Today they were having a mini barbecue to celebrate the last day of the school year, and Dylan had cooked delicious hamburgers and sausages over the hot coals, the mild evening air scented with a whiff of charcoal and the mouth-watering smell of grilled meat. Maeve had brought along coconut cakes baked by Aunt Nan – she knew that Sammy loved coconut – and Mrs Goldman had provided them with chilled bottles of Coca Cola and lemonade.
Much as Maeve had enjoyed the big adult barbecues that the Goldmans threw, somehow this was better for being their own private celebration. She looked fondly at Emma, as her friend poured out more drinks for her guests. If she hadn’t met the other girl she would never have been exposed to this world, and wouldn’t have become friends with a boy like Sammy, whom she really liked now, despite their families being from communities that were increasingly at odds.
Dylan bit into his hamburger, then chewed as though in ecstasy. ‘Hmm, wonderfully cooked. My compliments to the chef!’ he said in a silly voice. He sipped his cola and nodded appreciatively. ‘And Coca Cola nineteen sixty-nine, an excellent year!’
Maeve laughed. ‘We should record that voice as one of our accents, Emma,’ she said.
‘Yeah, how is your documentary coming along?’ asked Sammy.
‘Pretty good,’ answered Emma. We’ve recorded Mom and Dad, and some pupils in my school.’
‘And I’ve recorded Uncle Jim and Aunt Nan. Uncle Jim is from Belfast, but Aunt Nan only came here after she got married, so they’ve different accents.’
‘And what are you trying to do?’ asked Sammy, ‘Explain where accents come from?’
‘Sort of,’ answered Emma. ‘Like why is it that some of the kids at the tennis club are from Belfast, but they don’t have real Belfast accents?’
‘That’s because they’re too posh,’ said Sammy. ‘But if you want proper Belfast accents you should record on my street.’
‘Great, let’s do that then,’ said Emma enthusiastically.
Maeve was struck again by how open to other people the Goldmans were. As far as Maeve could see, most rich people were friends with other rich people, and those who were working class made friends in their own class. But Emma had said that her father wanted the family to meet people from all backgrounds, in whatever place his work took him. It explained why Emma went for private ballet lessons and was a member of a fancy tennis club, yet also ran with Ardara Harriers and was friends with someone like herself, a girl from the working class Falls Road area.
‘Brilliant coconut cakes, Maeve,’ said Sammy, after biting into one of her aunt’s buns.
‘Aunt Nan’s secret recipe. She’ll pass it on to me on her deathbed!’
Sammy grinned, then looked thoughtful. ‘You know, if you’re going to come down to Ebor Street to record, you should come on a parade day. You’d get loads of different people then.’
‘When is the next parade?’ asked Dylan.
‘In about a week. We always have a big one at the start of July.’
‘And they wouldn’t mind us recording them?’ asked Emma.
‘No, sure you’d be with me.’
‘Great.’
Maeve could see that Emma was enthusiastic, but she had been taken aback by Sammy’s comment. She looked at him now and put a question that she felt she had to ask. ‘When you say we’ve a big parade, Sammy, do you mean that you march?’
‘Well, we cheer them on. But it’s adults in the Orange Lodges who parade.’
‘Why?’
Sammy looked slightly confused. ‘Why what?’
‘Why do they parade?’
‘Sure they’ve always paraded.’
‘Yes, but that’s just saying what they do. But why parade?’
Sammy hesitated. ‘It’s just … it’s to mark the Somme, or The Twelfth.’
‘What are they?’ asked Emma.
‘The twelfth of July is the date of the Battle of the Boyne; the first of July is the Battle of the Somme. They’re big days for Orangemen, so they march to celebrate them.’
‘Do they not really march to annoy Catholics?’ asked Maeve. ‘To show them who’s boss? That they’ll march along their streets whether they like it or not?’
Sammy looked uncomfortable. Maeve sensed that he hadn’t thought this out fully, but that he was too honest to deny that there was truth in what she said.
‘A lot of it … a lot of it is fun,’ said Sammy. ‘Like, there’re bonfires, and street parties, and bands and drumming and all that.’
‘I’m sure there is. And I’m not looking to fight with you, Sammy,’ said Maeve. ‘But it’s not much fun for people who feel surrounded, with Lambeg drums being pounded outside their doors, outside their churches, in areas where the Orangemen don’t live.’
Sammy looked thoughtful, but before he could reply, Dylan spoke up. ‘What happened our rule, folks?’
‘Yeah,’ said Emma. ‘We said when we were together we weren’t Jews, or Catholics or Protestants – just friends. That we’d leave all that stuff outside?’
Maeve looked at the twins and realised that they were right. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to break the rule. The parade thing just came up, but I don’t want us to fall out.’ She turned to Sammy, hoping that she hadn’t spoiled things. ‘Friends?’ she asked.
There was a brief pause while Sammy looked back at her seriously. Then he spoke ‘How could we not be, when your aunt makes brilliant coconut cakes?’ He grinned, then offered his hand.
Maeve smiled in return. She thought that shaking hands was a bit formal, but she was relieved that the tension was eased and shook Sammy’s hand.
‘Right,’ said Emma happily. ‘Now that’s sorted out, let’s make ourselves sick eating hamburgers and coconut cake. All in favour say “aye”!’
‘Aye!’ they all cried.
Mom was in her element. She had gone into full hippy mode for tonight’s exhibition, and Emma smiled as she watched her mother greeting the guests, dressed in a kaftan, and with her hair held back by a spangled headband. Dad was wearing a wine-coloured velvet jacket, and although some grey had appeared in his thick blond hair he wore it fairly long and looked suitably fashionable. But although Dad could fit in with tonight’s arty crowd, he still had a practical side and had convinced Mom that placing joss sticks around the gallery was a step too far. Mom had given way on that one, but had insisted on Eastern music being played through the speakers, and the sitar playing of Ravi Shankar could be heard now, giving the occasion an air of cool trendiness.
In contrast to Mom’s hippy look, Sammy’s mother, Mrs Taylor, was wearing a conservative floral dress, which Emma suspected was probably her best outfit. Emma had thought that Mrs Taylor looked a bit lost in the aftermath of being introduced to Mom, who then got pulled away to meet an art critic. Feeling a little sorry for her, Emma had chatted to Sammy’s mother, and had been slightly surprised to find how interesting she was. Emma had often seen the huge mill buildings that were such a feature of Belfast, but she had never been inside one, and Mrs Taylor had just told her about the history of Belfast’s linen industry, and what it was like to work in one of the city’s biggest mills.
‘It sounds like the stuff you make is beautiful,’ said Emma, ‘but it also sounds like really hard work.’
‘It’s all of that,’ said Mrs Taylor with a wry smile.
‘So, would you prefer to do something else?’
‘I’m not qualified for anything else, love. And even though the pay’s not great, it’s still a job. And there’s plenty would take your place if you don’t hold onto it.’
‘Right,’ said Emma. She knew Sammy’s family wasn’t well off, but it was only when Mrs Taylor had told her about conditions in the mills that she realised how gruelling life was for many people.
‘Now – reinforcements!’ said Dylan, as he and Sammy suddenly arrived with the plates of hors d’oeuvres that they were serving to the guests. ‘More cheese, Mrs Taylor?’
‘Thank you, Dylan, I don’t mind
if I do.’
‘Another olive, Ma?’ said Sammy, offering his plate.
Mrs Taylor looked at Emma and smiled. ‘I’ve never had olives before, but they’re delicious! Thanks, Sammy,’ she said, taking an olive that was skewered on a little wooden stick.
‘I can’t wait to see Da’s face when we start having olives at home!’ said Sammy with a grin.
‘Sammy’s da would be a wee bit set in his ways,’ explained Mrs Taylor, ‘when it comes to food.’
Or anything else, thought Emma, though of course she didn’t say it. She wondered what Mr Taylor would think of Mom’s gesture to feminism, whereby she had inverted the usual custom of girls helping to serve food, and instead asked Dylan and Sammy to circulate with the plates of hors d’oeuvres. Before she could think about it any more she caught sight of Maeve and her aunt, and she turned to Sammy’s mother.
‘Mrs Taylor, can I introduce you to my friend Maeve, and her aunt?’
‘Yes, I’d love to meet them.’
‘Carry on, boys, guests to be fed!’ said Emma playfully.
Sammy pretended to throw the plate of olives at her, and Dylan contented himself with making a face, then Emma led Mrs Taylor across the room.
‘Hi, Maeve. Hi, Mrs Sweeney. I’d like you to meet Sammy’s mother, Mrs Taylor.’
Maeve and her aunt shook hands, and Emma watched carefully to see how the two women responded to one another. Shortly after arriving in Belfast, Emma had been shocked to be told that the first thing people in Northern Ireland did on being introduced was to figure out to which of the two tribes the other person belonged. With a name like Taylor, Sammy’s mother was probably Protestant, while Maeve’s Aunt Nan, with a name like Sweeney, was probably Catholic. But if the two women were sizing each other up Emma wasn’t aware of it, and the mood between them seemed relaxed and friendly. Maeve’s aunt explained that her husband had lost his job and couldn’t be here tonight as he was in Donegal, meeting a builder who might have another job for him. Mrs Taylor sympathised over the job loss and said that her own husband had to visit a sick relation tonight.
Emma looked at Maeve and raised her eyebrow. They both knew what Sammy’s father was like and that this was almost certainly a polite lie.
‘Your mother is very talented, Emma,’ said Maeve’s aunt now.
‘Thanks, Mrs Sweeney, I’ll tell her you said that!’
‘We’ve already told her,’ explained Maeve.
‘Yeah? Don’t give her a swelled head, I have to live with her,’ replied Emma with a smile.
‘I wasn’t sure what to expect,’ said Sammy’s mother. ‘I don’t know anything about art, and some of the stuff they call art nowadays …’ she opened her hands in a gesture of despair, before smiling. ‘But your mother’s landscapes are wonderful.’
Emma thought she looked like Sammy when she smiled, and she was touched by the woman’s sincerity. ‘Thanks, Mrs Taylor.’
‘How long will the exhibition run?’ asked Maeve’s aunt.
‘About a month,’ answered Emma. ‘We’re going off on holidays for three weeks on Monday, but the gallery will let Mom know how sales are going.’
‘I’m sure they’ll sell very well,’ said Sammy’s mother. ‘And where are you off to?’
‘Nerja, in Spain. Dad’s promised us a break for ages, and Mom is exhausted after all the work for the exhibition. So, three weeks in the Spanish sun …’
‘Sounds brilliant,’ said Maeve, ‘but we’ll really miss you and Dylan.’
‘We’ll miss you too. But you’ll have Sammy to keep you company.’ As soon as she said it Emma wondered if this was a mistake. While the Sweeneys and the Taylors each knew that Maeve and Sammy had become friend with the Goldmans, she wasn’t sure how much they knew about Sammy and Maeve also being friends.
Before she could consider it any further they were all distracted by the sound of smashing glass in the street outside. Emma knew from Dad about the protest marches and riots that were convulsing Northern Ireland. Now, first hand, she saw Royal Ulster Constabulary Land Rovers screeching to a halt across the street below the window of the gallery. Bricks and other missiles began to rain down on the RUC men, and Emma felt her stomach tighten in fear as she realised that a riot was erupting right below her.
‘Get back from the windows!’ cried her father, crossing the room toward her. ‘Get back from the windows, everybody!’
Emma quickly stepped back from the gallery windows. She had no idea how the riot had started and was frightened at how suddenly the violence had erupted. She could hear screaming and shouting, and the sound of police sirens approaching. Without warning, a window further down the room was shattered, and a brick skidded across the floor of the gallery. Several of the guests screamed in shock, and Emma swallowed hard. For weeks people had been saying that Northern Ireland was on the brink of sectarian warfare, and now, suddenly, terrifyingly, Emma realised that they were right, and that chaos was coming.
Fighting and rioting seemed light years away as Dylan lay on a lounger by the hotel swimming pool, savouring the hot sun that shone in a clear blue sky. The scent of jasmine hung in the air, and his favourite pop song of the moment, ‘I Heard It Through the Grapevine’ was playing from the poolside speakers. He could see his mother tapping out the rhythm of the song with her fingers as she lay back on her lounger, while Emma sat beside him engrossed in her book. They were a week into their stay in Nerja, and Dylan almost felt guilty at how much he was enjoying the family’s Spanish holiday, knowing that Northern Ireland was in turmoil.
After the major Orange marches on the twefth of July there had been widespread rioting, with serious violence in Derry, Dungiven and Belfast. In some districts families had had to flee their homes, and Dylan hoped that Sammy and Maeve would be safe amidst all the trouble. He had brought postcards down to the pool, but now he feared that sending a postcard enthusing about Nerja might seem insensitive when his friends were in the middle of so much conflict. On the other hand he had promised to write, and he didn’t want them to think he was being rude or had forgotten about them. He sat up on his lounger and turned to Emma.
‘Do you think I should still send postcards to Sammy and Maeve?’
Emma lowered her book and looked at him. ‘Why wouldn’t you?’
‘There’s so much trouble in Belfast, but we’re having a great time. I don’t want it to sound like I’m rubbing it in.’
‘Maeve and Sammy know you better than that. We said we’d send them cards, so we should.’
‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ said Dylan. ‘I just hope they’re OK.’
‘They’ll stay out of trouble.’ Emma put her book down, then spoke softly so that her mother wouldn’t hear. ‘Will they be able to stay friends, though?’
‘Of course.’
‘There’s no of course, Dylan. With Protestants and Catholics attacking each other, they mightn’t be allowed.’
‘I don’t think they’ve said much at home about being friends with one another.’
‘But Mrs Taylor and Aunt Nan saw we were all friends the night of Mom’s exhibition.’
‘Yes, but I’d say Mrs Taylor thinks Sammy is friends with me, and Maeve’s aunt probably thinks the same about you and Maeve.’
‘Maybe,’ said Emma, ‘but it’s really mad that we couldn’t all just be friends openly.’
‘The whole thing is really mad,’ answered Dylan, then he noticed his father approaching. Dad had gone into the hotel to make some phone calls, and Dylan saw that his face looked grim. ‘Everything OK, Dad?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
Mom sat up on her lounger. ‘What’s wrong?’
Dylan watched carefully as his father answered. ‘I was on to Belfast. It was only a matter of time till someone was killed. Now a man who was batoned by the police has died.’
‘Oh no,’ said Mom. ‘That’s awful.’
‘Yeah. And I know you don’t want to hear this, but I should be back there, covering
it.’
‘You’re entitled to a holiday, David,’ said Mom. ‘We all are.’
‘Not while a country unravels. It’s my job, Julie; I need to be covering it.’
Mom seemed like she was going to respond, but Dad looked her in the eye.
‘You know I do,’ he said.
Mom said nothing, and Dylan sensed that this was her way of reluctantly agreeing.
Emma, however, spoke up. ‘Does that mean we have to cut short our holiday?’
Dylan was enjoying Spain, and hoped his father wouldn’t end their time in Nerja.
‘This is turning into a major story,’ answered Dad. ‘I have to be back there on the ground. But there’s no reason for the rest of you to end your holiday.’
Dylan felt selfish now for wanting to stay on, and worried too that his father might get caught up in the vicious rioting. As if reading his thoughts, Emma spoke up again.
‘But if you go back, Dad, it could be dangerous. You could get hurt.’
‘No, love. It’s dangerous for the people involved in the trouble, no question. But journalists like me aren’t involved with either side, we’re simply reporting.’
‘But even so, Dad–’ began Dylan, before being cut short by his father swiftly raising his hand.
‘No “buts”,’ said Dad. ‘Your mom is right, you all deserve a holiday. So you stay on and enjoy it, I won’t hear of anyone else coming back – that’s final. And we’ll all get away together for Rosh Hashanah, I promise.’
Rosh Hashanah was the Jewish New Year, and Dylan always enjoyed their annual visit to Leeds to celebrate it with his grandparents. He couldn’t get excited about it now, however.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll ring every day to let you know I’m fine,’ said Dad. ‘OK?’
Emma reluctantly nodded in agreement.
‘Dylan?’
‘Yeah, OK, Dad,’ he answered. But even as he said it he realised that the holiday wouldn’t be the same now. And despite Dad’s assurances, he would worry about his father, and his friends, and the trouble that was spreading across Belfast.
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