This Human Season Page 34

  My girl’s mad at me

  We argued just the other night

  I thought we’d got it straight

  We talked and talked until it was light

  I thought we’d agreed

  I thought we’d talked it out

  Now when I try to speak

  She says that I don’t care she says I’m unaware and now she says I’m weak

  The song ended with five important drum notes and was done. John gave an affected little clap towards Angie and said, ‘The lovely Angie’. Then he handed her the cloth saying, ‘Your tea-towel, madam?’ and they went back to the sink.

  Chapter 64

  It was like she had a great cold iron on her ribcage in bed in the evenings. Some nights her husband heard her weeping; mostly he was passed out with the drink.

  ‘What is it?’ he’d said once, putting on the lights, trapping her.

  ‘I’m lonely,’ she’d said. ‘Switch off the light. It’s too bright.’

  He’d done so, lain back down and said after a minute, ‘I’m lonely as well.’ Too many nights like that, she couldn’t take another.

  They walked home just after closing time, after a round of ‘for he’s a jolly good fellow’. His last night and he’d had just the two lemonades.

  ‘If you can pass up the drink on your last night, you’re going to be just fine, Sean.’

  She’d had a few herself though and for the first time in years it was he that steadied her on the way home. He was quiet all the way, clutching her arm as the pavement dipped.

  ‘Do you love that man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’ There was relief in his voice as he let go of her arm and went ahead to open the front door.

  ‘Do you love this man?’

  He allowed her to go through into the house, and remained back at the door.

  Mrs O’Sullivan was offering him a good night and when Sean said,

  ‘Thanks for everything, Patricia,’ she stopped as if surprised and he considered that either he’d never said it to her before, or he’d never used her first name. That and the fact he was sober.

  His wife came out with her and they watched her home.

  ‘I know you’re a good person, Sean. I can see you’re trying to change yourself. It’s just that I don’t know you very well.’

  She’d kept him at bay a long time with a mix of harshness, reprimand, and occasional, austere good humour; a little untoward daytime innuendo and too tired at night.

  ‘But we’ve been married twenty years.’

  ‘I know. I was a kid and so were you and what I thought you were, you weren’t at all and it’s just as well more than likely. To be honest I haven’t even wanted to know you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, well, because there were things that put me off, like, or that made me think it wasn’t worth the trouble.’

  ‘What like?’

  She sat down on the front doorstep and after a minute he sat beside her.

  ‘You tell lies.’

  ‘So do you! And yours are worse than mine!’

  ‘Aye, well all right. Look, I don’t want to stay with you for the kids’ sakes, because we have no choice, I want more than that. A friendship at the very least. With Sean going away it’s made me think. That poor woman,’ she nodded across the road, the light was still on at Collette Heaney’s, ‘and that one over there,’ she pointed to Mrs Mulhern’s.

  ‘They’ve all lost their sons one way or another, and here am I, and I’ve just about still got mine. I mean, where else does it happen that half of your neighbours’ men are away in jail or dead? I live here. I’ve got to be able to put something straight. And if I can’t put me straight what else will get better?’

  ‘It’s not your fault all this, you can’t mend it. All right. I take your point, I hear you.’

  ‘We’ve got each other. That’s what we’ve got.’

  ‘Even if we don’t like it. I mean, well, you know what I’m saying.’

  ‘Aye. Well, we’ve got to work it out, Sean. We’ve got to work together. Take the best. What’s good is that you’re changing. I can respect you for that.’

  ‘Oh.’ He took her hand in his and kissed it.

  The light went off over at Mrs Lavery’s, and then it went on again in the upstairs room that overlooked the front.

  ‘We could go to bed,’ he said. She gave him a taut smile. He continued, without looking at her, ‘To our mutual satisfaction, without stereotypical gender roles.’

  ‘What in God’s name are you going on about?’

  ‘I did have a read of that wee book you brought home. How sex is more than intercourse.’ He made his way adroitly through the unfamiliar words. ‘How it’s showing your appreciation. To someone with nice tits.’

  ‘You sneaky wee devil.’

  He went on in an English accent, looking ahead, straight-necked. ‘I am quite willing to stimulate your clitoris during coitus interruptus.’ She hit him. ‘For Christ’s sakes, Sean, they could have you locked up for saying that!’

  He put an arm around her and they sat, giggling.

  ‘Well, I suppose we could,’ she said, her nose resting on his shoulder.

  ‘You’ve been drinking. That’s why you’re saying that.’

  ‘So you could take advantage of me then.’

  ‘I’ve not had anything to drink, myself.’ He stood up and offered her his hand.

  Chapter 65

  Last thing, they watched the Morecambe and Wise Christmas special, with the usual finale skit of Morecambe going home in his raincoat, looking back edgily, while Wise does the big number. Angie went up to bed ahead of them, leaving them to finish their beers.

  She was reading a paperback her sister had given her for Christmas, a thick, pale purple book with white Indian pavilions on the front cover. She was going between the end and the beginning, checking to see whether she could be bothered with it. John came up and started annoying her, laying next to her saying, ‘That’s you all over, that is, a flibbertigibbet.’

  ‘I want to see if it’s worth getting involved with.’ She was looking serious, pillow propped. ‘I can’t be doing with it if it’s not a happy ending. There’s nothing worse than when it leaves you feeling like topping yourself.’

  ‘But you’re not supposed to know, that’s the point.’ He was trying to hold the last pages shut.

  ‘I’m going to make a cuppa, Dad, do either of you want one?’ Mark was in the doorway.

  ‘Aye. I will, thanks,’ said Angie. ‘No sugar though, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said John. ‘Mark, you tell this woman why she shouldn’t be reading the ending before the beginning because she won’t listen to me.’ He got up, adjusted his pyjama waistband and pointed back at Angie.

  ‘Tell her.’ Then he went off downstairs.

  ‘Well I think with books you can do as you like.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Angie loudly, so that John would hear. ‘Thank you! You do as you like, he says,’ she called out. ‘If only all men were as reasonable!’ She gave Mark a little round-shouldered smile, hunched over a laugh, waiting for the smart alec reply to come back.

  There was a great cracking noise, like the bough of a tree broken apart by lightning, the sound of smashing glass and at the core of the noise the certainty of a gunshot. On top of it came a thud and the sound of breaking china.

  By that time Mark was down the stairs, shouting, ‘Dad, Dad, Dad, oh

  Jesus Christ, Dad.’

  In the kitchen, he held the dishcloth against his father’s chest, kneeling over him. ‘Hold on Dad, hold on.’

  His father’s head was against the fridge door and his upper back propped up on Mark’s thigh. His mouth was open, his eyes keeling. Mark was pushing the cloth harder and harder against his chest, staunching the blood. Broken china was all over the floor, just in front of his feet. The mugs for the tea. He looked up and saw the hole in the window, and beyond, the night closing back in
on itself.

  ‘Call the ambulance, Angie! Call the ambulance!’ Angie was standing in the doorway, transfixed.

  ‘Call the ambulance, will you please, Angie, please!’

  She moved to the phone and he heard her dial three times and say, ‘My husband’s been shot,’ and then she gave the address and put the phone down.

  She came in and knelt down and held John’s hand. Mark was saying, ‘Hold on, Dad,’ over and over again.

  John’s eyes came back, they fell into place and his tongue moved across his lips and he swallowed. He opened his mouth and his throat made a noise. Mark tensed his legs to hold the head up and he took his hands from his father’s chest and shook his face. ‘The ambulance will be here in a minute, just hold on.’

  His father’s mouth fell into a line. One eyelid struggled like a butterfly in a jar. Mark put his hands about the sides of John’s face, saying,

  ‘They’ll be here soon, just take it easy.’

  His father’s head fell a little as the boy’s leg shifted. Mark began pounding his chest, then he started giving him mouth to mouth, then he set to shaking his father.

  There were loud knocks at the door and Angie went to answer them. A tall woman from across the way was on the doorstep in her nightdress, her face stricken.

  ‘We heard a gunshot,’ she said, breathless, looking around Angie, craning her neck to see.

  ‘My John’s been shot.’

  ‘Oh God no. No!’ the woman screamed out, seeing John’s head in the kitchen doorway.

  Chapter 66

  After lights out, Gerard lit them both a thin roll-up and they had their smoke. Some of the lads were saying the rosary, but Gerard said he was going to skip it and smoke instead and Sean agreed to do the same. They had a lot on their minds. O’Malley had given them a short talk in Irish that evening and Gerard was explaining to Sean the bits he’d not been able to follow.

  There was a spotlight on across the front yard of the block and Gerard was standing by the window with his face partially revealed. He had his blanket about his shoulders and round him like a poncho. His fingertips went in and out of his thin beard as he sucked on the little cigarette.

  ‘One thing’s certain, Sean, we can’t go on like this for another, what, ten or fifteen years?’

  ‘What was he saying about what’s happening on the outside?’

  ‘There’s some talks going on, with O’Fiaich in the middle, and there’s some other ones as well with an MI5 man the middle man, but it’s not looking good and with this goon Reagan all palled up with Thatcher there’s little or no chance of negotiations coming off. In short, there’s fuck all. Even a mainland bombing’s not going to shift things. They’re going on with shooting the screws and that’s it.’

  Sean was on the mattress, knees up by his chin.

  ‘He’s asking for names.’

  ‘For the hunger strike?’

  ‘No, for the coach trip down to Bangor. Fancy coming? The screws are going to buy us all a bag of chips each.’

  ‘What are you going to do? You’ve got a family.’

  Gerard closed the end of his smoke between his fingers. ‘I’ll tell you, I’m scared, Seany. Who isn’t though? Everyone who puts their name down is going to be scared.’

  ‘How many’s going on it?’

  ‘He said he’d be going on it.’

  ‘Starting when?’

  ‘They’ll hold off a wee while. Nails has got something coming. But O’Malley wants us to get started the moment he has word it hasn’t worked. What’s it going to do to all the mothers and wives?’

  They could hear their neighbours talking in quiet tones. Gerard pulled the blanket up under his nose. ‘Sean?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I know this sounds a bit strange, but in a way I’ll be sorry when it’s all over. One way or another it’s going to come to an end. Sooner or later.’

  ‘Thank fuck.’

  ‘But Seany, in some ways it’s been a, what d’ye say, a privilege to be with each other.’

  ‘Ach shut up, Gerry. We’re not dead yet. Save your best words for then.’

  ‘The sharing. Like with the tobacco. Would anyone think of taking more than his due?’

  ‘You’re always more cheerful after you’ve had your smoke.’

  ‘It makes you wonder whether socialism only works with men who are oppressed.’

  ‘Right.’

  Sean was cold right through and found it hard to go to sleep until he was absolutely exhausted. Gerard had the desired effect on him, night after night, and he wouldn’t have swapped him. Gerard would thank him for listening in the mornings and Sean would feel guilty about it because he only heard the half of it; after a while his mind hopped up on to the window ledge, took a trip into West Belfast, looked through his mother’s kitchen window then headed out to play in the fields below the mountains.

  ‘The thing is Seany, will it ever be like this again . . .’

  Sean slipped down, propping himself on one elbow. ‘I know what you’re saying, Gerry, but I’m not a socialist or a communist. This is a war and I’m a soldier and I can say hand on heart that it’s best it be me here, a single fella with no family. You in your position, you’ve to think about it another way, I can see that. The hardest thing for me up till now has been thinking about my mother. But I’ve stopped myself doing that and it’s like she’s dead.’ His mouth was dry with the tobacco. ‘See, I buy what O’Malley says, that the only way we can ever win this war is by doing something they don’t understand. A criminal wouldn’t go on hunger strike. I think he’s right, so I’ll put my name down. But if I were you, with a family, and with only that stuff about socialism to go on, I’m not sure I would. And no one will blame you if you don’t.’

  ‘The worst thing in the world for a man, Seany, do you know what it is? I’ll tell you. I didn’t come in here because I was an IRA boy. I kept out of it but it came for me anyway. The reason I stay on the protest, is because I couldn’t face the shame of not being on it. Of sitting with the prison-issue uniform, the criminal’s begs, round my ankles while I take a shit on a proper toilet.’

  Sean lay curled up like an animal, his heart beating, thinking that it was possibly better being on the boards because his piece of sponge foam was so damp now.

  ‘How many do you think will put their names down?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Aye. Well, it’s just the next step on from this.’

  Sean closed his eyes. There was Nancy and there was no Nancy. He saw hands relinquished across a space, after a dance, the feeling of being pulled backwards to his own side of the dance hall. And in the palm of his hand still the feeling of her, the cool skin of her bare arms, without rings or bracelets, just honest, and soft.

  Sean was drifting into a dream; his cellmate’s small voice came through like the beam of a pocket torch in the dark.

  ‘Seany?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘I’ll be putting my name down for it.’ He sounded as if he was making an admission, nervous as if what he said would ruin things between them.

  Sean felt for Gerard’s hand, grasped it and shook it, then he let it go, and his head fell back further even than the ground it lay on, way, way back.

  Chapter 67

  Two days after Christmas, there were RUC men on the doorstep over at the Laverys’. When Kathleen opened her front door, she saw Roisin with her hand over her mouth and Eilish across the way the same. Mrs Lavery was down on her knees. They had to drag her inside, like hauling a dead body.

  Her son, Eammon, had been trying to bomb a police station in East Belfast. He had thrown the bomb up at the fence but it had come back at him and exploded. He was eighteen. A council dustman had been seriously injured as well, trying to stop the boy.

  They sat in with Mrs Lavery for the morning, making the phone calls to her family for her. Sheila called round the next day to say that the wake would be on the Monday.

  ‘Where the heart lies, th
e feet wander,’ Mrs Lavery liked to say, and so she asked that the funeral be held at the church where they lived before, when the children were all young. But the priest there refused to give funerals to IRA volunteers, would not allow the tricolour flag into the church. Father Pearse agreed to perform the necessaries at her own house before the procession to Milltown Cemetery, on the last day of the year, on the Monday.

  Father Pearse and the neighbours came in through the front door. Sean Moran was overseeing those that were to come in by the rear. Men came singly or in twos down the alleyway between the houses, hopped over the short fence into the Laverys’ back garden. Sean shook hands with them, using both of his hands, his hair slicked back, a cigarette on low burn. He wore a black armband. He, Sammy McCann, and the oldest Lavery boy were the stewards.

  Liam and Owen had been sent down to the Whiterock to keep an eye on RUC and army movements, and one or the other came back from time to time to report. It was normal for funerals to be postponed a few times due to the RUC stopping the procession, splitting up the mourners, arresting attendees. Two of Mrs Lavery’s grandsons were covering the Upper Springfield entry to the street. Mrs Lavery’s family were in the front room.

  The women came in through the front door bringing with them tea or coffee or biscuits or a bottle of drink. They had a word with Mrs Lavery then made to find a task in the kitchen, elbowing themselves in, fiddling about, glancing at the clock.

  Sheila and Kathleen got there at nine and Mrs Lavery was in the kitchen with them for an hour or more going back over the boy’s life, like a prosecuting barrister, bringing out, piece by piece, the evidence for herself being responsible for Eammon’s death.

  ‘When I think I used to let him play at it when he was a wean – the Brits and the ’Ra, the Brits and the ’Ra. And going and getting upset in front of him. We wasn’t able to get ourselves a home at the time, you see.’ Whenever they went to interrupt her, to comfort her, she pushed aside their gestures, starting up with a fresher, angrier memory.