Irene and I seemed to fit each other well, what I mean is
that neither of us didn’t feel any compulsion to follow societies norms. It is quite obvious now that as a royal
personage I should be the one setting the standards, not following them. I don’t think it even occurred to us that we
should have had a honeymoon. It was a
good while after we had been married that we decided to have a holiday which,
as it was our first as a married couple, could have been referred to as a honeymoon.
We had no one to impress or keep up with, only ourselves to
entertain so we decided that we should have a romantic break to Cornwall. The weather was a mixture of rain and sun but
I loved it. For a literature lunatic
like myself I was in my element. I embraced
storms and foul weather and would sit for hours watching the waves and allowing
my imagination to wander along the many lanes, cliffs and coves meeting my friends
and hero’s, like Jim Hawkins, Long John Silver, Billy Bones and dear old Horatio
himself. There was an attempt to popularise certain aspects, like pirate themed
pubs, but in the more remote areas it was quite perfect, untouched by the tourist
coin.
When we got back to Watton I found a note from Jon Hampson
asking that I call on him at his house.
I did, and the moment Jon answered his door I knew something was
up. Jon explained that a phone call had
come through and my father was dead.
This was a bit of a tricky one for I hadn’t communicated with anyone
from my family since I had got married.
Now I was expected to return to Ireland and mix with people who would
not speak to me. I didn’t really know my
father as they kept sending me away to Gaeltachts and boarding schools. On top of that they were always very keen to remind
me that they had adopted me so I suppose it wasn’t a normal father son
relationship.
I was happy that it was Jon Hampson who had broken the news
to me, as he was a close friend, but I understand he was disciplined for this as
an officer should have told me. Events seemed
to be in control and the RAF had arranged everything for me as in transport and
flights back to Belfast so I sort of followed along. It was while I was at Heathrow that I
wondered who I could get to pick me up from Aldergrove. I wasn’t sure who in the family was speaking
with me so I telephoned a good ol boy, namely Phelim Fegan, and asked if he
would pick me up.
It’s an awful thing to admit that you could rely more on your
friends than your family but such was the case.
The aircraft was half empty and it sort of suited my mood. I wasn’t upset; I think I could safely say
that I was numb. It wasn’t the funeral I
was worried about but the reception, or lack of it, from the other members of
my family. As I came through security at
Aldergrove I looked about for the good ol boys.
They spotted me first. There was
a bar on the second floor and Peter Rogan and Phelim Fegan had settled themselves
in for a bit of a session as they waited for me.
Most people may have expected their friends to adopt a sombre
mood, given the situation. I was lucky
enough to have total madmen for friends as they roared for me to join them, it
was my fecking round. I made my way up
to the bar to find that they had included me in their session and I now faced a
line of half a dozen pints and vodka chasers. I managed to get them to drink a fair share of
what they had amassed for me and then went off to find the car. Peter and Phelim were having problems walking
so it was decided that I should drive.
We hadn’t got very far out of Aldergrove before we had been
stopped by an army check point, and it all started again. “What’s your name?” “Phelim. What’s yours?”
“Where do you live?” “Our house. Where do you live?” I brought out my air force identity card and
showed it to the soldier. I was immediately waved through. I’m now attacked by Phelim and Peter who
both want me to get them ‘one of those things’ as they had never gone through a
road check point so fast in all their lives.
The remainder of the journey was uneventful, unless you
consider a constant stream of abuse about my driving skills, or lack of them,
all the way to Warrenpoint. Luckily
Warrenpoint was still quite small and most people knew of each other. When we entered the town I went to drive up
the Bridle Loanan and was surprised that the good ol boys were telling me to go
in the opposite direction. They were
amazed at how stupid I was not remembering that we had moved house. I didn’t have the time, nor the inclination,
to tell them that I hadn’t spoken to any member of my family for some time and therefore
didn’t know that they had moved house. I
kept quiet and got out at the new house.
I could see that the house was full of people so I took a
deep breath and went in. Carol was there
and was the only person to speak to me. As
you may expect she just called me a long list of names and offered insult after
insult. How terrible I was turning up
smelling of drink, I should have shown some respect. I excused myself and went upstairs where I
saw a bedroom with all my furniture so assumed that this would be my room. I closed the door and sat on the bed feeling
comfortable amongst all my old things, my pictures and holy statues.
The following day saw the funeral and I went through the
motions. The pervert priest officiated
at the funeral and I was pleased to see many of my friends in the congregation as
I carried the coffin from the church. The
solemn mood was broken outside the church when some young fellows shouted “Brit
bastard!” at me. I had to smile for
there were more members of the IRA inside the church than you could shake a
stick at. I was a member of the British
armed forces and therefore a Brit. I
didn’t know who my biological parents were so was a sort of bastard. As the young fellows were theoretically
correct in their choice of insult I didn’t ask that anyone ‘have a word’ with them.
There was a meal afterwards and I again attended, simply
going through the motions, but I couldn’t stomach the hypocrisy so left. Luckily Phelim and Peter were in the public
bar of the hotel and we escaped to a small bar in Rostrevor, Tinnelly’s. I couldn’t believe the pair of them. Once again I found myself sitting in an IRA
pub surrounded by men in black leather jackets wearing dark sunglasses. I didn’t feel uncomfortable as I knew most of
the IRA men from Violent Hell.
I decided that I should get back to Watton and asked the chaps
if they wouldn’t mind running me up to Aldergrove. Of course it was no problem, so we returned to
Warrenpoint where I went in to collect my bag.
I liked the new house but did prefer the old one. Carol and my mother were in the living room
and the pervert priest was in the kitchen.
I could tell from the look on his face that he didn’t want to speak to
me, a very Christian attitude, so I went upstairs and threw my stuff into my
bag. As I came down all three of them were
waiting for me.
Mum placed a suitcase in the centre of the hall and said. “That’s
for you.” “Thanks,” I said. “I’m heading back now, the boys are waiting
for me.” We simply nodded at each other
and I made my way to the front door. “He
was asking for you when he died,” said mum, as I opened the door. “Even though you killed him.” “Pardon?” I asked. “The stress you put him under with your heathen
marriage killed him,” she said, and I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Despite the best efforts of Phelim and Peter
I remained quiet for most of the journey, showing my identity card as and when
required. I asked the good ol boys not
to wait with me and waved them off knowing that it would be a very long time
before I would be back in Ireland.
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