1972 (25 page)
Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
W
ORKING the early-morning shift at Busáras meant rising in the dark and hurrying across the Liffey, then hurrying back to Trinity in time for his first class. Barry was thankful that he had schooled himself to get by with little sleep. As soon as he had enough money for a new camera he went shopping. The first camera store he approached had a sign in the window: ASSISTANT MANAGER NEEDED.
ORKING the early-morning shift at Busáras meant rising in the dark and hurrying across the Liffey, then hurrying back to Trinity in time for his first class. Barry was thankful that he had schooled himself to get by with little sleep. As soon as he had enough money for a new camera he went shopping. The first camera store he approached had a sign in the window: ASSISTANT MANAGER NEEDED.
What do I know about managing a retail shop? Nothing at all. But I know how to learn.
Barry strode into the shop with an engaging smile and an aura of self-confidence. Within half an hour he had a new Leica and the promise of a job.
Assistant manager
was a glorified term for a salesclerk, but the position carried considerable responsibility because the only other person working in the shop was the ownerâwho was eager to spend more time off the premises. Barry would be in sole charge for much of every day.
Assistant manager
was a glorified term for a salesclerk, but the position carried considerable responsibility because the only other person working in the shop was the ownerâwho was eager to spend more time off the premises. Barry would be in sole charge for much of every day.
He wrote to Ursula, “If you do not need me at home I shall stay in Dublin this summer. I have a very responsible job here as soon as the term is over, and have found a nice flat close-by.”
In the kitchen of the farmhouse, Ursula read Barry's letter twice. “That's it then,” she said to the empty room. The single cup of tea on the table, the solitary plate. “My eaglet has flown, and I'm glad.” She swallowed hard. “For his sake, I'm glad.”
Barry's new home was not actually a flat. It was a bedsit in a boardinghouse near Harold's Cross. Furnished with a couch that unfolded into a bed, the one room also contained a small dining table and chairs, a comfortable armchair, a writing desk, and a washbasin. A bay window overlooked the street.
The large, yellow brick boardinghouse had once been a private residence. Like its owner, the house had seen better days. Mr. Philpott, a small, bespectacled man with a raspy voice and fluttering hands, was the last in his line, inheritor of a piece of property that he could not keep without renting out rooms. He occupied a private apartment on the ground floor. There was no Mrs. Philpott.
“At the present time we have seven paying residents here,” he told Barry. “I manage this property myself and insist that my boarders abide by the rules.” He ticked these off on his fingers. “I only accept gainfully employed gentlemen. There are to be no women in the rooms, ever. Sheets are changed every fortnight. Two fresh towels are provided at the same time. There is an extra charge for a three-course Sunday dinner if wanted. A resident may have one invited guest for that, if I am informed two days in advance.” At this point he ducked his head and shyly confided, “I do all the cooking myself, you know. I make quite a decent Dublin Coddle.” Then, crisp and businesslike
again:“Now tell me, Mr. Halloran, will you be wanting one bath a week, or two?”
again:“Now tell me, Mr. Halloran, will you be wanting one bath a week, or two?”
One week in the camera shop convinced Barry that the retail trade was not his life's calling. Eight hours a day, five and a half days a week, confined within the same four walls. People asking the same questions, complaining about the same problems, misunderstanding the precise instructions he gave so patiently.
The IRA was not alone in limbo. Barry had the same feeling.
Everything was so clear in the beginning. I became a Volunteer to help restore the Republic. Then I was planning to get married and become an architect and my life was more complicated, but I still thought I knew where it was going. Then architecture gave way to photojournalism and now I'm trying to sell cameras to people who want to take pictures of their grandchildren.
But I have to support myself
, Barry argued with the voice in his head.
This isn
'
t forever, it's just until ⦠until what?
, Barry argued with the voice in his head.
This isn
'
t forever, it's just until ⦠until what?
As he left the camera shop one evening, he was so preoccupied that a girl walked across the footpath a few yards in front of him and disappeared down a laneway before he really noticed her. When her image registered in his mind's eye, it was too late. He sprinted after her, but she had disappeared.
Claire! Was it really you?
Barry systematically quartered and searched the area, going up one street and down the next, peering into shops, even knocking on the doors of houses to ask if a Miss MacNamara was there. Most people were polite, but all told him no.
It was dark by the time he returned, crestfallen, to his room.
I thought I'd forgotten her. But I haven't.
Living in a boardinghouse helped assuage his loneliness. There usually was lively conversation in the front parlour in the evenings, though it lacked the dimensions of an Army chin-wag. One of Barry's fellow boarders could be relied upon to get a debate going. As Philpott remarked, “He's a great argufier, that one. He may not always believe what he says himself, but he'll contradict you for the fun of it and then fight his corner passionately.”
Barry laughed. “That just proves he's Irish.”
The camera shop where he worked also sold radios and television sets. When he arrived each morning his first task was to
turn on a television and adjust the picture. He lowered the volume so the sound was not distracting. Customers were most likely to buy the first model they saw “alive.”
turn on a television and adjust the picture. He lowered the volume so the sound was not distracting. Customers were most likely to buy the first model they saw “alive.”
On the twenty-eighth of August the largest civil rights demonstration in history was held in Washington, D.C. Martin Luther King, Jr., addressed a quarter of a million people from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. Part of his televised speech was replayed in Ireland on the noon news broadcast the following day. There were no customers in the camera shop just then, so Barry turned up the volume.
“Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred,” King urged the vast crowd.
A noble aspiration,
thought Barry,
but is it possible? Isn't the result of oppression always bitterness and hatred?
thought Barry,
but is it possible? Isn't the result of oppression always bitterness and hatred?
“We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline.”
That was the intention of the Irish Republican Army, too. In the beginning
.
.
“We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence.”
Easy enough for you to say, Dr. King. You never had to deal with the Orange Order and the RUC.
“And as we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall always march ahead. We cannot turn back.”
No
, Barry agreed.
We cannot turn back
. He was listening intently now, caught up in the spell of brilliant oratory.
, Barry agreed.
We cannot turn back
. He was listening intently now, caught up in the spell of brilliant oratory.
“I have a dream,” King was saying, “that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low.”
Oh yes
,
Dr. King; we know about dreams in Ireland
.
,
Dr. King; we know about dreams in Ireland
.
“ ⦠Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual ⦔
Barry felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. Intuitively, he knew what the song would be. He had heard Pearl and Opal sing it in Dallas.
“Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we're free at last!”
T
HE meaning of King's speech slowly percolated through the consciousness of oppressed minorities everywhereâincluding the Catholics of Northern Ireland.
HE meaning of King's speech slowly percolated through the consciousness of oppressed minorities everywhereâincluding the Catholics of Northern Ireland.
In homes and offices in the Republic, pictures of John Kennedy hung beside portraits of Pope John XXIII and Eamon de Valera.
In the north there was a brisk underground sale in photographs of Martin Luther King.
Two very disparate singers were topping the pop music charts: Elvis Presley and the Singing Nun.
“
S
o here you are, Seventeen!”
S
o here you are, Seventeen!”
Barry turned to see Séamus McCoy standing in the doorway of the camera shop. “Séamus! How'd you find me?”
McCoy closed one eye and tapped the side of his nose. “Sure I have my sources. I'm up here for the day on Army business, and right now I'm hungry. Join me for a bite?”
“Go mhaith
,
le do thoil,
”
z
Barry said. “I know several pubs that serve a decent lunch.”
,
le do thoil,
”
z
Barry said. “I know several pubs that serve a decent lunch.”
“A pub's fine. Let's go.”
“It's a bit early to close the shop for lunch, but if you're willing to wait for a few minutes ⦠?”
McCoy gave Barry a mock salute.
“Ceart go leor
.”
aa
“Ceart go leor
.”
aa
The few words in Irish were like a secret code between brothers. One rarely heard Irish spoken in Dublin. The official language of Ireland still bore the stigma of the old bad days, of poverty and subservience. English, which had become permeated with Americanisms during the Second World War, was the language of success.
Over bowls of lamb stew McCoy told Barry, “It's hard to think of you as a camera salesman.”
“For me too, Séamus, but it's only temporary. I'm going back to Trinity in the autumn. I may continue to work there on the weekends, though. I need the money.”
“What about your photography?”
“There's not much happening now, at least not with the Army.”
“Don't I know it?” McCoy pushed his plate away and lit a cigarette. “I can't come to terms with the way the republican movement's going, Seventeen. I'm military through and through, and there's a lot of men in the same boat. Army's our career. We don't have a fancy education, we can't be lawyers or businessmen. We do what we
can
do, what we're good at, and that's soldiering. Maybe it's hard for some people to understand, but I
like
soldiering. Getting involved with local government and staging sit-ins about overcrowded hospitals, that's not me. Hell, I hate hospitals.”
can
do, what we're good at, and that's soldiering. Maybe it's hard for some people to understand, but I
like
soldiering. Getting involved with local government and staging sit-ins about overcrowded hospitals, that's not me. Hell, I hate hospitals.”
Barry smiled sympathetically. “Selling cameras isn't me, Séamus. But maybe this new direction's not so bad. It owes more to James Connolly than Pádraic Pearse, but the ultimate goal of republicanism is to serve Ireland, is it not?”
McCoy replied with a grudging nod.
“Then perhaps it's time to take some new ideas on board, Séamus. How do you feel about passive resistance, for example?”
“It would never work against the British.”
“It did work against the British, Séamus. Gandhi's methods played a large part in gaining India's independence in 1947.”
McCoy squinted at the younger man. “I don't pretend to be a student of international politics, Seventeen, but I know one thing. The Brits may have granted India her freedom, but they also partitioned the country and created a situation that could be at least as bad as the one here in Ireland. Anywhere the British Empire's involved they leave a bloody mess behind.”
A
T the Sinn Féin
Ard Comhairle
ab
that year members agreed to use the Irish versions of their names where possible, including on legal documents. Ãamonn Thomas would be
Ãamonn MacThomáis,
and Tom Gill,
Tomás MacGiolla
. The practise was adopted by a number of Army men. Rory Brady became
Ruairà à Brádaigh.
Dave O'Connell, who was slowly recovering from his horrific wounds, became
Dáithà à Conaill.
T the Sinn Féin
Ard Comhairle
ab
that year members agreed to use the Irish versions of their names where possible, including on legal documents. Ãamonn Thomas would be
Ãamonn MacThomáis,
and Tom Gill,
Tomás MacGiolla
. The practise was adopted by a number of Army men. Rory Brady became
Ruairà à Brádaigh.
Dave O'Connell, who was slowly recovering from his horrific wounds, became
Dáithà à Conaill.
Finbar Lewis Halloran considered adopting the Irish for his own name. Finbar was easy. Lewis became
Lugaid
. But Halloran in Irish was
hAllmhuráin;
too daunting, Barry decided, for everyday use. In an Ireland rapidly forgetting its Gaelic past, he would have to waste hours spelling it for people.
Lugaid
. But Halloran in Irish was
hAllmhuráin;
too daunting, Barry decided, for everyday use. In an Ireland rapidly forgetting its Gaelic past, he would have to waste hours spelling it for people.
He abandoned the idea.
One idea, or rather one dream, which he had not abandoned was Claire MacNamara. He went for days and weeks without ever thinking of her and then suddenly she would pop back into his mind again. Yet he was slowly coming to terms with the fact the she was out of his life. He recalled the old Irish saying, “What is for you will not pass by you.” Claire had passed by. Like the Army's missed opportunities during the border campaign, she had come and gone.
Let go
, Barry urged himself.
Learn how to let go and move on
.
, Barry urged himself.
Learn how to let go and move on
.
But it was not easy.
W
HEN he returned to his studies at Trinity in the autumn he continued to live in Harold's Cross. Having his own space was important to him; he needed quiet moments in which to dream. To Barry's surprise, Gilbert Fitzmaurice was unhappy about the arrangement. “I thought you were coming back to the Rubrics. What am I going to do now?”
HEN he returned to his studies at Trinity in the autumn he continued to live in Harold's Cross. Having his own space was important to him; he needed quiet moments in which to dream. To Barry's surprise, Gilbert Fitzmaurice was unhappy about the arrangement. “I thought you were coming back to the Rubrics. What am I going to do now?”
“They'll assign someone else to the room,” Barry assured him.
“I don't want anyone else. It took me long enough to get used to you. Why should I have to change?”
“This is nothing against you, Gilbert. My landlord's agreed to let me have a disused pantry as a darkroom and I've bought some equipment so I can develop my own pictures. I couldn't do that here.”
“It wouldn't bother me,” Fitzmaurice said in a hurt voice. “But please yourself, you always do anyway.”
Later, Barry remarked to Alice Green, “I didn't expect Gilbert to be upset.”
“He doesn't want to lose you, Barry.” She gave a nervous
giggle. “You're the sort of person that people naturally want to be with.”
giggle. “You're the sort of person that people naturally want to be with.”
“Don't try your
plámás
ac
on me,” he said, smiling.
plámás
ac
on me,” he said, smiling.
“But it's true.” Alice leaned toward him with her heart in her eyes.
Barry drew back almost imperceptibly. “I'm ⦠I'm a very private person, Alice,” he said gently, hoping she would understand. “I don't make friends easily, but I'm fond of you and Dennis. You are both my friends. The
pair
of you.”
pair
of you.”
She deflated before his eyes. “Yes,” she said. “The pair of us.”
After that Alice kept a physical distance between herself and Barry when they met. Dennis, though puzzled by her behaviour, never questioned it. But the relationship between the three of them changed in some subtle way.
Barry retreated into his studies and his work. Every spare moment found him out with the camera, looking for subjects to photograph. One evening he was hanging up a series of prints to dry when Mr. Philpott opened the door of his darkroom and peered in. “Did you not want dinner, Mr. Halloran?”
“Sorry, I forgot all about it. I've been busy.”
“May I have a look?”
“I didn't know you were interested in photography.” Barry stepped aside to let his landlord enter the erstwhile pantry. Philpott studied each picture in turn, then said, “I've never seen anything so sad.”
“Sad?”
“Lonely,” Philpott amended. “Dreadfully. I know something about loneliness, you see.”
Barry surveyed the photographs with a critical eye. A series of Dublin scenes. Rain gleaming on cobbles in a little crooked alley, a view from a tenement window showing an army of chimney pots stretching almost to the horizon, once-elegant Georgian doorways with broken fanlights, sycamore trees in O'Connell Street silhouetted against the sky. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he told Philpott.
“Look again, man. Where's the people?”
Where's the people?
Suddenly Barry understood. The camera had revealed not Dublin, but himself.
God, how I miss the Army. The camaraderie, the sense of doing something important â¦
But there was no going back.
The IRA had changed and was changing still, almost out of recognition.
The IRA had changed and was changing still, almost out of recognition.
What is there for a soldier in peacetime?
I could go to America and join Kennedy's Peace Corps, that's a different sort of army. It just shows you what a politician can accomplish.
Maybe politics does have value after all.
Throughout a rainy afternoon Barry's imagination transported him to distant corners of the world where again he worked shoulder to shoulder with volunteers. Skill and dedication making a difference.
By teatime he had abandoned the idea.
Ireland needs me too. As long as part of my country's occupied by a foreign power, there'll be a need for the IRA.
I
F a young Irish lad got in trouble in the 1960s it was not unusual for a judge to tell him, “You can go to jail or you can go to England.” Most of them opted for England, where they worked as labourers. Their parents dreaded receiving letters from them, fearing the neighbours would see the English postmark and rightly assume that the boy had been in trouble. But the journey across the Irish Sea was not all one-way.
F a young Irish lad got in trouble in the 1960s it was not unusual for a judge to tell him, “You can go to jail or you can go to England.” Most of them opted for England, where they worked as labourers. Their parents dreaded receiving letters from them, fearing the neighbours would see the English postmark and rightly assume that the boy had been in trouble. But the journey across the Irish Sea was not all one-way.
On the seventh of November, 1963, four boys from Liverpool who called themselves the Beatles played to a packed house of rapt teenagers at the Adelphi Cinema in Dublin. Dennis Cassidy gave Barry a ticket. “This should be worth seeing,” he promised. When Barry arrived at the theatre hundreds of ticketless fans were already gathered outside in Abbey Street. The St. John's Ambulance Brigade was parked nearby, waiting to carry away anyone who fainted from excess emotion.
Inside the theatre young girls stood on their seats and screamed with sheer excitement. The screams became a determined chant of “We Want the Beatles!” that lasted until a guitar sounded the first chords of “I Saw Her Standing There.” The
curtains drew back. And there they were. John Lennon on the right, George Harrison and Paul McCartney sharing one mike, and Ringo Starr on a raised dais with his drums. The audience went wild.
Yeah, yeah, yeah!
curtains drew back. And there they were. John Lennon on the right, George Harrison and Paul McCartney sharing one mike, and Ringo Starr on a raised dais with his drums. The audience went wild.
Yeah, yeah, yeah!
Within days, Beatlemania had swept the country in a revolutionary wave. Barry photographed youngsters on the streets of Dublin looking as no young people had ever looked in Ireland before. Squeaky-clean pudding-bowl haircuts and tight suits. Music stores were swamped with demands for guitars. The bodhran was abandoned for the beat of a different drum.
Yeah
,
yeah
,
yeah!
Parents were alarmed. So was the Church.
Yeah
,
yeah
,
yeah!
Parents were alarmed. So was the Church.
It was a wonderful time to be young and optimistic.
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