by Gerry Adams
No one paid much attention when Tom left his costumed friends and made his way through the throng to where Hughie stood bawling in the corner, surrounded by his distraught parents and two of the day centre supervisors. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Tom intervened.
“Ex-cuse me,” he said to Hughie’s parents, and without waiting for a reply he pushed his way past them before stopping with his face close to Hughie’s.
“Shughie, ddddddon’t be be ge ge gett-ing on like th th this,” he stammered.
Hughie ignored him. Tom looked at his friend beseechingly. Hughie still ignored him and carried on bawling.
Tom leaned over and whispered in Hughie’s ear, then stopped and looked at him again. Hughie continued to bawl but less stridently now. Tom leaned over and whispered again in his ear. Hughie stopped. Tom looked at him once more.
“All rrrright?” he asked.
Hughie nodded.
Tom turned and walked back to his friends. As they watched him Martha and Joe were as pleased as Punch, especially when Tom’s supervisor came over and shook their hands.
“That’s a great lad you have there. He’s a credit to the two of you the way he handled Hughie.”
After the pantomime Hughie’s father was equally lavish in his praise.
“I’m really grateful for the way your Tom quietened down our Hughie. It’s wonderful the way they can communicate with each other in a way that the rest of us can’t. Your Tom’s the proof of that. The way he was able to get through to our Hughie. None of the rest of us could do that. It never fails to amaze me. Tom’s a great lad.”
On the way home that night Joe asked Tom what he had said to Hughie. Tom was pleased with all the attention he was receiving, but he was noncommittal about his conversation with Hughie. When Joe pressed the issue Tom got a little edgy. Martha squeezed Joe’s arm authoritatively.
“Leave things as they are,” she whispered.
Joe nudged Tom.
“I’m not allowed to ask you anything else!” he joked.
Tom smiled at him.
“That’s good,” he said.
Over the Christmas holidays all Tom’s brothers and sisters visited home. Tom especially enjoyed his nephews and nieces and the way they brought the house alive with their shouting and laughing, crying and fighting.
A few days after Christmas, Martha’s sister Crissie came to visit them as she always did. During her visits Tom spent a lot of time in his room sorting his postcards. He was in the living room when Aunt Crissie arrived—his mother insisted on that—but after the flurry of greetings had subsided Tom made his escape. A retired schoolteacher and a spinster, the oldest of Martha’s sisters, Aunt Crissie tended to fuss around him, and this made him uneasy. Joe shared his son’s unease in the presence of Aunt Crissie, thinking her a busybody but all the same marvelling at her energy and clearness of mind.
“I hope I’m as sprightly as that when I get to her age,” he would say to whoever was listening.
Crissie hugged Tom and held him at arms’ length for a full inspection. “Tommy’s looking great, Martha,” she said.
She always called Tom Tommy. He shifted from foot to foot and gave her his best grin.
“Thhhh tank th thank thank you, Aunt CiciciCrisssssie.”
“I’ve-brought-you-a-little-something-for-your-stocking, Tommy.”
When Aunt Crissie spoke to Tom directly she did so very slowly. She also raised her voice a little. She always brought him two pairs of socks.
“Thhhh tank th thank thank you, Aunt CiciciCrisssssie.”
“Away you go now, Tom,” his mother said.
Tom and his father usually went off together for a while before their dinner, the highlight of Aunt Crissie’s visit. By that time Crissie and Martha were in full flow on a year of family gossip. This continued through the dinner of tasty Christmas Day leftovers until, appetite and curiosity satisfied, Aunt Crissie turned her attention again to Tom. She had poured the tea and was handing around the milk and sugar.
“Does he take sugar?” she asked Joe.
“Do you, Tom?” Joe redirected the question to his son.
“Nnno, Da,” Tom replied in surprise.
Martha looked sharply at her husband. Aunt Crissie saw the glance and apologised quickly.
“I’m-sorry, Tommy. Of-course-you-don’t. I-remember-now. Your-mother-tells-me-you’re-getting-on-very-well-at-the-day-centre.”
“Aaayye, I am.”
Joe intervened. He was anxious to smooth things over.
“Tom was in the pantomime. It was a great night. They’ve a great team of people involved with that centre. And all the kids love it. Tom really likes it down there. And he has plenty of friends.”
“It must be very rewarding work for the people involved,” Crissie suggested. She, too, was anxious that the awkwardness be forgotten.
“Tom’s supervisor says she wouldn’t work with any other kids,” Martha said. “We were talking to her after the pantomime, and she said that Down’s syndrome cases are the easiest to work with.”
“They retain the innocence and trust that the rest of us lose,” said Joe, “and you know something, they are well able to communicate with one another in a way the rest of us will probably never understand. Isn’t that right, Tom?”
Tom looked up from his tea and smiled blankly at his father.
“Wait till you hear this, Crissie,” Joe continued. “Before the pantomime, another lad, Hughie, a friend of Tom’s, threw a tantrum, and the only one who could calm him down was Tom. It just goes to show you. Nobody else could get through to him; then Tom spoke quietly to him and the next thing Hughie was as right as rain. Isn’t that right, Martha?”
Martha took up the story from there and recounted the pantomime night episode. When she was finished Aunt Crissie turned to Tom.
“Well done, young man. It’s wonderful that you were able to do that. What did you say, by the way?”
Joe chuckled.
“That’s something we’ll never know. Eh, Tom?”
“Och, Tommy, you can tell us,” Aunt Crissie persisted.
Tom lowered his head and shifted self-consciously in his chair.
“C’mon, Tom,” his mother encouraged him.
He looked up at them. Aunt Crissie was smiling at him.
“Is he going to say something?” she asked.
Tom looked towards her. He was frowning. Then slowly his face smiled as it was taken over by one of his huge grins. He looked at his father, as if for encouragement, before turning again to Aunt Crissie.
“I told him I would knock his balls in if he didn’t stop messing about,” he said slowly and without a single stutter. “Shughie’sss spoiled. All he needed was a gggood dig. That’s all I sa sa said to hhhiim him.”
Martha, Joe and Aunt Crissie were speechless. Tom looked at each of them in turn, a little hesitantly at first. Then as his father winked slowly at him the bland, benign expression returned to his face. Joe started to laugh.
Tom’s anxiety vanished and his face lit up at the sound. He looked again at his mother and Aunt Crissie and began to laugh also as he watched the looks on their faces. He turned again to his father and winked slowly in return.
A Life Before Death?
The Whiterock Road was pitch black, and the occasional young couple, hurrying home, clung their way past McCrory Park.
A few stragglers leaned together outside Jim’s Café. An over-crowded black taxi laboured up the hill. Few people noticed the two figures walking down towards the Falls Road. One was a thickset man in black overcoat, white open-necked shirt and white drill trousers. He wore a cap pushed back on his head and walked with one hand in his pocket. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. His companion, a younger man dressed in jeans and an anorak, had to shorten his natural stride to match the older man’s. They walked in silence alongside the cemetery wall until they reached the Falls Road. They turned right at the bottom of the Whiterock and strolled slowly up the road. The young man cle
ared his throat. His companion glanced at him.
“Come on, we’ll cut down here.”
The younger man nodded. They hurried down Milltown Row and went more cautiously then, the older man in front bent forward with one hand still in his pocket. Down and over the football pitch, across the Bog Meadows and up towards the graveyard.
The moon peeked out at them from behind clouds. Cars on the motorway below sped by unknowing and uncaring. The man with the cap was out of breath by the time they reached the hedge at Milltown Cemetery. The cemetery waited on them, rows and rows of serried tombstones reflecting the cold moonlight. It was desperately quiet. Even the sounds from the motorway and the road seemed cut off, subdued. They forced their way through the hedge and on to the tarmac pathway. Nothing stirred. They waited a few tense seconds and then moved off, silently, a little apart, the young man in the rear, the man with the cap in front. It was twenty past eleven.
The young man’s heart thumped heavily against his ribs. He was glad he wasn’t alone, though he wished the older man hadn’t worn the white trousers. They wouldn’t be long now anyway. Ahead of them lay their destination. As the moon came from behind a cloud he could see the pathway stretching before him. His companion cut across a grassy bank and the young man, relaxing a little by now, continued on alone for the last few yards.
He thought of the morning when they had last been there, the funeral winding its way down from the Whiterock, the people crossing themselves as it passed, the guard of honour awkward but solemn around the hearse. He thought of the people who had crowded around the graveside. Men and women long used to hardship but still shocked at the suddenness of death. Young people and old people. Friends of the family, neighbours and comrades of the deceased. United in their grief. And in their anger, too, he reflected.
He sighed softly, almost inaudibly, to himself as he came alongside his companion again. The older man whispered to him. Wreaths lay on the grave which had been dug that morning, and the fresh clay glistened where the diggers had shaped it into a ridge. The two men glanced at each other and then, silently, they stood abreast of the grave.
They prayed their silent prayers, and the moon, spying from above, hid behind a cloud. The men stood to attention. A night wind crept down from the Black Mountain and rustled through the wreaths. The older man barked an order. They both raised revolvers towards the sky and three volleys of shots crashed over the grave.
The young man was tense, a little pale. The man with the cap breathed freely. He pocketed his weapon. The young man shoved his into the waistband of his jeans. They moved off quickly. The moon slid from behind the clouds; the wind shook itself and swept across the landscape. All was quiet once more. The two men, moving across the fields, reached the Falls Road. They walked slowly; they didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Few people noticed them as they walked up the Whiterock Road. It was five past twelve. Jim’s Café was closed. An occasional young couple, hurrying home, clung their way past McCrory Park. A car coming out of Whiterock Drive stopped to let the two men cross its path. As they did so the cemetery wall was caught in the car’s headlights.
The white graffitied “IS THERE A LIFE BEFORE DEATH?” flashed as the vehicle swung on to the main road and headed off towards Ballymurphy.
The two men paused and looked at each other. Then they, too, continued on their journey.
A Good Confession
The congregation shuffled its feet. An old man spluttered noisily into his handkerchief, his body racked by a spasm of coughing. He wiped his nose wearily and returned to his prayers. A small child cried bad-temperedly in its mother’s arms. Embarrassed, she released him into the side aisle of the chapel where, shoes clattering on the marble floor, he ran excitedly back and forth. His mother stared intently at the altar and tried to distance herself from her irreverent infant. He never even noticed her indifference; his attention was consumed by the sheer joy of being free, and soon he was trying to cajole another restless child to join him in the aisle. Another wave of coughing wheezed through the adult worshippers. As if encouraged by such solidarity, the old man resumed his catarrhal cacophony.
The priest leaned forward in the pulpit and directed himself and his voice towards his congregation. As he spoke they relaxed as he knew they would. Only the children, absorbed in their innocence, continued as before. Even the old man, by some superhuman effort, managed to control his phlegm.
“My dear brothers and sisters,” the priest began. “It is a matter of deep distress and worry to me and I’m sure to you also that there are some Catholics who have so let the eyes of their soul become darkened that they no longer recognise sin as sin.”
He paused for a second or so to let his words sink in. He was a young man, not bad looking in an ascetic sort of a way, Mrs McCarthy thought, especially when he was intense about something, as he was now. She was in her usual seat at the side of the church, and as she waited for Fr Burns to continue his sermon, she thought to herself that it was good to have a new young priest in the parish.
Fr Burns cleared his throat and continued.
“I’m talking about the evil presence we have in our midst, and I’m asking you, the God-fearing people of this parish, to join with me in this Eucharist in praying that we loosen from the neck of our society the grip which a few have tightened around it and from which we sometimes despair of ever being freed.”
He stopped again momentarily. The congregation was silent: he had their attention. Even the sounds from the children were muted.
“I ask you all to pray with me that eyes that have become blind may be given sight, consciences that have become hardened and closed may be touched by God and opened to the light of His truth and love. I am speaking of course of the men of violence.” He paused, leant forward on arched arms, and continued.
“I am speaking of the IRA and its fellow-travellers. This community of ours has suffered much in the past. I know that. I do not doubt but that in the IRA organisation there are those who entered the movement for idealistic reasons. They need to ask themselves now where that idealism has led them. We Catholics need to be quite clear about this.”
Fr Burns sensed that he was losing the attention of his flock again. The old man had lost or given up the battle to control his coughing. Others shuffled uneasily in their seats. A child shrieked excitedly at the back of the church. Some like Mrs McCarthy still listened intently, and he resolved to concentrate on them.
“Membership, participation in or cooperation with the IRA and its military operations is most gravely sinful. Now I know that I am a new priest here and some of you may be wondering if I am being political when I say these things. I am not. I am preaching Catholic moral teaching, and I can only say that those who do not listen are cutting themselves off from the community of the Church. They cannot sincerely join with their fellow Catholics who gather at mass and pray in union with the whole Church. Let us all, as we pray together, let us all resolve that we will never cut ourselves off from God in this way and let us pray for those who do.”
Fr Burns paused for the last time before concluding.
“In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost.”
Just after communion and before the end of the mass there was the usual trickling exit of people out of the church. When Fr Burns gave the final blessing the trickle became a flood. Mrs McCarthy stayed in her seat. It was her custom to say a few prayers at Our Lady’s altar before going home. She waited for the crowd to clear.
Jinny Blake, a neighbour, stopped on her way up the aisle and leaned confidentially towards her. “Hullo, Mrs McCarthy,” she whispered reverently, her tone in keeping with their surroundings.
“Hullo, Jinny. You’re looking well, so you are.”
“I’m doing grand, thank God. You’re looking well yourself. Wasn’t that new wee priest just lovely? And he was like lightning, too. It makes a change to get out of twelve o’clock mass so quickly.”
“Indeed it does,”Mrs McCarthy agreed as she and
Jinny whispered their goodbyes.
By now the chapel was empty except for a few older people who stayed behind, like Mrs McCarthy, to say their special prayers or to light blessed candles. Mrs McCarthy left her seat and made her way slowly towards the small side altar. She genuflected awkwardly as she passed the sanctuary. As she did so the new priest came out from the sacristy. He had removed his vestments, and dressed in his dark suit, he looked slighter than she had imagined him to be when he had been saying mass.
“Hullo,” he greeted her.
“Hullo, Father, welcome to St Jude’s.”
His boyish smile made her use of the term “Father” seem incongruous.
“Thank you,” he said.
“By the way, Father…”
The words were out of her in a rush before she knew it.
“I didn’t agree with everything you said in your sermon. Surely if you think those people are sinners you should be welcoming them into the Church and not chasing them out of it.”
Fr Burns was taken aback. “I was preaching Church teaching,” he replied a little sharply.
It was a beautiful morning. He had been very nervous about the sermon, his first in a new parish. He had put a lot of thought into it, and now when it was just over him and his relief had scarcely subsided, he was being challenged by an old woman.
Mrs McCarthy could feel his disappointment and resentment. She had never spoken like this before, especially to a priest. She retreated slightly. “I’m sorry, Father,” she said uncomfortably, “I just thought you were a bit hard.” She sounded apologetic. Indeed, as she looked at the youth of him she regretted that she had opened her mouth at all.
Fr Burns was blushing slightly as he searched around for a response.
“Don’t worry,” he said finally, “I’m glad you spoke your mind. But you have to remember I was preaching God’s word, and there’s no arguing with that.”
They walked slowly up the centre aisle towards the main door. Fr Burns was relaxed now. He had one hand on her elbow, and as he spoke he watched her with a faint little smile on his lips. Despite herself she felt herself growing angry at his presence. Who was this young man almost steering her out of the chapel? She hadn’t even been at Our Lady’s altar yet.