The Wake - Table of contents

The Wake - afters (16)

“Thanks Aisling. A tiny taste will do me.” I hadn’t intended taking any more but being a little shaken just then I didn’t argue.

She took my glass to where the bottle was and poured in far too much. “Oops. Sorry about that Jeremiah. I’m sure you won’t complain though.” She gave me the drink, eyes lingering, fingers lingering, fingers closing over my knuckles.

“Frances?” she said turning part of the way round to her friend sitting there with a face of stone on her, I’d say because Aisling’s hand was still on mine, absentmindedly like.

“I think I’ll go to my bed” was the answer she got and with that the black mass began to haul itself out of the armchair.

My bed. Her bed. There was only one bed in the flat and that was through the door to my right.

“Stay where you are sure,” said Aisling quickly. “What’s your hurry anyway? Here, take a wee Bacardi.” And she took her hand from mine and went and pushed Frances playfully back. Relenting at the touch the gargoyle subsided. “All right then, just the one more,” she said.

Drinks served, Aisling went back beside the lamp. I knew she was looking for something safe to say, something light that wouldn’t raise hackles. Not an easy thing to do because trivialities that keep the rest of us going half the time seemed to have no place on this bitch’s agenda, not even under any other business. The silence was long and getting longer when Aisling broke it.

“I don’t know how I’m going to go on the People’s Democracy march with Audrey not there,” she said. She put her hand quickly to her forehead. More than the ruby lipstick it was the light from the lamp now I think that made her paler even than she was. And made her dyed hair look flaxen too, like one of those Dutch girls Vermeer painted. Girl with a Pearl Earring, that was the one I’m nearly sure. The sultry wench who posed for as long as he needed. Except it was those big hoops Aisling had on, whatever they call them, like tarnished silver circles coming down nearly to her shoulders. Only ever saw her in earrings once before and she was beautiful in them, the night, yes, the night she had her hair up and I took it down and she let me undress her.

“Why, are you going to be marching again?” I asked.

“Did you not know? Sure it’s in the papers.” She picked up a newspaper from the floor, folded it and tossed it to me. “It’s on the front there.”

I scanned the front page. STUDENT MARCHERS PLAN TO CUT A SWATHE THROUGH ULSTER – PAISLEY. People’s Democracy activists are intending holding a four-day march across Northern Ireland starting from Belfast on the first of January and ending in Derry on the fourth.

“Taking John Bull by the horns?” I said. She’d be wanting me to go on it. I’d go. I handed the paper back to her.

Aisling smiled, tears shining. “You could say that. I think we’ve had enough of the half loaves our beloved prime minister’s been handing out and the way the media’s treating him like some kind of hero. This thing’s going to die the death if we don’t do something.”  

“We can’t be naive about this,” added Frances. “Paisley’s right in a way for once. We know we’re going to provoke. We’re going to be marching through Protestant areas that Catholics never marched before. Which we’ve a perfect right to do by the way, seeing they’ve been coat-trailing through our streets all their lives. The time for us to stay in our ghettos is gone. The rednecks will react, they’ll be violent and the RUC will side with them. There’ll be Fenian blood spilled but it’s the only way the world’s going to see what sort of a place this is.”

“But what if that brings out violence on our side?” I asked and was right away sorry I’d spoken because I’d given her another opening to ridicule me.

“Well then you’ve got the revolution getting moving haven’t you. That’s how politics works you see.”

These words were said so slowly, as if I was an idiot or something. I wasn’t about to take that sort of ridicule from anybody, least of all this bloody fly in the ointment.