A Mad and Wonderful Thing by Mark Mulholland Read Free Book Online

don’t matter and are not victories at all; too fond of suffering; too fond of martyrs; too fond of the damned word struggle ; and too fond of reverting to playing politics with the British, who have a long history of never doing us any good. The only thing that matters in this war is removing the enemy from Ireland. And to this end the hunger strikes changed nothing. They were an attempt at persuasion. But why bother? The only battle worth fighting is a battle that can help win the war. This was the lesson I learned in 1981.
    A single black flag was erected in a lane near the school during the hunger strike, and was forgotten and left in place when all the others were taken down. For years, I watched that flag as it faded and tore, until one day the wood gave way to rot and it fell to the ground, where the cleaning truck brushed it up and dumped it along with the other unwanted things.
    I cycle north from the Market Square through Clanbrassil Street, passing the narrow road where the school is. Are you joining us today, Mister Donnelly? Would you care to share your thoughts with the class, Mister Donnelly? Is there something strange or startling out those windows, Mister Donnelly? Hello, hello, calling Mister Donnelly, come in please? Continue reading from there, Mister Donnelly. Well, Mister Donnelly, don’t wait for the applause. Mister Donnelly … I pass through Church Street to Bridge Street, a dull, narrow street that offers nothing but a last-chance saloon for desperate enterprise, where the few remaining shops sell everything nobody wants. Rough-looking men stand outside bars and watch me with suspicious faces as if the act of riding a bicycle is an indecent phenomenon and is likely to be of some threat. I pass two vagrants walking south with such slowness that it appears they would rather walk for eternity than reach the end of the street. This northern edge is where the town abandons pretence and ambition, settles for fate over fortune, and lies down with a bottle of cheap wine. I pull the zip on my high pullover and change gears. At the muddy river I turn and cycle west on Castletown Road. Some children are playing ball in the yard of the National Girls’ School, and I have to stop to return a ball that has been kicked over the iron railings. I think of Mam. This was her school. Here in this same yard I know she must have sung, skipped, run, fallen, and cried. I try to picture her there, but can’t. The children resume their game with gusto as I cycle west under the railway bridge. I slow as I approach the low-walled gardens of Níth River Terrace, and I stop halfway down the row of houses. The sky above has softened; the darker clouds have wandered off and the day has brightened again. I look to the chip shop where a girl polishes the front glass with a spray-gun and some loose newspaper.
    â€˜Hi,’ I call to her.
    â€˜Hi,’ she replies. She is a good-looking girl. Isn’t the world full of them?
    I push the low gate open with the front wheel, and rest my bicycle against the ashen-grey pebbledash of the side wall. I straighten the Dunn & Co, and run my finger and thumb down the length of my scarf, tidying it neatly parallel to the open coat. I walk to the front door, where two small brass numbers — a one and a six — are high over the central panel. I take a deep breath, and knock.

Bob
    THE DOOR OPENS.
    â€˜Hello.’ A boy stands in the doorway.
    â€˜Hello, is Cora in?’
    There is a brief silence as the boy examines me. ‘So you think you’re Johnny Donnelly?’
    â€˜Eh, yeah. So they tell me.’
    â€˜So you do exist after all. She’s been blabbering on about you for ages. We all thought she just made you up.’
    â€˜Right.’
    Unwilling to let me stray from his gaze, the boy throws a shout over his shoulder, ‘Cora, you’re wanted.’
    At the rear of the hallway a door opens and a woman hurries to the front, clipping