Ballycarson Blues Read online

  Evening came and Councillor Finvola O’Duffy’s parade was forming up in the centre of the town. Four or five hundred of a bodyguard had assembled. The air was buzzing from excitement and the smell of diesel and paraffin from the torches that had been prepared to light the way. At sundown they would set off to the municipal graveyard for the climax of the evening. Councillor Finvola O’Duffy had good reason to feel satisfied. One would have struggled to imagine a more romantic setting for the public event to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of her engagement. As guest of honour, she would head the parade of her relations, supporters and well-wishers. Her fiancé, if he turned up, could take the rear. That way there would be a ubiquitous presence of the principal parties, but she would keep the limelight. In addition, since she would not have to speak to the man, there would be no chance of an embarrassing public argument about the price of the new ring or policy differences on matters as diverse as the location of the proposed Councillor Eugene Gerald Fitzmaurice Memorial sewage treatment plant and the burning of the undesirable books that had been removed from the public library. More to the point, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy wanted to make sure that her fiancé did not see the vanguard of her supporters make the vital pick-up of materials at Donald Oskar Gormley’s mausoleum. Even these most trusted heroes of the Republican revolution, the Truest of the True, did not know – and would never know – the contents of the unmarked cans and she did not want that inquisitive fiancé asking any awkward questions.

  Whilst the romantic parade was assembling in the twilight in the centre of town, Big David was at the municipal cemetery depositing the unmarked cans just inside the front door of Donald Oskar Gormley’s mausoleum. “I’m just going in to pay my respects,” was Big David’s explanation to his team of drivers as he took the cans out of the boot of the official car. He undid the string securing the front door of the mausoleum and slipped inside for a few moments. “I didn’t know he was that religious,” said Bert the Squirt to Bob the Blob. “I suppose those cans contain some sort of oriental spices to placate the spirit of the departed.” Little did both of them know that the cans and their contents were actually being deposited there to placate the person who would next arrive at the mausoleum – Councillor Finvola O’Duffy.

  As the day came to an end Big David was back at the L.H.O. hall and the night watch at the Spion Kop bus stop had just started their vigil. Darkness was no hindrance to them as they turned to the new weapon in their armoury for urban oversight. The three old hags strapped on their night vision glasses and gazed down at the Nationalist assembly in the centre of town. They could see every detail as Councillor Finvola O’Duffy harangued the crowd with a familiar tirade of anti-Unionist abuse. Although they could not hear the words, they were confident that Big David’s sources in the crowd would ensure that by next morning the transcript would be on Big David’s desk. “Isn’t this great?” said one of them. “Councillor Finvola O’Duffy does not know how many of her own supporters are actually working for the other side!”

  Then the lights went on in the former town square and the old hags could see nothing. More precisely, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy had ordered the torches to be lit by those in the parade. In addition, piles of confiscated volumes of old encyclopaedias soaked in diesel were set alight at each corner of the square. The sudden concentration of bright light meant that the Spion Kop bus stop spies were blinded. Their ultra-sensitive lenses were overwhelmed. Did Councillor Finvola O’Duffy know of this weakness for visual overload? Was there a leak in the Loyalist camp? Who could tell? But in any arms-race there will always be an incentive to take countermeasures and in this case the tools of the stone-age had beaten the most advanced technology. Was it not a metaphor for the politics of Ballycarson itself? Ageold and mindless animosities continually overwhelmed new and supposedly more reasonable initiatives.

  So, as the parade headed out to the cemetery, the overseers at the Spion Kop bus stop had to resort to their own unaided sight. They could see virtually nothing except a long, narrow orange glow as the parade headed to the graveyard. “Well, at least we can report there wasn’t a green flame!” was the optimistic observation of one of the Spion Kop hags. The front of the parade reached the Gormley mausoleum. The unmarked cans were uplifted by the vanguard who remained none the wiser as to their contents. They thought perhaps they were extra supplies of diesel or paraffin so their torches would burn brightly the whole evening long. The parade headed up and down the new causeway provided by the top of the wall. There was a short speech indicating that this new route would be the means of breaking Evil Albion’s death grip on the Ballycarson economy. Without complication the marchers returned to the west of town and the unmarked cans were delivered to the O’Duffy carpet and linoleum factory just in time for the early shift.

  What was the special and secret content of these unmarked cans? Why was it so sensitive? And why did Councillor Finvola O’Duffy so desperately need it?

  It was a substance that Big David had acquired years before knowing that a crisis such as that now facing him might arise. The contents of the cans was yellow dye. For some time Big David had been able to conceal the acquisition on the basis that he might need it to print the flags of the German Republic. It was a case of plausible deniability. But, in doing this, he was taking a major risk as some of the more alert of his German employees would be able to tell him that the central colour of their national flag was not yellow but gold! Even the most stupid of his employees would have known from birth that yellow dye was an unacceptable product for a leader of the Loyalist cause to have in his possession. It was capable of being mixed with blue to make green. If his workers had found out about his possession of the substance, the ensuing riot would not have been quelled by any assurance that it was to be mixed with red to make orange. In fact, such an assurance would even have made the rioters more energetic in their destruction of Big David’s empire. It would have been taken as tantamount to the voicing of the taboo that Orange and Green had something in common.

  So why did Councillor Finvola O’Duffy so desperately need this stuff? She had found her supplies of green dye had been sabotaged during the recent shop floor agitation about the lengthening of work hours. She was left with a carpet made from Alsatian and German shepherd hair coloured black and tan. The allusions to the previous participants in the British military machine were obvious. The present-day political and historic implications were alarming. This carpet could not be presented to the United States president as a symbol of Nationalist Republican prestige! Yet all she had in store was the blue dye for the shirts of her loyal bodyguard. The lack of green dye allowed her, indeed forced her, to seek common cause with Big David.

  The yellow substance in the unmarked cans arrived just in time for Finvola’s grand designs. At the O’Duffy carpet and linoleum factory it was suitably mixed with the blue dye to make green and applied to the dog carpet. The resplendent final product for underfoot presidential support was left to dry overnight.

  CHAPTER 20

  THE PRESIDENTIAL ENTRANCE

  One thing, or to be more accurate one person, was needed to ensure that the presidential visit went ahead on terms suitable to Big David. He still had to find someone living in Ballycarson who was not a Nationalist and who was the closest living relative of the American commander in chief. That necessity had always existed, but there was now a new urgency. The American pre-event negotiators who now arrived every day at the L.H.O. hall to establish the final details were absolutely insistent on a final conclusion to the ongoing frenetic research. By means of a soundbite they explained the logic of wooing the Irish-American vote by finding historic Irish connections to the present American president: “Nothing Knocks Nostalgia”. The phrase falling from the lips of the American representatives was music to Big David’s ears; indeed, it was his very own motto for his multifarious business ventures. Clearly the English-speaking nations on either side of the Atlantic were not divided by a single language.

 
But as the presidential representatives left to report back to their associates further up the greasy political pole, it occurred once again to Big David that the pedigree of the lost relative had to be politically acceptable to all concerned. It was clear that the Americans were seeking a Nationalist at best. A dyed in the wool Loyalist – or at least one with tattooed skin – was completely unacceptable. However, it occurred to Big David that he might still win the day if the relative found was a non-Nationalist without any of the more enthusiastic Loyalist characteristics. That was a very “big ask” indeed given the pervasive pigeonholing of personalities. In Ballycarson, as Big David knew only too well, it was almost impossible for anyone to be his own man given that he was invariably claimed by one tradition or another and deemed to have loyalties of one sort or another if only for the purpose of recording his birth or burial.

  But the hunt for this remarkable, potentially unique, individual had to start somewhere if the presidential visit was to be rescued from cancellation due to potential political embarrassment. So, via Big David’s dog delivery system, word went out from the L.H.O. hall to all the local Protestant Churches and religious assemblies requesting another urgent examination of their genealogical records.

  In the meantime, as if nothing else were amiss, all the other preparations continued for the presidential visit.

  The essential details to be established right at the start were the exact date and point of entry of the presidential cavalcade. In due obeisance to local sensitivities, and to avoid claims that one side of the political divide was being preferred over the other, the presidential aides had to engage in double talk. Fortunately, it was a skill not unknown to them in other contexts. But in Ballycarson it had a special dimension. To keep the local politicians happy the American aides even considered sending the real president and a double who could make simultaneous visits to the two parts of town. Noone would know which was the real president and political face would be saved all round. However, the aides eventually settled on a single genuine president and they determined that an announcement of the details of the visit would be conveyed simultaneously to the local political leaders on both sides of the community. At midday a single phone message would be relayed at top volume from a tannoy placed on the highest watch tower on the Peace Wall like a message sung from a minaret. This announcement had all the benefits of not being mistaken for a message from a Christian Church of any denomination. Noone in the local religious establishments could feel excluded. So this was how it was announced. After the two separate crowds of the faithful gathered on either side of the Peace Wall the broadcast phone call confirmed that the United States president would be arriving the next day.

  The big drawback of such an address system was that it benefitted only the chosen few. Only a relatively small number selected by the local politicians could crowd into the public roads tight up against the Peace Wall. The whole process appeared to treat the self-appointed local political elites as legitimate privileged social classes. This rankled with those who regarded themselves as the ambassadors of the great transatlantic democracy. So, to widen the class of recipients of the glad tidings, the presidential aides hit on the further idea of a leaflet drop. It had all the merits of going over the heads of the local political leaders and speaking directly to the people. It was a symbol of democracy at its best. Freedom would flow – or at least fall – down from on high. The small fleet of Huey helicopters, acquired by the previous Council administration from the CIA to deal with the supergrass plague, were wheeled out from storage, fuelled up and made ready for service. These machines were loaded up with paper and then showered east and west Ballycarson with all the necessary written details. To warn the locals of the arrival of the flying messengers, music was played at top volume from big loudspeakers strapped to the side rails of the helicopters. Clearly local sensitivities had to be addressed in the choice of music played. There was to be no occasion for hiring ersatz dog-barking CDs and the volunteered services of Charlie and Senga Rae were hastily declined. “Let us go for something neutral – something stirring, something German!” decided the well-meaning presidential aide in command of the venture. So the helicopters flew low over Ballycarson accompanied by the deafening strains of Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries”. The Council street cleaners worked overtime to clean up the mess. In the meantime Big David quietly recalled distant memories of his original home in what had once been Indo-China.

  The leaflets announced that the big day in question was the very next day: 26th June. This had been deliberately timed to coincide most happily with the exact anniversary of the famous speech of President Kennedy in Berlin. In Ballycarson the incumbent president would make a similarly historic speech from a hastily erected podium at the Peace Wall. The exact location of the structure was vital. Again to account for local sensitivities, it would be done within the site of the former and now largely abandoned Loyalist enclave in the west. Filled as it now was with Germans, it was as if this relatively small but troubled area had always been destined for this very purpose. There was a community benefit in ethnic cleansing after all. To provide the necessary room for the presidential platform and the space for the expected audience to stand, the Council ordered the summary eviction of the two argumentative Germans who had taken up residence there and the immediate demolition of any structures on the ground. Perhaps the paramilitaries could be persuaded to sell or hand over some of their explosives to speed up the task. Maybe they would give a discount if there was a bulk purchase. The Council could also claim it had persuaded them to decommission some of their weapons. The publicity possibilities beckoned.

  The presidential entrance to Ballycarson would itself be effected by helicopter. Of course the machine in question would be of a much more modern vintage than the pensioned-off paper-dumping heralds used in the leaflet drop. Local political niceties had also been considered. The centre of the abandoned American baseball park just outside the town would provide a suitable landing spot for the entrance. William Henry, that ardent disciple of Big David, could be employed to paint a large letter “H” at the landing site. It was fortuitous indeed that such a letter could not be painted upside down. It was lucky too that there was such a pseudo-American facility near Ballycarson since it could act as neutral territory even though it was actually situated on the edge of the eastern side of town. The history of the imported sporting facility was bizarre indeed. The place had been constructed in the latter years of the Troubles by enthusiastic American investors. They had noticed that outside America the largest sale of baseball bats per head of population anywhere in the world occurred in Northern Ireland. Regular ship-loads of this sporting equipment docked at Belfast harbour. The potential for transatlantic profit invited the export of the game itself and not just its equipment. Unfortunately, the investors had not noticed that in Northern Ireland there was a complete absence of a corresponding sale in baseballs. They discovered only at a much later date that the baseball bats were used not for recreation but destruction by the various gangs of hoods, some of which were later to provide protection for the baseball park itself.

  However, by the time the stadium was built it was too late to withdraw. The “Ballycarson Yankees” were recruited, assembled and trained at great cost. Team banners shouting the message “Go, Yankees, Go” were printed in huge numbers and fast food prepared on a massive scale, causing an enormous growth in Big Mick production at the Ballycarson salami factory. A large New Yorker of German extraction by the name of Jimmy Scheidt was headhunted and appointed as the team coach. His enthusiasm was boundless and matched only by his excitable temperament. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do to avoid a dismal first and only baseball season in which minuscule crowds attended to watch uninspiring displays of an unknown activity vaguely resembling sport. The very last game was marred by the team coach assaulting a crowd member who had expressed his disgust at the low level of entertainment within the hearing of the, by then, disheartened Jimmy. The swearing
had echoed around the virtually empty stadium. The chief photographer of the Provincial Observer caught the attack in a crisply taken snap just as Jimmy Scheidt’s fist made contact with the fan’s jaw. The very next day this image was plastered over the front page of the Provincial Observer with the narrative:

  “Scheidt Hits the Fan”

  The coach of the baseball team was promptly sacked and the baseball park closed down. The team banners were abandoned at the side of the pitch and the fast food fed to the local pigs. The sporting facility had lain idle ever since as a testament to a hopeful but fruitless American intervention in a foreign land.

  After landing at the baseball park the president would be conveyed by means of a motorised cortege sweeping into Ballycarson accompanied by American secret service out-runners. The president would be ferried in style right to the Peace Wall beside Checkpoint Charlie. Then his speech would be delivered from the new podium inside the recently cleared, abandoned Loyalist enclave. To please the displaced local German community, part of the message would be delivered in German – it was fortunate the president had vague German ancestry too! However, this venture into the central European tongue would occur only after exhortations in Irish and Ulster Scots, of course. You couldn’t get much more even-handed than that.

  Well, the helicopter entrance will be nothing new, thought Big David. Rumour had it that the president had to be seen to outdo the dramatic entrance of the last head of state to visit the province, the Queen. She had also come by helicopter for fear of landmines. But the “wimp factor” in United States politics meant that the president had to be seen to be unafraid, to stare danger in the face and face it down. So his presidential cavalcade would drive slowly as if to throw down the gauntlet to the local thugs to do their worst. Yet any threat had already been neutralised by deft political negotiation. After secret negotiations with the local paramilitaries, the American aides finally reached a compromise. There would be no attack on the president. Instead, it was agreed that the ambiguous sporting banners “Go, Yankees, Go” would remain to adorn the edges of the helicopter landing spot. These banners still littered the stadium and their continued presence would be accepted by the local thugs as a symbolic message to the president and his team.