Herself Alone in Orange Rain

by Tracey Iceton

  ‘Caoilainn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Away in.’ He leads me into a front room littered with kiddies’ toys, some still in boxes.

  ‘Have a seat.’

  I choose an armchair, trying to sit relaxed but alert.

  ‘Trip alright?’

  ‘Fine.’

  We study each other for a minute. He’s mid-thirties or older, thin with a long face and receding hair slicked back. A white crescent scar gleams on the back of a weathered hand. The house is tellingly quiet, empty apart from us.

  I break the silence. ‘Is Martin coming?’

  He hesitates, I think because he’s trying to work out who I mean. ‘You’ll be dealing with me from now on.’ His face is uncarved marble, his hands rest motionless on the knees of his corduroy trousers. His eyes bore through me.

  I’m exhausted, running on the dregs of myself. I dredge up a reply.

  ‘Fine. So you’re…?’

  His eyebrows twitch. ‘Kevin.’

  The latest ‘Michael Collins’?

  I slouch down in the chair, wondering how long his wife’ll keep the kids out.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your fella.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Not as fucking sorry as me.

  The big hand hits the six. He eyes the clock.

  ‘The Brits said the warning wasn’t long enough.’

  ‘Yous said it was.’

  ‘I’m interested in what you’ve to say on it.’

  ‘It should’ve been longer.’

  ‘Why wasn’t it?’

  ‘Circumstances beyond our control.’

  ‘It’s down to you to control them.’

  ‘I know that but I’m not superwoman.’ I’m too tired, too frustrated, worried, annoyed, upset, too slow to snatch back the retort.

  He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘We’re doing what we can as best we can.’ Half-and-half offence/defence. As far as I dare go.

  ‘We had to make excuses.’ He means their statement. His tone, his expression, there’s regret but I’m not sure what for so say nothing.

  ‘No apology?’ he presses.

  ‘Sorry.’ I flatten out the word. I am fucking sorry but letting him know won’t help me. ‘Am I getting court-martialled over this?’

  He leans forward. ‘You’re not.’ He sighs. ‘You’ve been a good volunteer. The question is whether you can carry on after what’s happened.’

  Does he mean Aiden or Harrods? Is he’s asking or telling?

  ‘If you think I’m going to have a break down, the grieving widow…’

  He holds up a hand, face snapping from stern to aghast. ‘You’ll get none of that from me. I know you’ve encountered some,’ he pauses, ‘opposition but I’m only concerned with whether you can do what needs be done. And that’s about what’s in your head, not your 501s.’ He sounds earnest.

  ‘My views on the armed struggle haven’t changed.’

  ‘I didn’t think they would’ve. Do what you need to in Belfast then clean things up in London. You need time out.’

  I sit up, ready to protest.

  ‘It’s an order, not a suggestion. One I’d be giving any volunteer who’s been through the same thing. When you’re done in London come back to Dublin. I’ll be in touch.’

  That night Connor and I have a massive row. He wants to travel to Belfast with Danny and me, see his folks, visit Aiden’s grave in the Republican plot. I say it’s fucking suicidal. He argues that as the O’Learys we’ll not be suspected. I ask if he wants to see Danny in the Kesh. He threatens to find another way if I don’t agree. I picture him wandering around in the dark, unarmed, falling into the crosshairs of an SAS patrol.

  We use public transport. Our fake Irish passports are scrutinised at the checkpoint. I explain with a half-truth: Danny had a row with his mammy and ran off to his big brother in Dublin; we’re bringing him home. The soldiers wave us through. Connor lights a cigarette with shaking fingers.

  ‘Can I have one?’ Danny asks.

  His face is white.

  Connor glances at me.

  ‘Give him one,’ I sigh, checking the timetable for the next bus to Belfast.

  We alight at the bus station and, with eyes everywhere, make our way through the city centre’s neutral zone to the pub where Rory is meeting us.

  He’s at the bar, half way down a Guinness. He spots us and orders two more plus a coke for Danny.

  ‘Caoilainn,’ Rory hugs me. ‘How’re ya?’

  ‘OK.’

  We drink and make small talk, leave together and separate outside, Rory taking Connor to a safe house while Danny and I take a black taxi up the Falls. The driver recognises Danny.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your brother.’

  Danny doesn’t reply.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  ‘Did you know him, love?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Real shame. He was a grand lad.’

  Tears sting my eyes. I fight them down. Danny slips his hand into mine and leaves it there until the cab stops at his parents’.

  Nora rushes out, slapping then hugging Danny before ushering us inside.

  ‘Caoilainn, love.’

  There’s nothing left to hold on to. I break. We cry, mother and wife, scavenging strength from our shared pain.

  She takes a hanky from her sleeve and dabs raw eyes. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  She slips into the kitchen; I go into the front. Frank is in his armchair, a blanket over his knees. He beckons me to him. I bend to kiss his cheek. Danny sits on the sofa, eyeing his da’s cigarettes. I join him and Nora fetches the tea. Talk stutters; I ask about Callum.

  ‘At a friend’s,’ Frank replies.

  ‘How’s he been?’

  ‘Fine,’ Frank says.

  ‘Quiet,’ Nora admits. ‘He’s missed you,’ she adds, looking to Danny who bows his head.

  I feel like a stranger, intruding.

  ‘We didn’t know when you’d be back,’ Frank says. ‘We couldn’t wait.’

  He’s meaning the funeral.

  ‘It’s alright. I’ll go up later.’

  ‘I’ll have one of the taxi lads run you,’ he offers.

  ‘I’ll walk.’

  Aiden’s grave isn’t far from Bobby Sands’ and it’s Sands’ I go to first, memories of his funeral bright as the gold lettering that gleams on the black plaque as fiercely as when it was laid two years ago. I stare at it, willing myself to go to Aiden; unable to move.

  A loud American voice breaks the silence.

  ‘Son of a gun, Betty, I’ve found it.’

  I find myself flanked by a fat man and his fatter wife. She lays a white rose, not realising roses are English. She should have brought lilies. The man snaps a Polaroid.

  ‘Did you know him, honey?’ the man drawls, gesturing to the plaque.

  ‘No.’ I walk away.

  I crouch at Aiden’s grave. There’s no headstone yet, just a mound of churned earth. I worm my hands down into the soil. It’s cold. I want to cry. I try conjuring memories of him. Still nothing. He’s dead; I have to find a new way of living.

  Daideo’s grave is further down. I amble towards it, detouring by Cathy’s on the way. I trace his inscription with a fingertip: Patrick William Finnighan, ‘Finn’; 1899-1981; Slowly sets the sun of a Green Dawn.

  Liam greets me at the safe house. Sean and Rory are also there, keeping Connor company. When Sean pulls me into a surprise embrace I feel the bulge of a gun under his arm. He breaks out the whiskey and by the time Frank, Nora, Danny and Callum arrive under the cover of darkness and accompanied by a discrete IRA guard, we’re already half-cut with toasting Aiden, the Cause and the Republic: Up the ’Ra.

  Just before sunrise Nora wakes Callum and they help Frank into the waiting taxi while Connor and I say goodbye to Danny.

  ‘You’ve promised you’ll be patient,’ I remind him. ‘You’ve to keep to that.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Good man,’
Connor says, ‘I’m counting on you looking after Ma and Da, kiddo.’

  ‘I will,’ Danny promises again.

  Then they’re gone.

  Liam and Rory drop us across the Monaghan border the next night. A local Republican drives us to Dublin; we doze through the journey, waking as the car jolts into potholes.

  I stay another few nights in Dublin, getting the gas and leccy back on, stocking the cupboards for Connor, working out how much longer the money Daideo left me will last. Long enough, I hope, because a volunteer’s allowance is coppers. When I’m happy Connor is settled I fly to London via Venice.

  It takes two months to clean up in London; we can’t be seen suddenly leaving. Briege goes first, home to Galway where, I suspect, Connor will join her. Tommy and Joe wind up their business, telling the regulars they’ve work in Holland. I don’t know where they go. Lastly I tell Sheila I’m away to Australia for a year on a working holiday. She wishes me well and waves me off, the little man beside her, the baby balanced on her hip.

  When I return to Dublin I find a postcard with a Galway frank on the mat. Written in Irish it’s signed ‘Love, B & C’. They’re well and engaged. I send congratulations. They marry in June, while I’m in Cork, exploring the coast on 250cc Bonneville, staying in B&Bs, riding through Atlantic squalls, sketching swathes of barren ocean, empty beaches, jagged cliffs: looking for Aiden in places he never got to be.

  In late July I make my final stop before Dublin: Avoca. I wander the tiny town’s streets alone and lonely. A young mother bumps a pram up the kerb. An elderly couple rest on a bench. The man holds his wife’s hand. Birds sing. Bees hum. The sky is blue. The sun warm. I take the chain from my neck, put the ring on my finger. It’s loose and slides down to my knuckle. I push it into my pocket. There’s no way of making it fit now. I wait until the old couple leave then abandon my sketchpad on their bench. It’s full of coastal vistas plus one unfinished drawing of Aiden.

  Time spent touring Ireland’s wild coastline has glued the shattered parts of me together. When I blow into Dublin I don’t wait for Kevin to call.

  ‘There are a few places we could use you,’ he says.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Belfast.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘East Tyrone?’ Kevin raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Sure, if you want me on the rampage,’ I say.

  He laughs. I don’t.

  ‘Derry?’

  I shrug.

  ‘England. We’re needing a…’ he pauses, ‘…we’re after sending a couple, Mr and Mrs on holiday.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Something big. Maybe not for you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’ll be no warning. It’s a kill we’re after here.’

  I suck in air. ‘Who?’

  ‘The Bitch herself.’

  ‘It’s been approved?’

  ‘By the Council,’ he confirms, ‘but you should know there’s a chance others will be caught up in it.’

  Tactics are dictated by the existing conditions.

  I balance the equation in my head:

  (Thatcher + X Tory Ministers) + X innocent civilians

  10, no 11 hunger strikers

  xIRA armed struggle = ?

  ‘You’ve principles and I’ll not ask you to compromise them. I can get someone else.’

  ‘You don’t need to.’

  Brighton—15th September, 1984

  We check into the Grand Hotel on Brighton’s seafront under the names of Mr and Mrs Roy Walsh. It’s two days since I met my ‘husband’ in Blackpool. His real name is Pat Magee. Like me he’s been working in the England department for a while because, also like me, he grew up on the mainland.

  The receptionist hands us a registration card. Pat fills in our details, all false, signing with a small neat script. She gives us the keys to room 629, five floors above the palatial suites that will be booked out by Tory VIPs come October.

  Pat tows our suitcase into the lift. I carry an overnight bag. Inside it, packed in a large Tupperware tub, is twenty pounds of gelignite, wired to a VCR timer.

  The room is Victorian elegance; carved furniture with claw feet, fleur de lys wallpaper and a syrupy carpet that my court shoes sink into, snagging. I kick them off and go to the window. Along the seafront late-season tourists stroll, licking 99s. Pat takes the bag from my arm. I hear his shoes clicking on the tiled bathroom floor.

  I scan the room again, notice the double bed, plump with pillows

  Pat emerges from the bathroom.

  ‘Did you pack a screwdriver?’

  ‘Side pocket.’

  He sees my gaze, follows it to the bed.

  ‘I’ll sleep on the floor.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. We’ll share.’

  He returns to the bathroom and begins removing the bath panel. I open our case and hang clothes in the wardrobe. He reappears.

  ‘I’ve put it in but I’ll not arm it ’til we’re ready to leave. Shall we take a walk?’

  We find a quiet café and sit skimming information leaflets, planning which attractions we’ll visit; the Royal Pavilion, Palace Pier, the aquarium. An old habit from my London days makes me reach for his hand. His fingers stiffen at my touch and he jerks his head up.

  ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, letting go.

  We dress for dinner, dining in the Grand’s restaurant. The food is rich; I manage only a few bites. The chatter of other diners covers our silence. I’m glad when the dessert plates have been cleared and we can retire upstairs.

  In the bathroom nothing is out of place. I brush my teeth, take off my make-up and change into the t-shirt and shorts I brought in case we decided to go to the beach. I didn’t think to bring a nightie.

  Pat is already in bed, the stripy arms of his pyjamas resting on top of the covers. I climb in next to him.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asks again. ‘I’ll be fine on the floor.’

  ‘I’m alright,’ I mumble.

  We lie back to back. I hear the change in his breathing, softer and steadier. I keep my eyes open, hoping to stay awake.

  Aiden is in the doorway of a house I don’t recognise, beckoning to me. I think, ‘So that’s where he’s been. He didn’t die.’ I walk towards him. Get no closer. Run. He moves further away. I know then that he will die because that’s what he has to do.

  I sit up, jarred out of the dream. The room is dark and cold, my skin pimpling in the chill. There’s a movement in the bed next to me. It was only a nightmare; everything’s fine.

  Light floods the room. I turn to the man beside me. It isn’t Aiden.

  ‘Caoilainn?’

  My heart winters.

  Pat sits up. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Is it the mission? If you’re worried…’

  I shake my head, dumbed by fresh grief.

  He puts out a cautious hand, resting it lightly on my shivering shoulder. ‘You’re cold.’ He fetches a jumper, one of his, draping it over me. ‘Would you like tea?’ He gestures to the kettle, set out on a table with Queen Ann legs.

  ‘I’d rather a whiskey.’

  Pat rings reception, asking the night porter to bring some. When it arrives he fills a tumbler for me. I empty the glass and he fills it a second time, putting the bottle beyond reach on the dressing table.

  ‘Tell me if you think it’ll help,’ he offers.

  ‘It won’t but thanks.’

  ‘You’ve lost someone,’ he says.

  ‘Hasn’t everyone?’

  ‘Isn’t that why we’re here?’

  In the morning we wander along West Street, passing a large gothic church. Pat stops. Not by accident, we’ve arrived at St Paul’s in time for the Sunday service: 11 o’clock solemn mass. I draw back.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Pat asks.

  ‘I’m not…’

  ‘Oh.’ He flushes and glances to where the priest is greeting the faithful in the vestibule. ‘Sorry
, I didn’t… I’ll meet you somewhere later.’

  The priest spots us; we’re blocking the entrance. He smiles, heads over.

  I nod at the robed figure gliding forwards. ‘It’ll look off if I leave now. The last thing we need is a memorable fuss.’

  Pat glances around for a solution.

  I suck in air. ‘It’s alright for me to sit at the back, is it?’

  ‘Aye.’

  He takes my arm, we enter and slide into a pew. High above the nave hangs an ornate cross, gargantuan, dwarfing the tiny Jesus pinned to it by pierced hands and feet. He sacrificed himself for his beliefs. Like Pearse. And Sands. And… Damned if you don’t; dead if you do.

  The priestly party advances up the aisle. The priest takes the lectern, addresses the congregation. My breath falls into a hushed rhythm. Stillness fills and empties me. Motionless, I sit through the chanting as priest and congregation call and reply to each other, words with the melodic beating of soft wings. The priest brings two silvery cups to the altar. A bell chimes. He crosses himself and the bell tings again. My stomach knots as a veil I’ve no business peering behind is lifted. The priest reaches into the first cup, withdrawing a fragment of the wafer. He holds it aloft, saying, ‘This is my body which will be given up for you.’ The bell chimes a third time, binding and breaking a spell. Now he takes the second goblet, also raising it. ‘This is the chalice of my blood which will be poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins.’

  A soothing mother’s hand caresses me: there, there; anois, anois. Aware of everything but anchored to nothing, I drift. Beside me Pat stands. He reaches the alter, offers himself to the priest. I want to look away but my eyes won’t close nor my head turn. I have to watch the intimate moment when the bread is placed on his tongue. Pat returns, slipping into the pew, kneeling and clasping his hands, his private prayer naked in my peripheral vision. I will myself to not see but my rapt state makes sight like hearing: impossible to deny. His lips move silently. What is it he prays for? In two days we’ll leave a bomb ticking down the final seconds of our enemies’ lives...