Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
1972 (39 page)
You're badly spoiled, my girl
, he thought.
But I won't compound
the crime
. “I suggest you work for Mr. Philpott until you have the next payment, then you can find a place of your own and another job.”
, he thought.
But I won't compound
the crime
. “I suggest you work for Mr. Philpott until you have the next payment, then you can find a place of your own and another job.”
“Oh.” She was silent for a moment. “Do you know anyone who's looking for a club singer?”
“This is Dublin, not London. I don't think there's much demand for a club singer here.”
“So where will I find work?”
“In a department store, like your friend Alice. Or in a restauâ”
“I'm no waitress.” The dark brows drew together.
“Barbara, there's nothing demeaning about honest worâ”
“Well I won't wait tables and I won't clean houses. You'll have to think of something else.”
Cutting your throat might be a good place to start
. “Very well.” He pulled her suitcases out from under the bed. Going to the wardrobe, he began taking out her clothes and folding them as neatly as he could.
. “Very well.” He pulled her suitcases out from under the bed. Going to the wardrobe, he began taking out her clothes and folding them as neatly as he could.
“What do you think you're doing?”
“That should be obvious. I'm packing your things.”
“Why?”
“Because you can't stay here for free. I'll put them outside and you can take them when you go.”
“Go where?”
“That's up to you.” He put a stack of costumes into a suitcase.
Barbara watched in disbelief as Barry methodically packed her possessions, then closed the suitcases and began carrying them to the stairs.
“All right,” she said in a sullen voice.
He stopped but did not turn around. “Sorry?”
“I said all
right
, God damn it. You win.”
right
, God damn it. You win.”
He turned around but did not set the suitcases down. “I don't like hearing a woman swear.”
“Well, I swear, so you'd better get used to it.”
Barry started down the stairs again.
“You son of a bitch,” she screamed after him, “do you always have to win?”
“Actually,” he replied in an even tone, “I do.”
Back in his room, Barry took out Ned's notebooks.
How long has it been since I looked at these? Years, maybe.
How long has it been since I looked at these? Years, maybe.
He riffled through the third in the sequence until he came to the page he was looking for. The first time he saw that page Barry had not understood all that it meant, but he understood now.
In the exact centre of the paper, in Ned Halloran's best copperplate handwriting, was a single word:
SÃle.
W
HILE Barbara reluctantly attempted to master the vacuum cleaner, Barry telephoned the cancer specialist Terry Roche had recommended. “Dr. Roche already telephoned me,” the doctor told him. “After I examine Mr. McCoy I can make arrangements at St. Luke's for an X-ray and a biopsy, if necessary. Can you bring him to see me on Thursday?”
HILE Barbara reluctantly attempted to master the vacuum cleaner, Barry telephoned the cancer specialist Terry Roche had recommended. “Dr. Roche already telephoned me,” the doctor told him. “After I examine Mr. McCoy I can make arrangements at St. Luke's for an X-ray and a biopsy, if necessary. Can you bring him to see me on Thursday?”
“I'll do better than that. I'll fetch him right now.”
“I'm afraid I'm booked solid today ⦔ the doctor began.
“I'll have him there in an hour,” said Barry. And hung up.
In Barry's room McCoy was sitting in the armchair with his arms wrapped around his chest. He had not yet shaved, which helped disguise his sunken cheeks. “I think that gas went into my chest, Seventeen. It's given me a ferocious case of heartburn.”
“Listen, Séamus, I know a good doctor here in Dublin. As it happens I'll be driving past his surgery today on my way to buy some photographic supplies, so why don't you come with me? We'll pop in and let him take a look at you. Maybe he can do something for your heartburn.”
“There's no need,” McCoy said. Yet he did not resist when Barry shepherded him to the car.
While McCoy was with the doctor Barry sat in the waiting room leafing through back issues of
Ireland's Own
for what seemed like hours. When he discovered a folded newspaper someone had abandoned he seized upon it.
Ireland's Own
for what seemed like hours. When he discovered a folded newspaper someone had abandoned he seized upon it.
August 19
,
1969
,
1969
DOWNING STREET DECLARATION
Following meetings between representatives of the government of Northern Ireland and the British government, it has been announced that Northern Ireland will remain part of the United Kingdom for as long as that is the wish of the majority
W
HEN the door of the examining room finally opened, McCoy emerged looking paler than ever. “I may have a wee problem, Seventeen.” He sounded embarrassed.
HEN the door of the examining room finally opened, McCoy emerged looking paler than ever. “I may have a wee problem, Seventeen.” He sounded embarrassed.
Barry hastily refolded the newspaper so that his friend could not see it.
Checking McCoy into hospital meant entrusting him to strangers in a strange world. Battles were fought in Saint Luke's, but not as Barry understood battles. Doctors and nurses fought for life rather than to inflict death. Cancer was the enemy. The weapons used and the language of strategy were secrets zealously guarded by a priesthood in white coats.
Once again Barry was an outsider.
The tests were conclusive: McCoy had a malignant tumour and would need an immediate operation. He took the news with stoic fortitude. “If my number's up, my number's up, Seventeen. Don't look so glum. I never expected to live this long.”
Barry went back to Harold's Cross in hopes of snatching a few hours' sleep before the operation, which was scheduled for the following morning. Barbara and Philpott both spoke to him but their words did not register. He made automatic responses, ate food without tasting it, went to bed without sleeping. In the morning he returned to the hospital in time to see McCoy before they took him to the operating theatre.
“How are you keeping, Séamus?”
“I feel better than you look, Seventeen. Did you sleep in a dugout last night?”
“I spent the night developing photographs and forgot to go to bed,” Barry lied.
“That's good. I was afraid you were worried about me.”
“Why should I worry about you? You're as strong as a goat's breath.”
While he waited for McCoy to be brought down from theatre, Barry looked through the collection of old magazines and outdated newspapers, then laid them aside. He exchanged meaningless comments on the weather with another man who was waiting. After a while the man left. Hours passed. A couple arrived; the woman kept sniffling. The man talked to her in a low undertone, then fell silent and sat gloomily staring at his shoes.
There were no windows in the hospital waiting room. Barry lost all sense of time. He did not look at his watch because he did not want to know how long they had been working on McCoy.
Waiting is hell and hell is waiting. For all eternity. Just waiting.
Barry's mind rambled aimlessly. Most of his thoughts were dark ones. He found himself recalling the conversation with his mother about using only one word on a tombstone.
What would apply to Ursula, I wonder?
What would apply to Ursula, I wonder?
Unique.
And Séamus?
Indispensable.
That discovery was so painful that he forced himself to think of someone else.
What about Barbara? How would one describe her?
What about Barbara? How would one describe her?
The quest kept him amused until McCoy's surgeon entered the waiting room. When he untied his mask his smile was like a sunrise. “I think we got it all, Mr. Halloran. Your friend is very lucky.”
Barry caught his breath. “Can I see him?”
“He's still in recovery. He'll probably sleep through until morning, so come back then. We'll be keeping him here for a while, of course, but he should be able to go home in a few weeks.”
For Barry, the devastation wrought upon so many in recent weeks had dwindled in comparison to one threatened loss. The
lifting of the threat lifted his heart. Apollo became a winged chariot. As he drove home, the charioteer whistled “Tri-Coloured Ribbon.'”
lifting of the threat lifted his heart. Apollo became a winged chariot. As he drove home, the charioteer whistled “Tri-Coloured Ribbon.'”
When he pulled up in front of the house he heard “Boléro” wafting from an open window. His window. Barry's good mood evaporated. It was not yet teatime, so the other boarders were still at work. Philpott was probably busy in the kitchen. There was only one person who would be playing the gramophone.
Angrily, Barry flung open the door to his roomâto find that it had been transformed into a stage. The beds had been folded away and the furniture pushed against the walls, leaving the floor clear for Barbara.
Barbara. Dancing with wild abandon.
For the second time that day Barry caught his breath.
She was music to his eyes.
An old familiar music expressed in a new form, but recognisable just the same.
I am lost
, he thought.
I am lost
, he thought.
Oblivious to everything but the compelling rhythm of the dance, Barbara swept around in an elegant half-circle that brought her face-to-face with Barry. She gave a gasp. “I didn't know you were home!”
“I am now.”
She recovered her composure almost instantly. “How's your friend?”
“The doctors think he's going to be all right.”
“Oh, Barry, I am glad!” She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
She smelled of perfume and perspiration.
Her heart was pounding against Barry's chest. Racing as his was racing with too many emotions. Relief, joy, passion ⦠Between one beat and the next, thought became impossible for him. His arms tightened around her and he bore her to the floor. If she had struggled he would have let her up immediately, he still had that much self-control. But she did not struggle. She gave a deep, throaty moan, and pulled him more tightly against her.
Women in Barry's experience were relatively passive. He had assumed it was because the machineries of their bodies were different from his. They could not possibly understand the forces that drove him: the intense sexual hunger, the blind need.
Barbara Kavanagh did understand. She met him with her youth and strength and an astonishing lust. When he began to fumble with her clothes he found her fingers already there. Then they were on him, making urgent, needful adjustments.
Against his lips, she murmured his name.
All at once he was inside.
Inside!
Inside silken, throbbing heat; lying above her, propped on his elbowsâhe was so big that he had always been afraid of crushing a womanâbut also enveloped by her, melded to her, unable to distinguish any difference between them. Unaware of anything but sensation.
Inside!
Inside silken, throbbing heat; lying above her, propped on his elbowsâhe was so big that he had always been afraid of crushing a womanâbut also enveloped by her, melded to her, unable to distinguish any difference between them. Unaware of anything but sensation.
Barry lay perfectly still.
Nothing may ever feel this good again. Make it last.
Nothing may ever feel this good again. Make it last.
As if following the same conductor, Barbara waited too. Then she began to move under him, gently at first, but soon demandingly, capturing him with her rhythm which miraculously was his own rhythm.
His skin was made for this. His lungs and heart and penis and brain ⦠yes, his brain ⦠all were made for this. Bodies ⦠singing ⦠together. That was it, singing. Like a choir. Making something larger than their individual selves, a tactile chorus that rose and rose to an unbearable crescendo ⦠falling away to diminuendo ⦠building again â¦
T
HREE hours later Barry was alone in his room. Still smelling her perfume on the air. Still feeling her against him. All around him. She had gone to her own room but in some mysterious way she had never left his.
HREE hours later Barry was alone in his room. Still smelling her perfume on the air. Still feeling her against him. All around him. She had gone to her own room but in some mysterious way she had never left his.
It made no sense, but there it was.
They had both missed tea. He was not hungryâ
Not for food anyway
âbut he wanted to be certain she was all right. That is what he told himself, though he knew he really just longed to see her face again. And hear her voice, that dark-amber incredible voice, murmuring his name.
Not for food anyway
âbut he wanted to be certain she was all right. That is what he told himself, though he knew he really just longed to see her face again. And hear her voice, that dark-amber incredible voice, murmuring his name.
When he knocked gently on her door there was no answer. Suddenly anxiousâ
Maybe I frightened her; maybe she's run off!
âhe pounded his fist on the door panel.
Maybe I frightened her; maybe she's run off!
âhe pounded his fist on the door panel.
“Come in, it's open.”
Wrapped in her dressing gown, Barbara was sitting on the
bed applying fresh varnish to her toenails. Tendrils of damp hair clung to her temples. She looked up with a quizzical smile. “Do you want something?”
bed applying fresh varnish to her toenails. Tendrils of damp hair clung to her temples. She looked up with a quizzical smile. “Do you want something?”
Do I want something?
“I thought you might ⦠be hungry. We could go down to the kitchen and ⦔
“Thanks, but I'm going to bed as soon as my nails are dry. I'm really tired. I suppose it gets easier with practice, though.”
“Gets easier with practice?”
“Housecleaning. What did you think I meant?”
A muscle twitched in Barry's jaw. “I don't know, Barbara. Half the time I have no idea what you mean. You have me flummoxed.”
“What's âflummoxed'?”
“Baffled. You're not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
Oh no. I won't go down that road
. “Actually, I hadn't given it much thought,” Barry said with studied nonchalance. It was a point of honour to sound as emotionally uninvolved as she did. “If you don't want anything to eat I'll wish you good night.” Polite; formal.
. “Actually, I hadn't given it much thought,” Barry said with studied nonchalance. It was a point of honour to sound as emotionally uninvolved as she did. “If you don't want anything to eat I'll wish you good night.” Polite; formal.
“I'll see you tomorrow,” she called after him. “Do you want me to do your room first?”
Jesus Christ!
He did not think he was in love with her.
In love. Silly, sentimental phrase. Does anyone say that anymore?
He certainly did not want to be in love with her. Yet she was embedded in his pores.
In love. Silly, sentimental phrase. Does anyone say that anymore?
He certainly did not want to be in love with her. Yet she was embedded in his pores.
W
HILE he waited for McCoy to be released from hospital, Barry concentrated on his photography. Events in the north were spilling over into the southern press now, so he was aware of James Callaghan's visit to the Bogside and his grant of £250,000 for “alleviation of distress.” In the wake of such large-scale violence in the Six Counties several government enquiries were under way. The inspector general of the RUC announced disciplinary action against sixteen constables as a result of events at Burntollet Bridge in January.
1
The Cameron Commission placed much of the blame for the more recent violence
in Derry and Belfast on the actions of the RUC and the policies of Stormont.
HILE he waited for McCoy to be released from hospital, Barry concentrated on his photography. Events in the north were spilling over into the southern press now, so he was aware of James Callaghan's visit to the Bogside and his grant of £250,000 for “alleviation of distress.” In the wake of such large-scale violence in the Six Counties several government enquiries were under way. The inspector general of the RUC announced disciplinary action against sixteen constables as a result of events at Burntollet Bridge in January.
1
The Cameron Commission placed much of the blame for the more recent violence
in Derry and Belfast on the actions of the RUC and the policies of Stormont.
None of this offered opportunities for Barry's camera, which was just as well because he could not go north anyway. He visited McCoy in hospital every afternoon and spent the rest of his time taking local and regional photographs. Sporting events, politicians making speeches, brides on their way to church. The peaceful documentation of a peaceful country.
When he was at home Barry could not help noticing the way the male boarders looked at Barbara. She paid no attention. Barry, however, made a point of intercepting those glances and responding with such an icy glare that the man in question understood perfectly.
O
N the tenth of October the report of the Hunt Committee on Policing in Northern Ireland recommended that the RUC become an unarmed civilian police force. It also recommended disbanding the B-Specials and replacing them with a locally recruited part-time military force under the control of the British army, to be known as the Ulster Defence regiment.
2
N the tenth of October the report of the Hunt Committee on Policing in Northern Ireland recommended that the RUC become an unarmed civilian police force. It also recommended disbanding the B-Specials and replacing them with a locally recruited part-time military force under the control of the British army, to be known as the Ulster Defence regiment.
2
The following day three thousand unionists marched from the Shankill Road to attack the Unity Flats with petrol bombs. The British army moved in with guns.
Ian Paisley claimed to have been told by British soldiers that they had been sent to Northern Ireland to keep the Catholics happy.
L
IVING beneath the same roof as Barbara was a peculiar torture for Barry. Every day, he saw her face. Heard her voice. Sometimes even heard her singing as she went about her work. Yet she never by the slightest glance indicated that anything sexual had happened between them, or that she would like it to happen again.
IVING beneath the same roof as Barbara was a peculiar torture for Barry. Every day, he saw her face. Heard her voice. Sometimes even heard her singing as she went about her work. Yet she never by the slightest glance indicated that anything sexual had happened between them, or that she would like it to happen again.
To Barry's surprise, she displayed, after some initial difficulties, a talent for housekeeping. The folds of the curtains hung perfectly and the highly polished tabletops sported striking arrangements of flowers and greenery. Even Philpott grudgingly admitted that Barbara was an asset to the house. “I suppose she would make someone a good wife,” he told Barry.
“Don't look at me, I have no plans to marry. Even if I did, it wouldn't be to someone as contrary as Barbara Kavanagh.”
“So there's nothing going on between the two of you?”
Barry was able to say honestly, “There is nothing going on between us.”
“That's good. I won't have anything of that nature in this house. Nothing nasty between men and women. You do understand, don't you?”
Looking down at the fussy little man with his aging, frightened face, suddenly Barry did understand.
He felt a deep pity for Mr. Philpott.
O
N the seventh of November more than three thousand Viking artefacts, indicating the ruins of the largest Viking town ever discovered outside of Scandinavia, were discovered on the site of proposed Dublin civic offices at Wood Quay. Barry hurried to take photographs. It soon became obvious that a fight was looming; archaeologists were already planning a strong resistance to any further exploitation of the site. Dublin Corporation was equally determined to build its new facility there, even at the cost of destroying a unique piece of world heritage.
N the seventh of November more than three thousand Viking artefacts, indicating the ruins of the largest Viking town ever discovered outside of Scandinavia, were discovered on the site of proposed Dublin civic offices at Wood Quay. Barry hurried to take photographs. It soon became obvious that a fight was looming; archaeologists were already planning a strong resistance to any further exploitation of the site. Dublin Corporation was equally determined to build its new facility there, even at the cost of destroying a unique piece of world heritage.
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