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Face to Face
Dedicated to my daughter Kathleen
Strangers Shore……………………………………………………..…..3
Walking on Water……………………………………………………… 13
My Soul at Peace in the Chapel at KerryKeel……………….19
The Visit………………………………………………………………………25
Broken Connections…………………………………………………….34
The Christmas Cake……………………………………………………..40
The Scan………………………………………………………………………46
Facing the Truth…………………………………………………………..53
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I hope you enjoy reading these 8 short stories parts of
which did happen while other parts happened only in my
imagination.
Roseleen xx
Roseleen Walsh©2018
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STRANGERS ON A SHORE
Walking along the beach I told God I was sorry for not going to
mass, then, stopping dead to let the tiny waves cool frothy water
caress my aching feet. I had begun the walk in anger not thinking
where it might end so with uncertainty I had hesitated, unsure
which direction to go – left or right – being left handed may have
had something to do with turning left: on reflection, a trait all
through my life. I enjoyed the cool caresses and told God on
second thoughts that I wasn’t sorry for missing mass because, I
was here and in awe of His beautiful creation and that was a
prayer in itself; my prayer for the day. Thinking deeply how this,
this magnetism was happening, in and back out, the power of the
waves took my breath away and brought my tired mind to
somewhere it hadn’t been in years; mind years!
It was over 20 years since we’d been on a holiday like this and for
the last 15 years I went alone to Lourdes searching for miracles
along with the other wounded souls; but events were to change
that earlier this year. I had forgotten what a holiday was like, a
foreign holiday with the sun, sea and freedom. We, Tom and I,
had promised ourselves to make the effort to really enjoy these two
weeks even if it killed us, literally. How strange is life, I thought, we
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really never learn, I mean if it kills us both or just one of us then will
myself or Tom, really have enjoyed it…………one last time! Silly
thoughts were taking hold of my mind on the beach. By the way my
name is Jean.
Paddling along lifting the edges of the black dress in which I had
thought looked good on me earlier; it was my daughters old dress
and maybe a bit too revealing for an auld doll which in case you
don’t know is a term we use in Belfast for an older woman. Before
leaving the apartment, I studied myself in the mirror and decided
that I looked good in the dress, not just good, no, not good just for
my age, but good good; attractive even! I put my bottle of water
and purse in a blue plastic bag which at the time of leaving the
apartment felt sensible enough, though, it did un-glamour me
somewhat, I thought.
I’m a 67 year old woman and should have confidence in who I am;
I’m that or this 67 year old who constantly pretends to have
confidence, but today is the day I’ll show them all who can walk a
beach with confidence………it wasn’t long before I felt the blue
plastic bag was a mistake, even with the sun glasses I’d bought in
pound town with the fancy logo ‘TRUTH’ on each side, the bag still
demeaned my appearance, I thought, but I was well into the beach
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and there were too many eyes watching to discard it. Now walking
along a crowded beach, I suddenly felt like a bag lady, homeless
and old; an auld doll, a real auld doll. Fleeting thoughts like that
were of no consequences; now my rage had died a little I felt pity
for the squabbling sea gulls fighting over something no one but
they could possibly understand; though I observed that once a
smaller gull flew off to the sculptured rocks that encased the beach
and made dark caves seem inviting, that a silence or maybe
tranquillity descended on the other gulls and they flew about their
business in seemingly contentment. The blue plastic bag didn’t
really affect me or so I told myself because at 67 one shouldn’t
really really care too much about how strangers on a crowded
beach perceive one! I think!
There were a few tit-elenas running about and they didn’t seem to
care what people thought of them either. Our Jack, my grandson
who was on the beach the day before came back to the apartment
excited to be telling us the latest breaking news that some women
on the beach had no tops on and everyone was looking at them
and he could not take his eyes of them because of the way they
bobbed up and down and the size of them and the age of some of
the ‘auld dolls’ was how it put it………………..he had to be told that
his innocence and admiration for his grandmother must to be
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based on the truth. No lies. Truly his gran was just like everyone
else. I was also a tit-elena once a life time ago I told him. He was
in total shock, disbelief, that I, his granny Jean could have ever
done such a thing; the news was so devastating to him that I had
to sit him down and explain that while I would never have gone
topless in Belfast……. well, Spain was a different matter. He
would understand some day! But, his look of disbelief was
shattering for me; to fall of the pedestal that your grandchild has
placed you on is hard to deal with on holiday.
The bag lady thought didn’t exactly come out of the blue, no it had
been on my mind since the night before when we witnessed the
plight of a real bag lady and it was traumatic and painful to recall
because in all my years I had never witnessed such an unkindness
to a vulnerable person. She was a well-spoken lady sitting at the
gate of the apartment block counting change. I bid her a good
afternoon and she replied first in German and then good English
with a pleasant smile, in fact a warm and welcoming smile.
Tom and Jack had also met the lady, but they gave her money
recognising her street status. Much later from the apartment
veranda we witnessed the commotion and screams from the
woman as she was assaulted by apparently other drinkers.
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Hearing the thuds was unbearable and Jack and I ran to the
Germans aid and found her in an unconscious state on the blood-
stained path where she had been sitting earlier. When the police
and ambulance arrived, they treated the woman with contempt
saying, that they knew it was her when they received the call.
They called her Annetta several times as she was being put into
the ambulance and although I did not understand the conversation
fully that went on between the police and the medics I knew by
their tone they were quite unsympathetic to this poor woman. Later
the receptionist in our apartment block told us that she had lived
there 4 years, working at first in bars and then more recently,
because of her problem with drink, began sleeping and begging on
the street. I shivered to think of where my own sister Sharon might
be: she had left home 40 years ago to holiday in Turkey and had
never been heard of since we received a letter with no address
from her. It informed us that she wished to break all connections
with the family and that her name was changed to Adile. A picture
was also enclosed of Sharon and her new husband Abdullah and
she was dressed in a Burka; none of the family ever tried to find
out how Sharon was or what had become of her and I felt a surge
of great remorse that turned from anger to rage earlier; an inward
rage; guilt, my guilty conscience. But who was to know how I felt
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as I walked along that beach for I knew nothing of what secrets or
inner rage disturbed the peace of anyone who lay sunning
themselves there before that powerful ocean; even the tit-elenas
have their secrets.
Further alone the beach I was still in awe of how the sea works, its
power overwhelming my soul; I barely had the nerve to glance left
at a young couple least I intruded on their intimacy as they
embraced and kissed, such a gentle, kind kiss it seemed from the
distance and I remembered how once that was me and someone,
someone I don’t even remember, but still there once was someone
who held me like that for I remembered how it felt. Again, pausing
to take in and frame all this majestic beauty I became aware of
someone looking sideways at me; was it my face or hair or maybe
my whole unite plus the blue plastic bag and I became conscious
of my toe nails with the half peeled nail varnish, really tacky, I
regretted now not having them painted for the holiday; no one will
give a dam about what I look like I remember thinking, stupidly. I
just didn’t care until this precise second about my appearance!
Glancing over I saw this handsomely tanned male of maybe my
own age, but, who was wearing well, much better than I. He looked
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natural, no toupee or dyed hair and as he smiled I could clearly
see his teeth and they did indeed look like they were his own and
not the false brilliant white set that I loathe in older people………he
was really manly looking and I liked the way he was staring at me;
perhaps the blue plastic bag was becoming an asset I jested to
myself. Removing my sunglasses in a dramatic pose he then
removed his and at last our eyes met unveiling the most gorgeous
brown sexy eyes that made my legs melt like they’d never melted
before; oh la la I thought, in an instant my mind raced to romance
and more……… the rush of excitement took me by surprise as all I
could think of was the words of the song by Dr Hook……..my mind
involuntary sang it and I was speechless……if I said you had a
beautiful body would you hold it against me……….who was
this stranger on the shore making me feel like this?
He smiled, and oh what a smile. “May I ask you something” he
said in possibly broken Italian as I dug my right set of toes into the
moist sand; I wasn’t familiar with accents outside of Ireland or
France, well, Lourdes to be precise; strange as it may seem,
although I had been to Spain many times I had no recollection of
the Spanish\English accent and for one daring moment, I was
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tempted to reply with a French accent, just to sound like some
person of interest, just for this one silly moment on a beach holding
my blue plastic bag awkwardly now; instead of the fake accent,
smiling I replied, “Yes, as long as it’s not to go to bed”.
“Sorri, sorri, can you repeat?”
Coming quickly to my senses I, as cool and sensuous as the
waves about my feet said “Go ahead, ask” he smiled and said
exploring my face “Your glasses”
“My glasses” I replied puzzled.
“Yes, on the side they say TRUTH, (I acknowledged with a nod)
tell me what TRUTH is; you know what TRUTH is?”
I was so disappointed that it was a serious question and I felt my
painted smile drop and that old worried look I’m told I carry around
on my face at times I just knew he would spot it if he had good
instinct……..and I thought quickly that, well at 67 it should be no
surprise that my brain was of more interest to a man on a beach
than my body……ah well, I sighed under my breath, at least I’ve
got an admirer of my taste in sun glasses………Anyway looking
into his eyes I saw, not colour alone, but life, life and intrigue and I
acknowledged this discovery with a new smile, a friendship smile a
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‘we are equal’ type smile. And so I said, looking out into the vast
power of the sea then back at him, “Yes, I know what TRUTH is’
and he acknowledged my words with a nod an encouraging nod,
gently encouraging me to continue, which I did, with my TRUTH
and it felt as though I were standing on a stage in some wonderful
theatre somewhere and that I was giving my all to this massive
audience saying with such conviction and clarity; “TRUTH is the
only thing that is TRUTH, there is no other thing that is TRUTH or
half TRUTH, TRUTH is TRUTH”
He waited thinking I had more to say, to explain, and when he
realized I had given him my full explanation he said as he moved
closer, and at this point I thought he was going to put his hands on
me to feel what was real to touch the TRUTH, my TRUTH, my
reality was my TRUTH; it’s what I carry on my shoulders daily; but
he seemed to have second thoughts about touching, to my
disappointment, because I really did long to put my head on his
bare chest and feel his strong heart beat like the sea’s beating
heart at our feet and it’s lapping waves caressing my body and
soul………..but he instead walked a few steps away into the sea
and shouted in an amused tone:
“Well then, woman, is SHIT TRUTH?”
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Without pausing for a second, I shouted back: “Yes, SHIT is
TRUTH, because SHIT is SHIT and nothing else, it isn’t HOPE or
PARDON or MERCY or A LONGING or DESIRE or anything else
that’s why SHIT is TRUTH”
He then without looking back at me swam into the deep; perhaps it
was an invite for me to join him but I no longer wanted to deviate
from the straight path I was on carrying this blue plastic bag and so
without looking after him I walked straight to the end of the beach
where I removed my water and purse from the blue plastic bag. I
rested for a moment on a rock and I folded the bag carelessly and
put it into a bin.
Now, from the road I looked backed down at the beach and I could
see the plastic bag in the bin where I had thrown it, but it was of no
consequences that it was a plastic bag; only its magnificent colour
mattered now, and it was matched in beauty by the ocean and the
sky above. I felt content and continued back to the real world
where I truly belong; or so I thought at that moment in time! My
rage had swum deep into the sea and drowned.
END
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Walking on Water
It was a beautiful moment and I stood up shaking the
sand from my hair as I walked to the water’s edge to
breathe in the salted air that had touched memories
long buried in that secret pleasure place we all keep
for special days of reflection: this was one of those
days.
The first chill of the small waves didn’t stir a single
skip from my sore feet, in fact, it’s cool caress left me
wanting more, bigger and better on its return it was so
soothing, though, not just for my feet but for my soul
as well. I had been troubled of late and now feeling
loved by this great ocean before me I felt free and this
freedom slowly rescued my pain and redeemed it for
pleasure; an inward pleasure that I had forgotten ever
existed in me.
Deeper the white foam lapped around my calves with
a sudden force that it almost forced me in to where I
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was not at that moment ready to go. Stepping in had
to be executed in my own time and not before. I still
needed more pleasure and pampering before I would
take that final step into the depth of what lay before
me.
I still hadn’t moved even an inch but time had passed
and the waves splashed above my knees giving such
relief to my left torn cartridge which I was on a long
waiting list to have removed, but like my other current
torments it no longer mattered for I was now in such a
happy and loving place in my mind and I could see
clearly what was before me. It was crystal clear, I
could even see, though not identify, the fishes living
their lives without a care in their world, I thought; if a
fish can live its life without a care, then so should I be
able to. Why should I not?
Still, without moving the sea was now up to my thighs
and it was delightful, the flooding memories of my
French lover carrying me to his bed as I wrapped my
inner thighs around his torso tightly and feeling for the
first time the electricity flowing between us. I thought
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of that first ecstasy as I observed what looked like
from the distance a little fishing boat and at that exact
moment a dark cloud floated and stopped in front of
the sun giving me a better vision for distance. My
vision was focused clearly on the boat and I thought I
could see a man, yes it was a man, for he had the
build of a man with shoulder length hair and he was
standing upright on the boat, perhaps to fish or
urinate; but surely if urinating he would have the good
manners to turn his back even at such a distance from
the shore, surely! I did not take my eyes of the boat
and the man on it only to blink, and that is the truth;
then, before my eyes I saw the impossible. That is
also the truth.
The water was now above my thighs but I was
incapable of movement for what I witnessed was so
unbelievable; if I moved it might vanish and I might
declare myself mad as others had tried to make me
believe about myself earlier in the year when I had
uncovered by accident, the fraudulent goings on in the
bank where I worked for the past 7 years. Mister
Browne and Grace would be delighted if I were to be
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confirmed insane and committed to some terrible
institution for the rest of my life or at least until they
could both vanish without trace with all the money
they had been siphoning from elderly clients for years.
I had always suspected an affair but not stealing from
the accounts.
Grace and Browne got their promotion ahead of me
and I had thought I deserved it more than either of
them but they were friends with Mr Tutting, the
regional manager, so that was that, I could not afford
to rock the boat with the accusations of stealing for I
really had no concrete proof at that time, that came
later, and when I confronted them they threatened to
say they both caught me money laundering for the
crooked side of my family. What could I do............I
just did not know where to turn or to whom I could
confide in. It was bad. I was in a mess. There was no
one. No one at all.
The water now was up to my waist. I was stung by a
jelly fish and I remained mute and calm: this is what I
saw. The man disembarked from the small boat and
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he began to walk on the water; on top of the water.
He looked straight at me with eyes big and honest
and brown; he was wearing a white robe and he held
his hands out stretched bidding me to come to him,
but I couldn’t trust myself to walk on top of the water
as he seemed to be directing or ordering me to do; if I
walked to him from where I was I would have gone
under, and yet I should not have been afraid because
if someone can walk on water then they would not
have let me drowned or that was my logic at that
moment but I had not the faith to do it, to trust, to say
yes. It did me no good for I felt a coward. He came
closer and closer and I grew stiller and stiller perhaps
I was not taking in breath and then finally, when he
was within yards from where I was now up to my neck
in the sea, he smiled, and I felt him or someone or
some power step inside my whole body and I knew I
was safe and that everything would be taken care off
in my life. I just knew this. The dark cloud moved
away from the sun allowing again for it to shine down
on me giving me such warmth and brightness forcing
me to blink. I opened my eyes and he and the boat
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had vanished. I did not doubt myself for a single
second about what I had seen and felt. I turned my
back to the sun and began to walk to the shore and
people on the beach and on the rocks stared at me
because I was naked. Unlike Eve, I felt no shame!
END
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My Soul at peace in the Chapel at Kerry keel
Mine was the only soul in the Chapel and I loved that feeling of
being alone in His presence.
The Silence unbroken was beautiful. Silence like this had carried
me through much turmoil in the past. When the Silence comes to
me I appreciate it and want to hold on to it forever. I knew I was not
alone because I believe wherever I am, that, so also is He. I like to
think about Him all the time and try to make Him part of my every
day. I don’t need to be in a chapel to experience His Silence; but
sometimes it just happens that way in that sort of place and usually
when I least expect it.
Seated I prayed the rosary, the Sorrowful mysteries, though it was a
Saturday and as always, my mind wondered in and out and during
each decade. I thought about the last time I prayed here in this
chapel or at least the last time I was here in body. All the drink and
all that drink brings and does to a soul is a serious matter for any
soul. My soul seems to have come a long way since then. But
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what I want to say is this: after my random thoughts on self-
destruction from the past and then the blankness that usually
follows such a beating of one self, like a flash out of the blue came
this vision.
I have had visions before but none so violently graphic as this which
I will tell you now, but before I continue I must confess that when I
say vision, what I mean is imagination, solely in my own mind and
not a physical manifestation directed by Jesus Himself, but by me. I
believe that God opens our eyes to let us see certain things at
different times in our life through our imagination; at least that’s the
way it has always been for me.
It began after I finished saying the rosary. I was staring blankly at
the foot of the altar when I heard something being dragged along up
the middle isle the full length from the main door to where I was
seated at the isle side on the front pew. I wasn’t afraid and so I
didn’t turn around and just sat and waited the few seconds it took to
see what it was approaching from behind. My eyes still fixed at the
foot of the altar I watched men lay a large wooden rugged cross
down and they seemed to be discussing how best to get Jesus to
lay down on it with the least inconvenience to them. I knew it was
Jesus without a doubt. The two men were not soldiers but more like
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grave diggers dressed for working with the clay and earth in the
present time; they both had that unwashed look about them. One of
the two, the man at the bottom of the cross ordered Jesus to lie
down. I noticed he had a finger missing from his left hand as he
ripped the sheet covering Jesus from his poor tortured body and
flung it on top of the altar, but it slid off onto the floor at the back of
the altar out of view. Jesus now naked, painfully obeyed the
command. “Keep your legs and feet together and don’t move them
till I’m ready”. I paused at this point in the vision for I had always
viewed in my mind the Crucifixion very differently, more matter of
fact, mechanically; I had pictured the Crucifixion being performed
without afford. But let me continue, I forgot to mention that in my
mind at this stage the chapel was full of people who were shocked
to see the Crucifixion playing out before their eyes.
I watched with horror as the men, four now, one still at the foot of
the cross, two others each charged with a hand and a centurion
soldier who stood observing the congregation from the side of the
front of the altar. Both men stretching open the hands of Jesus were
ordered by the foot man where to strike and when. This they did in
unison. The blood splattered like holy water during a blessing onto
the faces and coats of some of the congregation; loud screams
echoed all around. The savagery shamed every sinew of my being.
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To be of the same cloth as His tormentors was my real pain.
People began shouting things like: this shouldn’t be allowed, this is
obscene! I didn’t look around to see who was shouting, I just
watched with pity and wondered if in fact this was really happening
now, for real. I couldn’t honestly tell for it all seemed so familiar and
real.
The rough and splintered cross was quite thick, and it appeared to
take several blows with the hammers to get the nails securely
through into the wood. The nails too were uneven and thick with a
slight curve at the top. My eyes were focussed only on the poor,
poor face of Jesus and I could not imagine the agony He was
suffering. His eyes did not close at all, at least I did not see them
close and I observed His whole focus was on the man at the foot of
the cross who held, irreverently, His feet. There were more shouts
and screams from the congregation as they stampeded through the
door at the back to get out and again I heard shouts of “children
shouldn’t be allowed to see things like this, it’s a disgrace, who is
responsible who allowed this to happen in a Catholic church? What
will the Pope have to say about this?”
For a split second I did wonder what they meant, didn’t they
understand that this was real? This is what happened. It would
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change so much in our lives I thought if we witnessed this scene
every time we attend mass............but then again...would it? From
the outside no one could see what happened next.
I caught the eye of the man holding Jesus’ feet and I saw tears
mounting in them and Jesus stared as though He was sympathising
with this man. I became aware that Jesus was looking at me but not
with his eyes. He penetrated my entire being; I was consumed by
something that I had no name for; it was as though I had been
brought into a powerful energy of love and mercy. I felt naked; seen
for what I am; my awful secrets lay there on the floor visible to me
alone mirrored in His eyes. I saw every sin I had ever committed in
an instant through His pain; I cannot say how I knew or was able to
imagine this, only that I believe this was shown to me by such a
power that I cannot fathom except through Almighty God. I felt that
I was completely loved and could have sat there in that Chapel for
the rest of my life.
Then, just before the hammer went down to crush His poor feet, a
silence descended and as I turned I got the feeling that the Chapel
was packed with people whom I could not see but somehow knew;
and then the silence came alive within my soul and I cried as the
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blood flooded from His feet; the one who struck the blows stood up
dropping the hammer and ran away covering his face as he went.
Then and only then did Jesus close His eyes as if in prayer.
I closed my eyes at this point and when I opened them the cross
was standing erect firmly on top of the altar and His blood dripped
onto the altar cloth.
I thought before I left the chapel about why people don’t want to see
the real mess we all make, we want it tidied up before we look.
I got up to leave and I felt happy not because of what I had
imagined, but, because of what my soul had witnessed.
Amen
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The Visit
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Even in the summer months it always felt cold; (the only
heat was when the sun shone on your back as you
were being ushered in and out of the mini bus to the
visiting area) so now in late October I was making sure
that I’d be warm; deciding the night before to wear
something that belonged to my mother out of
remembrance and respect for one whose life revolved
for so long around this particular prison. I wore her
purple woollen scarf. She would have liked the idea of
that. Though she’d never have visited an empty prison!
She’d been visiting Long Kesh from it opened until it
closed and before that she’s been a constant visitor to
The Crum and Armagh. She was 81 when she
departed this life and had been visiting jails since she
was 19, and constantly from she was about 45. Like
many other mothers here in Ireland she spent more
than 20 years of her life visiting her children who at
various times had been political prisoners. So, this visit
would be different than any other visit I’d made to Long
Kesh or The H Blocks where I’d visited my husband,
brothers, cousins and comrades. Over the long years I
remember at times that it wasn’t always an event to
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look forward too, but I see no shame in being honest, I
still went and put a good face on things!
My hope now was not just to see the other side of the
counter in particular, but to somehow feel, to pick up
maybe some feelings that linger still in and around this
once terrible place where men were not just prisoners
to be locked up, but prisoners who were held by jailers
who were also their enemy and who believed it their
duty to break the spirit of every prisoner who defied
criminalization. Maybe I would feel nothing, but I
guessed at least I would intrude somehow if not on the
spiritual then maybe in the memory banks that lived
there.
I was lucky to be picked for the tour, organised by the
first minister’s office, by The Link Community Group.
Eight of us went up in two cars I was with Michael
Ferguson who did his business non-stop on his mobile
for the duration of the journey. I was armed with
camera, video recorder and memories. Each item with
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its own unique importance; and each to serve me and
the others well for posterity. The tour lasts
approximately one hour to an hour and a half. I would
have been more selective in what shots I took or in
hind-sight, I should have taken an extra film and video
battery if I’d known beforehand what exact buildings we
would visit.
We were greeted at the inside of the gates by a black
cat – it hassled me a bit tripping me up until I finally
gave him what he was asking for; a good tickle! I had
no memory of ever seeing a cat up there before.
The tour guides were both efficient and punctual – we
started on time and finished on time. As we travel in
the mini bus I remembered that the windows of the
visitors mini bus were always blanked so we couldn’t
see the layout of the prison; I was amazed at the length
of the wall that encompassed the cages, huts and H
blocks, it was grey and seemed to stretch for miles; I
couldn’t help thinking that possibly the same mindset
that had constructed the Berlin Wall had in 1971
constructed this wall here in Long Kesh and for similar
29
reasons! Then Michael told his story pointing to the
‘hanger’ in the field to the right of the wall; he recounted
how he had been held there on his way back from a
Sinn Fein Ardheas for several hours – he eventually
received £1,250 compensation for wrongful arrest.
Then I recounted my ‘hanger story’ which was; after a
morning visit our mini bus was stopped by the brits just
outside the prison gates, it so happened that the mini
bus driver, a wonderful man, Francie Toner, had been
harassed daily going and coming from the prison by the
same brits, so on this day Francie refused to give his
name to the brit who had stopped him as he drove to
the prison a few hours previously; so of course in
solidarity everyone else refused also to give their
names, we were all arrested and brought to the very
large and cold hanger and held for two or so hours. My
3-week-old baby had been sick and needed changed
and fed, I’d also to pick my daughter up from school at
2 pm. Eventually we were let go, and on reaching the
Shaws Road I found my daughter wondering on the
green crying and frightened. Another day another
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struggle – a protest that night – the following day
another visit to Long Kesh!
Our first stop was the emergency control room. There
was no electricity in the place, so our guides led the
way with flash lamps. I could have done without this
part of the tour; the only thing of interest to me was the
telephone. It was white and I wondered if this was the
phone used to alert the guards during the great escape
in ’83 when 33 prisoners escaped There were a lot of
gates in the building and I laughed to myself as I
thought how it must have been harder for the screws to
get in than it was for the 33 prisoners to get out!
Next stop was the hospital where the 10 hunger-
strikers died. We all went in cautiously and silently
nursing our own private thoughts and emotions. It was
in a sense as we had imagined it emotionally; there
was nothing visual in our expectations, but we did find
what we hoped to find and that was atmosphere. There
was a stillness that facilitated us to walk in and out of
off each room silently, bringing and leaving the trauma,
31
dreams, nightmares and love that had cursed us these
years since the hunger strike; perhaps now somehow
our spirits could stay here awhile with all the pain and
sorrow that still lurks in this place and heal our grief a
little. These ten men had heroically given up their
young lives in the tiny rooms along this corridor, so how
could this cold chilling place feel other than full of
suffering and yet somehow there is this feeling of
resurrection and off triumph. The importance of
standing silently in those small rooms cannot be
understated; for in some way being there gave us a
sense of sharing with Bobby, Francis, Raymond,
Patsy, Joe, Martin, Kevin, Kieran, Tom and Mickey the
sacredness of the human spirit which lives on and
spreads through the hearts of those with a shared
belief. We all left in silence. There was a day outside
waiting for our return; but no day will ever live again in
the building we’d just visited.
Next stop H4. Everyone was talking once more though
in a sombre mood. My brother Joe was in the cell
where he’d spend many years. He was able to place
the names of his comrades into each cell. Also, we all
32
walked around the yard that the prisoners finally got to
use after the 4 years of protest when they were locked
up 24/7 wearing only a blanket. Joe recalled that if you
walked around the yard 18 times then that was one
mile.
Next stop the compound 19. Michael led the way and
rightly so as this was his home for many years; he was
caged in cage 14. I was really surprised that the cages
were so small. Michael complained that he got electric
shocks daily while turning the wall heaters on. The
reason being that the cages were built on top of a river
and the foundations were covered by sand and so the
damp would be there constantly. It was good to see
the internee’s huts crumbling away. A reminder that all
things come to an end.
We took one last look back as we drove through the
gates; remembering and feeling sad.
But more was too come. Michael took us all up to
Stormont and treated us to lunch. At the next table sat
Paisley, junior, The Robinsons, Sammy, Dodd’s and
33
one or two of the young bucks that used to shout at
Trimble during the panel programs on T.V. It was
amazing. Did you ever think that you were still in bed
dreaming? Sadly, some months later Michael died;
Louise and his children and all who knew him were left
broken hearted. Michael, like the hunger strikers, is
free at last!
END
34
BROKEN CONNECTION
i am consumed
by fear
for you
in my every thought
your name intrudes
i cannot send it away
it is too much a part of me.
your name
you
everything that is you
i fear for you
for you have no fear
nor friends
only brief encounters
who, like you are
alone
in need of not friendship no
for that would involve
35
a kind of acknowledgement
that they and you exist
in a place or sphere
greater than you all are;
loneliness forces you into
a self isolation
where you exist on show
you try desperately to
connect
you try desperately
to pretend that
connections hold no
meaning to you
and like your name
your beautiful name
you keep changing; adding to
shortening to suit the company
you keep and like everything else
you keep changing that too!
i want to embrace
36
your trembling body
that no one else can see
or understand as I do
but even me your
mammy’s mammy
you keep at a distance
we, who are not you
you disallow from entering
your circle that is empty,
there is nothing it can connect to
it is none existent, but there all the same
it is set in an empty space somewhere
in my imagination
we are so alike in ways
though i suspect you would not
approve or agree with my
insightfulness
that
we are connected but you cannot and will not
accept this recognition
from your
37
flesh and blood
perhaps because
it adds to your fears!
Let me enter
your mindful circle
i want to enter
move in, close
and whisper
how much i love you
but
you only allow me
to call you by a name
not your real name
but a shortened version,
and
i comply with your wishes
otherwise
i might lose you
again!
but, even that is uncertain
38
because
sometimes it feels like
i never had you
but
still i love you
and you have burdened my life
with an incompleteness
and
all i can do is
hope for
a miracle
God will not force you
will your indifference
force me to beg.
i will be a beggar
because
i love you.
And love is the only thing
that is real –
in our lives but we cannot feel or touch
for fear will surely make it disappear
39
but
we know it is there
somewhere
somehow
we know it exists
somehow it survives.
I have to keep writing
in hope that on the
last line
you
maybe there
waiting
and I
might
find you again and connect
as a friend to like or dislike on f/b.
Amen!
40
The Christmas Cake
It had been a bad winter that year of ’81. It was the
first time in years I had a warm coat; the reason I was
able to afford such a luxury this year was that I’d got a
job minding twins while their mother Maureen taught
in a nearby school. She was a kind woman who
would take my own young daughter to school in the
morning when we arrived at 8.30am. Maureen also
shared lunch each day with me; which was great
because for that 20 minutes or, so we would talk. My
wages for minding the twins was £12.50 a week. The
difference this money made to our lives was
enormous. I could get things like shoes or the
occasional hairdo and I didn’t have to walk
everywhere, which was usually the case before the
job. Life was sort of looking good for the first time in a
long time!
My husband was a sentenced prisoner in the H
Blocks. We were married 8 weeks when he was
arrested, and I was 8 weeks pregnant but worse still,
41
we’d only known one another for 12 weeks when we
were married; so really, we didn’t know each other
very long or we didn’t know very much about one
another up until then. In retrospect it does seem
strange that I’d given a life commitment to someone
about whom I knew so little, but, that’s the craziness
of love, isn’t it? Life since his arrest didn’t hold much
promise of anything other than a constant upward
struggle; but now the £12.50 extra each week made
an important difference.
This was going to be a good Christmas; I would for
the first time be able to buy toys and plenty of food
without having to go into debt. I bought our daughter
a Wendy house, paints, paper and lots of books but
most of all I had got our first turkey for Christmas
dinner. I was looking forward to later that night when I
would put my daughter to bed and leave out all her
presents and cook the turkey. But first we had to visit
her father in prison.
42
It was Christmas eve and the snow heaped down on
the mini bus as we travelled from Twinbrook to the
Sinn Fein centre in Savastopol Street. It was custom
in the centre to have Santa giving out presents to any
children going on a visit on Christmas eve, so we
would be delayed for about half an hour or so.
Travelling down the Falls Road I was deep in thought,
Aine ran into the centre with the other children. I sat
alone in the bus; getting up to check in the mirror if my
hair was still sitting the way I'd fixed it before leaving
the flat I felt cold and alone. As I sat watching the
snow like feathers from a pillow fall on the windscreen
and block my view of the whole length of Savastopol
Street I noticed through a side window a woman I’d
known years before from the ‘Legion of Mary’; every
so often she would run to the end of the street where
the Falls library comfortably stands. She wore red
slippers, red cardigan, matching skirt; keeping her
arms folded as she ran along emphasised the weight
she carried on her chest. I guessed she was waiting
for a friend or relative; or, perhaps she was just lonely
and was hoping some neighbour would notice her and
43
invite her into their home. I settled for my first guess, I
didn’t want her to be lonely. She was nothing to me
but because I felt ‘happy’ I wanted her to be happy
also!
As I felt a peace come over me, I began to pray,
thanking God for the job I believed he’d got me; I was
thanking Mary also for the peace and joy I was
experiencing at that exact moment. I remember
saying to Mary (in my mind) that I’d got everything I’d
wanted for this Christmas except the Christmas cake.
My mind was still in prayer and I was remembering
when I was a child and every Christmas when the
baker would bring our Christmas hamper; it would be
placed on top of the brown, well-scrubbed table in our
kitchen that seemed so much bigger than any of us
children then. One year in particular I remember
standing staring at the hamper wearing a blue rain
coat with the hood up; the bottom of the coat touched
the top of my Indian water boots that I had suspected
were boys’ boots really and that my mother, to get me
44
to wear them, said that with the blue rain coat and
water boots I looked like ‘little red riding hood’ except I
was ‘blue riding hood’ I smiled as I remembered that
feeling of trusting someone so completely without
question. It was always good to recapture that
Christmassy feeling; that was why I’d wanted the
Christmas cake! I had wanted to once again have
that feeling of being looked after and of being loved.
There were only 4 of us kids then and my two
brothers, sister and myself would stand at that table
and just stare at the cake with the icing and snow man
and Santa on top. It felt good to remember those
days. The Christmas cake to me was symbolic. It
represented everything that was innocent and happy
from my childhood.
Every time I accumulated the money for the
Christmas cake something else would come up and
steal my dream. After about 20 minutes I heard a
bang and saw all the children come out from the
centre; Aine was rushing towards me with a parcel.
45
She was breathless and put the parcel on my lap and
throwing her arms around my neck she hugged and
kissed me.
“Did you see Santa sweetheart?” I asked as I kissed
her back.
“Oh mammy, guess what happened” she said
excitedly. “When it was my turn daddy Christmas had
no more presents left, but he said to tell you that this
is a special present just for you. No one else’s
mammy got one! Just you”.
I couldn’t resist it I had to open the parcel, and to my
complete amazement when I pulled the wrapping
paper back I just couldn’t believe it. It was a
Christmas cake. I hugged my daughter and she
hugged me, she couldn’t know what exactly the
present was that she’d just delivered; nor who it was
really from.
END
46
THE SCAN
Christmas week and we were rushing. Excitement and longing
could not be separated. She had got them little extras that
weren’t on their list. Hannah and James are too young to say
what they wanted from Santa but Eva and Joseph had lists that
would scare any parent into lying about Santa’s ability to deliver
that amount of presents on his sleigh; they both accepted as only
children can, that the weight of all they wanted might cause
Santa’s sleigh to be brought down unexpectedly in the wrong
house. They both understood what that would mean.
We laughed and joked and remembered about our own
Christmas’s past; like when we discovered that Santa didn’t exist
and strange how we were both told in the same way and how we
just couldn’t believe it. She asked if her dad still hadn’t
telephoned me from Russia since last week and I confirmed that
he hadn’t and that it was no surprise to me at all. She said that
she hoped I wouldn’t be making him a meal tonight when he
arrived home. I said that I would, and she couldn’t understand
that; she protested and said she wouldn’t do it if Ciaran treated
her like that.
47
The appointment was for 9.30am and the roads were busy
already, we practically crawled into the hospital car-park and
drove round it a few times before we got a space that the car
could fit into without too much danger of scratching the car beside
it. We were both feeling so good as we heard a car radio ring out
‘So this is Christmas’ and we began to sing along and laughed as
I took her hand and swung it as I’d done when she was a child,
she was still a child, my child, my grown-up child; forever my
baby. There seemed a strange element of fun between us as we
half ran across the tarmac; it may have appeared that we hadn’t a
care in the world to the passing observer and at that moment they
would not have been wrong.
We waited in the tiny waiting area without talking because there
was another couple there and they were speaking a foreign
language in an argumentative tone. But before their argument
finished a nurse arrived and called us into the room for the scan.
“How many is this?” the nurse asked as she prepared the
scanner.
“This will be my fifth, I’ve two girls and two boys; 5,4,3 and a one
year old”.
48
“You’ll not care what this one is then”
“No, I’ll be happy no matter what”
I sat there waiting with pride and joy and thinking how lucky I was
to be there with my daughter for this big moment…..her 12-week
scan. She would get the photo to keep and perhaps if there were
two photo’s she’d give me one as she had on the other 4
occasions and I could show it to her dad tonight when he got
home. The jelly was spread on her tummy and the scan began.
Wow, I could see the miracle right centre in her womb……..but at
that very moment my mobile rang. I’d forgotten to turn it to silent.
Embarrassed I made for the door and muttered that it was my
husband and I was waiting on a call from him and without looking
back I hurried down the corridor and out to the front of the
maternity unit.
“I’m in the airport, we’ll be boarding in about an hour or so, will
you have a dinner ready for me, the food here’s rotten………..”
“Okay……” I replied in an irritated tone and pressed the red
button before he could utter another syllable; I felt annoyed with
myself for leaving my daughter at that moment; I should have
ignored the call and stayed to share that wonderful moment with
49
our daughter when she would see for the first time the beautiful
life she and Ciaran had created together.
Walking back up the corridor I noticed the nurse hurrying up the
stairs and I did think that a bit strange. As soon as I entered the
room I looked first at the screen and there it was, still there, my
daughter’s baby……….. our grandchild…12weeks…..tiny…and
wonderful.
“Where’s the nurse away to?”
“She’s away to get a second opinion……. she says there’s no
heart beat” Those words fell to the floor………something sharp
pierced my heart and left me breathless, my heart seemed to
stop, and I was rushed back in time to 30 years ago when I was
told the same awful news. In my case it was two hearts. Two
boys. Martin and Aodhan. I was 16 weeks pregnant with them
and so had to be induced; an actual birth. Twenty first of
November 1985.
I don’t remember moving over to my daughter, but I did because I
was now beside her, helpless, motionless and dying again. I
screamed inwardly and the vibration made my whole body
involuntary rock to and fro. At some point I took her hand and at
50
that moment both nurses walked in fragmenting this frame that
held the scene like a still picture just as the phone had done
moments earlier. It seemed to be a senseless moment that could
not be undone. The words and their meaning could not be taken
back and recycled into a different meaning.
The second nurse searched the screen for movement and there
was none; as I looked I could see this tiny figure in the shape of a
baby with two arms, two legs and head. I scrutinised the picture
and noticed as I hadn’t before that its arms were wide open,
stretched out like an angels’ wings. Then after saying how sorry
she was the nurse said, “I can’t even offer you hope, you can see
for yourself, another scan won’t make it any different”. Strange,
but neither of us looked back into the screen after hearing those
words ring into our ears.
The nurses then left us alone in this room that 10 minutes before
was a happy room. Now, it was an empty room; a lifeless room
where hope and joy evaporated in an instant. We were left with
this unbelievable feeling of sadness and pain. New loss and an
older loss that seemed renewed in an instant. It wasn’t just the
physical or emotional loss, it was the loss of a life that would have
51
enriched all our lives; life that my daughter helped create; but, it
was more than even that. Twelve weeks is a long time to have
lived with someone inside you.
With our heads now bent we crossed the car park and the same
car that had played ‘So this is Christmas’ was still there waiting
for someone to return but the music playing went on deaf ears
this time. We reached the car and drove home. Not a word was
uttered between us. Just our own personal thoughts, separate
yet they must have been similar, though, perhaps not. I don’t
know. How can anyone know someone else’s thoughts; no one
knew mine 30 years ago so how could I even guess at my
daughters now.
“Are you coming in for a cup of tea or a rest or what are you going
to do now”? I didn’t mean right now that moment, I meant what
was she going to do, how was she going to break the
news……………
“Will you still get Eva and Joseph at 2 o’clock”?
“Yeah……..will you tell them”?
“No, they don’t know; I was going to tell them the good news after
school…..they don’t need to know now…….they’re only kids”.
52
She drove away and I waited until the car was out of sight before I
turned the key and entered a house that could never be the same
as when we left it two hours before. There was an emptiness; no
baby thoughts; no telephone calls that were promised to say how
everything went. Roll on June.
Christmas is over and life goes on and my daughter rang today to
ask “Can I cry now”?
END
53
FACTING THE TRUTH
Through the heavy rain I walked to the shops and as the
small grass patch came into sight I stopped and took in
deep breaths, well, as deep as my heart attack of 4 years
past allowed, for my breathing has never been quiet the
same but I ignore that fact as long as I’m still breathing.
The smell, the beautiful smell that, without fail, always
takes me back to that other field from my childhood. It was
a much larger field with a river running through it. We all
played there almost every day of our lives except when the
rain came. The snow made it into a winter wonder land
year after year and we never tired of doing the same things
over and over like swinging from tree to tree and back and
forth across the narrow river to the banks that marked out
our separate territories. It was really magical. If someone
had told us that there were fairies living under the bushes
along the river we would have believed them; in fact, some
of us always had hope that one day we might experience a
lost fairy or one who had been chosen to look out for us
and who would know us by name. On Wednesday’s at
exactly quarter to four the bells of St Teresa’s would ring
54
and whatever we were doing down at the river we would
stop and run up to the chapel for the weekly devotions to
Our Lady. We would sing our hearts out and if one of us
laughed then we would all take a fit of giggling and the
priest in the pulpit would shout down for us to leave and
leave we would, we were such obedient children. We’d
walk out quickly, heads down and our shoulders shaking
with laughter. There usually would be Rita O Neill, Valerie
Thomas, the Marley’s, the Fitzsimons’s and us, the
Watsons, oh and Isobel Jess as well. There is no smell in
the world that I can think of, that evokes such happy
memories as newly cut grass does; even in childhood the
smell was of a different time altogether. Perhaps a time,
long forgotten, before I was even born.
I had this fleeting thought as I stood there all most to
attention, that it seemed strange that the council man or
person, if I’m to be politically correct, should be cutting the
grass in such heavy rain. It wasn’t as though the rain was
soft or even light, it was cold and sharp and had been
teeming down for some time. Anyway, I was grateful for
the council worker’s dedication to community service.
55
The magic was broken by Mrs Parker, noisy for short,
bumping her horn and calling out if I was all right. That
was my que to move, but before doing so, I took in more
deep breaths sucking in the smell as if to store some, so it
might last for the remainder of the day. Turning the corner,
I came face to face with a very dark-skinned woman who
looked about my own age and I smiled, and she smiled,
and our smiles appeared to meet with approval from each
other. As we were about to pass, she on the left and I on
the right of the narrow pathway, she moved slightly aside
to let me have the right of way and reacting to this polite
gesture I said before we blinked, ‘Isn’t that smell beautiful’
to which she replied
“I don’t think smell can be beautiful: it can be good, bad,
not ugly off course, but, you can’t see smell so how can
you say it’s beautiful? Taking three steps backwards to
align her eyes once again with mine she then sighing
wistfully said:
“I suppose you think everything is beautiful, lady” to which I
replied without blinking an eye lid.
‘No, I sure don’t’
56
She studied my face before asking:
“Tell me, what don’t you find beautiful?” to which I replied
instantly:
‘Lies, people who tell lies, especially about me’.
“Nobody likes a liar” she smirked knowingly “That’s for
sure”
‘Well, not all liars are liars, some people aren’t liars all the
time, they just chose their time and tell their lies or lie when
it suits them’! But no one calls them a liar. People
sometime just chose to forget a single lie regardless of its
consequences.
“But” she said very very cocky, too cocky for my liking, in
fact she sounded as though she knew what she was
talking about, but she couldn’t have known because she
didn’t know what I was talking about. Specifically, I mean.
“A lie is a lie and a liar is a liar and there is no in between,
lady”
‘That’s like saying The Truth is always The Truth, but in
fact it’s only The Truth when it tells everything, The Whole
Truth’.
“I don’t get that, lady can you explain?”
57
‘I’m in a hurry, my kids will soon be home from school and
I’ve no electricity left, I need to buy some and make them
something hot for coming home’.
“And is that the Truth or just an excuse not to justify your
statement”?
I laughed and as though taking up a challenge to defend
my honour and replied “Well it is the Truth, but, like you
said, not the whole Truth or enough of The Truth to give
you the whole picture…………”
I searched her eyes, left then right and left again, but her
focused stare was like nails being driven into my out
stretched arms on a cross. I felt vulnerable. Forced to
answer truthfully or lose all credibility in the eyes of this
stranger who really should not have mattered in reality to
me at all. Somehow her opinion of me did matter; my
continued feel good day rose or fell on her reaction to what
I was about to confide in her.
I recall only shadowy like figures passing us as we stood
blocking the narrow pathway where we stood rooted,
stuck, like in a time warp. Neither of us moved even an
inch as prams and old ladies on simmer frames pushed
58
past, perhaps because we were now cocooned in a virtual
passageway; it seemed unreal as we both indulged in this
game; the truth game!
“Go ahead lady, I’m waiting”
It was only then that I noticed she had a false eye, the left
to be exact. It felt strange staring into a false eye. Pointless
really. I wondered did she take it out at night and set it in a
glass beside her bed. Silly to be thinking that when I was
about to tell her something which I’d never told anyone
before. I should be serious not fickle; though she could not
have known what I was thinking and that made all the
difference to how she might approach judging me.
‘Look’, I said, ‘I don’t tell my friends my secrets never mind
strangers but we seem to have some sort of connection
here.’ She nodded politely before saying:
“Yes lady, you may be right there” and I tried hard not to
look into that left eye of hers but I now was finding it
irresistible and hoped she would not take offence at my
staring as I now realised she was aware; perhaps she was
used to this with strangers?
59
Though I did not recognise her there definitely was
something very familiar about her, even in her voice and its
tone. Maybe, I thought, that she could only see half a truth
because of having vision in only one eye. Silly, I know, but
then we all have silly thoughts at times and no one can tell
that by merely looking at us.
“Go on she said, I don’t have that much time either to
stand listening to a stranger…go on tell me what’s not
beautiful to you?’’ I thought to myself that now for this once
I have this opportunity to say my truth to a stranger and
then let it go and walk away without it……without the
resentment and bitterness that it had caused me for these
20 years.
‘Okay’ I said, ‘I’ll tell you………I’ll trust you with my secret if
you promise me you will never repeat it…….to
anyone…..promise? With her real eye she looked into
both my eyes one at a time and said sympathetically;
almost compassionately, “I promise, I take promises
seriously” Then I began, aware that I didn’t have much
time because my kids would soon be home and the house
would be cold for them.
60
‘As Beauty is in the eye of the beholder so too is Truth in
the mouth of the speaker. I had always thought that, until a
lie was told about me and some people, I may add, who
didn’t really know me, choose to believe the liar. I was
never asked for my side of the truth, but, their silence was
conformation of their belief in the lie. Something beautiful
dies with lies. A lie kills the truth. It’s not the facts or the
reality; it’s something deeper than both. It’s part of the one
who lies that dies and that side of it can never be undone
nor brought to life again; the consequences of a lie can’t
be untold because it’s been lived, acted out, rests in space
waiting to be brought up brought home again. Emily
Dickenson said, “A word is dead when it is said, some say.
I say it just begins to live that day” and I believe that for I
know that to be true’.
For some reason she started looking over my shoulder as
if there was someone behind me, but I didn’t want to turn
away from her not even for an instant.
‘Bye the way, my name’s Hannah’ I said trying to change
the tone of communication between us.
61
“I’m hannaH also’ she replied and before I got to say what
a coincidence she reported quickly “but I spell it back to
front”
‘Hannah is the same spelt backwards, everyone knows
that!’
“Yes, I know but I spell mine with the capital H at the end
not at the beginning; how’s that for originality, lady”.
“Originality”. I gestured with my shoulders that I didn’t
know the answer, after all it was a question she posed in
ignorance. I got the feeling that she had asked just for the
sake of asking and to see how I would answer such a daft
question. But, answer it I did.
‘Maybe you see things in retrospect, could that be it?”
Ignoring my response, she upped the pressure saying:
“Lady, please say what it is you don’t find beautiful......I’m
waiting and getting kind of impatient blocking peoples right
of way” and she began to take deep breaths to emphasise
her growing impatience with me.
‘I’ve changed my mind; the need has left me to explain’
“That hump on your back will get bigger as your bitterness
grows, unburden yourself now lady, grab this chance, I’ve
62
helped people before to rid themselves of what they don’t
need, that’s the truth!”
‘What I need to do to unburden myself is: to spit in the
liar’s face, nothing else will release all this bitterness that I
carry; it’s starting to feel like a cross I’m carrying and its
getting heavier and I’m getting weaker; have you ever
known anyone like me before?’
“I guess not, lady”
I looked in her right eye intently and thought I saw a tear
well up, but in the left eye I saw myself clearly and I was
horrified at the sight. It had to be me for there was no one
else beside me.
Whatever really happened on that pathway I don’t know for
sure but before I moved away to buy the electricity for my
kids I realised for the first time how others must see me.
The other hannaH walked away and I watched as she
turned and headed straight for the field. Maybe she
couldn’t break away from the past either!
END
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