Drenched in Coca Cola

Late one Saturday afternoon in the autumn of 1992, I made my way through crowds of shoppers who had stopped off for drinks after bustling their way through Belfast city centre shops in search of Christmas bargains. We were in Kelly’s Cellars, a popular catholic bar just a few metres off the main thoroughfare. My partner had his usual, while I opted for a rum and coke, aka as Cuba Libre. I chose it to remind me of the life I’d once enjoyed in Cuba, a few years before I’d made the decision to return to my freezing cold patria, my home city of Belfast. Now, one year after that decision, I was missing the Mediterranean and the Caribbean, more precisely, the warmth of the sun. But even though I was mostly cold here in the north of Ireland, I’d no regrets about having chosen to live in Belfast, none at all.

I’ve always followed political developments nationally and internationally, as closely as I could and, not surprisingly, I found the atmosphere in Belfast dynamic and vibrant. Threatening and dangerous too. Recently, there had been a spate of mass killings, in which loyalist paramilitaries had walked into catholic/nationalist bars in several different locations throughout the north of Ireland and opened fire. They were carrying out a despicable campaign of random killings of Catholics, sometimes in reprisal for the death of Protestants-loyalists, sometimes not. Fear in the general population meant that people were on full alert, even in pubs and bars with security cages mounted on the entrances, including Kelly’s Cellars. A security camera, mounted on the wall, was used to monitor those who were seeking to enter and, if cleared, they were buzzed in.

Fires were roaring and the session group were readying their instruments to play. The atmosphere was charged from a bizarre mix of fear and joie de vivre. I was standing by the fireplace when suddenly there were three rapid-fire shots, gunfire, we thought. In that instant I saw precisely what had happened. A small group of students had let off firecrackers in the crowded pub. Customers all around me froze with fear; in that heavy silence I walked a few steps in the direction of the pranksters and threw my Bacardi and coke in the culprit’s face. Still no sound from anyone, it was as if we were all caught up in a silent slow-motion movie…

Obliged to defend himself, the student stood up, stretched himself to his full height, which was barely taller than I was, and glared at me. He seemed about to launch himself into a tirade when he suddenly shrank back, open-mouthed. I turned to look at what had deflated him and behind me stood my partner, a senior political figure, and to either side of him were men who I deduced must have been republican militants. “What’s the trouble here?” The student sank back down in his seat, not before mumbling, “None. Sorry mate. No trouble.” The other students at the table looked stricken.

As we walked back to the hearth, my partner whispered into my ear that I had thrown the rum and coke over the wrong student. “It was that big fat bastard next to him who let off the firecrackers, not the red-haired one. You got the wrong one, Karen. Just watch him now. He’ll be out of here in no time at all.” Sure enough, the culprit quickly downed the remainder of his pint of beer and slid out the door looking very nervous indeed.

But that was not the first time that Coca Cola and I have had a misadventure, which is very strange because I rarely drink it, or indeed any of the variations of coca cola. It’s a drink I associate with a strong memory that dates back to my second year in primary school, a catholic convent school in south Belfast. Something happened in that year which was deeply embarrassing for me, but very funny with hindsight.

On that day, my lunchbox, which was always a sorry affair, was steamed up for some reason. The bananas in the limp sandwiches had turned black since they were made the night before. The contents rarely failed to disappoint; regardless of whether they were made with bananas, fish spread, or even sugar sprinkled on bread and margarine. Sometimes, I’d have nothing at all in my lunchbox because I’d eaten the contents during the morning break to stave off hunger. On such days I fixated me than usual on the Kelly family children who gathered around a few tables that they had rearranged to accommodate them and their packed lunchboxes. To accompany the variety of sandwiches, each child had a bottle of coca cola, a bag of crisps, an apple or orange. It was a feast, a display of opulence, or so it seemed to me.

On the day that I embarrassed myself, I must have been fixating more than usual on the Kellys because Patricia, who was in my class, swivelled round in her chair and asked if I wanted a sip of coca cola. Momentarily stunned by the generosity of the offer, I babbled a hasty thanks and launched myself at the bottle of coca cola. I’d just returned to my chair when I realised that the bottle had not been opened. I glanced across at Patricia, and she grabbed the bottle opener and came toward me, looking bemused. Bottle opened, I leaned back in my chair and upended it into my mouth. It was the first time I’d ever tasted coca cola and I hadn’t reckoned with the air bubbles... For a few seconds, the delicious drink travelled from my mouth straight down my oesophagus towards my stomach, but then it bubbled up into my mouth again and beyond. Coca cola gushed out of my nose and soaked my school uniform before I could prevent it. My face burned with shame and when I looked up, each and every Kelly child had turned in my direction. Nobody laughed, they were too polite to laugh; they just stared and That was the first of many times in my life when I wanted the ground to open and swallow me up. I was mortified.