Two Sides of the Street

There were some questions that you just didn't ask, even at home. But sometimes Niamh's curiosity got the better of her.

“Dad? Why is there still a solid yellow line painted down the middle of the street outside?” she asked her father one Tuesday.

Her father laid his newspaper aside. “You should already know the answer to that, Niamh. It marks the border between Northern Ireland and Ireland in our town. It's been that way since before any of us were born.”

“But if East and West Germany can be reunited, why can't Ireland and Northern Ireland?” Niamh persisted.

Her father sighed heavily. “It's not the same here. Unless you'd rather go back to the bad old days when there was constant fighting between the Orangemen and the Irish Republican Army.”

Niamh shook her head. “I'd rather have the peace we have now.”

“Don't rock the boat, then,” he said.

---------

After dinner, she looked out of her upstairs bedroom window, at the yellow line in the middle of the street. It wasn't a wall like the concrete one that used to divide Berlin into East and West. This “wall” was invisible. If only it wasn't needed.

She opened her laptop and clicked on her favorite web browser. Which website first? Like using the TV's remote control, she just skimmed her way from website to website. Nothing looked interesting until she found a website that allowed its users to submit poems to it.

There were plenty of both writers and poems to read. Without any hesitation, she registered a username and a password, and then browsed through the selection of poems. The oldest were several years back, but there were a few that had been submitted more recently.

One caught her attention. Its title was “Crossing the Border” and it had been written by someone named Devon O'Sullivan:

There is no unity in division,

Whether you build a concrete wall,

Put up a barbed-wire fence,

Or paint a yellow line on a street

Americans used to have a saying,

“Separate but equal”. In South Africa,

They used the term apartheid.

Here we say that's just how it has to be.

Why can't we cross the border

And bring two halves together?

Why do they have to remain apart

When they'd be happier as one?

Perhaps one day you'll see me

Crossing the border, risking it all

To be on the other side, until

They drag me back home again

She liked it a lot. She clicked on the thumbs-up symbol below the poem and typed her reaction in the comment field: Thank you for writing this. It speaks about the things that I wish people could talk about openly, whether inside our homes or out on the pavement. Have you submitted other poems on this website? If so, I'd like to read them, too. --Niamh Gallagher

Niamh closed the browser window. Time for homework. Her British Literature class was studying Shakespeare and they could choose any of his plays, pick a scene in it, and then write about it.

She opened her bedroom window, to let in some fresh air. Then she put on her headphones, turned on her iPod and touched the on-screen “randomizer” button. Maybe there was a song she hadn't heard in a long time. Moments later, she heard the opening notes of “Where the Streets Have No Name” by U2. Perfect.

She took the book of Shakespeare plays out of her backpack and scanned the list of plays. Her forefinger paused on “Romeo and Juliet”. Why not? She turned to the play and wondered which scene would prove the most interesting. Maybe the balcony scene?

A moment later something white flew through the window and landed in her lap.

Niamh stared at it. A paper aeroplane? She looked out of the window. There wasn't anyone in view. Maybe it had come through her bedroom by chance? But where had it come from?

Curious, she unfolded the paper aeroplane and read the note written on it: I hope I've reached you safe and sound. You said you liked my poem. Yes, I've written more. Perhaps we could meet and I could read them to you? What about the park up the street. There's an old oak tree. Meet me there tomorrow after school. --Devon O'Sullivan

Cheeky bugger. Expecting her to agree without even a face-to-face first. And how would he know it was her at the park? Did he even know what she looked like? Maybe he did. After all, he'd done his best to aim his paper aeroplane at her bedroom window. Not brave enough to stand where she could see him, though.

Fine. I'll meet him. He'd better be there.

----------

When school ended, instead of walking straight home, Niamh headed for the park.

She even knew which oak tree he'd referred to. It was one of her favorites.

There was a teenaged boy, about her own age, sitting on the ground in front of the tree. He was looking down at the book in his lap.

Niamh cleared her throat audibly. “Ahem!”

Suddenly he looked up, saw her, and then smiled. “You must be Niamh.”

She nodded. “And you must be Devon.”

“Quite right,” he said. “I wasn't sure about my aim last night. There was a cross-breeze for a moment and I was afraid that my paper aeroplane would fly off-course.”

“It reached me or I wouldn't be here,” Niamh said. “Mind if I sit down?”

“Be my guest,” Devon said.

She sat down and laid her backpack aside. “Why haven't I seen you at school? Are you being home-schooled?”

He shook his head. “I go to a Catholic school and live with my parents across the street from your house.”

Niamh froze and tried not to stare. “You're Catholic?”

Devon nodded. “Is that a problem?”

“Sort of,” she said. “You see, I'm Protestant.”

“Oh my,” he said and looked around them. But there wasn't anyone closer than about fifty feet away. No one seemed to notice them and probably couldn't hear what they said.

“That's putting it mildly,” Niamh said. “Do you know how much trouble you could be in if anyone knew that you were in this park?”

Devon nodded and looked down at his book again. “I don't have many friends. I thought maybe you could be the kind of friend I've always wanted. Someone who likes to read poetry as much as I like to write it. You did say you liked that one poem.”

“And you were willing to cross the street just to meet me,” she said.

“My dad says that sometimes you have to bend a rule to make things turn out well,” he said.

She stood up.

Devon looked up at her. “Please don't leave.”

“I'm not the one on the wrong side of the street,” Niamh said. “You are.” She sighed. “How in the world are you going to get back to your side without being seen?”

“I got over here without any problems,” he said. “I should be able to get back just as easily.”

She couldn't help smiling. “You really are a cheeky bugger, you know.”

Devon laughed softly. “Mum says that I take after Dad. It's one of the reasons why she originally fell in love with him. She liked that he was willing to take chances.”

Her face turned serious. “You really should head home now. I need to do the same. If you promise not to tell anyone that we met here, I'll do the same. Deal?”

He nodded. “Deal.” He paused. “Does this mean we can't meet again someday?”

“If we do, it'll have to be somewhere safer than here,” Niamh said. “Somewhere we don't have to worry about eyes and ears that don't want us together.”

Devon looked thoughtful. “Do you know where the Thruppence Pub is?”

She nodded. It was a place that prided itself on allowing anyone from Ireland and Northern Ireland to meet, drink, and talk in peace. “I've never been inside it.”

He gave her a puzzled look. “Why not?”

“I don't drink alcohol,” Niamh said.

“They probably have kids' drinks available,” Devon said. “When should we meet there?”

She looked away from him as she thought, just in case someone was watching them now. There didn't seem to be anyone looking.

“Friday evening,” she said. “After dinner.”

“Your parents won't get suspicious?” he asked.

“I'll ask Mum,” Niamh said. “She'll probably permit it. Besides, she's good at keeping secrets. What about your parents?”

“I've been to the pub before,” Devon said. “They'll probably let me go there again. As long as I promise to avoid any alcohol.” He smiled again. “It was nice meeting you, Niamh.”

She smiled back. “It was nice meeting you, too, Devon.”

Reaching down, she grabbed her backpack and ran for home.

----------

Friday finally arrived and thankfully Niamh had permission from her mother to meet some of her school friends at the pub. Her father wasn't home yet. He still had some work to take care of.

Niamh didn't usually dress up, but she thought she ought to at least a little this time. Technically, this could be called her first date with Devon. She put on a pale pink blouse, a knee-length white skirt, white stockings, and a pair of her newest trainers. There was no way she was going to walk all the way to the pub in high-heeled shoes. Her ankles and insteps would be in pain most of the way. Hence, the trainers.

“Try to be home before midnight,” Mum told Niamh.

“I will.” Niamh hugged her mother. “Thank you, Mum.”

“Call if you need a ride home,” she told Niamh.

The latter nodded and ran out the front door, closing it behind her.

---------

The pub was crowded and noisy when Niamh entered. So many people. They only stopped talking when they drank from their glasses of local beer. There didn't seem to be any other teenagers in sight.

She made her way through the crowd, trying to see where Devon was. Sometimes she coughed from the cigarette smoke, something she was grateful she didn't have to deal with at home or at school.

No sign of Devon.

Niamh sighed. Why did I even bother coming here?

But then someone tapped her on the shoulder.

She turned around to see Devon, smiling at her. He was wearing a white sleeveless turtleneck, dark pants, and dark shoes.

He handed her a glass of Coca-Cola. “Enjoy.”

They touched glasses and drank.

“I'm glad you came,” Devon said. “You weren't here when I came. I thought maybe you'd gotten cold feet.”

“I thought maybe you had,” Niamh said.

“Not a chance,” he said. “There isn't a girl at school who could hold a candle to you.”

She smiled and shook her head. “With a line like that, I'm surprised you don't have a girlfriend already.”

“Maybe the right girl wasn't there,” Devon said. “I had to go to a park to meet her.”

“Did you get home all right?” Niamh asked.

“A police officer spoke to me when I reached the Catholic side of the street,” he said. “Asking what I was up to. He probably thought I was dealing dope or something. I told him I'd met a girl but we had to meet in secret. Could he keep it a secret? He smiled and nodded. He told me that that was how he'd met his wife-to-be.”

“Was she Catholic too?” she asked.

Devon shook his head. “She was Protestant. Which was much more dangerous back then than it is today.”

“I'm surprised their parents didn't try to keep them apart,” Niamh said.

“They did, but it didn't do any good,” he said. “They eloped.”

“Good for them,” she said.

“Definitely,” he said.

She drank more of her Coca-Cola. “You said you had more poems to share with me?”

Devon blinked at first. “Oh, right. I did say I'd do that, didn't I?”

Niamh nodded. “You're not the absentminded sort, I hope.”

“Only sometimes,” he said. “Should I just pick one at random?”

“Go for it,” she said.

Devon was about to speak when a squad of police officers entered the pub. The inside of the pub was suddenly silent.

“Anything we can do for you, officers?” the owner asked from behind the bar. “A pint of Guinness Stout maybe?”

“We're looking for a line-crosser,” the police sergeant said. “Teenager. He was spotted at a park on the other side of the street a few days ago, talking with a girl.”

“Nothing wrong with that, sir,” the owner said. “Relax and join us for a drink or two.”

Devon and Niamh crouched down and hid behind the bar. The owner reached under the bar, grabbed a large white tablecloth and dropped it over them. Then he acted as if he hadn't seen anything unusual.

“You're welcome to look around, of course,” the owner went on. “We've nothing to hide.”

The officers went from table to table.

As they did so, the owner nudged Devon and Niamh until they were behind him. “Stay there and, for God's sake, stay silent,” the owner whispered.

Their tablecloth-covered heads nodded. There wasn't a sound from either of them.

“Everything all right, officers?” the owner asked the police officers.

“They were spotted coming in here,” the police sergeant said. “They must've left by the back door.”

“And probably ran all the way home,” the owner said.

“Probably,” the police sergeant said, looking doubtful and then suspicious. “You shouldn't harbor fugitives here.”

“I have never done so,” the owner said.

“And you'd better not in the future,” the police sergeant said and took one more look around the pub's interior. Then he gestured to his men and they left the pub.

Once they were outside, the noise inside the pub rose, but not quite back to its previous volume.

The owner sighed in relief. He took the tablecloth off of Niamh and Devon, folded it, and put it back on a shelf behind the bar. “You'd better get out of here and soon,” he told them. “There's no telling whether they'll come back if they do think you're here.”

They almost stood up, but the owner shook his head. They kept crouching, even though their knees didn't enjoy it.

“We'll need a ride,” Devon said softly. “I can pay for it.”

“No need,” the owner said. “I've always thought of my pub as an oasis where Protestants and Catholics can gather without any fear. But maybe things are getting bad again. I'll have Gareth drive you home.” He gestured to a man at the other end of the bar. The man glanced in their direction, nodded once, but said nothing as he came over to them.

----------

When Niamh arrived at home, her parents were still awake and looking very concerned.

“Your mother told me where you were,” her father said. “I'm glad that you at least asked her for permission. I might not have allowed it. Don't you know how touchy the police can get? Even at a pub that allows for mixing of Protestants and Catholics?”

“No one got hurt, Dad,” Niamh said. “The owner's brother gave us a ride home.”

“Us?” he asked. “You were meeting someone there?”

“A friend from school,” she said and nodded at her mother. “Devon. You know about him, Mum.”

“Nice boy,” her mother lied to Niamh's father. “He comes from a nice family. You'd like him, Eoin.”

“Devon?” her father repeated as if trying to remember where he'd heard the name. “Devon O'Sullivan?”

“That's right,” Niamh said. “He writes poetry and submits it online at a poetry website.” She looked at her father, then at her mother, and then back at her father. “What's wrong about it? Or do you know something you've never told Mum or me?”

“Niall O'Sullivan and his Catholic gang murdered my brother when we were teenagers,” her father said quietly. “If I'd gone to the library with my brother that afternoon, I wouldn't be alive today.”

Her mother covered her mouth and tried not to stare at him. “They were part of the I.R.A.?”

Niamh's father shook his head. “They were a separate group, but they supported what the I.R.A. stood for.”

“How is Niall related to Devon?” Niamh asked. Her voice didn't sound like it usually did. It sounded like it belonged to someone else.

“His uncle,” her father said. “Didn't he tell you about all that?”

Niamh shook her head. She found a chair and sat down on it. “We barely had any time to talk before the police arrived at the pub.”

“Did you talk with Devon before that?” her father asked.

Niamh nodded. “In the park up the street.”

“On our side of the street,” her father said.

Niamh nodded again.

Her father looked at her mother and sighed. “We're going to have to speak to the police. They'd better hear it from us instead of from someone else.” He didn't add “from the other side of the street”. He didn't really have to.

Her mother nodded in agreement.

“But I don't want the fighting to start up again,” Niamh said. “I want both sides to live in peace.”

“Not everyone shares that desire,” her father said. “This is why you have to be so careful, even today.”

“Are we going to get into trouble?” Niamh asked. “Just for meeting twice and talking with each other?”

“I don't know,” her father said. “If you're going to fight for peace, there are consequences sometimes.”