THEY GOT involved, as so many did in the beginning, because they wanted homes. Houses were in short supply for Catholics in 1969. Twenty-five years later, the mature estate in which they now lived was the subject of discussion between the Housing Authority, the British Army and a group of architects.

The problem seemed insurmountable and it was this: every time an army helicopter took off from the nearby base, a powerful current of air blew soot down their chimneys. The black stuff stormed, seeped and settled into every nook and cranny in the house. The helicopters took off every half-hour. Residents of the estate had faces as black as your average boot though they were Caucasian by birth.

The noise was desperate too. The helicopters hovered, swooped and hung above their heads. It was like living in a nest of giant hornets. You could close the windows to minimise the din, but then you ran the risk of choking to death in a cloud of soot.

The architects came up with a few expensive solutions, not one of which would solve the problem, but might provide some amelioration of their living conditions. Oil-fired central heating, for instance, would cure the soot fiasco. The Housing Authority had some difficulty with that proposition. The rules didn’t allow for central heating. People who lived in homes that were built courtesy of the public purse were supposed to use coal.

The architects also suggested that the houses could be somewhat sound-proofed by double-glazing the windows. The windows of the office in which they were holding the discussion were wide open, to let in a breath of fresh air – August 31st, 1994, was a fine, hot sunny day, you might remember, and people were sweltering. It was pointed out that the tenants on the estate would have to open the double-glazed windows once in a while, too.

SOUTHERN COMFORT

Air-conditioning then, the somewhat desperate formula was offered? Horribly expensive and against every rule in the book, but effective on a hot day. The air-conditioning vents would spread the soot even more effectively, someone murmured.

At that stage, a really effective solution was proferred. Move the tenants out, abandon the housing estate, build them homes far away from an army base. How far exactly, it was asked? What guarantee was there that the army wouldn’t arrive on their new doorsteps a month after they’d moved in? Army bases spring up like mushrooms in Northern Ireland.

The discussion bogged down, gloom abounded, and they decided to break for elevenses. And as they did so, word came that the IRA had declared a ceasefire. Not for three days, three months or three years – a complete cessation. “That takes care of the soot,” one of them said.

It took a while longer to solve the problem of soot in the brains of the British government as you know, but in the meantime a teenage boy in Derry had devised his own test of the permanency of the ceasefire. His mother and I had been discussing how best to celebrate the end of the war and we were worried about how I would get home afterwards, her house being situated three miles form where my mother’s house is.

The celebrations were to include an unspecified number of bottles of wine, a glass or two or three of Southern Comfort, and whatever else might be found in cupboards should we run out of supplies. Neither of us would be using a car that night. The chances of getting a taxi were slim, since the taxi-drivers would be carousing too.

“I’ll drive you home,” the boy said. And his parents agreed. At once. Just like that. No worry about bombs, bullets, arrests, injuries or death. No fear of army or police harassment. No more war. Just a kid in a car, a tape-deck, some rock and roll cassettes. And me, riding along in his automobile.

He took me on a tour of his own town, showing me the nightclubs where they danced, the late-night cafés where they ate, the street-corner places and vacant lots where they might hang out, afterwards. The phone booths from which you’d have to ring home to reassure parents if a bomb had gone off.

He wouldn’t have to ring home any more. The cease-fire cut the umbilical cord. Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive, with this kid it was heaven.