Fifteen minutes and two cigarettes later I ring the bell. Briege opens the door. Toddler-tantrum screams teem out into the tranquil night.
‘Caoilainn, is everything alright?’
‘You said I could come.’
‘Aye, course. We just weren’t expecting you. Away in.’
‘Who is it?’ Connor shouts down.
‘Come see,’ Briege taunts.
He appears on the landing, Saoirse struggling with tomcat fury in his arms, and descends, not seeing me until he’s got four steps down. He grins.
‘Look, Saoirse.’ He turns her around.
I’ve only seen her that once, when she was a newborn-blob. Now, two years later, she’s a little person, auburn hair in plaits, a green nightie, odd socks clinging to her kicking feet. Her red face is screwed into a wail but hearing the unexpected instruction she opens her eyes. They are blue: Aiden’s eyes. She stops shrieking, ogles me. Connor brings her down.
‘Thank Christ,’ he says. ‘She’s been yelling murder all evening. Who’s this, Saoirse?’ His voice is gentle, coaxing.
She shakes her plaits.
‘It’s Auntie Caoilainn.’
I flush at the title, remembering Patrick’s hand in mine.
She repeats my name. It comes out ‘Kee-un’
Connor laughs. ‘She’s having trouble with her ‘ls’.’
A memory, of another time, hearing my name said in an alien way, surfaces. I draw back from it and force a smile. Saoirse hides her face against Connor’s shoulder.
‘Now are you gonna be a good wee girl and go to sleep so Auntie Caoilainn doesn’t think you’re naughty?’ he asks her. The plaits nod. ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ he tells us, carrying the suddenly shy demon to bed.
Briege takes me to the kitchen, makes tea.
‘How are you?’ she asks.
‘Never mind me, what about you?’
Her face is pale, the freckles stark against white. Her clothes are drab, grey and beige, baggy. A fold of loose flesh wobbles around her midriff as she moves, the remains of her baby weight for a baby that isn’t. Even her sunlit hair is dull, scraped back and lustreless. She’s been bleached by light too bright.
‘Oh, you know.’ The kettle slips from her hand and clatters into the sink.
I go over and put my arms around her, something I couldn’t have done two years ago. She sniffles against me briefly then pulls away, snatching kitchen roll and rubbing her cheeks with it.
‘Sorry. I’ve been better lately but sometimes…’
‘It’s me should be apologising for not coming sooner. For being such a bloody…’
‘Don’t,’ she scolds. ‘You’ve enough problems without adding mine.’
Connor comes in, loops an arm around Briege’s waist, smiling down at her.
‘She’s settled.’
‘Thanks, love.’
Where she’s withered he’s rejuvenated, becoming colourful: purposeful. Time has rewound, letting him reclaim some of the sacrificed Kesh years.
Seeing the teapot he jokes, ‘Is the whiskey off?’ and reaches down a bottle.
We sit cosy in the living room among the dolls and teddies, on their faded plum three piece. China dogs adorn the mantelpiece and family photos the walls; their wedding, their folks, Saoirse as a baby, a school picture of Danny, another of Callum, and, lurking in plain sight, a blurry snap of Aiden and me, on our wedding day. I drop my gaze.
Connor pours drinks. ‘Sláinte.’
They toast my freedom, I their family. Conversation turns to Saoirse, what a cute wee madam she is. Briege tells me how, having seen her darning socks, Saoirse presented a slice of bread with an air-pocket hole, proclaiming, ‘Hole bread, mammy mend.’ She’s into everything, curious as a kitten, a charming imp.
‘But she’s a good heart to her,’ Connor adds. ‘When Briege came home from hospital she rushed over with a massive hug and a wee posy of flowers.’
‘That she tore her dress picking,’ Briege reminds him.
‘Ah, she’s a love,’ Connor says, ‘and we’ll have more like her, so we will.’
The doctors have told them there’s no reason why they won’t have more wee ’uns. These things happen sometimes; maybe a worry on your mind, a stressful lifestyle: God’s will. It was a boy they lost.
Briege turns the talk from babies to work. She’s been busy these two years, mostly training camps. She’s an explosives expert now, teaching the boys to build safer bombs. She’ll be back at it when she’s ready but there’s no pressure from GHQ.
Connor asks what’ll I do now? I give him the only answer I have: I don’t know, and the subject changes again.
Connor and I swap funny jail stories, like Mairead and me spiking the screws’ tea urn with laxatives scammed off the prison quack then watching them all running for the loos, cursing the chef. Briege recounts outraged and outrageous reactions she’s had from cock-a-hoop volunteers wrong-footed by an accomplished female bomber giving them lessons, saying how she’s verbally slapped them down. We laugh at the madness of it all.
Connor makes up the spare room for me and we turn in. I lie awake, the photo of Aiden and me gnawing at my heart. After a restless hour I creep downstairs and lift the picture from the wall. We’re just a happy smiling couple, his arm around me, my head on his shoulder. I sit with it on my lap, reviewing. Was there a moment missed? Could I have saved us?
The door creaks. Saoirse stands in her bare feet, auburn kinks spilling over her shoulders, a teddy bear snuggled to her chest. I rub tears away. She comes over, offering me the bear. It, her, everything from now and then, buries me alive. I cry fat hot tears. She climbs up beside me, throwing an arm around my neck, stroking my hair.
‘Anois, anois.’ She croons the magic word that makes things all better.
‘Saoirse, what’re you doing up?’ Connor is in the doorway.
‘It’s my fault. I disturbed her,’ I apologise.
He takes her from me. ‘Go to bed, a chailín bhig.’ He points her at the door and she wanders out, leaving her teddy with me. Connor notices the photograph.
‘I didn’t think…’
I dry my eyes again, reach for a cigarette, letting my hand brush ted’s fur on the way. ‘It’s OK. She’s got his eyes, have you noticed?’
‘Aye.’ He lifts the photograph. ‘It’s hard, so it is. But we’ve got to keep going.’
‘Why? We can’t win, Connor. Jesus. How much more do we have to lose?’
‘I’ve been where you are. Prison’s hardest when you’re out but it gets easier.’
‘I’m not sure I deserve it easier.’ I force myself to meet his gaze. ‘If I’d made different choices Aiden might still be here.’
He frowns. ‘What d’ya mean?’
‘The abortion. Maybe if I hadn’t… we could’ve stopped then, got out before…’
‘You think yous would’ve done that, really?’
‘Maybe.’
‘It’s fine saying this now but you did what was right then.’
‘Did I?’
He squeezes my hands. ‘Ask yourself this: are you regretting doing it or just feeling guilty for not regretting it?’
I stay ten days with Connor and Briege, helping around the house, playing with Saoirse, doing the shopping, walking round the bay. But I can’t play ‘let’s pretend’ forever and I can’t decide anything while I am. I need to think on my choices, made and to make, but I’m still not far enough away to bring things into focus. I get in the car and drive for Rosmuc.
A clean Connemara dawn greets me at Gort Mór. I stop the car on the main road, a spot with a view of Pearse’s cottage. Stillness fills me; no voices yelling, no doors clanging, no shots cracking. The cottage is so bright and clean, a whitewashed monument to the past. I don’t know which memory has drawn me here; the one of Daideo and Pearse, sitting around the fire, or the one of me and Aiden, kissing on the doorstep. I abandon the car and walk up the lane, birdsong soothing me.
The cot
tage is time preserved in stone and thatch. I peer through the windows, trail fingers over the cool whitewash, grip the door handle. But I’m locked out, just like last time. I sit on the step, smoking and letting the sun rise behind me, sprinkling the dark lough with flecks of orange. The cigarette burns down. I lean against the door, close my eyes and paint the fantasy in my head; smoke curling from the chimney, an old couple sipping tea by the cottage, the Twelve Pins smiling benevolently down on them.
A cast shadow wakes me. My eyes snap open.
‘A Thiarna Dia!’
A man stands over me, dressed in work clothes, a bunch of keys in one hand, a bucket in the other.
I jump up.
‘You startled me,’ he gasps. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’
‘I’m just… I came to see the cottage. Tá mé buartha.’
My Irish reply is rewarded with a smile and more Irish, ‘It’s not too many visitors we’re having here. Where are you from?’
‘Baile Átha Cliath.’
‘It’s a fair way from home, you are.’
‘I am.’ I gesture to the cottage. ‘I just came to look.’
‘You’re knowing then, what this place is?’
‘Teach an Phiarsaigh.’
His smile broadens. ‘It is.’ He straightens up, pride knocking ten years off his fifty. ‘I’m Michael, the caretaker.’ He jangles the keys. ‘Would you like a look inside?’
‘I would, go raibh maith agat.’
He unlocks the door and strides in. I hesitate. Beyond that doorway are places I’ve dreamed of going. I step through, breath held.
The main room is plain, bare, with a large central hearth and three doors; right, left and ahead. The floor is grey stone, the walls white. He beckons to me, shows me round, which takes five minutes because the cottage is three rooms plus a pantry, and explains the cottage’s history, starting in the middle with how the Tans burnt it in ’21. In Pearse’s bedroom he talks of the Rossa funeral oration that made an infamous rebel of a bashful schoolmaster and I wonder if that was the time Daideo was here. In the main room he describes how Pearse and his guests would have told stories around the fire. In the second bedroom he mentions Willie Pearse, the artist.
‘There was a room in the thatch too.’ He gestures overhead. ‘Probably for the St Enda’s boys he brought here in the holidays. But we’ve not got the access up there anymore.’
I stare at the ceiling, certain that was Finn’s room.
‘Is there something you’re looking for?’ Michael asks.
There is but I won’t find it here. The cottage is time rewound; the future is time unwound.
‘No, thank you. I’ll let you get on.’
Outside the sun is warm and the sky blue. I stare across the valley at the Ireland Pearse fought and died for, green and unspoiled. Some of the lads in Milltown never even saw it. Their Ireland was slummy grey housing estates, homes wrecked by squaddies.
A member of the IRA is such by his own choice, his convictions being the only factor which compels him to volunteer, his objectives freedom for his people.
Freedom: Saoirse.
In the end choosing is easy. Telling Patrick won’t be.
Dublin—10th May, 1987
I return from Galway to find a soggy British red-top nailed to my front door. The headline screams ‘SAS 8-IRA 0’ and there are eight passport snaps of young men, each crossed through with a thick X.
I look round, wondering which of my spineless neighbours to blame. Curtain-drawn windows stare back at me, unanswering.
Inside I make tea and read news I’ve heard a dozen times since it broke yesterday, the printed words more final than the radio’s ephemeral voice. At least this time they were killed in action; the Loughgall RUC station, picture on page 2, is destroyed. We have eight new hero-martyrs to join the H-Block lads, Terence McSwiney and the 1916ers. The battle honours won, the blood-stained trail of sacrifice. Jim and his boys will get their colour parties. It’s the Republican legacy: we died trying.
War is the only situation where everything and nothing are both fair enough.
I contact GHQ.
A lad I don’t know admits me, pats me down then takes me to the dining room. Kevin is at the table. Another stranger is beside him, late thirties, medium build, swarthy complexion, a greying moustache under a bulbous nose and heavy brows above dark eyes.
I stare at him.
Kevin grunts, ‘Brendan Hughes, Operations Officer.’
Hughes offers me a hand and I stumble back seven years to the first hunger strike, realising who he is: Darkie Hughes. ‘Have a seat.’ His voice is soft but with a northern accent.
I sit. Kevin lights a cigarette, smoke billowing from his nostrils.
‘Have you decided, so?’
‘East Tyrone.’
Kevin snorts smoke. Hughes knits his brows.
‘Are they not short of volunteers there just now?’
‘After filling Big Jim’s boots, are you?’ Kevin barks.
‘No, but I can be useful there.’
‘You can be shot by the SAS there,’ he replies. ‘You’re wasting our time. Go home.’
‘Fine.’ I take an Easter lily pin from my pocket and drop it on the table. ‘Any idea where I can find the INLA?’
Kevin fingers the pin. ‘You won’t consider another way?’
We have no recourse to any other means.
‘There isn’t another way.’
‘What about the political offensive?’
‘Brits out first,’ I say.
Pressure builds. I wait for the blast.
‘It’s your funeral.’ Kevin flicks the pin back to me and bangs out.
Brendan drums his fingertips on the table. ‘You’re dead on: you can be useful in Tyrone. But you can’t be reckless. Convince me you’re not.’ He stills his hands on the polished mahogany.
I mirror his calm pose. ‘I’ve been doing this since I was nineteen. It’s my life. If I can’t be an active volunteer I might as well be dead.’
‘Is that what you’re after?’
‘No. I’m after doing my duty: freeing and uniting Ireland.’
‘We’re all after that, so we are.’ He reaches for his cigarettes. ‘You’re cleared for the Tyrone brigade.’
‘Don’t I need Council approval?’
‘Granted.’ He nods once then shrugs. ‘Your record as a volunteer speaks for itself and the Council’re aware of your views on the armed struggle.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘Not to me. I’m a soldier, I believe in fighting for freedom. With Gaddafi’s gear we’re set for a major push but things in the Six Counties need a massive shake up first. I’m seeing it happens. We’re after trusted volunteers. You were a cell leader in England?’
‘Yes.’
‘Up for it again?’
‘Hadn’t you better OK. that with the Tyrone OC?’
‘Done.’ Brendan grins. ‘He’s a friend of yours: Liam. We’re moving him over as of yesterday. Belfast’s fucked, riddled with touts; he’s wasted in the city. I’ve also got you a couple of former comrades, Tommy and Joe. Yous can form a bombing cell. I’m still thinking who else to put out there.’
‘What about Mairead?’
Brendan shakes his head. ‘Too dangerous now she’s the smiling face of Republicanism.’
‘I didn’t realise she was.’
‘Sure, been giving interviews, speaking at the Ard Fheis, working with Sinn Fein,’ Brendan explains.
‘And she’s happy with that?’
‘If it’s how she can best serve, aye. We’ve to play to our strengths. That’s Mairead’s right now.’ He clears his throat. Continues, ‘All operations get cleared by me, through Liam. Apart from that no one’s to know about you. I’ll not have another shagging Loughgall.’
‘You don’t believe the SAS were lucky?’
‘I do not. We’re looking into it. I’ll see you have volunteers you can trust but outside the cell…’ He
shakes his head. ‘You need to be covert. Jesus, you need to be bloody invisible.’
‘How?’
‘Hide in plain sight. Make your life an open book, a boring one no one’ll want to read. Can you manage that?’
‘Yes. What about…?’ I jerked my head at the door.
‘Don’t fret on it. Get your cover sorted. Let me know when you’re ready. No rush, we need things to settle up there.’ He shakes my hand again. ‘Be seeing you. Take it easy, now.’
I ring Patrick’s office.
‘Can you come down this weekend? I’ve that answer for you.’ There’s a long pause. I think we’ve been cut off. ‘Patrick?’
‘I’ll be down Friday night.’
On Friday morning I go to a hairdresser across town, ask her to cut and dye my long blonde hair.
‘Sure, it’s a drastic change you’re making,’ she comments. She holds the scissors, blades open, and takes a lock of hair between her fingers. ‘You’ll not regret this, will you?’
‘I won’t.’
An hour later my old hair is coiled on the floor. My new reflection is ready for action.
On the way home I find a fancy dress shop and buy a blonde wig to disguise my disguise until I need it.
Patrick’s Mercedes drives into the street at teatime. He must’ve left work early. I greet him at the door. Seeing my short dark hair he presses fingers into his eye sockets for a second, as though to reset faulty vision.
‘Caoilainn, what’ve you done?’
‘My duty.’ I pull him off the step and close the door.
‘So you’re going back? I thought we were…’
‘There’s no other way for me. I’ve spent the last two months looking. It doesn’t exist.’
‘Maybe you’ve looked in the wrong places.’
He darts forwards. I don’t realise what’s happening until his mouth is on mine, warm and firm. Hands pull me in. I fight free, drawing back, clenching my fist.
Herself Alone in Orange Rain Page 32