Legacy (16 page)

Chapter Thirty Eight

Whilst Mum was planning our relocation the political situation in Northern Ireland was as dire as ever. Mum had thought that our part in Northern Ireland's history was over however in some ways it had only just begun. A few years earlier Mum had outed herself as anti-IRA when the train bomb had made headlines again. This time the bomb it was to make the headlines for different reasons. A priest decided to launch a campaign seeking early release for Flynn on compassionate grounds. On hearing and reading the priest's campaign Mum was devastated. Mum wrote an open letter to the Belfast Telegraph voicing her objections but it was never printed. People from far and wide right across Northern Ireland opposed the priest's actions which reassured Mum. I'm not sure what impact the campaign had, but Flynn was released after having served just a few years of his light sentence. Mum was once again joined by Misery and thoroughly distraught. As was customary in bleak circumstances she took to her bed and her drugs were increased.

The increase in her prescription allowed her to function and got her through the early release and allowed her to concentrate on us. That was until one day when we ran out of milk. I remember that day like it was yesterday, it all started so well. Mum was off and feeling well and that morning she announced that we needed to get ready as we had to get milk and since she was off, we may as well go for a drive as well. As children we loved getting out for a drive and as Mum's days off and ‘well' days were scarce we excitedly seized the opportunity. I remember my sisters and I playing paper, scissor and stone to decide who would get the privileged position of sitting in the front. Of course I choose stone so I was outwitted and relegated to the back beside Maxine. Alison was the winner that day so she would sit in the front. It didn't really matter though as Mum had promised us a long run and said we could listen to whatever tape we wanted on the journey. As Alison had won the race for the front seat Maxine and I could choose the tape. We choose Michael Jackson because he was cool.

For the most part Mum had taught us to ignore the town and its people. It was a staunchly republican town and IRA victims, catholic or not would never have been popular, not to mention black IRA victims. As such in those years we did most of our shopping in Derry, we only bought the very basic essentials in the town.

As I remember we certainly went for a run that day, but not the kind of run my sisters and I had in mind.

We got to the shop only to find that it was closed, the next shop and the next shop were too. 24 hour petrol stations didn't exist back then. But as this was a normal day there was no apparent reason why the shops would be closed. Mum and Alison double checked the time and according to them the shops should definitely be open. After all it was 11am. Baffled we moved on to the last shop we could think off, it too was closed. Mum made us all laugh when she suggested that we would have to drive out of the town altogether and find a cow. If we kept driving we would be in the country soon all we needed was a bucket and we could fill up. I remember giggling and giggling as if it was the funniest thing I had ever heard. I was quite looking forward to milking a cow! We were still squealing with laughter five minutes later as each of us proffered our parts in the milking process. We were a happy little bunch as we continued our drive around the town looking for a shop.

It didn't take long before Mum spotted a familiar face from the town walking his dogs. She pulled over beside him and asked him why all the shop were closed,

“What's going on,” she enquired genuinely curious,

“It's the commemoration of the Easter rising,” he replied perhaps a little too proudly.

It was then I noticed Mum staring ahead, I think we all did as soon we were all following her line of sight. Up ahead stood a gathering of people, no, more of a procession. A big man dressed from head to toe in black and wearing a mask raised his hand at Mum to stop the car until the procession had passed on.

The men in the march all had their faces covered and were all dressed in black. They carried a huge tricolour. I thought they looked like zombies because they walked so slowly. In response to the dog walker Mum said; “IRA, you mean?”

“Yes the new commemorating the old,” he proudly nodded.

I knew then that this was worse than walking into a zombie horde for the word IRA was a word that to my sisters and I was synonymous with death, bombs, bullets and of course tears. Our jovial little family outing was instantly transformed into one of utter fear. As Michael Jacksons ‘Thriller' filled the car terror filled us. Mum became unrecognisable, she paled, she tensed and she swore. Mum's rage was palpable. When I remind her of that day she says that those “bastards” holding up the road were supporting violence, and she was supposed to just sit there and idly let them pass by. There they were alive and breathing, walking and talking whilst the innocent rotted in their graves. She said she thought of my Dad at that moment his death was all the more reinforced by looking at his daughters sat in the back seat fatherless. She was reminded of my Dad's smiling face, she saw her mother telling us that our Daddy had gone and Anger took over her completely and utterly.

For once I was fortunate that I had not won the competition to sit in the front seat for all of a sudden my Mum pressed her foot to the accelerator and drove faster and harder than I had seen her or anyone else do before. As Michael Jackson sang I remember thinking of how all these men in balaclava's danced just like him. From my backseat vantage point it seemed their footwork was just as intricate as they dived for the pavement. They couldn't hear the music but they certainly must have heard Mums car because I could see them running and scattering in all directions. Yet that wasn't enough for Mum, she was adamant; she was on a mission to annihilate each and every one of them. Faster and faster she went not stopping until our car made contact with bodies, lots of them. I remember the thuds as one by one, they bounced of the boot, even those who sought refuge in the pavement could not escape Mum's little red mini.

As I peered behind me I could see men were scattered in various positions on the road behind. Even more alarming Mum had started to make the car go backwards; she was going to run over all the men strewn on the road. Luckily she decided against the idea and quickly made the cars go forward again; maybe she decided that hitting as many as she could, would be easier and more effective. I screamed, Maxine and Alison screamed, we had never seen anything as frightening before. It was as if the sound of our hysterics shook Mum back to reality for as she looked at us and her face changed, it started to register normality again, she was beginning to look like our Mum once more. Calm was restored as Mum appraised the situation around her; I think she saw what we saw. Our Mum, feral and dazed, wildly knocking down hordes of balaclava wearing men.

Mum simply turned the radio off, turned the now silent car around and drove us back home. She went straight to bed; I could have sworn I saw tears glisten in her eyes.

We didn't get the milk that day.

Over the next few weeks Mum worried about the repercussions as she had knocked down at least six men. The extent of their injuries was unknown. Yet for now with Misery by side I believe she hoped they were dead.

In Northern Ireland it was a well-known fact that the IRA meted their own justice. From what my Mum had been told it was only a matter of time before they exercised it. We were once again barricaded in.

Chapter Thirty Nine

One thing the road rage incident did was spur Mum on to make concrete plans for the move to Nigeria. Our local priest Father Mulvey was instrumental in helping her make contacts. He had known a friend of a friend as Irish people generally do, who was working in Nigeria and slowly but surely she began to make arrangements. Mum saved as much she could. This would not be a cheap move, yet life in Nigeria seemed cheaper in comparison to here so we would save when we were there. The main thing for Mum was getting there and finding a job. She contacted some hospitals in and around the Lagos area and enquired if they had vacancies for nurses.

Slowly but surely the Nigerian plans began to take shape, in the meantime we continued to
exist
in the town. Mum had no friends a fact that I found so sad, if she had had friends perhaps her life would have been easier, they may have brought out the lively person she once was. Instead she simply had us, her work and Misery. Mum continued to have good days and bad days. The bad days tended to be the result of news of yet another terrorist atrocity or yet another bereaved family. Each new death compounded her own experiences.

To escape Misery befriended her and together in the darkness of her bedroom they shut out the world. She was a good friend to Mum and her friendship overtook everything else, us, work and her plans. We always prayed that the bad days would end and the good days would return. For it was on these good days that we caught a glimpse of what our mother could have been.

At this stage Mum worked in the town's health centre as a district nurse. The staff there got to know her well and had an understanding of her shattered life. Many of them were sympathetic. One of the doctors that Mum worked with was prompt to guess what was happening; that Mum was suffering from a deep depression. During one bout he called to our house and assessed Mum. Again Mum's drugs were increased and Misery not wanted to leave Mum completely released her hold enough to let Mum function.

It seemed that every time Mum got depressed, when she succumbed to Misery she was given more drugs. They succeeded in pushing Misery a little further away each time so she could work and focus her mind on us and the move. Mum admits that if she kept focused on something, anything at all, that she felt stronger.

Yet Mum didn't know then that the commemoration events that our little drive had interrupted, were only a prelude to the main parade. That year's main parade unbeknownst to Mum was the talk of the town. One day when she was calling at a patient's house to undertake the glamorous task of dressing yet another rotten bedsore, she became privy to the town's anticipation. The patient informed her that the parade would “honour the town's fallen heroes.” She told Mum of how they had lost their lives at the hands of the “Brits.” She delighted in informing her of how they had so bravely fought and thrown their own lives down for Ireland.

Mum didn't reply to the patient, but remembers thinking
“killers you mean?... IRA bastards.”

The patient lost in her own romantic visions of Ireland's patriots went on to make the mistake of telling Mum that this year's day would be even more special than ever. The town could expect a special guest that day, one of the most heroic men of them all; Martin McGuinness, the senior republican, who would even enjoy a short ceremony in the grave yard where he would fly the glorious tricolour high above all the graves as a mark of respect to all the heroes.

As soon as Mum had finished the patients dressing she drove straight to the parochial house. McGuinness in those days was a known as an IRA commander. Mum was sure he would be made very welcome in Strabane, she was also sure that she would not let him fly his flag in the grave yard. At the parochial house Mum met with Father Mulvey, who was a nationalist priest but he was not a republican. In fact, he became famous during the troubles for condemning the IRA and their actions. As a child, I can recall that he was one of the few people who got across our front door. He and Mum got on well, mainly due to their shared political beliefs. He was a stern man, but a sensible man. He believed in right and wrong and had little time for the troubles. Father Mulvey spoke his mind and his beliefs were not always popular.

When Mum told him what she'd heard he confirmed that he also had heard the same. However, as far as he was concerned no one had sought his permission to fly any flag over the graveyard. He assured Mum that even if someone did ask for such permission it would never be permitted.

Chapter Forty

Soon the day of the parade was upon the town, a day I don't remember but I certainly remember the aftermath. Excited chatter hung in the air. As far as the townsfolk were concerned something
very
special was happening, someone
very
special was coming. A famous IRA commander would be gracing their streets. Their attention was so focussed on the VIP arrival that they came out in force. Unlike the procession of a few days ago this parade was on the town's main road, its length lined with supporters. The procession weaved its way through the town and stopped outside the grave yard. There the men said a few words and all heads bowed. They then were on the move again, this time preparing themselves to turn through the grave yards gates.

The commander snaked his way through the road as always surrounded by legions of fans. Armed with a huge tricolour they were surprised encounter a priest standing in their path. They asked permission to fly the flag in the grave yard as a mark of respect to the town's heroes. Father Mulvey denied it. He knew of what had happened to Mum and many, many others as such he was not a supporter of their cause. Jesus said turn the other cheek, not to fight as they did. That was his philosophy and his reasons for refusing their entry.

Mum recalls his commanding voice booming through the crowd.

“You might want to honour your victims, but I have to bear in mind
their
victims, so I am sorry I do not and cannot give you permission to fly anything political on consecrated ground,” he said.

The priest folded his arms and continued to block their path. Mum had never been a lover of the church, but today she found herself adoring it. A catholic priest standing up to the IRA was unheard of and a sense of justice pervaded her.

Jeers from protesters pelted Father Mulvey from every angle; he was heckled from far and wide. In the absence of any supporters for this brave man, Anger seized Mum and together stood beside him. Father Mulvey called for others to join them, unsurprisingly no one did. Some stood in silence; others hung their heads, all were afraid to be seen confronting the public face of the IRA.

So it happened that there outside that little graveyard something utterly unheard of took place. A small but significant battle was unfolding, a tiny peace protest, where two stalwart campaigners faced an army that few dared to tackle. Side by side, a small town priest and a country victim stood together and openly against the IRA. I am so proud of my Mum for standing there that day; it must have taken every ounce of her courage.

She shouted as she made her way directly to the IRA commander. She doesn't remember the full content of the conversation but she knows that that was the day that she added a little Northern Irish French to her vocabulary. From that day on swear words became an integral part of her every day speech. Yet on that day she had a small victory, because the commander and his hordes marched on by waving their flag behind them.

The following day my sisters and I greeted Mum after school with forlorn faces,

“What's wrong?” she asked.

“Mummy are you ill?” Alison replied.

“No, why?” Mum answered.

“Because everyone says you're sick.”

That was how anyone who went against the consensus of this republican little town was viewed. As sick.

For a few months Mum heard nothing more about the event but inside she became worried, had she put her daughters at risk? The IRA were cold blooded killers; she doubted very much that killing a child would even tickle their conscience.

The plans for Nigeria soon became crucial and all consuming. Mum took to calling the hospitals and unlike before this time she spoke to staff about available jobs not possible jobs. Her plans were so advanced that she even put our house on the market. If a job or a sale came through then we would go, Mum would take us girls and run.