1972 (32 page)
Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
U
RSULA'S voice came singing down the telephone wire. “For once we beat them,” she rejoiced to her son. “We'll be in the EEC long before Britainâif they ever are.”
RSULA'S voice came singing down the telephone wire. “For once we beat them,” she rejoiced to her son. “We'll be in the EEC long before Britainâif they ever are.”
“Of course they will be, Ursula. It's inevitable.”
“I don't see anything inevitable about it. Besides, if we're in and they're out, it's just one more severing of any tie between us.”
Barry said, “The ties will never be totally severed, no matter how much we might wish otherwise. We share a language and a concept of government, and English blood flows in so many Irish veins. Besides, did you ever study a map? This island broke off that one millions of years ago and we're still practically right on their doorstep.”
“You needn't sound so happy about it.”
“I'm not particularly happy about it. But sometimes one must face reality.”
N
INETEEN sixty-seven was a year of growth and consolidation for Barry. Film was expensive so he tried to make every shot count. As his proficiency increased so did his reputation. He travelled throughout the Republic photographing a nation pulling itself up by its bootstraps. In addition to images of a political nature there was always money to be made from photographing a wedding, or fashion models wearing Mary O'Donnell's latest creations. For a time Barry had a huge crush on the stunning Mary, but she had so many admirers that he felt lost in the crowd.
INETEEN sixty-seven was a year of growth and consolidation for Barry. Film was expensive so he tried to make every shot count. As his proficiency increased so did his reputation. He travelled throughout the Republic photographing a nation pulling itself up by its bootstraps. In addition to images of a political nature there was always money to be made from photographing a wedding, or fashion models wearing Mary O'Donnell's latest creations. For a time Barry had a huge crush on the stunning Mary, but she had so many admirers that he felt lost in the crowd.
Ireland in the late sixties was high-spirited and forwardlooking. The rural lifestyle was being elbowed aside by the hard edge of urban aspirations. The middle class had more money to spend. Television was creating an unprecedented desire for
consumer goods. Traditional disciplinesâaside from those imposed by the Church, which still heldâwere beginning to break down. Youngsters found it fashionable to “cock a snook” at the older generation. People who had endured incredible hardships, people who had fought and even died for their country, were fading from the modern frame of reference.
consumer goods. Traditional disciplinesâaside from those imposed by the Church, which still heldâwere beginning to break down. Youngsters found it fashionable to “cock a snook” at the older generation. People who had endured incredible hardships, people who had fought and even died for their country, were fading from the modern frame of reference.
Ireland was attempting to outgrow her past.
The latest census showed the first increase in population since the Famine. Since 1960 more than two hundred companies from abroad had established themselves in the Republic, and 80 percent of private investment was coming from foreign capital. Comprehensive post-primary education, free of cost, was preparing the next generation for a radically different Ireland.
But different did not necessarily mean better.
In spite of the Tourist Board's claim that Dublin epitomised Georgian elegance, Barry's camera discovered an appalling number of beautiful old streetscapes being wantonly destroyed to make room for blank-faced office blocks and so-called social housing designed without any degree of aesthetic sensibility. The new Dublin being erected on the lovely bones of the old had neither character nor grace. The Fianna Fail government gave tacit acceptance to wholesale architectural vandalism so long as the developers kept slipping brown envelopes under the table.
A
T irregular intervals Barry received postcards from Barbara Kavanagh. Almost every postmark was different, but the messages had a certain sameness. She was fine, she was doing well, she was happy.
T irregular intervals Barry received postcards from Barbara Kavanagh. Almost every postmark was different, but the messages had a certain sameness. She was fine, she was doing well, she was happy.
Nothing that she wouldn't write to a maiden aunt,
Barry thought sourly.
I should be thankful she's off my hands. She's far too unsettling.
Barry thought sourly.
I should be thankful she's off my hands. She's far too unsettling.
Yet whenever he found a postcard with her distinctive American scrawl amongst his letters, his heart leapt.
I
N June, Cathal Goulding was the principal speaker at the annual Wolfe Tone Commemoration at Bodenstown, in County Kildare. Since 1962 the IRA as an active organisation had all
but ceased to exist, yet attending the commemoration remained a ritual for Volunteers past and present. Séamus McCoy stood in the crowd beside Barry Halloran. McCoy's cough was worse than ever.
N June, Cathal Goulding was the principal speaker at the annual Wolfe Tone Commemoration at Bodenstown, in County Kildare. Since 1962 the IRA as an active organisation had all
but ceased to exist, yet attending the commemoration remained a ritual for Volunteers past and present. Séamus McCoy stood in the crowd beside Barry Halloran. McCoy's cough was worse than ever.
In his speech Goulding refuted the doctrine of physical-force republicanism and urged public service work instead.
1
When the speech was over, Barry turned to McCoy. “What do you think about that?”
1
When the speech was over, Barry turned to McCoy. “What do you think about that?”
“Not much, to be honest. I'm a soldier, that's what I volunteered for, not marching up and down carrying a placard, for God's sake. You opted out of active service, Seventeen, and I respect your decision, but I can't. Things may seem quiet enough in the north but ⦠remember the Malvern Street murders last year? The loyalists think we're out of the picture so they can do what they like, but sooner or later they'll go too far.”
“How far is too far, Séamus?”
“We'll know when it happens,” McCoy said. His eyes were bleak, but a tight little smile twitched the corners of his mouth.
The bright sky had clouded over. A sodden drizzle began to fall. Barry said, “You in a hurry to go back to County Tip?”
“Not at all, I'm headed the other way. Connolly Station and the Belfast train.”
“Stop at my place first for a chin-wag. I've half a bottle of Jameson's under the bed.”
“I'm your man,” said McCoy.
They hitched a ride with a fellow Volunteer who was taking several other men into the city, to the Bleeding Horse Pub. “Join us,” they urged. “A lot of the lads'll be there.”
“Some other time,” Barry said. “Séamus has a train to catch.” He did not see McCoy very often and did not want to try to carry on a conversation over the rowdy noise of a pub. A short walk from the Bleeding Horse took the two men to Harold's Cross. Barry put a tumbler of whiskey in McCoy's hand and seated him in the one good armchair. “Now, Séamus. What's this about you going north?”
“The commemoration of the Rising stirred up a lot of interest in Belfast. Some of the younger generation want to recover the spirit of 1916, and they're interested in the IRA. Unfortunately nothing's left of the Belfast Brigade but a few old veterans
from the forties. However, Sinn Féin has suggested I might give the lads a series of lectures on republicanism.”
from the forties. However, Sinn Féin has suggested I might give the lads a series of lectures on republicanism.”
Barry raised an eyebrow. “Recruiting lectures?”
“Educational lectures. The Army's not actively recruiting, but these are working-class Catholic lads who can't get jobs and they desperately need something. If nothing else comes along they might be drawn into the worst of the militant splinter groups; you know which ones I mean.”
Barry nodded. “The IRA dissidents who've become involved in criminal activity that has nothing to do with furthering the cause.”
“Aye. And that's no place for decent boys, in my opinion. So we're going to offer the lads a lecture a week and teach them the true meaning of the republican movement.”
“I recall the first lecture you gave me, Séamus. You said the Army demanded absolute commitment, dedication, and honour. Or else. You had me scared to death.”
McCoy grinned. “You weren't scared, you loved it. Young men always think they can be valiantâuntil they're pushed to the pin of their collar, that is. But you proved you were able for it, didn't you?”
Barry tried to look modest, though he was intensely pleased.
“My next step,” McCoy went on, “will be to explain when and why the republican movement began. I didn't have to do that with you, but I surely will with these lads. Northerners aren't told about the centuries of brutal oppression, or how our land was looted. They're taught only English history, which claims England is the source of all good things. For all they know in the Six Counties, Ireland was inhabited by ring-tailed baboons until Queen Liz and her toadies came along to civilise us.
“Once they're enlightened on that score we'll go into republican ideology and aspirations. For the grand finale I'll explain that being a Volunteer means having little money and few friends, and the distinct possibility of imprisonment or death.”
“If you have even two or three still with you after that depressing news,” said Barry, “what will you do with them?”
“Teach âem a wee bit of military drill. Call'em reservists. Don't look at me like that, Seventeen. You know the struggle's not over.”
“I know.”
“Don't suppose you'd like to come with me? Help teach history, maybe?”
Barry felt a sudden, almost overpowering longing. For comrades who felt as he did, men who spoke the same language.
Maybe someday we'll drive the bastards out of Ireland once and for all!
It was frightening to realise how quickly the surge of excitement came back, in spite of the man he thought he was. “My place is here now,” he said firmly. As much for himself as for McCoy.
Maybe someday we'll drive the bastards out of Ireland once and for all!
It was frightening to realise how quickly the surge of excitement came back, in spite of the man he thought he was. “My place is here now,” he said firmly. As much for himself as for McCoy.
“Aye.” McCoy slumped in his chair, hugging his midriff. “And you're right too. I can see you're well dug in and making a few bob; that's a new coat hanging on the peg.”
“It is a new coat.”
“Well dug in,” McCoy repeated. “Nice place.”
“Next you'll be telling me that all it lacks is a woman's touch.”
“That's your business. There was a time I thought of marrying, though. A couple of times, in fact, but it never worked out. The Army. You know.”
“I know.”
“What about yourself, Seventeen?”
Barry kept his voice light. “What woman would be willing to live the way I do?”
“There's that,” McCoy agreed. “I've never heard a single one say she wanted a stone nose under a bell jar in her parlour.” He lit a cigarette and began blowing smoke rings. Both men watched the amorphous circles drift upward, lose shape, disappear.
Barry asked, “Would you like to listen to the gramophone?”
“How about the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem? You have them?”
“'Fraid not,” Barry admitted. “Lately I've been playing a lot of Ella Fitzgerald.”
“Let's hear her, then.”
McCoy closed his eyes and leaned his head against the back of the chair. Except for the singer's voice the room was quiet. Peaceful.
“Nice,” McCoy pronounced with the record ended. “Not as good as Hank Williams, but nice. I'd best get on the road, though. That train won't wait for me.”
At the front door he paused. “One of these days,” he told Barry, “we may need an experienced engineer to teach newcomers about explosives.”
“Nelson's Pillar was my last bomb, Séamus.”
“For certain?”
“You have my word on it.”
Barry watched the older man walk away down the street. The rain was falling harder. McCoy coughed and turned up the collar of his coat.
That night Barry dreamed he was trying to cut lengths from a roll of commercial fuse with a dull pocket knife. Suddenly the cord pulled away from him and reared up above his head, swaying back and forth and hissing.
He heard Barbara Kavanagh's voice say, “That's a Texas rattlesnake. If it bites you you're dead.”
J
EREMY Seyboldt was no impresario. Barbara had soon discovered that he was a self-aggrandising hustler with no scruples. His knowledge of music was superficial at best, but this was Swinging Sixties London. The Beatles and Carnaby Street. Anyone who could Keep Up with the Beat stood a chance of Making It Big.
EREMY Seyboldt was no impresario. Barbara had soon discovered that he was a self-aggrandising hustler with no scruples. His knowledge of music was superficial at best, but this was Swinging Sixties London. The Beatles and Carnaby Street. Anyone who could Keep Up with the Beat stood a chance of Making It Big.
Jeremy spoke in superlatives, unlike most Englishmen but like many Americans. Barbara warmed to him for that reason alone. That, and because he was absolutely determined to succeed at something. Anything. No matter what it took.
She felt the same way herself.
Glowing letters to her mother gave the impression that she was rising steadily in the musical firmament. She made offhanded references to famous people she claimed to have met in Britain. “It's only a matter of time before I'm as big as any of them,” she wrote.
Isabella's reply was a short note to the effect that she was planning to have the house painted.
In the latest dreary closet that served as her latest dreary dressing room, Barbara wadded the note into a ball and threw it at the wastebasket. The basket was already overflowing with tissues stained with cold cream and makeup. The letter bounced off and rolled a short distance across the floor.
Barbara folded her arms on the cluttered dressing table and put her head down on them. “I'm going to be a star,” she whispered into the darkness between her elbows. “I am.”
She was determined not to cry.
B
ARRY'S photographs covered a wide range of subjects. He was proud of some of them. Others were simply pictures he took because he knew he could sell them. Freelancing was never easy, but he relished the uncertainty. As long as he kept his expenses down he could be his own man.
ARRY'S photographs covered a wide range of subjects. He was proud of some of them. Others were simply pictures he took because he knew he could sell them. Freelancing was never easy, but he relished the uncertainty. As long as he kept his expenses down he could be his own man.
When Barbara Kavanagh commandeered his fantasies he reminded himself that he could not afford her.
Barry had not crossed the border since his injury, but knowing that Séamus McCoy was in Belfast refocussed his attention. The electronic media and southern newspapers gave little coverage to Belfast and almost none to the rest of the province. As far as southern Ireland was concerned, the north was a planet apart.
As far as the world's concerned, Northern Ireland is a planet apart,
Barry thought sourly
. But the problems are still there in spite of O'Neill's efforts. Unfortunately he's too liberal for the unionists and not liberal enough for the nationalists. Séamus is right. Sooner rather than later, there's going to be trouble. Then we'll need someone who can show the rest of the world what's going on.
Barry thought sourly
. But the problems are still there in spite of O'Neill's efforts. Unfortunately he's too liberal for the unionists and not liberal enough for the nationalists. Séamus is right. Sooner rather than later, there's going to be trouble. Then we'll need someone who can show the rest of the world what's going on.
I could do it.
The gun's on the shelf, but the camera isn't.
Barry had been confident of his courage, which was rooted in a cold rage he could summon almost at will and aim in any direction he chose. Rage had made him invincible.
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