Chapter 62
CHAPTER 62
Belfast, 22 May 1971
Maura
Belfast is similar to Dublin in many ways. The city is a mix of big cars and little cars, buses and bicycles. It’s noisy too. Honking horns, engines purring. Someone on the corner shouting, “Fish and chips. Get your fresh fish and chips. Only twenty pence.”
“I’m starving,” Teresa says, sniffing the air as the smell of hot, greasy food wafts toward us.
“Condoms and the pill first,” Nuala says, matronly. “Then you can get whatever you like.”
Teresa giggles, as she does every time the word condom is mentioned.
“Right,” Nuala says. “We should split up. We can’t walk around in a group of nearly fifty; we’ll be knocking people over in the street. Pair off, maybe groups of four of five. But no more. Call into as many chemists as you can. Everyone needs to return with at least one packet of condoms each and the pill. Do not forget the pill.”
“How will we know what they look like?” Teresa asks.
I know she’s talking about condoms, although she can’t bring herself to say it.
Nuala shrugs. “They say ‘Durex’ on the box.”
“You can come with us,” Geraldine says to Teresa, drawing a circle in the air encompassing herself, Bernie, and me.
Teresa’s face flushes.
“I’ll do all the talking,” Geraldine says. “You just have to put the box in your handbag.”
Teresa nods. “I can do that. Sure.”
As Nuala requested, we break into small groups. A cameraman follows Sharon and Nuala. He’s the only reporter who got on the train and, although Sharon never said, I’m guessing he’s her contact in RTé. I’m relieved that there isn’t a camera to follow us as we head in the opposite direction. It will be embarrassing enough to walk brazenly into a chemist shop and ask for contraception without a camera pointed in my face as I do.
The main shopping street is busy. My hopes of dashing in and out of the chemist unseen were fanciful. Geraldine is giddy, like a child on Christmas Eve. She skips instead of walking and she hums the tune of a song I don’t recognize.
It’s not long before we come to a stop outside a chemist. There’s a sign above the door that says PRESCRIPTIONS in thick black lettering, and the man behind the counter is wearing a long white coat that matches his white hair.
Bernie chooses this very moment to discuss the weather. “It’s colder up here than at home, isn’t it?”
Her nerves are palpable, and there’s a jumpy wobble in Teresa’s reply. “February weather in May.”
Despite the chilly air, I’m hot and sticky. My cheeks are no doubt rosy.
“Are we ready?” Ger asks.
I nod. Bernie closes her eyes and exhales sharply, and Teresa looks as if she might cry.
“You ask for condoms, Bernie,” Geraldine suggests.
Bernie taps her chest with her fingertip. “What? Why me?”
“Because you know what the box looks like,” Geraldine says.
There’s a subtle gasp as Teresa pieces two and two together.
“Have you bought some before?” she asks, and there’s a sense of reverence in the way she looks at Bernie.
“Sort of,” Bernie says, tugging at the neck of her blouse as if it’s suddenly too tight. “But never like this.”
“Wow. You’re amazing,” Teresa says.
“Maura and I will take charge of the pills,” Ger says.
“What will I do?” Teresa asks.
Ger smiles kindly. “You can wait out here if it makes you more comfortable.”
Teresa thinks about it for a moment. I can almost see the thoughts churning inside her.
“No,” she says firmly. “I’m coming in. I’ve come all this way, I’m going to buy con…” She coughs and tries again. “I’m going to buy con… Oh Lord.”
“It’s all right,” I say, placing my hand on her shoulder. “Take your time. This is a big step for all of us.”
Teresa closes her eyes and I watch a lump work its way down her throat. Then she opens her eyes, stares straight through the shopwindow, and says, “I am going to buy condoms.” She squeals like a newborn piglet and jumps for joy on the spot. “I said it. Do you hear me? I said condom .” A man walks by, oblivious to us, but Teresa steadies and clamps her hand over her mouth. Geraldine laughs.
Inside the chemist, the first thing I notice is the warmth. Then the smell. Cough drops—the hard black kind my ma always had in her pocket that taste like aniseed. I think of Ma now. I wonder what she would think if she could see me. Would she be ashamed? Probably. But I like to think she might feel different if my da wasn’t lurking over her shoulder.
Bernie approaches the counter first and the man in the white coat with a name tag that says FRANK comes to her service.
“Hello, how can I help you?” Frank says in a thick accent that I decide sounds beautifully melodic.
Bernie falters, and for a moment I think she will struggle to push the words out. But she forces her shoulders back and with confidence says, “Hello. I would like to buy a packet of condoms, please.”
Frank turns around and I hold my breath. I don’t say a word, but I’m worried he won’t turn back. He bends and picks up a small white box that I recognize straightaway as the same box Geraldine’s brother smuggled in for Bernie. Then he passes it to her.
Bernie’s hand is shaking as her fingers curl around the box. She doesn’t wait for the man to tell her a price before she shoves some British money at him and says, “Thank you.” Then she drops her head and runs straight outside.
Teresa repeats the process.
Frank is most entertained by the time I approach the counter.
“Where are you girls from?” he asks.
“Dublin,” I say.
“And you’ve come all the way up here to buy condoms, have you?”
“Yes.”
“All right,” he says, smiling. “It’s a long way to come.”
“Two hours on the train.”
“And I suppose you want a packet too?”
“No, thank you. I would like the pill, please.”
“Can I see your prescription, please?”
“My what?”
“Your prescription from a doctor saying what medication you need.”
“I know what a prescription is,” I say, jamming my hands on my hips. “But I don’t have one. I’m not ill. I just want contraception.”
Frank shakes his head and his response catches me off guard. He was perfectly accommodating when Bernie and Teresa asked for contraception. I don’t understand why he’s taken a dislike to me.
“I’m married,” I find myself saying, pointing to my wedding ring as if it justifies all of this. It has come to mean so little, but I know taking it off might be much worse.
“That’s fine and dandy, ma’am. But that doesn’t change a thing.”
“Please?”
“No prescription, no pill, I’m afraid.”
“What’s wrong?” Geraldine says, stepping forward to stand next to me.
“We can’t get the pill.”
Geraldine’s eyes narrow, confused. “But we were told women in the North can get the pill without problems.”
“No prescription, no pill,” Frank repeats. “I’m sorry, ladies.”
“This is terrible,” Geraldine says. Her excitement empties as if someone had turned her upside down and poured her out. “What are we going to do?”
“I can give you condoms, like your friends?” Frank suggests.
“No.” Geraldine shakes her head. “We need the pill. We told everyone we would get the pill.”
Her panic starts to unravel me as if I am a ball of twine. All our sacrifices will be for nothing if we return to Dublin empty-handed. All of Dan’s lost customers. My parents’ shame. The women who lost the love and support of their families, friends, and neighbors. It will all have been for nothing.
“Maybe Sharon or Nuala or some of the other women have had better luck in a chemist elsewhere,” Geraldine says, clinging to hope that we both know isn’t there.
“How can I get it?” I ask.
“It’s easy.” Frank smiles encouragingly. “Get yourself to a doctor and get a prescription. Everyone does it. I have women coming in here every day with prescriptions. And I’ve plenty in stock, if you come back then.”
“Oh God, no. We don’t have time. We need to be back on the train this evening.”
Ger is close to tears. It’s not like her. I’m once again reminded of how much this means to every woman who set foot on that train this morning. How much of ourselves and our hearts we have given to this fight.
A little bile works its way up the back of my throat before an idea hits me.
“What does it look like? The pill,” I say.
“Hmm.” Frank folds his arms, thinking. “Like any other tablet, I suppose. Small, round, white.”
“Does it look like aspirin?”
Frank flashes a toothy grin. “Yes. Indeed it does.”
“Great,” I say, instantly feeling a weight lifted off my shoulders. “May I have a box of aspirin, please? Oh, and a small plastic bag.”
Frank looks at me as if I’ve grown a second head, but regardless he passes me the headache medication and a clear plastic bag. I pay for the aspirin, then take the tablets out of the branded bottle and spill them into the small bag.
“There,” I say, satisfied. “That’ll do just fine.”
“That won’t stop a pregnancy,” Frank says, as if he’s worried about my intelligence.
“I know. But no one else will.”
“Are you sure you don’t want condoms?” he says. “It’s important to protect yourself.”
“These are just fine. Thank you.”
I link Geraldine’s arm and leave the shop to rejoin Bernie and Teresa outside.
“Well, did you get the pill?” Bernie asks.
I show her the clear bag with several round white tablets inside.
“Oh my God,” she says. “So that’s it. A little tablet no bigger than my baby fingernail is the answer to all our problems. Well, I’ll be damned.”
Later, we regroup. The other women had no trouble purchasing condoms, but they all ran into a dead end accessing the pill without letters from their doctors. When I tell them about my aspirin plan, Nuala hugs me and tells me I am a damn genius. Many of the women dash into more chemists’ to buy aspirin of their own. Then we all buy fish and chips and sit at the side of the road to eat it. We must be some sight for passersby. More than forty women dressed in their Sunday best, sitting on the footpath, eating breaded cod and chatting without a care in the world as handbags full of condoms hang off our shoulders.
“We did it,” Geraldine says, stuffing her last chip into her mouth. “We damn well did it.”