Norman Tebbit, forgiveness and my father, the IRA bomber

Spectator

15 hours ago

Norman Tebbit, who died this week at the age of 94, embodied a sterner Britain. His political career was remarkable but it paled in comparison with his unyielding love for his wife Margaret, whom he wheeled through life for four decades after the IRA's Brighton bomb paralysed her body in 1984. Tebbit never forgave those who nearly killed him and left his beloved wife in pain for the rest of her days.
My dad met Tebbit several times, earning his 'hero of the week' nod in his Sun column for exposing the IRA
My father, Sean O'Callaghan, was an IRA bomber who turned against his comrades and, in doing so, saved countless lives. He thwarted a bomb plot in 1983 aimed at Prince Charles and Princess Diana. Yet his early sins – planting bombs, plotting murders – haunted him to his grave.
Tebbit's death stirred something deep, not just in me but in the regulars of my Oxfordshire pub who trickled in after news of his death emerged on Tuesday, their voices thick with memories of Tebbit. It stirred thoughts of forgiveness – or its absence – and what that word demands of us.
My dad met Tebbit several times, earning his 'hero of the week' nod in his Sun column for exposing the IRA. Tebbit respected him, not least for his refusal to soften his edges. But could a man like my father ever find redemption in the eyes of someone like Tebbit, who had paid such a terrible price for the IRA's campaign of terror?
In 1974, my father helped kill Eva Martin, the first Greenfinch, female Ulster Defence Regiment (UDR) soldier, who died in the 'Troubles', and murdered RUC detective Peter Flanagan. Until his dying day, these events shadowed him. Yet he sought redemption with fierce resolve, handing himself into the police in 1988 to face his past. He confessed to murders and other felonies in Britain and Northern Ireland, pleaded guilty to all and was sentenced to 539 years in prison.
He was released in 1996 after being granted the Royal Prerogative of Mercy by Queen Elizabeth II having served seven years. My father's road was brutal, but he achieved what few do. He knew his worth, understood his flaws, and faced them unflinchingly.
Despite his guilt, I am proud to be his son. He pursued redemption with a single-minded ferocity that consumed him, body and soul. He risked his life, his freedom, living as a hunted man to warn authorities, thwart attacks, and dismantle the IRA's machinery of death. Each act was a plea for atonement, a brick laid on a road towards a destination he never felt he reached. His drive tore through our family like a storm – years of fear, fractured bonds, lives upended by his choice to stand against terror. Yet many forgave him. To police, victims' families, even strangers, he was a living testament to redemption through action, a man who bled for his amends.
Still, he never forgave himself, his guilt a shadow he couldn't outrun. Tebbit, too, carried a debt, not of guilt but of loyalty to his wife and principle. He never forgave the IRA, nor did he pretend to. Forgiveness, he seemed to say, must be earned through deeds, not words.
Contrast this with others who've faced terror's scars. Jo Berry, whose father Sir Anthony Berry was murdered in the Brighton bombing, forgave Patrick Magee, the bomber. She built a dialogue with him, seeking understanding over retribution. Gordon Wilson, whose daughter Marie was murdered in the 1987 Enniskillen bombing, forgave the IRA publicly, his voice breaking with Christian charity.
Their acts of forgiveness were noble, even saintly, but they jar in my taproom, where regulars – carpenters, farmers, old soldiers – judge a man by his actions. Magee's 'regret' for murdering Berry feels like a hollow sham. You regret spilling milk, not murder. His vague contrition, peddled, it would seem, in order to pose as a commentator on peace and reconciliation, exploits Berry's overwhelming grief – a raw, fathomless wound he's gaslighted for his own gain.
Unlike my father, who surrendered everything to save others, Magee offers no genuine sacrifice, no deeds to match his words. Redemption demands action – prison served, lives saved, remorse proven – not empty platitudes.
Tebbit's life was a testament to love forged in adversity. He cared for Margaret without pity or fanfare, his devotion a quiet rebuke to a world that mistakes sentiment for strength.
In my pub, where stories of loss and loyalty flow as freely as the ale, his example resonates. A regular, Mick, told me of his brother, killed in Belfast in 1982. 'No one's said sorry,' he growled, 'so why should I let it go?'
His words echo Tebbit's resolve: forgiveness without accountability is surrender. My father, too, understood this. His meetings with Tebbit, though private, were marked by mutual respect – not for shared views, but for shared clarity. Neither believed in absolution without cost. Britain's soul, like its pubs, thrives on honesty, not platitudes. Labour's recent follies – surrendering Chagos, ceding fishing grounds – show a government too eager to appease, too quick to forgive slights against our sovereignty. Tebbit would have scorned such weakness. His Britain demanded respect, not apologies.
So, as I stack crates and scrub taps, I raise a quiet toast to Tebbit. Forgiveness is no salve unless it's earned through remorse, restitution, and action. My father knew it, sacrificing all for redemption, forgiven by many but not himself. Mick knows it, nursing his pint and his pain. In this pub, where truth is poured as freely as beer, we know it too. Tebbit's legacy, like a well-pulled pint, is clear, strong, and unyielding. Let's not water it down.