CHAPTER SIXTEEN – ANOTHER LIFE.
It was a glorious September day, and was designed to be a glorious day in the history of Ireland, America and Great Britain. For once, Ireland’s ‘soft’ weather had disappeared, and it wasn’t raining. In fact, it was Battle of Britain day, but few who were present remembered that, or cared.
Many months of planning and preparation were reaching a grand finale, a climax of pomp and circumstance and splendour and pageantry the like of which had never before been seen in what was about to become the new American State of Ireland. It was more than likely that nothing like it had been seen anywhere else before, either.
A pattern of events had led to this climax, a pattern that had been mirrored in all the nations directly involved in planning this momentous event. Debates had been debated, referenda had been held and won, votes had been taken, elections had been held, Parliamentary Bills had been tabled, amended and eventually passed, allies had been consulted, new treaties had been ratified and old ones re-drafted.
In Ireland itself, communities had united, graffiti had been removed, peace lines marking sectarian boundaries had been demolished, police stations had been made to look like police stations again rather than fortified barracks, new currencies had been printed and distributed, customs posts at borders removed, until all the trappings of a normal life had been restored. Then, at last, when there was final agreement that Ireland should form the 51st State of America, it had finally been possible to start transferring powers and responsibilities. For most of the people of Northern Ireland, another life altogether had already been started.
And so it was, on this glorious September day in Belfast, that the sovereignty of the Republic of Ireland and the United Kingdom Province of Northern Ireland, both now united, would finally be passed to the United States of America. Yesterday, a very similar set of ceremonies had been held in Dublin, which was to be the new State’s capital. Everyone was there yesterday, and everyone would be in Belfast again today. His Majesty the King and seven other members of the Royal Family, as well as Kings and Queens from other countries around the world, would all be there. The Presidents of the European Community member countries would be joining the Presidents of other invited nations as guests of President Bill Minton and his co-hosts, the Taoiseach Michael O’Leary and the Prime Minister, Tony Weaver. There were diplomats and dignitaries beyond number, all assembled to witness what most regarded as the official end of ‘the troubles’ and the start of another life with the raising of the Stars and Stripes over Stormont Castle.
There would be no ceremonial lowering of any flag, though. Because limited dual nationality had been recommended and accepted for those north and south of the border who opted for it, in line with the proposals put forward in the final communique of the Constitutional Committee in Honolulu, the Stars and Stripes would be raised on a flagstaff placed between the Irish tricolour and the Union Jack. In this respect, the ceremony would be quite unlike that in Hong Kong, when Britain handed back the Colony to China. In Ireland, both the tricolour and the Union Jacket would continue to fly together for some years to come.
The whole affair was to be a masterpiece of tact and diplomacy and, truth to tell, of compromise. The route lining party and the Guard of Honour would be jointly formed by men from the Household Brigade and the US Marine Corps. Music would be jointly provided by the Band of the Royal Marines and the US Marines. There would be two fly-pasts in salute, the first with the RAF aerobatic team, the Red Arrows, in the lead. Once the Stars and Stripes had been raised, so the British military contingent would take one step back, and the US soldiers one pace forward. The massed bands would, until that key moment, be led by the Royal Marines Director of Music, but he would then ceremoniously hand over the baton to his opposite number in the US Marines. The second fly past would be led by the US Air Force aerobatic team, the Blue Angels. And so on. Every sensitivity had been catered for.
After the handing over ceremony at the seat of Northern Ireland’s many and various forms of Government, the meticulously planned motorcade would sweep down the long driveway from Stormont to the Newtownards Road, and cross the River Lagan at the Albert Bridge for a State drive through the streets of Belfast, past City Hall. It would then join the Westlink to the M1 motorway, to complete its 20-mile journey to Hillsborough Castle, the setting for a sumptuous banquet, jointly hosted by His Majesty the King and the President of the United States. The time it took to agree the seating plan for that beggars belief, but eventually all sides agreed that they had taken their proper place.
Everything had gone like clockwork in Dublin yesterday, and officials were determined that today would be as good, if not better. Every event had been practiced over and over again, to ensure that the timing was as perfect as possible, that every last detail was tuned to perfection, and that nothing had been left to chance. The flypasts, the arrival of the dignitaries, their drive up the long sweeping driveway to the elegant neo-classical mansion of Stormont, the motorcade through the streets of Belfast, lined by troops and police from all three countries, even the State banquet had been cooked, to be eaten by delighted civil servants chosen to act the part of great men and women.
Only the final act had not been rehearsed.
The evening sun was dropping below the sparkling Mediterranean horizon as the English couple finished their meal.
It was their favourite place. A table on the harbour wall, across the dusty road from the small bar run by Davros and Athena.
It reminded the man very much of the Old Harbour in Paphos, before it had been ruined by tourists. This tiny fishing village of Kopufano was not that far from Paphos, but far enough away to have escaped the attentions of tourists, and to remain unspoilt and undiscovered by the holiday trade. There weren't many places like Kopufano left in Cyprus these days. But because they lived on the island, the couple from England were able to explore the dusty tracks and rugged coastline away from the towering hotels with their sun beds and swimming pools.
Davros still went fishing from time to time in his battered launch, but no longer made his living from the sea. He caught enough to supply his small café bar across the road from the tiny harbour, and anything left was eagerly bought by friends and neighbours in the village. Davros spoke very little English, but his wife, Athena, had attended university in Cambridge many years ago, and still had a love of the place and of the English people. The couple at their table on the harbour wall were always welcome, as it gave her the chance to practice the language. They also contributed more to the bar’s meagre income than the villagers could who chose to eat there. They were a nice couple, and Athena knew he worked somewhere high in the Troodos Mountains, but she could only guess what he did.
The English couple had finished their early supper. A simple meal of local fish caught by Davros, with a green salad and boiled potatoes. They were enjoying a glass of Keo brandy as the air cooled and the sun set.
The tranquillity was broken by Athena, rushing from the café.
“Come quickly, come quickly,” she shouted waving her arms wildly. “Come quickly, and listen. Bad news from England.”
They rushed across the road and into the tiny kitchen at the back of the bar, in time to hear the end of the BBC World Service news.
By all accounts, the explosion, or possibly a series of explosions, had been bigger than anything ever seen before in Northern Ireland, or on the mainland. Bigger than Omagh. Bigger than Canary Warf.
It was certain that many people had been killed from among the VIPs and dignitaries, and countless others injured, many seriously. It was too early to say who had died, but the news broadcast was immediately followed by solemn music.
The couple slowly retraced their steps to their table, and sat in silence for a few moments.
“Who the hell could have done that?” he asked, talking almost to himself as he looked out across the sea.
The girl shook her head.
“I doubt it was the Irish,” he said.
She shook her head again. “I suppose that’s a problem for the Americans, now,” she said.
“We’ll have to help them,” he said. “It could just be al-Qa'Aeda, getting at us and the Americans at the same time. They’ve wanted to do that for years. We may even be able to pick something up from here.”
“I suppose we might.” she replied.
“We should have been there, you know,” he said to her, quietly. “Today. We were invited.”
“I know.” she replied.
“If it hadn’t been for you, we would probably have gone, too.” he said. “In a strange sort of way, I quite wanted to go, really, although I wasn't entirely sure.”
“I had a feeling we shouldn’t,” she replied.
“You always were a canny chap,” he said.
“I just didn’t want to go back, after all this time.”
“Why?” he asked.
“We’re so happy here,” she said. “I didn’t want to break the spell.”
“You’re right, of course,” he said. “I had mixed feelings about it myself, to be honest. About meeting the old crowd again.”
“We may never meet some of them again, after today.”
“You always had a sort of sixth sense,” he commented, “as well as nine lives. Catherine ‘The Cat’ has lost another one today. Do you realise that, Sergeant Wilson?”
“Mrs Clayton, if you don’t mind, Major.” she replied, with a smile.
They reached across the table, and held hands.
“Take me home,” she said.
They crossed the road to pay for their supper. Athena and Davros were in animated conversation.
“I’m so sorry,” Athena said to the couple. “Terrible, terrible.”
They nodded, and walked to the car, arm in arm.
Once again, neither of them noticed the two men on a motorbike.