We climbed over the gate. Under a knot of trees to the left was a monument. A succession of cement slabs rose in steps to a shoulder-high platform where there was an inscribed stone and a Celtic cross. The inscription, in Irish, was in memory of a grandfather of the Connolly brothers shot dead on 14 September 1920 by the Black and Tans, and of an uncle shot dead on 20 March 1922 by Free State soldiers. We walked up to the farmhouse in the copse. It was a small, untidy, unfeminized place, and the door was unlocked. Brendan called out into the musty air of the house and then called out in the yard. There was no response. We turned back.
As we drove north from Kinlough, Brendan reminisced about his last trip to the North in 1969. It was a time of protests led by the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association against systematic anti-Catholic discrimination in housing and employment and political representation, demonstrations, civil disobedience, riots, police crackdowns and sectarian hostilities. Events culminated in the explosive violence of August 1969, when the Catholics of the Bogside threw up defensive barricades in the face of attacks from Protestant mobs. Barricades also went up in Belfast, which by mid-August was a war-zone with over a hundred gunshot casualties in hospital. As civil war and the pogrom of Catholics threatened, the government in the Republic set up army hospitals along the border, and Jack Lynch, the Taoiseach, said, ‘We won’t stand idly by.’ ‘When Lynch said that we felt untouchable,’ Brendan recalled. ‘In August, Eddie Williams (then OC in Cork) and Jim Lane showed up at the back door, ready to go up, but your uncle Declan was getting married, so I said I couldn’t go until Wednesday. At that time Rosalie was about to give birth and Father advised me not to go up; but if I hadn’t gone, I might have regretted it all my life. We got Tom Barry to get us submachine guns, known as can-openers, and they were sent north. They came from sympathizers inside the Irish army in Tipperary. It was £75 for an unwrapped Thompson submachine gun and £75 for a thousand rounds. My pseudonym was Jimmy Neilson, and I wore spectacles with plain glass and my hair brushed down.’
Brendan spent three weeks in Derry that summer, organizing: he wasn’t involved in the petrol bombs and stone-throwing, which was for the kids. ‘It was a carnival atmosphere,’ he said. Some of the Corkmen treated the whole thing like an excursion and had to be sent back.
In December 1969, when a measure of civil order had gradually returned, the IRA Convention, acting in response to the developments in the North, voted to end abstentionism, the policy by which seats won by Sinn Féin in Westminster and the two Irish parliaments were not taken up. Not everybody favoured the change, and the dissident faction split from the official IRA – which, in the eyes of many, was already fatally distracted by Marxist-Leninist notions of unifying the island through class struggle – to form the Provisional IRA.
While he was up in the North in 1969, Brendan stayed for a time with a couple who had sheltered him in the late ’fifties, Frank and Mary Morris. They lived in Convoy, a small market town in Donegal which lies in green, undulating land near the border towns of Derry, Letterkenny and Strabane. We drove there from Kinlough.
Frank and Mary Morris owned a shop and warehouse in the centre of Convoy, and a grocers’ wholesale business now largely run by their two sons. Frank was seventy-six years old, a slight, trim, gentle man with a faint voice; he devoted a lot of energy to the Local Enterprise Scheme, he said, and in the recent UK elections he had canvassed for Sinn Féin. Mary was younger, large-eyed, and calm-spoken. She said she was a great admirer of John Hume, the future Nobel Laureate and leader of the (non-violent) nationalist party, the SDLP, and of Mrs Hume, a personal friend. The couple – very kindly, very pleased to see Brendan – looked back fondly but unsentimentally on the days when their place was a safe-house and packed like a fish-barrel with Corkmen. ‘The Cork boys were the best and the Dubliners the worst,’ Mary said.
After dinner with Frank and Mary, we visited Theresa Peoples, who gave Brendan shelter in the late ’fifties and again in 1969. She lived outside Convoy in a handsome farmhouse filled with unusually fine items of furniture and china. We found Theresa, who was in her eighties, devastated by the death of her brother John-Joe seven months previously; she had not left the house in all that time. Theresa was immensely heartened and moved to see Brendan, and asked anxiously after the mother-of-pearl rosary she’d given him forty years ago. She had recently celebrated her golden anniversary as a Pioneer and she showed us the photograph of the bishop congratulating her. ‘The present-day IRA are not like the ’fifties crowd at all,’ Theresa said.
We spent the night at the Morris house, and the following morning drove towards the border. We were waved through the British army checkpoint, and very shortly afterwards approached – for the first time, in my case – the city of Derry.
The slogans, spray-painted on walls and hoardings in huge, brutal letters, hit us as soon as we entered the city. INLA. ALL PARTY TALKS NOW. RELEASE ALL P.O.W.S NOW. REPATRIATE NOW. We were in the Catholic part of Derry. The Protestant district lay on the other side of the Foyle, a beautiful and immense waterway that seemed altogether too magnificent for the small, gloomy city that rose in clusters of spires above the river’s foggy banks. Brendan drove carefully; one false turn and we could have been swept away on a current of one-way traffic across the river. We drove up to the Creggan, as the heights of south Derry are known, and then descended the hill to the Bogside, where the gable end of a destroyed terrace of houses was preserved and painted with the famous words, first daubed during the disturbances in the late ’sixties, You Are Now Entering Free Derry.
Brendan, who has his mother’s extraordinary memory for detail, was temporarily disoriented when we came to the Bogside. Changes had taken place since 1969 – blocks of flats had disappeared, new roads had been built – and it took him a few moments to reconcile the quiet new landscape with the urban battleground he had known. But we were in the right place, there was no doubt about that. Bunting strung out from garden rails to rooftops fluttered in celebration of St Columba, a 1400-year-old saint; kerbs and lamp-posts were painted green, white and gold; Irish tricolours fluttered from flagpoles; and huge, impressively detailed murals protested against the Orange parades through Catholic areas and exhorted remembrance of Bloody Sunday, 30 January 1972, when thirteen civilians were shot dead in the Bogside by British paratroopers.
We dropped in on the Bogside Sinn Féin Advice Centre. It occupied a small terraced house and was staffed by four striking dark-haired young women. Brendan chatted to the woman in charge, explaining that this was his first visit to Derry since 1969 and that I was writing a book about the internment days. The young woman smiled and said a few words of welcome, and then mentioned an old-timer, Barney McFadden, who had been in the movement for over sixty years. Barney (born 1921) arrived a few minutes later, and we sat down to talk in the privacy of a back room of the Sinn Féin office. Barney and Brendan found common ground almost immediately, and for an hour or so the two exchanged information and names of old volunteers, almost all deceased. Barney spoke about the historical project that now occupied his time, which was to produce a list of all those volunteers in 1910–30 period – who included a Protestant, he was especially proud to say – who’d never been properly acknowledged by the republican movement.
When we left, Brendan was thrilled. ‘It feels great,’ he said, as we walked back to the car, ‘it’s like a warm hug you’re getting from the community.’ He looked at me with a grin. ‘It’s a real buzz, isn’t it? Don’t you feel at home here, really at home?’
I smiled at Brendan. It was intoxicating to have been taken into the very core of the republican struggle and to feel solidarity with my oppressed kinfolk, but of course I did not feel at home on the Bogside. How could I, when simply to open my English mouth exposed me to prejudice and mistrust? When my experiences and my outlook, informed by a middle-class European upbringing, were so different from those of the people here? The Sinn Féin woman at the Advice Centre had remarked to me, ‘We’re not sectaria
n here; Derry’s not like Belfast,’ and I couldn’t help marvelling, as we drove anxiously through suburbs daubed in red, white and blue, at the difference between her perspective and mine. As I saw it, a city divided into Catholic and Protestant halves was sectarian in character, and horribly so; and the assertion to the contrary, founded on a comparison with Belfast, was stunning. Was this woman unaware of the norms prevalent in the world outside the North of Ireland?
Brendan drove through Strabane and took a detour to Clady, Co. Tyrone, a small, untidy village that sits right on the border with the Republic. Near Clady, the river Finn is scruffy with weedy isles and broad enough to be spanned by a handsome stone bridge with seven arches. The quirk of the bridge is that its waist-high stone walls are serpentine; they wriggle along the flanks of the road in a series of bulges and nooks into which two or three men might crouch without being visible from a distance. In January 1957, Brendan’s IRA unit passed the night in these recesses, vainly waiting for British forces to respond to an explosion the unit had detonated. ‘We blew a crater around here,’ Brendan said, pointing to a spot on the bridge. ‘The object was to lure the enemy into an ambush. We waited all night in the cold but British troops never came. In the end, we narrowly avoided capture ourselves by the Free State Army.’
It was another foggy day, and the views up and down the river were of blurred green farmland. On one bank, just by the bridge, cows and horses grazed on thick scrub grass. I took a photograph of my uncle beside a plaque attached to the bridge commemorating an IRA man called Jim McGinn, ‘who was killed on active service’ on 15 December 1973. Brendan stood with his hands in the pockets of his khaki trousers. He was wearing a navy-blue V-necked golfing sweater and a button-down shirt with fine blue checks. His hair – a full head, grey and cut short and spiky – was like my father’s, and his eyebrows, silver and thick like my grandfather’s, lent further solemnity to the dour and heavy-hearted expression with which he gazed into the distance. It was an old-fashioned pose for the camera that spoke of the gravity of the republican enterprise and of the respect in which those who have given their lives for it are held, irrespective of how long ago they died; it also spoke of the extraordinary lengths to which the republican movement went to ensure that a volunteer’s sacrifices were the tinder of his tragic remembrance. This exclusive emphasis on suffering and self-denial was, of course, a little deceptive, because political activists, even those who may be secretive extremists, generally derive sustenance and gratification from their activities, which are, after all, voluntary, and which inevitably attract a certain kudos. To outsiders, IRA men personified menace; but to those inside the movement, they were good-hearted and lovable figures invested with a certain high-minded nobility – cavaliers, even.
We left Clady and headed south-east, via Omagh, through Tyrone, which genealogical tradition holds to be the ancestral territory of the O’Neill family. Tyrone is a fluvial county, and we crossed or drove by the Mourne, Derg, Strule, Fairy Water and Owenreagh rivers. As we approached the Blackwater river, whose course marks the border for a few miles, I asked Brendan what he thought ought to be the objective of settlement negotiations by Sinn Féin in the apparently imminent event of the IRA announcing a second ceasefire. Brendan said carefully, ‘There should be a declaration of British withdrawal from Ireland in twenty-five years’ time. Such a declaration, coupled with a ceasefire, would perhaps be a way forward. It would give unionists time to adjust to the reality of it,’ Brendan said.
At that moment we arrived at the border village of Aughnacloy, where two armed and camouflaged British soldiers were stopping cars going south. We wound down our windows. ‘What is the purpose of your trip?’ asked one young soldier, inspecting the driver’s licence that Brendan had handed up at his request. ‘We’re going to Dublin,’ Brendan said. ‘We’ve come from Derry.’ ‘Brilliant, thank you,’ the soldier said as he handed back the licence. ‘Thank you,’ Brendan said politely, taking his time to replace the document in the proper compartment in his wallet. It was, in its way, a small gesture of political resistance: he was not going to be rushed in his own country by any British soldier.
We resumed our conversation. Brendan, elaborating on his earlier statement, said that in twenty-five years’ time the likes of Ian Paisley would be dead and a whole new generation would have grown up in the knowledge that the change would take place.
This proposition – that objections to a united Ireland would dissolve in the face of sufficient notice of unification – was obviously problematic, but I didn’t argue. Instead, I asked Brendan: ‘In what way does the use of violence promote the objective of British withdrawal?’
He began by saying that if it wasn’t for the civil rights movement in 1969, nothing would have been achieved.
‘No,’ I interrupted, ‘I don’t mean street violence – I mean the taking of life.’ I was referring to the three thousand and more people who had been killed by the various armed groups, republican and loyalist and British, since 1969.
‘Well,’ Brendan said, ‘there hasn’t in fact been much physical force of that kind used, apart from on the soldiers and RUC men.’
Too surprised to say much else, I said, ‘What has the killing achieved, though?’
‘Well,’ Brendan said, ‘it got rid of Stormont, for one thing; and it put Northern Ireland on the map.’
I sensed we were heading for a historical debate, so I said, ‘What I can’t see is how renewing the campaign of violence, after we’ve had the ceasefire, promotes the objective of British withdrawal.’
Brendan, who was driving, did not respond. A few moments later, seething slightly, he said, ‘Do you know, I know it’s hatred, but I’d probably want to shoot those two soldiers anyway, even if there was a settlement. I’d just want to do it.’
The atmosphere in the car had suddenly chilled. I decided to press on anyway. It was uncivil of me, but as Brendan well knew, anyone who – rightly or wrongly – expects thousands of others to submit to the experience of death and ruinous injury ought to be prepared to submit to the experience of argument. Besides, Brendan was an unorthodox, independent thinker whom I admired. I wanted to tap into his insights. ‘I’m just uncertain,’ I said, upping the stakes, ‘that the violence has achieved any more than thirty years of civil disobedience would have achieved. That’s why I can’t say that the killing has been necessary.’
Brendan drove on along the bending, tree-darkened road that took us through the Monaghan countryside. After a long silence, he said slowly, ‘Joseph, did you have to do military service in the English army?’
‘How do you mean?’ I said.
‘Oh, that’s right,’ Brendan said, still looking ahead, dawning comprehension in his tone, ‘you wouldn’t.’
Another silence descended. Now I was fuming, too, furious at the questioning of my patriotism – of my Irish nationality, even – and of my right to speak on the national question. Wasn’t my opinion as valid as anybody’s? Wasn’t it my country, too?
Then, looking at it from Brendan’s point of view, I could see why he might have reacted in the way he had. There are few things more provocative to Irish ears – even ears attached to a person of very mild views – than the sound of a voice in an English accent pronouncing on Ireland, a voice that packs into its drawling vowels centuries of racial condescension and seemingly ineradicable and wilful misconceptions about the rights and aspirations of the Irish people. For an Irishman, it can sometimes seem that there is no arguing with a voice of that kind, because it is precisely the voice of prejudice against arguments made by an Irishman. Did it lie in my English-sounding mouth to question Brendan? Why should he be confident that I was capable of understanding his viewpoint, that I was not regarding him through the eyes of a blinkered, indoctrinated member of the English establishment?
The fact was, I had spent no more that a year of my adult life in Ireland. As soon after my birth as they were able to, my parents removed me from Cork and set off on a global journey
that took the family to Africa and Asia and finally, when I was six years old, continental Europe. When my father’s project in Rotterdam came to an end in 1975, the family stayed put while he worked in the fjords of Norway, the Borneo jungles and the Arabian deserts, flying back as often as he was able. Aside from a couple of years at the French Lycée in The Hague, I was educated at the British School in The Netherlands, an expensive yet unpretentious day school, where uniforms were worn and the English educational curriculum was followed. The students were mainly the children of diplomats and of scientists and technocrats working for large enterprises like the European Space and Technology Centre, Shell Oil, and Unilever. It was a multinational set-up: I had British, Italian, Gambian, Australian, Portuguese friends. We were all in the same boat, pleasantly adrift from our native land. Necessarily, our relationship with that place was, to a greater or lesser degree, fantastical. For the non-British, the matter was doubly complicated, since in addition to cultivating an expatriate conception of our place of origin we had to construct a relationship with England, whose culture and educational qualifications we were acquiring at school and whose universities and jobs beckoned. For those of us from two different non-British countries, things were triply unstraightforward; quadruply so if, like me and my siblings, you spoke Dutch and hung out for many years with Dutch friends; and, finally, quintuply tricky if, on top of the aforementioned complexities, you spoke French at home.
Blood-Dark Track Page 27
