work over there for women. Liam will soon be old enough to take care of himself while I work.â
Liam sticks out his chest. âI can take care of myself right now.â
His da finishes his salad and puts down his fork. âChasing off to England is not the answer, darlinâ. Isnât that what the Protestant Loyalists want? For us all to leave? But weâll not leave. Things will get better here now that the Good Friday Agreement is signed. Be patient. Thereâs an old Irish saying: âThe waters wear the stones; patience is the pace of nature.ââ He turns to Liam and says again, ââPatience is the pace of nature.â What dâyou think of that?â
His mum winks at Liam. âSounds more like Shakespeare to me.â
His daâs eyebrows disappear under his mop of hair. âAnd wasnât Shakespeare Irish?â
âAs far as patience goes,â his mum says, âhavenât we been patient for over thirty years? Nothing changes. Soldiers, barely eighteen years old, not much more than children, come over here from England with their cockney accents and search our houses whenever they feel like it and treat us like trespassers and refugees in our own country, and shoot at us with their plastic bullets. Like poor May Furlong, only thirteen and walking home from school with her friends, and now sheâs a permanent basket case, in and out of hospital with a shattered mouth and jaw, one operation after another, and sheâll never be the same. Shot deliberately she was. The other girls saw it.â
Liam knows May Furlong. She once was a pretty girl: red hair and lovely gray eyes. Now she never goes out, unless it is dark.
His da says, âI thought we were talking about jobs.â
His mum helps herself to the salad bowl. âThere are no jobs.â
Silence.
Liam thinks his mumâs probably right about the jobs because his da puts up no argument. And sheâs definitely right about the way the British army treats them.
His mum thrusts the bowl at his da, âHave some more salad.â
âNo thanks.â
âLiam?â
âNo thanks.â
His mum takes the bowl back and finishes the little that is left. âIf there were jobs in Belfast Iâd have had one years ago. Mrs. McIntosh saysâ¦â
âAh, donât be tellinâ me about Mrs. McIntosh, Fiona darlinâ. That old harridan has a tongue on her would clip a hedge. She sees only trouble and strife that one. If she ever smiled sheâd crack herself in two.â
His da gets up from the table and Liam leaps up and throws his arms around his neck. âDa, letâs never go to England, okay? We will always stay here, right?â
âAh! No man ever wore a scarf as warm as the arms of a child,â his da says, laughing and hugging Liam and whirling him around and causing his mum to leap to her feet yelling for them to stop before something gets broken.
Liam is ten:
âThereâs almost as many Protestants out of work as Catholics, Joe. We ought to be working together to solve our problems, not fighting each other.â
Liam is standing in the street with his da and Joe Boyle, a neighbor.
Joe Boyle laughs. âYouâll never see that, Daniel. Catholics and Protestants working together in the North of Ireland? Youâre dreaming, man, so you are.â
âDonât you be so sure, Joe. That so-called Peace Line?â His da points to the twenty-foot-high brick-and-steel wall dividing the two areas, the Catholic Falls Road and the Protestant Shankill Road. âThat wall should be knocked down for starters. Should have been demolished years ago. They did it in Berlin. The Berlin wall came down, right? Well, what is stopping us from doing the same thing here? We should be opening our windows wide and shouting loud, âIâm mad as hell and Iâm not going to take it anymore!ââ
âListen to yourself
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