Who fed her? Have you still got the bottle? Where is the box with the baby food? On and on they went. I was cracking up and by this time Mary was awake and sobbing. Just then Sergeant Crabb, the local bobby, arrived and beckoned his two colleagues to the door. He had a quiet word with them and that was the last that we ever saw of them, although Sergeant Crabb walked us through the same questions, just for the record. Before he left, we asked Sergeant Crabb if he could contact the local police in Derry to deliver the sad news to Mary’s parents. The undertakers in High Street arrived later in a black Ford van and prepared Sharon’s body in the kitchen. Within minutes the undertakers were gone and we three were alone again. Mark had tears in his eyes and I held him. He was too young to say very much but he knew it was bad. I burst into tears, I just wanted to die. I felt so useless. How could God do this to us? I struggled through the rest of the day and managed to get Mary down to the phone box to call her mum. It was one of the most heart-breaking calls I’ve ever witnessed.
Mary was unable to go to the funeral and couldn’t bear the thought of seeing Sharon being buried in the cold December ground. At the funeral parlour, the clerk gave me some wreaths, one from Colonel Green and his wife, another from Del Wennel, one from Jock and Steph, and one from Sergeant Crabb. Sharon’s small white coffin was lifted into the back of a black car normally used for weddings. I sat beside the coffin and we drove the short distance to the cemetery, just outside Dorchester. It was a very cold frosty morning, and it was at times like this that I realised the value of having your family and friends around you. Instead, here I was in England in a graveyard in the middle of nowhere, standing over a muddy hole in the ground. Beside me stood the old gravedigger and the local priest, Irishman Father Flynn, who was also padre to the local prison. The three of us gathered to celebrate the short life of Sharon Carlin. I felt so ashamed, she deserved better than this. I held back tears as the priest began his oration, white smoke from his breath rising into the frosty morning air as he prayed. The old gravedigger stood beside him, leaning on a shovel with his head bowed and his cap in his hand. The sound of crows echoed around the cemetery. ‘There always seems to be bloody crows at funerals,’ I thought. Within minutes the ceremony was nearing its end and we began lowering Sharon’s small white coffin into the ground. After a few more prayers the priest shook my hand and hobbled off to his car.
I stood there, staring down at the silver cross on the coffin lid. When the first lump of muddy earth hit the casket I fell to my knees, sobbing like a baby. Until then I had been fairly strong, but the sound and sight of the earth on the coffin’s lid was just too much. The gravedigger helped me to my feet, my knees covered in mud, and I knew he wanted me to leave. I picked a tiny red rose from one of the wreaths and dropped it into the grave, then I turned, still sobbing, and walked back towards the black car where the driver was waiting.
By lunchtime, Mary, Mark and I were in the car heading home to Ireland. Back in Derry, we were supported through our trauma with the help of Mary’s mum and dad. The neighbours were just brilliant, as Derry people normally are at times of bereavement. We decided that Mary should stay with her family for a few weeks, as it was obvious she could never go back to the house in Winfrith. I had phoned Colonel Green, who understood our situation and was arranging for us to be allocated a married quarters in the camp itself, where we would be less isolated. I travelled alone back to England, signed for the new house and drove to the old house in Winfrith.
Everything was how we had left it. Sharon’s pram sat in the hallway and the airing cupboard was full of her baby-grows and pink dresses. Upstairs, her cot sat as it was left that awful morning, though the blanket she used to cling to whilst going to sleep lay on the floor, where it had fallen in the panic. Her frilly pillow lay on the cot mattress and I was overcome with emotion as I picked it up and held it to my face. I could smell Sharon’s aroma and I started to cry as I breathed in her baby smell. As I stood over her chest of drawers I was overcome with emotion at the sight of the small golden teddy bear, the very same present Mary had wanted to give her all those weeks ago. I had insisted she shouldn’t get it until Christmas Day and I slid down the wall sobbing my heart out. Had I listened to Mary we could have seen the joy on her little face; I felt so guilty.
In between tears I managed to pack everything and move our bits and pieces to the new married quarters. Before leaving Dorchester I drove to the cemetery and placed the teddy bear on Sharon’s grave, which still had the wreaths on it. I bent down and took the cards off the flowers, put them in my pocket and stood there talking to Sharon for a few minutes. I said a little prayer and promised her that I would come back soon. I didn’t know then that it would be twenty-three years before I would see her again. The next day I picked up the formal death certificate. I sat and looked at the line that read: ‘Cause of Death INFANCY SYNDROME’. I didn’t know what it meant, though nowadays most parents know that ‘Sudden Infancy Syndrome’ means cot death.
Thinking back, I realise that Mary and I were blessed with friends like Margaret Sawyer and Sergeant Bob Crabb. By late 1973, Mary, Mark and I were settled in our new quarters on Gaza Road. Mary had friends and neighbours from the regiment, and everyone advised us to have another baby as soon as we could. By August that year Mary received the good news that she was pregnant again. The baby was due in April 1974 and she was delighted. Of course, we were hoping for a little girl. Even though things were getting better with our new house, our new friends and a better quality of life, Mary was yearning for home and just wanted us to go back to Derry so that she could be with her family.
***
One night around New Year, Mary and I discussed the possibility of going back to live in Derry. The Troubles were at their height and Derry didn’t look like the sort of place an ex-British soldier would be welcome. Mark was nearly five and it was time for him to go to school, and we knew the army school wasn’t that good. Not because the Education Corps was incompetent, but families move around a lot in the services and sometimes the interruptions put the child back months. After weeks of discussion I promised that I would write to my sister Doreen and my father and ask their advice, since my family was closer to republicanism than Mary’s and they would know whether it was safe for me to return or not. My brother Robert had left the army after six years and settled down in Derry without any problem. Deep inside I knew they would tell me I was mad and that to come back would endanger my life, and I also knew that if Mary was aware of this she might change her outlook. By early January 1974 I had received a reply from Doreen, and it wasn’t what I expected. I would be safe enough and no one would touch me so long as I was genuinely coming home and had discharge papers. She went on to tell me that she had spoken to her friend ‘Paul’, who knew Mary very well. He had heard about Sharon’s death and couldn’t foresee any problem.
I was now under great pressure to leave the army, but I decided to share my thoughts and feelings with Colonel Green. ‘You would be mad to leave at this point in your career,’ was his response. ‘Besides, you’ll be in great danger if you return to Ireland.’ After further discussion I agreed that he could check out the real security situation in Derry through a friend of his in the Intelligence Corps, a decision that would change my life, and ultimately Mary’s, forever.
CHAPTER 2
BACK HOME IN DERRY
T.E. Lawrence, better known as Lawrence of Arabia, was one of the famous old boys of Bovington Camp. His Dorset retreat at Clouds Hill cottage was located just behind the barracks, and I had often visited the place because of my interest in the legendary British spy and Arabist – whom Peter O’Toole immortalised on film in David Lean’s epic biopic of his extraordinary life. Lawrence had rented the cottage in 1923 after returning from the Middle East, and he was killed nearby in a motorcycle accident twelve years later. It was here in this most apposite of spots, inside his beloved country hideaway, that I was recruited by MI5.
My commanding officer, Colonel Green, was aware of my wish to leave the army and return to war-torn Derry. He had passed on this request to a friend of his who called himself Captain Thorpe. It was Captain Thorpe who suggested we meet for coffee at Lawrence’s cottage, ostensibly to discuss what to do with the rest
