It is tempting to ease into the soft, squishy space that is nostalgia. When combined, as it was last Tuesday, with an understandably decent instinct not to speak ill of the dead, it produced something akin to a national day of hypocrisy. Charlie Haughey, himself a master of that particular trait, would have been proud of us, while laughing up his sleeve, writes Mary Raftery
As the hours lengthened after his death, there was a palpable sense both in the Dáil and on the airwaves that no one wanted to be the first to spoil the mood, even if it meant telling the truth.
In serious injury cases, doctors speak of the critical importance of the first hour of treatment. In politics, the equivalent is perhaps 24 hours - whoever controls that period can set the tone. As the great and the good fell over themselves to pay tribute to a man who narrowly avoided being sent to jail for stealing from the Irish people, it became clear that there were four main points they wished to stitch into the public psyche: Charlie founded the Celtic Tiger; he initiated the peace process; he was kind and generous; he was cultured and intelligent.
He was himself intensely concerned with his own public image. I first came across him in the course of my work as a producer on RTÉ's current affairs series Today Tonight. I had been assigned to cover the 1986 Fianna Fáil Ardfheis, a crucial one for the party as it was to be the last before the 1987 general election.
I was summoned to the royal presence. Charlie shook my hand and, without speaking, clicked his fingers. The door opened and in paraded a line of people carrying an assortment of suits, ties and shirts. "Take her in there," barked The Boss, "and get her to pick out what I should wear for the speech." The leader's speech was to be broadcast live for an hour at prime time the following evening.
Bemused, I meekly trotted after the row of human clothes-hangers. PJ Mara, the voce at the time for his Duce, pressed me for a decision.
The extraordinary assumption that I, as an RTÉ journalist, was there to provide advice as to how to make the Fianna Fáil leader look good on television was profoundly revealing of the party's attitude to the national broadcaster. Together with everything else in the country, they considered that they owned it.
I had already done battle with various Haughey minions that week. RTÉ's approach to covering ardfheiseanna was that cameras shooting speakers were set at their eye-level. To film people from above invariably serves to diminish them visually. To shoot them from below makes them appear larger and more dominant. (Mussolini's insistence on always being shot from a low angle was no accident.) Eye-level coverage is the only fair and impartial option.
This, however, cut no ice with Fianna Fáil. They had arranged an enormous photograph of Haughey as a backdrop to the stage. The party handlers were determined that the main camera covering Charlie should be at a low angle, to set him magisterially against the vast image of himself behind. They appeared to have cast me as some form of latter-day Leni Riefenstahl.
Every time my back was turned, the platform holding the camera opposite the podium would have mysteriously reduced in size. I'd instruct the riggers to build it back up to its proper height, and again a few hours later, it would have shrunk.
Meanwhile, I was being pressed for an answer about the Duce's tie - difficult enough, as all were sleek and gorgeous. Cornered, I chose the colour least suited to someone of Haughey's determined character. That one, I said, pointing to a pink contraption.
Shrewd as always, Charlie wore blue.
On becoming taoiseach again in 1987, he flexed his muscles across the land. RTÉ was targeted, with its advertising revenue capped to facilitate the creation of competitors. Haughey's message was clear and was understood: I am in control; cause me any trouble and I'll punish you further.
It was against this backdrop, in 1989, that we in Today Tonight unearthed documentary evidence that property tycoon Patrick Gallagher had given money to Haughey, illegally using depositors' funds from the bank he [ Gallagher] owned.
When asked to comment, Haughey indicated in the most forceful manner that he had in his back pocket a writ which he would serve on RTÉ if we even hinted at the matter.
RTÉ ruled that we should exclude all reference to money handed out to Haughey by Gallagher from our programme exposing the latter's fraudulent activities. While this decision was certainly informed by legal advice, I personally have no doubt that it was also influenced by the climate of fear for the future of the public broadcaster which Haughey had so directly engineered.
Thanks to the tribunals, we now know that Patrick Gallagher was only one of several shelling out vast sums to their best pal Charlie. In 1989, this was not public knowledge. Through threat and intimidation, the soldier of destiny in his Charvet shirt had managed for a while longer to hide the source of his wealth.