Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
1972 (33 page)
But that was before Derry.
Now his body knew on a cellular level the awful dimensions of pain. When he thought of returning to Northern Ireland his bones remembered.
I don't have to go back there. No one expects it of me.
I don't have to go back there. No one expects it of me.
O
N December eleventh, Taoiseach Jack Lynch had his first meeting with Northern Ireland's prime minister, Terence
O'Neill, at Stormont. As Lynch's car arrived, the Reverend Ian Paisley bombarded it with snowballs.
N December eleventh, Taoiseach Jack Lynch had his first meeting with Northern Ireland's prime minister, Terence
O'Neill, at Stormont. As Lynch's car arrived, the Reverend Ian Paisley bombarded it with snowballs.
Barry Halloran was disappointed that he had not been on hand to photograph the shameful incident.
The following day an opinion poll in the north revealed that if the people were given a choice between O'Neill and Paisley, 90 percent would choose O'Neill.
T
HERE was something in the air in 1968, and the name of it was revolt. Around the world young people were taking to the streets, vehemently protesting injustice. In Paris and Prague and Philadelphia, students, dissidents, and anti-war activists were prepared to shake the foundations of the establishment.
HERE was something in the air in 1968, and the name of it was revolt. Around the world young people were taking to the streets, vehemently protesting injustice. In Paris and Prague and Philadelphia, students, dissidents, and anti-war activists were prepared to shake the foundations of the establishment.
Meanwhile, in the Six Counties the first generation of Catholics to attend university was coming of age.
The British administration was about to see the results of its neglect of Northern Ireland since 1921.
I
N February, Father Aloysius wrote to Barry, “The Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association has proposed a programme for one man, one vote, to put an end to gerrymandering. NICRA is also calling for a fair-housing policy for the underprivileged, plus repeal of the Special Powers Act that keeps this province effectively under martial law. Last but by no means least, NICRA wants the disbanding of the B-Specials. There is a rumour that some Sinn Féin activists are working with NICRA now,
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helping to organise nonviolent demonstrations to call attention to the civil rights issue. You might like to come up and photograph the protests.”
N February, Father Aloysius wrote to Barry, “The Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association has proposed a programme for one man, one vote, to put an end to gerrymandering. NICRA is also calling for a fair-housing policy for the underprivileged, plus repeal of the Special Powers Act that keeps this province effectively under martial law. Last but by no means least, NICRA wants the disbanding of the B-Specials. There is a rumour that some Sinn Féin activists are working with NICRA now,
1
helping to organise nonviolent demonstrations to call attention to the civil rights issue. You might like to come up and photograph the protests.”
Holding the letter in his hand, Barry looked around his comfortable room. On the table was a new edition of Yeats's poems. On the gramophone Julie London was singing “Cry Me a
River.” That evening he was going to the cinema with one of the young women he took out from time to time. With a bit of luck the evening might end with the two of them in bed. He had reason to believe that the young woman was expecting it.
River.” That evening he was going to the cinema with one of the young women he took out from time to time. With a bit of luck the evening might end with the two of them in bed. He had reason to believe that the young woman was expecting it.
Barry looked back at the priest's letter.
What about what I expect of myself?
What about what I expect of myself?
Dear Father Aloysius,
When NICRA's plans for a civil rights demonstration are confirmed, please send me the details.
As ever,
Barry
Barry
On the fourth of April, 1968, the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated in Memphis, Tennessee.
T
HE civil rights movement in Northern Ireland was gaining momentum. Because there was a small but visible improvement in the lot of Catholics in the eastern part of the province, Catholics west of the River Bann felt more disenfranchised than ever.
HE civil rights movement in Northern Ireland was gaining momentum. Because there was a small but visible improvement in the lot of Catholics in the eastern part of the province, Catholics west of the River Bann felt more disenfranchised than ever.
In County Tyrone hundreds of Catholic families, many of them with a large number of children, had been on waiting lists for as much as ten years in hopes of being allocated public housing. Then a Protestant woman became engaged to an Orange politician and was immediately given a house. Two outraged Catholic families staged a sit-in in protest.
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When Austin Currie, a newly elected Nationalist MP, joined in the protest, the result was a flurry of publicity that infuriated the Unionists.
“A sit-in does not offer much in the way of photographic possibilities,” Father Aloysius wrote to Barry, “but there may be more dramatic events soon. I'll let you know.”
In August the priest informed Barry, “NICRA is joining with the Campaign for Social Justice to hold a full-scale, nonviolent civil rights march in County Tyrone on the twenty-fourth.”
County Tyrone.
Derry was close to the northern tip of County Tyrone.
Derry, which lay at the root of his fear.
If I fell off a horse Mam made me get back on as soon as possible. Even ifâparticularly ifâI was hurt. She said it was the only way not to lose my nerve.
I refuse to be afraid for the rest of my life. That would be worse than pain.
In the grey light of dawn Barry packed up his camera equipment. After breakfast he paid his rent for a month in advance.
“You are coming back?” Mr. Philpott asked anxiously. “If not I'll be wanting to let the room.”
“I only intend to be gone for a few days, then I'm coming back, I promise.” That promise made Barry feel better.
As soon as he boarded the train for the north he took out his book of Yeats's poetry and read with ferocious concentration. Strangely, once he crossed the border his apprehension faded.
I'm committed now. The campaign's begun.
I'm committed now. The campaign's begun.
M
AY Coogan answered his knock on the door. “Yes?” she ventured warily.
AY Coogan answered his knock on the door. “Yes?” she ventured warily.
“Don't you know me, May?” Barry whipped off the knitted cap he had pulled over his hair and stood tall, abandoning the slouch he had affected since leaving the train station. “You took care of me when I was broken in bits.”
Her jaw dropped “Merciful hour, it's you!”
Barry laughed. “The proverbial bad penny.”
“Just wait'til I tell Father. He'll be so pleased.”
“Is he here?”
“He's taking Mass to his shut-ins, but he should be back in an hour or so. Come through and I'll put the kettle on; I want to hear everything that's happened since we saw you last.”
They were still sitting at the kitchen table when the priest returned. May called out, “Father! You'll never believe who's come back to us.”
Father Aloysius wrung both of Barry's hands, exclaiming several times, “I can't believe you're really here.” Time was not being kind to the priest. He had gone totally bald, while the furrows in his face had deepened dramatically. His head resembled a knobbly hill above a ploughed field.
Barry explained, “I've come to photograph the civil rights demonstration you wrote about. Since Derry's close to Tyrone I was hoping you could put me up for a night or two.”
“Gladly. And I can drive you down, too. I have an old car now, a banger, but it will get us there and probably get us back.”
“Why, is it far?”
“They'll be marching from Coalisland to Dungannon at the other end of the county. You'd be a lot closer if you stayed in Belfast.”
Barry shook his head. “I'd prefer to be in Derry.”
“I'm glad to hear it, I'd prefer to have you here. We have a lot of catching up to do.”
That evening Father Aloysius invited Terence Roche to join them for supper. Before Roche would even sit down at the table, he insisted on examining Barry's leg with professional thoroughness.
“It's mended much better than I expected, I have to say. Does it give you any trouble?”
“Nothing to moan about.”
“You had a narrow escape, young man. You should have been dead. After you left here, I told John you'd be crippled for the rest of your life.”
“I'm glad you didn't tell me that. I expected to get well, so I did.”
Father Aloysius said, “There's proof of the power of faith, Terry.”
“Proof that I'm a better doctor than you'll admit,” his friend replied.
If the priest was aging badly, Terence Roche, whose appearance had repelled Barry when they first met, was surprisingly improved. His voice was still a dull monotone, but he was sporting a set of gleaming white false teeth and there was a definite sparkle in his eyes.
“I've taken a wife since I saw you last,” he told Barry over dinner.
“Congratulations, Terry. Will I meet her?”
May Coogan gave a sniff as she set a platter of chops on the table. “Chance'd be a fine thing. The new Mrs. Roche isn't one for mingling with the lower classes.”
Terry Roche frowned. “She's not like that and you know it. She's just shy.”
“And a Prod. I don't know why you couldn't marry one of your own people.”
“I love my wife, May,” Roche said softly.
The housekeeper swallowed hard. Colour flooded her face and she retired in confusion. When the time came for serving the pudding the priest went into the kitchen and brought it back himself.
Shortly after the meal the doctor excused himself and went home. Barry and Father Aloysius settled down in the parlour for a long talk. Barry asked, “Why is May so upset about Terry's new wife?”
“She's always fancied him herself,” said the priest. “I'm sure you noticed when you were here before.”
Not a bit of it. Maybe I'm no good at recognising the signals people give out. Are they like a code?
T
HE following morning the priest's old Morris Minor grumbled like a living thing, threatening to die on every incline as they drove through the Sperrin Mountains. “Must be IRA transport,” Barry muttered.
HE following morning the priest's old Morris Minor grumbled like a living thing, threatening to die on every incline as they drove through the Sperrin Mountains. “Must be IRA transport,” Barry muttered.
“Sorry? I couldn't hear you over the sound of the engine.”
“You didn't miss anything, Father. I was talking to myself. Do you never do that?”
Father Aloysius, who was gripping the steering wheel firmly with both hands, nodded toward a little plastic statuette of the Blessed Virgin affixed to the dashboard. “I have her to talk to,” he said.
Barry turned to look at him. “As a matter of interestâdoes she ever answer you?”
“Of course she does.”
“How?”
“Deep in my soul.”
“The spirit within,” Barry murmured.
“Sorry?”
“Something I've heard my mother say. I wish she could meet you.”
By the time they reached the designated meeting place in a
field outside Coalisland, a large crowd had gathered. More were arriving every minute. The day was warm and partially overcast. A fitful sun flitted in and out of the clouds like someone peeping through the curtains of a stage set.
field outside Coalisland, a large crowd had gathered. More were arriving every minute. The day was warm and partially overcast. A fitful sun flitted in and out of the clouds like someone peeping through the curtains of a stage set.
Father Aloysius parked the car on a rise at the edge of the field. As he and Barry got out, the priest said, “Help me find some rocks to put behind the wheels. I don't trust the handbrake at all.”
When they were sure the Morris would not roll backwards, Barry took out his equipment. He loaded his two cameras and put extra rolls of film in his pockets. “I think the best way for me to do this is to walk with the demonstrators, Father,” he said as he slung the cameras around his neck. “Can you meet us in Dungannon when we get there? Or do you want to join the march too?”
“My heart does, but my feet don't.” Father Aloysius gestured ruefully toward his feet. His black leather shoes were deeply slashed over the instep. “I'm not up to much walking anymore, that's why I needed the car. Until he saw the condition of my feet the bishop wouldn't hear of it, but one look at them convinced him; the poor man suffers dreadfully from bunions and hammertoes himself. I'll see you off with my blessing, then I'll be waiting for you in the Square in Dungannon. I think it's only two or three miles. Can you make it that far?”
“I can of course, it's a doddle. I'm sorry for taking you away from your parish for a whole day, though.”
“Nonsense. I belong here too.”
As the crowd continued to grow, Barry scanned faces intently. There was no sign of Séamus McCoy or any of the IRA men he knew. This truly was a march of the people. By the time they were ready to move off, the demonstrators numbered several thousand men, women, and children. Barry photographed young mothers holding small sons and daughters by the hand. “It's for them we're doing this,” one woman stressed. “Everything is for them.”
A
USTIN Currie, who had organised the event, circulated amongst the marchers, giving encouragement, though they hardly seemed to need it. Excitement was running high. People were laughing and joking as they passed flasks of hot tea around. “Is there nothing stronger, Liam?”
USTIN Currie, who had organised the event, circulated amongst the marchers, giving encouragement, though they hardly seemed to need it. Excitement was running high. People were laughing and joking as they passed flasks of hot tea around. “Is there nothing stronger, Liam?”
“Not until Dungannon. We'll celebrate in Dungannon.”
Someone else remarked, “The Prods aren't going to like this much. They think they have an exclusive right to march in this province.”
When the signal was given they formed a column eight to ten deep and moved away up the road. Still laughing, still high-spirited. Barry walked at the edge of the crowd so that he could photograph individual faces.
This is the way we're going to do it,
he said to himself.
One step at a time. No guns, no bombs, no violence, just the will of the people.
he said to himself.
One step at a time. No guns, no bombs, no violence, just the will of the people.
A ray of sun danced briefly on the curls of a little blond girl a few steps ahead.
They had gone no more than half the distance when Barry saw the priest's car approaching, far too fast for the country road. Father Aloysius turned into a farm lane and waited until Barry came up to him. “I thought I'd better warn you,” he said in an urgent voice. “The RUC intends to re-route the march because the Protestants are staging a counter demonstration. You won't be allowed into Dungannon Square. It's their territory, you see.”
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The priest saw his friend's eyes go from hot to cold in a blink, as if he had undergone a radical change in internal temperature.
Barry turned toward the crowd. “Do you hear that?” he shouted. “Dungannon Square's Protestant territory. We're not welcome in our own land!” His voice was rolling thunder.
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