Kathleen had got some minced beef from the butcher so they had a shepherd’s pie with a jelly to follow. After dinner she got Sean to take the kids out with a football up on to the playing fields and she went along to watch them for a while. He was miserable about it, complaining about the cold and saying how their older brother used to be able to amuse himself, he wasn’t always after his father for entertainment. Liam and Aine stood by looking aimless, resentful, insulted while he finished his cigarette.
When she got back in, Roisin Doherty, her neighbour, stopped by for a cup of tea and a smoke. She was working for some Jewish people, cleaning, up on the Antrim Road. There was plenty of work with them as they were always planning something: a party, one of their religious dos, big holidays, and they went to see their family in America every year, sometimes twice. ‘They’ve got matching suitcases, and she’s got one of them vanity boxes with bottles in.’ They shook their heads, unsmiling, reproachful, lighting up.
The phone did not ring. Kathleen finished up cleaning the kitchen, tossed the dishcloth on to the oven and strode out to the telephone, picked up the receiver and called the number she had for Mary in London. One of Mary’s Australian flatmates answered and asked Kathleen to repeat what she was saying. Finally she understood. ‘Oh, May-ery!’ she said. Kathleen wanted to say, well I’m the one who bloody named her so I should know what she’s called, but then she lit a cigarette instead and waited for Mary to come to the phone. She could hear music in the background and whorls of laughter. It was a million miles from Belfast. Kathleen said she was calling to tell her she’d found the bottle she’d given to her brother Sean and she was going to drink it with Auntie Eileen but she wanted to know if it was all right with her before she did. It was fine. She told Mary she was going to see Sean on Wednesday the twelfth. Mary told her to give him her love. She told her she could give it herself when she came home for Christmas, that she’d try and arrange a visit for her or they could go together.
‘I’m not coming back, Mum, I’m going off to Tim’s parents in the
Lake District.’ Her accent had changed.
‘Are you courting?’
‘They call it “going out” here.’
‘So you just “go out” do you?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Well, mind you don’t stay in.’
‘He’s not a Catholic, Mum.’
‘And what’s that got to do with anything? Sure, you don’t think we’re a shower of bigots here, I hope. I don’t give a tuppence what he is. You know what you are.’
‘I’m happy here.’
‘Are you now?’
‘Yes I am.’
‘Well now of course, that’s wonderful, so it is, Mary. I’ll let your brother know when I see him.’
‘Look, I’ve got to go, we’re off out just now. Please would you say hello to Aine and Liam and give them and Daddy a kiss for me. I’ve something to put in the post for you all for Christmas.’
Kathleen put the phone down and burst into tears. She went back to the kitchen. ‘I’m happy here’. She gathered up the dishcloth and cried into it, blowing her nose then throwing it on the floor.
There was a small knock at the door. No one she knew knocked. Kathleen went first to the looking glass in the hallway, wiped underneath her eyes and let the pins out of her hair. Hastily she put them in the pockets of her trousers. ‘Just a minute,’ she said. She opened the door. A man with a mass of blunt-cropped, dark hair was standing there, looking aggrieved.
‘Oh Jesus. Brendan Coogan, what about ye? And me a right mess. Come on in.’
‘My mother asked me to drop in and see you, about your son.’
She went to make a cup of tea for him and he came out with her to the kitchen.
‘The word from the blocks is that your Sean is a great fella, Mrs Moran.’ She didn’t know what to say. She looked at him, then fell to murmuring agreement and feigning undue annoyance with her kettle. He was a handsome man. She shook the kettle and checked the lead. He turned sideways to look out across the yard. He had on a jacket and jeans, his shirt was open at the neck.
She was thinking of what Bernie had said at the last co-operative meeting.
‘Anyone’d want their fella banged up for the chance to have that Brendan Coogan round comforting you,’ and she’d pursed her lips and stuck her chest out and made them all laugh. ‘I’d call the peelers myself, tell ’em what time they could find the old man at home.’
‘Och well we’re not all margarin’ legs now,’ Eilish Purcell said.
‘Your Sean must have been in and out of there a few times.’ Brendan was looking at the gap in the fence.
‘He was on the run for over a year,’ she said, forcing the backside of a tea-bag up against the side of mug with a spoon and tossing it in the bin, leaving a near-broth, dark and astringent, shrinking. The milk smelt fishy. ‘The woman in the shop up top knew more about where he was than I did, I used to go up there to find out whether he was still alive.’ Two flecks of white circling the rim; others were bound to bob up and join them – she handed him the mug. He took a good mouthful of it, all the while looking at her. She smiled.
‘That’s a good cup,’ he said rather formally, like an inspector.
Her laughter rang false. They went into the front room, Kathleen rubbing her hands on the tops of her jeans and looking unduly aghast in the aftermath of her laughter. He placed the tea on the side table, sat down, then leant forward, rubbing his hands together. His fingers were short, as if the ends had been cut off them.
‘My mother tells me you’re worried about Sean.’
‘Aye. I am. Well he went straight on to the blanket. He said he would. I might have known it. But you see, what worries me is the protest has been going on for three years and it’s getting worse and worse.’ She looked at her cigarette as she lit it.
‘Well, we hope, we think, it’s building momentum. As you know, we’ve got one of us elected from the National H Block Committee and we’re getting some world interest.’ He put his hands together as if in prayer, placing the fingertips at his chin. ‘The European Court at Strasbourg described the conditions as inhumane, you probably heard that. We were hoping to get more out of the Pope’s visit but there you go. The Church has its own agenda. We’re getting a lot of outside opinion on our side but we’ve got to keep the pressure on the Brits, and the Northern Ireland Office, one way or another.’
‘That lot in Strasbourg, I don’t know why they stop at words. They should have torn a strip off them for being torturers,’ she blew smoke aside. ‘Sorry it’s a mess in here. I had this place pulled apart again just the other day and we’ve not had the chance to fix it yet. Do you not smoke?’
‘I gave it up.’
‘Did you now? That’s a funny thing to do,’ she said, stubbing out her cigarette and exhaling, sending afloat the strands of hair over her face, ‘round here.’
‘Well, to me you see it’s a part of the whole system, the fags. Imperialism, capitalism, exploitation. Small comforts in exchange for the big things; like justice. Fags, Coca-cola, a bag of nuts, a nice car. That’s what they throw you, instead of giving you your rights. It’s what they call a pay off.’
‘Oh,’ said Kathleen, looking at her cigarette. ‘Shite.’
‘Not many people think about it.’
‘Aye. Well, I suppose I should think more about these things. What with Sean and all. I ought to get more political. I’ll tell you something, I’m sick of sitting waiting for them to come round here and wreck the place whenever they feel like it.’
‘A lot of people feel the same way.’
‘I try not to get angry. You’re in it, you’re in the thick of it when you live round here. That’s always been the truth. But it’s no use just sitting here, letting them come and get my kids one at a time.’
She looked at the floor and she had a quick vision of herself lying on it with Brendan above her. The weight of him, his mouth, her fingertips against his chest, holding him off. She glanced at him to see if he’d seen her thoughts.
Brendan was sat right back in the chair, at home now, expansive. ‘We’re thinking we’ll be bringing it to a head soon. It’s not fair for the lads to go on like this. We feel the same way you do. You know what’s going on with the screws, well that won’t let up until we get somewhere with the five demands. Then O’Fiaich is going to meet with one or two of us and see the Brits in the new year. So you just keep your fingers crossed, Mrs Moran.’
‘Call me Kathleen, I’m not a granny yet. And I’m not going to sit back and keep my fingers crossed.’ She stubbed out her cigarette, squashing its tail down in the small enamelled blue square. Genoa. ‘What can I do to help?’
When he smiled now he seemed to see her. ‘Kathleen. Just do what you do anyway, what everyone does. Play your part. Support Sean.’
She pushed her hair back from her face and stood up to look for the other lighter. ‘They’re bound to take it out on them, for the prison officer murders . . .’
‘Executions.’
‘Aye, shootings, what-have-you, I always get the wrong word. But what I mean is, it’s going to get worse in there before it gets better. Ach, Brendan, those lads in there shouldn’t be fighting this war! They’re in there because they’ve done their bit.’
Brendan stood up, he took the lighter from the far end of the mantelpiece and offered her a light. As she bent forwards the tip of her cigarette shook over the flame and she drew harshly and turned away from him, pushing her hair back again, looking out the back window.
‘I’ll be honest with you, Kathleen, I hope to Jesus it doesn’t get worse in there. We’re morally opposed to them fighting the war inside. That’s why we’re focusing on the screws on the outside, to get them to go easy.
But you know Kathleen, they’re proud, they’re in there because they believe in the struggle. You can’t stop them from fighting back at the treatment they’re getting.’
‘Well I’m morally opposed to my son getting beaten senseless day in day out so I’d as soon throw my lot in with yous properly like and help you, however I can, if you’ll have me. ‘
They were about the same height. His face was worn, rough-shaven, pale. In the gloom, she was all dark-red hair and angles, thin and uncertain.
‘It’s going to be all right, Kathleen.’ He stood there, looking at her with warmth, amusement.
Lost for something to say, she took the ashtray to empty it in the bin and he came along into the kitchen behind her, with his cup, saying, ‘You’ve a nice place here. I had an aunt moved into one of these after they were built and she lived here up until last year. Thirty years. Good houses these.’
Leaning over the bin, she was considering whether to lift the stub off with her fingertip and what was beyond his smile – then she heard the tap running and startled, let the ashtray go. It sank soft and snug amongst the tea-bags. She couldn’t be bothered to recover it.
Over at the sink she tried to take the cup from his hands. ‘No you don’t,’ she said. The water from the tap hit the side of the cup and sprayed outwards over both of them.
‘Look at you now!’
Her dark brown shirt was splattered with water. She had drops of water about her face. She wiped them off with her sleeve.
‘Well you can leave off washing your own cup in my house!’
‘I’m a well brought-up lad,’ he said, his hands reaching for the teatowel.
‘Are you now?’ She went to take the dishcloth from him but he didn’t let go.
‘Well, more or less.’
‘I’m a mess,’ she looked down at her shirt and pulled it away from where it was clinging. He was still holding the tea-towel. Donegal.
The front door went and with a great deal of noise and dispute her family were home. He let the tea-cloth drop on to the kitchen counter.