A Belfast Child

by John Chambers

  A few months later, Margaret made good the promise she’d made years ago and I moved into Ottawa Street with the newlyweds. God bless them, they were very tolerant, especially Rick. Mags had told him about her secret Catholic side and although he was shocked it didn’t put him off marrying her. After all, we came from good Protestant stock on Dad’s side of the family and were Loyalist through and through. Rick also dealt well with the fact that a young teenage boy would soon be joining them in their first home. They weren’t much older than kids themselves, but family was family and Margaret was determined to fulfil her role as this family’s rock and anchor, despite having a ready-made teenage nightmare under their roof.

  Down in the Woodvale/Ardoyne boundary, rioting was a daily occurrence. Catholic and Protestant kids who in any other circumstances would be out playing football together were spending their spare time hurling bricks, bottles and petrol bombs at each other before running as hard as hell away from the army and the police. For us, it was pure entertainment and also for the older paramilitaries on both sides of the divide. They would encourage us teenagers to go out and cause trouble, thereby diverting police and army attention away from their own activities. ‘Go and kick up a bloody racket, boys,’ they’d say, handing us a milk crate full of petrol bombs. In time, I learned how to make these myself and enjoyed hurling these over at the Catholic lads, then seeing them running from the flames.

  Inevitably, trouble caught up with me. I’d started seeing a girl from Snugville Street off the Shankill, and although nothing serious was going on, we enjoyed regular snogging sessions in the local park. One night, after a prolonged session, the girl realised she was going to be late home. I offered to take her on a short cut, which, unfortunately, went right through the boundary and of course, there was a riot going on at the very moment we passed through it. Petrol bombs were flying everywhere and one of my mates scored an own goal when the one he’d just hurled struck me on the arm. Within seconds the flames spread right up my sleeve and I flailed around like a dervish trying to extinguish the fire. Far from trying to help me, my mates were in stitches laughing.

  ‘Quick!’ shouted the guy who’d thrown the device, ‘get some more petrol! Chambers is going out!’ Unsurprisingly, the humour in Belfast at that time was as black as black can be.

  The stupid thing was that we were just kids getting caught up and dragged into violence and political manoeuvring. We’d come home from school, do a bit of homework (well, some of us would) and go out for an hour’s rioting before someone shouted that it was time for tea. Catholic and Protestant kids would immediately down tools and run home to their dinner tables before venturing out an hour later, ready to fight again. It was like something from The Jam’s ‘Eton Rifles’:

  ‘What a catalyst you turned out to be/Loaded the guns then you run off home for your tea/Left me standing like a guilty schoolboy’ . . .’

  We were all just pawns in a bigger game and one day our turn would come to play paramilitaries properly. No wonder I loved that band so much . . . they spoke the truth and provided the soundtrack to my teenage life.

  Meanwhile, our glue-sniffing was getting out of hand. One day we were high as kites when we were caught by the police. Billy and I were in a derelict house in the Woodvale, inhaling deeply into our plastic bags, when we heard a disembodied voice speaking as though it was from the depths of hell.

  ‘Don’t move!’ it shouted, ‘Or we’ll shoot!’

  We looked up to see the barrels of two rifles pointing at us, and behind the guns a pair of riot-helmeted RUC.

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ I pleaded, trying desperately to get my head together, ‘please don’t shoot . . . ’

  ‘Get up off the floor,’ said one of the officers, ‘and raise your hands.’

  Perhaps they thought we were preparing petrol bombs or hiding weapons. Anyway, we did as we were told and as soon as they recognised a pair of buck eejits with sores around their mouths and clutching plastic bags they lowered their guns.

  One of them asked where we lived. I told the guy and unfortunately for me, it was just around the corner. The officers took me home and delivered me into the arms of Margaret, who gave me the almightiest bollocking once they’d gone. I deserved everything I got but sadly it didn’t put me off the solvents, or running riot against the local Catholics whenever I got the chance. Billy and I were mad into the glue at this stage, so much so that a tin of Evo-Stik actually saved my life, or at least saved me from a serious injury. We were sniffing up in Glencairn, by the river and away from prying eyes, when we began squabbling over something trivial. This quickly escalated into a fight – nothing unusual about that, because we were always scrapping and it was never serious. This time, though, Billy produced the knife he always carried and tried to stab me. Luckily, he only managed to hit the tin of glue in my pocket, puncturing the metal and causing the solvent to leak all down my trousers. After it had happened he ran one way and I ran the other.

  I only noticed this once I’d come down and for a while I couldn’t work out what had happened. Had I fallen somehow? Then I really thought about it, and had a flashback of Billy approaching me with the blade. The following day he called at Margaret’s, sheepishly asking her if I was all right.

  ‘Sure he is,’ she said. ‘He’s in his bed. Go on up and wake him up.’

  Gingerly, Billy knocked the door and came in. I’d just woken up. His face was a picture.

  ‘Are ye OK, Chambers?’ he said.

  ‘Aye. Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘It’s just that . . . you know . . . the knife and all.’

  Now I remembered. ‘Ah yeah, no worries,’ I said, ‘I always knew you had shite aim.’ Then I pulled out the tin of glue and showed him the hole he’d made. The look of relief on his face was a picture and we both had a laugh about it all. The Jam’s ‘Thick as Thieves’ always reminds me of my friendship with Billy:

  Times were so tough, but not as tough as they are now

  We were so close and nothing came between us and the world

  No personal situations

  Thick as thieves us, we’d stick together for all time

  And we meant it but it turns out just for a while

  We stole the friendship that bound us together . . .

  Incidents like this were not unusual in the brutal streets of Loyalist West Belfast, and as I neared the end of school they were increasing in frequency. Margaret and Richard must’ve known that within me were the makings of a ‘hood’ – a teenage tearaway who would cause as much trouble as possible before he was either kneecapped by the paramilitaries or taken into their ranks. This was a common route kids like me followed back then. Margaret did her best with me, getting me a job at the local VG store on the Woodvale Road. The owner was a friend of snooker star Alex ‘Hurricane’ Higgins and he often came into the shop. I managed to get his autograph just after he won the world title.

  Oddly, it was around this time that my Christianity deepened. I’d become bored with what I saw as the bland services that went on at St Andrews and was looking for something more powerful. I was also sick of Reverend Lewis’s stock answer for everything – ‘God moves in mysterious ways’ – and I wanted more from my religion. Perhaps I wanted to maintain my connection with Dad through a deeper relationship with God. Whatever the reason, I started to attend a Pentecostal church on the Shankill Road – one of these places where people spoke in tongues and waved their arms frantically in the air as they received the Holy Spirit. There were mad sessions of praying and faith healing (although these never seemed to work) and the music was more upbeat and fun to sing. It was a scream, literally, and I really enjoyed it for a time.

  I was working at the VG with another member of this congregation, who I knew as ‘brother George’. He was younger than me and clearly had what we might politely describe as ‘learning difficulties’. When the shop was quiet, he and I would sneak into the storeroom, get down on our knees, pray and praise the Lord. I would lead these prayers
, thinking that perhaps I had the makings of a minister or a pastor. One day, the shift manager Lexi walked in on us as we sang our praises to the heavens.

  ‘What the fuck are youse two eejits doing?’ he said, after a shocked pause.

  Shamefaced, we got up off our knees, brushed ourselves down and went back to work. Praying was one of the more innocent pastimes you could indulge along the Shankill but I must admit that it did look a bit strange. Even so, I kept going with the Pentecostal services and prayer meetings alongside the rioting and glue-sniffing and shoplifting. There would be huge gatherings that I’d attend in the Ulster Hall and I remember being moved to tears by the gospel singing of a black woman who was over from England. I stared at her in astonishment – black people were a real rarity in Belfast back then. There were only two I knew, one from Shankill and the other in Glencairn. Looking back, it’s hard to explain or reconcile these two aspects of my personality – my Christianity and my recklessness – except to say that these were very mad times indeed, and they provoked some very peculiar responses.

  Certainly, I needed something to focus on. I was heading for a big fat zero in terms of school exams, mainly because I often didn’t show up for lessons, spending hours by the glens and swimming in the Spoon in the summer. I was about to turn sixteen and already I felt like I’d been written off. I was one of the many kids that the education system in Belfast completely failed. For the majority growing up where I did, there were very few options. Just surviving the madness all around me was my main priority. The idea of going on to do A levels then study at university was laughable, I didn’t know anybody in my family or circle of friends who fell into that category and at this time that was normal where I lived. And the teachers themselves appeared not to give a shit. They were probably only too glad to see us walk down the school drive for the very last time. Some of the teachers were afraid and in awe of their pupils as they were the offspring of Loyalist leaders, and many of my contemporaries would go on to take up arms and fight the IRA. Laughing and joking, we ritually set our school ties on fire and headed to the shop to buy tins of beer and cider.

  The only two things that school gave me were a love of books and reading, and – when I turned eighteen – financial compensation for forcing me to do PE at the time I broke my weak leg. That shouldn’t have happened and Granny Chambers was on to the local authority like a ton of bricks. As part of the claim I was taken to see Professor Adair, a specialist at one of the Belfast hospitals. Before we went in, Granny demanded that I exaggerate my limp so my compensation would be guaranteed. I did as I was told but I’m sure it didn’t fool the specialist. In any case, my leg was bad enough without needing to act. My right leg has never been as strong as my left leg, plus there is a lot of muscle wastage and scars. I’ve never been able to bend it fully and this was made worse after my school leg break. So we were delighted when the news came that I would receive the money – eight grand – on my eighteenth birthday. I had plans to share it with my sisters, brother and grandparents, but something deep down told me this might not go according to plan.

  Now that I was sixteen, I could qualify for a council flat of my own, and after a bit of string-pulling here and there with legendary Shankill housing officer Fenton Butler I was allocated a maisonette back up in Glencairn. Margaret and Richard probably sighed with relief when I finally threw my bits and pieces in my old kitbag and headed off up to the estate once again. By this time they were starting a family of their own and I guess the last thing they needed was a troublesome teen under their roof. Still, while I was there they were brilliant with me and I can never repay the kindness and love they showed me during those difficult times.

  At the time I was a scruffy wee sod, still in Alistair’s hand- me-downs and whatever I could occasionally afford, which wasn’t much. It was the early 1980s, but my dress sense was firmly in the late 1970s and our Margaret could see this was a bit embarrassing for a teenager who wanted to look cool.

  ‘You spend so much time listening to The Jam and The Who,’ she said one day. ‘Why don’t you just become a Mod?’

  I wasn’t convinced. I loved the music, and by now I was into Secret Affair, The Chords, The Lambrettas, The Selecter, Madness, The Specials. I’d fallen for it all, but I wasn’t sure about going the whole hog and dressing like the bands I admired, probably because I could never afford to be like Paul Weller, in his top-dollar Fred Perry and Lonsdale gear, and didn’t want to show myself up by looking like a cut-price version. But Margaret had other ideas.

  ‘I’m gonna take you down the town next Saturday,’ she said, ‘and get you some of those wee loafers and a Mod haircut. How about that?’

  Well, I could hardly refuse my big sister and when the weekend arrived she came good on her promise. By now I was aware there was a collection of Mods hanging about Belfast centre, posing on their scooters outside the City Hall, and I longed to join them. At that time I was hanging out with Mods from Ballysillan and the Shankill and breaking out of those circles would take a while. Even so, a pair of loafers and a Welleresque haircut was a good start. Richard fell into heaps of laughter when I returned home after the makeover – he was always teasing the hell out of me, like I was his kid brother – but despite that I was really pleased with how I looked. I turned this way and that in the mirror, checking out my new hair and promising myself that as soon as I laid hands on that compensation money, a shiny silver Vespa would be mine. I would be the best-dressed Mod in Glencairn.

  Back on Glencairn, I started to spend more time with a few mates, including a girl called Lizzy. She was well known on the estate for being a tough cookie and she’d never back down from a fight. Lizzy was a rebellious soul who didn’t care what people thought of her, which is maybe why she breached all the rules of the estate by going with a Catholic boy called Sean, who came from the Short Strand area of the city. Her relatives did not approve at all, but Lizzy persisted and eventually she and Sean had a baby together. As ever, the sectarian difficulties involved eventually broke up the relationship, but Lizzy and Sean stayed friendly for the sake of the child.

  Sometimes, Billy and I would go up to Lizzy’s flat after a session on the glue and we’d sit round drinking cans of lager and talking rubbish. The four of us – me, Billy, Lizzy and Sean – were there one damp early autumn night when we were shaken out of our stupor by a huge commotion outside.

  ‘Open up! C’mon!’ shouted a male voice. ‘Open up now, before we break down the fuckin’ door!’

  ‘Who the fuck’s that?’ said Sean, looking up slowly. ‘Are youse expecting anyone?’ His words were slurred but underneath them I could detect a note of panic.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Lizzy. ‘Who cares? Just ignore ’em, they’ll go away.’

  Far from disappearing, the banging grew louder. Muffled shouts could be heard from beyond the cheap, battered wooden door.

  ‘They’re gonna wake the we’an up,’ said Sean. Their little son was sleeping soundly upstairs.

  ‘I think they’re gonna hoof the door in,’ I said.

  Now we were alert. Judging by the insistency of the knock it was clear this was no ordinary visit. Only soldiers, cops or paramilitaries hammered on doors in that way, and it was unlikely to be the first two. Sean’s face was white with fear – as well it should’ve been. There was only one reason left for a late-night visit. Catholics who ventured on to Glencairn ran the risk of a severe beating from Loyalist paramilitaries. Or worse.

  ‘Are you gonna open it, Lizzy?’ he said nervously.

  ‘It’s either that or they’re gonna kick the fuckin’ thing in,’ she replied.

  Sean threw a panicked glance around the room. ‘Should I run out the kitchen window?’ he said.

  ‘The boys’ll be round the back already, so they will,’ she said.

  I’d already guessed that. Unwanted visitors always covered all bases, rarely letting their victims escape scot-free. In a word, we were fucked.

  Sean looked over at his terrified ex. The l
ocal UDA commander had already posted written warnings to anyone, male or female, consorting with Catholics – ‘the enemy’. We all knew what happened when you broke the rules. Sean had repeatedly ignored pleas from Lizzy not to visit and would turn up, late at night, drunk or high, or both. He was running a terrible risk, but although they’d split they’d remained on reasonably good terms and he wanted to see his son.

  ‘All right,’ he said, getting up slowly, ‘I’ll see who it is . . .’

  Glue-sniffing was how we met Sean in the first place. Of course, kids from across the Protestant/Catholic divide were at it, and ironically such bad habits actually helped to break down barriers. Lizzy had some friends on an estate close to the town and they were glue-sniffing down there. Eventually they invited me and Billy to meet up with them. We were nervous, as the estate was predominately Catholic, but Lizzy had said we needn’t worry.

  ‘They’re just into sniffing and having the craic,’ she’d said. ‘There’s nothing else going on with them.’

  We were just sixteen-year-olds keen to break out of the bleak reality of Glencairn and see other parts of our city. Besides, these boys were sniffers like us, so at least we’d have something in common.

  We found we got on with Sean and his mates rather better than we could’ve expected. In my head, it was still taboo to associate with Catholics, and I was meant to hate them with all my heart, but Sean was an all right guy.

  So we spent hours hanging about down there and I found Sean to be not that different from me, although we never strayed on to conversations about religion or politics – the twin taboo subjects for everyone in Northern Ireland at that time.

  We didn’t tell anyone else around Glencairn where we were going; it wouldn’t have gone down well at all. Eventually, Lizzy and Sean found a place to live, with their new baby, in Manor Street. This was close to the notorious Crumlin Road jail, and a Catholic area. The street itself was divided: one end Catholic, the other end Protestant.