1999 by Morgan Llywelyn

ninth of March four young and inexperienced Volunteers were killed when a bomb they had been preparing exploded prematurely.
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    Séamus McCoy often spoke of “going up the road” by which he meant returning to the armed struggle. As the month of March wore on he was still in Harold’s Cross, but he had his overcoat mended and bought a new pair of boots. He was spending a lot of time in the Bleeding Horse.
    Within Barbara’s hearing Barry never said anything about going with McCoy. He exhibited an almost glacial calm—which might have been interpreted as indifference—whenever Bloody Sunday or the resurgence of the IRA was mentioned.
    Barbara was not deceived. She had long since discovered that Barry’s facade could be in inverse ratio to his deeper feelings.
    It was unbearable that so much of him was locked away from her; unbearable to think there might be a different life he desired more than life with her. Had her rival been another woman she would have fought with all the wiles she possessed.
    How can one woman fight a whole army?
    She and Barry were polite with each other. They did not discuss politics or anything else that might be construed as serious. Sex, which had been frequent and passionate on both sides, had ceased abruptly after Bloody Sunday. Barry no longer instigated lovemaking and Barbara was too proud to ask why, or make the overtures herself. She existed in an emotional limbo she felt powerless to end. He’ll go when McCoy goes, I know he will.
    Well I won’t sit here and wait for you with folded hands, Barry Halloran!
    Philpott kept a small radio on the kitchen windowsill. When she was alone in the kitchen Barbara turned it on and sang along with the music. She did not bother to change stations when the news came on. After the initial expressions of outrage, she noticed that Bloody Sunday swiftly disappeared from the news programmes.
    â€œPeople in the streets are still talking about it,” she said to McCoy, “but it’s not mentioned on the radio anymore. Isn’t that odd?”
    â€œRTE is owned by the state, lass. What do you expect?”
    â€œYou mean the news is censored?”
    â€œNot exactly. But that shower of villains in Leinster House has made it plain they don’t want anything to do with Northern Ireland. No news programmer who values his job is likely to defy government policy.”
    â€œThat’s shocking!” she cried. “Thank God nothing like that could happen in America. We have freedom of the press; I think it’s guaranteed in the Constitution or something.”
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    The Irish government announced that for the second year in a row there would be no Easter Monday military parade commemorating the 1916 Rising. A huge celebration in 1966 had set the tone for years to follow, but in 1971 it had been impossible to put together a large enough contingent to hold a parade. Too many members of the national army had been needed to man the border with Northern Ireland, where tensions were mounting.
    A year later tensions were higher than ever.
    Walls in loyalist areas of Northern Ireland were decorated with huge, elaborate murals of Protestant domination. They were as much a part of the landscape as the Union Jack fluttering from thousands of unionist windows. Following Bloody Sunday, hastily painted admonitions to support the IRA had appeared on walls and hoardings. Within a matter of days they were augmented by murals depicting armed members of the IRA wearing balaclavas and looking every bit as menacing as their loyalist counterparts.
    Catholic women showed their support for the republicans by hiding weapons for them. “The wee woman with the guns under her mattress” became a heroine. Instead of cowboys and Indians their sons played at being Volunteers and Oranges—making sure the Volunteers always won.
    These developments made no headlines in the Republic of Ireland, but the rapid growth of