Herself Alone in Orange Rain Page 11

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You did a grand job.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Why not stick to more like that?’

  ‘It’s not enough.’

  He rubs a thought across his forehead. ‘Sure, there are other ways you can help.’

  ‘I’m good for more than hiding guns under my coat.’

  He sighs. ‘What is it you think you can do?’ He’s a physical force man; action’s his thing.

  ‘Anything you can teach me.’

  ‘Can you drive?’

  ‘I’ll learn.’

  ‘Fire a gun?’

  ‘I’ll learn.’

  He snorts.

  I pull the two passports from my bag and hand them to him.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘I’m not known; they won’t be looking for me. If they do they’ll have a job on. Two people are harder to catch than one. Won’t that be useful?’

  Your prime duty is to remain unknown to the enemy forces.

  His face relaxes, rock melting. ‘It might.’

  I prise apart the tiny chink. ‘There are plenty of things women can do that men can’t but fewer things men can do that women can’t. When we’re given the opportunity.’

  ‘You needn’t be telling us our jobs,’ Martin says.

  ‘I’m not, but maybe you’d be interested in how I know there’s a picture of the sacred heart in the bedroom next door.’

  They look at each other.

  ‘How the…?’ Martin asks.

  ‘She’s guessing,’ Action Man says.

  ‘And a pink candlewick bedspread.’ I relish their mystified stares. ‘The wifie downstairs was happy let me use her loo but would she if I was a lad? I can do whatever you ask and more.’

  ‘It’s not us you’re needing to convince,’ Politics says more softly. ‘Your problem’ll be the boys in your unit, some of them, not all. We advocate equality but it’s still filtering down.’

  ‘I’ll cope.’

  Martin nods. ‘I’m sure you will. Right lads, let’s have the word on this. Give us a minute.’

  I go out onto the landing. The young volunteer has his mask rolled up so he can smoke. He leaps to attention and fumbles for the balaclava, trying to pull it down with his fag still between his lips.

  ‘Shite! Ah, Jesus.’ He drops the cigarette and stamps it out, pressing a hand to the red welt on his cheek.

  ‘Have one of mine. I won’t tell.’ I offer him my pack.

  He takes one from arm’s length. He’s a year or two older than me but trying to grow a moustache to add a few more. ‘Sorry ’bout before, searching ya, but orders…’ He shrugs.

  ‘It’s fine. Are we allowed to do names?’

  ‘Are ya joining?’

  ‘Hope so.’

  ‘Good for you.’ He offers me his hand. ‘Colm.’

  ‘Caoilainn.’

  ‘Maybe’s we’ll be working together sometime, Caoilainn.’

  The door handle turns. Colm and I jump apart; he drops the cigarette and yanks down his mask. Martin beckons me into the room. The chairs have been pushed back and a tricolour pinned on the wall.

  ‘We’ve had a wee chat,’ he says, ‘and you’ve been approved.’ He holds up his hand. ‘Providing you get through the training, but that’s the same for every recruit. Now, anything else?’ He checks with the others.

  Action Man casts his eyes over me, taking in my long loose hair, jacket, jeans, ending up at my road-greyed trainers. ‘Don’t cut your hair.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘In case you need to cut it later to change your appearance,’ he explains, ‘and get yourself some decent boots, ones you can run in.’

  ‘OK. Fine.’

  ‘Grand. We’ll swear you, so. How’s your Irish?’ Martin says.

  ‘Foirfe. Céard faoin gceann seo agatsa?’

  Martin shakes his head. ‘This isn’t an outlaw posse you’re joining; it’s an army, with a command structure: discipline. Respect that or you’ll not last five minutes.’

  He says it flat, a sober statement, not a bawled rebuke or even a threat. I take it impassively, like an exemplary soldier. I will respect that, and them, but they’ll have to earn it from me as much as I will from them.

  Satisfied by my silence, he proceeds, in Irish, to take my declaration to ‘Serve the Republican Movement by means both military and political, promising that my personal conduct shall never bring disgrace to the Cause and offering my unconditional allegiance to Oglaigh na hEireann.’

  Belfast—9th August, 1981

  Sands Mural Unveiled

  Republicans Honour H-Block Martyrs

  as Ninth Hunger Striker Dies

  A mural depicting Bobby Sands, MP, and dedicated to the men who have died on hunger strike in the Maze Prison H-Blocks, was unveiled in West Belfast today.

  Painted on the side of the Sinn Fein building on the Falls Road, the mural shows a head and shoulders portrait of Sands against a multi-coloured sky and includes the words, ‘Our revenge will be the laughter of our children’, a quotation from Sands’ prison writings.

  Amid a heavy police presence a crowd of thousands gathered to see the mural unveiled. Key figures of the Republican movement, including Sinn Fein’s northern leadership, were in attendance.

  Speaking to reporters after the unveiling, Mr Gerry Adams of Sinn Fein said, ‘Our thoughts and prayers are with the families of the nine young men who have made the ultimate sacrifice for a cause they believed in.’

  The ninth hunger striker to die was Thomas McIlwee who survived sixty-two days without food. He died on 8th August. Michael Devine, who joined the strike on 21st June as the tenth man, is believed to be close to death. Three others continue the strike and there is speculation that more will refuse food if an agreement is not reached.

  During the unveiling cries of the Irish phrase, ‘tiocfaidh ár lá’ were heard. The phrase, thought to have been coined by Sands, translates as, ‘Our day will come’.

  I stand among a crowd that doesn’t know the mural is my last artist’s commission and my first volunteer’s job. Around me people sob and cheer as the cry tiocfaidh ár lá goes up. I study my new boots as the men on the platform spout their rhetoric. Their words are blanks fired over my head. A new recruit’s immediate challenge is the removal of his (her) ignorance about how to handle weapons, military tactics, security, interrogations etc. Training starts tomorrow.

  We’re driven over the border into wild, anonymous countryside. There are thirty of us. I’m the only woman. The lads alternate between staring and avoiding my gaze. Some know each other and huddle together, sharing cigarettes: speculating about me. I guard everything I do. Twice I stop myself reaching for the tube of lip salve that is the only luxury I’ve let myself bring. I won’t be caught out. I’m afraid of proving them right.

  The hills and woodland are our cover and base for the coming fortnight. We bivvy up in tents borrowed from the Fianna and cook over campfires. The training officer runs classes in an old barn lent to us by a Republican farmer. We’re shown how to strip, clean and load a rifle, build and arm a bomb. On the third afternoon it’s unarmed combat. When it’s my turn I go in hard because the TO is 6ft 2 and solid around the middle while I’m 5ft 5 and 8 stone wringing wet; because the last three lads landed on their arses and because my ears are burning just thinking of the jeers I’ll get when I go the same way. I crash into him and he buckles too easily, letting me pin him facedown in the mud. Behind me, a single pair of hands applauds. I see a tall, thin lad, jet-black hair and dark eyes, clapping. He winks.

  After the demo the TO, Mick Casey, comes across, offers me his hand.

  ‘You gave me a good hiding there, so you did.’

  ‘Only because you let me.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll not be making that mistake again,’ he grins.

  ‘Good. Don’t,’ I says. ‘It doesn’t help me.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  He orders us into pairs to practice. The lad that
clapped me comes over, introduces himself: Liam, from Belfast. He shakes my hand and, with a chuckle, says he’s glad I’m on his side. I don’t let on about Casey’s chivalrous cheating and, because it’s got Liam thinking I’ve stepped off the pages of the Táin, some modern-day Scáthach, he barrels into me like a charging bull. I land hard, pain ringing up my spine, air slammed from my lungs. Liam drops down beside me.

  ‘Jesus, you alright?’

  I nod, fight for breath and struggle up. Liam grabs my arm and hauls me off the ground.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean…’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  We go again but Liam backs out, dropping when I’ve barely got a hand on him.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt you.’

  ‘It’s not you I’m worried about; it’s the bloody Brits. I need to be able to do this properly.’ I shove him. ‘Come on.’ I grin and shove again. He grabs me.

  By teatime I’m bruised and achy but Liam’s been on his arse as often as me.

  We train in the open, on rainy windswept moors, far from the streets where we’ll fight. We squelch through mud, wade across streams and scramble over stone walls, dodging sheep that litter the hillsides. We’re drilled, staging mock attacks, sham firing Armalites and handguns, saving precious bullets for real targets. After a week I’m cold in my bones. The muscles in my arms and shoulders scream with pain as I raise the machine gun to sight along the barrel. My legs stiffen, my knees lock out, every crouch cracking rusted joints. I wear the cold and live for small victories: one good night’s sleep; forgetting, for five minutes, that my feet are soaked; running two miles on just a cup of tea; not being the last to get my weapon reassembled. Everything is done in the moment. I don’t let myself think of what’s coming next. If I do I’ll sink.

  The OC comes to see me.

  ‘We’ve a journalist arriving tomorrow to observe. He’s dead on, trusted, so he is, or we’d not have him here. He’d like a word with you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Wants to know how you’re finding things, that’s all. He’s sent a list of questions. We’ll go through them so you’re clear what you can say to him.’

  I nod, take the paper he’s holding out and scan it. Reading the questions I’m glad I’m not hunting alone for the answers.

  The next morning a Hiace van pulls up the lane. We’re issued with balaclavas as a figure is helped out. Once we’re masked his blindfold is removed. Blinking against the sudden brightness, he stumbles through the field towards us. The OC explains who he is. We’re not to talk to him without permission. He glances at me. I nod. The journalist draws close, huddling into his raincoat. We’re fallen in for inspection, our clothes smeared with muck. A greasy brown slop coats my boots. I’m held together by dirt and sweat. We haven’t had breakfast yet. My stomach chews on itself. I fantasise about biting through thick white bread, greasy bacon and creamy egg yolk, then remember Connor and the others still striking in Long Kesh. My hunger cowers from the thought.

  The journalist comes along the row towards me, his stride steady. Seeing me, a head shorter than the rest, he stops: stares. I keep my gaze on the horizon. Casey moves him on and we’re ordered to begin the day’s manoeuvres.

  Organised into units and moving in pincer formation, we launch attacks, defend, take cover and counter-attack. From a safe distance the journalist watches. We hope we’re impressing; his words could win us fresh support.

  Lunch is served in a disused milking shed. The quartermaster stands behind a makeshift table, ladling soup into our mugs. I limp forward, pain snapping up my leg, the result of twisting my ankle vaulting a fence. I find a dry corner, prop my rifle against the wall and sit, the soup steaming to tepid, to inspect my ankle.

  The skin is mottled black and purple, the flesh puffed up and squishy when I prod it.

  ‘Are you alright there?’ It’s the OC.

  ‘Fine.’ I retie the boot as tightly as I can.

  He crouches down. ‘Are you ready for that word with your man there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I struggle off the floor and we head into one of smaller barns. Before we enter the OC says:

  ‘Remember, stick to what we went through.’

  The journalist comes towards us, holding out his hand to me. I take it and mumble a greeting through the itchy balaclava. We sit on hay bales. I’m relieved to get the weight off my ankle. The journalist produces a notepad.

  ‘Can I ask how old you are?’

  ‘Old enough.’

  He smiles wryly. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘Dublin.’

  ‘Yet you’ve volunteered to fight in the north. Why?’

  ‘Because that’s where the problem is.’

  ‘We can agree on that,’ he says, writing in his notepad. ‘You’re the only woman here.’

  It’s not a question so I don’t answer it, leaving him to break the awkward silence with a nervous cough and an actual question.

  ‘How are you finding it, with the men? Is there any…’ he fumbles for a word, ‘prejudice?’

  ‘Only what there is anywhere. Maybe not even as much as that.’ I think about Casey and Liam’s attempts to protect me. ‘It’s harder for them than me, me being here.’ I wave towards the huddle of volunteers. ‘They’re not my problem but I might be theirs.’

  ‘Are you a feminist?’

  ‘I’m an Irish Republican.’

  ‘What about women’s rights?’

  ‘What about Ireland’s rights?’

  ‘So you don’t think the women’s liberation movement has anything to offer?’

  ‘Our problems aren’t the same as theirs. It’s a class issue. They don’t understand us so they can’t help.’ I itch to tell him some braless suburban housewife with a snazzy slogan jiggling across her unfettered boobs can’t offer me anything I don’t already have or can’t get for myself. But that’s not on the agreed script.

  He scribbles again.

  ‘How many women are in the Provisionals?’

  ‘There’s about thirty in Armagh jail.’

  ‘I know.’ He grimaces. ‘I went there during the no-wash protest.’

  I burn to ask what made him sickest, the inhumanity or the blood on the walls. But that’s not on the sodding script either.

  ‘Why have you chosen armed resistance?’

  ‘I wanted to help.’

  ‘You could’ve done than by joining Sinn Fein,’ he presses.

  He’s slipped up, straying from the precious script. Unable to keep my balance, I fall too.

  ‘You think I should be at home writing to my MP?’

  ‘MP?’ He pounces. ‘I thought you were from Dublin.’

  I curse the error; I should’ve said TD. The OC takes over.

  ‘She is.’

  ‘But you grew up in England,’ the journalist guesses, looking to me for more.

  I glance at the OC. He whispers in my ear. I digest his advice, form a cautious reply.

  ‘I’m Irish. Where I grew up’s irrelevant. The north is oppressed by a foreign army of occupation. We’ve a right to fight that.’

  ‘I agree, but why’ve you chosen to fight like this?’ He gestures with his pen.

  I take it from his fingers and look once more at the OC. He warns me with raised eyebrows but nods that I can answer.

  ‘You might win the peace with one of these but you need to win the war first. That takes guns, not words. So here I am.’

  ‘And how’ve you found it so far?’ His eyes flick to the open door, at the lads clustered together, smoking and gabbing.

  ‘It’s not a boy scout weekend,’ I say, ‘but we help each other.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ the OC interrupts. He signals the journalist up. ‘I’ll show you round.’

  They leave. I pull off the mask and light a cigarette with shaking fingers. Hot tears, pain, fatigue and frustration, bubble to the surface.
<
br />   ‘Hey.’

  I look up, see Liam and rub a hand over my face.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘I twisted my ankle.’

  ‘Shall I get Casey?’

  ‘It’ll be alright.’

  ‘If you’re hurt you can say, you know,’ he coaxes.

  I can’t. Because that’s what everyone’s expecting: me to jack it in.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’ve done better than some would.’

  Some what, recruits or women?

  ‘That’s not good enough for me. I have to do this.’

  He shakes his head: disbelief? admiration? ‘I’ve some painkillers if you want.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  We hunch into ourselves, sitting on upturned crates in the damp barn for a lecture on anti-interrogation techniques. Casey chalks words onto the brick wall, the letters made jaggedy by the uneven surface. He scrawls; physical torture, psychological torture, humiliation, bribery and blackmail. Liam nudges me, holding out a cigarette. I shake my head and focus on Casey, who’s explaining each point. When he reaches ‘humiliation’ and describes how prisoners are stripped of their clothing two lads turn and gawp at me.

  ‘What’s up with yous?’ I hiss.

  ‘Pay attention,’ Casey yells and they face front. ‘Aye,’ he adds, breaking from his lecture notes, ‘and yous should know the Brits give no favours to anyone. If anything they’re harder on women they pick up so don’t be thinking otherwise. You look after each other when you’re on active service. If you don’t you’re sunk.’ He clears his throat and resumes the lecture.

  The session is two hours of cold reality. The brick wall ends up covered with wobbly chalk words: sleep deprivation; brutal beatings; threats of violence against your family; disorientation and disillusionment: be prepared for the worst. Written largest of all is the mantra ‘say nothing’. Casey finishes by advising us that volunteers have found it easiest to survive interrogations by focusing their minds on something else, whatever will keep you from panicking: breaking.

  We file out in dark silence.