Ballycarson Blues

by Roderick Paisley

  It was true that Councillor Finvola O’Duffy was engaged to be married. She had been so engaged for thirty years. The real oddity was that, despite his long standing, her fiancé appeared to have little to do with the matter. You might have thought that after the expiry of such time in such a close-knit community the information as to the existence of the engagement would have filtered down to him. But outward appearances indicated that the date of the long-delayed wedding was hardly a pressing engagement. Indeed, among the more sceptical in the Ballycarson chattering classes, particularly those in O’Leary’s bar, there were some who believed the fiancé in question was wholly unaware of the whole arrangement of betrothal. These persistent rumours had occasionally troubled Councillor Finvola O’Duffy, but only occasionally. One such occasion was now. On the basis that actions speak louder than words, she resolved that a dramatic act was needed to put the rumourmongers to silence. She had decided to stage a public event demonstrating the climax of three decades of espousal. That would settle the rumourmongers.

  The fact of the matter was that the engagement had started out as an attempt to harness two potentially great political forces within the Ballycarson Nationalist community. The man in question was Councillor Eugene Gerald Fitzmaurice. He had come to the notice of Councillor Finvola O’Duffy all those years ago at the very beginning of his long-running Street Traffic and Signs Initiative. In those terrible days of Unionist and Loyalist hegemony Councillor Eugene Gerald Fitzmaurice had hit the headlines with a brilliantly designed publicity campaign. It was he who had initiated the now celebrated “Cones’ Hotline”, the very first project in Ballycarson to be sponsored by the European Union, or the E.E.C. as it was then known. A call centre had been set up in the vacant ice cream and chip shop beside the Hibernian Hall to receive the calls of anxious Nationalist travellers in Ballycarson and the surrounding district. The drivers could use a free-phone service to report the location of traffic cones that troubled their consciences and political sensitivities. The core of the constitutional issue at stake was the fact that, apart from the reflective white strip in the middle, the plastic devices were all coloured orange. It was no wonder that motor insurance was not available in Ulster at a reasonable rate. The relentless rising tide of traffic accidents was caused, no doubt, by Nationalist drivers who could not keep their minds on the operation of driving after becoming enraged by these ubiquitous symbols of Unionist rule. Now, instead of aiming to demolish the cones by driving at them or even stopping to throw them over the hedge, the drivers could use their mobile phones to call for assistance as they drove along. Upon receipt of phone messages from troubled callers, action squads of painters were sent out to paint the top of the cone bright green. Given that the middle of the cone comprised a reflective white strip, the overall effect, after green painting of the top, was that traffic was directed by a device resplendent in the colours of the Irish tricolour. In Nationalist and Republican circles there was great satisfaction all round. In the attendant blaze of glory Councillor Eugene Gerald Fitzmaurice was identified as the most eligible man in west Ballycarson. Here was a man who appeared to have an endless supply of green paint.

  But it pays not to rush into things, particularly when they involve matrimony. Why repent subsequently even if at leisure when you could repent in advance at a stately pace? Indeed, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy realised that engagement gave her many of the benefits of matrimony and none of the drawbacks. In particular, she did not have to apply her own political policies to herself. Unfortunately for Finvola, her brand of traditional Nationalist values meant that the policies of her party had been determined by the cousin of her great uncle who had assisted at the founding of the particular splinter group of the political party and the writing of its constitution. These fundamentals could not be altered now, but it was all too inconvenient that the corporatist values espoused by the cousin of her great-uncle should mean that if Finvola married, her influence would be subsumed by that of her husband’s family. In particular, if she adhered to her own inherited views, her vote should pass to her husband as head of the traditional household. The obvious compromise was to remain single, albeit semi-detached, for the sake of outward appearance and decency in public life. That way both she and her fiancé could have a vote each. To cap it all, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy was never really sure that his branch of Nationalism was completely sound, so it would be useful to retain the ability to vote against him in committee should the need arise.

  In her speeches at the annual splinter group political conferences held, as one might expect, in camera in the committee room at the Ballycarson cheese factory social club, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy had repeatedly expounded upon the necessity of an annual review of policy. This review was most certainly not to suggest or enable change but to ensure that basic, unalterable principles were still being adhered to. The review was an auditing exercise. The message she had delivered at the most recent political event still resonated, at least within her own mind, and would be worth re-using next year and the year after that. Indeed, there might be a chance to slip some of the same well-worn phrases into her speech of welcome to the United States president. The only snag was that the message would then be public. No, upon reflection, that would never do. Perhaps it was best to repeat the comforting words to herself like a morning prayer just to make sure she was not going off course in both her public and private affairs.

  And so Finvola silently dictated the dogma to herself to ensure she had retained a true and fair view of the political and historic situation in Ballycarson. Life was like a profit and loss sheet. All true Nationalists in Ballycarson had to carry the torch passed on to them by previous generations. Noone should forget that previous generations had suffered and sacrificed so much. The present Nationalist generation should claim that ancestral suffering as its own. The suffering of ancestors hallowed all present efforts. Oh how those well-practised words just rolled off her tongue. What Finvola was not prepared to admit was that she personally had suffered and sacrificed not at all. In the great balance sheet of life she could roll over these never to be forgotten ancestral losses indefinitely and make as much gain as she liked without having to account for any profit. But it did not do to upset her supporters by overly ostentatious wealth. In fact, the present-day adoption of the poor mouth avoided any recognition that she had accumulated wealth, power and influence beyond the wildest dreams not only of her ancestors but also of most of her contemporary constituents. But that was the sort of off balance sheet financing that was best kept secret. In addition, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy felt obliged to put into practice the mirror image of the prejudice that she regarded as having so penalised her forebears. And she not only felt good about it, but had also convinced herself that it was the right thing – indeed, the only thing – to do. The responsibility for moral choice was not hers – the decision on that matter had been taken generations ago. Yes, in politics, the long view, grounded in unarguable pre-history, was the true mark of the stateswoman.

  And the long view was the way in which Finvola regarded her engagement to Councillor Eugene Gerald Fitzmaurice. The thirtieth anniversary of the original proposal was the same day as the imminent presidential visit. But despite the speed of the passing of those thirty years, the ravages of time had begun to show in the relationship and in the ring itself. Events were conspiring, if not to undermine, at least to challenge her long-held strategy of matrimonial delay. It was becoming clear to her that she could no longer keep the issue of her engagement ring on the long finger.

  It was apparent that the political wing of a dissident sub-set of the Real Continuity Provisionally Acting Official Thirty-two Counties IRA were mounting a challenge to her long-held financial and political superiority in Nationalist circles in west Ballycarson. Inevitably, the challenge had come by proxy. In this regard it was her fiancé who was the weak link. When the Ballycarson bypass project was first unveiled, it appeared to be a potential boom time for the family of her fiancé,
Councillor Eugene Gerald Fitzmaurice, who owned all the stone quarries and had been contracted to supply the foundations and underlay for the entire project. He was going to make a killing. Unfortunately for him, the persuasive representatives of whatever version of the IRA was then dominant arrived at the quarry head office one morning. They announced they were also going to make a killing unless the business was handed over to them forthwith. Clearly they were dissident Republicans as they did not turn up in chauffeur-driven government cars. One could be dominant as well as dissident, it seems. So the continued struggle of the volunteers and their splinter groups metamorphosed into the going concern of shattered stone supply and the British government paid by direct debit as the road was constructed. Only several years after the new road was opened was part of the truth revealed when the road started to sink in several places. Only a fraction of the required shattered stone had actually been delivered, but the stated price had already been paid in full directly into the accounts of the IRA. So much for secret funding of terrorism! For those in the know this was a public fact. State-sponsored terrorism had come to Northern Ireland.

  However, there was one, albeit comparatively modest, upside. Noone apart from the quarry office staff had been allowed to know the details of the hostile takeover of the stone quarries. These people were actively persuaded (and reminded several times that they should remain persuaded) not to tell anyone. So the true extent of family humiliation of Councillor Eugene Gerald Fitzmaurice remained hidden and only odd, somewhat garbled, versions of aspects of the story leaked out. Some reports were turned to the councillor’s advantage. In particular, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy’s fiancé took public credit as the man who, by sheer political skill, had negotiated the free transfer of the ownership of his family’s quarries to a splinter company of volunteer workers – it was initially suggested that the new owners were a form of community co-operative or society. He was also the man who had somehow diddled the British government out of millions. What a statesman! What generosity! He himself, so the managed version of the story confirmed, had not made a penny directly out of the transaction or from the official government payouts. What self-sacrifice! What restraint! However, as a result of a fortunate but unforeseen side effect, Councillor Eugene Gerald Fitzmaurice knew that he was now able to recoup some money for the sacrifice involved in his attributed altruistic efforts. He had branched out into motor repairs and crane hire. He was making a fortune in axle repairs and removal of immobilised cars thanks to all the potholes on the new bypass. Chunk by large chunk, the hole in his family finances left by the loss of the quarry was being filled in.

  So even if the full truth were to emerge eventually, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy’s fiancé had clearly not lost all attraction and influence after all. Maybe he was worth marrying, if only for his persistently positive public image and improving private finances. But perhaps she would leave it a few more years yet just to see how he turned out.

  CHAPTER 16

  OUTFLANKED AND OUTDATED

  Given the available cross-community communication channels it wasn’t long before there was a major leak of the details of Councillor Finvola O’Duffy’s proposed presentation of a miniature jewelled dog to the United States president.

  One of Councillor Finvola O’Duffy’s diamond and carpet cutters let the secret slip when he tucked into his regular portion of deep fried pizza and chips at the Iceberg Café. The news was immediately relayed to Donald Oskar Gormley in exchange for a skip-load of discarded volumes of out-of-date knowledge. For both Donald and Wee Joe it was a good deal. For Donald, a whisper of present-day gossip was worth a lorry-load of stale hard facts. For Wee Joe Forsale, in contrast, true knowledge never had a sell-by date.

  Gossip can be the gift that keeps on giving. There was a second recipient of the first-hand rumour. The same message was next passed on by Wee Joe via the green mobile phone to Big David in exchange for a substantial discount on the next delivery of sliced boloney. For Big David, it was a high price to pay, but, with the local political stakes as high as they were, up-to-date intelligence was never too expensive. The tiniest piece of new information could provide insight, relief, delight and political salvation. It was indeed a crumb of comfort. But it had to be new. As regards political gossip and influence, if you were out of date, you could be out on your ear. So Big David kept his ear to the ground to avoid having to land on it.

  Things had not being going well for Big David that morning on other fronts. In fact, it had been a consistent diet of bad news. Big David was presently on the black mobile phone receiving the report that Council environmental health officials had just raided the salami factory on a tip-off. They had ordered the suspension of the manufacture of traditional square sausage. Apparently there had been some inconsistency with the sell-by dates shown on the product. That summed up the basic problem with Northern Ireland, thought Big David. There was no consistency in anything here. In food manufacture the sell-by dates continually moved on and changed every day. In politics time stood still and policies were set in stone. This part of Western civilisation comprised a world of meaningless contradictions.

  The environmental health official on the phone would not let matters drop. It seemed that someone had complained that the sell-by date on the side of a particular batch of square sausage was long past. Normally, if it had been a few days out, noone would have bothered. But in this case it was well over 100 years out of date. It was all very well for food to be made according to a recipe handed down from great-great-granny’s third cousin, but it was unacceptable for this to have occurred with the ingredients of the actual product or even the very product itself.

  When it came to the sausage meat the environmental health official knew he was on a roll. He didn’t mince his words. He was so excited that the black mobile phone sounded like it was spitting consonants into Big David’s ear. Clearly, the official was delighted he had caught Big David at last.

  “I want you to sort this out fast. It’s a matter of grave concern,” were his final words as the phone went dead.

  Little does he know how true that is, thought Big David.

  Big David had long hidden the truth about the manufacture of square sausage. He had consistently played up its rumoured, but otherwise completely baseless, association with arcane Masonic ritual to divert public attention from the real facts (and to gain extra sales from hungry Lodge members). The truth was that the square sausages were given their regular shape by the use of granite tombstones irregularly borrowed from the churchyard and incorporated into a convenient homemade square sausage press. This was not a case of cutting corners but simply the use of corners already cut by a most skilful Victorian funereal stonemason. You could not get craftsmanship like that today. Furthermore, not any old tombstone would do the job. The original tombstones had been chosen most carefully because the family name of the deceased parties had to be “MacLean”. This name, and the associated details of date and place of death, was then carefully partially grouted in by Big David’s modern-day craftsmen to leave visible only the word “Lean”. This single remaining word, Big David thought, would make a suitable raised projection on the processed meat in the granite sandwich although the true culinary effect was obscured somewhat by the word appearing back to front in mirror image on the surface of the meat product. Unfortunately for Big David, the truth forced its way out like the meat substitute in some overfilled hamburger. The grout obscuring the year of death “1881” cut into one particular grave stone had fallen out. This left the white fatty deposits in the meat product to make an unfortunate undesired and unexpected impression within the tiny stone indents. Against the nondescript brownish-grey background of the cooked meat slurry, the white date “1881” stuck out in a manner that was incapable of being missed even by the most casual inspector. It was this very date on the meat that had been discovered by the environmental health official. He condemned the entire batch of product.

  The demise of traditional square sausage-
making was staring Big David in the face. If he didn’t get down to the salami factory fast the real truth would get out and the Council official would close the place down for good. However, it did not pay to act too fast. A little thought could buy him the time needed to cover up the facts.

  The best way to keep the regulatory dogs off his tracks, thought Big David, was to throw them a bone. In other words, he would employ diversionary tactics by spreading a false story of more immediate interest to the authorities. However, the false story he was now wishing to leak to the Council would have to be substantially inflated before the Council officials would bite. That was no problem, as Big David was a master of generating hot air. William Henry was immediately summoned on the orange mobile phone and instructed to contact Donald Oskar Gormley. William Henry was to negotiate for the purchase of one of the contents of the box of long-discarded bicycle pumps held in the lost property shed in the Council yard. That black bicycle pump would then be planted in the Schwarzwald Konditorei. What was the leaked story to be? The German baker was cutting costs and icing his doughnuts with the use of a bicycle pump. As the environmental health officer’s wife was one of the cake-consuming social workers, he would be spurred into rescuing her from substandard and potentially dangerous icing practices. A mountain would be made out of a molehill; an iceberg out of the icing. And the square sausage production would be saved.