Engendering Peace: Representations of Women in Gary Mitchell’s Post-Good Friday Agreement Drama

Dr. Megan W. MinogueQueen’s University BelfastJournal of Women’s Studies

Engendering Peace: Representations of Women in Gary Mitchell’sPost-Good Friday Agreement Drama

Though issues of equality and mutual respect were at the

forefront of the peace process in Northern Ireland and the

resulting Good Friday Agreement of 1998, this focus on equal

representation was limited: the ‘two communities’ model borne

out of the Agreement essentially divides the whole of Northern

Irish society into either Catholic/nationalists or

Protestant/unionistsi, in essence negating any other forms of

socio-political affiliation. Issues concerning women and

gender equality were often sidestepped in the face of the

tense process of decommissioning, the debate surrounding flags

and emblems, and the controversy over early release for

‘political’ prisoners. Thus, it seems fair to state that

“repeated commitments to ‘inclusiveness’ by the new

institutions [created by the Good Friday Agreement] are

without substance if they fail to take account of the

inclusion of women in particular” (Fearon and Rebouche 283).

Though this lack of inclusion in the politics and society of

Northern Ireland affected women on both sides of the political

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divide, this article will primarily consider the status of

unionist women in Northern Irish politics and society as

represented in the stage plays of Gary Mitchell, who is from

the working class loyalist neighbourhood of Rathcoole, North

Belfast.

During the peace process itself, women were vastly

underrepresented: though women had been at the forefront of

peace-building activities since the 1970s and the Northern

Ireland Women’s Coalition (NIWC) earned a place at the

discussion table, the NIWC only saw two members elected to the

Assembly in the first post-Agreement election and have failed

to return any candidates since. Perhaps this explains why,

while much of the legislation resulting from the Agreement

supports non-discrimination within the two communities model,

little is mentioned concerning non-discrimination based on

gender and race. One’s political affiliation is thus counted

first, making it difficult for women to be seen as women: they

are only unionist women or nationalist women. In addition,

women continue to be underrepresented in the political and

social processes of Northern Ireland in the post-Agreement

era. In the first Assembly elections, women held only fourteen

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of the 108 seats, a number that only increased slightly in the

second Assembly elections, when women were elected into

eighteen seats. A closer look reveals that, when compared to

nationalist political representation, unionist women are

especially underrepresented. In the first Assembly, unionist

parties held fifty-eight seats, but only three were held by

women (5%). In this same Assembly, nationalist and non-

sectarian parties held fifty seats, with eleven seats held by

women (22%). The second Assembly figures are not dissimilar,

though slightly improved: unionist parties had women elected

to four of their fifty-nine seats (7%), while nationalist and

non-sectarian parties elected women to fourteen of their

forty-eight seats (29%) (Fearon and Rebouche 288).

In addition, unionist parties tend to be more socially

conservative: in 2013 Sinn Féin blocked legislation that would

have stopped abortions being carried out at the Marie Stopes

Clinic in Belfastii, giving the party a more ‘pro-choice’

bentiii, while all assembly members of the main unionist party,

the Democratic Unionist Party (DUP), supported the measure

(Clarke). The Progressive Unionist Party’s (PUP) own pro-

choice agenda perhaps cost it Assembly seats between the first

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and second Assembly, after a debate on the 1967 Abortion Act

demonstrated party leader David Ervine’s support for the act

to be extended to Northern Ireland. The resulting

disappearance of the PUP from the Assembly effectively

“reduc[ed] the capacity for alternative perspectives in the

regional legislature” to be heard (Fearon and Rebouche 292-3).

Thus, within politics and legislation, women and their

interests continue to be grossly underrepresented in a system

that is primarily concerned with equality between two

communities, rather than genders, and in which minority

parties struggle to influence and gain the support of any

significant constituency.

Within Northern Ireland, the continuation of patriarchy

extends beyond the arena of politics, and has its roots in

religious, cultural, and social histories. More so than other

regions within the United Kingdom, Northern Ireland’s deep-

seated religious traditions, Catholic and Protestant alike,

have shaped the roles and structures of both the public and

private lives of men and women. There is a lack of strong

female role models within Protestantism, as the clergy are

predominantly male, and Mary-worship, though often seen by

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Catholic women as imposing a Madonna stereotype and virginal

expectations, is condemned within Protestantism. Indeed,

within Protestantism “the immaculate conception and the

assumption of the Virgin Mary into Heaven are seen as having

no basis in scripture”, suggesting that the mother of Christ

has little importance within the Protestant tradition (McAuley

et. al. 165).iv In addition, the promotion of “deference and

obedience, and conformity to a rigid code of sexual behaviour”

has marginalized Protestant women from religious leadership

(Sales 144). Thus, though allowed to hold leadership

positions, unlike Catholic women who are forbidden by canon

law from receiving holy orders and becoming priests,

leadership within the various Protestant denominations is

still male-dominated, and there remains resistance within some

denominations of Protestantism to electing women as bishops

(BBC News 2012b).

Similarly, social organizations such as Masonic Lodges

and the Orange Order “have totally excluded or diminished the

role of women” within their ranks (Sales 145). While women

have their own Orange lodges, their ultimate influence on the

Order is negligible.v The role of women’s lodges in the Orange

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Order received no mention in one of the most recent studies of

Orangeism, Loyal to the Core?. In addition, the continued ban on

Orange Order members marrying or cohabitating with a Catholic

woman reduces women to a temptress stereotype: there clearly

remains a fear that the man’s partner might have undue

influence on his religious persuasions (McAuley et al 167). In

such organizations, women are more often spectators for men’s

performances in marching, parades, and bands, rather than the

performers themselves.vi Unionist women are also excluded from

membership of the Apprentice Boys of Derry, though Rachel Ward

highlights that “through taking part in the re-enactments [of

the Relief of Derry] they can demonstrate that it was a whole

community that was under siege” (120). Yet this sidesteps the

greater issue: women are still not allowed to be fully-fledged

members of such organizations, and are thus excluded from any

real contribution or leadership. In the main, within unionist

culture

[s]ongs and poems appeal to the ‘men of Ulster’ and any allusion to the female is in a passive capacity, symbolising the territory to be defended. Combined with

political murals depicting mainly male loyalist paramilitaries, the place of women is obscured. Therefore, there are few positive forms of reference to unionist and loyalist women in the cultural and political lexicon of Northern Ireland. (Ward 79)

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Thus, within Northern Ireland, the religious and social

aspects of unionist women’s lives are controlled and regulated

by men: “women have a clearly demarcated place in loyalist

culture, which is informed by a traditional view of the role

of women in society and is difficult to defy” (Ward 119). This

article will demonstrate, however, that the absence of

unionist women from such public performances are in some ways

countered by the performances of unionist women and womanhood

onstage, thus making visible the invisible.

The continuation of patriarchy in the post-Troubles era

is demonstrated in several works by the Belfast-born

playwright Gary Mitchell. While the female characters in his

plays openly speak their minds, unconcerned with the opinions

of men, and acknowledge and take control of their sexuality,

these women are ultimately ruled by the masculinist

institutions that hold the power in Northern Irish society:

paramilitary organizations, the police, and politics. In

addition, the women in his plays often gender the peace

process itself, which posits them within the trope of ‘woman

as nation’ that has permeated so much Irish literature of the

past and present. Though ‘woman as nation’ is thus not a new

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or innovative trope in Irish literature, the appropriation of

unionist women in literature and drama has not undergone the

same level of scholarly scrutiny as nationalist images and

appropriations of women has, due to this trope’s affiliation

with Irish nationalism. Melissa Sihra identifies how “[s]ince

Augusta Gregory’s and W. B. Yeats’s 1902 drama Kathleen ni Houlihan

it is important to interrogate the signification of ‘woman’ as

idealized trope of nation and to look at the ways in which the

work of later Irish dramatists either contests or perpetuates

this legacy”, going on to note that “both colonial ideology

and nationalist movements promoted feminized concepts of the

nation, while subordinating women in everyday life” (1). While

much scholarship and academic discussion notes the conflation

of Ireland with woman, and the (mostly negative) effects this

twinning of womanhood and nation has had, this discussion,

Sihra’s included, primarily focuses on women in the Republic

of Ireland and/or from a nationalist tradition, potentially

negating the possibility of unionist women being read in terms

of the nation as well – and indeed, what nation? Rachel Ward

states that “[t]he woman-as-nation allegory is used as a means

of depicting national priorities and is part of the process of

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forming and maintaining a national identity” (38). Unionist

women’s place within that national identity, therefore, must

be addressed in order to identify the national priorities of

unionism as a whole.

Overall then, this article aims to situate unionist

women, particularly the working-class loyalist women of

Mitchell’s drama, within the context of a ‘nation’: how are

they represented within Northern Irish society, and how might

this be reflected on stage? This article will thus consider

the socio-political realities facing Northern Irish women and

demonstrate how Mitchell has responded, on the stage, to the

position of women in Northern Irish society, particular within

the context of the emerging peace of the Good Friday

Agreement. Although Mitchell’s plays largely focus on male

relationships and organizations, the women in his plays are

always present and heard: their opinions and actions often

serve as a counterpoint to the often highly militaristic men,

but they are also shown to be just as aggressive and violent

as these men. While Rachel Ward’s thesis is correct, that

“unionist and loyalist women are more active political

participants than the tea-making stereotype suggests”,

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Northern Irish women’s relative invisibility on a national

political stage has meant that “it is difficult to challenge

stereotypical attitudes [concerning women] and many [women]

have no choice but to remain stoical and adopt the strategy of

proving they are ‘just as good’” (2, 132). Mitchell’s works,

however, demonstrate women’s increased dissatisfaction with

that model.

Mitchell’s breakthrough stage play was In a Little World of Our

Own (1997), which premiered in Dublin and was named the Best

New Play of 1997 at the Irish Theatre Awards. One critic

quotes Mitchell as recounting how the play was “written ‘from

the hard land. I didn't have to research it because I am it’”

(Coyle 1997). The play does indeed depict a “hard land”, where

rape and fratricide are the outcomes when paramilitaries

become involved in a romantic dispute. Set in the family home,

the play follows the different experiences of three brothers

as they come to terms with their changing roles in a Northern

Irish society approaching peace. Ray, a UDA hard man, is

fiercely protective of his mentally handicapped younger

brother, Richard, who in turn idolizes his older brother.

Throughout the play their brother Gordon and his fiancé

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Deborah attempt to convince Richard to leave the family home

and live with them, a prospect neither Richard nor Ray wish to

entertain.

The women in the play reflect Freud’s ‘Madonna/whore’

dichotomy that is perhaps more often associated with

nationalist literature and Catholic culture, as it is derived

from the figures of the virgin Mary and the supposed

prostitute Mary Magdalene. In Mitchell’s play, Susan Monroe is

the ‘whore’ in this dichotomy: although she never appears on

stage, her character is evaluated and annihilated by the other

characters. She has indeed, in concordance with Freud’s

theory, “demonstrated [her] sexual worth and availability

through previous liaisons”, at least according to the play’s

characters (Kramer 139). Susan “was always being told to get

her skirt fixed, she wore it so high”, attracting the

attention of “young fellas” who wanted “to get a look at her”

(Little World 21). Though Susan is only fifteen, one male

character insinuates that “I know exactly what kind of wee

girl she is”, indicating that, although a minor, Susan is

sexually accessible to men of any age (21). Such remarks also

indicate that Susan’s reputation is of primary interest to

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these characters, and that her actual personhood is of little

consequence. When Ray brutally rapes and kills Susan, a fact

he hides from the other characters until the end of the play,

little is spoken about how this violent assault has affected

her; it is the effects on the other (male) characters that is

the main concern. Indeed, Susan’s literal invisibility

potentially puts the audience in the same frame of mind as the

male characters: while they discuss the violence of such

actions against the young woman, the actual rape is never

truly condemned. The men may even think the rape is justified:

Susan betrayed her ‘own’ by dating a Catholic man, and must

thus be punished. Ray, when attempting to lay blame on Susan’s

Catholic boyfriend, coldly comments that “[h]e might have

raped her, but that’ll hardly matter. […] I think he might

have beaten her to death” (32). The external injuries, rather

than the internal or psychological injuries, are the only ones

worth discussing.

In almost complete opposition to Susan’s apparent

behaviour is that of Deborah, an ardent church-goer who

constantly implores her fiancé, Gordon, to join her in prayer

and “[t]alk to God” (52). She also hopes to be a surrogate

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mother for Gordon’s mentally handicapped younger brother,

Richard: the couple have found a house that would be a

suitable marital home, and plan to have Richard move in with

them. This would remove some responsibility from the other

brother, Ray, who currently looks after both Richard and their

ailing mother, another unseen woman in the play. Though

perhaps naïve, Deborah is also the only character who looks to

solve issues without resorting to violence. When it is

discovered that Ray is responsible for raping and ultimately

murdering Susan, the male characters’ solution is a punishment

shooting undertaken by a family member, namely Gordon. But

Deborah adamantly protests, seeing the folly of using violence

to punish violence: “I don’t think you’re thinking about this

properly, Gordon. […] You don’t need the gun, Gordon. […]

You’re acting like a crazy person” (55). Though somewhat

simplistic in nature, Deborah’s character thus genders the

peace process itself, as her dedication to nonviolence

parallels the hopeful outcomes of the peace talks, as well as

the terms ultimately used in the Good Friday Agreement: it is

time to disarm and decommission weapons. This potential

reading of Deborah as fitting into a trope ‘(unionist) woman

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as nation’ was lost on critics, however: one describes Deborah

as “prim, evangelistic […] the weakest character”, while

another critic describes the character as “underdeveloped”

(Moroney, Benedict).

Deborah’s perceived weakness is countered by one of the

most powerful women in Mitchell’s oeuvre, Sandra in As the Beast

Sleeps (1998). Debuting in June 1998, in the immediate aftermath

of the signing of the Good Friday Agreement, As the Beast Sleeps is

a stark look at the changing nature of paramilitaries’ place

in Northern Ireland. As the play unfolds, Mitchell

demonstrates how the newly political members of the UDA are

winning out in this new arrangement, leaving the rest of the

organization at a bit of a loss: times are changing, but not

everyone is feeling the benefits. Sandra’s partner Kyle, a

local Rathcoole UDA commander, and his fellow UDA crew member,

Freddie, struggle to come to terms with the new, peaceful

society in which they live. In contrast to their struggle is

Alec, a newly politicized member of the UDA, who reaps the

social and economic benefits of peace. Described somewhat

derisively and simplistically by critics as “Kyle’s hard-nosed

wife” and “the lone woman in the group”, Sandra manages to

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convey power and authority in almost every scene (Hill,

Fricker). From the outset, she dominates her husband: her

first line in the play is “Have you’s done anything?”, an

immediate questioning of Kyle’s (and Freddie’s) competency and

work ethic (9). Her refusal to make tea and her mockery of

household duties defies the traditional domestic role of the

Protestant woman, but ultimately, Sandra’s actions and place

within society are influenced by the UDA. This influence has

been present from the start of Sandra and Kyle’s relationship,

as it was Kyle’s involvement in the UDA that initially

attracted Sandra to him: she recalls to Freddie how “[w]hen

Kyle asked me out, he told me he was doing a job in

Gallaghers. I says, I’m not going with a dickhead, factory

worker baleeks. And he says, I’m not working in Gallaghers, I’m

doing a job in Gallaghers”, ‘job’ being a euphemism for a

robbery or other illegal activity involving paramilitaries

(54).

Sandra, however, ultimately defies her husband and the

increasingly political stance of the UDA in the post-Agreement

era, choosing to side with Freddie’s more militant course of

action. Together, the two rob the UDA club, though only

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Freddie is recognized by the manager as one of the assailants.

Sandra is never suspected of playing a role in the robbery,

perhaps primarily because of her gender: when Freddie is

questioned by Larry, Jack, and Norman, the men never entertain

the possibility that a woman was involved: they only ask for

the identity of “the other guy” (69, 74, 84, 85, 86).vii When

Kyle takes over the questioning, Freddie still does not betray

Sandra’s involvement. Kyle eventually discovers his wife’s

role in the robbery when he returns home from the punishment

room and, confronted by her partner, Sandra literally walks

out of the house, abandoning Kyle and their son, Joe.viii

Sandra’s actions demonstrate the extent to which her life

has been dominated by the masculinist structures of

paramilitarism: although she may be domineering within the

domestic space of the home and assists Freddie in a very

public robbery of the UDA club, Sandra is ultimately a

sidelines participant in the UDA and expected to abide by the

men’s decisions in paramilitary matters. By robbing the club

with Freddie, Sandra not only goes against the UDA’s commands,

she defies the peace process itself: by attempting to reignite

the armed struggle, Sandra resists the trope of ‘unionist

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woman as nation’ within the paradigm of post-Agreement

Northern Ireland, ultimately resulting in the breakdown of her

family, the microcosm of society.

Mitchell’s next play Trust (1999) also features a woman,

Margaret, who refuses to fulfil the traditional, domestic role

of the housewife. The play is largely set in the home of

Geordie, a Rathcoole UDA commander, his wife Margaret, and

their teenage son Jake. Reductively described by one reviewer

as her husband Geordie’s “spirited wife”, Margaret orders him

to “[s]tick the kettle on” and to “[g]et up and get [the door]

yourself” (Curtis, Trust 12, 14). Margaret actively defies

Geordie in an effort to do what she believes to be right for

their teenaged son Jake. When Jake becomes the target of

school bullies, Margaret dismisses her husband’s orders to “do

nothing” and takes control of the problem herself, enlisting

the help of Trevor, a recently released prisoner (49). The

situation backfires, however, and Jake is arrested for

stabbing one of the students responsible for the bullying. In

order to ensure Jake’s release from prison, Margaret betrays

her husband’s paramilitary activities to the police. Once

again, the peace process is gendered, as Margaret ultimately

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brings about Geordie’s downfall with words, not violence,

echoing the terms of the Agreement. It is clear that Margaret

puts the needs of her child above all else: her most important

role is being a mother of an adolescent son, not being the

wife of a UDA leader. Such actions bolster one critic’s

opinion that “Mitchell’s key point is that Margaret is much

tougher than her husband” (Billington 1999).

A subplot in Trust concerns another couple: Vincent, an

English soldier, and his Northern Irish girlfriend, Julie. In

the play, Julie uses her sexuality in order to get her way in

domestic disputes, as well as to keep Vincent interested. When

Vincent becomes upset with Julie about the amount of money she

has spent on a dress, she uses her body to bring him around,

ordering him to “[l]ook at these legs” (26). Similarly, when

Julie announces that she has quit her job, thus further

limiting the couple’s income, she “climbs on top of” Vincent in

order to placate his obvious distress, becoming teasingly

affectionate before running off again (27). Julie is also at

ease with the fact that she is dressing up as much for his

fellow Army officers as for Vincent himself. After all, she

rationalizes, “I don’t think your mates would be impressed if

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I turned up in my uniform” (25). Though such actions, dress,

and demeanour reduce Julie to a sexual commodity and a product

for the male gaze, this is of Julie’s own volition: she

recognizes the power of her sexuality and uses it to her

advantage. Yet though indicative of her personal agency,

Julie’s actions demonstrate her, and potentially other

women’s, belief that power can only be gained through

sexuality. Such a belief indicates that men still have license

to dominate women sexually and/or see them in purely sexual

terms, negating the possibility for men and women to be equals

within society. Thus, by viewing herself in purely sexual

terms, Julie allows Vincent, and other men, to do so as well.

Indeed, some of these men were in the audience: two male

critics reduced Julie to “his [Vincent’s] girl” and “the

soldier’s minxish, focused girlfriend” in their professional

reviews of the play (Sierz, Jays).

Other men in the play reflect this sexualized view of

women as well. Though a topic examined more in-depth in two of

Mitchell’s subsequent plays, Loyal Women and Love Matters, the

role and perception of prisoners’ wives in the loyalist

community is featured in Trust. Though she never appears on

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stage, Trevor’s ex-wife and her extra-marital relationships

are openly discussed by other characters:

Margaret. Some of you’s did a wee bit too much looking after her if you ask me.Artty. You always get that with the good looking ones but. And she was a good looking wee girl all right.Margaret. She was vulnerable and that bastard, McAlister,

took advantage of her.Geordie. There’s more to it than that Margaret. We don’t

know all the details, so just drop it.Artty. Mac’s still there after all these years like. That

means something, doesn’t it? (46)

Margaret clearly has sympathy for the unnamed woman, perhaps

much more aware than Geordie and Artty of the dominance of

hypermasculinity and misogyny in their community. Margaret’s

sympathy also underlines the vulnerable position of women such

as Trevor’s wife: though she was perhaps afforded some status

for having a husband in jail for paramilitary activities, any

monetary support offered to her by the UDA may have had

strings attached. While Artty and Geordie possibly have

information closer to the source, their perception of the

situation signifies a gendered double standard when it comes

to such relationships: because McAlister, a fellow UDA man,

approached Trevor’s wife, and has subsequently stayed with

her, it is viewed as a ‘proper’, legitimate relationship. Yet

if the woman had actively sought to start an extra-marital

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relationship, she would most likely be considered a ‘slag’, or

to be disrespecting her incarcerated husband as well as the

UDA. Aretxaga notes how “republicans punished women who dared

to date British soldiers and kept tight surveillance on the

sexual behavior of prisoners’ wives” and similarly, within the

unionist community, “[r]ules governing sexuality may be

tightly enforced, particularly when the community appears to

be under threat” (Aretxaga 151-2, Sales 144). Thus, within the

play and Northern Irish society, it is ultimately the men who

decide how the woman is sexually characterized, as both

Geordie and Artty dismiss Margaret’s opinion of the situation.

Though one critic believed that Margaret, played by Laine

Megaw at the Royal Court in London, was “far more terrifying

than Patrick O’Kane’s menacing stillness as Geordie”, it is

clear that in certain scenarios Margaret is ultimately

silenced by men (Curtis).

The gender politics of Northern Irish society are even

more evident in Mitchell’s The Force of Change (2000). Detective

Sergeant Caroline Patterson, the lone woman in the play, is a

dynamic and compelling female character who transgresses the

prevailing perception of Northern Irish women as singularly

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domestic. Yet several critics displayed a lack of sympathy for

Caroline, and at times complete misread her character: one

critic considers Caroline to be “a woman willing to exploit

her gender and sex-appeal as aids to climb the greasy ladder

of promotion”, though another critic is more generous in his

assessment, describing Caroline as the “pressurised heroine”

of the play (De Jongh 2000, Billington 2000). As the play

unfolds, the audience is forced to examine their preconceived

notions about female police officers, and the inherent

differences between their experience and that of their male

counterparts: Caroline is most definitely “pressurised”, but

does little, if anything, to “exploit her gender and sex-

appeal”. Caroline’s presence as the sole female onstage

heightens the audience’s understanding that she is (perhaps)

the only woman on the entire Antrim Road police force, and

allows a connection to Caroline’s feelings of isolation.

Surrounded by men, she must not only prove herself as a woman

working in a male-dominated field, but also as their superior.

In such situations, Rachel Ward points out, “a woman has to

demonstrate her ability to her male colleagues with the

assumption that the latter are unquestionably able” (130).

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The play reflects how, within the Good Friday Agreement,

issues of policing and sectarian conflict took precedence over

issues faced by working mothers and career women, as

recommendations based on an individual’s ‘community’, rather

than gender, dominate the legislation. Though the report

compiled by the Independent Commission on Policing for

Northern Ireland, commonly known as the Patten Report,

acknowledges that there were “many submissions from all parts

of the community arguing that there should be more

Catholics/Nationalists and more women in the police”, the

report only recommends “that the composition of the staff of

the Policing Board, the NIO Police Division (or any successor

body), and the office of the Police Ombudsman should be

broadly reflective of the population of Northern Ireland as a

whole, particularly in terms of political/religious tradition

and gender”; nothing specific is said about increased

recruitment of women to the police service itself (81, 117).

This is reflected in the Police (Northern Ireland) Act of 2000, the

legislative outcome of the Patten Report, where section 46 has

several provisos stating that “[i]n making appointments […]

the Chief Constable shall appoint from the pool of qualified

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applicants […] an even number of persons of whom (a)one half

shall be persons who are treated as Roman Catholic; and (b)one

half shall be persons who are not so treated”; no such quotas

or targets are given for hiring and promoting women and

minorities. It seems that diversity in the force is

encouraged, as long as recruits are white Christian men.ix

The Patten Report’s recommendations enraged many,

including David Trimble, who “said if Patten was implemented,

the RUC would be ‘emasculated’”, a word choice which clearly

indicates that Trimble viewed the RUC as a purely masculine

organization (McKay 46). For Caroline’s fellow (male)

officers, such ‘emasculation’ is further aggravated by having

a female superior. Caroline tacitly accepts the legitimacy of

such sexist attitudes, attributing her colleagues’ issues with

her to being “a woman thing” (14). In an effort to fit into

her male-dominated workplace, Caroline joins in with her co-

workers’ occupational, often misogynistic, banter. Yet this

leads Caroline to, in essence, deny her own female identity.

She acts astounded when Mark tells her that his girlfriend

Debbie is attending business classes at night school: “[s]he

can’t have brains too” (10). When Mark confides that Debbie is

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indeed shy about the course, Caroline tells him not to worry:

if others tease her, it is “just a man thing or a jealous

bitch thing” (10). Caroline also mocks menstruation to explain

the recent hostility and uncooperativeness of the men in her

life, both at home and at work: “Is it men’s time of the month

or something?” (8). A comment more often said derisively by

men towards women, it appears that Caroline is denying her own

femininity in order to fit in with the boys. This denial of

femininity is also evident in her appearance. In the play’s

premiere at The Royal Court, Caroline (played by Laine Megaw)

sported a cropped haircut and wore a blue button down shirt

and black blazer, an outfit remarkably similar to that of her

colleague Mark. In an effort to be accepted by her male

colleagues, Caroline herself becomes more masculine.

Though Caroline might hide markers of her own femininity,

it is in fact her gender that could tip the scales in her

favor regarding promotion, as the play does suggest that the

Patten Report’s recommendation for an increased representation

of women was recognized by those higher up in the ranks:

Caroline thus genders the peace process through her presence

on stage, as she marks the movement towards increased

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visibility of women within the newly established PSNI. Mark

explains to Caroline that “[t]he Inspector knows he has to

work against all that nowadays”, but Caroline is afraid that

such affirmative action will taint her possible promotion: she

does not want to be promoted simply because she is a woman,

fearing that her male colleagues will resent any potential

promotion because it will not have been earned (42). She

constantly questions herself and her abilities, though her

partner Mark tries to reassure her that she is in fact “the

best man for the job” (6). Both catch the slip, but only Mark

verbally acknowledges the mistake; perhaps Caroline does in

fact believe that a man should be promoted over her, if only

to ameliorate the sexist attitudes of some of her colleagues.

Caroline’s leadership abilities are also questioned at

home, where she is also challenged by those ranking lower than

her, in this case her children and her partner, ostensibly an

equal. Due to Caroline’s work schedule, her husband is left in

charge of their children’s morning routine. There is a lack of

communication, however, concerning their son Henry’s school

field trip: “See I knew as soon as I was out the door he would

do that. I did not say Henry could go on the trip. What I said

26

was that you and I would discuss it at some point” (4).

Neither can determine who should take charge of the situation

or who is to blame for the oversight: just as she and Bill

quibble over how to handle interrogations, so do Caroline and

her husband over childrearing. Her job becomes potentially

fatal for the whole family when, during a break in the

interrogation of a UDA leader, Brown, the suspect asks Bill

for Caroline’s license plate number and address with the aim

of intimidating or harming her and her family. When Bill

admits to this collusion, Caroline’s husband and children are

forced into hiding and she is left unsure of what lasting

impact this will have on both her professional and personal

life.

Caroline’s experiences perhaps demonstrate conservative,

unionist notions of what happens when women move into the

public sphere: they are unable to ‘have it all’, and their

domestic life suffers as a result. Caroline ultimately fails

in her role as a mother, unable to protect her children and

home, and the domestic strife between her and her husband

point to her failure as a marital partner as well. By raising

such contentious notions, however, Mitchell’s play does not

27

necessarily assign Caroline a failing role, but rather

highlights gendered questions concerning women in the

workplace: do we perceive male police officers as being bad

fathers or uncooperative husbands? Mitchell forces his

audience to consider such issues and their outcomes in

Northern Irish society: as women do become more prevalent on

the police force, prevailing attitudes concerning women’s

place on (or off) the force will have to be re-evaluated.

The peace process is also gendered in Loyal Women (2003),

a play that focuses on the Women’s UDA (WUDA) which, as its

name implies, was the female branch of the Ulster Defence

Association. While Loyal Women is set in the post-Agreement

era, the actual WUDA “was disbanded in 1974 following the

murder by some of its members of fellow member Ann Ogilby, a

married Protestant woman who took parcels to an unmarried

prisoner” (Sales 148). Women were thus instrumental in

stopping their fellow women from engaging in such ‘deviant’

behavior, and this is demonstrated in the play to shocking

effect. In addition, the Mitchell continues to gender the

peace process continues, representing women as being

responsible for curtailing the violence of men.

28

Brenda, the play’s protagonist, is an active member of

the Women’s UDA (WUDA), a caring and selfless mother and

grandmother, and loyal to her husband, Terry, throughout his

prolonged time in prison. When this spousal loyalty is not

reciprocated – Terry sleeps with another WUDA member, Heather,

days after his release – a gendered double standard appears.

Terry attempts to explain his infidelity to Brenda by

reasoning that “[a]fter sixteen years in prison a man has

needs…those needs can get out of control and make a man do

things” (32). Yet Brenda, and other women with imprisoned

husbands, were expected to refrain from promiscuity and sexual

deviance, actions that would have signified a betrayal of the

entire community and ‘the cause’. When considering the WUDA’s

own actions against Ann Ogilby in 1974, this charge holds

particular significance.

Though the women of the WUDA did indeed police their

members’ behavior, Loyal Women demonstrates that it was more

often the men of the UDA who encouraged such self-policing.

When a young woman, Adele, begins a relationship with a

Catholic man suspected of being in the IRA, the WUDA are

forced into action by the men: Maureen, the leader of the

29

Rathcoole WUDA, comments that “[t]hey wanted to send her

[Adele] up to one of their punishment squads. That wouldn’t be

right. […] Some of the men wanted to do worse than that. There

are many ways a woman can be marked. Brenda, they could ruin

that wee girl’s life”: the potential for sexual violence is

clear (90). Though the chosen punishment of tarring and

feathering is by no means lenient, it is clear that Maureen

attempted to negotiate with the UDA for a lesser punishment.x

Not unlike the peace process itself, then, the WUDA has had to

negotiate with dangerous men in order to broker an arrangement

and terms that suit all parties.

The UDA men also exert control over the leadership of the

WUDA. When Maureen decides to retire, her recommendation for

the new commander, Gail, is vehemently rejected by the men.

Maureen believes their rejection of Gail is because she is

“not the friendly, sociable, politically-correct face that

they want. She scares people. She scares most men for flip

sake” (79). Though Brenda believes these qualities should work

in Gail’s favor, “[y]ou always need a strong leader,

especially one who could stand up to the men”, Maureen again

emphasizes that “they won’t let it happen” (79). A soft,

30

feminine woman is needed in the post-Agreement era, again

gendering the peace process: Brenda is a trustworthy mother

and grandmother, and thus represents the hope for change

signified by the peace process itself. She is also then a prop

for the men: while change might be occurring on the outside,

the UDA ensure that it is not necessarily changing within the

organization itself.

Though perhaps it can be understood how one critic came

to describe the female characters in Loyal Women as

“masculinised, replicating the fierceness, violence and flinty

intransigence of their monolithic male counterparts”, such a

view lacks analysis and makes no comment on the debilitating

nature of or the women’s attempts to break free from this

masculine influence (De Jongh 2003). When Brenda does finally

extract herself from the WUDA, and thus the UDA’s influence,

she verbalizes her desires for her new life: “I used to have a

list it read like this: protestants, Ulster, the Queen,

Britain and fuck everything else but I changed that list to

me, my mum, my daughter and her daughter and that’s the way it

will stay” (85). This second list is significant in its

gendered make-up, as it is clear that men, and even the

31

nation, are thoroughly excluded from her new catalogue of

priorities.

The far-reaching control of men over women is also

depicted in Mitchell’s Irish-language play Love Matters (2012).

In the play, Julie is coming to terms with the release of her

husband, Big Ernie, from prison, and the effect it will have

on her and their 18 year-old son’s life. Described by one

critic as Big Ernie’s “hot young wife”, Julie is not only

anxious about how he will react to her new boyfriend Brad, the

son of the police officer responsible for Big Ernie’s

incarceration, but she is also unsure of how he will handle

the changes in herself: “He thinks I’m still the wee woman he

left on her own all those years ago but I’m not her, that

woman died, he killed her. He’s out and I’m here with you

[Brad]. Years ago I wouldn’t have dared do anything like this”

(Crawley, Love Matters 76). Julie’s newfound independence is all

the more significant when considering the potentially abusive

nature of her marriage. Brad pleads with his father, Henry, to

protect Julie upon Big Ernie’s release from prison, saying

“You know what he’s like. He’s a bully. A thug. He used to hit

her. He did. He beat her up and he’s probably doing it again

32

right now while we just stand here” (83). Henry, however,

declines to help: an emotionally abusive and distant man

himself, he perhaps has little sympathy for Julie’s situation

and is unsupportive of his son’s relationship with her.

Although Julie has taken advantage of her newfound

independence, especially when compared to Brenda’s marital

fidelity in Loyal Women, she still exemplifies traditional

notions of domesticity with her new boyfriend, unlike the

often caustic attitudes of Sandra and Margaret towards their

partners. Julie enjoys the idea of ‘playing house’ with Brad,

telling him that “[a] man deserves a home cooked meal when he

comes home from a hard day’s work. It doesn’t seem worth the

effort when it’s only me and Wee Ernie because he doesn’t like

my cooking and I hardly eat much” (28). This notion of women

relegated to the interior, domestic kitchen is transferred to

the exterior, commercial kitchen as Brad and Julie discuss

their future plans: Brad hopes to open a fish and chip shop

with Julie working as the cook, linking her potential career

to her domestic duties. This scenario echoes Rachel Ward’s

statement that, within unionist politics, “women make a

contribution to the general work of the party, but in a way

33

that replicates the domestic role of the private sphere”:

thus, within the public sphere, women are offered few

opportunities to deviate from their domestic roles (137).

In addition to fulfilling conservative domestic

expectations for women, Julie’s character also renews the

trope of (Northern) Ireland as woman and of the necessity for

female sacrifice for the nation. At the close of the play,

Julie is shot by Big Ernie when she rushes in front of Brad in

order to protect him from the bullet, dying as a result. Her

death creates a patent link between woman and nation, as it is

her blood sacrifice which finally makes Big Ernie aware of the

destructiveness of paramilitarism. By inadvertently

sacrificing herself, with the result that the men become more

aware of their violent follies and thus see the merits of

peace, Julie has become yet another woman entangled in the

destructive twinning of woman and nation.

The only other woman in the play is Sadie, Henry’s wife

and Brad’s mother. In some aspects, her femininity is posited

as destructive: she is over-involved in her son’s life, and

her alcoholism is a burden on the entire family. This

addiction, however, is most likely the result of several years

34

of neglect from her husband. Henry betrays a sense of guilt

when he admits to Brad that

[a] few years ago when I was working all the overtime I could get and you were at school every day and then out with your mates every night your mum was in the house by herself and she became depressed. It was very common among policemen’s wives for this sort of thing to happen. I saw all the signs and did nothing about it. (61)

Though Henry recognized the warning signs of Sadie’s descent

into alcoholism, his passivity regarding her problem indicates

his prioritization of a national issue (his obligations as an

RUC officer) over a personal, domestic issue. Thus, as with

Caroline and her husband in The Force of Change, Henry and Sadie’s

marriage has been damaged by one spouse’s involvement in the

RUC. In each case, the woman feels the brunt of the physical

and emotional impact: Caroline potentially loses her job while

her family is endangered, and Sadie turns to alcohol.

Henry’s emotional neglect of Sadie in some ways parallels

Big Ernie’s physical abuse of Julie, a similarity that could

potentially make the women sympathetic towards one another.

Ultimately, however, Sadie despises the woman who has become

romantically involved with her only child: “[s]he’s far from

perfect. She didn’t get pregnant to her childhood sweetheart

or anything romantic like that, Brad. She got pregnant to a

35

criminal. A thug, a murderer and she married him. What kind of

woman does that?” (56-7). Indeed, Sadie does not hesitate to

threaten Julie in an attempt to sever the relationship between

Julie and Brad: “I’m telling you that I love my little baby

boy and I will do anything and everything that I can to

protect him” (49). For these two women, motherhood trumps all

other responsibilities, including those to ‘the cause’: both

choose supporting their offspring over their husbands, both of

whom have highly public roles in the community. It is the next

generation who has the most to gain from the terms of peace

infiltrating Northern Irish society.

The women in Gary Mitchell’s plays run the gamut: they

are at times traditional, defiant, maternal, and violent. But

at all times, they are present and heard. Mitchell’s women

come to represent the struggles of the peace process: though

they at times resort to violence, they also attempt

peacemaking and nonviolent methods of solving disputes. In

this way, the continuation of the ‘woman as nation’ trope,

more often discussed in relation to Catholic and nationalist

characters and literature, is evident in Mitchell’s

Protestant, loyalist characters. Within Mitchell’s drama there

36

are thus certain roles ascribed to the majority of women

represented on stage. Many serve as foils to their men, often

in ways that affect the entire family, such Margaret’s

defiance of Geordie’s orders to do nothing concerning their

son Jake, which results in the boy’s arrest and probable

imprisonment. Women such as Caroline in The Force of Change and

Brenda in Loyal Women seem to demonstrate the potential for

women to be dominant within the public sphere, but eventually

they are controlled and manipulated by men and masculine

institutions, namely the police force and the UDA. Though

steeped in rhetoric of equality, post-Agreement Northern Irish

society is still dominated by masculine institutions that at

times restrict women’s personal agency. Perhaps no longer

sacrificed for ‘the cause’ of loyalty to the United Kingdom,

women in Mitchell’s plays are now sacrificed within the

context of the peace process, whether at the behest of

disgruntled RUC employees, as in the case of Bill’s

potentially fatal betrayal of fellow RUC officer Caroline in

The Force of Change, or in an effort to save the future

generations of Northern Ireland from the past, as when Julie

takes a bullet meant for her younger lover in Love Matters. On

37

stage, however, the women of Mitchell’s drama have had a mixed

impact on critics: ultimately, many critics see Mitchell’s

women in the background of his plays’ plots and non-essential

to their ultimate take-home messages. This, however, gives

short shrift to these women and ignores their crucial roles

within Mitchell’s work: they go against the grain and are

revolutionary in their own right, regardless of the actions of

their husbands and partners.

Works Cited

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As the Beast Sleeps. Dir. Harry Bradbeer. Screenplay: Gary Mitchell. BBC: 2002. DVD.

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Belfast Telegraph. “Young Mother’s Grave Tarred and Feathered in Ballymena.” 5 April 2012. http://www.belfasttelegraph.co.uk/news/local-national/northern-ireland/young- mothers-grave-tarred-and-feathered-in-ballymena-16140344.html

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Benedict, David. “Reviews: All by Mouth.” The Independent. 6 March 1998. Lexis Nexis. Accessed 14 October 2012.

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Burgess, Jonathan. The Billie Girl. Performance. Castledawson: Castledawson Primary School. 29 May 2013.

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Crawley, Peter. “Love Matters.” The Irish Times. 14 March 2012. http://www.irishtimes.com/culture/music/2.749/love-

matters-1.481287

Curtis, Nick. “The Accent Is on Brutal Reality; Trust Royal Court Upstairs.” The Evening Standard. 16 March 1999. Lexis Nexis. Accessed 14 October 2012.

De Jongh, Nicholas. “Not the Usual Suspects.” The Evening Standard. 11 April 2000. Lexis Nexis. Accessed 14 October 2012.

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Fearon, Kate and Rachel Rebouche. “Whatever Happened to the Women? Promises, Reality and the Northern Ireland Women’s Coalition.” A Farewell to Arms? From War to Peace in Northern Ireland. Eds. Michael Cox, Adrian Guelke and Fiona Stephen. 2nd edition. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2006. 280-301.

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Hill, Ian. “Belfast Dramatist Takes Dublin by Storm.” Belfast News Letter. 22 June 1998. Lexis Nexis. Accessed 14 October 2012.

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---. The Force of Change. London: Nick Hern Books, 2000.

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---. Love Matters. Dir. Brid Ó Gallchoir and Tony Devlin. Performance. Belfast: Lyric Theatre, 3 March 2012.

---. Love Matters. Aisling Ghear Theatre Company: Unpublished Script, 2012. Word Document.

Moroney, Mic. “Theatre: In a Little World of Our Own Peacock Theatre,Dublin.” The

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Independent. 19 February 1997. Lexis Nexis. Accessed 12 October 2012.

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41

i Within Northern Ireland as a whole, identity is a contentious issue, and even within the two communities certain labels indicate a particular shade of one community or the other: religious affiliation is signified by ‘Protestant’ or ‘Catholic’ (though the person being described may not be a frequent practitionerof that religion), while political affiliation is most often signified by ‘unionist’ or ‘nationalist’. Terms such as ‘loyalist’ and ‘republican’ designatea more hard-line political stance, and often imply the use of violent means to achieve each respective group’s political ends as well as being from a working class background. The myriad of signifiers for each community demonstrates the divisiveness present within the communities themselves, but for convenience and simplicity’s sake I will primarily use the blanket terms ‘unionist’ and ‘nationalist’ when describing these communities – the basic definition of a ‘unionist’ being one who wishes for Northern Ireland to remain a part of the United Kingdom, and the basic definition of a ‘nationalist’ being one who wishesfor a reunification of the island of Ireland. When appropriate, however, more specific terms will be used. I will strive to be as concise and correct as possible in my usage of these terms, but cannot always promise simplicity: one woman exemplifies my dilemma when she states, “I would be a working-class Protestant but not a religious Protestant” (Ward 59).ii The Marie Stopes Clinic is a private clinic that provides abortions (among several other services) within the legal framework of Northern Irish law concerning abortion. The clinic met with severe backlash and protest when it opened, despite providing no service or procedure that was not already availableat hospitals in Northern Ireland (BBC News 2012a).iii This is not to say that Sinn Féin is a pro-choice party. The issue remains a contentious one amongst members, with Deputy Leader Mary Lou McDonald stating “that abortion was a ‘fiercely difficult’ issue” (O’Halloran).ivThis belief was recently reflected on stage in Ron Hutchinson’s play Paisley & Me, where the Virgin Mary was described by (the character) Ian Paisley as a “flagrant witch”; it is clear Paisley resents how Mary is sometimes revered in the same respect as Jesus Christ (Hutchinson).v A recent dramatic attempt to subvert this notion was somewhat unsuccessful in doing so. Jonathan Burgess’s play The Billie Girl, which toured to schools in the northeast of Northern Ireland in the spring of 2013, had as its main character an adolescent girl interested in the Orange Order and her grandfather’s role as Grandmaster within the organization. Billie, however, was undeniably a tomboy, dressed in various sports apparel with a baseball cap over her short, cropped hair, with Liverpool FC sheets on her bed. Thus, to even be interested in the Orange Order, it seems a woman must deny her femininity. In addition, Billie’s grandmother spoke of her own involvement in the women’s Orange lodge, but was now reduced to making sandwiches for her husband’s lodge meetings.vi Women’s Orange Lodges, as well as other ancillary organizations, do march in many parades throughout the marching season, but their overall numbers are significantly lower.vii On the contrary, Freddie, perhaps giving the game away to the audience, is explicit in his non-gendering of his accomplice: he never mentions a ‘he’, ‘him’or ‘guy’, just “the other person”, “they”, and “my mate” (89, 90).viii There are two ways to read this ending. In the stage play, Sandra walks out alone; Joe is currently at her mother’s house, but she makes no mention of goingto get him, a possible indication that she will be joining Freddie in their own armed struggle. In the television adaptation (BBC Northern Ireland, 2002), however, Sandra takes Joe with her when she leaves Kyle, and thus likely renounces all involvement with the UDA.

ix The same issue affected the Justice (Northern Ireland) Act of 2002, which “included the requirement that the committee responsible for judicial appointments be ‘representative of the community.’ This statement […] indicates representation of the two main communities and not of other groups”, such as women or ethnic minorities (Fearon and Rebouche 286).x Aretxaga writes how, if women transgressed expectations of sexual fidelity to their own, whether they be Protestant or Catholic, they could be “shamed publicly by tarring and feathering or by shaving off all hair” (152). While morecommon in the earlier years of the Troubles, this punishment technique is still in effect today: in March 2012 a young mother’s grave was tarred and feathered (Belfast Telegraph).