Belfast Short Stories. Volume One.
Description
Bobby Sands is dead
‘Bobby Sands is dead! Bobby Sands is dead!’ was the shout outside my house in Glenveagh Drive. Then came the rattle of bin lids being banged of the road. I opened my eyes and there was my brother Paul hanging down from the top bunk.
‘Bobby Sands is dead,’ he said.
‘Who’s he?’ I asked, totally confused.
‘That IRA man that’s in jail.’
I’d heard of the IRA of course as they were never of the news for their bombings and shootings. Not that I watched the news much at ten years of age. In fact, I hated the news but over the years I’d picked up bits and pieces when my Daddy was home and told us to turn the TV over from the cartoons or Blue Peter. Then too there were the ‘IRA’ slogans daubed on the walls around our estate: ‘Victory the Provos’; ‘Up the Ra’; ‘Touts will be shot.’ All that type of stuff. So although we weren’t intentionally trying to learn about the IRA it was part and parcel of the place we lived in. Interwoven into the fabric. Then of course there was the game we played in the streets called ‘The Brits and the IRA’ where the idea of the game was to sneak up on your friends that were the ‘Brits’ and shoot them before they seen you coming. A West Belfast version of Hide and Seek. Afterwards we had to run and hide our plastic gun.
‘How did he die?’ I asked my brother.
I was only ten years old so I expected my brother, who was a year and a half older, to know the ins and outs on everything.
‘He was on Hungerstrike,’ he said.
‘What’s a Hungerstrike?’
‘Where you don’t eat.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said then he hopped down from the bunk and started to get undressed.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked as he pulled of his Superman pyjamas and started climbing into his school uniform. My brother was at CBS on the Glen Road. A second year.
‘I’m going outside,’ he said.
I checked my watch. It had Spiderman’s head with two arms sticking out. The smaller of Spidey’s arms was pointing at the six, the longer one at twelve.
‘But it’s 6 o’ clock in the morning.’
My brother smiled at me.
‘Well, you stay here then.’
I jumped up immediately and quickly got out of my pyjamas which were also Spiderman, the web slinger being my favourite hero. As I was still at primary school I didn’t have a uniform so I pulled on a grey pair of trousers and a white shirt that my Mum had ironed for me the night before. After I finished buttoning up my shirt I sat on the edge of my bed and started to put on my socks as Paul climbed back up onto his bunk and opened the window. Now, the clatter of the bin lids and the shouting that Bobby Sands was dead came charging into our bedroom. When my brother started to climb out I heard his feet scraping against the window frame so I quickly stood up.
‘Will you wait on me,’ I said.
‘Keep your voice down,’ he replied, obviously worried that my voice would waken our parents.
‘Ok but wait,’ I said a bit lower.
‘I’ll be on the porch,’ he said then he clambered through the opening and dropped onto the little porch that sat above our front door.
A minute later I finished tying my laces then hauled myself up onto my brother’s bed. From there I edged out backwards through the window exactly as he had done using the window frame as support to hold my weight. As my legs dangled down I slowly lowered myself until my feet touched the porch and I was able to stand. When I turned round my brother was staring down the street with his mouth open so I followed his gaze. For as far as the eye could see people were dotted along the middle of the road the whole way down Glenveagh Drive with bin lids in their hands banging them repeatedly of the ground. As it was dawn those furthest away were simply dark silhouettes underneath a grey sky but those in the street immediately below us were recognisable as our neighbours: Mrs Clarke from number 57; Mr Morgan from 80 and Geraldine Byers, the girl I thought was beautiful from 76. I stood there mesmerised then my bro
‘Bobby Sands is dead! Bobby Sands is dead!’ was the shout outside my house in Glenveagh Drive. Then came the rattle of bin lids being banged of the road. I opened my eyes and there was my brother Paul hanging down from the top bunk.
‘Bobby Sands is dead,’ he said.
‘Who’s he?’ I asked, totally confused.
‘That IRA man that’s in jail.’
I’d heard of the IRA of course as they were never of the news for their bombings and shootings. Not that I watched the news much at ten years of age. In fact, I hated the news but over the years I’d picked up bits and pieces when my Daddy was home and told us to turn the TV over from the cartoons or Blue Peter. Then too there were the ‘IRA’ slogans daubed on the walls around our estate: ‘Victory the Provos’; ‘Up the Ra’; ‘Touts will be shot.’ All that type of stuff. So although we weren’t intentionally trying to learn about the IRA it was part and parcel of the place we lived in. Interwoven into the fabric. Then of course there was the game we played in the streets called ‘The Brits and the IRA’ where the idea of the game was to sneak up on your friends that were the ‘Brits’ and shoot them before they seen you coming. A West Belfast version of Hide and Seek. Afterwards we had to run and hide our plastic gun.
‘How did he die?’ I asked my brother.
I was only ten years old so I expected my brother, who was a year and a half older, to know the ins and outs on everything.
‘He was on Hungerstrike,’ he said.
‘What’s a Hungerstrike?’
‘Where you don’t eat.’
‘But why?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said then he hopped down from the bunk and started to get undressed.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked as he pulled of his Superman pyjamas and started climbing into his school uniform. My brother was at CBS on the Glen Road. A second year.
‘I’m going outside,’ he said.
I checked my watch. It had Spiderman’s head with two arms sticking out. The smaller of Spidey’s arms was pointing at the six, the longer one at twelve.
‘But it’s 6 o’ clock in the morning.’
My brother smiled at me.
‘Well, you stay here then.’
I jumped up immediately and quickly got out of my pyjamas which were also Spiderman, the web slinger being my favourite hero. As I was still at primary school I didn’t have a uniform so I pulled on a grey pair of trousers and a white shirt that my Mum had ironed for me the night before. After I finished buttoning up my shirt I sat on the edge of my bed and started to put on my socks as Paul climbed back up onto his bunk and opened the window. Now, the clatter of the bin lids and the shouting that Bobby Sands was dead came charging into our bedroom. When my brother started to climb out I heard his feet scraping against the window frame so I quickly stood up.
‘Will you wait on me,’ I said.
‘Keep your voice down,’ he replied, obviously worried that my voice would waken our parents.
‘Ok but wait,’ I said a bit lower.
‘I’ll be on the porch,’ he said then he clambered through the opening and dropped onto the little porch that sat above our front door.
A minute later I finished tying my laces then hauled myself up onto my brother’s bed. From there I edged out backwards through the window exactly as he had done using the window frame as support to hold my weight. As my legs dangled down I slowly lowered myself until my feet touched the porch and I was able to stand. When I turned round my brother was staring down the street with his mouth open so I followed his gaze. For as far as the eye could see people were dotted along the middle of the road the whole way down Glenveagh Drive with bin lids in their hands banging them repeatedly of the ground. As it was dawn those furthest away were simply dark silhouettes underneath a grey sky but those in the street immediately below us were recognisable as our neighbours: Mrs Clarke from number 57; Mr Morgan from 80 and Geraldine Byers, the girl I thought was beautiful from 76. I stood there mesmerised then my bro
