One of the things which Sean liked about the annual turf-cutting expeditions was that one was always liable to bump into a host of interesting characters. Unlike potato-gathering; which was performed by people his own age whom he met on an everyday basis or harvesting the hay, which was a family affair; turf-cutting was an activity which was pursued by a variety of folk in proximity to each other. Some of the bogs near to the Daly bog were rented out to different people. Other families, like the Dalys, cut their own turf.
One character whom they had met a couple of times in previous years had been nicknamed “Bean-Si Johnny” by Patsy. He was an eccentric rustic in his seventies who lived somewhere near the Tyrone-Derry border. He was intensely superstitious and seemed to have a habit of bringing the conversation around to the subject of Bean-Si’s. He would then tell a story of an up-close-and-personal encounter he had with a Bean-Si, when he was a young man coming home from a ceilidh one dark night. He told them the same story two years in a row but in the second version he was coming from a wake rather than a ceilidh. Patsy found this amusing and hence coined the nickname.“D’ye think Bean-Si Johnny ’ll be here this year?” said Patsy to no one in particular. Peter laughed. “He’s a funny oul’ boy that. Ye never know – he could be here all right.”
Fifteen minutes later the foursome had arrived at the Daly’s turf bank. It was a bright sunny morning, but there was always a strong breeze on the mountain. Sean had suffered some painful sunburn the previous year and had brought a tube of suncream with him this year. He also kept his shirtsleeves down. Patsy buried the two bottles of water in the slushy turf at the bottom of the bank to keep them cool. Before they could start digging, the sods at the top of the bank would have to be pared. After a minute they were ready to start. Gerry stood facing the bank and began slicing four-inch thick grassy sods. His movements were fluid and rhythmic with little wasted energy. Up on top of the bank, Peter was nicking the sods into square-foot sizes. When he had one nicked all the way around, Gerry would lever it out with his spade and the two boys would carry them down to behind Gerry where they would be laid out on the ground for building in later. This job took over half an hour. When it was completed they stopped for a quick drink of water. Gerry then lifted the turf-spade. He nestled his right boot comfortably in the lug of the spade, and started to dig. As before – his movement was fluid and rhythmic. Peter tossed the wet, brown turf up onto the top of the bank, whereupon the two boys built them onto the barrow. Sean liked the smell of the freshly cut turf. In fact he loved everything about the bog. He loved the fresh air, warm sun, panoramic view and wide, open space. It was a place where he felt at one with nature, with blood-relations whom he had known all his life. It was a place far away from life’s petty worries such as exam results, school and girlfriend problems. Patsy wheeled the barrow a good thirty yards before tossing the contents onto the side of the grassy hill. Sean spread the turf out to let the sun commence the drying process. Patsy was talking about the match, which had been postponed due to the death of a club member of the opposing team. “It might be three weeks before the final’s played y’know,” said Patsy. “I hope none of our boys are away on holidays at the time,” replied Sean. “God forbid –them Wolfe Tones are a good team. We’ll need everybody,” retorted Patsy. “There’s a couple of them goin’ to the Gaeltacht in Donegal but I think they don’t go till August.” “Even if they were – they could always come back for a day. This is a one-off thing. Unless ye’ve another year left ye won’t get the chance again. I wish the game was on tomorra. I can’t wait,” remarked Patsy as the two boys strolled back to the bank to put on another load. When the barrow was full, Sean took his turn to wheel. He wheeled the barrow up to where Patsy had dumped the first load, before emptying its contents.
And so the Daly turf-cutting team toiled on until half-past-one. After working steadily for over three hours, the two cousins were famished. They used some of the bottled water to wash their hands and dried them by rubbing them on the grass. Sean reached for the Thermos flask and proceeded to pour four cups of tea. Patsy distributed the milk and sugar. Peter handed everyone a roast beef sandwich and the four sat down to enjoy a well-earned rest.
About ten minutes later a man passed by near them. He waved at the Daly team and they waved back. He sauntered down onto the Dalys bank. “Peter – Gerry. Are ye’s well. Hello boys.” “Not so bad Tom. It’s a good dryin’ day today eh,” replied Gerry. “Aye – the turf wouldn’t be long a dryin’ with a few days like that.” “Is this yer first day up,” inquired Peter. “Naw – I was up earlier in the week. I’m turnin’ mine the day.” “Has oul’ Johnny been up yet this year,” asked Gerry, who knew that Tom was a neighbour of Johnny’s. “Johnny died about six months ago Gerry - ye didn’t hear?” “Agh – I didn’t know that. What happened him?” “Well he had heart problems for a long time – Johnny lived on his own y’know ‘n I s’pose he didn’t take great care of himself. He was on tablets but he told me once that he used to wash them down with poteen.” “Jesus,” exclaimed Patsy. “That couldn’t have been good for him!” Despite the sad news, Peter couldn’t suppress a smile. “He was a character oul’ Johnny – wasn’t he,” remarked Peter. “I s’pose ye heard his yarns about the bean-si,” replied Tom. “Every year – he could tell a good story oul’ Johnny. What age was he anyway?” inquired Peter. “He was seventy-two. Are these two boys football men?” inquired Tom. “Oh aye – they’re playin’ in the Under-16 final in a few weeks time. The match was put off,” replied Gerry. “I’ll have ta go and see that. With all this walkin’ up and down turf banks ye’s ‘ll be the fittest men on the field,” joked Tom.“Well – I s’pose we better get back to it before the rain comes on,” replied Peter, having noted that the sun had disappeared. “I’ll see ye’s later – best of luck in the big game boys”. The two boys thanked Tom and the four made their way back to the bank. “Do any of youse two boys want to dig for a while?” asked Gerry. “I will”, replied Patsy.
Nearly four hours later, Peter looked at his brother. All around them were sods of turf, drying in the sun. “Think that’ll do us the day Gerry,” he said. “Aye – we’ll come back next week and turn them.” “Will we head home boys – or do ye’s want to work on another while?” shouted Peter; smiling to himself as he knew what the response would be. “All right da – Patsy and me ’ll just finish off here,” replied Sean.
CHAPTER 18
Wednesday 13th June 1973
Peter and his two workmates in the Electricity Board were on their lunchbreak. They had been working all morning, putting a pole in the private garden of a house about half a mile outside Killacran, a small Protestant village. Mickey wasn’t with them as he was away on a training course. Peter’s two colleagues on that occasion were Protestant men. Wesley Adams was an older man, about Peter’s age. Peter and he had known each other since the mid-1960’s. Mervyn Black was a younger man in his mid-twenties, who had only joined the Electric Board a couple of months previously. Peter didn’t really know him though he seemed a friendly enough sort of fellow. The three were sitting on a grass verge on the other side of the house, eating their lunch in the glorious summer sunshine. A motorcycle pulled up alongside the men. Both the rider and pillion passenger were wearing helmets. The pillion passenger dismounted from the bike and pulled a Browning 9mm pistol from a shoulder holster inside his jacket. He was only six feet from Peter. Peter suddenly realised, to his absolute horror, that the gunman was about to shoot him. But he barely had time to move before the gunman opened fire and shot him in the head. The gunman walked over to Peter’s outstretched body and fired a second shot to the head, fatally wounding him. The gunman put the gun back in the holster and remounted the motorbike. The motorbike sped off, back in the direction from whence it had came. “Mervyn – go into that house and ring 999 for an ambulance!” shouted Wesley. As Mervyn sped towards the house, and dark blood seeped from the head of Peter’s prostrate body, Wesley checked for any sign that his colleague was
still living. Peter wasn’t breathing and there was no sign of any pulse. By the time Mervyn had come back out of the house with the lady owner, Wesley had already put his coat over Peter’s lifeless body. As the woman put her hands over her face in horror, Wesley said to her, “It’s not the ambulance we need – it’s the police. He’s been murdered!”
Around 2pm, Sean was sitting in Geography class, taking notes from the teacher. It was a lovely sunny day and he was sitting by the window. The subject matter for today’s lesson was English coalmines. This was an aspect of geography which held no interest for him. He was looking out of the window, daydreaming about the upcoming summer holidays. There was a knock on the door. The school secretary entered. “Mr Grimes, - the headmaster wishes to speak to Sean Daly in his office.” “Sean, - could you go with the secretary.” Sean arose from his chair. He was trying to think if he had done anything wrong. Could it be something about the uniform display dummy? He reasoned otherwise as some of his classmates would have been called with him. Out in the quiet corridor, Sean noticed that the secretary looked a little upset. Her name was Annie Quinn and she was a neighbour of theirs, though he didn’t know her terribly well. “Are ye all right Annie?” inquired Sean. “I’m all right Sean,” she replied as a tear trickled down her face. She touched him lightly on the shoulder with her hand before walking ahead of him.
Later, that evening, a BBC TV presenter for the local news programme Scene Around Six read out the headlines. “A workman has been shot dead near the Co Tyrone village of Killacran. A motorcycle drew up as the man and his colleagues were having lunch and the pillion passenger shot the man, a 49 year-old Catholic, twice in the head, killing him instantly. The loyalist paramilitary group, the U.V.F., have claimed responsibility for the murder, stating that the dead man was a member of the I.R.A.. Both the police and the dead man’s family have strongly denied the allegation. The dead man has not yet been named.”
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