Just as he springs to mind, she checks to make sure no car is following her too close behind and rests a foot on the brakes, slowing the car down to just below 40 as they approach their old house. Her old house. The house she grew up in with Ma and Da and her brother, Kealen. Living on the busy Glenshane Road always irritated her mother, but she found the whoosh of cars flying past in both directions at all hours of the morning soothing as she rested her head to go to sleep. Better than counting sheep.
She narrows her eyes in disgust as she sees the exterior wall of what used to be their kitchen sporting an underground organisation’s name and slogan. That wasn’t there last week. An impressive bit of graffiti regardless. Wasted talent, she thinks, trying to put a positive spin on it as she spots a car approaching in her rear-view mirror and speeds up again.
“Ma, what’s a fenian?” Michelle obviously had the same idea as her, observing the skeleton of their old home and the sectarian slur.
“Michelle!” Danielle gasps.
“Never you mind, and don’t let me hear you saying that word again. Especially in sch… Tech,” Nuala coughs.
“Why? Is it bad?”
“Oh, grow up, Michelle,” Danielle rolls her eyes, resuming her attention to her phone.
“What?”
“Just leave it, Michelle,” Nuala spits.
Michelle frowns, her mouth open in astonishment, before exhaling frustratedly and lagging her head back until it hits off the headrest.
Nuala and their father had done well to raise their children neutral. Something extremely hard to do, in Derry especially, what with the history and ongoing peace process. Of course, they knew of the different religions, but didn’t feel any animosity towards either community. Living on the outskirts helped, and although it was against their father’s wishes, they had gotten into catholic grammar schools. The city not having a diverse choice of mixed schools anyway, Nuala had heard bad things from her nieces and nephews who attended the few that were available, so decided the catholic grammars were the lesser of two evils.
Two members of separate religions themselves, having to have a civil ceremony in a hotel for their wedding, Nuala and their father didn’t bring their children up under either practice. So, when they returned from those schools in the first few days, they were astounded to find they had to say prayers and sing hymns. Their father was a devout atheist and so informed them they didn’t have to do anything they weren’t comfortable with. Nuala’s proud of the way their children were raised, unlike toddlers in some of the council estates and other areas of the city where the slurs were probably one of their first words, raised by ignorant and unyielding parents set in their ways.
Feeling at fault somehow for, what she hopes to be, Michelle’s innocent question, she informs her youngest daughter that it’s a hateful and derogatory term for a catholic.
“Are they talking about us? Sure, we aren’t catholics and Da was fighting to change all the hate.”
The girls’ father was a politician who was breaking the mould. Bang in the centre of both wings, he took all views in his stride and was determined to overshadow the two opposing leading parties. One right-wing, the Ulster Jacks, more commonly and casually known as Jacks for short, their name derived from the Union Jack. The other left-wing party called Ardóimid, Irish for ‘we will rise.’ Both with lasting reputations and rumours that couldn’t be ignored, but both communities voting for them regardless to keep the opposing party from power. He campaigned for his independent party which took religion out of the equation. Young people were starting to vote for him, getting them interested in politics was the main problem. Of course, he had death threats from both sides and even a stone through the living room window one evening at the beginning of his political career, but it wouldn’t stop him, despite Nuala and their children’s protests.
Until, three years ago, he’d gone missing. With absolutely no trace as to where he went, and due to his growing popularity within the city, the search had been lengthy and costly, but to no avail. Nuala is convinced it was one of those same organisations he was trying so hard to keep in the past that took him out of their hair. Not liking that he was a threat to their party. Experience in covering their trail and keeping their nose, and hands, clean. The police too scared to investigate past the preliminaries when they were mentioned. The police in Northern Ireland have had bad reputations from way back in the height of the Troubles. Even today if there’s some form of riot, they have to sit tight and take petrol bomb after petrol bomb whilst they shelter in their fire-resistant land rovers, unable to retaliate in case they’re accused of police brutality.
That would open a brand-new can of worms. As will continuing to dig further into these organisation’s actions to find out what happened to Nuala’s poor husband. They never admitted it, but she knows that’s why. The last thing they, and the country, need is another civil war on their hands. They say the trouble is over, and it is to an extent, but there’s still spats on both sides of the River Foyle, which splits the city down the middle. Episodes of violence across the city every now and then further highlights that these people are still at large and dangerous.
“I know, pet. But sure, it’ll all be rubble in a few weeks anyway,” Nuala purses her lips as a tractor pulls out onto the main road, making her stamp on the brakes and bringing her down from 60 to 30.
The irony isn’t lost on Nuala as she becomes annoyed at potentially being stuck behind this arsehole in single lane traffic until she climbs the Glenshane Mountain in a dozen miles. The main
