a bomb in it exploded in Calendar Street. As a result, 62 passers-by taken to hospital. Couple of shooting incidents. Daddy apparently just missed the explosion.
Rained tonight, thank goodness – great water shortage.
At about 11.30 p.m. a great flash followed by a huge explosion shook house. Sure Belfast was up in smoke – turned out to be work of God. Thunder!
Tues, Jan 4
Off to a bad start – we didn’t surface until twenty to one (disgraceful)! Had a very rushed lunch, Mammy had to be in work at one o’clock.
In the afternoon I had asked Frankie to come down to break the monotony of the holidays. Since the holidays have begun, I haven’t seen even one person from school.
Wed, Jan 5
Misty and wet all day. We got up fairly early (for a change!). Mammy and John started the day with a row. Mammy had heard that he and Aidan had thrown paint-bombs yesterday – and I’ve a queer suspicion that they had! The two boys looked on it as a joke. Soon however all was peaceful again.
I got my hair cut in the afternoon. I was so embarrassed by it sticking out on end when I came out that I wore a headscarf home and deliberately avoided meeting Michael Ewings, Maurice Murphy etc!
There was ‘The Great Debate on Ulster’ tonight and inevitably, it was on in our house (as in almost every house in Northern Ireland and Eire). It was unusual for 8 politicians to speak peacefully and with respect to each other. However, nothing came out of it all and was therefore a flop to many people.
Four boys took Jim and Patrick McGlade and beat them up (said it was the treatment given out in Long Kesh!)
Thurs, Jan 6
A Holy Day of Obligation, we went to 11.30 Mass. A cold, dismal day suited the dull atmosphere at home. All the decorations left from Christmas were put away and the last traces of Christmas disappeared.
I wanted to go into town but there seemed to be tension in the air. A lot of military activity and a shop blown up. I decided to go tomorrow instead (hoping I’ll get some material to make a pair of trousers). Mammy and Daddy both in good moods.
A huge explosion tonight – have to wait till tomorrow to find out where it was.
Brought the dog out. Very peaceful night, no cars on road, no street-lights lit – very normal here. Another internment camp opens – probably for women.
The ‘normal’ place where I was reared and was happy to live was being grotesquely transformed into the most militarised city in Western Europe. I wanted to go shopping in the city centre but my parents warned me against it for fear of IRA bombs. Soldiers – with rifles at the ready – patrolled our streets in Saracen armoured cars and were bombarded by bricks, bottles, petrol bombs and nail bombs flung by Catholic youths. Minor stone-throwing would degenerate into full-blown rioting, as the security forces responded with baton charges, rubber bullets and even live ammunition.
Few of our car journeys were completed without us being stopped and questioned at army checkpoints. Huge coils of barbed wire denied us access to once familiar streets. I was terrified that my father, like dozens of other innocent West Belfast men, could be arrested and interned at any time.
The IRA, the army and loyalist paramilitaries became more deeply embroiled in their bloody conflicts. In the seven months before internment was introduced in August 1971, around thirty people were killed across Northern Ireland. In the last five months of the year, 150 died.
As 1971 passed into 1972, the life that I longed for as a 16-year-old – the world I read about in Jackie every week – seemed to be slipping further and further beyond my reach. Our lives had changed.
As the end of the Christmas holidays approached, I was more preoccupied than ever with the episodes of violence, upheaval and political bear-baiting being relayed to us night after night on television. My fascination with such matters, though, was nothing new. In the summer of 1969, a month after my fourteenth birthday, I started to compile my first Troubles scrapbook; pasting black-and-white images of civil unrest and Catholic homes ablaze on to its pastel-coloured pages. It was only when Suzette gave me a new diary – its pristine pages begging to be filled – that I felt inspired for the very first time to commit my thoughts to paper.
Once inside my bedroom, tucked away at the end of our narrow, wood-panelled landing, I turned the key in the solid wood door and insulated myself against Tito’s noisy yelping and the pestering of my four brothers. I stuck cuttings in my scrapbook and confided in my diary. With the transistor turned up loud, I sat cross-legged on the floor to do homework, my back pressed against the Dimplex radiator for heat. On other nights, I stretched out contentedly on top of my single bed and lost myself in the latest book I was reading: Once There Was a War, Anna Karenina, 1984 and Persuasion, to name but a few. Given any opportunity, I would turn to the Singer sewing machine at the end of my bed, and while away the hours turning out simple garments for my mother or myself.
Suzette, who lived just a couple of doors away, was my most regular visitor. Having already left school, she relished being free from homework and revision and we spent hours in each other’s houses – gossiping, listening to music on the radio or playing vinyl records, if I succeeded in commandeering the family record player for my own use. Surrounded by clothes, records, magazines and books strewn untidily about the room, we consumed gallons of tea. Whatever I was doing, I insisted the boys had to knock to get in. When distant plumes of thick smoke signalled a vehicle or building on fire, I would peer out the window guessing at its source, until a news bulletin confirmed a riot or an explosion. Sometimes I sewed; anything to relieve the dreadful boredom of those dismal January days.
Within the first few days of the New Year, it was depressingly clear that the temporary respite provided by the Christmas celebrations had been just that: temporary. As my teenage world continued to contract, the obligation to update my Collins diary became a vital part of my daily routine.
Fri, Jan 7
I wanted to go down town today but not allowed, I go down to Suzette’s, she’s home for the weekend. Bored in their house – only talk of nursing and holidays.
Went over to the Co-op with Mammy, heard all these stories about men being lifted by army – is very frightening. Daddy could be lifted any time.
Mammy and Daddy went to visit Aunt Alice and Josephine – they weren’t in. They had a terrible interrogation at a roadblock by army – names, addresses, occupation, where they were going and why, and then they had to wait to be cleared from army headquarters.
I intended doing some studying for the exams but I just can’t be bothered – will do it tomorrow (or some other time).
Sat, Jan 8
Got up to rain and cold and went into town with Mammy. Town was deserted – the same as it was before Christmas – almost as many soldiers as people. I got a letter today from Agnes. She says she’s having a great time in the Shetlands – so peaceful and normal.
Last night was a bad night. I was sewing all night. It passes the time instead of sitting watching TV. I can’t wait to get back to school on Monday.
Today’s exactly one week since New Year’s Day. It seems so long since we went to Dublin.
Sun, Jan 9
Dense fog. Went to Mass in St. Michael’s new church. Beautiful church, although very plain. We went to an Andersonstown Civil Resistance meeting in the afternoon – a marvellous meeting. John Hume, Paddy Devlin, Jock Stallard (English Labour) and Michael Farrell all there.