Ballycarson Blues
Roderick Paisley
Copyright © 2015 Roderick Paisley
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Matador®
9 Priory Business Park,
Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,
Leicestershire. LE8 0RX
Tel: 0116 279 2299
Email: [email protected]
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks
eISBN 978 1785894 206
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
Gewidmet sei dieses Buch meiner Frau, meinen Kindern sowie meinen
Eltern, die mir viel Gutes getan haben
Contents
Introduction
Chapter 1 The Wall
Chapter 2 Undercurrents of Angst
Chapter 3 No-Man’s-Land
Chapter 4 Hounded Out?
Chapter 5 Roots
Chapter 6 Washed Out
Chapter 7 Streetwise and House-Trained
Chapter 8 The Digital Age
Chapter 9 Cary Grant
Chapter 10 Steaming Ahead
Chapter 11 That Sinking Feeling
Chapter 12 The Salami Factory
Chapter 13 A Sparkling Future
Chapter 14 Barking Mad
Chapter 15 Political Facts and Figures
Chapter 16 Outflanked and Outdated
Chapter 17 Petrified Political Views
Chapter 18 Workforce Worries
Chapter 19 A Land with No Vision
Chapter 20 The Presidential Entrance
Endnote
INTRODUCTION
The politics of Northern Ireland are a mystery to many. The writer hopes that they will remain so even after reading this book. However, for those who wish to venture into the morass, the following is the briefest of introductions to some of the personalities who, in small or large measure, continue to affect the issues – at least, that is, within the storyline of this book. Many are dead, but that does not seem to matter.
Following the traditions of Ulster politics, no attempt has been made either to be fair or reasonable to those named. A few historic events and descriptive terms have been thrown in for good measure. The reader should remember, however, that the collective community recollection of an historic event may be more akin to fiction than fact, but it frequently becomes a phenomenon in its own right.
Some who hold strongly to certain views will be disappointed to find their heroes or political views selected for the list set out below. Such readers usually expect the whole world to be already familiar with the intricacies of local Ulster politics and their heroes to need no introduction. Fortunately, this is not the case. Most people have not a clue what these intricacies are and remain ignorant of local political celebrities. The very fact that these brief explanations are required should suggest that the world at large is usually concerned with something else. There are fourteen defined terms. Some will immediately perceive a bias in that it may be that only five can be consigned to one of the traditions to which this book applies.
The Black and Tans – the nickname of the Royal Irish Constabulary Reserve Force raised in Ireland in 1920 and 1921. It contained many ex-soldiers who had spent 1914–18 fighting the Germans.
The Easter Rising – the tactically unsuccessful revolt of Republicans in 1916. The action took place mainly in Dublin and involved locations such as the Jacob’s biscuit factory. It involved the use of imported German guns. The revolt was suppressed by the British, but the immediate aftermath involved punishment of the rebels (involving execution in some cases) carried out with such insensitivity that it made martyrs out of those who participated. It was a calamitous strategic blunder by the British.
Edward Carson (Sir) (1854–1935) – successful barrister and leader of the Ulster Unionist Party. He was much involved in the setting up of Northern Ireland in 1922. Prior to the First World War he had been active in persuading the British government not to include Ulster in the Home Rule project by raising the Ulster Volunteer Force. German guns were imported to assist in the persuasion. The Ulster Volunteer Force in large measure became the 36th Ulster Division of the British Army that fought and died for king and country at the Somme in July 1916.
Éamonn de Valera (1882–1975) – born in New Jersey, USA, the son of a Spanish-Cuban settler and Irish mother, first Taoiseach and later president of Eire. Originally a militant Republican later noted for his conservatism. His visit to the German legation in Dublin to express condolences on the death of Herr Hitler, the erstwhile German head of state, on 2nd May 1945 has aroused controversy. There was no similar visit to the embassy of the United States of America on the death of Franklin Delano Roosevelt just a few weeks previously.
King Billy – William III (1650–1702) – a Dutchman alsoknown as “William of Orange” who married Mary Stuart to become joint monarch of Great Britain and, later, of Ireland. His armies, comprising German mercenaries, defeated Mary’s father, James II and VII, at the River Boyne, north of Dublin, in 1690 thus securing the Glorious Revolution and the Protestant Ascendancy. The anniversary of the battle is celebrated on 12th July.
The Lagan – the river running through Belfast. The river, now clean, was once heavily polluted by local industry. Some believe that that Unionist industrialists deliberately poured chemicals into the water to make it orange in colour.
Loyalists – the more enthusiastic form of Unionists associated by some with blood and thunder flute bands.
Constance Markievicz (Countess) (1868–1927) – born in London as Constance Gore-Booth. In 1901 she married a Ukrainian aristocrat of Polish ethnicity who moved back to the Ukraine in 1913 without her. She was involved in the 1916 Easter Rising and with the Republicans in the Irish Civil War.
Nationalists – those who wish Ireland as a whole to be a nation once again.
Eoin O’Duffy (1892–1944) – born Owen O’Duffy, chief of staff of the IRA, second commissioner of the Garda Síochána, leader of the Blueshirts and the Irish Brigade who fought for Franco in the Spanish Civil War. In 1943 he approached the German legation in Dublin with a view to organising an Irish Legion to fight Bolshevism on the Russian front. His offer was not taken seriously.
O’Neills – the family from Tyrone that ruled large parts of Ulster until the flight of Hugh O’Neill into exile on the European continent in 1607.
Republicans – a term that literally denotes those who desire a republic in Ireland but which, within Northern Ireland, is more commonly applied to Nationalists of the more extreme variety.
Sinn Fein – A Republican party closely associated with the IRA. From time to time they have remodelled their policies to act, at least in public, within the existing constitution whatever it might be.
Unionists – those who wish to retain the Union of Great Britain and Northern
Ireland.
CHAPTER 1
THE WALL
Beside the public lavatories in the very centre of Ballycarson a new impressive granite memorial had just been unveiled. On its polished black surface it bore the golden inscription in freshly cut letters:
Dedicated to the memory of the unknown Republican Heroes, this memorial is erected by public subscription organised and collected by Councillor Finvola O’Duffy and her fiancé, Councillor Eugene Gerald Fitzmaurice. Their names shall live for evermore.
Those in attendance at the unveiling (and there were many) had been reminded of why they should not forget. The long, stirring political speeches had stirred long-held emotions. The stirred-up crowds now headed home with a longing to stir their tea. As the serried rows of the organised political manifestation dispersed, the two Nationalist councillors named on the memorial had a great view from the temporary stage erected on the flat roof of the public conveniences. They could be more than content with their extended oratorical and political efforts. At the very centre of events, at public expense, they had been immortalised. The Unionists had been pushed to the fringes of town. The future had forgotten them.
With suitable municipal swagger the councillors moved off the temporary stage on the lavatorial roof by means of a ladder and descended to the level of the mob below. The politicians were immediately replaced on their pedestal. Senga Rae, a very plump local artiste, long past her best as a country and western singer, had been lifted onto the same roof by means of the bucket of a large, but somewhat rusty, mechanical digger. “Digging Done Daily by Doug the Diggerman” was the strapline painted on the arm of the digger by the machine’s owner and operator, Doug himself. Not for Senga was the indecorous clambering up of a ladder leaning at an ungainly angle. Such a method of elevation showed a certain lack of class, she thought, and it also involved more effort than she could easily expend when her focussed efforts were needed for her imminently expected musical extravaganza.
Suitably elevated and with her false teeth adjusted, Senga began to tune up with her octogenarian lead guitarist. Just in case she, the lead singer, might be mistaken for her overly mature musical companion, she was wearing a white tee-shirt bearing her name “Senga” in black block capitals. Thus her fame and identity were simultaneously announced to the world. Her two roadies, of equally advanced age, wore similar white tee-shirts, but these bore in large black letters the title of the most recent song by which Senga was seeking belated local musical stardom. It was an old Elvis Presley number with a personal twist intended to publicise the crusty old chantreuse: “Return to Senga”. Unfortunately, the manifestly ripe age of the roadies coupled with the emblazoned title of the golden oldie led to a somewhat odd impression. The visual combination suggested that the workers might be suffering from Alzheimer’s dreaded affliction and the large print was intended to encourage the public to volunteer their assistance and to lead the wandering employees back to their boss. But noone at all was bothering to offer assistance even if it had been required. By the time the roadies had managed to set up the amplifiers and associated musical kit, the town square was empty. The fat lady started to sing, but the evening was already over.
Senga had done her real job before she had even started to croon. She had been well worth her modest fee paid out of the public purse for crowd control services. Music indeed has charms and Senga’s persuasive sound had won any argument long before hostile words and gestures had been exchanged. Indeed, this public success was a repeat performance for Senga. Whenever the Council needed a potentially restless crowd dispersed without altercation, they did not require water cannon or rubber bullets. Such overtly aggressive methods would be unthinkable in the age of the Peace Process. Instead, the new Nationalist administration merely employed the longest standing of the local artistes, Senga Rae. The Peace Process had given her singing career a new lease of whatever half-life it had ever had. Indeed, it was much better than that. The proper fulfilment of her municipal duties to assist in the avoidance of street violence and political agitation had led to the Council awarding her a personal title of some dignity. This came in the form not of a warlike medal or ribbon but, instead, was a title of honour, a designation of peace, which she was encouraged to use on her publicity material as a leading local artiste. She bore this peaceful municipal acclamation with pride. It was clearly visible underneath the reproduction of her smiling face on the two large temporary banners that had just been set up beside the entrances to the “gents” and the “ladies”. It read: “Senga Rae, Peace Artiste”.
So the entertainment drew the evening to a speedy and peaceful end like a noose drawing close on a neck. Senga, as anticipated, had emptied the town square. The “evening of peace” or, as the Council’s public relations department, in what they considered was a tasteful emulation of French Revolutionary and Republican ideals, preferred to call it, the “Peace Soirée” was over.
But at eastern approaches of the town something was still going on. The bus approaching Ballycarson bore the number “000” and the destination “Not In Service”. The driver, however, knew better than that. He liked to think of his personal number as “Double Oh Zero”. He knew, or at least, since these matters were never officially confirmed, he strongly suspected, that he was a secret agent. So secret was he that he was not even officially listed amongst the known secret agents on the well-tended list of colleagues serving overseas who paid their slate at the Ballycarson transport cafeteria once a month after returning from long-distance missions. No, he was in a league of his own as an ex-directory, unlisted, off-register, off balance-sheet secret agent whose very existence afforded plausible deniability. His advertised destination, “Not In Service”, was almost certainly deliberate misinformation rather than a mechanical fault with the bus equipment. All the evidence, when balanced and weighed carefully, indicated that he had to be in the Ballycarson secret service. His present mission was to transport, in secret, his passengers into Ballycarson two or three times a week and he made sure he never set off or arrived on time so noone could lie in ambush. He was reliably unreliable and predictably unpredictable. In fact, he was so irregular in his timings that an outsider looking on would have thought it was just a normal bus. Here he was hidden in open sight.
But, like everything else in rural Ulster, all the locals knew the truth of the secret. If a secret shared is a secret halved, this one was infinitely divisible in this divided society. Anybody asking for this particular bus was directed to the bus stop that didn’t exist, although it did have a specific location – right in the centre of the enormous empty car park of the Ballycarson Yankees’ Baseball Stadium just beside the bridge over the Union Canal. That landmark was where the passengers would disgorge to begin their new lives. There was plenty of space there. The large electronic sign beside the entrance to the totally empty car park advertised in big bright orange letters “Parking: 1690 Spaces Available”.
The journey that didn’t officially exist, at least in the mind of the deluded driver, was now coming to an end and the time had now come to inform the uninformed and officially non-existent passengers. Careful as always to abide by the Council’s recently imposed requirements to convey information in at least three officially recognised languages, the bus driver called through the bus sound system: “Ballycarson, Ballycarson, Ballycarson.” With an over-enlarged sense of undue responsibility, he pronounced each word identically to ensure equality of esteem for each of the represented linguistic traditions, whatever they were. His vehicle had just passed the Ballycarson town sign with another coach-load of immigrants and he had timed his announcement for maximum effect on the increasingly mystified passengers. The driver had made this journey so many times in recent years he did not have to ask any questions. He wasn’t interested anyway. But, for others, and in particular, for anyone new to Ballycarson, a brief introduction was needed. Who were these people on the bus? Why had they made the journey here? The answers were surprising.
After the reun
ification of Germany, a deluge of former East Germans headed west for freedom and jobs. Many fondly imagined that they would find a happy haven by flying into New York. Some pictured themselves steaming into the American harbour past the Statue of Liberty. Unfortunately, dreams don’t always work out in full. Of those happy band of eastern pilgrims, quite a few did make it west but not as far west as they had originally dreamed. Eventually, they found their sanctuary in Ulster; more precisely, they found it in Ballycarson.
The nervous refugees’ first sight of the town itself came from their bus as it passed the huge painting of King Billy on the gable end of the salami factory beside the main road into the east side of town. The only sign of huddled masses here was the group of painters tarting up the detail of the weapons held by German mercenaries standing behind the Dutchman on the white horse crossing an Irish river. Disconcerting? Not at all. With such symbols of integrated European civilisation and culture clearly on show, it couldn’t be such a bad place after all. And for those amongst the bus-loads of incomers with a less visionary outlook on the world, there was work at the salami factory.
After a few more minutes of routine vehicular manoeuvring, the final halt in the momentous journey was reached. The bus drew into the vastness of the Ballycarson Yankees car park and, as it passed the barrier, the advertised number of free parking spaces altered, by automatic electronic subtraction, to read “Parking: 1689 Spaces Available”. In recent years, 1690 and 1689, by happy political coincidence, were the only two numbers used on the sign as, by unhappy commercial underperformance and lack of appeal to the masses, the imported sporting facility had ceased to be used for sporting events. The passengers disgorged somewhat bleary-eyed into the gigantic vacant tarmac space as the spotlights came on to light up the evening gloom. The luggage was unloaded but not before the hopeful immigrants read the advert on the boot of the bus, “Ballycarson Yankees Forever”, to which had been added a side note “Now Disbanded”.
Ballycarson Blues Page 1