Another slice of Native Shore

Here, with the agreement of my publisher, is an excerpt from the start of Chapter 3.

I hope that you enjoy it.

 

Gerry opened the second of the glass double doors in a mock

chivalric gesture for his wife. They walked together into the

courtyard of the Merchant’s Square. Just like at Celtic Park earlier that

day, Maria was taking everything in with her artist’s eye. Gerry thought

that it was appropriate for him, once more, to add some tour guide

information for his Colombian spouse.

“They have a big thing here for kids on Patrick’s Day, love,” said the

Glaswegian.

“Muy Bueno.”

“This way, my lady. Into O’Neill’s!”

The pub was full, but not claustrophobically so. Just like the hotel

foyer, it was proof that Glasgow was indeed green and white. The

selection of phonetics on offer were an indication of the sheer reach

of the ‘Celtic Family’. Gerry could pick up accents that hailed from

Anderson to Andytown and from Bargeddie to Boston. There was quite

a convivial commotion around two lads with an Argentine flag. They

were well known members of, unsurprisingly, the Argentine Celtic

Supporters Club.

A few years earlier they had made a pilgrimage across the planet to

be at Celtic Park. The club had made a fuss about them and they were

introduced to the home crowd at halftime on the pitch.

As they were landing in the UK for this match the situation in the

South Atlantic had erupted. The Celtic supporters were letting the lads

from Buenos Aires know that they had cover and they were among their

own. Gerry looked on and smiled at the support these lads were getting.

He then took the phone from his pocket and quickly tapped out a

message to Mary.

 

“I’m looking forward to meeting her, chico.”

“Yeah, she’s a star.”

“She is periodista, sí?”

“Yeah, she’s at college. Bright kid. You’ll like her.”

The phone vibrated in Gerry’s hand and he brought it up to look at

the screen.

“Hmph, she says she’s here.”

“Dondé?” asked Maria.

“She might be out in the Square.”

The Colombian followed her husband back out into the market square.

Gerry scanned the cobblestoned area for his cousin’s child. He didn’t

think it should be that difficult to pick out his ginger relative. She had

inherited the O’Donnell red hair from her mother. He walked towards

the centre of the Square, weaving between relaxed Celtic supporters.

Maria followed him. Although there was a smattering of gingers on

show, they tended to be male and middle-aged. Just as he was starting

to think that there had been some mix-up with the arrangements, he

was caught by a voice behind him to his left.

“UNCLE GERRY!”

In an instant Gerry realised why surveying the area for ginger tops

hadn’t helped. Mary Feeney had turquoise hair with a flash of letterbox

red running from left to right, from scalp to fringe, in a pageboy bob.

Parrots in the Amazon had less distinctive plumage, he thought. But

it was definitely herself. Diminutive and tubby in black Doc Martin’s,

black jeans and a Che Guevara t-shirt, she weaved through the Hooped

carousers like Liam Sweeney had done at Parkhead earlier that day.

Mary Feeney threw her arms around her ‘uncle’. When the hug was over

Gerry held her at arm’s length in a ‘Well, look at you’, sort of gesture.

“What happened to your head?”

“Och, Uncle Gerry. Anyway, what happened to yours?” she asked

cheekily.

“Brain surgery,” replied Gerry sardonically.

“Uncle Gerry, I’m so sorry!”

“Och, away with ya; I’m fine. Mary, this is Maria, my wife.”

Maria extended her hand, but before she could say anything the

diminutive Glaswegian interjected.

 

“Oh my God, you’re fuckin’ beautiful, so y’are!”

Maria smiled. She had lived with a Glaswegian long enough to know

that profanity did not always mean hostility. She tried to stifle a laugh,

still holding Mary’s hand.

“Muchas gracias.”

Mary Feeney from Easterhouse was taking in the full exotic package

in front of her that, somehow, her uncle had managed to marry. She

caught herself from what she’d said earlier and looked back at the man

she called Uncle Gerry.

“What happened to your heed?”

Gerry smiled warmly at the genuine concern in Mary’s eyes.

“There was a car accident in Dublin. No ma fault,” said Gerry, flicking

a look to Maria.

He knew how much she hated lying and liars, and he feared that it

would unsettle her to see how easily her husband could lie to somebody

who he should never be lying to. Decades ago, Gerry O’Donnell had

been forced to lie to everyone in his life; lie to them every day, lie about

who he had become, where he was going and what he was doing. That

moment of lying to this young person in front of him who he loved

and admired hit him like a proper dig in the gut. He remembered

those times as a nineteen-year-old returning from Belfast with orders

ringing in his ears from that man in New Lodge Road; what to tell,

what not to tell. Essentially, his first order from the IRA was to lie to

his family. He had hated it then, and he hated the memory it conjured

1. However, just like back then, he couldn’t tell Mary Feeney what had

really happened in East Wall as he drove his Mercedes van at a team of

Jihadis determined on slaughter and martyrdom on All Ireland Sunday.

 

Gerry O’Donnell held the door open for Maria and Mary at the Café

Gandolfo and then turned and walked towards the bar that was used

for the waiting staff to pick up drinks orders. Inside it looked like every

table was occupied. Gerry got the attention of the young girl at the till.

“O’Donnell, table for four.”

The young woman looked up, smiled and quickly checked down an

A4 ledger-type hardback book. Her finger ran down the page and she

said,

“Yeah, fine, Mr O’Donnell. Please follow me.”

She came out from behind the bar, walked round and turned right

to the corner, where there was a table set for four that was unoccupied.

Gerry could not have seen it from his vantage point when he first

entered the bar. Mary Feeney squeezed into the wall seat with her back

to the entrance. Maria sat down beside her. Gerry sat into the other wall

seat facing where they had come from, leaving the chair beside him

vacant. The young woman looked up.

“Is it still four of you?”

“I think so,” said Gerry pointedly.

 

Mary Feeney looked up, slightly hassled.

“He’s just late, Uncle Gerry. I’ll message him again.”

“Relax, chico,” said Maria, wanting to calm the situation before it

became, well, un-calm.

Mary Feeney nearly dropped her menu when the phone vibrated on the

table. She quickly picked it up.

“He’s HERE!”

Mary tried to get up to rush out but was hemmed in by Maria, who

put a reassuring hand on her arm, indicating that she should calm

down. Mary clicked the phone screen and held it to her ear.

“We’re in here at the back, love. Just walk straight through. Aye,

doonstairs. Come in!”

It was the type of order you only give to a significant other, thought

Gerry. Within a few seconds around the corner walked a tall man,

casually dressed. Gerry O’Donnell did a double take and immediately

felt uneasy. There was an undeniable swelling of anger. The man looked

around forty. He reached over behind Maria and gave Mary a kiss on the

mouth, which she eagerly reciprocated. He stood up, offered his hand to

Gerry and said,

“I’m John.”

Gerry didn’t bother struggling to his feet, given the pain, and

reluctantly gave his hand.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, with as much hostile disinterest as he

could muster.

 

“Oh, you were in the army?” said Maria, clearly taken with the man

sitting across from her. This made things even worse for Gerry.

“Yeah, Royal Regiment of Scotland. I was in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

This was too much for Gerry.

“Two second prizes, then?”

John McBride was not minded to let it go, but he saw Mary Feeney

shoot him a look to behave himself.

 

“Mr O’Donnell, you don’t understand. These Taliban guys are fanatics.

All this Allah stuff.”

Gerry glanced up at Maria.

“Yeah, must be quite an experience to come up face-to-face with

Islamic fundamentalists.”

“Oh, it is, it is,” said John McBride, trying to impress the older man

beside him who his girlfriend Mary had told him had been like a father

to her for years.

Maria could sense the tension so decided to make her own

intervention to release the tension between the two men. She looked

over to John McBride.

 

“We were at the football today. It was very exciting. You like football?”

Mary Feeney glanced up from her starter and looked at Gerry. The

look said that this was probably not going to end well but that there was

probably nothing either of them could do.

“Not really, Maria. I don’t really bother.”

Maria was in full flow now.

“Celtic Park is beautiful. So big. It was amazing,” said Maria.

“Aye,” said John McBride, trying not to go there at all.

For the first time since he’d set eyes on Mary’s forty-something

boyfriend, Gerry started to smile inside.

Main courses had arrived and as usual, Gerry noticed that Maria had

ordered hake. The woman of his life was a determined pescatarian. And

for sure, it looked well on her. After the first forkful, she looked up

and tried to engage Mary’s boyfriend in polite conversation. As Gerry

thought afterwards, she was only doing her best and had no idea of

Glasgow etiquette.

“The football today was so exciting,” she said with a smile that exuded

innocent happiness.

“Was it, aye?” said John McBride, trying to keep his composure. Mary

Feeney flashed her ‘Uncle’ a look that communicated that her boyfriend

was not of the Parkhead persuasion. Gerry was really starting to warm

to the occasion. He looked across to his wife.

“First time there. You enjoyed it, didn’t you, love?”

“Oh, chico. It was magnificent,” gushed Maria, “Do you like going to

Celtic Park?” she asked John McBride without an iota of agenda. She

simply didn’t know what she was asking.

“No,” was all that John McBride could manage. Mary Feeney shot

him a look telling him to mind his manners.

Maria was intrigued that anyone living in the city of Glasgow would

not go to Celtic often.

“Why is that? It is so beautiful there!”

Mary Feeney thought she’d better interject. She leaned slightly

towards Maria.

“Celtic aren’t John’s team. He’s with the uh…”

“Oh! Socorro! Oh, I see. You are with Sevco?” said Maria, looking at

John McBride with a smile.

Gerry O’Donnell could feel the man across the table from him tense

up.

“I’m a Rangers supporter,” said McBride quietly.

Maria had no idea of the minefield she was sloshing through in

outsize wellington boots. She continued.

“Ah, Si. Gerree, he tell me about Rangers. How they die, and now they

are Sevco!”

Mary Feeney looked across at her uncle. Her look betrayed a thought

that this could all go south very quickly. Gerry replied with a reassuring

smile and spoke to his wife,

“Querida, las fans de Rangers no les gusta saber que su club es meurto.

Este hombre se pone triste. Yo sé que no intentes ponerle triste.”

Although her response to her husband was in Spanish, John McBride

– who hadn’t a clue what was being said – could tell from Maria’s face

that she’d just been brought up to speed regarding the sensitivities in

Glasgow following the death of Rangers FC in 2012, and the new club

that Rangers fans wanted to pretend was the old club.

“Lo siento, querido. Lo he molestado? Voy a disculparme ahora.”

“No, es mejor que cambiemos el sujeto.”

“Si, claro, mi vida,” said Maria, and got back to the task of attacking

the very well-presented meal on her plate.