Matters of Life & Death

by Bernard Maclaverty

  ‘On what?’

  ‘The cause.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Republican cause.’

  ‘Get a grip. How would I know? I only work with him. It’s a favour.’

  ‘What do you call him?’

  Ben hesitated.

  ‘A big bastard – among other things.’

  Dawson laughed then said, ‘There wouldn’t be too many from the Ardoyne who wouldn’t be involved, eh Ben?’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘Come on, you know what I’m talking about. What do you think? I mean that could be why they were threatening him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s involved.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Ben turned his back and went into the garage. He began rooting about, looking for his toolbox. Dawson leaned his elbow on the cement post which held up the wire fencing watching him.

  ‘The Ardoyne is a rough place right now. Indian country. You wouldn’t want to be going in there after dark. Come to think of it you wouldn’t want to be going in there at any time of the day or night. I mean, you could go. But not me.’

  ‘I don’t know it at all.’ Ben was having to shout from inside the garage.

  ‘They’ve arms dumps and bomb factories and pirate radio stations and God knows what.’ Suddenly Dawson’s voice was right beside him. He must have walked the whole way round the fence and down Ben’s drive. Ben found his toolbox and knelt down in front of it. He opened the lid and pulled up the sections, which then became a staircase of trays on either side. He selected a picture hook and some nails.

  ‘I’ve got one of those toolboxes too. They’re very handy.’ Dawson was beginning to move in amongst the stored furniture, looking at this and that.

  ‘It’s difficult to tell if people are involved. They don’t grow horns or anything.’

  ‘He’s not involved. I know. The Loyalists threatened him because he was . . . a Catholic – and he was sure it was going to turn into another Bombay Street . . .’

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing about Bombay Street . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They did it themselves.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The Roman Catholic families torched their own houses.’

  ‘That is the greatest load of . . . How can you say that?’

  ‘I wasn’t there to see it but it’s what I’m told. By reliable colleagues.’

  ‘Why the fuck would anyone want to burn their own house?’

  ‘Look at it this way. Who gains? The Protestant community gets a bad name. Everything is moved that bit closer to a United Ireland. The Republicans win no matter what way you interpret it. So the Roman Catholics were persuaded to torch their own houses so’s the Protestant people would lose face.’

  ‘Dawson, are you taking the piss?’

  ‘I certainly am not,’ he laughed.

  ‘It’s a complete paradox.’

  ‘Is it now?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Is that for whitening your whites?’ Dawson smiled and flicked his moustache.

  ‘No – it’s a contradiction. Something that . . .’

  ‘Can you not take a joke, Ben. I’m only winding you up. Parazone. Oxodol. Maybe you’re too young to remember. You think I don’t know? What a paradox is? You think I’m not educated?’

  Ben got up off his knee and closed the toolbox.

  ‘I’d better be getting on,’ he said. He picked up his claw-hammer and stood waiting for Dawson to take the hint and leave the garage. Dawson had his hands in his jacket pockets. He bent his knees and crouched a little as if to see beneath something resting on a chest of drawers. ‘These things aren’t mine, Dawson.’

  ‘I know. I know. Keep your hair on,’ he laughed and turned to face the light. ‘You can almost smell the gelly off them.’ Ben didn’t laugh but stood waiting with his free arm in the air, reaching for the handle. Dawson shuffled around some cardboard boxes and out onto the driveway. Ben pulled on the up-and-over door. It swung to the floor and shut with a resounding boom. Dawson took his hands out of his pockets and wrinkled his nose. Then he brushed up his moustache.

  ‘Hanging pictures?’ he said.

  ‘Putting up a calendar.’

  Dawson walked back to his own driveway and Ben watched him. When Dawson had returned to his back door he spoke over to Ben.

  ‘I’m only winding you up.’

  Ben went into the house.

  Then something odd started to happen. At first Ben hardly noticed it. Because of his work he was always up first and would move about as quietly as he could so’s not to wake the children. They slept at the front of the house with their bedroom door open. Downstairs in the kitchen he’d put on the kettle. He had a technique for the radio – turn the volume to zero then switch on, slowly making it loud enough to hear. The news was depressing. Two murders. There were houses burned in the Short Strand.

  This particular morning was cold. He carried his tea into the front room and pulled the curtains. He opened the slats of the venetian blind and looked out at the small garden. There had been a heavy frost and all the plants had become grey and limp. Dawson had parked his car in front of Ben’s house. The silly bastard. He comes home at all hours, probably drunk, overshoots and abandons his car on the pavement in front of my bloody house. Why does he do that?

  It began to happen regularly. Late at night Dawson would park his car at a rakish angle, half on, half off the pavement at Ben’s gate. Over the next couple of weeks Dawson gave him many lifts on the back of the Norton. Seated on the pillion, his eyes narrowing into the wind, Ben never thought the time was right to raise the matter of the drunken driving and the careless parking. Shouting that kind of stuff into the wind seemed somehow inappropriate. Events eventually caught up and it seemed easier to say nothing. Just forget it.

  Then one Sunday morning the families coincided returning from their different churches. Mrs Orr wore a hat and carried a black bible, Dawson was in a grey suit with too flashy a tie. Their children had run off to play somewhere. Ben’s family were not so formal – yet they were wearing what they themselves would describe as ‘their Sunday best’. Maureen carried a black missal and the children had little white prayer books.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Mrs Orr. They all exchanged greetings and passed through their front gates. Dawson caught Ben’s eye and nodded him to one side.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘We’re off.’

  ‘On holiday?’

  ‘No – moving house.’ Dawson tapped the top of the wire fencing. He smiled. ‘Upgrading.’

  His wife overheard him and said to Maureen, ‘Yes, we’re on the move again.’

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s congratulations or not. Another school, new teachers.’ She pulled a face and looked at Dawson.

  ‘When?’

  ‘This week. The furniture van’s coming on Wednesday.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘It’s not definite yet.’ Mrs Orr looked down at the tarmac then up at Dawson.

  ‘Our lives are run by bureaucrats,’ he said.

  ‘Well, wherever it is I hope things work out for you,’ said Ben.

  ‘Thanks. Thanks very much. You’ve been great neighbours.’

  There was a little flurry of movement as they all shook hands across the waist-high fence.

  ‘You’ll be sorely missed,’ said Maureen. Ben remembered the sausage impression of his first handshake with Dawson.

  ‘How will I get to my work in the mornings?’ he said.

  After the Donegal programme the television was switched off. The house was strangely silent. Maureen, finished with the ironing, sat on the sofa with her feet up underneath her.

  ‘I have a craving,’ she said.

  ‘You are not alone in this,’ said Ben.

  ‘For some tea, silly. Maybe some cheese and toast?’

  ‘How do you feel?’ he said.

  She took a long time to
answer. Eventually she smiled without looking at him and said, ‘I feel OK now.’

  Immediately he bounded to his feet and went into the kitchen. He toasted some bread and melted cheese on it and spread it with brown pickle. They smiled listening to the noise they made biting into their toast. Maureen made noises of pleasure.

  Just as he finished his tea he heard footsteps outside and the click of a key in the lock.

  ‘Shit,’ Ben rolled his eyes.

  ‘Is that you both?’ Maureen called. The girls came in, very down in the mouth. Yes they had shared a taxi. But there had been trouble – burning buses and rioting – and the school had decided that everyone should go their separate ways as soon as possible. The girls were livid – what difference did time make – they’d been enjoying themselves – you could always go round the trouble. As they stomped off to their room Maureen called, ‘There’s a blouse each ironed for you. And don’t forget to get your things ready for the morning.’

  The people who bought the Orrs’ house were an older couple – in their seventies. Mr Warner was a retired bank manager and she was, as Maureen put it, ‘a retired bank manager’s wife’. They were not unfriendly but neither did they stop for conversations. The first time Ben and Maureen really talked to them was in the spring at a party in the Donaldsons’ house across the street. The old couple were the first to arrive and they were drinking sherry when Ben and Maureen went in. Ben thought them a little dull.

  People came with their carry-outs and there were greetings and handshakes. Music was put on and turned up. To continue talking to Ben, Mr Warner sat well forward in his seat and cupped his hand behind his ear. After a while the old couple began to smile constantly, then at nine o’clock they went back home across the street.

  ‘You scared the pensioners off,’ said Bill Donaldson to Ben. Ben was coming out of the kitchen pouring himself a can of Guinness, making sure the head didn’t well up and overflow the glass. They stood beside the banisters.

  ‘Have you no pint glasses?’

  ‘This is a house not a bar. So what did you think of them?’

  ‘They’re retired – from everything. And that includes enjoying themselves.’

  Bill cocked his head sideways looking up the stairs and made mock angry noises.

  ‘Who’s out of bed then? What did I tell you two?’ The little Donaldson girls sat in their pyjamas on the top step, peering down at the party. They had pageboy haircuts. They were used to their father’s mock angry voice because they didn’t move. They smiled at Ben.

  ‘They’re doing nobody any harm,’ said Ben. He shouted up, ‘Sure you’re not, girls.’ The girls solemnly shook their heads.

  ‘It was a shame about the Orrs having to leave,’ said Bill.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t have been wise for him to stay.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘After the threat.’

  ‘But all cops get threatened.’

  ‘Not on pirate radio, they don’t.’ Ben stared at him. ‘They gave out his address on Radio Free Whatever.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘And the powers that be said it was a serious threat. A bomb threat. That’s why he came round us all. He was very apologetic.’

  ‘What do you mean – came round us all?’

  ‘Didn’t he come and tell you to put the girls in the back bedroom?’

  ‘No.’

  Bill looked confused.

  ‘He said he went round everybody. Warned them.’

  ‘Not me, he didn’t.’ Ben sipped at his drink and stared at Bill. ‘Maybe he said something to Maureen.’

  Ben went off in search of his wife. He took her from a conversation with three other women sitting on the floor and beckoned her out of the noise into a coat recess in the hall.

  ‘Did Dawson tell you someone was itching to bomb him? Did he tell you to put the kids in the back bedroom?’

  ‘No.’

  Ben bit his lip.

  ‘Why?’ said Maureen.

  ‘That’s what I want to know. Why did he not warn us? He warned everybody else.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘We’re Catholics.’ He threw back his head and whooped in disbelief. ‘Fuckin Fenian bastards. That’s what we are.’

  ‘You don’t mean it was deliberate?’

  ‘What other way is there of looking at it?’

  ‘Not only did he not warn us,’ Ben’s eyes widened with realisation, ‘he tried to set us up. That’s what the bad parking of the car was all about. He wasn’t drunk. He didn’t miss. He parked his fucking car in front of my house so’s we’d get it . . .’

  ‘Jesus. And he’s got kids of his own.’

  When Ben and Maureen went to bed they could hear the girls still talking.

  They made love in silence, except for Ben’s final suppressed gasp. Afterwards they made spoons. Ben put his hands on her back like he was her pillion passenger and told her that he’d seen in the paper that Dawson Orr was dead.

  ‘Poor man,’ she said. ‘And that wife of his. And those poor children.’ She fell asleep almost immediately. But Ben lay on his side kept awake by the image of the pale child in the Royal Victoria Hospital, sitting straight up in the bed, one side of her face peppered with wounds.

  A BELFAST MEMORY

  Our two rented houses faced each other across the street – my father’s at seventy-three and Aunt Cissy’s at fifty-four. There was another uncle, Father Barney, who used to call round most Sundays to Cissy’s. In the evening they all played poker and Father Barney would drink whisky and do mock shouting and clowning. The others would roll their eyes. If the children were good and provided Father Barney wasn’t ‘beyond the beyonds’ they were allowed to watch. My father always left early saying he had his work to go to in the morning. My mother said he just couldn’t stand Uncle Barney any longer.

  I knew my father’s work had something to do with drawing and lettering. I’d found things in cupboards – small blocks of wood topped with grey zinc metal. If there was lettering on this metal it was always backwards, unable to be read. In cupboards there were pages of pink paper, thick as slices of bread, with lettering pressed into them and bulldog clips full of his newspaper adverts. At the moment he was illustrating a Bible for Schools. He’d shown me a drawing for the Cure at Capharnum and, as an exercise, made me read aloud the caption:

  ‘They could not get in because the house was crowded out, even to the door. So they took the stretcher onto the roof, opened the tiles, and let the sick man down.’

  I was about eight or nine at the time. It was dead easy.

  It was a Sunday and felt like a Sunday. Family Favourites was on the wireless. My father sat beneath the window for the best light.

  ‘What you doing?’

  He held up the drawing.

  ‘Abraham and his son, Isaac,’ he said. A man with a white beard beside a boy carrying a tied-up bundle of sticks. ‘“Where is the victim for the sacrifice?” That’s what the boy is saying.’ My father put on a scary, deep voice and said, ‘Little does he know . . .’ He drew quietly for a while. The pen scratched against the paper and chinked in the ink bottle. He had a pad on the table and sometimes he made scratches on it. ‘Just to get the nib going.’ Sometimes the pen took up too much ink and he shook it a little. ‘You’re no good if you can’t make something out of a blot.’

  The hall door opened and footsteps came in off the street. My father stopped and looked up. It was my cousin, Brendan, who was a year and two months older than me. He was a good footballer.

  ‘It’s yourself, Brendy.’

  Brendan stopped in the middle of the floor and said, ‘Charlie Tully’s in our house having a cup of tea.’

  ‘Go on. Are you kidding?’

  ‘No.’

  My father gave a low whistle.

  ‘This we will have to see.’ He wiped his pen on a rag, then rinsed it in a jam jar of water. He blew on his drawing then folded the protective tissue over it.

&n
bsp; ‘Come on.’ All three of us went across the road. The only car parked on the street belonged to Father Barney.

  ‘Did Barney bring him?’ Brendan nodded.

  ‘And Terry Lennon.’

  Terry Lennon was a blind church organist. He had a great Lambeg drum of a belly with a waistcoat stretched tight over it. He would sit in the armchair by the fire smoking constantly, never taking the cigarette from between his lips. A lot of the time he stared up at the ceiling – his eyelids didn’t quite shut and some of the whites of his eyes showed. Now and again he would run his fingers down the cigarette to dislodge the ash onto his waistcoat. Aunt Cissy called him Terry Lennon, the human ashtray.

  When we went in Terry Lennon was in his usual chair. Father Barney stood in front of the fire with his hands behind him. On the sofa was a man, still wearing his raincoat, drinking tea. His hair was parted in the middle. He was introduced to my father as Charlie Tully.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said my father. ‘Is that sister of mine looking after you?’

  Charlie Tully nodded.

  ‘The best gingerbread in the northern hemisphere,’ said Father Barney. ‘That’s what lured him here.’

  ‘Where’s the old man?’ said my father.

  ‘The last I saw of him was heading up to the lavatory with the Independent.’

  ‘He’ll be there for a week.’ My father turned to the man in the pale raincoat.

  ‘I bet he was delighted to see you Mr Tully – he’s a bit of a fan.’

  ‘Oh he was – he was.’

  ‘So – how do you like Scotland?’

  ‘It’s a grand place.’

  ‘Will Mr Tully have a cigarette?’ Terry Lennon reached out in the general direction of the voice with his packet of Gallagher’s Greens.

  ‘Naw, he only smokes Gallagher’s Blues,’ said Aunt Cissy and everybody laughed.

  ‘If you’ll forgive me saying so Mr Tully,’ said Terry Lennon, ‘the football is not an interest of mine. You understand?’

  ‘I do. You were making some sound with that organ this morning.’

  ‘Loud ones are great.’ Terry Lennon laughed. ‘Or Bach. Bach is great for emptying the place for the next mass. The philistines flee.’

  There was a ring at the door and Brendan went to answer it. When he came back he said it was Hugo looking for a drink of water.