Ballycarson Blues Page 4

  This was no predetermined route of intransigence defined only by past events. It was no political vacuum. It was a blank space for tomorrow’s adept political comment. Here indeed was preparation for the future and a willingness to adapt. This blank space was the symbol of a willingness to look ahead and reject the future whatever it was. It was a case of “Ulster Says No” to something yet to be thought up. Indeed it could assist Big David in making a fast response to the volatile political situation that was expected to arise later this month with the arrival in the province of the United States president. And he might have to act quicker than that because security concerns might mean the exact timing was not publicised. The rumour was that the president might even appear unannounced in the next few days just ahead of the marching season. The Provincial Enquirer had picked up on the possibility and thundered its news with a dramatic headline: “President Avoids March by June Arrival”. Staff in the American consulate in Belfast were bemused. They were aware that time stood still in Northern Ireland, but noone had previously told them that the powers that be could delete several months just to suit present political circumstances. It was a wonder there weren’t rioting crowds in the streets demanding the return of their lost months.

  These complex calendar calculations were the last thing on William Henry’s mind. He paid heed only to a much briefer timescale. His thoughts were always for the short term and his foresight invariably short-sighted. Speed was everything and consequences, well, they were for someone else.

  It was a good job Big David had ordered that quick-drying paint, thought William Henry as he surveyed the bridge of many colours. Actually, it was a bridge of only three colours: red, white and blue. For William Henry, three was a large number.

  This bridge-painting mission had always been and always would be a team effort. William Henry had just done his bit. Other specialists from the chosen few contributed their skills to complete particular additions from time to time. William Henry had a special and refined talent for painting big white NOs, or, at least, so he had been told. Every year during the months of June and July that was almost all he did for the Big David organisation. Someone else would decide which political developments had to be denounced. Someone else would order other words to be added in paint. Someone else would decide the colour of the paint. Someone else would ordain the completion of the blanks beside William Henry’s NOs. That someone else was Big David.

  “Just do what you are good at,” was William Henry’s motto.

  So he stuck to painting his NOs and did very little else during the months of June and July. How would posterity sum up his literary skills? If posterity noticed them at all, perhaps this might suffice for a line in an overstated oration at his funeral. “Other political commentators wrote a column in the newspaper – William Henry painted a column on the railway bridge.”

  But one should not underplay ability. William Henry’s extraordinary talent for such street art had been spotted at an early stage. The local Council had employed him at the age of sixteen as an apprentice road painter. On his first day he had been given the stencils to paint big traffic directions on the pristine tar.

  “This word will suit you down to the ground,” the foreman had said, with a smirk, as he handed William Henry the four big wooden stencils for the word “SLOW”. “Just use each letter only once for each job and you can’t go wrong,” he continued. “The stencils are numbered. So you use this one first and then this one and then this one…”

  So William Henry went off to paint parts of the town white. He stuck to his job, aligned the stencils on the ground in the order he had been told and poured the white street paint into the gaps. It was only the next day that he knew his efforts had led to eternal fame – or at least such fame as lasted until the street paint could be removed. The reporter from the local Provincial Enquirer wanted to interview him as the man who had decorated the main road into the east side of Ballycarson with the word “SLOM”.

  Panic gripped the publicity department of Ballycarson Council. Of course they had well-laid contingency plans for various possibilities arising from spelling screw-ups. It was not that something similar had never happened before. But noone had ever conceived of a catastrophe on the scale of that which had just occurred. If only William Henry had painted “LSOW”, it could have been explained away as shorthand for “Loyal Sons of William”. Or if he had decorated the road with “LSWO”, it could have been glossed as a rather Teutonic instruction to the recent German incomers and appealing to the democratic sentiments of the elected representatives on the Council: “Leaders Speak, We Obey.” However, from the slim lexicon of the publicity department of Ballycarson Council, all that could be conjured up to explain “SLOM” was “Sacred Legion of Mary”. The appearance of such an obvious reference to a competing religious tradition at the main entrance to the east end of Ballycarson was incomprehensible, impossible to ignore and inconsistent with long-established local tradition.

  There was no up-side to the upside-down story for the Ballycarson town councillors. Local political wrath from both sides of the community demanded heads should roll.

  But, because of the “Peace Process”, William Henry could not easily be sacked.

  The union officials and the human rights lawyers dictated the terms. The new politically correct dogma of “Equality of Esteem” of all traditions (which in practice could be translated as both traditions) meant that the sacking of a Protestant should also require the sacking of a Roman Catholic. It was known locally as “The two heads are better than one” rule.

  William Henry was fortunate that there was noone from the other side of town who was precisely his equal. Malachi O’Leary had been briefly considered. During the recent Council election campaign, he had been sent out to paint the “Sinn Fein” name all over the west side of town. But the basic rules of spelling beat him. He had painted an endless row of luminous green six-foot-high “SINE FINE” slogans on the old railway embankment wall running along the main entrance to the west side of town. Even Protestants from the eastern side of town had driven past to wonder at the meaning of this interminable political comment. How could Malachi O’Leary have misspelled the party name that was supposed to be written on his heart and engraved on his very soul? Party prestige was dented because of the potential public disgrace. But Malachi’s skin was saved by the euphoria of Nationalist electoral victory coupled with the distinguished classical scholarship of Bishop Eugene Miguel O’Hagan. He was sure that the words meant something in Latin, although, having lost his dictionary on an excursion to the races, he could not remember exactly what. However, his learned input was sufficient to allow the relevant party committees to trade tautologies and eventually report: “The reality of the situation is that these words mean something and therefore they must be meaningful.” Such an indisputable conclusion could not be contested – indeed that was the whole idea – and led the Nationalist majority to mount an upbeat and robust defence of an attempt to terminate Malachi’s job at the Council cleansing department. Malachi was obviously fluent in an ancient European language, albeit he did not realise this himself. Such a man of previously hidden talent and latent scholarship the Council could not afford to lose. Furthermore, as part of the newly elected ruling coalition, the Sinn Fein councillors rejected his dismissal on the basis Malachi had been engaged exclusively on party business and he had not acted on the instructions of anyone engaged in local government. Those constitutional niceties were important, especially as they were now in power. There was no point in setting a precedent for having anyone resign.

  In any event O’Leary’s subconscious lapse into the mellifluous Latin language was partially disguised amongst the multiplicity of “Viva Argentina” slogans on the same embankment wall still surviving from the time of the Falklands War. The quality of the exterior gloss paint in the early 1980s was clearly excellent.

  So by finding a parallel on the other side of the local political universe, William Henry escaped the c
hop and a new role had to be found for him. It was determined that he was to be assigned to another post to be agreed with the main shop stewards “Union” Jack Presley and Seumas “Iceberg” Quinn. The political loyalties that gave rise to Jack Presley’s nickname were obvious enough. The origins of Seumas Quinn’s sobriquet were more obscure. His habit of thumping the table during negotiations so hard that it usually broke indicated the origins had nothing to with any cool temperament on his part. It seemed likely that the source of the nickname was to be found in his complete obstinacy in the face of any argument no matter how reasonable or overwhelming. Seumas “Iceberg” Quinn would not move even if he knew the Titanic was steering straight towards him. He personally had wrecked and sunk virtually all attempts to update and streamline the work practices at the Ballycarson Council for over two decades. Now these two employees of major stature but limited talent decided the fate of William Henry and sent him on to the management for implementation of their decision.

  William Henry angled himself towards the human resources department to find out the next development in his career. There he sat for a day and a half whilst the staff searched in vain for his personnel file. The new computer system simply could not cope. It was only after the staff checked the name on the collar of William Henry’s anorak that it dawned on them that they were dealing with an aristocrat with a double-barrelled name. Yes, William Henry was one of those honoured few with a double Christian name and a surname he rarely used. His recorded personnel details were eventually found under “Anstreicher, Wilhelm Heinrich”, a name that betrayed his ancestors as having been among the German-speaking Moravian refugees who had fled from the fringes of the Austrian Empire in the eighteenth century and had headed west for religious sanctuary in the New World. Clearly several dozen of them had got as far as Ballycarson and had thought that was far enough. And it was there that their talented descendants had remained to this day as the remnants of the first wave of substantial German immigration to Ulster.

  “Mr. Anstreicher, we have been instructed that multitasking is probably more your speciality,” said Miss Sweetly in the Council’s human resources office. “First of all, we need to sort out your footwear.” She handed William Henry a large black Wellington boot to try for size. He proceeded to put it on his right foot. It was a snug fit. Well pleased with his new footwear, William Henry picked up all his bits and pieces and headed to the door. “Wait a minute,” shouted Miss Sweetly, “you’ll need a second one.” And so, a second boot of similar size being proffered to him, William Henry was kitted out in full.

  Miss Sweetly’s co-worker Immaculata Concepta Fitzgerald, known as “Immac” for short, pointed William Henry towards the back of the Council yard where a row of three identical small wooden sheds stood against the fence. This line of buildings comprised the modest property portfolio of Donald Oskar Gormley, the lost property officer and dog warden. It was a combined role to supervise the waifs and strays and, in their earnest desire to further the Peace Process, the big-wigs amongst the councillors regarded it as ideal for William Henry.

  To symbolise his new role Miss Sweetly had handed William Henry a pre-typed, orange-coloured, laminated badge containing a photo, a bar code, a job description and a cartoon of a dog on a bicycle to pin to his anorak. “You are to be Donald Oskar Gormley’s assistant,” indicated Miss Sweetly, “the new Deputy D.O.G.”

  CHAPTER 4

  HOUNDED OUT?

  So William Henry reported for duty at Donald’s row of chalets. After completion of the usual paperwork, he was given responsibility, subject to Donald’s supervision, for lost property. This mainly comprised washing machines, bicycles and dogs.

  It seemed that nothing much else was ever handed in for Donald’s tender care. Too much was otherwise recycled by the families of tinkers who lived beside the local municipal tip. One of them ran a second-hand shop in Irish Street entitled “What Everyone Doesn’t Want”. Despite the name, it was always mobbed out, especially during the happy hours on sale days when boots and shoes were sold at the discount of three for the price of two.

  But the relative dearth of donations to lost property probably had more to do with the immediate topography than with local retailing patterns. Most of the centre of Ballycarson was built on a hill. When they went shopping the local population went “up town” and not “down town”. So the daily uphill struggle meant that bicycles were never much in demand except for the occasional few that were dumped in the canal at the foot of the hill beside one of the railway bridges. Perhaps some reformed feminist in the town really did consider that fish did need this form of two-wheeled transport. Perhaps it was a side effect of wealth cascading down in the consumerist and mobile society that comprised uptown Ballycarson. Whatever it was, the former Union Canal united Ballycarson with nowhere anymore. The erstwhile commercial artery had become a manifestation of stagnation, silt and corrosion.

  In fact, there were only two bicycles and three tricycles in Donald’s lost property shed. There they had rested, unclaimed, for several years. The cycles had not been recycled. But there were several small boxes of books with the word “Classics” written on the side and a large crate full of bicycle pumps.

  The “classic” contents comprised mainly dog-eared doctor and nurse romances previously enjoyed by Miss Sweetly. She felt a real affinity with such medical matters given that she looked after the office first aid kit and had once assisted at the removal of a large splinter from a bin man’s hand. The books may have been discarded by Miss Sweetly just as romance had consistently discarded her, but the crate of bicycle pumps was a real mystery. Rumour had it that it had been mistakenly ordered by a temporary employee in the Council’s cleansing department when he had ordered “black pumps” as lightweight industrial footwear for the office cleaners. That was the problem with ordering anything from an English supplier. The English had always misunderstood the English language. Or maybe it was just as the Nationalist politicians continually asserted: the English knew perfectly well what Ireland didn’t want and yet they sent it to Ireland anyway. Yes, a serious issue like this had the potential to cause a major constitutional crisis unless the councillors engaged in some neat political footwork. So, at the time of the black pumps scandal, a special meeting of all the councillors had been convened to discuss what to do with the unsatisfied order for footwear.

  There followed a lengthy debate in the Council chamber. It was eventually decided, with a cross-party consensus, that in future the local Ulster Scots word “gutties” and a suitable Irish translation (to be researched and approved at the next meeting of the full Council) would be used in all orders of black pumps, sandshoes or similar footwear. If the English did not understand this terminology, they could just look it up in a dictionary or phone the Council help line in the new department of “Communication, Reports and Publicity”. Such a mouthful of a title had inevitably been shortened and henceforth, but only outwith the hearing of the councillors, was referred to as “UAD” standing for the “Unfortunate Acronym Department”. The UAD had previously been established with the generous assistance of a grant from the European Union to foster the study and use of Irish and the Ulster Scots language in local government affairs. It was incumbent on the Council to make sure the European Union got its money’s worth by examining every aspect of this multi-faceted affair of the “black pumps” and the “gutties”.

  The debate on the gutties dragged on into the small hours with pedestrian points being made in grandiose style. The climax came when councillors Eugene O’Driscoll and Montgomery Cherry wished it to be minuted that, contrary to the Council’s policy of access to information, neither of the Ulster Scots or Irish languages had been included in the nineteen European languages used in the suppliers’ booklet of instructions that accompanied the bicycle pumps. In an inspiring show of cross-party unity, the councillors resolved unanimously to note the linguistic failure with restrained reproach and dignified disappointment. The chief executive was instructed to wr
ite a letter of formal protest to the English suppliers and, in addition, to the manufacturers in North Korea. The future use of the word “gutties” was to be demanded. Hardly had there been a more satisfying political outcome to such a potentially serious situation.

  “GUTTIES GET GREEN LIGHT” ran the headline in the Provincial Enquirer that week.

  This caused a row amongst the Unionists as they asserted that this put a colour on the story that it would not bear. They wished it to be known that the Nationalists should not get all of the credit for the cross-community initiative. The carefully constructed political consensus collapsed. The footwear had become a potential election embarrassment for all concerned. The politically charged box of bicycle pumps was then shoved into the lost property shed to get it out of the way.

  The lost property shed in the Council yard was only the first of the three identical wooden sheds set up against the back wall. It was Donald Oskar Gormley’s private H.Q. and over the door in black paint it bore his initials “D.O.G.”. The other two sheds were used as kennels on regular short-term lets – usually to canine inhabitants, although overnight stays by inebriated councillors, or those hardworking local public servants who had been ejected by their spouses or cohabitants, were not unknown. Both residential functions helped the statistical returns of the Council confirming official time spent at the workplace. All the sheds were now part of William Henry’s new property portfolio that he was to manage under Donald’s supervision. The more sophisticated part of the new job was to feed the unclaimed stray dogs living immediately next door and awaiting destruction in the stainless steel contraption known as “the Zapper”. Someone else was paid to look after the Zapper and William Henry was only to attend to the dog feeding. For this he was given the specialist equipment of a can opener, a spoon, several cans of the locally produced dog food, “Happy Mutt”, and two stainless steel bowls, both bearing the word “DOG”.