Welcome Backwards to Ireland - an excerpt from The Troubles
(please keep in mind this is still in editing)
Near the end of August 1976, I stepped off a plane in Shannon Airport, Ireland, filled with a sense of excitement and my bags loaded with countless pairs of socks and underwear personalized by Mom. She’d started with hand-sewn white tags, moved onto iron-on tags, and finally resorted to just writing my name inside with a magic marker the same as she’d done for Roger years before when he went to Dungannon Royal. I’d been prodded and poked with fingers and needles to ensure I wouldn’t infect Ireland with some disease or vice versa, and it had all been well worth it.
I couldn’t have been happier when Mom and Dad sat me down and explained I’d be going with Roger to boarding school, not Dungannon Royal as he’d suggested, though, because Northern Ireland was too dangerous, but to a school in the Irish Republic. Anything was better than Romig Junior High back home. I’d heard all about the place being a real house of horrors where bullies forced little kids like me to do awful things like push quarters around toilet seats, and if the quarter fell in?
I shuddered.
“Welcome back to Ireland, son,” Mom said, interrupting my thought.
I inhaled deeply, savoring the mixed aroma of burned jet fuel, damp, grass, and cow manure.
Mom said I must be starving and took me for a bite to eat at the airport hotel, but it was too late for lunch and too early for dinner and the restaurant wasn’t open. The lady at the front desk said ach not to worry, find yourself a place to sit and we’d be brought a pot of tea with some sandwiches, would ham and cheese be okay? Ham and cheese would be just lovely, thanks. We settled for a cozy spot just off from the main lobby.
Soon after the tea arrived with a plate of fancy-looking sandwiches with the crusts cut off. They looked delicious. I eagerly bit into one and felt something cold and greasy in my mouth, but since my rumbling stomach did not reject it I continued eating.
As another lump of sandwich slid down my throat, the lady hurried up to us and, out of breath, told us we had to clear the hotel immediately. “We’ve had a threat.”
I continued munching away, waiting for Mom’s lead.
Mom looked annoyed. “I’ve never heard such rubbish in my life,” she said.
“Please ma’am, you have to go now.”
Mom hesitated a moment before getting up and motioning me to follow her.
“Why do we have to get out of the hotel?” I said, grabbing a handful of sandwiches to bring with me.
“For no good reason, I’m sure,” she replied.
In a stairwell I saw a gray haired woman pouring gin into a tea cup and knocking it back. When she noticed me staring at her she paused, her head wobbling. “Hi,” she said with a strong New York accent.
“Oh, hello,” Mom replied in her regal English accent. “You’re American.”
“Goddamned right,” the woman replied. “Come on over and sit down.”
Mom seemed pleased to find someone to talk to, so I left them to chat and went off to do some exploring. After wandering around for a bit, I found a couple of police officers to follow and overheard them talking about a device. Why do you call it that? I asked. Because, wee lad, if there is a device it will be an explosive device or an incendiary device, so either way it would a device. I supposed that didn’t sound as frightening as bomb.
After what seemed like a couple of hours, Mom found me and told me she was tired of this rubbish and that she’d called for a taxi.
We ended up in a place called Killaloe, on the River Shannon just outside Limerick. I scouted the town for airplane models, having found none in the airport gift shop except a weird looking British thing. I didn’t find any models at all. I did, however, find a couple of boys fishing from the bridge across the river and asked if they’d had any luck. “Aye, a wee bit,” said one of the boys. “Would you like a go?”
Of course I did. “What are you using for bait?”
They offered me a paper cup with small whitish-looking things squiggling around in what looked like sawdust. These were definitely not salmon eggs. “We use maggots - they’re great,” said one the boys.
Within a short time, the rod twitched and I yanked hard, wanting to look good to my new friends who congratulated me on reeling in a fine perch. “They’re good for eatin’ you know.” I’d have to tell Roger about that.
I took my fish back to the hotel and presented it to the surprised concierge and asked if he could give it to the cook. He smiled and assured me he’d take care of everything. That night I ate the best fried fish I’d ever had.
We arrived in Sligo the next day in time for lunch at the Hotel Silver Swan where Mom would be staying for a couple of days while we, Roger and I, got settled in at the school. By the time Mom was on her fourth cup of tea and second pack of cigarettes, I’d had my fill of greasy sandwiches. I’d asked if I could have some mayonnaise and was brought something called salad cream instead, a yellowish green nightmare nothing like what I wanted.
Roger suddenly got up from the table and said he was going to check out the action outside, meaning the locals fishing from the bridge. Mom said I could go to, but warned us not to wander off too far.
I hurried after Roger. “They use maggots, you know?” I said, proud of the idea that I might know something he didn’t about fishing.
Roger’s eyes lit up when a young man pulled a large silver fish from the river. “Might be a bit like Alaska,” he said, taking a long drag from a cigarette.
With Mom having had her fill of tea, we faced the inevitable.
I got out of the taxi. Sligo Grammar towered over me, gray and dark and, as far as I could tell, immeasurably old, and for the first time I felt a ripple of fear. Not the kind of scary like Dracula’s Castle; something deeper. This wasn’t home.
We met with Mr. Blackmore, the Headmaster, for more than an hour. He seemed a likeable fellow, rather agreeable, nodding his head at every few words Mom said. He spoke softly without staring, glaring, or otherwise threatening.
“Well you see, Mrs. Nixon, by Roger’s age - he’s now fifteen, nearly sixteen, most schools wouldn’t accept him. He’s really a bit old to be molded in the proper fashion.”
Mom replied with her strong British accent. “Yes, but we’re hoping you’ll have no trouble with him.”
“Well, we’ll certainly do our very best, Mrs. Nixon. Don’t you worry about a t’ing,” Blackmore said.
Then he led us over to the dorms, ominously located adjacent to his house. Mine looked out over the dining hall. Rickety metal beds, each identically made up with a cream colored blanket and white sheets, lined both long walls. At the foot end of each bed, a colorful rug belonging to its occupant provided the illusion of individualism. Beside each was a small wooden locker for stowing valuables. I noticed these could not be locked. I wondered was this a ward of throwaways from the hospital across the street?
Uneven bare wooden planks worn with age and glazed over with years of use served as the floor. Fluorescent tubes, hung from bare fixtures, buzzed noisily overhead, casting a cold, white light that somehow highlighted the peeling paint while making the room feel darker than it really was. Here and there the plaster walls had pockmarks left uncared for.
At the far end of the dorm, a closet for hanging coats, and a doorway that led into the washroom and toilet. No showers or even a bath in there, just three sinks and a single stall with no door. From the bathroom window I could see the rugby pitch that rose sharply at the far corner; beyond it the river I’d seen those giant silver fish - mullet the locals had called them, come out of.
I shivered even though the temperature was not much different to what I’d left behind, and for a moment I thought back to Alaska, to the night Roger and I had toasted our going to Ireland with a couple of Guinness in the camper.
“A wee taste of Ireland,” Roger had said.
I’d sniffed the bottle, taken a sip, and immediately had thought then that I didn’t care much for the taste of Ireland - dark, bitter, and harsh.
Mr. Blackmore broke the uneasy silence saying “showers are downstairs, in the changing rooms.” I later found out what the washroom lacked in showers, the changing rooms lacked in heat.
We walked back towards the head end of the dorm. Mr. Blackmore smiled at me and pointed to the last unassigned bed. “This one,” he grunted as he cleared his throat, “is yours.”
Mom seemed satisfied, but this was not at all like what I imagined I was getting into. It was one thing to be in boarding school, but sleeping with all those other people in my room? It’ll be like camp, I told myself.
Mom pulled me aside. “Don’t worry son, you’ll do fine. And don’t be afraid to tell if someone touches you.”
“Huh?” I said.
“You know, down there,” she whispered, motioning with her eyes.
“He’ll be okay, Mom. I’ll take care of him,” Roger said confidently. “No one’ll mess with him while I’m around.”
Yeah, if anyone even says the wrong thing to me, my big brother will pound him, I thought. I smiled at Roger but he didn’t notice.
The headmaster gave Mom some paperwork including a list of required items and where to get them.
Armed with the list, we headed to the official school outfitters in down town Sligo, bought what we needed for the uniforms - gray socks, gray trousers, gray shirts, gray sweater, an official black blazer - the school’s emblem emblazoned on the lapel pocket being the only color, and school tie, plus pajamas, slippers, heavy wool robe, extra underwear, rugby boots, rugby jersey, and the requisite colorful rug. I picked blue and green tartan wool - it would help keep me warm at night. When we were done we took a taxi back to the school.
I had almost all my stuff put away when Mr. Blackmore came round to see how we made out.
“Fine,” Mom said. “No problem at all.” She sighed, turned to him and asked if it would be okay if she took her boys out for the evening.
Blackmore nodded vigorously and smiled. “Of course! Of course!”
So we had dinner in Sligo, and later, Mom took us to a movie - “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
Eventually Mom took us back to the school, and after she left it hit me just how far from home I really was. As most kids around me busily readied for bed, chattering away and laughing here and there and paying me no attention, I debated whether I should take off my underwear before putting on my pajamas. I decided not to, slipped on my pajamas as quickly as I could and joined the line for the washroom, my wash kit in hand.
When I’d finished brushing my teeth and scrubbing behind my ears, I went back to my bed and slid between the starched, clammy white sheets and pulled my rug up tight against the chill. The wool itched against my cheek.
Soon Mr. Blackmore came in, said, “right lads, good night,” and flipped off the switch.
At first the dorm remained deathly quiet and black, but before long the sound of hushed chatter rose as my eyes adapted to the dark, and the fellow in the bed next to mine said, “Who're you, then?”
“My…” I looked up to see who was asking, “I'm Paul. Nixon,” I said.
“Well then, Paul. Good to know you. So, where are you from then?”
I hesitated, unsure if I should say from Libya, Ireland, or America. “I came here from Alaska,” I said proudly.
“Really? Alaska? So, you're Canadian then?”
As we talked I began to relax, and after a few minutes I even chuckled at something else he said.
Suddenly the lights went on. Three older boys burst into the dorm laughing. They ran to the bed opposite mine and stripped the covers. “No, no!” said the young fellow in it. Two of the boys held him down squirming and pleading. The third older boy pulled his pajamas down. “Get ready,” he said, uncapping a tube of something in his hand.
“No, don’t! PLEASE!”
Next thing I knew, the third boy pounced. Moments later the young boy leapt from the bed and ran towards the washroom holding his crotch. The older boys moved to the next bed over and did the same, sending that boy flying to the washroom holding his crotch.
I sank lower into my bed terrified, my eyes darting to the door hoping to see my big brother come running in while many around me laughed. Fortunately, the humor had worn thin long before they got to me. “We’re just having a wee bit of fun,” one of the older boys said. This brought little comfort to those who’d had their balls smeared with toothpaste. I fell asleep that first night at Sligo Grammar School to the sounds of sniffling and muffled whinging.
* * *
“Wake up you little bastards.”
My eyes shot open. Daylight outside.
“Get your lazy arses out of bed before I beat you out of them.”
Suddenly I was flying through the air. I landed on my butt, my bed upside down on top of me. “Happy birthday,” he said with a grin. Everyone around me laughed. I was awake now.
One of the other boys said, “Don't pay any attention to him. He's a prefect just having a wee bit of fun, yeah know.”
I managed a weak smile and nodded. I’d survived my first night.
At breakfast I lit up when I saw Tony the Tiger, the first and only reminder of home I’d had since I arrived. Two stacks of bread, one either end of the table, disappeared in a sea of reaching hands. Knives disassembled two blocks of butter, carving away great chunks at a time until none remained.
The prefect at the head of the table ordered one of the boys to go get more. “And bring a loaf of bread, too.”
Despite the frenzy, I got a bowl of Frosted Flakes with milk. I even managed to snag a couple of slices of bread, but the butter tasted like it had been stored with bicycle oil, so I scraped as much of it as I could from my bread and covered the remainder with an extra helping of jam.
On each table, too, was a great big metal tea pot. I’d just started my first cup when Blackmore came up and told me Mom would be picking me up after church.
“Church?” I said. My family had never been huge for church. Way back in Silver Spring we went most Sunday’s until they changed the preacher and that was that. I suppose that’s why in Anchorage we only went to midnight service at Christmas and, once, to an Easter service.
After breakfast I headed back to the dorm to get ready for church. After washing, I put on my new, crisp white shirt and, following the others’ lead, set about polishing my shoes. After the first one I wondered if I should have waited to put on my new crisp white shirt, but seeing as I managed to get most of the polish onto the shoe and only a little on myself, I decided I was alright and continued on.
I lined up with the others for inspection when told to, and as the dorm prefect went down the line I couldn’t help but wonder if I would pass or what the prefect would do to me if I didn’t. “Comb your hair,” the prefect said to one boy. “Straighten that tie,” he said to another. The boy next to me started rubbing the tops of his shoes on the calves of his trousers. I thought what a great idea and did the same. The prefect didn’t even look at me, though.
Once we started for the church, the older boys hung back. I dragged my feet as much as I could trying to put off the inevitable but eventually I had no choice.
Organ grinding and mustiness met me inside. I sat on an uncomfortable wooden bench and kept quiet. I rose when the other boys rose and sat down when they did. The preacher said it was good to see so many here this beautiful Sunday morning and thanked us for coming as if we’d had a choice.
He called people to pray which was great as I could close my eyes and think about sleep, but it didn’t last before it was time to sing another hymn. The organ blasted and we rose once more. I protested under my breath. Why did we have to keep standing up? Why couldn’t we just sing sitting down? One of the other lads said it was to keep us from falling asleep. No danger of that, I thought. The preacher worked himself up with a flurry of fire and brimstone, and just when he held everyone deathly silent with a dramatic pause to emphasize his point, the short, pudgy lad behind me grunted like someone trying to hack up a chicken bone drawing caustic glares from the pulpit and an assortment of satisfied smiles and chuckles from our section.
When the collection plate came - oh, yes, I was expected to contribute to the church - the preacher narrowed his eyes on us and said, “I don’t want to see just copper from you lot.” I put in a half-penny and blew the rest on a can of Fanta, a Club Bar, and a comic book in the wee shop after.
Mom arrived just before lunch and strained to smile. “Hello wee son,” she said.
I ran over and gave her a great big hug. By the puffiness around her eyes I knew she had been crying and I couldn’t help but think this was not the woman who’d confronted the murderous mob of Arabs not ten years before.
“Why don’t you get some of your new friends together and we’ll go out for a bit?” she said. “Since you’ll not get a proper birthday.”
