The Street and other stories (5 page)

“Not a pretty sight,” Geordie said as I climbed into the van beside him.

I said nothing. We made our way back through the side streets on to the Shankill again in silence. As we turned into Royal Avenue at the corner of North Street he turned to me.

“By the way,” he said, “I wasn’t there that night.”

There was just a hint of an edge in his voice.

“I’m sorry! I’m not blaming you,” I replied. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” he told me firmly.

That weekend, subsidised by my week’s wages, I was immersed once more in subversion. That at least was how the Unionist government viewed the flurry of political activity in the ghettos; and indeed a similar view was taken by those representatives of the Catholic middle class who had belatedly attached themselves to the various committees in which some of us had
long been active. On Monday I was back delivering drink.

We spent the week before Christmas in County Down, seemingly a million miles from the troubles and the tension of Belfast town. For the first time in years I did no political work. It was late by the time we got back each night and I was too tired, so that by Wednesday I realised that I hadn’t even seen, read or heard any news all that week. I smiled to myself at the thought that both I and the struggle appeared to be surviving without each other; in those days that was a big admission for me to make, even to myself.

In its place Geordie and I spent the week up and down country roads, driving through beautiful landscapes, over and around hilltops and along rugged seashores and loughsides as we ferried our liquid wares from village to town, from town to port and back to village again; from market town to fishing village, from remote hamlet to busy crossroads. Even yet the names have a magical sound for me, and at each one Geordie and I took the time for a stroll or a quick look at some local antiquity.

One memorable day we journeyed out to Comber and from there to Killyleagh and Downpatrick, to Crossgar and back again and along the Ballyhornan road and on out to Strangford where we ate our cooked ham baps and drank bottles of stout, hunkering down from the wind below the square tower of Strangford Castle, half-frozen with the cold as we looked over towards Portaferry on the opposite side, at the edge of the Ards Peninsula. We spent a day there as well, and by this time I had a guide book with me written by Richard Hayward, and I kept up a commentary as we toured the peninsula, from Millisle the whole way around the coastline and back to Newtownards. By the end of the week we had both seen where the Norsemen had settled and the spot where Thomas Russell, “the man from God knows where”, was hanged, where St Patrick had lived and Cromwell and Betsy Grey and Shane O’Neill. We visited monastic settlements and stone circles, round towers, dolmens and holy wells. Up and down the basket-of-eggs county we walked old battle sites like those of the faction fights at
Dolly’s Brae or Scarva, “wee buns” we learned compared to Saintfield where Munroe and 7,000 United Irishmen routed the English forces, or the unsuccessful three-year siege by the Great O’Neill, the Earl of Tyrone, of Jordan’s Castle at Ardglass. And in between all this we delivered our cargoes of spirits and fine wines.

This was a new world to me, and to Geordie, too. It was a marked contrast to the smoke and smell and claustrophobic closeness of our Belfast ghettos and the conflicting moods which gripped them in that winter of 1969. Here was the excitement of greenery and wildlife, of rushing water, of a lightness and heady clearness in the atmosphere and of strange magic around ancient pagan holy places. We planned our last few days’ runs as tours and loaded the van accordingly so that whereas in the city we took the shortest route, now we steered according to Richard Hayward’s guide book.

On Christmas Eve we went first to Newry where we unloaded over half our supplies in a series of drops at that town’s licenced premises. By lunchtime we were ready for the run along the coast road to Newcastle, skirting the Mournes, and from there back home. At our last call on the way out to the Warrenpoint Road, the publican set us up two pints as a Christmas box. The pub was empty, and as we sat there enjoying the sup, a white-haired man in his late sixties came in. He was out of breath, weighed down with a box full of groceries.

“A bully, John,” he greeted the publican. “Have I missed the bus?”

“Indeed and you have, Paddy, and he waited for you for as long as he could.”

Paddy put his box down on the floor. His face was flushed.

“Well, God’s curse on it anyway. I met Peadar Hartley and big MacCaughley up the town and the pair of them on the tear and nothing would do them boys but we’d have a Christmas drink and then another till they put me off my whole way of going with their ceili-ing and oul’ palavering. And now I’ve missed the bloody bus. God’s curse on them two rogues. It’ll be dark before there’s
another one.”

He sighed resignedly and pulled a stool over to the bar, saluting the two of us as he did so.

“John, I might as well have a drink when I’m this far and give these two men one as well.”

He overruled our protests.

“For the season that’s in it. One more’ll do youse no harm. It’s Christmas. Isn’t that right, John? And one for yourself and I’ll have a wee Black Bush meself.”

“Will you have anything in the Bush, Paddy?”

“Indeed and I’ll not. Now, John, if it was Scotch now I’d have to have water or ginger ale or something, but that’s only with Scotch. I take nothing in my whiskey!”

We all joined him in his delighted laughter.

“What way are youse going, boys? Did you say youse were going out towards Newcastle?” the publican asked us.

Geordie nodded.

“Could you ever drop oul’ Paddy out that road? He has to go as far as Kilkeel, and by the looks of him if he doesn’t go soon he’ll be here till the New Year.”

“No problem,” Geordie grinned. I could see he was enjoying the old man who was now lilting merrily away to himself.

“De euw did eh euw, did eh euw did del de.”

“Paddy, these two men’ll give you a wee lift home.”

Paddy was delighted.

“Surely to God, boys, but youse is great men so youse are. Here, we’ll have another wee one before we go. A
wee deoch don dorais
.
*
All right, John?”

“Indeed and it isn’t,” John told him. “Kate’ll be worrying about you and these two lads can’t wait. Isn’t that right, boys?”

“Well, let it never be said that I kept men from their work,” Paddy compromised.

“A happy New Year to you, John.” The three of us saluted our
host and retreated into the crisp afternoon air.

“It’ll snow the night,” our newfound friend and passenger announced, sniffing the air. I was carrying his box.

He did a jig, to Geordie’s great amusement, when he saw that we were travelling in a drinks van.

“It’ll be the talk of the place!” he laughed as we settled him into the passenger seat while I wedged myself against the door. Geordie gave him a bottle of stout as we pulled away.

“Do you want a glass?” I asked. “There’s some here.”

“A glass? Sure youse are well organised. Youse must be from Belfast! No, son, I don’t need a glass, thanks all the same. This is grand by the neck. By the way, my name’s Paddy O’Brien.”

We introduced ourselves.

“You’ll never get a job in the shipyard with a name like that,” Geordie slagged him.

“And I wouldn’t want it. ’Tis an Orange hole, begging your pardon, lads, and no offence, but them that’s there neither works nor wants.”

To my relief Geordie guffawed loudly, winking at me as he did. For the rest of the journey Paddy regaled us with stories of his mishaps in black holes and other places.

“I wouldn’t like to live in Belfast. I’ll tell youse that for sure. I worked there often enough, in both quarters, mind you, and I always found the people as decent as people anywhere else. I was at the building and I went often enough to Casement Park, surely to God I did, for the football and some grand games I saw, but I wouldn’t live there. Thon’s a tough town!”

“It’s not so bad,” I said loyally, while all the time looking beyond Paddy and past Geordie to where Narrow Water flashed past us and the hills of County Louth dipped their toes in Carlingford Bay.

“No, give me the Mournes,” Paddy persisted. “Were youse ever in the Mournes?” He emphasised “in”.

“Nawh,” we told him. Geordie began to enthuse about our week journeying around the county.

“Sure youse have a great time of it,” Paddy agreed. “I’ll come with youse the next time. Work? Youse wouldn’t know what work was. But boys, I’m telling youse this. Don’t be leaving this day without going into the Mournes. There’s a road youse could take, wouldn’t be out of your way, so it wouldn’t. After youse drop me off, go on towards Annalong on this road, and a wee bit outside the village on the Newcastle side there’s a side road at Glassdrummond that’ll take you up to Silent Valley. It’s a straight road from here right through to Glassdrummond, boys. Youse can’t miss it.”

“That sounds good to me,” Geordie agreed.

“Well, that’s the best I can do for youse, boys. Come back some day and I’ll take youse on better roads right into the heart of the mountains, but it’ll be dark soon and snowing as well and my Kate’ll kill me, so the Silent Valley’ll have t’ do youse. You’ll be able to see where youse Belfast ones gets your good County Down water from to water your whiskey with and to wash your necks.”

“Is Slieve Donard the highest of the Mournes?” I asked, trying to find my faithful guide book below Paddy’s seat.

“Donard? The highest? It’ll only take you a couple of hours to climb up there; but, boys, you could see the whole world from Slieve Donard. That’s where St Donard had his cell, up on the summit. You’ll see the Isle of Man out to the east and up along our own coast all of Strangford Lough and up to the hills of Belfast and the smoke rising above them, and beyond that on a clear day Lough Neagh and as far as Slieve Gallion on the Derry and Tyrone border. And southwards beyond Newry you’ll see Slieve Gullion, where Cúchulainn rambled, and Slieve Foy east of there, behind Carlingford town, and farther south again you’ll see the Hill of Howth and beyond that again, if the day is good, the Sugar Loaf and the Wicklow Mountains’ll just be on the horizon.”

“That’s some view,” Geordie said in disbelief.

Paddy hardly heard as he looked pensively ahead at the open
road.

“There’s only one thing you can’t see from Donard, and many people can’t see it anyway although it’s the talk of the whole place, and even if it jumped up and bit you it’s not to be seen from up there among all the sights. Do youse know what I’m getting at, boys? It’s the cause of all our cursed troubles, and if you were twice as high as Donard you couldn’t see it. Do youse know what it is?”

We both waited expectantly, I with a little trepidation, for him to enlighten us.

“The bloody border,” he announced eventually. “You can’t see that awful bloody imaginary line that they pretend can divide the air and the mountain ranges and the rivers, and all it really divides is the people. You can see everything from Donard, but isn’t it funny you can’t see that bloody border?”

I could see Geordie’s hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. He continued smiling all the same.

“And there’s something else,” Paddy continued. “Listen to all the names: Slieve Donard, or Bearnagh or Meelbeg or Meelmore—all in our own language. For all their efforts they’ve never killed that either. Even most of the wee Orange holes: what are they called? Irish names. From Ballymena to Ahoghill to the Shankill, Aughrim, Derry and the Boyne. The next time youse boys get talking to some of them Belfast Orangemen you should tell them that.”

“I’m a Belfast Orangeman,” Geordie told him before I could say a word. I nearly died, but Paddy laughed uproariously. I said nothing. I could see that Geordie was starting to take the needle. We passed through Kilkeel with only Paddy’s chortling breaking the silence.

“You’re the quare
craic
,” he laughed. “I’ve really enjoyed this wee trip. Youse are two decent men.
Tá mise go han buíoch daoibh, a cháirde
. I’m very grateful to you indeed.”

“
Tá fáilte romhat
,” I said, glad in a way that we were near his journey’s end.

“Oh,
maith an fear
,” he replied. “
Tabhair dom do lámh
.”

We shook hands.

“What d’fuck’s youse two on about?” Geordie interrupted angrily.

“He’s only thanking us and I’m telling him he’s welcome,” I explained quickly. “Shake hands with him!”

Geordie did so grudgingly as the old man directed him to stop by the side of the road.

“Happy Christmas,” he proclaimed as he lifted his box.

“Happy Christmas,” we told him. He stretched across me and shook hands with Geordie again.

“
Go n’éirigh an bóthar libh
,” he said. “May the road rise before you.”

“And you,” I shouted, pulling closed the van door as Geordie drove off quickly and Paddy and his box vanished into the shadows.

“Why don’t youse talk bloody English,” Geordie snarled savagely at me as he slammed through the gears and catapulted the van forward.

“He just wished you a safe journey,” I said lamely. “He had too much to drink and he was only an old man. It is Christmas after all.”

“That’s right, you stick up for him. He wasn’t slow about getting his wee digs in, Christmas or no Christmas. I need a real drink after all that oul’ balls.”

He pulled the van roughly into the verge again. I got out, too, as he clambered outside and climbed into the back. Angrily he selected a carton of whiskey from among its fellows and handed me a yellow bucket which was wedged in among the boxes.

“Here, hold this,” he ordered gruffly. As I did so he held the whiskey box at arm’s length above his head and then, to my surprise, dropped it on the road. We heard glass smashing and splintering as the carton crumpled at one corner. Geordie pulled the bucket from me and sat the corner of the whiskey box into it.

“Breakages,” he grinned at my uneasiness. “You can’t avoid
them. By the time we get to Paddy’s Silent bloody Valley there’ll be a nice wee drink for us to toast him and the border
and
that bloody foreign language of yours. Take that in the front with you.”