February 16, 2011
By Staff Reporter
Or like a boom of thunder over the drumlin hills of North Down. Or like the roar from the pulpit of a Free Presbyterian church on the Ravenhill Road. A deep, booming, disturbing sound that goes on and on and on.
It is a wet misty morning. The low clouds cling to the side of the Black Mountain above the quiet wee streets of Ballymurphy. The flowers wither in the window boxes. The stray dogs howl in the back gardens. Gerry looks out the window at his own wee patch, now wet and muddy. The weeds are growing thicker. He thinks of Shakespeare — “It is an unweeded garden, things rank and gross in nature possess it merely.” Could the Bard have been thinking about the peace process, he wonders?
The kettle is singing on the stove. Colette is singing in the bathroom upstairs, a snatch from one of Verdi’s operas.
“For Jaysus sake, give my head pace,” Gerry, the master strategist of the republican movement, shouts in that genial voice of his, so beloved of his volunteers in days of old. “Am I married to Daphne Trimble or what?”
Not a very nice day for a trip to County Louth, but it can’t be avoided. He has to go and break the bad news to the Provisional Army Council. He could send Mitchel McLaughlin or old reliable, ever pliable Tom Hartley, that easygoing soul who now takes tourists around West Belfast for two quid a go, showing them the scenes of the great battles of the Armed Campaign. Those days are over now. No doubt about it. Now we are all moving the situation forward. All of us, that is, except for Big Ian and his Free Presbyterians. Gerry can’t put it off any longer. No, he has to make the trip himself. As Colette makes him his favorite egg and lettuce sandwich (with a dash of salad cream) he goes over to her and pats her on the back.
“You don’t really have to compete with Daphne anymore,” he says. “It’s Eileen Paisley now. So you better practice a few hymns, just to make her feel relaxed when we all have our first wee chat together.” Colette wipes a little tear from her eye.
“Oh Gerry,” she sobs, “you know I’d do anything to move the situation forward.” He nods in appreciation. The weemen are great, he thinks, and smiles. Where would we be without them? His mind flashes back to his days on the run: he’s tucked up in a pram and Colette is pushing him down the road through an army checkpoint . . . only a tiny tuft of beard pokes above the blankets and he realizes he should have have shaved for full effect . . . but Colette beams a smile at the squaddies and they wave them through.
“I’ll be off now,” he says. “I have to move the situation forward.” She gazes on him, overcome with admiration for her husband’s incredible devotion to the cause of getting back to Stormont. A great republican, she thinks! She stands at the window, raindrops running down the pane, to watch him climb into the back seat of his limo and disappear into the wintry mist that has suddenly wrapped its clammy arms around Ballymurphy.
It is a long dreary trip, down the M1, past Newry, across the border, down the back road to Omeath. All its fancy good stalls are shut for the winter. They stand forlornly on the quayside lapped by the cold waters of Carlingford Lough.
When Gerry walks in Brian K. is sitting there in the middle, the chief of staff, reading a worn copy of the Communist Manifesto. Joe Cahill is asleep in the rocking chair as usual, his workingman’s cape pulled tightly down over his eyes as it has been all these years. His old crumpled white handkerchief, the one that he holds up every day as he steps out the door to see which way the wind is blowing, is stuffed in his jacket pocket as ever. There is the sound of squeaking from under the table, next to where Slab is seated. Gerry frowns. It is one of Slab’s pigs that he is trying to smuggle from one side of the table to the other. He just can’t help himself.
Gerry K. is there too, trying on several models of police caps. As for Martin McGuinness, he has come down from Derry wearing a schoolbag. Gerry shakes his head sadly and concludes that he is suffering withdrawal symptoms — it happens when people loose their job. Truly tragic, but then, as the world knows, the people of Derry have seen it all before. Pat Doherty is sitting with his legs crossed listening on earphones to a CD of “Daniel O’Donnell’s Greatest Hits.”
“What’s the craic, Gerry?” asks Brian K. out of the side of his mouth. He does not put his book down and continues to read. “I hear we’ve had an election.”
“Aye, that’s right,” comes the reply.
“So when do we get back into government in order to practice our policy of entrism whereby we hollow out the bourgeois institutions from within, bringing them to the point of collapse?” Brian asks.
“I’d just like my wee job back,” mutters Martin, clearly unhinged.
“There’s a bit of a problem,” Gerry replies. He stands up. “David’s out, Big Ian’s in.”
“After all we did for him, the ungrateful Orange b,” snarls Brian.
“Will I become chief of police?” asks Gerry K., a dark green cap with a shinny leather brim and a shamrock on the front adorning his head.
“That’s an old RUC hat,” Gerry points out. “You better take it off in case Joe wakes up and shoots you by mistake.”
“So what’s the plan?” Brian asks in his persistent way.
“Entrism, Brian, it’s the only way,” Gerry says. “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”
“So what are we entering now, Gerry?” asks the C of S.
“The Free Presbyterian Church,” Gerry replies.
“Hallelujah,” cries Brian, at which the entire Army Council stands up and begins to sing:
“Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing power?
Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?
Are you fully trusting in His grace this hour?
Are you washed in the blood of the lamb?”
“That’ll fool them,” says Gerry.