‘I realise that I am addressing a Majella from another time. I don’t know the woman who inhabits an Ethiopian hostel and who has written that her skin is parched by the sun. I was familiar with a fresh, milky complexion, one that glowed with a rich bloom when you became fervent, which was often. That is how I visualise you, untouched by the years, no wrinkles or crow’s feet. You would joke that you’d have preferred the faded, wan look that was popular in the late sixties but your mother had given you too much buttermilk during childhood. The person you are now may hardly recognise the young woman then. When I glance back and see myself I feel an anguished fondness for the needy, uncertain person I was. That Nina bears little resemblance to the woman I am now, a grey-haired, crab-like creature. Finn would have been amazed at my apparent confidence in middle age and the certainty with which I run my days. “Nina Town Mouse” he used to call me in that teasing blend of comradeship and affection, or “Nina-mina-mina-mo”. My own secret name for myself now, stemming from my illness, is Wolf-woman. Finn would have had little time for my sticks and physical weakness. He was intolerant of sickness. When you had tonsillitis he bullied you from bed, saying that it was a question of mind over matter. He prescribed a long walk or a strenuous swim as antidotes for any ailment.
‘You see, Majella, I’m determined to say Finn’s name, to bring him in to this story at the earliest opportunity. We have been so coy about him over the years, leaving his name out but he is there, always a presence around us. Sometimes he used to stand between us and place a hand on our heads as if he was anointing us. I can still feel his palm with the chewed nails resting on my skull.
‘What is it you Catholics say when you enter the confessional? “Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” I think I remember you telling me that the first autumn we met. You were an atheist at the time and you were explaining the superstitious rituals of the church to me, its rigid dogma and controls, the way priests ordered the lives of women, subjugating them. Finn came in as you were speaking and lightly ran his finger over the back of your hand. You turned to him with that eager love he always drew from you. He was holding a leather-bound copy of Trotsky’s writings to his chest. He looked like our very own cleric that day, dressed as he often was in a grey polo neck and black jacket. He may even have read an improving paragraph of Leon’s thoughts to us in your kitchen, a homily for the true believers.
‘I clearly recall the first time I saw you. I walked into the lecture theatre on an October Tuesday in 1969 and there was a woman in a frilly, fussy smock bending down from her seat. Your red hair foamed around your dipped head, tendrils spreading across the floor as you retrieved the pen you’d dropped. I had been paralysed with nerves since arriving in Belfast the previous week. My only image of Ireland was the one I’d seen on a flickering TV screen. News bulletins delivered pictures of a savage, reckless place where blood flowed and neighbours freely murdered each other because of complex and, to the English, baffling ancient divisions. I was convinced that I could be shot or blown up at any time, especially if I opened my mouth revealing a home counties accent. I’d hardly spoken because of my fears; it seemed to me that my tongue was becoming swollen and dry, pressing against my teeth. I’d heard somewhere that a shock to the nervous system could cause muteness and I was genuinely fearful that next time I tried to speak, no sound would issue. I had sat alone in my room, looking at the bags I couldn’t bring myself to unpack and listening to the thud of feet in the corridors outside. From my window I saw students hurrying to join societies and heard them calling to each other. Even their accents, harsh and unfamiliar, unnerved me. The sounds they made were like snarls. I’d had difficulty understanding people in the few words of conversation I had been forced to exchange. I would have turned and fled, heading for home but there was little to go back to. I knew that my mother would already have stripped my bed and aired my room, shutting the door firmly, relieved that I would only return for brief holidays.
‘I had steeled myself to attend that first lecture in Italian. I held my books against my chest for security and to conceal my trembling arms. My legs were weak from lack of food. You swept up the pen and threw your hair back as you settled in your seat. I was aware of bows at your shoulders and down the front of your smock. I thought you looked like a sturdy countrywoman in an eighteenth-century painting, fresh from milking or hay-stacking.
‘You watched me hovering and pointed at the empty chair next to you. “D’you want this?” you asked. “You look as if you’re going to faint.”
‘I sank down next to you, overwhelmed with gratitude because I had been able to understand you. Your speech was slower and more measured than the other accents I had struggled with. You introduced yourself as Majella O’Hare and I told you my name.
‘“Nina,” you said, “that’s attractive, musical. I hate my name. I think it sounds like a sweet preserve: ‘a full-fruit Majella confiture flavoured with cognac’.”
‘I thought of marmellata, the Italian for jam. “I’ve never heard it before,” I confessed. It sounded exotic to me.
‘“That’s because you’re a Brit and your unfamiliarity with it is refreshing. My name doesn’t tell you what it would shout at someone from Ulster; that I’m a Taig, a papist, a left-footer, a Fenian and a feckless member of an underclass.” You gave me a friendly smile as you offered me my first lesson in the intricacies of Irish identity.
‘You asked me if I’d read the set text and I said that I had. In the original or in translation? you enquired. The original, I said, replying in Italian. Then you asked in Italian where I was from and I told you Maidstone, becoming articulate in the shared language and accent that provided us with a mutual territory. You hailed from a place called Pettigoe, which you added sounded like a skin disease.
‘“I’ve not seen you around,” you said. “Did you arrive late?” There was something about you that made me feel less fearful. Your voice was rich and amused, your eyes sparked with interest.
‘“I’ve been in hiding,” I admitted, “starving in my room because I was frightened at being in Belfast. I’ve been living on a scant supply of chocolate bars and canned drinks. I feel sick but starving.”
‘“God almighty,” you laughed, “no wonder you look like a wraith.”
‘After the lecture you took me to the canteen and we ate huge plates of spaghetti. Why, you asked, had I come to Belfast if the place was so terrifying? I’d not got the exam grades I needed, I said; this course had been offered through clearing, they were being kind because it was a new degree.
‘“Why did you do so badly in your exams? You don’t strike me as thick.”
‘“My father died last spring. I lost my concentration.”
‘“That’s tough all right,” you said. “It’s not so awful here, you know, we get a bad press.”
‘Strange that you should have used that phrase during our first meeting, “a bad press”. That type of press, the one we considered prejudiced, was our motivation and justification for what we did on that other October day when the rain fell and kept falling until dawn. But on that afternoon in the canteen, with the autumn sun still warm, the comforting clatter of dishes and my famished stomach contented, I was reassured by your presence. I was like a lost child bonding with the first person to offer affection. In saying that, I am not trying to diminish our friendship. I simply wish to record it honestly.