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The spring of 1957 was exceptionally overcast, and the heavy weight of sky imposed a mood of greyness and gloom. It was the most depressing climate for a fightback, but Jim began as he meant to go on. Brushing aside help, he worked out a method of sitting up, sliding across the bed and swivelling his legs; to cough, he turned over on his chest and hung his head over the side. Since he could not hold a cup in his right hand, he held it in his left and, though buttons continued to defeat him, he succeeded in brushing his hair by lowering his head down to the brush. It was imperative to break free, to relive adolescence, all over again. Physiotherapy had been set up in advance at the Central Remedial Clinic on the other side of Dublin, putting him literally in the passenger seat. His mother did the daily chauffeuring and gave the staff a hand while waiting, which recalled her Red Cross work at Boscobel and his total dependency then. At home a pulley was rigged up over his bed for the incessant shoulder exercises, and he modelled himself upon The Pie at Terra Nova, the master injured in the First World War, who had not allowed the loss of a leg to curtail an energetic life. Holding the racket in alternate hands, he hit tennis balls against the pebble-dashed wall at the back of the bungalow, and in school holidays roped in his younger brother, Richard, as partner. If the weather was bad enough to keep him indoors, he used the palms of his hands to bounce the balls up and down. He walked beside his mother when she went shopping and carried her parcels, flexing his fingers against handle or string, and if a heavy suitcase needed to be picked up he was the first to volunteer. Apprehension about falling over was difficult to eradicate, and he dusted off his favourite Wodehouse catchphrase, ‘Have you ever had that feeling you’re going to die in ten minutes’ time?’ He was annoyed with himself but for a while found improvement dif- ficult . . . He declined to visit any of his former friends. The company of CHAPTER SEVEN The Beauty of the Cold Season 1957–1958 85 people he knew had become abhorrent to him . . . [Meals] became lugubrious and interminable, even [though] in hospital he had explored the very depths of boredom. Alf Tansey and Frank Taylor came to call: the two hefty Rossallians were over studying medicine at the College of Surgeons in Dublin, and it had been Tansey’s impulsive tackle that had sabotaged the final rugby season. Their news, after sincere commiserations , was that Tansey was about to captain Lansdowne, up the road. The small, quiet room magnified the physical imbalance, as well as the fact that, unlike them, he was stuck at home. It was both a relief and a rejection when they did not call back. There was a crueller image which Jim had constantly to block out. Tom Farrell’s good performance in the Melbourne Olympics had coincided with the early horrors of the iron lung, and his cousin’s continued sporting triumphs made a mockery now of his own efforts. Beating thirteen-year-old Richard at knockup tennis was pathetic when Tom was breaking the British record in the 400 metres hurdles, and that September Tom would defeat the world champion at White City, putting in the best performance of the popular Britain versus Russia games. Jim had to make do with the mild consolation of a newspaper headline – ‘Is it a coincidence that he lives in Kremlin Drive?’ – but twenty-two years later, in The Hill Station, amiable Tom would assume the character of the ambitious Bishop of Simla, for whom athletic prowess is an aggressive means to an end in the advancement of his career. As the weather began to pick up, Jim spent time in the garden. His father was in charge of lawns and hedges, involving noisy mowing and clipping, and his mother’s latest interest was her collection of old roses, many of which she had inherited from her parents. Eternal Youth, First Love, Peace. The wistful names spoke volumes about the poor, defeated rose-growers who had christened them. As Jim sat alone with aching neck and back in the bright garden, situated high over the sweep of Dublin Bay, pleasure in the moment – How beautiful . . . the glimmering colours of his friends...

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