Rebels in the Castle
Laurence McKeown describes the atmosphere in the SF
offices at the Stormont talks in this historic week
At 1.30 on Monday I arrived at the Sinn Fein offices at
Conway Mill and was soon on my way, chauffeur driven by
Roy. The drivers' social life these days, like the
delegates', is non-existent. They're on stand-by 24
hours a day.
We were soon travelling out towards the east, past
Victoria Park on our left with its ponds, carefully
mown (and rolled) lawns and play areas for kids.
Originally set up for the families of top executives of
the shipyard it only later became open to the public.
``It's eight miles exactly from the city centre,'' Roy
told me when I inquired. Eight miles of previously
unfamiliar roads and scenery but which now was
commonplace to those who have trekked there from West
Belfast, Derry, Tyrone, Dublin and beyond.
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Someone had left a plastic bag of 1798 commemorative
``pikes'' in the office. Gerry Adams handed me one. ``Here
Laurence, hide that in the thatch''.
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We turned off the main road and into the grounds of
Stormont. I was surprised with the ease with which we
passed through the three security gates but the drivers
are now known to the guards and many wave in
recognition.
There are three rooms set aside for the Sinn Féin's use
and those in Conway Mill would be envious of the space,
light and facilities on hand. The largest of the rooms
is used for administration, another one is a conference
room where all the meetings take place and a smaller
one off it there the ``wordsmiths'' peruse each statement
or briefing received from other parties, make
assessments and provide responses according to Sinn
Fein policy and strategy.
My first, and lasting impression was of a very casual
but business-like operation. In the administration
office (or ``Party Support'' office as it says on the
door) I counted a total of five land-line phones and
three mobiles on the three large desks. Sue Ramsey,
Brid Curran, Geraldine Crawford and Dawn Doyle worked
at three large computers while Richard McAuley was
hunched over a laptop. The phones buzzed, calls coming
in from the media and Sinn Fein offices. All calls were
replied to promptly and almost casually. I was
impressed and wondered if the very efficient and
noiseless air-conditioning system contributed to
keeping cool heads.
Gerry Kelly sat off to the side recording a diary
interview for BBC Radio 4. All the parties are doing
one. I asked Gerry how had he been the one selected to
do it. He raised an eyebrow and looked over. ``For my
sins,'' he said.
Jim Gibney then showed me around and told me to move
about as I pleased. Gerry Adams, Siobhan O'Hanlon,
Martin McGuinness, Bairbre de Brun, Alex Maskey, Pat
Doherty, Mitchel McLaughlin and Francie Molloy passed
in and out of rooms, spoke in small groups, were handed
briefing papers to study, inquired if anything needed
attending to and moved on again.
Duffs took me downstairs to the canteen. Familiar faces
from all the other parties were seated at tables having
lunch. I glanced at the menu and regretted having eaten
before leaving home. Dodie McGuinness, Joan O'Connor
and Joe Cahill sat off to the side with John Little of
Australian Aid for Ireland who had just arrived. Later
I watched as an official from one of the government
delegations was introduced to Joe. He stretched out his
hand immediately and said, ``a legend''.
The British government had prepared a briefing for all
parties on proposals regarding prisoners. Gerry Adams
suggested I go along to the meeting just to get a feel
for things. Siobhan suggested that I take notes and
type up the minutes. There was no getting out of work.
``Where are we having the meeting?'' Gerry inquired.
``They're coming to us,'' Siobhan replied, ``Is that an
omen?'' Pat Doc asked. We set off for the room - Gerry,
Martin, Pat, Siobhan and myself. The Brits weren't
there. As we waited Siobhan complained of sinus
problems, exacerbated, she thought, by the
air-conditioning and being confined in the building for
so long. Martin said that come the Republic she could
claim for injuries suffered while carrying out duties.
``Just like those in the Irish army who are claiming for
deafness''.
Pat Doc said he could do the briefing in Co Louth as
his wife had agreed to lend him the car. In the midst
of lofty political negotiations such practical
considerations still mattered. We waited some more.
``What did Michael Collins say...?'' Pat Doc began but
was cut off by Gerry Adams who leaned back in his seat,
put his hand on his chest and said, ``Aaaaagh''. Laughter
broke out.
``This aul fellow came up to me in Curleys the other
week,'' Gerry continued, ``and asked me if the Brits were
going to give us a hard time. Just for a couple of
weeks, I told him. `Sure they've been giving all of us
a hard time for the past 800 years, so what's a couple
of weeks,' he said''. I scribbled furiously to keep up
with the wise cracks.
``Right, we can't wait any longer. Give them a ring
Siobhan and tell them to make other arrangements''. We
left and returned to the offices. A short time later
the officials from the Prisons Department arrived there
and apologised that their previous meeting had gone on
later than expected.
They explained briefly that the Secretary of State
wanted to brief the parties prior to a written document
being presented later. ``It's very simple, really,'' said
one of the officals. ``The words mean what they say''.
``That'll be a first,'' Leo Green piped up in the way
only Leo can. We laughed. The officials looked from one
to the other, shuffled their feet, then shuffled some
more. Some of their faces were known to me. I had last
seen them in the wings of the H Blocks. They didn't
want to speak to us then. I knew they now squirmed at
having to do so. I allowed myself to feel a small
degree of smug satisfaction at that.
The paper from George Mitchell had still not arrived.
``Rumour is that it will be at least ten o' clock
tonight before we get it'' one of our negotiating team
said. No one seemed put out by the news; life went on
as before. We watched the news reports. Then an
official from George Mitchell's office came in to
inform us that the `server' for the computer system in
the building had crashed. Later one wit commented that
he hadn't realised that the server could drive. Shortly
afterwards Gerry Adams called everyone together into
the administration office to brief them on developments
up to tha point. He finished by asking if everyone was
prepared for a late night. Heads nodded, except for
mine. I had already booked my lift for 7.30.
On Tuesday I arrived back at Castle Buildings at
2.00pm. There was now more of a sense of things
happening. The unionists had just rejected Mitchell's
paper. Was this a ploy? And what did it mean for the
other parties? Should they continue to formulate a
response to a paper that one party had already
rejected? We were gathered in the conference room,
people offered their opinions, decisions were reached,
tasks allocated. There was an energy around. The pace
quickened yet remained casual. In between answering
frantic phone calls from the media seeking a response
from Sinn Fein I listened (well, tried not to) as Gib
phoned his mother to check if the workmen had come out
to do the repairs to her house and if she was keeping
OK.
Someone had left a plastic bag of 1798 commemorative
``pikes'' in the office. Gerry Adams handed me one. ``Here
Laurence, hide that in the thatch''.
Word came in that Blair was coming. ``The crash barriers
are being erected outside,'' Gerry Kelly said from his
position at the window. ``He must be coming today''. In
the backround Jeffrey Donaldson was giving an interview
on the TV. No one paid much attention to him. I went
around and took photos.
I left on Tuesday before seven o' clock. The others
didn't know what time they would get home at. It was a
lovely sunny evening. I walked past the assembled world
media. The Sinn Féin offices are very visible from
where they stand and wait. Before getting into the car
I looked back at the building. Gib told me that at
night what can be seen most clearly from that spot is
the large picture of Bobby Sands which hangs on the
wall in the Sinn Fein offices.
Seventeen years ago the eyes of the world's press were
on Bobby. Now in a sense they are still on him. I
wondered how many of the reporters were around in 1981.
I knew that all of those up there speaking on our
behalf had been around then. And not just around,
involved.
I got into the car and Chico drove off. I commented on
the grandeur of the vast grounds of Stormont and how
the likes of Craig and others must turn in their graves
when they see who is now casually strolling about
there.
``I brought my kids up here one day last year,'' Chico
said, ``just to let them see the place''. Funny how the
thought of children from nationalist West Belfast
playing games in the gardens of Stormont seemed the
most natural thing in the world. ``I remember when I
first accompanied Alex Maskey into Belfast City
Council,'' he continued, ``even the cleaners spat on us,
now we stroll about the place and everyone's on first
name terms with us.''
We drove out through the gates and off towards the
comfort of our homes. Behind us we left friends and
comrades prepared to do battle on our behalf. And who
better to wage that fight than those who have been
imprisoned, tortured and gunned down and who yet can
smile, joke and stretch out a hand of friendship. Do na
comradaithe sin deirimse arís agus arís, adh mor oraibh
uilig a chairde.
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