Muiread O’Hanlon
Fiction
They crammed into the Crown Bar, a clatter of them, ordering pints of Smithwick’s and Harp, packets of Tayto cheese and onion. In the snug, Gráinne found herself at the far end of the table from him, with a pint in her hand. Say something, she willed herself, something interesting or witty. The craic was ninety, eh, she called, but laughter and chatter drowned her out. God is that the best you can do, she thought, he’ll think you’re a right eejit, no wonder he’s not spoke to you yet.
She first saw him at a rally at the City Hall, him with the megaphone, her in the crowd. She tried to catch his eye but he looked at everyone bar her. It had her breathless, his confidence, his looks, the way he held everyone’s attention. She chanted and sang along, clamouring for peace. Hope. A future. Robert’s voice strong, determined, in command of them all. His audience.
Look at me, look at me, she willed him, but he barely glanced her way. And then, for a moment, their eyes met and she smiled. But his eyes did not rest, he scanned the crowd, enjoying himself. She couldn’t tear her eyes from him. He was unlike any boy she’d seen before.
Bout ye Robert, said a tall fella with glasses who squeezed through the wooden door, slopping beer as he plonked four pints on the table, Shove up. They squished closer, pushed coats to the floor. Laughed as they jostled. Now Robert sat opposite her and she stared. You brazen hussy, she thought, something her ma might say. To quench her confusion she gulped her pint.
Dead on, John, said Robert, reaching across and striking a match on the plate on the wall. The griffins and lions, carved to guard the snugs, roared as he sat back, his cigarette lit. He flicked the match into the ashtray. Gráinne watched his chest expand as he inhaled. He met her eye and smiled, blew smoke rings towards the ceiling.
Rally was great, so it was, said John. Aye, grand, said Robert, keeping his gaze on Gráinne as he spoke, A great turn out.
A girl with five earrings in her left ear peered across the partition from the next snug, Anyone seen Siobhán? Not seen her all term, said John.
A banner stood rolled in the corner and Gráinne could just make out MORE BOMBS from where she sat. Unfurled, it read GIVE PEACE A CHANCE, NO MORE BOMBS for she’d watched the girl and her friend parade up Donegall Place earlier. How about you, Robert, called the girl. He raised an eyebrow, What’s that? Siobhán? Haven’t a clue, he said, Sure you’re more likely to know than me. Weren’t you doing a line with her though? Not really, well, nothing serious, I don’t keep tabs on her. He looked around, I’m not her Da, he said. Everyone laughed and Robert winked at Gráinne. Heard she failed her exams, said John, Don’t know if she did any resits. That’s a shame, said the girl, I liked her, I’d hoped she be here today. Sure, a few drop out every year, said Robert and downed his pint.
Hello boys and girls, said a girl in a high squeaky voice as she elbowed the snug door open. Gráinne smiled and chorused, Hello Bosco. What yous on about, said Robert and the Catholics laughed. It’s a tv programme for weans, she said. He shrugged. Like Magpie? A wee bit, she said. So, he kicks with the other foot, she thought, and checked round the table to see who’s who.
She pulled her jacket from beneath the table. I’m starving, she said, I’m going for a gravy chip. Robert stood. I’ll come too. He pressed his cigarette into the ashtray buckling it under his middle finger. There were nudges and laughs. Give over, said Gráinne, delighted with herself.
As they walked to the chippy she learned he played cricket and hockey and went to France in the summer. D’you want a fag, he asked, offering a packet of Gauloises as they stood in the queue. I bought them last week, in Paris. Aye, please, she said although she didn’t smoke. She thought he might think her childish if she said no.
He cupped his hand around the matchbox and stepped closer to light her cigarette. She inhaled and felt giddy, the smoke, the sharpness of the sulphur, the woodiness of his aftershave. He didn’t step away, lit his own cigarette and blew smoke over her shoulder. The warmth of his breath caressed her cheek and she felt herself flush.
She told him she played the fiddle and went to Derry and Donegal for her holidays, stayed with her cousins. They’re good craic, them lot, she said. Her chest pounded in her ears. Was it the cigarette or his closeness, she couldn’t tell.
When he said his grandpa was in the Orange Order she told him hers was in Sinn Féin. He fought in World War 2, he said, wears his medals on Remembrance Day. My uncles fought in World War 2, she said, one of them died in France. Their medals are shut in a drawer.
They sat on a wall and shared a chip. When they’d finished, he leaned towards her. She’d never kissed a protestant before and found she liked it.
They went out together after that. From time to time. It was always spontaneous with him. Fancy doing something tonight, he’d say, Are you free? She always was. Sometimes the pictures, sometimes the pub. Or they’d bump into each other in the Mandela Hall. Or the Crescent. Or the Bot. They’d drink and dance and act the lig. His eyes twinkled when they were together, and she loved it. But he flirted with everyone, like he shared a secret with each of them. Gráinne was aroused by this. And unsettled. Until he whispered in her ear, Can I take you home tonight?
Yes, yes. She breathed it, warm and fuzzy, slightly drunk. She loved how they were together, when it was just them. You’re amazing, he said, I’ve never been with anyone like you.
She’d gone to confession. After the first time. Walked down the aisle, genuflected, blessed herself, slid into the pew with the line of people seeking forgiveness. Tell me everything child, the priest said. It was only the once, she’d said, minding the joy of it. The priest pressed her to go further, but she’d squirmed and clammed up.
Her penance, the rosary, five decades of it. And abstinence, of course. It had her still kneeling when the priest emerged from his box and peered down the church to get an eyeful of the girl who had sinned. She’d not gone back.
Her period was never bang on. When five weeks passed, then six, she wasn’t concerned. At seven and eight alarm bells rang, but that had happened before so she did nothing; it would come in the end. By ten there was no denying it. It put the fear of God into her and she willed the cramps, willed the blood. Christ, she said mascara streaked, pacing her room, You bloody fool. She stood at the mirror, seeing the flatness of her stomach, resting her hand below her belly button that he’d kissed and prodded with his tongue. Her mind raced. The doctor? Is that what people do? She’d need a urine sample she supposed. But where might it lead? I don’t want children her head screamed, not now, at nineteen.
The world’s your oyster, her parents said, Once you get your degree. A good job. You can travel, work abroad. They talked of America, where her cousin had gone; she was saving for the trip.
She ran her fingers through her hair. You’ve made a right hames of it, haven’t you?
You alright Gráinne, asked her friend in the doorway, You don’t look so well. She’d not slept for days. Her eyes were raw. When she tried to speak, she bottled it, couldn’t form the words. I’m going to fail my exams, she said. Catch yourself on, said her friend, You’ll be grand so you will.
After twelve weeks she lay on her bed, curled up with her fist in her mouth. Each morning she vomited up any hope that it wasn’t what it was. Soon she would show and everyone would know.
What choices were there? Tell him? Tell her parents? Tell no one? Except telling no one would involve telling someone. Just not someone she knew. Not someone here.
She was on a hiding to nothing thinking like that. In the bathroom, she washed her face. The warm water revived her, gave her hope. Purified her.
She laughed. Decisive. She would tell Robert. She blew her nose and brushed her hair. It would mean marriage, of course, settling down, being a mummy. God, she thought, am I ready for that? But that’s what her parents would demand. His too. Probably. That was the way of it.
She imagined telling him. Beautiful, energetic, Robert. The life of the party. The soul of discretion. He would be stunned. They’d not talked about such things. Who did at their age? You on the pill, he asked the first time. When he came to her room and they lay on her bed. When he removed her jumper, then her jeans. When she undid his belt. She shook her head and kissed his neck and he pulled a packet of condoms from his pocket. You’re a bit sure of yourself, she said. But she smiled, happy he’d come prepared.
How would he react now? When hit with this? He’ll reassure you, she told her reflection. He’ll hold you and say everything will be fine.
They’d go to Castlewellan together and tell her parents. There’d be an almighty uproar of course. You’re doing what, they’d say, Marrying a prod? Who are his family? When she told them his parents were RUC, they’d be horrified. His family were sure to be too.
She examined herself in the mirror, saw little difference. Tried to dismiss the uneasiness bubbling up. He was her first, and it was great. She couldn’t believe how good it felt, how much she wanted him. How much he wanted her. It meant something didn’t it? Sleeping together. Meant it was serious.
Sure, she didn’t always know where he was. Or when he would turn up. But when he did, she was waiting. I love your lips, your tongue, the feel of you, he said when they were alone. And when he pressed into her and her back arched he whispered, I love it when you come.
She’d never met his family, nor he hers. Once, when his parents came up from Ballymena to take him for lunch, they were fast asleep when the doorbell rang. They’d been to the
Crescent til three, drinking cheap pints and dancing until he’d taken her home to his bed. He kissed her to wake her up. Stay put, he said, And silent, until I go out. She fell asleep again and woke uncertain. He’d not come up to say the coast was clear and it took her a while to wander downstairs to check. Only now she realised how shite that was.
She looked in the mirror again, hand on her belly, stood proud. What are you like, she said, Rattling yourself. You love him.
Although they weren’t part of each other’s real lives, their home lives, that was normal, given the circumstances. Given Belfast. She dotted concealer under her eyes, sponged foundation onto her face. A mask of cheerfulness. That’s better, she thought, glossing her lips pink. She took a deep breath and forced a smile. Tell him and it’ll be fine, she told herself. We’ll win them over. We’ll be married before the summer’s out.
Robert studied law, planned to be a solicitor, a judge one day. Said he believed in holding people to account. Gráinne studied politics, planned to be a journalist, believed in exposing corruption, presenting truth. They both wanted an end to violence.
May meant exams and she made her way to the library, joining Robert and friends in the stacks to cram amongst piles of books and files and photocopied journal articles.
What’s with the minerals, her friends asked when they went for last orders at the Students’ Union, egging her on as they murdered their pints. I’ve got a 9am, she said, rolling her eyes, Yous can have a lie in. We’ll go out on the lash tomorrow, they said.
They lived in the Holylands, her on Palestine, him on Jerusalem, Belfast’s student mecca. Walking back with a gaggle of friends, he took her hand. I’ll come in if you like, he said and they went up to her room. He pushed her down, back against the pillow, hand under her top. His breath was warm and heavy, smelled of crisps and pints and cigarettes. She hadn’t planned to tell him the night before their last exams, but the weeks kept passing and there’d not been a chance.
What do you mean, he said, Are you sure? He removed his hand from her breast, narrowed his eyes, shook his head. You’re saying you’re pregnant? And you think it’s mine? Of course it’s bloody yours, she yelled, the fragile future she’d conceived blown to smithereens. Keep your voice down, he said, Everyone’ll hear.
He slid from the bed, pulled on his t-shirt, zipped up his jeans. Is this why you weren’t drinking, I thought it was odd, he said.
And it was. She could hold her own, pints of Harp with the lads. But not for weeks now because the thought of it made her gag. The nausea settled only by eating boiled eggs and bananas for breakfast, sometimes together.
She reached for the half-read book on her bedside table, hurled it across the room. Fuck off, she roared as he took the stairs two at a time, his broad shoulders descending from view. He did looked back. Thump, thump, slam. She hoped he’d trip and break his fucking neck. How had she ever thought he would marry her.
Gráinne tossed and turned, sweating in her bed, switched from Sunshine Radio to Radio Caroline. She drifted off from time to time but awoke, remembering anew, another kick in her stomach. She was hot. Cold. Her head ached. Tears no longer came. Had she handled it all wrong?
She pictured herself at the kitchen table. Stop having me on, her mummy would say.
Four years ago, a girl from school left for a year. She was in Marianville, everyone said. Reappeared, a shadow of herself. Babyless. Back to sit her A levels. Gráinne’s mummy had forbidden speaking to her. As if pregnancy was catching. Everyone called her a slag. Even those who fitted their own description bitched about her, ignored her in the common room. She’s made her own bed, they said, Let her eat her lunch by herself.
But she wasn’t a slag. She was a mousey wee thing who kept herself to herself. The only time Gráinne heard her shout was in the showers after PE when someone asked about the bruises on her thighs. She had grabbed her towel and told them to fuck off.
Nobody asked about the father and when she turned eighteen she packed her bags and went to England. Not a single person stayed in touch. And every Sunday her parents went to Mass, took communion, her father chatting to the priest. No one asked about their daughter, just whispered behind cupped hands.
When her mummy saw Gráinne was serious she’d be mortified. What would the neighbours think? The priest? The woman in the post office? She’d worry about everyone but Gráinne. She’d act like Gráinne’d brought the devil himself into their home. It’d been convent school, Mass on Sundays, fish on Fridays. The Virgin Mary welcomed guests at the door, arms outstretched. The Sacred Heart watched over them, his brown eyes following them about the room with bitter disappointment. At least now he’d have something to be troubled about. Her daddy would flee the room, red faced. Leave her mummy to sort her out. Just talking about sex before marriage was beyond the pale.
Marriage came young in her family. Both brothers married the summer they left university. One a teacher, father of two. The other a doctor, father of four. Perhaps he could help. Perhaps not. Upstanding citizen that he was. A Reader in the Church. He’d be ashamed.
Maybe, once Robert had slept on it, he’d come round. Perhaps she would call on him after her exam. She played the mixtape he had given her on her birthday and suddenly, with clarity, she understood. Marrying wasn’t on the cards. She pulled the tape, unravelled it until a shiny rage of film lay strewn on the floor.
They would send her away. Her parents. To one of the mother and baby homes. Marianville maybe, like the girl from school. The baby would be adopted, never spoken of again.
Then it dawned on her. She might be recognised in Marianville. They wouldn’t want that. No, they’d send her to Kilburn, to Auntie Eileen. Auntie Eileen who was proud of her, who baked soda bread for breakfast, took her to museums and galleries and obscure plays in the West End. You’ll have a great career, she’d said, With your fancy degree. Yes, that’s what they’d do. Get Auntie Eileen to baby-sit her until the baby was born. To talk to people. To sort an adoption. To do whatever was needed to make it go away.
Gráinne couldn’t bear it. Their disappointment. Bringing disgrace on them all. She got up, red-eyed, put on her makeup, made her way to her exam.
She planned with care, withdrew money from the bank. Savings from her Saturday job. Birthday money, squirrelled away for the trip to America. I’m away home, she said. Her friends protested, Wait until after the summer ball. I’ve a holiday job lined up with the local paper, she lied, They want me to start on Monday.
At Belfast port she avoided eye contact with the soldiers doing the bag search; they looked as weary and wary as she did. As Samson and Goliath disappeared, the water heaved and slapped the hull of the ship. Out at sea, spray misted the air and a rainbow danced against the black water. Smile, said a man leaning against the rail, It might never happen. Fuck off, she thought, wishing she could have flown. But this way nobody asked her name and she could hide on a boat if she saw someone she knew.
The appointment was for Saturday. Early. We do that for the Irish girls, the woman on the phone had said, You’ll be back before you know it. She couldn’t sleep reclined on the seats, so she paced the deck, the weight of it all tight in her chest, her hair matted with the saltiness of spray. Pink streaks of sky heralded dawn as the ship pulled up the Mersey and the Liver Birds flew into view.
Gráinne had never left Ireland before and bile rose, burning her throat as she wandered the unfamiliar streets. She was foundered, the wind off the river cutting straight through her, even in June. But she couldn’t arrive before nine. Let’s have a brew, her mummy would say, the solution to every problem. Not this one though. She found a cafe, held out her bag to the man on the door. You’re from Belfast aren’t you love, here we search people on the way out. She managed a small smile. I just want a tea, she said. Just order at the back, bird, and grab a seat.
She added four sugars, cupped the hot mug in her trembling hands, raised it to her lips before she remembered she was not to eat or drink. A wave of nausea threatened to unhinge her as cold sweat prickled her forehead. Revulsed by it all, she felt so alone. She wondered how the girl from school had got on and what she was doing now.
Back on the street, the city was coming alive, shops were opening, people scampering past. Gráinne looked at the piece of paper in her bag, made her way to the address she’d been given, stood opposite a Georgian house with iron railings separating it from the street. She stood for twenty minutes watching the door. A woman of about forty entered the building. Then another no older than herself. Both were alone. Three more came along, each hesitating, just a little, before climbing the steps. Christ, she thought, so many of them so early in the day.
A girl stopped outside, pressed herself against the railings and lit up, dragged the cigarette to the stub, threw it on the footpath and stamped on it, over and over again. She caught Gráinne’s stare, shrugged. Turned and entered the clinic.
Gráinne willed herself across the road, wished she smoked so she could linger outside. She placed her hand on the railings and forced herself up the steps.
The woman on reception smiled, Hello love, you on your own? Gráinne nodded, not daring to speak, numbness crawling through her fingers, tingling her scalp. We’ve got some paperwork to fill, the woman said, You got a cheque book or cash? She passed a pen. Prussian blue in a clear pipette. A tiny ball of ink waiting. We’ll sort it all now, before you go in.
An angel in white appeared at Gráinne’s shoulder, Follow me, she said and led her down a dark corridor to a room where beds lined the wall. Wait here, you’ll be called. Gráinne was surprised to see no wings as the figure slipped from the room. The other women watched in silence as Gráinne removed her shoes, sat on the bed, hugged her knees to her chest. They exchanged sympathetic glances, faces ashen.
What could you say, Gráinne wondered, What brings you here? Nice morning? What’s the craic? Did you keep your breakfast down?
The older woman was wheeled away first. Then the smoking girl. All whispers and nods. Gráinne picked at her fingers and didn’t make eye contact. Her nails were chewed to the quick and she pushed the skin until half moons appeared at the cuticles.
You’re my angel from the mountain, Robert sang when the DJ played Thin Lizzy and they leapt and jumped to Angel from the Coast. She had paid him into the Crescent and bought him pints. I’ll pay you back, he said but never did.
The nuns had given them tiny golden feet. She had worn them pinned to her blazer, a proud protector of life. Now they were in a box under her bed along with the pioneer pin, an assortment of saints and rosary beads. She wondered if the baby was that big yet. It’s not a baby, it’s not a baby, she whispered curled in a ball. What’s that love, the white figure asked when she returned.
Gráinne clutched the rails as the bed squeaked towards the theatre. When they injected her hand the edges of the room closed in, warm and inviting. Voices swam, the angel spread its resplendent wings and floated, floated, floated. Do not be afraid, it said.
She came round, woozy and crampy. Women chatted somewhere beyond her vision. I came on me own so I did, a voice said, Can’t tell anyone at home. Gráinne swaddled herself in the blanket, heard a sob escape her mouth, felt a hand in hers. There there, said the voice, What’s done’s done. You’ll be grand so you will. The woman smoothed the damp hair from her face, sang a lullaby into her ear, Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, and Gráinne closed her eyes, summoned her mummy singing when she was wee.
If only it was her mummy beside her now. The impossibility of it hit her, she would never be able to talk about this. The room was quiet, punctuated only by nurses and the squeak of beds wheeling women to theatre.
Get yourself dressed love, said the nurse, I’ll make you a cuppa, plenty of sugar for you today. Gráinne rose and sat with the other women drinking tea, cradling her cup, nursing her thoughts.
Fear overwhelmed her. What if someone guessed where she’d been. Or saw her getting the boat. They’d report her. She’d be arrested, put in prison. Her life over. She thought again about the girl at school and wondered if she still felt lost. Gráinne knew she would never be forgiven, she would go to hell. When blackness rolled over her a distant voice said, Hey, get herself another cup of tea would you.
You can go now, said the nurse, handing her a leaflet. It told her what to do if there were any problems. To call her doctor. To go to the Accident and Emergency Department. But it was for English women. Not for Irish girls who had broken the law. Gráinne felt giddy and lightheaded. She held the edge of the bed in a wave of pain and nausea. Look love, said the nurse, Go to the cinema and wait there. It’s warmer than the ferry terminal, and you can have a little sleep until it’s time to go. If you faint at the port they won’t let you on the boat.
You’re not yourself, her mummy said when she found her curled into the sofa, You out on the tear last night? No I had a quiet one, she said, Most of them went home yesterday.
She’d not slept on the boat, not eaten, couldn’t face anything but tea. The bus to Castlewellan had lurched and rumbled up the hill, her wan face reflected in the window, purple rings beneath her eyes.
Maybe you’re coming down with something then, you’re a bit peaky looking.
She slept for days, tried not to think about what she’d done.
Must be a summer cold, her mummy said and brought chicken soup to her room. She forced it down, gagged it back up. Her daddy brought hot toddies. It’ll help you sleep, he said.
A letter arrived from Queens and she found she’d passed her exams. Even the one she sat the morning after she told Robert. She would return to Belfast and no one would be any the wiser, she’d get her life back on track. Thank God. Was it appropriate, she wondered, to thank God.
She lived on Damascus Street now, with friends from her course. In the Crown Bar during Freshers Week people said, How was your summer, and she shrugged. Let them talk about their summer jobs and holiday romances. One lunch time, squeezed into a wooden snug, a girl said, You still seeing Robert? No, she said, steadying her voice as her head swam and her hand dropped, laid to rest on her stomach. Just, he was in here earlier, you missed him by minutes. We finished ages ago, Gráinne said, It wasn’t serious. The girl grinned. He’s a ride, she said, I might get off with him myself then. Gráinne lifted her glass and downed her pint. I’ve some messages to do, she said aware of eyes following her out the door.
On Sunday she found herself in Botanic Gardens. Instead of a pew, her eyes on the priest, she sat on a bench watching couples with prams, old men with dogs, children chasing each other over the grass. Instead of going up for communion and letting the wafer melt on her tongue, she ate cheese and onion crisps, letting them stick to the roof of her mouth. A woman sat down with her baby, smiled at Gráinne and pulled a bottle from her bag. She’ll only be gurning if I don’t feed her now. The baby gulped, eyes glued to her mummy, and a man approached with a child on his shoulders. Gráinne gave a tiny smile, licked the final crumbs from her fingers. Down, said the child and raced off towards the rose garden. They keep you on your toes so they do, said the woman as the man took the baby and they set off together hand in hand.
Bout ye, said a voice and there was Robert, suntanned and gorgeous from a summer in France, cigarette in hand, smiling. How’s yourself? Did you have a good summer?
Her face flushed, her heart thumped, crisps burned her throat. He flicked ash from his cigarette and raised it to his lips. False alarm then, was it, he said all smiles, nodding at her stomach. That’s good. He tossed the butt to the ground, grinding it with his toe.
A magpie landed on the grass and pecked up a worm.
A few of us are going to the Crescent tonight, he said, Join us, it’ll be good craic.
A second magpie landed, cackled at the first, chased it towards a tree.
Will Siobhán be there? Gráinne said, meeting his eye. Siobhán, he said, No, sure she failed her exams and stayed away.
Gráinne stood. She scrunched the crisp packet and shoved it into her pocket. Siobhán passed, she’s back too, she said and set off across the park.
Muiread O’Hanlon grounds her work in the context of oppression and violence in Ireland and explores how social norms and indoctrination shape people’s lives. She grew up in the north of Ireland during the Troubles and this setting features strongly in her writing. She is published in the Belfast Review, Trasna, the New Feathers Anthology and the Historical Writers’ Association Anthology. Her novel-in-progress was shortlisted for the Farnham First Five Pages and won third prize in the IamWriting Novel Prize for Literary Fiction. Her short story, Bonfire Night, was shortlisted for the Dorothy Dunnett Short Story Competition and, Aoife, was longlisted for the Beford Writing Competition.
Photo Credit: Ellie MacLean is a second-generation Asian American multimedia artist and civil rights attorney based in New York City. Her work moves between photography, film, and writing, often exploring personal memory, love, migration, and the rituals of everyday life. She previously worked as a photojournalist in Dublin, Ireland, and her visual work has been produced internationally. Her poetry has appeared in Spectrum Magazine.
