The Dead Republic (44 page)

—D’you have a tray?

—No, I said.

—I’m betting you do, he said.—But alright.

He opened the front door and went back to the counter for two mugs.

He was back quickly. He pushed the door shut.

—Right.

He went to the counter and picked up his own mug. Then he came back to me and pulled out a chair.

—Are you ready for action, Henry?

I was all set to hug him - but only for a second.

—What action?

He’d turned on the heat but I was still stiff - solid; even talk felt like something that could break me.

—Right, he said.—Here’s what. We need to resurrect you.

—Another commemoration?

—Aye.

—No.

—Aye.

He stared at me.

—That war’s over, Henry.

I hadn’t heard the morning’s news but I knew he was lying.

—The country’s been united?

—Aye.

—You’re talking through your hole.

He picked up his mug. I expected him to swing it at me, to let it break against my head.

—I can see why you might say that, right enough.

He drank, and put the mug back on the table.

—It wouldn’t be most people’s analysis, he said.

He still held onto the mug.

—It’ll take a while for the news to settle, he said.—Especially as there won’t be any news. Not for a long while yet.

He picked up the mug, but he didn’t drink.

—The armed struggle will continue, he said.—But the struggle is actually over.

—Look it, son. I heard this shite before.

—I can see why you might think that as well, he said.—But you’re wrong.

He knocked back the last of his tea.

—Listen now, he said.—What’s the war been about?

He’d caught me; I didn’t know - I knew, but I couldn’t think.

—I’ll tell you, he said.—It’s about what being Irish means.

—I don’t get you.

—The armed struggle has been about ownership of the definition of Irishness. It has never been about territory. Republicans do not want to send unionists back to Scotland. Some among us think we do but I’m telling you now, we don’t. You understand that.

—Yeah.

—Aye, he said.—It’s a small island but there’s room for us all.

There was water in his eyes.

—There’s room for us all, he said.—Now.

—Why the war then?

—I told you, Henry. The copyright. The brand. Who owns Irishness, hey?

He was looking for an answer.

—All of us.

—No, he said.—Not at all. We do.

—We?

—Aye. We. Us.
Sinn Féin.

He smiled.

—We’ve battered all other definitions into submission.

The smile was off him now.

—There’ll be talks, he said.—Dublin will talk to London. London will talk to unionism, and Dublin will talk to nationalism. They’ll all agree to talk to republicanism. In secret, mind. None of this will ever have happened, until it’s over. The armed struggle will continue. We’ve some right fireworks coming in from Libya. We’ll have our own Tet Offensive. D’you mind that one, Henry?

I nodded.

—Our people will think it’s Tet, he said.—But it won’t be. It’ll be a bargaining ploy, that’s all. There’ll be talk about respect for other traditions on the island. But—

He picked up the mug.

—There’s only one tradition that matters now. There’s only one oppressed people. Only one war.

He looked into the mug and shrugged.

—And only one victor. We’ve won.

He put the mug back down.

—There’s only one Ireland.

He smiled.

—You ask a Yank what an Irishman is, what’ll he tell you?

—I don’t know.

—You do, right enough. The man he’ll describe will be you or me. Republican, Catholic, oppressed by Britain, fond of a jar, game for a laugh, prone to violence. But only for political reasons. He’ll fight to the death. For freedom. He’s a great lad. I’m right?

—Probably.

—Aye. All over the world, the same story. Republican, Catholic, downtrodden but fighting. That’s us, Henry. All of us.

—What about the Prods and them?

—Not Irish, he said.

—Just like that?

—Aye, he said.—There is no other definition. We should have a drink to celebrate.

—There’s nothing in the house.

—Too early anyway. I’m not much of a drinker.

He stood up. He clapped his hands and shook the house.

—But we’ll have more tea.

—Fuck tea.

—Hey!

I looked at him.

—Republican, Catholic, tea-drinking Irishman. You don’t have a choice.

The smile was huge again, a sudden gash across his face.

He got the kettle going and found two clean mugs and teabags.

—You don’t drink tea but you’ve a house full of teabags.

—My daughter.

—Aye. Of course.

—Where is she?

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t going to.

—We actually had it won years ago, he said.

He brought the mugs to the table. He put one beside me.

—There you go.

He sat down.

—I’m going to tell you a wee story. Drink your tea.

—I don’t drink tea.

—The story, he said.—D’you want to hear it?

—Okay.

—Right. D’you mind a man called John Ford?

—I do, yeah.

—You knew him.

—I did, yeah.

—You knew him well. You had long chats, great debate and analysis. There was talk of a film.

—Yeah.

—Your story.

—Yeah.

—
The Quiet Man
. One man’s story. The struggle, the fight and ultimate betrayal. The failure of the revolution.

He waited.

—Yeah.

—We couldn’t have that, he said.

I was such a fuckin’ eejit.

—There’s sugar in your tea, Henry, he said.—Two spoons. You look like you might want it.

I picked up the mug. It was heavy and masked the shakes. I sipped.

It wasn’t too bad.

—You weren’t fuckin’ born, I said.

—I was, in actual fact, he said.—I was just a wee fella. But it’s not about me. I took up the flame when my time came. And I’ll be passing it on. Eventually.

I took more of the tea.

—He was a good man, Ford, he said.—Well liked by our people beyond. And he let us read the script. An early draft, like. It was dynamite. There’s a man I know read it. He said it was great. He cried when he read it, he’d tell you that himself. It was exactly as it had happened. But—

He smiled.

—It would have been the last nail in the coffin of republicanism. A bit like a film about the Apaches. The end of a way of life and no one left to bring it back. And no Apaches starring in it.

—What happened?

—You know what happened.

—I don’t.

—Aye. You do. He made
The Quiet Man
.

—Why?

—To show a place worth fighting for.

He said it quietly, like he was telling me something true.

—Something beautiful that was going to be destroyed.

—For fuck sake.

—Aye, he said.

It made sense, but not complete sense.

—De Valera’s Ireland, he said.—Comely maidens and the rest of it. Maureen O’Hara. They don’t come comelier than her.

—Did she know?

—Not at all, he said.—No one knew. Just Mister Ford and our people.

—He never told me.

—He was no informer.

—The cunt.

—I can see why you might say that, right enough.

—The fuckin’ cunt.

—Aye.

—It was only a fuckin’ film.

—That’s true, he said.—But it turned out well. Better than we could have hoped for. Have you seen it, hey?

—I have, yeah.

—It’s beautiful. Isn’t it? Gorgeous.

—It’s shite.

—Aye. But it’s beautiful.

—Yeah.

—It’s beautiful and funny and carefree, he said.—It’s Ireland.

—No, it isn’t.

—Oh, it is. As far as millions of people were concerned. And they travelled here to see it with their own eyes. And we tried to live up to it. Certainly, you people down here in the Free State did. Bord Fáilte and the rest of it. Ireland was
The Quiet Man
. Not Dublin or Belfast, or the slums or the queues for the boat out. Or the true story of Henry Smart. That’ll be a different day’s work. A different film altogether.

I drank some more of the tea - I had to do something.

—So, he said.—
The Quiet Man
, Henry. It’s the story of Ireland. Catholics and Protestants side by side, in harmony. Fishing and horse racing. It’s every German’s idea of Paradise. And it’s sexy as well.

He blushed - he actually did. The blood crept up out of his beard. He got in behind his mug for a few seconds.

—I still don’t get it, I said.

—Heaven on earth, he said.—The Ireland your generation fought for, Henry. And the Brits went and destroyed it.

—What?

—That’s what people saw. Bloody Sunday, the hunger strikes. Heaven destroyed. All because the Brits wouldn’t pack up and leave.

—You planned it?

—Aye.

—No.

—We did, aye. It’s not the whole picture, mind. But fundamentally that was the plan.

—Fuckin’ hell.

—Maureen O’Hara versus Margaret Thatcher. Which one of those girls would you be up for, Henry?

I smiled - I couldn’t help it.

—We were always winning, he said.—Do you understand?

—Yeah, I said.—I do.

—You’re impressed?

—No.

—Ah, well. But you should be pleased.

—De Valera’s Ireland?

—Any Ireland we want, he said.—We hold the copyright. We can do what we like with it. In time.

—Time?

—Aye. These talks coming up. No one knows about them yet. Including most of the people who’ll be talking. They’ll never talk to terrorists. And they mean it sincerely. Not the Brits, mind. They’ve always talked to us. I mean loyalism. But they’ll talk, even Paisley, and that will be that. Over. They’ll talk, so they’ll surrender. They can wear their sashes and march all year and no one will care.

—You have it all mapped out.

—Aye.

—For fuck sake.

—It won’t be overnight, mind. We have a deadline. You can guess what it is, Henry.

—Yeah, I said.—I can.

—Well?

—2016.

—Aye.

The day was well on. We’d been sitting there for hours. My tea was cold but he was right; I needed the sugar. I held my head right back - heard the crack - so I could catch the sludge from the bottom of the mug.

—So, I said.—There’ll be a 32-County Republic by 2016.

—Aye, he said.—But not
by
. In.

—It’s thirty years away.

—Aye.

—And you’re saying you’ve won.

—We have, aye.

—So—

—Why the wait?

—Yeah.

—Well, we’ve won but no one knows. Our analysis would be considered mad, especially within republicanism. There’d be trouble if it was broadcast today or tomorrow. It’ll need time. There’s a lot to do. Your work’s not finished yet, Henry.

—And what else?

—We wouldn’t want the Declaration in any other year.

—Even if you don’t live?

—I told you, he said.—It’s not about me. I’ll die happy knowing it’s coming.

—Well, I won’t be there, anyway.

—You never know.

He stood up.

—Your country needs you again, Henry. Up you get.

Did I have a choice? I still don’t know. But I stood up and I got my coat and hat.

—Will I bring the leg?

—Aye, do.

 

 

 

That was March 1986.

He took me to a commemoration in a cemetery just north of the border. We stood at the grave of a kid who’d been shot three years before. I was keeping my daughter alive. That was what held me. The chance that they’d kill her if I refused, kill her and call her an informer, put the cardboard sign around her neck.

But no. It was freezing but I loved being there. I was back. I stood as firm as I could manage beside the man who delivered the oration.
We stand for an Ireland free, united, socialist and Gaelic
. I’d seen him before in the hunger strike days. A man who looked cheerful and dangerous. I’d see a lot more of him during the next months, through Easter Week and the marching season. He smelt of Old Spice and gun oil. He shook my hand - he shook everyone’s hand. He held mine firm, and I loved it.

No. I hated standing there, propped up by the boys, and looking back out at the adoring, stupid eyes of the men hidden in their balaclavas.

—We didn’t wear masks in my day.

—Right enough, Henry. Men were men.

—Fuckin’ sure.

They laughed because I’d made them laugh. We were comrades. Rebels, revolutionaries.

Bollix.

There were the men who made the small crowds - the crowds were almost always small - the civilians, the sympathisers, and their sons, and their grandsons in buggies. And the women, bitter and cold, carrying their dead sons and husbands on their backs; hard-faced and magnificent. And their daughters in black coats, girls who’d been away to university, who’d tasted life beyond the parish, who’d been happily felt up by hands that weren’t always Catholic; home now, teachers - guilty, angry, lost, whistled at by soldiers, winked at by men who’d grown up with their fathers. And little boys and girls, their daddies in the graves they stood on. All holding out for their united Ireland. Listening out for skids and slammed doors, or headlines that would tell them that the man or girl they loved wouldn’t be coming home for tea. Who sacrificed their lives for the better life they’d never get. I watched them listen to the cheerful, dangerous man, the man they loved and called by his first name, as he fed them the shite they’d grown up needing. To a dozen in North Kerry, to a hundred in Parnell Square, to three hundred in Bodenstown, to two thousand in Milltown. The message was consistent. The armed struggle would continue until the Republic was a fact. I saw them looking and believing. They were keeping their dead alive. And I knew that, by being there, facing them, in my trenchcoat - it was new but battered, to look like it had been worn through a mist of blood and brick dust - with the famous leg, my piece of the true cross, I knew that I was lying and destroying them. I was part of a conspiracy that would have me killed if I revealed it, would have me killed if it was ever revealed. But I saw them look and I looked straight back.