I walk towards Drumcondra Road where the bus will take me straight out to the IBC campus in Santry. I’m relieved that the commute isn’t too awful. I’m even more relieved that I’ve been able to move in with Roo. I was delighted when she suggested it. Although I feel a bit guilty being so happy, seeing as the reason she was able to make the offer is that she and her boyfriend Justin broke up three months ago and I took the room in their tiny house that was previously used to store his board-game collection. When they moved in together Justin insisted he needed a whole room for all his games so they got a two-bedroom place. Roo was worried about the cost but he told her she was being selfish. Then a year later he left her for a woman from Sligo he met at some games convention. Really, it’s a mystery how Roo stayed with that man for as long as she did.
It’s nice being back in Dublin again, I think as I get on the bus. Nice, but weird. When I last lived here full-time I was doing my master’s. I was living with my parents, with no money or proper responsibilities. I haven’t quite figured out how I’m going to live here as a working adult yet. But after all, I’ve only been back for a week. I’ve got plenty of time for all that.
The traffic isn’t too bad for rush hour and half an hour laterI’m getting off the bus outside the IBC campus. This is it, I think as I approach the gates. It’s actually real. My new job.
My new life.
And suddenly I’m twelve years old again, walking through the school gates during my first few weeks of secondary school before I became friends with Roo, aware that I’ll be spending lunchtime on my own, sitting out by the playing fields because I don’t have anyone to sit with in my class. Suddenly I’m afraid I’ll be like I was back then. I won’t know how to be myself with my new workmates, so either I won’t say anything at all or else I’ll say the wrong thing and whatever I do, people will think I’m weird …
A knot is forming in my stomach. My chest feels tight and my breathing starts to quicken. Everything around me looks slightlyoff…
No.No, I am not going to let my stupid brain spoil the first day of my dream job. I force myself to breathe deeply. I keep walking up the drive and try to remember the grounding techniques I learned from my therapist years ago. Name three things I can hear. Three physical sensations. Three things I can smell.
I take another deep breath, and another, and gradually I start to feel better. Secondary school was a long, long time ago. It was awful but I got through it – thanks to Roo. And when I got to college, things got a lot better. I made friends. I finally felt able to be myself with people besides Roo and my immediate family. But still, but still. Whenever I start a new project at a new place, those old feelings come creeping back.
Well, I’m not going to let them creep any further. This is my dream job! It’s going to be great! I puff up my curls to make them even bigger and stride confidently through the automatic doorsof the IBC Television production building. A few moments after I give my name to the receptionist and sign the register, an internal door slides open and Susan Halloran walks out.
‘Annie!’ she says. ‘Welcome toNorthside! Come this way.’
I’m expecting to be brought to my new office, but Susan leads me straight through the building, past what’s clearly the canteen and out to the lot, where the exterior shots ofNorthsideare filmed.
‘Here we are,’ she says. ‘Charlemont Street.’
For a moment I can’t say anything.
I might have spent years working on soaps, I might have visited the sets of several television shows, but being on Charlemont Street itself … this is different. The houses and the shops and the pub and the café feel as familiar to me as the streets where I grew up. There’s Donnelly’s pub, where the iconic matriarch Ma Cusack famously outwitted the organised crime gang who took her hostage. There’s the lamppost outside the pub, the spot where Ma Cusack’s beloved husband was murdered, and where her granddaughter Rosie was born. There’s Karyn’s Kafé, and Mozzer McCaul’s house with its White Lady ornament in the window, and there’s the fancy bistro (that wasn’t there in the old days) and the music shop and—
‘Annie?’ says Susan, and I realise she’s been talking to me.
I pull myself together. ‘Sorry! It’s just … I grew up watchingNorthsideso it’s kind of mad being here.’
‘It hits a lot of people the same way,’ Susan says with a smile.
As we turn to go back to the IBC Television building, I spot a thin blonde woman in her forties lighting a cigarette on the edge of the lot. She takes a long drag and I can see her shoulders relax.
‘Hi, Gina!’ says Susan. ‘I didn’t know you smoked.’
The blonde woman starts and turns to face us. ‘Just occasionally.’ She looks embarrassed.
‘Gina’s Bernard’s assistant,’ Susan says. ‘Gina, this is Annie, one of our new hires. I was showing her the lot.’
‘Hello,’ says Gina.
‘Hi!’ I smile in what I hope is a friendly fashion. ‘I’m so excited about the new job.’
‘Well, it’s a big responsibility, writing forNorthside,’ says Gina. She nods towards the lot. ‘Averybig responsibility. This place means a lot to the whole team. Especially Bernard.’
I’m touched by her serious tone. ‘It means a lot to me too.’
‘Right!’ says Susan. ‘I’d better show Annie her office.’
The IBC Television building is a sprawling 1970s affair, and I follow Susan up a flight of stairs, down a corridor and through a huge open-plan office. It’s as grimly industrial as the offices ofOur Toon.
‘We used to be in a smaller space downstairs but we’ve got this whole floor now,’ says Susan. ‘So we have room for the staff writers’ offices.’
‘Wow!’ I say. ‘IBC must really believe inNorthside.’
I’ve been reading up about IBC’s new head of drama, Triona Clancy – or Triona ‘The Scythe’ Clancy to give her her full name. It’s common knowledge that, like many soaps,Northsidehas been in trouble for a while. The days of entire families gathering around the telly three nights a week to watch the residents of a fictional Dublin street are long gone, and there’s been a lot of grumbling in the Irish media from commentators and even cabinet politicians about how much the public broadcaster spends on the show. ButIBC, or at least Triona Clancy, must have some faith in it if they’re creating this new writers’ room and giving us this big office.