Irish Lady

by Jeanette Baker

  They had died, all together on one shattering night, and Annie had taken her in. Gentle, warmhearted Annie, her godmother, the mother of her heart, the woman in whose ample lap she had rocked, at whose table she had worked on her lessons, drunk her tea, consumed a thousand salty, grease-soaked fries, the table where slowly, painfully, over years of unconditional love, the empty hole in her heart had filled and she had smiled and teased and laughed and loved as if the ugly, hate-filled, rampaging crowd had never broken through the Cupar Street barrier and destroyed everything and everyone that was hers.

  She had nearly come to terms with the random ugliness of her past when Michael, Annie’s son and the light of Meghann’s life, didn’t come home for three days. And when finally he did, he came with four broad-shouldered, tight-jawed young men dressed in black ski jackets, with telltale bulges in the hip pockets of their denim trousers.

  When nineteen-year-old Michael Devlin joined the IRA, Meghann made her decision to leave Belfast. Blessed with a sharp intelligence, she knew, even at fifteen, that there was no future for a Catholic in the Six Counties. Even the name of her school, St. Mary’s Hall, condemned her. She resolved to go on to university, first to Queen’s and then to England, where no one cared whether one was Catholic or Protestant.

  Applying herself, Meghann earned a full scholarship to the Catholic preparatory school and from there, another to Queen’s University in Belfast. Her American brother-in-law had provided the supplement that financed her living expenses at Oxford. After Queen’s there had been little communication with the Devlins, and after Meghann’s marriage, by tacit agreement, the two women lost touch. Not once, during all the years she had lived in Annie’s house, had the older woman reminded Meghann of her obligation. Now, it appeared that she was calling in the debt.

  Because it was Annie who said, “Please come,” she did not hesitate. No matter what had occurred between Michael and Meghann in those long-ago days in the Falls, no matter that she would pull out her pepper spray and run to the other side of the street if he came her way, no matter that the words terrorist and murderer were badges he proudly wore in the name of a united Ireland, no matter that his words were deleted on national television and that he had spent nearly half his life in jail as a political prisoner, she would come. The idea of living in a world of which Michael was no longer a part brought the swift, driving pain of a loss she could no more dwell on than she could come to terms with.

  Two hours later, after personally making all the necessary arrangements, Meghann packed her last pair of socks and zipped up her suitcase. She would take a taxi to Heathrow, fly into Shannon, rent a car under her married name and drive to Belfast, where she would meet with Annie and find out the details of her puzzling summons. Even if she was discovered by British authorities, it wouldn’t be difficult to enter the city as Lady Sutton.

  Lodging was another matter. Her first inclination had been to stay in the inexpensive Ash-Rowan Town House on Lisburn Road near the university. Upon closer reflection, she decided against it, choosing instead the elegant Culloden Hotel, five miles east of the city in County Down. No one would question her for vacationing in its luxurious surroundings.

  Her call to Cecil had been easier than expected. He had been delighted with her decision, agreeing to oversee her clients and postpone any hearings until her return. Now, all there was left to do was write a note to Mrs. Hartwell and wait until eight the next morning, when her taxi would arrive to take her to the airport.

  The flight and the drive north were too short. The breath-stealing beauty of dark turf, marsh grass, and boiling clouds stained pink with sunlight, churning and twisting their way across a soft spring sky, filled her senses. Unable to bear the all-consuming beauty of her homeland, Meghann pulled off the road to catch her breath. It was all so achingly familiar, the long-haired sheep blocking the roads, the golden igloo-shaped haystacks, the green hills and jutting peaks of the Cliffs of Mourne, the white Queen Anne’s lace, the blood-colored fuchsia bells, the purple foxglove and the golden wild mustard. Fifteen years. Fifteen years since she had seen an Irish spring. Meghann leaned her head against the steering wheel and watched as a single curlew rested momentarily on an updraft, its wings splayed and turned down to follow the wind current. Ireland.

  She turned the key and the engine zoomed to life. Maneuvering the finely tuned compact back onto the left side of the road, Meghann turned on the radio. It was early, not even ten. Reaching for the radio dial, she found the news station she wanted. Nigel Wentworth was as straightforward as he was factual. No editorializing for this morning anchor. Meghann preferred her news that way. She resented people who tried to sway her opinion using inconclusive evidence.

  At first the words did nothing more than soothe her battered nerves, until a single name jarred her into acute, undivided attention. “James Killingsworth. James Killingsworth,” the anchor repeated, “was murdered last night while entering a taxi after a Labour Party fund-raising event at West Belfast’s Europa Hotel. With him were his wife, Pamela, and their ten-year-old daughter, Susan. Susan remains in critical condition at Royal Victoria Hospital.”

  Good Lord. James Killingsworth, rising star of the Labour Party and most likely to have been England’s next prime minister. Meghann admired him. He was a charismatic and popular liberal who cut through the red tape of politics, disregarded tradition, and did what needed to be done. Against the wishes of his wife, who came from a staunch Unionist family, James had agreed to speak with Sinn Fein’s Gerry Adams on the subject of the Nationalist Party’s participation in the Irish Peace Initiative. Who would have wanted him dead?

  Wentworth’s voice carried a thread of excitement, most unusual for the stoic reporter. “Evidence suggests that the attack was perpetrated in the name of the Irish Republican Army. Michael Devlin of Andersonstown is being held for interrogation at the headquarters of the Royal Ulster Constabulary in Belfast.”

  Blood pounded in Meghann’s temples and her hands tightened on the wheel until the knuckles showed bone-white through her stretched skin. Somehow she managed to avoid the car coming toward her from the opposite direction. Slowing to a crawl, she forced herself to concentrate on the curves in the road, the construction ahead, the cramp in the arch of her foot resting against the gas pedal, anything but the words spewing from the speaker on the rental car radio.

  Years later, when she stopped to recollect this moment, she would wonder why she didn’t turn off the radio or pull over and listen until the broadcast was finished. Everything was always so logical in retrospect, when the mind is settled and the heart calm, but when it happens, at the crucial moment, it is all one can do to hold on and pray for an end. And so it was with Meghann. Holding on to the wheel, maneuvering the car through the twisting roads, forcing the panic from her pounding head and trembling hands down through her feet and out of her body was the most she could manage.

  Michael Devlin, arrested for the murder of James Killingsworth. The words repeated themselves over and over in her head. Meghann coaxed her multi-taxed mind into the logic for which she earned a staggering salary. Michael was IRA. Michael was Sinn Fein. Michael had killed in defense. No.

  Meghann shook her head, disciplined her mind and started over. Michael was IRA. Michael was Sinn Fein. Michael’s words were censored from every television screen in Britain. Michael believed in killing for an end to British occupation. Michael had killed for his cause. Dear God. Would he kill James Killingsworth? No.

  Again, she forced herself to maintain objectivity. James Killingsworth’s politics were liberal. He had campaigned for the removal of British troops from Irish soil. Just two weeks before, he had spoken in Parliament against the enormous expense of housing and feeding a hostile government presence in the North.

  Whatever Michael Devlin was, stupid he was not. Without James Killingsworth’s influence, Sinn Fein hadn’t a prayer of participating in the peace talks. Meghann would speak with Annie and find out why Michael was being held for question
ing. All at once, she felt better. It was possible that Michael wasn’t involved at all, that his detention was merely a formality because of who he was and who he had been.

  Three hours later, after settling into her room at the Culloden, Meghann placed a call to Annie. Her fingers shook as she punched in the numbers that would connect her to Falls Road, to Andersonstown, to Clonard, to her past, a world she had hoped to exorcise forever.

  Two

  Belfast, Northern Ireland, 1994

  The beating must be over because Michael no longer felt the blows. He sat tied to a chair, his arms handcuffed behind him. Blood poured from a gash in his forehead. His groin throbbed and his testicles felt swollen bigger than footballs. He could barely see the man standing before him, but he could hear well enough, and what he heard caused the corner of his mouth to turn up in a painful but humorous twitch.

  “Enough, Robby.” A voice came out of the corner. “They won’t recognize him tomorrow. He’s not talkin’.”

  “Bloody Taig,” his interrogator growled. “He’ll talk when I’m through with him.”

  “Don’t count on it,” Michael rasped and was rewarded by a blow to the mouth that knocked several teeth loose and filled his mouth with the familiar, metallic taste of fresh blood. He tried to lift his head, but the effort was too much. After a final unsuccessful attempt, his chin sagged against his chest.

  “For Christ sake, Robby,” the voice protested. “Don’t kill the man. He’s got a lawyer comin’ tomorrow. Besides, we’ll get nothin’ from a corpse.”

  Michael recognized the frightened tones of the boy who’d arrested him. He was a child, no more than eighteen, but then that was two years above the age when a youth was conscripted into the Republican cause. Childhood was short in the Six Counties, and no one knew it better than the men and women who watched their children sport the colors, regurgitate the jargon, and lay down their lives before British tanks and loyalist guns.

  His mind faded in and out, depending on the level of pain in his head. It would be too much to hope for a doctor. Men charged with the murder of popular English politicians could hope for nothing more than a cold grave dug in the back of a farmer’s bog. Still, he was Michael Devlin and that name stood for something in the world of Irish nationalists.

  They said he had a lawyer coming tomorrow. At least he would be kept alive until then. What poor sap would Ulster’s finest hire to defend him? Probably an earnest young graduate of Queen’s University, eager to try his first case and see justice done. He would be eaten alive by the prosecution. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t accept a lawyer. He was a soldier, not a criminal. He needed no defense and didn’t recognize the jurisdiction of any English judge in Ireland.

  Michael grimaced and moved his right leg. Shooting pains, like the jabbing of a thousand needles, signaled the return of circulation. The peelers’ voices, deep in conversation, sounded far away. Michael sighed. He hadn’t seen the inside of Castlereagh Interrogation Center or the H-Blocks for nearly three years.

  The H-Blocks, those square cells built to house political prisoners just off the M1 motorway, ten miles from Belfast near the town of Lisburn, had never seen a single moment of its twenty years without a member of his family interned there. First there had been his father, then Dominic and Liam, Sean and Niall, Bernadette, Connor, Davie, and young Cormack. Every male Devlin in the Six Counties and all, without exception, sentenced by a Diplock court, those travesties of justice headed by a biased judge who sentenced prisoners without benefit of trial whether or not they had been convicted of a crime.

  Either he’d grown soft during his three years of freedom or the peelers had improved their methods of torture. The pain in his side was unbearable and his body refused to cooperate. He should have been unconscious long ago. A wave of vomit rose from his stomach, so violent and all-consuming that his feeble attempts at control were brushed aside like a twig in the eddy of a mighty current. Muscles, tight and angry from abuse, revolted, spewing yellow bile in a four-foot projectile from his mouth to his jailors’ feet, coating their shoes and trousers with liquid filth.

  ***

  “Mick,” a soft voice murmured into his ear. “Mick, it’s your ma. Can you hear me?”

  Michael opened one eye and quickly closed it again. The light was too bright. He tried his voice. It was raspy and thick, but intelligible. “Where am I?”

  “In hospital.” Annie Devlin patted his hand. “They ruptured your spleen in the beatin’. Lucky for you they’re afraid to kill you.”

  Michael laughed, felt the draw in his cheek and abdomen, decided it was worth it, and laughed again. “How long have I been here?”

  “Nearly a week. Y’ look much better than y’ did in the beginnin’. Meghann would never have recognized you.”

  Both eyes opened into tiny slits as he focused on his mother’s face. Her features floated in a fuzzy blur, but he could make out the brilliant blue of her eyes as they stared down at him.

  “Y’ haven’t mentioned Meghann’s name in ten years. Why now?”

  “How would you know when I speak of Meggie?” his mother retorted. “Y’re never home.”

  Michael reached out and gripped his mother’s wrist. “What have y’ done, Ma?”

  “They’ve accused y’ of murdering James Killingsworth, Michael. I had no choice. I sent for Meggie.”

  He released her arm and swore fluently. Annie watched him, saying nothing, allowing his barrage of anger to rise, sweep through him, peak, and dissipate. Michael had always been this way, quick-tempered, passionate, argumentative, intuitive, fiercely loyal. He was also forgiving, courageous, charismatic, a leader of men, a believer in miracles—“all heart,” her late husband used to say.

  Michael was all heart, or at least he had been until that day, twelve years ago, when Meghann McCarthy’s picture had appeared in the London Times as the bride of Lord David Sutton. At first, Annie hadn’t realized what Meggie’s marriage had done to Michael. It wasn’t until nearly six months later, when Bernadette came home for a visit, that she recognized it for what it was.

  Bernadette was eight years Michael’s senior but of all Annie’s nine children, she was most like him. They were black-haired and round-eyed, typical shanty Irish, but beneath their fine-boned, sharp-cheeked beauty lay a shimmering brightness that went beyond straight teeth and clear skin, a shining, ethereal glow that artists ached to capture but never could. Even their photographs were different from the others’. Bernadette was the only girl, so it was natural that Annie should be partial to her unusual, slender-hipped beauty. But there was no logical explanation for the way every eye, including her own, singled out Michael in a Devlin family photo.

  Clear and blue-green as the Irish Sea, his eyes, set above a prominent Roman nose and a mouth only God could have shaped, laughed back at her. He was six feet, tall for a Devlin, and wiry thin, with straight shoulders, a deep chest, and narrow hips. People were drawn to him just as they were to Bernadette. They were ambitious, these two middle children, more so than the others.

  Only Michael and Bernadette had finished their schooling and gone on for university degrees, courtesy of the British Empire. Of course it was absurd for a Catholic to be ambitious in the Six Counties. Those who were emigrated to the mainland or America. Bernadette had settled with a husband and children. Perhaps it would be better for Michael if he made his home away from Ireland. When the two were together, there had been no peace in the house, until the winter of Meghann’s wedding.

  At first Annie had brushed aside her misgivings, explaining away the change in Michael as maturity. He had grown up. It was past time to give up that boisterous, laughing gregariousness that lured every drunk from the pubs home to the Clonard for a wash and a fry. She had always expected more from Michael. Gifted in his field, he had produced several published volumes of poetry, two novels, and multitudes of essays featured in the Irish Press and other periodicals, none published in the United Kingdom, of course. He was Sinn Fein, as were a
ll the men and women of her family. No one belonging to Sinn Fein had ever been allowed a voice outside the Republic. She had reconciled herself to a lifetime of monthly visits to Long Kesh, rationalizing with her usual wry humor that as long as her children were in prison they were safe from RUC bullets. After all, beatings were better than funerals.

  But when Bernadette came home and the two of them were seated together in their old place near the Aga, she realized that something was missing in Michael, something that had nothing to do with maturity. The eagerness, the laughing optimism, the magical flame that had illuminated him from birth was gone. Seeing it burn in the bright eyes and quick hands of her only daughter, its absence in Michael was all the more evident. Concentrating on exactly when the change had occurred, Annie realized that it had been missing for quite some time.

  She pinpointed it to the day Michael came home with the Times. He rarely bought the London Times, preferring to read it at the library and not contribute to a British newspaper. But today he placed it on the table before her. Annie noticed that his hands shook and his face was pale even for winter. Ignoring the paper, she’d felt his forehead for fever but there was none. It wasn’t until later in the evening, after the meal was cleared and the dishes put away, after Michael had gone out to one of his endless meetings, that she sat down with the paper.

  It shook her, of course, but not as much as it should have. Meggie was different. She’d always been different. Causes held no allure for her. Annie had seen it from the beginning. The silent, terrified child from Cupar Street had no desire to avenge the murder of her family. All she wanted, all she had ever wanted, was a peaceful place to fit in. She’d found it in the heart of the Devlin family.

  There was a time when Annie believed that Meghann and Michael would make a match of it. He was four years older, but Meghann was mature and lovely in a way that was nothing like the vivid blue-eyed Devlins. Annie never knew whether she had been mistaken in the long looks exchanged between her son and her foster daughter or whether something had happened that caused Meghann to bury herself in her books, accept the scholarship that moved her away from Clonard and the Falls to London and a world as far away in culture and temperament from the Six Counties as was humanly possible.