Nell by Jeanette Baker

you?”
    â€œNo. I was born in Kilvara.”
    â€œAny IRA activity in Kilvara?”
    â€œNone that I’ve seen.”
    â€œIt’s in the middle of sheep country, isn’t it?”
    â€œAye.”
    Wilson leaned back in his chair. “Mostly Catholic, if I recall, except for the land around it.”
    Frankie’s face lost all expression. “The Fitzgeralds own the land.”
    â€œTough landlord, is he?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    Wilson looked steadily at the tall boy with the startling gray eyes and noted that he desperately needed a new jacket. “Why are y’ itchin’ to join the IRA?”
    Frankie’s fists clenched. “They’re not going to let us in, not ever,” he said hotly. “The only way is t’ fight ’em.”
    Robbie Wilson stretched out his long legs. “Are you alone in this, Frankie, or does y’r family share your politics?”
    â€œNo one knows anythin’ about me. The only person I ever talk to is—” He stopped. “She knows nothin’ about this, either.”
    â€œYou’ve got a girl back home?” Wilson asked casually.
    â€œNo, sir. Jilly’s not a girl.” He frowned. “I mean, she’s a girl, but she’s not for me. She’s Pyers Fitzgerald’s daughter, and she’s Protestant.”
    Wilson stared long and hard at the boy seated before him, wondering if the lad had any idea how much he’d divulged with such a confession. There was more here than met the eye. How did a Catholic laborer with shabby clothes and an unschooled accent capture the interest of the daughter of one of the richest men in Northern Ireland? Quickly, he made his decision. Leaning forward, elbows on his knees, he said, “Let me tell you a bit about the provisional IRA.”
    ***
    Burning lorries, manned by masked Protestants blocking the entrance to the Falls, cemented Frankie’s decision. He squeezed through a hole in the fence that separated Springfield Road from the Shankill. Along the barrier, bonfires flared, illuminating the faces of teenagers, smoking and drinking beer and gesturing angrily at masked men arming the barricades. Men dressed in the official uniforms of Ulster’s police force, the RUC, stood by laughing and chatting with the masked men. A wave of fury rose in Frankie’s chest, and he turned away.
    Rows of dark, silent houses stretched out before him. Not a single electric light relieved the blackness. His aunt greeted him. “Thank God y’re home, Frankie.” She shooed him inside and locked the door. “I imagined the worst. First the lights went, and now we’re barricaded into the neighborhood. There’s soup on the stove. The Lord was on my side when I decided on wood instead of gas. At least we’ve hot food in the house.”
    A single candle flickered on the table. Frankie lowered himself into a chair and waited to be served. Mary Boyle was his mother’s sister, and by his standards, her two-bedroom house was a palace. It even had its own toilet. Since the death of her husband, she lived alone. Having Frankie in the house brought the bounce back to her step.
    She set a plate of wheaten bread with a single pat of butter before him, walked back to the stove for the soup, and brought two bowls to the table. Frankie sniffed appreciatively. Aunt Mary believed in eating well. The broth was rich with meat. She watched while he ate nearly half the bowl before she picked up her spoon.
    â€œThis is delicious, Aunt Mary,” he said sincerely. “Thank you for waitin’ on me.”
    â€œWill y’ be leavin’ now, Frankie?” she asked anxiously.
    He thought of his conversation with Robbie Wilson and shook his head. “Not just yet. The whole thing may blow over.”
    She set down her spoon, leaving her soup untouched. “They’re threatenin’ t’ close the water and sewer plants. I don’t