1972

by Morgan Llywelyn

  FOR the weeks remaining until he went up to Dublin, Barry seemed closed in, lost in his thoughts. It was no use trying to get him to talk. When Ursula asked what he was thinking about he said, “Nothing much.”

  “I doubt that. Have you changed your mind about going to university?”

  “I haven’t changed my mind.”

  “What’s wrong, then?”

  “Nothing.”

  The night before Barry left for Dublin, Ursula went to his room. “Are you ready?”

  “Almost, though I still need to clean my bicycle. I’m going to take it with me on the train so I’ll have my own transportation in the city.” Ned’s notebooks were already safely out of sight in the bottom of Barry’s suitcase. As his mother watched, he tucked a small chunk of limestone into the case amongst his folded shirts.

  “Why are you taking a piece of rock? There are plenty of stones in Dublin.”

  “But this one’s a part of the farm, Ursula. Do you never save mementoes?”

  “I’m not that sentimental. Except for … well, the programme from the Eucharistic Congress in 1932, I kept that. And a rose pressed in a book.”

  “Did my father give you the rose?” Barry asked, ever hopeful of a clue.

  “Hardly. It fell from the countess’s coffin during her funeral procession.”

  “What countess?”

  “Markievicz.”

  “You went to her funeral? You never told me.”

  “There’s lots of things I’ve never told you.”

  Barry slammed down the lid of his suitcase with more force than necessary. “That, Ursula, is a profound understatement.”

  HE was assigned a room in the Rubrics, Trinity’s oldest surviving building. Dating from the start of the eighteenth century, it was built of red brick with quaintly dramatic Dutch gables which had been added in the 1890s. Barry was delighted to take up residence in such an architectural gem. It’s streets ahead of sleeping in a muddy dugout in Fermanagh.

  When Barry arrived his roommate was already in the room, busily usurping all the drawers in the one and only chest by stuffing clothing into them. When the door opened he looked up. A beanpole of a man, slightly above medium height, with a cowlick, an exceptionally prominent Adam’s apple, and bad skin.

  Poor fellow looks like a plucked chicken. “I believe half those drawers are mine,” Barry drawled.

  “I was under the impression that I could use whatever I needed.” The voice was high-pitched and slightly nasal.

  “Only until I arrived,” said Barry. He stood framed in the doorway, letting his new roommate have a good look at him. He had learned that there were certain situations in which his size and physical presence were enough to win a point. Before the silence could grow uncomfortable, he smiled and held out his hand. “I’m Finbar Halloran. Barry.”

  “Gilbert Fitzmaurice. Gilbert,” the other stressed. Ignoring Barry’s outstretched hand, he began taking some of his clothing from the drawers. “Obviously there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “Forget it,” said Barry. “Where are you from, Gilbert?”

  “Waterford.”

  “I’m from Clare myself.”

  “A country boy, I suppose.” The tone was condescending. From Gilbert’s accent, Barry could not tell just where he belonged in the complex fabric of Protestant social stratification that was a holdover from the nineteenth century in Ireland. It ran in descending order from the aristocratic Anglo-Irish grandees known as the Ascendancy to low-caste tradesmen and farmers who were no better off than their Catholic neighbours.

  Lifting his chin, Barry said proudly, “I’m country born and bred and a Catholic as well. I’m twenty-one years old, six foot four in my bare feet, ride horses, speak Irish, read Latin, and have a lot of Shakespeare off by heart. I’m a good amateur boxer and hope to become a good architect. What about you?” he finished with a disarming smile.

  Gilbert hesitated. “I’ll, uh, be called to the bar.”

  “How can you be so sure? You’re still an undergraduate, aren’t you?”

  “My father’s a barrister and his father before him. We’ve never done anything else.”

  Barry lifted an eyebrow. “All the way back to Adam, eh? Did one of your ancestors defend the snake?”

  Gilbert looked blank. “What snake?”

  Jesus Mary and Joseph, I’ve drawn a roommate with no sense of humour.

  Undergraduate life at Trinity was Spartan by the standards of its more affluent students, who comprised the majority. Classrooms were poorly heated and badly ventilated. Sprinting across the campus in a cold rain from one class to the next resulted in an endless round of head colds, which were passed from student to student. In the Rubrics the lights were turned off at eleven o’clock sharp, requiring anyone who wanted to read to use an electric torch.

  During the first few weeks Barry rarely ventured outside the high college railings with their embossed coats of arms. One exception was a visit to the nearest bank to open an account. “Money will be sent from Clare every month to lodge in my account,” he explained, “and I’ll withdraw it as needed.”

  The banker was used to dealing with students from the university. “I’m afraid we cannot extend overdraft privileges until you’ve been with us for twelve months, Mr. Halloran,” he said with practiced regret. “But should you find yourself in difficulties in the meantime …” He left the sentence unfinished. This young man might be a person of importance someday.

  ALTHOUGH Barry wanted to enter fully into university life, his habit of reticence was hard to break. At first he stayed in the social background, merely observing.

  Amongst the students at Trinity was a type of person he had never met before. Pompous, self-absorbed, and invariably Ascendancy, they seemed unable to have a normal conversation. Every sentence contained at least one reference to a famous person with whom they claimed a “close connection.” Playing polo with the duke of this and cricket with the earl of that. Dining with the famous author of something else.

  Barry’s eyes glazed over. I should hate to be nothing more than a list of celebrities.

  He quickly learned to recognise the inveterate namedroppers and avoid them. It was better to keep himself to himself. A lone wolf who stood out in the crowd by the fact of his singularity.

  One day he happened to pick up a copy of the Trinity News, the in-house newsletter staffed by journalism students. The paper was an exuberant mixture of campus gossip, thoughtful editorialising, and crass schoolboy humour, with a leavening of genuine wit. Barry enjoyed it so much that he made a point of meeting the students responsible. He liked every one of them. Arrogant and articulate, they openly discussed the subjects that interested him most. Politics and power, sports and science. And sex.

  Trinity’s fledgling journalists paid scant attention to the repressive Archbishop McQuaid.

  Soon Barry was sitting with them in the dining hall or buying his share of drinks in the nearest pub. It was not quite the same as the Army, but at least he had people to talk with.

  Unfortunately, Barry had no choice in the matter of his roommate. Gilbert Fitzmaurice was not a name-dropper simply because he was interested in no one but himself. He could twist any conversational topic until he was at the centre. No one else inhabited his universe.

  Barry learned this the first time he left the room they shared, telling Gilbert, “If anybody’s looking for me I’ll be in the library.” Someone did come looking for Barry, and was bluntly informed, “I have no idea where he is.”

  After that experience Barry was polite to his roommate but otherwise ignored him. Gilbert did not notice. Whenever Barry was within earshot he bombarded him with unsolicited monologues about the life, times, and troubles of Gilbert Fitzmaurice. In self-defence, Barry developed selective deafness to the sound of his roommate’s voice.

  “It’s like living next door to a barking dog,” he said to Dennis Cassidy, one of the journalism students. “After a while you don’t hear him anymore.�
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  BARRY was often the first one into a lecture hall and the last to leave. His thirsty mind soaked up information like blotting paper. While studying he was too preoccupied to brood over Claire. Yet when he was hurrying across the New Square he might glimpse a girl who reminded him of her in some way, and the pain would come flooding back.

  He continued to search for her as best he could. He sent letters to every sanatorium in the country, but his enquiries were fruitless. Eventually he was forced to conclude that Claire had never shared his feelings. Perhaps their romance had been all in his mind. Otherwise she would have found a way to stay in touch.

  Lesson learned. I won’t put myself in that position again.

  THE camera was Barry’s constant companion. He took numerous photographs of Trinity, then extended his field to include the surrounding city. Bicycling as far north as Swords and as far south as Dalkey in search of subjects, he discovered an unexpected bonus.

  A tall young man with a camera in his hands was an irresistible magnet to women.

  Outside a shop in Santry, Barry engaged in a bit of flirtatious banter with a particularly attractive girl who asked him to take her picture. When she said, “I’ll give you my address if you promise to send me a copy,” he wrote her address on the back of his hand.

  The following day he bought an address book.

  A new element was shoehorned into Barry’s already crowded schedule. He was thankful for his inexhaustible energy. There were pretty girls and witty girls whom he arranged to meet under Clery’s clock, the traditional Dublin trysting place, before taking them to the cinema or to Barry’s Hotel for tea and scones. There were clever girls and studious girls—the blond Finn was one of the latter—whom he escorted to concerts or for walks in the rain.

  But there would be no serious romance, no talk of love.

  Whenever Gilbert Fitzmaurice saw Barry with a girl, he made the same remark: “I wouldn’t use her for practice.” His repertoire of comments was severely limited. Barry could predict what he would say on any occasion because it never varied. Gilbert was, he decided, the most boring person he had ever met.

  How can a man who has nothing original to say become a barrister?

  The camera was Barry’s bridge between disparate worlds. The university, with its hierarchical society and introspective concerns, was one. He enjoyed his time in the library or on the hockey field, where his strength and speed were a great asset. In the golden days of youth, he was, to all appearances, a carefree young man amongst his peers. His letters to Ursula were filled with collegiate anecdotes.

  That was the weekday world. Weekends found Barry on his way north with his camera in a rucksack. He did not mention these journeys to Ursula. Nor did he take Ned’s notebooks with him. He took them to his bank to be put in safekeeping while he was away.

  He carried his Swiss passport in case there was a problem at the border, but he was never seriously questioned. His cover story, that he was a graduate student on his way from Trinity to Queen’s University in Belfast to do research, was accepted. He wore a suit and tie and was well spoken, a confident young man of obvious good breeding.

  Once Barry was across the border his persona changed. GHQ had equipped him with a set of documents—driver’s licence, hotel bills, library card, personal letters, and so forth—that identified him as Finbar Lewis, freelance photojournalist. There was even a passport in that name, though he had been warned it might not stand up to close scrutiny.

  Dressed in an old tweed jacket and faded blue jeans, with darkened hair and the Leica on a leather strap around his neck, Barry Halloran became someone else.

  Photojournalist. The word suggested a raffish glamour.

  Members of the fraternity ran the gamut from professional newsmen who studied photography to augment their reportage, to the amateur with a camera who obtained a lucky shot, sprang to public attention, then settled down to learn his craft in earnest. The twentieth century was littered with photographic milestones. The last pictures of the Titanic, whose loss marked the end of an era; mud-caked, half-frozen soldiers in the trenches of World War One; the terrible mushroom cloud that ended World War Two. Photojournalism was giving mankind an unprecedented picture of itself.

  WHEN Barry took his first rolls of exposed film back to Dublin he had waited anxiously for the developed prints. They were disappointing. Sharp images, cleverly composed, but just snapshots. He studied them for a long time, trying to decide what was wrong.

  I’m only pretending to be a photojournalist. A professional would have shown not only the people of the Six Counties, but also found a way to show the unionist mindset that shapes and controls them.

  He could not accept failure. I’ve been viewing the unionists from the outside, that’s the problem. Seeing them only as the enemy makes them one-dimensional—like these pictures. I have to get inside them, know what makes them tick. If I can imagine how a man feels when he’s blown apart by a bomb, surely I can imagine what it’s like to be a northern Protestant.

  Barry wandered down to Stephen’s Green to sit on a bench and think. He could always think better in the fresh air. A parade of people passed before him. Courting couples, businessmen cutting across the park to save time between appointments, children running and shouting, women carrying bread to feed the ducks. Barry did not see them. In his mind’s eye he was somewhere else, trying to think like a totally different man.

  Northern Ireland was born in a crisis, he reminded himself, and fear has dominated the province ever since. Sectarianism breeds fear. But Catholics aren’t the only ones who’re afraid. The Protestants claim they’re living in a state of siege themselves.

  Are they?

  He stared unseeing at the nearby pond, where a pair of swans were competing with the ducks for crusts of bread.

  The Roman Catholic Church forbade contraception. Devout Catholics tended to have much larger families than Protestants.

  Enshrined in the Anglo-Irish Treaty was a promise that Northern Ireland would remain part of Britain only as long as the majority wanted.

  The Protestants are waking up to the fact that within a matter of decades they will become the minority. If there’s a united Ireland, they’re terrified they will be treated the same way they’ve treated the Catholics.

  THE next time Barry was in Belfast he sought out a run-down Catholic church at the edge of a Protestant neighbourhood. A number of residents walked past the church every day. Barry waited until the unconscious expression on the face of a passerby revealed not only loathing but deep-seated fear.

  Then he had his picture.

  Chapter Nineteen

  November 9, 1960

  JOHN F. KENNEDY ELECTED PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

  Defeats Richard Nixon by narrow margin. Will become America’s first Roman Catholic president.

  CRACKS were appearing in the monolithic face of Northern Ireland. The industrial economy that brought prosperity to the north had been declining since the end of World War Two. The death blow came in 1960. Harland and Wolf, no longer contracted to build either great battleships or luxury transatlantic liners, laid off thirteen thousand workers, almost all of them Protestant, and warned of still more layoffs in the future. Other heavy industry followed suit, together with countless peripheral support businesses.

  Working-class Protestants in cities and towns all across the north saw their quality of life diminish drastically. Within a few short years Protestants on the Shankill Road in Belfast would be suffering the same poverty as their Catholic neighbours on the Falls Road.

  Meanwhile, moderate elements in the government had begun to allow an improvement in the educational system. A new, better-educated Catholic middle class was starting to develop. The possibility of a seismic shift in the social structure of Northern Ireland was disquieting to many.

  THE Army hoped to take advantage of the situation, but GHQ kept receiving bad news. Resources were declining. There were too many arrests and too many resignations. Novemb
er brought a double dose of disaster. On the fourth Seán Garland was arrested in Belfast, and on the night of the tenth a party including Dave O’Connell was intercepted by a laundry van near the village of Arboe. A group of men in civilian clothes jumped out and opened fire on the Volunteers. O’Connell was hit six times: in the chest, shoulder, stomach, groin, and both hands.

  Miraculously he survived, but he lost a lung and would never be the same.

  TRINITY was almost deserted during the holiday season, its life at low ebb. Barry telephoned Ursula to tell her he had too much studying to do and could not come home for Christmas. The truth was, he wanted to be left alone to do some thinking about himself and the direction his life was taking.

  He loved the Army. But taking propaganda photographs was not the same as being on active service. He was planning for a career in architecture, which he also loved. But he was posing as a photojournalist.

  On top of the locker beside his bed in the Rubrics he kept the small piece of limestone he had brought from the farm. When he woke in the morning his eyes went to it first, even before he looked at the clock.

  The stone was solid. Uncompromising.

  IN the new year rumours of dissension within the ranks of the IRA increased. The old guard was being seriously challenged by younger men. Those who believed that only physical force could restore a united Ireland were opposed by those who thought that playing the political game might yield more positive results in the long run.

  “Exactly what is the relationship between Sinn Féin and the IRA?” Barry asked Éamonn Thomas when he delivered his latest photographs.

  Leaning back in his chair, Thomas laced his fingers behind his head. “That’s a good question. They’re two separate organisations, but the Army needs Sinn Féin and Sinn Féin needs the Army—for now.