1999 (7 page)

On the sixth of February a defiant group of civil rights campaigners held a march in Newry, County Down. Unrequested, several IRA recruits appeared to act as a guard of honour. Newry was strongly unionist, a town dedicated to maintaining a British identity and remaining within the United Kingdom. It was also home to a number of loyalists, the extreme and very militant right-wing branch of unionism. The sight of IRA Volunteers on the streets of Newry raised northern tensions to fever pitch.

William Craig, former home affairs minister in the Northern Ireland Parliament at Stormont, launched an extreme right-wing movement called Vanguard. Its purpose was to function as a pressure group within the Ulster Unionist Party. The first of a series of large-scale rallies was held in Lisburn, County Antrim, on the twelfth of February.
²

Ursula Halloran, who subscribed to newspapers both north and south, read with mounting indignation the report of Craig's arrival at the Vanguard rally complete with a motorcycle escort. Hundreds of loyalists in paramilitary uniforms had been paraded for his inspection. According to the newspaper account, Craig had read the Vanguard pledge aloud, then asked his audience to endorse the movement by raising their stiffened right arms and shouting “I do!” three times.

Ursula threw the paper down. “Welcome back to the Nazis!” she said in disgust. “Don't people ever learn?”

 

In the Republic February saw the return to political prominence of Charles J. Haughey.

The Arms Trials of 1970 had been a shock to the nation. When a wave of sectarian violence erupted in the north in 1969, the IRA had been secretly promised weapons by the Irish government under Jack Lynch.
³
The guns were to be imported from abroad and used to aid northern Catholics in the defence of their homes. Loyalist paramilitaries already were importing tens of thousands of weapons from Britain and the continent.

Dublin had reneged on its promise at the last moment. Two government ministers, Charles Haughey and Neil Blaney, were hung out to dry; deserted by their colleagues and left to take the blame. Charged with illegal gun-running, they eventually were acquitted. Blaney had retired from politics soon after. Haughey was a different sort of man. A brilliant student in school, a barrister, a certified accountant, and a man of enormous energy and ambition, he had bided his time, quietly building up a network of valuable supporters. Being married to the daughter of a former
taoiseach,
Seán Lemass, did him no harm.

Now he was back from the political wilderness and pursuing the leadership of Fianna Fáil with obsessive vigour.

 

Because of McCoy's poor eyesight, Barry no longer allowed him to drive the car. “If you crashed Apollo I'd be stuck, Séamus. A car's a necessity for my kind of photographer.”

McCoy often walked to the Bleeding Horse at lunchtime for a pint and a sandwich. One afternoon he returned to find a letter addressed to “S. McCoy” waiting on the hall table.

The house was empty for the moment. Barbara had gone to a matinee at the cinema with Alice Cassidy. Alice and her husband Dennis had been at Trinity College with Barry, and Alice had been Barbara's first female friend in Dublin. Barry himself was in Arklow for the day on a photographic assignment, and the boarders were still at work. There was no one to look over McCoy's shoulder. Yet he took the plain white envelope to his room and closed the door before opening the letter.

The message was brief, with neither salutation nor signature.

“You are needed.”

He dropped the single sheet of paper on his bed.

James Andrew McCoy had been born and raised in West Belfast. The Northern Ireland capital was a grimy industrial city in a lovely setting, with a winding river and a vista of mountains. The beauties of the landscape were small consolation for the conditions under which many were living. Following World War Two heavy industry, the backbone of Northern Ireland's prosperity, had collapsed. Working-class Protestants found themselves in a situation only marginally better than that of Catholics who had never been allowed to have decent jobs.

The latter, including McCoy's parents, lived in ghettos in areas like West Belfast. Decaying tenements, where two rooms might contain families as large as twelve or fourteen, leaned against one another to keep from falling down. The inhabitants shared a communal toilet in the yard and the expectation of lifelong poverty.

Séamus McCoy had never possessed a home of his own. He had never even lived in a room as well appointed as the one in which he now stood. The chest and wardrobe were old but of excellent quality. Clean curtains hung at the windows; a rug made a pool of bright colour on the floor. The air retained a spicy hint of the aftershave Barbara had given him for Christmas. His treasured books, a battered collection heavily slanted toward recent Irish history and military biographies, overflowed a bookcase beside his bed. His other personal possessions were scattered about like territorial flags.

A sudden spattering of sleet rattled the windowpanes, but within the yellow brick house was comfort and warmth.

So peaceful,
McCoy thought wistfully.
A man could spend the rest of his life here without getting his feathers ruffled.

When Barry returned from Arklow McCoy told him about the letter.

“I've been expecting them to send for you, Séamus. The Army must have its hands full with so many joining up at once. A good training officer will be worth his weight in gold, but you're not able for it and you know it.”

“I'm in great form, Seventeen!” McCoy retorted hotly. “But even if I was on my deathbed I'd go, and not just because of Bloody Sunday. The Army has other problems.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Until now we always insisted that a recruit come from a known republican background and be of good character. But these newcomers—there's no way the Army can investigate every one of them before they take the oath. We could wind up with thugs and thieves and God knows what. You know what cancer is, Seventeen? An unrestricted growth, that's what the doctors told me. I reckon unrestricted growth could be mighty bad for the Army. I'd be surprised if some of these lads aren't joining up just to get weapons in their hands, and I'd be just as surprised if a lot of the loyalists haven't joined Ian Paisley's new Ulster Volunteer Force for the same reason. There's always some men with a criminal streak. Becoming paramilitaries gives them an ideal opportunity.”

Barry said reassuringly, “You and I both remember when the IRA was robbing banks to fund itself, and not so very long ago, either. That didn't turn the Army into a gang of criminals.”

“Not then,” McCoy agreed, “but it set a precedent—is that the word? These young ones coming along may think it's okay to break the law whenever and however they want. It don't take much for a crowd of hotheaded lads to start running wild. That's why I'm going back; I have to do what I can to keep 'em in line. You want to go with me?”

On February twenty-first Richard M. Nixon became the first United States president to pay a state visit to China, opening up direct communications with the People's Republic of China after a twenty-one-year estrangement.

The following day a bomb planted by the Official IRA at the headquarters of the British Parachute Regiment in Aldershot, England, killed seven people including an army chaplain.

At a Vanguard rally in Belfast's Ormeau Park in March, William Craig addressed an audience of almost a hundred thousand. A significant number of the men present were wearing masks and carrying cudgels. Craig told his audience they must do whatever was necessary to preserve their British traditions and way of life. “We must build up dossiers on those men and women in this country who are a menace to this country,” he said, “because one of these days, if and when the politicians fail us, it may be our job to liquidate the enemy.”
¹
To make doubly sure he was not misunderstood, he concluded, “God help those who get in our way.”

The loyalists got the message.

 

On the ninth of March four young and inexperienced Volunteers were killed when a bomb they had been preparing exploded prematurely.

 

Séamus McCoy often spoke of “going up the road” by which he meant returning to the armed struggle. As the month of March wore on he was still in Harold's Cross, but he had his overcoat mended and bought a new pair of boots. He was spending a lot of time in the Bleeding Horse.

Within Barbara's hearing Barry never said anything about going with McCoy. He exhibited an almost glacial calm—which might have been interpreted as indifference—whenever Bloody Sunday or the resurgence of the IRA was mentioned.

Barbara was not deceived. She had long since discovered that Barry's facade could be in inverse ratio to his deeper feelings.

It was unbearable that so much of him was locked away from her; unbearable to think there might be a different life he desired more than life with her. Had her rival been another woman she would have fought with all the wiles she possessed.

How can one woman fight a whole army?

She and Barry were polite with each other. They did not discuss politics or anything else that might be construed as serious. Sex, which had been frequent and passionate on both sides, had ceased abruptly after Bloody Sunday. Barry no longer instigated lovemaking and Barbara was too proud to ask why, or make the overtures herself. She existed in an emotional limbo she felt powerless to end.
He'll go when McCoy goes, I know he will.

Well I won't sit here and wait for you with folded hands, Barry Halloran!

Philpott kept a small radio on the kitchen windowsill. When she was alone in the kitchen Barbara turned it on and sang along with the music. She did not bother to change stations when the news came on. After the initial expressions of outrage, she noticed that Bloody Sunday swiftly disappeared from the news programmes.

“People in the streets are still talking about it,” she said to McCoy, “but it's not mentioned on the radio anymore. Isn't that odd?”

“RTE is owned by the state, lass. What do you expect?”

“You mean the news is censored?”

“Not exactly. But that shower of villains in Leinster House has made it plain they don't want anything to do with Northern Ireland. No news programmer who values his job is likely to defy government policy.”

“That's shocking!” she cried. “Thank God nothing like that could happen in America. We have freedom of the press; I think it's guaranteed in the Constitution or something.”

 

The Irish government announced that for the second year in a row there would be no Easter Monday military parade commemorating the 1916 Rising. A huge celebration in 1966 had set the tone for years to follow, but in 1971 it had been impossible to put together a large enough contingent to hold a parade. Too many members of the national army had been needed to man the border with Northern Ireland, where tensions were mounting.

A year later tensions were higher than ever.

Walls in loyalist areas of Northern Ireland were decorated with huge, elaborate murals of Protestant domination. They were as much a part of the landscape as the Union Jack fluttering from thousands of unionist windows. Following Bloody Sunday, hastily painted admonitions to support the IRA had appeared on walls and hoardings. Within a matter of days they were augmented by murals depicting armed members of the IRA wearing balaclavas and looking every bit as menacing as their loyalist counterparts.

Catholic women showed their support for the republicans by hiding weapons for them. “The wee woman with the guns under her mattress” became a heroine. Instead of cowboys and Indians their sons played at being Volunteers and Oranges—making sure the Volunteers always won.

These developments made no headlines in the Republic of Ireland, but the rapid growth of republicanism was duly noted by members of the international press corps who had remained in the north. In their reports they chose to ignore any positive aspects of Belfast and Derry. The pictures they transmitted to the outside world were of nervous British army patrols, furtive IRA Volunteers darting from one street to another, rolls of barbed wire, bombed-out buildings, cruising armoured vehicles, and heaps of rubble. Focusing narrowly on those elements created an image of total war: photogenic and highly dramatic. The vast majority of northerners, the decent people on both sides of the divide who abhorred violence, were left out of the equation entirely.

Northern Ireland became the newest stop on the media crisis tour—Vietnam, the Middle East, Latin American guerrillas, and Euroterrorists
²
—that kept people glued to their televisions and advertisers buying more airtime.

 

Isabella Kavanagh's voice crackled down the telephone line. “You come home right now, Barbara, as soon as you can get on a plane. I won't have my only child living in a war zone.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Mom; Ireland's no such thing.”

“I know what I'm talking about, young lady. Night after night on the nine o'clock news they show…”

“What's happening in a very small area in six counties that call themselves part of the United Kingdom,” her daughter interrupted, unaware that her phraseology unconsciously reflected the influence of Barry Halloran. “If a couple of towns in New England were having riots you wouldn't call America a war zone.”

“But everyone knows how violent the Irish are, they're always fighting in bars. That's why I want you here with me.”

“You never wanted me with you before,” Barbara countered.

“Of course I did, you're my daughter.”

Barbara began to shiver. The little alcove at the end of the hallway was the coldest part of the house, with the pervasive chill of dead air. “Be honest, Mom. Most of the time we don't even like each other.”

“That's a dreadful thing to say. I don't know how you can be so cruel when I'm…”

“So sweet and kind to everyone?”

“Don't be sarcastic, Barbara, it's unattractive in a woman. I'm only trying to help. Give me one good reason why you won't listen to—”

“I'll give you a damned good reason!” Barbara shouted at her mother. It was the only way to make her listen. “I'm not going back to America because I'm marrying Barry Halloran!”

“Should you not wait to be asked?” drawled a voice from the other side of the curtain.

 

An assignment for
An Phoblacht
^*
had taken Barry into the city that morning, following a restless night. Even through closed doors he could hear McCoy coughing in his room. A deep, rasping cough; frighteningly familiar.

At the newspaper offices Barry had told his friend Éamonn MacThomáis, “I'm worried about Séamus. He has a hell of a cough and no colour in his face, but the man's as stubborn as a boulder in a muddy field. If the cancer has come back he'll never admit it. He's determined to go north if it kills him and there's no way I can stop him. One morning soon, I'll wake up to find he's gone.”

MacThomáis was a dozen years older than Barry, a small man with bright eyes and an elfin smile. He was the sort of person others liked at first sight. He was also a patriot; a republican to his fingertips. “I know how you feel,” he told Barry, “but I can understand why Séamus wants to get back in the war. I'd go myself, except I've been told I'm more valuable where I am. It looks like I'm going to be made editor of the paper.”

“Éamonn, that's great news! No better man.”

“It's not official yet but you can expect the announcement soon. Now, what about Séamus? Maybe you're imagining things. He always did smoke like a chimney and that makes a man cough.”

“He's not supposed to touch cigarettes anymore. Doctor's orders.”

“Who obeys those? Séamus could have cigarettes stashed everywhere the way a secret drinker stashes whiskey. And if he looks pale it's because a man can't get a sunburn in Ireland. Stop mindering him. Going back on active service could be the best tonic for the man.”

“I'm sure you're right,” Barry said with a total lack of conviction.

MacThomáis was a perennial optimist who anticipated rainbows where others saw rain. It was one of the qualities Barry liked most about the man. But he remained convinced that McCoy was ill.
If Séamus goes back to the Army he won't take proper care of himself. Even as a training officer he'll be on the run a lot of the time and out in all weathers
.
Based on past experience, he won't seek medical care until it's too late.

Have to keep him here. Have to.

Shortly after noon Barry headed for Harold's Cross. Most Dublin restaurants were closed at midday; a peculiarly Irish custom. Pubs offered only a limited assortment of toasted sandwiches and the ubiquitous pickled eggs, so Barry preferred to eat at home. Cooking was Philpott's passion and he always left something good in the Aga. Today it was a casserole. Barbara made a fresh pot of tea and joined Barry and McCoy at the table.

The older man declined the food.

“It's beef and potatoes,” Barbara urged. “Your favourite.”

“Tea'll do me.”

Barry furtively scanned his face for signs of illness.

“Why do you keep looking at me like that?”

“Ducks' meat,
^*
Séamus.”

McCoy knuckled his eyes. “There. You happy now?”

“Happy enough. If you're not going to eat your food, pass it over here, will you? Thanks. What are you doing this afternoon?”

“Thought I'd ramble around town for a while. Get some air.”

“Pull the other one, Séamus, it has bells on,” Barbara said. “You're going to the Bleeding Horse.” She stood up, rigid with disapproval, and headed for the kitchen.

McCoy gave a chuckle. “‘Pull the other one, it has bells on.' I'll say this for the girl, she's learning to talk like us. She still has the American twang, though.”

“Not when she sings,” said Barry.

After lunch he retired to the darkroom he had fitted out in the former pantry. The windowless room was small and stuffy, but its proximity to the kitchen meant Barry could listen to Barbara singing while she washed the dishes.

The first time he heard her sing was in 1964. She and her mother had visited the Hallorans on their way to Italy—and to the teacher who would destroy the girl's prospects for an operatic career. Barry would never forget Barbara's rendition of Adalgisa's aria from
Norma
. Standing beside a paddock at the Halloran farm, she had sung in a rich contralto,
“Deh! Proteggimi, o Dio!”
—the impassioned plea of a woman begging the gods to save her from a fatal love.

If amber could sing
, Barry had thought then,
it would sound like Barbara Kavanagh
.

The voice was a little husky in the lower register now, a bit roughened in the high notes, but its power over him was undiminished. Of all her physical attributes, her voice was the most truly Barbara.

Barry was about to put the last roll of film in the tray of developer when he heard the double ring of the telephone. He wiped his hands and headed for the hall.

Outside the curtained alcove, he paused.

Ursula Halloran was an inveterate eavesdropper, a habit her son lamented. But when Barbara shouted at her mother it was impossible not to hear.

Barry stood absolutely still.

 

In the Bleeding Horse, McCoy was saying earnestly, “Barry Halloran can think faster than any man I ever saw. He may limp a wee bit if he's tired, but sure, we all have our war wounds. A gang of loyalist thugs gave him his. They beat him half to death when he was unarmed, but his injuries had no effect on his skill. He's still the best in the business.”

“We could certainly use him,” replied the man on the other side of the table. “It's a bonus that he's well educated. Our new recruits are mostly young Catholics from the ghettos with minimal education and no job experience, so they desperately need training in a whole range of areas. Do you think Halloran would be interested?”

“He's halfway there now,” McCoy averred. “All he needs is a wee push, and I can…” he broke off, coughing.

“I don't like the sound of that cough, Séamus.”

“Don't worry about me, I'm as tough as new rope. I've been smoking too many fags lately, that's all.”

The other man looked puzzled. “That's odd. I can't remember the last time I saw you with a cigarette.”

“Ah sure, I smoke all the time, what else can a man do when he's bored? The Army's been my life; now it's up and running again nothing can keep me away. And the same's true for Barry.”

 

“Should you not wait to be asked?”