The Twelfth Day of July

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The Twelfth Day of July Page 4

by Joan Lingard


  They counted out the money, selected their purchases, and treated themselves to iced lollipops.

  ‘I think you deserve them,’ said Mrs McConkey as she bent over her ice-box to get them.

  They sat on the step outside the shop to eat them.

  ‘Yon ginger-haired lout’s going to feel sick when he sees this lot,’ said Sadie, tapping the box.

  But the decorations, when they were put up, looked disappointingly little.

  ‘It’s a long street’ said Steve gloomily. ‘And there’s half a dozen old so-and-sos who won’t bother their heads.’

  ‘There’s nothing else for it,’ said Sadie, ‘but to be at it every day. We’ve three more days after today. We’ll do it yet.’

  ‘I’m fed up washing dishes,’ said Linda. ‘It’s ruining me hands.’

  ‘You’ll need to shake yourself up and think of something else then.’ Sadie turned to her brother. ‘Tommy and I have to go now, haven’t we, Tommy? We’ll see you.’

  Tommy followed her.’ What we to go for?’

  ‘The paint, eejit!’

  ‘I’d forgotten.’

  ‘You’d forget your head if it wasn’t tied on. I didn’t even want to tell them. The fewer that knows about it the better.’ Sadie patted her pocket. ‘I have the money on me.’

  ‘Maybe we’d be better spending it on the street.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ She thought of the dark cheeky eyes of the boy who had daubed their wall. ‘We can’t let them think we’re yellow, can we?’ And apart from that, she was looking forward to the thrill of crossing into the enemy’s territory. It would be a sight more exciting than tying bunting on to drainpipes.

  ‘Where are we going?’ asked Tommy, for now they were several streets away from their own. They were going towards the city centre.

  ‘We don’t want to buy the paint anywhere we’re known, do we? Thafd be very bad tactics. We have to make sure we cover our tracks.’

  The centre was busy with shoppers. They thronged the pavements of Royal Avenue and Donegall Place. Sadie idled in front of a few big shop windows, looking at the summer clothes, but Tommy pulled her on.

  They found a big expensive-looking decorator’s shop. Tommy hesitated, eyeing the rolls of wallpaper tastefully arranged in the window. Too high-class for them.

  ‘Do you think this is the right sort of place for us?’

  ‘Come on. We’ve got the money, haven’t we?’

  Sadie pushed open the plate-glass door and marched boldly across the carpeted floor to the counter. Their mother was right, Tommy thought, as he followed: she was as bold as brass. The man behind the counter touched the crisp pink shirt cuffs that protruded from his elegant jacket as they approached. He gave them a polite smile. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sadie put her elbows on the counter, the way that she did at Mrs McConkey’s. Tommy was sure that that was not the right thing to do here. The look in the man’s eyes told him so. But Sadie was not looking at his eyes: she was looking at the wall behind him. She saw shelves covered with rolls and rolls of wallpaper. ‘You do sell paint, don’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘That’s what we’re after.’

  ‘I see.’ The man touched his shirt cuffs again. Why he needed to do it so often puzzled Tommy. A habit, he supposed. Everybody had habits, like leaning on counters. He nudged Sadie.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What colour of paint did you want?’ asked the man, who was now looking bored with them. He covered a tiny yawn with three well-kept fingers.

  ‘Orange.’

  ‘Orange?’ From the way he said it you would think he had never heard of the colour.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ Sadie looked him straight in the eye. It suddenly occurred to Tommy that the man might be a Mick.

  ‘Nothing. But there are many shades of orange.’

  He found a shade card and laid it on the counter in front of them. He yawned again behind his pink cuff as they pored over it.

  ‘There’s not that many shades,’ said Sadie. ‘Some of them are so wishy-washy you couldn’t give them the name. That’s the one we want – that bright one!’ Her finger stabbed the card.

  ‘It’s called tangerine.’

  ‘Call it what you like,’ said Sadie. ‘We’ll take it Right, Tommy?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘How much shall I give you?’ asked the man.

  Sadie put their money on the counter. ‘As much as there’s money for.’

  The man had passed the stage of being surprised at anything now. He counted out the money, parcelled up a pot of tangerine paint, and gave them fourpence change. Tommy put the parcel under his arm.

  ‘Cheerio,’ called Sadie as they headed towards the door.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ he replied, giving his shirt cuffs another little dab.

  ‘He didn’t half fancy himself, that one,’ said Sadie when they were outside. ‘You’d think he had a squashed tomato in his mouth the way he spoke.’

  ‘Trying to talk London, I think.’

  ‘London! Pack of eejits live there. Apart from the Queen, of course.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind going sometime. Just to have a look at the place.’

  ‘Me, too. Walk down the King’s Road and see Buckingham Palace… Don’t drop that paint now! It’d be more than your life was worth.’

  ‘You stop giving orders. You’re as bossy as half the teachers in the school put together.’

  ‘I have to be to see that you don’t do anything stupid, don’t I? Oh, all right… I’ll say no more.’ She danced out of his reach.

  ‘Better not!’

  They smuggled the paint upstairs and hid it beneath Tommy’s bed, along with two paint brushes, old ones of their father’s that had gone hard and stiff with being used and not properly cleaned. They would do for what they wanted, though, and if necessary could be dumped.

  Tommy had band practice after tea. He took his flute from its box and went off up the street playing it as he walked.

  ‘He’s not got a bad ear,’ said Mr Jackson.

  ‘Our family always was good with the music,’ said Mrs Jackson. ‘Our Emily sang so sweet people used to come from miles around to hear her. The singing blackbird, they called her.’ For a moment her hands were still and her eyes had a far-away look.

  ‘Listen to ma going all nostalgic,’ said Sadie.

  ‘They’ll never call you the singing blackbird, that’s for sure,’ said her mother, brisk again. ‘You can’t sing a note. Just like your father there.’

  ‘She’s a good sense of rhythm, though,’ said her father. ‘She steps out very nicely and keeps time to the music’

  Sadie had a dress rehearsal that evening. She took her outfit down from its hanger and lovingly stroked the velvet. Excitement rushed up in her, and for a while she even forgot the orange paint lurking beneath Tommy’s bed. She put on the skirt, fastened the snug bodice, pulled on the white boots. Then she brushed her hair till it shone and tied it back with a purple velvet ribbon.

  ‘Aye, you’re not bad-looking,’ said her mother. ‘You’ll do.’

  Sadie walked to the Orange Hall, swinging her hips, twirling her baton between her fingers. She was conscious of the admiring glances around her. Some boys whistled and called after her but she pretended she didn’t hear.

  They paraded for an hour and a half round the streets of the district. On every corner crowds gathered to watch them pass. The sound of pipes and drums was enough to bring people out of their houses at any time of the day or night. When they passed down their own street Sadie saw her mother and father leaning against the door-jamb of their house. Her mother still wore her wrap-around overall; she seldom left it off.

  ‘You did all right,’ she said afterwards to Sadie. ‘You held your head up nicely. Tommy walked well, too.’

  ‘You and Tommy are a credit to the family, there�
�s no denying it,’ said Mr Jackson.

  ‘What would he say if he knew what we were getting up to the night?’ said Tommy as they went upstairs to bed.

  ‘He might have done the same himself when he was a boy.’

  ‘But he’d tell us not to. He doesn’t like trouble.’

  ‘There won’t be any,’ said Sadie. ‘We go and do what we have to do and we come back. Simple!’

  When she had taken off her costume and hung it up she sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes looking at it. Life was great.

  She put on her jeans and a dark T-shirt, then got into bed. She lay listening to the sound of the television downstairs. From time to time she called out softly to Tommy to make sure he was still awake. It would be just like him to fall asleep; he would sleep on his feet if he got half a chance.

  At last the noise ceased downstairs, then the stairs creaked as first her father and then her mother came up to bed. After half an hour twin snores could be heard from their room out of step with one another. Sadie slipped out of bed, put on her plimsolls and tied a dark scarf over her hair. Tommy was ready. He had the paint in one hand, the brushes in the other.

  They did not speak. They crept down the staircase, missing the stairs which creaked. They knew them well. At the foot they paused. Wait Upstairs someone was turning over. The bed springs twanged. They subsided. Two steps, and Sadie and Tommy were at the front door. Carefully Sadie turned the key. She peered into the street. All clear. She signalled Tommy out, then eased the door shut behind her. In a second they were round the corner.

  ‘Whew!’ Tommy leaned back against the wall.

  ‘We mustn’t hang about. The bobby’ll be out on his beat. Will I carry the brushes?’

  ‘Tuck them under your arm so that no one will know what they are.’

  They walked close to the houses, hugging the shadows, avoiding the pools of light cast by the street lamps. They saw a couple of old men. Both were drunk. One asked for the lend of a shilling, but Tommy said they had no money on them. ‘A tanner, even a tanner for a cup of tea?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ said Sadie. ‘Sorry.’ The old men sat down on the edge of the kerb. The boy and girl moved on.

  ‘All the strange ones are out at night,’ said Sadie.

  ‘Including us! I’m thinking maybe we need our heads seen to.’

  They saw the flash of a torch ahead. The policeman on his beat, prying in doorways and alleys. He would probably pick up the drunks. They nipped back quickly and went along a parallel street to avoid him.

  When they came to no-man’s-land, they paused. Crossing it, they would be exposed.

  ‘It’s only a street,’ said Sadie. ‘Not a whole field.’

  ‘Let’s go quickly if we’re going,’ said Tommy.

  It was like jumping off the high diving board. As they reached the other side a church clock struck one. The note sounded ominous in the quietness of the night.

  They walked with long smooth strides. Each foot felt the ground carefully. Their eyes swivelled from left to right.

  ‘The streets are no different to ours,’ whispered Tommy.

  ‘There’s one difference. No red, white and blue. Look, Tommy, there’s a tricolour in that window!’

  The tricolour was green, white and orange, the flag of the Republic. It stood defiantly in a jug between parted lace curtains.

  ‘What a cheek!’ Sadie stopped before it.

  ‘It’s inside the house,’

  The curtains of all the other windows were shut. Tommy hoped the people were sleeping sound inside. He pulled Sadie on until they reached the end of the row.

  ‘This’ll do,’ he said. ‘One gable end’s as good as another.

  There was only one message written on this wall, god BLESS THE POPE.

  Tommy prised the lid off the paint tin with a screwdriver he had brought for the purpose. Sadie looked round both corners.

  ‘O.K.,’she said.

  They dipped their brushes into the thick paint and lifted them dripping to the wall. They should have thinned it down with turpentine, Tommy realized. It was like painting with treacle. But in a minute they had obliterated the words THE POPE. Then laboriously they began to substitute KING BILLY. They made the words big and high and thick. Their wrists ached. Their co-ordination was good. No squabbling now. The brushes scoured the can, soaking up paint, NO POPE HERE: that was the second part of their task. Would the paint last out? They worked feverishly, the letters getting smaller and smaller. They got as far as the R in the last word when Tommy suddenly shouted ‘Scram!’

  They dropped their brushes and ran. They had agreed beforehand on their tactics if disturbed. They each ran for themselves, not even pausing to look for the other. The distance to their own side was not great. Sadie heard shouting behind her, enough to awaken the whole of Belfast. Lights flicked on in upstairs rooms. One or two windows went up and heads poked out. Her legs moved easily and without panic. There was no one ahead of her.

  And then she felt her shoelace slap against her ankle. It went under her sole. She almost fell. She recovered. No time to stop. She must run with it loose. But she felt it slowing her. The shouts grew louder. She dared not look round. Her lungs felt as if they were going to burst. She saw no-man’s-land ahead, and put on another spurt.

  But as she thrust forward she felt arms grasp her from behind and hold her fast. She gasped for breath.

  ‘I’ve got one!’ The voice in her ear was loud and triumphant. The arms whirled her round and she faced her ciptor. He was a little older than she was and looked familiar. But it was not the boy with the dark eyes. ‘Save us all,’ he said, ‘it’s a girl!’

  A crowd had surrounded them now, mostly youths. They pressed forward to look at her. They stood shoulder to shoulder. Sadie’s mouth went dry.

  ‘Are you the girl that chased Kevin and me last night?’ There was sudden recognition in the eyes of the boy who held her.

  She nodded.

  ‘What’ll we do to her?’ The cry went up.

  ‘Cover her in paint. That’d teach her.’

  ‘Stripes. Green, white and orange.’

  ‘Shut up, the lot of you!’ shouted Brian. ‘I’m taking her to the McCoys. Mr and Mrs are away. And I’m sure Kevin would like to renew his acquaintance.’

  Chapter Six

  The Ninth Day of July

  The hands of the red and cream clock on the dresser showed five past two. It was the ninth of July now, Sadie thought. She would tick it off on the calendar when she got home. When.

  ‘Well, well, so we meet again!’ said Kevin, striding up and down the small amount of space the kitchen allowed him. His arms were folded and his brow creased in thought as if it would be a difficult decision to decide the fate of Sadie Jackson.

  She was sitting on a chair in the comer. She felt safer here than she had done in the street with the rabble of youths yelling for her blood. Brian had shut them out and bolted the door. Then Kevin had come down the stairs, followed by his sister who was now brewing a pot of tea. Sadie ran her tongue over her lips. Painting walls was dry work.

  ‘Is she… is she to get some?’ asked Brede, lifting the teapot and looking over at Sadie.

  ‘I don’t see why we should feed her tea,’ said Kevin.

  ‘I don’t want any of your stinking tea,’ said Sadie. ‘I wouldn’t touch it with a barge pole.’

  ‘We don’t keep barge poles in this house. This is a civilized place you’re in now.’

  ‘You could have fooled me!’ Sadie tossed her hair and looked round the room. It was not much different from their own kitchen except for the Sacred Heart picture above the fire and the Lourdes statue in the window-place. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. It would have been enough to give her da a heart attack to see her sitting staring at Popish images. Yet it gave her a little thrill to be sitting in a Catholic house. It was the first time ever. And she was in no hurry to leave for she wanted to savour the experience to the full. The tale would have to be well told in her st
reet afterwards.

  Brede poured milk into the cups and looked again at Sadie.

  ‘She looks dry, Kevin. A wee cup wouldn’t hurt.’

  ‘Why should we slake the thirst of infiltrators?’

  ‘Sure she only did what you did last night.’

  Kevin glowered at his sister. ‘But she didn’t give me a cup of tea afterwards.’

  ‘No, I knocked you flat on your back instead.’ Sadie grinned.

  ‘That’s a lie!’ He rounded on her. His eyes were blazing. ‘I slipped.’

  ‘There’s different ways of looking at it.’

  ‘You wouldn’t expect a Prod to tell the truth.’

  ‘Are you trying to tell me Micks are more honest? Sure, everybody knows that you can’t trust them as far as you can throw them.’

  ‘Who’s everybody?’

  Brian sat at the table enjoying the exchange. Kevin and the girl were all worked up. There was nothing Kevin liked better than a good argument. He often got annoyed when Brian or Brede wouldn’t argue with him.

  Brede poured four cups of tea.

  ‘Sugar?’ she asked Sadie.

  Sadie eyed Kevin.

  ‘Oh, go on,’ he said. ‘Have some tea. I’m sure you’re in need of something to sweeten you up. And never let it be said that we maltreat our prisoners.’

  ‘Right decent of you,’ said Sadie sarcastically, but she took the cup Brede was holding out, for her throat was like a piece of sandpaper and she would have to give up talking if she didn’t appease it. That was unthinkable, especially with an enemy like Kevin McCoy to answer to. She drained the cup in two gulps. Brede refilled it without saying a word.

  ‘So you thought you would get away with it, did you now?’ asked Kevin.

  ‘If me lace hadn’t come out I’d have made it.’

  Kevin tutted. ‘Poor little thing. My heart bleeds for you.’

  ‘You can save yourself the trouble. You’ll have need of all the blood you can get before you’re done.’

 

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