My Lords, I did not intend to contribute to this debate, but sitting here listening to some of the speeches, not least the wonderful remarks we have just heard, reminded me of what I think was the most difficult period of my life, when I was responsible for the committee that, after the Good Friday agreement, reorganised the police service in Northern Ireland. With my colleagues—people such as the late Maurice Hayes, Peter Smith and others—we thought we needed to have public meetings around Northern Ireland. When we suggested this, people said, “But nobody’ll come, nobody goes to public meetings now”. But come they did; to 40 meetings, probably 40,000 people came, and each of those meetings was a reminder not just of exactly what has just been said, the horror of the violence, but of the intimacy of the violence.
I think people who have not lived or been very much to Northern Ireland simply never comprehend how awful the intimacy of that violence is. I remember one evening having a public meeting in a rather raw little town in Northern Ireland—I had better not mention which one—and it was pretty difficult. A terrorist from the borders, Slab Murphy, had come down with some of his colleagues and we were quite
worried that there would be violence. I undertook all those public meetings without police protection because you could not examine the record of the police and have yourself guarded by policemen. We got out of the meeting in one piece—I think it was Maurice Hayes and myself—largely because of the extremely sensitive and sensible chairmanship of a solicitor who had made her reputation invariably defending republicans who were accused of violence.
From Portadown we then went to a meeting in Craigavon and the first three questions I had were from the widows of police officers. The man accused in the case of the husband of the last of these had been got off on a technicality in his trial, with the solicitor working for him being the same woman who had kept the peace in the meeting I had just come from.
I think going through all those horror stories, trying to be objective and balance one bit of horror against another, is a less than useful idea. I think I am right in saying that it was the episcopal father of Louis MacNeice who said in a famous sermon words to the effect that we should remember the past the better to forget it. Northern Ireland remembers the past too much and does not spend enough time building a better present and a better future, even today; even today that is the situation.
The very last public meeting that we had in Northern Ireland was in a little fishing village. It was a difficult meeting; three of us were sat up on a stage like that in “Cinema Paradiso”, and, as the meeting went on and on, the thought of getting back to Hillsborough for a glass of whiskey became more and more enticing. Eventually, we brought the meeting to a close and got up ready to leave, and I made a little speech about reconciliation, healing and hope. A little lady at the back of the room stood up and said, “Mr Patten, before you go off, before you go back to London, before you make any more speeches about reconciliation, healing and hope, and all of us getting on with one another, I would like you to know that this man here”—and she put a hand on the shoulder of the man in front of her—“killed my son”. It was true. He had been one of those let out as part of the Good Friday agreement. We forget sometimes, standing in a queue in Morrisons, how it would be seeing in the next queue somebody who killed your uncle or tried to kill you. I have never believed that you actually deal with that problem by going over again and again who was right and who was wrong about that particular barbarity—the sort of barbarity that was mentioned earlier.
The best book I have read on Northern Ireland was Seamus Mallon’s memoir. I think Seamus Mallon is one of the great, largely unsung heroes of the attempt to produce decency in Northern Ireland. I recall from that extraordinary book how he went again and again to the funeral or wake of anybody in his constituency who had been killed. It was difficult. Sometimes he had a problem getting out without being beaten up by people who did not want to see him there because he was from the wrong side. On one occasion, he is at a wake and they do not want him there. He is helped to leave safely through the intervention of a man who is a part-time—a reservist—police officer. Two days later, on his way to the pharmacy in the local village, Seamus sees the same man gunned down by republicans. Seamus
has to spend the man’s last moments with him, under a lorry leaking animal urine, as they lie there saying the Lord’s Prayer.
As I say, I do not see how you deal with those sorts of memories by going through the catalogue of who did what to whom and whether one horror was greater than another. I think it is the case that good sermons are likely to make more of an impact than endless historical reconstruction.
When it comes to that, I will say what I have never said before: I am not sure that the Church of which I am a member has been wise in the view that it has taken over the years about segregated education. If we want kids to learn the sort of history that we would like them to, you do not slant it and insist that, in order to listen to your version, they must go to one of your schools otherwise they cannot get confirmed, which was the situation when I was a Minister in Northern Ireland for years.
I had not meant to say any of this. When it comes to history, however brilliant the historians and however balanced they try to be, we have difficulty even in producing official histories of our relationship with the EU, so producing a balanced history of what has happened in Northern Ireland would be very difficult. We should try to understand what has happened, of course, but—I sound like a bishop now—we should build on the decencies that have ensured that, despite all the trouble and the extremism, Northern Ireland still exists as, in many respects, a thoroughly decent community.
The people who I remember when I look back are the heroes. Some of the civil servants and public servants that I had, people such as Norman Dugdale and Maurice Hayes, were great human beings who gave their lives to the attempt to produce decency, prosperity and peace in Northern Ireland. But, please—no official history.