Unspoken

by Gerard Stembridge

  ‘The next day we marched to a town called Maghera. There was more trouble there. In the town Protestants and Catholics were fighting each other. The RUC could not maintain the peace. We tried to tell people that we were against violence and we wanted Civil Rights for everyone…’

  When school started again after the Christmas holidays, Mr Wade told 4A that for their ecker he wanted them to write a report from Northern Ireland, so Francis started watching the news again. He also asked his mam and dad if he could stay up and watch 7 Days as well. His dad asked what did he want to do that for and his mam said, oh, any excuse not to go to bed and Francis said Mr Wade had told them they had to learn about Northern Ireland. His mam said that was a queer thing for nine-year-olds to be learning about, but his dad said Mr Wade was his teacher and he must have his reasons, so they let him stay up and watch 7 Days.

  That week all the news was about a big march from Belfast to Derry. It would take four days. One of the things that Francis noticed when he saw the marchers on the telly was how young so many of them were. There was no one his age, but most of them looked like Ritchie and Gussie or even younger. They were all holding banners and shouting into megaphones and telling reporters what they thought. One girl called Bernadette Devlin was on the news every night giving out. His mam thought she was great. ‘Oh, that Bernadette Devlin, she’s well able to speak up for herself, she’s afraid of no one.’ Francis was surprised at his mam saying that, because Bernadette Devlin didn’t look much older than Marian and he was sure that if Marian was out protesting and giving out on the telly, his mam would kill her and say she was making a show of the family. Francis thought about all the people he knew who were that age; his brothers and their pals, his cousins, other boys and girls on the street. He couldn’t imagine any of them out marching with banners singing ‘We Shall Overcome’ and ‘We Shall Not Be Moved’. But maybe no one had ever asked them? He liked the idea of marching and talking on the telly about Civil Rights. It would be a fab thing to do. That was what gave him the idea for his composition. He would pretend that he was one of the young people on the march from Belfast to Derry.

  ‘The RUC told us to keep walking to the bridge at Burntollet. They would make sure we were safe. But there were Paisleyites and Extremists hiding in the hills above. Suddenly! they appeared and started throwing stones down on us indiscriminately. No one from the RUC helped us. Some of my friends said it was a trap. The RUC wanted us to get injured. I do not know it if was true or not.’

  On the telly Francis had seen two young girls in tears. These girls looked even younger than Marian but they weren’t a bit shy. They said that the RUC had promised to protect them but when the stones rained down there were no police to be seen. They were very angry and upset. Francis thought that was really unfair. Why were these Extremists throwing stones at girls? All the students were doing was marching.

  ‘They called us Revolutionary Socialists and some of my friends were battered so much they had to go to hospital. The man in charge talked to us on his megaphone. “Do you want to keep marching?” he asked. We said “Yes!” So we kept going all the way to Derry. We all held hands and sang “We shall overcome some day”. I felt very happy.’

  The last news report Francis had seen before he wrote his composition had been the most violent. It was at night, which made the pictures look even more frightening.

  ‘The shops on the street were on fire. The police turned their water cannon on us. I tried to escape but a policeman came running at me. He had a big baton in his hand. He hit me on the head. There was a sound in my ear like a bee buzzing. My head went round and round. I fell over, unconscious. When I woke up I was in hospital with a huge bandage on my head. We only wanted Civil Rights but, instead, we got an orgy of violence.’

  When Francis finished reading, he looked up straight away to where Ian was sitting. His best friend was staring at him with his mouth open. Francis could tell that he was really impressed. Then he heard Mr Wade.

  ‘Maith an buachaill. Bula bos gach éinne.’

  The class started to clap loudly. Some of them cheered too but that was only for a mess. Francis looked at Mr Wade who was clapping as well. As he went back to his desk he heard his teacher say that doing the report as if he was on the march was a very imaginative way for Francis to show how well he understood the situation, but Francis didn’t think he understood the goings-on in the North at all. And, secretly, he knew he didn’t care about that. What he liked were all the new words and phrases he had discovered. And he liked Mr Wade telling him that his ecker was good. And, most of all, he loved being asked to stand up in front of the teacher and the whole class and read it out loud.

  *

  Gussie was passing the grotto in his 1961 Black Zephyr when he saw Francis on his way home for dinner. Perfect timing. He pulled in and rolled down the window. ‘Do you want a lift?’ He was delighted to see Francis’ eyes nearly pop out of his head.

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘What do you mean where did I get it? I bought it. Are you getting in or not?’

  If he’d been fired out of a cannon his baby brother couldn’t have jumped into the car faster.

  ‘A Zephyr. Is it really yours?’

  ‘Yeah. Got it this morning.’

  ‘Wow!’

  Gussie enjoyed seeing Francis goggle-eyed, lost for words for once. It didn’t take very long to travel the remaining hundred yards. He parked in front of the green but didn’t get out. He wanted his mam to see him sitting in his new car.

  ‘I was asked to read out my composition in front of class this morning.’

  ‘Good for you. Go in and tell mam to come out and see the car.’

  Gussie watched him haring to the house. He knew Francis would love being the first one with the news. A few kids playing on the green came over to stare. It was only a few seconds before Marian and Martin came flying out. Then Ritchie and Francis. Then his mam. Gussie leaned his elbow out the open window, dead casual.

  ‘What do you think?’

  Marian said it was gorgeous, could she sit in the front? Martin, without asking, opened the back door and hopped in. Francis followed. Ritchie looked in the window at the dashboard and asked what year was it? What was the mileage? Was the engine OK? Gussie wondered if he was a bit jealous.

  ‘How much was it?’

  ‘How fast does it go?’

  ‘Remember Mr Mac used to have one like this?’

  What was his mam going to say? It wouldn’t be anything complimentary anyway, that was for sure.

  ‘It’s very big isn’t it? Wouldn’t you have been better off with something smaller?’

  Was that the worst she could think of? Gussie didn’t let himself get annoyed.

  ‘Here, sit in, Mam. Marian, get out for a sec.’

  His mam came round and sat in next to him.

  ‘Very comfortable.’

  ‘A bit better than the lorry all right.’

  ‘That lorry brings us wherever we want to go. Many a time we were glad of that lorry. What about the insurance?’

  ‘It’s insured, don’t worry.’ Gussie didn’t tell her that the insurance cost more than the car. ‘Do you want to go for a spin?’

  ‘Now? No, sure we’re just having our dinner.’

  Wails from Francis and Martin to go for a spin, but his mam sent them all back into the house. As she got out she said. ‘It’s very nice. If you have time you could give me a lift into town after dinner. I’ve a few bits and pieces to get in Moran’s.’ Gussie said, ‘OK.’ His mam said, ‘Come on so, your dinner’s ready.’ He watched her go back into the house. The money for the car and the insurance was the money he’d saved for America, so she couldn’t give out about how he spent it. He got out, locked his new car, warned the staring kids not to go near it and went in for his dinner.

  That afternoon he drove his mam into town, waited outside Moran’s, then brought her home again. He could tell by the way she sat back that she was enjoying the
luxury of it, even though she didn’t pass any remarks. After he dropped her off he went for a pint in the Spotted Dog, then drove to the Wire factory. He waited outside and blew the horn as soon as he spotted his cousin, Tony Crowley, leaving work.

  ‘Jaysus, where did you get that crate?’

  ‘Bought it this morning. Want to go for a spin?’

  ‘Ten gallons to the mile is it?’

  Gussie drove Tony home to wash and change out of his work clothes. His Aunt Marg and cousin Mary came out to admire the Zephyr. Then he and Tony went to Punch’s for a few. After that they drove to South’s for a few more. Finally they ended up in Geary’s Hotel. Around midnight they fell out and drove round the corner to the Franciscan Hall where Reform were playing. It was packed, there was loads of talent and, thanks to Tony mentioning the car, they got off with two birds from Kildimo, who didn’t mind a bit of kissing and a feel as long as they got a lift home. After that, Gussie dropped Tony back to his house. It was gone two when he arrived home. He parked right up against his dad’s lorry, got out, and stood brooding over the old jalopy and the car that was going to change his life. He’d be qualified in a few months and he could take off, anywhere he liked. In the summer there was always plenty of bar jobs in Killarney or Galway. He’d move there. Yeah, get digs or share a flat. It sounded great in his head, so Gussie wasn’t sure why it didn’t make him feel more elated. He lurched across the green to the house, not realising he had forgotten to lock his car. Luckily there were no thieves around Rowan Avenue.

  Thirty: June 19th

  Francis woke in a state of apprehension after a restless night’s sleep, convinced that something would go wrong and he wouldn’t be able to go to Dublin today with Ian and Mr Barry. Nevertheless, he washed carefully and put on the clothes his mam had told him he had to wear and checked, again and again, the bag he had packed. It was now almost nine. So far there had been no sign of a mishap, but that did not ease his anxiety even the teeniest bit. Sure enough, as his dad poured him a cup of tea in the kitchen, disaster struck. They both heard the horrible gruesome sound from upstairs: his mam vomiting. What had made her so sick? Surely not the cake? Yesterday, for his tenth birthday, his mam had brought home a stupendous cake from The Dane. It had real cream in the middle with chocolate icing on top. His mam had cut it into eight slices, one for everyone else and two for Francis because it was his birthday. But she had cut only a teeny slice for herself. No, it couldn’t be the cake.

  His mam was coughing and choking now. His dad said nothing, but put down the teapot and went upstairs. Francis knew for sure that he was doomed. His mam was supposed to bring him in to Tait’s Clock in Baker Place, where Ian and his father would be waiting to collect him. Francis had said loads of times that there was no need for his mam to bring him, he knew where Tait’s clock was and he went in and out to town on his own all the time. The real truth was he didn’t want his mam to bring him. He preferred to meet Ian and Mr Barry on his own. His mam said it would only be polite to say hello to Mr Barry and thank him for being so kind and, anyway, she didn’t want the man thinking that they just let Francis wander around the town all by himself like a tinker. But of course his mam had to go and get sick at just the wrong time and he knew his dad would say that if his mam couldn’t bring him in then he couldn’t go at all. Fate had decreed that he would not spend tonight in Dublin. It was unbelievably unfair.

  These depressing thoughts did not prevent Francis from eating his fried bread and drinking his tea and remaining alert for any noises that might give him a clue about what was happening upstairs. It had all gone quiet. Maybe… Was it possible his mam was feeling better? Then he heard his dad coming back down and he could tell, even from the way he was walking, that the news was not going to be good. Doom-laden thoughts assailed Francis, but still he fought against them. There must be a way out. He had to think fast! As his dad turned at the bottom of the stairs, a troubled look on his face, inspiration struck. If his dad said he couldn’t go to Dublin because his mam was too sick to bring him in to Tait’s clock, then Francis could say that was unfair to Mr Barry and Ian because they wouldn’t know what was going on and they’d be left waiting around like fools, so his dad would have to let Francis go on his own. Yes!

  His dad came into the kitchen and remained standing up as he poured himself a hot cup of tea. Francis knew that he was preparing to deliver the ill-fated news and, at exactly the same moment, he also realised that his clever idea wouldn’t work because his dad would just say he’d go to the public phone box near the grotto and call Mr Barry to explain the situation.

  ‘Mam is feeling a bit sick so she won’t be able to bring you in this morning.’

  Francis’ heart sank. His worst fears realised. The words were a crushing blow.

  ‘So if you’re ready to go straight away, I’ll drop you in on the way to work.’

  Ready? Francis had been ready for at least two hours. His bag was packed since last night. Ready? He nearly knocked over his teacup as he leapt from the chair. He wanted to go pronto, get into the lorry before his dad changed his mind.

  He was going to Dublin after all!

  As he thumped up the stairs to collect his bag, his father hissed at him, ‘Shh. Go quietly. Didn’t you hear me saying that mam isn’t feeling well? Do you think of no one but yourself?’

  Francis tiptoed the rest of the way. He recognised that look in his dad’s eye, the one that said he was really annoyed. Disrespect or dishonesty were the things that always made that look appear. Did he think that Francis was being disrespectful to his mam by making noise when she was sick? Francis didn’t mean it that way, he was just in a hurry to get his bag because his dad said they had to leave straight away. He crept past his parents’ bedroom. The last thing he wanted now was his mam shouting at him and giving out. The sooner he got his bag and escaped from the house, the better all round. His mam would be glad to get him out from under her feet, too.

  Of course, having been told to be ready straight away, he ended up waiting in the lorry for ages before his dad finally appeared. They were going to be late now. Would Mr Barry wait for them? It wasn’t until the lorry pulled away that Francis allowed his anxiety to ease and excitement to grow, but, once it did, it soon ballooned into expectancy and exhilaration and the certainty that this was going to be the best day ever. As they rattled along Hogan Road Francis saw lots of boys and girls around his age out playing and thought gleefully that none of them was going to Dublin to be shown around the television studios and spend the night in a big hotel with his best pal. How lucky was he?

  When Fonsie Strong got out of his lorry and greeted Brendan Barry, who was lounging against his Cortina, neither of them had the slightest awareness that they had met once before, exactly ten years ago. Today’s meeting was even more brief than the previous encounter and, like before, not much was said.

  ‘Mr Strong. Brendan Barry.’

  ‘I’m Fonsie. Sorry to keep you waiting.’

  ‘You’re grand, we’re only just ahead of you. All set, Francis?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Barry.’

  Francis ran over to the Cortina as Ian got out. Francis was surprised to see that he was wearing long pants for the first time. Was that because he was ten?

  ‘Listen, I’d better go or I’ll be late for work. And thanks very much for inviting him. It’ll be a great birthday treat.’

  ‘I hope so. Ian asked for Francis especially. They get on like a house on fire.’

  Neither father realised that the other was referring to his own son’s birthday. Like ten years before, both men had other worries, mostly related to their wives, and so neither was really thinking about the other man. It briefly crossed Barry’s mind that Fonsie Strong was older than he expected. Late forties, he guessed. His lorry looked about late forties too. To Fonsie, Brendan Barry seemed a friendly sort of young fellow with a nice easy way about him. His main hope was that he was a safe driver. At least the Cortina looked almost new and in good nick. Apart from t
hese fleeting observations about each other, the minds of both men were elsewhere. Fonsie was concerned about how frantic Ann had got when Dr Greaney told her yesterday she was expecting again. It was a shock all right at forty-four, but it was God’s will and, if she didn’t worry herself too much, Fonsie was sure it would work out all right. He certainly didn’t think it was going to kill her and he wished Ann would get ideas like that out of her head. Brendan was thinking about how he had watched Elizabeth as she got Ian ready this morning and imagined her reaction if he tried to tell her all the things she never asked about, forced her to listen to the dirty details. Knowing Elizabeth, she would probably block her ears and start moaning. She didn’t want to know what he was or who he went with, and the truth was that Brendan didn’t want to tell her. He was glad that, on this occasion at least, his wife genuinely seemed to think that this trip to Dublin was purely a birthday treat for Ian.

  The two fathers smiled and parted. The fact that they didn’t shake hands was not a sign of unfriendliness or even unease. It was just the way it went.

  Francis thought the drive to Dublin was brilliant fun. Mr Barry knew lots of silly riddles, and the boys raced each other to be the first with the right answer. Sometimes Ian said, ‘I know that one, you asked me that before.’ Mr Barry said, ‘Well, don’t say the answer then, let Francis have a go.’ While Francis was thinking, Ian jigged up and down, keeping his lips shut tight and made a noise ‘mmmmmmm’ as if he was going to burst if he didn’t tell. Then Mr Barry started playing I-Spy and when, after a few rounds, he said, ‘Something beginning with P,’ it was Francis who got the answer first. ‘Posters.’ Because of the election the previous day, there were posters everywhere, big billboards with slogans: ‘Fianna Fáil: Let’s back Jack’, ‘Fine Gael Will Win’, ‘Labour: The Seventies will be Socialist’. On lamp-posts and telegraph poles along the road there were small posters with the names of each candidate.