1972 (40 page)

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Authors: Morgan Llywelyn

BOOK: 1972
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“I've found a new battle to fight,” Barry reported when he visited McCoy in hospital the next day.
McCoy was not encouraging. “You'll never beat the government, Seventeen. Any government.”
“I don't know about that. Look what's happening in the north, the new concessions Stormont's making.”
“Don't you believe it. We're really dealing with the Brits there, remember? The Conservative Party in Britain will back the Unionists in Stormont every time, because they need their support at Westminster. Those concessions are just a bit of window dressing to keep the Catholics quiet for a wee while. They'll be forgotten soon enough. The British never keep their word to the Irish, not when it comes to political power plays.”
“It's not like you to be a pessimist, Séamus. Did you ever hear of the great Irish explorer, Ernest Shackleton? He was born in County Kildare and I have a book about him. Shackleton said, ‘Optimism is the true moral courage.'”
“What do I have to be optimistic about?” McCoy grumbled.
“They've taken my fags away and told me not to smoke for the rest of my life. Every six months I'll have to visit some bloody doctor who'll tell me just how long the rest of my life is likely to be. In the meantime I'm too beat-up to attract a woman and too poor if I did find one who'd have me. What's left to look forward to?”
“For one thing, I've been told I can bring you home next weekend.”
“Home?”
“To my house. You'll be convalescent for a while and I want you where I can keep an eye on you.”
McCoy shook his head. “That's not on. My friends in the north will look after me, or I can go back to Ballina, there's always a place for me there. If need be I could stay with the Reddans for a while.”
“This isn't arguable, Séamus. You're coming with me.”
“There's really not enough room for the two of us.”
“You're a stubborn man, aren't you? We'll rent another bedsit for you, don't worry. I happen to know one's coming available at the end of the month.”
McCoy squinted up at Barry. “And what am I supposed to use for money? I can't afford a place like yours.”
“My landlord was willing to give my friend Barbara room and board in exchange for a little housework. I'm sure I can convince him to make some sort of arrangement for you.”
McCoy started to laugh, but it hurt. “For a man who claims to travel light you go about it in a funny way, Seventeen. Sounds like you've acquired yourself a whole family.”
Barry gave a wry smile. “Maybe I have.” But the idea was not unpleasant. He felt as if something inside himself were expanding.
When he arrived home that afternoon he happened to meet Barbara in the front hall. No one else was around; no one to see them. She took one step closer to Barry than he expected. “How was Mr. McCoy today?” she asked in a voice that had nothing whatever to do with Séamus McCoy.
“He's in good form. I plan to bring him home on Sunday.”
“And he'll share your room again?”
“Only until I can move him into a room of his own. I'm going to ask Philpott to—”
“So you'll be alone?” The eyes she raised to Barry's were golden with promise. Before he could respond, she headed for the stairs. “Have to run. I've still tons of work to do.”
Barry's temper flared. “Don't turn your back on me and walk away.”
She paused. Looked at him over her shoulder. “Or what? What will you do?”
He did not stop to think, just strode forward and took her in his arms.
“I told you I would have none of this!” an outraged voice cried.
Barry released Barbara and spun around. Philpott had just entered the hall. “I
told
you,” he repeated, his voice quavering. “I don't have to tolerate this sort of carry-on. I don't have to take in boarders at all, I have my army pension.”
Barry tried to picture the wispy little fellow in the army. For once, his imagination failed him. “May I speak with you in private, Mr. Philpott?”
“To ask permission to enjoy this doxy you've brought into my home under false pretences? You won't get it!”
The cold anger was summoned; focussed; aimed. “Never speak of Miss Kavanagh that way again. Do you understand me?”
Philpott swallowed so hard that his Adam's apple leapt above his collar like a frightened little animal trapped in a tunnel.
Barbara's fingers groped for Barry's hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He continued to hold the landlord locked with his eyes. “Now, about that private conversation?”
“
Y
OU'RE going to have a room of your own, Séamus,” Barry reported the next day. “A better one than mine.”
“What's it going to cost me?” McCoy asked suspiciously.
“Now that's where we've been lucky. It seems that Philpott's decided to sell the house. He's tired of the responsibility and he's had a decent offer for the place, so he's going to take it. The new owner will want him to stay on to do the cooking, which is the one thing Philpott really enjoys. But the owner doesn't want to live on the premises, so he'll need
someone to take over as manager. Collect the rents, pay the bills, that sort of thing. It's not physically taxing, but it will require a person who can be there all the time. That's where you come in.”
McCoy looked appalled. “You've committed me to a job running a feckin' boardinghouse?”
Barry was prepared for this moment. “If you don't take it, I shall myself. Free room and board is too good to pass up. Of course it means I won't have much time for photography, but …”
“You don't want to give up your photography, Seventeen.”
“I don't,” Barry agreed. “But I'm being practical.”
McCoy let out a little sigh. “Maybe it's time I started being practical. All right, I guess you can pass the word along: I'll do it. But do you think I'll get along with the new owner?”
“I have no idea,” Barry said blandly.
“
Y
OU will be surprised to learn,” Barry wrote to Ursula—thinking it wiser to communicate the news by letter rather than a telephone call—“that I am buying the boardinghouse where I live. I am rather surprised myself, but it is a good investment. Although I will have a mortgage the income from the property will meet the payments,” Barry claimed.
In truth it would not, since Barry, Barbara, McCoy, and Philpott would be living rent free.
We sound like a firm of solicitors
, Barry thought when he strung their names together.
However, property was cheap in Dublin as it was throughout Ireland, and currently there were six paying tenants in the house. As long as Barry's photographs continued to sell he could stay afloat financially.
“I shall not be able to come down to Clare for Christmas this year,” his letter to his mother went on, “but if things go well you will have an invitation to my own house for next Christmas.”
December was devoted to talking to bank managers and solicitors, signing papers, getting McCoy settled in, and above all trying to maintain his anonymity as “the new owner.” Philpott was sworn to secrecy. “If you tell anyone, the deal's off,” Barry warned the little man. “I don't want my friends to think they're getting charity.”
“It's not charity if they're working for you.”
“Séamus won't be up to much work for a while. Show me what needs to be done right now and I'll do it myself. As for Miss Kavanagh, she can continue to take her instructions from you as the representative of the new owner.”
“How long do you think you can keep your secret?” Philpott asked. His eyes twinkled mischievously. Freed of the burden of responsibility, he was beginning to enjoy the situation.
“I honestly don't know, I'm taking one day at a time.”
I've always taken one day at a time. That's something one learns in the Army.
I
N December the Army Convention met in Dublin. Although McCoy was anxious to go, the weather was bad and he was too recently out of hospital to risk it. Barry consoled him by promising, “I'll tell you everything that happens.”
“That's not the same as being there.”
“You may not be missing much. I spoke briefly with Éamonn MacThomáis and he says it's likely to be just another long argument about political philosophy.”
“That's what's wrong, Seventeen; all that talking and no doring.”
“What would you suggest the Army do?”
“March on the north,” McCoy replied without hesitation.
“Maybe that would have worked once,” Barry told him, “but not anymore.”
“You're not admitting the Six are lost forever?!”
“I'm not admitting that and I don't believe it. But I do believe reuniting Ireland is going to require a lot of work on a lot of different levels. The policy of neutrality that kept us out of the Second World War has ensured that modern Ireland's wars are all fought on this one island. Conflict limited to such a small space is very bitter indeed.”
The Army Convention of 1969 was well attended. Barry feared he would not find a seat until he saw Éamonn Mac-Thomais standing up and looking around. Barry waved to him; MacThomáis waved back and gestured to a seat he had saved next to his own. “I thought for a while that you weren't coming,” he told Barry.
“It's not like me to be late,” Barry admitted. “Punctuality was drilled into me by my training officer when I joined the Army. But just as I was about to leave the house there was a problem about the plumbing and I …”
“What in the name of the holy saints do you have to do with plumbing?”
“It's a long story, Éamonn,” Barry said with a wry smile. “I'll tell you some other time. The Army Council are taking their seats up front, so I guess the meeting's about to start.”
True to prediction, the main business of the convention was a discussion of republican philosophy and tactics that turned into a heated argument. For Cathal Goulding and the majority of the Army Council, political abstentionism had died in the flames of Belfast. Determined to pursue republican goals through political means, they tabled two motions. The first was to join a national liberation front in alliance with the more radical leftists. The second, and more divisive, motion was to recognise as valid both the government of the Twenty-Six Counties and that of the Six, which would clear the way for republicans to take an active part in both parliaments.
One member of the council held a sharply differing view. Seán MacStiofáin promptly tabled a second motion that upheld traditional militancy. There was a moment of silence in the hall while all eyes turned toward MacStiofáin. Five foot ten in height, a stocky man with greying brown hair and a dimpled chin, he had a rather cherubic countenance. Yet, as Mac-Thomais whispered to Barry, “There stands a genuine hard man; perhaps the only real terrorist the Army's ever produced.”
1
“Who's going to defend the Catholics in the Six if there's no fighting IRA?” MacStiofáin demanded to know. “You think the Brits will do it? I tell you they won't. Their allegiance is to the crown, not the harp. If they've brought any degree of control to the situation in the north it's only in order to keep the status quo.”
Some of the men in the hall, including Ruairí Ó Brádaigh,
agreed with MacStiofáin. Debate swiftly became rancorous argument. “We're the Army, damn it!” a Volunteer cried. “We've pledged our lives to fight for Ireland and we don't have all of Ireland back yet. Are you asking us to surrender?”
“Maybe Paisley and his crowd have it right,” another man shouted. “What is it they say? ‘No Surrender.'”
The slogan became a chant: “No Surrender, No Surrender!”
Pandemonium broke out. With a great effort, Cathal Goulding finally brought the convention under control long enough to demand a vote from the senior officers.
When Goulding's motions passed by thirty-nine to twelve, the hall erupted again.
Two groups of Volunteers began gathering on opposite sides of the room. Barry turned toward MacThomáis. “What are you going to do?”
“I don't know, Barry. There's an argument to be made for both sides—especially when you consider what's after happening in Belfast—but I don't honestly know. I'd like to talk to Cathal … .” MacThomáis stepped out into the aisle just as a crowd of men rushed past. Somehow he was caught in their midst and carried along toward the side where MacStiofáin's adherents were gathering.
Barry stayed in his seat.
This is wrong. Dear God, this is all wrong.
He returned to Harold's Cross late that night. McCoy was waiting for him. “Well? What happened?”
“The worst possible outcome, Séamus.”
The older man studied Barry's face intently. “A split? In the Army?”
“You've got it in one.” He explained what had happened as best he could.
“What about you?” McCoy wanted to know. “Which way did you go?”
“They're both right and they're both wrong. I came away without committing to either side.”
“It's not like you to be indecisive, Seventeen.”
“Oh, I made a decision right enough. I decided not to watch the Army I love split itself apart. I have a bottle in my room. Care to join me?”
“You couldn't keep me away,” said Séamus McCoy.
That night Barry Halloran, who never got drunk, got very very drunk.
A
NTICIPATING the way the convention might go, Mac-Stiofáin had prearranged a meeting place where he and the other dissidents could discuss their next move. He then set out for Belfast, where he addressed a meeting of the rapidly expanding IRA there.
On the eighteenth of December dissident delegates from the convention and their followers held a meeting during which they elected a twelve-man executive body. The executive chose a seven-member provisional army council. Seán MacStiofáin was appointed chief of staff.
In Dublin ten days later the Provisional IRA issued its first statement: “We declare our allegiance to the thirty-two county Irish Republic, proclaimed at Easter 1916, established by the first Dail Eireann in 1919, overthrown by force of arms in 1922 and suppressed to this day by the existing British-imposed sixcounty and twenty-six county partition states.”
2
C
HRISTMAS would be a muted celebration, though Barbara was keen on putting up a Christmas tree. “It won't be Christmas if we don't,” she insisted.
Barry told her, “Christmas has nothing to do with trees, that's a German custom Prince Albert and Queen Victoria introduced.”
“Well I think it's lovely to have a big tree all covered with lights and ornaments.”
“I don't have any lights and ornaments, Barbara, and I'm a bit short of cash right now.”
“I'll buy them, then.”
“With what?” Barry asked reasonably. “Has your money come from America?”
“Not yet.”
“I thought you told me you'd receive it in December.”
“Well, usually I would, but,” she looked contrite, “I forgot to send my new address to the lawyers who administer my trust fund. I'll mail it off tomorrow, I promise. The money should be here in January.”
“You simply can't ricochet through life being that irresponsible,” Barry scolded.
She pressed her lips together and turned away.
Two days later he came home to find a beautifully decorated spruce tree in the parlour. “How do you suppose she paid for it?” he asked McCoy.
Grinning, McCoy replied, “She went around the neighbourhood offering to clean people's houses for them after the holidays—if they paid a deposit up front. Y'know, I wasn't too impressed by that lassie at first. But she's got good stuff in her.”
“If you say so.” Barry sounded unconvinced.
However, McCoy had observed the covert looks he slanted in Barbara's direction. McCoy also had noticed, as Barry had not, the looks she sneaked at him.
“Are you going to ask her to marry you, Seventeen?”
“You must be joking.”
“Listen here to me, lad. If you have a chance at an ordinary life, grab it. Grab it with both hands. The Army's falling apart, but you've got your career and you've got your house. You don't know how lucky you are.”
Barry raised one eyebrow. “My house? What do you mean by that?”
“I'm an old dog, Seventeen; I can scent markings on a lamppost. Man doesn't replace a frayed sash cord in someone else's dining room window.”
“It wanted doing and you aren't up to lifting out one of those heavy windows yet.”
“This is me you're talking to, remember? If you don't want to tell anyone else your business, lad, I'll respect that. But I know what I know.”
Marry Barbara, and her with that temperament. What a ridiculous idea. Besides, as soon as her money arrives she'll be away.
Won't she?
If she hated it here would she not have sent that change of address immediately?
O
N Christmas Day, Barry, McCoy, and five of the boarders went to Mass together. When Barry asked Barbara to join them
she hesitated. “I'm an employee here; would it be right for me to—”
This time it was Barry who interrupted. “You're in Ireland now, Barbara. We all go together. The Church of Ireland has reserved pews for the gentry but we don't do that. You are a Catholic, aren't you?” He had never been quite certain. Unlike Northern Ireland, people in the south did not ask one another their religion.
“I'm Catholic,” she assured him, “like my father. Mother's rather backslid.”
Barbara sat between Séamus McCoy and one of the boarders during Mass. She was intensely aware of Barry on McCoy's other side. When the congregation rose to sing “Adeste Fidelis” she skillfully blended her contralto with Barry's deep baritone.
McCoy heard them singing with one voice and smiled to himself.
I
N Dublin on the twenty-eighth of December, Bernadette Devlin was named Man of the Year by the
Sunday Independent.
On that same day, the
Sunday Press
reported the split in the IRA.
A
FTER the split, the Officials controlled the existing weaponry. The Provisionals would have to start over from scratch.
Barry received an unsigned note through his letter box: “Resuming operations in your line of expertise. Are you interested?”
He did not respond. Yet he had to admit to himself that for one brief moment he was tempted.

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