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Authors: Morgan Llywelyn

1972 (42 page)

BOOK: 1972
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“Do you judge everything comparatively?”
“Of course, don't you?”
“Certainly not.” Against his better judgement, Barry could not resist asking, “How do I compare with other men you've known?”
She tossed her head and laughed. “Better than some, not as good as others.”
“You're teasing now.”
“Am I?” She laughed again. “Oh, don't look like that, you silly old thing.” Reaching out and touching his cheek with her fingers, gently trailing them down to the hard jawbone, down again along the strongly muscled neck to his chest. A touch as light as a butterfly's kiss.
He had no defence against gentleness.
One by one, with artless questions asked during his moments of greatest vulnerability, she was extracting Barry's deepest secrets. He even told her about Feargal's death.
She said, “You must hate the RUC.”
“I don't want to hate anyone,” Barry replied. Knowing that he could and did. “The constables were doing what they had to do,
just as we were,” he elaborated.
Which is perfectly true. Seen from their side.
Barbara Kavanagh had not acquired the intellectual maturity to hold two opposing viewpoints at the same time. “I don't know how you can be so understanding! I would never ever forgive anyone who killed somebody I cared about. Even if it took my whole life I'd find a way to get back at them.”
Barry realised with dismay that he had told Barbara far too much. Even about Ned's notebooks.
And he did not know if he could trust her at all.
T
RUE to his word, Barry invited his mother to come up to Dublin for Christmas. He was eager for her to see him as a property owner, a man of substance.
Ursula saw more than that. Although they frequently bickered, she realised almost at once the true nature of Barry's relationship with Barbara Kavanagh. The superficial sparring was an attempt to disguise more tender feelings. There was something deeply satisfying, like the closing of a ring, in seeing the two of them together. Her son and Henry's granddaughter.
With a mental shrug of her shoulders, Ursula set about making friends with Barbara; discussing music, telling family anecdotes, soliciting the younger woman's opinions about fashion.
When Barry heard the two women laughing together over a private joke he felt a sense of relief.
Ursula liked Séamus McCoy, too. In his damaged eyes was the same expression she had seen in Ned Halloran's eyes: the dream that would not be extinguished.
“You've created quite a little family for yourself,” Ursula remarked to Barry.
“I have. Do you approve?” The slight, ironic half-smile; the lifted eyebrow.
“I would approve more if you married the girl. Why aren't you at least engaged? This is Ireland, you know; people will talk.”
“Ursula, never in my entire life have I heard you worry about what other people think.”
“I don't care for myself, but I do for you.”
“Never worry about me. I'm quite capable of looking after
myself—and all this too.” With an expansive gesture he indicated the house and everything in it. “My kingdom,” he added, smiling broadly now.
T
HE coming New Year would bring the introduction of the decimal system in Ireland. Farewell to the crown, the farthing, the shilling. “We're going to have to learn sillymetrics next,” Ursula dolefully predicted before she returned to Clare.
Looking back on 1971 afterwards, Barry thought of it as “the Building Year.” For him, most of it passed in a haze of construction as the new extension to his house was built in the back garden. He was involved in every phase of the work, from drawing up the plans to helping with the carpentry and tiling the roof. Barbara was in charge of decorating the interior. McCoy kept a close eye on the tradesmen and suppliers and prevented Barbara from being too extravagant. He seemed able to handle her even when Barry could not.
“You're my reserve force, Séamus,” Barry told him. “When I'm pushed to the pin of my collar I can always count on you.”
Barry was thoroughly enjoying himself. He divided his time between his photography, his building, and Barbara, and still squeezed in a few hours to be with friends. And to follow the news from the north. Always, like a black cloud on the horizon, the north.
T
HE split between the Official IRA and the Provisionals had surfaced in Belfast. There the Provisionals had gained control in all Catholic areas except the Lower Falls Road. They were made very welcome. They were there to defend.
On the tenth of January the IRA tarred and feathered four men for burglary and peddling drugs.
1
In February British soldiers who were searching Catholic neighbourhoods for weapons were attacked by women on the Crumlin Road. A few days later IRA machine-gun fire killed a British soldier on the New Lodge Road. When a five-year-old Catholic girl was run over by a British Army vehicle, fresh riots broke out.
In March the escalating feud between the Official IRA and
the Provisional IRA resulted in a gun battle in Belfast's Leeson Street. The RTE newscast left McCoy distraught. “Why is this happening, Seventeen? It's the Civil War all over again.”
Barry tried to comfort his friend. “It's only teething pains as the two sides stake out their territories. You understand about territories, Séamus.”
“Sometimes I think I don't understand anything.”
Sometimes I don't either
, Barry thought. He wished he could put his finger on the precise moment when events had gone out of control, so that he could photograph it and say to the world, “Here, this is where it all went wrong. Don't let this happen again.”
There were times when Barry was certain Barbara loved him, though she never said so. There were times when he was afraid she secretly hated him because he was, had been, surely always would be, IRA. She never said that either.
March 29, 1971
CALLEY GUILTY OF ATROCITY IN VIETNAM
Lieutenant William Calley has been found guilty of murdering civilians during the massacre of 567 men, women, and children in the village of My Lai in Vietnam. Calley's company of U.S. troops was responsible for the massacre, which took place in 1968. The defence claimed that Calley and his men were following orders.
I
N Belfast two marches to commemorate the anniversary of the Easter Rising in 1916 were organised by the two branches of the IRA. Both factions wore the traditional republican emblem of the Easter lily. The Provisionals fastened their badges to their coats with pins. The Officials used self-adhesive paper
badges. A crowd of more than seven thousand attended the Provisionals' march. The Officials' attracted only half that number.
Some wit dubbed the two halves of the IRA “Provos” and “Stickies.'”
S
HORTLY after Easter, Barry helped to raise the rooftree on the new extension of his house. Afterwards he, Barbara, and McCoy celebrated. Champagne for Barbara, Jameson's for the men. Barry warned McCoy not to take more than a small drink because of his medication.
McCoy defiantly drained a large tumbler full of whiskey. “Now that's what I call ‘medication,' Seventeen. Pass me another.” He drank that too and showed no ill effects.
“Séamus may not be big but he's a giant,” Barry confided to Barbara.
She slept in his room that night.
He awoke before she did and rolled up onto his elbow to look down at her. With a rosy dawn light filtering through the net curtains she was breathtaking. Her hair, glossy with rude animal health, fanned across the pillow; her complexion, innocent of makeup, was luminous.
But the knowing eye could discern flaws. The slight vertical furrows above Barbara's nose would intensify with time. Her deep jaw, which was such a valuable part of her singing apparatus, was heavy in repose. Barbara's features required animation to make them beautiful. When she was lost in sleep she looked almost …
Someday she'll be dead and in her grave and we will have missed each other this time!
Barry's hand closed tightly on her shoulder. “Barbara? Barbara! Wake up!”
She opened her eyes and peered groggily up at him. “What do you want?”
Seeing life return to her face filled Barry with an inordinate joy. “To ask you something.”
The frown lines deepened. “Fine. Ask me in the morning.” She rolled over and turned her back to him.
“This is morning, and besides, it won't wait.”
“There's nothing that can't wait until I've gotten up and had a cup of coffee,” she said over her shoulder. “But for now I'm going back to sleep.”
Barry was fully aware of the huge, recklessly impulsive step he was about to take. Aware and frightened and exhilarated.
“Will you marry me?”
Suddenly Barbara was wide awake.

W
ILL you be my best man, Seamus?” Barry was holding Barbara's hand as they crowded close together in the doorway of McCoy's room.
“Your wha'?” He was still in bed with a thundering hangover, and as startled at having them invade his bedroom as he was by the question.
“You heard me, old friend. This foolish woman has agreed to marry me, and I hope you'll be the best man.”
McCoy's befuddled brain was running to catch up. “Marry? You two? When?”
“We want to have the extension finished first, and we'll have to allow plenty of time for Barbara's mother—and mine—to do all those things they're going to want to do.”
“Barry and I are both so unconventional,” Barbara interjected, “that we decided we should do this the conventional way and have a year's engagement. We're thinking of the first of May next year.”
McCoy's wolfish grin surfaced. “If I'm the best man, why are you going to marry this fellow, Barbara?
She rewarded him with her full-throated laugh. “Because you're too good for me!”
In that moment Barry loved her intensely.
T
HROUGHOUT the summer and into the autumn riots continued to break out; in Belfast, in Derry, in towns and villages that had no previous history of trouble. Much of the rioting was sectarian, but it also involved both loyalist and nationalist paramilitaries. Sometimes they fought each other; sometimes they fought the British soldiers.
The war was taking on a new dimension.
Amidst the continuing violence, political hardliner Brian Faulkner became prime minister of Northern Ireland.
C
IGARETTE advertising on television was banned in the Republic.
Nothing Rhymed
was a top hit on the wireless. There was a brisk trade in contraceptives as women from the Republic crossed the border to do a little shopping in Northern Ireland. A pharmacist in Armagh was asked if most of his new customers were Catholic or Protestant. He quipped, “They're the best Roman Catholic Protestants you could hope to meet.”
P
REDICTABLY, in Northern Ireland civil disorder increased as the Marching Season approached. Tensions grew unbearably high. All of the IRA units in Belfast were put on standby,
1
as were local community defence groups. In the early hours of July Twelfth, bombs were exploded along Orange parade routes in the city, injuring nine people. Although rioting was taking place in several parts of Belfast, the main parade itself passed off without disturbance.
2
Afterwards, however, marchers returning from the main and feeder parades encountered angry crowds and more rioting. Shortly before midnight the Catholic Short Strand was attacked by swarms of loyalists. An effort was made to burn down Saint Matthew's Church.
B
ARRY remarked, “Jonathon Swift said it all, Séamus, when he wrote, ‘We have enough religion to make us hate, but not enough to make us love.'”
McCoy squinted at him. “Swift? I don't think I know him, Seventeen. Is he a republican?”
T
HE extension in Harold's Cross was completed, to the last curtain rod and lick of paint. It contained four large new bedrooms and a bathroom with both tub and shower. Barry thought this an unnecessary luxury. Barbara insisted it was standard in America.
As soon as the plumbers had left, she and Barry tried out the shower. They soaped each other and clung together, laughing, under the spray. Flesh squirming against flesh and every nerve alive.
“Open your skin and let me in,” Barbara chanted.
“You're already in my heart. Won't that do?”
May seemed a very long time away.
O
N the ninth of August the Conservative prime minister of Great Britain, Edward Heath, introduced internment in Northern Ireland. Arrest without evidence and imprisonment without trail, for an open-ended period of time. Heath was warned against this move by the security forces, who feared it would make matters worse. The prime minister went ahead as a result of pressure from Unionist politicians at Stormont. His actions served to further infuriate and alienate Catholics, many of whom flocked to join the IRA.
In a series of dawn raids the British army captured 342 men to consider for internment. The majority of them were members of the Official IRA, sucked into the maelstrom whether they wished it or not. The Provisionals had received a tip-off from a highly placed individual at Stormont and sent their leaders into hiding.
3
No effort was made to arrest any loyalist paramilitaries.
There was an immediate upsurge in violence. By the twelfth of August twenty-two people had been killed outright and more than seven thousand, most of them Catholics, were homeless.
Many more people were to die after the introduction of internment than had died before it.
During September, in response to Ian Paisley's call for “a third force to defend Ulster,'” the Ulster Defence Association was formed. The UDA brought together a number of Protestant paramilitary and vigilante groups. Working-class men as most members of the IRA were working class, many of them came from deprived backgrounds. They too felt that something—anything—had to be done to better their situation.
In October still more British soldiers were sent to Northern Ireland, and Ian Paisley announced the formation of the Democratic Unionist Party “to be on the right of constitutional issues.”
A
T the end of October an IRA bomb exploded at the Post Office Tower in London.
“That was a damned clever piece of engineering,” Séamus McCoy commented. “What do you think, Seventeen?”
“I think using bombs is a mistake. They're indiscriminate; they kill innocent civilians as easily as they destroy buildings and bridges. Let me remind you that the IRA's not at war against British civilians, only against their government.”
McCoy squinted at him in surprise. “And you one of the best explosives men of them all!”
“Not anymore,” Barry said firmly.
I
N November the leader of the British Labour Party and former prime minister, Harold Wilson, announced his fifteen-point plan for Northern Ireland. He stated that the situation would not be resolved without finding a means to give hope for the ultimate uniting of Ireland. “If men of moderation have nothing to hope for,” Wilson said, “men of violence will have something to shoot for.”
Unfortunately, the Labour Party was no longer in power.
I
N December the Ulster Defence Force bombed McGurk's Bar in Belfast. Fifteen people were killed and thirteen badly injured. One of them subsequently died.
The British army began sabotaging roads along the border in an ill-considered attempt to make access from the south more difficult for the IRA.
U
RSULA came up to Dublin for Christmas. Barbara gave her a warm welcome, and Barry was pleased by the prospect of a tradition in the making. He found a quiet moment to take his mother aside and tell her about Barbara's aversion to republicanism. “And that's all right with you?” she wanted to know.
“It has to be. I don't think it will be an issue anyway, since I've given up active service.”
“Have you?” Ursula's impassive face revealed nothing of her emotions. “You come from a strong republican tradition, Barry. Are you turning your back on all that now?”
“Not at all; I believe in the Republic as much as ever. I just think we have to find other ways to bring it about. In time I hope to bring Barbara around to my way of thinking.”
His mother gave a wry smile. “You're going to change the mind of a woman like that, are you?”
“Give me some credit, Ursula. I'm more of a diplomat than you think.”
There was one bad moment during the holidays when the spectre of the north threatened to rear its ugly head. In response to a casual remark of Séamus McCoy's, Barbara said peevishly, “Why can't men learn to get along with each other?”
Ursula gave an unladylike snort. “You're asking too much of creatures who cannot be trained to put a toilet seat down.”
Séamus McCoy laughed.
“Barry puts the seat down,” said Barbara.
Her future mother-in-law was astonished. “What have you done to him?”
Before Barbara could answer, Barry said, “I've grown up, that's all. Did you think I never would?”
“There were times I was afraid you might not live to grow up. But that's over now, is it not?”
Barbara put her hand firmly on her fiancé's arm. “It most certainly is!”
U
RSULA stayed at Harold's Cross through the holidays, sleeping in one of the new—as yet unoccupied, to Barry's chagrin—bedrooms. The extension had cost much more to build than he had anticipated. His finances were stretched to the breaking point, and though his pictures continued to sell, they did not bring in the big money from abroad. That came only from dramatic photographs.
All the drama was taking place in Northern Ireland.
On New Year's Eve, Ursula found her son sitting at the dining table, poring over his accounts. The scene was so familiar that she had to smile. As Barbara came in from the kitchen Ursula exclaimed, “Let's all go out someplace!”
Barry gave her a distracted look. “I can't, I have to bring these up-to-date. I have responsibilities now.”
“That's as may be, but I'm bored to buttons with responsibility. I need to frivol.”
“Frivol?” queried Barbara.
Barry, who was accustomed to his mother's creative use of language, interpreted. “I think Ursula means she wants to be frivolous for a change.”
BOOK: 1972
6.55Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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