1999 (25 page)

“Well, I'm telling you I was! I've had one baby already, I know what it's like. I felt a sudden clamping feeling in my stomach as I was going up the stairs. I waited for a moment until it eased off. A few minutes later there was another one. The pains were quite regular for a while—not hard, but enough to be noticeable. I thought I had plenty of time, so I went to our room to pack a suitcase for the hospital. When I reached up to take the case off the top of the wardrobe I felt the most awful pain rip right through me. I was afraid something had gone wrong, so I ran to the head of the stairs and called Breda and she came up to me at once. By then the clamping feeling had stopped, and that frightened me still more. I was terrified the baby would be damaged if labour stopped midway!”

“I'm not the one you have to convince,” said Ursula.

Barbara tried, but there never seemed a good time to talk to Barry. If he was at home he was either in the darkroom or with the children. She had to admit he was wonderful with the baby. No matter how loudly Grace Mary was crying she would stop if her father picked her up.

“I suppose I should be jealous,” Barbara remarked. “She likes you more than she likes me.” She meant to flatter him; she meant it as a joke. She expected Barry to deny it.

He did not.

Barbara again appealed to her mother-in-law. “Barry said you're a great negotiator. Won't you negotiate between the two of us; persuade him to listen to my side of the story?”

“Why should I?”

Barbara was disconcerted. “Because…well, I mean…”

This time it was Ursula who did the interrupting. “Let me explain the first rule of negotiation: to get something you must give something. Take us, for instance. If you have an offer that will induce me to help you, let's hear it. But before you speak, remember that by your own choice you and I are not friends. I am not obliged to give you my support.”

“Wherever did you get the idea we're not friends, Ursula? Why, I love you! You're Barry's mother and…”

“…and no fool. Forget the wide-eyed stare, stage dramatics don't impress me. I'm willing to talk to the real Barbara but I won't waste my time with a phony.”

Barbara lowered her elevated eyelids. “You're very direct.”

“It prevents misunderstandings.”

Barbara was torn between her desire to reply in kind—what a wonderful relief that would be!—and her fear of losing face by admitting Ursula was right. She chose the latter. “I don't have to stand here and be insulted,” she said frigidly. Leaving the room, she slammed the door behind her.
That prissy old woman. Prissy old
illegitimate
woman. How dare she!

Brian and Grace Mary kept Barbara busy for the rest of the day, while at the back of her head she carried on a running dialogue with Ursula Halloran. She thought of all the things she wished she had said: the biting, terribly clever remarks that would have cut the other woman to the bone. By teatime the energy of anger had drained away. Barbara stole a few moments' respite by sinking into a chair in the temporarily unoccupied parlour.

I need more help in this house.

She gazed vacantly around the room, noticing a thin layer of dust on the tabletops.

What I really need is a wife.

Everybody needs a wife.

All I have is a husband and he's never here, damn it.

But if I lost him…

I don't want to lose Barry, God knows I don't. Perhaps I should have held my temper and listened to Ursula. What was that she said? You have to give something to get something. But what can I offer him? It's too soon after the baby for sex. What else could he possibly want that…

Her eye fell on the unusual artefact that held pride of place in the parlour. A statue's nose with a large nick in it, the result of a well-placed rifle shot from the roof of the GPO in 1916.

Barbara had overheard Barry tell Séamus McCoy, “Blowing up Nelson's Pillar was the best thing I've done since I joined the IRA.”
How can he be proud of an act of vandalism?
she wondered.

She sat up abruptly.
That's what I can do! I can make a real effort to understand the things that mean so much to him.

She waited until the children were asleep and the boarders had retired to their rooms, then took up watch outside the darkroom door. Barry worked very late that night, as he did most nights. When he came out and saw her the skin around his eyes tightened. “What do you want?”

“What makes you think I want anything?”

“You always want something. I'm tired, Barbara; will it not wait?”

“This is very small, it won't cost money and it won't be any trouble. But now that the children are here…well, I think I should know more about your side of the family, so I can tell them when they're older. You once mentioned your grandfather's notebooks. Do you still have them? I'd love to see them. Maybe it would help me understand…well, more about you.”

It was the last thing Barry had expected. “Do you mean it?”

“Absolutely,” she said solemnly.

He wanted to believe her.

The next day was Sunday. After Mass Barry went up to the attics. Covered with a layer of velvety dust were broken bits of furniture, chipped chamber pots, an old dressmaker's dummy with a wasp waist, stacks of yellowing newspapers, and an assortment of packing cases that had not been opened since Philpott sold the house to Barry. “Most of that stuff belonged to my family and I've never even looked at it,” he had told Barry. “I'll come back for it later and get it out of your way.” He never kept the promise. Although Philpott was back, his detritus was still in the attics, together with contributions by more recent residents.

Carefully concealed beneath an old canvas horse rug in a far corner under the eaves was Ned Halloran's old canvas backpack. Once the buckles had been rusty and difficult to open, but diligent applications of metal polish over a number of years had them gleaming like new. Barry smiled to himself as he opened the pack.

Memory made manifest.

The marriage certificate of Edward Joseph Halloran and Síle Duffy. A folded square of paper with “Síle” written on it, containing a curl of russet-coloured hair. Two thick bundles of school copybooks tightly bound together with twine.

A dangerous treasure trove.

Barry took Barbara to his darkroom—which she was never invited to enter—closed and locked the door, and turned on the overhead light.

She gave a nervous laugh. “Why all the secrecy?”

“Nobody knows about these notebooks and I want to keep it that way.”

“Nobody? Not even Ursula?”

“If my mother knew I had them she'd want them for herself, and I couldn't refuse. Granda originally trained to be a schoolteacher, which may be why he used ordinary school copybooks for his journals. He put everything into them; his personal experiences, his philosophy, even a bit of poetry. There's a lot of information about his time in the IRA too. You might not like that part, but it's in his authentic voice.

“I found these by accident years ago. After I read them I would have given anything to be able to talk with Granda again, but by then he was dead. I could never tell him what a remarkable man he really was. Perhaps people have to die before we love them fully, before our understanding can encompass their faults as well as their virtues and we can cherish them entire.”

“I know what you mean,” Barbara chimed in. “I feel the same about my grandparents. When Mom gave me my grandmother's pearls I began wondering what Ella Rutledge was like as a young woman and what her married life was like. They always seemed so happy together; I wish I could ask them what the secret was.”

Barry said, “Would you listen if they told you?”

“Perhaps not. I guess every generation has to learn the same lessons all over again. No wonder we never make any progress.”

The honest regret in her voice touched his heart.

We'll make progress, Barbara,
he vowed silently.
Somehow, we will. Maybe this is a start.

He stood with folded arms, watching as she bent over the notebooks. She picked up one after another and gently turned the brittle, yellowing pages. He saw her lips move as she read one passage; he saw her smile at another.

“What's this?” she asked abruptly. “This jumble of numbers?”

Barry peered over her shoulder. His breath was warm against her cheek and she felt the familiar thrill.

“That's code,” he told her. “When Granda's sister Kathleen emigrated to America she joined an organisation called Friends of Irish Freedom that raised a lot of money for the IRA. Those are Granda's records of donors and amounts.”

“Can you read the code?”

“It took me a long time to decipher it, but…”

“So you know the names of the people who gave money?”

“I do. It's one reason for keeping these books secret. If those names became known even today there might be reprisals against their descend…”

In a small, tight voice, Barbara said, “Was one of them Michael Kavanagh?”

With a jolt, Barry realised it had been a serious mistake to show her the notebooks.
You damn fool, how could you have forgotten about her family history?
“There was a Michael Kavanagh,” he conceded. “Of course there must have been a number of men with that name in Ameri—”

“Do those records show anything more than the names?”

“Addresses.”

“And what address for that particular Michael Kavanagh?”

They had passed the point where lying was an option. Reluctantly, Barry said, “Saratoga Springs in upstate New York.”

Barbara closed the notebook she was holding. She was trembling. When she spoke her voice was very faint, dragged up from the depths. “My father was named Michael Kavanagh. His father was a chauffeur for a wealthy woman in Saratoga Springs. That's where my parents met; where they lived until he was killed here in Ireland, chasing some insane dream. Now I have his death warrant in my hands.” She had gone very pale. “Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Walking out of the room, she left Barry with nothing to say.

 

Section 31 of the Broadcasting Act was being invoked specifically to prohibit members of the republican movement from speaking on radio or television in the Republic of Ireland.
¹
The government in power that had brought this legislation into being saw no irony in its existence. The gag order covered both the IRA and Sinn Féin—a constitutionally organised political party and therefore legally entitled to speak on issues such as trade union matters involving its constituents. Section 31 made it impossible for either group to defend itself publicly against whatever charges the Irish government, the British government, or anyone else cared to make. Countless events were never filmed or recorded, denying future generations a priceless historical record.

As a freelance photojournalist Barry Halloran did not fall under the purlieu of Section 31. With his camera he could say what he pleased, as long as he had an audience for his work.

After the unfortunate incident with Barbara he relocated his grandfather's notebooks to an even safer hiding place. He could imagine her throwing the books on the fire, and they were irreplaceable. The ideals they expressed were central to his life. Written on the final flyleaf, in Ned Halloran's beautiful copperplate hand, were words from the Proclamation of the Irish Republic:

“We declare the right of the people of Ireland to the ownership of Ireland and to the unfettered control of Irish destinies, to be sovereign and indefeasible.”

 

In January of 1977 six members of the British defence forces were killed by IRA snipers and ambushes.

And Michael McHugh, a Catholic living in Castlederg, County Tyrone, received an unsigned letter:

Within days McHugh was killed by the Ulster Freedom Fighters, a cover name used by the Ulster Defence Association, a major loyalist paramilitary group founded in 1971.

 

“Dear Séamus,” Barry wrote, “I apologise for being such a poor correspondent, but I've been working all the hours God sends and then some.” Barry put down the pen and stared at the nearly blank page. It would be a comfort to tell his friend about the problem with Barbara—the latest problem with Barbara—but he was a private man.

When Ursula heard the car door slam she wheeled her chair over to the window to watch Barry drive away. A sullen rain was falling so he had switched on the headlamps.

His mother was tired; she had been sitting in the chair since breakfast. Breda was elsewhere in the house, busy with the baby. Grace Mary had a gift for keeping people busy.

Ursula watched the red taillights vanish from sight.
Auto-mobile, that's Barry. Mobile in a motor car and out of one. I hope he appreciates it. Such a simple thing, being able to walk across a room.

Increasingly uncomfortable, she squirmed in her chair.
Where is that damned nurse? Has she forgotten all about me?

There had been some talk of giving Ursula a bell to ring so she could summon help if she needed, but she had firmly vetoed the idea. “I would hate to have anyone ringing a bell for me, so I won't do that to someone else.”

Another of my many mistakes. I wish to God I had that bell right now.

She wheeled the chair to her bedside and looked longingly at the white sheets and the dear old red-and-white quilt Barry had brought from the farm. Every muscle in her body cried out to lie down.

Every muscle in my body? What about my legs?

She attempted to differentiate among the complaints being received from the outposts.
Shoulders, yes. Back, yes. Buttocks, assuredly. Legs? LEGS???

Was something stirring in those dead wooden legs?

Concentrate.

She thought there was a faint echo of sensation, but only for a moment.
I must have imagined it.
Then it came again. A tingle, like tiny ants crawling. Sweat broke out on Ursula's forehead. With an immense effort of will she forced a command down the damaged neural pathways.
Move, damn you. Move!

“You must be ready to go back to bed now,” said a cheerful voice from the doorway. Breda bustled into the room and began smoothing sheets and plumping pillows. A moment later she was lifting Ursula from the chair and swinging her onto the bed.

Breaking her concentration.

“There now, is that not better?” Breda tucked the quilt under Ursula's chin. “You can have a sleep until time for lunch.”

“I don't want to sleep!”

Breda was not listening. She was already on her way back to the nursery.

 

As he drove up the Dublin–Belfast road Barry was relieved to be leaving Barbara and their problems behind. Yet the sense of relief brought guilt as well.
It's the curse of being Irish,
he thought.
We're afflicted with a deeply penitential version of Catholicism, so we suffer guilt for the most normal human emotions.

I do everything I can but there's just no pleasing Barbara. It's not my fault.

It's not my fault.

And if it is, I don't know what to do about it except what I'm already doing.

He was working harder than ever, but if he was honest with himself it was not for Barbara's sake, nor even to support his family. Barry was doing what he had always done. Fighting in his own way for the Republic. As the situation in Northern Ireland worsened, he was concerned that the IRA alone would never be sufficient to resolve the problem. He was beginning to agree with Brendan Delahanty. The only option was politics, though that route was fraught with problems of its own.

Years of observing the government at work in the Republic had taught Barry to mistrust the subversive treachery of words. In the mouths of politicians words concealed what they purported to reveal; misleading, distorting, convincing, confounding. Words could lie.

With his candid portrait of Eamon de Valera he had discovered it was possible to uncover the truth of a man no matter what his words said. Now Barry hoped his photographs would give ordinary people, both nationalist and unionist, an uncompromising look at those who were leading them; the men behind the masks.

When he reached Belfast Barry applied for the familiar Long Kesh visitor's pass, adding the names of the men from Cage Eleven whom McCoy had mentioned. He also requested permission to bring a camera to the visiting area.

The official handling the application glowered at him. “You the photographer who took those pictures in the H-Blocks?”

“I am.”

“They got a lot of coverage, didn't they?”

“I believe so.”

“Maybe that wasn't such a good idea, you know what I'm saying? There was a lot of criticism about the way the protestors came across. You didn't show them as the brutes they are, you made them look…”

“I didn't ‘make them look' any particular way,” Barry said. “The camera only recorded what it saw.”

“Permission to photograph denied,” the other man snapped. “And you'll have to reapply for your visitor's permit.”

 

While Barry waited to see McCoy he made appointments with Unionist politicians and prominent Protestant businessmen. The invitation to become part of a photographic archive depicting Northern Ireland's most influential individuals met with an enthusiastic response from everyone he approached.

None of them asked if Barry planned to include any Catholics in the collection.

His first call was to a building contractor who lived off the Malone Road; possibly the most desirable residential area of Belfast. Frederick Liggitt was a senior member of his local Orange Lodge.

Founded in 1795, the Orange Order had since its inception been a secret society devoted to the preservation of the Protestant ethic and the demonstrable superiority of Protestants over Catholics, as exemplified by the victory of William of Orange over his Catholic rival, King James II, at the Battle of the Boyne on the twelfth of July, 1690.

The date of that victory, which marked the ascendancy of the House of Orange to the throne of England and of Protestantism to the state religion among the ruling classes of Ireland, was commemorated each year throughout Northern Ireland with almost three thousand Orange parades. Marching triumphally through the towns and villages, celebrating their victory over the evils of the Roman Church as if it had happened yesterday, Orangemen in their bowler hats, bright orange sashes, and tightly furled umbrellas appeared to be a colourful anachronism. In reality they were the tip of the iceberg that had been crushing the life out of the Six Counties since the partition of Ireland.