No Going Back

by Mick Moran

  “Martin, I’m surprised at you.” Mary looked shocked. “You’re as bad as the rest of them. That’s blasphemy you know. I’ve a good mind to tell the priest about the lot o’ you”.

 

  Mary left the room. Martin decided that the time was not right for the conversation he had planned to have with her. He opted for an early morning walk instead. Not that he needed either the fresh air or the exercise; he got plenty of both. It would be just pleasant, he thought, to have a long walk while he gave some more thought to what he planned to do. However, although he was wearing his heavy coat and scarf, the biting February wind was worse than he had expected. Approaching the church, after about twenty minutes walking, he noticed people, mostly elderly, entering. Morning Mass was about to begin. Martin made the sign of the cross as he passed the church. Then cold raindrops on his face caused him to stop. He returned to the church and entered, just in time for Mass. It would do him no harm, he thought, even if it were the shelter that the church offered, that was his main reason for attending.

 

  When Mass was over Martin remained in the pew after all the people left. He assumed they would be chatting outside for a while and he had no wish to join them. He didn’t know any of them, really; some he’d seen on Sunday mornings, but he didn’t know them. It was his first time at morning Mass. For that reason, however, someone, feeling obliged to make Martin welcome, might introduce himself, and that was the last thing Martin wished. He had planned to leave before the end. However, deep in thought, not all prayerful ones, he noticed the people leave before he realised it was over.

 

  “Martin, I’m glad you’re still here. I thought I’d missed you.” Father Downey had entered the church by the rear door. He looked relieved to see Martin. It was because he’d spotted Martin in the pew, that he’d hurried to get to the door in time to shake the hands of the people as they left the church. He didn’t manage it every morning. But, when Martin was not amongst them, he feared he’d missed him: that Martin had left before the end of Mass. Sometimes, he knew, strangers, not wishing to talk to people, did that.

 

  Not that Martin was a stranger. It was only the previous Saturday that they had a chat. That, Martin knew, was the reason the priest wished to talk to him again.

 

  The priest sat in the pew next to Martin, making Martin feel slightly uncomfortable. Sympathetically the priest asked, “How are you feeling this morning Martin?”

 

  “All right father.” Martin sounded irritated, barely glancing at the priest. Sympathy was not doing it for Martin and the priest soon came to realise that. In a more everyday voice he informed him. “I have a bit of news for you.” Martin looked more interested as the priest continued. “I was in the hospital to see Michael O’Malley yesterday afternoon. He was much better.”

 

  “That’s good father.”

 

  “Do you still feel responsible?” Martin made no reply as the priest continued. “You know, you shouldn’t blame your self in any way. It’s the person, or persons, that did the deed that’s responsible: not you”.

 

  Martin was still silent. Then the priest turned to him. “Martin have you had any breakfast?” He asked.

 

  “Yes father I had my breakfast.”

 

  “Ah well. I was going to ask you to join me. But anyway come round to the presbytery and have a cup of tea.

 

  Martin immediately brushed the invitation aside. “No. No father. I couldn’t be bothering you.”

 

  “No bother. No bother at all. I have a bit of spare time this morning, unless, of course, you have something more pressing to do”.

 

  Put like that Martin could think of no good reason for refusing. And the sound of rain on the stained glass window ruled out any more unnecessary walking.

 

  It was Martin’s second visit to the presbytery in a few days. This time, however, he was more relaxed. He was put in a comfortable chair, and Father Downey made every effort to make him feel at home. “I’m just having a boiled egg and some toast,” said the priest. “Are you sure you wont join me?”

 

  “No thanks father. Just a cup of tea.”

 

  “Ok then. I wont be long. Have a smoke if you wish.”

 

  The Priest disappeared into the kitchen. Left alone, Martin, thanks to the priest’s efforts, felt sufficiently at ease to get his pipe out.

  Then, seeing the religious images on the walls, the crucifix and other objects, he thought better of it and put the pipe back in his pocket. Smoking seemed disrespectful in such a place.

  That said, the room was warm and cosy: warmed by the coal fire, which Martin sat facing, although the just added coal by the priest had temporarily suppressed its glow. Also, in front of the fire was a comfortable looking settee. By the window were a small dinning table and a couple of chairs. In the corner there was a writing desk. The room was clearly the priest’s office as well as his living/dining room.

 

  Martin thought about why he was there. The priest was clearly concerned about him and would be asking about his future plans. Martin wondered about how much he could tell: clearly not all. His mind was made up. He knew what he had to do. He didn’t need anyone trying to talk him out of it.

 

  “Strong with one sugar.” The priest remembered how Martin liked his tea. He placed the tea on a little table, which he pulled to the side of Martin’s chair: also a plate of biscuits. “Have a biscuit at least while I have my breakfast,” he said. “And how are the happy couple?”

 

  Happy, Martin thought, didn’t seem like the right word. Mary seemed slightly less happy that morning. But mainly nothing had changed. In fact, that morning, Martin had forgotten all about her changed status. Being a married woman seemed to make very little difference to her. And, ask for Paddy, there was no sign of him. Martin assumed he was still in bed. But, there was no need to go into detail. The priest was only making small talk, while he got on to what was really on his mind.

 

  “They’re all right,” replied Martin.

 

  “That’s good.” The priest then went straight to what was really on his mind. “I don’t suppose you took my advice about going to the police?” he asked

 

  Staring into the fire, Martin just shook his head.

 

  “Well, never mind. I didn’t think you would.”

 

  Martin’s continuing silence got the priest slightly concerned. “Don’t worry Martin,” he said. “I don’t wish to pry. I’m sure you have your reasons.”

 

  Martin, however, felt the priest deserved some explanation. “Maybe I got it wrong,” he said. “I have to be sure before starting talking to the police.”

 

  “Yes, I agree, of course. But, you seemed very sure when you talked to me on Saturday. Has something happened to make you change your mind?”

 

  “No Father. Not recently anyway. But I’ve been going over it a lot in my mind. There is something else that I haven’t told you about: something that happened one evening not long before I left Birmingham. Something that makes me think that I could be blaming the wrong people. Or maybe they’re not as much to blame as I always thought they were”.

 

  “Would you like to talk about it?”

 

  Martin nodded. “It’s a long story,” he said

 

  “Well I have the time if you have.” The priest left the table and sat on the settee next to Martin, as Martin commenced his story.

  ***

 

 

 


  It all started a few years earlier, when Martin lived in Birmingham. He finished work earlier than usual that evening. On his way home from work he called for a pint, or maybe two, in his favourite pub, the antelope. It was early evening and he was the only customer. That was how he liked it. He took his pint to the table, which was furthest from to bar, where he felt he was least likely to be disturbed. There, alone, he could enjoy his pint and his pipe. He was happy with his own company.

 

  When the two youths entered with their leaflets he just wished they’d keep away from him. He had come across them, or their mates, previously: he recognised the badges. Stop immigration the badges said. He had seen them on the street corner handing out their leaflets, trying to stir up anti- immigrant feelings. They called themselves the angry whites, one of a number of anti-immigration groups that had, worryingly, grown in popularity among working class Brummies in recent years.

 

  Martin was surprised to see them in that pub, an Irish pub. Although they claimed to have no problem with Irish immigration, they didn’t normally target Irish people. Was it a sign that they were growing in confidence? At that stage they were probably just testing the water. No doubt wary of the reception they’d get, they came in when they expected the pub to be empty. Probably they intended to place some leaflets on the tables and leave before any customers arrived.

 

  Seeing Martin they seemed slightly taken aback. Nevertheless, one of them approached him saying, “Here you are Paddy. Have a read of that.” as he handed him a leaflet.

 

  Martin was used to being called Paddy and he didn’t mind at all. It was just people telling him that they knew he was an Irishman, and he wouldn’t ever deny that. Not that he could, even if he did wish to. Without speaking a word his typical Irish face gave his nationality away.

 

  That time, however, the condescending way it was said annoyed him. Also his peace was disturbed. The young man pulled up a stool and sat opposite him, encroaching on his space, while waiting for Martin’s verdict on the leaflet.

 

  Trying not to show his anger, Martin looked at the leaflet. Stop Immigration was the headline. They’re winding me up he thought, but I won’t react. I wont give them that satisfaction. Looking disinterested, rather than angry, annoyingly for the man opposite, he threw the leaflet on the table without reading any more.

 

  Martin concentrated on his pipe, ignoring the man across the table, for which the blinding puffs of smoke conveyed Martin’s opinion clearer than any words. Coughing and waving the smoke away from his face with his hand, the man rose from his stool and stepped back, while Martin, barely concealing his amusement, observed him through the barrier of smoke.

 

  He got the message. “Come on; let’s go” he said to the other young man who had then finished placing leaflets on each table.

 

  “I, and take your rubbish with you.” Brendan, the landlord spoke from behind the bar. Taken aback, the leafleters stopped briefly. It was the first time they’d seen the landlord. Then they recommenced walking towards the door, ignoring the instruction.

 

  But, before they reached the door, they found their exit blocked. For such a big man, probably close on twenty stones, Brendan was an extremely fast mover. There was no need to repeat the instruction; just a slight motion of his head and the two men immediately set about collecting the leaflets of the tables.

  Brendan opened the door for them as they hurried to leave. Then, looking towards Martin, he changed his mind. “You missed one”, he grunted, still blocking their exit and pointing towards Martin who was holding a leaflet at arms length as though it was contaminated with something horrible. The young man moved quickly and angrily snatched the leaflet from Martins hand. Martin, without looking, from the side of his mouth, sent another puff of smoke in the man’s direction, as the landlord stepped aside and allowed them to leave.

 

  “Good on you Michael. You smoked him out.” Martin hadn’t noticed Brendan approach from the side. He was again deep in thought and didn’t immediately respond. The name ‘Michael’ didn’t always register as being his, although it was the name he was known as for a number of years. “You gave him your answer without saying a word,” continued the landlord.

 

  Martin laid his pipe carefully on the table. “They were very upset,” he said. “I hope they don’t come back and do damage to your pub or something: maybe bring their mates.”

 

  “I don’t think so. I feel sorry for them in a way. They’re being led astray. Sure they’re only kids. I think I know one of them. I couldn’t be sure, but I think he’s one of the Caseys. You didn’t recognise him yourself? I thought he was looking at you as if he knew you.”

 

  “No. Not that I took much notice.”

 

  “Did you read the leaflet?”

 

  “I read enough.”

 

  “I don’t think they realised the significance of giving it to you. They have a lot to learn.”

 

  “I thought they were winding me up.”

  “I. Stop immigration. Sure weren’t you in this country before they were born?”

 

  “Indeed I was. And yourself.”

 

  Brendan went on to explain. “They are a fairly new group, he said. “They hold their meetings in the Queen’s. I know the landlord there. He’s not too keen on them, but he let’s them carry on. The Angry Whites they call themselves they say they have no problem with the Irish, or that’s what the say when they’re talking to the likes of you and me. But, believe me, it’s not true. A couple of them called in here last week; not that pair, a different pair. They seem to keep in pairs.”

 

  “It was early evening; about this time. It seemed like they just came in for a drink. They had no leaflets with them or anything like that. But, I think they were sounding me out. It’s just blacks they are against they said. They want to send them all back. They got a bit annoyed when I didn’t agree with them. The Irish are white, so they are all right. They gave me the usual shite, you know, some of their best friends are Irish. When I mentioned their involvement in anti-Irish demonstrations, they said it was just the I R A they are against. They hate the I R A. That probably comes from their connections with the ‘Orange’ groups in the north.

 

  “Did you say he’s called Casey?”

 

  “I, if I’m on the right one, and I’m fairly sure I am, because they all look alike. He’s the youngest of a big family. A couple of the older brothers come in here sometimes: nice lads. I’ll have a word with one of them when I get the chance: warn him about the crowd his brother is getting mixed up with. I know the Father well, Dom. I worked with him a few years ago for Murphy’s: a decent hard-working man. I hardly ever see him now. He moved up to Shirley. But, the sons are living around here.

  ***

 

 

 

  Martin stopped and drank the last of his tea. The priest noticed.

  “Will you have another cup of tea Martin?”

 

  “Yes Father I’d love one.” Martin was fond of his tea.

 

  The priest took the two mugs into the kitchen, leaving Martin to contemplate what he’d just told him. “You know Father,” he said, when the priest returned with two fresh mugs of tea, “When I think about it, maybe that lad did recognise me.”

 

  “What makes you say that?”

 

  “Well, something happened a couple weeks earlier that makes me wonder.”

 

  “Go on.” The priest settled down again with his tea, as Martin told of that embarra
ssing incident. So embarrassing was it that he had tried to put it out of his mind; to pretend it never happened.

  ***

 

 

 

  “Martin Prendergast!”

 

  Martin was momentarily stunned. He could hardly believe it. He had always known that sooner or later someone would recognise him. But, not like that. So public; his real name shouted out from across the street. The group of men he was with stopped chatting. The man rushing towards him excitedly waving his arms to attract Martins attention repeated the name, “Martin, Martin Prendergast.”

 

  It was Sunday morning outside the English Martyrs church in Sparkhill. Mass was just over. It was usual for groups of men, or women, to hang around for a while chatting after Mass. Martin had got to know those men quite well and enjoyed their short get-together every week. But, they all knew him as Michael, Michael O’Malley.

 

  The men looked from one to the other, puzzled as to who the man was addressing. On the spot, Martin simply stared at him, unsure of what to do.

  He recognised the man all right, but, at first, tried to conceal the fact. Stumped and embarrassed, he took the man’s extended hand, while shaking his head.

 

  “You must remember me,” said the man. “Michael Ruane.” Martin still shook his head. But, he was never going to get away with it. The man was not giving up. “The open cast job,” he prompted.

 

  Martin could no longer deny it. Realizing that the man was not going away he at last acknowledged him. “Oh, yes, of course, the open cast, Michael Ruane. How are you doing?”

 

  “I’m fine. And you’re looking well yourself. Sure I needn’t ask how you are.”

 

  Seeing Martin’s embarrassment, John Murphy placed a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “Michael I have to go,” he said. The other men in the group took the cue, and all promptly moved away.

 

 

  Chapter 8. Back to Brum.

 

  Martin suddenly stopped, as he was about to enter the train. Was it his imagination? Or was one of the two youths entering the same train further down the platform the one he’d seen outside his lodging house a few weeks back? The resemblance he thought was uncanny and it was the Birmingham train. However, opening the door, he dismissed the thought. It was too much of a coincidence, and a week had passed since the incidence he suspected the youth was responsible for. Surely he wouldn’t hang around that long. You’re becoming paranoid he told himself as he took his seat.