Graham didn’t feel too bad about his hair. Loads of people had scrubber haircuts. It would grow soon. The outside of his head wasn’t important when the inside of his head was thrumming with the atmosphere surrounding him, the restlessness of the marchers, the sound of the bands tuning up.
The air sharpened with tremulous anticipation. He’d told his granda he would consider doing it this once. Just to please him. When it was over, he’d give his granda back the sash. His parents weren’t too happy about the whole thing. They’d driven him over to his granda’s house early this morning but hadn’t changed their own Saturday outing arrangement to meet their friends. Graham had told them that if he did decide to walk with his granda it would be this one time. His father had given him an odd look when he’d said that. Then his dad had said, ‘You know, Graham, you don’t have to be an Orangeman to support Rangers.’
But now Graham could hear the chat all around him, the banter as friends called to each other. And he was part of it. He was making contact with their sense of purpose, absorbing that surety of identity. It didn’t matter that it was to do with events that took place hundreds of years ago. People marched for all sorts of reasons. Even the word ‘march’ had a ring to it, an air of authority.
It was a birthright. We had a duty to do it, owed it to those who’d fought and died to protect it. It was every Briton’s right. Free assembly. To walk the highway. On any road they chose. A democratic right. Won by our fathers and forefathers. The people had been walking this city since the early eighteen hundreds and they would not stop.
Granda Reid placed the sash over his head and laid it on his shoulders. The colours were glorious. That was the only way to describe them. The fringes spread thick across the new black jacket his granda had bought him. Outsiders could say that the colours were garish. They were unmistakable, that’s what they were. No one who saw them would think they were anything other than what they were. And they were his. If he had been in any doubt before, he was in no doubt now. The thud of the drum matched his heartbeat.
He would march.
He would march.
Chapter 43
They sang a hymn before they moved off.
Graham didn’t go in for hymn singing and he noticed a lot of the other young people were drifting about, not paying attention. The Lodge men formed a small semi-circle, took off their hats and sang unaccompanied. Most of them were white-haired. Former shipyard employees, foundry men, engineering workers; veterans of the heavy industries that had made Glasgow, at one time, the second city of the Empire. Their voices lifted to the sky. In a moment of insight Graham saw this was the core of it for his granda and his friends.
Faith.
Immediately after, Granda brought his friends over to introduce them, and Graham was shaking hands with more people than he’d known in his lifetime.
‘So this is him.’
‘Your grandson.’
‘At last.’
‘Your granda talks about you all the time, son. D’you know that?’
‘Dead proud of you, he is.’
‘How you work so hard at school.’
‘How you love the football.’
‘And a great wee player too, I’ve heard.’
‘Be playing for Scotland one day,’ Granda Reid boasted.
‘Sure to, if he’s got your blood in his veins.’
‘There’s no denying his origins.’
‘Looks just like you, so he does.’
At this point Graham caught sight of his granda’s face. There were tears in the old man’s eyes.
‘Named for you, was he?’
‘Naw, naw,’ his granda replied. ‘The other side got that. You know how it goes. First son called after the father’s father. Tradition like.’
‘Did you get a middle name?’
‘I did that. His name’s Graham John.’ Granda Reid patted Graham’s shoulder. ‘Liz suffered her losses before she got him. Shilpit wee thing when he arrived. I remember the day he was born. I was the first to hold him, after his parents like. They were that worried about him. But I knew. I just knew he’d be fine in the end.’
‘Aye, look at him, John.’
‘He’s your living image.’
The bands were ready. Impatient to be off.
The banners were raised high; the name of each Lodge triumphantly emblazoned.
His granda’s face was flushed.
The day had been cloudy but the sun was breaking through. Silver glinted from the instruments and the medals.
‘The sun shines on the righteous,’ said Graham’s granda. He led Graham to his place near the front of the parade. He put his hand on his shoulder.
The Orange Walk began.
His granda rhymed off the names of the streets they would walk. A roll-call of Glasgow’s history: Cathedral Square, Castle Street, High Street, across the Gallowgate, Tolbooth Steeple, Glasgow Cross, London Road.
Along the side of the Cathedral.
The tramp of their feet on the cobblestones led on by the music.
Swinging into Castle Street.
The statue of King William of Orange.
‘Eyes . . . LEFT!’ Granda Reid’s military-style command was for Graham alone. John Reid’s own personal salute to King Billy.
Down the High Street. To the sound of drum and flute. Through the heart of the city.
The police had closed off one lane for them. The Walk marshals spread wide to patrol the line. They were on the main road now. Beating out their colours.
Crowds of people had come to see them. They thronged the pavements, waving, cheering, clapping them on. Some broke through the police escort. They capered alongside the marchers, brandishing flags and mini batons.
The real baton master was at the front. He led the way. Sending the long pole hurtling skywards. Twirling, spinning, bending forwards, bringing it over his back. Retrieving it with a grand flourish. The people crowding the street were delighted. They roared approval.
Round the Tolbooth Steeple. The way it stood there in the middle of the intersection meant that every lane of traffic had to stop to let them through.
The parade halted, marking time in front of the stone lion rampant on the ancient Mercat Cross.
They wheeled round, slow marching on the inside, to make the turn into London Road.
On the corner of the Gallowgate, Joe’s granny’s shop.
The window shutter was pulled down. Graham remembered that Joe’s family said they closed up when the Orange Walks went past. With a name like Flaherty above the shop door it was probably wise.
Joe’s Aunt Kathleen was standing at the door. Kathleen with the open laughing smile who’d welcomed him into her home, asked no questions, made dinner for him.
Graham couldn’t read the expression on her face.
He looked at his granda. His granda, so tall that, despite being a good height for his age, Graham had to look up at him.
Granda Reid’s eyes were shining. He was staring straight ahead.
He didn’t see what Graham saw.
The look on Kathleen’s face.
Her turning away, going inside the shop.
The door closing.
Chapter 44
Jammy was in a bad mood.
He scuffed his feet and kept his head down, muttering to himself as he followed Joe away from the streets of Bridgebar and into the city centre.
‘I’m going to Auntie Kathleen’s house,’ he announced as the boys neared Glasgow Green.
‘Good idea,’ said Joe. He knew his Aunt Kathleen would be at the shop. But maybe his Uncle Tommy would be in and he could unload Jammy on him.
His Uncle Tommy opened the door. ‘Going to see the Jags today?’ Joe asked him. His uncle was wearing his Partick Thistle scarf.
‘I am that.’
Tommy looked at the boys. ‘Why don’t you both come with me?’ he asked them. ‘My treat.’
‘Great,’ said Jammy at once.
‘I’m taking the ca
r,’ said Tommy. ‘But I’ll have to do a big detour round the city to get there. There’s a Walk on, so the traffic will be held up.’
‘We know,’ said Joe quickly before Jammy could say anything. He gave Jammy a warning glare. He knew that Jammy would not be able to keep his mouth shut for long about Gregory really being Graham and taking part in today’s Orange Walk. But hopefully it would be a few days before Jammy told anyone.
‘You coming, Joe?’ His Uncle Tommy was looking at him.
Joe shook his head. ‘I think I’ll just go home,’ he said.
‘Go up through the Calton then.’ Tommy glanced at his watch. ‘The Walk will be at the Cathedral by now. You can cut across behind them. Best to avoid that whole area around Glasgow Cross today.’
‘OK,’ said Joe.
His uncle opened his car door. ‘Straight home now,’ he said.
‘Right.’ Joe waved as Tommy drove off with Jammy sitting beside him in the front.
He began to walk towards the Calton to take the long way home. Then he stopped.
Why should he?
It was his city.
Why should it be that on certain days he was made to feel unwelcome? That he’d no right to be here? As if, on all the other days, he was only being tolerated. As if he didn’t truly belong?
Joe turned towards the city centre.
He heard them first. You always did.
The crashing noise of the drums, the mingled yells of the onlookers.
They were marching in a loop. Coming from the streets near Bridgebar, up to the Cathedral, down the High Street, back along London Road.
Ahead of him in the Gallowgate Joe saw his granny pulling down the steel shutter of the shop. He dived across the road to the other side. If she spotted him she’d call him inside. And she’d tell his dad later that she’d caught him on the streets near the Orange Walk. Something he’d been warned against.
Joe went towards Glasgow Cross. He would walk up the High Street. As he was entitled to do.
Round the Tolbooth the crowd was denser. Packing the streets. Joe scowled and determinedly elbowed his way through.
At the kerbside a big policeman viewed Joe with a shrewd gaze.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Nowhere,’ said Joe.
‘Ask a stupid question,’ said the policeman, under his breath. ‘You’d be better off out of here for the next hour or so.’
‘Why?’ said Joe.
The sound of the music was getting louder. The piercing cry of the flute, the aggressive banging of the drums.
‘What makes you think I don’t want to cheer them on?’ Joe waved his arms about. ‘Like everybody else here?’
The policeman shook his head. ‘Son, don’t go there. Away home now. It’ll be over soon and then we can all get on with our lives.’
Joe backed off. He slipped behind the people lining the road and began to make his way up the High Street.
Little children stood with their parents and grandparents. Many held mini batons or flaunted the flag with the Red Hand of Ulster. Along the way youths grouped together; some drank from concealed bottles and cans.
Despite the smiles, for Joe the atmosphere was raw with unsettled tension. From a window a homemade banner proclaimed loyalty to the Protestant Boys.
The Celtic shop had its shutters down. Gobbets of spit clung to the steel surface.
As Joe reached the intersection with Duke Street the traffic had come to a complete standstill. He noticed a group of brightly dressed African women waiting to cross. Tourists? Asylum seekers? What did they make of it? he wondered.
The marchers were drawing close. Sections of the crowd got wilder. Singing. Chanting. Coarse words battered the air.
It stirred Joe.
Awaking a response centuries old.
He stopped walking. He bunched his fists deep in his pockets.
Moved to the edge of the pavement.
There was a hand on his shoulder. Joe glanced up, half expecting to see the big policeman. But it was his father.
‘I was looking for you, Joe,’ his dad said.
‘Who grassed on me?’
Joe sat opposite his dad at their kitchen table.
Joe’s dad laughed at his question. ‘If you mean who was the concerned relative who was watching out for your welfare, then I guess you could blame your Uncle Tommy. He called me on his mobile.’ He gave Joe an amused look. ‘It seems Jammy told him all about your exploits this morning. Tommy was a bit anxious that perhaps you were going home by the shorter route.’
‘And you came out of the house on your own and all the way down to get me?’ said Joe.
‘I surprised myself,’ Joe’s dad said. ‘But then if I let anything happen to you, your mother would haunt me for the rest of my life.’
‘I thought she was doing that already,’ said Joe before he could stop himself.
His dad’s hand paused in mid air, his coffee cup on its way to his mouth.
‘Sorry,’ Joe said at once. ‘Sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean—’
‘No. No. Don’t worry. You’re right. You’re right.’ Joe’s dad swallowed some coffee and smiled at him. ‘It’ll take a while. But I’m getting there. Like our city. Some things have got to be done bit by bit.’
Chapter 45
‘It was an accident. I swear it,’ said Joe. ‘I didn’t know what I was doing.’
Joe had been shadowing Graham in the dressing room since he’d arrived at the football fields on Sunday, apologizing every two minutes.
Graham put on his football boots and continued to ignore him.
‘It was nothing to do with you being in the Orange Walk. Honest. I thought the colour would come out as blond streaks. It was to help you change your appearance so you could play football in public. I’m really sorry about your hair.’
Joe had said it over a dozen times but Graham still wouldn’t answer him.
‘Really, really sorry,’ he said again. And then, with the beginning of irritation in his voice, he went on, ‘I’m making a big gesture here, you know. I saw you in that Orange Walk yesterday, and you might not realize it, but it hacked me off. Like, seriously hacked me off. So the least you could do is speak to me.’
Graham glanced at Joe, but then looked away again quickly.
Joe slumped down on the bench.
Graham began to lace up his boots. He’d told Joe last week that he’d been thinking of taking part in yesterday’s Orange Walk. How could he be sure that Joe hadn’t meant to turn his hair green?
Joe, watching Graham, saw the doubt on his face. He recalled his dad talking about the nature of friendship.
‘I’ll make you an offer,’ he said. ‘If it would help you feel better I’ll dye my hair orange.’
Graham’s eyes flickered.
‘I will,’ Joe said seriously. ‘I’d get my Auntie Kathleen to do it. I’d tell her it was for a fancy dress at the school, like Hallowe’en or something. I’d really do it. I would.’
Graham swivelled to face him. ‘Why?’ he demanded. ‘Why would you? It’s not as though we’re best pals or anything. It’s not as though we go about together.’
‘I still would do it.’
‘Why?’ Graham repeated the question. ‘We only ever meet up here on the football team.’
‘That’s why,’ said Joe.
Graham raised his eyebrows.
‘Because of the team,’ said Joe. ‘Because of the football. When we play on the same side we’re two good players. That’s not boasting. You know it and I know it. For me, nothing else matters. We work together like magic. On the field, I know what you’re thinking, and you seem to sense what I intend to do. Don’t you?’
Graham didn’t answer.
‘When we play on the same team it’s special, isn’t it?’ Joe insisted.
Graham nodded. ‘I guess,’ he said.
‘We’re playing for Glasgow,’ said Joe. ‘That’s what’s important.’
‘Yes,’ said Graham.
‘And that’s the reason I tried to change your hair,’ said Joe. ‘Because you were so scared at being recognized in public I thought you might not play for the city.’ He looked into Graham’s face. ‘You’ve got to believe that. After all we’ve been through together, you’ve got to believe that.’
‘OK,’ said Graham.
Joe sat back in relief.
‘But I’ve been thinking about that whole situation,’ said Graham. ‘If it turns out that Kyoul is no longer in danger of being arrested and deported then I might tell someone what happened in Reglan Street. I want to do it,’ he went on, ‘because, when it was reported in the newspapers that an asylum seeker got stabbed, the police asked for the witness. If no one comes forward, then it looks like Glasgow doesn’t care. And that’s not true. So you see the reason I must speak up.’
Joe waited until they were kitted up to go out, then he said, ‘Did your parents go mad?’
‘Actually no,’ said Graham. ‘My dad thought it was hysterically funny and eventually my mum had to laugh as well.’
‘Who shaved your head?’
‘My mum got someone she knew to come to the house and do it. She said that she thought Granda Reid would have a stroke if he saw me. And even though neither her nor Dad approve of his Orange sympathies, she said she wasn’t going to be responsible for him ending up in coronary care.’
‘You know . . . it kinda suits you,’ said Joe.
Graham punched Joe’s shoulder, possibly a bit harder than was necessary. ‘Aye, right.’
Jack Burns lined up his team to give them his prematch talk.
‘This is it, boys. I’ve talked the training. You’ve done the training. Now it’s time to do the business. Play fair. Play fine.’ He paused. ‘But give no quarter.’ He laughed. ‘Seriously, this is the beginning of the Inter-Cities Gold Cup tournament. Today, all over the United Kingdom, boys are playing for their city. And it’s a beginning for us. Your big day.
‘It’s also another day,’ he went on. ‘It’s the day after an Orange Walk and a week after an Old Firm game. More games, more Walks coming up. Tension building in the city. The League Championship still to be settled this afternoon, and the Cup Final at the end of the month is between Rangers and Celtic. By which time the Walk season is in full swing. I know there are strong feelings here.’
Divided City Page 16