Authors: Deirdre Quiery
“Thank you.”
She kissed his cheek, tasting the salty grains of sand against her lips, feeling his prickly stubble send quivers of bubbliness to her toes.
“You’re going to be OK.” Cedric pressed his head against her, nudging her gently the way cats do when they’re pleased to see each other.
“You saved my life.” Jenny shivered as the strong wind pressed the sodden jeans against her thighs.
“We’ll have you warm and toasty in no time.” Cedric held his head high in the air and although Jenny was a dead weight in his arms, he was determined to walk the length of the beach without stopping, without dropping her. “You owe me a pint in the Black Beetle. I’ll have you there for 3pm no problem.”
Cedric felt lightness in his heart which was new. He felt a smile spreading across his face. He didn’t feel the cold, only a soft warm flame in his belly as Jenny pulled him tighter. Then his body quivered and his heart sank as she whispered, “What will Peter say? He will never believe what happened.”
The sand under foot felt softer now under Cedric’s heavy black boots. He kept looking straight ahead and tried to keep part of his attention on the feel of Jenny in his arms. He blotted
out any memory of Peter looking at Jenny, listening to her telling her story. Instead he concentrated on the softness of the curves of her thighs, the tug of her arms around his neck.
“Peter mightn’t be there tonight. He sometimes has rugby practice.”
• • •
While Cedric helped Jenny out of the taxi parked near Portstewart’s Golf Club, Tom cycled towards Downpatrick. Since Rose had been born, he made the journey to Castle Ward each year to give thanks for the year gone by and to think about the year ahead. He loved hearing the squawks of the ducks on the Lough and the high pitched screams of seagulls overhead. Making this annual pilgrimage to Castle Ward allowed him to nestle into the rhythm of the lapping waves, feel the touch of the breeze on his face, smelling the sodden earth and tasting the harmony of being at one with nature.
He turned left at the roundabout a mile from Downpatrick town centre and cycled the remaining seven miles along a fairly flat road towards the estate. There was an hour of sunlight left before he would need to return home. He arrived at the main entrance beside Ballycutter Lodge, dismounted his bike to walk along the path, frozen solid with patches of black ice. It was difficult to hold onto the bike handles as he slipped walking downhill past Castle Ward House, further down past Old Castle Ward, heading for the old Boat House on the edge of Strangford Lough. He walked along the edge of the road where the frozen grass crunched under his boots. The sun sparkled on the snow on the path in front of him like stars exploding in micro bursts of glitter. Slipping again on the ice, he took a few faster steps, with his woollen gloves gripping firmly to the handlebars. His bicycle clip bit into his right calf. He stopped, rested the bike
against the grey stone wall, bending over to pull his woollen socks into a more comfortable position, adjusting the bike clip, his eyes watering with the cold. He coughed deeply, the phlegm tasting a little bit bloody on the back of his tongue. He felt slightly feverish as he coughed a second time. This time the cough rattled around his heart, straining muscles at the back of his throat which seemed to almost close over. He grasped hold of the handlebars again and pushed the bike past the Farmyard, past the Clock House, turning onto the narrow path leading to the Boat House.
The trees were empty of leaves, reaching into the blue sky with fine dendrites making their connection with an infinite universe, sending messages and information into eternity. A blackbird swooped over the frozen grass, back glistening in the golden light of the winter sun. He finally reached the Boat House on the edge of the Lough, leant the bike against the green wooden door and opened the rucksack to remove a bag of twigs. He scattered them on the ground. He struck a match and with the help of two firelighters the twigs crackled into life. Tom watched a heron lift heavily into the air and swing into a low flight towards the Deer Park. A small plume of blue smoke rose like incense into the blue sky, swirling into tangerine tinged clouds. He prayed.
Firstly he prayed for Rose and Lily that they would be safe and happy. Then he then prayed, as he always did, for his ancestors. It seemed easy in Castle Ward to hear them calling him. Listening to the silence on the shore, Tom heard them calling from the depths of Strangford Lough. Their voices were at times gentle, soft, faint and apologetic – not at all demanding. It would have been very easy to miss what they were saying as he tended the fire, throwing twigs onto the orange embers. They were whispering to him in the blue pine scented smoke twisting
into the air. Tom stood beside the fire, staring over the Lough’s turquoise shimmer, watching a boat bob close by. It was when his thoughts stopped and he listened in the silence and stillness that he felt connected to everyone who had ever walked a path on this earth ahead of him. He was at one with them. That was when Tom felt that he was really praying – when all the words dropped away.
What did break that sense of peace was a sense of discomfort in his gut. Tom felt suddenly strangely uncomfortable. A kind of anxiety gripped him, tightening into a knot in his stomach. He had a premonition, an inkling, an intuition that something extraordinarily dreadful was about to happen. It was as though his body reached feelers out into the space beyond him. His body knew – not his head – what was happening and what was about to happen. He knew that if he stayed in his head he would feel safe – but to do what he had to do he need to be in tune with his body. He breathed deeply and felt fear arising in his throat, stirring in his stomach, circling in his heart which thumped erratically. His heart then fluttered as though trying to escape his rib cage, pounding against his ribs the way a bird in a cage panics as the cat circles it.
He looked to his right where the wall of clouds stretched out not only in front but also to his right, rolling into the distance towards Downpatrick. He knelt on the ground and breathing deeply he leant forward and carefully placed a handful of twigs into the crackling smoke. The damp twigs threw a larger billowing cloud into the sky. He shivered and the coughing returned as he buttoned up his tweed jacket and tucked his scarf into his v necked jumper. Clasping his hands together he stared at the jumping flames, not noticing that the sun was setting and that the moon was cutting its way through the velvet darkness. A robin settled onto the handlebar of his bike, cocking its head
to one side, looking at him inquisitively. It then hopped onto the stony path, stopping at his rucksack, jumping deftly onto his left strap and stared with Tom into the orange and cadmium yellow flames.
“Don’t let it happen.” Tom prayed, watching the flames collapse into the fire’s final embers, burning a small hole into the thawing circle of earth. He looked at his watch. He was going to be late home. Lily and Rose would be worried. It was six o’clock.
• • •
At five o’clock in the evening of the 6th January, the Feast of the Epiphany, Margaret laid the table for dinner – cod poached in milk, boiled potatoes with peas and a pot of tea. Danny knocked at the front door. Dennis, Margaret’s oldest boy aged fourteen, opened the door. Danny, Sean and two women pushed Dennis against the wall, forcing their way inside. Danny and Sean watched Margaret finishing pouring white parsley sauce over the cod in a Pyrex serving dish. Margaret swung around, saw the guns and screamed. Danny lunged at Margaret, dragged her away from the serving dish which fell onto the floor, the milk splashing onto her legs and the dish shattering into tiny jigsaw pieces. She was pulled from the kitchen into the sitting room. Thomas and Dennis grabbed hold of both her hands and screamed, “Don’t let them take you Mummy. Don’t go.” One of the women put a gag into Margaret’s mouth although Margaret hadn’t said a word. Dennis tried to pull the gag out of his mother’s mouth, “Leave her alone. Leave her alone. Get out of here. Don’t hurt her. She hasn’t done anything.”
Margaret’s small frail body now started to shake uncontrollably. The woman who gagged her, spat into her face. “Soldier lover!”
Margaret felt the spit on her face as Danny pulled her hands behind her back, to allow Sean to bind them together with thick twisted cord. The two men then marched her into the hallway. The front door was open. Margaret stumbled down the garden path, past the oak tree towards a waiting green Vauxhall Viva. Ciaran was inside the car. Danny opened the back door and pushed Margaret inside, bending her head with his hand and nudging her over on the seat with his thighs.
Ciaran drove towards Downpatrick. He parked in a lay-by half a mile from Ballycutter Lodge. Frances got out first and took Margaret’s arm, this time gently, helping her from the car. He removed the gag from her mouth. She took three deep breaths as though tasting the air for the first time. The coldness made her cough. Sean and Ciaran walked ahead through the gateway. There was no-one in the Lodge. Danny turned right walking along a path through the small woodland. Margaret staggered beside him, her hands still tied behind her back, shivering in her thick brown woollen tights, her swing purple woollen skirt catching in the thorn bushes along the path. Danny kept pulling her on, ignoring the fact that her skirt was getting plucked around the hem.
Margaret was wearing the brown Pringle cashmere turtle neck jumper which Dennis had saved up for as her Christmas present. She felt its softness against her neck. She struggled to stay on her feet as her flat black leather shoes slipped on the ice at the edge of the Lough. She went over on her ankle. The temperatures were now barely above freezing as she listened to the gentle squish of the waves, feeling the spray touch her face, her lips tasting its saltiness. She noticed the ivy creeping around the trunk of the lime trees reaching high into the darkening sky. She saw the evening star appear in the sky as Danny guided Margaret to the small frozen lake where the slithered moon
shone on the frozen surface. She compulsively took another three gasps of cold air, seeing for the first time a tree sticking out of the water like a petrified swan.
Danny and Sean took a few steps towards the lake. She heard them muttering to one another. Were they changing their minds? She heard a heavy tread and crunch of boots against the frozen pebbles. She glanced again at the petrified swan, with its wing half open. She was aware that her breathing was becoming deeper. She felt the cold air enter her nostrils, her chest expanded, her stomach pushed against the elasticised waist of her skirt. She felt a trace of warm air at the tip of her nose. She took another cold breath of air, hearing Ciaran move closer. Margaret turned around and stared at the Lough and twinkling stars over Ciaran’s shoulders, hearing him take several deep breaths. She heard again the tread of Ciaran’s footsteps on the frozen grass. Ciaran walked towards her, a knife in his right hand, his beard jewelled with droplets of water from the spray of the Lough. He looked directly into Margaret’s eyes.
“I don’t want to die.” Margaret whispered quietly. “I would like to be brave, but I’m not. I’m afraid. I’m terrified. I don’t want to die. Do you know what it feels like to be scared out of your mind?”
“This is a war. You shouldn’t have done what you did. You know the consequences. You helped the enemy. This has to be a lesson to others.” Ciaran replied.
“Don’t you want to see your own children grow up? I want to see my children grow up, get married. I want to see my grandchildren.”
“You interfered with a military operation.”
“I helped a man who was dying. How will it help Ireland to leave five children without a mother?”
“You brought this on yourself. You are a traitor to Ireland.
Why didn’t you think about your children before you helped the enemy?”
“Do you have children?”
“I do. I am fighting for them, for the future of the children of Ireland.”
Ciaran, held her wrists as the knife sawed slowly through the rope.
Margaret looked down at her hands now hanging by her side, mottled blue with the cold. She felt the cold air moving again through her body. Her feet were freezing as the melting snow seeped into her shoes.
Ciaran passed the knife to Sean who had taken a few steps closer. Sean handed him a pistol.
Margaret straightened her back and rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand for the last time. “Will you do something for me? Tell my children that I love them. Tell them to be kind to each other and to take care of each other. Tell them to be gentle and to forgive you. Tell them that I will look over them and love them always. I’ll never leave them. Will you do that for me?” Margaret asked, looking deeply into Ciaran’s brown eyes. She then looked beyond Ciaran towards the Lough, where the moon hung low on the horizon with a silvery halo and a mist skidded across its surface. She brought her hands together, bowed and turned to face the petrified swan in the frozen lake as the cold metal of Ciaran’s pistol touched the nape of her neck.
“May God forgive you.” Margaret whispered. “You call yourself a Christian? It’s easy to kill an unarmed woman isn’t it soldier?” Margaret’s voice was low yet confident.
“It’s war. You follow orders.” Ciaran’s voice for the first time trembled.
Margaret questioned again. “Whose orders? Isn’t it you who gives the orders around North Belfast?”
Ciaran pressed the pistol deeper into Margaret’s neck. “Shut up. Save your words for your bloody prayers.”
• • •
Tom had packed his rucksack when he heard footsteps to his left. He saw the black outline of Margaret, Danny, Ciaran and Sean walking two by two along the path passing Potter’s Cottage. He saw Margaret stumble, and being caught by Danny before falling on the ground. He watched Danny and Sean talking together, while Margaret stood alone and Ciaran took a few steps towards her. The moonlight glistened on the barrel of the pistol in Ciaran’s hand.
Tom dropped the rucksack on the grass and ran towards Margaret. Ciaran swung round and pointed the gun at the approaching stumbling shape while Danny and Sean remained motionless beside him. Ciaran pulled the trigger. A loud crack of gunfire rang across the Lough. Tom fell to the ground. A second shot followed. Margaret collapsed face first into the frozen lake, the ice cracked open and the dark water below swallowed her.