1972 (18 page)
Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Thomas said, “We can do it differently, we'll keep tight control ourselves.”
Barry leaned forward with his elbows on the table. His words tumbled out almost as rapidly as Goulding's. “If we can get our photographs into some newspapers and magazines in America they might pay off. I know contacts in the States who used to be big contributors to the IRA. If they can see what's happening now they might come on board again.”
“Who? How do you know them?”
Barry had no intention of revealing Ned Halloran's notebooks. They were his secret asset. “Let's just say my information comes from an impeccable source.”
The three Army men exchanged glances.
Barry looked from one to another, finding no clue as to their thoughts.
At last Cathal Goulding nodded. “
Sin sin,
”
w
he said. “We have a deal.”
Sin sin,
”
w
he said. “We have a deal.”
W
AITING to learn the result of his entrance exam was excruciating. Days dragged by as if their feet were stuck in the mud. With every one, Barry felt a modicum of his self-confidence drain away. In the back of his mindâand sometimes, particularly at night, in the forefront of his mindâhe was always conscious of Claire MacNamara.
AITING to learn the result of his entrance exam was excruciating. Days dragged by as if their feet were stuck in the mud. With every one, Barry felt a modicum of his self-confidence drain away. In the back of his mindâand sometimes, particularly at night, in the forefront of his mindâhe was always conscious of Claire MacNamara.
There had been no letter from her since he sent the scarf. Had the gift offended her? Was it too expensive? Not expensive enough? Did she think he was trying to pressure her?
O
N the thirteenth of July the radio newsreader reported, “At an Orange Order demonstration yesterday the Ulster Unionist MP Brian Faulkner said, âWe in the Unionist Party are perforce defending ourselves against the Roman Catholic hierarchy. Until the hierarchy renounces its influence in politics, the Orange Order cannot renounce its influence in the Unionist Party.'”
1
N the thirteenth of July the radio newsreader reported, “At an Orange Order demonstration yesterday the Ulster Unionist MP Brian Faulkner said, âWe in the Unionist Party are perforce defending ourselves against the Roman Catholic hierarchy. Until the hierarchy renounces its influence in politics, the Orange Order cannot renounce its influence in the Unionist Party.'”
1
“I hate to admit it,” Barry told his mother, “but that sounds reasonable to me.”
“It is reasonable. I would rather pull out my fingernails with pliers than agree with Brian Faulkner, but the attitude of the Church continues to make any hope of reuniting this country laughable. Why would northern Protestants want to be part of a society with no divorce, no contraception, and a constitution that hands control of the state to the priests on a silver platter?”
“Now, Ursula, it's not quite that bad.”
“Is it not?” Her voice was bitter. “You aren't a woman.”
"W
E are pleased to inform Finbar Lewis Halloran that he has been accepted as a resident undergraduate of Trinity College Dublin, commencing with the autumn term.”
E are pleased to inform Finbar Lewis Halloran that he has been accepted as a resident undergraduate of Trinity College Dublin, commencing with the autumn term.”
T
HE road to Athlone seemed a lot longer than Barry remembered. He hitched a ride that took him to the outskirts of the town but had to walk the rest of the way. Not walk. Run.
HE road to Athlone seemed a lot longer than Barry remembered. He hitched a ride that took him to the outskirts of the town but had to walk the rest of the way. Not walk. Run.
Brushing past people on the footpath, Barry sprinted the last few yards to the sweets shop. Skidded to a halt. Stared in disbelief.
The shop was boarded up.
He was looking at an absolute impossibility. In Barry's imagination he already had entered the shop, been warmly welcomedâperhaps even kissedâby a girl too beautiful to be real, proposed marriage to her and been accepted and set up practice as an architect and â¦
The shop was boarded up.
He burst into the newsagency next door. “Where's Miss MacNamara?”
“The girl in the sweets shop? We haven't seen her since it closed.”
“When was that?”
“A few weeks ago now.”
“What happened? Is it for sale?”
“I doubt it, not many are buying shops these days. Do you ⦔
But Barry was out the door and running again.
By the time he reached the aunt's cottage on the Ballinasloe road his heart was pounding painfully.
The cottage windows were tightly shuttered and there was a padlock on the door. Weeds were already springing up along the front path. Barry bent over and braced his hands on his knees while he caught his breath, then walked all the way around the house. It was as tightly shut as a clam.
In response to Barry's urgent knock at the nearest house an elderly man peered out. “Mrs. Fogarty's not there anymore,” he mumbled between toothless gums.
“What happened?”
“She went away.”
I can see that for myself, you old fool
. “What about her niece? Claire?”
. “What about her niece? Claire?”
“She took the girl with her.”
“Do you know why they left?”
The old man scratched his whiskery jaw. “A great woman for keeping herself to herself, Miriam Fogarty. But what I think is, the niece was ill.” His voice dropped to a confidential whisper. “You know.”
“I
don't
know. Tell me, for God's sake!”
don't
know. Tell me, for God's sake!”
“TB, that's what I think.”
Barry shuddered.
Countries with more resources were well on their way to conquering tuberculosis, but in Ireland the very word still struck panic. Families went to desperate lengths to conceal its presence. Sufferers were often banished from home completely, hidden away to cough out their lives in a sanatorium.
Was it possible that Claire could have TB? Barry searched
his memory for clues. The white skin, the red lips, the frequent cough ⦠His heart sank.
his memory for clues. The white skin, the red lips, the frequent cough ⦠His heart sank.
“Do you know where they went?” he asked.
“I'd say she's after taking the girl home.”
“Are you certain?”
“I am not certain. But that's what I'd do, take her back to her mammy.”
Was I too besotted to think straight? Why didn't I ask more about her parentsâsuch as their names and address?
All he had was Claire's remark about a house “at the very top of the hill.” Cork was a city of hills. Or did she even mean Cork city? Cork was a county, too. And most of it hilly.
She could be anywhere.
At the local post office Barry was told that Mrs. Fogarty had left no forwarding address. The telephone office was able to provide a phone book for County Cork which revealed a daunting number of MacNamaras. “Of course they may not have a telephone at all,” the office manager pointed out. “Many people don't.”
If the neighbour was right in his surmise, possibly Claire was in a sanatorium by now. Which one? How could he find out? Such places had a policy of strict confidentiality.
Barry spent two long, fruitless days in Athlone, seeking some clue to Claire's whereabouts. But she had vanished without a trace.
Why didn't she write and tell me she was going away? She has my postal address.
Maybe she does have TB and was ashamed to tell me. But I wouldn't mind about that, I'd wait for her until she is well, no matter how long it takes.
He rather liked the image of himself as a faithful swain, patiently waiting for the girl he loved. But realistically he would rather have her whole and healthy and in his arms.
I'll just have to find her, that's all. If she is ill we'll deal with it.
When he returned to the farm, Ursula took one look at his long face and thought he had been wounded. He assured her that no such thing had happened. “I'm just tired, that's all.”
“It's more than that surely.”
“Leave it, Ursula.” He gave her That Look.
U
RSULA closed the account book and massaged the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. Her eyes felt grainy. There was a nagging pain in the small of her back, reminding her that she was not as young as she used to be.
RSULA closed the account book and massaged the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger. Her eyes felt grainy. There was a nagging pain in the small of her back, reminding her that she was not as young as she used to be.
She had been going over the figures for hours but they did not improve. Although the dairy business had done well enough in the past year, horse sales, upon which all extra expenditure was predicated, were disappointing. Not many in Ireland had the money to buy good horses. Foreign purchasers were few and far between. Sending Barry to university was going to be expensive, and he indicated that he would need a substantial amount of pocket money as well: “Everything costs more in Dublin.” Meanwhile, Eileen had resumed grumbling about the lack of a refrigerator.
Ursula suspected that the older woman was letting the cream go sour on purpose.
She pushed the account book aside and stared bleakly out the window. Too much rain; crops were rotting in the fields. They would have to buy in feed again this winter. And George insisted that the tractor needed an overhaul. “Lucky me,” Ursula said to the empty room. “I'm an independent Irishwoman.”
F
OR the weeks remaining until he went up to Dublin, Barry seemed closed in, lost in his thoughts. It was no use trying to get him to talk. When Ursula asked what he was thinking about he said, “Nothing much.”
OR the weeks remaining until he went up to Dublin, Barry seemed closed in, lost in his thoughts. It was no use trying to get him to talk. When Ursula asked what he was thinking about he said, “Nothing much.”
“I doubt that. Have you changed your mind about going to university?”
“I haven't changed my mind.”
“What's wrong, then?”
“Nothing.”
The night before Barry left for Dublin, Ursula went to his room. “Are you ready?”
“Almost, though I still need to clean my bicycle. I'm going to take it with me on the train so I'll have my own transportation in the city.” Ned's notebooks were already safely out of sight in
the bottom of Barry's suitcase. As his mother watched, he tucked a small chunk of limestone into the case amongst his folded shirts.
the bottom of Barry's suitcase. As his mother watched, he tucked a small chunk of limestone into the case amongst his folded shirts.
“Why are you taking a piece of rock? There are plenty of stones in Dublin.”
“But this one's a part of the farm, Ursula. Do you never save mementoes?”
“I'm not that sentimental. Except for ⦠well, the programme from the Eucharistic Congress in 1932, I kept that. And a rose pressed in a book.”
“Did my father give you the rose?” Barry asked, ever hopeful of a clue.
“Hardly. It fell from the countess's coffin during her funeral procession.”
“What countess?”
“Markievicz.”
“You went to her funeral? You never told me.”
“There's lots of things I've never told you.”
Barry slammed down the lid of his suitcase with more force than necessary. “That, Ursula, is a profound understatement.”
H
E was assigned a room in the Rubrics, Trinity's oldest surviving building. Dating from the start of the eighteenth century, it was built of red brick with quaintly dramatic Dutch gables which had been added in the 1890s. Barry was delighted to take up residence in such an architectural gem.
It's streets ahead of sleeping in a muddy dugout in Fermanagh.
E was assigned a room in the Rubrics, Trinity's oldest surviving building. Dating from the start of the eighteenth century, it was built of red brick with quaintly dramatic Dutch gables which had been added in the 1890s. Barry was delighted to take up residence in such an architectural gem.
It's streets ahead of sleeping in a muddy dugout in Fermanagh.
When Barry arrived his roommate was already in the room, busily usurping all the drawers in the one and only chest by stuffing clothing into them. When the door opened he looked up. A beanpole of a man, slightly above medium height, with a cowlick, an exceptionally prominent Adam's apple, and bad skin.
Poor fellow looks like a plucked chicken.
“I believe half those drawers are mine,” Barry drawled.
“I believe half those drawers are mine,” Barry drawled.
“I was under the impression that I could use whatever I needed.” The voice was high-pitched and slightly nasal.
“Only until I arrived,” said Barry. He stood framed in the doorway, letting his new roommate have a good look at him. He
had learned that there were certain situations in which his size and physical presence were enough to win a point. Before the silence could grow uncomfortable, he smiled and held out his hand. “I'm Finbar Halloran. Barry.”
had learned that there were certain situations in which his size and physical presence were enough to win a point. Before the silence could grow uncomfortable, he smiled and held out his hand. “I'm Finbar Halloran. Barry.”
“Gilbert Fitzmaurice. Gilbert,” the other stressed. Ignoring Barry's outstretched hand, he began taking some of his clothing from the drawers. “Obviously there's been a misunderstanding.”
“Forget it,” said Barry. “Where are you from, Gilbert?”
“Waterford.”
“I'm from Clare myself.”
“A country boy, I suppose.” The tone was condescending. From Gilbert's accent, Barry could not tell just where he belonged in the complex fabric of Protestant social stratification that was a holdover from the nineteenth century in Ireland. It ran in descending order from the aristocratic Anglo-Irish grandees known as the Ascendancy to low-caste tradesmen and farmers who were no better off than their Catholic neighbours.
Lifting his chin, Barry said proudly, “I'm country born and bred and a Catholic as well. I'm twenty-one years old, six foot four in my bare feet, ride horses, speak Irish, read Latin, and have a lot of Shakespeare off by heart. I'm a good amateur boxer and hope to become a good architect. What about you?” he finished with a disarming smile.
Gilbert hesitated. “I'll, uh, be called to the bar.”
“How can you be so sure? You're still an undergraduate, aren't you?”
“My father's a barrister and his father before him. We've never done anything else.”
Barry lifted an eyebrow. “All the way back to Adam, eh? Did one of your ancestors defend the snake?”
Gilbert looked blank. “What snake?”
Jesus Mary and Joseph, I've drawn a roommate with no sense of humour.
Undergraduate life at Trinity was Spartan by the standards of its more affluent students, who comprised the majority. Classrooms were poorly heated and badly ventilated. Sprinting across the campus in a cold rain from one class to the next resulted in an endless round of head colds, which were passed from student to student. In the Rubrics the lights were turned
off at eleven o'clock sharp, requiring anyone who wanted to read to use an electric torch.
off at eleven o'clock sharp, requiring anyone who wanted to read to use an electric torch.
During the first few weeks Barry rarely ventured outside the high college railings with their embossed coats of arms. One exception was a visit to the nearest bank to open an account. “Money will be sent from Clare every month to lodge in my account,” he explained, “and I'll withdraw it as needed.”
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