A Belfast Child

by John Chambers

  Quickly we established friendships with a squad of cousins of similar age to us, plus other kids whose families had fled from the difficulties across the city. To me, the whole estate was a playground of fields, woods and streams and I was desperate to run with the other kids as they chased across the estate, playing British versus Germans, Cowboys versus Indians and even Prods versus Taigs. But I was hampered by the ever-present reminder of the problems with my leg in the shape of an ugly iron calliper that I had to wear constantly. I looked like Tiny Tim from A Christmas Carol, hobbling behind everyone else knowing I’d never be able to catch up. My cousins and friends use to call me ‘Hop-a-Long’, which really upset me back then.

  Every night Dad would carry me upstairs because I still wasn’t strong enough to climb steps unaided. He was the centre of my universe and because he’d taken time off from his job to look after me, I followed him around everywhere. I was probably a nuisance and forever under his feet, but he didn’t seem to mind and I could see the delight on his face whenever we attended the physiotherapy clinic and the nurses confirmed my leg was getting better. I pushed myself as hard as possible during these sessions because what I wanted above everything else was to be able to run with the kids across Glencairn, climbing trees, jumping in the stream and playing with Shep.

  When I was in hospital, many of the other kids were either in wheelchairs or had difficulties walking for one reason or another, so I didn’t feel different. Now, though, I was acutely aware of this ugly piece of metalwork clamped around my leg and I wanted rid of it as soon as possible. Determination to be like everyone else paid off and within a year of my discharge the calliper had gone back to the hospital and I was finally free of it. I would always walk with a limp and I’d surely never run the 100 metres for Northern Ireland, but at least now I could achieve my ambition to roam the estate and park.

  Sometimes the soldiers would come up to Glencairn and spend an hour or so patrolling around. The sight of a couple of Saracen armoured cars coming up Forthriver Road wasn’t the cause for alarm that it might have been if we’d grown up on the Catholic Falls Road, where local women banged bin lids on the cobbles to warn their neighbours that the Brits were on their way. Up in Glencairn, these young boys from over the water were welcomed as heroes because by now they were engaged in a full-on war with the Provies, and as such they were helping to defend us Protestants. The sound of helicopters watching over them was ever-present during these patrols.

  Although they always kept one eye out for trouble, the soldiers could relax a little in Glencairn and spend a bit of time chatting to local people. We kids would swarm around them as they jumped out of the back of their vehicles, following them up the road while pleading for sweeties and any little trinkets they might have on them. Sometimes we’d be lucky, receiving a handful of Blackjacks or a spare cap badge plus a wee bit of chat about school or what was on telly that night. Other times they looked and acted like they meant business and we’d leave them to their patrol. As far as we were concerned, they were taking the war directly to the IRA, and the Loyalist people loved and respected them for that. When one was killed or injured, we would go buck mad with rage; an attack on a soldier was an attack on the Crown and we hated the IRA more than ever. We couldn’t wait until we were old enough to take up arms and fight them and other Republican groups. Our daily lives were dominated by the Troubles going on around us and there was no escape as we witnessed the daily carnage that played out in the streets and communities we lived in.

  There was another army on Glencairn. It didn’t always dress in uniform or patrol with weapons (at least not so publicly as the British) but we all knew who was in it and why it was there. This organisation was the Ulster Defence Association, the UDA, and it had been formed in the white heat of the early Troubles to defend Loyalist areas against Republican incursions and attacks, and from intruders from rival Loyalist paramilitary groups. Very quickly it became the biggest Loyalist paramilitary force in Northern Ireland and acted as a vigilante band, policing areas such as ours. The group also collected money to fund itself, distribute loans to local people where needed, and to look after the families of Loyalist prisoners accused of paramilitary activities.

  Having seen their houses burned down and their traditional communities destroyed by Republican violence (particularly the events of ‘Bloody Friday’, 21 July 1972, a pivotal moment in Loyalist history when the IRA exploded twenty bombs across Belfast, killing nine people, injuring one hundred and thirty others and causing chaos and devastation), Loyalist men and women across Belfast queued up to join the UDA and other Protestant paramilitary groups.

  One of these recruits was my father. He was a pacifist who hated violence, and a practising Christian, but nonetheless, he as a Loyalist was sickened by Republican violence and felt under enough threat to sign up to the paramilitaries. (At this time the UDA was still a legal organisation, and would remain so until it was banned in August 1992, once the UK government could no longer ignore accusations that it was primarily engaged in terrorism.) He was by no means the only man in my family to do so and he would do his bit by helping to patrol the estate (which usually involved standing around the small row of shops and the community centre, both close to our house) while keeping an eye out for any problems. Also, he was tasked with working in the UDA drinking club that had been established. It was the smallest room behind the offlicence and was dark, dingy and full of smoke. Dad could turn his hand to most things and he took on the job of keeping the bar in good order and serving the senior UDA men and women who drank there regularly, an enthusiasm no doubt born of the nightmare they were all part of. Now that Dad was involved with the paramilitaries (in a non-violent way) there was even more reason not to mention anything about my mother, not least her religion.

  Despite having no musical ability (but a passion for it), Dad took it on himself to start a marching band based on Glencairn. This was to be made up of girls and would be called the Glencairn Girls Accordion Band after the instrument they were learning. Dad found some funding, equipped the band with uniforms and instruments and recruited an accordion teacher. The younger ones started out on the triangle or the cymbals until they were ready for the accordion itself. Jean and Margaret, plus all my female cousins, were co-opted into the band and after a few months of getting to grips with the tunes, the band was ready for its first parade.

  Any reader not familiar with the tradition of Northern Irish Loyalist matching bands should take now a quick leap out of the early 1970s and into the future by using Google to watch a few videos of such bands in action. Marching to music is a key part of the Protestant Loyalist tradition and culture and these marches in Belfast, Londonderry, Portadown and many other places across Ulster have been established for years.

  The best-known date in the marching calendar is 12 July, which commemorates the victory of Protestant William of Orange over the Catholic King James at the Battle of the Boyne in 1690, but parades take places at many other times of the year. The marchers (typically lodges of the Orange Order, but there are others too) are accompanied by bands playing traditional tunes on flutes and drums. These bands, some of which also feature the huge, powerful Lambeg bass drum, are known as ‘blood and thunder’ bands as they play all the best-known Loyalist tunes. Accordion bands are seen as less militaristic and often play in old people’s homes or at social events not directly connected with marching. At the front of these bands – flute or accordion – is likely to be someone twirling a baton with great skill and dexterity.

  Now, obviously I couldn’t join this band but I’d insist on joining my dad and the girls, including female cousins, up at the community centre for their weekly rehearsal on a Thursday night. There were forty women and girls in there of all ages and I was captivated – not just by the power of the music but also by the sheer presence of these young ladies. I had my eye on a few of them, and one accordion player in particular who stole my heart. She had classic early seventies long brown hair and eyes to
match. I was head over heels in love with her but of course, at this tender age, I never told her that. Instead I would pretend to be the leader of the band and would march up and down the community centre hall, twirling an invisible baton in time to the music. My antics made the girls laugh, sometimes so much so that they messed up their music and had to start again. For this I’d be banished to a corner and made to sit quietly while they got their act together. Two or three tunes later I was off the chair and marching, singing and generally acting up. However, my excitement was nothing compared to how I felt on the Big Day itself – 12 July, when Loyalist Belfast turned out in force to celebrate the Boyne in particular and Protestant culture in general.

  CHAPTER 3

  F

  or kids the world over, 1 December is the beginning of the countdown to Christmas and even for the nonreligious the daily opening of the advent calendar is a little thrill of excitement each day.

  I loved that time of year, of course, but I loved July equally well. The start of Northern Ireland’s marching season was, for me, ‘the most wonderful time of year’ and as the school holidays began, I couldn’t wait to get started on creating one of the huge bonfires that are lit all over Ulster on 11 July to celebrate the evening before the big parades of ‘The Twelfth’.

  During the Troubles and for a few years afterwards, the marching season also heralded heightened sectarian tension as predominantly Catholic communities objected to Loyalist parades marching down streets in ‘their’ area. For their part, Loyalists simply said they had the democratic right to march down the ‘King’s Highway’ and were determined to do so, even if it pissed off the local people to the extent that they became as mad as hell and ready to start a riot.

  Today the situation is much calmer, though there are still tensions in the flashpoints where Catholic and Protestant areas collide. Back then, I neither understood nor cared for the politics of the marching season. All I wanted to do was have fun, wave a Union flag, watch the bands and march down the Shankill Road from Glencairn to the great meeting point for marchers from all over Ulster and beyond – the hallowed ground at Edenderry, commonly known in Belfast as ‘The Field’.

  At the beginning of July we would start to build the bonfire that would go up in flames on the night of the Eleventh. Like Guy Fawkes Night, the bonfire was only complete when there was an effigy (an ‘effie’, as we’d say) placed on the top; for us this was traditionally a dummy who was dressed like the Pope. Us kids would beg, steal and borrow any wood or burnable material we could find to build up our bonfire and create the best-looking Pope. As the Eleventh approached older kids would spend all night on guard by these mountains of wood, plastic, rags and old tyres so that rival gangs of kids across the estate wouldn’t sneak up and steal the lot for their own fire. These older ones would sit by small fires, drinking and having fun and I wished I could grow up quickly so I could join in and do my bit for the bonfire.

  Uncle Rab and Aunty Jacky lived near us with their kids Wee Sam, Linda, Mandy and Joanne. Rab was my dad’s younger brother. He was a lovable rogue; handsome with black hair and a Mediterranean complexion that gave him a passing resemblance to Elvis. He knew it, too, and was very popular among Glencairn’s ladies, despite Aunty Jacky’s protestations to keep his eyes to himself. Like Dad, Rab was a UDA member and could turn his hand to anything. He possessed a chainsaw, and as the Eleventh rolled around he would often give our bonfire a boost by cutting down a tree or two from the nearby woods and supplying us with the fallen timber. Whether this was legal or not is debatable, but the police had bigger things to worry about just around that time. And to be honest we never worried about what the police thought about anything – we lived by the rules of the street, not the rule of law.

  When the Eleventh finally arrived we were so excited we could barely eat the breakfast Granny had made us. But she insisted we sat there until we’d finished the lot and my brother and I would stuff our mouths with food until, cheeks bulging like hamsters, we’d plead with her to let us down from the table and out to the bonfire.

  When she nodded her assent, we’d be off like two men and a wee lad, racing out of the back of the house and up the grassy mound to where the bonfire was situated. Although we were far too young to climb to the top of the pyre, which could be as tall as sixty feet, to add the finishing touches we’d help to gather any last-minute material and then watch in awe as the older boys made their way up the stack so the ‘effie’ of the Pope could be placed on top to await his fate.

  As evening approached, our friends and neighbours would leave their homes and make their way to the bonfire. Loyalist music would blast from every open window; fiercely Protestant songs like ‘Build My Gallows’. And we would all join in and sing at the top of our voices.

  I am a loyal Ulsterman

  They say this day that I must hang

  Cause I fought the IRA

  And they say that I must pay

  They say this day that I must hang

  (Chorus) So build my gallows, build them high

  That I might see before I die

  The Antrim glen and the hills of County Down

  And I’ll see again the lights of home

  Or ‘Shankill to the Somme’:

  At the age of sixteen years he left his home in tears

  His mother watched as he walked out the door

  As his family bade farewell, his neighbours wished him well

  From the road his dad and brother took before

  And as the ship set sail for France

  He gave Belfast one more glance

  As the ship began to move away from the shore

  He could see there on the land, the proud YCV band,

  And could hear them play ‘The Sash My Father wore’

  (Chorus) From the Shankill Road they went

  Their young lives to be spent

  On the first day of July, so long ago

  All the deeds that they had done

  And the glory they had won

  We remember as long as the bright red poppies grow

  I loved all this stuff, the tales of heroism now and from the past. By this age I was nothing less than a diehard Prod, proud of my heritage and learning to hate all Catholics with passion. I didn’t or couldn’t differentiate between IRA and ordinary Catholics; such lines were blurred in my small Loyalist world. In this respect I was no different to any other kid on Glencairn or surrounding Loyalist areas. Loyalism and Protestantism were our culture, and hatred of the enemy – the Catholics – our war cry. We had no formal lessons in hatred; in fact, at Sunday School the Reverend Lewis would do his best to preach peace and tolerance. But we had no time for anything like that, not when Belfast was burning and we were having to defend ourselves against the marauding IRA. As far as we were concerned, this was war and I would sing our songs as loudly as any adult gathered round the bonfire, which was lit when darkness fell and burned steadily, illuminating the faces of the revellers in its warm orange glow. My Loyalist identity and culture were hardwired into my DNA and I wore it like a badge of honour.

  As the evening wore on, us kids squabbled and fought over the plates of food that had been prepared by the women of the estate as their contribution to the party. As with every celebration in Northern Ireland, cans and bottles of booze were plentiful and I loved to see the adults singing louder and louder the more drunk they became. Sometimes this would spill over into violence as rivalries between people on the estate were settled with fists and boots. More often than not, though, these gatherings were peaceful if rowdy affairs, and as the flames lit up the night sky and licked up towards the top of the bonfire we’d shout our encouragement.

  ‘Fuck the Pope, let him burn!’

  ‘Death to all Fenians!’

  ‘No surrender!’

  ‘Hooray, hooray, it’s a holi-holi-holiday – two popes gone and the Queen lives on, holi-holi-holiday . . .’

  As we screamed and roared ‘the Pope’ would finally topple over, eng
ulfed in flames, and disintegrate in front of us. We had no regrets about burning such a hated symbol of the Antichrist in Rome and leader of the hated Catholic Church, our enemy, and in fact, we took more than delight in imagining his slow, agonising death.

  Once the Pope was no more it was time for bed and reluctantly we allowed ourselves to be led away by Granny.

  ‘Ach, come on, Granny, just another five minutes!’ we’d beg, trying to pull her back towards the fire.

  ‘Not on your life, you wee hallions,’ she replied. ‘Them grown-ups is getting wild drunk now, and it’s no place for youse two. C’mon with you now . . . ’

  ‘But Granny, please . . . Margaret and Jean can stay. Why not us?’

  ‘Do as your granny says, boys,’ Dad said. He had a can of Tennent’s or Harp lager in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and as he chatted to his mates he looked like he was in for the night.

  We had little choice other than to leave the party but no sooner had Granny made sure David and I were in bed than we were out of it again, looking through the window at the party in full swing. Adults and teenagers were singing and shouting, dancing around the fire, snogging each other and falling over drunk. If it hadn’t been a celebration of Protestant culture, it would’ve resembled a scene from The Wicker Man.

  Very often our already-cramped maisonette would be bursting at the seams with several ‘Scotchies’; members of Scotland-based flute bands or Orange lodges who’d made the pilgrimage from Stranraer to Larne via the ferry in time for the Twelfth celebrations. It’s very much within the Northern Irish tradition of great hospitality to give these people a billet for the night, so in the early hours of the Twelfth we’d listen for our back door opening and Dad, plus a handful of Scotchies, falling through it. Once in, the whiskey bottle would be produced and there would be laughter and more songs, followed by loud snoring.