Herself Alone in Orange Rain

by Tracey Iceton

  ‘It’s the only way I can keep up,’ I say.

  ‘Well, there’s no need for it,’ he says, as if he gets what it’s like for me. ‘Mind, you go charging off again and I’ll skin you same as I would the lads. A dead volunteer’s no use to anyone. Next time wait for orders.’

  Rory drops us at a safe house, leaves with the guns, heading for the nearest weapons dump.

  The house belongs to a wifie, sixty-five or more, white hair in rollers. She greets us in her slippers and dressing gown. From behind bifocals her eyes fix on me but all she says is:

  ‘I’m away to bed, Sean, help yourselves to tea.’

  ‘Thanks, Ma,’ Sean replies.

  Liam takes me into the kitchen. I sit at the table while he brews a pot. Sean joins us, bringing whiskey. He gets mugs and pours three measures.

  I push mine away.

  He pushes it back. ‘Drink. Then tea and bed.’

  I down the dram in one and wait for tea, visions of Cathy, her chest ripped apart, her legs buckled, flashing behind my eyes. I curse Aiden for not being here; I need to hold onto him, let go of myself. I sniff back tears. The smell of Callum’s piss wafts up from my jumper. I gag and drag it over my head to sit there in my t-shirt, shivering. Sean thrust my top into the washer, goes out, returns with a pink knitted jumper. I take it but don’t put it on. Liam pours the tea and Sean tips whiskey into each mug.

  ‘I’ll see you’re in the guard of honour,’ he pauses. ‘There’s something else you can do too, if you’re needing help getting your head right.’

  ‘There’s nothing the matter with my head. They attacked; we fought back. If you’re talking about reprisals I’m not interested. I volunteered to fight a war.’

  ‘And if reprisals are a legitimate military tactic?’ he asks.

  ‘Convince me they are and I’ll do what needs doing but I’ll not kill out of revenge, that makes us as bad as them.’

  He eyeballs me. ‘You’re a hard one.’

  Blinking away fresh tears, more thoughts of Aiden, I drag the pullover on. ‘I need to be.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  We move twice in the week before Cathy’s funeral. Liam and I stay together but Sean disappears after a couple of days, other things to see to. Nora gets in touch. We meet in a café on the outskirts of West Belfast.

  She’s sat in the corner, sipping coffee, hands clasped, face impassive, when I arrive. She hugs me. We wait until the waitress goes before talking.

  ‘How’s Frank?’

  ‘He’ll live,’ she says, then sighs. ‘As for walking…’

  ‘Danny? Callum?’

  ‘Callum’s staying with us. There’s nowhere else for him to go. Danny…’ She shrugs. ‘He’s after the boys every day about letting him join. I can’t stop him but I’ve told them he’s too young yet.’ She reaches for my hand. ‘You saved our lives. If you hadn’t come...’

  ‘I didn’t save Cathy.’

  ‘She never would go down without fighting. She thought they were after Callum, charged at them, so she did. Mother’s instinct.’

  I wonder if it wasn’t something else, her years in the Cumann na mBan, maybe a combination.

  ‘You’ll be there on Wednesday?’ Nora asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  She lowers her voice, ‘In the colour party?’

  I nod.

  ‘She’d have liked that.’

  When I return to the safe house Liam greets me at the door.

  ‘You’ve a visitor.’ He nods towards the lounge.

  Perched stiff-backed on the sofa, hands resting in her lap, is a woman. She could be twenty, or forty; her face is made up after Joan Collins, her hair set in soft waves lacquered to stiff with Silverkrin, the cut of her wool skirt tailored for a price. She rises stiffly; offers me a limp hand. When I put mine to it, her grip is vague.

  ‘I’m Pauline,’ she says. ‘I’ve brought you this for Wednesday.’ She points to a parcel.

  I unwrap a black skirt, v-neck jumper, white blouse and black beret.

  ‘I assume you’ve some shoes?’ She presses her mouth into a tight line, eyeing my steel-toe capped boots, crusted with mud.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Your uniform, for the colour party.’

  No it’s not. It’s a fucking insult, to me and Cathy.

  ‘It’s what Cumann na mBan girls wear,’ she adds, mistaking my unblinking angry silence for moon-eyed stupidity.

  ‘But I’m IRA.’ I remember Aiden, at Sands’ funeral, olive green trousers, camouflage jacket, boots shiny, face hidden by a balaclava. That’s my uniform.

  She sniffs. ‘I’m aware but Cathy was Cumann na mBan. I thought as a mark of respect you’d dress appropriately.’

  ‘So she’s worthy of your respect now?’

  ‘Of course she is. She was one of us.’

  ‘One of you?’ I snap. ‘Where was that sisterly camaraderie when Callum was born?’

  Pauline’s mouth twitches. She’d love to bollock me. But I’m not one of her girls. ‘How dare you?’

  ‘How dare you!’

  I’m dangerously close to calling her a two-faced bitch and winding up on a charge. I take a breath, drop into the nearest armchair and light a cigarette, a handy show of nonchalance that heads off my trembling thighs before they give way.

  ‘Now we’ve won ourselves the right to be ’Ra volunteers I’ll not be surrendering it.’

  ‘I’ll have words with your OC about this insolence.’

  Bubbling rage bottled, she gathers the clothes and bangs out.

  Liam comes in as soon as she’s gone.

  ‘You’re a one,’ he says.

  ‘Hypocritical cow. After how they treated Cathy!’

  He grins but shakes his head. ‘Ach, she’s alright, served well in her day, so they’re saying. You shouldn’t judge her by your standards. When we went to the cell structure the Army Council disbanded them, skimmed the cream into new units and the rest left to curdle.’

  ‘What’s that, women’s lib IRA style?’ I joke.

  ‘Sure, I know nothing about that stuff. I’d fight with a one-legged leprechaun as long as he, or she, could aim straight.’

  Despite my outraged outburst the Cumann na mBan still parade for Cathy’s funeral. A dozen women, black bandannas tied across their noses, eyes hidden behind sunglasses even though the day is concrete-grey, follow the coffin like bridesmaids behind a sacrificial bride.

  Aiden’s here too, thank God, allowed back from Glasgow because Cathy was family, his and the ’Ra’s. Seeing him again I realise I’ve been holding my breath for three months. Now all I can think about is breathing him. As we line up to take the coffin he winks at me, the only greeting possible thanks to the masks we wear. I think my lungs will burst. If we’re lucky we’ll get the night together.

  The tricolour covering the coffin flutters into my eyes. The wood digs into my shoulder as it tips awkwardly towards me because I’m shorter than the boys who carry it with me. Aiden and Liam are behind with Rory and two other lads on the opposite side. We lower it slowly, my arms trembling under the weight I won’t drop, then step back for the brief orations, one by the priest and another by a Sinn Fein member I’ve not seen before. He speaks of Cathy’s dedication to the Republican Cause, how she died protecting her family from a Loyalist murder squad. The words numb like codeine. I see why Daideo didn’t want this for my parents’ funerals. Aiden bumps against me. I daren’t look at him. It would break me.

  Armalites are handed out. I haven’t fired one since basic training and sneak a glance at Aiden, copying his movements. We aim, fire three times and pass the weapons to waiting hands who disappear them under long coats. The proceedings completed we strip off our Army gear and mingle with the mourners. I lose Aiden in the crowd and, while searching for him, see Frank, wheelchair-bound and swaddled in blankets. Amongst the Republican graves we’re safe so I go to him.

  He grips my hand with both of his, pressing my palm hard.

  ‘Je
sus, Caoilainn, you’ve no idea,’ he says.

  ‘I didn’t stop them.’

  ‘You chased them off, so you did. Saved my life.’ He lowers his voice, ‘You’re active again, are you?’

  I press my other hand over his. ‘I know you spoke up for me. Thanks.’

  ‘They could see for themselves you’re a capable volunteer. I’m just an ould fella now.’ He presses fingers into his eye sockets, squeezing water from them. ‘Talking’s all I’m good for. But not you.’ He crushes my hands between his. ‘All I’ve wanted was to see you right.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He nods and lets me go.

  Aiden appears. I feel his hand on my arm, finally I can breathe again. Air rushes into my lungs.

  ‘How are ya, Da?’ He bends to kiss his broken father.

  ‘Grand, son, yourself?’

  Aiden smiles, laces his fingers through mine. ‘Grand, now.’

  We spend the night in Cathy’s old flat. The council hasn’t reassigned it yet so we’re safe. We drink too much whiskey and make love in front of the gas fire, getting toasted on one side and chilled on the other. Later, sobered up, we talk.

  ‘Your OC had a word at the funeral,’ Aiden says. ‘He tells me they’ve picked a target, UDR fella they reckon could’ve been one of the lot that did Cathy. He said I can be in on it.’

  ‘And will you?’

  ‘Won’t you?’ he challenges.

  He’s already had the answer from Sean but he’s daring me to say it.

  ‘No.’

  ‘She was family.’ His voice is hard with anger

  ‘And that’s why I won’t do it.’

  ‘Jesus, Caoilainn, that makes no sense. If you won’t do it for Cathy you should be doing it because he’s one of them, just a Brit in a different uniform: the enemy.’

  ‘If I could be sure that’s why I was doing it then I would but how can I live with myself if I make it personal?’

  ‘How can you live with yourself if you kid on it isn’t?’ He starts dressing.

  ‘Where’re you going?’

  ‘I’ve stuff to do.’

  He turns his back, pulling his sweatshirt over his head, stuffing his feet into his boots, grabbing his leather jacket. The front door bangs.

  It’s like the sound of a gunshot but worse.

  Belfast—9th January, 1982

  Off-duty UDR Man Murdered in Belfast

  Steven Carlton, 24, was killed yesterday in a brutal attack on the Antrim Road in north Belfast.

  Mr Carlton, a part-time member of the Ulster Defence Regiment, was working at a petrol station when two masked gunman pulled up in a stolen car and shot him six times at point blank range. The assassins made off in a waiting car.

  Mr Carlton, married with a young son, is the first member of the UDR to be shot this year. The IRA later claimed responsibility.

  There is speculation that the killing was in retaliation for the shooting, on Christmas day, of a Catholic woman in West Belfast. The RUC believe Miss Keenan, 39, was shot by Loyalists.

  Mr Carlton is not known to have any connection with paramilitary groups.

  London—27th April, 1982

  Prime Minster Addresses Parliament

  on the Recapture of South Georgia

  Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher made a full statement yesterday to the Commons about the recapture of South Georgia, announced on Sunday.

  Mrs Thatcher told members of the House that, at 4 P.M. London time, British troops were landed on the island by helicopter. They quickly overran the Argentine garrison which surrendered. She confirmed there were no known British casualties and reportedly only one injured Argentine soldier. She praised British troops for using minimal force.

  Mrs Thatcher said she would continue to seek a peaceful end to the crisis, which began earlier this month when Argentine forces invaded the Falkland Islands, but she concluded by defending military action, under the sanction of the UN:

  ‘I am standing up for the right of self-determination. I am standing up for all those territories—those small territories and people the world over—who, if someone doesn’t stand up and say to an invader, ‘Enough, stop,’ would be at risk.’

  British warships continue sailing for the Falklands for the purposes of engaging the Argentine army.

  I fly to Paris on my Irish passport and depart Charles de Gaulle International for London Heathrow on my British one. At immigration the passport control officer on the ‘UK Nationals’ desk twirls his rubber stamp.

  ‘That’s an unusual name, how’d you say that then?’

  I pronoun it carefully, old syllables rusty on my tongue, ‘Kay-lin.’

  He raises his eyebrows, stamp poised.

  ‘My parents were hippies,’ I say, ensuring my words come out English, not Irish. It’s a challenge after eighteen months away.

  He stamps a smudgy black seal, scribbles the date and waves me through.

  At the gate I’m met by a man I recognise from a photograph: Brendan. He’s taller than I expected, early forties, mousey hair cut tight, dark eyes in a round face, dressed in trousers and a sports jacket. He acknowledges me with a nod and I greet him, letting him kiss my cheek. Swamped by the arrivals crowd nobody notices we don’t speak.

  He leads me to a beige Ford Escort. I throw my bag in the boot and we join the queue signed for the A4, heading towards south west London.

  ‘So you’re Charlie Finnighan’s daughter,’ he says, inching the car to the traffic lights. His accent is a harsh Ulster drawl.

  I pounce on the remark. ‘You knew my da?’

  ‘Aye.’ He rasps a cough. I wait, hope. He doesn’t help me.

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘A good volunteer in his day.’

  That’s not what I want. ‘What else?’

  Brendan shrugs. ‘A decent fella.’ He turns, stares at me for five searching seconds. ‘Grand with the arrows. Saw him do a nine-dart finish more than once.’

  A horn swears at us. The lights are green now and a two car gap has opened up ahead.

  Brendan jerks us forward. ‘You remembered to travel on your British passport?’

  I’m not that fucking raw. ‘Of course.’

  He shoots me another glance. ‘Hope you’re up to this.’

  ‘Would they’ve sent me if I wasn’t?’

  ‘They sent you ’cos you’re a native and a wee girlie that no one’ll look twice at but having the right accent and a pair of tits doesn’t mean anything if you can’t handle operations.’

  Bastard chauvinist. I choke down a mouthful of curses, reminding myself that he’s my new OC. And he might tell me more about my da, if I ask nicely.

  ‘I can.’

  He huffs wordless doubts as we swing through London on the South Circular in muzzled silence, leafy gardens and neo-Georgian houses compacting down as signs swap Richmond for Putney. The safe house is a 1950s terrace on a dreary estate that alternates rows of houses with three-storey maisonettes. A young woman pushes a pram. A toddler, reined to her wrist, jogs beside her on chubby legs. Brendan parks behind a van with ‘Stevenson Electrical and Plumbing Services’ on the side. As we get out the woman calls a neighbourly greeting. Brendan waves; she crosses the street to us.

  ‘Lovely day,’ she says.

  ‘It is,’ Brendan replies. ‘This is my cousin, she’s staying a while, looking for work.’ The words are forced out in taut syllables that could pass for Scottish.

  The woman smiles at me. ‘I’m Sheila, from over there.’ She indicates the nearest block of flats.

  ‘Kaylynn,’ I say, the name easier this time.

  ‘What work are you looking for?’

  ‘Anything. I’m saving for college.’

  ‘Good for you. Sorry, I’ve got to go, it’s nearly this one’s lunchtime.’ She nods to the pram. ‘’Bye, Brian. Nice to meet you, Kaylynn.’

  She strolls away, the toddler bumbling along at her side.

  ‘Brian?’

  ‘To the neigh
bours, aye,’ he says, ‘so don’t go calling me Brendan in front of them. At least we’ve got your cover out; that daft cow’ll gob it round the estate by teatime.’

  I swallow more curses. I have to obey his orders but I’m free to ignore his sexist slaggings. I won’t be riled by him. I’m here for the Cause. Nothing’s more important than that.

  He shows me round the house, introducing me to Joe and Tommy, who make up the four man cell. Now three men and me. They shake my hand and Joe offers me tea. While he’s brewing up Tommy fills me in: they’re brothers, in their early twenties, an electrician and a plumber with their own business; the van outside is theirs, used for recce jobs and collecting supplies, their emergency call-out service covering late night operations. They actually are brothers and time-served tradesmen. Tommy is also the bomber. Joe does the driving and provides backup. Brendan is in charge of intelligence and logistics.

  ‘What is it you need me for?’ I ask Brendan.

  ‘We’re planning some big jobs GHQ thought you’d be useful for.’ He smirks and adds, ‘Like an ashtray on a motorbike.’ He goes out as Joe returns with tea and Kit Kats.

  He passes me a cup, raking fingers through brown curls he shares with his brother. ‘Don’t mind him. You were in Belfast?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘What’s it like there these days?’ Tommy asks.

  ‘Same. How long’ve yous been here?’

  ‘Too long,’ Joe says.

  ‘Six months,’ Tommy adds.

  ‘Homesick?’

  ‘Fed up of bottled Guinness,’ Joe moans.

  I remember the warnings from GHQ when they assigned me to the England department: keep away from Irish ex-pats and out of Irish pubs.

  ‘It’s shite being away, feeling like you’re doing nothing,’ Tommy admits. ‘Still, now you’re here we can get on.’

  I sip my tea, light a cigarette and rake around for frost-thawing conversation.

  ‘Did you hear about the Springfield Road shooting last month?’