by Anne Doughty
Tucked away for safety among my clothes, I had a cross from the rafters, a piece of shale from the quarry, a maidenhair fern wrapped in damp paper inside a plastic bag, and a card with an image of the Virgin and a prayer for the relief of women’s pains that Mary had taken from her Bible to give to me. As the miles passed, I was grateful to have these things about me, for I began to grow anxious I might lose hold of some of the really important things, the souvenirs in my mind, if I didn’t have some small tangible things to prompt me.
Despite flooding on the roads and stops at rain-soaked villages, the Limerick bus arrived in good time for the Dublin train. As it steamed its way across the map of Ireland, I felt as if the journey were a thousand miles, so different was the world to which I was returning. We moved steadily from west to east, from what Sean called ‘the white cabins of de Valera’s dream’ to the bustling pavements of Dublin.
The taxi man was so friendly that I sat in front with him as he drove me across the city. We talked about the weather as strangers do and I told him how good it had been on the west coast. Dry enough here in Dublin, he said, but not so pleasant. The traffic was heavy and as we crept slowly away from the station I recognised the bridge I had walked across five weeks ago on a Saturday at the end of summer.
‘Isn’t this Wolfe Tone Quay?’
‘That’s right, miss. D’ye know the city then?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Not yet, anyhow. But I do know Wolfe Tone Quay.’
It was on my third visit to Sean that he had shown me all his photographs and told me of the long struggle for Catholic Rights. Wolfe Tone had lived and worked in Belfast, a Protestant campaigning for Catholic Rights. No wonder I’d never heard of him before.
‘That’s the Four Courts, miss.’
Five weeks ago, the Four Courts meant nothing to me. No more than if someone had said ‘That’s the new library,’ or ‘That’s the childrens’ hospital.’ Now those two simple words meant struggle and death, passion and courage, dreams and harsh reality. They stood for a struggle that had shaped the lives of so many, a struggle far from over.
We arrived at the station with time to spare. I sat drinking coffee, the tiny pasteboard ticket ready in my jacket pocket, and wondered what it must have felt like to be Sean, at twenty-one, aware that the country he loved was not truly his. It was not whether what he had done was right or wrong that concerned me, for I didn’t think I could judge such a matter. What I wanted to know was what I would do if I found myself in the same situation.
Would I struggle for what I believed to be true? Would I risk my life, or the lives of those I loved? Or would I feel that life itself was more important than any political system? I came to no conclusion, except to recognise how the thought of conflict of any kind, personal, national, or international, always made me anxious. One day I would have to face that fear. I just hoped it wouldn’t be for a very long time yet.
As I walked along the platform, I remembered I had said no to George. It was hardly an act of heroism, but given all my fears, it was an achievement of a sort. It was something to set against my fear that I had no courage at all to face conflict of any kind.
‘Porty-down. Porty-down.’ I opened my eyes with a jerk and felt my paperback slide off my knee onto the carriage floor.
‘All change for Dungannon, Cookstown . . .’
A voice with a familiar accent reeled off a litany of well-known names as the stationmaster strode past the window and disappeared along the dimly lit platform. I picked up my book, smoothed a crumpled corner and peered out at the unexceptional features of a station I knew well, though the last time I’d been here was with the school hockey team.
I was amazed I could have fallen asleep. Perhaps it was the smooth running of the new diesel car we had been transferred to at the border, or perhaps it was the quiet dusk settling over the empty countryside as we came up through the low hills north of Dundalk. I’d been asleep for nearly an hour.
Three people climbed into the carriage, two women and a man. Immediately we were on our way again. Only a bare half hour remained before we were due to pull in at the Great Northern. Was it my imagination or were we travelling faster than at any time during the day? After all these hours of travel, I was still reluctant to arrive.
The man settled to read his newspaper, but the two women launched into a vigorous conversation, so loud it was impossible to shut out.
‘I have it on good authority. . . there’s no knowing, you know. As I says “there’s no smoke without fire” . . . I’m telling you . . . you can’t be too careful.’
I didn’t need to look to see the knowledgeable nods, the guarded glances, the signals accompanying their words. How could you fail to understand what was being said, when the winks and nods flowed so freely? It was not the topic which was so familiar, though I guessed easily enough what that might be, it was the tone, that unlovely, self-righteous way of speaking that will tolerate no different view.
‘Tell them you had salmon mayonnaise for your supper last night with a Catholic, the man you love and may one day marry.’
The thought came as if someone had spoken it and I glanced quickly out of the window in case either of them should see my startled look. But they were too absorbed in rerunning their well-worn discontents.
The man now rearranged his newspaper noisily and moved to the sports page, leaving the front page headline stretched out in front of me like a banner. ‘No Catholics vote unanimous on new estate.’ With headlines like that was it any surprise that the graffiti already scrawled in biro above the comfortable new seats said ‘No surrender’ and ‘Remember 1690’.
‘You’re back, Elizabeth. Now you really know you’re back,’ I said to myself. You may have changed in five weeks, but one thing is sure, they haven’t Look around, observe them, these three good, staunch Protestants. What would they say if they knew? Could they allow the man you love any possible good quality if you told them he was a Catholic? What does it matter if he doesn’t attend Mass, has a strong dislike for most of the priesthood, and eats fish on Friday out of courtesy to his housekeeper? What does it matter what he thinks? It’s the label that matters.
We roared past a huge mill, its neon lights winking in the darkness, advertising itself as world-famous. It belonged to Dicky’s father. Round it the tiny houses clustered, back to back, red brick boxes full of loyal workers. Beyond the mill estate, the lights were strung out along the main road from Lisburn to Belfast, linking other newer estates and factories, until once again the road was obscured by the backs of more red brick houses. We slowed down.
At the kitchen sink of one of them, I saw a man shaving, his face half-covered in soap. In the reflected light from the passing carriages I could see that the window where he stood lay between the legs of a rearing white horse. King Billy was on his way to the Boyne, by way of the Lisburn road.
I had almost finished my book, a battered paperback Sean had given me. Only seven pages left. As I put in my bookmark, I noticed a paragraph had been underlined. A long time ago, for the ink was very faded.
Away then, it is time to go. A voice spoke softly to Stephen’s lonely heart, bidding him go and telling him his friendship was coming to an end. Yes, he would go. He could not strive against another. He knew his part.
I closed the book, put it back in my blue suitcase and zipped up my jacket. That was what Sean had had to do. He had left Ireland because in the end, like Stephen, he could not strive against another. He had had to be free of the burden of his culture and the assumptions it made about what it was to be a true son of Ireland.
And what about a true daughter of Ulster, I asked myself, as the brakes squealed and I swung down my suitcases. The train jerked to a standstill, but I was out and halfway along the platform before my travelling companions had even appeared.
Beyond the station entrance with its tall, weathered columns, I could see the lights of shops reflected in broad puddles. Buses were splashing through them as they pulled in to collec
t the fortunate few from the long lines of would-be passengers. My arms were sore with carrying and manoeuvring cases all day and I looked longingly across at the line of taxis. The thought tempted me, for I still had a little money left, but I decided against. Homecoming would be difficult enough. Arriving by taxi would give the opportunity for one more charge of extravagance.
I walked faster to avoid the small boys who offered to carry my cases to the bus, tried to sell me a newspaper, or asked me if I had a sixpence for a bar of chocolate. I had almost reached the shallow steps leading down into Great Victoria Street when one of the more persistent voices hailed me for the second time.
‘Carry yer case, miss.’
The accent was authentic, but something about the style of delivery didn’t seem quite right. I lowered my cases wearily, turned round and found myself staring at a familiar blue anorak.
‘Carry yer cases. Only six dee. Money back if yer not satisfied,’ he continued, with a broad grin.
‘Ben! What on earth are you doing here?’
‘Oh, just passing. Just passing,’ he said, with studied vagueness, as he picked them up and set off. ‘I’ve ordered a special bus that actually has seats in it. Be here in about half an hour. Just gives us time for a coffee in the Connoisseur. All right?’
‘All right,’ I agreed breathlessly as I tried to keep up with his long strides.
As we crossed the busy road and made for the coffee bar, I was sure I’d never been so glad to see Ben in all my life.
Chapter 20
From our usual seats on top of the bus Ben and I looked down into the shop as we approached. It was still open. Above the fluorescent glare of its plate-glass windows, those of the flat were dark, unlit rectangles, though it was not far off nine o’clock.
‘Lizzie, there’s no one there, they wouldn’t even notice me carrying them. I’d be gone in two ticks.’
‘No, Ben, honestly.’
I had made up my mind before we left the coffee bar that the last small piece of this journey I had to do on my own. He’d protested, muttered about how heavy my cases were and how pale I looked, but, knowing I meant what I said, he’d nodded. Yes, he said, he did understand, he just didn’t like it. He’d stay on the bus for the extra stop which left him beyond the end of his own avenue provided I’d come for a walk tomorrow.
‘Curzon Cinema.’
The conductor’s voice echoed from below as the bus slowed down at the busy pedestrian crossing before the stop itself.
‘Don’t forget tomorrow, Lizzie,’ he said, as I got to my feet, a flicker of anxiety in his green eyes. ‘Sunnyside Bridge at three.’
‘I’ll be there,’ I said hastily, as we jerked to a halt. ‘Thanks for tonight, Ben, you saved my life. . . again,’ I added, squeezing his shoulder, as I slid past him and hurried down the aisle.
I unloaded my cases one last time, crossed the road and walked towards the shop. Behind the counter, my father stood, stooping slightly, straightening as he turned to lift cigarettes down from the shelves behind his head. I put my cases down to wave to him through the plate glass, but he didn’t see me, so I went round the back, climbed the outside stair and fumbled for my keys at the top, my arms aching after hauling my cases up behind me. Pushing them ahead of me into the small dark hallway, I reached for the light switch and closed the door with my foot.
At the end of the narrow passageway, in the front room that overlooks the road itself, my mother was rummaging through the top drawer of the sideboard, so preoccupied with her search she hadn’t heard me come in.
‘Hallo, Mum,’ I said, coming down the hall.
‘You’re a stranger.’ She glanced up at me, startled. ‘Your father said you might have come home sooner,’ she added, as she continued her search.
‘I did explain why I stayed on, Mum. In my letter.’
She turned to face me, a paper pattern in her hand. ‘You’ve the queer tan. Was the weather good?’
The complete incredulity in her voice reminded me that there could be nothing good about the south, not even the weather.
‘We’re not closed yet. I only came up to get a pattern for Mrs Purdy. I’ve left your father up to his eyes. I don’t know where they get the money from,’ she added, from long habit.
I said nothing and began to take my jacket off.
‘The water’s not on. You didn’t say what time you’d be here at.’
‘I didn’t know which train I’d be able to get. The buses don’t always connect.’
‘It might be hot from this morning. I’ve not been out of the shop all day to use any,’ she complained, as she moved towards the stairs.
In a moment she was gone. Weariness flooded over me. I turned back into the passage, took the cases to my room, shut the door behind me and sat on the bed. It smelt of paint. The lampshade still sat on top of the wardrobe, leaving a naked bulb to cast its harsh light over the heavy furniture and the bright, leaf-covered wallpaper. The window was wide open to let out the smell and the room felt chill and dank.
I put my jacket back on again, shut the window and switched on the electric fire. The element sparked and made a funny smell. I sat and watched it begin to glow. It sparked again and I remembered the sparks from the turf fire in Patrick’s study. A whole world away. I knew it would be awful coming back and it was. Every bit as bad as I had expected it to be. I blinked the tears out of my eyes.
The room was innocent of any mark I’d ever made upon it. My maps, photographs and postcards that had once cheered the faded wallpaper were unlikely to have survived. My mother was no more a respecter of possessions than of persons.
I stirred myself and opened the blue suitcase, took out my green file and the exercise books I’d written, hour upon hour, at Mary and Paddy’s table. Below them lay the books Patrick had bought for me on our day in Limerick, shiny and new, volumes of poetry and folklore, botany and archaeology. I looked at them and stroked their covers, smelling their newness.
The sight of my books and papers comforted me, but it was a momentary comfort. Unless I stacked them at the bottom of the wardrobe with my shoes, I had nowhere at all to put them. No desk, no bookshelf, no broad window ledge. Sadly, I fitted them carefully back into the case and slid it under the bed.
Tears of weariness and frustration rolled down my cheeks and splashed onto my jacket. I put my hand to my pocket for a hanky and found the grubby scrap I’d used to wipe the window of the bus in the Square in Lisdoonvarna. I sat twisting it in my fingers and let the tears roll, too weary to stop myself, until I heard voices in the hallway.
‘Elizabeth, where are ye? Are ye still in the bathroom?’
The familiar ring of irritability and impatience struck me like a blow. It had to be faced and faced right now. She’d called me a stranger when I came into the flat and she was right. Far more acutely than ever before, I felt I was indeed a stranger in the place. I wiped my eyes hastily on my sleeve, took off my jacket and stepped out into the hall to say hallo to my father.
Saturday night supper is always bacon and egg. I laid the table, cut the bread and made a pot of tea, as I always do, while my mother cooked. We had hardly picked up our knives and forks when she began to berate me.
‘I hear it’s all off with George Johnston and you’ve a great new boyfriend,’ she said, as she sawed fiercely at her bacon. ‘If it’s not a rude question, what did George do on you?’
She didn’t wait for any reply.
‘I would have thought, Elizabeth, you weren’t too badly off atall to get a nice, clean, decent boy like George, without running after this English guy with the long hair and the stammer. What were ye thinkin’ about atall?’
Nothing I said had the slightest effect on her. She’d made up her mind from George’s report and I only just managed to keep my temper. When she finally tramped off to the kitchen in disgust, all I could think of was that if Geoffrey, my supposed new boyfriend, reliably British, Protestant, and car-owning, all plus points on my mother’s score card, was
to cause such fury, what on earth would it be like if she knew about Patrick.
To add to my misery that evening, there was the way my father behaved. He went on with his supper in silence while she harangued me. Then, when he’d finished eating, he simply tipped out the day’s takings on the table and started counting, even though she was still in full flight, as if the whole business was nothing to do with him. And I suppose in a way it wasn’t. He was only doing what he’d always done, the way he saw it daughters were a woman’s affair and a man had better not meddle if he wanted a quiet life.
I went to bed as soon as I decently could and cried myself to sleep. If it hadn’t been for the thought of telling Ben all about it the next day, I doubt if I’d have slept a wink. But I actually slept well and felt better next morning. I stayed in my room working on my notes and trying to think out exactly what I’d say to Ben about my relationship with Patrick.
Ben had his mother’s car when he met me at Sunnyside Bridge, so we drove to the Giant’s Ring, a great earthwork to the south of Belfast. Flickers of sunshine glinted through the heavy massed clouds as we climbed its steep bank. At the top, we stood catching our breath and looking down at the huge circular space spread out before us. We slithered down the inner face together and tramped towards the remains of a megalithic tomb at the centre point. Despite the fact that it was a Sunday afternoon, we were the only two people in the midst of the huge grassy space. I’d just made up my mind to speak about Patrick, when Ben spoke first.
‘Well then, Lizzie, here’s a real test for you. Football stadium, cathedral or cattle market? What can you tell me about the life and loves, rites and rituals, work and worship, of your average megalith builder?’