Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
1972 (22 page)
“What are you interested in?”
“Everything,” Barry assured him.
He returned with an assortment of the bland material which Church and State approved for public consumption. Amongst them was one gem:
Twenty Years A'Growing,
by Maurice O'Sullivan, the autobiography of a man who had grown up in the Blasket Islands.
Twenty Years A'Growing,
by Maurice O'Sullivan, the autobiography of a man who had grown up in the Blasket Islands.
From the first page Barry was transported to the lost world of Gaelic Ireland and a way of life that had vanished as recently as 1953, when the last person living on the Blaskets was removed by government order and taken to live on the Irish mainland, on the theory they would be “better off.” Thus had ended the long saga of human habitation in one of the most beautiful places on earth.
O'Sullivan's book was written in the muscular yet lyrical vernacular of the peasantry. Men and women who, over many generations, had eked out a living on the Blaskets. Fishing the dangerous sea. Raising sheep on the stony soil. Elsewhere the blessings and banes of the modern ageâelectric light and radio and the atomic bombâappeared, but on the Blaskets life had remained at its most elemental level. What kept people on the islands was a feeling for the land which transcended buried ancestral bones.
O
N the day the cast came off Barry was horrified to see how shrunken his leg was. It looked like the diseased limb of a spindly tree, covered with a “moss” of crinkly, surprisingly grey hair.
N the day the cast came off Barry was horrified to see how shrunken his leg was. It looked like the diseased limb of a spindly tree, covered with a “moss” of crinkly, surprisingly grey hair.
The rest of his body was strong again, thanks to Peg Reddan's cooking, but he doubted that the pitiful leg would be able to bear his weight. He insisted on being left alone to attempt a few faltering steps.
“If ye fall down there'll be no one to pick you up,” Peg warned.
“I'll pick myself up.”
Three days later, and leaning heavily on his crutches, he made the journey on foot from the Reddan house to the ring fort beside the Shannon.
The path to the ancient ruin was badly overgrown. Barry used one of his crutches to beat aside the brambles. Once or twice he
slipped on the muddy path.
If I fall down here it'll be the very devil to get up again.
At last he made it safely and stood, breathing hard, at the entrance: a gap in the ivy-clad embankment.
slipped on the muddy path.
If I fall down here it'll be the very devil to get up again.
At last he made it safely and stood, breathing hard, at the entrance: a gap in the ivy-clad embankment.
Above his head, oak and beech flaunted their autumn leaves like ragged banners. Nettles had invaded the deep bowl of the ring fort, replacing summer's wild roses. Beyond a phalanx of reeds in the shallows the river sang.
Barry drew a deep, satisfied breath.
I belong here.
I belong here.
That's what the islanders must have felt on the Blaskets. How agonising for them to have to leave.
When we have a united Ireland, will the unionists choose to go to Britain? I doubt it. This is their land too. They belong here.
I
N December of 1961, televisionâthe greatest revolutionary force to hit Ireland since the arrival of Christianityâwas launched in the Republic. Combined with the national radio service, it was known as Radio Telefis Ãireann, or RTE. The people were assured that television brought unprecedented opportunities for education and culture. Urging the national service to provide only “good, true, and beautiful programmes,” President Eamon de Valera said, “I for one will find it hard to believe that a person who views the grandeur of the heavens, or the wonders of this marvellous, mysterious world, will not find more pleasure in that than in viewing some squalid, domestic brawl or a street quarrel.”
1
N December of 1961, televisionâthe greatest revolutionary force to hit Ireland since the arrival of Christianityâwas launched in the Republic. Combined with the national radio service, it was known as Radio Telefis Ãireann, or RTE. The people were assured that television brought unprecedented opportunities for education and culture. Urging the national service to provide only “good, true, and beautiful programmes,” President Eamon de Valera said, “I for one will find it hard to believe that a person who views the grandeur of the heavens, or the wonders of this marvellous, mysterious world, will not find more pleasure in that than in viewing some squalid, domestic brawl or a street quarrel.”
1
“
H
OW do you feel about going back to the north?” Séamus McCoy asked Barry.
H
OW do you feel about going back to the north?” Séamus McCoy asked Barry.
“Are you asking for yourself, or for GHQ?”
“Headquarters,” McCoy admitted, squinting through his cigarette smoke.
“I'll go back if they want me. I'd be happier, though, if I knew who I could trust once I get there,” Barry said.
“You were warned about this from the very beginning, Seventeen. I know because I warned you. Paid informers are the British way. Someone in Derry grassed you, that's obvious. I don't think it was the RUC who attacked you, though, because they'd have hauled you off to jail first, then beat you senseless in private. You might have died, men have before. It's always claimed they were prisoners trying to escape. As things are, at least you're alive. Maybe you should be satisfied with that.”
“Are you trying to tell me GHQ doesn't want me to go back? But I have to, Séamus. I can't ⦠I can't give up just because I got hurt. What I'm doing is important, you believe that and I do too. I accept that my own stupidity caused what happened and I'll be more careful next time. I'll buy another camera and ⦔
“Face facts,” said McCoy. “You're still limping a lot, you're going to need crutches for a while yet.”
“I'm sound enough to go back to Trinity. I'll be travelling up to Dublin next week.”
“It's one thing to sit in a classroom and another to duck and dodge in hostile territory. I had to tell headquarters that in my opinion, you're not able for it.”
“You had no right to do that, Séamus.” The lightning change; the suddenly icy eyes. “I can speak for myself. I know what I'm able for.”
“And I know there's a streak of recklessness in you that could get you killed. If you don't care about saving your own neck, I do.” It was as close as McCoy could come to an admission of affection. “There are other ways you can work for the Army, Barry. Did you once tell Cathal Goulding that you have contacts in the States who used to be big contributors to the IRA?”
“I might have done,” Barry said guardedly. “But you know me, sometimes I boast a bit.”
“If it was just a boast,
sin a bhfuil.
y
But if you do have such contacts ⦠well, the Army's in desperate need of funds. Everything's going all to hell without money. Ãamonn Thomas has sold a few of your photographs but that's only a drop in the bucket. If you were to contact the people you referred to, and
reactivate their interest in the republican cause ⦔ McCoy stopped. Let the words hang in space.
sin a bhfuil.
y
But if you do have such contacts ⦠well, the Army's in desperate need of funds. Everything's going all to hell without money. Ãamonn Thomas has sold a few of your photographs but that's only a drop in the bucket. If you were to contact the people you referred to, and
reactivate their interest in the republican cause ⦔ McCoy stopped. Let the words hang in space.
Granda's notebooks are still in the bank in Ennis. If I call in for them someone's bound to tell Mam I'm in the area. If I go in disguise to protect my identity, the bank won't release them to me. Damn!
“I'll see what I can do, Séamus,” said Barry. “But I warn you, it'll take time.”
“I'll see what I can do, Séamus,” said Barry. “But I warn you, it'll take time.”
H
E returned to Dublin to prepare for the start of the spring term. At Trinity some mail was being held for him, consisting entirely of unpleasant letters from his mother. She demanded to know why he had not come home for Christmas. Then she insisted that he must come home at Easter. He ignored them.
An Irish solution to an Irish problem
, Barry told himself.
Ignore anything long enough and it will go away.
E returned to Dublin to prepare for the start of the spring term. At Trinity some mail was being held for him, consisting entirely of unpleasant letters from his mother. She demanded to know why he had not come home for Christmas. Then she insisted that he must come home at Easter. He ignored them.
An Irish solution to an Irish problem
, Barry told himself.
Ignore anything long enough and it will go away.
He was determined that she never see him limping.
Reinserting himself into university life was awkward. He had fallen behind in his studies and had to avoid numerous questions about his injury. In a short span of time some of the people he had known were gone and a new spate of undergraduates had arrived. To his surprise, however, his old room in the Rubrics was available. “We had to reassign it when you notified us you would not be here in the autumn,” Barry was told, “but the chap we put in has asked to be moved. It seems he can't get along with Mr. Fitzmaurice.”
Barry gave a slight smile. “Not everyone's cup of tea, Mr. Fitzmaurice. But I'll take the room.”
When he entered, Gilbert was lying on the bed reading. He looked up but never seemed to notice that Barry was using a cane, much less to comment on it. “Thank God you're back, Halloran. The last fellow who was in here was a total bore. He never listened to a word I said.”
“Astonishing.”
“Isn't it?” Gilbert went back to his book.
The next day Barry went to the bank. From the moment he entered the building his limp was acute. At the front desk he asked for the official who had arranged his account.
The man's eyes widened in sympathy when he saw the cane. Barry said, “I've had rather a nasty accident and I'm not able to
travel, but I have some things in safekeeping in Ennis which I really do need. I was wondering ⦔
travel, but I have some things in safekeeping in Ennis which I really do need. I was wondering ⦔
“If we might handle that for you, Mr. Halloran?” The banker arranged his features in an amiable smile. Barry had caused no problems, which was more than one could say for many university students. “I believe we can oblige you. Give me the information and a signed letter in your own hand, authorising your bank in Ennis to release the material to us. We'll have them send it here by courier.”
Barry was relieved. “I wasn't sure it was possible. I know that banks have strict rules.”
“This is Ireland, Mr. Halloran. Something can always be arranged, even with a bank. Now ⦠may we expect the lodgements to your account to continue?”
A few days later Barry visited the bank to collect a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with strong twine. His name was scrawled across the paper seals. At a stationer's in Nassau Street he bought a metal strongbox advertised as fireproof. The box would just fit beneath his bed in the Rubrics.
Gilbert Fitzmaurice had many faults, but his self-absorption was so intense that he would never bother to go through anyone else's things.
Dear Ursula,
When I entered university I hoped to become an architect. But architecture does not seem very relevant in today's Ireland. Your friend Henry Mooney was a newspaperman in Ireland before he emigrated, and most of my friends here, the people I enjoy talking to and being with, are journalism students. So I have decided to enter the field of photojournalism.
I could apprentice myself to a local photographer, then apply for a staff job on one of the newspapers. That's how some men do it. But I already know how to use a camera and besides, I want to work freelance. Independence is important to me. What I really need is a degree in journalism from Trinity. That would be the best possible foundation I could have before launching myself on the unsuspecting world.
Unfortunately there would be quite a few additional expenses involved in changing courses. But I have been giving this a lot of
thought, Ursula, and am convinced it would be right for me. I hope you will agree.
thought, Ursula, and am convinced it would be right for me. I hope you will agree.
Barry waited apprehensively for Ursula's reply. If she disapproved of this latest stepâwhich he had tried to ameliorate by the reference to Henry Mooneyâshe might cut off his money.
Her response when it came was not what her son had expected.
“I support whatever decision you make, and will arrange for additional funds to be sent to your Dublin bank at once.”
He would never know how painful it was for his mother to write those words. She was accepting that he was his own man; it was the final cutting of the cord.
Barry celebrated by buying a new camera. Not as fine as the lost Leica, but serviceable.
I
N journalism he found his metier. But he was still a Volunteer; he never thought of himself any other way.
N journalism he found his metier. But he was still a Volunteer; he never thought of himself any other way.
Throughout the spring he worked on decoding the names and addresses in Ned's notebooks. After the first five it was very difficult. Ned had changed the key again and again, according to no pattern Barry could discover. Grimly determined, he kept working his way through. There were hundreds of names. Even if many of them were no longer still alive, there would surely be some who could be re-enrolled in the cause.
Late at night, when most people in the Rubrics were asleep, Barry sat at the small desk in his room with a notebook open in front of him.
“Turn that feckin' light off,” Gilbert Fitzmaurice snarled. “Don't you know I need my rest?”
There was more work to be done than just decoding. Barry tried out a dozen different draft letters, trying to find just the right words to encourage the recipient to renew support for the IRA. When Barry finally had a draft he liked he took it to Ãamonn Thomas. Thomas tore it apart. “Start over and don't sound so posh. Talk to them like real people. Remember that we need every shilling we can lay hands on. We're all trying to raise funds, but if we don't get a lot more money soon, we may
have to disarm altogether and wait for better times.”
have to disarm altogether and wait for better times.”
Barry revised and rewrote the draft letter until Thomas was satisfied. He described in graphic detail the situation in the north. A small assortment of telling photographs would be included. Thomas would rent a post office box in a Dublin suburb to receive the replies. “I only hope they come in time to make a difference,” he said gloomily.
“Do you think they'd have more impact if I wrote them longhand?”
“It couldn't hurt. People like the personal touch.”
Barry added the task to his workload. Less sleep, bleary eyes, a cramped hand.
But it doesn't matter, I
'
m doing it for the Army
.
But it doesn't matter, I
'
m doing it for the Army
.
The first off-campus assignment for the new journalism students was to attend a press conference. Dr. Conor Cruise OâBrien, an Irish politician seconded to the United Nations, had provoked a storm of controversy when he ordered UN forces in Katanga to suppress the province's cessation from the Congo. In December of 1961 Dr. O'Brien had been released from United Nations service in circumstances that remained unclear. He claimed to have resigned; the UN said his removal had been requested by the Irish government. Dr. O'Brien had not returned to Ireland, but a statement purporting to clarify the matter was going to be read from the steps of Leinster House.
It was only a short stroll from Trinity to Leinster House, the seat of government in Dublin. Barry walked in company with Dennis Cassidy and another first-year journalism student, Alice Green. Cassidy was a dark, sturdily built young man; one of the small minority of Catholics at the college. Barry suspected Cassidy also had republican leanings, though they had never discussed politics. He was wary of bringing up the subject for fear of revealing too much about himself.
Both men were mildly infatuated with Alice, a plump blonde with creamy skin and an infectious giggle. On the way to Leinster House she walked between Barry and Dennis, linking their arms with hers. “Did you know,” she said, “that Dr. O'Brien's getting a divorce so he can marry some woman who went with him to the Congo? She was part of the Irish delegation to the UN, but she resigned when he was fired.”
“That's just gossip,” Dennis told her. “Besides, we don't know that he was fired. âSpeculation is not journalism,' remember?”
Alice giggled. “But it's ever so much more fun. Imagine the staid old Irish running amok in a hot climate.”
Barry glanced down at the girl. “Do you ever think of running amok?”
“Why, Mr. Halloran. Whatever are you suggesting?”
“What would you like me to suggest?”
“Hold on there, Barry,” Dennis interrupted. “Are you propositioning my girl right under my nose?”
“She's not under your nose, she's on my right arm. And I don't hear her complaining.”
Alice looked from one to the other. Barry was imposingly tall and undeniably handsome. Although he was self-conscious about his limp, she did not mind. She thought the cane he carried made him look rather distinguished. But Alice doubted that any man who looked like Barry Halloran would be receptive to her charms. Women probably threw themselves at him all the time.
She turned to Dennis, who was just an ordinary man. An attainable man. “Am I your girl?” she asked sweetly.
Dennis squeezed the little hand tucked into the bend of his arm. “You'd better be. I have plans for you.”
Barry looked away.
Why would any girl prefer me to a man with two good legs?
He told no one at Trinity the true cause of his limp, giving instead the impression that his leg had been broken in a riding accident. “My mother raises horses, you know, and I ride the young colts for her.”
Why would any girl prefer me to a man with two good legs?
He told no one at Trinity the true cause of his limp, giving instead the impression that his leg had been broken in a riding accident. “My mother raises horses, you know, and I ride the young colts for her.”
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