Ahoy for Joy (19 page)

They had a few hours to kill and spent some time walking around the city. After a while they stepped into a small pub, not far from St Anne's Cathedral. It was up an alleyway and as they approached, they hesitated for a moment, looking around at the damp walls above. A gutter had clearly become blocked a year or twenty ago and the drips had turned to a pale green slime that traced its way right down the wall to the alleyway below. A stout man walked by and burped as he passed, causing Anna to snigger childishly in a mixture of disgust and embarrassment.

Inside it was warm and cosy, with several small round tables sitting beside bench seating against the walls and topped in dark red velvet. Around the tables sat similarly covered stools. Anna sat on a bench in the corner. It was early for lunch, but some of the tables were already occupied with a few shoppers who had clearly sought refuge from the constant drizzle as well as a few regulars who stood, propping up the bar.

As Cees approached, he caught the gaze of two old men who were discussing a football match while enjoying their drinks, each expressing dissatisfaction with a collective, resigned acceptance.

“What'll it be,” asked the barman?

“Are you serving food?” asked Cees, his foreign accent showing through. There weren't many people in the pub and looking around, he couldn't see anyone else eating.

“We certainly are,” replied the barman and handed him a menu. Cees perused it thoughtfully but few of the dishes really caught his imagination and his breakfast hadn't quite digested sufficiently to instigate the pangs of hunger that simplify such choices.

“What would you recommend,” he enquired at last,

The barman shrugged, but one of the men at the bar, turned around, “Oh, I'd go for the Irish stew,” he said at once, smiling warmly, his yellow teeth showing between old lips that bore a tint of purple as they bordered the red of his face.

“Irish stew? What's that then?”

“
Stew from Ireland
said the man,” his mouth breaking into a wide grin. His friend looked around from behind and laughed, raising his glass and nodding towards Cees as he caught his eye. Another man chuckled as he rose from his seat and joined them at the bar as he sought a refill.

“Oh, potatoes, some sort of meat, onions I suppose. Come to think of it, I've never really thought about it. Hey Sammy,” he called to the barman who had gone off to serve another customer, “What's Irish stew then?”

Predictably
, stew from Ireland
, came the reply from the rather animated barman who clearly enjoyed the childish games that he must have played many times before. It amused the jovial group which Cees had now become a member of, the butt of a joke being more of an initiation process in Ireland than a humiliation. He smiled shyly, and stood awkwardly, the menu still in his hand as the patrons enjoyed the interlude of light entertainment he had unwittingly provided.

However, the casual banter had spread to the Dutchman and in a slightly uncharacteristic lapse from his normal, sedate manner, he looked over at Anna, and shouted to her in English,

“Hey Anna, do you fancy trying the Irish stew?”

Anna had been sitting quietly, her thoughts turning through memory and intrigue, sadness and apprehension. Nothing much about Michael seemed too positive. No family at all. Coming from the warm, close community she knew, she could hardly comprehend it. He must have died alone, all alone, she thought. Not for the first time, a tear welled in her eye.

“Anna, do you want the Irish stew?” Cees called out again.

She awoke from her thoughts and turned towards her husband. “Irish stew. What's that?”

“Stew from Ireland” he shouted back, the smile breaking on his lips. The small group burst into a minor fit of laughter, patting Cees on the back. Some others in the bar nodded with approval, smiling and raising their glasses towards him as he surveyed the small audience around the room.

Anna ignored the frolics and went back to her thoughts. Cees ordered two portions of the
Irish stew
and two glasses of mineral water and, excusing himself to his new friends, who immediately returned to their previous dialogues, joined Anna at the table.

The Irish stew was very hearty indeed, but Anna had little appetite. Her thoughts were dominant in her mind and the meeting scheduled for that afternoon concerned her. She didn't know what to expect. On the one hand, she reassured herself that the visit was simply an honouring or acknowledgement of her friend, her first love, who had died long, long ago. She had no agenda beyond that, but suddenly she felt close to him once more. Close and at one the way she had done all those years ago. She could still see him in her mind's eye, opposite her in the tent, his shy mannerisms amusing and attracting her at the same time. Now he was gone and although she hadn't known it at the time, she had been the young woman left to mourn, as so many before her had been left, as man's conflicts both great and small claim their young prizes.

Cees didn't fare much better with the stew, having rather over indulged with the breakfast and in time they set to leave. Outside, the sky was still overcast and a cool wind was still blowing. A light drizzle still filled the air. They made their way back to the main road and set about looking for a taxi to take them to Bernie's house. Quickly they came across a taxi rank with four or five black cabs sitting in a row in a side street, awaiting customers. They approached the foremost vehicle where the driver was standing, leaning on the open door nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. Cees approached him and finding the pronunciation of the address less than straightforward, handed him the paper that Sarah Thompson had provided. He seemed a little reluctant to take the note at first but on Cees's insistence, he glanced it over, reading the address.

“Are you takin' the piss?” retorted the driver and gave him the note back. Cees stood back looking stunned and inspecting the page as if Sarah had scribbled some vile insult on it as part of a sick joke, but it just looked like a regular address to him.

The driver took a last drag and got in his car. Some other people arrived and jumped happily into the back seat of the vehicle. They were engaged in a busy conversation and took little notice of the foreign couple standing nearby. Anna and Cees looked at each other. Presently they backed off a few yards and were set to go altogether when the driver called them back.

“Ha! You're not from around here, are you?” said the driver, having lost his scowl. Cees shook his head. The driver nodded over his shoulder. “Go back to the main road, turn right, then right again. You'll get a taxi there, for where you want to go.”

The two loped off, still feeling a little put out by the poor reception, but did as he suggested and followed his directions. The next street looked just the same with a row of black cabs sitting one in front of the other. This time, Cees approached more cautiously and ventured to the driver, “Excuse me, we wish to go to… “ Cees couldn't quite pronounce the name and hesitated a bit, his foreign accent now apparent, but the driver broke in; “If it's the tour you want, you won't get it from here.”

“No, no, we want to go here.” He held the paper so the driver could see the address. The driver took it cautiously from his hand, looked closely at it and nodded; “I can drop you close by. These are shared taxis though, are you OK with that?” Once again, the Dutch couple looked at each other in mild bemusement but nodded and got in.

During the troubles in Belfast, bus routes were often disrupted due to various disturbances in the city. Intimidation and a general sense of malice deterred transport employees from operating some routes, especially in the West and some parts of the North of the city. This problem was partially alleviated by the operation of ‘black taxis'. These were traditional black Hackney carriages like those especially found in London, but were actually used as a shared transport service and operated in much the same way as buses, with each passenger paying individually. They followed basic routes similar to the bus routes, but the drivers would often deviate a little for your convenience and would usually pick up and drop off anywhere along the way.

Although, they all looked the same, those serving the Protestant areas collected at a specific location in the city centre, while those operating in the Catholic areas collected at another, though only a few streets away. Understanding of the system was therefore crucial to safe transport in these vehicles which were entirely unregulated and outside of any form of state authority or control. Today, regular transport services have resumed in all parts of the city and the black cabs can now more often be found offering novel tours of the city's more colourful historic districts to tourists seeking a more individual experience together with an often irreverent and entertaining cabbie.

However, the shared taxis do still operate and as chance would have it, Bernie's home was situated on a route still served by this alternative transport system. But it was also situated in an area where the two communities bordered each other, living side by side while seldom actually meeting. If tension was still to be found anywhere it would be found there and at the time of Cees and Anna's visit early in the summer marching season, while there was peace in the city, the city was not necessarily at peace.

The taxi sat in the rank for another few minutes without moving. Just as Cees was about to enquire about the lack of progress, a middle aged woman with three shopping bags came over, opened the door, folded down the seat opposite and got in, slumping herself in place with a loud sigh. She smiled at the two with a disarming grin.

“Thems is kicking off again,” she said casually.

“I'm sorry?” replied Anna.

The woman scoughed. “Thems marches is goin' ahead after all.”

Anna and Cees didn't ask for further expansion on the subject and quickly the driver engaged gear and the car took off, chugging its way through the city traffic. The woman seemed friendly enough and Anna found herself explaining that they were from Holland, about the pen pal she had written to many years ago, how the letters had suddenly stopped and how she had only just recently discovered that he had sadly died in the troubles. The woman smiled sympathetically interspersing her nods of acknowledgement with the occasional comment which Anna noted were tinged with a thinly veiled bitterness of her own. She wondered if she too had historic wounds, not yet completely healed.

“What brings yews up this way though?”

“Oh just to visit an old family friend,” had been Anna's reply, now reticent to go further into too much personal detail. “The city seems really very attractive though and the people we have met have all been so very friendly. Indeed, everyone has made us feel really quite at home.”

“Oh yes, sure you won't get a better welcome anywhere in the world than here.” The woman grinned, her smile distracting from the grey stubble on her upper lip she had ceased to temper some years ago. “Not sure about the weather though,” she said glancing out of the window, “supposed to get better tomorrow, but sure they're always wrong.”

The three passengers sat politely looking at each other until the woman turned and muttered something to the driver causing him to nod before pulling quickly over to the side of the road.

“Are we there then?” asked Cees, looking at the driver in his mirror.

“No, yews are further up. I'll let you know.”

The woman clutched her shopping once more and motioned to get out, but then paused and sat back in her seat, again with a loud sigh. She looked at them both closely, firstly at Anna, then at Cees, then back again to Anna again before narrowing her eyes a little. “See when you're up in these parts,” she said beckoning towards Anna's husband, “better let him do the talking.”

Anna looked back at her, bewildered. “But why?” she asked, slightly perturbed, her brow wrinkled at what she assumed was a slight on her command of the language. The woman made her cheeky grin once more, “
you
sound too
English
.”

Anna was still vexed as the woman handed some money to the driver and sprang quickly from the seat causing it to emit a loud twang-oomph as it reverted to its upright position as she bade the Dutch visitors a good day.

It was only a few moments later when the driver pulled to the side of the street once more. “Yews are over there, down that street and turn left at the end,” he said pointing. Cees and Anna got out and the car drove off, leaving them strolling down the street, note in hand to fulfil the appointment that Sarah had made with the last person to see Michael alive.

Much of the area had been re-developed in recent years and modern terraced houses, with attractive white rendered walls, lined the street. The basic designs were repetitious, but many bore the signs of individual ownership most usually with a new front door, often painted in a primary colour or fake Georgian windows that gave the houses a rather pleasant homely feel. On one side of the street, a number of satellite dishes hung from their high perches, all uniformly angled towards the broadcast signals that would beam the latest sporting events into the living rooms of the modern day residents of West Belfast.

Bernie's house had no satellite dish, but the door had certainly been changed from the original. It was of a deep stained wood, a little too grand for the residence, with a fan light window towards the top and a large brass knocker in the middle that shone brighter than the others in the street. Up on the wall, several hooks had been mounted with pots dangling, one on either side of the door and another two either side of the front window from which red geraniums trailed between pansies and begonias. The house fronted directly on to the street and passers by would certainly have enjoyed the mild scent of the flowers and even the occasional brush of foliage on their cheek as the cheerful summer blossoms of the well cared for plants bloomed copiously despite the dampness of the day. Anna inspected the blooms as Cees, hesitating momentarily, perhaps conscious that his finger prints may impair the sheen of the brass finish, lifted the knocker and rapped assertively three times on the back plate.

The door was answered by an elderly lady with short grey hair and small bright eyes that together with a shy smile bade a warm welcome to her visitors. Her furrowed skin bore the hallmarks of a tough life of service and dedication and her lips cracked allowing just the faintest creep of freshly applied lipstick to overrun the line of her pale red upper lip.

“Miss O'Callaghan?” enquired Cees expectantly.

Bernie's smile grew in confidence revealing small grey teeth that had enjoyed a lifetime of diligent attention, but lost their lustre only due to the years behind her. “Oh, please do call me Bernie,” she answered stepping backwards into the hall and gesturing to her visitors to enter, “and you must be Mr and Mrs Bowmeester.”

Inside, the house lost much of its modernity due to the more traditional tastes of the occupant. An old clock made of polished wood and brass ticked confidently in the hall, its pendulum marking the time rhythmically and a small table with Queen Anne legs supported a ceramic vase with a selection of freshly cut carnations and freesias. Carpet with brightly coloured flowery patterns extended through from the hall into the front room into which they were shown by their hostess.

The room itself was small and old fashioned in appearance, but spotless, and there lingered a feint smell of wood polish. Anna found herself imagining Bernie diligently cleaning in preparation for their visit. Bernie smiled once more. She seemed nice and Anna comforted herself that she had been there for Michael during his last days. Still her mind was rushing. Her thoughts were fearful as well as inquiring. Suddenly, her journey which had in reality only started a few days previously seemed like it had lasted the full twenty-seven years since she had last heard from Michael.
Was this the woman who had sat with Michael those last days?
She sighed, poor Michael, she thought again.

For a moment, the three of them stood awkwardly looking at each other. “Please do sit down. Make yourselves comfortable,” said Bernie indicating a small settee covered in a loose cream cover of the removable type used to keep good furniture good for many years, despite the fact that it often looked like the decorators were expected in the meantime. Cees made himself comfortable while Anna, preferring a more upright posture sat on one of two more rigid dining type chairs that sat opposite. Bernie sat on the other and turned the seat a little towards Anna in order to address both visitors at once.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

Coffee would have been quite welcome, but appeared not to be on the menu, so the couple declined being rather indisposed to try the English tea.

“I understand you are interested in Michael Coglan,” said Bernie, breaking the silence, as she looked over the attractive foreign couple who had come to visit in search of information.

It was Cees who spoke first.

“Well, yes. I understand you spent some time with him during his last days in hospital. You see, my wife used to write to him many years ago when she was a child. She had met him on holiday and they became,” he paused, “
pen pals
, I believe you say in English.”

Bernie gazed over at Anna, the faint smile on her face now seeming quite permanent as she nodded her well-practised, sympathetic expression that had met the ill and injured at the hospital where she had spent her entire working life. Anna smiled back softly, her eyes engaging Bernie's as they each took the measure of the other.

“Well, the letters just stopped one day,” Anna interjected, speaking for the first time, her studied Home Counties elocution contrasting with the staid tones of Cees's Dutch accent and the broadness of Bernie's local dialect.

“Of course, we were young and I just thought he had become bored with writing to me. It was only recently when I googled his name that I realised
why
he had stopped writing. It was a shock, I have to say, to have one's whole understanding of someone rewritten all in the flash of a moment. I don't know what I want really, or what I am looking for, just well, maybe to learn a little more about him. His last days perhaps”

Her voice tailed off as her thoughts invaded her speech.

Bernie explained that she had of course only known Michael for a very short period, less than four weeks, and knew little of his life before his admission to hospital, but she recounted what she knew. The story of the attack, his arrival at hospital, his grief at the loss of his parents, his apparent recovery and then of course his final demise.

“So, that's all really I can tell you,” she went on. “He had no family remaining and I guess had been forgotten by just about everyone, although even today, in my mind's eye, I can still see his imploring eyes looking at me in those final hours as clearly as I did then.”

She pouted slightly and stopped talking briefly, her mind wandering before resuming with a short sigh where she had left off.

“Then of course when the poem was published, people started to take much more of an interest in him, only there wasn't really anyone who could tell his story. No one around seemed to have known him closely.”

“Poem?” asked Anna urgently, her eyes widening.

“Well, yes…”

She didn't get time to finish.

“He published a poem?” asked Anna, a look of astonishment now in her expression.

“Well, yes,” replied Bernie. “Didn't you know that?”

Cees and Anna looked at each other, before turning once again to face Bernie, their heads shaking dismissively from side to side.

Bernie looked intently at the couple, confusion displayed on her face. “I thought that was why you had come.”

Anna sat staring, her gaze flitting back and forward between Bernie and her husband.

“
Ahoy for Joy,
that's what it's called”
added Bernie quickly. “Have you really never heard of it?”

Anna shook her head once more.

“But you must have, everyone knows
this
poem. The children study it at school.”

“Children study it at school,” exclaimed Anna, now conscious that she was repeating everything Bernie said. “Of course, we're not from here, you understand,” said Anna at last, “we're from Holland.”

Bernie nodded, a long slow nod, as some pieces of the jigsaw slowly fell into place in her mind.

“And Michael wrote it?” asked Anna.

“Yes, he wrote it, just before he died. Well, he dictated it and I wrote it down for him as best I could, but they are his words. It was quite near the end and I couldn't always understand exactly what he was saying, so there are a few bits we don't really understand, but I got most of it. It wasn't until twenty years later as the violence was dying down that the Belfast Telegraph, that's the local newspaper here, ran a feature asking people for short stories, recollections, poems, songs, articles etc., from or relating to folk who had perished in the Troubles. Well, at the time, I had placed the poem in an envelope which I sealed and kept ever since in my drawer. I always expected that one day someone would arrive to collect it, but no one ever did. So, I decided to open it.”

“Of course, I already knew what was inside. I have to say, I felt uncomfortable about it. It wasn't my work and I felt I had no real authority to do anything with it, let alone publish it. Michael seemed a very private, deep person and the work, his poignant last words seemed somewhat personal, but there was no one else I could consult, he had no family as you know. So, I decided to send it to the editor. It turned out they were planning to publish a book entitled;
The Troubles in Poems and Prose
. They liked Michael's poem, but there were a few words especially towards the end where I couldn't quite read my own hand writing. I was quite emotional at the time and some discretion was required to complete the work but they agreed to include it.”

“The book itself was full of various reports, articles, a few poems, some song lyrics; that sort of thing from a variety of sources. Some came from British soldiers injured or maimed in the conflict. Other pieces came from a variety of civilians caught up in the violence. Many were of course from relatives of the dead. There were even contributions from terrorists, ex terrorists, some reformed and some, rather evidently not so reformed, but the publication was diverse and open in its content.”

“Actually, it was a great success. Many said they had found comfort in its contents. Some said they had found a greater understanding of their lives in the present day through it, but for most, it was about closure. Somehow the little collection of memoirs helped people close the book on the past and look forward to the future. As time passed, of course, it's influence faded, but one or two pieces found a longer term place in our culture. Michael's poem was one of these. Critics called it a passionate and balanced work that spoke for many and it had just enough intrigue to retain the public's imagination.”

“Some teachers introduced the poem to their classes in school and it quickly became well-known in its own right. Then, when the power sharing government was formed in 2001, the education department agreed to make it a formal part of the school curriculum. It was one of the few things they
could
agree on. Today, in Northern Ireland, every child between the ages of fourteen and sixteen years
must
study this poem. Michael was still at school when he died, so the children of today could relate well to his internal conflict and mixed emotions. Have you really never heard of it?”

“No, sorry. I guess it just never travelled as far as Holland.”

“Yes, of course. Now I see. Of course, I suppose it won't be known much outside of Ireland.”

Bernie gazed closely at Anna and she could see the old woman was thinking. Suddenly as if a penny had dropped in her mind, she leaned forward, narrowed her eyes and asked, “What did you say your name was again?”

“Anna,” was the reply. She smiled and nodded as she spoke.

Bernie looked stunned. “Oh, I hadn't realised. Of course, I had always hoped but I hadn't quite considered it might be you.” She peered at Anna, intently now causing her some consternation, while the aged nurse assembled her thoughts.

At last, Bernie got up from her seat and walked over to a small mahogany dresser with highly polished woodwork that stood in the corner of the room. The top section displayed a variety of china cups, saucers and plates behind glass. From one of the drawers below, she pulled an envelope that had already been opened and handed it to Anna.

“I believe this is for you,” she said

Anna's face took on a distinct air of intrigue as she removed the pages from the envelope, but looked quickly at them and handed them back to Bernie.

“This isn't Michael's handwriting,” she said sharply.

Bernie placed the pages once more in Anna's hand and using her own hand carefully folded her fingers over them.

“Oh, no dearie. I told you already, that's my handwriting. You see, it was very near the end. Michael was too ill to write, you see. He dictated to me and I wrote down what he said, but they are his words.”

Anna unfolded the pages realising her mistake and began to read.

Bernie looked for the first time at Cees who shuffled nervously in his seat while Anna read intently the several pages of rough handwriting. Meanwhile Bernie nervously pulled the curtain a little to one side and peered out. There was some activity on the street. Noisy youths. Every so often as a group would pass by, the noise of their steps and voices became loudly audible in the room.

“Is everything OK?” asked Cees nervously.

“Yes, yes, fine. It's the marching season. One lot marches. Sometimes the other lot turns up to show how much they don't like the marching. They generally try to aggravate each other. Sometimes they succeed, usually they don't. Usually things just pass, but you can get trouble if spirits get too high. Not great really. I don't think we will ever be free of it. Each generation is replaced by a new one, but little really changes.”

“But, I thought things were much better now.”

“Yes, they are much, much better,” she emphasised, but the old resentments are still there and there is always the occasional incident that brings it all to the surface again.” She lifted the edge of the net curtain and looked once more out to the street.

Cees pondered a moment. His knowledge of the province, its problems and conflicts was really rather sparse. At last he looked back at Bernie and asked, “which are the ones who march?”