The Victim's Face

By Kenneth R. Dodds

December 1956. The IRA begins its Border Campaign in Northern Ireland. It trains raw recruits with veterans like Dan Keohane and explosives expert Francie Shaw. A sleeper inside the Northern Security Services provides intelligence, and agents abroad buy heavy weapons to tip the balance. Can the IRA be held back?

Rory Vance, a young Donegal man in the Fermanagh RUC, finds his relationship with ine, from across the border, severely tested by the conflict. Can it survive?

The victims were not only soldiers and policemen.

This novel closely follows the main facts of a neglected period of Irish Border history.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Nov 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781514464274

Kenneth R. Dodds

Kenneth Dodds gained a degree in history at Leicester University and did research at Durham University. He taught history for twenty-nine years in six English and Scottish schools. His first book was a history of British influence in Central America. A member of the Donegal History Society, he has written articles for its annual journal. Visiting North West Ireland for the last eight years provided great pleasure and the background for two historical novels. This is his third. He lives in North Yorkshire but visits Spain and Mexico regularly to refresh his Spanish, which he used to teach to adults.

Book preview

The Victim’s Face

Kenneth R. Dodds

Copyright © 2015 by Kenneth R. Dodds.

ISBN:      Softcover   978-1-5144-6428-1

               eBook        978-1-5144-6427-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 11/05/2015

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Contents

1 May you always have walls for your winds

2 May all your grey clouds be small ones

3 May we live in peace without weeping

4 May your colleagues be as reliable for you as you are for them

5 May your love give at least as much as it receives

6 May you have warm words on a cold evening

7 May the crow never pick your haystack

8 May the wind always be at your back

9 May the leaves on your cabbage always be free from worms

10 May we have the wisdom and honesty to know and do what is right

11 May the hand of a friend always be near you

12 May your obituary be written in weasel’s piss

13 May you leave without returning

14 May God give you a rainbow after every storm

15 May you have love that never ends

16 May the Irish hills caress you

17 May the silver moon make you wiser yet

18 May your luck be rising

19 May there always be work for your hands to do

20 May your spuds be like rosary-beads on the stalk

21 May the roof over your head be always strong

22 May your travels be filled with awe and enlightenment

23 May you be proud enough to stand up for yourself

24 May God guide you safely to the windswept pier on the lough

25 May Irish lakes and rivers bless you

26 May the protection of ancestors be yours

27 May your neighbours respect you

28 May trouble always be a stranger to you

29 May you find the bees but miss the honey

30 May embers from the open hearth warm your hands

31 May you be a load for four before the year is out

32 May the light fade from your eyes, so you never see what you love

33 May God not weaken your hand

34 And loved the sorrows of your changing face

Author’s Note

This book is the third in the Donegal and Fermanagh Series

The others are –

The Stranded Tribe (2012) (1895-1923)

The Demons of Discord (2014) (1923-1943)

The Victim’s Face (2015) is set in the period 1947-1957

"Nightmare leaves fatigue:

We envy men of action

Who sleep and wake, murder and intrigue

Without being doubtful, without being haunted.

And I envy the intransigence of my own

Countrymen who shoot to kill and never

See the victim’s face become their own

Or find his motive sabotage their motives."

(Louis MacNeice ‘Autumn Journal’ XVI, 1939)

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1

May you always have walls for your winds

I t seemed hard and depressing that there needed to be an extension of food and fuel rationing in a country which had remained officially neutral during the world war. Then the abysmally wet summer of 1946 flattened the important harvest of that year into the boggy ground and increased the general feeling of almost unrelieved gloom.

On the other hand, it was a wonderful thing to see office workers from many Irish cities and towns pouring out into the benighted countryside and gamely, though inexpertly, trying to cut the remaining corn with scythes. They needed to become the often despised country dwellers (culchies) for a wee while if they wanted to eat next year.

Things were looking up as far as the weather was concerned at the beginning of 1947. All but two days of the first fortnight in January were calm and mild but the Irish winter weather is usually less than harsh. The temperature often hovers a few degrees above freezing except at night in sheltered areas and snow is a relatively small risk in many parts of the blessed island. What people didn’t know, was that changes were afoot hundreds of miles away. Meteorological manoeuvrings were about to create widespread mayhem in the British Isles.

Around the 15th January 1947, six hundred miles west of Ireland, where huge, green Atlantic waves can practically capsize a great ocean liner, as they nearly did to the Queen Elizabeth sailing as a troopship in winter 1946, a deep depression hurried up from the south west. Its powerful, moisture-filled clouds were pushed along by strong winds. In the opposite direction, two thousand miles away from Ireland to north east, a mighty anticyclone with its intensely cold high pressure area, formed over Russia and Scandinavia. The two gigantic beasts drove towards each other on a collision course. By the 19th January the northern high pressure area had slowed. Then the two systems clashed in their aerial battleground. The Russian system would not give way and became a block to the advance of the other. Intensely cold winds spread over the British Isles. Cold air is dense and heavy and, by the 1st February, the warmer and lighter warm moist air of the anticyclone had to rise over this colder air to the point where it simply could not hold its moisture. By six on Saturday evening the ground temperature was just about freezing and moisture from the clouds came down, not as rain but as snow, accompanied by a strong wind. Two hours later, the wind from the east had accelerated to 60 mph and off the coasts of Ireland the seas rose to mountainous proportions.

That was the beginning. The roiling, moiling depression edged over Ireland and around 1.30 a.m. on Sunday the blizzards began.

Jamie Vance, a fifty one year old senior Donegal railway official, had drifted into sleep and dreaming after settling down in bed with his wife and two hot water bottles at ten in the evening. After a day of walking to and from Raphoe for their shopping and then washing, drying and ironing clothes for the week to come, they were both sufficiently tired to nod off within twenty minutes. Jamie only managed to read a page and a half of his current bedtime book, The Loughsiders, to the accompaniment of the wind rattling the old windows at their home, Burn Park. What woke him up just after two in the morning, although Caitlin remained asleep, was the unnaturally stark silence outside. Even inside the house there was barely a noise except for the insistent tick-tocking of their wind-up alarm clock. The earlier strong wind rattling the windows had intruded into Jamie’s short dream in which he was sailing his small boat among the small islands near Enniskillen on Lough Erne. A noisy storm was brewing in the distance and then, all of a sudden, it stopped. It made no sense in his dream and it irritated him sufficiently to wake up to try and figure it out. When he sat up in bed, Caitlin was snoring softly and the annoying alarm clock was still labouring away but otherwise it was deathly quiet. He carefully got out of bed without disturbing the eiderdown and Caitlin and padded across to the window. Peering between the curtains he could see that a light covering of snow had come down on the front lawn and the path that led to the road.

Although there was little moonlight, he could see that the trees were not bending in any wind and the rest of the house was eerily quiet. A little puzzled, he returned to bed and tried to get back to sleep. He failed.

About 2.30 in the morning, without any warning, there was the shrill scream of a banshee wind which not only rattled the bare branches of the big trees alongside the path but snapped one or two of them as well. They both sat up in bed, startled. Caitlin lit a lamp while Jamie put on his dressing gown and opened the curtains. Large flakes of snow whirled down in huge masses and in a few minutes the wind seemed to have regained its full strength and blew hard against the windows. The snow changed from falling vertically to being propelled almost horizontally against the walls so hard that it seemed as if it was being plastered. After making and drinking a cup of tea, they retired once again to bed. Jamie kissed his wife on the forehead.

No chapel for you later and I’ll not be at the meeting house today either, eh? Not with that weather outside. It will close every road from here in every direction.

Caitlin already had her eyes shut again but wasn’t quite asleep.

Then I’ll go twice next week and make confession if the weather decides to behave and you can give your personal apologies directly to the Man above if you think you know his telephone number.

He loved her gentle sarcasm and gave her another tender kiss on the forehead before diving under his part of the eiderdown.

Catholic and Protestant lay side by side in harmony as the blizzard outside did its best to change the whole world into a gently undulating thick coverlet of pure whiteness.

*     *     *

For three hours on Sunday morning Jamie laboured under the bright light of the signalling lamp he acquired many years previously from the Great Northern Railway (Ireland). The day remained dark and light snow still fell as he worked. Nevertheless, he managed to clear a foot wide path from the house to the main road. The snow piled high where the boundary wall had sheltered the path but on the garden drifting snow lay much deeper. He had no doubt it would be deeper still in very exposed parts of the area and it would pose a problem for getting to work the next day.

When Jamie decided to come indoors, puffing and wheezing a little as he took off his hat, coat, gloves and boots, he knew Caitlin would have something to say.

You’ve been outside a long time. You should take it easy now. You know what somebody said once about men of your age? ‘Fifty is the youth of old age’.

She sniggered a little but let him reply, sitting down to rub dry his damp feet with an old towel by the scullery. He didn’t look up at first as he answered back.

"Well, one, it was Victor Hugo who is supposed to have said or written it and he lived into his eighties. I think it applied to men and women. Two, it is a real hash one today. The snow is hard to shift after the chill last night and the wind is huffling all the time. One second it is quiet and then comes a sudden, powerful gale for a while and then it stops again. And three, I would remind you, mo mhnuirnín, that you are older than I am although you do wear your age quite well!"

"‘Quite well’? Indeed! Do you see a better offer on the horizon, macushla?

Alright! Enough! I could sink an urn of tea now so let’s call it quits.

That was the end of the endearments but his smile brought about a temporary truce.

Although he was 51, Jamie’s physique, bearing and attitude led many to think him ten years younger than he was. He wasn’t at all fat although he had always been quite slender. Even now, whilst the slight thickening of his neck and his thinning light brown hair suggested a man in his late forties, his hollow cheeks and lack of a pronounced belly led many people to assume him to be rather younger than he was. His brother, William, who had been killed on the Somme in 1916, had been a great sports enthusiast but not Jamie. What kept Jamie in reasonable shape was the fact that he walked or cycled frequently and was careful with the size of his meals. Caitlin, on the other hand, was a few years older and had always been on the buxom and wide-hipped side. So much so, she had started some months ago to be careful with the making and eating of pastries and cakes. It wasn’t easy, for baking and making confectionery had been her profession years ago. Jamie assumed she had been successful because he’d noticed that she had lost some weight. However, he had to agreed with the men in the Raphoe Diamond that she was a very attractive woman with her generous proportions. When Jamie lightly mentioned what he’d overheard the Raphoe men saying about her, her response was the brusque Farmers, of course! What do you expect? They probably say exactly the same thing about their cattle!

Jamie and Caitlin had some severe and lengthy ‘downs’ in their marriage in the past. They got through that several years ago and had enjoyed a good span of time together. Their son, Rory, had left home to live and work in Stranorlar with the same railway company as his father. He had been one of the most important factors in keeping them together during the most difficult times. On the other hand, his absence recently gave them more time to concentrate on each other.

But I don’t think we will be able to see Rory today. He’ll not be able to come through with the roads closed mused Caitlin while Jamie was finishing off his cup of tea. And how will you get to work tomorrow or will you stay at home and not bother?

Jamie shook his head determinedly.

I’m still a senior member of the management so it will be expected that I shall make a serious effort to get in to the offices at Stranorlar.

Well, you’re not Assistant Director anymore, so not quite so senior as before, perhaps.

And immediately, Caitlin regretted what see had said. She knew she had gone onto very thin ice and prepared to soften and make an apology but Jamie forestalled her.

It’s alright. I know what you mean. But I am still going to make the effort. There are more people to consider than just the manager himself. When I was out shovelling, Tommy Greene came by on the main road. He was riding a horse belonging to Patsy Boyle who runs a farm on the other side of the town. Tomorrow, they’ll be trying to get to where there will be transport into Stranorlar and Ballybofey. If I can push my cycle into Raphoe, the three of us will try to get into Convoy if it hasn’t snowed too much during the night.

Caitlin looked both worried and sceptical at the same time. He caught her hand to give her a little reassurance.

I know what you’ll be thinking. I might need the cycle to get around cleared parts of the road, especially for getting back. Of course, I can always stay with our son in Ballybofey.

Caitlin gave him a warning look which he knew meant ‘Get yourself back home or…’

Jamie just smiled and tried to brighten up the morning a little.

Shall I tell you a joke? It’s old but good.

You won’t get me on to your side just like that you know.

I’ll tell you anyway. You’ll be laughing yourself sick when you hear it.

‘Sick’, will it be now? Come on then. It better be very good.

He saw her eyes flash a quick glance at him and a smile half-appeared on her face.

Very well. He coughed as a prelude to his dramatic start.

A handsome East Donegal Presbyterian called Stanley was in Glencolumbkille in the depths of West Donegal for his holidays. There he met a lovely but, er .. bossy local girl from a well-off family. And she was called Richella. They fell in love and they got married.

Caitlin held up a hand to stop him.

So, it seems that this ‘story’ is really about you and me except that it might be stretching it a wee bit to call you ‘handsome’ and to call my family ‘well-off’ when they hadn’t two pennies to rub together.

Jamie shrugged his shoulders.

Well I did call her ‘lovely’, eh? And your family are not from Glencolumbkille.

Oh, alright then. Go on.

"The first Sunday after the wedding, Richella dragged him out of bed and they went off to their first Mass together. But the Proddie lad had no clue at all about the rituals involved in the Catholic Mass. Richella had to constantly whisper instructions to him.

‘Now stand up Stanley! Now sit down! This is where we kneel! Now stand up again! And kneel … !’"

Caitlin shook her head and Jamie stopped and waited patiently for her comment.

You’re still saying I’m bossy? And fancy you using a word like ‘Proddie’! Not like you at all.

Jamie scowled Can I just finish the joke?

Caitlin shrugged and folded her arms.

As I was saying, his new wife was telling her husband, in detail, what exactly he had to do, so he didn’t look an eejit in front of all the worshippers, OK?

So.. sweating heavily from all this physical effort, Stanley took out his handkerchief and mopped the sweat off his forehead and the rest of his face. Then he opened up and laid out the hankie on his lap to dry. Richella noticed the hankie on his lap and leaned over to him and whispered,

‘Is it that your fly is open, Stanley?’

‘No’ he said nervously as he looked around at laps of the other men in the congregation. ‘Should it be?’

Caitlin sniggered briefly and then set her face look mock-serious.

That was terrible and probably very unjust to women generally and Catholic women in particular.

Jamie thought he might be being told off. It wasn’t easy to tell sometimes.

Are you serious?

Yes. Now go and fetch some more turf in for the kitchen fire!

They both laughed and kissed, almost like young lovers.

*     *     *

Early Monday morning Jamie was stamping his feet at the bus stop in Raphoe. His old green Raleigh bicycle lay up against a closed shop door, its wheel and chain guard rusting as every minute passed. There had been a slight thaw but in the North of Ireland there was still ice on the ground in many places and it kept on snowing. The one blessing was that the wind had dropped during the night although it seemed reluctant to cease altogether. By the empty bus stop, large, languid snowflakes with ragged edges floated down to kiss the road. Relentlessly they lay, joined together and refused to melt so that, within seconds, the oily iridescence on the macadam simply vanished.

He had managed to half ride and then drag his bike along the narrowest of paths covered by patches of snow, ice and slush. Tommy Greene had made the path yesterday from his cottage on the south side of Raphoe down towards his house. It was just over a mile but it must have tested severely the stamina of his borrowed horse and his own physical strength with the shovel he had. Now he was waiting for Tommy and his farmer friend to help him get through to Convoy, just over three miles down the road to the west. Then it would be a matter of begging for a lift from there into Stranorlar, six more miles. Normally, he could cycle into work in an hour and a quarter if the weather was good. If he needed, he could pick up the train in Raphoe or even a ‘bus if the weather was poor. Fuel rationing and shortages had made it difficult and that was true for the farmers too. It would be interesting to see what Patsy Boyle came up with.

It turned out to be very interesting.

Patsy and Tommy rolled up after fifteen minutes, looking for all the world as if they were leading a carnival procession. At the front were two large Clydesdales. They were black and white, heavy and powerful animals with long hairy manes, legs and tails. Covered in stitched flour sacks to give them some protection from the snow, they were harnessed one behind the other. Behind them they pulled a wood and iron arrow-shaped box to push snow to the sides of the road. Walking inside the snow-clearing box was Patsy, with the reins in one hand and an omelette bap in the other.

"I’ve not been using my da’s invention for years but Brian and Maeve seem to be enjoyin’ their day out so far. We’ll get ye to Convoy in about an hour and quarter or so. Take yer bike and join Tommy ahint me."

The makeshift snow-plough was dragged majestically forward by the two huge Clydesdales. The way they cleared was only ten feet broad but it would be enough to allow a motor vehicle to get through to Convoy if any fortunate person had the petrol to use one. The point of the exercise was to clear a way for workers to drive, or, more likely, walk to work at the woollen mill there where Patsy would collect his due cash reward. Jamie and Tommy might be able to catch one of the mill’s trucks which would run down into Stranorlar to pick up more workers. The manager of the woollen mill would make sure that road was clear, using his company’s resources plus a little help from the County Council. Where the mill got its petrol from was a mystery but, as Tommy confided knowingly to Jamie,

Sure, the Garda will not object to wherever the mill manager gets his fuel. They get the use of his lorries for moving their men around when they themselves are short of either fuel or vehicles.

At the top of the slope leading down into Convoy, Patsy Boyle explained that his horses needed a rest and that he would walk them into his cousin’s nearby farm at Fingart. They would return to Raphoe in due course, widening the first track they had made. Jamie dutifully passed over a couple of Irish pounds from himself and Tommy to show their gratitude. As Patsy turned off his steaming Clydesdales to the left, the two railway men examined the road down into Convoy. It had been cleared the previous evening but there was a light covering of snow on it. Nevertheless, they elected to try and ride their bicycles slowly in to the small town and find the mill truck stop,

Jamie liked Tommy Greene. His family were mainly farming stock but he had joined the Donegal Railway when times became difficult for his family in the 1930s and he had ended up as a repairman in the locomotive sheds at Stranorlar. Tommy was straight, open and honest. Jamie always appreciated his views about work and almost anything else he asked him about. On the other hand, Tommy admired Jamie for his friendliness, affability and the way he treated him and others as equals, even though he had been an Assistant Manager and was still a member of the senior staff. Jamie, although Presbyterian, was not a teetotaller and once a week he went for a drink in one of the bars in Raphoe’s Diamond where he often met and talked with Tommy, a no-nonsense Catholic.

As they descended the hill slowly, side by side, they did their best to avoid patches of ice, obviously slippery areas and drifting pockets of snow on the road.

Did you ever think again about my suggestion for Friday night when the weather improves? asked Jamie as he tentatively squeezed his brakes to see how effective they were on the still dangerous road.

Tommy held off replying until he had negotiated a mound of snow in the middle of the road.

Ah, yes now. Darts you said, did you? And in the back room? I asked around the lads after Mass and I’ve enough names for a team of six. What about yourself?

I had enough names for a team and two reserves. Looks like it could work. If we can make it work it would be very welcome. What do we call the teams? Any thoughts?

My lads asked who our opposition would be and I just said ‘Some friends of Mr Vance. They were happy with that. Not one of them asked if it was to be an inter-church competition. We don’t talk about other churches and especially the Protestant ones so I thought we could choose something neutral.

"That’s fine. I did tell my men that we would be playing a team drawn from the local Catholic Church. No questions were asked. They suggested we call ourselves the Railwaymen as just over half of them work for the County Donegal Railways in one way or another."

"In that case I’ll go with the idea of my brother who wants to play with us and call ourselves the Greenemen. Would that be alright with you?"

Jamie laughed. I note the patriotic undertone as well as the family reference but I cannot see a problem with that.

It was Tommy’s turn to laugh. Funnily enough we don’t talk much about politics these days either so that’s not a concern. But they are nearly all farm workers so ‘green’ is not such a bad name!

Jamie was about to make a joke about the usefulness of setting up a church darts competition to impress their respective wives and put away any foolish thoughts they mighty have about them meeting on Friday nights to talk to the few women who frequented the one or two bars in the town. However, he changed his mind when they heard the noise of a motor vehicle approaching them up the hill from Convoy. From the distinctive struggling chug of its engine, Tommy recognised it to be a council vehicle. The two cyclists moved over closer to their edge of the road to let the fifteen year-old brown Morris-Cowley pick-up truck pass. They veered over into the deeper snow and watched it pass. Neither of them identified the driver who was muffled up in a scarf and cap. However, as the truck came very close to them, they could identify one of the two workmen standing in the back shovelling coarse grit onto their side of the road. Beside a young man scraping grit from the front of the truck to the back was Barney Gallagher who stopped working when he saw them at the side of the road with their cycles. He only gave Jamie what they call a ‘dry nod’ in those parts but grudgingly acknowledged Tommy with a dour Morn’. Jamie nodded back and Tommy conceded his own Mornin’. The truck moved on to the top of the hill, and they set off cycling again, this time on the clearer centre part of the road.

Jamie asked outright, I know that man as a carnaptious Gallagher who lost his job with us when he was involved in suspected thieving in the men’s cabin by the engineering shed at work. That was some years ago and it was Mr Forbes, the manager himself, who sent him on his way. I had to witness his dismissal so he’ll certainly remember me. But you know him too?

Aye, that I do. He gets to Mass about once a month and he’s tried to tap me for a drink and a loan on a few occasions. I gave in once with a loan of five pounds and it took him six weeks to pay it back tho’ he had himself a good job with a haulier at the time. And you’re right about him being a quarrelsome body. He tried to make out he’d paid me half back a couple of weeks previously. He didn’t get away with that, of course. Now, we barely say ‘hello’ on the Sundays he crawls out of his bed.

They both listened to the change in the engine noise, a squeaky braking and then a change of gears at the top of the hill. Tommy looked a little concerned. I think it might be as well to get further on to our side of the road. It sounds as if they’re on their way back.

They both pulled over to the less well-cleared part of the road and changed to single file with Tommy behind Jamie. The truck rolled down the hill at about twenty miles an hour and slowed to half that as it passed them. When it overtook the cycles, it swerved over to the left and forced them both to brake hard. As they tried to keep their machines steady near the drifted snow, Gallagher threw a large shovelful of grit in the air. Jamie instinctively held up a hand to protect his face from the small but fast-moving missiles and was peppered with them around the head. He lost control of his bicycle and he careered over into a large drift and collapsed sideways with his leg trapped under his machine. Gallagher’s shout was laced with glee Got to keep the roads open for the quality, eh Mr Vance? Who’s the skite-the-gutter now?

Tommy helped Jamie to get the cycle frame off his leg and even assisted in getting some of the finer grit out of his eyes with his own handkerchief.

Thanks Tommy. That’s grand now. Your man has a long memory as well as a vicious streak, has he not?

Tommy was upset. He just reminded me again why I barely speak to him. I am sorry he did what he did just now. What he thinks of you I don’t believe has anything to do with you being Protestant. Not many of us give much of a damn about that sort of thing around here in this part of the county nowadays. It’s more about his dismissal all those years back and his view of you and Forbes as being part of a privileged class.

Class difference? muttered Jamie as he finally got the last pieces of grit out of his hair.

It could be called that. And he thinks I’m a hanger-on of that class because I talk and drink with you. There’s a word for think….

Aye. There are quite a few. ‘Lickspittle’ is one.

Tommy was mildly amused. "That must be an English word I don’t know. Around here they call him a scut of the lowest kind. Are you right fer goin’ on into Convoy now?"

Jamie tried to put on a cheerful face although he felt foolish and angry after what had happened. Aye, let’s be moving on. This day has to improve soon.

They reached the centre of the small town quite quickly as council gritting and local traffic had seen off much of the snow, at least temporarily. An empty mill lorry turned up fifteen minutes later and boarded a handful of non-mill workers including Jamie and Tommy. Within a short time they arrived at the railway headquarters in Stranorlar where the lorry picked up some mill hands and went into Ballybofey for more.

At the headquarters of the County Donegal Railway Company, a few folk who lived locally were arriving for work in most departments. Outside the locomotive shed Jamie looked at the day’s work Tommy would be doing.

That Class 5 engine you’ve got there.. asked Jamie. It looks its age with the rust and the general state of the paint and bodywork. What are you supposed to be doing with it?

Aye. You’re nothing but right. That is one of the five steamers bought in 1907 and 1908. They’re still running but only just. The foreman said they needed new fireboxes only six years after they were bought, so think what they’re like now! Today, I’ll be on baling it out. The firebox is a mess beyond belief after all that rubbish they called fuel we used during the Emergency. Much of it was just coal dust and worse. The newest steam engines, the big fifty tonners, are the best steamers we have, in my opinion, but they’re thirty five years old this year, for goodness’ sake! We’ve got to the stage of putting iron patches on the patches which were the second set of original patches. Anyway, I had better make a start as I know the Ballybofey lads have a bet on me not being here today. See you after work, Mr Vance.

What Tommy Greene was facing in the loco repair shop was also true of much of the Donegal Railway. It was wearing out rapidly and it had a bad effect on the morale of the workforce. Jamie could see it then in the way two Ballybofey men were sauntering across to the carriage cleaning shed with little evident enthusiasm. Their attitude was becoming more general. The new manager had put some money into refurbishing the passenger stock but the railway was still running carriages built in the period between 1901 and 1907 and it was becoming more and more difficult to update them. Behind him, a handful of platelayers with their ganger were inside their wooden cabin arguing loudly about who had had the most difficult journey into work that morning. It was a bit strange to Jamie when he knew they wouldn’t be able to get out to the wild Barnesmore Gap to replace a couple of worn rails because of the weather. He would have to talk to their ganger soon about alternative but less urgent jobs nearer Stranorlar. In truth, the track was in a poor state in many places after its neglect during the Emergency of 1939-45 but the Manager had insisted in putting repair money into some carriages and a few stations instead.

A depressed Jamie Vance walked into his office and, as he was taking off his boots and coat, he saw a memorandum on his desk. He didn’t have to guess who it was from. The neat, educated handwriting spoke of the Manager’s authorship. He’d received many of them since the present manager replaced old Henry Forbes in 1943. Forbes had been a semi-enlightened despot who had ensured things were done cheaply and well and it had worked, largely because of the force of his charismatic, demanding, inventive and hard-working personality. The new man, formerly an accountant with the railway since 1938, was very different. He was relatively gentle and more accommodating with the workforce and the travelling public but he did not have the same drive as his predecessor. To be fair, he had faced and was still facing big challenges with a declining revenue through lack of fuel for the Company engines and now there was a revival of competition from road transport.

The memo to Jamie was short. The manager wanted at meeting at 10.30am that day. He listed only two items on his agenda, ‘The current weather conditions and its effects on services’ plus ‘Retrenchment Plans for the End of the Present Calendar Year’. That sounded fraught with unpleasant possibilities.

At 10.29 precisely, Jamie was sitting in the Manager’s office on his own. The other Assistant Manager was not present, nor was the Accountant or any of the departmental heads. At 10.30 precisely, the Manager, thin, almost dapper, arrived with a pleasant face and waved Jamie back down into his seat. He congratulated his assistant for managing to arrive at work on time, despite the appalling weather. Jamie shrugged and claimed he’d been given help by his neighbours at Raphoe. He noted that the Manager wasn’t very interested in his little piece of modesty. It would have been different with Mr Forbes but perhaps his present boss had something pressing on his mind. They dealt with contingency operations for the bad weather quite quickly and Jamie was given the task of talking to the departmental heads in the early afternoon if they were available.

While Jamie was wondering about what he would say after lunch, the Manager swiftly changed the subject.

Oh, and before we continue, I just want to ask you about the completion date for the repairs to the Killybegs line. How is it going? The line was closed in September last year and it ought to be in order and reopened by now.

Jamie swallowed a deep, involuntary groan in what he made sound like a nervous cough. In early September of the previous year, a deluge of rain hit the southwest of Donegal and washed out the wall of a culvert through which ran a stream under a thirty foot high railway embankment. It was always going to be a big task to restore the line, just a mile out of the important fishing port of Killybegs. In the end, outside contractors had to be brought in and Jamie had the task of liaising with them for the Railway Company. It had been a nightmare for him to keep their interest in the embankment project when they were mainly concerned with electrification in the Ballyshannon area. He tried to keep calm as he explained it briefly to his manager.

We’ve had a poor winter and the contractors have had a lot of pressure put on them by Dublin. With this bad weather now, it could be mid to late February before they finish the work.

The Manager pushed back his thinning hair from his forehead.

Well now, I’m disappointed to hear that and so will the Board. We’re losing a lot of revenue which we can barely afford to lose. And the cost of two and a half thousand pounds is bad enough. See if you can meet the foreman of the project and get him to hurry it along as best as he can.

Did you not think I’ve been doing that since the project start last year? thought Jamie, furiously twisting his pencil around between thumb and forefinger. My nephew, Bart, uses the line for his fish business. I do know how important it is!

But his superior had continued to move further. The next item on the agenda started with an appraisal of the Company’s financial status by the Manager. Passenger fares were down, income from goods movement were disappointing and little could be expected from further sales of the old stock of wagons, locomotives and carriages. Then the Board was anxious to hear a plan from the management to maintain solvency etc. etc. Jamie made notes and nodded to show he understood the situation. The Manager leaned forward over his old desk and propped his chin with a steady, pale hand. Jamie knew this meant he was going to say something really important. He already knew the most of the broad picture just painted. This was his I’m going to tell you something in confidence now approach.

What I’ve outlined so far will not save the company. We need to be more drastic. After careful and lengthy consideration, I have decided to recommend to the Board, the closure of the Glenties line, to passenger traffic in the first instance and then to goods traffic later on.

Have you now? thought Jamie. But you didn’t consult me until you made a final decision. Part of my job is to be a link with our travelling public but you never asked me to go up the twenty mile Glenties line into the heart of West Donegal and talk to anyone - staff at the stations, the travelling public and the farmers and miners who use the line. I wonder what you really want from me, if anything, apart from approval or perhaps praise for thinking it up all by yourself?

Jamie expected to be asked to make a comment on the proposal but his Manager had other ideas.

I’m looking at the termination of passenger services in December of this year. Income has been very low. Livestock carriage might eventually revive. We will see. I would like you to speak to no one about this for the moment. However, I wish to have an appraisal of what can be done to retain a few of the existing staff at other stations and I mean a handful of the best and most useful workers. Of course, I need up to date information on the remainder who will have to have their employment terminated. Any information concerning trade union connections of these ‘candidates’ would be helpful.

I thought you would think that, was Jamie’s mental verdict. This man always likes to keep in with the unions if he possibly can. I can see where this is going. And I’m going to be his foot soldier, messenger, spy and chief executioner!

Just one more thing smiled the Manager, easing himself back into his chair. There will probably have to be some administrative staff cuts at a later stage. The Board and the union will expect fairness.

Does that mean my job will be at risk? blurted out Jamie with more concern than he really wished to convey.

Not just yours but your counterpart’s as well. I’ll be speaking to Dennis later. I wanted to talk to you first today as you are his senior by quite a few years. Nobody has an absolute right to a permanent job nowadays, eh?

The Manager tried to smile but he looked more as if he had a sudden gastric pain.

Nobody except you, Mr Manager, crossed Jamie’s mind as a fitting response but he decided that he would heed his father’s advice many years ago about curbing his tongue when angered.

For the time being, that is.

When he returned to his room he threw the files containing his notes on to his desk. He walked over to the narrow window and blew on his hands in the cold room. Outside, the clouds were still dark and heavy. Snow was falling vertically because of the lack of even a breeze. In places beside the paths cleared by the early arrivals the mounds of dirty snow were being whitened by the new fall and were up to two feet. The secretary shared by the administrative staff came in with his morning cup of tea. Mrs Watt (no first names under this regime) asked how the weather looked as she poured his tea.

It could be worse, I suppose muttered Jamie as he came back to his desk.

Well, don’t build your hopes up, Mr Vance she lectured. "My husband is a farmer as you know and he says tomorrow should be a fairly good day. Yet he also says that all the long-term forecasts, either from the radio, or from the farmers who rely on Scotty Quinn’s Almanac in Armagh, say there is some terrible wind and snow to come this month and next. Of course, it could be complete nonsense, could it not?"

She was trying to be affable and Jamie was not normally one to dampen her sociability. On the other hand, he had had enough for the day.

It might be completely true Mrs Watt. I’m no forecaster but I think this is just the start of it all. Thanks for the tea…

2

May all your grey clouds be small ones

H e slowed the dinghy by letting out the sails so that they flapped and snapped in the thirteen knot moderate breeze. That allowed them to drift slowly nearer the buoy which was going to act as the turn-marker of the race on Lower Lough Erne. Caitlin, in her thickest woollen trousers, yellow lifejacket and ear-muffed hat, took firm charge of the tiller so that her quick movement of it one way and then the other, slowed down the boat further. This allowed Jamie to crawl on to the small foredeck of Dunraven with a mooring-line which he intended to attach to the ring on the buoy. This would act as a bow line to keep them on station as the two competing Fairy boats beat their way towards them and turned for the second leg of their race. Their presence would highlight where they needed to manoeuvre carefully as they approached the critical part of their contest. To do the job properly, Jamie needed to take the line forward, then step up and try to get as close to the top of the buoy as he could. He would have to push the end of the line through the ring twice and make it fast. The catch was that he had to do a balancing act on the seawater-wet, curved slope of his boat. Although he was wearing his lifejacket, it was late spring 1947, and the waters of the Lough Erne were still less than forty Fahrenheit and thus not much better than freezing. They would treat his less than youthful body severely if he fell in.

Caitlin was concerned too.

That foredeck is slippery, mind you! Can I come up and hold your belt from behind to stop you sliding off?

He was still fit enough to perform the task. He had little of the fat that might be expected around the belly of a quite well-off man in his sedentary job. But that wasn’t the only reason he declined his wife’s offer. He manufactured an excuse which had a little sense in it,

Look, you need to stay at the tiller and jiggle it to and fro so we can keep station while I’m fitting on the line. I’ll manage and you’re not to fret.

What was going through his head was the fact that she was not the physically strong woman she used to be. Although Caitlin was a few years older than him, until recently she could carry huge piles of clothes, bedding and even heavier things in the garden when he was at work. However, since after the New Year, she had groaned and puffed under the same loads which she had always carried with ease. They both had laughed a little at it and put it down to ‘the passing of the years’. The last thing he wanted now was for them both to end up in the grey, icy waters of the lough and a considerable away from the shore which was quite deserted. The nearest point of land to the south of them was the low-lying Gravel Ridge Island, populated only by the noisy incoming terns and a narrow spread of grass. He did eventually manage to tie on the painter to the buoy-ring but it was at the cost of wet trousers, a slightly bloody knee which caught on a sharp cleat on the edge of the boat and two broken fingernails.

They had time, when he climbed back down, for a flask of tea before the racing boats came into sight. Caitlin tried to engage Jamie in a matter-of- fact conversation about the race between the two Fairy dinghies. They were the Electric Blue of Mr Gillan and his son Murray and the Isabella Vance of their son Rory and his cousin Bart, who had built and named the boat in memory of his late mother. Jamie reminded his wife that, although Bart operated fishing boats and built craft at the Killybegs yard, Douglas Gillan was rich enough to be able to use the newer, lighter and therefore faster light marine plywood on his craft.

So it’s modern materials against old-fashioned skills and don’t forget that the Gillans are recent newcomers to dinghy racing on Lough Erne was how he summed it up.

Caitlin wasn’t that interested in the outcome of the wagerless contest and shuffled her bottom a little closer to her husband, pulling her hat more firmly over her ears against the rising wind.

Why not tell me why we are really here? It’s not just to socialise and play sailor boys, is it? There’s more to it, is there not?

Jamie didn’t even have to look directly at her to know that she would have an earnest, searching look on her face.

You’re not for foolin’ are you? Just before we came aboard Rory told me that we’ve been invited for evening meal tonight at the Strongbow Hotel near Kesh. It’s to be their treat.

Caitlin shook her head. Rory couldn’t tell the both of us, eh? Went to his da ‘cos he was scared of his ma! That’s just a wee bit disappointing. I had to be strict wi’ him when he was just with me down at Carrick all those years and only the two of us there but I did not realise he’d become afeared of me.

Not at all. He just sees me as a soft touch and a way to put things to you that might make it easier for him.

Are you saying he’s a coward then?

Caitlin instantly regretted what she had just said and softened immediately. She took his hand and looked at his broken, grimy nails.

No. I’m not blaming you really. I just want to know what it all means. I know he’s keen on their Margaret but surely they’ve not been going strong that long to be thinking o’ getting together?

When Jamie didn’t answer but squeezed her hand in his, Caitlin moaned in sheer disbelief and turned to him.

Oh, for love of God, they’re lookin’ us over as possible in-laws! How did I lose track of it all and not see this coming?

Well, we’ve talked about this before in a roundabout way. Rory has been lodging at Mrs Beale’s down at Ballybofey for quite a few years now. And it’s not been easy for him to make friends there. You know what I mean, with his job in the railway office and the fact that he goes to the Presbyterian Church in Stranorlar. We didn’t mind it at all that he should pick up with his cousin Bart and spend time at the weekends with him here on Lough Erne. They both enjoy the sailing.

And then they went to where the yachtsmen meet sometimes down at Carrickreagh Bay and came across the Gillans, including the irresistible Margaret?

Not quite. He first met Murray Gillan when he had a problem with his da’s boat and both he and Bart lent him a hand to solve it. Then Murray’s da came on board and they got to know each other. News got back to the Gillan household in Enniskillen and, lo and behold, both Margaret and her ma came to the club to see what the new boys were like.

Caitlin emptied the dregs of her tea overboard and snorted.

Sounds like there’s a regular cattle fair at Carrickreagh!

Well, church dances are similar markets for romance, aren’t they? Or at least they used to be. For me, Margaret seems a nice girl…. up to a point.

Tell me more. I’ve only seen her for a few minutes at a time when Rory brings her to the house at Raphoe and that hasn’t been very often.

You’ve seen her. Thin, good looking, well-spoken. Sounds as if she might have a brain.

Does she do anything normal, like work? Or does she just help her da spend his money?

She looks after the family farm. Well, to be truthful, she seems to do some administrative work there. In any case, Douglas Gillan isn’t really a farmer. He’s more of a landowner.

Caitlin stiffened. You said he was a civil servant of some sort.

"That was the impression I