Legacy (12 page)

Chapter Twenty Six

January 17th 1980

A few years ago I became very ill. I remember sitting in the living room struggling so hard to breathe that I passed out. In the moments before consciousness evaded me, I will never forget the despair and panic that I felt. No matter how hard I tried I just couldn't get back to me. I felt completely detached from my body as I watched my family frantically waiting for the ambulance. I was utterly sure that I was going to die and all I could think of was how I would never see these people, people that I loved so much again. I wouldn't get a chance to say goodbye. Although in the end I pulled through it was nevertheless a horrendous experience. I felt so alone.

On Thursday January 17, 1980, my Dad was to make his final journey. He made this journey alone. Often I torture myself by trying to see it through his eyes. I know that he was dressed in a heavy winter coat that day. I know that he hated the cold so much so, that he was known to grumble that even the bulkiest of coats offered him little protection from the elements. I know that he had wanted to bring my sister Maxine on his journey with him; he tried to involve his daughters in his life as much as possible. If he ever worked away from the office he always tried to bring one of his girls along. On this particular day my sister was recovering from a chest infection and my Mum, ever the nurse refused to let her accompany him. Disappointed though my sister was, Mum's refusal saved her life.

Dad boarded the Ballymena train; he arrived early and felt that he was making great progress on his audit. So much so, that he felt he could complete the entire audit that day. He called my Mum and told her that he would be home late, that he hoped to be back in time to say good night to his children. Mum's last words to him were

“I'll keep your dinner warm.”

He boarded the train that evening for the return journey to Belfast; I imagine he was relieved, as he just made the train and no more, boarding with only seconds to spare. When he sat down he would have read his paper from cover to cover, he always read a paper on his journeys.

Perhaps he even turned his mind to Nigeria, something he always spoke of when the winter was in full force. Dad had grown up bathed in sunshine and had flourished under the acrid Nigerian sun. He wanted us, his girls to experience this too. He passionately wanted us to feel the heat of the ground beneath our feet and the sun caressing our faces. The cold, the winter was no life for anyone and certainly not his precious daughters.

My parents had discussed relocating; they had spent many evenings deciding on where they would live and where the girls would fulfil their childhoods. Dad had mentioned Nigeria and Mum had agreed that maybe the girls would be better off based there. It would be difficult for them growing up here. They would always stand out, be the different ones. Dad frequently maintained that he had chosen this life, he came here fully aware that he would not easily blend in with the crowds. His daughters hadn't been given a choice and he wanted them to have one. If we wanted to move further afield when we were older, then that was up to us, but while we were little he wanted us to escape the stares and the remarks. He wanted us to have a full childhood, where we would be normal and where we could be ourselves.

My Dad had never planned on staying in this strange land, but life doesn't always go to plan and he had met my Mum. In meeting her she had given him three wonderful children and just when he thought that this cold dreary place would never accept him, she had given him a new family. Mum's family had extended their arms to welcome him into their fold. In meeting him, these people had ventured into the unknown, hesitantly at first but had gone on to extend their arms and let him into their lives. The thought of his new family and how loved he felt never ceased to amaze him.

Mum and Dad planned to trial Nigeria for a year; they would let out their Belfast home, so that if all else failed they would have somewhere to return to. Dad had told Mum that Nigeria was so very different, that she may not adjust to life there and its ways, but Mum shrugged it off saying, if she could adjust to Belfast and its bombs and bullets she could adjust to anywhere.

Dad was seen rubbing the steam off the window and peering out. All he would have seen was darkness as it was pitch black outside. No landmarks to advise him of his location would have been visible. Even though two men had just boarded and sat beside him for some reason he didn't ask them for his location. Perhaps they were caught up, distracted by their own affairs, maybe he didn't want to interrupt them. Instead Dad spotted a passing conductor and stopped him,

“Excuse Me sir.”

The man appraised my Dad and smiled,

“How can I help?”

“Will we reach Belfast soon?”

“Hmm,” he looked at his watch, “aye, we will indeed, I'd say in approximately 10 – 15 minutes.”

“Is that all? Great, thank you,” Dad returned his smile.

“No probs mate,” the conductor said and made his way out of the carriage.

As Dad started to prepare himself for the hitting the dreaded ice wall he would face when he left the warm carriage, a deafening bang shook everything around him. He would have been immersed in blinding light and searing heat.

His ears would have been ringing; if he looked around to find the source he would have seen nothing but smoke and flames. By this stage the momentum of the train had stopped as the emergency brakes were pressed.

He was said to have flailed around trying to breathe but the pungent, smoky air would have served no purpose but to scorch his lungs. If he peered through the smoke he would have seen the chair opposite him in flames. He would have seen his legs engulfed in flames, flames that were reported to be white, then blue.

“Please God, help me,” he had screamed, his voice rasping against the white hot smoke. Those who had managed to get off the train heard his screams; they were the last sounds my Dad made.

Meanwhile at home Mum was just about to watch the TV, cup of tea in hand when a loud bang caused the house to shake. She immediately deduced that another bomb had gone off. This one must have been nearby; very rarely did the house actually shake. Moments later sirens blared followed by the distinctive rumbles of helicopters, going by their vibrations they right overhead. Curious Mum opened the back door to see if she could see them. She remembers never having seen helicopters fly so low before; they illuminated the dark sky, turning it an eerie blue as their huge search lights swept back and forth across the area.

Retreating back indoors, she started to think of what was nearby, what could have been destroyed this time? Nothing occurred to her. Five minutes later it did; the train line.

She turned up the news and awaited the customary newsflash that followed every loud noise in Belfast. Sure enough an announcement came through.

“News just in,” the newscaster Gloria Hunniford read, “a bomb has exploded in a Belfast bound train on the Dunmurray line.”

Mum's tea dropped and spread all over the carpet, luckily it just missed the girls.

She looked at the time. Max should be home.

She rang her mother.

“Hi Gabrielle, I was just chatting about you.”

“Mum, a bomb was on a train, Max was on a train and he's not home, there was a bomb, Max isn't here,” she frantically, incoherently tried to rely what she knew.

“Gabrielle, he said he would be late didn't he?” slightly reassured Mum agreed.

“We'll be up now,” her mother said.

Mum took out the ironing board and began to iron, more news came in as she did so, casualties, fatalities, IRA, she heard it all, but kept on ironing.

She must have ironed for a long time, because her mother and father, grandmother and sisters were suddenly in the house. They lived two hours away.

Chapter Twenty Seven

In theory I was there but in practice I was too young to remember and I thank God for that. However, I did not escape from the events of that night in January 1980. The accounts of that night have been retold so many times that they are like the stuff of fable in mine and my sisters histories. Every year from Christmas to January 17, Mum walks us through the chronicle of events leading to and the aftermath of my Dad's death. She needed to tell someone I suppose and in the absence of any form of therapy who better to tell than the only people she was left with? Her daughters.

That night has become a tangible part of Mum, the events relived so many times that they are as solid and real as I am. It is a night she will never forget; she will take it with her to her grave. For my sisters and me, it is likely that we will too.

That night as recounted to me:

Very quickly the house became full. Someone led the girls upstairs. Despite the news and despite her packed house all Mum could do was iron. Her father was glued to the TV and radio news. Cups clattered in the kitchen, the smell of stewed tea permeated the air, hushed chatter encircled her yet she continued to iron; she ironed for hours.

A loud knock silenced the room momentarily. Everyone was eager for news, for some clarification or better still for Max to return. Two men came in they identified themselves as CID. They needed to speak to Mum. Her parents stayed by her side and the room emptied. The men were hostile and standoffish their stern faces emitting waves of distrust.

“We have reason to believe that your husband Mr Olorunda, was travelling on a Belfast bound train this evening? As you are no doubt aware there was an explosion on a train, which we believe to have been a bomb.”

“Passengers have identified your husband as having been in the carriage where the bomb is suspected to have detonated from.”

The other man interjected,

“Why was your husband travelling on the train?”

They continued questioning and as they did they outlined the reasons for their suspicions,

“Somehow, someone who we believe to be the bomber escaped. It is imperative that you tell us why was your husband was on the train?”

Before Gabrielle could even reply her father was on his feet and threw the men out.

The night continued much like before, with countless people coming and going and all eyes on Mum. At 5.30 am the RUC broke the night's morbid routine, this time confirming that Max had indeed died on the train. Mum's eyes were drawn to her mother who was sitting on the couch. She was gently breaking the news to the utterly bewildered children...

“Daddy had to go to heaven” she heard her saying, her strong mother was struggling to hold back tears.

“God needed him really quickly and he had to go with him tonight. He told me to tell you that he didn't get time to say goodbye.”

Three sets of mournful eyes searched her face; Alison's little face was a picture of absolute bleakness, for she understood her Grandmother's words and was slowly realising that her beloved Daddy was dead.

After that reality came and went for Mum, the only thing she is certain of was that the milk man called. By this stage she was no longer ironing so she answered the door to him. Bizarrely amidst all that was going on, she recalls telling him that her husband had just died and could he leave a full crate of milk. Apparently the milk man looked at her utterly perplexed.

Chapter Twenty Eight

In true Catholic tradition a wake was held. Over the next few days, people were reputed to have come from far and wide, politicians, journalists, colleagues, family, friends and neighbours; all keen to pay their condolences. Even Dad's brother finally managed to get some leave and made the journey across the water from Edinburgh to pay his respects.

When the full story of events emerged, it turned out that my Dad's train had been bombed by the IRA. Two bombers had sat down opposite him with a bomb. It had gone off killing two innocents; my Dad and a teenage school boy. One of the bombers was also killed. It transpired that indeed someone had run from the train, the second bomber. They had of course found him and quickly established that he had carried the bomb with his cohort. His accomplice who had died at the scene.

Soon after his escape the surviving bomber collapsed, so severe were his injuries. He had been horrifically burnt in the bomb. He was sent to hospital and his recovery was doubtful.

The CID men, now clear on the sequence of events called to the wake and apologised to mum and her parents. The runaway bomber explained why they were so hostile when they first came and why searchlights had illuminated the sky immediately after the bomb.

As news of the bomb spread, tributes came from far and wide, the bombers were condemned. Conservative MP Winston Churchill appalled by the attack said: “The fact is that innocent people are dead and the Provisional IRA is responsible, as they have been on hundreds of other occasions. Once again they stand condemned in the eyes of the civilized world.”

The Catholic Church expressed its disapproval by refusing to allow the bombers remains to be placed in consecrated grounds.

The IRA released a long statement stating;

“The explosion occurred prematurely and the intended target was not the civilians travelling on the train. We always take the most stringent precautions to ensure the safety of all civilians in the vicinity of a military or commercial bombing operation. The bombing mission on Thursday night was not an exception to this principle. Unfortunately the unexpected is not something we can predict or prevent in the war situation this country is in, the consequences of the unexpected are often grave and distressing, as Thursday nights accident shows. Our sorrow at losing a young married man, Kevin Delaney is heightened by the additional deaths of Mr Olorunda and Mark Cochrane. To all their bereaved families we offer our dearest and heartfelt sympathy.”

Despite their dearest and heartfelt sympathy, it was reported back to my family that in a pub, in the Markets area of Belfast (a known IRA enclave and coincidentally the then home to the bombers) that jubilant toasts were being raised. For not only had the bomb been a success, it had also been high profile and best of all, they had got a
‘Nigger.'

Dad's coffin was sealed and later it would be revealed that the reason behind this was that so little of him remained. They had to identify him through his dental records. Mum sat with the coffin every second that it remained in the house. Now and again she would drift off and every time she woke she reached out to touch of remained of her husband and instead felt only lifeless hard wood. She did this so often that it became an automatic reflex, a reflex that stays with her today.

As she sat there she remembers hearing alien noises, agonised guttural moans. When she looked to find their source she was horrified to find that they were coming from her. Dad was buried in Mum's home town Strabane. Apparently there was a high presence of media and press covering the funeral yet she was not aware. The only residual memory she has of that day was that Alison was by her side, repeating over and over through her tears, “I'll look after you mummy.”

As they lowered Dad into his final resting place Mum collapsed, her life force ebbing away. Her guides no longer able to hold her weight such was the force of their own despair momentarily released her. Her day was to become the stuff of nightmares as she recounts falling forward into the dark wet place, down, down and down until she was laying on the coffin. She had fallen into the grave and she didn't have strength or inclination to even attempt to get out. She remembers thinking, “just bury me too.”