1999 (5 page)

Barry said, “Ian Paisley doesn't recruit his followers from the universities, he doesn't want people who've been taught to think for themselves. He targets the undereducated, working-class Protestants whose worldview is too narrow to allow for anything outside their own fundamentalist beliefs. They call themselves ‘loyalist' to justify their blind hatred for Catholics.”

“All Protestants aren't unionists,” Luke commented. “And thank God all unionists aren't loyalists.”

“All Catholics aren't nationalists, either. It's as much a mistake to make unionist a synonym for Protestant as to make nationalist a synonym for Catholic. Or Sinn Féin a synonym for the IRA,” Barry could not resist adding. “I know plenty of Catholics in the Six Counties who have no particular interest in reuniting the island, whether through constitutional nationalism or militant republicanism. They just want an end to discrimination.”

Patsy was overtaken by a jaw-wrenching yawn.

“What's the matter with you?” asked Luke. “Are the words too big for you?”

Patsy glowered at his friend. “I don't hafta sit here and be insulted. I could be home in the scratcher wi' me oul woman.”

Luke laughed. “You forget, I've seen your ‘oul woman.' You do have to be here.”

Watching Barry from across the table, McCoy was not fooled by his apparent composure.
He's holding it all inside,
McCoy thought.
But for how long? The lad's a ticking bomb.

The analogy was apt.

Barry was saying, “Lynch's Fianna Fáil
^*
Party claims to be ‘the republican party' when they're campaigning for election and pays lip service to a united Ireland, but as soon as the election's over they forget about it. Before any election promises are always thrown around like snuff at a wake. Fianna Fáil outlawed the real republicans years ago in order to keep themselves in office. It's not cowardice, it's political expediency, little different from Ian Paisley's self-serving bigotry.

“Fianna Fáil tries to pretend that Ireland is only the twenty-six counties we were left with after partition, because that's where their party has power. As far as they're concerned the stolen six counties in the north have nothing to do with us. That way, they don't have to demand accountability from the British government for whatever happens up there. Other political parties like Fine Gael and Labour go along with the pretence because they aspire to power themselves, and it's in their interest to maintain the status quo. The only political party that wants to restore a united Ireland is Sinn Féin.”

“And they're outlawed!” Danny slammed a heavy fist on the table, sloshing the drinks. “Same as the IRA's been outlawed. That's what politicians do when they get in power. Outlaw their opponents. Shoot 'em dead if they think they can get away with it, the way the Free Staters shot the republicans after the Civil War.”

Brendan shook a finger in admonition. “Now be fair, Danny, all politicians aren't like that. At least I hope not, because Ruairí Ó Brádaigh, the president of Provisional Sinn Féin,
^†
has suggested that the only way out of the morass in the north may be through political means.
²
Logic dictates that we can never defeat the British militarily.”

“We did once, Professor,” said McCoy.

“Because Michael Collins was a genius at guerrilla warfare and the British hadn't recovered from their losses in the First World War. The situation's different now.”

When Barry cleared his throat all eyes turned toward him.
Make them wait for it,
he reminded himself.
If you want people to remember what you say, make them wait for it.
“I'll tell you something for nothing. Politics isn't the answer. It's the problem.”

Danny cried, “See, I told you! Halloran agrees with me, the gun's the only thing the Brits will understand.”

In the parlour Barbara Kavanagh went from window to window, watching for the beam of headlamps.

She had spent hours arranging the parlour to reflect her own taste. There was no money for new furniture to replace the shabby tables and chairs dating from the thirties, but slipcovers and new curtains had brightened the place, and vases placed around the room were always filled with fresh flowers in season or artistic arrangements of leaves and branches.

Barry let her do what she liked, with one exception. He insisted on retaining a singular ornament that Barbara found appalling. A table to the right of the fireplace held a big glass dome atop a polished walnut base. Within the dome was a very large, rather damaged stone nose.

When she had tried to carry the ugly thing to the attics Philpott had stopped her. “You'd best leave that where you found it,” he warned. “Barry'll never forgive you if you move Lord Nelson's nose. It's his trophy.”

Warren Philpott was the small, wispy man from whom Barry had bought the boardinghouse. He was now employed to cook breakfast and the evening meal—which the Irish called “tea,” a holdover from English occupation. On this particular evening he had come and gone, leaving a stack of dirty dishes for the housekeeper to wash. Eleven of the twelve men currently boarding in the house had retired to their rooms. The straggler had planted himself in the most comfortable chair in the parlour as he did every night, and was reading
The Irish Times
from back to front, beginning with the obituaries. There was no point in trying to talk to him.

Nor was Barbara in the mood for washing dishes. The anger that had been building up in her since Barry's return was in direct proportion to her fears about his safety while he was away, and had reached fever pitch. She paused long enough to glance at herself in the mirror above the mantelpiece.
Fool. You fool. What are you doing?

The mirror reflected a striking face. Beneath dark, dead-level brows, Barbara's hazel eyes looked golden. Her creamy complexion was the envy of many women. But as far as she was concerned any chance of beauty was ruined by the heavy jaw she had inherited from her grandfather.

A deep jaw and a big-boned frame would have been assets to an operatic contralto.
If things had been different I might have been singing at La Scala. So why am I working as a housekeeper in Dublin?
Barbara Kavanagh silently asked the image in the mirror.

The answer was Barry Halloran.

At last she went upstairs for a bath, filling the room with the pungent scent of jasmine bath salts. After soaking until the water turned cold, she gave herself a manicure. The results disappointed her. Bright red nail varnish made her fingers look like talons dipped in blood. She stripped off the offending scarlet with swipes of remover and replaced it with a more subtle shade.

Shortly after the clock struck two she crawled into bed. Naked. Alone.

Barry's room down the hall was still unoccupied.

When Barbara entered the kitchen in the morning the kettle was already boiling on the Aga, the immense cast-iron cooker that dominated the kitchen and devoured quantities of turf. McCoy was loading a tray with jugs of milk and bowls of sugar to carry into the dining room. He was a man who did what needed to be done, whether it was his job or not.

“Don't tell me the boarders are already down, Séamus.”

“Not at all. Philpott should be here any minute, though. And I've fed the Aga.”

Barbara began taking dishes out of the press. “Where's Barry?”

“Still asleep, I reckon. Let the lad be, he's worn-out and he's going to need his strength.” He lifted the tray and carried it through the door to the dining room.

Barbara followed him with a stack of plates. “What's Barry going to need his strength for? You two were out until all hours; what were you up to?”

“Just having a chin-wag with some pals.” McCoy set the tray on the long dining table.

Barbara slammed the plates down with a force almost, but not quite, sufficient to crack them.

“Mind yourself there!” McCoy warned.

“I'll worry about the dishes; you tell me why you kept Barry out so late.”

McCoy gave a sigh. “It was him keeping me out, more like. We had a few jars at the pub, and when they called closing time, we finished the conversation at Brendan Delahanty's place.”

“You could have come back here.”

“Brendan's was closer, he lives in Camden Street.”

She pounced. “So you were at the Bleeding Horse! I knew it.”

“It's our local,” McCoy replied defensively. “An Irishman's morally entitled to drink at the pub of his choice and call it his ‘local.' Could be you don't understand about that, coming from America.”

She began setting the table. “I understand that the Bleeding Horse is an IRA hangout.”

Barbara's directness sometimes made McCoy uncomfortable. Northern Protestants took pride in being painfully blunt, but most Irish people were more subtle. “To tell the truth,” he said, “there's not a lot left of the IRA. The number on active service is mighty small these days. Most of the remaining Volunteers are old-timers like me who enjoy meeting and exchanging war stories, and where's the harm? If we were talking about World War Two you wouldn't object. The Americans were heroes in that war.”

“I wish you'd stop talking about my nationality as if it were an intellectual limitation. I know more about this country than you think. My mother was born right here in Dublin. My father was born in America but he was an Irish republican because his father was an Irish republican. Dad raised money in America for the IRA. When I was a little girl he made his first trip to Ireland with a couple of his republican friends and never came home again. Being associated with the IRA got him shot dead in a place called Ballymena, in Northern Ireland. That's why I don't want Barry to have anything to do with them.”

McCoy said, “I'm truly sorry for your loss. But what you don't realise is just how much we've lost over here. What eight hundred years of colonialism and domination by a foreign power has cost us. We thought it was almost over in 1921, but then the Brits…”

“I'm tired of hearing you blame the British for everything!” the girl flared. “That's one thing about you Irish, it's never your fault, it's always someone else's.”

“I'd call that human nature, lass.”
She's very young
, McCoy reminded himself as she vanished into the kitchen,
and she really doesn't understand. Who could unless they were born here?

McCoy was well aware of Ireland's isolation in global terms. As a northern Catholic he had received little formal education but was a voracious reader, particularly of anything touching on Irish history. Over the years of their friendship Barry had filled in the gaps in McCoy's knowledge. Barry had learned Irish history from his grandfather, who had been a student of Pádraic Pearse.

Sharing a house with Barbara Kavanagh had enlarged McCoy's horizons in a different direction. She unwittingly had given him a sense of how her countrymen viewed Ireland. A small, impoverished island on the rim of the Atlantic, Ireland was romanticised by Americans who believed it was caught in a time warp. They had no knowledge of the act of partition that had torn the country in two. To the average American Ireland was “quaint” a dreaming emerald landscape of thatched cottages, priests, and drunkards. As for Europe and the wider world, “We're not even on their radar screen,” Barry had once remarked.

With Bloody Sunday, Ireland had leaped into the international consciousness in an appalling way.

They probably think we've gone mad,
McCoy thought.
Wonder if Barbara will stay here now? She could so easily go home to America.

From time to time McCoy had dreamed of emigrating as so many thousands of Irish men and women had done before him, beguiled by the extravagance of optimism and opportunity that they believed America personified. In his heart he knew he would never go; not while Ireland was partitioned and the battle was yet to be won…and courage came out of a bottle. The Army was here and here he would remain.

The sound of male voices sidelined his train of thought. The first boarders were coming down the stairs, asking if the morning papers were in.

Barry slept until midafternoon. Several times Barbara went to the closed door of his room and raised her hand to knock, then turned away. While Barry slept she channelled her anger into window washing and floor scrubbing, then carried the rugs from the front hall out to the clothesline and gave them a thorough beating.
That's for you, Barry Halloran. And that, and that, and that!

When Barry finally appeared she was wearing a fresh blouse and her best skirt. She pouted her lips for a kiss but he brushed past her. She could feel the tension he gave off like heat waves. Assuming the smile of a housewife in a television commercial, she said sweetly, “Do you want something to eat now, or shall I unpack for you?”

“There's no unpacking to do. All I had with me was a change of underwear and my shaving gear, and I brought them in last night. If you want to do something for me, how about a fry-up? I could murder a couple of eggs and some sausage.”

Barbara put an apron over her clothes and made his favourite toasted ham and cheese sandwiches, then sat across the table from him while he ate. She arranged her hands on the table so he could admire her rose pink fingernails. When he did not appear to notice, she folded her hands in her lap and sat watching him. Expectantly.

Barry knew what she wanted. Barbara pleaded for compliments like a dog pleading for bones, but he would not respond with the effusiveness she craved. A man's feelings were best kept under control. He habitually compartmentalised the elements of his life. Saltpetre and sulphur should be kept away from coal dust; fuel oil and ammonium nitrate must be stored separately; if exposed to too much heat, kieselguhr decomposed.

The volatile Barbara Kavanagh was capable of unleashing powerful emotions Barry was not willing to risk when his focus was—must be—elsewhere. As soon as he finished eating he left the house.

Barbara found McCoy in the cubbyhole under the stairs that he called his office. He was lettering a new “Room and Board Available” sign. Black crayon on white pasteboard, with the word “available” underlined in red. “How's this?” he asked, holding it up for her inspection. “Jackson's leaving on the fifteenth so we need to replace him.”

She scarcely glanced at the sign. “Where's Barry gone, Séamus?”

“Reckon he wanted to be by himself for a while. Walking, probably. He'll come back in his own good time.”

“He could have asked me to go with him. He hardly spoke a word to me this afternoon.”

“Don't let it bother you. Seventeen's a bit of a lone wolf, he's had to be…” McCoy's jaws abruptly snapped shut.

“Why?”

“Because that's his nature, I guess,” McCoy finished lamely. “Anyway, give him a wee bit of time. He'll talk to you when he's ready.” He began putting his crayons back into an old cigar box.

Barbara lingered in the doorway. “Why do you call him ‘Seventeen,' Séamus? Is it a private joke?”

“Aye.” He smiled reminiscently. “First time I laid eyes on Barry was in 1956. He claimed to be eighteen and was hot to join the IRA. He was a great tall lad even then, but I could tell he was lying about his age. Turned out he was only seventeen. We accepted him because he was Ned Halloran's grandson. I started calling him Seventeen to remind him it was equally important to tell the truth.”

“Barry lied to you?”

“Everybody lies sometimes, Barbara.”

“Well I certainly wouldn't want to marry a liar.”

“Then you'd best not marry at all,” McCoy advised.

“Maybe I won't!”

What does she expect of the lad?
McCoy wondered as she flounced away.
More to the point, what does he expect of her?

Barry returned shortly after dark. When Barbara tried to engage him in conversation he gave her a noncommittal smile, went up to his room, and closed the door. He searched through his record collection until he found
Mise Eire,
Seán O'Riada's passionate paean to a free Ireland, and put it on his gramophone. Turning the volume up as far as it would go, he stretched out on the bed and closed his eyes.