1999 (8 page)

Barbara flung back the curtain. When she saw Barry she flushed an angry red. “How dare you eavesdrop on me!”

He assumed a lazy, heavy-lidded smile, screening his eyes with his lashes. “I'm only going to say this once, Barbara, and that's it, full stop.”

“Are you giving me an ultimatum? I don't take ultimatums.”

He was, he congratulated himself, finally learning how to handle her.
Never fight fire with fire.
Leaning forward, he softly murmured, “Will you marry me?”

“Who're you talking to?” Isabella shrilled from the phone.

Barry plucked the receiver from Barbara's suddenly numb fingers. “Mrs. Kavanagh? Barry Halloran here,” he said crisply. “I've proposed to your daughter and…” Looking at Barbara, he raised one quizzical eyebrow.

This isn't the way I pictured it,
her mind protested.
He's supposed to offer me a ring and I'll make him wait for an answer and even then I might say no. I don't want to spend my life running a boardinghouse.

Yet she could not tear her eyes away from his. Many men were more handsome, but none had his compelling presence. Barry Halloran was more vividly alive than anyone else she knew.

“Yes,” she whispered. Then, louder, “Yes, I'll marry you.”

“…and she's agreed,” Barry told Isabella Kavanagh. “All we have to do is set the date, which I hope will be very soon.”

“Don't tell me you've got my child pregnant!”

Barry responded with the clear, boyish laugh of someone who had trained himself to appear convincingly innocent—even in the guiltiest circumstances. “I respect your daughter far too much for any carry-on of that sort, Mrs. Kavanagh. We plan to have a family someday, but let's begin with the wedding. You're the first person we've invited.”

Barbara shook her head violently. Barry ignored her. “You will come, Mrs. Kavanagh? Barbara will be so pleased,” he purred into the phone. “And of course I'll call you Isabella. Thanks for asking.”

 

McCoy had been rehearsing his speech.
You're building a pretty good life for yourself, Seventeen, but wouldn't you rather do something that will make a difference to the whole of Ireland? I've just been talking to a pal of mine from GHQ, and he thinks there might be a place for you there. If Barbara's what's holding you back, you'll have to sit her down and explain that the Army will always come first. You owe it to the girl.

As McCoy approached the house he noticed the lights were still blazing, though the hour was late. The old familiar prickle of tension ran up his spine and across his scalp.
Something must be wrong. Barbara's always careful with the electrics.

He dropped his hand to his side and fumbled for a weapon that was not there.
Damn.
He silently eased the front door open and crossed the hall on the balls of his feet.

A number of voices could be heard in the parlour. Still walking on tiptoe, McCoy peered through the open doorway. He saw a dozen boarders with glasses in their hands eddying around Barbara while Barry stood to one side, looking bemused. “You're just in time to join us in a toast, Séamus,” Barry called upon catching sight of him. “There's Jameson's on the sideboard, let me pour you one.”

McCoy heaved a sigh of relief. “Dee-lighted.” As Barry handed him the drink he asked, “What're we drinking to?”

“The wedding.”

“What wedding?”

“Barbara's and mine,” said Barry.

McCoy stopped with the glass halfway to his lips.

“We've set the date for the first of May and there's a lot to do between now and then,” Barry continued as if unaware that his friend was suddenly paralysed. “Barbara's mother is coming over from America and she and Ursula will be staying here, so we'll have to move some of these lads around to make room for them. Plus we'll have to do those repairs we've been putting on the long finger. Everything'll be down to you and me, Séamus, but together we can manage. If we start first thing in the morning we…”

“We've got to draw up a guest list and have the invitations printed,” Barbara interrupted. “Not to mention booking the church and a priest. And having my dress made. It must be absolutely gorgeous. And white. Mom will go into convulsions if I don't wear white at my wedding.”

McCoy finished raising his glass and drained it in one long swallow.
But Barry and I are going back to the Army!

Then Barry said, “Séamus, I'm counting on you to be my best man.”

Spurred by brutal assaults on northern Catholics and in particular the burning of entire neighbourhoods by loyalist mobs, in November of 1969 the seriously depleted IRA had made a desperate request for weapons from the KGB.
¹
Shortly after the request was made the IRA had split in two: the Officials under Cathal Goulding and the Provisionals led by Seán MacStiofáin. With the Irish propensity for nicknames, the Officials became the Stickies and the Provisional IRA, the Provos.

The political party called Sinn Féin soon split along similar lines.

The sympathies of the KGB were wholly with the Officials, who had a decidedly Marxist slant, rather than the Provisionals. But the weapons the Russians had promised failed to arrive.

The IRA learned to improvise.

The emotions engendered by Bloody Sunday were about to boil over.

 

Ursula made an earnest effort to sound pleased when Barry telephoned her with the news. “You both have my blessing,” she assured him.

“You
are
coming to the wedding, aren't you? We want you to stay here with us.”

“Of course I'm coming. I shall have to do something about my weirdrobe, though.”

“Meaning you think your wardrobe is weird by ordinary standards,” Barry interpreted.

“Well, it is. There's nothing but jodhpurs and jumpers.”

“Don't try to tell me that. Since you never throw anything away, I'm sure you still have that beautiful dress Mary O'Donnell made for you. Remember? The one you wore when I took my degree from Trinity.”

“It's a tweed suit, Barry,” his mother said in exasperation. “Years out of fashion and certainly not appropriate for a spring wedding.” No one, especially her son, would ever know how she had scrimped and saved to pay for that suit.

“Then come to Dublin in time to have her make something else. That way you'll already be here when Isabella arrives. She's a formidable woman as I recall; I'd be glad to have you at my side.”

As she hung up the phone, Ursula's eyes were sparkling with amusement.
Formidable? Isabella Kavanagh? We'll see about that.

Formidable was not a word she took lightly.

 

On the twenty-fourth of March the British prime minister, Edward Heath, announced the suspension of the Northern Ireland Parliament at Stormont. Stormont was to be the sacrificial lamb, taking all the blame for letting “the unfortunate situation” develop that had led to Bloody Sunday. Thenceforth the province would be governed by direct rule from London. Willie Whitelaw would become the first secretary of state for Northern Ireland. Any semblance of autonomy for the Six Counties was gone.

The IRA, led by Seán MacStiofáin, claimed credit for driving Stormont out of existence through its ongoing campaign against the British. But with the demise of Stormont any lingering chance there might have been for improving the conditions of Catholics in Northern Ireland through constitutional means was gone as well.

The imposition of direct rule on Northern Ireland ostensibly brought fifty years of unionist domination to an end. In actuality, however, it opened the door for worse to come. In the outburst of violence that followed, both loyalists and republicans established no-go areas: a harbinger of all-out war.

 

The wedding date had been Barry's suggestion. He had expected Barbara to argue; it was her nature to argue about almost everything, but to his surprise she acquiesced without a murmur.

In Ireland the first of May was laden with symbology.
Bealtaine
in the ancient Celtic calendar, meaning the feast of brilliant fire, May Day marked the beginning of summer. Since pre-Christian times young women had washed their faces in the dew on that particular morning to enhance their beauty.

In Catholic Ireland, May Day was dedicated to the Virgin Mary. Children heaped altars with flowers in honour of Our Lady and took part in religious pageants throughout the country, their young voices raised in celebration of the Queen of the May. The touchingly innocent custom was fading in 1972, to Barry's regret.

He was pleased when Barbara, who only attended Mass sporadically, was willing to be married in the church where he and McCoy—and most of the residents of the boardinghouse—went to Mass every week.

Instead of the local parish priest, Barry wanted to be married by a priest from Northern Ireland. “When I was hammered by the gang in Derry that broke my leg, Father Aloysius found me and took care of me,” he explained to Barbara. “I might not be alive today if it weren't for him.”

“We'll have whoever you want,” Barbara said meekly, looking up at him from under her eyelashes.

He did not question her uncharacteristic compliance. He was too busy thinking up more ways of keeping McCoy close to hand, which involved assigning countless tasks to him—but none that were beyond the ability of a man with damaged lungs.

The following morning McCoy assembled the necessary tools to replace some chipped floor tiles in the second-floor bathroom.
I should be training recruits in Belfast by now,
he fumed to himself as he climbed the stairs.
Why in hell did I hang around here after Bloody Sunday? My own stupid fault. Once he says, “I do,” I'm going up the road. That girl will keep him so busy he'll never miss me.

The black and white tiles were arranged in a vivid zigzag pattern that made McCoy's eyes water. When rubbing did not help, he sat down on the lid of the toilet seat and closed his eyes.

Aaah, that's better. Maybe I need new spectacles. Always some damn thing.
His thoughts began to wander.
Seventeen getting married. Shouldn't call him Seventeen anymore. A lot of the boy left in him, though. Once in a while I catch a glimpse of the rascal.

Wonder how that girl will handle him? Women always try to handle men. Still it might not be so bad, having a wife. A plump and pretty lass. Or thin and quick, I'm easy. Long as she's someone I can talk to. And laugh with. Have to laugh.

Behind closed eyes, McCoy lost himself in a reverie about the life he would never enjoy.

Later that morning he put up a new clothesline for Barbara, then lingered to help hang the washing. “I have to say, I never thought the two of you would get married,” he admitted as they stretched a damp sheet between them.

She took three wooden clothes pegs from her apron pocket and deftly fastened the sheet to the line. “I'm a bit surprised myself. One day we were barely civil to each other, and the next day we were engaged. I don't know if he'd planned to propose to me all along or if it was a sudden impulse.” She gave a wistful little sigh. “I do wish I understood him better, Séamus.”

McCoy pulled another sheet from the laundry basket and gave it a final wring. “I can tell you this much: he's decent through and through, front to back, top to bottom. There's not many you can say that about. I'd take a bullet for Barry.” McCoy's expression hardened like cement setting. “And I'd put a bullet into anybody who hurt him.”

Barbara theatrically pressed one hand to her bosom. “Well
I
certainly won't hurt him!”

 

On the second of April Radió na Gaeltachta began operations with a two-hour evening broadcast, on medium wave only, from the Connemara Gaeltacht in West Galway. The idea had been promoted by Desmond Fennell, a journalist who had moved to the Gaeltacht. Fennell was astonished to discover how alien RTE's “national” radio service appeared to local people. RTE broadcast in English. The people who lived in Ireland's Gaeltacht areas spoke Irish.

On the third of April Ursula Halloran went into Limerick and bought a new radio. One capable of receiving medium wave transmissions.

Then she purchased a train ticket.

 

McCoy lay snoring on his bed with his mouth ajar like an open gate. He was startled awake by Barry's voice from the doorway. “I'm off to Heuston Station to collect Ursula, Séamus. Want to come along?”

He sat up abruptly and struggled to find his spectacles, which had slipped behind the pillow. “I reckon I'll wait here. Your car won't be big enough for three people and your mother's luggage too.”

Barry laughed. “You don't know Ursula, then; she travels light. You might as well come with me, you don't look very busy anyway.”

They drove along Clanbrassil Street past three-and four-storey red brick buildings dating from the Victorian era and earlier. Some still bore Dutch architectural influences traceable to the victory of William of Orange at the Battle of the Boyne. One of Barry's pet projects involved wandering around Dublin with his cameras, compiling an archive of the ancient city's medieval architecture.

He had several archival collections already. Family and friends, politicians, historic locations throughout the island. And fellow republicans.

After the Austin Healey had turned into Merchants Quay he remarked, “You haven't said a word since we left the house, Séamus. Come to think of it, you've been mighty quiet for days now. Is something on your mind?”

The older man replied with an inarticulate grunt.

“I see. There is something on your mind.”

Another grunt.

The car continued west along the quays. “My marriage, is that it? I thought you liked Barbara.”

“I do like Barbara, but you know my feelings about Volunteers marrying. It's not fair to the woman. When you go back to the Army…”

“Who said I'm going back?”

“Bloody Sunday, for God's sake! I saw your face when you came home afterwards. What can either of us do but go back? Besides, Seventeen, you love the Army. You were made for it.”

“If you mean I was made to kill other men, I can't accept that.”

“What about those four youngsters who got themselves killed last month, Seventeen? They might still be alive if they'd had someone to teach them properly. The Army needs you, damn it.”

“Heuston Station coming up,” Barry announced, putting an end to the conversation. “Keep an eye out for my mother while I find a parking space.”

Ursula Halloran recognised the car before Barry could park it and walked briskly towards them. True to her son's prediction, she carried one small suitcase. Both men jumped out to help her with it.

She laughed. “I'm not used to such gallantry. Hello, Barry. And you, Séamus, it's been a long time since we last met. I'm glad to see you again.”

Barry gave his mother a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. McCoy, suddenly self-conscious, settled for a handshake.

Before getting into the car Ursula stole another quick look at her son. In maturity Barry had become a serious man, though his grave demeanour occasionally was lit by the lightning flash of a reckless grin. She knew the little boy was still in there somewhere; a belief he confirmed by giving her a surreptitious wink.

When they reached the house Barbara was waiting at the door. She threw her arms around her soon-to-be mother-in-law. Unused to such effusiveness, Ursula briefly resisted, then forced herself to return the hug.

A few minutes later they were settled in the parlour. Barbara disappeared into the kitchen and returned carrying a tray laden with tea and fruitcake. The slices of cake were fanned artistically on the plate. Beside the teapot was a pitcher of milk and a bowl of sugar cubes complete with newly purchased silver tongs. The spoons had been polished to a high lustre that very morning. Instead of paper serviettes Barbara provided tiny linen napkins, ironed to perfection.

She waited for Barry's mother to shower her with compliments.

Thanks to the generosity of Henry and Ella Mooney, Ursula had attended a finishing school in Switzerland. She was at ease with more formality than Barbara could imagine. She declined the biscuits, drank her tea black—and made no comment about the carefully prepared collation.

On the ledger in Barbara's mind a black mark appeared opposite Ursula's name.

Barbara dropped two lumps of sugar into her tea and turned it almost white with milk. “It's too bad your father won't be here,” she said to Barry. “But I think it gives us a special bond, don't you? Both of our mothers being widows, I mean.”

Barry deftly changed the subject.

He had never told Barbara the truth about his origins, allowing her to assume, as most people did, that his mother had married a man with the same surname. On an island the size of Ireland it was not uncommon.

In this case it was untrue.

Barry's father was Finbar Cassidy. Ursula had never married Finbar Cassidy—or anyone else. As a young woman in the 1930s she had despised the powerless servitude of wives in Catholic Ireland. When she found herself pregnant she had taken a job in Switzerland with the League of Nations. If she had remained in Ireland her child would have been taken away from her by the Church as soon as it was born, to be raised in an orphanage or given to strangers. Wealthy Americans were willing to give the Church hefty contributions in return for being allowed to adopt “pretty Irish babies.”

Finbar Lewis Halloran had escaped this fate by being born in Geneva, where Ursula had acquired a Swiss passport for him. She liked to think of her little son as a citizen of the world. By the time she felt it was safe to take him to Ireland, Finbar Cassidy was dead. Killed by a German bomb that fell on Dublin's North Strand.

Defying both the patriarchal Church and the crushing weight of social convention, Ursula Halloran had raised her son by herself. She did not tell Barry the true story of his paternity until he was a grown man.

He never told anyone else. There are secrets of conscience and secrets of the heart, and this was both.