The Wake - Table of contents

The Wake - afters (27)

“Ah, those are my spare ones.”

“Hm. Very good. And what was it in the engine was bothering you?”

“What?”

“You were looking at the engine there.”

“Ah, it was okay actually. I heard a knocking sound and I thought I’d better see.”

That would have been my heart.

“But everything seems to be in order.”

“It’s as well to be sure about these things sir. Licence?”

“Pardon?”

“Licence please. May I see your licence?”

Two men in civvies walked down past the car and one of them called out  “All right Bob?” The other one had some kind of a rod under his arm. I saw it better as they walked on. It was a fucking poker.

“Hi lads, take it easy. Thank you sir. Let’s have a looky now.” He perused the licence for what seemed like about two minutes and then peered at Frank’s face. “You’re something in this so-called civil rights thing, aren’t you, Mister Gogarty?”

“That’s right. I’m vice-chairman.”

“And the Wolfe Tone thing, society is it they call it? You’re in that too?”

“I am. Good Protestant Irishman.”

“Well now, are you a Protestant? I wouldn’t have thought that now.”

“No, I mean Wolfe Tone was a good Protestant Irishman.” Smiling. Trying to smile.

“I’ll let that pass sir. And who would your friend be?”

“Ah, this is Jeremiah Coffey.”

“I’d like your friend to speak for himself if you don’t mind please. Name?”

“Jeremiah Coffey.”

“ID?”

I already had my licence out nearly sticking to my hand and leaned over to give it to him. Another minute or maybe two, eyes darting back and forward between me and the licence. Then

“Carry on.”

We were away. As we drove down the hill towards the clutch of people standing opposite the bridge I could see that the number of civilians had grown. Ten, fifteen maybe, chatting, some among themselves, others to policemen. Frank gathered speed after he passed them, saying nothing. The plum-soft Sperrins lay ranged to our right, undulating and peaceful like on a picture postcard. Normally they’d be coated white this time of year but now they were more like a purple haze.

“They must be close,” he said. They were close all right, round another bend, struggling up a hill, two tired banners fluttering. Frank stopped the car and got out, spoke to Michael Farrell and someone else, seemed to remonstrate with them and after a minute came back.

“They’re going ahead,” he said as he got into the car. He started up the engine, waved to the marchers as he passed them and stopped a couple of hundred yards down the road pulling over to the side just beyond a wide laneway. As he reversed he said, “I can understand why. Some things have to be done. People have to know what sort of a society we’re living in.”

We chugged in low gear behind the march and when we got to the top of the hill above Burntollet I said, “Can we lock the doors?”

He didn’t answer and I felt foolish. No, not foolish, I felt like a heel. Aisling was out there and I’d want to be able to open the door quickly and pull her in. One of those rocks thrown down from the field could kill her. So could a police baton or a beating by one of these boys that looked as if they were going to be let run riot. I was in the middle of whispering a Hail Mary into myself when it all started to happen. Everything was calm one second and the next it was like we’d arrived in the middle of it. Marchers were being hit with sticks and there were stones flying across in front of the windscreen from our right. A girl was on the ground in front of us out for the count and this heavyset man was still laying into her with something that looked like the leg of a chair.

Where was Aisling? If I’d got out I’d have been no help, they’d have beaten me to a pulp. You could see them coming in legions now carrying cudgels, these weren’t sticks, these were big heavy clubs, past the cops standing there with their batons hanging out of their hands. And then the next shock. I was jolted forward and suddenly we were stopped, blocked, we couldn’t move, we’d nowhere to go.