Wednesday's Bananas

By Capt. Tim

1974 was by no stretch of the imagination, the most tranquil year of Ireland’s history and 46 year old Robbie McDolan would be wise to realise how lucky he was to be employed aboard the German registered freighter under the command of Captain Hank on their way south across the warming Atlantic on their way to the Republic of Colombia to load a full cargo of some 300,000 boxes of bananas, half of which were to be destined for the Republic of Ireland. Captain Hank expected this to be a quiet voyage, ending in him going on leave for a well-earned rest, once back in Europe. But would the Columbian drug barons of Medellin have other ideas?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035805907

Capt. Tim

Capt. Tim has since his early teens been closely involved with the sea and was in command of a merchant ship for some thirty-five years. Having been at sea for so long, upon his retirement, he had of course many tales to tell and maybe none more extraordinary than what has now become known as Wednesday’s Bananas. After some time ashore, living in the Channel Islands, he was eventually persuaded to put pen to paper, but as the reader will shortly find, found it necessary not only to disguise the characters but also the events and some named places. That being said, whilst the tale is most definitely woven around the truth, Capt. Tim makes no excuse as to how the final outcome unravels.

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About the Author

Capt. Tim has since his early teens been closely involved with the sea and was in command of a merchant ship for some thirty-five years.

Having been at sea for so long, upon his retirement, he had of course many tales to tell and maybe none more extraordinary than what has now become known as Wednesday’s Bananas.

After some time ashore, living in the Channel Islands, he was eventually persuaded to put pen to paper, but as the reader will shortly find, found it necessary not only to disguise the characters but also the events and some named places. That being said, whilst the tale is most definitely woven around the truth, Capt. Tim makes no excuse as to how the final outcome unravels.

Copyright Information ©

Capt. Tim 2023

The right of Capt. Tim to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035805891 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035805907 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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20230828

Prologue

Wednesday February 1974

Poor Veronica, everything happens on Wednesday. Be it for the better, the worse or anything in between. Veronica felt that whatever happened on any given Wednesday would, when looking back on it, have an influence on her future life in some way or the other. This Wednesday would most certainly prove to be no exception.

Wednesday mornings normally start about seven o’clock, depending on what happened the night before. This time around was going to prove slightly different. With Mum and Dad still away south of the border, Veronica and her three younger sisters were alone in the house, which they all found a bit scary, particularly as they lived in a two up two down, plus scullery, terrace end house at the bottom of Greater Back Street, in North West Belfast.

Dad’s last words were quite clear, ‘once all four of you are in from school, do not go out after dark, draw the curtains and do not answer the door unless, of course, it be old Mrs McBeadle from next door—she will only be trying to borrow another scuttle full of coal, knowing that we are away,’ he said.

As usual, Veronica, being the eldest, had been put in charge and until now everything had gone according to plan, with the younger girls setting off for school as usual with sandwich boxes sticking out of satchels (already stuffed with books full of unfinished homework) socks down to the ankles and school hats’ askew. With no work at the Chippie until lunchtime, Veronica looked forward to a few hours of peace.

She was tired, not only due to the heavy responsibility of looking after the girls but also due to the frequent sound of explosions and gunfire during the night and the frightening sound of people running up and down the street, with their shouting and screaming.

She was always fearful that they would bang on the door or break a window. That’s why all four of them slept upstairs when Mum and Dad went down south for one of Auntie Hilda’s parties. This last time however, Mum had mentioned something about the funeral and ‘wake in memory of Hilda’s two sons’, who apparently, had been killed in the bomb blast just south of the border, outside the Ferrymans Arms.

As it was only Wednesday, the children were not allowed a bath, so with the house empty, Veronica settled for a good strip wash with two kettles of hot water and some of Mum’s special soap. This was all just fine until, as she was getting dressed ready to go to work, there was a timid banging of the door.

Looking out of the grimy front bedroom window, she was relieved to see the thin macintoshed shoulders of Mrs McBeadle along with her scrawny colourless headscarf. No doubt the coal bucket was also there.

Yes, she would have a cup of tea, providing Veronica was not due to leave just yet and no she did not need help in going up the garden to the coal shed to fill the bucket.

‘Would she kindly check that the back garden door to the rear communal alleyway was locked,’ Veronica said, who needed to get going down to the chippie. All things were working out well so far and Veronica was feeling a little happier knowing that Mum and Dad were due back later in the afternoon, about the same time as her sisters. And that is where the Wednesday world turned on its head.

Veronica was alerted by the sound of a smoker’s croaky shriek from up the garden accompanied by the sight of Mrs McBeadle stumbling down the pathway as fast as her little spindly legs would allow, clutching her bucket of coal.

‘There’s a load of guns in the shed,’ she cried in frightened sobbing voice.

‘What are we to do, shall we call the police?’ Veronica said.

‘No, no we can’t call anyone until your mum and dad get home, as we do not know who put the guns there. It may well be that your dad is involved,’ Mrs McBeadle said, who went on to say, ‘It was only last week that the McMannus brothers came round to see him, and I am not sure as to what it was all about. Sometimes these guys need a safe place to store their munitions which they are continuously moving around. Even if your dad is not involved, he would be jeopardising your entire family if he was to grass on either side.’

Bundling Veronica out of the house, Mrs Beadle slammed the door behind her and said, ‘Leave well alone my girl and off you go to work. If your dad should come home before you get back. I will tell him everything. Oh! And by the way, thanks for the coal.’

******

Auntie Hilda did not deserve to lose her two teenage sons despite their violent tendencies, which always seemed to be worse when they returned from their late evening meetings that were held behind the closed doors of the disused barn, not more than a couple of hundred yards from the Ferrymans Arms. They had been going to the meetings for well over six months before that fateful night when her boys and several others were killed outside the pub.

Whilst Hilda tried so desperately to understand the reasons for the ongoing conflict between the two factions, she so wished that her two sons had never become involved with this so-called Republican Army. If only she had expressed her fears more forcibly and had been more inquisitive or had Robbie at home to back her up, the huge funeral gathering and wake may not have involved her family at all. The guns and bomb blast which killed and maimed all those young men at the pub would have at least spared her two boys.

Hilda’s estranged husband, Robbie, was away at sea somewhere and she was unsure as to when or how he would hear the news of their deaths, so she decided to write him a letter, but was not too sure where to send it. She could of course send him a telegram, but was not too sure where to send that either.

She had not spoken to him for ages as