by David Park
But he would never know the outcome of that throw, because he awoke with a start while the mace was still high in the air, and he was glad because he was certain that he had been going to drop it. It struck him that in one second of panic and clumsiness he could have changed the course of history for ever. Then, when he realised where he was, he lay back on the bed and felt foolish. He looked at his watch and saw that it was only five o’clock. He dozed for an hour and then decided to get up. Putting on the same clothes he had been wearing the night before he went quietly downstairs. He could hear his uncle snoring steadily.
The front room was filled with the stale smell of cigarette smoke, and an empty beer bottle that had rolled behind the settee had escaped the hurried clear-up. His uniform was laid out over a chair and he stopped to admire it. It looked immaculate, the creases razor-sharp and every silver button giving back his gleaming reflection. His mother had done a great job. After leaving the empty bottle in the kitchen, he opened the back door. The weather was clear and still, without a sign of even the slightest breeze. He felt some of his old confidence returning and he became annoyed with himself for getting worked up into such a state. Everything had gone well for him so far, and today would be no different. He started to make himself breakfast but realised he was not hungry. Anyway, it would be better to eat closer to the time when he had to leave. If he ate now, he would get hungry again later in the morning.
Closing the back door, he went quietly out, intending to go for a short walk. It was prompted by curiosity really, because he had never seen the street at such an early hour. As he walked down the entry, he heard a familiar sound and looked up to see an army helicopter shuttling across the city. Their vigilance increased his feeling of assurance. At the end of the entry he turned and walked to the top of his street. It still seemed deeply asleep. Above it towered the shipyard gantries, and above them again, the huge Goliath cranes. It was there in the yard that he had hoped to find a job when he left school, but that prospect seemed increasingly unlikely. His father had already been placed on short-time working and there were constant rumours about eventual closure. The unspoken knowledge that he would not be able to find a job when he left school had made him think about emigrating to Canada, but in his heart he didn’t really want to leave, and he knew anyway that in the absence of skills or qualifications there was little chance of being accepted. Somehow his imagination was unable to grasp the possibility of there being no shipyard. It had always been there, surely it always would.
A milk float trundled round the corner. The milkman was doing his round early so that he would be able to march. He only knew the milkman by sight but as he watched him deliver his milk he felt a vague sense of brotherhood. For a second he thought of offering to help him but dismissed the idea as stupid. He retraced his steps and on his return to the house began to get ready. He had breakfast before he put on his uniform, in order to avoid the possibility of an accident. He was not yet finished when his mother came down in her dressing gown. She ran her hand over his uniform and picked off invisible specks of fluff. Everything was perfect.
Before it was time for him to leave, the whole household had come down. He had hoped to avoid his uncle and aunt. They made a great fuss over him, and his uncle looked at him through his cine-camera as if he was a film producer. He talked about how everyone in Toronto would enjoy seeing his film of ‘The Twelfth’. His aunt told him yet again that they were leaving early to get a good vantage point at the junction of Ormeau Avenue and Bedford Street, and reminded him to give his ‘thing’ a good throw. It irritated him to hear it referred to as this, but he forced a smile and promised that he wouldn’t forget. As if he could. The television cameras were always positioned at that particular spot, and it was there that he must make his big throw.
When he met up with his band at the local Orange Hall, it was obvious that everyone had made a special effort with their uniform. These were a few years old now, but no one could have guessed, and every flute and badge sparkled in the morning light. He still felt good and a few warm-up exercises served to increase his confidence. Mr Morrison came over and gave him some words of encouragement, advising him to get into the swing of things before he tried anything too fancy. A few hip-flasks were in evidence, but no one offered him anything and he would not have taken it even if they had. On the most important day of his life he needed a clear head and a steady hand.
When the east Belfast contingents had gathered, they marched across town to Carlisle Circus, the main assembly point for the procession. Spirits were high and there was much good humour, but the playing and marching were relaxed, almost as if no one wanted to risk burning themselves out. They made an exception when they passed Seaforde Street in the Short Strand. The screens were up already and soldiers stood on the corners. Without needing a command, the drummers let rip and the band played their flutes until it seemed their lungs would burst. The music swelled up and pounded like the punch of a mighty fist. The soldiers looked on bemused.
At the assembly point the road was a sea of orange sashes and band uniforms. This part of the town was strange to him, but he felt a great sense of safety among so many. Marshals directed the lodges to their correct marching positions and when they had taken this up all that was left for him to do was wait and watch. He saw bands with real drum majors whose bearing and uniform made him feel shabby and insignificant. They had heavy ornamental maces which were never thrown but which were carried with great dignity. These were mostly ex-soldiers and they marched with military precision. A breeze was blowing now and he soaked in the colours of the great fluttering banners. They were so beautiful. On them were depicted scenes from history and portraits of Protestant martyrs. Unless he read the inscriptions, he did not know what was being portrayed, but they were dramatic and powerful, and their beauty moved his heart. When he saw scenes of Protestants being burned or tied to stakes on the shore and left to drown, his soul burned with righteous anger. He would do his very best that day, not for himself, but for the people that looked down at him from these banners. Then he saw the colour party. In it were the Grand Master and Orange dignitaries. They were flanked by men carrying swords and never in his life had he seen men with such dignity and bearing. He felt privileged to walk behind them. He knew that such men would never let their people down.
After the signal was given for the colour party to set off, it took a long time before the lodge in front of the band started to move. He almost felt worried that the colour party would be at the destination before his section had even moved off. Gradually, he found himself marching down Clifton Street, the way ahead full of bands and marchers, their banners tightening in the breeze. The air reverberated with music and marching feet and he felt a small part of a great wave rolling forward, united in power and purpose. As they snaked through the main streets of the city his feet began to dance. More and more people lined the pavements and the noise and excitement seemed to increase with every step he took. Behind him the band played familiar tunes with new vigour and the drummers drummed as if their arms were made of elastic. And in front of him the great procession rolled on and forward as if nothing could stand in its way.
Halfway along Royal Avenue he tried his first throw. He had put it off as long as possible, but now he felt he had to respond to the great surge of the band he was leading. He could no longer deny their unspoken prompting. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward into the little space that was available to him. Steadying the mace with his left hand he balanced its tip in the palm of his right hand. Then he flung it high into the air, his feet leaving the ground and his back arching tightly. The crowd cheered, but he was oblivious to everything except the spinning mace. Another roar. He had caught it. His palms were wet with sweat and he rubbed them quickly on the sides of his trousers. A terrible sickness crept into his stomach for he alone knew that he had nearly dropped it. In his eagerness he had snatched too early and the mace had clipped the top of his index finger. He knew without looking that th
e nail was cracked and a bruise was beginning to form. All his self-confidence began to drain away. His feet no longer danced so lightly and the music no longer carried the tune of victory. It was going to be like his worst dreams and he felt crippled with fear.
By now they were passing the City Hall and the crowds were at their deepest. His mind played desperately with possible means of escape, but each was as futile as the last. He thought of feigning illness or a sprained wrist, but he knew he could not carry it off, and he could not bear to meet the scorn that he knew he would see on the faces that looked down at him from the banners. No matter in what direction his mind raced, he knew there was to be no escape from his fate. As the procession moved on into Bedford Street, he saw it converge on him with all the crushing force of inevitability.
Suddenly the parade stopped. It did this from time to time as hold-ups worked themselves out through the length of the parade. Everyone took the chance to rest and he tried to quell his rising panic. Mr Morrison came up to him and told him he was doing fine, but just to relax a little bit and try to loosen up. He hadn’t been aware that his nervousness was so obvious. With the realisation came a little feeling of shame.
The procession moved off again. At the corner of Ormeau Avenue he could see the television gantry. Across from it he saw his uncle with the cine-camera raised to his eye. He picked him out easily because he was wearing a white wind jacket and he knew his aunt and parents must be close by. Despite the fact that every fibre of his being begged for the moment to pass, he knew that the time had finally come. Each step he took now echoed slowly in his head and all around him the music seemed to reach a crescendo. Drums pounded in his ears and the brightness of the ornamental swords dazzled his eyes. The world swirled about him in a drunken confusion of burning colours and pulsing sounds. He stood at the very heart of the glorious procession and every pounding beat drew him closer to his moment. The faces of his relations became clearer and he saw the anticipation in their eyes. The crowd surged round on all sides and formed a channel through which he was to walk and the whole world was looking at him only.
He dried the little pools of moisture that were forming in his palms and held his head steady and high. Then, without thought or calculation, he threw it. He threw it higher than he had ever thrown it before. It seemed to knock at the door of Heaven itself and when it dropped it fell as if it was alive, turning and spinning like a great snake, defying anyone to capture it. He did not blink and he did not think, and his entire body reverted to pure instinct. His hand raised itself above his head and his fingers splayed open, finger-printing the air. The crowd was silent, holding its breath in a collective expectancy of failure. The snake twisted finally as if in its death dance and hurtled blindly towards the earth. His heart beat sounded louder than the loudest drum and every inch of his body tensed and felt the course of life run through it. The world turned, and turned again, and then suddenly in his right hand he felt the mace clasped cleanly and perfectly, and in his ears he heard the clamour of the crowd as cheers rose from their throats like a flock of doves released to open sky. He closed his eyes and felt the mace nestle snugly in his hand like the small hand of a loved one.
It had been a perfect catch. When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was King William on a banner that had been drawn tight by the breeze. He was on his great white horse, regal and majestic, his drawn sword pointing the way ahead. As if he was calling to him, and beckoning him forward, beckoning him across the river. Across to victory.
Angel
The too-brittle toast fragmented beneath the butter knife and splintered on the plate like a jagged jigsaw puzzle. Uneaten crusts curled toothless smiles at him across the empty table, strewn with the remains of family breakfast, while the radio roared out a babble of voices, and a discordant beat hammered in his head. He buttered the pieces of toast and ate them one by one, crunching them noisily, and sipped the coffee that had lost its first heat. His head felt heavy and dull, as if he hadn’t fully woken up, and each sip of coffee tasted more bitter than the last. Although he was already late, he could not bring himself to rush. He would blame the traffic. His tongue felt furred and thick, and he knew only one thing would clear it, but that was still a long way off. Staring at the cornflakes that floated in the bowl opposite him, he wondered why she never quite managed to finish anything. As his daughter grew older, it seemed that the house was constantly filled with the sound of music. Pop blared from morning to night – but he supposed it was harmless enough. There were parents with worse problems to worry about than that. She was growing up so quickly – he didn’t know where the years had gone. One moment she was a child, her bedroom wall decorated with Walt Disney characters, and the next almost a teenager, her bedroom plastered with pictures of pop stars he had never heard of. Next year she would start secondary school, and some part of him regretted it very much, as if it marked the end of a childhood period that he was unwilling fully to let go. Already she was growing in complexity and self-reliance, and it hurt him a little to find her less dependent on him, pushed aside in favour of other centres in her life. He wondered where she was now – probably searching for some misplaced book or pen. She had inherited his carelessness. The coffee was bitter to the taste and he put it down, the cup and saucer clinking a note of sour finality.
‘Is there anything else you want, Tom? I’m taking Paula to school now.’
He shook his head and stood up from the table as if he, too, was on the point of leaving.
‘You’ll not forget, now.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Call at Johnstone’s and say the bike has to be delivered tomorrow afternoon – it’s the only time we can get it into the garage without her being around to see it. And Tom, please don’t forget about tonight – you know it’s important to her.’
‘Give me a break, Claire. Of course I won’t forget!’
He saw that his wife was about to respond, but she let it pass, and he knew that she had been about to cast up past failures. He felt aggrieved by the eternal unremitting sharpness of her memory, but had neither the energy nor the desire to start a slanging match. Taking his cup to the sink and rinsing it, he plumped for reassurance.
‘I promise I won’t forget. When my girl steps up to sing, I’ll be standing in the front row. And I won’t forget about the bike either. Santa Claus never forgets.’
His attempt at humour evoked a silence, broken only by their daughter clattering into the room. She was buckling her schoolbag and trailed a woollen scarf behind her like the tail of a kite. She took up where her mother had left off.
‘You’ll definitely be there, won’t you, Dad? You know what time it starts – after the fireworks, right in front of the City Hall. Right beside the Christmas tree.’
He took the trailing scarf and wrapped it snugly around her neck.
‘Don’t you worry about it, Angel. Your dad’ll be there all right to hear you sing – wild horses couldn’t keep me away. Do you know your words all right?’
‘Of course I do – have you not heard me singing it all week? I only have to sing one verse by myself.’
‘Don’t be nervous, pet – just step right up and do your best.’
But he could see she wasn’t listening to his advice, and he rummaged in the pockets of his suit to find some money to give her, but found only some keys and a book of ballot tickets. Her mother called her from the hall and she paused just long enough to give him a perfunctory peck on the cheek and tell him that she would look out for him, and when she said it he knew that it was her final reminder. With a slight flinch he realised that she was treating him as if he was the child, but he did not let it show, and, waving her goodbye, he shouted after the disappearing figure.
‘Don’t you worry about a thing, Angel. Your old man’ll be there to see you break their hearts.’
The front door slammed shut. Immediately, he switched off the radio and soaked softly in the silence. He felt vaguely hurt. A glance at his watch told him that he wa
s already late, but he could not bring himself to hurry. He had reached a period in life when timekeeping no longer seemed important – there was no one to impress any more, and he felt safe in the knowledge that the wheels would turn reliably without his presence. He would blame the traffic, or, better still, he would say he had stopped off to view some property. What did it matter? The house seemed strangely quiet, as if the sound had been switched off, and in the silence he searched for some interest or enthusiasm to spark the hours that lay ahead. But he found nothing, only a dreary list of petty duties and formalities that froze the day ahead with a deadening predictability and left him scrambling for some escape from its icy clutches. With growing self-pity, he imagined how crowded the city centre would be, and the difficulty involved in finding a parking space. Perhaps he could phone Johnstone’s from the office – no, you could never trust some anonymous jobster at the end of a phone to do anything he promised. It would need a personal visit to evoke a cast-iron guarantee of delivery at the correct time, and even then he wouldn’t believe it until he saw the damned thing safely secreted in the garage. He supposed it would be worth it when he saw the look of pleasure on her face, and watched her wobble off down the driveway on her first spin. He remembered the Christmas when he, too, had woken to find a bicycle sitting in the hall – it hadn’t been brand new but his father’s paint job had left it sparkling and virginally fresh. When he had opened the little packages that sat under the tree, he discovered the loudest bell in the world, a black streamlined pump, and a narrow leather pouch that clipped on to the back of the saddle and contained an assortment of spanners and bicycle tools. The memory carried him into the past on a current of unaccustomed nostalgia, and he drifted pleasurably back to a tiny box room with a sloping ceiling, awash with selection boxes, Topical Times football books, torches, model planes, knitted gloves and scarves. The memories ignited a little spark of warmth in him, and he tried desperately to fan them into some kind of sustaining flame before they slipped once again into the oblivion of the past.