1999 (12 page)

Barry pretended not to notice, but everyone else did.

McCoy said, “God love the woman, Barry; is there no satisfying her?”

With a flash of the jaunty grin that had fluttered many a girlish heart before his marriage, Barry replied, “There's one way I can always satisfy her.”

A crimson tide rose from McCoy's collar and crept up his leathery neck.

“Why, Séamus! I think you're blushing.”

“I never blush,” he growled.

 

In September the Olympic Games took place in Munich, the first time they had been held in Germany since 1936. In repudiation of the so-called Hitler Olympics these were billed as “The Games of Peace and Joy.” All of Ireland celebrated when Mary Peters from Northern Ireland won gold in the Women's Pentathlon. Mark Spitz of the U.S. captured seven gold medals in Swimming; tiny Olga Korbut won four in Gymnastics for the U.S.S.R.

The peace and joy of the Games were shattered when a group calling itself Black September, an extremist faction of the Palestinian Liberation Organisation, invaded the Olympic Village. Bursting into the Israeli compound, they killed a wrestling coach and a weightlifter and took the remaining athletes hostage. Their demands included the release of more than two hundred Palestinians being held in Israeli prisons, and safe passage out of Germany.

Israeli prime minister Golda Meir said to her cabinet, “I don't know where these animals come from.”

A rescue attempt by trained hit team ended in a shoot-out that killed all nine hostages, five members of Black September, and one German policeman.

Barry's record collection had expanded from its classical origins to embrace American jazz, the Irish folk group called Planxty, the Swedish foursome Abba who won Eurovision in 1974 with “Waterloo,” and the Mamas and the Papas. Barry loved the voice of Mama Cass—though Barbara dismissed her as “not technically correct.” Barry suspected she was jealous.

Barry and Barbara argued about music as they argued about many things. She was an ardent fan of Elvis Presley. Barry preferred the Beatles, whose Liverpool accents she claimed were incomprehensible. “Presley doesn't even write his own music,” Barry said. “The Beatles do.”

“Yes, but it takes four of them to put on a performance while Elvis can do it all by himself.”

Barbara's favourite ploy for initiating an argument was to say something derogatory about the IRA. When the most recent IRA shooting in the north made headlines in the newspapers, she said with contempt, “They're nothing but a gang of terrorists.”

Barry said, “There's something you need to understand, Barbara. Violent reaction on behalf of a minority who are suffering intolerable oppression can't be compared to murders committed by loyalist death squads organised and condoned by representatives of the United Kingdom. That's state-sponsored terrorism.”

His measured, articulate statement made little impression on Barbara. The next time she was bored and wanted excitement she again accused the IRA of terrorism.

This time Barry allowed himself to lose his temper—just a little. “The whole point of war is to out-terrorise your enemy! I don't suppose a woman like you can understand, so I'll make it easy for you. Hiroshima was the ultimate act of terrorism, and who perpetrated that?”

At the height of a quarrel Barbara was given to shouting and door slamming. Barry rarely raised his voice. He tried to keep their rows private; she preferred an audience.

An embarrassed McCoy told the boarders, “They just fight for the fun of making up.” Privately he thought,
I don't need this, I'd rather have a real war. I'll be damn glad when we finish the new flats. But it's just one delay after another. Where does Barry find these lazy arseholes? They bring the wrong materials, they stop for tea every fifteen minutes, the plumber leaves in the middle of the day and doesn't come back for a fortnight…at this rate it'll be almost Christmas before we're done. After the holidays I'm definitely going up the road. Nothing's going to stop me this time.

One of the Hallorans' worst quarrels resulted from a remark Barbara made during the evening meal, in front of everyone: “The problems in the north would end tomorrow if Ireland simply rejoined the United Kingdom. It was stupid to leave in the first place. The Irish are incapable of governing themselves, the IRA proves that.”

For once Barry's response was not tempered. In the face of his icy rage the dining room swiftly emptied of boarders. This time it was Barry who slammed the front door on his way out.

When McCoy helped Barbara clear the table, he noticed that her hands were shaking. He said, “I could have warned you not to make Barry really angry.”

“I wasn't trying to do that.”

“The only reason you said what you did was to get up his nose.”

“Well what if it was? He's so damned smug, so damned certain that what he calls ‘physical force republicanism' is the only way.”

“Wait until you talk to an Orangeman. And by the way, you should know that Barry doesn't like women swearing.”

“Why, because his mother doesn't swear? I'll bet Ursula curses like a sailor when no one's around. Given her background,” Barbara added.

McCoy looked blank.

He doesn't know,
she realised. She was pleased to be in possession of such a potent secret. It delighted Barbara to think of Ursula as her social inferior; a child of the tenements. The squalid, decaying tenements that still existed throughout Dublin, releasing their fetid breath to contaminate the streets of the capital.

What a lovely weapon to hold over your mother-in-law.

 

In the sixties and seventies every town of any size in Ireland had at least one ballroom. Aside from the Church, they were the primary social focus for young people. The showbands who performed in the ballrooms were immensely popular. They toured the island and were equally welcome north and south. The most famous was the Dublin-based Miami Showband—often referred to as “the Irish Beatles.” Its members came from both sides of the border and from both the Catholic and Protestant traditions. Showbands were not about politics or religion; they were about entertaining people. They also helped set the fashions. Like many men in Ireland Barry was wearing long sideburns. His hair swept his collar.

Barbara thought he was amazingly handsome and wished she had more opportunities to show him off. When she saw an advertisement for the Miami Showband's next Dublin appearance she begged him to take her dancing.

“I don't dance anymore,” he said. “My left leg…”

“It's not reliable, I know. But I've noticed it doesn't keep you from doing anything you really want to do.”

“Barbara, I have to be up before dawn tomorrow and drive to Kinsale for a sunrise photo shoot with Mary O'Donnell. I already told you about it.”

Barbara subsided into silks and sulks. But the matter was not forgotten.

In November an interview with the chief of staff of the Provisional IRA, whose identity was not revealed, created an uproar when it was aired on radio. The government promptly sacked the RTE Authority for allowing the broadcast. Later that month Seán MacStiofáin was given a six-month prison sentence for membership in an illegal organisation, and the reporter who had interviewed him was sentenced to three months for refusing to identify MacStiofáin as his interviewee.

On the night of December first a car bomb exploded close to Liberty Hall in Dublin, injuring thirty citizens of the Republic and causing extensive damage. Within twenty minutes a second car bomb exploded in Sackville Place, just off O'Connell Street. This time two men were killed and ninety other people injured.

Only minutes before the first explosion an anonymous telephone caller had rung the
Belfast Newsletter
with a warning—giving incorrect locations and issued too late to prevent the bombings. No one was ever arrested. No charges were ever brought against the perpetrators.

Among the regulars in the Bleeding Horse there was no doubt where the blame lay. The Usual Suspects shared the consensus opinion. “The loyalists did it. And British agents helped them.”

The attacks on Dublin marked the turning of a corner. The IRA determined to carry the war to the enemy.

It would not be the first time. Fenians had undertaken a bombing campaign in Britain in 1880, and the IRA in 1920. The tradition would continue.

The conversion of the mews into two self-contained flats—or “apartments,” as Barbara called them—proved a great success. When Barry put an ad in the classified section of the newspapers the telephone began ringing almost at once. In less than a week a retired couple had taken one flat, and a widower and his two nearly grown sons had taken the second. The older son planned to study for the priesthood. His proud father said, “My uncle was a priest and both my sisters are nuns.”

 

Shortly before Christmas the government of the Republic removed the reference to the “special position” of the Catholic Church from the Irish Constitution. But no amount of legislation could remove it from the Irish psyche.

 

Christmas sneaked up on Barry. It was the twenty-third of December when he realised he had not bought a present for his wife. He slipped away from an assignment at Leinster House to walk the short distance to Brown Thomas in Grafton Street. When she saw a label from Dublin's most expensive department store, Barbara would criticise him for being extravagant. But she would be unbearable if he gave her anything less than the best.

Buoyed by the thought of added income from the flats, Barry wandered through the various departments until he discovered a cashmere cardigan as tawny as her eyes. The price surpassed his worst expectations. He left the store in a slight daze and made his way back toward Leinster House.

As he turned into Dawson Street a hand was placed on Barry's shoulder from behind. A voice he recognised said, “Halloran.”

“How're you keeping?” he asked without looking around.

“Not so bad. But we could use you.”

“You're doing pretty well on your own.”

“We could do better. Explosives aren't like anything else, you know. Volunteers who say they'll do anything back off fast when we mention explosives. Compared to the IRA the loyalists are still at a primitive stage in building bombs, but they're getting a lot of help to close the gap. If we hope to stay ahead of them we'll need the best possible engineers. That means you, Halloran.”

Still Barry did not look around. He was listening to a younger version of his own voice asking, “Was my father killed by a bomb?”

His mother had not answered, but her eyes filled with anguish.

“Just yes or no, Ursula. Was he?”

“Yes,” she had whispered.

Barry squared his shoulders. Out of the side of his mouth he told the man behind him, “Nelson's Pillar was my last bomb.”

“Is that definite?”

“You have my word on it.”

 

On New Year's Day, 1973, Taoiseach Jack Lynch signed the Treaty of Rome. The Republic of Ireland officially joined the European Economic Community. In their rush to gain the benefits of the Common Market for their economically hard-pressed country, government officials had overlooked much of the fine print to which they were agreeing. They gave away the majority of Ireland's fishing resources—an act of monumental myopia for an island nation—in return for allowing farmers, and particularly large farmers, huge financial windfalls from the Common Agricultural Policy.

As a beneficial result of Ireland's entry into the EEC, the infamous “Marriage Bar” was lifted. At last women would be allowed to remain in salaried employment after marriage. Originally applied to the civil service, the ban had been extended with the full support of the Church to include both the public and private sectors, covering such diverse occupations as the nursing profession and in the Guinness Brewery.

 

The year began bitterly cold. Howling gales pursued one another in swift succession across Ireland.

And Barbara discovered she was pregnant.

She was dismayed. “How could this have happened?” she wailed to Barry.

“In the most natural way in the world,” he said. “You haven't been trying to prevent it, have you?”

“Where would I get contraceptives in Catholic Ireland?”

“Women must know other ways of preventing conception.”

Barbara gave a hollow laugh. “Oh, I tried the usual methods—Alice Cassidy advised a vinegar douche—but here I am anyway. Up the spout. A bun in the oven. What am I going to do?”

“What's so terrible about having a baby? I'm over the moon about it.”

“You would be,” she said sourly. “You don't have to carry it for nine months and be swollen all out of shape.”

“I'll love you just the same. More.”

“Well, I won't love me. And I won't love changing dirty diapers, either, or having to get up for a squalling baby in the middle of the night.”

“We call them nappies over here, and I'll change them if you don't want to,” he promised. “I'll get up in the middle of the night too.”

“You're just saying that, you don't mean it.”

“I always mean what I say, Barbara.” His voice was very low, very soft. But the skin tightened around his eyes.

 

Since the beginning of the twentieth century tens of thousands of Irish women had “taken the boat” to England for an abortion. They were not all young single girls in trouble; many were married women. Due to the Church's insistence on a total ban on contraception, a wife might bear her husband a huge number of children over the years of their marriage. Some had twenty or more. If even half of these survived, the burden on the woman could be crushing. Backstreet abortionists flourished. Women who could not afford to take the boat felt they had no other option.

 

I could go to England without telling him I was going,
Barbara thought to herself.
But he would never forgive me. I'm stuck with this.

Damn the Church, damn sex, damn Ireland!

 

Barry seized on the opportunity to tell Séamus, “You can't leave us now. Someone has to be with Barbara when I'm off on an assignment.”

“She's as healthy as a horse, Seventeen; she doesn't need a minder.”

“Anything could go wrong at any time. You know how women are when they're pregnant.”

McCoy's shoulders slumped. “It looks like I'm about to learn.”

“I think I've got it sussed out,” he told the Usual Suspects later. “Barry'll use any excuse to keep me from going back to the Army.”

“Why'd he want to do that?”

“It isn't him, it's that girl he married. She hates anything to do with republicanism.”

Patsy stopped stroking his jaw long enough to say, “That explains why Barry don't come in so much anymore. She's got 'im tied to her apron strings.”

“I'm missing something here,” said Brendan. “First you claim it's Barry who's keeping you in Dublin. Then it's his wife. I'm a bit confused. Do you mean they're conspiring together against you?”

McCoy bristled. “I never said that.”

“Well, is there a conspiracy or not?”

“Pick up any rock on this island and look under it and you'll find a conspiracy,” McCoy said testily. “In Northern Ireland the RUC and the loyalists are as close as two fingers on one hand. On this side of the border Special Branch conspires with the pro-Brits. Our politicians conspire against each other and the government conspires against everybody. We're up to our knees in conspiracies. That's not what I'm talking about!”

Brendan made soothing gestures with his age-spotted hands. “There's no need to get shirty with me, Séamus. I was only trying to understand your problem.”

“My problem is, I need a drink and it's your shout. Make mine a double, will you?”

When the drink arrived McCoy spent a long time staring into its amber depths.
Maybe I haven't fought hard enough. If I just walked out the door neither one of 'em could stop me.

Maybe I don't want to walk out the door.

Maybe the cancer's come back and I'm afraid.

He stayed in the pub until closing time, then got a ride to Harold's Cross with the barman. He was not in the mood for a long walk.

 

On the twenty-fourth of January Dr. Rose Dugdale, accompanied by three men, hijacked a helicopter in Donegal. Dr. Dugdale was a devoted Irish republican in spite of the fact that she was English by birth and came from a prosperous family. She and her companions used the helicopter to drop three milk churns containing bombs onto the Strabane RUC station.

The bombs failed to explode.

 

At the end of January two White House aides were convicted of breaking into Democratic Party Headquarters in the Watergate Building in Washington, D.C., the preceding year. They had been charged with conspiring to spy on President Nixon's opponent during his reelection campaign.

A general election in the Republic of Ireland in February saw a Fine Gael/Labour coalition led by Liam Cosgrave oust Fianna Fáil from power after sixteen years. The new coalition was decidedly right-wing in spite of its Labour component. However, Conor Cruise O'Brien, minister for posts and telegraphs, made a bombastic speech in the Dáil denouncing tax loopholes and all those who would avail of them.

February in Northern Ireland marked the arrest of the first two loyalists to be detained under the Special Powers Act. The Loyalist Association of Workers responded with a one-day strike. Loyalists also attacked Catholic homes and businesses, leading to a gun battle with the British army that resulted in five deaths.
¹

Two car bombs exploded in central London in early March. One was outside the Old Bailey, the other at the Agriculture Ministry. One person was killed and over two hundred injured. Police, fearing it signalled the start of a republican bombing campaign, arrested ten men who were waiting to board a plane for Belfast. They were accused of being members of the IRA but it was difficult to prove. The men had no police records in either England nor Ireland.

The IRA was recruiting unknowns for its campaign.

An Phoblacht,
under the editorship of Éamonn MacThomáis, became a weekly paper with a circulation of forty thousand copies per issue. It also became a target for increased harassment by the Garda Special Branch.

The colossal twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City were dedicated in April. As he studied the photographs in the newspapers, Barry Halloran remarked, “I like the Chrysler Building better. It has more character.”

 

There was no Easter Rising Commemorative Parade in 1973, either. The IRA claimed to be the legitimate heirs of the Rising and they were committing acts of violence of which many people disapproved.

 

That year a new radio programme burst onto the Irish scene like a thunderclap.
Hall's Pictorial Ireland
was a weekly satire that took no prisoners. Ireland did not engage in political cartooning to the extent the British did, but possessed an ancient and honourable tradition of satire. In pre-Christian times a satirist could bring down a king. “Hall's Pictorial” played a large part in achieving the same thing by depicting the current crop of Irish politicians as an unsavoury and unattractive lot. The public loved it.

No matter how much Barbara wanted to keep politics out of the house in Harold's Cross, it kept intruding. Like the rifle—hidden out of her sight but always there—politics played a part in Barry's life. He had first achieved international recognition as a photographer with a haunting candid portrait of Eamon de Valera. Eight years later politicians were eager to pose for his lens.

But his favourite subject was Ireland. The land could not be killed; would not disappear. Was safe to love.

Her beauty revealed itself to his artist's eye in sweeping panoramas and intimate vignettes. The faded elegance of a decaying Georgian streetscape; an emerald fern bowing over a spill of rubbish; a ruined castle with empty windows looking for a lost kingdom.

“Why do you take so many sad pictures?” Barbara asked her husband.

“Sadness is part of what makes Ireland beautiful,” he said, “just as the pathos of songs like ‘The Minstrel Boy' makes them unforgettable.”