Carn

by Patrick McCabe

  Sadie stared at the proffered stone in a daze.

  “Are you not going to say anything then?” said Una. The other girls clustered about her like starlings. Una spoke effusively of the new house they were going to buy on an estate which had just been completed on the edge of the town.

  “Well Sadie,” said Una wistfully, “did you ever think you’d see the day?”

  On the way home that evening, no matter how she fought it, Sadie felt as if she had leprosy. The dread inside her would not subside and when her mother, casually placing a plate of salad before her on the table said, “You’ll want to mind yourself now young lady that you’re not left on the shelf. They’re all wiping your eye. They’ll all watch out for themselves, you can be sure of that. Lord bless us, how the time passes,” she did not reply.

  Lying awake at night, she saw herself standing along the wall in The Sapphire, her heart thumping as she prayed that when she took their hands and allowed herself to be led on to the floor that they would not smell of drink or talk mindlessly of football or farming. She no longer set her sights high, afraid now in her own mind to challenge Una’s words when she spoke of the days of the Golden Chip and Dave Robinson (“Hadn’t we little sense?”). And despite herself, she knew she was now approaching what she had always feared, a time when any kind of warmth would do. Whenever any memories of the Golden Chip came back, she did not dwell on them, leaving them to recede without pursuit. Whenever there was any mention of that time in the company of others, she raised her eyes up to heaven like the rest, disowning all involvement.

  When the outing came, she linked arms at the back of the bus and sang boisterously along with the communal songs. She got drunk on lagers in a pub not far from the castle they had visited and put her arms around a girl who said, “How did I used to think you were stuck up?”

  She went with them to The Sapphire on Saturday nights and like them stood clutching a cigarette packet outside the toilet, hunted eyes flitting about the hall as they evaluated social status and personal hygiene. She fixed her hair anxiously, holding pins between her lips and examining acne blemishes in detail, no longer listening to the tiny whispers in her head that said, “Sadie—Sadie. What are you doing here? Do you hear me Sadie?”

  As she circled the floor of the The Sapphire, she rested her hands on the shoulders of her partners and looked away, struggling to endure the fumes of drink and the mindless babble of local affairs. She sat with them in parked cars, lay beneath them on coarse upholstery or against the pebbledash of a wall as they travelled her body like bears in the safety of darkness. She anaesthetised herself so that her true feelings would not emerge and word travel back to the factory where she would find herself standing alone again. She did not hear when they said, fumbling with their clothing, “They’re getting good bands here now,” or “They’re doing a lot of building on Church Hill.”

  She came home every Saturday night with the sound of hissing cymbals in her ears. She made herself toast and tea and sat listening to Radio Luxembourg. She remained there until there was nothing in her mind except a steady repetitive buzz. Then she went upstairs and fell into a deep sleep from which she didn’t care if she ever woke.

  Una Lacey had her reception in the Turnpike Inn. It was a double event for her father and mother were celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary that very day. And the council had decided to make a presentation to Mr and Mrs Pat Lacey on this occasion.

  Beneath the balloon-decked ceiling, the priest stood in the centre of the floor and whipped off his jacket, urging everyone both young and old to join in. Una Lacey and her new husband were ushered out for the hokey-cokey. The men at the bar uttered mild vulgarities behind their hands, guffawing loudly to themselves. They stared at Josie Keenan who had wandered in off the street and was brazenly surveying the proceedings from the corner of the bar. Then they looked away sharply lest they should make eye contact with her.

  John F. Kennedy smiled benignly down on everyone. Streamers flew wildly and whistles rent the air. Sadie was making her way back from the dance floor when she felt a hand on her shoulder and she turned to face Benny Dolan. She was taken aback when he asked her to dance and she became flustered and tried to stammer a reply. But they were already caught in the surge of dancers and there was nothing she could do but go with it. She was even further taken aback when Benny Dolan did not speak of mundane local affairs but of his biking holiday in Turkey with Joe Noonan, whose sister worked with her in the factory. He talked non-stop and Sadie found herself laughing as he gestured and mimicked tales of their travels. When the dance ended, he put his arm around her waist and said, “A drink maybe?” Sadie nodded, reddening a little. They sat down and he ordered a drink. They began their conversation anew by swopping acquaintances and experiences from work but then they got on to music and travel. For the first time in a long time, Sadie Rooney began to feel at ease. Joe Noonan joined them for a while. He squeezed Sadie’s arm and said, “Whatever he tells you, believe none of it. It’s all lies. Istanbul? The furthest he ever got was the school trip to Cavan.”

  Sadie’s head eased itself onto Benny’s shoulder. The priest sailed past red-cheeked, clutching at his flailing jacket. The middle-aged woman beside them leaned over and said to Sadie, bleary-eyed, “Who’s the lucky girl then?”

  “Una Lacey,” replied Sadie. “A friend of mine.”

  “Lacey? Did you say Lacey?”

  Sadie nodded. The woman frowned and pursed her lips. She was somewhat the worse for drink and had been muttering to herself. “Lacey,” she said under her breath.

  Just then there was a roll of drums and a microphone whistled. A burly man with a red face introduced himself as Jack Murphy, the secretary of the council and lifelong friend of Mr Lacey’s. He fumbled with his notes and began to speak. He said that today was a very special occasion and that, although it was somewhat unorthodox, he and his colleagues had felt that it was appropriate to take this opportunity to honour one of Carn’s finest families. He praised Mr and Mrs Lacey to the skies and said that he hoped that now Una was getting married there would be many more Laceys. This was greeted with wild cheers. He cleared his throat and continued. He went on to say that in the past few years, Pat Lacey had almost single-handedly revived the fortunes of Carn Rovers Football Club to the extent that they were now one of the finest teams in the country. They had brought great honour not only to the town but to the county also.

  He then called on Mr Lacey to come forward and accept the silver platter as a gift from the council and the people of the town to himself and his wife on the occasion of their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. There was a mighty cheer and the priest clapped louder than any. Pat Lacey stood on the stage, somewhat embarrassed. He coughed and adjusted the microphone. He said that he was astounded, that he had done nothing to deserve such a presentation. He was at a loss for words, he said. It was not he but the people of the town themselves who had revived the dormant spirit of Carn Rovers FC. And in particular men like Father Kelly and James Cooney who had given so much of their time and energy. Whistles rent the air. No, continued Pat Lacey, Carn had the best club and the finest club in the whole province. He accepted the silver platter and, turning once more to the eager assembly, raised his arm and said, “Remember—this is the year Carn leaves all other towns behind. Here We Go Carn!” Hats were flung in the air, streamers flew wildly. They clapped and cheered as the band struck up a rousing medley.

  The woman beside Sadie had moved in among them. She was still smiling to herself. Her lips went in and out as she mumbled half-sentences. She leaned over to Sadie and said something but she did not catch it and looked around her awkwardly. But Benny stepped in and said, “How’s things out by the railway? Aren’t you in the cottage?”

  Josie smiled and nodded.

  “I’m going to the bar. Do you both want a drink?”

  “Yes,” Sadie replied.

  She got into conversation with the woman who gave her her life story. She h
ad lived a long time in England. Sadie was beginning to warm to her as she continued, although much of what she said was rambling and disjointed. She dropped ash on Sadie’s dress as she said, “My father died when I was young. I left here when I was sixteen. I left here when I was your age.”

  “First chance I get, I’m going too. I’m going to do a secretarial course. You can get work over there no problem.”

  “You’ll do better than I did. That wouldn’t be hard.” Her head lolled as she steered the cigarette to her lips.

  “I was thinking of studying at night and getting some kind of qualification.”

  “Carn manages to get rid of the young ones, one way or another,” said the woman.

  “What’s your name?” asked Sadie. “Have you still got people about the town?”

  “Josie Keenan. The only people I have are in the graveyard above.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sadie said and rose as Benny returned with the drinks.

  He took the woman’s drunkenness in his stride. “Oh you’ll have to watch that landlord of yours. He owns two hundred acres and he wouldn’t give you a tosser.”

  “Move over there,” interrupted Joe Noonan as he sat down and swigged from his drink.

  Josie was accepted into the company and talked a long time to Sadie about the change in Carn.

  “I don’t see much change,” said Sadie, laughing, “apart from Blast Morgan’s new overalls.”

  The drink flowed.

  Josie sang along with them as they linked arms and chorused, “For he’s a jolly good fellow, for he’s a jolly good fellow . . .”

  Una Lacey came over trailing her train and bade them all goodnight. They blew kisses at her. They were still singing when Una’s father approached with his hand extended, saying goodbye to everyone. When he saw Josie his face went deathly pale. He stumbled against a chair and turned to cross the hall. Josie looked away and went to the ladies toilet. He stood with his back to her, trying to conceal his quivering lip with his hand. As Josie returned, one of the guests, a member of the Tidy Towns Committee, said to Pat Lacey, “I say Pat—who’s that there? I haven’t seen her before . . . who invited her?”

  Every nerve in Pat Lacey’s body tightened. He stood frozen to the spot. “I don’t know,” he repeated drymouthed. “I don’t know.”

  The other man shrugged his shoulders, disorientated by Pat Lacey’s reaction. Then he called to one of the waitresses and disappeared into the swaying crowd.

  The carousing went on until late. Josie left the Turnpike with the others. They stood in the main street, still singing. Josie told them they were all welcome out in the Hairy Mountains any time. Joe Noonan put his arm around her and said she was one of the best, even if she had a bit of an English accent. As they stood there the warm breeze fanned their cheeks.

  “We’ll have to meet again Josie,” Sadie said, “I really enjoyed that.”

  “We’ll arrange it soon, okay?” interrupted Benny.

  “We’ll meet again . . .” sang Joe Noonan, staggering against a lamppost.

  “Who knows where who knows when . . .” answered Josie.

  “Right then,” said Benny, “be seeing you, okay?”

  Josie walked to the corner with Joe Noonan and then set off towards the railway where the Hairy Mountains rose up in the distance like black tidal waves.

  Sadie got up on the pillion of Benny’s motorbike and they spent an hour cruising the back roads of Carn. “Some bike, eh Sadie?” cried Benny against the wind.

  “Fabulous,” replied Sadie.

  When they got back to the town the Golden Chip was still open and they went in for a coffee to sober up. “Tell me more about your travelling,” said Sadie. Benny’s eyes narrowed and with a mischievous glint he put his arm around her neck and said, “We’ll travel the world together you and me. The back of a Kawasaki all the way to Katmandu.”

  And the more they talked, the further Sadie drifted away from the deadening whirr of the assembly line and by the time they left the café, she felt she had known Benny Dolan a long long time.

  They stood together outside her house. “I want to talk to you all I can,” she said. She stared up at the stars and felt his warm breath on her neck. She was up there with them, far from Carn and in that instant it all came back to her, the way it had been in the Golden Chip, all those days came at once and she felt a surge of energy running through her. She stroked his face and said, “Benny. Oh Benny.”

  He quivered a little and said, “I’ve always fancied you Sadie . . .”

  “Benny. We could go anywhere . . .”

  “Anywhere,” replied Benny. “Anywhere.”

  And they sat on the window-sill until first light of dawn and Sadie awoke on his shoulder and smiled as she watched a sparrow trot along the paling fence at the bottom of Mr Galvin’s garden.

  IX

  When Northern Ireland erupted shortly afterwards, Maisie Lynch blamed drugs.

  She parroted the news bulletins verbatim at the giblet counter, addressing an imaginary audience in wounded tones, claiming that she had seen it coming for years and that her repeated warnings had been consistently ignored. “You can’t expect anything else when you fly in the face of God,” she cried.

  She accosted Benny Dolan regularly and snapped at him, “Well—what does your father think of all this carry-on in the north now? All this bombing and killing? He could tell you all about it! But there was none of that in the old days! There were decent men then. No killing children or old people then!”

  At first Benny paid her no attention but as the reports coming through became more disturbing, he grew impatient with her and, on the morning after the first British soldier had been shot in the province, she approached him reciting a scribbled prayer she had written, “For all the poor people in the north who are killed by guns and bombs O Lord we pray that they may live in peace and harmony, free from pain and trouble and strife and drugs and those who fly in Thy face. Hear our prayers, Lord, we beseech Thee.” She stood in front of Benny defiantly. When he pushed impatiently past her, she stood in the centre of the yard and called after him, “Go on then! Pay no heed! You’re as bad as any of them! Your father blew up the custom-hut!”

  The situation across the border went from bad to worse after that. The television screens were filled with images of burning barricades and crouched squaddies at street corners. Mobs outside burning terraced houses. Distraught women clutching mystified infants. In the meat plant canteen, the workers were stunned into silence by the story of three young Scottish soldiers who were lured from a public house to their deaths. Then when news came through of the British Army’s behaviour in the Catholic areas of Belfast, vengeance was sworn. Fists were clenched in the Turnpike Inn, the republican songs resounded bitterly. A number of Belfast men came to work in the factory, bringing with them tales of assassination and burnings, of horrific beatings and torture at the hands of the authorities. These men, because of what they had endured, for a time were almost worshipped. It was considered an honour to buy them a drink. They brought their own songs with them, beside which the older ballads favoured by the Carn men seemed insipid and outdated. The Turnpike Inn was filled with the sound of The Sniper’s Promise and The Weary Provo. Benny became very friendly with one of the northmen, having spent a fortnight with him in the boning hall, listening to him describe how he had been pistol-whipped in front of his wife and children, his house torn asunder before the soldiers left, spitting on a family photograph as they went, vowing to find evidence the next time they came. At home, Benny and his father spoke of little else. Everything the older man had told him in the past now began to clarify itself in his mind.

  “She’s going up again, Benny,” he said, “only this time it’ll be the final roundup. It should have been finished fifty years ago but it’ll be finished this time for sure.”

  They talked long into the small hours about the history of the state and events in the north since its inception. His father told him the story of
his uncle who was arrested by the police on Christmas day in the fifties, stripped naked and held without charge in a prison cell, taunted by the bored policemen who told them they had lifted him “Just in case he might do something sometime.”

  Over a period of time, Benny became obsessed with the subject and spent a lot of time in the company of the northmen who were taken by his knowledge and sincerity.

  Joe Noonan too became infected by this new passion.

  Gradually the enthusiasm with which they had spoken of motorbikes, music and travel began to recede, supplanted by angry outbursts against the army and the security forces in the six counties. They often went north, spending weekends with the factory northmen in their homes in Belfast and Derry.

  “Brit bastards” fell from their lips with ease. Republican stickers and tricolours adorned their bikes.

  This new development dislocated Sadie Rooney. Often she now found herself on the edge of the conversation staring in at something she did not understand. When she attempted to involve herself, her lack of conviction showed and led only to awkward, temporary silences. So on many occasions she sat there without comment as the arguments and debates took on lives of their own. She began to realise that a new uneasiness had taken hold of her. Benny had not mentioned their planned leavetaking for several months. She did want to broach the subject this time. She felt it was now up to him.

  The old tensions began to insinuate themselves. She awoke at odd times in the night. She told herself that it couldn’t happen again, not now, and revisited many of the times that they had had together since they met. But as time wore on, she began to admit to herself that things were not the same. There was no talk between them now of music, of frivolity of any kind. The new obsession had engulfed all that. Shootings, hijackings, rubber bullets, provos, stickies, Carson, Paisley, taigs, the meaningless catalogue ran through her head every night after they had been together.