An Irish Country Cottage--An Irish Country Novel

by Patrick Taylor

  “I watched on the second day how the number of marchers grew and how the Loyalists’ harassment got worse in Randalstown. Ian Paisley’s right-hand man, that Major Ronald Bunting, and the reactionaries with him became even more violent. They rioted in Maghera that night. There was that awful picture on TV of a Jaguar car with its windows smashed in. How does wrecking things achieve anything?” Her voice cracked.

  Barry sensed she was close to tears as he turned onto the Bangor to Belfast Road and his heart gave a painful lurch. He took a deep breath and focused on the road. The Saturday traffic was lighter at eight o’clock than it would have been in rush hour on a weekday. It would take them an hour and three quarters to reach their destination, Claudy, a small town in County Londonderry. And the sooner they got there, the sooner he would know what they were going to find there. He accelerated.

  Sue shook her head. Her voice was more controlled. “By then a lot of my friends in NICRA had joined the march to support the People’s Democracy folks, even though at first we’d advised against it. I really thought I should go. I knew I should go.”

  “I know,” Barry said. “And you listened to me then when I begged you not to. I thank you for that.” He pursed his lips and couldn’t stop himself asking the question one more time. “Must you go today? The march’s only got another nine and a half miles to go. It’ll be over by lunchtime. Please listen to me, Sue.” On the outskirts of Ballybucklebo he made the sharp right turn between the Presbyterian church and Number One Main Street. Fingal would be going out later with Bertie Bishop, whose tummy seemed to be settling down. They were off to the Ballybucklebo Estate to see a possible cottage for the Donnellys. Barry would far rather be going there than driving to County Londonderry and danger.

  “You heard the news this morning. More hellish harassment all day yesterday. More marchers having to be ferried by car because the Royal Ulster Constabulary wouldn’t defend them. The marchers were put up in a hall in Claudy overnight. Those people only want fairness for the Catholic community, and the civil rights workers are not even all Catholics. I’m not. I support NICRA.”

  “I know, darling. I do know.”

  Her voice hardened. “And the anti-lot tried to storm the hall. Storm it like a bunch of Himmler’s SS troopers. You know the ‘no surrender, hang the Fenian pope’ bigots, but”—She managed a weak smile—“the good people of Claudy reared up and stopped them. But it took force, and we’re anti-force.”

  “Look, Sue, it’s no distance from Claudy to the city of Londonderry. I think the protesters have made their point very clearly already. So far no one’s been seriously hurt, but if it does happen, I don’t want the hurt one to be you. I don’t see how one more person is going to make much difference on that last leg.”

  “Oh, Barry,” she said, “that’s sweet, but can’t you understand? It makes all the difference to me. Don’t you see that?”

  He did understand, but he wished she would see reason. Barry sighed—and held his peace.

  “And besides, silly, what is any group of people but individuals choosing to join together? Nothing would be possible otherwise.” She smiled at him and settled back in her seat, seeming content with his silence.

  He steered the car past the chapel, with its needle-pointed spire, and out of the village, thinking about how they had arrived at this moment: Sue joining the civil rights movement with the Campaign for Social Justice in 1964, which three years later had banded together with the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association. Her work had brought them perilously close to a serious falling-out in ’65. But they hadn’t. In fact, it had brought them closer together.

  “I love you, Barry.”

  Barry smiled. “And I love you,” he said. “And I do not want to see you hurt.”

  Barry turned onto the Sydenham bypass. The gantries of Harland and Wolff and the almost completed yellow Goliath crane loomed ahead to his right. It was one of the largest in the world and a symbol of promise that more work would be coming to the shipyard.

  “I know you don’t, pet. But the goals are so important: one man, one vote, no more business vote, no gerrymandering. And preventing discrimination in government jobs and housing. I believe in them, Barry; I’ve hardly slept for three nights. If I don’t go, I’m spitting on my beliefs. I have to go. I simply have to. I just hope they haven’t left by the time we get there.” Her voice rose in pitch.

  As Barry drove over the Bridge End Flyover on the way to the Queen’s Bridge across the River Lagan, he said, “We will go,” and though not a religious man he glanced up and thought, Please protect my brave Sue. I love her so much.

  * * *

  “Phew,” Barry said, finding a place to park at last in a farmer’s field.

  He and Sue had not been able to tell if the vanguard of the pro-democracy march had already left Claudy, because a long procession of cars bearing supporters was following the march along the narrow, winding Glenshane Road. The tail-back stretched well beyond the little town on its Belfast side. Sue had been bitterly disappointed when they had arrived. He had hidden his relief. But she had urged him on and by dint of exploring a series of even smaller, often nameless minor roads and using his sailor’s instinctive navigational skills and the tattered Reader’s Digest Book of the Road from the glove compartment, they had arrived on the far side of Killaloo about two and a half miles northwest of Claudy. He’d nosed the car into a field, cut the engine, and turned off the windscreen wipers. The steady drizzle, what the locals might say was making it a “grand soft day,” had started forty minutes ago as they had driven through Castledawson, thirty miles back.

  “Come on,” said Sue, piling out. “I can hear them.”

  Barry joined her. He heard massed voices.

  We shall overcome, we shall overcome,

  We shall overcome someday …

  Hand in hand, they followed the lane to where it joined the Glenshane Road.

  “Look.” Sue pointed past the bumper-to-bumper caravan of cars creeping along at walking pace. “Look, there’s the tail end of the march ahead of the first car.”

  Barry stared. Sure enough, he could see the backs of irregular ranks of marching young men and women trudging steadily ahead. Some held narrow banners aloft, but Barry could not see what was lettered on their fronts.

  “If we run,” Sue said, “we can catch up.” She tugged on his hand and Barry had to jog to stay by her side.

  Inhaling exhaust fumes from the slow-revving engines had left him feeling queasy, and he was glad when they passed the leading car. By then the singing had stopped.

  A young man walked behind the rear rank with the hood of his duffle coat up and an armband on his sleeve. He turned. He sported a Ché Guevara beard and wore a black beret. “Can I help you? I’m one of the stewards.”

  “I’m Sue Laverty. Nolan that was. I’m a founding member of CSJ and NICRA. This is my husband. He’s a doctor. We want to join the march.”

  The young man frowned. He consulted another marcher, a man with luxuriant brown sideburns and a Pancho Villa moustache, then turned to Sue. “Have you any way to prove that?”

  “Yes,” she said, “hang on.” She rummaged in the pocket of her jeans and produced her wallet. “Here.” She handed him her NICRA membership card.

  The man smiled, shook her hand, grinned at Barry. “Dermot Kelly,” he said. “Great to have you both.” He nudged a young woman wearing a green anorak with the hood up. “Move over in the bed, Aiofe. These folks are with us.”

  Barry and Sue moved between Aiofe and a clean-shaven man called Seamus. He said, “Good of you to come. Me and Aiofe have been here from the start.”

  “What’s it been like?” Barry asked. “We’ve only seen it on TV.”

  Seamus grinned. “It’s certainly not what we’d expected. Before we even got going, the Reverend Ian Paisley had said he was going to call on ‘the loyal citizens of Ulster to harass and harry’ us. And they have been. It was bloody ugly in Claudy last night. Lucky nobody’
s had to go to hospital—yet.” He smiled. “And it’s not one-sided. One of the other stewards told me there are about four hundred marchers now, with folks like you joining in.” His next words were emphatic. “Peaceful marchers. But the numbers’ll give Paisley’s lot something to think about before they start anything.”

  Barry glanced at Sue.

  She smiled at him. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll be alright.”

  Barry raised his eyes to the heavens and saw a flock of green plover with little crests and ragged wing tips spilling through the damp air. A herd of black-and-white Friesian cows had wandered over to inspect the procession. Their big heads hung over the dry stone wall between their pasture and the road. Barry could smell their tangy animal scent. One gave vent to an enormous lowing.

  In the field bordering the other side of the road, a flock of sheep—he’d no idea of their breed—heavy of fleece, the ewes swelling with spring lambs, grazed and paid no attention to the parade.

  A donkey brayed in the distance, the sound like the creak of a rusty gate.

  Barry sighed. This was the rural Ulster he loved. Why, why couldn’t the human inhabitants get along?

  The parade shuffled to a halt.

  The words coming over a battery-powered megaphone were distorted, but audible. “The police have blocked the road with a Land Rover and other tenders. They have informed us that a group of Loyalists armed with rocks, bottles, iron bars, and sticks with nails is waiting on the Ardmore Road on the other side of the River Faughan. I am informed that the police cannot protect us and we have been strongly advised to turn back. We have rejected that advice.”

  Damnation, Barry thought, and tightened his grip on Sue’s hand.

  “At our request, the road block is being removed by the police. I ask you all to link arms, close up your ranks, and when the order is given to march, we will cross the Burntollet Bridge. The Guildhall in Derry is only another five miles. If we are attacked, do not, I repeat, do not fight back. Remember Mohandas Gandhi and his passive resistance. It worked for them. It’ll work for us. This is a peaceful march, demanding…”

  From what sounded like many more than the four hundred throats that Seamus had told Barry about came: “One man, one vote…” and Barry Laverty, despite his fears for Sue, found himself joining in.

  He was still chanting as the march resumed to make its bloody way into the annals of Ulster’s four hundred years of turbulent internecine history.

  9

  The End Is to Build Well

  Fingal O’Reilly turned the collar of his raincoat to the drizzle and pulled his paddy hat down. “Come on, love,” he said, helping Kitty out of the Rover. They had parked in the stable yard beside Bertie Bishop’s van. Only one hack was in its stall beside the little Shetland. He knew Myrna O’Neill often rode for exercise in the morning. “John said to follow that gravel path.” He pointed to where a trail of crushed stone the same colour as the house wound away from the yard to disappear behind a huge clump of laurels. Tiny bright drops of rain had formed on the shiny green leaves. Once they were behind the shrubbery, only the roof and chimneys of the big house were in view, and even they disappeared as the path ran down a shallow slope.

  “Sensible arrangement,” Kitty said. “Servants living in cottages close to the big house were assured of their privacy—and so were the ‘upstairs’ people.”

  The cottage they had glimpsed on Wednesday’s shoot hove into view, a near-typical one-storey workman’s cottage, but for the small redbrick extension that stood in contrast to the dirty whitewashed walls of the rest of the building.

  “I’ll bet you that’s a later addition,” O’Reilly said. “Probably a bathroom.”

  When first O’Reilly had seen it, the building had been half-hidden by cow parsley, which now lay in a heap on the ground. Somebody had also stripped the ivy from the walls, revealing a fretwork of tracks from the suckers. The windows were recessed by, he guessed, at least three feet. About eight feet of a slate roof at the near side of the main building had been torn off in a high wind. Shattered slates lay strewn on the ground. “I wonder what it’ll cost to fix that?” O’Reilly shook his head. “I hope poor Donal’s not going to be disappointed.”

  “Have to say, it doesn’t look very inviting right now,” Kitty said. “But Bertie will know if he can make it habitable.”

  They walked round the building. “At least the roof’s intact on this side.” He noticed a new aluminium extension ladder propped up against one wall and a long-handled water pump beside an open door at this end. Water was pooled under its spout.

  John MacNeill, Bertie Bishop, and Donal Donnelly stood outside the door.

  O’Reilly lengthened his stride. “Morning, my lord. Gentlemen.”

  “Morning, Doctor. Kitty,” John MacNeill said. “Bit damp. Thank you for coming.” He smiled.

  “Morning, Doctor and Missus,” Bertie Bishop said. “Damp and raw, so it is.” He grimaced, grabbed his stomach, and grunted.

  “You alright, Bertie?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Aye. Just a bit of the abdabs,” Bertie said. “Nothing til worry about. That nice wee lady doctor, Doctor McCarthy, is treating me.”

  O’Reilly said, “If you’re no better by next week, go and see her, or if it’s urgent, pop into the surgery and see whoever’s on duty.”

  Bertie nodded. “Fair enough.”

  Donal turned to O’Reilly and lifted his duncher. “’Bout ye and the missus, sir.”

  “How are you, Donal, and the family? Are they managing in Rasharkin without you?” O’Reilly asked.

  “They’re doing bravely, so they are, sir. Julie sent her love til you and Mrs. O’Reilly.” He grinned, showing his buck teeth. “Mister Bishop and his lordship are going til make my day. At least from the outside, it looks like this place could be fixed up quick and cheap. I was brung along because if we can do it, I’ll be the hat on the job.” His thin chest swelled. O’Reilly grinned. “Hat” was a shipyard term for the foreman, so called because his badge of office was a bowler hat. Bertie Bishop had, since his heart attack, been reposing ever more responsibility on Donal’s narrow shoulders.

  But who was going to foot the bill? The marquis? Bertie Bishop? A hazy idea was beginning to form in O’Reilly’s fertile mind.

  “We’ve just now finished walking round the outside,” said the marquis. “It’s not in bad shape apart from that hole in the roof at the back.” He inclined his head to Bertie. “I defer to your expertise, Mister Bishop.”

  O’Reilly hid a grin. Bertie Bishop did indeed know about roofs. He and Sonny Houston had feuded for years about whether or not Bertie was ethically bound to replace Sonny’s. That long-standing battle had been resolved in ’64 without a punch being thrown, and all was now sweetness and light between the two old adversaries. Would that the arguing factions in the rest of Ulster could patch up their differences so amicably.

  “That there brick add-on,” Bertie Bishop said, “it’ll need a wee bit of repointing, but the rest of the building’s—”

  Donal crossed his arms. “Excuse me for interrupting, Mister Bishop, but”—he scratched his carrotty thatch under his cap—“do any of youse know the definition of a real Irishman?”

  O’Reilly saw John MacNeill frown. Bertie Bishop shook his head. Kitty raised one eyebrow.

  “Please, do tell,” his lordship said.

  “A real Irishman is a fellah who’s…” He held out one hand palm up to the elements. “… too blo”—he glanced at the marquis, then at Kitty—“too stupid to come inside out of the rain.” He pointed to an open door, its red paint peeling, at the near end of the building. “Seems til me we could take a keek inside right about now.”

  When John MacNeill stopped laughing, he said, “You are absolutely right. Why indeed are we standing out here in the rain when there’s perfectly good shelter steps away?”

  “Fine by me, your lordship,” O’Reilly said. “Lead on, MacDuff.” And he and Kitty followed the three
men inside the little cottage.

  The door could be opened in its entirety or only the top half, to keep farmyard animals from wandering into the house. In the dim light, O’Reilly saw a packed earth floor. Kitty knelt down, removed a glove, and touched it, wrinkling her nose. “I wasn’t expecting fitted carpets, but an earth floor?” She looked round. “At least there are flagstones round the hearth and threshold.”

  “That’s where boot traffic would be heaviest,” Bertie Bishop said.

  Overhead the rafters were exposed and there was no ceiling.

  Bertie Bishop looked up. “Probably built more than two hundred years ago, Mrs. O’Reilly. Labourers’ cottages were pretty simple places. Mind you, that rammed earth floor is like cement now.”

  “There are days I’d welcome a quieter life,” said John. “Little cottage in the woods somewhere. Still, the reality doesn’t always match up with the fantasy. But those were less complicated times.”

  “Sometimes simplicity isn’t such a bad thing,” Kitty said, and looked at O’Reilly. “You’re finding that, Fingal, aren’t you, now you’ve lots of colleagues to share your duties?”

  “Perhaps not simpler,” he said. “But I do have more free time.” And, he thought, I haven’t given up on getting you to slow down a bit too, girl.

  The deep-set fireplace to his left had blackened gallows for suspending pots over the fire. A small oven with a four-burner top had been placed against the opposite wall. A deep sink with brass verdigris-encrusted taps sat at this end under a window. It was full of dried leaves. A solitary plain wooden table occupied the other end beneath another window. An open door in the middle of the wall to his left led to a hallway. Two light fixtures stuck out from both side walls. O’Reilly recognised the taps and sockets for gas mantles. When he’d first worked at Number One Main, it too had been lit by coal gas. What had been known as “the electric” hadn’t come to Ballybucklebo until 1948. It seemed it had never reached here at all.