TEN YEARS AGO this morning I woke up in a hotel in Portadown, Co Armagh, dreading the day ahead. Banned from marching on the Garvaghy Road, the Orange Order had arranged protests with a view to shutting down the whole of Northern Ireland, and I was one of the team covering events for this newspaper.
I’d been in the town before. People, well the Protestants I met anyway, didn’t really want to talk to a Dublin journalist. In 10 minutes on the Garvaghy Road I could get enough quotes to fill 10 notebooks. So much for balance.
I took a walk on Portadown main street that day. "I'm from The Irish Times, would you mind . . ." I could never get much further than that. In one pub, all eyes swivelled in my direction and I could have sworn I heard the theme tune from Deliverance. On the upside, there were excellent cake shops. I consoled myself with an éclair.
Ten years ago this afternoon I wandered down to a roundabout where a crowd of protesters had gathered. It seemed peaceful enough at first and was a bit more promising on the interview front. At one point, I spoke to a rather engaging fellow called “Greyhound” who was much friendlier than his shaven head and tattoos suggested.
Then I spotted a dark-haired, skinny, tallish twentysomething in the crowd and it felt as though the sun had come out. That feeling of being in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.
That was how it was for me, anyway. To him, I was just a reporter from Dublin who was taking things down wrong in her notebook. I thought I’d lost him at one point, but he was behind me, reading over my shoulder and giving helpful suggestions. After that I appointed him my official Portadown protest tour guide. He told me he had just come down with his sister for a “dander”; they both had a day off work because of the protest. I invented some random excuse to get his phone number. When people started throwing stones, I lost him.
Ten years ago this teatime, I finished writing my article, filed it to the newsdesk and came up with a plan. I dialled his number and told him I needed to do a story from the other side of the hill, the Protestant side, because it wasn’t being covered adequately, and that I needed his help. He was cautious but eventually agreed. He would pick me up in half an hour. I applied lipstick and wondered what might come of it. I wanted something to come of it. And I wasn’t talking about an article.
My heart raced as we walked up to the barricade on the other side of Drumcree hill, though it had nothing to do with the men in balaclavas throwing flaming bottles at the police. In view of the lynching possibilities, we had concocted a cover story. I was Rosie, an English journalist with a cut-glass accent and a newsdesk back in London.
Greyhound appeared at one point though, giving it all “Ach, Róisín, what about you wee girl?” and my cover was blown. We left.
Were there any clubs open I asked, not wanting the night to end. No clubs, not even a pub. Eh, had I not noticed Northern Ireland had officially shut down? Could we go to his house? We could. I drank a bottle of Smirnoff Ice in his kitchen and he looked, if I’m honest, scared. He drove me back to my hotel and we sat in his car until 4am. I did all the talking. About my marriage break-up. My insecurities. My thoughts on the Orange Order (I wasn’t a fan). And Hugo Duncan (ditto). When I left the car, I was convinced I had talked my way out of a potential relationship. But “happy days”, as he likes to say, I was wrong.
This morning I will wake up beside a dark-haired, skinny, tallish thirtysomething and our two babies in his mother’s house, where our 10th anniversary barbecue is planned. To the untrained eye we couldn’t be more different, my man and me. But we sing off the same hymn sheet in the ways that matter, and everyone knows the Prods have all the best hymns.
And so this morning, one of us will get the potties, the other one will snuggle back under the duvet for five minutes’ peace, which with any luck will turn into 15. I will watch him from behind half-asleep eyes and marvel at the fact that his face still makes me feel the way I did that night on the hill. We will bring our children to watch the parades and their granda will show them his sash.
Ten years ago I could never have imagined being here – part of this family, part of Portadown, part of him. Now, a decade later, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.
roisin@irishtimes.com
THIS WEEKEND
Róisín will continue to fail to understand her in-law-in-waiting’s obsession with salad cream.
Some things are just wrong.