Hey Readers:
I've moved my blog to Wordpress. If you'd like to keep following my once-early updates (!) you can do so at irishvatican.com.
I'll be keeping this blogger-based blog open for another few weeks only. Then I'll shut it permanently. That's how I like to do things, don't you know?
Till then, be well.
ERJ McKay
A Northern Irish Life
Extracts from the memoir, "The Vatican of The Hollies." All rights reserved. E.R.J. McKay
Saturday, September 10, 2016
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Diamonds and Golf
Later that night my
girlfriend joined us. Lisa was a patient woman. She wanted more than I ever
wanted to give, and she waited years to be with me forever. But that forever
wasn’t coming any day soon. I bought the engagement ring from a cheap jewellers
in Connswater Shopping Centre and was paying it off over twelve months. I kept
it in my bedroom junk drawer – to me it signified only sparkly debt – letting
her wear it only when we were alone. If she was sleeping over she could wear it
the entire night: she had reluctantly agreed to take it off before venturing to
the bathroom the following morning. I had little intention of marriage for
years yet, many years, if ever, so going as far as to buy a ring was not
something that sat easily with me, if at all. She showed the patience of a
saint, that woman, for putting up with the shit I put her through. But fifty-three
weeks beyond this night and she would decide that she had had enough, that her
fortune-teller’s predictions that I would be successful someday were never
going to come true, and she needed to move on to better prospects. I heard them
speak on the tape the sooth-sayer supplied her clients, and they were talking
of some bright future I was destined for, somewhere, at sometime, somehow. She
knew not where or when or how, but she knew it, she could see it in Lisa’s
palm, or her own tea-leaves or her crystal ball, or in the tarot cards, or
whatever vehicle she used to cruise the dark corners of the netherworlds. But
it would never come soon enough for Lisa, and off she went, leaving me with a
copy of the tape and a video recording of her dancing as sexily as any woman
could wearing a thick checked shirt in a sweaty bar in Dublin’s Temple Bar to
remember her by.
For a week or maybe eight
or nine days I watched the tape, and dreamed of what may have been: as Lisa
dances to a rock band called The Daisy Plague the movement slows, and my
thoughts and memories of her and our time together come to me again. I can see
our engagement; our wedding, like Linda and Andy’s in Belfast Castle, all warm
hor d’oeuvres and cold, ancient stone; vignetted pictures in the grounds; the
incessant ching-chinging of champagne flutes; the first pregnancy and the
cooing of family and colleagues; holding hands in a maternity ward in the City
Hospital; the kids she wanted so desperately; the beautiful house somewhere in
south Belfast, close to her parents, in a safe, respectable and affluent
neighbourhood, where the cars cost as much as The Vatican and the kids can wear
bright-coloured clothes, the type she bought from that godawful store in Castle
Court; golf with her brothers; “If you insist on having a beer then drink it
from a glass. Drinking from the bottle is just uncivilised”; my unremitting
consciousness of what was deemed civility and how I just wasn’t fitting in,
even with these mostly wonderful, accepting people; the wakening to a
nightmare; “Jesus! I play fucking golf!”
the endless arguments, many about me now being a fucking golfer and
where did I, me, Eamonn, myself get lost in all this shit?; the divorce; the
acrimony; “I want my life back!” that’s all mine, that’s all yours, and we’re
halving that; that’s not paid for yet, so half the debt is yours, bitch!;
“You’re a selfish bastard!”; sign this, not that; meetings with bank managers;
here’s my solicitor’s card; I’ll take the kids every Monday, Wednesday and
weekend mornings because I sure as hell won’t be going fucking golfing any more, now will I?; leave your fucking keys when
you … Slam. I never gave her keys
to the flat, and that was always the intention. She wasn’t for coming back
anyway. Four fun years, but, romantically, wasted time. I didn’t want romance. I
didn’t want children. I couldn’t tell one end of a golf bat from the other. I
wanted more. Much more.
We weren’t suited. I
knew it, but I was too egocentric and too concerned with my own pleasures to
let her go. Life was tough and I wanted fun, that I knew. I left Carrick to
have that fun. I wanted the fucking and the drinking and the searching for,
keeping, or suppressing of memories the morning after. I pretended for four years to be happy
in that relationship, but it came too early and at exactly the wrong time.
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Jaques Le Shack
By the end of 1992 my
brother and I had left The Vatican: we knew that Carrick was becoming too
dangerous for men of our ages. We moved first to an ancient and dingy cottage
on the Shore Road, where Carrick meets Greenisland. We christened it Jacques Le
Shack. It was heated by a single fire in the front room, which, in order to dry
laundry, burned year round, come snow or sun. It was too small and too hot in
winter, and too small and way too hot in summer, but it was close to Paddy and
JD, and we wished for little more in life at that time. And it was a step away
from Carrick.
“Aye, you’re right there
lads, you know,” said my Dad, when hearing we were leaving. “This place's just
too small now for all of us.”
“And it’s time for us to
leave, Dad,” said my brother, injecting his usual healthy dose of reality, “And
you know it.”
“We know it,” I
added.
“I love you, I alwayth
have and I alwayth will,” whispered Ma softly. She said it clearly: she wanted
us to know she meant it. “Be thafe, won’t youths?
Ma begged us to keep our
heads down and ourselves to ourselves. She begged us to stay, told us we had
always been safe, trying to reassure us by telling us that we were all still
alive and that there was nothing we could possibly endure that we had not
already.
“We’ve outstayed our
welcome, Ma,” I told her, “No sense in tempting fate, now is there?” She continued
to ask that we stay in our known hometown, where every street mirrored
another and sure wouldn’t that bring its own comforts if you were ever
chased by the hungry Loyalist dogs? Remember, she said, that goodness and
kindness would follow us all the days of our lives, because He is there with
His rod and His staff, and we had to believe.
“Only fucking idiots
believe that, Ma, I retorted. Life is not about expecting kindness and love just because
you live a life giving and hoping for kindness and love. Expecting that in
return is crap here, in this place. We’re targets, and the older we get the
worse it is for us. These fuckers wouldn’t give a second thought about killing
any one of us.” The Child of The Hollies had, by then, graduated into the ranks
of the ex-WAF thugs, with all its gold-covered pure green; wispy
attempts at moustaches, all pimple-addled; and the ubiquitous tracksuit garb.
In one of our most
searing conversations, I told my Ma that all life came down to was that you
should expect violence, no matter how Christian or how loving you were, no
matter how many times you turned the other cheek, no matter what religion. I
told her that violence was inevitable, that it was a part of life, something that
needed no acceptance because accepting the inevitable is going one step too
far.
“The inevitable is the
inevitable, Ma” I argued, “There’s no accepting about it. If you’re born,
expect it, expect violence. Don’t bother thinking you have a choice here, Ma,
not here, not in this fucking province. You’ve no choice but to. Don’t accept.
Expect.”
The night before we left
Ma begged again, holding out some hope that her insistence and clumsy religion-littered
guilt trips would persuade us to change our minds. But we went to our beds that
last time insisting that nothing in Carrick brought us comfort, insisting the
clock was ticking down.
In Jacques Le Shack I
had an asthma attack one night, my first in a decade and half, after drinking
whiskey with Allison Gray and Lisa. Looking back, I don’t know which was the
more unusual, having my first asthma event in years, or me drinking whiskey, a
drink I found, and continue to find, repulsive. I remember that smoky sharpness
on my father’s breath, and the discrete half- and quarter-bottles strewn around
the home. Freud would have little trouble diagnosing my distaste for the water
of life. And I remember Ma, the bastion of sobriety, telling me one night of
the sleep aid she used, showing me a small bottle of whiskey secreted in the
bottom of a large metal bucket we kept in the kitchen utility cupboard, her
stash hidden beneath the head of a mop. She reassured me she used it only when she really
needed to do so. I went immediately to that night when my father was kneeling
beside her, telling her everything would be alright, sure didn’t he have the
gun for which he was reaching and all the bravado in the world to protect us,
didn’t he?
“Just you come on down
the stairs, love. Sure don’t I have this to keep us all safe?” is what he said,
brandishing clumsily the loaded weapon. Looking back, and peeking again through
the banisters from the ninth step, seeking my mother’s face, maybe, just maybe,
she had her own way of numbing the extremes of my father’s provokes of the
Proud and rabid Protestants on our doorstep. And I look back at this
self-medication revelation in shock, in disbelief at her need for this
substance, this powerful distancer, and – I will admit with some pride – in admiration of her ingenuity, for Arthur was never going to lift a broom come
hell or high water. Her bottled courage was as hidden as the cobwebs hiding
between the bulb and the shade in the hallway. In fact, she could have hidden
it beneath a dirty pot; or a scrubbing brush; under a dirty fork; or in an
envelope containing the TV license renewal demand.
It was when living in
Jacques Le Shack that I nearly collapsed after opening a pot of stew, only to
discover it had gone off in the fridge, so unreliable as it was. I still
remember that reel, the choking. Smell memories last the longest in our recall,
but I still have yet to smell or resmell anything quite like that malodorous
malodour.
But it was here also
that Plum and Gil and JD and Frank and Pat and Dr. Bob The Love Physician,
Tester of Armaments and Other Projectiles; and Frauke; and Lisa; and Karen; and
Alison would congregate to drink ourselves stupid and wallow in the great
craic, pointing fingers at the masses out there who knew not how to party with
the other side. It was here that we first fucked with abandon. It was here we
learned to survive on our own, which entailed getting some grasp on cooking,
cleaning, paying bills, doing something akin to laundry. It was here also that
Brendan first developed a tendency to dry his underwear a tad too long by the fire,
burning many lightly. Here he earned the nickname Crispy Knickers. And the name stuck, for no matter where we lived,
he always burned his underwear when drying them. Freud, I dare say, would have
puzzled over this one. Or maybe not.
Jacques was our first
taste of true freedom, and we relished it. When we were evicted a year later to
make way for a garage and store development, we only moved further south,
continuing our slow exodus out of Carrick, to a dingy flat on Belfast’s
University Street. We relished the increased freedom that move brought us, but
our Ma worried every day for the rest of her life. She worried that she would
never again see us, alive or dead. She worried something would happen to us in
the city, the same city where Proud Protestants sought any innocent Taig,
guilty or innocent, the same place where Proud Fenians paramilitary armies beat
our Proud Fenian Dad into shredded nerves as he worked the Markets area for National Car Parks. We weren’t a stone’s
throw from that very carpark he worked, the same one where, after watching a production of Young Frankenstein at Saint Malachy's College, he abandoned his
boys in a cold car, in the dark, him in search of a pint in that darkness,
leaving us at the mercy of young men armed with guns and British accents and a
dearth of years on the journey to maturity.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Och
When she needed to speak
of anything but the comings and goings of any ordinary day it was a different
matter altogether. For our Ma, drawing an envelope-sized rectangle on her lap
with her one good hand had as many meanings as the drying tealeaves on the
bottom of her Mum’s cup. If she drew just that and nothing more, it meant often a
task we could perform without leaving The Vatican. But if she drew the
rectangle and pointed out the window it meant that she needed something done in
Carrickfergus, or something from Carrickfergus; it meant, possibly, that she
wanted something from or done in Belfast, or something from or done at the
church, or something from or done in New Ringgold, Pennsylvania, or something
from or done in the bloody Land of Oz. Of an occasion it meant that she wanted
something from the shops, a treat, a chocolate bar, stamps. Or it might be that
there was a new bishop appointed in some suburb of some backwoods Brazilian
town and she wanted to hear of him and his good works, because the TV had made
a fuss of this particular gentleman and maybe she’d like a magazine to have
read to her describing his good works. That rectangle meant that the Pope
himself had signed some declaration about something, and that it affected
something in her life somehow. It was important this rectangle, for frig’s
sake, and she needed the news, the insight, the gossip there and then. If she
drew the rectangle and pointed to the TV it meant that she had heard of good
works by Bishop Desmond Tutu, and sure isn’t he a great humanitarian, at least that's what someone had read to her from the magazine she now wanted. Of an
occasion it meant that she had learned of bad works attributed to Bishop Len
Brennan, and she was laughing out loud but not without some hint of guilt, but sure she'd make up for it by putting an extra shilling in the weekly envelope. The
rectangle and the pointing of the finger meant everything. It meant anything.
She called me from the kitchen. She drew the rectangle. She pointed out the
leaky window.
“Okay, what is it, Ma? You want
something sent? Card? Letter? A bill paid?”
“No,” she replied, blunt
and emphatic, leaving me with little doubt that I need not ask those questions
again, for frig’s sake, y’eejit.
“Is it a cheque? Do you
need to pay something?”
“No.”
“Okay. I need something
else, Ma, a bit more here. Is it to do with anyone in here?”
“No.”
“Is it to do with the
church?”
“No.”
Every few questions I
clarified, just to be sure. “Okay, it’s nothing to do with us, the church, the
bank, or money? Yes? That right?”
“No.”
“Right... So… No as in it’s
not something to do with them, or no it is something to do with them?”
“Yesths.”
“Right. Okay. Is it a
letter?”
“No,” she replied,
getting frustrated at my frustration.
“Okay Ma, I have no idea
what the hell it is you want.” When at the very edge of giving up on her
fruitless task she would swipe her hand in the air and exclaim “Och”. Och was
another of the Irishisms I had removed from my vocabulary years previously. That
short guttural utterance indicated disappointment, or frustration, and was as
cast away an exclamation as those blessed and depressing and pervasive remnants
such as “aye”. The modern Irish garnish liberally their language – foreign or
domestic – with these ancient tics. Och, in this sense, denoted my mother’s
mild anger and her frustration. Swiping her hand and uttering “och” was her way
of getting rid of the previous conversation, the useless one that went nowhere,
the failed chat that hung in the air between us, limply, benignly. The
scrubbing of the air meant “Oh, let’s just forget it” or “Nope. You’re way off there, boyo.” Her good hand sent failed conversations crashing to the
ground.
“Is it the church? The
bank? Someone in here? One of your sisters?”
“Yesths! Yesths!”
“Okay, was it the bank?
No? Your sisters? The…”
“Yesths! Yesths!”
“Ah, your sisters. Okay,
which sister Ma?” Our hearts would sink at the mention of our Ma’s beloved
sisters: the guessing was to start again, but this time it would involve people
we met only rarely; people whose birthdates were mysteries; women of whose pedigrees
and predicaments we remained ignorant due to miles, years of seemingly happy absence,
and more than a little indifference to their lives and deaths. Except Aunt
Kathleen, whose influence remained. She did say “och” on an occasion or two
that I can remember. I probably shuddered.
The stroke left Ma
unable to remember the names of her sisters with the exception of Kathleen, so
she called all of her sisters “Katleen.” She did the same with my sisters. And
my brother. And me. And Aunt Phil. And Aunt Margaret. And Dad. “Katleen” was
everyone she had ever known, and anyone she would ever know. Katleen was the
name she gave to every face because she had no way of recollecting a name, or a
duck, or a bus, or a cat, or of saying any of these with any clarity.
“Which sister, Ma?”
“Och!” Her hand rose,
swiping away the notes she sang to the staff, dropping them to the floor like
so many dead flies. “It’s Katleen.”
“I thought so. Which
Kathleen do you mean? Do you actually mean Kathleen?”
“No.”
“Pauline then, that
Kathleen?”
“No.”
“Bernie?”
“No.”
“Sally?”
“No. Oh god, it’th
fantathtic.” She felled our benign chat with one swipe.
“Right, okay. So it must
be Rosaline then?”
“No.”
“Oh for Jesus sake, Ma!
I’ve said them all. Is it Kathleen? Pauline? Bernie? Sally? Or Rosaline for god’s
sake?”
“Och, no! It’s Katleen!
Och!” Her hand rose and erased again, and the pile of flies grew.
“You said it was to do
with one of your sisters, Ma.”
“No. No. You’re
thithterth!”
“My sisters? Anne-Marie
and Martina? Those sisters?”
“Yesths! Your
thithterth!”
“Ah, right. Gotcha. What
is it?”
Composing herself, and
savouring a minor triumph, Ma drew the rectangle on her lap once again, pointed
out the intact but still leaky windows and then back to herself.
“O-kay. First off, is it
Anne-Marie or Martina?”
“Yesths.”
“Which one, Ma?”
“Katleen.”
“Anne-Marie?”
“No. Oh god… Katleen!
Katleen!”
“Right. Okay. What do
you need Martina to do?”
“I need…” She had no way
of telling me what she needed, so she drew the rectangle.
“Oh, I don’t know how to
thay it, you know? It'th all wight but it'th all wong at the thame time, you
know?” As she said that she pointed to her throat and drew a dividing line up
her body, from her nave to her chaps, cutting her good-bad body in half with
her long index finger. This was her way of saying, “If this damned operation
hadn’t given me a bloody stroke and sliced my vocal cords and taken away my
ability to think I’d be able to tell you what I want to say, so I bloody well
would!”
“I know, Ma, I know.
We’ll get there. Is it money?”
“Yesths.”
“Do you need money from
the bank?
“No.”
“Do you need to put
money in the bank?
“No. Och!”
“Do you want to give
someone money?”
“No.”
“Do you need some money
now?”
“No. Oh yesths! Yesths!
Mawtina… money. Och!” More notes trailed from the air.
“Okay… So you want
Martina to do something with money, but you don’t want her to take money from
the bank or put money in the bank? Is that right?”
“Yesths.”
“Money, money, money… Is
it someone’s birthday? Do you need her to buy a gift?”
“No!” More dead flies.
“Okay Ma, let’s just
keep trying here.”
“I can’t thay it, you
know. Oh god, it’th fantathtic!” Her hand went to her cheek, and she lay on it
heavily, pushing her elbow into the side of her belly. Her head she shook in
confused desperation, and she regarded the fire in the hearth with a look of
resignation.
“I know Ma, I know. But
we’ll get there. Trust me. Do you have to pay for something?”
“Yesths! No. Oh God.
Katleen hath to pay thomething!”
“Martina has to pay
something? That Kathleen?”
“That'th it! That'th it!
Katleen haths to pay thomething! Oh thank god, thank God.” She took my hand,
looked me in the eye and said, “I love you, oh god, I love you, I alwayth have
and I alwayth will, you know.”
“I know, Ma. Love you
too. Right, now we’re cooking with gas, Ma! Let’s keep going. So, what does she
have to pay?” She drew the rectangle on her lap once again.
“Do you have to give
money to Martina for her to pay this?”
“No.”
“Right, okay. Is she
buying you something?”
“No. Thee’th got the
money.”
“She has the money, and
she knows she has to pay someone the money, I take it?”
“That’th it shon. Sthee
hath to pay money to me!”
“Oh, right. Martina has
to give you money? Why?”
“For… I gave her…to… Oh
god…” Near-dead flies and near-dead notes hung, mingled momentarily, then
crashed.
“I can’t thay it, you
know. It’th all wight but it’th all wong at the thame time, you know.” She carved
from her nave to her chaps again, pointed to her head, spinning her hand at the
wrist. I’m confused now, that is what she meant.
“I know Ma. Try to
relax. We’re nearly there.”
“I gave her money, and…”
“And you need it back, I
take it?”
“That’th it! That’th it.
Oh thank god…”
“At last Ma! Told you
we’d get there. How much did you lend her?” She drew another rectangle.
“Paper money?”
“Yesths.”
“A five?”
“No.”
“Ten?”
“No.”
“Twenty quid?”
“No.”
“Thirty?”
“No.”
“Okay. Was it more or
less than thirty?”
“Lesth. Och!” Flies.
“Ten.”
“No!” Notes. Then flies.
She turned her hand at her head.
“Twenty?”
“Lesth than that ath
well.”
“Fifteen?”
“Yesths! Yesths!”
“See? We got there.
Didn’t I tell you we would? Don’t worry, I’ll give her a nudge about it. She
owes you fifteen quid then?” I laughed.
“Thank you, shon. Thank you.”
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Friday Fenian Fish
Shortly after that night
– a sad night for it saw Una’s last visit with me – I had my third sexual
experience, and I knew when I realised what it was, that it had a name in the
lavatories and on the sports field and in the quad, and that it was pleasurable
and therefore Protestant and sinful and strictly un-Catholic, that it was as
close to the habit Mum was hinting at that I had ever been. I remember feeling
no guilt about this act, and couldn’t have cared less if God above us was
peeking through the sliver gap in the curtains, counting, tallying my sin as He
watched. The elders told us He was.
Sex was not something
The Elders of The Vatican discussed, nor were the obvious effects of
adolescence, growing hairs, developing breasts, menstruation, whatever. It was
easier for us boys than it was for our sisters. We joked with Dad about
learning to shave, and Mum would coo admiringly with every obvious drop in the
intonation of our voices, having us say over and over the words we dropped on,
should we ever have visitors.
If it had anything to do
with maturity or growth or sex then there was to be little or no discussion of
it in good Catholic households. The Pope had deemed such talk dirty, something
that only Protestants dared address in dark corners; the expectation was that
they speak of it only in whispers, and that they restricted this talk to such
an extent that they could discuss these matters only with those who shared
their faith. For many years a musty book on the teaching of sex in Catholic
households lay hidden under two unfolded Irish News broadsheet pages in
one of my bedroom drawers. I remember it as about eight pages thick, and dating
from the forties or the fifties, perhaps earlier. One day it disappeared. When
Martina came running into the crowded living room one winter’s evening, her
eyes flooded with tears and her hands flooded with blood, Mum stood up from her
Mum’s Chair and ordered her back out of the room. “Jesus, Mary, and Saint
Joseph!” she exclaimed, “Get out! You’re a woman now. Now go and get yourself
cleaned up.” That came from the chapter, “The Catholic Guide to the Menstrual
Child,” obviously. It was a short chapter indeed, but not as short as “A Seat
at The Table? - The Catholic Guide to Interdenominational Relationships,” or
the chapter about homosexuality entitled, “Not on My Fucking Watch, Boyo!”
During the years of our
puberty our parents developed an easy if clumsy method of getting round any
un-Catholic situation that arose in our midst, particularly when those
situations appeared before us on the TV. If there was a love scene, or a scene
with anything remotely sexual, impure or un-Catholic about it, Dad would turn
to Mum and ask, “Annie love, what are you thinking of making for the dinner
tomorrow night, then?” Mum would answer, and try to take our attentions from
the screen by getting us involved in the what’s-for-dinner distraction.
“I was thinking maybe I
could do those nice new spuds with that bit of ham I got at McManus’s the other
day, I was thinking. We haven’t had ham in a while, I was thinking, and I think
it would be nice for a wee change. What do you think? Maybe with some nice
cauliflower too, if they get anything decent into that bloody Crazy Prices down
there. Wouldn’t that be nice for a change?” She never answered Dad, and he rarely
listened to her answer – he was simply the catalyst for getting the discussion
started, and he and he alone could continue to watch the frolicking Protestants
in peace, which he did all too often. She addressed her response and her
questions to us, her children, those of us staring silently and saucer-eyed at
the lascivious scenes playing out on the screen. We waited patiently for the
clit-O-rises, whatever they were, wherever they were located, and with such a
fabulous name you would surely know one as soon as you saw one, I thought. Since
that day in class I had pictured clit-O-rises as something aglow, something
beautiful, a secret that was bright and luminescent, a secret that contradicted
itself so obvious was this entity. A clit-O-ris, I thought, must be like light
in the darkness, a secret, buzzing, scintillating city in a dark, dark desert.
Clit-O-rises are like Las Vegas, I thought. Excitement and evil.
“Eamonn! Brendan!” she
would shout, “What do you think? Some nice ham for tomorrow’s dinner then, and
maybe a bit of cauliflower or something? Wouldn’t that be nice for a change?”
“Uh, yeah. Sounds good,”
one of us might grunt, dismissive of the intrusion into our adventures on the
sultry edges of Protestantism. Another love scene later and Dad would ask, “And
what about the day after that then, love? That’ll be Friday. You could get some
nice fish at the market down there on Thursday, couldn’t you?”
“I could too, you know,
and I could make some nice chips to go with that, couldn’t I? Wouldn’t that be
nice?” She waited for one of us to break our concentration, to turn from the
action on the screen.
“Eamonn! Brendan! For God’s …! Okay...
So what do you think of some nice fish and chips with peas this Friday? I’ll
buy your favourite smoked fish if they have any down there at the market
tomorrow. What do you think boys?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure.”
Protestantism in all its sultry excitement was really what we wanted served up
that Friday, not another variation on the holy Catholic Friday Fenian Fish-dish.
Another scene, the same
question, a different day’s dinner and Mum’s vain attempts at saving the souls
of her two sons from the impurities of lingering screen kisses, or tousled hair
and a bra strap, or a button opening. It was useless her employing her skilful
diversions into the gastronomic schedule of a good Irish Catholic family, for
her sons – even in those early days – were too far gone. But it stuck
somewhere. Before the credits rolled on a movie portraying a plethora of love
scenes, or those various other impurities The Elders felt worthy of posting on
their extensive list of Protestant indulgences, we would be sure to know what
we would be sitting down to for dinner a week from next Thursday. That
following Friday it would be fish. Again. Damn you, God, what with your
insistence on fish every Friday and your love of watching young boys and girls
explore their nether regions.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
Pipe and Drum
July. Every year. The
Proud Protestants march in bands around Carrickfergus and beyond in their
annual parades to celebrate everything that is Protestant, and, more
importantly, everything that will remain Protestant come Hell or high water,
you Fenian cunts. They celebrate the Battle of The Boyne – where all poor
Ireland’s Catholics’ troubles started – to the great and glorious rule of Queen
Elizabeth II, the radiant monarch of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Head
of the Commonwealth, God save her and long may she continue to rule over us one
and all. Or so it goes. The flags and bunting come out once again, and we watch
from behind closed doors as the Proud Protestants display their allegiance to
all things Protestant, from the Queen to the Red Hand of Ulster to the Ulster
Volunteer Force and The UDA. They celebrate their domination of politics and power,
of structure and scripture.
Flying the flag was a
thing of pride, even though many looked as if they had flown and fluttered continuously
from the time they adorned the Cherry Walk trampoline and the necks and breasts
and backs of the smiling ladies back then, in 1977. Many stayed out year round,
and Dad told us that the Proud Protestants should really question their pride
in their country and their allegiances if they allowed the flag to stay out
like that, to get battered by the erratic weather in Northern Ireland, and shit
on by good Fenian pigeons.
“In America and in the
Free State they take their flags in every evening at sunset,” he said, “then
they fold them like we did in the services and they keep them inside until dawn
the following day. Then they get put back up again, clean, brilliant and
proud.” He looked into the middle distance. I looked at him, envisioning
brilliant shit-free flags in those foreign countries, those Fenian birds to our
south holding in their shit until after dusk, or planning one serious
evacuation before the alarm clocks clattered across the length and breadth of
those honourable lands. Maybe, I thought, maybe those birds saved all their
shit for an entire year, completed then a yearly migration to Northern Ireland
in preparation for the July fortnight, and then, with undoubted relish and
relief and abandon, let it all go over here? I could not help but think that it
was not only the Proud Protestants who celebrated the Twelfth Fortnight. I only
ever questioned my father inside my own head, but, by the look of some of the
flags, this was a distinct possibility.
The more proud a Proud
Protestant you were the earlier you took your flag from under the stairs or out
of the shed, and the earlier you adorned your property with its glory. Many
were bleached by a year of rain and sun and bird shit, and no-one took a blind
bit of notice of yours anyway because it was now nothing more than a part of
the everyday red-ish, white-ish, and blue-ish flapping against the
white-with-a-little-brown. If others did take notice it was only because the
wind had flapped the flag against those jagged stones for so long that it had
become little more than a few strands of frayed and filthy material fluttering
in the breeze. Even more proud Proud Protestants put up two flags, and the most
Proud of Proud Protestants festooned their concrete door shelters with three flags
– the Union Jack, the Red Hand of Ulster, and a flag depicting the motto or
insignia of the paramilitary army they chose to support, in the main the Ulster
Defence Association or the Ulster Volunteer Force. In Carrickfergus the UDA
garnered most of the support, as the town remained truly theirs. In a
desperation to wear their colours on their sleeves – something that became
almost comical – many families would place two flags in their living room
windows, crossed like an X in the centre; three flags went on the concrete
shelter; bunting festooned the fence and followed up the path to the front
door. In many windows there were posters or a 1977 dinner plate depicting the
gracious Queen, and, occasionally, under the flag-made X, a vase of orange
lilies to complete the window dressing, those flowers wilting and crisping and
browning under the searing July sun. The street was red, white, blue, and
orange by day; it was red, white, blue and orangey-black by night. The same
colours flew in Cherry Walk and Blackthorn Park and Maple Gardens and Oakwood
Road and the Woodburn Road, on Ellis Street, up by Windmill, beyond. Way
beyond. The plastic bunting and flags flapped in the breeze, making
clickety-clacking noises. The older – and apparently more expensive – cloth
bunting and flags soiled easily, in days not weeks, but the blessed cloth
bunting stayed silent in the breeze, flapping a quiet and dignified
celebration. As we grew boys to men the cloth bunting disappeared, replaced
there by its twin, the cheap and noisy dirty oul tart of the family.
The more Proud
Protestant you were the more flags you flew. The more flags you flew, the more
proud a Proud Protestant you were to those you thought might give a flying fuck
about such things. The more proud you were the more loyal you were. The more
loyal you were the more a true Loyalist you were. The more a true Loyalist you
were the more militant you tended to be. The more militant you were the more
you hated Catholics. The more you hated Catholics the more Proud Protestant,
Loyalist and militant you were, and the more flags you flew. And we grew to
know those who would be first to fly their flags and emblems, those who would
fly the most. It was those who made their feelings clear to us when we walked
by them in the street, those who halted Halt!, and with that those who made us
different.
As Brendan and I varied
our routes home through those streets we were invariably proven right, but
ensuring we got home safe and that those we met knew little of us being the
Proud Fenian Taigs of The Vatican of The Hollies meant that we often took
little notice of who was the proudest, reddest, whitest and bluest; who was
most loyal, Loyalist or militant. By night the street cracked and whipped and
clickety-clacked as the breezes later traced our paths home through the streets
and alleyways and passages and garages and back to where we started, all the
while breathing life into the streets, fluttering glorious Protestantism.
By the first week of
July all the flags were out, and they could be new and pristine or dirty and
rain-sodden, because, in the end, it mattered not a jot. They were all of them
precious and no-one could take that away, not even those damned full-to-bursting
Fenian pigeons.
Through our window with
the heavy curtains with the sliver gaps, through the fireguard, we would watch
the flags as the wind waltzed with them up the street and across the roofs and
out to sea. The winds made the flags rise and fall, up and down, up and down,
all along the street. Outside the window, the zigzagged bunting attached to the
nearest streetlight always was plastic. Clickety-clack, clickety clack,
clickety-clack, clickety-clack, clickety-clack. We fell asleep to the staccato singing
and dancing of flags and wind, the partners tap-dancing from west to east.
The Eleventh of July.
Every year. In a twist of time and logic, the Eleventh Night sees the
culmination of the glorious Twelfth of July celebrations, and the expectation
is that all and sundry will join in the partying. The Hollies filled again with
children, drunks, bikes, piss, skipping ropes, couples snogging,
footballs.
The Proud Protestant
mothers and fathers still lucky enough to be working would just be starting
their traditional two-week holiday, known as the July Fortnight or the Twelfth
Fortnight. Many employers and businesses in Northern Ireland shutter their
doors for two weeks in July so that the Proud Protestants can enjoy a feast of
history and marching bands, choked down with party foods and cheap drink. The
culmination of the celebrations is the infamous Eleventh Night. The Proud
Fenians stay off the streets that night.
By the Eleventh Night
the Proud Protestant mothers and fathers have had the flags out and up, back
down, cleaned of Fenian shit, back out again. To fuel the celebrations they
fill fridges with beers and ciders, or whatever cheap alcohol the dole cheque
would allow a decent Proud Protestant man and his family to enjoy. And cheap
beers for the ladies, once the ladies had downed their cheap wines. Drinking
wine in The Hollies was like having French-polished furniture in The Vatican:
it looked nice, and it provided an illusion of extended pinkie-fingered
sophistication, but no visitor ever was to find out the country of origin, the
store where you purchased your wine or how much it cost. Receipts were kept out of sight.
There was some level of pride to maintain, a decorum to portray, thank you very
much.
During the months of
June and July, Proud Protestant sons and daughters relieved us of our old and broken
furniture by dragging it away to pile it on the traditional Twelfth of July
bonfires, known as boneys.
“Hey mister, we’re
collectin’ for the boney. J’wanna give us sumfin for it?”
“Why the hell not?” Dad
would say, “It gets rid of junk, doesn’t it? Let ‘em have it.” And thus, to
sweaty, dirty, prepubescent urchins we relieved ourselves of the things we
needed no more, our junk, and we knew our junk would be added to that pile of
junk that might have an effigy of the Pope or a Proud Fenian martyr or the
Irish flag burning on top of it in a few hours’ time. It saved Dad from having
to get Carrickfergus Council workmen off their arses and into The Hollies, and
everyone was on holiday anyway, didn’t you know?, and there was no way you
would get anyone doing anything like work during the glorious Twelfth Fortnight.
The Child of The Hollies
only collected the junk for the boney. Older boys and young men built the
boney. It was okay for us to speak with those collecting the wood, the
dirty-faced, ignorant, innocent children, but we avoided those building the bonfires,
those who had an inkling about politics, about Fenians, who lived here and
there in the town, and what church they attended. Once upon a time we played
Halt! with many of them. The older ones never came near number 43 because they
knew we lived there, and there was nothing more galling than to be seen
fraternising with a Fenian family, even if it was just to add their Catholic
fuel to the fire. Talking to Taigs was off limits unless you collected milk
money or insurance money. There were times when strangers came seeking
donations in support of the Loyalist Prisoners Association: we never gave, but
were polite about our refusal. “Sorry, no,” then we’d close the door. Or, “Can
you come back later, perhaps? I don’t have any change on me,” was another we
used. We smiled and we chatted. They never did come back – either they moved on
to another area or they got wise to The Vatican.
There was one boney in
the field we knew as the first field, just above The Hollies. They built one on
the first field above Blackthorn Park, one further along Oakwood Road, a
massive bonfire was built close to a play park down by Crazy Prices, and many
dotted the Salt Hills. They were everywhere, and every one of them was a
celebration of the burning of something Catholic. The only time a Tricolour –
the Irish flag – or an effigy of the Pope lasted more than two minutes in
Carrickfergus was when it adorned a boney. In that town, Tricolours were bought
only when they were to be burned high above on the Eleventh Night. If you could
find one or steal one, all the better.
The residents of
Blackthorn Park built a boney in the garages. The paint on the wooden garage
doors lay dry, thin, blistered and cracked, the result of the boneys of
previous years. Some of the garage doors had burned accidentally, others simply
broken apart by the same vulturous children who played in the burned out shells
of cars, those whose time was now taken in the search for any wood that would
make their boney the biggest, proudest Twelfth of July boney anywhere. Bigger,
taller, wider, better, paper, wood, clothes, oil drums, palettes, plastic bags
and any Catholic effigy, whether that was the Pope or just any old Taig draped
in a Tricolour.
“I’m glad that apple
tree is rooted to the spot!” quipped Dad.
By early evening on the
eve of the glorious Twelfth of July the streets were clear of Fenians. If The
Eleventh was on a Sunday Catholic masses went ahead, and those who promised to
remain unbowed in the face of Proud Protestant celebration proudly made their
ways to church and back again, leaving home at the usual time, dressed the same
as always. Proud Protestants were to see that life went on as normal for
Catholics. We did it, we went to church, and we kept our foxes ears on the
priest and on the street outside, with the Lambeg marching drums getting louder
and the swears getting clearer, and the mob getting nearer.
“Remember always to love
your neighbour as yourself,” pleaded Father mCGarry, “Yes, even during times
like these when our streets are filled with our neighbours and their beautiful
music. Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” A polite ripple of laughter.
The faces of the congregation eased into frowns, the anxiety muted but
thick in the air. The faces of the congregation spoke a raw truth. What they
said was, “What? Go now Father? Are you fucking kidding, Father, god forgive my
language? With the mobs outside, their cheering and swearing filling the holy
air, the bangs of Lambeg drums louder and louder in the street, filling our
ears?” And as the faces spoke their truths the mouths maintained a pretence:
“Will we be seeing you in the Parochial Hall for the bingo and the tea next
week then, Mrs. McKay? Sure, won’t it be grand to see the parishioners having a
nice supper together? Aye, sure it will.” We shuffled out, slowly. Mass could
have lasted forever those nights, for all we cared, and the usual rush for the
door was never to be seen as the parish mingled a while in hushed and unhurried
talk, keeping Mrs. Armstrong busy in the repository longer than usual. Father
O’Hagan could have cast us into Hell one hundred times those nights, and we
would have come back for more, delaying our exits past the pillars of salt and
out through the holy doors. Few souls left before the Lambegs faded into a safe
distance, up by the farm on Ellis Street or down by Pete’s Place, our second
favourite record store, owned and run by Blind Pete and staffed by him and his
mother. Everyone waited until the reassuring green uniformed presence of the
RUC was all we could see before Taylor’s shop up the road; or down the road,
beyond the curve where Ellis Street blended with Minorca Place, Irish Quarter West
and Davy’s Street. Everyone got home quickly. If you had a car you got it, you,
and your family home.
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