We took the car up to Stranraer, Scotland, and an overnight ferry across the Irish Sea to Belfast. It was January, grey and rainy. My first view of the city was grim. Barricades and barbed wire were everywhere. Stacks of sandbags hid police stations from view. Youthful soldiers in camouflage stood on corners, collars turned up against the cold wind, smoking and shifting their weight under shouldered rifles. Equally youthful civilians lobbed rocks and hurled abuse. Tanks and armored trucks called “pigs” patrolled the streets. Military maps came with colored sections, to help troops understand where they were and what areas to avoid: green for Catholic neighborhoods, orange for Protestant.
I expect most people know, but Northern Ireland had been a part of Great Britain (like it or not) for centuries, and therefore its "loyalist" population was largely Protestant. The rest of Ireland is its own Republic and historically Catholic. The strife was between the factions that wanted free rule and those that wanted to remain loyal to the Crown. Religion entered into it as a symbol of that freedom/repression and lines were drawn along that schism—but a person's religious beliefs clearly had little to do with their actions. Retaliation, personal revenge for the deaths of relatives and loved ones, and a general terrorism fomented by the political underbelly and just plain mad buggers, kept fueling the fire.
Before we arrived, bombings were generally carried out against political or civic targets. This changed in the year we lived there (more on that in a minute) although cars, even with children or animals in them, were not allowed in the downtown Belfast shopping area because they’d been known to blow up, regardless of their occupants. All pedestrians entering downtown shops were frisked, their purses and carry bags searched.
Our assigned home was just a few blocks from Stormont, the seat of government, but well out of the city itself. Its architecture was a series of white geometric shapes that dribbled down a steep back garden, with large windows trimmed in bright orange and yellow, and cork floors. It was ultra-modern, with none of the warmth and charm of our English farmhouse in Somerset—or even of most suburban Irish homes in Belfast. It was a bizarre exception, and I hated it. The whole aura of the building was discordant, out of place; there was nothing in its cold angles that offered me solace or refuge, and I would need both of those things desperately in the coming months. Fortunately, it did have a nice garden, and beautiful roses in the warm months; that was some compensation. And it was a nice neighborhood in the burbs.
There was only a handful of RN personnel in Belfast, most of them men; so there were no squadron parties, no young wives to ask around for tea, no elegant Ladies’ Nights at the officers’ Wardroom. Instead, my husband grew his hair and beard and snuck into the station gate in civilian clothes. What little social life we had—such as lunch at the Captain’s house—was punctuated by the distant sound of bombs going off, and the growl of armored cars.
“My, that was a big one,” was the typical remark from our hostess. “More sherry, dear?”
Sherry, hell. I learned to drink neat malt whiskey in Belfast.
So, what does this have to do with being psychic?
Well, a crucial skill for intuitive people to learn is how to dampen down their paranormal perceptions. No one wants to sense the feelings of others 24 hours a day! My mother learned to deliberately shut herself down when she wasn’t working. Most people didn't understand this; they assumed they were in constant danger of her “reading” them, even in social situations. (Well, there was the time she blurted out information about a friend’s secret, illegitimate son at a party, but that was after a few drinks and very early in her career.) But my mom typically wasn't "tuning in" to people or events unless she was doing a counseling. She wasn't in your head and she didn't want to be. Like a doctor at a party, she was frequently asked to "diagnose" on the fly by some boorish guest, and they would be disappointed when she told them to make an appointment and pay for her time.
I was not as skilled at closing myself off. In fact, being an artist and a writer, I was accustomed to living life with my senses as open and extended as I could get them, to suck in every nuance. I loved getting in touch with nature that way, for example. Or understanding the emotional landscapes of others. So it was hard learning to retreat instead, to not allow impressions to seep in unsolicited. In Belfast, aside from my own fear, I always seemed to feel the torment of those around me, the unrest and fear and violence; and it shadowed my life, pressed down, chilled me. It also added a dimension to my new marriage that increased the struggle between us.
The bombing of the Abercorn restaurant, shortly after we arrived, marked an escalation in the violence. It wasn’t a military target or political retaliation. It was wholesale slaughter, without discrimination toward women and children. It shocked even the populace of Belfast. Some of the victims ended up small, unidentifiable shards in a plastic bag.
The evening of that explosion, I experienced an apparition. Two women, one younger, one older, came to me while I was in bed. They were in great grief; the younger one was pregnant. They seemed to beg me for help, as if they were trapped in an earthly limbo after so violent a death. I was overwhelmed with sorrow, and said a prayer, offering them what comfort and love I could, asking for their release. They gradually faded.
That event affected me so deeply that the next morning I wrote a song about it. I learned to play guitar when I was 13 and had been playing and writing music ever since—but only for myself or for the odd appearance here or there. I was in a folk trio back in high school, singing at protests and in hospitals to recovering vets from the Viet Nam war. Later, on the beach with friends, and at my one and only beauty competition (Rodeo Queen and I'm not talking about it!). :^) I was in a rock and roll band for about 5 minutes once—well, ok, for a summer. All very amateur.
Music proved to be my safety outlet in Belfast. All the horror, all the violence, and all the stress I was under was channeled through my guitar and piano, and came out as music. I wrote poetry and song lyrics furiously: a young British soldier placed in an untenable position, the scathing rebuke of a Catholic to her nun teacher, the endless cycle in a family of death and retribution. One song, “Mad Dog,” won the a national US lyric competition a few years later. It used the metaphor of a rabid dog wandering the streets of Belfast and randomly biting people, infecting them with rage.
I played in a few local clubs, daring potentially hostile audiences to share an American’s perception of their war. I even got an agent and we talked about cutting an album—but things fell apart when my husband was transferred back to England. Who knows what could have happened? It feels like an alternate life in a parallel universe. One I didn't live.
Needless to say, Mother was on the phone to me a lot during that time. Even from so far away, she could sense the terrible texture of Belfast and its impact on my emotions.
When R and I managed to get away to England for a few days, we discovered the enormous stress we were under in Belfast simply by its absence. It was like a weight being lifted off, and a joy just to cross a street in London without fear. (Something you can't always say these days in London.) But when we returned, we found our house had been burglarized, belongings scattered, drawers overturned, jewelry stolen. Our records were tossed out of their sleeves and thrown around the room in senseless vandalism. Books were flung to the floor. Furniture was upside down. A small hole in one window looked like a bullet hole, but turned out to be from a rock. The police said the intruders were most likely looking for weapons, but the meanness of their actions said something more about their characters.
Here was the big irony of living in Northern Ireland, even in those days: if you went beyond the borders of Belfast, you discovered a different world. A land of deep green fields, stone cottages, streams and forests. A place where the nature of the Irish people was as gentle and garrulous as ever; faces were unpinched, tongues were loosened. Wonderful restaurants, welcoming hotels, stunning landscapes. A stop at a pub for lunch and a beer always included a generous dollop of curiosity, humor, and friendliness from the publican and his customers. Many decried the violence as stupid and senseless, and this, I believe, is always the way; most people want to be left in peace to live their lives, love and raise their families, appreciate the beauty of being alive. To use a LOTR metaphor, it was Hobbiton; and the city of Belfast was Mordor. And I have never seen anything to surpass the natural beauty of County Antrim’s northern coast, with its narrow roads winding around Torr’s Head, Dunluce Castle and the Giant’s Causeway.
After nearly a year, something happened to bring our Belfast adventure to a sudden close.
One afternoon, I received a call from a strange man. He said R was lying on his living room floor after having parachuted off the man’s roof. Apparently, R and his pilot had experienced technical problems in a repaired aircraft, back-up systems had failed, their fuel had been jettisoned, and they'd been force to eject over Belfast. They'd had to make the grim choice of finding the best spot for the jet to crash—a school yard or an office building's parking lot—and steering toward it before banging out. They picked the office building and, fortunately, no one was killed. It crashed into the side of the building, which had been reinforced with a steel beam. (See photo.) We heard that the steel beam was not part of the original building plan, which would be pretty ironic.
One memorable story from the event is of the man in that office building, who was talking on the phone and looking out the window just as this megaton monster dropped from the sky and headed his direction. He told his caller, with complete aplomb, that he “had to ring off” and dove under his desk. Another was the man who found the pilot lying on the sidewalk (with a broken elbow) and asked if he was alright. "I think so," said the disoriented pilot. "Right you are!" said the man, and kept walking!
There were rumors of an IRA—or British troop—invasion from people sighting the plane and parachutes. One man died of a heart attack. But all in all, it could have been so much worse.
However, my husband was seriously injured. He was taken to the Royal Victoria hospital downtown, where he was diagnosed with two compressed vertebrae and a damaged knee. He'd probably compressed the vertebrae when ejecting, and he'd injured himself further when he pushed off a roof while parachuting down; the parachute had folded and he'd dropped instead of floated from two stories up.
He had to remain absolutely flat on his back, then in a brace, for a very long time; it was the end of his flying career, because they couldn't risk him ejecting again and doing further damage to his spine. This led to his eventual decision to leave the service. Fly boys are young, courageous, and keen on their jobs. Clipping those metal wings was the end of what R loved.
My trips to and from the hospital were harrowing: one evening, a small bomb went off in front of a Catholic school across the street. It killed a prominent public figure who was collecting his children after class.
My mother was on the next plane when she heard of Richard’s mishap. It was a difficult trip—she had to clear customs in Dublin, and no one would help her with her bags, because they might contain a bomb. Considering that luggage was NOT on wheels in those days and that my mother's suitcases were heavy leather and numerous, this was almost impossible to manage. In addition, she had thoughtfully packed a supply of Mexican food for her displaced daughter, in the form of canned tortillas, chiles and sauces. When she finally made Belfast, she swore her arms were two feet longer from the extra weight. Her usual buoyancy was daunted even further as we headed for the house, for the RN Captain’s staff driver decided to give her a full tour of the city on the way, including the Crumlin Road area—a nexus for violence between factions.
I'm going to be a bit mean about my mother right now. I tried to dissuade her from coming to Belfast, but she'd hear none of it. When she arrived, her interest in my recovering husband quickly waned. After all, it was a risky trip to drive to the hospital, and it was boring for her to stay there and keep him company.
"I've come all this way, I want to see some of the country while I'm here," was her attitude. So while ostensibly she was there to support me in R's recovery, in reality she was on holiday and wanted to be entertained. It was not the best of visits. My husband got the short end of the stick, as they say—but then, there was no love lost between him and my mother, ever. I know now that he recognized an opponent when he saw one and had every right to be wary or even hostile. But it also wasn't very strategic of him, given my attachment to her. The two of them wore me out sometimes!
So I took my mother on a series of jaunts away from the area. One moment in particular still stands out in my memory: the two of us standing on coastal cliffs, watching a flock of white Tundra swans skimming above the autumn sea as they arrived from far-off Siberia. It was like something out of a ballet or a fairy tale, so many of the beautiful birds, so white and aloft.
Mother and I dined out quite a bit as well, while poor R was laid up. One of her favorites was the Culloden Hotel (now called an "Estate & Spa") a former bishop’s palace, decorated in dark woods, plush carpets and stained glass. After enjoying its elegant service and excellent food, Mother struck up a conversation with our waitress, who confided that she’d visited New York.
“Well,” said my mother, “That must have been a nice change for you. How did you like it?”
“Och, sure, you know,” replied the girl, “I hardly went out of my room the whole time, I was that scared about being mugged or raped on the street. New York’s a very dangerous place!”
This was said completely without irony, while serving tables to the distant echo of heavy artillery. Because you can learn to accept almost anything as familiar, even war.
I survived my mother's visit, and my husband was discharged by the doctors, and we moved to Helston, Cornwall, a town at the tip of England where the wind blew continually, where we acquired the border collie that would save my life, and where my son was born. Belfast came to feel like a dream, but like most dreams, it was not all bad or good but a mix of light and shadow. Once away from it, all we had were the media reports on television—and we knew from personal experience that Northern Ireland was so much more than that. We were on the outside looking in again.
When the Good Friday Agreement was signed in 1998, I could hardly believe that such a thing was accomplished. It took some years, but from all appearances, a peace has been struck between the peoples of Northern and the Republic of Ireland, and I would love to go back. I have been to the Republic several times to visit family and enjoy it tremendously. I just haven't made it north.
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