in Belfast. She didn't think he cared personally if the IRA murdered her, but his government must have decided she was useful. Her voice was cool. "Vv%en the Famine killed a million and a half Irish, it also scattered as many throughout the English-speaking world, and among these Irish are always a few IRA types. If I'm to die by their bullets, I'd rather it be in Belfast than anywhere else."
No one said anything for a few seconds, then Sir Harold spoke. "Certainly you overestimate the strength of these people outside of Ulster. Even in the south, the Dublin government has outlawed them-"
"The Dublin government, Sir Harold, are a bunch of British lackeys."
There. She had really broken the ice now. "The only hope for the Catholics of the six counties-or Ulster, as you call it-has become the Irish Republican Army-not London or Dublin or Washington. Northern Ireland needs an alternative to the IRA, so Northern Ireland is where I must be."
Harold Baxter's eyes grew weary. He was sick to death of this problem but felt it his duty to respond. "And you are the alternative?"
"I'm searching for an alternative to the killing of innocent civilians."
Harold Baxter put on his best icy stare. "But not British soldiers? Tell me, why would Ulster Catholics wish to unite with a nation governed by British lackeys?"
Her response was quick, as his had been. They both knew their catechism.
"I think a people would rather be governed by their own incompetent politicians than by foreign incompetents."
Baxter sat back and pressed his palms together. "Please don't forget the two-thirds of the Ulster population who are Protestant and who consider Dublin, not London, to be a foreign capital."
Maureen Malone's face grew red. "That bunch of Bibletoting bigots does not recognize any allegiance except
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money. They'd throw you over in a second if they thought they could handle the Catholics themselves. Every time they sing 'God Save the Queen' in their silly Orange Lodges, they wink at each other. They think the English are decadent and the Irish Catholics are lazy drunks. They are certain they are the chosen people. And they've guiled you into thinking they're your loyal subjects." She realized that she had raised her voice and took a deep breath, then fixed Baxter with a cold stare to match his own.
"English blood and the Crown's money keep Belfast's industry humming-don't you feet like fools, Sir Harold?"
Harold Baxter placed his napkin on the table. "Her Majesty's government would no more abandon one million subjects-loyal or disloyal-in Ulster than they would abandon Cornwall or Surrey, madam." He stood. "If this makes us fools, so be it. Excuse me." He turned and headed toward the door.
Maureen stared after him, then turned toward her host and hostess. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have picked an argument with him."
Margaret Singer smiled. "That's all right. But I'd advise you not to argue politics with the other side. If we tell the Russians what bullies they are and then try to get a Soviet Jew released from the camps, we don't have much luck, you know."
Hull nodded in assent. "You won't agree, but I can assure you that the British are among the fairest people in this troubled world. If you want to get them to end internment, you'll have to appeal to that sense of fairness. You broke with the IRA to travel this path."
Margaret Singer added, "We all must deal with our devils-and we do." She paused. "They hold the keys to the camps."
Maureen took the gentle rebuke without answering. The good people of the world were infinitely more difficult to deal with than the bad. "Thank you for breakfast. Excuse me." She stood.
A bellhop came toward the table. "Miss Malone?"
She nodded slowly.
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CATHEDRAL
"For you, miss." He held up a small bouquet of green carnations. "I'll put them in a nice vase in your room, ma'am. There's a card I can give you now, if you wish."
She stared at the small buff envelope, then took it.
No one said anything for a few seconds, then Sir Harold spoke. "Certainly you overestimate the strength of these people outside of Ulster. Even in the south, the Dublin government has outlawed them-"
"The Dublin government, Sir Harold, are a bunch of British lackeys."
There. She had really broken the ice now. "The only hope for the Catholics of the six counties-or Ulster, as you call it-has become the Irish Republican Army-not London or Dublin or Washington. Northern Ireland needs an alternative to the IRA, so Northern Ireland is where I must be."
Harold Baxter's eyes grew weary. He was sick to death of this problem but felt it his duty to respond. "And you are the alternative?"
"I'm searching for an alternative to the killing of innocent civilians."
Harold Baxter put on his best icy stare. "But not British soldiers? Tell me, why would Ulster Catholics wish to unite with a nation governed by British lackeys?"
Her response was quick, as his had been. They both knew their catechism.
"I think a people would rather be governed by their own incompetent politicians than by foreign incompetents."
Baxter sat back and pressed his palms together. "Please don't forget the two-thirds of the Ulster population who are Protestant and who consider Dublin, not London, to be a foreign capital."
Maureen Malone's face grew red. "That bunch of Bibletoting bigots does not recognize any allegiance except
69
NELSON DE MILLE
money. They'd throw you over in a second if they thought they could handle the Catholics themselves. Every time they sing 'God Save the Queen' in their silly Orange Lodges, they wink at each other. They think the English are decadent and the Irish Catholics are lazy drunks. They are certain they are the chosen people. And they've guiled you into thinking they're your loyal subjects." She realized that she had raised her voice and took a deep breath, then fixed Baxter with a cold stare to match his own.
"English blood and the Crown's money keep Belfast's industry humming-don't you feet like fools, Sir Harold?"
Harold Baxter placed his napkin on the table. "Her Majesty's government would no more abandon one million subjects-loyal or disloyal-in Ulster than they would abandon Cornwall or Surrey, madam." He stood. "If this makes us fools, so be it. Excuse me." He turned and headed toward the door.
Maureen stared after him, then turned toward her host and hostess. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have picked an argument with him."
Margaret Singer smiled. "That's all right. But I'd advise you not to argue politics with the other side. If we tell the Russians what bullies they are and then try to get a Soviet Jew released from the camps, we don't have much luck, you know."
Hull nodded in assent. "You won't agree, but I can assure you that the British are among the fairest people in this troubled world. If you want to get them to end internment, you'll have to appeal to that sense of fairness. You broke with the IRA to travel this path."
Margaret Singer added, "We all must deal with our devils-and we do." She paused. "They hold the keys to the camps."
Maureen took the gentle rebuke without answering. The good people of the world were infinitely more difficult to deal with than the bad. "Thank you for breakfast. Excuse me." She stood.
A bellhop came toward the table. "Miss Malone?"
She nodded slowly.
70
CATHEDRAL
"For you, miss." He held up a small bouquet of green carnations. "I'll put them in a nice vase in your room, ma'am. There's a card I can give you now, if you wish."
She stared at the small buff envelope, then took it.
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