Belfast: out of the Shallows

© 2022 Brian Fearon. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 04/12/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9791-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9789-0 (e)

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Contents

To Helen, Roisin, and Declan

Chapter 1 Just wee boys

Chapter 2 Newcastle

Chapter 3 The Football Match

Chapter 4 Decisions and changes

Chapter 5 The Betting Shop and the Setup

Chapter 6 The Aftermath

Chapter 7 Consequences

Chapter 8 Home and a Job

Chapter 9 Learning the Ropes and being Hung by some of Them

Chapter 10 Scotland and a Change of Career

Chapter 11 Resurrection

Chapter 12 Scotland Pastures New

Chapter 13 So, the End is the End

To Helen, Roisin, and Declan

During Lockdown in May 2020, I sat down and wrote part of a story which had been running around in my head for several years. Lockdown created both the space and incentive to begin the work. Although parts reflected a few personal experiences, these amounted to only a few hundred words. As I wrote, other characters and situations emerged, as did a plot, and this is the result.

I want to thank all those who helped me write this work. It is á piece of fiction and none of the characters are real, although the story I have weaved around real events in the late 1960s and 1970s in Northern Ireland.

My thanks to my wife Katy and my friends for their encouragement, especially Malky McEwan, who tried to bring editorial discipline to the book despite my resistance, Douglas Walker, and Stephen Murray, who encouraged me and my late cousin Paula Evans, who did the early proofread and was a considerable source of encouragement.

Books are only stories, and stories are just dreams that are remembered.

This is a story of loss and striving for redemption. Belfast seems a long time ago and a different place. The first half of my life and yet it feels as if it happened to someone else.

Those happy days of football, and later girls, were followed by a dark period of violence, imprisonment and the search for salvation, forgiveness, an escape. The past never let me go. It returns in various guises, some more malevolent than others. There was something terribly wrong at the heart of Northern Ireland society, the government and media brushed them under the carpet for 50 years. They did not stay hidden. A range of influences and events brought them into the open. Blaming religion is nonsense. Anyone who lived there will tell you religion was a small part of it. The least violent people were those who practised whatever faith they adhered to. The violent ones used religion as a tribal identity, a source of ritual to bind in those less committed, but it was a war fought by secularists.

All I am doing is putting thoughts in my head into your head. What you do with them is up to you. Between 1968 and 1998, 4000 people died in The Troubles.

Was the Good Friday Peace Agreement what it said on the tin? It wasn’t a Peace Agreement, more an ‘Agreed Truce,’ people were tired. The paramilitaries finally understood that, so a cessation of hostilities was manoeuvred. It could never be a lasting peace. Taking up arms would be left to another generation. You cannot partition Ireland, any more than you could partition Scotland or England, without leaving a running sore to spark conflict and violence.

When I grew up, so much was happening in Belfast and broadcast throughout the world. My interest focussed on what went on closer to home, what happened in our street or to people we knew. Ongoing disturbances took place throughout West and North Belfast between 1969 and 1970. Something would happen on either side that dragged people back onto the streets. Many horrible murders took place.

In August 1971, Brian Faulkner, the Unionist Prime Minister, persuaded Edward Heath the solution to the ongoing problems was to bring back Internment Without Trial, not used since the 1950s. In effect they decided to imprison known Republican agitators without bringing them before the Courts. On the 9th and 10th of August 1971, 350 of 450 IRA targets were seized by the army. The odd thing is a 100 people on the list, key members of the Republican movement, got wind of the exercise and moved to Dublin a few days earlier.

My mates and I went out on the streets firing stones at the Army while the older one threw petrol bombs. Streets became blocked with burning barricades all over the Falls. Parts of West Belfast and Derry became forbidden territory for the army and police. An added tragedy took place when the Parachute Regiment shot ten civilians, including a woman and a priest in Ballymurphy. They repeated this killing of non-combatants in Derry in January 1972.

I don’t want this to be a weary angst-ridden account of atrocities. It is an experience, a journey, my journey. It may not end up where you want it to. My two most important relationships did not end well, and I kept others at arm’s length. I found a route out. The vehicles for that part of my journey were employment and education, but whenever I thought I was free, deep roots drew me back.

"I pressed the accelerator gently, the engine burst into life. I heard the clicks as the others checked their guns. The adrenalin was seeping through me. I wanted to pee, but I wanted it to start even more. Tonight, I was going to be a fucking player, at last.

Chapter 1

JUST WEE BOYS

I don’t want to dwell on it, or I would have to face the fact it was my fault. Belfast was a dangerous place, but I was the one who took the decisions, people died. I did not linger on either decision, the second one…. it was pure self-preservation; I am sure of it. They took place a short distance from where I was brought up, where I felt safest.

Sevastopol Street lay on the fringe of the City Centre, in the lower Falls Road, the Road to us, an unremarkable place to grow up in 1960s Belfast. Two rows of terraced kitchen houses sitting alongside so many similar streets. My parents got married in 1954. My father’s family owned a wee off licence on the Springfield Road and my dad, Gabriel, and his brothers, worked there. Dad worked in the GPO as a postman. He and my mother rented the house on Sevastopol Street.

Bridie, my mother, came from the country where my maternal grandparents owned a small farm in the Glens of Antrim. My mother’s brother took over the farm. She was sent to work for a catholic doctor in the city. Bridie helped his wife keep the house and look after their expanding brood. My parents met at a dance in a Parish Hall further up the Falls and, or so he claimed, she pursued him relentlessly until he proposed. I was born in 1955, my sister Maeve in 1956. My mother miscarried, and then my brother Eugene and wee sister, Fionnuala, were born. Our local church played an important part in our lives when we were young.

Our world as seven- and eight-year ‘olds’ was dominated by adults, especially the omnipotent rule of the mammy. A youth culture or a vibrant young generation was only stirring on the fringes. We were brought down by a grazed knee, the admonition of older people or the fear generated when bigger boys chased us.

I didn’t meet Raymond (Ramie) Mulgrew for a first time, well I must have, but the way my mother tells it, she and Greta, Ramie’s mother, just parked our prams facing each other outside one or others front door when we were a few months old. We took to each other, gurgling, making nonsense sounds and eventually words. He was a few months younger than me. Mammy said I spoke earlier than him and Mrs Mulgrew {Greta} always said ‘Joe McFaul did more for Ramie’s speech than anyone,’ so there. In those days, mothers did not wear sports clothes or makeup, just old dresses with smocks over them, and slippers, even in the street.

The Mulgrew’s lived opposite, but our side of the street got more sun around late morning, early afternoon, so our prams were parked at our door.

The mums looked after the succession of children, shared care for its day. Ramie’s dad, Paddy, did not have a job. He helped a mate in his milk run and pottered around fixing cars with another pal, the odd time making a little cash if a car was repaired or sold. Of course, he was on the Buru, National Assistance and later Supplementary Benefit, How can I describe Ramie, easy-going guy, no temper, a wee relaxed, funny mate, smaller than me, curly hair, freckles, unremarkable? I didn’t know any Protestants; I held plenty of opinions about them, though I never spoke to a one until I was 17. That was Belfast, one city, two tribes.

I was older, just a little older, but as kids, it gave me bragging rights in decision making. A theme which continued as we got older. I was mouthier and our parents assumed I was the leader. Me and Ramie never saw it like that. True partners in crime.

I was tallish, thin brown hair and with one blue and one brown eye which, when I was teased by others, my mother assured me meant I was destined for success in life. It calmed my tears a bit. As wee boys, we roamed the streets around the lower Falls, winning battles against impossible odds; Red Indians, Outlaws, Nazis, all the goodies and baddies portrayed on Saturdays at the Broadway cinema, long life to the Roy Rogers Club, I say.

I liked Ramie’s dad, so much like him. Yet Ramie’s mother, Greta, never hid from anyone in the street, how little time she had for that ‘waster.’ I never understood why she married Paddy or why they had Ramie or Geraldine. I can guess why they didn’t have a few more. Paddy could drink, according to my dad, shush my mother replied, he (meaning me) will repeat it outside.

Greta broadcasts it far and wide; we are hardly revealing a family secret.

Ramie adored his dad. They were more like pals than father and son. Geraldine, I got to know better, but more about that later, took her mother’s side. They both doted on Ramie. What was not to like?

The other guy who hung around with us was Pat Kane. Pat lived at the bottom of the street. His parents moved up from Lurgan to the city and he joined our class in Primary 3. Taller than Ramie, smaller than me, always well built, hefty but not fat. You didn’t use the ‘fat’ word around Pat, he could be stroppy. Pat passed the ‘Qualy’ and went to Grammar school.

Ramie and I got along well, but one incident is always brought up when the family reminisces. Even Nuala, who was a baby and couldn’t have remembered it, claimed she did. We were five or six and sitting in the same row at Mass, bored out of our heads. I looked at Ramie, only our Maeve sat between us, and I made a face at him. As required, under the code of boys, he made one back. This continued, and Ramie made a rude gesture with his fingers. I didn’t understand what it meant, but it upped the ante; he went too far. I went for him. I swear I passed Maeve in a flash, aiming a flurry of blows at his head. He responded in like manner with a couple of swift hits back until our mums sorted it.

My mother was inclined to give me a slap for defiling the holy sacrament of the mass, or more for embarrassing her in front of fellow parishioners. However, to police violence with greater violence wouldn’t send out the right message. Walking home, we made up, though neither of us was allowed out to play. A few days later I met an older boy from our Church who said Ramie’s and my scrap was the best entertainment ever at mass, praise from a fourteen-year-old was praise indeed.

I recall the Qualy, the qualifying examination, called the 11 plus across the water (that’s where you live). This marked the rite of passage from primary to secondary education. Ramie failed and so did I. My mum thought I might pass, a mother’s pride obstructing a rational view, but the Head Brother said I should have passed, thank God I didn’t.

There was no soccer team attached to St Finian’s PS, a shame. The ‘Brothers’ schools didn’t play ‘foreign games’ like soccer or rugby, just Gaelic football, and hurling. Me and Ramie and Eugene, when he got older, played in the streets with our friends, 15-aside soccer games with a few of the younger Dads joining in, sometimes, or just watching. Ramie was the pick of the boys in our street. He was a talented but greedy wee player. He argued with coaches over the years because he wanted to score. If we lost 4-2 in a match and Ramie scored our two goals, he was happy. The buzz of scoring was an addiction to Ramie. He didn’t get off on the congratulations or admiration of others. It was something inside him.

For me the Troubles started, in 1964, we sat in class one afternoon when the Deputy Head came in. He said, Boys, there is trouble at the Irish Republican Election office in Divis Street.

Divis Street ran from the City Centre to the start of the Falls, a continuation of it.

Mr Ian Paisley and his followers are threatening to demonstrate there, and I don’t want any of you near the place. It could be dangerous.

All responsible advice but, to a man, after the last bell rang, the entire school decamped up Divis Street to join a large crowd swearing and jeering at the Police.

We saw TV cameras, a Tricolour flying over the office, a Republican was standing in the election. Paisley demanded the flag’s removal. That’s what created the fuss. Paisley making a speech through a megaphone at the City Hall less than a mile away, threatening to march up Divis Street. A crowd of Paisley supporters waving the Butcher’s apron (Union Jack) stood outside the City Hall. The Police broke into the Election office and removed the flag. They were attacked by the republican crowd and a Belfast Corporation bus was set alight and riots continued into the night. I saw all of us on the TV news later, one of rare viewings of the news. There were other incidents relating to housing. Social issues were bubbling away beneath the surface.

Ramie and I were never political. Pat was always going on about rights, injustices, battles and broken treaties. We raised our eyes to the heavens; it was as boring to us as football was to him. As wee lads, we wanted to kick a ball and mess around with our mates, that’s the top and bottom of it. We ‘mitched’ school when we were 11. We ended up with a severe talking to, no slaps. We then, settled down, a little. Pat told us that the Grammar School teachers got more vicious as exams approached, perhaps they got extra pay for kids passing exams, anyway it didn’t affect us. We became independent and went out onto the Falls Road, the ‘Road.’

Northern Ireland was ‘simmering’ for several years. Now, it was different and exciting due to events on the streets. It started following a big march in Derry, not only Catholics, my Dad said, but other people who knew the government policy allocating jobs and houses and votes was unfair. Students marched in Linenhall Street in Belfast to support what happened in Derry, the RUC overreacted and cracked a few heads.

Neither Ramie nor I got excited when the Peace Line was built between our street and the streets on the Shankill Road, forbidden territory. Ramshackle initially, then it improved, if that is the right word regarding barriers built to stop people from killing their neighbours! It would have been odd in any other city in the United Kingdom to have a wall built to stop neighbours from intimidating each other out of their homes or, as with Bombay Street, burning their houses. We never discussed it, except in wee boy terms of, if they come here, we will sort them,

A lot has been written about moving from boyhood to the end of your teens. It should be an exciting time, music, and girls, especially girls. In fashion and music, from what was on TV or magazines, Belfast was different with its ‘Ulster Sunday.’ No sense of freedom, not as much fun as there should be. The poverty, the tension, and the violence were all engulfing. Coping with one or two was possible, we could not, as a society, cope with all three.

We went to dances in the Parish Hall, discos and sometimes we went into town to the King George VI Youth Centre, risky, not a lot of Catholics, or the Astor, on a Sunday night. The older ones went to Romano’s and the ancient, last chance saloon girls, Maxims! As the troubles took their grip, we stayed on our own turf. In the evenings we wandered around ‘the Road.’ Later, a few girls joined us, and the more mature guys paired off with girls. The rest of us just moved in a gang, slagging the girls off, seeking to provoke a response.

I remember one night up at the Falls Park, most of us paired off. Ramie was ill and wasn’t there. I walked holding hands with his sister Geraldine, seriously. We snogged. It was the first time I kissed a girl, and I was 16. Who would believe it today? Me and Geraldine were lying on grass at the side of a hill. Others were dotted around the park, but we kept a safe distance. I don’t know why, but I put my hand up Geraldine’s jumper.

Well, I know why I did, why I thought she would go along with it was a different matter. Anyway, she slapped my face and called me a dirty little pervert, which was harsh. I only tried to be a dirty little pervert. She headed off home.

She told her mates who told my mates, and my status rose at least ten points because of the attempted grope, what immature teenage guys admire!

A couple of Sundays later, I was prevailed on to go to mass. When Mammy issued a three-line whip, you just fell in line. As we walked to the church, we caught up with the Mulgrew’s.

Paddy wasn’t there, and Ramie was walking ahead, so when my mother and Greta started chatting. Geraldine dropped behind and whispered to me: You dirty little pervert, God will know what you done!

I panicked in case the Mothers’ heard. More imminently alarming and likely to bring retribution than the Almighty, so I shot off to catch up with Ramie. I was certain he didn’t know. None of the guys mentioned it when he was with us. There are rules concerning what you say about a mate’s sister. For months after she hissed ‘pervert’ at me. I used to grin and poke my tongue out, waggling it to provoke her.

On the streets, it was me and Ramie and Pat but only on a part-time basis, as if he was living a double life. When we arranged something, he would cancel or not appear or leave early with a mumbled excuse. Ramie and I laughed at him behind his back. He didn’t have much of a sense of humour.

Ramie, could Pat have a woman?

Aye, an older woman, 22 or 23. More to do with our fantasises than likely to be true.

As, of course, he didn’t, but the humour entertained us, part of our response to his constant disappearing.

As demonstrations, riots, and other events grew, even playing football in the street became hazardous. A decent teacher, Fred McKay, set up and ran a football team in the Parish, aided and abetted by a cast of characters, including some Dads and other adult football fans who came and went. Ramie always played; I was in and out of the team and played most positions.

I look back on the team, what became of them? I was raised alongside them. We attended primary school together, and on to our secondary school, others attended the Brothers’ Grammar. We met at mass on a Sunday ‘til we stopped going regularly, from the age of 15. We lied to our parents, oh we will go tonight, or we are going up the Falls Park to play football so we will go to a church near there.

To keep the peace, the parents never argued, although Maeve, Eugene and Nuala still attended. I suppose my parents accepted three out of four wasn’t bad. Eugene used to chat to me, trying to encourage me to attend mass. He and I weren’t close, but I was a big brother and sallied forth to do battle on his behalf a few times when he was wee. Despite the shock of red hair, Eugene was even-tempered, like my Dad and, although three years younger than me, Mammy claimed he was the more mature and the brighter of the two of us. Nuala was an annoying wee sister, she, and Eugene, looking back, were quite close. Maeve and I got on better. Not close growing up, more so when we were older. She always radiated calm, my mother’s First Lieutenant.

People talked about the IRA, ‘I ran away’ as they were called back in the late 60s in Nationalist West Belfast. The struggle between the Stickies (Officials) and the Pinheads (Provisionals), then between the Officials and INLA, contained a lot of anger with comrade turning on comrade and it left most of us baffled. The violence between them was extreme, with killings on both sides. They were sides of the same coin for goodness’s sake. Why aren’t they fighting the Brits? But that’s always the Irish way. The split is the first item on an agenda for any Republican meeting, always will be.

In 1969 and 1970; I was 14/15 and still controlled by my parents, so when I went out to watch what was happening on the streets, I could be hauled back in by parental hands.

Our parents were not political, but we could rely on Pat for accounts of what was happening. There was nothing on our street.

It all happened on the Falls Road and after 1972 it was more like disturbances, not an insurrection. Belfast from 1970 on became a more tense, and violent place, very politicised.

It came home to us, as it was bound to, in July 1970 during the Falls Curfew, when 3,000 soldiers locked the Lower Falls down for 36 hours in a search for weapons. It started in Balkan Street, and they found a few weapons there, but the bulk of weapons dumps were further up the Falls. I heard later the army was working on an Informer’s tip off.

Given the few weapons they got for a 36-hour operation involving 3,000 soldiers, which antagonised many Catholics they hadn’t already antagonised, the Informer was hardly up to the mark. These days he would be registered and inspected by a body setting acceptable standards for Informers!

The Army came into each house in our street, often in an aggressive manner sometimes less so. We left