Chapter 32
Northern Ireland 1981
Spring of 1981 had come upon the land like a vengefully mistress, now it was only the beginning of July and already summer seemed bound to upstage her. With the May fifth death of Bobby Sands on hunger strike followed by three others before the end of the month, the problems that hounded Liam O’Neill’s country were escalating again.
It was likely more young men would forfeit their lives in this protest and it irritated the solicitor that he couldn’t prevent them. This ‘let’s get-tough’ ploy by Thatcher’s London conservatives, in an attempt to criminalize Irish political prisoners, had only accomplished more death. What did it matter if they wore prison garb? Why couldn’t they give in or the damn government give in? O’Neill rubbed at his neck and the back of his head, attempting to ease an ache that no drug had alleviated.
A plane had been blown from the sky. Who in hell provided these idiots with ground-to-air missiles and the expertise to deliver one? With the indiscriminate arrests taking place, he hadn’t put together five straight hours of sleep in months.
He joined the queue at the border checkpoint that divided the northern section of Ulster Providence from the Nation of Erie on the small island they shared. He listened to the latest news broadcast. Aaron Martin, Holy Mother Mary, they didn’t make finer men than Aaron.
When the plane had blown up he was angry. Now, with the death of a friend, Liam felt the personal pain of sadness. Recognized by the border guards, the attorney was waved by while others still waited in line.
As he moved along on the hour drive to Dublin, his brooding destroyed his usual pleasure in the beauty of the countryside. Sometime during that hour it occurred to him, his granddaughter could have been on that plane. And he thanked a god he’d long ago given up on, that she was not. It frustrated Liam O’Neill that he could not control Deirdre’s life. He desired to protect her and allow nothing to harm this special child. She loved him, trusted him, and this scared him.
When his youngest son, Emanon, brought the infant Deirdre home, he’d been angry. His wife, Delia was already ill, and the realization that he would soon be alone after thirty years of marriage was frightening. Then Liam watched Delia smile as she held their first grandchild. Watched the pain in her eyes ease a bit. How could he refuse to let her keep the babe?
They hadn’t heard from their eldest son, Michael, since he stopped requesting funds. Delia had kept Michael’s final letter to torment him with. “Over three years,” his wife would say, “Sure, my boy hasn’t needed your money in over three years.”
They thought Michael was still in America; never guessed he’d been living in England for almost a year. Certainly never expected what Emanon was telling them. Michael had married and his wife died during childbirth. Of course he knew now that had been one of Emamon’s half-truths.
Michael had never married any of the women he caroused with. But even illegitimate this child was Michael’s. Michael was returning to the States and wanted his parents to keep the infant until he could arrange to send for her. A few months had stretched into several years before he was forced to once again share the child with Michael.
Delia was gone; Emanon was gone. Early death hovered too close to the special people in Liam O’Neill’s life. As he stood outside the terminal this July morning, his eyes sought to pierce the cloud cover. He heard the plane’s engines. His girl was coming home. He held his breath as he watched the 727 jet level out for landing.
~~~
O’Neill studied his granddaughter’s approach. Into her thirteenth year, she moved with a jump in her walk. No, he decided, more like a march. Her long auburn hair bounced as if in tune with a military band. Growing too tall for lass, he thought, but was content she remained boyishly lean.
“Papa!” Deirdre yelled as she ran. Then she was in his arms and he hugged her possessively as he bent for her kiss. Holding her a bit back, he said, “Lass, your outfit’s outrageous.”
The lavender eyes sparkled in the sunlight. “Papa.” she giggled. “All the kids are into jeans. We wear dumb uniforms to class so when we’re free.”
“Not right, that a lass should dress like a lad. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were a boy.”
Her eyes glinted with mischief and her giggle swelled as she reminded him. “Papa, we went through that a few years back. You convinced me I couldn’t change my sex.”
“Dede.” He attempted to keep a stern tone. “That will be an end to that.” But the laughter came—abrupt and short. Many things Liam O’Neill had forgotten in his sixty years but never the day when his eight-year-old granddaughter wanted to grow a penis. She had shocked him when she plainly said it. She nearly drove him insane trying to explain why she could not. Now, as he always did, he asked, “You hungry?”
“They fed and watered us regularly on the flight. I just wanna get out of Dublin and home. Did Centura drop her foal?”
“She’s been waiting on you, girl.” He waved over the young man toting her baggage. “See you put her toys in the rear seat.”
“Papa.” She blushed at the porter’s sly grin. “I brought no toys. I’m a big girl now.”
The idea distressed him and caused his tone to sharpen a bit. “Amy is here.”
“For the whole summer?”
“Just a few weeks. Your cousin will be company for you.”
“Great.” She lied and he knew she did. Even Liam O’Neill had a problem tolerating his American granddaughter so unlike this one. For that delicate blonde girl was prone to whining and sniveling to get her way.
Less than an hour later Deirdre complained, “That’s sick,” as their car was detained at the border. A minibus held up the queue. It was being dissected while the driver and two young male passengers faced army rifles and argued.
“The British Army has no choice. So long as they remain in Ulster they must protect themselves.”
“Why don’t they just get out!”
“Dede, you’re to pay no heed to what happens in this country. You’re well shed of it.”
“I’ll be good.” She promised but he saw, though she ducked her head, she glared at the British soldiers.
The young Irishmen were being shoved towards an armored car; the business ends of rifles were hurrying their steps. And the officer approaching the familiar auto was met with O’Neill’s unpleasant demand. “What did you find?”
Not the sergeant’s virgin encounter with the barrister, his tone was held coolly steady as he answered. “Mr. O’Neill that truck’s a moving bomb. You’d like to be checking it over?”
“I’ll trust your opinion. I have the lass with me.”
And Deirdre screamed, “He hit him! He hit him!” As a prisoner, attempting to wrench an offending rifle from its owner was smashed in the temple by the butt end of another soldier’s weapon.
While the prisoner crumbled to the pavement, O’Neill grabbed and held tightly to his granddaughter who appeared bent on exiting the car.
“Stop it!” He shook her as the sergeant looked on in surprise. “The soldier had no choice.” O’Neill tried to explain. Only Deirdre was hopping mad. The expletives pouring from her immature mouth were embarrassing. “Dede!” he hollered while her voice hung on a “Fuckin’ bastard!” and O’Neill’s palm clamped across her mouth. He glared at the sergeant, who wisely chose to step away from the vehicle.
“Lass, where do you get such language?” He held her face against his chest to cut off the sight as the soldiers roughly loaded their prisoners into the army lorry. He patted her head trying again to explain. “Dede, he attacked the soldier. If someone attacked you, you’d fight back.”
“Sorry, Papa,” she said but as she lifted her head he could still see the smoldering anger in her eyes.
She’s a girl, he consoled himself, a Yank and the disease won’t affect her. Nothing could happen to her.
~~~
Coming into the second week of July, the moon illuminated the two figures as they trudged across the field of grass. In that subdued light the shades of green became shades of black and gray so it appeared the girls were walking on an open sea. Their grandfather often said, “When you hear an Irish name, especially O’Neill, you never know what’s going to be wearing it.” The differences in these two cousins, only a half a year separating their births, confirmed that fact. Deirdre, a good head taller than Amy, moved with the quick sure step of familiarity for she was no stranger in this land. Fragile blonde Amy picked her way cautiously behind Deirdre. She watched her feet as if dreading what she might step into. Her tiny pink mouth spilled forth a constant stream of gripes.
“Dee, I’m cold. I can’t see. Where are we going?”
Forced into good behavior in front of adults, Deirdre was not so generous when the girls were alone. Without witnesses her moods were unpredictable. Spinning around she administered a shove to Amy’s chest that caused her to do a quick backward shuffle. “Shut up! Why didn’t you stay home?” Deirdre conveniently forgot she had teased Amy into coming.
Amy ‘s arms crisscrossed her chest to hide that target by gripping opposite shoulders. “I only asked where we were going. You didn’t tell me.”
“To see Davy Martin. He’s just come home from England.” Amy, Deirdre was certain, didn’t know who Davy Martin was. Instead of enlightening her, Deirdre only frightened her more as she added, “Papa won’t let me see him. He says Davy’s gone mean.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t. Maybe he’ll hurt us.”
“Davy—hurt me?” Deirdre hauled off and this blow caused a smarting on Amy’s arm. “Oh, go on back.” Her next smack landed on Amy’s shoulder causing her to tip sideward, attempt to right herself, she then crash to her knees. Deirdre broke into a run.
“Dede! Please! Dede! It’s dark! I don’t know my way back!”
Deirdre spun around. “Good! Fall in a hole and break your neck.” She stomped back and stood over Amy. Her hands on her hips she said, “So, either come with me or go back alone.” She started off again. Amy sucked in her breath, got quickly to her feet and scurried after her.
Moving more rapidly now, they covered the two miles in no time.
~~~
Light filtered into the darkness from the Martin’s front room window as the girls crept onto the porch. Deirdre, though she would never admit it, was unsure of what their grandfather meant when he said David Martin had gone mean. Peeking over the windowsill, she half expected to discover the young man rolling on the floor drooling and yelping like a sick dog. So she was relieved to see him parked in a chair.
Martin was not alone. The lanky, bespectacled, Mr. Monaghan was with him. The girls knew him well; his wife had been tending their grandfather’s home since before they were born.
When she was eight, Deirdre, saw a picture of the Irish hero, Padraic Pearse with his bottle-thick glasses and pinched features. His resemblance to Mr. Monaghan so impressed her that she began a continuing hunt for other look-a-likes. The child, who had started out peopling her world with faces of dead heroes, was now an emerging teen soul who created heroes more handsome and appealing. So Deirdre recognized, Jack Walsh, her Sean Connery type, from his visits to Monaghan’s. She considered for a moment but she couldn’t tag a name on the tall copper-haired man who rather resembled, Robert Redford. As they watched, several times this man was forced to shove young Martin back into his chair.
The Martins were neighbors and friends of her grandfather, so Deirdre often dogged David’s footsteps. Six years her senior, usually he was a good-natured kidder, but once in a while she was the recipient of his anger. Since it was usually something she’d done that caused his upset, she didn’t hold it against him when he yelled at her. Still, never had she witnessed the wrath that showed in his face now. Her John McEnroe look-a-like seemed on the verge of attacking the older men.
“Dee?” Came in a soft whimper. Amy knelt beside her and even in the pale moonlight, Deirdre could see the fear in her face. Under different circumstances she would have teased her cousin; but Deirdre was a bit scared by the intensity of the meeting they were eavesdropping on.
She hushed Amy with a barely audible, “Quiet.”
Intent on the heated argument going on inside, Deirdre struggled to catch some words. “Murders! Fuckin’ blow up people!” The words made her shiver. Though the voices raised often in loud accusations none of it was clear. Suddenly it happened. She had never seen a man cry; David Martin’s whole frame shook, he pulled at his hair as if attempting to rip out handful.
While the other men only yelled, the redheaded stranger grabbed and held David. He forced David’s arms down and Deirdre saw the bloody bandages wrapped around David’s hands and it shocked her. Her eyes began to mist and she pushed from the window to rush through the door. She darted to where Martin had slumped back in his chair and hot tears rolled down her cheeks as her arms encircled his neck.
With a yelped, “Dede!” Brendan Monaghan leaped up from the sofa as if he was going to grab her.
The surprise of Deirdre pressing against him caused Martin to gasp. His bandaged hands clasped her upper arms and thrust her back. “Lass? Where on earth did you come from?”
“Knew you were home.” Her sobs halted as she said, “Papa wouldn’t let me come see you so I sneaked out.”
“And sure, it’s back you’ll sneak.” Monaghan wrung his large paws in apparent distress. “And I’ll be taken you right off.”
“What’s this?” The tall stranger’s features formed into a wide grin. Amy, obviously terrified, had crept in. “Well Martin?” he said. “Seems you could offer these young ladies a bit of tea. They look a mite chilled.” He gently took Amy’s arm and drew her nearer to the warmth of the fireplace.
Martin said, “You shouldn’t have come, Dede. Your Grandpa will have both our hides.”
“He won’t find out.” Deirdre glared at Amy as she spit out a warning. “You squeal, I’ll kill ya.”
A weak grin appeared on the suffering young Martin’s face. “Sure, but you’ll be murdering no one. Who is this poor lass?”
Deirdre mumbled, “Nobody, just my cousin.”
“Just your cousin?” The copper-haired stranger gave a soft chuckle. “But surely, just my cousin has a name?”
The under-size thirteen-year old with the over-bright blue eyes in her too round face whispered, “Amy.”
“Amy, it is. And would Amy be after having some tea?”
“Why were you making Davy cry? He’s hands—you’ve hurt him!” Deirdre demanded.
Martin eyes dropped. “Got hurt at school,” he said. “Must have pulled loose some stitching. It wasn’t O’Donnell’s fault. It’s over now. Walsh, we’ll be after having that drink.”
“I’ll see to the young ones’ tea.” Monaghan said.
Friendly conversation cropped up and remained as such during the brief time the girls were allowed to remain. Still, when Monaghan escorted the girls home, Deirdre demanded, “Why was Davy crying?”
“Lad has that right, he’s lost his pa.”
Deirdre remembered David’s pa, Mr. Aaron Martin, who always appeared to be ready to laugh. His dark brown hair never seemed properly combed. He had made her a Saint Bridget’s cross once. She liked him at lot. “He died?” was a simple statement by the young teen.
For which an angry man replied, “Was killed, lass, was bloody well murdered!”