‘I can’t talk to you.’ I move the receiver away from my ear. Telephones can be tapped, calls listened to by invisible enemy operators.
‘It’s grand,’ she says quickly. ‘I’m in Lisburn. Sure, we’re fine here. I’m in this posh hotel on the right side of town.’
She means she’s in a Protestant neighbourhood where security forces don’t monitor calls because if they don’t know about a bombing in a Nationalist area they can’t be blamed for not preventing it.
‘What?’ I hover the phone over my ear.
‘Caught the train this morning.’
‘How did you know the number for me to call?’
‘Came a fortnight ago and found the pay-phone in the lobby.’
Has she gone fucking mad? What the hell’s she playing at?
‘The note you sent, you shouldn’t have done that. I could get into a lot of bother.’
‘Ach, you’re fine. I went through the proper channels.’
There are no such channels I know of. She must’ve involved Frank. I’m furious she’s taken such a risk but because she has I have to know why. Aiden… I can’t finish the thought.
‘What is it, Nora?’
‘Aiden says you’re to wed.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Yous’re getting married.’
‘Yes, but…’ A gale force wind rags me about.
She sighs. ‘Then we’ve some things need sorting. Yous’ll have to get permission.’
I mentally thumb through The Green Book for a section on volunteers marrying but don’t find anything.
‘From who, for what?’
Nora tuts. ‘The bishop. He’ll have to approve yous marrying, seeing how you’re not of our faith. Then we’ll need a priest who’ll do it, some won’t.’
‘I thought we’d…’
Nora interrupts. ‘Catholics marry in church or not at all.’
It isn’t just the bishop’s permission I need.
‘I’ve nothing against you, love,’ she adds, softening, ‘but you’ve to understand this is important to us, especially for someone in Aiden’s line. He needs his faith, even if to you it’s nonsense.’
‘I’ve never said that but I’ll not apologise for who I am, Nora. I’ve a right to my own code.’
‘But if you’re wanting to marry a Catholic you’ve to abide by ours,’ she replies. ‘It’d be best if you could be baptised.’
‘I can’t do that.’ Won’t fucking do that.
‘Didn’t I know you’d say that.’
‘It’d be hypocritical.’
‘Not if you converted.’ Her voice hardens.
‘I can’t make myself believe,’ I reason.
She tuts.
If I fight her I’ll lose Aiden. ‘Will a church wedding do you?’ I suggest.
‘It’s a start,’ she agrees. ‘I’ll see what’s to be done. You’ll have to…’
The phone starts clicking. ‘That’s the pips. I’ve to go. Please don’t contact me again like this. It’s not appropriate.’ I hang up.
How dare she? Taking such a stupid risk for such a petty purpose. I thought Aiden was… but he’s not. I wouldn’t have made the call if I’d known. Furious, I leave the call box shuddering from my slam-door exit and start walking, fast, fleeing from her disapproval. Distance calms me. I ease up but keep going, stretching out the miles until I have a clear enough view to be able to throw and catch her words. An idea forms. Coins jingle temptingly in my pocket. I make myself walk to the next corner, and the next, and the next, arguing for and against, craving and resisting, willing myself not to, talking myself into, walking until I’m so far from the safe house I’ve run out of breadcrumbs, unwound my ball of string, left no trail between there and here. Finally, somewhere in Islington, I convince myself I’m lost enough to the safe house for telephoning Ireland. I find a box and dial, Briege’s words about the innocence of calling her parents’ Galway B&B placating my rising panic as I spin memorised numbers.
‘Hello?’
‘Briege, it’s me. I’ve a problem.’
I explain about Nora, her requirements. Briege says she can help. Her priest, Father O’Brien, is dead on. She’ll have a word. It’ll be grand. I trudge back, hoping she’s right.
Loughrea, Co. Galway—20th September, 1982
I land in Ireland three days before the wedding. Fr O’Brien has agreed to marry me and Aiden in his tiny Galway church, being flexible over religious regulations, cramming our compulsory pre-nuptial lessons into a single afternoon, his Republican sympathies, our devotion to the Cause and the practicalities of circumstance justifying the irregularities. So I find myself in a doily-festooned parlour, sipping tea from a china cup. Aiden’s on the sofa next to me. Last night was clumsy. We fumbled over words, feelings: each other. I feel like I’ve had a tooth pulled; the bone-deep ache is gone, things are better now, OK., but there’s still the soreness of healing.
Fr O’Brien is jovial and the room warmed by midday sun but a chill shudders through me as he explains Catholic doctrine on marriage, ‘that sacred union between a man and a woman, symbolising Christ’s union with his church and demanding openness to bringing forth new life.’ He asks about our relationship, our future plans. I nod, smile, make replies I hope are acceptable and tell calculated lies when necessary.
An hour ticks by. The housekeeper delivers fondant fancies. I nibble one awkwardly. Fr O’Brien talks of sin and salvation, gives me prayer sheets, words printed in the bold type of Sunday school lessons. They are the words of the marriage rite. The second hour is gone.
‘There’s just the matter of signing.’ Fr O’Brien stands, brushing crumbs from his black shirt, collects two sheets of paper from the sideboard and sets them on the coffee table, handing Aiden a pen. He squiggles his name.
I scan the pages. ‘What’s this?’
‘Aiden’s pledge to remain true to the Catholic church and your solemn promise not to pervert his faith,’ Fr O’Brien explains.
I scowl.
‘You also vow that your children will be raised in the church, a sacred duty of both confirmed Catholics and anyone they marry.’
His words thump me with impossible realities: having children and raising them in a faith I don’t follow. The pen is heavy in my hand. I tell myself it’s X multiplied by zero: nothing, and scribble my name, the letters cramped and uncomfortable.
Fr O’Brien takes the paper. ‘Will you want communion, Aiden?’
‘I thought we couldn’t do that, Father.’ Aiden glances at me.
‘It’s not usual but wouldn’t your mammy like it?’
Nora’s been on to him.
‘She would, Father.’
‘Fine, we’ll have mass before the wedding, so,’ Fr O’Brien nods. ‘You’ll remember to use the side door?’ He looks at me but speaks to Aiden.
‘Sure, Father,’ Aiden replies, ‘and thanks for your help.’
‘You’re welcome,’ the priest replies. ‘A thousand blessings on you for a long and fruitful marriage.’
He shakes our hands and we escape into late afternoon sun.
As we walk to the pub where we’re billeted I scrutinise the net-draped windows lining the lane.
‘What’s up?’ Aiden asks.
‘Are we being watched?’
‘Have you seen something?’ Aiden scans the street.
‘No, but what he said about using the side door. Is he worried there’ll be peelers waiting to nab us?’
Aiden stops, runs a hand through his hair, which has grown past his collar in the months we’ve been apart. ‘It’s just an old custom. Don’t mind it.’
‘What d’ya mean?’
He starts walking.
I catch his arm. ‘Tell me.’
‘You can’t go in the front because you’re not…’
‘Oh, tradesman’s entrance for heathens, is it? Jesus, what century is this?’
‘Fr O’Brien’s been really good about this, Caoilainn. He’s letting us have everything el
se our way.’
‘None of this is my way.’
Aiden jerks to a halt. ‘You want to forget it?’
‘Of course not. I just didn’t think I’d be a pariah at my own wedding.’
‘You’re not. But this is properly irregular. If the bishop knew how much we’ve had the rules bent Fr O’Brien’d cop it so he doesn’t need us making a show of things,’ Aiden says. ‘Does it matter which bleeding door you use as long as we’re married?’
I try convincing myself it doesn’t but I’m narked. When we reach the pub I lead Aiden to our room, lock us in, seduce and strip him and get him on the bed. As I push him inside me, anger ebbs away. I love him. The wedding is one day, the marriage for the rest of our lives. I’ll play the part like it’s a mission. He comes with a moan and a shudder, his body taut then quivering then limp against mine. We lie naked, tangled in sweat-dampened sheets, watching the sun drowning.
‘What time is it?’ Aiden asks.
I check the clock. ‘After six.’
‘My folks’ll be here soon.’
‘Your ma still annoyed?’ I ask.
‘Ah, she’s fine. Just likes things done right, so she does.’ He untangles himself and starts packing his stuff.
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Moving my things out.’ He ruffles his hair.
‘That’s what you mean by ‘right’ is it?’
‘There’s no point winding her up again now,’ he mutters, cramming clothes into his haversack.
I throw a pillow at him. ‘Alright, mammy’s boy. I’ll control myself for thirty-six hours.’
‘You’ll get me sent straight to hell, you will,’ he says, dropping the bag and coming back to bed.
Loughrea, Co. Galway—23rd September, 1982
Shielded by half-drawn curtains, I watch Aiden, Frank, Nora, Danny and Callum set off for mass an hour before I’m to join them in church. As they head onto the road, Nora leading, Frank hobbling on his sticks, Aiden looks back. I duck away from the window.
Fr O’Brien meets me at the side door. Fatherless, I follow the swish of priestly robes, entering the nave alone. Would he, my da, have been happy giving me away to Aiden, the ’Ra? I don’t know. I know hardly anything. Like, was he tall, fair? Did he have Daideo’s eyes? I wish there was just one photo of him, or her.
Nora and Frank occupy the front pew. Danny and Callum are beside them. Liam and Rory have driven down from Belfast this morning. They sit on my side in collar and tie, with Briege glowing beside them in a pink and lemon dress. She waves and Liam winks at me. They’re sitting where Daideo should be, and my ma. Was she pretty, slim? Would she have worn a big hat and cried? I think of Cathy’s too brief stories about her and imagine the row she’d likely have given Nora for insisting on a Catholic wedding, the drunken, off-key singing she might’ve done at the reception. Jesus, they should all be here.
I join Aiden at the altar for our abbreviated ceremony.
Fr O’Brien begins. I steer raggedly through unfamiliar rituals; Liturgy of the Word, scripture readings, marriage rite. When Fr O’Brien asks will we accept children lovingly from God and bring them up according to Christ’s law I say I will because there’s no ‘don’t know’ box to tick.
‘Since it is your intention to enter into marriage join your right hands and declare your consent before God and his Church,’ Fr O’Brien commands.
I repeat the vows, echoes in my head of my other sworn oath: unconditional allegiance to Oglaigh na hEireann.
‘Take this ring as a sign of my love and fidelity. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit.’ Aiden puts the gold band etched with Celtic scrolls, on my finger. It was his grandmother’s but age hasn’t mellowed the metal’s fierce brilliance; it gleams in the dimness, leaden on my finger.
Fr O’Brien directs us to kneel for the nuptial blessing. I close my eyes and sweep myself off to a wild Gaelic hillside, flying through a turbulent sky of purple-grey clouds broken by a waking sun. It’s Daideo’s ‘Cúchulainn Faces the Hordes’ painting. I strain to stay in it but Fr O’Brien’s rolling chant rips the canvas:
‘Father, by your power you have made everything out of nothing… You gave man the constant help of woman… Give this woman the grace of love and peace. May she always follow the example of the holy women… May her husband recognise that she is his equal… May they live to see their children’s children…
Aiden murmurs, ‘Amen,’ nudges me and I repeat it a beat behind.
Fr O’Brien signs the cross over us. Then he lays his hand on my head and murmurs words too soft for me to hear. His palm warms my skull. His compassion welcomes me; I should be grateful. Instead, when he lifts his hand from my head I’m glad it’s over. He collects the waiting chalice and wafer. Aiden opens his mouth. I drop my gaze. When I raise it again he’s crossing himself and Fr O’Brien is moving away. With a scuffle everyone stands and the others come forwards for their sip of the cup and bite of the bread. I don’t watch. Aiden takes my hands.
‘You alright?’
‘Fine.’
He leans in to kiss me but I dodge him. I don’t want to taste what he’s just swallowed.
Frank shuffles over, his sticks tap-tapping on the stone. He shakes Aiden’s hand and pecks my cheek.
‘Didn’t I think I’d never see a day as grand as this?’ he says. ‘It cheers my heart to have you in the family, Caoilainn.’
He sniffs, scrapes a tear from his eye with his thumbnail. Nora draws up, hugs Aiden, then me.
‘I hope yous’ll be happy together,’ she says, frowning at me.
Before I can reply we’re swamped by congratulations, more hands are shaken, more cheeks kissed. We’re married.
That night there’s a ceilidh in the pub. Friends arrive to celebrate with us. Among them is Sean, my former OC, Casey, the TO and Patsy who promises another party at the Felons as soon as we’ve chance. I thank him, not letting on that we can’t risk it, with Aiden on the Brits’ wanted list and the UFF’s hit list.
Martin is also here.
People call me Mrs O’Neill. It’s the fourth name I’ve had but my real name’ll always be Caoilainn Devoy.
Guinness flows and music plays, the landlord alternating between pulling pints and bowing his fiddle. Patsy produces a guitar and Casey a penny whistle. Nora sits at the piano. Everyone sings except me; I only know the obvious songs, ‘The Irish Rover’, ‘I’ll Tell Me Ma’ and ‘Whiskey in the Jar’, which I still get wrong because the traditional timing is different from the Thin Lizzy version I’ve heard. Aiden, half-cut, mounts a chair and calls for order. When the room settles he nods to Nora. As she starts playing I realise they’ve rehearsed this. I’ve not heard him sing before and am surprised by the strong, pure notes.
‘Come over the hills my bonny Irish lass,
Come over the hills to your darling.’
The song, ‘Red is the Rose’, tells of a young man whose heart is broken when his lover leaves him.
As he sings Aiden fixes me with beer-blurred eyes and the sticky heat of embarrassment prickles my face. I’m glad when he reaches the final chorus:
‘Red is the rose that by yonder garden grows.
Fair is the lily of the valley.
Clear is the water that flows from the Boyne.
But my love is fairer than any.’
Song finished, Aiden clambers down. Pulling me into his arms he bends his mouth to my ear.
‘That’s you, my bonny Irish lass but, sure, I hope you’re not gonna leave me like that.’
‘I won’t if you won’t.’
‘Fair enough. Shall we swear to it?’
‘Haven’t we done that this morning?’
He laughs. ‘Course we have.’ He fumbles for my hand, raising it to his bleary eyes, twisting the ring now bedding into my finger. He kisses it then me.
‘I don’t deserve you,’ he mumbles.
His words fill me with dread. I am too happy.
People call for more music; Da
nny is urged up. I haven’t heard him sing since Christmas and that memory taints this one.
He starts softly:
‘There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet,
as the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.’
Callum’s eyes lock into mine as the notes rise up.
‘Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must depart.
E’er the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.’
I turn away, unable to hold on.
Danny’s voice is melodic. The song ends:
‘Sweet vale of Avoca how calm I could rest
in thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best.
Where storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
and our hearts like thy waters be mingled in peace.’
As the notes fade the room falls into a hush, lulled by Danny’s graceful singing and the dream of peace.
Aiden squeezes me to him.
‘Where’s Avoca?’
‘Wicklow. Sure, I’ll take you there. It’s a grand place,’ he says.
‘Can I borrow you a minute?’ Martin materialises at my other side.
‘Can it not wait?’ Aiden protests.
‘I’ve to be back in Dublin first thing. I’ll not keep her long,’ he replies.
The Army enters into every aspect of your private life.
I disentangle myself and we slip outside. The night is moonless but a million distant stars are embroidered on the blackness.
I light a cigarette.
‘Heard you were against the London operation.’
I pull smoke into my lungs. ‘I was against unnecessary slaughter.’
‘But you saw it through.’
‘I did.’
‘And now?’ Martin presses.
‘I’ll not do another like that. There should be a warning if there’s a chance civilians will be hurt.’
‘There’s some with you on that.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Military force is justified but,’ he pauses, looking to the sky as if for the approval of an indifferent deity, ‘we’re pulling Brendan out.’
Herself Alone in Orange Rain Page 18