He might have been born in County Wexford, rather than being separated from the land of his forebears by three generations. To the Irish he was one of their own who went to America and made good, then came home again to share his success with them. In one unimaginable moment they had been robbed of him. In three unimaginable days live television reportage came of age. Barry was as shocked, as disbelieving as everyone else. The fact that the president had been killed in Dallas made it worse. His memory ran reels of sunlit Dallas images, taunting him with their innocence. In every church in Ireland prayers were said for the repose of the soul of John Kennedy. Barry spent the day of Kennedy’s funeral glued to the television. The blind president of Ireland marched in the Kennedy funeral cortege beside the president of France. Two giants towering head and shoulders over prime ministers and kings and emperors. De Valera and de Gaulle. Two old men, two survivors of terrible wars. Following one young man lying on a gun carriage with all his promise destroyed.
