are continuing to search around the river, but there are larger ones – Chinnooks, I believe – which are disappearing towards the horizon. I do hope they make it.

 

Adam has started praying aloud. It sounds more like a mantra then a plea for divine intercession. Somehow, I do not think he has God’s attention at the moment. I wonder if these other men have God on their side? They certainly believe so. There was an abundant amount in their message about punishment by Heavenly fire. I deserve retribution for some of the things I’ve done in my life. Compared to me, everyone else here on this hill is an innocent lamb…

 

Excuse me. I don’t want to spend my last few minutes discussing politics and religion! I have spent my whole life engaged in those chattering arguments but now I just want to talk of you and drink my wine until matters are decided. Three minutes left.

 

Not long now so let me get to my point.

 

I am proud of the life I’ve led. Without sounding too pompous, I believe it would have made a very interesting read. I have achieved a lot. But you, dear Clara, are my greatest triumph, my masterpiece! I think this ocassion calls for the whole truth, so here goes. I am not completely calm at the moment; I feel excited! I do not have a death wish, but if I am to leave this world today, then this manner suits me just fine: a blinding flash of light with the calming and composing knowledge that you will live on. That is something I will not mind at all. Not everyone gets a chance to say goodbye.

 

This wine is truly delicious.

 

I am reminiscing now. I can remember that weekend we had with your mother in Bundoran, just after your finals. I know the weekend itself ended in disaster but do you remember that first morning? We woke up with the sunlight streaming through the windows and the dogs aching to get outside; they went berserk in the tiny hallway. I can remember the sand dunes bright in the dawn light and the sweet taste of the Atlantic spray on my lips as we walked along the beach towards the village for breakfast. That was the closest to Heaven I will ever be. Just knowing that a place like that existed and will continue to exist after this damned city and this damned old man are vaporized is a wonderful, shining thought.

 

The last time we parted company, you said I was like London. I asked you what you meant and you said: “Ancient. Dogged. With short fits of artistic combustion and flair.” You were right, my dear. Will you be my Diaspora?

 

Aha. Alice has begun playing Mozart’s Fourth. The notes are filling all the gaps between the trees. She is drowning out the booming jets overhead. I can no longer hear the wailing alarms, the racketting helicopters or the quiet sobbing.

 

I feel free. I will lift my glass to you, my darling daughter.

 

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