Going home for Christmas

 

Going home for Christmas

Tony Daly loved these nights at Celtic Park, surrounded by his family. The Kerrydale Suite was packed for the Christmas eve dance and the band was in full swing. He sat at the table drinking his Guinness and watched the others dance. At 70, his dancing days were over and his doctor had been clear enough the previous week that time was short and any physical exertion might shorten it further. ‘Too bad we have tae get old,’ he thought to himself as he stood and headed out of the hall for a smoke. He took the stairs carefully, one at a time, wheezing with the exertion. The two men in smart Celtic blazers who minded the door and smiled at him. ‘Just going oot for a puff,’ Tony said as he passed them.

As he stood in the car park gazing around at the fine stadium Celtic had built for themselves, his mind drifted back to his many trips to Celtic Park with his old man and uncle Frank. They’d lift him over the turnstile and find a spot at the front of the Celtic end where he’d watch, entranced by Jimmy Johnstone, Murdoch, Auld and all the rest of that wonderful team. There had been some bad days too when he first started going regularly to matches. Heavy defeats, painful disappointments and a lot of false dawns. Things had changed when Jock Stein arrived though. The orchestra had a real conductor then.

He exhaled his smoke into the cold December air as he gazed across the car park at the three statues guarding the place; the good Brother, the boss and the winger. Each in their own way vital to Celtic. His eyes traversed along the banners covering the stadium walls. They showed great players, great victories and some of the men who made Celtic great. He recalled his old man limping up Kerrydale Street with him, his familiar gait caused by an accident in the old Caledonian railway works in Springburn. He always felt safe with him. He was always there to solve disputes, to deal with problems and support Tony and his brothers in every way he could. ‘I miss you, da,’ he said to no one in particular as he through his cigarette butt onto the tarmac and turned to go back inside.

The two green blazered door men where nowhere to be seen as Tony entered the Kerrydale Suite. He glanced at the stairway which led up to the Kerrydale Suite, then at the door which led under the Jock Stein stand. He paused momentarily before deciding to have a look around before heading back upstairs. He pushed through the doorway into the familiar concourse beneath the stand. The food and betting kiosks were closed and his slow footsteps echoed in the silent corridor. He turned right and walked down the entranceway to the lower stand and was rewarded with a fine view of that field of dreams he had visited so often as man and boy. It still entranced him as he gazed out over the dimly lit pitch. So many games he had watched here in his life, so many long-gone friends and relatives by his side. It was as if this place was a great cathedral of memory; the very air hung heavy with emotion, reminiscence of great games and players and the echoes of songs. God, he loved this place, loved his club.

He coughed one of those painful racking coughs, which had become more common as his illness had progressed. He sat on one of the green seats at the front of the stand to catch his breath. A wave of weariness flowed over him. When was the last time he had an unbroken sleep? He closed his eyes and exhaled, God, he was tired. Tired of broken sleep, of injections, of rattling like a pill bottle each day with all the medication he took. He breathed deeply and felt himself drifting off to sleep.

A familiar voice caused him to awake with a jolt, ‘come on Jimmy, get the ball passed out wide!’ Tony gazed at the pitch and saw several figures involved in training drills. The unmistakable figure of Jock Stein was barking out orders and players ran here and there with the ball. ‘Bertie! Ye don’t need to tackle like that in bloody training! I want him fit for Saturday.’ Tony watched as the dark-haired midfielder helped the diminutive Jimmy Johnstone to his feet, a roguish smile creasing his face. Tony smiled at the familiar faces he saw on the pitch. Billy, John Clarke, big Tam, Lemon, Murdy, Wispy, Faither, they were all there. He watched, utterly entranced as the heroes of his youth went through their paces.

Other players were jogging around the track and it was only as they approached, that he noticed something was amiss. Their training gear looked so old fashioned. It was only when they ran past him that he saw their faces. ‘My God, ‘he mumbled, ‘McGrory, Thomson, Peter Scarff…’ He was utterly bewildered when a familiar voice spoke to him, ‘Tony, son, it’s me,’ He turned to see his father hirpling towards him, his familiar limp as pronounced as ever. ‘Da? What’s going on?’ His old man smiled, taking off his Celtic scarf and putting it around Tony’s neck. ‘Nothing for you to worry about son. It’s just time to go home.’

As he took his father’s hand, he was a boy again. He felt that familiar strong grip and felt safe and secure. He was happy. He was going home.

The frantic search for Tony Daly by his family that Christmas eve only ended when a sharp-eyed policeman noticed the door to the concourse under the Jock Stein stand was unlocked. He had followed his instincts and looked around until he saw Tony sitting in the front row of the stand. A brief check for a pulse told him all he needed to know. He radioed it in and waited with the still and silent old man until help arrived. The old fella had a what looked like a contented smile on his face and in his hands, he held an old-style Celtic scarf. ‘Ah well, pal,’ the policeman said quietly, ‘at least you passed in a place you loved.’ 

He got that right.

 

The Gorbals Philosophy Club

 

The Gorbals Philosophy Club

Gorbals, Glasgow 1938

Stephen Daly sat quietly on the box bed which was set into the living room wall of the dingy tenement flat. He watched as his uncle Charlie and three of his friends manoeuvred the coffin into the small room and settled it rather gingerly onto the kitchen table which stood in the centre of the room. His mother had already placed a heavy curtain over the table to avoid it being scratched, and this gave it the air of a small altar. The men lined the coffin up, ensuring it was well balanced and steady. They wanted no mishaps at this wake. Stephen watched as the coffin lid was unscrewed and lifted off. It was placed carefully behind the curtain as if such items were not fit to be seen by the neighbours who would be arriving soon. Stephen mused to himself that it was one of life’s ironies that the polished coffin was the only new thing in the house and the person occupying it wasn’t even aware of it.

In the coffin lay the body of his grandfather, John Daly, looking oddly pale and somewhat formal in his Sunday suit. His grey hair was brushed back from his face in a style he never chose in life and between his praying hands was a set of black rosary beads. The suit his grandfather wore was the only one he owned, and as Stephen craned his neck to look at the old man, he noticed his war service medals were pinned to the jacket above the left breast. A chlorine gas attack in Belgium in 1917 had invalided him out of the war and he had spent the years since, coughing up blood and wheezing at any physical exertion, in a damp, decrepit tenement flat in the Gorbals. His condition meant that he was beyond working and he would sit all day reading library books, dozing or watching his cat, Kaiser Bill, toy with mice it had caught in the flat. Stephen would lie awake in the box bed beside his two brothers and listen to his grandfather in the next room coughing in the night, and wonder if he ever got any real sleep at all.

As the men carried crates of beer into the house for the wake, the women arrived with their rosary beads and gathered around the coffin. Stephen, at eleven years of age wanted to slip quietly out of the room and join the men and his two older brothers who crowded into the kitchen, smoking and talking. As his mother began the prayers and the dozen or so women joined in, he knew he’d hesitated too long and must stay. His mother, eyes closed, fingers on her rosary said quietly, ‘the first sorrowful mystery; the agony of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst woman and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.’ The assembled women joined her seamlessly, ‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death, amen.’

Stephen watched them pray, feeling the gentle rhythm of the prayers fill the room. His grandfather was barely fifty when the poison gas killed him. It may not have killed him on that summer day in 1917 when he was slow to adjust his faulty gas mask, but it did its work slowly, insidiously, corroding his lungs day by day until he simply couldn’t breathe any more. Stephen was curious about his own lack of sadness, perhaps it was because he knew his grandfather’s suffering was at an end. He leaned on the wall of the box bed and closed his eyes, remembering the times he sat with his grandfather as the old man, at least in Stephen’s eyes, taught him to read and encouraged him to think for himself. Just a few weeks before his passing, he had reverently brought out some small books he said he had read in the trenches, and looked at Stephen, ‘I was given these by a good man, an officer named Fairbairn, brave as a lion. Poor chap, he was shot by a sniper not long after he gave them to me. I would read them avidly, when it was quiet and if there was a big show on or the shelling was hard to bear, I’d think about what these books were saying and it somehow helped me get through.’

When his mother was out working and his two older brothers roaming the damp streets, Stephen would sit on the musty old bed by his grandfather and read to him. At first it was newspapers and penny westerns from the local shop but as his reading improved the grey-haired man took out the four small books from a bag under the bed. ‘Try this, son,’ he had said, suppressing a cough and handing one of the books to Stephen. The book was old and rather tattered with use but then his grandfather had always said, far better a book worn out with use than one pristine on the shelf.’ Stephen looked at the cover and tried to read what it said, ‘The Great Philoso-furs.’ He said in a stuttering voice, His grandfather smiled, ‘Philosophers- it means lovers of wisdom.’ Stephen regarded him, ‘it looks hard, grandad.’ The old man nodded, ‘it can be at first but nothing worth having in life is easy.’ Stephen’s face betrayed his discomfort with the subject, ‘but what is it for? It looks kinda… boring.’  John Daly regarded his grandson patiently, ‘I thought that too when Captain Fairbairn first gave me the books. I soon learned differently. It’s about why we’re here, what life means and how we should live it.’ Sensing his grandson’s unease, he continued, ‘look, let’s try the first chapter and see how we get on, eh?’ Stephen nodded and opened the book. In the top right- hand corner of the first page he saw the name T.E Fairbairn, written in black ink. He began to read…

Cumberland Street was in a state of excited flux as Stephen and his red- haired school friend Jimmy McVie joined a large group of mostly boys for one of the school holiday’s main events. The rat hunt was organised by local children with little input from adults, save facilitating it by supplying their children with various implements which might help. Thus, over thirty children from five or six years of age up to fourteen or so, stood in an excited group waiting for their self-appointed leader to outline the plan of attack. They were armed with hammers, mop poles, sticks, shovels and one even carried a small pick axe. Stephen and Jimmy carried sturdy pieces of two-inch timber and stood on the fringe of the group awaiting instructions.

Tommy McDermott, known as ‘Bugsy’ to one and all on account of his protruding teeth, was tall for his age and thought of himself as the general of the motley group of children who stood impatiently awaiting direction. Despite being thirteen, he still wore short trousers and this somewhat diluted his authority with his troops but he pushed on confidently. ‘Right, listen,’ he began as his pint-sized platoon of scruffy weans turned their faces towards him. ‘We’re splitting intae two groups. One is coming doon the back driving the rats oot. The other is waiting to batter them at the other end.’ The rather shabby Caesar organised his legion into two groups in order to carry out his master plan and they marched excitedly through the closes to their designated positions.

When the two lines of children were in position, facing each other, a hundred yards apart in the back court, Tommy gave the order to advance. Amused adults watched from tenement windows as the first line of children excitedly banged the dustbins with their implements and generally made a racket which they hoped would drive the rats into the open. They did not have long to wait. Screams of excitement, mingling with a hint of fear echoed around the back as the first rodent broke cover. This led to something of a disintegration of Tommy’s disciplined ranks as the more aggressive boys went in for the kill and the fleeting glory of being the first to strike at the foe. As more rats bolted for safety, a running fracas ensued as screaming, yelling, laughing children chased them this way and that across the back court. There were yells of triumph as blows were landed and derisive comments if someone’s courage faltered in the face of the enemy. Adults shouted helpful instructions from the windows and pointed out to the warriors below where the persecuted pests were hiding.

Stephen and Jimmy cornered a particularly large specimen which turned and stared at them with dark, round eyes as they nervously approached. Just as Stephen raised his stick to strike, the rat seemed to leap a foot in the air and dart past them. The two startled friends turned in time to see Tommy McDermott deliver an accurate and deadly blow to the rat with the metal rod he carried. Stephen looked at the rat as its legs jerked spasmodically in some vain attempt to escape. Its back was broken though and it only awaited Tommy delivering the coup de grace. Stephen considered the fragility of life in that moment. Everything dies one day, he thought to himself, nothing lasts forever. He turned away as Tommy raised his metal rod like a spear and put the creature out of its misery.

The great back court pogrom against the rats lasted for over an hour and when it was over the group gathered to savour the fruits of victory. Tommy held up a large, dead rodent by the tail like a trophy, ‘we got twenty- seven rats so well done.’ He then turned to a younger member of his battle group, ‘Paddy, we aw saw ye try tae whack that cat. It’s rats we’re efter, no cats, okay?’ The youngster’s cheeks reddened as he was chastised and he silently nodded. Perhaps the excitement of the day had got to him. Tommy then addressed the assembled army of rat catchers, ‘We’ll meet the morra at Crown Street. I hear tell there’s hunners of rats o’er there.’ The children cheered and raised their various weapons in a sort of victory salute before some headed for home, while others hung around to discuss the excitement of the day and view the corpses of the defeated enemy.

After the exhilaration of the rat hunt, Stephen smiled at his freckle faced friend, Jimmy and said in a conspiratorial tone, ‘fancy coming wi me? I’ve got something I want tae show ye.’ The two boys walked through the lively streets of the Gorbals towards home. A crowd had gathered outside St Francis’ church to watch a bearded man with a strange barrel organ on wheels which played a tune when he turned a handle. On top of the machine, a monkey danced and jumped. The little creature fascinated the two boys who laughed at its antics and wondered how the man got it to behave like that. When it was over, the man held out a tin cup and a few pennies were dropped into it by the watching adults.

Stephen regarded the bearded man. He knew from his clothes and appearance that he was probably a member of the area’s sizable Jewish community. The man sensed his eyes upon him and smiled, ‘you want to pet the monkey?’ he said, in a thick accent. Stephen’s eyes widened a little, did he dare? As the man smiled encouragingly, he reached out towards the monkey’s little head which was no larger than an orange. He felt the soft fur and the heat of the monkey and gently stroked its head. As his hand moved gently down its back, he could feel its little heart beating. It was an oddly exciting experience, touching another sentient being. He looked into its dark eyes. What did they think? Did they miss their home? He smiled back at the man, ‘thank you.’ The man nodded and trundled his machine down the pavement, the monkey sitting on his shoulder.

The two boys reached Stephen’s close and Jimmy followed his friend up the dark stairway wondering what his friend wanted to show him. Stephen raced past his own first floor flat and continued up to the top floor of the tenement. Jimmy looked at him puzzled, ‘What are we doing up here?’ Stephen put his hand to his lips and pointed towards the loft hatch which had been cut into the ceiling of the close a few feet above their heads. He clambered up onto a coal bunker which lay beneath the hatch and stretching up, tipped open the hatch. He then leaped up and grabbed at the opening of the loft as Jimmy watched. Stephen’s legs dangled momentarily and then swung this way and that in the air above Jimmy’s head as he dragged himself into the loft. At last, he swung his legs up and into the opening, before peering down at Jimmy, ‘come on!’

In the loft there was a sooty sort of smell and it took the two boys a few moments to adjust to the semi-darkness. Stephen carefully replaced the loft hatch door and walked along a narrow strip of planks nailed to the joists until he reached a wooden wall which jutted out into the space in front of them. He pushed at it and as if by magic a door swung open and light flooded the loft. They stepped through the door into a small room constructed around a skylight, which gave it a natural light. The room was no bigger than the boxed in bed he shared with his two brothers at night and the ceiling followed the angle of the roof. A few old cushions from some long-gone couch offered them a seat and a rudimentary shelf containing a few neatly stacked books was fixed to the wall beneath the skylight. A brown paper bag containing a few pieces of bread and a bottle of water completed the unexpected scene. ‘Whit is this place?’ said Jimmy in complete surprise. Stephen smiled and said proudly, ‘It used to be my grandad’s dookit but now it’s my den. Now it’s the Gorbals Philosophy club.’ Jimmy looked at him, wearing a puzzled expression. ‘The whit?’

Over the next few weeks, the two friends visited the little sanctuary in the loft as often as they could. Sometimes they just wanted a break from their overcrowded homes and sometimes they they’d read short sections from Stephen’s grandfather’s books and try to make sense of the ideas they found there. The language was sometimes difficult for them and Stephen often wished his grandfather was still around to explain certain things to him. ‘So, yer saying these stoic guys just get on wi it, even if bad things happen?’ Jimmy said one rainy afternoon. Stephen nodded and read a sentence from the book, ‘You can dance in the rain or sulk in the rain but it’s still going to rain.’ Jimmy’s freckled face wrinkled in thought for a moment, ‘so my maw’s a stoic? She’s never up nor doon even when my da is drunk and being a pest. She says things like ‘nae point worrying aboot it, ye cannae change him.’ Stephen shrugged, ‘aye, she sounds as if she is. She disnae get worked up wi things she cannae change.’

The two boys enjoyed their philosophical discussions in the club but on other occasions were happy to read comics, eat sweets and just enjoy the peace and quiet of their own space. They got into the habit of clambering up to their alternative universe after school and spending an hour or two talking, reading or just looking out of the dusty skylight at the smoky chimneys of the city spread out before them. On a clear day they could see the tower of Glasgow university and even the Campsie hills to the north of the city. Most days though, industrial smoke and the fumes from countless tenement chimneys obscured the view.

Rain was dripping apologetically from a slate grey sky, as Stephen squeezed between the crowd of men on the pavement to see what all the fuss was about. The thumping of drums and shrill sound of flutes filled the air but there was a sullen, almost antagonistic mood among some of the men and boys watching on the pavement. It wasn’t often the orange walk came along past Crown Street and when it did there was usually trouble. As the bands stomped past, the drummers seemed to thump their drums harder as if trying to ward off the sense of unease they were feeling. Stephen saw his friend Jimmy on the opposite side of the road and waved to him. He waved back and seemed to glance at the passing bands, as if looking for an opportunity to cross the road and join his friend. Stephen shook his head, knowing from experience that such a thing could be dangerous.

A gap of a few yards appeared as one band passed and Jimmy dashed into the road. The young man twirling the baton of the following band did not take kindly to this and snarled at Jimmy, aiming a kick at him which thankfully missed. It was the cue for mayhem. A bottle crashed onto the road beside the baton throwing man and men spilled onto the road. Blows were exchanged and coarse language filled the air as the old grudge from Ireland was played out in Glasgow. As more men and teenagers joined the mass brawl, things were getting out of hand. Stephen was knocked to the ground by men pushing past him to join the fray. Jimmy reached him and hauled him up by the arm. A man flew past them, the unmistakable glint of an open razor, in his right hand. The fighting spread onto the pavement as those following the bands weighed into the battle. Shouts, screams and curses mingled with the sound of breaking glass.

The two boys pushed through the crowds towards the safety of Crown Street but the brawling men seemed to surge with them. A bottle smashed off the wall beside Stephen’s head and as he and felt a rising tide of panic fill his chest. Suddenly, strong hands pulled them into the relative safety of the nearby close. Stephen looked up and saw the Jewish man who let him pet his monkey. He smiled reassuringly at the two boys, ‘it’s dangerous out there today. Best you two stay here a while.’ The man’s voice was soft and reassuring. They stood near to him as they watched the tumult in the street continue.

The light flooding into the dark close framed the turbulent street like an oddly shaped cinema screen. It was as if the world outside wasn’t real and wouldn’t infringe on their haven in the darkness of the close. They watched the struggle going on in front of them until, at last, they heard familiar sharp whistles and saw the dark uniforms of the police appeared. The street fighters melted away as truncheon wielding policemen dealt with the situation with brutal efficiency. A sort of anxious calm descended on Crown Street.

‘Why do they fight?’ the bearded man asked the two boys. Stephen shrugged, ‘they just think they’re different when they’re not.’ The man stroked his beard, ‘yes, much sorrow is caused in the world by people who think that way.’ Then, as if he had forgotten something, he said, ‘I am Shimon, and I am glad I met you this day. I think you are safe to go home now.’ Stephen glanced out at the still simmering street, before looking back at the man in the dark shadows of the close, ‘thanks Shimon.’ The man smiled and nodded before turning and walking up the stairs. Stephen and Jimmy walked into the street and glanced around them. Broken glass littered the pavement and knots of people stood here and there discussing the events of the day. Above them, at a first-floor window, an old woman held an image of the sacred heart of Jesus on her window sill, as if it might ward off evil.

The two boys headed to their quiet sanctuary in the loft. The silence they found there calmed them after their adventures. ‘Was that guy a Jew?’ asked Jimmy, ‘he wears funny clothes.’ Stephen nodded, ‘aye, there’s loads of them live in the Gorbals though ye never see them that much.’ Jimmy was clearly intrigued, ‘so, are Jews, Catholics or Protestants?’ Stephen shrugged, ‘I don’t think they’re either. It’s a whole other thing.’ ‘So, what dae they believe?’ asked Jimmy. Stephen opened the second of the four philosophy books which sat on the shelf as if awaiting just such a question. He flicked through it in silence for a few moments before reading out loud, ‘Simeon the Just, taught that Jews should remember that the world rests upon three things: The Torah, doing service to God, and showing love and kindness. Love and kindness are the core ethical virtues. Love and kindness are closely linked with compassion in the Jewish tradition. Lack of compassion marks out people as cruel.’

Jimmy took a moment to digest what he had heard. ‘whit’s the Torah?’ ‘It’s their book. Like wi the stories of Moses, Samson and that.’ Stephen replied. Jimmy was still not satisfied, ‘So do they believe in Jesus?’ Stephen thought for a moment before responding, ‘I think they see Jesus as a good guy, but not God’s son.’ Jimmy nodded, ‘did the Jews no shop him tae the Romans and get him done in?’ ‘Aye,’ Stephen replied, ‘some Jews did but that was yonks ago and besides, there’re millions of Jews. They didnae aw shop him.’ Jimmy seemed satisfied with Stephen’s replies but added, ‘I think wan of the guys in my class is a Jew.’ Stephen looked at him, ‘what makes ye think that?’ Jimmy replied in all seriousness, ‘because he’s got curly hair.’

One glowering November day, Stephen was sitting in class as his teacher, an austere older woman called Mrs Parkinson was expounding on the miracles of Jesus. ‘Our Lord’s first miracle was the changing of water into wine at the wedding in Cana. How can we explain this miracle?’ she asked the class, hoping to lead them to an understanding that only God had such power. There was silence in the class and Stephen felt his arm slowly rise as if by its own volition. ‘Yes, Stephen?’ the teacher said looking at him over her glasses. ‘Miss, some people only believe things if they’ve seen them themselves. How can ye ask them tae believe things they didnae see? Especially things like miracles?’ She nodded, ‘we call that faith, Stephen. I believe the sun will rise tomorrow. I have faith that it will, even though I haven’t seen it yet.’ Stephen replied in a quiet voice, trying hard not to sound argumentative, ‘but the sun has come up every day for millions of years. We can expect it tae come up tomorrow. I’m talking aboot believing things that like…’ he struggled for the right word… ‘like magic, like miracles and water changing intae wine. How do we know it’s true?’  She pursed her lips, ‘Stephen the first Christians believed it to the point where they were thrown to the lions for their faith. Faith is believing even though you didn’t see things happen. You will recall that Jesus said to the Apostle Thomas, ‘because you have seen me you believe, blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe.’ Stephen nodded, ‘thanks Miss.’ She regarded him for a moment, feeling as if she had been slightly nudged out of her comfort zone. Free thinking was all good and well, but children needed to accept the faith.

It was on a Tuesday after school when Stephen found the wooden ladder. It was no more than six or seven feet long and was lying amongst some rubbish dumped on a spare piece of ground near the Gorbals railway station. It was nondescript in many ways and looked pretty old but one facet of it caught his eye. On the side of the ladder, the stencilled initials of the company which had doubtless once owned it could be seen. They were somewhat faded but the neat gothic script was still decipherable. It read ‘GPS.’ As the founder member and President of the Gorbals Philosophical society, this was one gift horse Stephen would not be looking in the mouth. He picked it up and carried it through the streets until he reached the tenement where his club was located.

The ladder was the perfect length for gaining access to the loft hatch which led to the club. It would also fit snuggly behind the coal bunker when not required and could be pulled up into the loft when he and Jimmy were up there. There would be no more struggling to haul themselves into the loft. Stephen considered the possibility of others finding the ladder and perhaps using it to access the loft. He knew the two houses on the top floor of the tenement were occupied by older people and that they were unlikely to try and access the loft, but he wanted his club to remain undiscovered. He decided to talk to Jimmy about it, perhaps they would fit a padlock onto the loft hatch.

After pulling the ladder into the loft and closing the hatch, Stephen entered the den. He opened the skylight window as wide as it could go, using the metal arm which protruded from it to push it up. The metal arm had a series of holes in it and by locating a protruding piece of metal welded onto the rim of the frame, into one of the holes, the window was set in an open position. He tidied the den, fluffing the cushions, neatly stacking the books and comics and coiling a piece of old rope Jimmy had brought with him on his last visit, with some impossible plan of building a hammock.

As the light faded, Stephen leaned on the frame of the skylight and opened one of his books.  He had read two or three pages when tell-tale spots of rain began to appear on the slates of the roof outside the window. He turned to replace the book onto the shelf but struck his hand on the frame of the skylight and lost his grip on it. The book slid slowly down the slates as he watched in horror, coming to a halt four or five feet below the window. He regarded it and considered his options. He could try and draw it within his grasp using the rope as a lasso, but was unlikely to succeed. Or he could fetch a long stick and try to drag it closer to the window. In the end he did neither.

He clambered up to the skylight and slipped his legs outside onto the increasingly wet slates of the roof. He thought if he could hold onto the frame of the skylight, he might be able to hook the book with his foot and drag it closer to the skylight where he could retrieve it. He could feel in his core that this was a foolish thing to do and tried to pull himself back into the skylight but his feet could gain no traction of the wet slates. In fact, he began to feel his body slip, incrementally down as he struggled to pull himself back into the loft. A feeling of terror knocked at the door of his heart but he refused to let it in. He held on for dear life, knowing that to slip would mean plunging four floors into the back court below.

In those moments, Stephen verbalised his fears to a God he wasn’t sure was listening. ‘Please God, don’t let me slip. Please, I beg you.’ His hands were becoming cold as they clung to the cold metal frame of the skylight. How could he be so stupid as to think recovering the book with his feet was a good idea? A pigeon landed on the apex of the roof, a few yards from him. He looked up at it for the briefest of seconds. It was totally at home and totally safe in this environment in which he was in such peril. It may have a brain the size of a pea but in that instant, he’d swap places with it if he could. It regarded him with supreme indifference before leaping into flight and vanishing over the other side of the roof.

Stephen breathed, ‘think’ he whispered to himself, knowing that as time passed his energy would dissipate, like water dripping out of a holed bucket. ‘What would grandad do?’ He searched his mind and from somewhere in its darkest recesses recalled his grandfather talking about moving the big guns in the mud of the western front. They had put logs under the wheels to stop them sinking into the mire as the big horses pulled them. What was the word? ‘Traction!’ he said out loud. His worn shoes were much too smooth to grip the damp slates. He used his toes to kick at the heel of his loose-fitting right shoe and it slipped off easily before sliding down to the edge of the roof and vanishing from sight. He did the same with the other shoe and heard it too sliding down the roof. He breathed deeply, ‘stay calm, you can do this!’ Summoning up all the strength he had in his body he pulled himself forward towards the skylight. Simultaneously, he pushed with his feet, scrambling and pushing against the slippery slates. He gained enough traction to move forward and forced his elbows into the opening, not noticing that he was grazing them in the process. He heaved his body head first into the loft and landed in a shaking, sobbing heap on the floor.

Stephen lay on the floor of the den for what could have been a long time or just a few seconds. Time seemed elastic in those moments of sublime relief. His racing heart began to slow and his mind took stock of his brush with mortality. ‘It’s only a book,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘it’s not worth risking your life for.’ He rolled onto his back and lay, cruciform, gazing out at the grey sky through the skylight, his breaths coming in laboured gasps. After a few moments more, he forced himself to be calm and his breathing returned to normal. He stood and reached forward to close the loft window, noticing that the book still lay there, out of reach, tantalisingly close. It could stay there till he figured out a safe way to retrieve it. At this moment in time, finding his shoes in the back court below were more of a priority. He closed the window and exhaled, ‘thank you, God,’ before heading for the loft hatch and dropping down into a world that had no idea how close he had come to leaving it.

Stephen walked quickly through the streets, noticing for the first time how run down the area looked. The tenements were black with soot and looked sad and worn out, like some of the people who crowded into them. He passed old Tam, the one-armed newspaper seller, who stood at the same corner each day, rain or shine.  He would call out the headlines to entice customers and today was shouting something about Chamberlain meeting Hitler in Munich. Stephen had seen Hitler on the newsreels at the cinema and thought him to be a comical figure but it seemed no one was laughing any more. He crossed the rather grand suspension bridge which spanned the Clyde and led him into Glasgow Green. The park was relatively quiet and offered a more scenic route to his aunt Betty’s house which was in the Calton district, on the other side of the park. His mother had asked him to return ten bob she had borrowed from her sister and had tucked it inside his sock in case he ran into what she called, ‘pavement pirates.’ ‘Straight there and straight back, ye hear me?’ she had barked at him. He had nodded and set off on his errand.

As he reached the great glass edifice of the Winter Gardens, he saw some men sitting at wooden benches playing chess. One of them was Shimon, the man who had helped him when the trouble broke out at the orange walk. Shimon sat opposite a small man wearing a black skull cap. They were both engrossed in the game and didn’t seem to notice Stephen watching them. They talked quietly in a language Stephen didn’t understand as they played the game. After a few moments the small man pushed over his King, an action Stephen knew was an admission of defeat. The smaller man stood and shook Shimon’s hand and smiled before picking up a small black bag which lay under the table and leaving.

Shimon was about to pack his chess pieces away when he saw Stephen. ‘Ah it is the young man who sheltered from the storm with me.’ ‘Hello Shimon,’ Stephen smiled, ‘did you win?’ Shimon stroked his beard, ‘I had a tranquil time with a good friend and we talked of the old days, so yes I won, but so did he.’ Before Stephen could reply to this seemingly confusing statement, Shimon asked, ‘do you play?’ Stephen nodded, ‘I learned at school though I’m not very good.’ Shimon smiled, ‘sit, we’ll play. Unless you have somewhere important to be.’ Stephen shrugged and sat opposite him. Auntie Betty could wait a while for her ten bob.

Shimon quickly set up the pieces for the game and smiled at the young challenger sitting opposite him. The boy in his patched up, hand me down clothes, reminded him of his own son. Oh, how he missed Asher. He was but 18 when they sent him to a gulag during the purges. He had received a terse note to say he had died of typhus but he doubted that was the real cause of his death. He smiled at Stephen, ‘white first, so it is your move.’ They played the game in a slow, deliberate way, with Shimon gently advising Stephen to consider the consequences of his moves and always watch what the other player was doing. ‘Chess is like life,’ he said quietly, ‘we try to plan our moves but must always ask ourselves what our opponent is thinking.’ Stephen nodded, ‘not many boys in my class play chess. They prefer football or chases. I play against Theresa Grimes. She’s good although she doesn’t like losing. Sometimes I let her win.’ Shimon smiled, ‘that’s kind of you. We don’t need to make ourselves tall by standing on others.’ Stephen nodded, noticing that as the game progressed, it was becoming secondary to the quiet conversation they were having.

‘Where are you from, Shimon?’ Stephen asked innocently, ‘I mean before you moved here.’ Shimon replied without looking up from the board, ‘I was born in a shtetl in Russia.’ Stephen moved his Queen, seeing a chance to attack. ‘What’s a shtetl?’ he asked, wondering if it was a castle or some such exotic place. ‘it’s a small village or town which is populated by Jewish people. Alas it is no longer there.’ Stephen was confused, ‘where is it then? What happened to it?’ Shimon replied without emotion, ‘the Cossacks came and burned it when I was ten years old. Drove the people away. We ended up moving to a city called Smolensk. Have you heard of it?’ Stephen shook his head, ‘why did they burn it?’  Shimon moved his Queen into a position where it threatened Stephen’s King. With his own Queen hopelessly out of position, Stephen saw the danger. ‘They don’t need a reason, that we are considered different is reason enough.’ Stephen frowned, ‘I’m sorry about that. People can be stupid.’

Shimon liked this pale, Scottish boy. He was a thinker and that was always admired among his people. He seemed wise beyond his years and was taking his first tentative steps in trying to understand the world. He deliberately avoided winning the game, extending it so that he could talk more with Stephen. ‘Tell me about your family,’ Shimon said quietly as he withdrew his Queen. Stephen studied the chess pieces as he replied, ‘I stay with my mum and two brothers. My dad went to work in England and we haven’t heard from him for two years. My grandad lived with us but he died earlier this year. He was gassed in the war.’ Shimon nodded slowly, ‘the Great War?’ Stephen replied, ‘yes, his lungs just got worse and worse.’ Shimon sighed a long sigh, ‘that war took so many.’

He didn’t mention that his older brother, Emmanuel, had died at the battle of Tannenberg in that first summer of the war. The Russian defeat was so comprehensive that the commanding General of the army, Alexander Samsonov, shot himself. ‘Check,’ said Stephen, almost apologetically. Shimon smiled, ‘ah your bishop, I hadn’t seen that possibility.’ Shimon wasn’t being entirely truthful. He had been playing chess all of his life and saw every possibility on the board, but he wanted to encourage the boy. He blocked the bishop with a pawn and glanced at Stephen, ‘you’re good at this game.’ Stephen smiled, ‘I’m still learning. I think it’s good for your brain. It makes you think.’

They played for an hour or so as the world drifted by, unseen. Stephen learned the simple pleasure of focusing on the game whilst simply talking to another human being. Shimon declared the game a tie and smiled at his young companion. ‘Thank you for the game and for the conversation. My people say, ‘he who has friends has treasure indeed.’  Stephen stood, feeling pleased that Shimon considered him a friend, ‘thanks Shimon. I better get to my auntie’s now. I hope we can play again someday.’ He walked past the Winter Gardens towards the ostentatious grandeur of the Templeton carpet factory which marked the northern boundary of the park. He glanced back to where he had sat with Shimon but the table was empty.

Shimon Brodsky unlocked the door of his ground floor flat, his hand briefly touching the mezuzah fixed to the door post. ‘Barukh atah Adonai, Elohaynu, melekh ha-olam, asher keedishanu b’meetzvotav v’tzeevanu leek’boa mezuzah.’  He practiced his English as he stepped inside and closed the door. ‘Blessed are you, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with God’s commandments and commanded us to affix a mezuzah.’ He walked through to the small sitting room where his wife, Klara, sat reading the Jewish Chronicle. She looked up at him and smiled, ‘you have a letter with an American stamp.’  He hung his coat on the door and walked to the small table on which sat the menorah which had been in his family for generations and had made the journey with him from Russia. Beside the seven-branched candelabrum was a small pewter plate on which sat the letter. He recognised his brother’s handwriting as he picked up the letter and opened it.

He stroked his beard when he had finished and turned to Klara. ‘Jacob has found a bigger house in New York. He has enough room for us now and thinks we should come to America and join him. His business is doing well and he could use another Tailor’ Klara replied without looking up from her newspaper, ‘that was our plan all along. Have we saved enough for the passage?’ He nodded, ‘yes, and I think we should go. This Hitler will drag Europe into another war and it may have consequences for us all. We’d be safer in America.’ Klara Brodsky nodded, ‘I’ve liked our years here. People leave us alone and our neighbours are kind enough, but we always planned to join Jacob in America.’

Shimon sat down at the table and placed the letter in front of him. They had been in Glasgow for eight years now but he knew it was always just a temporary home. The wilder spirits in the city seemed more interested squabbling among themselves than picking on the small Jewish community so it had been a haven of sorts. His head was full of thoughts about what leaving Glasgow entailed. It would take most of their savings to book passage on one of the big ships which left the Clyde for New York every month. He was now almost fifty years old and the thought of starting over again was less appealing with each passing year but Jacob and his family were the only relatives he had left in the world. Klara’s family were still in Russia and he knew realistically that it would be close to impossible for them to leave. He glanced at his wife, ‘we will go to America as soon as we can book passage. It was always our plan and that’s were our family is. Klara nodded but said nothing. Jacob knew putting thousands more miles between her and her family in Smolensk meant that she would probably never see them again. ‘It’s for the best,’ he said quietly.

Stephen Daly sat outside the Head-master’s office on a wet Monday morning, a feeling of mild dread growing inside him. Mr Chalmers was a large man and few who entered his office to be punished emerged with dry eyes. Stephen had questioned his teacher again during a religious education lesson, not out of boldness but out of a genuine desire to understand what it was she was asking him to believe. She had told the class that purgatory was a state of being in which the souls of the departed were purified and made ready for heaven. Most of the class said nothing when Mrs Parkinson asked if there were any questions. Stephen had many questions but started by asking if purgatory was an actual place and how long souls stayed there for. Some of his class mates looked at him and rolled their eyes. Mrs Parkinson soon became exasperated with him, seeing his questioning as little more than calculated time wasting.

The Head-master’s door opened and the bulky frame of Mr Chalmers bid Stephen enter. He stood over six feet tall and it was said that he had once been a rugby player of some repute. ‘Sit down, Daly,’ he barked. Stephen sat in a chair which had been placed in from of the Head-master’s desk, noticing the distinctive smell of tobacco in the room. ‘Mrs Parkinson tells me you’re constantly interrupting her lessons with frivolous questions and wasting her valuable time?’ Stephen didn’t meet the Head-master’s eyes as he replied quietly, ‘no, Sir. I just don’t understand some things and I ask questions to help me to…’ ‘You ask questions to drag out the lesson and leave less time for maths and other important things!’ the Head-master said, his voice rising. ‘No, Sir,’ Stephen said, ‘I just want to…’ ‘Be quiet boy!’ Chalmers said firmly, ‘your eternal soul is in great peril with this attitude. Mrs Parkinson told me that you are increasingly bold in class. ‘Stephen shook his head, ‘I’m not, sir. I just want to understand things.’

The big man stood, reaching inside his jacket for the Lochgelly tawse, a sturdy leather belt designed specifically for delivering corporal punishment. ‘Understand this, boy, you will return to class and apologise to Mrs Parkinson. You will stop these silly questions and pay better attention in class. Do you understand me?’ Stephen silently nodded, knowing what was coming next. The Head-teacher walked around the desk, his belt in his right hand. ‘Raise your hands and I’ll give you something to think of whenever you feel the urge to waste the teacher’s time.’

Stephen moved the pawn into a blocking position as Shimon watched carefully, missing nothing. He stroked his beard, glancing at the painful looking purple welt on Stephen’s hand which ran up onto his wrist. ‘Your teacher punished you?’ he said quietly. Stephen nodded, ‘the Head-teacher. Said I have to stop asking questions.’  Shimon studied the board, ‘but isn’t school the place to ask questions?’ Stephen shrugged, ‘not during religious lessons.’ Shimon looked up at the boy, ‘but those are the biggest questions of all in life.’ Stephen nodded, ‘I know. My head is full of questions. I read my grandad’s books on philosophy and... it just kinda, made me think more.’ Shimon moved his Queen forward into an attacking position. ‘You must never stop thinking or questioning. Just find the right person to ask or read the right books.’

Stephen still went to his sanctuary in the loft most days and had even rescued the fateful book from the slates using a long piece of wood with a couple of nails protruding from it. Jimmy still joined him on occasion and they had some good conversations, but it was during his chess games with Shimon that he seemed to learn best. Shimon took the time to explain things to him. ‘Shimon,’ he said to him, ‘do Jews believe in purgatory?’ Shimon replied without looking up from the board, ‘we don’t use that word but when someone close to us dies, we pray for them for eleven months. We call this kaddish, prayers asking God to purify their soul and forgive any sins they committed in life. But remember, my young friend, it is far more important to live a good life and treat people well than to fret over every detail of belief. Sometimes that is forgotten and religion can become hard and unbending.’ Stephen nodded, ‘aye, I read what Simeon the Just, said about that.‘ Shimon regarded this strange, intelligent young boy with a look of mild surprise. How many Scottish children had heard of Simeon the Just?

Stephen cut across his thoughts, ‘why is it eleven months.’ The bearded man smiled, ‘it may be thought unkind to believe that someone’s sins were so severe that he needed a full year of prayers to purify his soul!’  Stephen smiled, ‘check.’ Shimon regarded him with an amused look, ‘ah distracting me with deep questions and sneaking up on my king. Someone may need to pray for you one day for a full year!’ Stephen laughed out loud. They had played many games of chess and although Stephen was giving Shimon progressively harder games, he doubted he’d ever draw with him let alone beat him, but he was learning fast. He was also learning from their discussions during games. Shimon was happy to answer any question he asked, regardless of the topic and that was refreshing for Stephen after his experiences in school.

They had played chess in the park once each week for a few months, when Shimon said quietly one day, ‘Stephen, my wife and I are going away soon. We are moving to live with my brother in America.’ Stephen looked up at him, his eyes showing his hurt and disappointment he felt. ‘Aw no, Shimon, why are you leaving?’ ‘It was always our plan to stay her just long enough to save the money for our trip. The ship leaves in two weeks.’ Stephen repressed the urge to become emotional. ‘I’ve seen America at the pictures. It looks a good place.’ Shimon patted his hand, ‘like all lands, it has many faces but my only family is there.’ He added, unexpectedly, ‘you remind me of my son. I wish he were going with us.’ Stephen saw a hint of pain in Shimon’s eyes for the first time, ‘I didn’t know you had a son. Is he still in Russia?’ Shimon shrugged, ‘he died, a long time ago. I miss him every day. He was so bright, so full of life.’ Stephen stifled the wish to ask what happened to him, not wanting to add to his friend’s pain. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.   

It was on a frosty December morning that the taxi called at Shimon’s close to pick up him and his wife for a trip to the dockside. He had arranged the taxi with a friend at the Garnethill Synagogue who drove one for a living. They loaded their cases into the vehicle before he and Klara had had one last look around the empty flat. She had scrubbed it clean, disinfecting even the floorboards lest the new tenants had cause to complain. They had sold off their furniture and gifted pieces of crockery and pots to grateful neighbours. ‘Well, I suppose there is no turning back now,’ she said, taking his hand. He nodded, ‘it’s for the best, Klara. There’s a storm coming.’ She nodded, knowing he meant the situation with Germany. ‘Still, this land was kind to us. I’ll remember it fondly.’ He could see the tears on her face as she brushed past him and headed for the waiting taxi.

Shimon knew he was probably taking her away from any possibility of seeing her family again. It was the hardest decision he had ever made but he was sure it was the right one for them. The omens were not good in Europe and troubled times lay ahead. He turned and stopped at the doorway and unscrewed the mezuzah, slipping it into his pocket. He kissed the fingers of his right hand which had touched it and closed the door behind him.

He asked the taxi driver to make a slight detour and drive down Crown Street. He knew Stephen’s house was there and wanted to give him a parting gift. He knew it would be awkward if he had to just knock on the boy’s door but he was prepared to do it. As their leaving date got closer, the boy had become quieter and less chatty during their chess games, but he couldn’t just leave and not say goodbye. As chance would have it, Stephen and the other boy Shimon had guarded in the close the day of the street fighting were walking on the pavement. ‘Stop the car!’ Shimon said and got out carrying a brown paper bag. Stephen saw him and rushed towards him, ‘Shimon, I was coming to your house to say goodbye.’ The boy wrapped his arms around the bearded man as Jimmy looked on. Stephen did not hold back his tears this time. ‘Ah my boy, I’m going to miss you too. Here, I have a going away gift for you.’ Stephen took the brown paper bag before looking into Shimon’s face, ‘thank you,’ he said, sniffing. The taxi tooted its horn and Shimon could see Klara through the window tapping her wrist with her index finger. ‘I need to go, Stephen. Thank you for the friendship, the games of chess and the endless questions. Never stop thinking and never stop asking questions.’ Stephen hugged him one last time. ‘I’ll remember Simeon the wise but I’ll remember Shimon the wise too.’ Shimon waved to him as the taxi moved off. Klara said nothing as she handed him a handkerchief.

As the taxi turned the corner and out of sight, Stephen wiped his face with his sleeve. ‘Mon, Jimmy. Let’s head up tae the philosophy club.’ Jimmy looked at him, ‘what’s in the bag?’ Stephen had almost forgotten he was carrying it but he knew immediately from the feel and weight of the package, exactly what it was. He opened the brown paper bag and saw Shimon’s precious chess set. The box was carved with intricate designs and worn with many years of use. ‘Do ye know how tae play chess, Jimmy?’ Stephen asked his friend. Jimmy shook his head. ‘Well, it’s time you learned.’ They set off down the street to deliver the latest asset to the Gorbals Philosophy Club

If you enjoyed this story, you can find it and 17 other excellent short stories here. Thank you.....   https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0BNF1H3B6

Teenage Kicks

 

Teenage Kicks

Belfast, 14^th June 1978

 

A roar went up as Terri Hooley walked onto the stage, clutching a piece of white paper. ‘Before I introduce the next band,‘ he said in his gravelly Belfast accent, ‘I need to read you this telegram I received today from New York city.’ He unfolded the paper ceremoniously before saying, ‘Dear Terri, good luck with the show at Queen’s University from John Lennon and Yoko Ono. Tell the young folk to have a blast.’ Only a few people in the hall suspected he was making the whole thing up, just as he had fooled the stuffy university into allowing the ‘battle of the bands’ by claiming it was under the auspices of the posh Belfast Musical Society. One would have to wonder too if a wordsmith as talented as the aforementioned Mr Lennon would be so careless with words, in the current circumstances the north of Ireland found itself in, to say ‘have a blast’ but Terri’s intentions were good. He knew how to sell tickets.

Terry was well known as the driving force behind the burgeoning punk scene in Belfast and used music to bring young people from both communities together in a safe space, even as their parents ripped their society apart at the seams. When the cheering subsided, he smiled at the hundreds of sweat covered young faces gazing at him. A slight haze of cigarette smoke and body heat hung in the air above them, ‘you want more?’ They roared loudly as he turned and roared, ‘give a big Belfast welcome to… the Undertones!’

Feargal Sharkey strode onto the small stage, grabbed the microphone and shouted into it, ‘Hello Belfast!’ As the first beats of Teenage Kicks filled the air, the crowd roared and began to move in unison, lost in the music. It was as if the guitar and drums could cast a spell on them and they became one, totally shutting out the world beyond the doors of McMordie Hall. This was their space, their time and the world outside with all its violence and ugliness could wait.

Two hours slipped past in a hypnotic haze of sound and movement and then it was over and the hundreds of young people, still high on adrenalin and youth headed for the exits. Gabe Sheridan smiled, his arm around the shoulder of his lifelong friend who stood, red faced and sweating beside him. ‘That was class, Spider, well done getting us tickets.’ Paul Donaghy, who was nicknamed Spider after going to buy a shirt in Belfast city centre and returning with four pairs of jeans, returned his smile, ‘aye, it was great night, Gabe, we just need to get home in one piece now.’ Gabe put his arm around his friend, ‘we’ll be grand, the old banger will see us safely up the road.’

As they approached the exit door, Gabe saw a small, red purse on the floor. He picked it up and opened it, seeing inside some crumpled pound notes and a student union card in the name of Philomena Boyd. As they exited the hall into the cool of a June night, he shouted to the departing crowd, ‘anyone know a Philomena Boyd?’ Some young women to his left stopped and turned to face him. One regarded him suspiciously, ‘aye, what if we do?’ He held up the purse, his face wearing what he hoped was his best smile. ‘I think she might have dropped this.’ A dark-haired, young woman with intelligent blue eyes stepped towards him, ‘Ah grand, isn’t that just like me? I’d lose my head if it wasn’t screwed on.’ He handed her the purse, ‘glad I could help.’ Their eyes locked for a second before she spoke, ‘I’m Phil, nice to meet you.’ Gabe nodded, ‘likewise, I’m Gabe and this is Spider.’ Not wanting the conversation to stop, he added seamlessly, ‘what did you think of the show? The Undertones are the business, eh?’ She smiled, ‘I liked Rudi best but I have to say the Undertones sure got us all moving.’ A voice behind her called, ‘Phil, we’re going, we’d best we stick together.’ She smiled at him again, ‘well, thanks again, Gabe. Good-night, stay safe.’ He watched her join her friends and head across the grass towards the impressive brick-built university building. ‘You not get her number?’ Spider smiled. ‘Shut it, you,’ Gabe replied.

‘Teenage dreams are so hard to beat, every time she walks down the street. Another girl in the neighbourhood-wish she was mine, she looks so good…’

The Undertones: Teenage Kicks

 

Gabe guided his ancient Mini through the darkening streets, his eyes always alert for trouble. He knew his native city well and could distinguish the invisible sectarian demarcation lines which cut Belfast up into a patchwork quilt of safe, unsafe and neutral zones. It wouldn’t do to break down in some of these streets. He and Spider wouldn’t totally relax until they were back on home turf in Andytown.

As they moved along the Falls Road, towards Glen Road, a convoy of six army vehicles trundled past them, going in the other direction. A heavy silence filled the car, there was always a degree of tension when they passed any army patrols. They two friends had seen enough casual brutality in their young lives to distrust anyone in uniform. They’d had a good night up at the Uni but it was safer to be tucked up in your bed when the witching hour struck in old Belfast town.

Friday 16 June 1978: A Catholic civilian, was found beaten to death on a rubbish tip at Glencairn Road, Belfast. He had been killed by Loyalists.

 

The city centre was starting to resemble a high security prison. Gabe lined up with dozens of other people in front of the ‘cage,’ a metal construct which funnelled people into lanes where they were searched before being allowed into the city centre shopping area. The rather crude security measures were meant to stop the destruction of the town centre which seemed to be a major objective of the bombers in the early years of the troubles. Two bored looking soldiers stood by the entrance; their rifles held across the front of their bodies. A burly man in front of Gabe spoke to one of the soldiers, ‘you’d be better employed getting up the Falls and dealing with the fuckers who’re burning the shops, not standing there as if you’re waiting for a bus.’ The soldier looked at him with tired eyes, ‘just move along, Sir.’ As Gabe passed the soldiers he heard one mumble to his colleague, ‘fucking Paddies.’ That’s all the two tribes of Ulster were to most English people.

The city centre was one of the few neutral zones where people from both communities mixed freely although it was best to keep conversation to a minimum, and not advertise your identity. It was not uncommon for the so-called tartan gangs to seek out lone Catholics for a ‘digging’ as it was known. That’s why Gabe always went into town early; most thugs liked their bed too much to be up and about on a Saturday morning. Still, his radar was good and he’d scan ahead looking for any possible problems and simply do a u turn or head into a store if he had any concerns. Growing up in the chaos of a virtual civil war had sharpened his senses and made his caution second nature.

Gabe liked the city centre though, as it had that almost forgotten sense of normality that was missing in many people’s lives. People just saw each other as people as they passed in the street. There were some who wore their allegiances like a badge but most were happy with the anonymity and near normality of just going about their business. He reached the Woolworths store, a large L shaped building at the corner of the High Street and Cornmarket. In the window was a fairly amateurish sign which read ‘business as usual’ as if they were trying to revive the spirit of the blitz. He entered the store and headed for the music counter. He scanned the LPs and singles looking for anything by the Undertones. There was no sign of any records by them, perhaps they weren’t famous enough to have been offered a record deal yet.

He approached the counter where the assistant seemed to be busy kneeling down and organising stock. ‘Excuse me,‘ Gabe said quietly to the invisible but noisy assistant, ‘I’m looking for anything by the Undertones, do you have any of their records in stock?’ The young woman stood and regarded him, ‘why if it isn’t the good Samaritan who gave me back my purse,’ she said with a broad smile. Gabe was genuinely surprised to see Philomena in her Woolworths’ overall. ‘Jesus, if it isn’t Philomena! Sure, it’s a small world.’ She smiled, pleased he recalled her name, ‘aye it is indeed, Gabriel, but we students need to earn some money so here I am every Saturday and most holidays too.’ They looked at each other for a second before she continued. ‘If they’ve recorded anything, I think you’ll get it over at the Good Vibrations shop. It needs to hit the charts before we stock it.’ He nodded, ‘I know that wee shop well. I’ll get over there shortly.’ She regarded him with her bright, intelligent eyes, ‘I get half an hour for lunch starting at twelve so if your still in town and feeling hungry, we have a good wee restaurant on the top floor. I could meet you there? It’d be nice to have someone to chat to who is nearer my own age.’ Gabe felt a small and unexpected wave of elation travel through his body. ‘Sure, that’d be grand, I’ll see you then.’ He turned and walked towards the exit of the store, trying to suppress the smile he felt creeping across his face.

He watched her talking in the restaurant, noticing every hand gesture and facial expression. She was so animated, so vibrant and bright. It was as if he’d been invited to a play performed for an audience of one, and it entranced him. She told him about her father being interned in 71, her mother’s struggles to bring up three children on her own and her love of music and books. ‘you’re not saying much?’ she smiled, ‘my ma says I need to learn to shut up and let other people get a word in.’ Gabe smiled, ‘you’re grand, Phil. I could listen to you all day.’ She smiled, enjoying his admiration, ‘aye, but do butt in now and then, eh?’ They were comfortable in each other’s company and felt as if they’d known each other for a long time.

Thirty minutes slipped past in what seemed an instant. She looked at her watch, ‘I’d better get back, best not be late, old Prendergast doesn’t need much of an excuse to give me a hard time. He’s not fond of our sort working here.’ She stood, tidying her cutlery and regarded him for a moment before saying in that disconcertingly blunt way of hers, ‘well Gabriel Sheridan, are ye gonna ask me out or what?’ Gabe laughed, ’well, if you insist. Philomena, would you be free any day soon as I’d love to see you again?’ She smiled, ‘oh what a surprise! I suppose so, I’m free on Thursday. No work that day and classes over till September.’ He laughed, ‘write your address and I’ll pick you up at say, eleven?’ She tilted her head, an amused look on her face, ‘eleven, is it? Are you taking me to mass on our first date?’ He laughed out loud, ‘no, I thought we could drive into the hills. Get away from the city and all the hassle but feel free to pray at any time.’ She nodded, a smile on her face, ‘eleven it is them.’ He stood and almost as an afterthought, handed her a single by the band Rudi they’d seen at the University.  ‘I thought you’d like this.’ She took it and nodded, ‘that’s really thoughtful of you, Gabriel. Goes to show that losing your purse isn’t always a bad thing.’

Wednesday 21 June 1978
Three members of the Irish Republican Army and a passing Protestant civilian were shot dead by undercover members of the British Army.

 

Gabe picked Philomena up in his trusty old Mini and they drove out of the city and up to Cave Hill. Her home in Ardoyne was much like his although it seemed almost as if the area was under siege, surrounded as it was by loyalist districts. They parked and walked to the top of the hill and glanced down at the small city spread out before them. They could see the whole panorama of Belfast from their vantage point. The sunshine glinted of the silver ribbon of the Lagan and cumulus clouds dotted the blue sky like sheep on a pasture. It was almost beautiful, if you forgot about the things that were going on in the shaded streets below.

‘Hard to believe there’s so much trouble in that small town,’ she said, sitting on the grass in the June sunshine. Gabe followed her gaze, the tall cranes of Harland and Wolfe’s shipyard visible in the distance. There’s a lot of history in this area. That’s McArt’s Fort over there,’ he said, sitting beside her and pointing at a flat area of ground on top of what seemed like a plateau. ‘There was a hill fort there two thousand years ago.’ She nodded, ‘seems like people have always been fighting over this land.’ Gabe regarded her as the wind moved her hair like barley in a summer breeze. Her pale skin was flawless and she needed no make-up to enhance a face, he thought quite lovely. ‘Our whole history seems to be one long struggle,’ he said quietly. She leaned on him, sighing and placing her head on his shoulder, ‘I wish it’d all just stop but it won’t till the British leave us alone.’ Gabe smiled inwardly at the unexpected physical contact and looped his arm across her shoulders. They had met three times now, but he felt he’d known her much longer. He knew she was from a Republican family and held strong views about the conflict. His own thoughts were more ambiguous as he’d seen some pretty awful things done by all sides, He wanted them to have a frictionless date and if he was honest, he wanted to kiss her at some point. Perhaps a fractious political discussion wouldn’t be conducive to that.

They talked for hours about their childhoods, their families, their hopes and dreams for the future. They laughed a lot too and just enjoyed being together. Later, as they strolled down the hill in the June sunshine, she slipped her hand into his. ‘It’s been lovely getting out of town. It’s like the weight bearing down on us in those streets down there is lifted off us for a while.’ Gabe nodded, ‘it’s been great, Phil, you’re amazing company.’ They stopped halfway down the hill and faced each other. Their eyes met, magnets locking together. For a long moment the only sound was the wind, restlessly moving through the trees, as it had done since time began. Gabe leaned forward and gently kissed her. There on a hill where their people had lived for thousands of years, an old story was beginning again.

‘Just For you, here’s a love song, and it makes me glad to say, it’s been a lovely day and it’s okay.’   The Damned: Love Song.

 

Tuesday 11^th July 1978
A Catholic teenager, was mistakenly shot dead by undercover members of the British Army near an Irish Republican Army arms dump in County Antrim.

 

Gabe sat on a rickety wooden chair in the small office of the meat plant. It looked to be the only warm room in the factory. Mr Prentice, a craggy man of around fifty with a heavily lined face and a shock of white hair, was spelling out the conditions of the job. ‘Ye leave the politics and religion at the door. We work hard here and ye forget any o’ that oul shite going on in the world outside till yer shift is over. You got me?’ Gabe nodded and with a firm shake of the hand had a job.

His main task involved carrying big sides of beef from the delivery trucks to the cold storage room, which was in essence a large metallic freezer. He would then fetch it out as and when the cutters demanded it and ensure the finished product was boxed and back in the cold room as soon as possible. He kept himself to himself for the first week or so and things seemed to be going well. One Tuesday lunchtime as he sat in the small canteen with a few of the other workers, he opened the sandwiches his mother had made him and bit into one. He spat it out over the table as some of his co-workers laughed, while others looked on with what could have been sympathy. Someone had layered cigarette ash in his sandwiches. He had laughed it off as a prank on the new boy but was worried that it was more than that.

Big Johnny Campbell was Gabe’s line manager although he seldom spoke to him beyond barking out orders or telling him to ‘fucking move it’ when the work was demanding. He was an intimidating presence, standing at least six feet four and had a strong physique from years of manual labour. He was always careful in the busier parts of the factory or when people were around not to speak out of turn, but when he and Gabe were alone, especially in the cold room, he would mutter things such as, ‘you’d best be finding another job, Taig.’ On one occasion, Gabe was waiting by a delivery lorry for the driver to come and open it up for him to unload. Campbell approached him and looked around slyly, before saying quietly to Gabe. ‘I’ve given your name to the boyos. Either you’re gone by Friday or your fucking knee caps are.’ Gabe felt a mixture of fear and fury rising in him and he snarled in reply, ‘You listen to me you fucking school bully, I know some boyos too and if anything happens to me, they’ll be scraping you off the road with tea spoons like fuckin jam.’ Gabe surprised himself with the vehemence of his words and hoped Campbell was just another mouthy blowhard. The big man clenched his fists, his face reddening with anger. He was about to speak when Mr Prentice appeared, ‘where’s the bloody driver? We don’t have all day. Get this truck unloaded.’ Campbell sneered at Gabe and stomped off, ‘I’ll find him boss.’

Sunday 30 July 1978
Tomás Ó Fiaich, Catholic Primate of Ireland, paid a visit to Republican prisoners in the Maze Prison. The prisoners were taking part in the ‘blanket protest’. Over 300 Republican prisoners were refusing to wear prison clothes or follow normal prison regulations in an attempt to secure a return of special category status.

 

As summer turned to autumn and the days shortened, Gabe saw Philomena almost every day. Only the occasional riot kept him from making the drive to her home to listen to music in her room and just be happy hanging out together. He had told her about his problems at work with Campbell and his camp followers, and she had suggested he quit the job. He told her he needed the money to keep his car going and to buy petrol for their frequent trips out of the city. ‘Just you be careful. This guy might be all talk but then he might actually know some of the thugs out there.’ Gabe pretended to be more in control of the situation than he actually was and told her not to worry.

During the first week of October, she had phoned him in a really distressed state. Her father, a known Republican activist though not, as far as Gabe knew, active in the armed struggle, was walking home from the bookmakers when a baton round was fired from a passing army vehicle. It had hit him in the face and he was in a bad way at the Royal Victoria hospital. The news reported that the soldiers had been defending themselves from a stone throwing mob. Local people though, had said that the disorder only happened in response to the wounding of Jimmy Boyd and that the streets were quiet before that. That seemed the more plausible story to Gabe. Truth, as always, seemed to be the first casualty.

They walked up the stairs to the second-floor ward where her father lay, hooked up to a series of machines. His face was swollen and purple, and he had yet to gain consciousness. Gabe held Philomena’s hand as she sobbed by the bedside. ‘Oh daddy, what they done to you? What have the bastards done?’ She held her father’s hand as the machines clicked and beeped around them. Gabe just held her, let her know she wasn’t alone. It pierced his heart to see her in so much pain.

They had grown so close over the summer and he had first told her he loved her as they strolled along the beach at Portnoo in Donegal. The Atlantic wind seemed to seize the words from his mouth and scatter them across the world like confetti at a wedding. There was no calling them back. They had driven there to get away from the tension in the city during the marching season and at low tide had walked out to the island of Inishkeel. There they had explored the ruins of two churches which were said to have been built in the 6^th century. They had lingered a little too long on the deserted island and had to wade through two feet of chilly, Atlantic water to get back to shore. They had laughed at their wet feet and shoes, enjoying these adventures together.

 

As they left the hospital, two orderlies and several other medical staff rushed past then pushing a trolley bed on which lay a prostate man, His head was swathed in crimson stained bandages and his eyes were closed tightly, as if he never wanted to open them again. Gabe heard one of the nurses say as they raced past him, ‘Get the trauma room ready and page Doctor Ward. Tell him RUC man, 29 years old, suspected fracture of the skull…’ Gabe sighed as he took Philomena’s hand. What sort of society had they created here? Two families would be wracked with pain tonight.

They learned three days later that Philomena’s father would not regain his sight. The baton round had shattered one eye and severed the optic nerve in the other. Her sorrow gave way to anger and then a sort of sullen bitterness. He had tried to assuage her anger but it was leading to friction between them. ‘The bastards just shot him in the face for no reason!’ she had said coldly, ‘I hope some of them get a taste of their own medicine.’ Gabe had said quietly, ‘violence just leads to more violence and nothing changes.’ She had turned to face him, ‘they portray us as terrorists for defending our own people! Who were the terrorists on Bloody Sunday or in Ballymurphy? They’re a crowd of murdering bastards in cahoots with the local loyalist psychos.’ It was hard for him to disagree with much of what she was saying and he knew many others who thought the same way. ‘But Phil, this won’t last forever. One day the killing will stop. We are going to have to live together on this island one way or another.’ She shook her head, ‘The Brits chose sides and like to pretend to the world that they’re not biased but they bloody are and you know it.’

Thursday 12 October 1978
The Irish Republican Army planted a bomb on the Belfast to Dublin train. One woman was killed and two others injured when it exploded without adequate warning.

 

That winter, the skies over Belfast glowered and brooded as if reflecting the mood in the city. Gabe’s car was off the road for repairs after being deliberately shunted by an army Saracen car when he stopped at lights. The soldier driving had smirked at him and driven off. Gabe needed to see Phil so he figured out the safest bus route from his home to the north of the city where she lived. His mother had told him to wait till his car was repaired as it was dangerous to move about the city, especially in the dark and gloomy winter days.  She also knew that dangerous men sometimes trawled the streets at night like malevolent hyenas looking for some isolated victim. ‘I’ll be fine, ma,‘ he smiled at her, ‘I know this old town like the back of my hand and besides, there’s not a faster runner in Belfast.’

Ardoyne was a proud community which wore the scars of war stoically. Being geographically almost surrounded by loyalist areas, it was important Gabe planned his trips well. It was best to move about in the rush hour when there were lots of people around and the Police and army were in evidence too. He had visited Philomena a few times using the bus and things had gone smoothly. The trick was to time it so that he was on the bus with the minimum time spent hanging around. It was on a cold and windy night in December when his bus didn’t show up for the return trip home. Tonight though, he had lingered with Phil for longer than he planned. She was still deeply upset about what had happened to her father.

It was well after ten o’clock when he had slipped out to catch the late bus. An old woman with a face lined by many winters and framed by a white head scarf, stood in the bus shelter beside him. ‘Sure, the bus will have been hijacked again by that shower in Crumlin, we won’t have any left at this rate.’ Gabe looked her, ‘when’s the next one if this doesn’t show up?’ The old woman, who stood barely five feet tall, shook her head, ‘God only knows, sure I’ve stood here many a time after the bingo with a face as long as a Lurgan spade and nothing showed up.’ Gabe pondered what to do. He could walk down to Crumlin Road and pick up another bus service or wait here in forlorn hope that a bus would show up at some point. In the end he decided to walk down to Crumlin Road.

His watch told him it was ten thirty as he passed Holy Cross church and headed for the deserted bus stop. The streets were eerily quiet, with only the odd car scurrying homeward as night embraced the city in her dark and frigid arms. Gabe kept his eyes open as he stood in the chill, his breath visible on the cold air. A black taxi passed him on the opposite side of the road, the driver’s dead eyes staring out at him as he stood alone by the bus stop. In the rear of the cab sat two shadowy wraiths. Gabe avoided eye contact and looked away but an icy chill rippled down his spine. He glanced to his right and saw the brake lights come on as the taxi slowed and stopped a hundred metres from him. ‘Shit.’ It came to rest by the kerb but no one got out and no one got in. It just sat there for a long moment, as if pondering what to do. Gabe’s pounding heart was the only sound he heard as he watched the cab, a feeling of dread filling his soul. When the taxi turned and crawled back towards him, Gabe looked around the street for a possible escape route, his senses quickening and his mind racing as danger approached.

He took a deep breath as the slowing taxi approached him. This time it was the passenger window that was open and a man stared at him. His face was coarse and brutal and his eyes, like those of the driver, were empty, shark like. From somewhere deep inside his being Gabe found words and rolled the dice. He grinned at the man and shouted, ‘No Surrender!’ The man looked blankly at him, as if calculating the veracity of Gabe’s words. In that split second, Gabe felt his life hanging by the slenderest of threads. Two vehicles, one of them a bus, appeared behind the taxi and broke the spell. The man rolled up the window and the taxi eased off into the night.

Gabe paid his fare and sat at the back of the bus trying to come to terms with what had just happened. As the bus lumbered through the night towards home and safety, his body shook involuntarily and tears rolled down his face. He felt like a moth that had strayed very close to the flame.

21 December 1978: Three British soldiers died after a foot patrol was fired on from a passing van in Crossmaglen, South Armagh.

 

The small hall packed with expectant young people waiting for the show to begin. Gabe and Phil were near the stage as was Spider and his new love, a girl called Siobhan whom he had affectionately nicknamed, ‘Cat.’ Gabe could see why, there was a feline quality about her and the way she moved. She wore ripped Jeans; Doc Marten boots and her black eye shadow and wild black hair completed the punk look. Gabe liked her, she was foul mouthed but funny and drank pints like a guy. There was a roar as Stiff Little Fingers appeared on stage and with not a single word of introduction blasted straight into their set.

The hundreds of young people swayed and moved in unison as the electric guitars boomed out their hypnotic pulses over their heads. Gabe smiled at Phil as she bounced up and down, punching the air lost in the music. This was it- this was their escape from all that shit out there, the music, the joy of just being young. Gabe loved it all; the melting away of division, of even individuality as the audience become one, lost in the moment and the music. It could bring him close to tears seeing all of these young people not giving a damn about where you came from or what your daddy’s politics were. They were one, why couldn’t the older generation see that and put the bloody guns away. Gabe could feel the drum beat vibrate in his being, the guitars screaming out their rage but also their joy at the music they made.

‘Take a look where you’re living, got the army on your street. Got the RUC dog of repression barking at your feet. Is this the kind of place you wanna live?  Is this where you wanna be? Is this the only life we’re gonna have? What we need is an Alternative Ulster, grab it and change it-it’s yours!’ 

Stiff Little Fingers: Alternative Ulster

24^th February 1979. Two 16-year-old boys were killed by a remote-controlled bomb hidden in a trailer and detonated as they walked past. It is thought they were mistaken for a British Army foot patrol.

 

It had taken Gabe a while to convince Philomena to come with him to Dublin for the Papal visit. He knew that the grip the church had on the young was loosening slightly and that she no longer attended mass but he impressed her with the historical significance of the visit and the fact that they might never get to see such a day again. He also convinced her that a couple of days away might do them both the world of good. She worried about her mother, of course, being left alone to deal with her blind father but in the end she had agreed. ‘I’ll go Gabriel, sure old JP2 looks a good fella but if things change with my da, I’ll be staying.’

Gabe had saved up hard all that summer and booked a room in a small guesthouse in Glasnevin. It was the cheapest he could find as Dublin was upping the prices with so many visitors expected. Spider and Cat decided to come too, ‘it’d be good craic, I reckon,’ Cat had smiled, ‘always wanted to go to Dublin and a wee road trip sounds fun.’ They agreed to drive to Dublin the day before the Pope was due to celebrate mass in front of an expected million people in Phoenix Park. He would undoubtedly be calling for peace but Gabe wondered if those engaged in violence would be listening.

27^th August 1979: 18 soldiers are killed and 20 others wounded in a devastating ambush at Warrenpoint in County Down.

 

‘I could be a soldier go out there to fight and save this land, be a People’s soldier, paramilitary gun in my hand, I won’t be a soldier. I won’t take orders from no one, stuff their fucking armies, killing isn’t my idea of fun.’   

Stiff Little Fingers- Wasted Life.

 

Spider sat in the back of the car drinking a can of beer as Cat sang along with the radio at the top of her voice. Gabe smiled at Phil, who placed her hand on his knee as he guided the car onto the A1 for the three-hour trip to Dublin. By leaving a day early, they’d planned to miss the traffic which would undoubtedly be heavy the following day, as every parish in Belfast was preparing buses and cars for the Papal Mass in Dublin. When Cat had finished singing along with ‘I don’t like Mondays’ by the Boomtown Rats, Gabe glanced at her the rear-view mirror, ‘sure you have a grand voice, Cat. We should start a band when we get back.’ Spider grinned, ‘a good idea apart from the fact we have no instruments, couldn’t play them even if we had and I’m not having my Cat exploited by a talentless eejit like you.’ Gabe laughed, ‘so it’s ‘my Cat’ now, is it? You her manager are ye?’  Spider drained his beer can before responding, ‘Listen, ya spoon ye, we all know you can’t carry a tune, even Miss Wilson at school thought your voice was like a pig giving birth. Cat and I might start a duo or maybe even a trio if Philomena can hit a tambourine, but you my talentless pal, are roadie material at best!’ Gabe shook his head, ‘ach, catch yersel on, ya eejit. Any more of it and you’ll be walkin’ to Dublin.’

The two young women exchanged glances, smiling. They enjoyed the banter between these two lifelong friends. Sure, they could be fierce with each other but the underlying affection and sense of fun was always there. Cat handed Gabe a tape from her bag, ‘would you two idiots stop arguing and let’s hear a decent tune or two.’ She had made a mix tape for the journey and as the car sped down the A1, it was full of laughter and singing.

The army check point just outside Bessbrook changed the mood in the car. Gabe turned the music down as he waited in the small queue of vehicles waiting to be allowed to proceed. One of the soldiers approached the car and Gabe rolled down the window. The soldier, a man of around thirty with rather unkempt hair sticking out of his beret, spoke in a local accent. ‘Now where would you folks be going today?’ Gabe glanced at the UDR insignia on his shoulder, the locally raised regiment of the British army had a bad reputation, much of it deserved. ‘Off to visit relatives in Dublin,’ Gabe said, thinking it best not to mention the papal visit. ‘Get out and open the boot for me, will you?’ the man said in a monotone voice. Gabe got out of the car as the others sat in silence. He opened the boot and the soldier poked around the bags and various accoutrements the women had brought on the trip. The soldier picked up Cat’s hairdryer with a smile, ‘ah women, can’t go anywhere without their gear, eh?’ Gabe nodded. The soldier smiled at him, ‘enjoy Dublin, young fellah. Be busy with the Pope due tomorrow.’ Gabe thanked him and closed the boot. As he headed for the driver’s door the soldier passed him, saying, ‘relax son, we’re not all bigots or psychos. Some of us just want to help stop the shit that’s going on.’ Gabe nodded and got into the car as another soldier waved him through the checkpoint.

Dublin was an assault on the senses. The noise and hustle of its streets made them realise how stunted life in Belfast had been made by the violence. They dropped their bags off at the small guesthouse not far from Bon Secours hospital and headed into the city centre on foot. The four friends blended in seamlessly among the crowds on O’Connell Street. Gabe held Phil’s hand as they strolled towards O’Connell Bridge before turning right along Bachelor’s walk. ‘Not a checkpoint or soldier in sight,’ he smiled, ‘and the people don’t have that worried look on their faces.’ Philomena nodded, ‘it’s a different world. It’s as if all the trouble up the road isn’t happening.’ Part of her felt a little angry that people here had such freedom to go about their lives whilst a hundred miles away there was a virtual war going on.’ Spider seemed to sense her annoyance, ‘Sure they had car bombs here a few years ago that killed and maimed a lot of people. They know what’s going on but I think they just choose to get on with their lives.’ Gabe looked him, ‘aye, yer right Spider, but we’re here to forget all of that for a couple of days. Do ye fancy a pint?’ His friend smiled, ’does a bear shit in the woods?’

The four friends had strolled down past St Stephen’s Green looking for a suitable place to share a drink. Gabe had asked some younger folk queuing outside a fairly rundown looking building if they knew a good place for a cheap pint and maybe some music. A young man of similar age to himself, sporting a denim jacket covered with Sex Pistols patches, informed him that they were queuing to watch live music today and that it was free to watch. ‘What sort of music?’ Gabe had asked the blonde-haired young man. ‘Mostly new wave or new local bands looking for a chance to play in front of an audience.’ Gabe persuaded Spider, Phil and Cat that it might be fun and they joined the queue.

McGonagle’s was an old-fashioned sort of place which had once been a ballroom but now sought to survive by appealing to a wider audience. It had a very small stage which was outlined by an odd white, tubular frame which made it look like a football goal in a sci-fi movie. A good crowd of young people had already filed in and crowded the area in front of the stage. An air of expectation was evident as some decent bands had emerged from the Dublin scene. As the small venue filled, Gabe stood behind Philomena, his hands wrapped around her and clasped on her stomach. She leaned into him, enjoying that he was protective towards her.

Spider and Cat returned from the bar with plastic tumblers full of beer. ‘So, who’s playing, do we know yet?’ A nearby young woman smiled at Spider, ’I hear tell it’s the Rads, you’ll love them if it is.’ Spider nodded, ‘Right, Ta.’ The young woman recognising his northern accent, continued, ‘you from up north?’ Cat slipped her arm around Spider’s waist and replied for him, in a voice both friendly and firm, ‘aye, we all are. Down for a wee break.’ The young woman recognised the universal sign of ownership and smiled at Cat, ‘ah sure that’s grand now. Enjoy the show.’ With that she turned her head towards the stage. Spider caught Gabe’s eye for a split second and raised an eyebrow. Gabe smiled, almost imperceptibly. It was flattering when your girl laid down a wee marker.

As they finished their drinks, a man of around 40 appeared on stage, ‘Welcome to the best live music venue in Dublin!’ There was a cheer from the packed little hall as he continued, ‘now, without further ado, here’s the Radiators from Outer Space!’ The crowd roared as Gabe and Spider exchanged looks which said, ‘never heard of them.’ The five-piece band started a guitar into which immediately drew them in. ‘These guys can play,’ Gabe said in Phil’s ear as they began to move to the music. They lyric to their first song spoke to Gabe as he realised that there was so much more to the music scene in Ireland than Belfast’s punk bands…

This graveyard hides a million secrets and the trees know more than they will tell, but the ghosts of the saints and scholars will haunt you in heaven or in hell. Rattled by the Glimmerman, the Bogey-man, the Holy man and living in the shadows, in the shadows of the gunman. Rattled like the coppers in your greasy till. Rattled until time stood still., Look across your shoulder as the school bell rings. Another day of made-to-measure history, Well I don’t mind that your heroes all have wings but your terrible beauty is torn.  Faithful Departed, we fickle-hearted, as you are now so once were we. Faithful departed, we the meek hearted with graces imparted, Bring flowers to thee.’ 

 

The Radiators from Space: Faithful departed.

 

‘Your terrible beauty is torn, what a line that is,’ said Gabe as they strolled along O’Connell Street, the last rays of the setting sun slipping between the buildings. ‘They were bloody good, that bass player was unreal’ said Cat, ‘glad we decided to go into that place.’ Spider nodded, ‘aye, just shows that young folk all over are just the same, all they want is a good time and a bit of craic and music.’ Gabe slipped his arm around Philomena’s shoulder, ‘glad ye came?’ She nodded, ‘I am, Gabriel, it’s been great so far but I think tomorrow will be something altogether different. They say they a million people will be heading to Phoenix Park.’ He caressed the skin on her bare arm, ‘a wee bit of history for us to share.’

They walked through Dublin towards their guest house, feeling a release, a peace of mind they had lost in Belfast. The lack of security forces on the street and the tension they brought was noticeable as was the sheer number of people in town for the Pope’s appearance the following day. As darkness fell, they reached the small guest house where old Mrs Dunne welcomed them in. ‘I’ve a bit of supper left over if yer wanting any?’ The four young people shook their heads, ‘no yer alright, Mrs Dunne, we caught a bite in town.’ The old woman fiddled with a small cross which hung around her neck, ‘ah good now. The keys to your rooms are on the table there. Girls will be in room 9 and you young fellas in room 12. I would appreciate a bit of quiet after eleven as I have a party of Notre Dame sisters staying and they’re used to a good sleep.’ Gabe nodded, ‘we’re all knackered anyway, Mrs Dunne. I think we’ll be asleep before them, and besides, tomorrow is a big day.’

Gabe and Spider lay awake in the darkness, talking in whispers. ‘What time is it now?’ enquired Spider. ‘Nearly half twelve,’ Gabe replied. ‘And ye synchronised yer watches, did ye?’ Gabe smiled, ‘we’re not parachuting into occupied France, Spider but yeh, we did.’ There was silence for a few moments before Gabe spoke, ‘Okay, that’s time. I’ll see ye at six.’ With that he got up and gently eased the room door open before stepping into the carpeted hallway. As he crept along towards room 12, the door opened a little and Cat looked out. She tiptoed past Gabe with just a cursory smile and nod of her head before she let herself into room 9 where Spider was waiting. Gabe quietly closed the door of room 12 and in the darkness, sensed Philomena waiting for him.

The welcoming warmth of her body enveloped him. He felt as if his whole life had been leading up to this moment. He and Philomena had been hugely attracted to each other but the crowded homes they came from in Belfast meant that chances to be alone were limited. As he whispered to her in the darkness and they shared the same breath, he knew he wanted to be with her always. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, utter contentment written on their faces.

‘Have I ever told you how good it feels to hold you? It isn’t easy to explain. And though I’m really trying, I think I may start crying, my heart can’t wait another day. When you kiss me I just gotta say- Baby I love you, come on baby, Baby I love you, baby I love only you.‘  The Ramones: Baby I love you.

 

The following morning the small breakfast room was full as Gabe and Spider entered to find the girls. Philomena and Cat sat at a small table in the bay window, eating toast and drinking tea. Gabe waved, ‘we’ll get some scran and join you.’ As they collected their breakfast from the long table by the wall, Gabe said quietly, ‘you get on alright last night, Spider?’ His friend looked at him with a small smile, ‘Aye not bad, but Red Riding Hood’s in town so no cleaning the cobwebs with the womb broom, for me.’ ‘What the feck are you on about ya spoon?’ Spider continued his list of idioms until Gabe got the picture, ‘she’s flying the Japanese flag. It’s shark week, she’s drinking a bloody Mary, wearing the red badge of courage, riding the crimson wave? You got me?’ Gabe shook with quiet laughter, ‘now that’s bad luck pal, but your day will come!’  Spider grinned, ‘aye, eight of us in my house and seven in hers, this was a big chance missed.’ Gabe picked up his cereal, ‘we’ll organise another road trip soon, Pal, hang in there.’

As they sat eating their breakfast, Mrs Dunne moved among the tables, making small talk with the nuns and topping up tea cups. When she reached Gabe’s table, she smiled, ‘did we get a good night’s sleep? A long day ahead with the holy father visiting.’ Gabe returned her smile, ‘I did, Mrs Dunne. Never had a better sleep.’ Philomena drank her tea in silence, her cheeks almost imperceptibly reddening. ‘Ah that’s grand, that’ll be all the exercise you had yesterday.’ Gabe stifled the urge to smile as she continued, ‘traipsing about Dublin would wear you out.’ ‘You going to Phoenix Park, Mrs Dunne?’ Spider enquired of the older woman. She nodded, touching her crucifix again as if for reassurance, ‘Sure I wouldn’t miss it for the world. We won’t see such a day again in my time.’

More than one and a quarter million people filled Phoenix Park in Dublin for the Mass with Pope John Paul II. They were young and old, from every corner of Ireland and from every walk of life. The four young people from the troubled north of the country found themselves in a section of the crowd facing a huge cross which towered above the congregation and glinted in the early autumn sunshine. Below the huge silver cross was the altar which was under a steel frame which looked like the outline of a house or perhaps the skeleton of a cathedral. A row of huge white banners stood behind the altar forming a quite brilliant backdrop. ‘My God,’ said Cat, ‘they sure know how to put on a show.’ Before anyone could respond, a huge roar rumbled across the park like distant thunder. Thousands of yellow and white papal flags fluttered in the breeze, a kaleidoscope of butterflies, to welcome the Pope. The helicopter drifted over the huge gathering of humanity as if carried on its cheers and love. It flew lower, behind the huge altar till at last it was lost to their sight. After some moments, the choir began to sing and two rows of white robed priests began walking towards the altar. It could have been choreographed by Cecil B DeMille.

As the Pope appeared at last, there were deafening cheers from a million throats. Gabe glanced around him at the awe-inspiring sight of more than a third of the population of Ireland gathered in one place. ‘Jesus,’ he mumbled, pulling Philomena close to him, ‘this is incredible.’ As the Pope began the mass, an astonishing thing happened; over a million people became a single congregation and respectful silence fell over the whole park. The mass followed the familiar pattern Gabe had known since childhood and he responded to the prayers almost automatically. It seemed as if every priest in Ireland was involved in distributing the host to the vast crowd. The four friends had their own opinions about the church and its role in Irish history but for that one day, they were part of something much bigger than themselves, something that would live in history.

The car was quiet as Gabe turned onto the motorway and left Dublin behind. They had been free to be themselves there and wandered the streets without any of the tension that was so palpable in Belfast. ‘We should come back here one day,’ Gabe said to no one in particular. ‘Philomena nodded, ‘family keeps us in Belfast more than anything.’ Cat interjected, ‘that’s true but some of us are just plain stubborn and refuse to be driven out of our home and why the hell should we be? Besides, much as it was good to see old JP2, this place is still dominated by the church and I don’t think that’s healthy for any country.’ Philomena nodded, but said nothing.

‘The Pope is in Drogheda today for another big get together so we can expect more traffic as we get nearer to it,’ Gabe said as he clicked the radio on. He smiled to hear Brendan Shine singing  ‘catch me if you can, me name is Dan and I’m your man.’ ‘Jesus,’ muttered Spider, ‘will ye get that oul eejit off? Reminds me of my da’s old LPs.’ Gabe laughed, ‘nothing wrong with a bit of oul Brendan Shine.’ ‘Aye, there is,’ responded Spider, ‘he’s complete shite!’ Cat smiled at Philomena as the two friends began one of their insult-filled arguments. Gabe turned the volume up and sang along with the song. ‘Ach now yer taking the piss, ya hellion, ye!’  Spider said rolling his eyes. ‘Gabe grinned, ‘join in will ye instead of sitting there like a total slabber?’ Spider appealed to Philomena, ‘will ye push the cassette in, Phil? I mean, I know yon prick is yer boyfriend but he’s not fit to be in charge of a radio.’ Philomena glanced at Gabe, ‘It’s Gabriel’s car so the music is up to him.’ Gabe smiled, ‘Alright, push in the tape and shut that cry baby up.’  Philomena did as she was bid and ‘Teenage kicks’ by the Undertones flooded into the car. ‘Now yer talkin!’ roared Spider as all four of them joined in the song. The hypnotic power of the music brought a flood of joy to them as they sped towards home and the gathering clouds of the north.

As they neared the border, Gabe had switched to the radio in time to hear the familiar Slavic tones of Pope John Paul speaking at Drogheda. The car became silent as the Pope spoke of the troubles in the north…

‘Now I wish to speak to all men and women engaged in violence. I appeal to you in language of compassionate pleading, on my knees I beg you to turn away from the path of violence and to return to the ways of peace. You may claim to seek justice. All should believe in justice and seek justice, but violence only delays the day of justice. Violence destroys the work of justice. Further violence in Ireland will only drag down and ruin the land you claim to love and the values you claim to cherish. In the Name of God, I beg you to return to Christ who died so that man might live in forgiveness and peace. He is waiting for you, longing for each one of you to come to Him so that He may say to each of you, “Your sins are forgiven, go in peace.’

 

Cat spoke first, ‘Jeez, that’s powerful stuff, do ye think the boyos will hang up their muskets?’ Spider shook his head, ‘I doubt it, this shit will go on until everyone has been completely sickened by it.’ Gabe sighed, ‘I think you’re right, Spider. They’re too far in to stop now.’ Philomena said quietly, ‘it’ll go on till the Brits go home and admit they’ve made a complete arse of themselves in Ireland.’ Gabe rested his hand on her knee, ‘I think violence drives people apart. This stuff has come in cycles for centuries and the people are just stuck in two camps repeating the same old mistakes. If a million Protestants are ever gonna be persuaded to join up with the Republic, the violence has set that back a hundred years.’  Philomena’s face flushed a little, ‘they’re bloody Irish and despite treating us like shite for centuries, they should be glad we want to share a country with them.’ Gabe realised he’d annoyed her said quietly, ‘they can’t be forced into a united Ireland, Phil, they need to be convinced it’s in their best interests. Bombs and bullets won’t do that.’  Before she could respond, they passed a sign which read, ‘Welcome to Northern Ireland.’ She gazed out the window and said nothing.

3^rd October 1979: A Catholic woman was shot dead on her doorstep in Belfast by the Ulster Volunteer Force.

 

‘They’re just facts and figures on your TV screen, another child and another soldier, is peace just a dream? Can you hear the mocking laughter from the ones that gain by it? They’re not in line for the bullets, they’re the ones who started it. Last night another soldier, last night another child, no one seems to worry, no one sees his mother cry.’   Angelic Upstarts: Another Soldier.

5^th October 1979: A former UDR soldier was shot and killed by the Irish Republican Army.

 

Gabe dropped Spider and Cat off at his mum’s house in Andytown before heading for Ardoyne. The streets seemed quiet but the detritus of civil strife was everywhere. Murals on the walls presented the badly painted ‘heroes’ of both sides. Burnt out cars spoke mutely of the days of rage people were living through and army patrols rumbled through the streets. He watched as a clutch of scruffy children ran and played on the pavement, sticks for guns, as if getting ready to do it all or real when they grew up. Philomena had said little as they drove through the streets, but as she neared her home, she turned to Gabe and said, ‘I love you Gabriel Sheridan, I hope you know that.’ He knew she was making amends for her strong words to him on the journey north, but it was more than that, it was a commitment. As he parked the car close to her home, he turned and kissed her, whispering to her. ‘I know you do and I love you too.’ Gabe felt his eyes moisten as he held her close.

Peace seemed a long way off but love still existed, still clung on despite it all. Maybe there was hope after all.

This story is one of eighteen tales in the book 'the Gorbals Philosophy Club and other tales available on Kindle and in a day or two in book form. You can find it here, simply copy this link into your browser....

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