Mad ramshackled son of the emerald soil, if they’d spoken of ‘self-esteem
issues’ in 1970s rural Ireland they’d have used him as the ‘before’ example and
God knows what the ‘after’ would have looked like. In a bizarre way he had the
look of Burt Lancaster about him: if Burt had been playing an oddball hobo in
some dustbowl epic.
A ‘suit’ that might have been de-mob issue or else found in
a Dublin skip (think Rab C Nesbitt after a night on the lash), trainers with a
flapping sole and what might have only have been the top half of a shirt and a
never-unknotted tie of kipper vintage, Louis was maybe auditioning for Puckoon
brought to London or one of those waiting for Godot.
Why had he come here and how and what was his back-story? He
spoke of a somewhat severe, ever-damning Catholic mother at home but never
mentioned a father. He lived alone (or did he?) somewhere out near Colliers
Wood. If the state of his home reflected his personal appearance one could only
imagine the Steptoe house or worse.
An Assistant Tax Collector - some joke Gogol-ian job title - Louis visited premises and asked for money owed. His success in this venture
may have been down to respectable businessmen in the W1 and WC1 areas wishing
for Louis’ departure from their offices more than a sudden wish for ‘good
taxpayer’ status.
I shared a lunch-table with Louis often and enjoyed his
company and neurotic humour. We each believed our manager to be some sort of
wired-up sociopath and would discuss his motives the whole lunch period. The
faster Louis spoke the more his leg bounced a rhythm under the table, his body
shook and his eyes bore the intensity of someone informing the police of a
murder they’d witnessed.
I somehow suspected him of owning secret wealth…
