The Street and other stories Read Online Free PDF Page B

old. She remembers exactly when it happened. It was 2 July 1970, at about half-past two in the afternoon. Up until then Margaret had been no more rebellious than anybody else. She was a cheerful, witty little woman with a family of five boys and four girls. Margaret’s husband, a tall, stern-looking man, didn’t get too involved with rearing the children. That’s not to say that he neglected his paternal duties; on the contrary, he was a dutiful father. But he was a father of the old school, Victorian to a degree in his attitudes, working hard always to keep his family fed and strict in the administration of discipline.
    He had been a rebel once, in his younger days. Only Margaret knew if he retained any of that instinct or whether his paternal responsibilities had smothered it. It can be hard to be a rebel with so many mouths to feed and so many bodies to clothe. That was Margaret’s preoccupation also and ironically that’s what led indirectly to her becoming a rebel.
    Margaret’s son Tommy was arrested on the night of 1 July and brought to Townhall Street RUC station for an overnight stay before a court appearance on a charge of riotous behaviour the following day.
    Margaret received this news with some shock when SeanHealy, one of Tommy’s friends, arrived breathless and excited at her front door with the tidings. She didn’t know what way to turn, and when her husband came in later she was relieved that he knew precisely what had to be done.
    “Give me my dinner, Mother, please. First things first,” he told her a little testily when she greeted him with the dramatic news.
    Later, as he settled himself in his chair by the fire, he delivered his judgement.
    “That young Healy lad isn’t too reliable. I think you or one of the girls should go down to Mrs Sharpe’s and phone the barracks. That way we’ll know where we stand. And if it’s true, well then a night in the cells will do our Tommy no harm, Mother, so don’t be worrying. There’s nothing we can do about it tonight except phone.” He paused for a moment. “You’ll have to go to the courts in the morning if he is arrested and,” he reflected a moment, “we’ll probably need a solicitor. Bloody fool, our Tommy. Go on, mother, go down and find out what’s what, like a good woman.”
    Margaret said nothing. She was glad to get out of the house. Teresa went with her to Mrs Sharpe’s.
    “M’da’s a geg,” Teresa sniffed indignantly as they hurried along the street; “he sits there like Lord Muck giving his orders. You’re too soft, Ma.”
    “Oh, don’t mind your father. That’s just his way. He’s as worried about our Tommy as we are. He just finds it hard to show his feelings. Here we are now. You phone for me, Teresa. I’ll go in the back with Mrs Sharpe. Okay, love?”
    Later that night while the rest of the family were asleep, Margaret lay in bed beside the still form of her husband and sobbed a little into her pillow.
    The following morning, with children and father dispatched to work and school, she and Mrs Sharpe made their way to the Petty Sessions. Neither of them had ever been in court before and they were unprepared for the babble of noise, the heavily armed RUC men and women, the multitudes of people and the crowded confusion in the large foyer of the court building. They stood timorouslyuntil Mrs Sharpe noticed a section of the crowd milling around a noticeboard.
    “Wait here, dear, till I see what that is,” she said.
    Margaret watched anxiously as Mrs Sharpe disappeared into the noticeboard scrum. She reemerged victorious seconds later.
    “Your Tommy’s in Court Number Three. Here it is here,” she pointed to one of the doors leading off from the foyer. They pushed their way between the heavy swinging doors and into the cool quietness of Court Number Three. There they sat silently for two and a half hours.
    Then the court rose for lunch. There was no sign of Tommy. Margaret was beside herself with anxiety by this