An Undiscovered Country

By M.A. Cumiskey

Initially the context of the story is the conflict in Ireland and in some
ways the troubles of Lorna and her family reflect that situation.
Lorna Donnelly is the eldest in a family of four children: Catholics
living in a Loyalist region of Belfast. The story originates at the time of
the first IRA ceasefire and culminates about the time of the Peace Accord
some 37 years later. Mr. Donnelly is killed by the IRA and his wife decides
to migrate with her children to England. She meets and marries Jimmy
Ungerside a butcher. Jimmy is a serial child abuser and to varying degrees
the whole family suffer at his hands, especially Lorna. The effect on the
girls development and later on her career is seen as an echo in tandem
of the Troubles. The same is also true of her sister and two brothers.
Each chapter includes a contemporaneous news report and an excerpt from
Lornas diary each linked by some similar notion of abuse.
Lorna eventually marries but the episodes that torment her psychology
continue despite concentrated periods of treatment. It is not until she is
made aware of another significant cause that there is finally some hope of
real recovery.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Dec 12, 2012
• ISBN: 9781479761982

M.A. Cumiskey

Mike Cumiskey was raised in the north of England. His grandparents on both sides were immigrant families one side from Ireland and the other from Italy/Sicily. The creative life he enjoys besides his writing includes the visual arts and this is the area in which he was trained. He has taught and lectured extensively throughout the UK and his sculpture and drawings are represented in a variety of collections in Germany, France, England, the USA and Canada, including the national collection of Trinidad and Tobago. He was the first sculptor in the UK to be employed on staff with a new town development corporation where a number of his public works are still to be seen. In 1974 he was awarded the Ronald Tree Fellowship in sculpture to the University of the West Indies. He began writing whilst he was in the West Indies and since then has completed eight novels as well as a large variety of other works including poetry some of which has also been published. Currently he lives and works in Devon with his wife Sue their three children are now grown and have long-since left home.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

1962

News: Northern Ireland: The IRA calls off its five year session of violence

Diary: Me Dad works so hard in his little shop. He worries that us being Catholic might cause a problem with his customers—mostly they are Protestant. Fortunately he seems to get on well with everyone. He doesn’t believe in violence but he must be one of the few who doesn’t. The area is always being upset by IRA setting off bombs or Loyalists forcing some family or other out of the Province. Thank God Dad gets on so well with our neighbours. He says that he’s a butcher not a politician and that he keeps his nose out of trouble.

*     *     *

You’re a reasonable man Geraint Donnelly, said the first man, so why won’t you listen to reason?

I don’t think he properly understands. The other one added unnecessarily.

The two strangers had entered Geraint’s butcher’s shop just before closing time and, after spending four pounds on a meat package that included steak, sausage, bacon and a pie, he’d thought it only polite if not prudent to pass the time of day with them. Although hardly a gregarious person by nature, Geraint was nevertheless prepared to adopt the pose as such when it was good for business, and the addition of four pounds to his takings was appreciated as just that. Unfortunately, after opinions had been exchanged about the usual subjects, the weather, sport and the politics of Local Government, the conversation took a different turn.

They had been discussing money and the need for real investment in the Province when Geraint commented how hard it was to make his shop turn a worthwhile profit. At first the taller of the two men had sympathised, commiserating with the butcher about the location of his business.

Being on the cusp—as it were—between the two communities must be a trial at the best of times. He said with apparent sincerity. His eyes were as cold as the marble slab that served as a counter top.

D ‘you have any trouble through that? the other one said, echoing the thought.

I try to keep politics out of the shop altogether. I don’t take sides and I keep my nose clean, Geraint told them, I’m a butcher and all I’m here for is to sell my meat. If it’s fighting or arguing they want, I tell them to go to the border.

This seemed to satisfy his customers but then the suggestion was put to him by the last speaker, that he might make himself a little extra cash by occasionally telling them about local IRA activities.

And sure—what the hell would I know about the Republican Army. Like I told you I’m just a butcher.

His claim was ignored and the tall man argued that as many of his friends and neighbours were active members of the IRA, he must hear bits of gossip that included names and dates. Geraint was annoyed. He had tried to keep his family apart from the internecine disputes, so far successfully. Given the ferocity of the possible consequences for being an informer, it was in his opinion a wise course of action. He was not about to be tempted therefore into a situation that might jeopardize the security of his future.

I don’t know who y ‘are or who you might represent gentlemen, but you’ve come to the wrong man. Now without meaning to give offence, I’d like you both t ‘leave.

They thanked him and left without further comment. However, they came back exactly one week later and their visit this time followed the same pattern as before. They spent four or five pounds and then tried to persuade Geraint into making an arrangement with them.

He had opened his shop just before Christmas the previous year. It was his first venture as a self-employed businessman but being a Catholic in largely Protestant Ulster was inevitably a huge gamble. Fortunately in his case, it was a gamble that had proved well worth taking. He had lived and worked close to the boundary that separated the two communities all his life and had enjoyed the friendship of a number of non-Catholic acquaintances. Sometimes he even went for a drink at the ‘Billy-Boy’ a predominantly Loyalist pub and there had never been the slightest suggestion of trouble there. Indeed, his confidence in his business venture was based as much on his reputation as someone who ignored religious and political bias, as it was on his butchering skills.

We know all their names alright, Terry told him—by now they had introduced themselves as Terry and Martin, it’s just that we’d like to know what they might be up to.

But hasn’t the IRA declared a cease-fire? he asked, knowing full well that this was now common knowledge.

Both men laughed cynically, and then Martin said, True enough—for the time being that is until it suits them not to have a cease-fire. If you see what I mean.

I see what you mean, Geraint muttered reluctantly, but I want no part in sectarian disputes. I’m a butcher—I sell meat to those who want it and I don’t care a fig what their political or religious beliefs might be. Meat is ecumenical. Terry smiled at this but the smile remained only on his lips, So you want the Protestant money from your customers—but you don’t want anything to do with Protestant causes. I think there’s some who could take offence at that. It might even cost you business. He paused but the menace was explicit, Show the man your badge Martin.

As instructed Martin produced a wallet, he flicked it open to reveal a Police ID. Y ‘see it isn’t quite as simple as you might have imagined. Terry continued, We’re not Loyalist soldiers fighting the Union cause. We’re Law officers—trying to bring a halt to all the violence. Now—as a law abiding citizen we expect you to co-operate, because you don’t want all the bombings and shootings to continue. Do You?

Geraint found himself nodding, he couldn’t argue with that but he knew full well that any degree of acquiescence would be misinterpreted—and it was.

So you’ll help us then? Martin concluded still grinning.

I never said that. Geraint responded quickly.

I suppose we should alert you to the fact that sometimes, if selected members of the public are resistant to our requests, we drop a word in the ear of one of the rogue punishment squads…

Terry made the threat explicit and in a strange way Geraint felt relieved. At least now it was out in the open. His anger was therefore allowed to surface, I’d heard tell how you play dirty—you British—now I know it’s true. Well you can both go to hell for me—and don’t show your faces in my shop ever again. Next time you’ll…

He wasn’t allowed to finish his threat. As he spoke Martin pulled an automatic pistol from beneath his coat and laid it on the counter top. In itself an innocuous act but given the context, it was charged with meaning.

We hoped it wouldn’t come to this Mister Donnelly, Terry said quietly without the trace of a smile, but if you’re not with us, then you’re against us—and as you can see, we come prepared. Don’t even think of making threats.

Martin returned the gun to its hidden holster and addressed himself to Terry as he did so, And they say he has a family. Several kids… who’d want to gamble with the security of his family—takes a brave man.

Or a complete fool. Terry added.

*     *     *

On his way home that night Geraint clutched two English ten pound notes in his trouser-pocket—the down payment for betrayal. Twenty pounds was a lot of money to the butcher but it felt more like thirty pieces of silver to him. Given the dangers implicit in his actions, he was therefore determined that no one, not even Rita his wife, would ever know about the contract he had made. The deciding factor had been the threat to his family. He could allow himself to be brave—for himself, but to endanger his wife and children, that was unacceptable To help alleviate the guilt; secretly he had made a compact with himself that he would only tell the Englishmen the most pedestrian tit-bits of local gossip. His information would comprise exclusively of things they could pick-up themselves in any local pub.

Nevertheless, the pressures exerted on him by Martin and Terry had struck through his tough exterior, making him feel nervous and more stressed than usual. Now he had something else to worry about. The business was just beginning to show a profit but there were always things the kids needed, they grew out of their shoes and clothing at a phenomenal rate. And Rita was pregnant again with her fourth child.

By the time Geraint arrived home that night his children were already in bed. Rita sat with him as usual as he ate his dinner. She had kept it warm for him in the oven but made fresh gravy on his arrival. Her day was circumscribed by the children’s’ needs and other than occasional visits from their near neighbours, she seldom therefore had an opportunity to enjoy adult company. Accordingly, it was her practice to sit with her husband each evening and listen to him recount the detail of his day. She was not to know it, but this was often the most trying period of the day for Geraint.

His time at work was spent normally, talking, joking and generally trying to entertain his customers. The last thing he wanted when he arrived home late in the evening, was to relive the minutia of his day—or even, for that matter, to engage in much conversation. By nature he was a quiet man, temperate as much in his views as he was in his mode of behaviour. He seldom lost his temper and was not given to passionate outbursts, whatever the provocation. Rita’s personality was quite different. Consequently she would sometimes complain to Molly from next door that Geraint was a difficult man to have an argument with. She often accused him of sulking or brooding on things rather than bringing them out in the open. Given his own background however, his behaviour was not surprising.

Geraint had been one of twelve children and, being the second eldest, he had been obliged to forget about schooling as soon as he was able to read and write. His father, a sometime farm labourer, wife-beater and child-abuser had disappeared when Geraint was approaching his ninth birthday, leaving the two oldest boys as the only breadwinners. They worked at whatever employment they could find and in an economy at that time, with access to an almost unlimited labour force, times were hard. Fortunately, those seeking to employ unskilled labour, preferred to use the two boys due to that fact that their expectation of wages was governed by their ages. They were cheap labour.

Geraint therefore, had to be prepared to do anything and he grew used to working long hours for little recompense. He mixed cement on building sites; toted Hods full of bricks; he painted fences, some of which he had helped to erect; he ran errands for neighbours and delivered goods for shop-keepers. For a while he even worked for a demolition company, helping them to knock down buildings. But surprisingly, it was when he had a job picking potatoes that he found the trade from which he would eventually earn his living. The farmer he worked for owned two butcher’s shops and he was so impressed with Geraint’s effort that he offered him full-time employment. Geraint therefore learned to sweep sawdust, to scrub and scrape chopping blocks and to wash and clean the trays and the knives. It was some time before he was eventually allowed to learn the intricacies of sausage-making and pie production.

In the Ireland of the 1930s and 1940s, his was not an unusual story. Many children were obliged to sell their labour in order to supplement a family income. Had he been a little older he might have taken the King’s shilling and joined the Armed Forces as the war in Europe seemed insatiable for Irish troops as fodder for the front line. Indeed, as soon as he was old enough, his brother Michael gratefully took this path, only to meet his Maker on a French beach during the Normandy landings. During that conflict the Donnelly family also lost two daughters to diphtheria and an infant son to measles. Geraint’s mother never remarried, although in the short time left to her, she enjoyed the attentions of a succession of ‘uncles’, some of whom were generous to her children and some notably brutal. Not surprisingly, Geraint learned to keep his opinions to himself, to mind his manners around strangers and to live a private life inside his head.

And even years later, as a grown man with his own family, Geraint Donnelly maintained some of the same characteristics. He could tolerate the necessarily gregarious nature of the retail trade during the day but in the evening he needed time to accommodate the day’s events. He loved his wife dearly but her incessant questions, particularly after that day, turned his mood completely. As he ate his dinner, he became irritable and more uncommunicative than ever. Eventually, Rita went to bed leaving him alone to ruminate before the kitchen fire. And whilst her early departure to bed was not an unusual event in the Donnelly household, that night she went with a greater sense of isolation than ever.

In his turn, Geraint also felt badly done to. Didn’t he have the constant worry of the business on his mind, meat prices fluctuated ever upwards in the Province, and now he had Martin and Terry on his back. He never slept easily at the best of times and was often found wandering the house in the hours of darkness long after the rest of his family had fallen asleep. That night was exceptional only in that he felt lonely. His normal preoccupation was making plans. That night he was depressed considering money making schemes that had so often failed to satisfy their potential. He spent his time commiserating with what he saw as his bad luck. Just when it seemed that the shop had reached a reasonably profitable state, he had been forced into adopting the position of an informer. Naming the situation frightened him even more and he had to dwell on the financial gain to take his mind off the inherent dangers.

It was his practice usually at some stage to discuss his latest schemes with Rita; she was his sounding-board for new ideas. However on this occasion that was impossible. He knew what her reaction would be and did not want to concern her. Unfortunately the absence of someone with which to share his new situation left him feeling very much alone.

He stood looking out of the parlour window into the dark street outside and began to wonder if he should move his family across the water to mainland England. It was a prospect that excited him as well as filling him with doubt. At least in England, the proximity of the punishment squads would be distanced—and the interference of the British Secret Service in his life would be removed. He decided it would be worth making inquiries about such a move and concluded that if he planned it for twelve months in advance; he could save a considerable sum of money from that paid to him by Terry and Martin.

The big question was—could he keep the matter secret. Did he have the self-control to maintain his silence? Self control—that much vaunted bulwark demanded by his religion; the mainstay against temptation, especially in matters of the flesh. How many times had the priest, hidden behind his confessional curtain, whispered the need for self-control? But he had never been able to determine how one was supposed to prohibit impure thoughts. Didn’t they just spring into one’s mind unbidden often without any kind of provocation? For example, a sexy magazine cover, a cinema poster or a glimpse of a pretty face—however accidental—immediately prompted images and ideas qualifying as sinful. And could such innocent preoccupations actually offend God? It wasn’t like masturbation, that was a conscious act, in which one deliberately dwelt on salacious images—but he didn’t do much of that recently any more.

The notion of self-control made him think about his recent sexual relationship with his wife. Since she had fallen pregnant there had been little contact of that sort. Indeed there had been little enough since the birth of their last child. It was almost as though the act of love-making was now somehow degrading in her eyes and even the intimate asides they had once shared were now a thing of the past. Now, Rita regarded them as rude and unnecessary.

He found himself wandering silently along the upstairs landing, peeking in at his children. Lorna was fast developing and even at six years of age, she was a sexy little madam, always flaunting herself when she came out of the bath. He found himself excited at the memory. It would not be long before they would have to make her bathe separately from her brothers. The thought disturbed him. He projected the idea of Lorna’s sexuality into her future—her teens—then the trouble would start. Spotty youths trying to get their hands on his lovely daughter; back-street scenarios; visions of her in the back seat of old cars ; disgusting fumbling with her as a curious—God forbid, even a willing participant. The images were repugnant.

CHAPTER TWO

The man calling himself Terry came back to see him again the following week and as before, he called on Friday night. Old Mrs. O’Callaghan had just paid for leg of lamb when the man arrived. He held the door for the old woman and she muttered something about good manners and the English as she left.

Are you English then? Geraint asked.

Does it matter?

Huh y ‘must be. Only an Englishman would ask that.

Terry pulled a face, Well do you have anything for me? he asked.

They’re all talking about the cease-fire—some of them are furious about it. One or two are even saying they might form a splinter group and carry on with the campaign.

Terry paled, Are you sure about that? he asked.

I’m only telling you what I heard.

You’d better be sure Donnelly. If I take this back and it proves to be gossip… He drew a finger across his throat making his meaning explicit.

It’s what I heard, Geraint said defensively, but you can’t blame me if it’s wrong.

This seemed to satisfy Terry and he slipped another twenty pounds across the counter to Geraint’s palm.

See, The Englishman said, we told you it would be easy money, didn’t we. Mind it’s just my luck that they have a cease-fire when I get to the Northern Ireland desk.

His statement confirmed Geraint’s suspicion that his employers were in fact the British Secret Service—probably MI6 and his betrayal felt all the worse.

Tell you what Donnelly, Terry said staring into the window display, those lamb chops look good, how about giving me a couple of pound for my supper?

Geraint couldn’t resist, Fuck off back to England and buy your supper, he said bitterly, I may have to deal with you but I don’t have to serve you favours in my shop.

He was home earlier that night, time enough to spend with the kids before they went to bed. Rita had a good fire going in the kitchen and he sat before it with Lorna on his knee, Patrick stood next to him and little Peter was in his pram. The older two were full of children’s talk—the story their mother had read to them, the drawing Lorna had brought home from her nursery school and the dog that had barked at them on their way home. Rita watched them, smiling as she put her husband’s dinner on the table. It was good to see Geraint enjoying the company of his children and they quite obviously adored him.

There you are Geraint, steak and onions—just as you like it. She said. Come on you two; let your Da have his dinner. Anyway it’s bed-time.

A little while later they lined up to kiss their father goodnight, a ritual they observed whenever it was bedtime—whenever he was home. Lorna clung to him a second longer than the rest, insisting on long sloppy kisses.

Later on that evening Molly came in from next door to baby-sit whilst Rita and Geraint went to St. Joseph’s church to make their weekly confession. There were two priests on duty that night, so for a change the benches were not crowded with penitents. Consequently it took only a few minutes before Geraint was kneeling in the darkened cubicle.

Bless me Father for I have sinned… . He said quietly, It is one week since my last confession and I accuse myself of…

The priest eventually gave him absolution and asked him to say three decades of the rosary as his penance.

He left the confessional and knelt next to Rita his head bowed. Whilst he had been confessing his sins, the nearby pews had filled and one or two people stared at him when he reappeared.

Where have you been? Rita whispered from behind her hands.

He turned and frowned giving her a questioning look.

It’s just that you’ve been in there for twenty minutes. She explained, I thought you must have done a murder.

He smiled weakly knowing that he would be damned by the other penitents in the nearby pews even if he was forgiven by God.

*     *     *.

Some months later a representative of the local IRA visited Geraint at his home. He was to deliver the first of several warnings concerning Geraint’s association with MI6. Jerome Casey was the commander of a wing of the Republican Army and he called at the house late one evening. He was welcomed and offered a drink and whilst he accepted the single malt whisky, he chose not to accept the offer of a seat in the parlour. Instead he stood by the bay window, glass in hand and told his host that he had heard Geraint was leaking information to the British. A small man with a thin frame, Casey was nevertheless a charismatic presence. His voice was soft with a Cork accent, but no amount of softness could disguise the menace in his warning.

Should y ‘choose t ‘ignore us Mister Donnelly—I can’t speak for the consequences. He said, If y ‘see what I mean.

Initially Geraint assumed an angry posture and declared his fealty in a loud voice, declaring that his family had already given martyrs to the Cause. Casey listened to him in silence but when the tirade finished, he drained his glass and left without further comment. The warning had been delivered. It was to be repeated on four more occasions and successively, the consequences were made clearer each time. On one of these occasions a slightly more sympathetic Casey explained that, if had not been for Geraint’s family history, he might have been punished already.

You’re right in thinking y ‘belong to a good family Geraint Donnelly—and y ‘have a wonderful gang of kids y ‘self, so don’t throw it all away for the sake of a few English pounds he paused and then added quietly, We’ll kill you f ‘sure if we have to.

It was rumoured in the pubs nearby that Geraint survived the warnings simply because he was not privy to any information worth protecting. All that he could offer the English agents was unsubstantiated gossip, guesswork derived from bar-room theorists. And generally these were people, too full of Guinness and their own importance ever to be trusted by the hierarchy of the IRA with anything of any real value. However, he could—and did—describe the names and status of the Republicans responsible for organising the local group. This was information that was not new to Whitehall but, in their eyes, signified his willingness—it also justified the payments of twenty pounds per week to the butcher. Not surprisingly, Geraint was excluded from any Republican meetings at which important decisions were made, leaving him to glean only snippets from conversations in bar-rooms. It was nevertheless a situation that promised tragic consequences.

Geraint came to regard his isolation as a compromise worth making. On the one hand he knew full well that he could not pass on any information worth having and on the other, he benefited financially to such an extent that moving his family to England became a real possibility. He discerned also that the threats made against him were based on unsubstantiated evidence and as such, were made probably more as an example to the community, than to chastise him. This situation persisted until 1967.

The demonstration inspired that year by the IRA and due to take place in Londonderry on October 8th was not kept secret. The unrest that provoked the march was caused by the sectarian bias in housing and employment that was seen to discriminate against the Catholic community. However, it was on account of the two days of rioting that preceded the march, that prompted the Home Affairs Minister William Craig to impose a ban—or so the Authorities argued. Over one hundred Catholics demonstrators were injured when the Police brought the march to a halt and the violence was widespread. A number of the organisers were arrested and the speed and efficiency of the arrests caused the commanders of the Republican side to suspect that the Police had inside information. Geraint became the prime suspect and, after examining the evidence of his previous warnings, and listening to opinions about his moral standing a decision to eliminate him was taken that night. Casey announced that when a suitable opportunity presented itself Mr. Donnelly should pay the ultimate price for his apparent treachery.

CHAPTER THREE

November 1967

News: Riot police broke up a demonstration by 800 Catholics and sympathizers last night after two days of bloody street battles in Londonderry. Some 100 demonstrators and several police constables were taken to hospital. The Catholics, their student supporters and trade unionists were protesting against sectarian discrimination in housing and employment.

Diary: December 1967

Dad and Mam still want us to go to England. They talk about it all the time and it makes me cry. The way they go on about it will spoil Christmas for sure. I hope something happens and they have to wait till I’m a bit older, then I can stay here where I belong—with all my friends.

*     *     *

It was towards the end of