by Joan Lingard
Granny McEvoy drew her shawl tighter round her shoulders.
‘When my man was young he fought for the Ulster Volunteers. He fought to keep this country Protestant, he was sniped at by I.R.A., bullets missed him by half an inch…’
‘Maybe so. But away off to your bed now, Granny, or you’ll get pneumonia.’
She shuffled off to bed, calling for her cat as she went. Mr Jackson fetched some turpentine and a bundle of old rags. The men and children set to work; the women went into Mrs Jackson’s kitchen to make tea.
‘Careful now, lads,’ warned Mr Jackson. ‘We’re not wanting to damage the old boy.’
But damage him they were going to. That soon became obvious, for the turpentine was lifting not only the white paint, but also the old paint that lay beneath. When they finished, Mr Jackson shone his torch on a mutilated King Billy seated on his white horse. He shook his head sorrowfully.
‘That was a bad night’s work they done right enough.’
‘It’ll have to be revenged,’ Sadie said to Tommy.
Tommy agreed, but at that moment he felt more concerned about himself. The paint was drying on him hard.
They all trooped into the Jacksons’ kitchen for the cups of steaming tea that had been laid out on the draining board. There was a bit of excitement about, a feeling of emergency. Sadie felt exhilarated by it. She thought she would never get to sleep that night.
All present agreed that the mural would have to be restored. An artist was to be found, and a collection taken up in the street.
‘Away and get yourself cleaned up, Tommy,’ said his mother. ‘Them jeans are ruined. And they were new only last week.’
The women commiserated, shaking their heads. Most of them had their rollers in, some were in their dressing gowns.
‘It’s not his fault, ma,’ said Sadie.
She followed Tommy up the stairs. She took the paint-stiff clothes as he removed them and wrapped them up in an old copy of the Belfast Telegraph.
‘We can’t let them get away with this,’ she said. ‘Have you any money?’
She undid the parcel and shook the jeans by their bottoms. A shilling rolled out, and a couple of pennies.
‘What have you got?’ asked Tommy.
‘Only a tanner. I can tell you that now. I don’t even need to look. But I’ll run messages tomorrow for half the street.’
‘If they’ll let you.’ Tommy let out a yawn. ‘I’m dog-tired.’
‘Of course they’ll let me. I’ll make them.’
‘You’re a dab hand at getting your own way, Sadie Jackson. Ma’s right when she says that.’
‘And why not?’ Sadie tossed back her long, loose hair. ‘It’s the only way you get anything done. And we’ll have plenty to do tomorrow night.’
‘What have you in mind?’
‘Well, what they can do we can do better.’
‘You two get into your beds and stop yattering,’ their mother called up the stairs.
‘Just going,’ Sadie called back.
The kitchen door closed again. Behind it went on the yakety-yak of the women’s voices.
‘Will we take Steve and Linda?’ asked Tommy, as he slipped into bed.
‘Four’s too many. We’ll get on better on our own. Linda would shriek blue murder at the first sign of trouble anyway. Or giggle.’
‘I thought she was your best friend?’
‘So she is. But that doesn’t mean I can’t see her faults. Just like I see yours.’
Tommy was too tired to retaliate. He closed his eyes. Sadie went on chattering.
‘I thought we’d get orange paint.’
‘Orange?’ He opened his eyes a moment.
‘Isn’t that the best colour there is?’
He closed his eyes again and in a second was asleep, snoring gently, oblivious of the smear of paint across his forehead. It looked like a battle scar.
Sadie went to bed but lay for a long time staring at the reflection of the street light on the ceiling. That boy with the dark eyes was not going to get away with it She could still hear his laughter.
Chapter Four
A Summons to Tyrone
Kevin opened the front door quietly, but not quietly enough. His father called out: ‘Is that you, Kevin?’
‘It is.’ He waited a moment in the lobby, one hand on the banister rail, one foot on the first step of the stair. His eye travelled up the line of pictures that decorated the wall beside the staircase. Holy pictures, all of them. His mother had brought them with her when she came as a bride from County Tyrone.
‘You’re late.’
‘Yes.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Just out. With the lads.’
A rustle of newspaper. Could his father still be reading the same paper?
‘No trouble?’
‘No.’
‘Away to bed then.’
Kevin sped upstairs, covering three steps at a time. The girls’ door was open. Brede was lying propped up on one elbow. Beside her slept Kathleen taking up more than her share of the bed.
‘Are you all right?’ whispered Brede.
He sat down on the floor beside the bed, tailor-fashion, holding his ankles.
‘Mission accomplished!’ he announced.
‘You sound very pleased with yourself.’
‘Haven’t I reason to be?’
‘I suppose it takes a bit of courage to go into Protestant territory with a bucket of paint.’
‘A bit! Let me tell you, girl, we were near to being taken.’
‘You were chased?’
‘Aye.’ He grinned, remembering the girl and how she had thought she could hold him. She was strong, but it would take a very strong girl to keep Kevin McCoy down.
‘Not by the police?’
‘There wasn’t a sign of them. They were likely swigging tea at the barracks.’
Brede leaned back against the pillow. ‘You’ve got away with it once. That doesn’t mean to say you would again.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Kevin. ‘Some folks are luckier than others.’
In the morning the escapade was the talk of the district. Kevin and Brian sat on a couple of oil drums on the waste land and told the story over and over again. By lunch-time they had painted six walls and had been chased by an entire Orange Lodge.
‘Hear you were up to something last night after all, Kevin,’ said Mr McCoy as he sat down to take his soup. But there was a grudging admiration in his voice and he said no more about it. He folded the newspaper so that he could read the greyhound racing results.
‘Daft idiots,’ said Mrs McCoy as she ladled out the rest of the soup. ‘Painting walls! Isn’t that a carry on for childer? You and Brian are fourteen now, getting ready to be men.’
‘But, ma, we weren’t painting an ordinary wall. We were protesting about what was on it’
‘Ould William! He’s not worth wasting paint on. If they want him on their walls let them have him. They’re welcome.’ She passed the steaming bowls of broth to Brede, who passed them round the table. ‘As long as they don’t come round painting his picture on my wall.’
‘Women!’ growled Kevin. ‘They don’t realize a man’s got to fight for what he believes in.’
‘Oh, we see that all right.’ Mrs McCoy put the empty pot into the sink and ran water into it. ‘But there’s only a need to fight when you’re being attacked. We’ve had enough fighting in this country to last us till the next century. So get on with your soup and don’t think that you’re smart just because you can slap paint on a wall. And it’s not a suitable example to be setting for the wee ones. Is that not righ t, Pete?’
Mr McCoy looked up, startled. ‘Aye, that’s right.’
‘You stick with your own, Kevin,’ said his mother, ‘and you’ll come to less harm.’
‘I’m sure some of the Protestants must be quite nice,’ ventured Brede. ‘I read books about them and they don’t sound all that bad.’
‘Books!�
� said her mother. ‘They don’t tell the truth.’
‘But didn’t your sister Rose marry a Protestant?’
‘She did, but then she’s soft in the head.’
‘I’ve always liked her.’
‘Maybe you’re soft too,’ said Kevin.
Brede turned and stuck out her tongue at him. They did not speak to one another for the rest of the afternoon.
Brede went to Kate’s house and they practised putting on eye make-up that Kate’s elder sister had thrown out.
‘I think Kevin’s just great,’ sighed Kate as she squinted into the mirror. She was trying to draw a line on the upper lid, without much success. It made her look like a vampire bat, thought Brede. Kate wiggled her lashes. ‘Do you think he would fancy me like this?’
‘Don’t talk to me about him. He only fancies himself. His head’s as big as the Cave Hill.’
Brede left a little gold eye-shadow on when she set off home. With a bit of luck her mother wouldn’t notice.
Mrs McCoy hardly had time to notice Brede at all when she came in. She was fussing about the kitchen packing a bag. A telegram lay open on the kitchen table.
‘What’s up, ma?’ asked Brede.
Mrs McCoy pointed to the telegram.
‘ “Mother unwell”,’ read Brede. ‘ “Think you should come at once. Rose.” Poor Granny. She won’t die will she?’
Mrs McCoy crossed herself. ‘God look to her! She’s not as young as she used to be of course, but Rose is a great one for panicking.’
‘But you’re going?’
‘What else? Your da’s borrowed your Uncle Albert’s car and he’s driving me down as soon as I’m ready. He’ll need to stay the night. It’s too far to drive to Tyrone and back at this time of day. Kevin’ll be in charge of the house since he’s the eldest, and you’ll see to the cooking, Brede. You could make up a bottle for the baby now. I’m taking him with me.’
Brede measured out dried milk into a jug and set the kettle to boil. Her mother talked to herself all the time she was getting ready, reminding herself of things she would need and things she would have to remind her husband about.
Mr McCoy came in wiping his hands on a rag.
‘Car’s at the door,’ he said. ‘It’s not in great shape.’
‘As long as it gets us there.’ Mrs McCoy took the baby’s bottle from Brede and wrapped a tea towel round it. ‘That should stay warm till he wants it Everything’s ready to go, Pete,’
‘You’d think you were going for a month,’ he grumbled as he bent to pick up the baskets and parcels.
‘You never know,’ said Mrs McCoy. ‘It’s as well to be prepared,’ She lifted the baby.
The family gathered on the pavement to watch the car being loaded up. Most of the children in the street drifted along to find out what was happening.
Before she got into the car Mrs McCoy opened her worn brown purse and gave some money to Brede. She instructed her what to buy, where to go, and how to cook it. All this Brede knew already. She had done it when her mother went into hospital to have the last baby. But her mother was inclined to forget things like that, and liked to repeat instructions several times anyway. It seemed to be a comfort to her. She could go away feeling she had anticipated every calamity and discharged her duty.
‘Don’t worry, ma,’ said Brede.’ I’ll cope.’
‘Your da’ll be back to morrow anyway.’
Mr McCoy gave Kevin his instructions. He was not to go far from the house, he was to keep a close eye on the children, and he was not to let half the street into the house to trample it to bits.
‘Right, da.’
Mr and Mrs McCoy kissed their children and got into the car.
‘Atlast!’said Kevin.
Mr McCoy switched on the ignition and pulled the starter. Not even a cough from the engine.
‘Try pulling out the choke, da,’ said Kevin.
Mr McCoy glowered at him through the open window. ‘I know how to start a car. It doesn’t need choke on a day like this. Didn’t I drive it round here?’
He tried again, and again. He scratched his head. The children held their breaths. Would they have to get out and unpack all that stuff?
‘We could give you a push,’ offered Brian. ‘If we got you across the street into the next one there’s a hill there. You’d get going on that likely.’
‘Once she’s going she’s all right,’ said Mr McCoy. ‘It’s just when she stops that the bother begins. Well, maybe you could give us a wee push…’
There were plenty of willing arms. At least a dozen boys propelled the little black car across the street into the next one. The other children ran behind. When the car reached the downward slope the engine coughed, spluttered, and roared into life. The children cheered. The boys fell back, resting their hands on their hips. The car was away.
Brede waved till it was out of sight. She hoped her father had his driving licence with him. It would be like him to forget it. She said so to Kevin, who said she was growing more like their mother every day.
‘You’re always worrying about something.’
‘I’m not worrying. I just happen to think about things.’
She cooked the tea: sausages and chips. She was very careful with the chip pan, putting it on one of the back rings of the cooker and watching it the whole time. Her mother had impressed upon her the dangers of chip pans. Nearly every street had a sad tale to tell of burnt children.
She set the table and called the children in from the street.
‘Now wash your hands,’ she ordered.
They grumbled but she stood over them till they did it. Gerald would have whisked his grey fingers in and out of the water in a flash if she hadn’t brought him back again.
‘I’ve sometimes seen you not being as particular for yourself,’ said Kevin.
Brede ignored his remark. She seated the children and asked Kevin to say Grace. Then she dished out the food. She sat back and watched them eat She was enjoying herself. And after she had washed up she would sit by the window and read her book.
‘I wonder how far they’ve got now.’ she mused.
‘In that old heap they might be lucky to have done twenty miles,’ said Kevin.
‘Surely not.’
‘Dear knows what they’ll do if they stalled at the bottom of a steep hill. But I daresay they’ll get there somehow. Even if da’s got to push it all the way to Tyrone. That wouldn’t do his temper much good, would it now?’ Kevin laughed.
Brede smiled at the idea of her father pushing the car. If that was to be the way of it, his language would liven up the countryside. The younger children laughed with Kevin. There was a feeling of holiday in the air. Kevin carried the little ones round the kitchen on his shoulders getting in Brede’s way when she tried to clear the table. But she too felt gay and did not scold him. At times she thought of her granny and felt sad but consoled herself by thinking that her mother was probably right about Aunt Rose panicking. A child had only to skin his knee and she was hollering for the doctor.
When all the dishes were dried and put away, she hung up the tea towel and took off her apron. Kevin sat in his father’s chair and had a look at the evening paper.
Kate came in, all dressed up as if she was going to a party. Bracelets clinked on her wrist. She perched on the table and asked Kevin what he thought of her eyes. She fluttered her lashes and giggled. Kevin looked up from the paper.
‘Have you got false eyelashes on? They look as if you could sweep the street with them.’
And then Brian arrived.
‘Boys, you’re the lucky ones!’ he said. ‘I wish my parents would go away sometimes. I could be doing with a bit of peace.’
‘It’s a grand feeling.’ Kevin stretched himself. His dark eyes glinted. ‘A night of freedom, and nobody to ask what you’ve been doing.’
‘You’re not thinking of doing anything, are you?’ asked Brede, alarmed. ‘You promised da you’d stay near the house.’
�
��You’ve too strong a sense of duty, Brede McCoy, that’s the matter with you. You’ll make somebody a fine wife one of these days. What about Brian here?’
Brede blushed and thought that at times it was all she could do to stop herself hating her brother. Kate giggled and one set of her lashes slipped off and stuck on her nose. They all collapsed into laughter.
The kitchen door opened, and a head appeared round it ‘Are you having a party? I brought my guitar just in case. And Paddy Doyle’s got his fiddle.’
‘Sure is that not a grand idea?’ cried Kevin.
Chapter Five
The Eighth Day of July
The eighth of July. Sadie ticked it on the calendar, noting with satisfaction that the gap was closing and soon the ticks would reach the red ring round the twelve.
It was a busy day for Sadie and Tommy, Linda and Steve. They went from door to door asking for jobs.
‘It’s a change to see you making yourselves useful,’ said Mrs Jackson at lunch-time.
‘Ours is going to be the best street in Belfast,’ said Sadie.
‘There’s nothing wrong in taking a pride in your street,’ said Mrs Jackson.
‘Maybe you’d like to make a donation for the fund?’ said Tommy.
‘I’m not sure if I’ve any change.’
‘I see your purse on the dresser.’ Sadie fetched it and put it into her mother’s hands.
Mrs Jackson’s fingers raked the coins and brought out a shilling. ‘That’s all I can spare. Your outfit cost me a fortune, Sadie, so it did.’
They took their money to Mrs McConkey’s shop.
‘Well, well!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re in the money the day.’
‘We’ve sweated for it,’ said Tommy.
‘I washed four lots of dishes,’ said Linda.
‘I washed me da’s car,’ said Steve.
‘You’re a hard-working lot.’ Mrs McConkey leant her bosom on the counter. ‘There’s no denying it.’
‘Our street breeds good workers.’ said Tommy.
Mrs McConkey had no objection to that. It meant money in her till. She did not even mind if their street ended up looking better than hers, as long as it was paid for. She brought out her big box of streamers and bunting and pictures of the Queen and her family, and allowed them to deliberate over its contents for a full half-hour. It was a slack time of day. Business picked up again in the late afternoon when the women remembered what they’d forgotten to buy for tea and the men were coming home from work.
