A Belfast Child

by John Chambers

  A great banging on the door at 7 a.m. put paid to any thoughts of a lie-in. The Twelfth was here, and so was Granny, her shopping bag full of the ingredients needed to make an ‘Ulster Fry’ – the classic Northern Ireland breakfast that will either kill or cure and satisfy any hunger or hangover. I rushed downstairs and let her in, noticing that Glencairn was awash with Loyalist flags, red, white and blue bunting, murals and countless houses had Union Jacks and Red Hand of Ulster flags flying proudly from the front. And not just flags; even the paving stones would be painted red, white and blue. This added to the sense of excitement for me and I took this as a sign of the glorious party that was about to begin. I was in a childhood Loyalist paradise . . .

  Granny made her way to the kitchen, stepping over the prone Scotchies, and emptying out the contents of her bag on to the work surface. Bacon, sausages, veg roll, eggs, potato bread and soda bread. Not baked beans – opinion is split on whether they’re a true ingredient of an Ulster Fry and while Granny wasn’t a fan I must admit that today I like a portion of them with my Fry whenever I’m back in Belfast, all covered in lashings of HP sauce.

  As the oil heated and the bacon and sausages spat and sizzled, the delicious smells wafted into the living room and up the noses of the Scotchies who rose, bleary-eyed, from their sleeping bags. I was already up, beside myself with a combination of hunger and excitement. After the Fry, Granny washed us and made sure we were in our best clothes. Margaret and Jean were looking great in their band uniforms of tartan skirt, white shirt and blue jumper. In the bathroom, Dad was shaving, smoothing down his hair and generally looking handsome as the band’s leader. I still wished I could march at the front, throwing the baton high in the air, but for now I had to make do with practising with my own baton, which I’d made from a stick and an old split tennis ball perched on the top. Some of the Scotchies let me bang their drums or play their flutes and I was having the time of my life.

  Later in the morning, the rest of the band arrived outside the nearby shops, looking happy and nervous at the same time. Aware they were to be marching and playing in front of thousands of spectators, they always fitted in some last-minute practice to calm themselves down and keep their anxieties at bay. When we were finally washed, dressed and looking smart we all walked down to meet them outside the shops as they arranged themselves in parade formation.

  By now the route out of Glencairn was lined by hundreds of people waving Union Jacks and Red Hand flags (the Ulster Banner), ready to cheer the marchers on their way. The weather on the day never mattered; rain or shine, my heart would almost burst with pride as Dad took up his position and gave his young band members a last quick once-over. When he was satisfied he would give the command ‘March!’ The drummer and accordionists would strike up a tune, something like ‘It’s a long way to Tipperary’, ‘Scotland the Brave’ or ‘The Billy Boys’, and off they’d go, to the cheers of the whole estate.

  At this age I was too young to accompany them on the entire length of the march, but I longed for the day when my poor wee legs would carry me there. Once the band were out of Glencairn the rest of my family, wearing red, white and blue clothing and carrying an assortment of flags, would all travel down to the Lower Ormeau Road, the point at which bands from across Belfast would meet before making their way to The Field. Belfast was at a standstill as we crammed into an uncle’s beaten-up old motor and inched through the backstreets to our destination, constantly getting caught behind a band or lodge making their way down the Shankill. Back then, tens of thousands of Protestants turned out for the Twelfth; not just to celebrate the culture but also as a show of defiance to those we felt were threatening our very way of life. Unsurprisingly, most Catholics stayed away from the city centre that day and although there could be trouble between the communities in the ‘flashpoint’ areas, the IRA knew better than to attack an Orange march on the Twelfth, because the retribution would’ve been brutal. For one day we seemed to rule Northern Ireland and my heart would almost burst with pride.

  Once we’d arrived at our destination, we’d set up camp and spend the day cheering on the bands and singing along with their tunes. Granny and granddad would bring folding chairs and Granny would have made a packed lunch of sandwiches and treats for us. Back then, the parade was so long it took almost two hours to pass. I remember the thrill of hearing the Glencairn Girls’ Accordion Band approaching our corner and clapping and cheering wildly as they passed. Dad turned to me and winked, then saluted, and I was so proud of this man who was raising us single-handedly as well as doing some good for his community.

  The biggest cheers were reserved for the ‘blood and thunder’ bands as they marched past in a sea of colour. I could barely wait for one of these bands to strike up ‘The Sash’ – the number one Orange marching tune, the words of which are carved into the hearts of every good Loyalist in Northern Ireland and beyond, including Scotland, parts of England and Canada, which had a massive Loyalist community that sent bands over to take part in the parades. Even at eight or nine, I knew it off by heart:

  So sure I’m an Ulster Orangeman, from Erin’s Isle I came

  To see my British brethren all of honour and of fame

  And to tell them of my forefathers who fought in days of yore

  That I might have the right to wear the sash my father wore

  (Chorus) It is old but it is beautiful and its colours they are fine

  It was worn at Derry, Aughrim, Enniskillen and the Boyne

  My father wore it as a youth in bygone days of yore

  And on the Twelfth I love to wear the sash my father wore

  When some band or other started up with that, the crowd would go wild and everyone would spontaneously begin singing at the top of their voices. I’d jump up and down, dance on the spot and wave my arms in the air. I would become so excited that I had to be restrained from running straight into the parade and banging the big bass Lambeg drum myself. By the time the parade had passed us by, I was hoarse from singing, shouting and cheering, and totally knackered. Gran would escort us home via the Shankill, where we’d join the queue out of the fish shop that stretched halfway down the street. The wait was always worth it, and at 5.30 p.m. when we were rested, fed and watered, we’d take off again and wait by the road to welcome Dad’s band back from Edenderry. He and the girls must have been exhausted from the march to The Field and back but as they turned into Forthriver Road they’d give their all with one last tune. As they arrived back at the shops, they were cheered like returning heroes from a battle. Before they broke up, they would strike up the national anthem and we would all stand and salute our glorious Queen. Back then, and even today, Loyalist clubs and pubs throughout Belfast and Northern Ireland always end the night with ‘God Save The Queen’ and if you don’t stand up and pay respect you’re likely to get a good slap or even a beating. We Loyalists take our loyalty to Queen and Country very seriously indeed.

  Looking back, I guess it’s the siege mentality ingrained in so many Loyalists that makes the Twelfth such a passionate, intense and emotional day. Sure, it’s a lot of fun too, and as I got older my cousin Wee Sam and I joined the junior Orange Order. As members of the lodge we were allowed to march behind the band, holding on to the strings at the bottom of the huge banners that were carried. I’ve never felt so proud to be a Northern Irish Protestant because I believed I was doing my bit to uphold our traditions in the face of hatred, violence and death.

  The parades have been the object of fierce controversy over the decades and, at the various Drumcree stand-offs in the 1990s, the cause of violence too. Despite all this, they’ve continued and as time has gone on the opposition to them has reduced to just one or two angry scenes around the flashpoint areas where Catholic and Protestant neighbourhoods co-exist. At the time of writing this, the Twelfth is now promoted as ‘Orangefest’, a kind of touchy-feely family/tourist fun day out of music, marching, food and drink. Some of the old guard, like me, will smile wryly at such new-fangled marketing
but if it means the parades can continue without too much fuss, I’m all for it.

  I never wanted the Twelfth to end. The parties around Glencairn went on all night and as we drifted to sleep we could hear the songs and the laughter and the roars and the drunkenness, and smell the still-smouldering bonfire from the Eleventh. The biggest day in the Loyalist calendar was over and I could only count down the days until it all happened again. My dreams were punctuated by the domineering thud of the Lambeg drum and the notion that I was at the front of the parade, the best band leader in the whole world. And when I woke up I knew I was in for another traditional Chambers family treat . . .

  CHAPTER 4

  A

  mid all the excitement generated by the coming of the Twelfth and the actual day itself the Chambers family, like many Protestant families across the North, needed to find time to pack its bags for the annual holiday, which traditionally began on 13 July.

  In the early 1970s there was no thought of getting on a plane to Torremolinos or Benidorm. Even if we could’ve afforded it (which we couldn’t) the idea of leaving beautiful Northern Ireland for somewhere foreign would’ve seemed ridiculous.

  Some of the more adventurous types went to Scotland or Blackpool. In fact, half the families from Shankill and surrounding areas seem to love Blackpool and went there annually. We weren’t in that category. For the Chambers clan – aunties, uncles, grandparents, cousins, friends and a few dogs – our summer Shangri-La was a place called Walkers Caravan Park in Millisle, a seaside village on the Ards Peninsula in County Down. We also stayed at the Ballyferris caravan park, a couple of miles north of Millisle and located just by the beach.

  Millisle isn’t more than twenty miles from Belfast, but for me it could’ve been on another planet altogether. It was a world away from the tension and the violence that surrounded us at all times in Belfast. Millisle was a peaceful and largely Protestant town that welcomed rowdy visitors from Belfast like us and saw to it that we had a good break – God knows, they must’ve known that we needed it.

  Ballyferris caravan park was full of Belfast Protestants from the Shankill and surrounding areas and for us it was a home from home. We recognised neighbours and friends sunning themselves (if they were lucky – this is Northern Ireland after all) or spending time on the beach or in the local pubs. My granny and others of her generation thought nothing of sending postcards from Millisle to friends and family back in Belfast, even though it was just a few miles from our home.

  However, getting to Millisle from Belfast was a challenge. Cars that were in decent enough condition to do the distance were in short supply and besides, we didn’t have one of our own. So on the morning of the thirteenth around ten adults could be seen shepherding more than a dozen kids and Shep the dog, plus bags and belongings, to the bus stop that would take us into town. From there, we’d walk over to the Oxford Street Ulster Bus station in crocodile fashion, shoving each other off the pavements and fooling around until a well-aimed clip from Granny and a bellowed ‘Stop yer messin’!’ brought us back into line. Then we would get on the blue-and-white Ulster Bus and noisily take over the whole thing for the journey.

  When we arrived it must’ve seemed that our entire family had monopolised the park. We were greeted by other caravanners like long-lost relatives and all their kids would team up with us to form a huge and semi-feral pack, intent on mischief and fun. Once we’d unpacked and settled in, all our caravans side by side, our destination was the big patch of grass at the centre of the site. For two weeks this was our own personal football stadium and although I wasn’t much of a player (nor a fan, to be honest) I loved it when the teams were sorted out and I was picked to play on the same side as Dad. Like every other kid there, I told myself I was George Best, Manchester United’s star player and a proud son of Belfast. The matches would go on for hours, or until the adults got fed up and headed for the site bar and a welcome pint of Harp lager or a vodka and brown lemonade.

  Wee Sam and I were obsessed with the beach just below the site. It was full of rockpools and perfect for crab fishing. With David and cousin Pickle in tow, we’d spend ages lifting dozens of them from their pools, placing them into buckets and bringing them back up to the caravan park. Pickle, known as Steven to his parents, was a younger cousin and was so named after an incident on a train to the coast. We were all off fishing for the day on the brand-new train, and somehow Steven managed to spill a jar full of pickled onions all over the seat – and became ‘Pickle’ for ever after.

  Back at the caravan park we’d tip the crabs out of the buckets and race them against each other. The winning ‘trainers’ would receive sweets or packets of crisps. Occasionally, we fished for mackerel and cooked these on the barbecue. Once when we were out in a little boat fishing for mackerel a huge fin suddenly appeared in the water and to our horror we recognised the huge shape of a shark silently shadowing us. To be fair, it was a huge plankton-munching basking shark, but nonetheless it frightened the life out of us as Jaws had recently been on in the cinema and we thought we were going to be eaten alive. We also went collecting willicks (the Belfast word for winkles, available right along the coast) and cockles and cooked these ourselves.

  On another occasion, Wee Sam and I decided to fish in the more remote rockpools to find crabs not already harvested by the other kids. We scrambled across the rocks until we were almost at the sea’s edge, casting out our lines baited with feathers or scraps of bacon rind to see if we could capture a really big crab.

  As is common all over the island of Ireland, a warm and sunny day can turn into a wet and miserable one within minutes. As we were absorbed in our fishing, taking not a scrap of notice of the time, dark clouds had gathered on the horizon and a breeze was getting up. Then it started to rain.

  The shower made us look up and only then did we notice what we should’ve seen half an hour previously. The tide had come right in and we were completely surrounded by rising sea water.

  ‘Ah shit!’ said Wee Sam, a note of panic in his voice. ‘Jesus, we’re trapped, we’re gonna drown. What’re we gonna do now?’

  I stared at the water pooling all around me. The shore now looked miles off and I knew I’d never be able to swim that distance, not with my wonky leg.

  ‘Start shouting!’ I yelled. ‘HELP! Help, SOS!’

  Wee Sam joined in and we roared at the top of our lungs. I could feel my breath becoming shorter as panic rose in me as quickly as the tide. We were going to die – not in war-torn West Belfast but here, in our favourite place. I was almost shitting myself in fear and I started to cry. Then I started to pray; surely God wouldn’t let us die here . . . just say a shark gets us?

  Just then, we heard muffled shouts from the beach. A guy walking his dog along the strand had spotted us and was waving frantically to us. We waved back, and then we could see other people gathering at the shore. We recognised Wee Sam’s mum and dad, along with a couple of other relatives. Among all the shouting and screaming we could just about make out one voice above all the others.

  ‘Stay where ye are!’ a man’s voice hollered. ‘Stay where y’ are and the lifeboat will collect ye!’

  I couldn’t believe we were being told to stay still while the water lapped around our knees but I was in no position to argue. Just then, a moving dot appeared on the horizon and within minutes an orange and blue boat came speeding towards us. It was the RNLI rescue boat and now, a man dressed in yellow plastic overalls was shouting at us to move towards the edge of the rocks. We obeyed, and with strong sailor’s hands the guy lifted us both aboard.

  ‘Youse two are the luckiest we’ans in the world,’ said the skipper as the boat pulled away from the sharp rocks and headed into open water. ‘Another twenty minutes and that would’ve been the death of youse.’

  We stared at him wide-eyed. We’d now completely forgotten about the crabbing mission and instead were the stars in our own self-created drama. I felt like a pirate riding on the deep blue ocean and imagined we were
heading into the sunset and more buccaneering adventures.

  ‘Look,’ I said to Wee Sam as the boat pulled in by the beach. Waiting to greet us was a crowd of onlookers, including almost all of our family. Like royalty, we waved and smiled to those gathered, expecting to receive a heroes’ welcome. Far from it: the minute we stepped on to that beach we were grabbed and given various clips around the ear from Dad, Uncle Rab, Granny and whoever else could take a hand to us. Even Shep looked disappointed with me.

  ‘Youse pair of stupid wee eejits !’ roared Granny. ‘You coulda died out there, and ruined the holiday. Youse should be locked up for the rest of the week, so you should!’

  We were shocked. We thought they’d be glad to see us alive. We’d no idea how much panic we’d caused on the beach, but despite all the verbal and physical punishments we didn’t let the adults’ reaction get to us. We were famous and no one was going to spoil that. The rest of the holiday was spent bragging and boasting to the other kids how we’d been snatched from certain death, and how they’d never dare do what we did. Funnily enough, not one of these other kids even tried . . .

  In the evening the whole clan plus friends would head back to the beach, laden with food and drink, for a picnic or barbecue. Expert bonfire-builders by nature, we’d collect driftwood from the shore and pile it into a quickly dug firepit. Once lit, the baked potatoes wrapped in tin foil would go on, followed by sausages on sticks and mackerel if we’d managed to catch any. Nine times out of ten we burned these but who cared? We were having so much fun singing and listening to scary stories about ghosts and banshees that we didn’t even think about our stomachs. I’d fall asleep on my dad’s knee to wake the following morning to the smell of Granny’s Ulster Fry taking shape on the hob.