To Daddy and Mummy, for the memories
DA never had any luck with cars. Clutch, fanbelt, jump leads, brakes and petrol became words that brought dread. Some cars only lasted a week but each time a new one pulled up we all piled in, one on Da’s knee steering, one doing the gears, everyone else running alongside cheering and banging the windows.
When the Pope came to Ireland, Da bought a big Lada. He put a bench in the boot for the wee ones to travel in comfort. Brendan and I painted it with yellow emulsion — there was yellow tyre tracks right through the estate and everyone called it the Yellow Submarine.
Ten of us were armed with a facecloth and a bottle of dilute, and there was great excitement when we joined the convoy heading to Drogheda, squashed to death, speed limited to 30mph. All the cars passing us tooted, cheered and waved — you would have thought we were carrying the Pope himself.
Mummy made us say the Rosary twice. When Brendan and Peter started fighting Da just missed the ditch when he turned to thump them. In Dundalk, he pulled over to see a man in Joe’s Bar. After another Rosary he hadn’t came out so mummy sent Brendan in to get him. When he didn’t come out, mummy went in, and Da shuffled out the door in reverse saying “it’s terrible a man can’t have a drink”, jumped in, straightened the mirror, put his chin on the dashboard, put his boot to the board and announced there would be no more pee stops, enough’s enough.
When we got to Drogheda we were directed into a field to park the car and we joined thousands of people who were walking to the field where the Pope was due to arrive.
There were stalls along the road selling yellow and white Pope flags, headbands, Pope seats, medals and beads. When we passed the chip vans, mummy reminded us of the lovely sandwiches she had made that morning.
It was at one of these stalls mummy lost Johnny. She was like a lunatic grabbing children, shouting his name scaring the life out of people. It was impossible — the crowds were frightening. Someone caught the back of my shoe and it came off. I spent hours with one shoe, trailing after mummy trying to find Johnny.
When the Popemobile passed, the crowd roared and clapped, people were dropping to their knees, holding up photos of loved ones, trying to push terrified children on to the Popemobile, running alongside waving flags jumping up and down trying to touch him.
The bishops were clapping, singing and pushing people off, the Pope’s face appeared kind and gentle — when he looked my way I mouthed to him to please find Johnny. I was sure he saw me.
When he was only a dot in the distance, it got colder, and Johnny, who was only seven and in an incubator for the first three months of his life, still hadn’t been found as we all headed back to the car.
True to form, Brendan delighted us all when he spied the Yellow Submarine — it was hard to miss — we all ran towards it and found Johnny sleeping by the wheel with his wee Pope flag. Mummy was squealing with joy, Johnny unfazed.
Da landed soon after with his tale of the makeshift toilets collapsing, him pulling pensioners out from under a fate worse than death, then giving them our sandwiches.
On the journey home no one was waving, tooting or cheering. The tailback went on for miles, Da’s insistence on helping everyone else was not appreciated when we passed a car that had broken down on the side of the road. Other cars pretended not to notice, slipped on by.
Mummy insisted we were all tired and hungry but he pulled over, tied the broken-down banger to our banger. A 10mph journey dragged through Dundalk and Newry only breaking free in Armagh where we were met with an angry bunch of Protestants firing eggs, shouting “No Pope here”.
Kate Mclaughlin, This letter is to my five-year old self: The date is August 30, 2010, your mother wakes you from your deep slumber, gently touching you on the arm. You are dressed into your shirt and tie uniform, your younger brother Zach asking why you must leave.
You, of course, are still dazed to the fact of why you aren’t in your natural clothes of grey tracksuit pants and Liverpool jersey while bingeing on your daily intake of ‘Bob the Builder’.
I’ve written this letter to show you how this morning will be the start of many more.