I thought it strange that in spite of the fact that everything around me was quaint, rural, and slightly run-down, the RUC station for this wee village was nearly as big and as heavily fortified as the police station at Springmartin near where I lived, and that was situated on the West Belfast peace line.
‘Is this the peace line?’ I asked.
‘Och, don’t be stupid, we don’t have peace lines up the country. We all live together in the one village here.’
‘That’s great!’ I said. ‘So everyone gets on well up here in spite of the Troubles and all.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t say that now. We’ve had more than our fair share of bombs and shootings. The Troubles isn’t all about the Falls and the Shankill, ya know. One night they blew up half of Bellaghy. There was hardly a window left in the village. Our greenhouse was shattered. You’ve no idea!’
‘But how can the two sides live together in the same village if all that’s goin’ on? That would be like the Falls and the Shankill being all mixed with no peace walls.’
‘Bellaghy’s a republican village and we’re the minority. And it’s not just IRA republicans, it’s the real extreme ones round here – the INLA. They kill each other when they’re not killing soldiers and policemen and Protestants.’
It had never occurred to me that Catholics and Protestants could live together in such close proximity, apart from up the Malone Road where they were too posh to fight.
‘Sure, Mad Dog grew up in the house next door to us,’ Lesley said casually.
‘What? Mad Dog that shot all those poor people in that wee church in Darkley?’
‘Yes, his sister was my best friend when we were growing up.’
‘What?’
‘I was an only child and they were a big family, so I played with all the kids next door.’
This was a revelation. Lesley lived beside real live republicans and spoke to them and was even friends with some of them. It seemed that in Bellaghy it was normal for Presbyterians to live right next door to the INLA. This brought new meaning to the phrase ‘love thy neighbour.’
‘Everyone knows who tried to shoot who and who blew up the village and who killed who,’ she said. ‘You’ve no idea!’
On this occasion Lesley’s catchphrase was true – I had absolutely no idea what this would be like. I was friends with Marty Mullen and I was certain he was a republican but I didn’t think he’d actually killed anyone – at least not yet.
‘How could you even look at your neighbours if you knew your side had tried to kill them or they had tried to kill you?’ I asked.
Lesley shrugged her shoulders. ‘That’s Bellaghy,’ she said, as if this was the most natural behaviour in the world.
‘Did you ever try to argue with the republicans or ask them to stop killing us?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I had a big debate with Boomer one day.’
‘Boomer?’
‘I understand them you know. I’ve seen the way the army treat them. Anyway, they’re a bit brainwashed, everything’s black and white, so I don’t think Boomer listened to me. He just sees me as the wee privileged Protestant girl next door that hasn’t a clue about the armed struggle.’
Now we were in her natural habitat my views of Lesley were changing with every passing minute. I had always thought she was just a lovely big girl from up the country with nice clothes from Anderson & McAuley’s and her own car, but now I was discovering that she had actually argued with terrorists and asked them to lay down their weapons! I had been a committed pacifist all my life and I had never done anything remotely as brave as this, though I did once manage to persuade Titch McCracken to stop throwing shoplifted marleys from the Mace over the peace wall.
‘This is our house here,’ Lesley said, turning off the main street and driving down a long lane with trees and bushes and more heathers than Portadown. We arrived at the rear of a large, detached house with a patio on one side, and stables, outhouses and an orchard on the other. A door opened and a middle-aged couple emerged. The man was very tall and thin with dark, slicked-back hair, and the lady was well-dressed with big glasses, a lovely hairdo and a friendly smile.
‘That’s Mummy!’ Lesley said excitedly.
‘Well, welcome to Bellaghy,’ said Mummy.
I walked forward and shook Mummy’s hand and then shook Daddy’s hand, which was so big it made mine feel like the hand of a child.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ I said politely.
‘C’mon into the kitchen. The kettle’s on,’ Mummy said, leading us into one of the biggest kitchens I had ever seen in my life. There were hundreds of red cabinets and still room for a table and chairs in the middle.
‘You sit yourself there, Tony,’ said Mummy.
Lesley, Daddy and I sat around the smoked glass table – which was as impressive as any I had ever seen in the window of Gillespie & Wilson’s on the Shankill Road – while Mummy moved around the kitchen like a bee buzzing from flower to flower, preparing our wee cuppa tea. She placed one of her Himalayan pavlovas in the centre of the table and my mouth began to water instantly. Then she surrounded the pavlova with a series of smaller plates containing geometrically perfect caramel squares; freshly baked fruit scones with butter, jam and a dollop of fresh cream; and a plate of chocolate biscuits from a good tin, rather than Yellow Pack chocolate digestives which students lived on.
‘I just thought I’d make you a wee snack before dinner,’ Mummy explained as she poured the tea into proper china cups with saucers, which rested on proper place mats with pictures of fox hunting.
‘Would you like a piece of pavlova?’ she asked.
‘Yes, please, thank you,’ I replied.
Once we began eating and drinking everyone relaxed into conversation. We talked about how long it took to get here on the bus, when the bawn across the road was built, how I was getting on in university, what a lovely kitchen this was and it’s terrible all that’s going on in Northern Ireland, so it is, and sure it’s a minority on both sides causing all the trouble, so it is.
‘Have another scone,’ said Mummy.
‘Yes please, thank you,’ I replied, filling myself up nicely after my long bus journey.
‘I’m going to take Tony out for a wee run in the car to show him round before dinner,’ Lesley said.
‘Have another caramel square,’ said Mummy.
‘Yes please, thank you,’ I replied, still thoroughly enjoying the sweet Presbyterian feast.
Lesley had told me that Daddy was a quiet man, like John Wayne in the movie, and so if he didn’t talk much it didn’t necessarily mean that he didn’t like me. He was very friendly but once he had finished his cuppa tea he went and sat in the corner beside the radiator and began to read a Western paperback.
‘Remember to show Tony the school now, won’t you, Lessley,’ Mummy said, pronouncing ‘Lesley’ very politely, with an extended ‘s’. ‘Have another chocolate biscuit, they’re Marks & Spencer,’ she added.
‘Yes please, thank you,’ I replied, though I was starting to feel quite full.
We chatted for another while about the school up the mountain where Mummy had been headmistress for years and where they got very good results in the eleven-plus.
‘Have another piece of pavlova,’ said Mummy.
‘No, thank you, I think I’m full up now,’ I replied.
Silence.
‘Och, sure go on, you would, you could, you should,’ said Mummy.
‘Okay, sorry, thanks, you’ve persuaded me, yes please,’ I responded with the utmost courtesy.
Lesley talked uninterrupted for several minutes about going to the wee school and how it got the best eleven-plus results in mid Ulster and Mummy joined in with a few stories about some of her more errant pupils.
‘Now, have another scone, Tony,’ Mummy commanded.
‘Oh no, sorry, thank you, really I couldn’t, I’m full up now. It’s all so lovely, thank you.’
‘Och, none of that, you will, you can, you shoul
d, sure you’re a growing boy!’ said Mummy, clearly not prepared to take ‘no’ for an answer.
The food was all delicious and I enjoyed being spoilt in this way, but I had to wonder if I would be permitted to stop eating before all the plates were empty.
‘We need to go now,’ said Lesley, ‘or we’ll not be back in time for dinner.’
‘Och, Lessley,’ Mummy tutted.
The possibility of missing dinner rescued me from any further force-feeding and off we went in the Renault 5 to explore the wonders of south Derry. First of all, Lesley showed me the GAA pitch, which was a completely new experience for me as there were no GAA pitches on the Shankill. Then Lesley pointed out a neighbour’s farm across the road.
‘That’s where Albert artificially inseminates the pigs, over there,’ said Lesley.
‘’Scuse me, wha?’
‘Bellaghy’s very big for artificial insemination of pigs, you know,’ she said proudly.
I was speechless.
Thankfully, before I could begin to picture pigs being artificially inseminated by Albert, Lesley drove us down a narrow, winding lane opposite the GAA pitch. She explained that this was where she went for long pony rides in the summer holidays, to an island called Church on a beautiful lough called Beg. I had always thought a ‘beg’ was what you carried your shopping in.
Lesley provided me with a running commentary.
‘And that’s a wee cottage with no electric and the wee man always sits there and has a wee chat with you, and Mummy collects for the lifeboats round here and everybody gives even though it’s the ‘Royal Lifeboats’ and we’re nowhere near the sea, so we’re not … and Seamus Heaney’s from over there and Daddy knows him and they’re an awful nice family, and all the swans land here from Iceland in the same fields every year and the Orange Hall gets paint bombed all the time, and there’s a brilliant Garden Centre in Maghera …’
We stopped at the edge of the lough. The scenery was breathtaking. I was fascinated by the giant dragonflies hovering over the water, which reminded me of the Doctor Who episode, ‘The Green Death’ where an enormous fly hatched from a giant maggot and squirted poisonous slime at the UNIT soldiers until the third Doctor swatted it with his cape. It was so peaceful and picturesque on the shores of Lough Beg, it was hard to imagine people wanting to kill each other round here. I told Lesley that the closest thing I had to somewhere special like this when I was growing up was up the fields where I picked blackberries or up the Glen where I caught tadpoles and the paramilitaries dumped bodies. We stopped for a while to gaze at the mysterious Church Island. Lesley pointed out rags hanging from an old tree beside the ruins of the church, where Catholic pilgrims prayed once a year in summer when the lough was low enough to walk out to the island. It sounded magical – albeit not very Presbyterian – and Lesley’s excitement about the place was infectious. After this idyllic sojourn the Renault 5 transported us to Magherafelt. Lionel Richie sang ‘Stuck on You’ on the cassette radio as we drove up a very broad street in the centre of the town.
‘What’s this street called?’ I asked.
‘Broad Street,’ said Lesley.
Country people are very straightforward, I thought.
Once we had seen both the streets in Magherafelt, we moved on to a wee village called Tobermore with only one street, where Lesley pointed out her auntie’s bungalow beside the Orange Hall. After that we drove towards the Sperrin Mountains, taking a winding country road in the middle of nowhere to Kilross Primary School where Lesley had been a pupil and Mummy was headmistress. I hadn’t experienced so many country roads since playing Olivia Newton John’s Greatest Hits on repeat.
When we returned to Bellaghy for dinner, the table was all set out with a tablecloth and placemats and napkins like for a Christmas dinner. There was soup for starters with proper soup spoons, roast beef with roast potatoes and proper mash (rather than Smash) and the tastiest peas I had ever tasted. This was followed by a freshly baked chocolate cake with ice cream and fresh cream for dessert and then a wee cuppa tea and some traybakes in the living room. As Lesley and I settled down to watch Dallas on the biggest television I had ever seen – with wooden doors and a brass lock and key on the front and everything – Mummy offered me some more of her sweet delights.
‘Och, now don’t be sayin’ no, have another wee caramel square. You would, you could, you should!’
‘Okay, yes please, thank you,’ I replied, wondering how I could possibly consume another crumb.
I accepted further sustenance, even though at this stage it felt like the chocolate was clogging my throat. This rich cuisine was so different from my normal student diet of sausages and baked beans and a few Jammie Dodgers that I began to feel a little ill. I feel asleep on Lesley’s shoulder while Sue Ellen was mid lip quiver. That night, after a subtle snog in the good room, Mummy arrived with supper which included a slice – or two or three if you weren’t assertive enough to refuse (which I wasn’t) – of apple tart and fresh cream. Finally I was ushered to the guest room, with thick walls, a huge double bed and a hot water bottle. Mummy showed me to the bathroom and I marvelled at the plush curtains, the millions of bath cubes (which I presumed were Christmas presents from all the children at the school), the expensive aftershaves you couldn’t buy in Boots and the posh beige bathroom suite, which included a separate shower unit and a bidet. This finally confirmed to me that Lesley was middle class, because working-class houses had their showers attached to the taps in the bath and only middle-class people had bidets, though these were usually of an avocado hue. I thought it odd that middle-class people needed a separate facility to wash their feet in, because working-class people got by just fine washing their feet in the bath or with a face cloth in the wash basin. Once I had completed my ablutions (including washing my feet in the bidet, for the experience rather than for hygiene purposes) I returned to the guest bedroom. The bed was festooned with more eiderdowns, cushions and pillows than I had previously thought it possible for one mattress to support. When I removed the restraining silk tassles and pulled the heavy curtains I was amazed at how dark and quiet it was up the country, even though the house was right beside the road. As I lay in bed, swamped in soft furnishings and with my stomach fuller than it had ever been, I considered all the new experiences of my first day in Bellaghy. I drifted off and dreamt that I was The Doctor being chased by a Caramel Square, and though I made it to the TARDIS in time and hid behind the console, an army of Caramel Squares descended upon me and not even my sonic screwdriver could stop them from overwhelming me.
‘Breakfast!’ Lesley said, popping her head round the door. She didn’t enter, of course, as Joyce Huggett forbade this.
I glanced at my watch. It was 8 a.m., and already I could smell streaky bacon sizzling in Mummy’s gigantic frying pan downstairs. There was no food as welcome in my digestive system on a weekend than an Ulster fry, but it was very early and it seemed like only a few hours since my last feed.
‘Hurry up, you. Mummy says it nearly ready!’
‘Lessley,’ I heard Mummy call from downstairs. ‘Is he never up yet?’
I climbed quickly into the shower cubicle, which was somewhat like getting into a TARDIS only to discover it was smaller on the inside and contained a beige soap-on-a-rope which matched the bathroom suite.
‘Hurry you up, it’s nearly out!’ called Lesley.
I decided that I didn’t have time to use the beige bidet and patted myself down quickly with an enormous brown towel the same colour as the carpet and the bathroom suite. Colour co-ordination was clearly very important in Bellaghy. As I got dressed I began to feel slightly nauseous from the combination of the sudden awakening, the early morning rush and my huge feed the day before.
What if Mummy and Daddy think I’m a lazy wee shite from the city who can’t get up early to do manual labour like a proper countryman? I fretted.
I dashed downstairs, almost toppling a glass cabinet of Limoges porcelain crockery en route. The kitchen was
a hive of frenetic activity. Daddy, who had obviously been up since 6 a.m. building a greenhouse and fixing several cars, was assisting with the sausages, bacon and black pudding while Mummy perfected the eggs and the soda and potato farls. Lesley was boiling the kettle and making the tea and all three were contributing to the setting of the table, complete with a toast holder, china butter dish, butter knives, and place mats and coasters imprinted with scenes of rural eighteenth-century England.
‘Sorry, can I help, please?’ I enquired.
‘Not at all. You’re the guest,’ Mummy smiled, cracking a brown egg into the pan. ‘You sit there.’ She directed me to the specified guest chair. Mummy clearly enjoyed the challenge of hosting and I was somewhat overwhelmed by all the attention.
‘Your beige bathroom suite’s lovely, so it is,’ I ventured.
‘It’s Sahara Gold,’ said Lesley.
I sat down amid all the activity and the delicious smells, but all of a sudden I began to feel very sick. I was surrounded by the makings of the perfect Ulster fry – a massive feast of meat and enough fried bread to empty a shelf in the Ormo Mini Shop – but due, more than likely, to my over-indulgence the day before I was feeling increasingly queasy.
‘I feel a bit sick,’ I whispered to Lesley, who looked most concerned.
‘You have to eat Mummy’s fry, she’s been preparing for it all week,’ she whispered back, our conversation masked only by the sudden sizzling of mushrooms being added to the frying pan.
I started taking deep breaths in an attempt subdue the nausea, but with every breath I inhaled the odour of fried meat and mushrooms and by this stage the smell was sickening rather than appetising. Lesley observed me closely, aware of the potential disaster unfolding in her kitchen. My face had turned a whiter shade of pale and she quickly realised that an intervention was going to be necessary.
All Growed Up Page 20