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.