Now and in the Hour of Our Death (6 page)

After Da passed, working the farm had been too much for Cal and wee Fiach, even with the help of Sammy McCandless as a labourer, so she'd left university, not without regrets, and come home to help them.

She emptied the teapot, spooned in tea leaves, and refilled it. “Just be a minute.”

She'd become used to playing the part of the farmer's wife, cooking for them—Cal would burn the water if he tried to boil an egg—keeping the house clean. But she'd made sure that her three years studying agriculture hadn't been wasted.

Cal was only too happy to listen to her suggestions about how to increase crop yield. She could plough a furrow as straight as anyone and chuck sheaves of barley into the threshing machine at harvest time when it was all hands on deck to get the ripe crop in before the rain.

She'd be willing to go on doing her job here—until the Provos sent the British packing. And she and Cal and Sammy were working hard to that end.

She watched Sammy pick his nose. He always did that when he was nervous. And he had reason to be. He wasn't here just to talk about the weather. He had a job to do that would, with the help of Cal and her, bring the day closer when the Brits would be gone. Then she'd go back to university, not just to finish her degree but also to further her education and aim for a faculty position at the Hillsborough Agricultural Institute.

She felt the warm side of the teapot and asked, “Do you fancy some bread and butter with that?”

“Dead on,” said Sammy, wiping his finger along the side of his pants.

“Right.”

She cut thick slices from a loaf of wheaten bread. The butter was hard, so she put the butter dish on the range top. As she waited for the butter to soften, she looked at the familiar faces of the men seated at the big bog-oak dining table.

Cal, twenty-seven, two years her senior, had craggy, ruddy cheeks, badges given to all Tyrone farmers by the sun and the rain and the winds that swept down from the Sperrin Mountains. He had green eyes—not as green as her own—and an unruly red mop that hung over the nape of his neck. She'd collected the family colouring herself, but she kept her shoulder-length hair piled into a ponytail, russet and shining as a polished horse chestnut.

Sammy was no oil painting. He reminded her of a ferret. Little black eyes that were never still, set to the sides of a sharp nose. Protruding front teeth. He only shaved every two or three days, and his mousy stubble completed the illusion.

And where Cal was broad, Sammy was so skinny and had such narrow shoulders that she could imagine him slipping down a rabbit hole to chase terrified rabbits out under the guns of the hunters. Where Cal was easygoing, Sammy McCandless had a vicious streak. And with the work the three of them did as an Active Service Unit of the Tyrone Provisional IRA, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

The cell had had four members. Eamon was in the Kesh, but she'd not much longer to wait for him. He'd be out very soon. And a bloody good thing. The look on his face when she'd given him that wee gun last Thursday. That look had been worth the risk she'd taken.

She tested the butter's softness with the flat side of a knife. The knife was stiff, the butter soft, soft as she'd be when Eamon brought his hardness to her. She held her arms to her sides, feeling her nipples being thrust against the stuff of her blouse, forgetting Cal and Sammy and thinking only of Eamon.

His family farm bordered theirs. She'd thought when he'd started courting her four years ago that he'd only been after her so that he and Cal could set up a family partnership, with her as the gift to seal the bargain. It was the way the old kings of Ireland cemented alliances, but it had been
her
he wanted. And she'd wanted him. Wanted him from the first day he'd kissed her. Wanted him for the nearly three years he'd been inside. The waiting hadn't been easy. She'd nearly given up two years ago.

A harder piece of butter stuck to the bread, and the pressure from the knife tore the slice apart. Erin would eat that herself. She pushed it aside.

Just like she'd tried to push Eamon aside. She'd nerved herself two years ago to tell him that she loved him but that no woman should be expected to wait for twenty-five years. It was all very well for the women's libbers at the university to argue that men and women should be equal. Erin had no doubts on that score, but slogans like, “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle” had been coined by someone who was out of touch with reality—or a nun or a lesbian. Erin needed a man, and not just for what he could do in bed, although what Eamon did made her gasp and shudder, and claw at him like a wild cat. She squeezed her thighs together at the thought of it.

But to expect her to remain celibate for twenty-five years?

And she had had no intention of sneaking round behind Eamon's back. There were plenty of lads in the village, secure in the knowledge that Eamon wouldn't be around for a very long time, who'd be happy to accommodate her.

She looked over at the table where Cal and Sammy were in deep conversation. That Sammy would be up her leg like a ferret up a rabbit hole if she gave him the slightest encouragement. She smiled at the stupidity of the thought. That would be a cold day in August.

Cold as the day she'd driven to the Kesh to tell Eamon it was over. She'd got colder still when she'd had to pull the car over to the ditch, get out, and throw up, her stomach knotted by the thought of what she was going to do.

She'd still been shivering when she'd gone into the visiting hall.

He was all pleased to see her, and she felt like hell, knowing what she was going to tell him.

“Eamon, I need to talk to you.”

“And I need to talk to you.”

“Well…” She'd rehearsed what she was going to tell him. That she still loved him but couldn't wait forever. That it wasn't fair to him and wasn't fair to her. That they'd get over it. That she'd still go on fighting with the Provos. She couldn't find the words to begin.

Maybe she would say nothing about it today, write him what the Americans called a “Dear John” letter? No. That would be a sleekèd thing to do to anybody, never mind Eamon. He'd said that he wanted to say something? That would give her a short reprieve. “All right. You go first.”

“Lean over. I've to whisper.”

She'd frowned and bent her head toward him.

“In about a year, me and some of the other lads are getting out.”

She sat back in her chair. Out?

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I did, too.”

“Will you wait for me?”

“What do you think?” Thank Christ she'd let him go first. “I love you.”

“Great.” He leaned forward. “I may need a wee bit of help.”

And she'd given him that help two days ago. She'd just have to wait a little longer, and Eamon would be out. Here in Tyrone there were plenty of places to hide a man that the Brits could never find. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph—she glanced over at the table—but it would be grand to have him sitting there again.

Cal grinned back at her. “Are you churning that butter?”

“Take your hurry in your hand, Cal. It's ready. Here.” She carried the tray to the men. “Help yourselves.” She joined them and half-listened as they talked about the weather, the things that needed to be done on the farm.

Quite the rustic scene, she thought. Any strangers asked to join them would be charmed, unaware that they were sitting with three of the most committed Provos in County Tyrone.

Perhaps Sammy wasn't, but he was a damn good armourer who manufactured their explosives, procured their weapons, stole cars, and that was all that mattered. She and Cal were completely dedicated.

Had been from the day Da started telling them his stories of the Irish and the English. He wove tales of Ireland that went back to prehistory: of Finn McChuaill, and Princess Macha, Cu Chulainn and his Knights of the Red Branch, and Maeve and Deidre of the sorrows. He told the children of rebellions that always ended in the glorious defeat, Fiach McHugh in 1580, the United Irishmen in 1789, the Easter Rebellion in 1916. He'd sung them the songs, songs that kept the folk memories sharp, the bitterness honed like a bright pike blade. Da had told them over and over that one day—one day Ireland would be free. Not just the twenty-six counties of the Republic but the six here in the north that still paid homage to the English Crown, that twenty-six plus six made one. Thirty-two counties, but one Ireland.

She chewed her buttered wheaten bread.

Never mind Da telling them things. He'd shown them.

He'd been a volunteer with the IRA since 1922. She could remember the nights he'd not been home and Ma had sat by herself in the kitchen—waiting, sometimes crying quietly to herself, once helping him in through the door—the bottom half didn't stick then—stripping his bloodstained coat and shirt away, binding the bullet wound in his right arm. Burning the bloody clothes in the range. Telling the frightened children they must never—
never
—say a word about it to anyone.

Ma yelling at constables of the Royal Ulster Constabulary to get off the O'Byrne lands the night they'd come looking for Da.

Erin, five-year-old eyes wide, had clung to her mother's skirt as soon as the pounding on the door started, did as she was bid when Ma said quietly, “Erin, get you under the table.”

Peering out, she saw Ma open the door, and outside there were three big, beefy, red-faced RUC men in their bottle-green uniforms, black harps for their cap badges, rifles in their hands.

“You've no right to come in…”

“Out of the fucking way, you Fenian bitch.” A sergeant shoved Ma aside. Ma fell, then sat up, stared at Erin, and held one finger to her lips. There was a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth.

Erin crept farther under the table. All she could see were green-trousered legs, black muddy boots. She heard the crashes as furniture was overturned, the clumping of boots rushing upstairs, thundering through the bedrooms overhead. Shards of broken crockery skittered across the kitchen floor.

“Come out of there, you wee hoor.” The man's face was upside down as he peered under the table. “Get out. Don't have me come in to get you.”

She scuttled across the floor and clutched at Ma, who held her tightly. Ma was dry-eyed. Scowling.

Boots clumped down the stairs. One of the men had nine-year-old Cal by the ear. The sight of his tears brought on Erin's own.

“Nobody upstairs, Sergeant, except this wee skitter.” The constable shoved Cal across the room, sucked his hand, then spat on the floor. “The wee cunt bit me, so he did.”

Another constable said, “You'll need to get that disinfected. Them Fenians' bites is poisonous, so they are.” He laughed.

Cal hurled himself at the man.

“You leave my ma and my wee sister alone.”

He got a backhander across his face. One eye started to close.

The sergeant walked across the room and stood over Ma and Erin. From where she sat, Erin thought that he looked like a giant.

“All right. Where the fuck is he?”

Ma let go of Erin and stood. “Where you won't find him.”

Erin could see the fire in Ma's eyes.

“Constable. Grab that wee lad.”

She watched the man who'd been bitten grab Cal, twist his arm up behind his back. Cal struggled and then began to whimper. “You're hurting me. Stop it.”

“I'll not ask you a third time,” the sergeant said. “Where the fuck is he?”

“Let my Cal go,” Ma yelled.

Cal's cries grew louder.

“All right,” Ma said. “He's across the border.”

Cal gave a high-pitched yelp.

Ma tried to go to him, but the sergeant held her back.

“I told you. He's across the border. In Ballybofey.”

The sergeant released Ma and turned to the constable. “Let him go.”

Cal made no attempt to join them. He just stood there nursing his arm.

“We'll be going now, missus.” The sergeant and the other two marched to the door. “We'll be back,” the sergeant said. “Maybe you and your brood should get over the border, too, take the rest of the fucking Fenians with you. And stay there.” He slammed the door.

After Ma had tended to Cal, she took out a bucket, filled it with soapy water, got down on her knees, and started to scrub the place where the constable had spat. Ma hadn't cried, just scrubbed and scrubbed. And, Erin resolved, the bloody Brits would never make her cry either.

And they hadn't. Not since that day. She glanced across to the crack between the floor tiles where, eighteen years ago, Ma had scrubbed her fingers red-raw.

After that night, it had been no wonder that Cal had joined Da in what the pair of them called “the family business.” The other brother and sisters had taken a different tack. They'd got the hell out of Northern Ireland. Fiach hadn't been born back then. As soon as she'd been old enough, she'd asked Cal if women could join the Provos. He'd told her that girls weren't allowed to. They had to join the
Cumman na mBan
, the woman's auxiliary. The hell they had to.

She'd found that out when she was at the university. There
were
women who were full members of Active Service Units. They mostly came from the poorer districts of Belfast, Derry and towns like Coalisland in East Tyrone, where sectarian oppression had flourished for centuries, and they fought as tenaciously as the men. All of them were driven by one goal—the fight to free Northern Ireland. And why shouldn't she join? She wanted a free Ireland as much as, maybe more than, the next person.

She soon persuaded Cal to get her in, and anyway, County Tyrone wasn't like Belfast with its formal structure of brigades and battalions. Down here there was a brigade, but the Provos were organized into independent cells. Only one member of any small group was known to a single man from another. If the Security Forces penetrated a cell, the chances of the Brit buggers finding out about another Active Service Unit were slim. Cal had sent word up through the chain of command. Erin had been in, and proud to be in for—she had to think—five years now.