“A Belfast Mother” by Lizzy
Shannon
A
Tribute to Mothers of Writers, courtesy of PublishAmerica
The day the
IRA planted a bomb in the hotel across the street from our house was the day I
realized how much my mother loved me. I
have fonder memories of her, but this was the crucial, pivotal point where I
understood how a woman could literally give her life for her family if
asked. This was the day she inspired
the writer in me.
It was an
unseasonably warm summer morning for Northern Ireland. The sun lit up Belfast, which stretched
untidily across the valley to the foot of Cave Hill, the red brick buildings
golden against the dark sentinel of the mountains. School was out and the sound of children’s laughter punctuated
the thumping tumble of bicycles and running feet in the street.
My two
brothers and I, all less than twelve years old, waited for Mum to return from a
shopping trip. We watched in surprise
as a grim-faced policeman, clad in bottle green with a black bulletproof vest
protecting his chest, strode up to the front door.
We looked
at each other, then my eldest brother opened it.
“There’s a
bomb in the Drumkeen Hotel,” the policeman informed us curtly. “Stay to the back of the house and open your
windows.”
We weren’t
afraid. It didn’t occur to us to be
so. Daily we had grown up with such
happenings. Explosions, and the commonplace
shooting of innocent bystanders. My
father, a key holder for his office, was roused from his bed weekly because of
an IRA bomb threat to the premises.
The sunny
morning took on an excited urgency as my brothers and I dashed to unlatch the
windows. Then three very unwise monkeys
lined up in the front room to watch the bomb go off. All traffic had stopped.
The children had been swept indoors by anxious mothers; bicycles
abandoned. An odd silence smothered the
street. It reminded me of the heaviness
in the air before a summer storm strikes.
A couple of
hundred yards away, a drama unfolded.
The army had put up barricades to stop people getting past, to protect
them from the pending explosion.
I can see
her now. My mother, like her namesake,
Maureen O’Hara, dark hair escaping her bun, her chestnut brown eyes flashing
with anger.
“My
children are back there!” she apparently shouted into the face of an AK-47
carrying infantryman. The poor soldier
hadn’t a hope in the face of a Northern Irish mother. She single-handedly broke the barricade, and not an entire unit
of squaddies could keep her from rushing to our house.
Her worst
fears were realized. The three faces
she so wanted to protect stared back at her through the large, glass
window. Fear fueling her further, she
dashed into the house and hauled us out through the kitchen and into the back
yard.
Seconds
later, a vast mushroom of debris and dust rose majestically into the air above
our house, followed by a knee-jerking roar.
The bomb decimated the hotel, our windows were shredded, but thankfully
no one was hurt.
My mother had been willing to risk her life to make sure we were safe.
She has been a constant inspiration to me. When I wanted to write for a living, without a word she provided the stationary and pens, later the typewriter. She listened to arduous tomes of teenage angst without comment, and always believed that some day I would be published.
Unlike her, I have never had to wash five peoples’ clothes in a bathtub, then wring them out in an ancient mangle. I have never had to prepare three full meals a day for five people, and then wash and dry the dishes by hand afterward.
She was years ahead of her time. From her I learned how to be assertive, how to flirt, how to enjoy life. To this day she is the one who keeps me grounded. Only she can make me laugh at myself when I take things too seriously.
She may not have wanted me to follow in her footsteps as far as career is concerned, but if I could walk one step of hers with as much love in her heart, then I am a very blessed person indeed.
© PublishAmerica and Lizzy Shannon
1924-2003