Legacy (14 page)

Chapter Thirty Two

I am like Mum in the sense that I like to know the full story, to always glean the entire picture, regardless of what it entails. After the court case Mum met with her solicitor on many occasions and on each one demanded access to the unabridged details of the case. She had not been privy to these during the trial. The judge had deemed that the graphic details of Dad's death would be too upsetting, so she was removed from the courtroom when talks of the blast itself, witness accounts and identification began. Mum felt that she needed to know, she incessantly probed her father as it was he who had identified Dad's body on the ill-fated night. Yet he never released any information, not even to his wife. Many years later when Mum's father passed away he brought what he saw on that night with him.

In her father's refusal to administer any information Mum had to press her solicitor for it. He warned her that it was graphic. The full extent of the bomb and its damage were held in a file that he was reluctant to release. Mum ignored his warning and eagerly took the file. She had to know what became of her husband; she had to know how he spent the last moments of his life.

Soon she did know, the transcripts held all the gory details. Two men had boarded the train carrying a bomb. They had sat opposite Dad and had intended to take the bomb to central station Belfast. No one could explain what had gone wrong, but something clearly had, so much so that 31 years later the Historical Enquiries Team requested to reopen the case. The bomb had denoted prematurely, killing one of the bombers and almost fatally wounding the other. My Dad, a man from another land, and a little boy returning home from school were simply their innocent victims. The little boy was a promising student with his whole life ahead of him.

As Mum read further she found the post mortem details. It was then that she ascertained exactly how her husband and my Dad had spent his final moments. She already knew that Dad had died alone, no loved ones surrounding him; not even a word from a kind stranger. In his last moments my Dad had been plunged into a living hell. After asking the conductor about his location, the conductor had closed the carriage door and almost immediately the bomb had detonated. A ball of flames engulfed the carriage and of course those in it. Those in the surrounding carriages managed to run, to gain safety in the grass verges on either side.

Dad and his fellow travellers had not been so lucky, for the blaze had come with such force that it caught each of them instantaneously, burning was unavoidable. Eye witnesses could hear someone screaming and tried as they may to get close to the carriage to help, the immense heat held them all back. Instead they listened as one man called out “Dear God Help me,” they listened and listened until his cries melted with him into the train, into the night.

Firemen who approached the carriage were unable to help for they too could not tackle the flames, they were so ferocious. One of them attempted to climb aboard to answer the man's cries. He described what he had seen,
a man matching Dad's description, literally burning alive
. His legs were gone by now, yet consciousness remained. When the heat began to disperse the fire-fighters were able to board the carriage. All that remained where Dad had been was a heap of ashes. The brave fire-fighter who had tried in vain to help left the service shortly after.

Mum never willingly told me these details; I had to probe her just like she had to probe her father for them. I was always told that all I needed to know was that my Dad's coffin was empty; visiting the grave was a waste of time. It was not until three years ago when the ‘Belfast Telegraph' opened its archives up that I was able to request all the details of my Dad's death, once I had gotten them I was able to ask Mum to confirm if this was what she knew. All she said was that her husband had suffered a death worse than any she could ever imagine.

From my own investigation I know he died a hellish death, it was as if he had encountered the fires of hell right here on earth. My Dad had hated the smell of burning I wonder if his fleeing the room when Mum had cut our hair was an unconscious premonition, either way he must have been so afraid. The Belfast Telegraph reports made it clear to me why dental records were required in the identification process, why the CID called that night. They had no evidence; the two innocents in the carriage were reduced to nothing, it was impossible to tell one heap from the other. The bomber too had been obliterated. All they had known was that someone had run from the carriage but they had no way of telling who.

It dawned on me why the coffin was sealed, why Mum maintained the grave was empty; for she had buried nothing, nothing remained to bury. We never visit the grave instead we simply prayed for his soul.

Understandably Mum could not process the details she found held in that solicitors file; not consciously anyway. Instead her dreams processed every intricate detail, dissecting and putting together her husband's last moments in that flaming carriage. In her waking hours she knew that if she dwelled on these details she would throw herself into a trap that she would never come out of. She had to put them out of her daily thoughts so she ripped up the transcripts, smashed some more cups and put the details of the death of the kindest man she had ever known in a box and stacked it on her shelf.

Chapter Thirty Three

Unbeknownst to my younger self, my Dad's life was valued by the courts. They sought to put a price on the worth of a Dad and how much his widow and children should receive. The absence of my Dad's involvement in my sisters and my childhood was valued at £2,000, which we would each receive when we were 18. For my Mum a life as a single mother was valued at five years of my Dad's salary. Maybe it was naivety on the Northern Ireland's office part that made them believe that someone could recover from such an event in five years; however I think it was a gross oversight.

It seemed to me that despite losing our Dad, Northern Ireland felt it was right that we should lose our Mum too; for from as early as I could remember my Mum worked and worked and then worked some more. Christmases' came and went, birthdays came and went and throughout it all Mum worked. She had hoped to spend our formative years with us, she had hoped to return to nursing when we were of secondary school age; instead she was sent back prematurely and I believe before she had a chance to fully recover. By the courts reckoning when I was aged just six, my sisters eight and eleven Mum should be able to support us on her own and worse that my Dad's influence was no longer valid.

One of my earliest memories is crying when Mum went out the door to work, begging her to stay at home, I couldn't fathom for the life of me why my Mum worked when everyone else's Mum was at home. My sisters would panic, Mum reports that the mention of work terrified them; their Dad had gone to work and not come back, what if this happened to their Mum too? It took years before they were completely reassured. Mum worked 12 hour shifts, followed by 12 hour night shifts, on alternative weeks. These were broken with two or three days off. I remember her crying too, as she explained to me she didn't want to go, she had no choice. Mum had thought she had said goodbye to her nursing career for the foreseeable future but instead she had said goodbye to her husband and hello to feeding and clothing us alone; to single parenthood.

Unfortunately, my parent's reasonably new mortgage on the Belfast house meant that there was no collateral to speak of; just enough to cover the funeral and our move. My grandparent's house with us in it was full to overflowing, they couldn't afford four more mouths to feed and besides this they needed their crockery; they hadn't realised that when they brought their Irish daughter home that she would have developed Greek tendencies and smash every plate in their house.

The result was that whether she felt prepared or not Mum would have to start regaining some semblance of normality. She says she often mused whether God had taken the right parent, she did not think she was capable of raising three young children alone. She didn't want to let them down. Yet she did her best to rise to the challenge, beginning with buying a house.

Buying the little bungalow meant that my family were now firmly ensconced in Strabane. Mum had reluctantly laid roots there, roots that gave her some sense of attachment and somewhere to call home. She used the courts allocation of five years of Dad's salary against the house and retained some for its furnishing and decoration. This time though Mum took no pleasure in making the house a home, she did it mechanically; simply because it needed to be done.

Mum felt that her mother and father also deserved compensation; they had lived through the whole ordeal with her and I imagine without them she would never have coped. She gave them a little money, not nearly enough for all they had done but something to recognise their support. She bought a car that I remember even now; a little red mini. By Mum's calculations we should be okay for a year, maybe a year and a half if she was sensible with what little remained.

Mum should have known that things don't always go to plan, for as is customary in life when people have money they are sought after. It is shameful to think that even a new widow is a target. Some acquaintances needed a deposit for their first marital home, a friend was in debt and needed help, and on and on it went until we were left with nothing. Of course Mum had been reassured that she would be paid back but as life goes this was not the case. Promises of repayment never were honoured and she was too proud to ask for it back.

Chapter Thirty Four

In those bleak days the main things that fuelled Mum carry on, to sustain her empty shell with nutrition and breath, her children and the need for answers. The physical debris of the bomb that had taken my Dad may have been cleared away. The scene was made neat and sanitised, but the debris that remained of Mum's shattered life could not be cleared so quickly.

Mum was compelled to find answers; she needed to know what drove one man to kill another, why something as precious as life became meaningless and why they felt the need to take it. To discover the answers she would have to meet the killer. I know now that Mum's pleading to allow such a meeting fell on deaf ears for a reason, she was not ready to meet the bomber; she wouldn't be for years.

Mum wrote weekly to the Maze prison, pleading with the governor to let her meet the man who had unflinchingly ruined her life. Each letter had the same response, the governor writing to her personally, sympathising with her plight but dissuading her from any sort of visit. It would be a waste he would say. I am grateful to that governor, I am grateful that he refused access to Mum. In later years she would meet the man who caused her nightmares but by then I would be old enough to intervene.

In the aftermath of Dad's death the priest would call to Mum's home frequently. He could never answer the only question she ever asked him; “Why?” Instead he would pray with her and utter clichés about God's master plan. Mum would interrupt his prayers and ask him to help her to arrange to meet the man they had held for the crime; he always said no. Mum lost any fragile religious beliefs she had felt until that point. If it wasn't for my grandparents influence my Catholic upbringing would never have come to fruition. Mum remembers what she viewed as the priests ‘platitudes' being so pathetic that she chased him and his banality away.

Instead of religion, family or friends Mum was to rely on her one true confidante for the proceeding years; Misery, she was the only one Mum needed. I would never say that Mum neglected us for she was a good Mum, we became her life. Nothing outside her three daughters mattered, except Misery. I believe that the events of Dad's death and their aftermath changed my Mum, changed her very being, so much so that a depression set in and in the absence of any treatment it festered within her. It made her mistrustful of others, bitter and eventually many years later very ill.

My sister and I in adulthood have often discussed why no one helped, why no support was offered and we were left alone. We will never get our answers but had someone, anyone helped; they could have saved us from so much. Instead every so often Misery visited our house. When she did it became a dark, quiet place where we were afraid to move, we became self-sufficient during Misery's visits and looked after ourselves and our Mum. But Northern Ireland had done all it was going to do for us. As far as it was concerned the quandary of the fragmented Olorunda family was resolved.

Chapter Thirty Five

I don't remember much of my childhood, portions of it comes to me in flashes, in little snippets. It was as if our Mum's sadness eclipsed everything, yet the happy times we had enabled me to bury the difficult. Sometimes when I recall certain details I chastise myself, why didn't I see that something wasn't right? How did I miss such obvious symptoms? My only answer, the only thing that can pacify me is the fact that I was a child; I thought these things were normal.

The crockery smashing was one thing that continued in my early years. I remember her standing at the door and throwing plates at the gable wall swearing and muttering under her breath. I remember throughout my childhood being woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of furniture moving. We had an open staircase in that first house and I used to lie across the top stair and peer through to the living room. I would see Mum pushing chairs, cabinets and rearranging ornaments. When we would come down in the morning Mum would be either in bed or work and the rooms would be changed around. Usually she changed them back again the following night. Most of all I remember the tears; Mum didn't know we could hear but we could, she used to cry and cry, looking back now it is no wonder.

I remember that our cupboards tended to be bare. Mum would get cross at us if we wasted even the smallest morsel of food. One day she made stew, my least favourite meal as a child. I refused point blank to finish it or even eat a mouth full for that matter. I was told that I couldn't leave the table until my plate was cleared. I sat at the table until the small hand on the clock reached 11 and the big hand reached 12. I woke up in bed; Mum must have let me escape that time. After that eating what was on offer became a battle of wills, for I freely admit I was not an easy child.

When Mum was at work I would go out and wreak havoc, I roamed the streets looking for trouble. On one occasion I remember throwing crab apples at a nasty old ladies window. I thought she deserved it because she had called me a ‘black bastard'. I knew she didn't deserve it when the following day she burst into our kitchen and began to shout at Mum who had assumed I was doing my homework at the time of the incident.

A few weeks later I pushed a child in my class and knocked her front teeth out, again I thought she deserved it until my Mum was given a solicitors letter. My next incident involved shouting obscenities at a work man putting up a neighbour's wall; he had seen a black soldier and pointed him out to me as my cousin. I was incandescent and through the choice language I levelled at him I let him know. That night he came to our door.

I was eight years old, a tomboy and considered myself fearless that was until my Mum was to one day explode at my antics. She had had enough. I came home from school expecting her to be in her bed to find her waiting for me at the kitchen table with ‘the stick'. After the stick and I had bonded I was sent to bed.

The following day when Mum returned home from work she sat me down and explained to me that things were hard and I was making them harder. She asked me why I did these things and I told her I was sick of being, as a classmate had described me ‘an alien'. I even accused her of not being my real Mum. She was white after all and I was black. My sisters and I were the only black people for miles around. Mum seemed to mellow a bit and she showed me pictures of my Dad and spent the afternoon telling me all about him, how he had sometimes felt sad at what people said to him but he had risen above it. He had been brave and proud and I should be too.

From that point on I did my best to make my Dad proud, I knew he valued academic success so I applied myself at school. I knew he valued family so I worked hard at being nicer to mine. Best of all from seeing my Mum and Dad in the photograph I knew I wasn't adopted. Instead I knew that my Dad just wasn't there. Didn't he want me? Was the fact that I was so bad the reason he stayed away? If I was good maybe he would come back. I had been told that he was dead, but death was such an abstract notion that I never fully understood what it meant.

That weekend my Mum brought us to his grave, she sat me down and explained the bomb, really explained what had happened. Before all I had known was that bad men had taken my Dad away, now I was to be told all. From that day on I questioned my Mum, probed her for every detail I could get about this man, my Dad. Each memory she told me seemed to take a little bit out of her, for she would go quiet or retreat to bed after she had spoken of him. In those days it was as if even remembering sucked her lifeblood away. I didn't know then that she had put the worst memories, those that caused her pain away on her little shelf. Yet in those days I was annoying, I must have been, for I constantly questioned. I was relentless always grasping for any little nugget of information about this man I didn't know, the man who was half of me.

The more information I secured about my Dad the more I wanted to be the daughter I thought he would have wanted. I became competitive always trying to be the best, I became bookish and most of all I became proud. Proud that this man had been my Dad, and proud of my colour. I wanted to know more about my Nigerian side but Mum's knowledge was scarce. She had relied on my Dad to impart his culture to us; as he would have relied on her to impart hers. Without knowing anything about my Nigerian side alongside a stark awareness that I was different from taunts and comments rapidly made my pride turn to shame.