by Gerry Adams
“We have to choose between our politics and our religion,” he was saying.
“That’s fair enough, Father, as far as it goes, but I think it’s wrong to chase people away from the Church,” she began.
“They do that themselves,” he interrupted her.
She saw that he still had that little smile. They were almost at the end of the aisle. She stopped sharply, surprising the priest as she did, so that he stopped also and stood awkwardly with his hand still on her elbow.
“I’m sorry, Father, I’m not going out yet.”
It was his turn to be flustered, and she noticed with some satisfaction that his smile had disappeared. Before he could recover she continued, “I still think it’s wrong to exclude people. Who are any of us to judge anyone, to say who is or who isn’t a good Catholic, or a good Christian for that matter? I know them that lick the altar rails and, God forgive me, they wouldn’t give you a drink of water if you were dying of the thirst. No, Father, it’s not all black and white. You’ll learn that before you’re much older.”
His face reddened at her last remark.
“The Church is quite clear in its teaching on the issue of illegal organisations. Catholics cannot support or be a part of them.”
“And Christ never condemned anyone,” Mrs McCarthy told him, as intense now as he was.
“Well, you’ll have to choose between your politics and your religion. All I can say is if you don’t agree with the Church’s teaching, then you have no place in this chapel.”
It was his parting shot and with it he knew he had bested her. She looked at him for a long minute in silence so that he blushed again, thinking for a moment that she was going to chide him, maternally perhaps, for being cheeky to his elders. But she didn’t. Instead she shook her elbow free of his hand and walked slowly away from him out of the chapel. He stood until he had recovered his composure, then he too walked outside. To his relief she was nowhere to be seen.
When Mrs McCarthy returned home her son, Harry, knew something was wrong, and when she told him what had happened he was furious. She had to beg him not to go up to the chapel there and then.
“He said what, Ma? Tell me again!”
She started to recount her story.
“No, not that bit. I’m not concerned about all that. It’s the end bit I can’t take in. The last thing he said to you. Tell me that again?”
“He said if I didn’t agree then I had no place in the chapel,” she told him again, almost timidly.
“The ignorant-good-for-nothing wee skitter,” Harry fumed, pacing the floor. Mrs McCarthy was sorry she had told him anything. “I’ll have to learn to bite my tongue,” she told herself. “If I’d said nothing to the priest none of this would have happened.” Harry’s voice burst in on her thoughts.
“What gets me is that you reared nine of us. That’s what gets me! You did your duty as a Catholic mother and that’s the thanks you get for it. They’ve no humility, no sense of humanity. Could he not see that you’re an old woman.”
“That’s nothing to do with it,” Mrs McCarthy interrupted him sharply.
“Ma, that’s everything to do with it! Can you not see that? If he had been talking to me, I could see the point, but you? All your life you’ve done your best and he insults you like that! He must have no mother of his own. That’s all they’re good for: laying down their petty little rules and lifting their collections and insulting the very people…”
“Harry, that’s enough.”
The weariness in her tone stopped him in mid-sentence.
“I’ve had enough arguing to do me for one day,” she said. “You giving off like that is doing me no good. Just forget about it for now. And I don’t want you doing anything about it; I’ll see Fr Burns again in my own good time. But for now, I’m not going to let it annoy me any more.”
But it did. It ate away at her all day, and when she retired to bed it was to spend a restless night with Fr Burns’s words turning over again and again in her mind.
Choose between your politics and your religion. Politics and religion. If you don’t accept the Church’s teachings, you’ve no place in the chapel. No place in the chapel.
The next day she went to chapel as was her custom, but she didn’t go at her usual time, and she was nervous and unsettled within herself all the time, she was there. Even Our Lady couldn’t settle her. She was so worried that Fr Burns would arrive and that they would have another row that she couldn’t concentrate on her prayers. Eventually it became too much for her and she left by the side door and made her way home again, agitated and in bad form.
The next few days were the same. She made her way to the chapel as usual, but she did so in an almost furtive manner, and the solace that she usually got from her daily prayers and contemplation was lost to her. On the Wednesday she walked despondently to the shops; on her way homewards she bumped into Jinny Blake outside McErlean’s Home Bakery.
“Ach, Mrs McCarthy, how’ye doing? You look as if everybody belonging t’ye had just died. What ails ye?”
Mrs McCarthy told her what had happened, glad to get talking to someone who, unlike Harry or Fr Burns, would understand her dilemma. Jinny was a sympathetic listener and she waited attentively until Mrs McCarthy had furnished her with every detail of the encounter with the young priest.
“So that’s my tale of woe, Jinny,” she concluded eventually, “and I don’t know what to do. I’m not as young as I used to be…”
“You’re not fit for all that annoyance. The cheek of it!” her friend reassured her. “You shouldn’t have to put up with the like of that at your age. You seldom hear them giving off about them ones.”
Jinny gestured angrily at a passing convoy of British army Land-Rovers.
“They bloody well get off too light, God forgive me and pardon me! Imagine saying that to you, or anyone else for that matter.”
Jinny was angry, but whereas Harry’s rage had unsettled Mrs McCarthy, Jinny’s indignation fortified her, so that by the time they finally parted Mrs McCarthy was resolved to confront Fr Burns and, as Jinny had put it, to “stand up for her rights”.
The following afternoon she made her way to the chapel. It was her intention to go from there to the parochial house. She was quite settled in her mind as to what she would say and how she would say it, but first she knelt before the statue of Our Lady. For the first time that week she felt at ease in the chapel. But the sound of footsteps coming down the aisle in her direction unnerved her slightly. She couldn’t look around to see who it was, which made her even more anxious that it might be Fr Burns. In her plans the confrontation with him was to be on her terms in the parochial house, not here, on his terms, in the chapel.
“Hullo, Mrs McCarthy, is that you?” With a sigh of relief she recognised Fr Kelly’s voice.
“Ah, Father,” she exclaimed. “It is indeed. Am I glad to see you!”
Fr Kelly was the parish priest. He was a small, stocky, white-haired man in his late fifties. He and Mrs McCarthy had known each other since he had taken over the parish fifteen years before. As he stood smiling at her, obviously delighted at her welcome for him, she reproached herself for not coming to see him long before this. As she would tell Jinny later, that just went to show how distracted she was by the whole affair.
“Fr Kelly, I’d love a wee word with you, so I would.” She rose slowly from her pew. “If you have the time, that is.”
“I’ve always time for you, my dear.”
He helped her to her feet.
“Come on and we’ll sit ourselves down over here.”
They made their way to a secluded row of seats at the side of the church. Fr Kelly sat quietly as Mrs McCarthy recounted the story of her disagreement with Fr Burns. When she was finished he remained silent for some moments, gazing quizzically over at the altar.
“Give up your politics or give up your religion, Mrs McCarthy? That’s the quandary, isn’t it?”
He spoke so quietly, for a minute sh
e thought he was talking to himself. Then he straightened up in the seat, gave her a smile and asked, “Are you going to give up your politics?”
“No,” she replied a little nervously and then, more resolutely: “No! Not even for the Pope of Rome.”
He nodded in smiling assent and continued, “And are you going to give up your religion?”
“No,” she responded quickly, a little surprised at his question.
“Not even for the Pope of Rome?” he bantered her.
“No,” she smiled, catching his mood.
“Well then, I don’t know what you’re worrying about. We live in troubled times, and it’s not easy for any of us, including priests. We all have to make our own choices. That’s why God gives us the power to reason and our own free will. You’ve heard the Church’s teaching and you’ve made your decision. You’re not going to give up your religion nor your politics, and I don’t see why you should. All these other things will pass. And don’t bother yourself about seeing Fr Burns. I’ll have a wee word with him.”
He patted her gently on the back of her hand as he got to his feet.
“Don’t be worrying. And don’t let anyone put you out of the chapel! It’s God’s house. Hold on to all your beliefs, Mrs McCarthy, if you’re sure that’s what you want.”
“Thank you, Father.” Mrs McCarthy smiled in relief. “God bless you.”
“I hope He does,” Fr Kelly said, “I hope He does.” He turned and walked slowly up the aisle. When he got to the door he turned and looked down the chapel. Mrs McCarthy was back at her favourite seat beside the statue of Our Lady. Apart from her the silent church was empty. Fr Kelly stood reflecting pensively on that. For a moment he was absorbed by the irony of the imagery before him. Then he turned wearily, smiled to himself, and left.
Just a Game
St Patrick’s under-14 hurling team possessed three mentors. All had been accomplished hurlers in their own time and, like most sportsmen and old soldiers, they refused to die. Indeed, they refused even to fade away, and with a zeal which was as strong as it had been in their youth, they had successfully steered the Under-14s through club honours, and now their charges were poised to represent the county at the All-Ireland Féile tournament.
Mickey MacAteer, the team manager, was assisted by Leo Murphy and “wee” Eoin Rafferty. Leo was a Dubliner, and although he had never lost his love for that fair city, Ballymurphy, where he taught at the local school, had been his home for the last ten years. Wee Eoin and Mickey were both Falls Road men, unemployed building labourers who lived in Ballymurphy.
The lads in the Under-14 panel combined urban toughness (a quality for which St Patrick’s was renowned at all levels) with a fast, close style of hurling. They became the County Antrim Féile champions after a tough campaign, especially against clubs from the rural north of the county. Their rivals never gave an inch, and every game was a hard-fought contest. Parochial and other ancient rivalries played their parts and verbal abuse from the sidelines was commonplace; during one game youthful supporters of a team from the Glens even began to chant: “They eat dogs in Ballymurphy.” The older St Pat’s members and spectators were affronted by such a smear tactic—especially the mothers present, who, mortified by the insult, replied with suitably descriptive disclaimers. The youngsters seemed not to care and went on to win the match. Later, when presented with the trophy the day they won the county final, big Charlie, the team captain, delighted his teammates and made their euphoric mentors wince when he exclaimed: “Up the Dog Eaters! Tiocfaidh ár lá!”*
The delight of the young players was infectious, and that night Charlie’s acceptance speech raised a laugh among the adults in the bar at St Pat’s as they celebrated the junior team’s victory. It was a great night. None of the winning team were there, of course, as they were all under age, but Mickey, wee Eoin and Leo were their very capable, committed and experienced representatives. They knew exactly how to handle such an occasion: they got drunk.
The weeks after that were spent training for the national finals of the Féile. Three evenings each week the team got together after school and wee Eoin put them through their paces again and again and again. At weekends St Pat’s Under-16 team or the Minors gave them a practice game. The mentors were on hand throughout: they threatened, bullied, encouraged and begged their team into shape, and in between they discussed tactics and the ins-and-outs of different players playing in different positions. For some of the boys it was a worrying time. They had a panel of twenty and everyone was eager to win a place on the team. Some, like Big Burger, Charlie, Seamus, Patrick and Packy, Seanie and Jimmy were assured of their places. They were the core of the team, but the rest of the places were open to whoever was on form. For this reason there was a consistently full turnout at all the training sessions.
This involvement in the preparations wasn’t confined to the team and its trainers, or even to the Under-16 or Minor players. The entire club campaigned to take the All-Ireland Féile trophy and bring it over the border and into the North, and more importantly into St Patrick’s in Ballymurphy. So it was that when the Féile weekend arrived two buses of supporters and the team, all bedecked in the club and county colours, gathered to make the journey to Kildare, and they left the club grounds to the cheers and best wishes of their clubmates and parents.
“That’s it,” Mickey said. “We’re off.”
And so they were. The drive down to the border was uneventful. They were stopped for a few minutes at the huge British army checkpoint outside Newry, and after that the journey to Dublin passed quickly. Many of the boys had never been so far across the border before, though most of them had been on sponsored holidays in Belgium and further afield. They stopped for a noisy meal in Swords, and then in Dublin the boys and their mentors spent an hour in O’Connell Street wandering between the GPO and an amusement arcade. It was late in the afternoon by the time they finally pulled into Naas. The boys were staying in the homes of members of a local club, and a representative met the bus and gave Mickey the accommodation arrangements for the weekend. He also gave him a list of fixtures. Mickey read through the list.
“Look at this.” He turned to Leo and wee Eoin, thrusting the Féile programme under their noses. “We’ve been drawn to play against a local club tonight. Bloody chancers! They’re trying to make sure their team has the advantage. It’s not right. They’re playing on their own pitch and we’ve come all the way from Belfast; our lads are bound to be tired after the journey. They should have put all the ones that have to travel together. That way it would have been fair. I’m going to complain!”
He did so but to no avail, and by the time the St Pat’s lads were in the dressing room an hour or so later, togged out and ready for their first encounter, Mickey was in a foul mood.
Leo and Eoin had finished their team talk. It was only a minute or so before the throw-in. Mickey, as befitted his status as manager, always had the last word. He looked around at the eager, anxious young faces gazing up at him.
“Right, boys. This is what we’ve all worked for. Youse know the score. Youse are good. Youse are the best in County Antrim. But we’re not in County Antrim now. We’re in the Free State. They must have heard how good youse are ’cos they’ve drawn us against the local team. The referee’s probably local also. They’re all well rested and we’re only after a long journey, but you know what? We can still beat them, and that’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to go out there and teach these uns how to play hurley.”
He looked around his team.
“Right?” he snapped at them.
“Right!”
“Right?” Mickey and Leo and wee Eoin shouted in chorus.
“Right!” the boys clamoured, banging their hurleys and their studded boots on the floor.
“Well, get out there and do it!” Mickey growled.
And so they did. It wasn’t a hard game, but even when it was clear that they were the superior team St Pat’s took no chances. They played at f
ull stretch right up to the final whistle and finished twelve points ahead of the devastated opposition. In the dressing room afterwards the lads were jubilant. Mickey congratulated them, but he was grudging in his praise.
“All right, youse did well. But that’s only what we expected. Tonight was aisy. Wee buns! It wasn’t a real test for youse. That comes the morra. We have two games. That’s if youse play better than tonight. The third game’s the semi-final, but you have to beat two good teams to get there. So tonight I want youse all in bed early and back here in the morning at ten for a team talk. Okay?”
Within half an hour all the boys were piled into cars which distributed them to houses throughout the neighbourhood. There the “young lads from Belfast” were plied with good food and sympathetic questions about how they and their families were able to manage at home with “the troubles”. For the first time some of the boys saw the daily happenings of their native city through the eyes of sympathetic spectators, and for the first time some of them wondered how indeed they and their families managed. As they slipped off to sleep they felt flattered that they did.
The three mentors had a similar experience over a meal and later a few pints as guests of the local club, but they kept the storytelling about the troubles to a minimum. Unlike their young players, they were naturally and instinctively cautious about declaring their political views to strangers, and although all three would probably have agreed generally on political matters, there were issues that Mickey and Eoin had never really discussed with Leo, and a pub in County Kildare wasn’t the place to start. Apart from all that, as Mickey observed only half jokingly, they had a Féile tournament to win and needed to return early to their boarding house to plan the next day’s team tactics.