Future Popes of Ireland Read online

  Neither Damien nor John Paul had been able to make the funeral (Green Party business and something diabolical, no doubt) so Granny Doyle had latched onto Ciarán, a local lad who knew the right sounds and nods to make and could steady her arm, evidence of his fine character, though Rosie wasn’t entirely disposed to see things in this light.

  ‘She was a divil for the blackberries,’ Granny Doyle continued, as if this instead of a stroke had been the cause of Aunty Mary’s death.

  ‘Aren’t we all?’ Ciarán said, as his fingers massaged I love you into the small of Rosie’s back.

  ‘I told her she’d be sick,’ Granny Doyle said, obviously not for the first time. ‘But she wouldn’t listen, didn’t even mind the hiding she got from Mammy, she’d eat them again, she said. God, but she had a mind on her!’

  Rosie felt disarmed by this accidental intimacy, unable to tell if any affection hovered underneath the words. There were ten years between Granny Doyle and Aunty Mary – a chasm between children – though somehow Rosie had never really thought about them being young in the same house.

  ‘The blackberries were glorious, according to her,’ Granny Doyle said, the incredulity fresh. ‘Did you ever hear the like! Glorious, she says to Mammy, and it’s lucky she didn’t earn a second slapping, oh, she had a head full of words …’

  Granny Doyle gave out a long sigh at such a danger (for a second, Rosie wondered if ‘Peg’ lurked in that silence) before she recovered with ‘she always did have a good appetite,’ as close to a compliment as she could get.

  I’ll make you a blackberry tart, Aunty Mary had said, the last time she’d seen her. Or had she? Was it vegan scones she was promising to bake? Or some gluten-free braic? Rosie cycled through the possibilities and tried to remember if she’d ever seen Aunty Mary eating blackberries, but the picture was fuzzy and she wasn’t even sure if she could place Aunty Mary’s face accurately, and suddenly Rosie felt floored by finality, grief sledgehammering towards her at the thought that she’d never get to eat whatever Aunty Mary might have promised. Guilt added another blow to her chest, for it was too late now to make Aunty Mary something in return; there would be no time for tea or questions about the time she’d smuggled condoms onto a train. Shame delivered a final jab, for Rosie had been a fool not to call when she’d had the chance.

  Grief was getting to Granny Doyle too – or the red wine was – for instead of getting at Rosie for lighting another cigarette she stared at the spade and said: ‘That teacher was the one who filled her head with ideas, you might have heard of him, ah, the one who discovered the Céide Fields …’

  Ciarán had the name.

  ‘Patrick Caulfield.’

  ‘Himself,’ Granny Doyle said, her eyes scanning the spade now. ‘Oh, sure he was full of stories about finding the oldest Neolithic settlement in Ireland and him only a history teacher with a spade in his hand and an idea in his head. And sure Mary lapped it all up, all the way there on a bicycle, and only to tap at the ground with a spade in search of stones!’

  ‘I’d say the Neolithic farmers would be shocked to see a pipe cutting Erris apart,’ Rosie said, hoping that pipe might reveal a battleaxe she recognized. The word could usually be relied upon to slap sense into a conversation. Two years after she’d moved to Erris, the pipe continued to divide the community. The Rossport Five were out of jail and most of the media had left but the pipe remained, lurking underneath birthdays and christenings and funerals, ready to slice any gathering apart. Rosie waited for Granny Doyle to endorse the pipe; hadn’t the Bishop of Kilcommon blessed the rig with holy water in a special ceremony and weren’t Shell sponsoring the local GAA team and – most importantly, whatever had gone on between them – hadn’t Pope John Paul III himself come out in favour of the pipe?

  Incredibly, though, Granny Doyle looked out at the sea and said, ‘A fierce shame, that thing.’

  She turned to Ciarán.

  ‘I told you about my father and the crab pots?’

  ‘You did.’

  Ciarán was making a radio documentary about the pipe and he had a gentle way with people, easy for him to get information for interviews. Still, it was incredible that in a few hours with Granny Doyle, he’d found more stories than Rosie had in a lifetime.

  ‘Haven’t folk been fishing in that bay for years?’

  Granny Doyle looked out at the sea, which was soon to be off limits for small fishing boats.

  ‘There’ll be graves upturned with the shifting under at what’s going on here,’ Granny Doyle said. ‘And all for gas that won’t make its way to any taps here; the country’s gone to the dogs.’

  ‘It has,’ Ciarán agreed, while Rosie stared.

  ‘Families driven apart because of that monstrosity,’ Granny Doyle continued. ‘There’ll be generations here in the future not talking to each other and they won’t know why …’

  (And aren’t families good enough about making their own fights already? Rosie heard, or thought she heard, in the pause.)

  ‘My father wouldn’t have stood for it; he’d have been out in his currach blocking that thing.’

  Ciarán attempted a smile.

  ‘Sure, maybe we’ll get a wetsuit in your size; I’ll make space for you on my surfboard.’

  So he’d told her about their plans to surf in the path of the ship when it came, attempting to block the laying of the pipe; like daft things Granny Doyle was sure to say, though instead she laughed and said:

  ‘Keep at it; you’ll stop that pipe yet.’

  ‘We will,’ Rosie said, annoyingly hopeful that when Granny Doyle’s eyes turned towards her a trace of the admiration she directed towards Ciarán might remain. But no, the battleaxe might as well have been dressed in leopard-coat, no chance that she’d change her spots, inevitable that she’d squint and declare: ‘What have you done to your head now? Lord save us, I’d say you had to skin a dozen Smurfs to get that shade! Would you not show some respect and find a hat?’

  Rosie gulped at her glass, making the decision there and then, as Granny Doyle railed against the state of the world and Ciarán nodded when necessary. Later, she couldn’t prise apart all the different factors that led to her trip. One motivation was escape; she could get away from Granny Doyle and the sad house and the pipe campaign, with its meetings and tussles in ditches and lock-ons and late nights. A fresh mission held its appeal too, as Rosie saw a plan crystallize in front of her. She wouldn’t let the house be sold. Granny Doyle didn’t seem to want it, glad of her life in Dublin. So, Rosie would just have to convince its surprising new owner. In her wildest dreams, she imagined the creaky old house as a community centre, a winter-proof place to continue the revolution; imagine what could be done if it could house protesters and meetings and communal dinners and training! Peg would understand; she’d have to.

  Or, Peg would see her. That motivation couldn’t be denied, an excuse to recover a long-lost sister. As Granny Doyle returned to the story of when Aunty Mary had made herself sick with blackberries, Rosie felt a familiar twinge of longing in her chest, a response that finally she might act upon. Perhaps, if she were honest, her mission had nothing to do with the pipe and when she looked out at the Atlantic she didn’t see the gas rig or the construction cranes but the long-lost sister on the other edge of the ocean, waiting.

  12

  Blarney Stone (2007)

  ‘Peg?’

  She was feigning sleep; Rosie was sure of it. Dev would be back from his weekend in New Jersey in the morning and who knew if another chance would present itself? Certainly, such a conversation would not be possible in the daylight.

  ‘Peg!’

  She chanced the repeat, sharper. The imaginary Blarney Stone sat on the windowsill, encouraging her.

  ‘What is it, Rosie?’

  Peg didn’t bother to turn. It was late, the fan loud, the room hot. It was time for Rosie to leave: her bedroom, New York, her life. They had talked and cried and held each other like sisters: couldn’t that be enough?


  Rosie stared at the Blarney Stone. She’d convinced herself that her mission would be easy: prove the perfidy of John Paul Doyle and Peg would be quick to do anything to spite him, keeping the house included. But, lying in the bed beside a long-lost sister, Rosie knew she couldn’t leave without telling her the truth, even if it jeopardized her mission. She understood that what she was doing was dangerous, a match held up towards accepted history. Still, she spoke.

  ‘It wasn’t John Paul who told Granny Doyle.’

  Peg stared into the dark. It would be better to craft histories out of more durable material, she resolved. Words and memories were too fragile: one breath and away they went. The silence stretched, though Peg knew that Rosie hadn’t drifted into sleep. It was best to leave things be, Peg decided. It didn’t matter now. Still, she spoke.

  ‘Who was it, then?’

  Series VI:

  The Pride of Damien Doyle

  (1992–2007)

  1

  Pride Flag (1983–2007)

  (2007)

  Damien closed the stall door and unzipped Mark’s fly. Hands dived in, lips lunged towards lips, stubble scratched stubble. The toilet was a bit awkward, Mark’s long legs bashing into it, but there was something strangely erotic about it all: the door that might open; the tang of piss that pushed them towards each other; the savage shuffle of jeans to ankles; the clang of belts against the tiles. Damien led it all, manoeuvring Mark against the wall, taking time off canvassing, even with the election looming: it was alarming how turned on he was by guilt. Mark whispered in his ear, laughter bubbling under the words.

  ‘Are you sure this is your first time in a toilet?’

  ‘I’m a natural.’

  Too many feelings for Damien to cope with – freedom, excitement, guilt, fear. He buried his head in Mark’s hair, every force in the world pushing them towards each other.

  (1983)

  Mary Nelligan quickened her pace once she spotted Liberty Hall, a whirl of feelings – anger, fear, sadness – propelling her legs. She needed to get to the safety of the crowd; she needed to be beside Stella. More people than she had imagined were there: hundreds, maybe even a thousand. Some faces she knew from meetings, many she didn’t; there was a strong show of solidarity from the unions, a group called Mothers of Gay Men, speakers from the Rape Crisis Centre. Mary caught her breath at Declan Flynn’s photo on some of the placards. He’d been beaten to death in Fairview Park by a gang of five lads, who boasted that they were out to bash a queer, something that ‘could never be called murder’, according to the judge, who released them on suspended sentences, for what was one dead fairy when the lives of five young men were at stake? ‘This could never be called justice,’ another placard read, words to galvanize.

  Finally, Mary spotted Stella, talking to Peter, one of their friends from the Dublin Gay Collective, the group organizing the protest. Stella squeezed her arm when she walked over, something that she wouldn’t do in other public spaces. Mary looked into Peter’s lined face and thought she saw some reflection of her own: the tears gone, a desperate force inside, the kind that pushed bodies into streets.

  ‘You know what the little bastards sang when they got off?’ Stella said. ‘We Are the Champions.’

  ‘Maybe somebody should tell them about Freddie Mercury. They might not want Queen as their anthem then.’

  No smile from Peter, his face as grim as Stella’s; he had known Declan a little.

  ‘Not here now, are they, the little shits,’ Stella said. ‘If they show, I’ll rip them apart.’

  ‘This isn’t about revenge,’ Peter said. ‘We can’t condone violence of any kind and we’re not asking that the gang go to prison – we can’t support incarceration as a radical group.’

  ‘I know,’ Stella said, her face illuminating the difference between knowing and feeling.

  ‘We’re not engaging with the gang at all,’ Peter said, slipping into his organizer mode. ‘We have a series of demands: decriminalize homosexuality; give gays equal legal protection; stop job discrimination on the basis of sexuality. We have to focus on the gay community, not the people who hate us.’

  ‘That won’t be much good if they come to beat you up,’ Stella said.

  Mary spoke before the two of them could get involved in a dispute about tactics; she had been in Dublin for the week and had attended enough meetings for a lifetime.

  ‘They won’t come; they haven’t the courage. And if they do, we’ll ignore them, won’t mind what they say or shout at us, because we are in the right and we won’t be beaten, we won’t be scared, we won’t be hidden. We’re stronger than them because when we walk, we move out of love rather than fear.’

  It was the kind of speech she might have made through a megaphone, in a different life.

  Stella clenched Mary’s hand in hers, a grip almost tight enough to crush her.

  (2007)

  Damien felt a surge of electricity as his arm brushed against Mark’s. Damien was glad it was getting darker; he was sure his face was crimson. The car park of Westview Gym was full of people off to work out, normal people, Damien almost thought, before he corrected himself (Damien wouldn’t put it past Mark to be capable of telekinesis). Still, the pair of them, having sex in toilets in a gym; it was a bit much. Hot, too, Damien thought, letting his fingers loop around those of Mark, who was walking to his own beat, something bothering him.

  ‘It’s so hard to believe that anything happened here: not a plaque, not a memorial, but a giant fucking gym. In a country so great at putting up statues of men with guns, you think we’d be able to do something for Declan Flynn.’

  ‘We could talk to the Greens on the local council; Trevor might be able to organize a plaque and it could tie in nicely with our Equal Rights campaigning—’

  ‘No.’

  Mark’s voice was surprisingly sharp; Damien felt it like a cut to the face.

  ‘I don’t want some bullshit plaque! They should have a sign in the toilet, painted up in rainbow colours: have a good ole screw here in honour of Declan Flynn. That’s what he was doing when they gay-bashed him, out cruising. And we shouldn’t be ashamed of that history, shouldn’t force ourselves into the straight fucking establishment.’

  ‘You want us to have more sex in toilets? I mean it was good, but there’s a few logistical problems.’

  No smile from Mark: he wasn’t in a mood for banter and had started to walk ahead.

  (1983)

  ‘What do we want? Gay rights! When do we want it? Now!’

  ‘Give us our rights by day and night!’

  ‘Bigotry is your pollution! Liberation is our solution!’

  Mary walked in the middle of the street, aiming her voice towards the sky. It was easier for her. People couldn’t see the lavender T-shirt, hadn’t a notion that there was something ‘quare’ about her. It was harder for her. She felt invisible, parts hidden, no language to talk about her relationship with Stella with her colleagues. And, simultaneously, she felt too visible: a ‘single’ older woman who dared to walk places on her own. Now, here she was, walking down the middle of Amiens Street, Stella beside her, hundreds behind them, suddenly visible in a different way, propelled by a swathe of bodies and a swirl of emotions: anger, sadness, fear, pride.

  (2007)

  ‘I guess I don’t really feel proud to be gay.’

  Walking back to Mark’s flat, feelings stuck to Damien like glitter, hard to shake unless he was forceful about it.

  ‘I mean, being gay is like having blue eyes or being Irish. It’s just a fact, not something I achieved: I don’t know what there is to be proud about.’

  ‘It’s because Gay Pride has been divorced from its political context,’ Mark said, hands sweeping through the air, while his eyes lasered in on Damien’s. ‘It’s a dance party sponsored by the fucking banks. But we can’t forget our history: the first Irish Pride march was the year after the Declan Flynn murder, only twenty or so fags behind a rainbow flag in 1983. Saying yo
u were proud to be gay meant something when people wanted to beat the shit out of you.’

  Damien clenched. It was hard to talk to Mark when he was off on one of his riffs, Mark perpetually disappointed that Damien didn’t know the things he did; Damien struggling to piece his thoughts together.

  ‘But the language of pride, it seems excessive. Can’t we be content to be gay without being proud?’

  ‘No!’

  This ‘no’ threatened to shatter the stained glass of St Patrick’s Cathedral across the road.

  ‘That’s part of internal homophobia. And there are lots of places in the world that aren’t safe spaces yet and it’s not like Dublin is the safest place in the world; most fucking places aren’t safe for fags! Why are you flinching when I talk loudly? See, this is part of your internal homophobia. You don’t have a problem fucking in a public toilet but you can’t talk about gay rights in case somebody hears.’

  Damien stared ahead, ears blushing; there was no talking to Mark when he got like this.

  *

  ‘I love you.’

  Mark’s voice was always softer after they fought. Damien nuzzled into Mark’s chest, still glittery from last night’s party.

  ‘I love you too, you miserable bastard.’

  A punch from Mark, as soft as his voice.

  ‘I just hate this fucking season, you know?’

  ‘The summer?’

  ‘All this shite coming up: Pride; the Twelfth; televised sports!’

  ‘Ah well, once your dissertation proves that religion and nationalism are pointless you won’t have to worry about the last two.’

  ‘Are you making fun of me, you wee shite?’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

  Mark shifted Damien off his chest, then moved onto his elbows, the better to glare at him.