There was a moment. Not quite a second. Not even half a second, when I felt the heat but not the pain. I sensed against my cheek, the coarse turf which clung thinly to the gravel below. The sea boomed. There was no need for him to come in close to check his handiwork.
My body shuddered and my mind lapsed to the primal, the essential. Exsanguination was tipping life towards minutes in place of years. I drifted back to my mother’s kitchen in the Rossville Flats, to a time when life irrevocably turned from singing songs of collective national pain to a pursuit that was intensely personal.
“As round her grave I wander drear, noon, night and morning early
With breaking heart when e’er I hear the wind that shakes the barley”
I lived for thirty-two years. Eight of them matter.
My home overlooked the Irish Sea. I had a father who died young and a mother, Mary, now passed, who sang to me as a child and told me I was brilliant. I had a friend, Rose. We met at St. Andrews University where I could, for the first time in my life, walk around without fear of being hit by cross fire. Instead, we walked the golden sands and rode ponies on her family’s farm.
“The old for her, the new that made me think on Ireland dearly
While soft the wind blew down the glen and shook the golden barley”
I had a brother who was seventeen years old when he died on January 31st 1972—Bloody Sunday.
Breathe
As the mourners were leaving Aidan’s funeral, I whispered to my older brother Brendan, a man the worse for drink, “I’m going to Hannerty’s.
Everyone in The Bogside knew what went on there. It was the place to go when people gave you trouble that needed a local solution. It was the place to report your son missing. Locals could demand compensation if a brick thrown by one of the lads broke a window.
“Leave this business to the boyos. I don’t want you near the place.” I grabbed my jacket, Brendan trailing. He started loosening his black tie and continued, “Come with me for a drink, it’ll calm you down. We can talk about this.”
“And so I said, ‘The mountain glen I’ll seek at morning early
And join the bold united men, while soft wind shakes the barley’ ”
The door at the top of the stairs above Hannerty’s shop was blank-faced except for a bell. I pushed the button—an eye showed at the spy-hole.
The door opened. “My condolences, Miss. Please pass on my heartfelt sorrow to your mother. Aidan was a fine boy, God rest his soul. I didn’t know him well but he played a bit of football with my son Donal. Siobhan, is it?”
Enough preliminaries.
“Tell your boss I want to be of use. I go back and forward to Glasgow. I study and work there. I’m under no suspicion.”
A voice came from inside—Hannerty’s brother-in-law. “Let her in. Have you talked about this to anyone?”
“No one knows I’m here.”
“You’re a fool if you think no one knows you’re here. The Brits have this place watched, you’ll have been noted, probably photographed.”
Breathe
I’d been told to wait at the fruit counter the next day. The man knew my face. We drove in his car to a house in Derry’s middle-class suburbs. Hannerty’s brother-in-law said, “You’ll make a fine courier. The story we’ve put about is that you came to the office yesterday to collect a donation to help with the funeral expenses. That’ll keep you in the clear.”
Before I left Derry, I swore an oath of allegiance to the Derry Brigade. My first assignment, take a package to Scotland. A test.
The manila envelope sat between two sweaters in my suitcase. Mid-air, I filled out the required card for all travelers going to and from Ulster. Purpose of journey? Family funeral.
Breathe
“This is what you want,” I said pushing the envelope over the sticky table top towards Marie. She checked it carefully.
“Thanks.” Liverpool accent.
“I haven’t touched it.” Offended.
“I can see that.” Clipped. “Go to the John Lewis Department Store and purchase a black Napsonite Overnighter with brushed nickel locks and trim. Precise. If you plan to visit Derry, let the office know. Domineering. Phone from a call box. The office lines are tapped. Just say, ‘my mother wants to come by’ and name the date. That tells us when you will be leaving Glasgow. Logical. If we ask you to do a special trip, we’ll pay the expenses. Pragmatic. Never visit the office.” Paranoid?
My chance to speak again, “What was in the envelope?”
“Two thousand pounds.”
“You trusted me with that kind of money?”
“Of course we did,” she rasped a laugh, “After all, we know where you live.” Smoker.
Breathe
My dichotomous life took shape. I worked on my Master’s—social planning and I took a Napsonite into cafes, washrooms and department stores. I never marched in military formation or even held a gun. Brendan was content to ruin his liver and slur sentimental songs at our mother. I despised his lack of backbone—sitting in The Bogside and complaining.
Rose, dear Rose, readily believed my story that I’d won a trip for two to Newfoundland, and she didn’t seem to notice I avoided opening the Napsonite in her presence. We talked about her wedding plans. A beautiful cover—one minute looking at dresses in a magazine, the next making excuses, collecting the case and coolly swapping it with a man dressed for golf, returning to the table to settle on forest green as the bridesmaids’ colour—a perfectly rounded operation.
They say God laughs when humans plan. Maybe he also giggles a little when someone is mired. The joke, clearly on me, I met Cameron on the return from a Sydney assignment. He took the aisle seat and loaded my Napsonite into the overhead compartment. No wedding ring. Why did I notice that? I had only ever allowed myself the pleasure of one night stands.
For me, the true test of whether you will be able to live with a person is being forced into their company on a long-haul flight. Cameron didn’t snore. He didn’t speak incessantly. When he got up to go to the bathroom, he found no need to inform me of his purpose. He read a broadsheet newspaper. He looked physically strong. He either knew how to do laundry or he had someone in his life taking care of it. I notice shoes—well-tended leather. I gave him my phone number. We agreed that eating pasta together at a place on George Street would be grand.
First date stuff. We did the information swap. His parent’s had died in a boating accident in Australia. He was a marine biologist. After three months I also discovered he was a part-time reserve soldier in the Kings Own Scottish Borders. He already knew about Aidan. I’d asked him there and then,
“What’re you thinking?”
“I’ve never been stationed in Derry. I specialize in coastal defense.” Typical.
Cameron compartmentalized his emotions. For the love of God, it was the very lack of drama which resonated with me. A conspicuously generous man, or one superficially romantic, would have slid off me like an egg from a Teflon-coated pan. Instead, he forged a home in a place engineered by his companionship and practical support. He offered adventure, order and dependability to replace the hurt and loneliness.
“T’was hard the woeful words to frame to break the ties that bound us
But harder still to bear the shame of foreign chains around us”
“Cameron, it’s beyond the pale for an Irish Catholic woman to marry a British soldier. The family cannot know.” Life and death Cameron. Life and death.
Soon I stopped calling the office and rarely visited Ireland. I assumed they took the hint.
Marie phoned and asked if everything was okay. “I’m worried that we haven’t seen you for lunch lately.” Jesus, take the hint.
Ireland became an obligation. “Are you ashamed of us, Siobhan?”
Breathe
I sat with Rose in one of those pseudo-Irish bars, “I’m damaged goods, Rose. I never thought I’d want to marry anyone far less a Brit. Somehow I’ve managed to convince myself that Cameron’s a strong, steady marine biologist who does some real good. He didn’t kill Aidan any more than you or I did.” I had an almost unimaginable urge to lean in and tell her the whole truth, but I didn’t want to inflict her with my burden.
Breathe
Summer. We made a temporary home of an apartment on Vancouver Island. By day Cameron, on loan to the Canadian forces, practiced secretive coastal manoeuvers, and I strolled in the local towns and on the beaches. I took morning jogs along a stretch known as the Royston Wrecks.
Cameron came into the bedroom and kissed my forehead before he left.
It was early when I reached the car park. I walked down to the sand. Solitude.
The shot came from a stand of trees. I felt the grass against my cheek. I heard my mother singing.
“While sad I kissed away her tears, my fond arms round her flinging
The foreman’s shot burst on our ears from out the wildwood ringing”
****
Look at Rose, head bowed at the Bloody Sunday memorial, Aidan’s name on the stone. The Rossville Flats are gone. No one had wanted to live there after that day. She placed four roses: Aidan, Mary, Brendan, Siobhan. Death for all of us began that Sunday.
The Wind that Shakes the Barley – a poem of Robert Dwyer Joyce (1836-1883)
# # #
Elizabeth Sinclair was born in Scotland. She first left school at sixteen, but eventually graduated with an LLB from Edinburgh University. She worked for many years in the social services sector. In the early 90’s she moved with her family to British Columbia, calling the move ‘a bit of an adventure’. Elizabeth says, “people need to appreciate that I cannot stay poe-faced for long – it is both a blessing and a curse.”
Elizabeth Sinclair in her story “Radicalization for Beginners” writes in a minimalist style very appealing to the intellectual. Thankfully, she does not see the reader as vacuous, but expects us to bring knowledge and experience to the table. Her work would not be of interest to those who need every i dotted or every t crossed, but fortunately for those of us who like to participate in a read, we now have Elizabeth Sinclair.