Herself Alone in Orange Rain Page 9

  During the baggy nights that swamp me I sit with Daideo’s cracked-leather rucksack beside me, the fragile contents on my lap, breathing in pale traces of him and replaying everything in my head, sometimes working backwards from where I am now, other times working forwards from any of the places I’ve been. Twice I pick up the phone, dial the past, hang up before it answers: they answer. I’m afraid they’ll actually help me. I tell myself they’re probably off sitting-in somewhere anyway. Besides, I need to find my own way. That’s what I do most, rehearsing the future in my mind, scene by scene, a comic book story with images of Marvel bright violence. The urgency to act is crushing me but I still can’t choose.

  One teatime there’s a knock at the door. I find Mr Walsh on the step, rain plastering his hair to his forehead and spattering against his glasses.

  ‘Hello, Caoilainn, how are you?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  He blinks. ‘Did you get my card?’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  He removes his glasses and smears raindrops onto his sleeve. He looks younger without them.

  ‘I was worried by your absence so I got your number from the college registrar but when I couldn’t get a reply I called round. One of your neighbours told me about your grandfather. I’m sorry.’

  Bloody Mr Brennan. I shrug. ‘He was old. He’d had enough.’

  There’s no reply to that so Mr Walsh hurries on. ‘Your neighbour said you were in Belfast. Have you family there?’

  ‘No. It’s where Daideo wanted to be buried. Milltown.’

  ‘But your parents came over?’

  My fingers grip the door. ‘My parents are dead.’

  ‘I thought they lived in England.’ He blinks again. ‘Your file, from PSAD, said...’

  ‘They’re not my parents.’

  We don’t speak for a minute. The rain continues battering Mr Walsh, his jacket darkening as the downpour soaks it. He glances at the sodden sky.

  ‘May I come in?’

  I could say no, shut the door, but that’s not dealing with it. I step aside.

  As he wipes his loafers on the mat his gaze falls on Daideo’s painting.

  ‘That’s not yours,’ he comments.

  ‘It’s Daideo’s.’

  Mr Walsh goes over, studies the brushstrokes. ‘Artistic talent runs in the family,’ he muses. ‘The colours are very evocative. Does it have a title?’

  ‘‘Green Dawn at St Enda’s’.’

  ‘Your grandfather was at St Enda’s?’

  ‘Yes. I think Mr Pearse helped him paint it.’

  Mr Walsh jerks round. ‘Willie Pearse?’

  ‘Yes. He was there 1911 to 1916.’ I make him wait. ‘He was in the GPO, Easter week.’

  ‘He fought with Pearse?’

  I smile. ‘Yes. You want a cuppa?’

  I make tea and we sit in the lounge, me in Daideo’s armchair, Mr Walsh on the sofa. He’s curious; I tell him, glad of the chance to remember. Daideo’s stories dance on my tongue; in them he lives again, growing young and becoming a hero.

  ‘That’s quite the life, your grandfather had himself,’ Mr Walsh says when I’ve finished. ‘But you haven’t said anything about yourself, your parents.’

  I shrug. ‘They died when I was little. Daideo couldn’t cope so he found a family to take me. I came back when I learnt he was ill.’

  ‘And will you be staying?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Mr Walsh smiles. ‘Grand. I’d be sorry to lose a promising student. I’ll have a word with the president tomorrow about your absence.’

  I reach for my cigarettes. ‘I’m not coming back to college.’

  Mr Walsh blinks twice, his eyes large behind thick lenses. ‘Why not?’

  I could lie but I want to test him. And myself.

  ‘It wasn’t just the one funeral I was at in Belfast.’

  Mr Walsh purses his lips. ‘You mustn’t let things in the north prey on your mind.’

  ‘Have you even been there? Do you know what it’s like?’

  ‘Sure, it’s a terrible situation but what good is it, you involving yourself?’

  ‘So we should ignore the injustice, the suffering, hope it’ll go away?’

  ‘Of course not. But there are better ways to fight it.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Martin Luther King. Ghandi. Peaceful protests.’

  ‘They’ve tried that. Paisley’s yobs bashed their skulls in with cudgels. I’ve seen it all my life; protests are a waste of time.’ I grind my cigarette out in the ashtray.

  He pushes his glasses up his nose, stutters, ‘Tell me you’re not thinking of, of…’

  ‘Right now I’m just thinking, about everything. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I do know I’m not going to be a bystander. Art’s not the only thing that runs in the family.’

  ‘A lot of folk could say that but it’s not a reason.’

  I think of Daideo, my dead parents. ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘My grandfather and great uncle fought during Easter week too, Mount Street, I think, but that doesn’t mean I should do the same now.’

  ‘Don’t you think we’ve a duty to fight what’s happening up there?’

  ‘Innocent people get killed.’

  ‘Don’t they in every war?’

  ‘Of course, but you don’t put a fire out by throwing petrol on it. You’ve a talent. Why not use your art instead, to protest? You could exhibit internationally one day, let the rest of the world see what’s happening in the north.’

  ‘The lads in H-5 don’t have that long. No one up there does.’ I stand. ‘You need to leave.’

  ‘Do you realise what you’re risking?’ He stands too, reaches out like he would grab and shake me but stops himself.

  I go into the hall and open the front door. He follows.

  ‘You’re upset now, grieving. Don’t do something quickly that you’ll regret slowly and for a long time,’ he cautions.

  I’m not. I won’t. So fuck you.

  We face off for a minute. Mr Walsh blinks one last time.

  ‘Please, Caoilainn, think about this.’

  ‘I am.’

  He ducks back under the downpour. I close the door on him. Do you realise what you’re risking? I charge into the living room and snatch up my sketchpad, flicking it over to the latest attempt at Daideo’s portrait. Scrabbling for a pencil I drop onto the floor, the pad on the hearth, and draw his eyes. They stare back at me, defiant and alive. I’m risking everything. It’s too important not to.

  Days pass, enough to make a fortnight. A letter comes from college saying I’ve been expelled. I put it in the bin and my art stuff in the attic. Pray for Aiden to show up. He doesn’t. I get my art stuff down again and go through my scrapbook of ideas, plans, sketches, colour tests and photographs. I fill pages with Celtic symbols, doodles of Belfast graffiti and stickmen figures cramped into coffins carried by other stickmen and one stickwoman.

  Four more dead hunger strikers later Aiden appears. His clothes are rumpled and dirty, he’s unshaven, the shadows under his eyes are black. He grins.

  ‘How much trouble am I in?’

  ‘By the look of you, a lot.’

  ‘I mean with you.’

  ‘I’d like to slap you six ways to Sunday but what good would that do?’

  He runs a bath. I sort his clothes for the machine, find his handgun in the pocket of his sweatshirt. I transfer it to my waistband then do him beans on toast. We sit in the kitchen.

  ‘How’s Connor?’

  ‘They’ve him on the hospital wing with the others. Martin’s bad.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Knackered.’ He swallows the last mouthful and lights a cigarette. ‘How ’bout yourself?’

  I pull out his gun, clunk it down on the table.

  ‘Shite, did I leave it in my pocket again?’

  I nod.

  He reaches for it but I hold on. ‘I want to do something.’

  He rubs
a hand through his hair. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know, something to help.’

  ‘Ach, there’s marches being organised, down here as well as in the north.’

  ‘I spent my childhood on marches; they never got us anywhere. There must be something else?’

  He inches the gun out from under my hand. My heart throbs, my own breath chokes me. Is this the moment I make my choice? Have I made it already?

  ‘Leave it with me, eh?’ Aiden says, tucking the gun away.

  Two days later Aiden announces there’s someone wanting to meet me, a Republican is all he’ll say when I ask who.

  We stroll through Dublin’s suburbs, the first of June’s sun warm on our backs, the evening sky a swathe of pink and lilac. A shiver ripples through me.

  The house is a semi with a rose garden and a whitewashed step. We’re greeted at the door by a tall, slim man, about thirty, square jaw, smooth skin, hazel eyes, wavy fair hair and smartly dressed in slacks and a shirt.

  ‘How are ya, Aiden?’ They shake hands. He turns to me. ‘So you’re wee Caoilainn.’ His grip is strong. Power vibrates the air around him, making my nerves spasm. ‘That’s a grand Irish name you’ve got.’ He smiles, showing even white teeth.

  ‘Thanks.’ I expect him to introduce himself. He just steps back to let us pass.

  ‘Are you not going to tell me who you are?’ I ask.

  He turns and grins. ‘If you’re after a name call me Martin.’

  His charade reveals more than it hides. He might as well’ve called himself Michael Collins. He’s a big man. I feel suddenly sick. What the fuck am I doing?

  He shows us into a front room of flower-print cushions and net curtains, offers tea; Aiden accepts. The big man goes to see to it. I’m standing awkwardly on the rug, staring at a picture of the Virgin, cursing myself, when he returns.

  ‘Tea’ll be along,’ he says, sliding onto the sofa, stretching out long legs and lighting a cigarette.

  Aiden and I take up the fireside armchairs. For ten seconds Martin studies me. I stare back, face neutral, heart pulsing.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about your granddaddy.’

  ‘He was ready.’

  Martin nods. A young woman carries in a tray of tea things, including a plate of gingersnaps.

  ‘Do yous want anything else?’

  ‘We’re fine,’ Martin tells her.

  ‘Then I’m away.’

  As Martin pours tea the front door clicks closed. He hands me a cup.

  ‘So you’re wanting to help, Aiden says.’

  Throat half throttled by fear, I nod.

  ‘I’ve a wee project might suit you. Aiden says you paint.’

  I manage to croak, ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’re after a new mural for the side of the Sinn Fein offices in Belfast. You were at Sands’ funeral?’

  I nod.

  ‘Can you do something for him, a memorial?’

  I glance at Aiden who smiles encouragement. I feel myself drowning, sinking beneath waves of, what? Relief? Disappointment? I flail about for rescue.

  ‘Sure, she could,’ Aiden prompts.

  I pull myself up, out. ‘What were you wanting?’

  Martin shrugs. ‘You’re the artist. This might help though.’ He goes to the sideboard, takes something from a drawer and gives me it.

  It’s a grainy black and white photograph of Sands, his young face full and smiling, his hair falling in long silky waves to his shoulders; the Bobby Sands people need, alive and living, not the one they’ve got: wasted to death.

  As we stroll home I curl my fingers around the photo, now tucked in my pocket.

  ‘Your first mission,’ Aiden jokes.

  ‘Commission.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Artists get ‘com’-missions.’

  ‘Oh, right. But you’re happy,’ he probes. ‘You’re helping now, so you are.’

  ‘I thought…’

  Aiden jolts to a stop. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Yes, I’m glad to be doing something.’

  Armed with a sketch pad, two pencils (1H for outlines; 2B for shading), the grainy snap of Sands and Daideo’s ‘Green Dawn’ painting I set to work. The face of a smiling young man with everything to die for fills the paper. I rough out shape, perspective, light and shade, add a quote, ‘our revenge will be the laughter of our children’, then transfer this to a small canvas. Oils breathe life into the dead; chocolate hair, strawberry lips, buttery skin. I keep the paint thin so it dries fast, letting me start on the backdrop: a green, white and orange dawn. When it’s ready I take it to Martin for approval. He says he’ll send it north for the final OK. and let me know. But he likes it.

  A week later I’m summoned to Belfast. The side of the Sinn Fein building has been freshly whitewashed. An army of Fianna cadets are assembled, one of them is Danny, Aiden’s younger brother. A supply of paint and brushes arrives on the backseat of a dented Mini. I look up at the enormous space I have to fill and wonder how the hell I’m going to do it. But I already know: stroke by stroke.

  We work in fractured time, rain, raids and rioting stalling progress. The Fianna start off keen but quickly get fed-up. They’re used to running important messages, keeping lookout, other things I’m not trusted to know because I’m not one of them. Painting is kiddie stuff. Grateful for their sneering disinterest I pack them off, all but Danny who Nora dispatches to me as soon as he’s home from school. I stay with the O’Neills too, on nights when travelling back to Dublin isn’t practical: possible. When I am forced to stay I work from first light to last, eating perched on my scaffold and falling into bed as soon as I’m allowed, dodging family time with them because I can’t handle their kindly fussing.

  It’s early July before the mural is finished, inspected, approved and covered up for the official unveiling in a few weeks. I’m thanked. I leave, afraid of what I’ll do if I stay.

  Dublin—13th July, 1981

  Sixth Hunger Striker Dies

  Pressure Increases on Irish Government

  The death has been announced today of Republican prisoner Martin Hurson. Hurson, the sixth to die on hunger strike in the Maze Prison, began his fast on 29th May. A book of condolence will be opened today outside the GPO where a number of peaceful protestors have been mounting a token relay fast for several weeks. Following Hurson’s death fresh appeals calling for Irish governmental intervention in the strike have been presented to the Dail.

  A demonstration in support of the hunger strike is planned for Saturday. Those wishing to participate should assemble at 2pm at St Stephen’s Green.

  Six more men remain on death-fast in the H-Blocks.

  Posters advertising Saturday’s hunger strike demo accost me on the way into the Green on Friday. I stumble to a stop, stunned by the sight of a young couple handing out leaflets about the march. They are frighteningly familiar, a remade version of what I’ve left behind. The man comes over, offers me a flier.

  ‘Will you join us?’ he asks.

  ‘It won’t do any good,’ I tell him.

  ‘Sure, we’ve got to try,’ he insists.

  Is that what it was about for them? The act of trying was their victory.

  ‘Will you not at least sign the book for Martin?’ he continues. ‘They have it over on O’Connell Street.’

  I duck the question and nip through the gates, into the Green, heading for my usual pondside bench, where I wrap myself up in thoughts.

  On Saturday afternoon I venture into Daideo’s bedroom, throw open the wardrobe, pull out the drawers and start, finally, bagging his things for charity and scrap.

  By teatime bin liners crammed with his life surround me; threadbare shirts, holey jumpers, tattered paperbacks, scratched 78s. The only things of value are the mementos stowed in his rucksack, which sits in the living room, by his chair, curled up like a companionable pet. The phone rings. I scramble into the hall to answer it.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  It’s Aiden.

&n
bsp; ‘Fine. Why?’

  ‘The riots, I thought…’

  I’m flummoxed; he knows I’m in Dublin because he’s rung me here so how could I be caught up in anything? ‘What riots?’

  ‘Outside the British Embassy. The gardai attacked the march. There’s people hurt. It’s on the news.’

  ‘Wait there.’

  I put the phone down, go into the lounge and flick on the telly. RTE have replaced the afternoon’s jovial quiz show host with a stern newsreader. Behind him a screen shows a blurred image of policemen in riot gear, batons raised, shields clutched, surrounding a prone figure. I snap the set off and dash back to the phone.

  ‘Caoilainn?’

  ‘I was checking the news. I’ve seen it.’

  ‘But you’re OK?’ Aiden presses.

  ‘Yes.’ No. I didn’t try. I did nothing. Fuck. Muscles tense and nerves twitch, protesting my indecision.

  ‘I’ll have to go,’ Aiden says. ‘Stay safe.’

  He rings off before I can tell him to take his own advice.

  I throw on my jacket and trainers, sprint to the bus stop. There isn’t one for twenty minutes. I start running, am puffing and hot half-way between stops when I hear the engine rumbling behind me. Fury whips me on. I make the next stop as the bus pulls up. Ten minutes later I’m climbing down near the embassy in Ballsbridge, legs still shaking from the run.

  Outside the embassy several ambulances are parked askew, doors flung open to gobble up the wounded which are being fed to them on stretchers. There are bodies on the ground, picking themselves up, slowly, painfully. Some of them are gardai, their shields dented and discarded, their uniforms ripped. More of them are middle-aged women, old men, teenagers. They bleed and groan. Torn banners, splintered placards and trampled flags carpet the road. Gobs of rubble lie where they were spat up. Safety barriers lay collapsed in the street, exhausted by their own failure. On the sidelines journalists gabble pieces to camera. One has a bloody bandage round his forehead which he gestures to as he tells the lens everything.

  I was eight. It was the American Embassy in London. We, they, were protesting Vietnam, the futile deaths, the bloody suffering. It got violent; we wouldn’t move, the Americans didn’t want us staying. Dad was hurt. I remember red covering his face like a cartoon character’s mask. Mum used her sequined headscarf as a field dressing…