Stormclouds

by Brian Gallagher

  ‘So why are we celebrating it?’ asked Emma. ‘It’s not part of our culture either.’

  ‘But we’re living here,’ said Mom. ‘And it’s part of Ireland’s culture. And Northern Ireland is still in Ireland.’

  ‘OK,’ said Emma. ‘But it makes you think. Like, where are we from? What’s our home?

  This was something Dylan wondered about too and he looked to his father who replied thoughtfully.

  ‘When you get down to it, home is really where your family is.’

  ‘That’s OK for you, Dad,’ said Dylan. ‘Your family is in Leeds where you grew up. Just like Mom grew up with her family in New York.’

  ‘But we’re always moving,’ chipped in Emma. ‘So where are Dylan and me supposed to be from?’

  ‘Well, you were born in England, so you’re British citizens,’ answered their father.

  ‘But we don’t sound English, Dad,’ said Dylan, ‘’cause we’ve lived in different parts of the States. We’re always moving.’

  His father shrugged. ‘That’s my job, Dylan. I go to where history is being made.’

  ‘And you’re getting a chance to see interesting places, different peoples,’ said Mom.

  Dylan was tempted to say that he had seen enough interesting places, but he remembered his earlier thoughts about how lucky he was and decided not to ruin Mom’s Patrick’s Day celebration.

  ‘Try not to see moving as a problem, more an opportunity,’ said his father.

  ‘Right,’ answered Dylan. He half expected Emma to keep up the argument, but she had been in good form ever since making friends with Maeve Kennedy and joining the running club, and now she let the matter drop.

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Mom. ‘How about we have a treat?’

  ‘Yeah?’ said Dylan.

  ‘For the day that’s in it,’ she said with a straight face, ‘what about a double helping of bacon and cabbage for dinner?!’

  ‘And all the buttermilk you can drink!’ said Dad in a phoney Irish accent.

  Dylan smiled but Emma tried to sound annoyed.

  ‘That’s not funny,’ she said.

  ‘With fried shamrock, and lightly grilled leprechaun!’ added Dad.

  This time Dylan laughed and his sister couldn’t help but join in.

  ‘And maybe after lunch we’ll take in a movie and have a Wimpy on the way home?’ suggested Mom.

  Dylan felt a surge of affection for her and gave her a thumbs up sign. ‘Now you’re talking!’

  ‘But first you have to say it,’ said Dad.

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘Top of the mornin’!’

  ‘That’s so stage Irish, Dad,’ said Emma.

  ‘I know, but there you are. So – a movie, a wimpy, and I’ll even throw in a box of Maltesers. What do you say?’

  Dylan didn’t hesitate. ‘Bejapers and begorrah, the top of the mornin’ to you!’

  ‘Done,’ said his father. ‘Happy St Patrick’s Day!’

  Sammy knew he was in trouble. Every Saturday afternoon he worked as a messenger boy for Smyth’s grocery store in the city centre, and today he had taken a risk on his way back from a delivery. Most of Smyth’s customers lived in loyalist areas, but Sammy had cut through a nationalist neighbourhood, his interest aroused by the sight of young men holding aloft the kind of placards he had seen on protest marches on television. He had cycled in their direction, but before he knew what was happening five boys of about his own age had surrounded his bike, and he had immediately cursed himself for his curiosity.

  There had been a protest march earlier, during which the police had clashed again with nationalists demanding civil rights. In spite of his loyalist upbringing, part of Sammy couldn’t help but feel sympathy for them. The marchers demand for one-man-one-vote didn’t seem that much to ask, even though Da said that if they got that, then thousands of Catholics would push for better housing and jobs, and it would be working-class Protestants like themselves who would lose out. Sammy hadn’t argued back, not wanting to annoy his father. But though he understood Da’s concern, he thought one-man-one-vote was only fair, and that maybe the police shouldn’t be so willing to baton civil rights marchers.

  He had entertained those thoughts at lunch time, in the safety of his own home, but now his sympathy was replaced by fear, as the nationalist boys moved in on him.

  ‘What have we got here?’ said their leader, a tall boy with red hair and a strutting walk.

  ‘What are you doing on our street?’ said his sidekick, a smaller, stocky boy with a turn in his eye.

  The three other boys had positioned themselves to the side and behind him, but a quick look told Sammy that the first two boys were the ones that mattered. Despite the fact that his heart was racing, Sammy smiled and tried to sound casual.

  ‘Maybe you can help me, lads,’ he said. ‘I’m heading for Castle Street, but I took a wrong turn.’

  ‘Yeah, I think maybe you did,’ said the red-haired boy with a smirk.

  ‘Smyth’s grocers,’ said his stocky friend, reading the name from the advertising sign on Sammy’s bicycle. ‘I’ve never seen you delivering here before.’

  ‘No,’ answered Sammy, trying to keep his tone relaxed, ‘I normally don’t do this area. ‘What’s the quickest way back into town?’

  ‘Don’t be in such a hurry,’ said Red Head, placing his hand on the handlebars.

  ‘I’m not in a hurry, just asking for directions.’

  ‘We’ll give directions when we’re ready. Where do you normally deliver?’

  Sammy hesitated, not wanting to reveal that it was exclusively loyalist areas that he serviced for Smyth’s. ‘Wherever I’m sent,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘All over the city, really.’

  ‘Wherever you’re sent? That sounds like a smart answer, pal,’ said Red Head, and Sammy could see the other boys smiling, aware that their leader was trying to pick a fight.

  ‘I’m not trying to be smart. I’m just doing a job, lads,’ said Sammy.

  ‘You’re doing a job for Smyth’s,’ answered the stocky boy. ‘That sounds like a Protestant name. Are you a Prod too?’

  Sammy shook his head. If he admitted his religion this would end badly. ‘Smyth’s are a Protestant firm,’ he replied, ‘but they hire Catholics as messenger boys.’

  ‘So you’re a Catholic then?’ said Red Head.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Short Strand,’ answered Sammy, opting for the most distant nationalist area he could think of.

  ‘So you wouldn’t have much time for the Queen?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Say “To hell with the Queen” then.’

  Sammy hated doing it, but he had no choice, and so he answered. ‘To hell with the Queen.’

  Red Head looked him in the eye, and Sammy wasn’t sure if he had convinced the other boy. Red Head held his gaze, then reached into his pocket and took out a coin. He turned it over so that the image of the queen was uppermost, then held it out towards Sammy. ‘Spit on the Queen,’ he said.

  Sammy hesitated, something inside him rebelling.

  ‘I knew it,’ said the other boy triumphantly. ‘You’re a little Prod.’

  ‘Know what we do with Prods?’ asked the stocky boy, but Sammy didn’t respond. Although he could feel his mouth going dry and his heart thumping, he was trying to think clearly. He remembered something that his trainer, Buckie, had told him when reminiscing about his days as a paratrooper. Take the initiative when the enemy least expects it. If he was to get out of this he had to find the courage to take the initiative.

  ‘Look, you’ve got this all wrong, lads,’ Sammy said, dismounting from the bicycle and propping it up. ‘The reason I didn’t want to spit, is that–’

  But Sammy never finished the sentence. Lunging forward with all his strength, he punched Red Head in the stomach and saw the bigger boy doubling up with a gasp of pain. Spinning around, Sammy gave a full force kick in the shins to the stocky boy, who scr
eamed out in agony, then dropped to one knee, holding his leg. Sammy had counted on the other three boys being followers rather than leaders, and sure enough, with the two toughest members out of action, they hesitated as Sammy grabbed the bicycle and pulled it off the stand. He drove it straight at the nearest boy who jumped out of the way, then Sammy mounted the bicycle and pedalled furiously down the road. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Red Head still doubled up, and the stocky boy clutching his shin. ‘God Save the Queen!’ cried Sammy, then he cycled as fast as he could towards the main road and safety.

  ‘Emma, turn down the volume!’

  ‘Ah, Dad.’

  ‘It’s background music, not an outside broadcast!’

  Emma looked appealingly at her father. ‘It’s the Beach Boys, Dad, they go with barbecues.’

  ‘Never argue with a man carrying barbecue tongs!’ said her father, advancing across the lawn in mock threat. ‘Now lower it and don’t sneak up the volume again!’

  ‘All right, all right!’ Emma said making for the door of the kitchen.

  The spring sunshine bathed the back garden with warmth, and although she pretended to be annoyed, Emma was actually in good form. She had loved barbecues when they lived in America, and this was the first one her parents had held since coming to Belfast. Lots of the adults had arrived already, with some chatting in the garden, some clustered around her father as he tended the delicious-smelling steaks on the barbecue, while others greeted her mother who was dispensing drinks from the kitchen.

  Dylan and his friend Sammy were organising golf balls and a target for a putting competition, and Emma said, ‘Don’t forget the left handed club for me,’ as she passed them.

  ‘It’s all the one, you haven’t a hope of winning!’ said her twin brother, but Emma ignored him as she went to the stereo system and lowered the volume. It was The Beach Boys latest hit, ‘Do it Again’, and Emma thought it was a brilliant song. Why did old people like Dad never want to hear good music played loudly? Would there come a day when she would be like that? She hoped never to be that old-fashioned, then her thoughts were disturbed when she heard the doorbell ringing.

  ‘I’ll get it!’ she cried, moving excitedly down the hall towards the front door. She had enjoyed the company of her new friend Maeve Kennedy over the last couple of weeks, and had invited her to the Sunday barbecue. She liked Maeve’s enthusiasm and how the other girl managed to find some fun even in the tough training drills they did in the running club. She opened the heavy oak hall door now, and there was her friend, her freckled face wreathed in a smile and her curly brown hair tied up with two yellow ribbons.

  ‘Hi, Maeve,’ she said.

  ‘Emma – your house is huge!’

  Emma took her home for granted, but now, seeing it through Maeve’s eyes, she realised how her family must appear rich compared to Maeve’s. What did that matter though if you were friends? ‘Come on in,’ she said, ‘and I’ll show you around.’

  ‘Thanks’, said Maeve,’ stepping into the hallway. ‘But first I’ve to give this to your ma.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Two jars of homemade marmalade from my Aunt Nan.’

  ‘OK.’

  Emma led the way down the hall, then brought Maeve to where her mother was stirring fruit in a bowl of punch. ‘Mom, Maeve has something for you.’

  ‘Hello, Mrs Goldman. Just a little present from my aunt,’ said Maeve, handing over the wrapped jars.

  ‘Thank you, honey. There was no need, but thank your aunt very much all the same.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Come on and I’ll get you a drink,’ said Emma. ‘If you stay here any longer Mom will start telling you Patrick’s Day jokes.’

  Maeve grinned at Emma. ‘Well, I loved the one you told me about the sleepy leprechaun.’

  ‘Hey, this is a girl after my own heart!’ cried Mom. ‘Give her a double helping!’

  Despite Mom’s corny jokes, Emma liked the way her mother was always welcoming, and now she happily led Maeve to the far side of the kitchen, where rows of soft drinks were laid out on a table. ‘Coke, Pepsi, orange, lemonade? What will you have?’

  ‘Eh … orange please.’

  Emma poured her friend a glass of a fizzy local orange drink, then popped in some ice cubes. ‘Fancy a sly cupcake before the barbecue?’

  ‘If I knew what a cupcake was.’

  Emma was amazed. ‘Never heard of a cupcake?’

  Maeve made an earnest face. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die in a barrel of rats!’

  Emma laughed. ‘It’s a little sponge cake with icing. Look,’ she said, leading Maeve to a corner of the kitchen and lifting the lid on a large tray of ornately iced cakes.

  ‘Oh, they’re like fairy cakes, only fancier.’

  ‘We’ll scoff one each before anyone sees us,’ Emma said, handing one to Maeve and eating one herself.

  ‘Mmm,’ said Maeve, ‘absolutely gorgeous!’

  ‘Yeah. And you’ve never heard them called cupcakes?’

  ‘No. But then I’ve never been to a barbecue either.’

  ‘We had them all the time in America. Wait till you taste Dad’s barbecued steaks.’

  ‘Can’t wait.’

  ‘And Dylan and his friend Sammy are setting up a putting competition. Will we take them on?’

  ‘Are they any good?’

  ‘They’re boys, so they think they’re great at everything.’

  ‘OK’, said Maeve. ‘Let’s teach them a lesson!

  ‘You’re on!’ said Emma, glad already that she had invited her new friend to the barbecue.

  The thump of an explosion sounded in the distance, and Emma quickly turned to her brother. ‘Was that … was that a bomb?’

  ‘I’d say so,’ answered Dylan.

  In spite of herself Emma felt a little bit excited at something so dramatic, but she knew that this was a bad development. And though the sound came from far away, she sensed a ripple of unease running through the guests at the barbecue.

  It was a pity, because everything had gone really well. The food had been delicious, and she and Maeve had beaten Dylan and Sammy by two points in a competitive and highly enjoyable putting competition. It had only been when she had introduced them that it occurred to her that Maeve was from a nationalist area and Sammy from a loyalist one. Ever since coming to Belfast, however, Emma had felt that most of the trouble between Catholics and Protestants made no sense, and she had been pleased when Maeve and Sammy had gotten on well.

  ‘They’ve probably attacked another water reservoir,’ said Sammy.

  ‘What a daft thing to attack,’ said Dylan, and for once Emma had to agree with her brother.

  Tension had been rising because of the civil rights protests, and over the previous few weeks there had been several bomb attacks on reservoirs, causing water shortages in Belfast and parts of county Down.

  ‘Daft is right, but that’s the IRA for you,’ said Sammy.

  Emma had heard her father talking about the IRA and knew that it stood for the Irish Republican Army, an armed group that wanted the British to leave Northern Ireland.

  ‘Who says it was the IRA?’ asked Maeve.

  ‘My da told me,’ answered Sammy.

  ‘My uncle heard it could be the UVF,’ argued Maeve.

  Emma looked at Maeve in surprise. The UVF was a loyalist armed group, and loyalists were in favour of Northern Ireland keeping the link with Britain.

  ‘But why would the UVF bomb reservoirs? They’re not against the government?’

  ‘They’re doing it so the IRA will get the blame. That’s what Uncle Jim heard.’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Why is it crazy?’ queried Maeve

  ‘It just is.’

  ‘That’s not much of an argument, Sammy.’

  Emma wished there didn’t have to be any argument at all, but before she could intervene Sammy spoke again. ‘It’s just lies they made up.’

  ‘My uncle do
esn’t tell lies.’

  ‘I’m not saying he does,’ said Sammy. ‘But what he was told is a lie. The IRA just want to shift the blame.’

  ‘IRA, UVF – why can’t they butt out?’ asked Dylan. ‘Let the government and the civil rights people do a deal, and leave us all in peace?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Emma, pleased that her brother had put into words what she thought, and hoping that this disagreement wouldn’t break up their foursome. Although she and Dylan had met other children in school and at the local tennis club, in both places factions were already formed. She and Dylan were the new kids – not quite excluded – but not really part of the ‘in gang’. Now, with Sammy and Maeve, Emma had hoped to have her own little gang, and she didn’t want to see things spoiled.

  ‘Let’s not fight over any of this stuff, it’s too stupid,’ she said. ‘Can we all just be friends?’

  She looked at Maeve. There was a brief pause, then to her relief Maeve smiled and said ‘OK.’

  ‘Sammy?’

  The other boy looked at her, and she feared he was going to argue. Then he shrugged his shoulders and gave a wry smile. ‘Yeah, why not?’ he said.

  ‘Great,’ answered Emma. ‘And just to celebrate it, let’s have another game of putting. Think you could beat us girls this time?’

  ‘You only won by a fluke the last time,’ said Dylan.

  ‘OK, Maeve, let’s show them, yeah?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Right, boys’ said Emma, ‘get ready for a beating!’

  ‘I don’t like Good Friday,’ said Maeve, ‘it always feels kind of gloomy.’

  ‘Really, Maeve,’ said Aunt Nan reprovingly. ‘It’s the day Our Lord died for our sins; of course it’s a sad day.’

  They were sitting at the kitchen table having a dinner of fried fish – meat being forbidden on Good Friday – and Uncle Jim pushed his empty plate aside and looked at Maeve.

  ‘Sure Lent is a doddle nowadays. Years ago we didn’t just fast on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday, we fasted all forty days of Lent.’