‘Doesn’t matter.’
I cross my arms and Meg stares out of the window. How dare she! It’s not my fault I don’t know any of this. I grew up in a different country and we weren’t taught about Northern Ireland. How am I meant to know something if nobody told me? I think of Uncle Tommy’s patronising ‘mee-haul’ and him impersonating my accent, and suddenly I have a deep and painful longing for home. For London.
Oh great, now I’m going to cry.
Hot, angry little tears are gathering like a spiky army in the corners of my eyes. I clench my teeth and stare out the window to stall them. I contemplate getting off the bus, but I don’t know where I am.
Because I’m not from here.
Because I don’t belong here.
Because—
‘Sorry,’ says Meg.
Don’t cry.
‘I shouldn’t have had a go at you. I can get a bit worked up about history.’
I nod. ‘I get it. I should know more.’
‘Well, yeah. I mean, not just you. Everyone should know their history. Even if they weren’t born here.’
‘I was actually.’
‘Huh?’
My shoulders drop. ‘I was born here.’
‘I thought your parents moved away years ago.’
‘They did, but they were visiting when Mum was, like, seven months pregnant and she went into labour early.’
‘No way!’
‘Yeah, it was really scary apparently. She was in town buying some Irish linen for my nursery.’
‘Cute.’
‘Yes, adorable. Anyway, she was walking down an empty street and had this sort of dizzy spell and her waters broke. She passed out and someone found her and called an ambulance. I was born, like, three hours later. The doctors said we both could’ve died.’
Meg’s mouth is hanging open. ‘No way! That’s an incredible origin story for a dark and twisted superhero. Born dramatically, then whisked away to a strange new land. Raised without knowledge of who he truly is. Then boom, the great return. I’m calling Marvel.’
I laugh. ‘Sorry I got a bit defensive. I do want to know more about here.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ she says. ‘It’s not your fault nobody told you this stuff. I mean, it’s a bit weird that your parents didn’t.’
My ears burn. ‘Well…’
‘I’m sure they had their reasons. They grew up before the ceasefire. Lots of people moved away. Everyone their age is, like, deeply traumatised, and thanks to intergenerational trauma we are too. But hey, it’s why we’re so funny. So, you know, every cloud.’
I laugh. ‘Not a bad payoff to be fair.’
She pats my hand. ‘You can ask me anything about this place and I promise I won’t embarrass you again.’
I ask Meg about the hunger strikers in the mural and she tells me everything as we crawl through the morning traffic. They died in 1981, around the time my parents were born. I think of the world they were born into that they never talked about. What did they see? They never bad-mouthed Belfast exactly, but they insisted it wasn’t for them. Especially Dad. He was always so tense on visits home. Desperate to get back to London and would never say why. I see it now.
‘I wish I knew more about this place.’
