“Those are not my initials,” indicated Donald Oskar Gormley as he handed over the specialist equipment to William Henry with the further comment that William Henry’s priority was to make the lost property shed habitable for them both.
So the various piles of beer bottles in the shed would have to be thrown out.
“People keep handing them in because there is no deposit to be paid on them,” he explained.
And that cleaning operation William Henry could do whilst Donald was off attending to his other jobs as part-time greyhound walker, retail consultant and literary importer.
“Make sure you wear these ear plugs, but don’t turn the music off,” was Donald’s last comment as he headed off towards the town centre.
So William Henry, wearing an oversized pair of industrial ear defenders, was left on his own to run the recycling business. He had the shadow of power without a shadow of responsibility. Nobody was going to bother him as he made half an hour stretch into an entire day. As William Henry was about to find out, Donald Oskar Gormley had discovered the best way to keep people out of his shed was not to display a “No Entry” sign but to keep an ancient but still functioning music centre playing the most appalling music he could tolerate. With his own particularly effective set of ear plugs, Donald’s pain threshold was especially high. The assault upon the ears presently blasting from this source was a rendition by a local artiste Charlie Rae of the classic “Take These Chains”. The sentiment had a wide appeal extending even beyond a human audience. The two dogs chained up outside were howling along in chorus. It was entertainment in the very widest sense of the word.
After throwing most of the contents of the lost property shed outside only to see it urinated on by the two guard dogs, William Henry discovered three small cans of paint at the very back of the shed. In addition, he found a selection box of brushes, a tin of white spirit and a bottle of gin. The diverse elements of the assortment had something in common – all were tools for refreshment of various types. The contents of all had been sampled but not exhausted. Donald had painted the bicycles and tricycles every year to stop them rusting. It had seemed to him a sensible precaution to prevent the wastage of such important assets, but it hadn’t been a big job.
His familiarity with the various bottled substances made William Henry feel immediately at home. After checking them out, however, his aspirations grew to be more extensive than the mere preservation of a modest transport fleet from the depredations of rust. Instead, he intended to renovate the property empire of his new boss. Levering off the paint tin lids with the dog food mixing spoon, William Henry discovered that there was just enough in each tin to paint each of the three sheds a different colour.
William Henry’s internal exile as a property conservator and developer lasted a bare two days during which time Donald Oskar Gormley never returned from his dog walking, retailing or importing. Then Big David arrived in the Council yard. After the usual check of the site security provided by him, Big David with his well-known and ostentatiously effected mincing gait headed straight for the canine death row. As ever, he had a quick look over the doomed animals to see if any were suitable for site security at the salami factory. That day the elderly three-legged poodle and half-starved mongrel were not up to scratch for such active service. However, they might fit the bill for other enterprises and he would come back with the van and trailer later. Orders for such dogs were flooding in on an hourly basis on Big David’s Dalmatian-spotted black and white mobile phone, which had a ringtone of dogs barking out the introductory bars of Beethoven’s fifth symphony. With business as brisk as it was, a dog dealer such as Big David could not afford to be kept on a leash and tied to a desk with its inefficient landline communication. Indeed, fast and fluid communication and fast and fluid action were the order of the day. Big David would have to get a move on because the political temperature had been raised considerably since the Unionist defeat in the local elections.
One of the big campaign issues in those elections had been who controlled the Zapper. The sociologists at the local new university were agreed that this focus of attention showed the Ulster political parties had matured and were now concentrating on major life and death issues. With the Nationalist victory it was widely expected that the Zapper would be privatised soon. That remained the case even though some of the Nationalist political rivals to Council Chairperson Finvola O’Duffy were lukewarm to this policy. “How could Nationalists undo nationalisation?” they queried as they gnashed their teeth. The fact that words could have a number of meanings had escaped them. The political heat was rising. Whatever was the state of affairs amongst the Nationalist politicians, there was a real possibility that Big David’s interests would be left out in the cold.
With such a black future staring him in the face, Big David cast his eyes towards William Henry and the colourful product of his labours. He was immediately impressed to see that the three kennels had been newly painted. One in red, one in white and another in blue.
“I could use your talents, kid,” he said to William Henry.
This was not just the offer of a job. It was a transfer.
CHAPTER 5
ROOTS
It was no coincidence that Big David had spotted the newly painted kennels. He had been tipped off by his all-seeing spies in the shelter at the Spion Kop bus stop. From their vantage point on one of the seven hills of Ballycarson, the spies had observed the painting efforts of William Henry almost immediately he had started to renovate the sheds. These spies really did like watching paint dry – especially when it was red, white and blue.
The glass structure comprising the bus shelter at the Spion Kop bus stop provided an unrivalled view around the east side of Ballycarson and, in addition, enabled a glimpse into the mysterious west. The shelter was constantly occupied by a rota of pensioners in the pay of Big David with at least three residents in the bus shelter at any one time. They acted as lookouts, talent scouts and general gatherers of information. Because of the location of the vantage point and the age of the occupants, the bus shelter was known generally as “the old crows’ nest”. The vintage of the spies also enabled Big David to claim legitimately that he did not practise age discrimination. The only precondition for the employment was that they were not short-sighted, or at least they had a decent pair of glasses to share amongst the members of the trio. Despite the constant watch kept on the town, Big David rejected the claims of his political rivals that it was a case of “Big Brother Is Watching You”. In reality it was more sinister even than that. It was a case of “Great Granny Is Watching You”.
Whatever one’s view of the miniature crystal structure on the hill, it has to be admitted that it was an unusual and comfortable establishment. Equipped with internal luxuries such as lace curtains, three recliner seats and electric power, it was linked to the outside world with a satellite dish, email and a large orange-painted aerial. A public convenience had been constructed immediately beside the structure for the benefit of those with weak bladders. The words “Public Convenience” on the sign above the door had been struck out and replaced with a claim of ownership so that the notice now read “Occupied”. Even though a certain degree of privacy was thus ensured, the whole complex at the top of the hill was so obvious it could be no secret. For the benefit of all and sundry, the Council had erected a large arrow-shaped sign at the bottom of the hill pointing upwards to facilities described on the sign in large black letters as “Public Convenience”, “Public Viewing Area” and “Restricted Area”. Although the confused messages ensured that there were not many uninvited visitors, the hub of social activity and intelligence-gathering at the top of the hill was occupied twenty-four hours a day by shifts of appropriately talented pensioners and those suffering from bladder weakness. To make absolutely certain that there would be no overcrowding and overuse of the public water supply and sewers, the Council initiated a scheme whereby anyone entering had to show a special pass to a man in a small orange-colo
ured hut at the foot of the hill. This security measure sounded impressive, but the requisite document of travel really was an orange-coloured pensioner’s bus pass adapted only slightly from similar documents issued by the local bus company, “Transports of Delight”. Not much of a security measure really even if coupled with a barrier that was lifted only after suitable presentation of documents. However, it was the very location of the hilltop structure that made entry off-putting. The shelter at the Spion Kop bus stop was accessible only by a long set of concrete steps or by the funicular railway recently installed by German-speaking Swiss engineers at a massive cost funded by Europe. This transport acted as a chairlift for the pensioners accessing the bus shelter and was an unqualified success until hijacked by a drunk demanding to be taken to Belfast in exchange for releasing one of the pensioners he had taken as a hostage. Matters looked serious when the police realised the drunken man was armed with a chainsaw and he was threatening to use it on the hostage he disliked the most. However, police negotiators relaxed considerably when they discovered the chainsaw was an electric one stolen off a building site. As part of his demands the inebriated man issuing the threats of human dismemberment had asked for an extension cord so that he might plug it in. The siege eventually ended when the man sobered up and realised that the hostage suffering from his particular disfavour was his wife.
Whatever one’s view of the bus shelter, it was really the view from the establishment that impressed Big David. With their binoculars and telescopes the pensioners provided him with an unrivalled source of information. Only one part of the Loyalist side of town could not be seen from the vantage point. This was the valley that ran down to the Union Canal. This freedom from supervision, however, was bought at a price. Because of their depressed situation, none of the inhabitants in that particular area could receive television signals. So the whole area was known as “the valley of the unobserved and uninformed”, or, more loosely stated, “the valley of the hidden idiots”.
Ever since he had left the employ of the Council, William Henry found that the crystal shelter at the Spion Kop bus stop formed a major part of his life. It was to this structure that he reported every day to pick up his instructions. He had made the journey so often now that even he could not get lost more than once a week. The routine had helped the time to pass quickly. By now William Henry had been in the employ of Big David for almost four years. Despite the depression of the wider political situation and the local reverses suffered by the Loyalist cause, those were years of personal glory for William Henry.
And this particular day was a continuation of the trail of glory. Upon completion of his painting mission at the Queen Anne Boleyn Bridge, William Henry was due to head back up the hill to deliver his report at the Spion Kop bus stop. Thereafter he was to take urgent dispatches to the L.H.O. hall where Big David had his H.Q. on the first floor.
The L.H.O. hall belonged to the Local History Organisation and from that fact of ownership the initials were derived. On the ground floor a legion of local genealogists were busy putting together chart after chart of family trees. The whole enterprise was aimed at the surviving overseas relations of those who had left Ireland for promised lands such as North America in the 1700s and the early nineteenth century just as German-speaking refugees were moving into Ballycarson.
The pictures on the wall of the various celebrities that the Local History Organisation had been able to link to ancestors in Ireland included an array of statesmen from much earlier times and many modern personalities such as Elvis Presley, Dwight D. Eisenhower, Ronald Reagan, Richard Nixon, Barack Obama, Bill Clinton and Jessie Jackson’s third cousin. However, there did remain some controversy about Jessie Jackson’s third cousin as they could not prove whether his antecedents were the Jacksons of Tyrone or the Jacksons of Tipperary. Therein lay the potential for a serious cross-border political row, so, to avoid serious embarrassment, noone wanted to finish off the research and get to the true facts. However, face was saved when the newly elected Nationalist Council in Ballycarson voted to create a new brand of honorary title that they could award to all their American friends who had not yet come to live in Ireland. And so was created the Council award for “Overseas American Friends”. Jessie Jackson’s third cousin was reported in the Provincial Observer as delighted to be nominated as an OAF. Even the Unionists had to swallow their misgivings. For the Nationalists the solution to this potential embarrassment for Ballycarson represented a unique combination of historical accuracy and political sensitivity. What a masterstroke! Two weeks later the Council officials buried the news that Jessie Jackson’s third cousin’s personal staff had returned the ostentatiously proffered medal in outrage. The American reaction was all perfectly understandable – but nonetheless deeply regrettable – given that whoever had engraved the medal for the Council had mistakenly omitted the word “Overseas” and replaced it with “Oversized”.
The L.H.O. hall had originally opened early in 1964 in the same week as the John Fitzgerald Kennedy memorial hall had been dedicated on the far side of town. Unfortunately for the Local History Organisation, it was noticed at an early date that the initials L.H.O. could also stand for “Lee Harvey Oswald”. An unintentional coincidence no doubt, but names, phrases and even spelling mistakes make history in Ireland. The whiff of complete tastelessness had never completely left the place since then, despite the strenuous efforts of the genealogists to attach to their completed charts as many Irish harps and angels as Americans were willing to pay for. Yes, even in this Unionist enclave, this was real proof of an outward-looking and tolerant spirit. The colour of money did not matter and Big David was prepared to accept as many green-backed dollars from the great republic over the water as the home-sick third- and fourth-generation Irish-Americans would send to him. For them it was true that “nothing knocks nostalgia” and Big David was prepared to sign up to the philosophy of that motto as long as the cash rolled in. He did indeed have principles, but he preferred that they be fluid principles, well oiled by the universal solvent.
And who had conferred this genealogical opportunity on the Loyalist citizens of Ballycarson? In another of those ironies of life commonly encountered in Ulster, the boom time had resulted from an earlier boom time, albeit one of a different nature. The original event was what Big David characterised in his typically pompous manner as the “hostile actions of a foreign foe in a foreign land”. In 1922 the IRA had blown up the Public Record Office in Dublin, the capital of the newly emerged Irish Free State. Following upon the consequent fire, shredded official papers and burned birth certificates had rained down on the city for days, together with the soot and ashes. Consequently, since the 1922 partition, every church in Ireland, north and south of the border and regardless of denomination, did a nice sideline in providing birth, death and marriage entries and information to genealogists. Particularly well off in this regard were the older churches that had records going back before the foundation of the United States of America.
The Fourth Independent United Reformed Dissenting Congregational Church of Ballycarson had refined the exploitation of this stream of income by publishing a particularly profitable series of picture postcards of tombstones located in their graveyard. Visiting Americans were encouraged to send home a picture of great-great-granny’s sister’s or brother’s final resting place. If an actual tombstone could not be found, the grieving American relatives could purchase a newly painted inscription on the large tombstone comprising the rear gable of the church. This would confer on their long-lost (and still unfound) deceased relative the status of occupier of a temporary honorary place of interment in the churchyard. Again, a photo of the inscription on the tombstone would be supplied for a modest additional outlay. Only once had the Church cause for minor concern about the message these tombstone cards were sending out. This was when the Church elders received a complaint from the FBI via the American Consulate about a death threat written on one such picture postcard. The card had featured a photo of a p
articularly impressive mausoleum and was sent by a tourist from Brooklyn to his mother-in-law. On the back had been written the message: “Wish you were here”. Still, it hadn’t been any worse than the slight scandal that had threatened to erupt in the previous year when the minister had posted out his New Year gift of a church calendar to each member of the congregation. In a nice personal touch, but as part of a misplaced attempt to show he had a sense of humour, the minister had added on the back of each envelope the handwritten message “Your days are numbered”. It was fortunate that only two of the elders had called the bomb squad who proceeded to destroy each envelope in controlled explosions.
There was an executive board meeting at the L.H.O. hall this very afternoon and, as a director of the Local History Organisation, William Henry needed to be there. Yes, he really was a director, although he gave no directions to anyone and had no real idea which direction he himself should follow. As a non-directing directionless director, William Henry had been asked by Big David to sign all the forms, the tax returns, accounts and to appear on all notepaper as a director of the Local History Organisation and so many other related companies and organisations, he had no idea what they were or what they did. What a decent and modest man Big David was – he didn’t appear anywhere!
“You can take the glory, son. I’ll take the decisions,” was how David explained the paperwork and division of labour.
It sounded more like dictation than discussion. But in a neighbourhood where you could have any colour you liked as long as it was orange or green, as the case may be (depending entirely on which side of town you lived), it was nothing unusual. It was merely a perfectly normal manifestation of the local variety of democratic centralism practised for decades by local politicians. They had no intention of letting these fine traditions die.
Ballycarson Blues Page 5