The Wasted Years

by Mary Larkin

  The Russians, once regarded as those terrible communists, those awful Reds, were suddenly regarded by all as gallant allies, calling forth praise from all sides, as they put up a fierce battle against Hitler.

  And then, the day everyone was praying for – the day America entered the war. It was the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor on December 7th 1941 that caused America to join the fight against the Germans, and everyone was convinced that with their help, the fighting would not last much longer.

  With hope of an early end to the war and the long lull, free from air-raids, the refugees started drifting back from the countryside. With plenty of jobs going, the people of Belfast were better off than they had been for many years, and this in spite of shortages and rationing. In the midst of war and ruin, the ordinary, poor people of Belfast never had it so good; never before had wages been so high.

  The IRA, although still fighting fiercely against De Valera’s government in the south, had been dormant for some time in the north, and in spite of constant fear of air-raids, peace reigned in Belfast itself.

  This was not to last. To the surprise of all, America chose Northern Ireland as their base from which to launch an attack on Hitler’s Europe. On January 16th 1942, welcomed by the Governor, the Duke of Abercorn, and the Prime Minister, the Americans landed on Irish soil. They disembarked on Dufferin Quay to the strains of ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ and the cheers of the crowds who had gathered, although their arrival was supposed to be a well-kept secret.

  The Yanks brought with them Hershey bars and comics for the children, silk stockings and charm that would have put the Blarney Stone to shame for the young women.

  The girls of Belfast lapped it all up, surging in their hundreds down to the Plaza Ballroom every night. The Catholics, not wanting to miss anything, ignored warnings from the pulpit that they were in danger of losing their immortal souls and joined the throngs.

  The arrival of the Americans also galvanised the IRA into action again, as they strove to show the Yanks how powerful they were.

  In St Paul’s Parish heartbreak was to result because of this.

  On Easter Sunday, a few short months after the arrival of the Americans, Constable Murphy of the RUC force was shot dead. Rosaleen was on her way home from visiting her mother, coming down the Springfield Road with Laura by the hand, when it happened and all hell broke loose. First there was a great surge of people and Rosaleen thought, My, but the road’s busy, so it is! And everybody’s in a terrible hurry. Then premonition filled her with terror, turning her legs to stone as police cars screeched past and turned down Oranmore Street. She stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, Laura’s head pressed protectively against her body as the crack of gunshots pierced her ears.

  Then some man, a stranger to her, gathered Laura up in his arms and urged Rosaleen down Springfield Avenue. He knocked on a door and when it opened tentatively, pushed it roughly ajar and quickly thrust her inside, pushing Laura after her. She gripped her child close, he was gone, and the door was closed.

  Rosaleen and the man of the house gazed at each other. His face was familiar to her, and she realised that she probably saw him at Mass on Sundays.

  Now she apologised. ‘I’m sorry, I have no right to be here …’

  ‘Never mind, missus … never you mind. Sure, you’re welcome to stay ’til the shootin’ stops. Do you know what’s goin’ on?’

  Mutely, she shook her head, then voiced her impression of where the shooting was. ‘It’s in one of those streets off Oranmore Street … maybe … Cawnpore Street.’

  ‘Come in and sit down, missus. I think you’ll be here for a while.’

  With these words the man led the way into the living room and they joined his wife and young daughter at the fireside.

  ‘Maura!’ Laura greeted the girl with delight, and Rosaleen recognised the child as one who sometimes played with her daughter when they visited the Dunville Park. She also recognised the woman of the house and nodded in her direction, and everybody relaxed as Laura was led away to see Maura’s toys. Now that the man realised that they were practically neighbours, he introduced himself as Bill Hanna and his wife as Rose. After all, one had to be careful. One never knew to whom one was talking. Now their conversation centred around the shooting.

  ‘After all these months of peace,’ Rosaleen lamented. Then, realising how absurd this sounded considering that they were at war with Germany, she added with a wry grimace, ‘You know what I mean.’

  With a laugh, Bill agreed with her. ‘You’re right! I know what you mean.’ And Rose smiled and nodded to show that she too understood.

  ‘As if we hadn’t enough to worry about,’ Bill continued. ‘Sure they’re just showing off. Putting on a show for the Americans, that’s what they’re doing. The bloody fools!’

  The shooting was long over before Bill judged it safe to allow Rosaleen to venture out, and she hurried down Springfield Avenue and arrived in Iris Drive to find a distraught Amy waiting at the door for her.

  ‘Oh, thank God you’re safe! I was worried stiff about you, so I was. I knew you’d be returning home about the time the shooting started.’

  Rosaleen recounted her experiences, bringing gasps of concern and dismay from Amy, and asked, ‘Have you heard anything about it?’

  ‘Just a rumour on the grapevine that someone’s been killed. A policeman!’

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus.’ Rosaleen bowed her head in reverence when she took the holy name in vain. ‘You know what that means. More retaliations … more innocent people suffering for things that they have no control over. You’d think the IRA would catch itself on, now that there’s plenty of work for everybody,’ she said, and gaped in surprise when Amy retorted: ‘It’s all right you saying that, Rosaleen. But you were too young to realise how bad it was during the 1920s. It was awful then … you ask your mam. She’ll tell you how bad it was. Then the IRA was all we had between us and the Black and Tans, and those bloody B-Specials picked up a thing or two from the B&Ts, and if anything they’re worse now.’

  It was the first time Rosaleen had heard Amy volunteer an opinion on something as touchy as the IRA, and she found herself apologising.

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that things have been going so well, in spite of the war … or should I say because of the war?’ And she smiled tentatively at Amy who, appeased, shared the smile. The IRA were not mentioned again.

  On Easter Monday morning it was May who called and brought Rosaleen the news that a policeman had been shot dead, and that six young IRA volunteers had been arrested and charged with his murder. It was alleged that they had fired on a police car, and when chased had sought refuge in Cawnpore Street. In the gun battle that followed, the young constable lost his life.

  ‘Do you know any of them?’ she asked May apprehensively.

  ‘No … our Kevin went to school with two of them. Their families must be in an awful state, so they must. It’s awful. They’re only kids.’

  When she heard their names Rosaleen realised that she knew some of their families and her heart bled for them. It was awful to think that your child could bring such sorrow to your door. She agreed with May; they really were just youngsters, five boys and a girl, all gullible fools, and they all but one belonged to St Paul’s Parish.

  There wasn’t a dry eye in church the following Sunday when the priest prayed for the widow and children of the young constable, who was also a member of the parish. He then prayed for the families of the six who now stood accused of his murder. He went on to say that it was an act of folly for the youngsters to fire on a police car, and that those who had given them the firearms and sent them out on such a mission had a lot to answer for.

  ‘Remember, “Thou shalt not kill!” is one of the commandments of God and must be obeyed!’ he thundered from the pulpit.

  Once more Belfast was put under curfew, and the streets were patrolled by armoured cars and ‘cage’ lorries. While on foot, patrols of the B-Specials strutted about, displaying t
heir guns, egging the IRA on.

  To everyone’s horror, the six young offenders were condemned to die and the IRA retaliated with assaults on British army barracks and police stations, bringing misery and unrest once more to the streets of Belfast. The attacks only led to more and more arrests and the worst activists were either sentenced or interned in Crumlin Road Jail. Meanwhile, petitions were got up begging for mercy for the six young offenders. The Eire government took the matter to heart, and in Dublin a petition was launched and over 200,000 signatures collected. The American, Canadian and British Ambassadors in Eire added their voice in support of the plea for clemency.

  The British government wanted the six to hang as a deterrent to the IRA during the remainder of the war, but with so many crying out for mercy, the sentences were commuted except for one young man. (An eye for an eye?) Tom Williams, from Bombay Street, was hanged in Crumlin Road Jail on September 2nd. It was a day of terrible depression, and black flags were flown from many windows. All day long prayers were offered up for the repose of his soul, and people lamented, ‘It’s the ones who gave them the guns that should hang!’

  However, the Falls Road was used to these atrocities and once more the burden was shouldered and life went on as normally as the curfew would allow.

  The curfew from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. was always a curse, but as far as Rosaleen was concerned, it spoilt her life. Saturday night was her night out with either May or Annie (whoever happened to be on the right shift) and they went to the pictures. With the curfew starting at ten, there was only one show nightly and this began at half-past six or seven. It also meant that it was crowded and they had to go early and queue up, no matter what the weather was like. Then the show was over at half-past eight or nine and with being home so early, it spoilt the night out. She felt as if she had not been out at all.

  Mostly they frequented the Broadway Picture House, further up the Falls Road, which was quiet and respectable, but sometimes they were lured to the Clonard Picture House by reports of a good film. The crowds that went to the Clonard every night were rough and ready, and although they went to the stalls, Rosaleen never felt comfortable there. She was not amused when May and Annie teased her, calling her a snob; remarking that they all came from the same district. Sometimes they even suggested that they go to the Diamond Picture House, which was down the Falls Road on the corner of Cupar Street and was nicknamed the ‘flea pit’, falling about laughing at her outraged dignity when she refused.

  The rest of 1942 dragged on, and she had no idea where Joe was. She received his letters via the ministry and it broke her heart to read them. May was in the same boat as her as far as Billy was concerned, but Rosaleen was pleased to note that when she did receive letters, May was all sentimental and happy. Hopefully things would work out for them. As promised, Mrs Mercer sent her news of Ian, and May had even made one flying visit to Newry to see him.

  Sean fared better than Joe and Billy. Being in the Merchant Navy, he managed to get a forty-eight- or thirty-six-hour pass each time the ship was in a convenient port loading cargo so at least Annie was happy, and how Rosaleen and May envied her.

  Although at the beginning of 1943 Hitler’s bombers had still not returned to Ireland, the war still raged in Europe and Rosaleen wondered why everybody had been so keen for America to join the fight against Hitler. They had been fighting over a year now and still there was no sign that the war would end in the near future, and many a heart was broken as the girls who were foolish enough to take the Yanks seriously, learnt to their cost how silly they were.

  Easter Saturday saw Rosaleen, Annie and May all together for a change, due to the Easter holidays, at the Broadway Picture House. They queued up outside for half an hour and then settled down to enjoy the film: a musical, starring Betty Grable. Each had used some of their precious sweet coupons on a quarter of a pound of their favourite confectionery and when the lights went out and the film whirred to life, they wriggled down in comfort and sighed contentedly.

  They were sitting in the back stalls and as the film progressed gradually became aware that there was a disturbance in the front stalls, near the screen. Then the lights went up, and to their amazement they saw that two armed men had the staff gathered together and were holding them at gunpoint.

  Someone behind Rosaleen whispered, ‘Oh, dear God … it’s Hugh McAteer. Ye know … him that escaped from the Crumlin Road Jail a couple of months ago. And that’s Steele with him.’

  Only then did she realise that it was two IRA men, and fear made her heart bang against her ribs. Four had escaped … were the other two behind them? A swift glance over her shoulder reassured her that the space at the back was empty.

  What did they want? Was there anybody important in the audience? Were they going to shoot someone? She was not left in doubt for long as the two men forced the audience to take part in an Easter commemoration for ‘The dead who died for Ireland’.

  In the silence that followed, Annie and May exchanged worried glances with Rosaleen. They were only too aware that if anyone tried to apprehend the fugitives, blood would be shed. The men appeared nervous and it was awful to think of shaky fingers on the triggers of guns. They prayed that no one was foolish enough to do anything provocative.

  After the short silence, when the men thanked them for their co-operation and left the cinema, everyone breathed a sigh of relief and burst out into excited conversation. This was brought to a halt by an agitated manager announcing in a shaky voice that the film would continue immediately. Then the lights went out and the film recommenced.

  Later, as they sat in the ice-cream parlour at Broadway, eating sundaes, they expressed worried thoughts that Easter Sunday might once again bring trouble. 1941 had brought the blitz, 1942 the shooting of the policeman, and now this display in the Broadway tonight. Was anything else planned to stir up the Troubles over the holiday?

  To their relief, the rest of the Easter holiday, at least in St Paul’s district, passed without incident, and later in the year they read in the Irish News about the recapture of McAteer and Steele.

  By the end of 1943 it was estimated that there were 100,000 American troops in the province. Rosaleen’s mind baulked at the thought of so many (where on earth did they all stay?) but the newspapers quoted that number, so it must be right.

  On her outings to town with Annie, she could well understand the young girls being bowled over by the Yanks. Unlike the Irishmen, the Americans showed their appreciation of a pretty girl. Wolf whistles followed them everywhere, and she and Annie could have had dates galore if they had been that way inclined.

  The Yanks were also a great source of money, being open-handed and ready to spend, and the shops and places of entertainment never had it so good. In 1944, when they were moved to England to prepare for D-Day, Belfast seemed empty and dull and many a girl shed tears.

  It was apparent that the war was on the wane when it became common knowledge that the anti-aircraft guns around Belfast had been dismantled and the barrage balloons around Northern Ireland withdrawn. And when the British Air Ministry removed Northern Ireland’s allocation of night-fighters, it seemed certain that the Germans would soon be defeated. Joe, Sean and Billy should be home soon.

  It was amidst this feeling of well-being that the dreaded yellow telegram arrived at Rosaleen’s door.

  Amy was with her the day she received it; she had witnessed others receive one and had prayed that her turn would never come, but now it had. With hands that shook, she tore it open, but was dismayed to find that her eyes would not focus on the typescript.

  As she stood gazing blindly at it, Amy gently took the slip of paper from her hands, and in a voice that shook, read aloud the printed message.

  ‘“We are sorry to inform you that Private Joseph Smith has been wounded in action. Letter to follow with further details.”’

  ‘He’s alive, Rosaleen. Thank God, he’s alive.’

  ‘Thanks be to God,’ Rosaleen whispered, and then they were crying in
each other’s arms.

  It was two long drawn-out weeks later that the promised letter at last arrived. In it she was informed that in one week’s time, Joe would be in Belfast, but that he would be taken direct to the Royal Victoria Hospital as he required further treatment for his wounds.

  Full of apprehension, Rosaleen and Amy reported to the hospital the day that Joe was due to arrive. At the reception desk they were directed to a ward and then a young nurse escorted them to Joe’s bedside. Rosaleen warned herself to try to appear normal as shock registered at the sight of him. His face was grey and gaunt and he looked like a tired old man.

  She heard Amy’s intake of breath, and bent to kiss Joe to block out the dismay on his mother’s face and give her a chance to get her features under control.

  ‘How do you feel, love?’

  As she spoke, her eyes ranged over the bed and relief flooded through her when she observed that he had all his limbs.

  For the past three weeks she had been tortured by thoughts of Joe legless or armless, but although he was worn and ill-looking, he was at least whole.

  ‘A lot better … now I’m home.’ He lifted her hand to his face and held it against his cheek. ‘I’m so glad to be home, Rosaleen. I could never, ever explain to you how glad I am.’

  Holding his other skeletal hand out to his mother, he said, ‘Don’t look so worried, Mam. I’m going to be all right.’

  Having regained her composure, Amy quickly agreed with him.

  ‘Of course you are, son. We’ll soon have you back on your feet. Won’t we, Rosaleen?’

  Mutely she nodded and smiled through her tears. She was glad when the nurse told her that the doctor wanted to speak to her; glad to escape from this skeleton with dark orbs sunk far back in his head. After the shock of his appearance, she needed a breathing space to get a grip on her emotions. When she entered the doctor’s office, he rose to his feet, offered her his hand and introduced himself. She acknowledged his introduction with a nod of her head and then he motioned for her to take a seat.