“How fortunate that you are not Robbie Wilson, Mr. Temple,” Jillian said bitterly. “Those words coming from him would be interpreted as an act of terrorism. A warrant for his arrest would be issued immediately.” She rose and smoothed her skirt with shaking hands. “But the Ulster Defense League and the Ulster Volunteer Force are not terrorists, are they, Mr. Temple? Only the IRA and Sinn Fein, who speak for twenty percent of our population, are acknowledged terrorists.”
She waited for someone to speak, a slim, elegant woman blazing with temper, the mixed blood of the Irish Sean Ghalls flowing through her veins. When the silence deepened and the men looked everywhere but at her, she threw them a last contemptuous glance, turned, and walked out through the double doors.
Near the long window with its pastoral view of the gardens, Frankie Maguire spoke softly to the tall, bearded man Jillian recognized as Robbie Wilson, representative for Sinn Fein and elected MP for West Belfast. Four representatives from the Garvaghy Road Coalition sat across from each other on low couches. A tea service and several half-filled cups cluttered the small tables.
The men had reacted to the Orange Lodge ultimatum as expected, with implacable expressions, low voices, and grave, clipped conversation. Not for a moment did Jillian believe they were as accommodating as they appeared. These were Irishmen, after all, although not a one drank anything stronger than tea. Neither did they use profanity, lose their tempers, or sink below the level of pure professionalism. So much for the English-generated myth of whiskey-drinking, hot-tempered brawlers. Jillian was inexperienced, but she was not unintelligent. The residents of Garvaghy Road were prepared for whatever came. They would have a contingency plan no matter what the Orangemen decided.
***
Frankie loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top button of his pale blue shirt, and leaned against the frame of the recessed window. He was having difficulty concentrating, and the reason for his lapse fanned the edges of his smoldering temper.
In a room done up in muted beiges and olive greens, its couches lined with men wearing gray and black, she stood under a glittering chandelier in a dress as soft and purely yellow as a Galway sunset. The sparkling crystals directly above her head lit her skin and framed her hair in a halo of light. She looked like the Virgin Mary, forever immortalized in the stained-glass panels of Saint John’s Chapel.
He hated what this would mean to her. For Jillian, it would be a painful lesson in humility. The nationalists of Ulster had taken one look at her and decided that she, a Fitzgerald of Kildare Hall, would save them from Protestant triumphalism. When she failed to deliver, and she would fail, they would crucify her.
Stuffing his balled fists into his trouser pockets, Frankie stared out at the summer-green garden. She was not Avery Graham, a man who’d developed skin thick enough to take the disappointments of politics in stride. She would be hurt, bitterly hurt. He didn’t think he could bear to see Jillian go through such a thing.
Glancing casually in her direction, he saw Robbie Wilson approach her. She smiled at the Sinn Fein representative, and Frankie’s irritation increased. This was a political standoff, for Christ’s sake. Why was she wearing a dress that belonged at a tea party? He saw Wilson shake his head and forced himself to concentrate. There wasn’t a sound in the room when she answered him.
“Ten parades have already been rerouted away from the Garvaghy Road area. Drumcree is the only one left. It seems as if the Loyal Orders have made some concessions, Mr. Wilson.”
“It won’t hurt them to make more. Garvaghy Road is made up of Catholic families.”
“I understand that it was originally mixed. Intimidation and ethnic cleansing forced almost all of the Protestant families to leave.”
“We don’t subscribe to ethnic cleansing, Mrs. Graham,” Robbie Wilson said in his low, patient voice. “There are several Protestant families left in the Churchill area, and they are not crying intimidation.”
Jillian clasped her hands together. She looked much younger than her thirty-five years and very vulnerable. “The Drumcree parade is an old and established one. In all the years since its inception, there has never been one act of provocation from the Orangemen. Bands play only hymn music, and for the ten minutes it takes to clear Garvaghy Road, they are completely silent.” She pleaded with him. “Please, Mr. Wilson. Can’t you ask your people to stay inside and wait for a mere ten minutes?”
The corners of Frankie’s mouth twitched. Wilson was a man and no more a match for wide hazel eyes and a trembling mouth than any man present. It was a testimony to his great control that he did not stray from his original intent.
“No, I cannot ask it,” he said gently, holding up his hand to prevent her from interrupting. “I am familiar with the statistics, Mrs. Graham. Fewer than ten houses actually have Garvaghy Road addresses. Seventy-five percent of the houses are between one hundred and six hundred meters away from the marching path. It is impossible for residents to see Garvaghy Road from the vast majority of homes along the street.”
He sighed, removed his glasses, cleaned the lenses with the end of his tie, and put them on again. “The point is that the Drumcree march is as much about returning from a church service as the Nuremberg rally was about Bavarian folk dancing. The entire marching controversy is about territory. Garvaghy Road is an area where the symbols of the Irish state are in evidence everywhere, where the loyalty of the community is with Dublin rather than London. Marching through the heart of that community, preferably after locals have been given a good hiding by their buddies in the RUC, is the Portadown Orangemen’s way of letting the natives know that they still rule the roost.”
She was too pale. Frankie frowned and stepped forward. She turned her head to look at him, and the mute appeal in the hazel eyes was impossible to ignore. “You can’t stop it, Jillian,” he said tersely, dismissing the startled look on the face of the MP. Explanations would come later, when Wilson would demand to know in his calm, unintrusive way how he had come to be on a first-name basis with the minister to Northern Ireland. “They’ll march, and the Catholics will riot. The RUC will bash in a few heads, shoot a few plastic bullets, and it will make all the papers. There is nothing you can do.”
“There must be,” she whispered. “We are all adults. Surely this isn’t worth people’s lives.”
He was standing beside her now, and she tilted her head to look at him. “Save yourself,” he said. “Call a press conference, and tell them what’s happened here. Tell them that negotiations broke down, that the Orangemen will march against the better judgment of your office.” Forgetting himself, he gripped her shoulders and shook her slightly. “If you say nothing and allow this to happen, your tenure will be over. No nationalist will take you seriously again.”
The ticking of the wall clock and Frankie’s harsh breathing were the only sounds in the still silence. Someone cleared his throat and broke the mood. Discreetly, Jillian extricated herself from Frankie’s hold. The pink color staining her cheeks was the only indication that she was affected by what had just happened.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said firmly, addressing the coalition. “You’ve given me a great deal to think about. I’m truly sorry about the turn of events, and I wish you luck. Now, I must notify the RUC of the Orange Order’s decision to march.”
In groups of two and three, the men left the room. Frankie felt a familiar hand clasp his shoulder. “Ride back to Belfast with me,” Wilson said. “I’ll drop you at home.”
They had passed the roundabout and turned north on the Ml when he asked the inevitable question. “How well do you know Jillian Graham, Danny lad?”
Frankie stared out the window. Robbie Wilson was nothing if not thorough. He would figure it out sooner or later. “I know very little about Mrs. Graham,” he began. “She visited Colette in hospital and came to the wake. She’s been kind to Connor.” He shrugged his shoulders. “That�
�s all.”
“Have you spent time with her?”
“A bit.”
Wilson turned left onto the motorway and then moved right into the flow of traffic. “There’s something else, isn’t there, lad?”
Frankie remained silent.
“If it’s something that can hurt our position, I want you t’ pull out, Danny. There’s still time.”
“It’s nothin’ like that.” Frankie hesitated. Wilson knew about the prison break. “She’s Jillian Fitzgerald from Kilvara. I knew her long ago when I was Frankie Maguire.”
Robbie Wilson cursed under his breath. “Does she know?”
Frankie shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Will y’ tell her?”
“Not unless there’s a reason.”
“I want you t’ stay away from her, Danny. No more meetin’s with her. We’ll send someone else.”
“I’m chief negotiator in the talks, Robbie. Who else is there t’ send?”
Wilson’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Sit tight. I’ll sort it out.”
They rode in silence until a conviction rose so strong in Frankie’s chest he could no longer keep it inside. “She won’t turn me in, Robbie. No matter what she knows, she won’t go t’ the law.”
Wilson glanced at him speculatively. “I hope you’re right, lad, for all our sakes.”
The Belfast Telegram and the Irish Times both carried it on the front page: “Northern Ireland’s Minister to Hold Press Conference.” Frankie turned on the television and sat back in an easy chair, too preoccupied with the images flashing on the screen to admonish Connor for climbing onto his lap and dripping brown sauce on his shirt.
Jillian, her hair pulled back into a classic twist that emphasized the dramatic bones of her cheeks and the moss green of her eyes, stared at him from the tube. She appeared completely poised, but Frankie, who had memorized every nuance of her speech patterns, heard the husky timber of nervousness in her voice.
“Last summer,” she began, “Northern Ireland witnessed a degree of public disorder which left a mark of shame. It damaged the image of this community in the eyes of the world. All of us, the people of Northern Ireland, have suffered. Since I was appointed secretary of state for Northern Ireland, I have made it clear that the problems associated with the marches have been my number one priority. I am sorry to say that my efforts, along with those of many others, have not borne fruit. I have no doubt that accommodation is the desired outcome of the vast majority of people in Northern Ireland.” She drew a deep breath before continuing.
“Because an agreement could not be reached, and after a scrupulous weighing of factors and applying the law, the chief constable of the RUC has decided that the parade will continue under certain conditions. Mr. Flanagan has full authority. It is the rule of law. While I understand his position, a position that was taken because an accommodation could not be reached, I deeply regret this course of action.” Her eyes were very bright and wide as she lifted a water glass to her lips.
“Let me be quite clear. I never wanted a position where there was a need for an imposed decision. Like the vast majority of people in this country, I wanted to see a local accommodation. I have done my absolute utmost to achieve that and will continue to do so. In the future, we will bring forward new legislation on parades. In shaping our proposals we will take into account the fears and sensitivities these issues arouse on all sides. To those who may be considering revisiting last year’s tragedy on their friends and neighbors, let me say this:
“Think before you act. Think about the families whose lives you might threaten, whose hopes you will dash, whose chances of a decent job, a decent home, a decent future will diminish. No one is challenging the dignity and worth of the nationalist identity. Your voice is heard, and I will continue to listen—always. You have my word on that.”
Frankie watched as she stepped back away from the microphones. He continued to watch as she extended her hand to members of the press corps and moved among them, weaving her way toward the door. He kept watching as clips of her speech were rerun. Only when Connor’s head drooped against his shoulder and he realized they were sitting in total darkness did he stand, turn off the telly, and carry his son to bed.
He stayed in the shower for a long time. When the water cooled he toweled himself dry and slid between the sheets of the bed he’d once shared with Colette. Resting his arm on his forehead, he stared at the cracked ceiling.
Sleep eluded him. He glanced at the clock. It was after ten. Too late to call. Reaching for his wallet, he extricated the slip of paper from between the sheets of plastic and dialed anyway. She answered on the second ring.
“Jillian,” he said after a moment of silence, “it’s Danny Browne.”
He heard her catch her breath.
“Hello, Danny,” she said warily. “Is something wrong?”
“No. I just wanted to tell you that I saw you on television. You were very good and very convincing.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was warmer now. “How is Connor?”
“Poor little bloke. As well as can be expected.”
He heard her silence and then the rushed words, nonchalantly offered as if fearing rejection. “He’s welcome at Kildare anytime. You both are. Just let me know.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
Silence, awkward and absolute, separated them.
“Well?” she asked at last.
“Well what?”
“Will you come?”
Again, there was silence.
“Danny?”
This time, he heard her voice behind the words, and his heart leaped in his chest. “Aye, lass,” he said softly. “We’ll be pleased t’ come.”
He never knew what triggered the rush of emotions that swept over him when he hung up the phone. Whatever it was, he couldn’t stop it. His eyes ached, his shoulders shook, and the tension that he carried around within him every waking moment relaxed in a flood of tortured memory.
Turning his face into the pillow, he wept for the women in his life, the one he’d trusted with his secret, the one who’d taken him in and borne him a son, the one he’d lied to, cried with, burned for, and dreamed of, long before he’d learned a Catholic from Ulster had no right to dream.
Twenty-Three
Portadown, Northern Ireland
Jillian rubbed her arms, accepted the mug of milky tea from a woman with a sweet face and a tired smile, and walked to the end of Garvaghy Road, where the women’s peace camp had been hastily constructed. Reporters were everywhere, swarming the small town with their equipment and unfamiliar faces.
Keeping her head down, she made her way through the milling crowd of cameramen, hoping to go unrecognized. Her slender build and straight shoulder-length hair gave her the appearance of a much younger woman. Denim trousers, canvas shoes, a backpack, and a light pullover aided her disguise. The women of Garvaghy Road knew who she was, however, and more than one thoughtful glance followed her as she walked, drank her tea, and stared down the road toward Drumcree Church.
Street artists were finishing several three-story murals on the walls of a large building. In huge white letters, Jillian made out the words “Reroute Sectarian Marches.” In the background, young girls were step-dancing on the road with the word “Failte” across the top of their banner and “Bother garbh achaidh” along the bottom. Another wall had two hands crossed at the wrist and tied with ropes of the Tricolour and the Orange Order, its message “Peace with justice.” The atmosphere was one of nervous anticipation. Plans for a street festival the following day were in full swing.
At six o’clock in the evening, men and women lined up along the length of Garvaghy Road carrying signs calling for the rerouting of the parade. A car rigged with loudspeakers encouraged everyone to come out of their houses. Children w
ere assigned to knock on doors prevailing upon everyone to participate. The air was charged with a tingling electrical excitement.
At eleven o’clock that night, Jillian stared at the armored vehicles rolling down the streets of Portadown. They were moving in to secure the area around Drumcree Church. Her nerves were stretched thin and humming with anticipation. Convinced that the march would be pushed through, she still naively hoped that at the final hour something would be done to stop it. “Please let them come to their senses,” she said out loud.
“Don’t count on it,” said a voice from behind her.
Turning, she looked up into Frankie Maguire’s handsome, unsmiling face. “I was wishing, that’s all,” she whispered.
“What are you doing here, Jillian?”
She winced. He did not sound at all pleased with her. Had she imagined his voice on the phone the other night? “I wanted to see what happened firsthand.”
“The newspaper would have been a better source.”
“You’re here,” she pointed out.
“Not by choice.”
Jillian held her mug upside-down and poured out the remains of her cold tea. “Where else should I be?”
Frankie bit down hard on his tongue. She was as courteously polite as ever, and he was a rude bastard. “It isn’t safe for you here,” he said quietly. “Your sex won’t protect you. The police are fully prepared to kick, throw, beat, and arrest anyone caught on the street.”
“If I am kicked, thrown, beaten, and arrested, I can assure you someone will be very, very sorry.”
“If you aren’t killed or paralyzed by a plastic bullet.”
She remembered Colette. “Oh, Danny. I’m so sorry.”
His eyes were the color of smoke. “This has nothing t’ do with anyone but you. Go home.”
“No.”
His face went blank while his eyes moved over her, objectively noting the classic purity of her features, the worn trousers, the nubby pullover, and the sport pack hitched over one shoulder. Jillian Graham was more appealing and far more approachable in faded denims than she had been in a designer suit. She was also more obstinate, or had she always been this way and he hadn’t noticed?
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