Cormac, Meg, Paul, Ellen and I pile into a Belfast black taxi. They’re like London black cabs but they run up and down the main roads in West Belfast and you share them with strangers, like little buses. We fill the back of one, while an older woman fires us a dirty look as she clambers into the front beside the driver.
I’m in a window seat with Ellen beside me and Paul on the other side of her. Meg sits opposite me on a pull-down seat beside Cormac, who is recapping the party.
‘Nah, I swear. Jimmy was so drunk. He definitely got back with Saoirse.’
‘No way!’ says Ellen. ‘I have to text her. Jimmy is such a melt.’
I don’t know what a melt is exactly, but I agree with Ellen. Jimmyisa melt. Good luck, Saoirse, whoever you are.
I gaze out at Belfast City Cemetery as we drive past. Sunlight bounces off the gravestones and I see a cluster of people in black. Meg’s watching too and she runs her hand from her forehead to her chest and grips her acorn necklace. Is she blessing herself?
She catches my eye and shrugs. ‘Force of habit.’
I feel strangely shocked for a moment. Surprised that Meg is religious. Mum and Dad are what you’d probably call lapsed Catholics. I don’t know what that makes me. I have no faith or anything and I’ve only been to mass for a few funerals (Granny and Granda McCutcheon) and one wedding (one of Mum’scousins). But being religious here is pretty standard. It’s part of the everyday culture in a way that I’m not used to. Still, Meg did not seem like the type. Does that make her any less cool, or does it make me incredibly judgemental? Probably the latter.
Meg is wearing a denim jacket with a load of pins on it, including a Progress flag. She catches me staring and cocks her head to the side. ‘What do you want to do today?’
‘No plans. Would be great to get out to see stuff. Apart from last night, I’ve done nothing but pack or travel for the last two weeks.’
And black out.
‘Where should we show him?’ she asks the others.
‘Victoria Square, please,’ says Ellen. ‘I need to get a dress for my sister’s wedding,’ Paul groans and I can feel the jolt as she elbows him. ‘Shut up! And you need to get a shirt for it.’
‘Am I going?’
‘Uh, yes! What’re you talking about? You said you were going. I’ve already told—’
‘Oh my God, chill out! I’m only sleggin.’
Ellen tuts and takes out her phone.
Meg raises her eyebrows at me.
‘OK,’ says Cormac. ‘So, we need to get a top hat for Paul.’ I try not to laugh but Meg lets out a ‘Ha!’ and the tension is broken. ‘What do you want to do first, cuz?’
I yawn. ‘I need caffeine.’
Meg takes us to her favourite spot. Ellen moans about wanting a Starbucks as we crowd into a cafe that might affectionately be described as kitsch, but more likely hasn’t been decorated for thirty years. The Formica tables are white and red, and there are tears in the padding of some of the seats. It smells of sausage rolls and cake.
‘This place is iconic,’ says Meg. ‘Mum used to bring me here for pavlova and I did most of my GCSE revision at that table.They even get oat milk in just for me. Their favourite vegan customer. Hey, Nuala.’
The woman behind the counter greets Meg with a wary familiarity. I ignore the looks we get from the rest of the customers, who have an average age of ‘in my day’.
We get our order and head out.
Belfast city centre has changed so much, even in the times I’ve visited. Or maybe I’m reliving the stories Mum and Dad used to tell me. When they were growing up, the ‘town’, as they called it, was gated. There used to be police searches to check for bombs and guns before you could get in to go to work or even go shopping. Even when the barriers all came down, it was still pretty dead at night as people stayed in their own areas.
Mum always says that since the ceasefire it’s become much more touristy. I recognise the usual big-brand shops, but there are loads of independent places too. We pass the huge Primark that has been rebuilt following a massive fire that genuinely upset Mum and Dad. We see bus tours and references toGame of Thrones, which was filmed here and still draws people to visit.
It feels like a normal city. It’s hard to picture the place that my parents describe growing up in.
We go to City Hall and sit for a while on the lawn. There are a group of (mostly) men gathered outside the gates. One stands on a small platform, his words muffled through a tinny megaphone.
‘What are they doing?’ I ask.
Meg tuts. ‘Blaming immigrants for everything.’
