Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
1972 (26 page)
November 22, 1963
PRESIDENT KENNEDY ASSASSINATED
K
ENNEDY'S assassination rocked Ireland, which had taken him to its heart. He might have been born in County Wexford, rather than being separated from the land of his forebears by three generations. To the Irish he was one of their own who went to America and made good, then came home again to share his success with them.
ENNEDY'S assassination rocked Ireland, which had taken him to its heart. He might have been born in County Wexford, rather than being separated from the land of his forebears by three generations. To the Irish he was one of their own who went to America and made good, then came home again to share his success with them.
In one unimaginable moment they had been robbed of him.
In three unimaginable days live television reportage came of age.
Barry was as shocked, as disbelieving as everyone else. The fact that the president had been killed in Dallas made it worse. His memory ran reels of sunlit Dallas images, taunting him with their innocence.
In every church in Ireland prayers were said for the repose of the soul of John Kennedy. Barry spent the day of Kennedy's funeral glued to the television. The blind president of Ireland
marched in the Kennedy funeral cortege beside the president of France. Two giants towering head and shoulders over prime ministers and kings and emperors.
marched in the Kennedy funeral cortege beside the president of France. Two giants towering head and shoulders over prime ministers and kings and emperors.
De Valera and de Gaulle. Two old men, two survivors of terrible wars. Following one young man lying on a gun carriage with all his promise destroyed.
Does politics really mean anything after all?
Barry wondered.
Or will violence always win?
Barry wondered.
Or will violence always win?
A
s 1963 drew to a close Lyndon Johnson was in the White House and Northern Ireland had a new prime minister, Terence OâNeill. Born in Country Antrim, O'Neill, who had served in the British army as a captain of the Irish Guards, would be heading a province in transition. Elements in the Protestant working class were increasingly restive. A new generation of Catholics was graduating from formerly Protestant strongholds like Queen's University. A new organisation, National Unity, was addressing the aspirations of the expanding Catholic middle class.
s 1963 drew to a close Lyndon Johnson was in the White House and Northern Ireland had a new prime minister, Terence OâNeill. Born in Country Antrim, O'Neill, who had served in the British army as a captain of the Irish Guards, would be heading a province in transition. Elements in the Protestant working class were increasingly restive. A new generation of Catholics was graduating from formerly Protestant strongholds like Queen's University. A new organisation, National Unity, was addressing the aspirations of the expanding Catholic middle class.
Pressures were building toward boiling point.
I
N January of 1964, Dr. Con McCluskey and his wife, Patricia, founded the Campaign for Social Justice in Dungannon, Northern Ireland. Their intention was to work within the system for an end to discrimination.
N January of 1964, Dr. Con McCluskey and his wife, Patricia, founded the Campaign for Social Justice in Dungannon, Northern Ireland. Their intention was to work within the system for an end to discrimination.
T
HAT spring Barry Halloran received his degree in journalism. Ursula Halloran attended the ceremony.
HAT spring Barry Halloran received his degree in journalism. Ursula Halloran attended the ceremony.
She had secretly come up to Dublin ahead of time to visit Mary O'Donnell's atelier at 43 Dawson Street. The young designer, who had trained with some of the greats of the world fashion industry, had greeted her new customer with genuine warmth. She made Ursula comfortable, gave her an excellent cup of tea, and proceeded to create an outfit exclusively for her, combining the best Irish fabric with the latest Paris style.
Being pampered was a luxury Ursula had experienced only once before, when she attended the Swiss finishing school.
Since then her life had been one of intense practicality. Sitting in one of Mary O'Donnell's deeply cushioned armchairs, worrying about how much all this was going to cost, she found herself thinking wistfully of the girls she had known in Switzerland. Some of them had married successful European businessmen and were still being cosseted.
Since then her life had been one of intense practicality. Sitting in one of Mary O'Donnell's deeply cushioned armchairs, worrying about how much all this was going to cost, she found herself thinking wistfully of the girls she had known in Switzerland. Some of them had married successful European businessmen and were still being cosseted.
B
ARRY could not take his eyes off his mother. The hairdressers at Peter Mark had burnished her hair to silver, while skilful makeup enhanced her dramatic features. Her fitted suit of heathery Donegal tweed was the epitome of elegance.
ARRY could not take his eyes off his mother. The hairdressers at Peter Mark had burnished her hair to silver, while skilful makeup enhanced her dramatic features. Her fitted suit of heathery Donegal tweed was the epitome of elegance.
“You look amazing, Ursula,” Barry said.
“The road not taken,” she murmured.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing, just thinking aloud. Would you like to have a celebratory dinner at the Shelbourne?”
That evening she laughed and drank champagne and sparkled in the light of the chandeliers, and Barry saw the woman his mother might have been. The girl who went to a Swiss finishing school. The girl who had once loved and been loved.
Barry felt a stab of pain at the thought of the lost and faceless man who had fathered him. Who should be with them now. Who should be seeing her with the lights caught in her hair like stars. Who would have adored Ursula, as his son did in this moment.
She has had so much and lost so much
, Barry thought with enhanced understanding.
Yet I've never heard her complain.
, Barry thought with enhanced understanding.
Yet I've never heard her complain.
He knew he would never ask her anything else about his father. If she had wanted him to know, she would have told him before now. To bring it up would be like tearing open a wound.
Claire MacNamara is a wound,
he thought.
But I'm my mother's son and I'll recover.
he thought.
But I'm my mother's son and I'll recover.
A
LTHOUGH he was eager to get on with his life, Barry had developed a deep affection for the college. Walking through the gates for the last time was very hard.
I can always come back to visit
, he comforted himself. But it would never be the same.
LTHOUGH he was eager to get on with his life, Barry had developed a deep affection for the college. Walking through the gates for the last time was very hard.
I can always come back to visit
, he comforted himself. But it would never be the same.
Barry set about finding work. His classmates were, for the
most part, smugly certain of employment. They were Trinity students, the privileged, the cream. Barry did not apply for any of the trainee reporter jobs that were on offer. Pictures still drew him more powerfully than words.
most part, smugly certain of employment. They were Trinity students, the privileged, the cream. Barry did not apply for any of the trainee reporter jobs that were on offer. Pictures still drew him more powerfully than words.
Let the camera tell the story
.
.
As a freelancer he would not have the safety net of a regular salary. If he could not make a living with his photographs he could always go back to the camera shop, or apply to Ursula for help. But he knew he would do neither. He would stand or fall on his own.
Assembling a portfolio of his best eight-by-ten enlargements, he began calling on photo editors. After a discouraging dayâthey all professed to like his work, but no one bought anythingâBarry happened to see Dennis Cassidy and Alice Green coming out of a jewellery store in Grafton Street. “We're after choosing our wedding rings,” Dennis announced in high good humour, “and we're off to have a meal. Care to join us?”
Barry glanced quizzically at Alice. “Please do,” she urged.
When they were comfortably settled in a booth in The Irish Steak House, Dennis told Barry, “The
Evening Press
has taken me on, and not at entry level, either. I'll be working on the city desk at first but I hope you'll see my byline one of these days. How are you doing?”
Evening Press
has taken me on, and not at entry level, either. I'll be working on the city desk at first but I hope you'll see my byline one of these days. How are you doing?”
“Still knocking at doors,” Barry admitted.
Dennis gave a sympathetic nod. “You might do better to go for a straight reporting job. Photography's chancy. You know the
Sunday Independent
recently gave up on their colour magazine.”
Sunday Independent
recently gave up on their colour magazine.”
“Just my luck. I had a series of pictures showing poverty in the north inner city that would have been perfect for the magazine format. It's harder to find subjects that will tempt the broadsheets.”
Dennis snapped his fingers. “How about this, Barry? We just heard there'll be a big demonstration in County Mayo this coming weekend. Seventy cadets and instructors from the Royal Navy plan to spend their holiday thereâin uniform, mind youâand the local republicans are dead against it. That should be right up your street.”
Barry arrived in rural Mayo with little more than his camera equipment and a change of underwear. No newspaper had bothered
to send a staff photographer to cover the story. In fact there was only one reporter, a middle-aged man from Castlebar who pumped Barry about job opportunities in Dublin.
to send a staff photographer to cover the story. In fact there was only one reporter, a middle-aged man from Castlebar who pumped Barry about job opportunities in Dublin.
This time Barry's photographs did not lack for people. People whose faces were suffused by the passion they felt. Glowering men marched with handmade placards reading, NO KINGS IN CONNACHT! ROYAL NAVY GO HOME! Matronly women and photogenic young girls swelled their ranks, carrying slogans of their own. A winsome lad togged out in a homemade imitation of a Royal Navy uniform stood, laughing, on an overturned cabbage crate, while his friends bombarded him with water bombs.
Barry lay on his belly on the earth and angled the camera upward, making the protestors seem like giants. Then he stood atop a farm wagon and photographed downward, shrinking them into pygmies.
It all depends on the point of view,
he thought as he took frame after frame. He returned to Dublin weary but with a sense of accomplishment.
It all depends on the point of view,
he thought as he took frame after frame. He returned to Dublin weary but with a sense of accomplishment.
Now comes the hard part.
If his career was going to go anywhere, he needed to break into one of the broadsheet papers. And
The Irish Times
was the most influential of them all.
It's easy to be idealistic when you're in college and the real world is on the other side of the walls,
Barry told himself.
Now that I'm back in the real world I can't afford to ignore The Times just because they're pro-British. Anyway, the paper's not as one-sided as it used to be. It's making an effort to be a truly national publication.
1
Mam used to work for Seán Lester at the League of Nations, and Lester is the father-in-law of Douglas Gageby, the new editor. Might that be enough to get my foot in the door?
The Irish Times
was the most influential of them all.
It's easy to be idealistic when you're in college and the real world is on the other side of the walls,
Barry told himself.
Now that I'm back in the real world I can't afford to ignore The Times just because they're pro-British. Anyway, the paper's not as one-sided as it used to be. It's making an effort to be a truly national publication.
1
Mam used to work for Seán Lester at the League of Nations, and Lester is the father-in-law of Douglas Gageby, the new editor. Might that be enough to get my foot in the door?
Dressed in his best suit and carrying his portfolio under his arm, Barry went to the editorial offices of
The Irish Times
in D'Olier Street. Shuttled from person to person, through sheer perseverance he finally managed to see Gagebyâwho recalled hearing his father-in-law speak fondly of Ursula Halloran.
The Irish Times
in D'Olier Street. Shuttled from person to person, through sheer perseverance he finally managed to see Gagebyâwho recalled hearing his father-in-law speak fondly of Ursula Halloran.
On the strength of that memory Gageby agreed to look at Barry's pictures. He spread a dozen black-and-white prints out on his desk and bent over them, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.
Barry began sweating inside his good suit.
This is what it all comes down to
.
Making
a
breakthrough. Any way you can
.
This is what it all comes down to
.
Making
a
breakthrough. Any way you can
.
After an interminable time, or so it seemed, Douglas
Gageby gave a low whistle. “The final decision is up to the photo editor, Barry, but I think I can promise you we'll take something. And we'll be glad to look at anything else you care to bring us.”
Gageby gave a low whistle. “The final decision is up to the photo editor, Barry, but I think I can promise you we'll take something. And we'll be glad to look at anything else you care to bring us.”
On an inside page of the next edition of
The Irish Times
two photographs from the Mayo protest were published side by side. In one the demonstrators looked like pygmies; in the other they were giants. There was no comment aside from an identification of the event. Readers were allowed to draw their own conclusions.
The Irish Times
two photographs from the Mayo protest were published side by side. In one the demonstrators looked like pygmies; in the other they were giants. There was no comment aside from an identification of the event. Readers were allowed to draw their own conclusions.
Within days Barry was contacted by five news agencies expressing interest in his work.
15 July, 1964
Dear Barry,
I have received the most amazing letter from Isabella Kavanagh. She and Barbara are going to Europe this summer. They plan to stop over in Ireland on their way to Milan, where Barbara will be assessed by a famous voice coach who specialises in working with opera singers. Isabella claims the girl has a remarkable singing voice. Isn't that a turn-up for the books?
They will be here for a few days in August, so if you can find a little time to come down to the farm I would appreciate it. I do not know how I am going to entertain those two on my own.
Barry was amused by the thought of Ursula playing hostess to Isabella Kavanagh in an old farmhouse in rural Clare.
I'd best take the camera with me. That will make quite a picture.
I'd best take the camera with me. That will make quite a picture.
He went down to the farm a day early to help his mother prepare for her guests. Since Eileen's death Ursula's housekeeping efforts had been desultory at best, but Barry entered a house that had been swept and dusted and scrubbed within an inch of its life. The beds were freshly made up with crisp linen and a wonderful aroma was wafting from the kitchen.
Barry rolled his eyes at his mother. “Don't tell me you're baking.”
“Not at all; I asked one of Eileen's old friends to help me out. But she'll be away before the Kavanaghs arrive.”
“You're going to let them think you've done everything yourself?”
“They can make whatever assumptions they like. I can't help what other people think.”
T
HE Hallorans were late reaching the airport. Along the way, Ursula's ancient black Ford sat down in the middle of the road and refused to go any farther. “Are we out of petrol?” Barry enquired.
HE Hallorans were late reaching the airport. Along the way, Ursula's ancient black Ford sat down in the middle of the road and refused to go any farther. “Are we out of petrol?” Barry enquired.
“Do you think I'm an eejit? Of course there's petrol, I filled the tank just the other ⦔
Barry leaned over and peered at the gauge. “It's sitting on empty, Ursula.”
“It can't be.”
With a sigh, Barry got out of the car and trudged off down the road to the nearest filling station.
When they pulled into the airport car park they saw two women waiting on the kerb outside the terminal. Ursula remarked, “Those clothes must have cost a few bob. Not to mention that mountain of matched luggage. I suspect Isabella spent her share of her father's fortune as soon as she got her hands on it.”
She stepped out of the car and lifted one hand in a wave. “Isabella! Over here! Fetch their suitcases, Barry. Barry? Hurry now, don't stand there staring.”
Barbara Kavanagh was no longer the unkempt child Barry remembered. At seventeen she was a woman. Like her mother she had a broad jaw, but Barry would never know whether she was beautiful or not. At first sight she imprinted herself so strongly on his mind that he would see her in just that way for the rest of his life. A very tall, suntanned young woman with an athletic figure. Hair like waves of bronze. Dark, dead-level eyebrows above hazel eyes that looked gold in the sunlight.
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