Carn (14 page)

She parroted the news bulletins verbatim at the giblet counter, addressing an imaginary audience in wounded tones, claiming that she had seen it coming for years and that her repeated warnings
had been consistently ignored. “You can’t expect anything else when you fly in the face of God,” she cried.

She accosted Benny Dolan regularly and snapped at him, “Well—what does your father think of all this carry-on in the north now? All this bombing and killing? He could tell you all
about it! But there was none of that in the old days! There were decent men then. No killing children or old people then!”

At first Benny paid her no attention but as the reports coming through became more disturbing, he grew impatient with her and, on the morning after the first British soldier had been shot in the
province, she approached him reciting a scribbled prayer she had written, “For all the poor people in the north who are killed by guns and bombs O Lord we pray that they may live in peace and
harmony, free from pain and trouble and strife and drugs and those who fly in Thy face. Hear our prayers, Lord, we beseech Thee.” She stood in front of Benny defiantly. When he pushed
impatiently past her, she stood in the centre of the yard and called after him, “Go on then! Pay no heed! You’re as bad as any of them! Your father blew up the custom-hut!”

The situation across the border went from bad to worse after that. The television screens were filled with images of burning barricades and crouched squaddies at street corners.
Mobs outside burning terraced houses. Distraught women clutching mystified infants. In the meat plant canteen, the workers were stunned into silence by the story of three young Scottish soldiers
who were lured from a public house to their deaths. Then when news came through of the British Army’s behaviour in the Catholic areas of Belfast, vengeance was sworn. Fists were clenched in
the Turnpike Inn, the republican songs resounded bitterly. A number of Belfast men came to work in the factory, bringing with them tales of assassination and burnings, of horrific beatings and
torture at the hands of the authorities. These men, because of what they had endured, for a time were almost worshipped. It was considered an honour to buy them a drink. They brought their own
songs with them, beside which the older ballads favoured by the Carn men seemed insipid and outdated. The Turnpike Inn was filled with the sound of
The Sniper’s Promise
and
The
Weary Provo
. Benny became very friendly with one of the northmen, having spent a fortnight with him in the boning hall, listening to him describe how he had been pistol-whipped in front of his
wife and children, his house torn asunder before the soldiers left, spitting on a family photograph as they went, vowing to find evidence the next time they came. At home, Benny and his father
spoke of little else. Everything the older man had told him in the past now began to clarify itself in his mind.

“She’s going up again, Benny,” he said, “only this time it’ll be the final roundup. It should have been finished fifty years ago but it’ll be finished this
time for sure.”

They talked long into the small hours about the history of the state and events in the north since its inception. His father told him the story of his uncle who was arrested by the police on
Christmas day in the fifties, stripped naked and held without charge in a prison cell, taunted by the bored policemen who told them they had lifted him “Just in case he might do something
sometime.”

Over a period of time, Benny became obsessed with the subject and spent a lot of time in the company of the northmen who were taken by his knowledge and sincerity.

Joe Noonan too became infected by this new passion.

Gradually the enthusiasm with which they had spoken of motorbikes, music and travel began to recede, supplanted by angry outbursts against the army and the security forces in the six counties.
They often went north, spending weekends with the factory northmen in their homes in Belfast and Derry.

“Brit bastards” fell from their lips with ease. Republican stickers and tricolours adorned their bikes.

This new development dislocated Sadie Rooney. Often she now found herself on the edge of the conversation staring in at something she did not understand. When she attempted to
involve herself, her lack of conviction showed and led only to awkward, temporary silences. So on many occasions she sat there without comment as the arguments and debates took on lives of their
own. She began to realise that a new uneasiness had taken hold of her. Benny had not mentioned their planned leavetaking for several months. She did want to broach the subject this time. She felt
it was now up to him.

The old tensions began to insinuate themselves. She awoke at odd times in the night. She told herself that it couldn’t happen again, not now, and revisited many of the times that they had
had together since they met. But as time wore on, she began to admit to herself that things were not the same. There was no talk between them now of music, of frivolity of any kind. The new
obsession had engulfed all that. Shootings, hijackings, rubber bullets, provos, stickies, Carson, Paisley, taigs, the meaningless catalogue ran through her head every night after they had been
together.

She began to feel as if she were intruding on Benny and Joe Noonan. They no longer spoke directly to her, the northmen often talking behind their hands in her presence, as if they quietly
disapproved of her. Finally one night, when her anxiety had backed her into a corner, Sadie blurted out nervously, “Benny—are you going to give in your notice or are you not?”

Benny looked away and ran his fingers through his hair. He pulled her close to him. Then he looked at her and with honesty in his face said, “I can’t. Not now. We’ll have to
wait and see what happens.”

She looked at him and felt nothing. “That’s it then,” she said as they stood there outside her house, listening to the rattle of the torn chicken wire at the bottom of Mr
Galvin’s garden.

Some weeks later, she told him of her pregnancy without any hysterics. He did not say anything, just passed his motorbike helmet from hand to hand as if he had somehow forgotten
who she was.

In her cottage in the Hairy Mountains, Josie Keenan answered the telephone to hear Pat Lacey’s voice at the other end of the line. “Josie—I need to see you.
Please! Can I come out? Please say I can come out, Josie . . .”

Josie soothed him as he cried, her mind far away as the rain dribbled down the window pane.

And not long after that, the town of Carn froze when it heard how Blast Morgan had lifted a bundle of rags in the doorway of the Home Bakery and cursing, “Bloody tinkers,
never clean up after them,” had tossed it into his bin before being blown twenty feet across the street with half his stomach hanging out.

X

It was some years later.

The Christmas tree swung into place and its roped branches unfurled like wings across the The Diamond. Jack Murphy, the secretary of Carn Council, stood back and mopped his brow, observing it
from every angle like a photographer gauging a shot. “She’s a beauty,” he said, and the other members of the council concurred, taking this as the signal to break into animated
conversation about the tasks that still faced them. There was the Meals on Wheels Jumble Sale; the Fire Brigade Party for the itinerants; the annual Dinner Dance; and of course the Christmas party
for the old folks. “No rest for the wicked,” laughed the chairman as he rubbed his hands with a cloth and set off across The Diamond.

Christmas bells were ringing in Carn.

There was snow above on the hill where the lights of the meat plant twinkled merrily as the noise of squealing beasts tumbled out across the fields of the hinterland. In the Sacred Heart Church,
the baby Jesus was snug in his crib and the candles were being lit for midnight Mass. Carols jingled in the shops. Alec Hamilton’s Five-Star Supermarket was lit up like a ship and had no
intention of closing until well after ten. Alec Hamilton himself stood in the doorway in his brown coat welcoming all his customers personally and wishing them a merry festive season. Not to be
outdone the new Hypermarket across the road was raffling no less than ten turkeys. There had been dances for the past four nights in The Sapphire Ballroom. The Golden Chip restaurant had undergone
complete refurbishment and was now called Pete’s Pizza Parlour, its dayglo menus advertising the best in hamburgers and mouth-watering pizzas specially prepared by Sergio who now wore a
striped uniform with a name badge on the chest.

Dusty snow fell on the slated rooftops of Dolan Square where the neatly-painted black letters commemorated the valiant deeds of Matt Dolan. The windows of the upstairs lounge in the Turnpike Inn
lit up suddenly and music blared out into the main street as Dekko and his Jetflite Disco began his evening stint. At the counter James Cooney stood with his chin resting on his hand as a worker
insisted, “You and me were at school together James. You had the brains. Not many saw it then but I knew it all along. Without you where would this town be? On the rubbish tip, that’s
where James.”

On the wall Davy Crockett had a sprig of holly pinned to his nose. John F. Kennedy was criss-crossed with flags. The huge video screen at the back blared incessantly. There was an insatiable
demand for the mince pies from the microwave.