Shifting tides...

 In the world of serendipity and muses, I sometimes play...and happen upon moments that make my work come alive in my own head. It's one thing to write out a portion of a book. It's quite another to make it real and interesting. And that happened, today. As seen, below:

-----

So Maeve began with reading the minutes of the previous meeting. I had my tape recorder going, the mike pointed to the front, when I was joined by that officious-looking gentleman, to whom I was never introduced and who never did tell me his name. 

“Amazing,” he said, “how minimal these things have become.” 

I managed to remember to use my twang as I asked, “Beg pardon?” 

“So...you’re the American,” he said in a soft condescending tone. 

I nodded and said, “I’m Jeremy—” 

He looked away and back over the crowd. “Come to watch us twist in the wind, have you?” 

“I-I’m doin’ research on—” 

“Research.” His voice dripped with disdain. “That’s all anyone ever does, anymore, is research things. Look into what’s happened. Consider the options. And let the world burn as they talk and talk and talk. But that’s the Irish for you. They love to talk.” He turned a cold eye on me. “I understand you’re housed with one of the leaders.”

That made me blink. “I’m boardin’ with some--” 

“Rather sad,” he said, ignoring me. “Mother’s dying. Cancer or something. Father long dead. One of those Republican sorts.” 

I just nodded, because I did not like this man and feared I might say something to reveal myself. 

He cast me a glance then turned back to the group. “Killed, as I recall. Some IRA patriot, who got found out and done away with, or something.” 

Now that piqued my curiosity. I shunted my irritation with the bastard aside. “He was?” 

He nodded, not really paying attention to me. “That’s how those people are. Get a few drinks in them, they start bragging on themselves or telling stories of what they’d done.” He turned back to me and tapped on my tape recorder. “When I was at university, the machines we had were massive things. Supposedly portable, but weighed a ton. And were reel-to-reel. These are much better. Easier.”

“Wh-what school’d you go to?” I asked, soft and careful. 

“Ulster. At Coleraine. In the second graduating class.” He grew a bit distant. “A friend of mine liked to go around recording things. Stories. Songs. Meetings like this. Using that bloody...oh, what was it? Not a Nagra; that was later. Doesn’t matter. He was killed by the IRA. Driving home. Bloody papists.” 

I took in a deep breath, as soft and easy as I could. 

He gave me a hard frown and said, “You’re the Jewish lad, aren’t you?” 

All I could do was nod. 

“Then you’ll understand the issue here,” said, turning back to the crowd. “These bloody papists are just as hard to control as the bloody Palestinians. Running all over the world, killing in the name of peace. Disgraceful. Don’t let them fool you with their claims of wanting love for all. They won’t be happy till we’re part of the bloody Republic and under the thumb of Rome.” 

“I-I-I don’t understand. If you feel like this, why you lettin’ them use this room for the meetin’?” And I was laying the Texas on a bit thick. 

“If I had my choice, they wouldn’t be here. Let them hold it in one of their bloody church halls. But it was thought using Guildhall was a good compromise. Make it more likely people from the Waterside would show, as some have.” Then a small smirk crossed his lips. “It’ll be interesting to see how many show, next time.” He turned back to me. “Have you had any difficulty, staying in the Bogside?” 

I shook my head. “Everybody’s been real nice.” 

“Because they know you’re American. They wouldn’t want any bad publicity from you being hurt. Even if you are a Jew. Just take care. You can’t trust these bloody bastards.” 

Then he slipped away, and I felt as if I’d just been molested. 

God, was it ever illuminating to hear the true version of Protestant hate, direct from the horse’s mouth. Of course, I’d missed everything that was being said in the meeting, thanks to that man, but my tape recorder was still going. My hope was that it caught some of the talk. Still, I had a feeling that man’s voice had drowned out much of what was being said. 

At the moment, they were discussing either a caravan of cars or hiring a bus and going to the Maze to demonstrate their solidarity with Bobby. But with signs reading Give Peace a Chance and Working Together Makes Us Stronger and the like. All very nice, but not one of the Protestants seemed interested in joining on the journey. 

Give peace a chance. Lovely thought that hadn’t kept John Lennon from being shot, and--

Father Jack rushed past me to enter the room, removing his coat as he went.

Oh, shit, shit, shit. Maeve had said nothing about him being part of this. If she had, I wouldn’t have come; I wasn’t ready for him, yet. Shit! 

I managed to back deeper into a shadow then sneak along the wall to work my way out into the hall before he could see me, then I scurried outside. Fired up a Marlboro as my excuse. 

 Father Jack, still in the middle of things, as always. I mean, sure he’d probably heard of a visitor from America, and without question he would know who I truly was the moment he saw me. I just needed him to be informed about the situation, first. 

My hand was shaking so it took two matches to light up and then three good drags for me to even start to calm down. Christ, what I would have given for one of my emergency joints, just then. 

I noticed a couple of people looking at me, oddly, so I set to walking up Foyle Street, past the car park and bus depot. A couple of squaddies saw me but one had been the recipient of my smokes, earlier, so tossed me a wave. I grinned and waved back, glad he was across the street and unable to see the state I was in.

I forced myself to start thinking about what that man had said, so rewound the cassette, plugged my earphone into it and played back everything. Listened carefully, especially to his comment about Da being caught out as an IRA man, or something. 

That played on me. Reminded me of what that guy in the pub had said. What was his name? Perrin? Talking about how people talked too much, and some lad was recording their stories? 

Da’s injuries...even what little I’d known and remembered, it seemed to me he’d been tortured before he was killed. To the point we had to have a closed casket. No one believed it had just been fun gone out of control, but the excuse used was that he’d been a Catholic and that's why those two mental defectives had wanted to murder him. That the authorities hadn’t wanted to deal with anything more than his death, and not the politics of it, was all too typical.

Beyond the bus depot, I passed a fountain and came up on a garden planter built of brick by a long white wall and sat on a bench, at one end of it. Pulled out my note pad and began scribbling note after note in it, posing questions I had no way of finding out the answers to. Not with certainty. Because the fact was, much of what both that man and Perrin had said was gossip colored by memories. Third hand? Fourth hand? One-hundred and ninety-seventh hand? Who knew? Not exactly reliable information. 

I decided to return to the Derry Journal and look deeper into the stories about Da’s death. See if they had any stories about the university seeking out old stories. Check with the university, itself, to find out if there ever was someone with a tape recorder traveling around the Bogside asking for verbal tales. Which, now thinking about it, did seem a bit wild. Especially as Da’s stories were massive messes of details mixed about. From what little I remembered. Still, it was something to consider, and might give me a better idea of just who he was. You never know. 

I rose to head back to the Guildhall and finally noticed that white wall was actually a sculpture of interlocking blocks, about twice my height and nicely done. The main part was recessed from the sidewalk, but two section blocks of it were positioned out from it to flank an entrance to a park, at each end of the sculpture. I noticed a plaque said it was City People sculpture. Another new aspect of Derry, but one of the few that made sense. 

It put a smile on my face, and I headed back to the Guildhall with a plan of action. As I crossed Shipquay, I noticed a couple people from the meeting coming out, so crushed my cigarette...and realized I’d gone through half the pack, without thinking. That would not do.

I didn’t feel like heading inside so walked around in front. Saw a bus for Shantalow across the way get stopped by a couple of the meeting people, who’d run across to it. Once aboard, it toddled on as others growled past. 

Then it finally hit me--the City Hotel had been where that car park now was. God, there was going to be change in Derry, whether they wanted it or not.