Ballycarson Blues Read online

  At this very moment his employees, the ancient arch conservative art critics in the shelter at the Spion Kop bus stop, were collectively nodding their approval as they used their binoculars to gaze down on a marvellous sight. It was William Henry at the Anne Boleyn Bridge surveying his painted accomplishments on the railway bridge to the accompaniment of a quiet cigarette. This, however, did not mean a silent smoke. He was attempting to mimic Eva Pfeiffer’s notorious feat of whistling a Loyalist party song whilst smoking. Unfortunately, all William Henry could achieve was to blow out his cigarette halfway through the opening note.

  In any event, this smoking habit was more complicated than it looked and demanded one’s full attention. William Henry had to remind himself every time not to try to stub out the fag butt in the tin of white spirit. That was how another of Big David’s painters, Billie King, had singed both hands last month. Billie King was clearly not too clever, thought William Henry. Nevertheless, it was a good job the fire hadn’t been worse because Billie King was the flute band’s bass drummer. It was about as easy to beat out march time with bandaged hands as it was to eat fish and chips wearing boxing gloves. Without Billie King battering the drum, the flute band would have a job getting out for parade.

  As if to acknowledge the source of his good fortune, William Henry looked up the hill towards Ballycarson High Street and Big David’s encampment and seat of power. And who was that coming down the hill? Speak of the devil! The sight was unmistakable. It was the band’s bass drummer, Billie King.

  Billie was huge. Indeed so large of stature was Billie that when the body measurements of the flute band members were sent off to the manufacturers of the new flute band uniforms, they had sent back Billie’s statistics for correction with the comment: “These can’t be right.”

  But true enough they were. Head and shoulder above most others stood Billie King, leading to the nickname “Kong King”.

  Billie derived her name not only from her parents’ earnest desire that their child should avoid political controversy and criminal gangs but also their membership of the local squash, badminton and tennis club, which was avowedly non-sectarian, ecumenical and apolitical in its outlook. In the eyes of the local populace it demonstrated this beyond controversy by possessing both green grass courts and orange clay courts. “Racquets wreck racketeering”, was the club’s guiding principle. In an attempt to steer their beloved child away from sectarian politics the sporting Kings had named her after their American heroine, the golden girl of Wimbledon in the 1970s. Unfortunately, a few years later Billie’s dad’s love affair with racquet sports had come to an untimely end when his wife ran off with her badminton coach. After that Billie’s dad confined his activity to the tennis club bar and forsook the courts for good (apart from the forensic variety where he engaged in the bitter divorce litigation). Feeling some continuing responsibility for the matrimonial disaster, the tennis club committee did at least assist in providing summer jobs for Billie who was employed to put up the nets and paint the white lines on the courts. But the job didn’t pay well, so she supplemented her income by painting scenes of selected historical events on gable end walls for the Big David organisation. Goliath had joined forces with David.

  Now as a director of the Big David organisation, Billie descended the hill towards the railway bridge followed by her recently acquired assistant. Behind her she was leading her horse, “White Rum”. The name reflected the colour of the animal, but this was merely coincidence because, in fact, the name had been inspired by Billie’s favourite drink. William Henry lit another cigarette and waited until Billie reached the bottom of the hill where they met for a chat whilst William Henry inspected the horse.

  “You can speak German to my horse, William Henry,” observed Billie. “She’s a genuine reproduction Lipizzaner!”

  A few months previously Billie had won the horse in a lottery organised by the Ballycarson 1690 Young Defenders Flute Band to raise funds for the new band uniforms. Given that it was surplus to immediate requirements during a lull in production, the horse had been donated as a prize by a shareholder in the Ballycarson salami factory.

  The King family home, a two-up two-down semi-detached in one of the Council housing estates in Ballycarson, required some alteration to keep a horse. Nevertheless, with dreams of Westerns and Clint Eastwood movies, Billie had been unwilling to give up her new prize.

  “How did you convince your dad to let the horse into the house?” asked William Henry. “What did you promise him? Free transport for life and a boost to rose production in the garden?”

  “Oh no, it was easier than that.” Billie King grinned. “I told my dad that we could raise some extra cash by letting out our upstairs bedroom to an eighteen-year-old German blonde who was going to pose for my next painting. So, he couldn’t resist. And I told him no lies. My very next painting was a mural of King Billy crossing the Boyne on the back of his white charger.”

  Indeed, after the horse was moved in with a display of complete equine equanimity, Billie’s dad began to see the practicality of the arrangement. This indeed was a house-trained horse.

  There was only one condition laid down by Billie’s dad. “Make sure that horse has no overnight visitors. I don’t want the cavalry in here after dark.”

  CHAPTER 8

  THE DIGITAL AGE

  In the King household the bedroom on the first floor at the head of the stairs was duly converted into a stable.

  The bedroom door was horizontally cut into two halves so Billie could admire her equine prize as it gazed out into the landing. A manger was fashioned out of a shopping trolley borrowed, on an extended loan, from the local supermarket. For convenience it could be moved around the bedroom as the circumstances required. It was truly a case of meals on wheels.

  Exercise was not a problem. Each day the horse was marched up and down the stairs and in and out the front door and set to graze on one or other of the housing estate roundabouts. It was only recently that a cloud had appeared on the horizon when the immediate neighbour complained to the Council as the horse started to kick holes in the wall separating the King household from that neighbour’s bedroom. One hole in the wall was now so big that the neighbour had the head of a horse gazing out over the headboard of his bed. It occasioned some disturbed sleep.

  When the neighbour first threatened to complain to the Council, Big David muscled in on behalf of Billie King. Given his distinct lack of physical bulk, the term “muscled in” could be employed only metaphorically as regards Big David. It would be more accurate to say that a diminutive Big David minced in on behalf of Billie King.

  “Tell the neighbour that the present arrangement is far better than waking up with a severed horse head at the foot of the bed,” was Big David’s observation when consulted by a worried Billie King. Given Billie’s stature, Big David had to stand on a stool to address her face to face.

  However, the neighbour, a local artiste, also sought the counsel of Big David as the self-imported and self-imposed community father. “I can’t sing because this animal is giving me hay fever,” complained the neighbour. So after this second face-to-face encounter, Big David had to be two-faced to save the day. Contrary to his otherwise trumpeted fundamental principles of dogged adherence to unchanging truth and eternal righteousness, Big David had to compromise and tell Billie to move the horse.

  “I’ve had to move White Rum this morning…” explained Billie to William Henry. “But Big David says he will get me a room in one of the abandoned houses near the railway down beside the canal.”

  “How did you get away with it for so long?” enquired William Henry. “Why didn’t your neighbour complain long before now?”

  The explanation unfolded. “We live next door to Charlie Rae,” said Billie.

  “Oh, I get it – music soothes animals, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe,” said Billie, “but it is really a case of see no evil, hear no evil.”

  Because of his undoubted disability and un
certain musical ability, Charlie Rae, Billie’s immediate neighbour, used to front a dance band, calling himself the “White Ray Charles”. This was no sham Irish imitation of real transatlantic talent. Charlie Rae was indeed as blind as a bat. He used to be driven about by his mother from Gospel Hall to country Gospel Hall where he would lead the faithful in country and western revival evenings. To add a touch of authenticity to his act he wore real spurs, but, given his susceptibility to hay fever, he had been accompanied by a cardboard horse.

  His mother, Senga Rae, had also known stardom in her day as she had at one time fronted a trio of backing musicians comprising her three daughters. With this line-up known as “Senga and the Sengettes” she had once topped the bill of a dazzling array of local artistes at the Slatequarry Masonic guest tea. Whilst the guests supped glasses of brown lemonade and tucked into plates of square-cut ham sandwiches, she belted out country and western tear jerkers such as “My Son Calls Another Woman Mummy” and “I’m So Lonely Standing Here Since My Horse Died”. During this latter performance the cardboard horse was symbolically laid on its side. Such a musical high could never be repeated and, to avoid the inevitable disappointment, Senga was never invited back.

  Those halcyon days of innocent fun had now passed – ruined by Ulster’s troubles, during which the population had learned to avoid night-spots. Instead, they stayed at home and listened to recorded music. Suddenly, the population had discovered a different quality of life and a better quality of music. The darkest cloud does indeed contain a silver lining. But whilst the general population enjoyed the silver lining, Senga sat under the cloud. Senga had never been able to obtain a recording contract to cash in on the boom of home entertainment, so she had felt marginalised and excluded. Apart from Senga’s crowd-clearing performances, it was left to her son, Charlie, to carry the torch in these more difficult times, the era of the Peace Process.

  Of course Senga was now Charlie’s biggest fan, but it was clearly a case of maternal rather than musical appreciation. All Charlie’s musical kit was taken round the various meeting houses in a horse trailer, also containing the cardboard horse, pulled behind his mother’s open-top Volkswagen Beetle. And so it continued until Charlie’s career ended in a blaze of glory on the Ballycarson bypass.

  One Saturday evening the miniature musical convoy was stopped and hijacked by a crowd of balaclava-wearing paramilitaries or hooded hoods. It was immediately clear the masked bandits were only after the specialist gear in the trailer and not after the car. They unhooked the trailer and allowed Charlie’s mother to watch from the Volkswagen as they set the trailer and contents ablaze with a single, well-aimed petrol bomb. It was another example of four star’s finest hour. Charlie’s disability precluded him from enjoying any sort of a view, but the increasing heat, the smell of petrol fumes and the unmistakable sounds of a disintegrating trailer made him increasingly agitated.

  He stood up in the passenger seat of the car and shouted, “What’s going on? What’s happening? What’s the smell?”

  “We’ll give you a hint,” replied the leader of the gang and, in unison, the hijackers started to whistle the theme tune from the film Chariots of Fire and to run in slow motion around the flames.

  In such minor incidents the police and army were not interested. It was all within the acceptable level of violence. But the third force comprising the Ballycarson neighbourhood watch did assist. The mystery of the affair was intriguing. To assist in solving the whodunit of the hooded hoods, the neighbourhood watch put round leaflets indicating they were looking not for the usual terrorist thugs but for someone with a love of real music.

  Unfortunately, someone read one of the leaflets to Charlie Rae.

  This led to an ugly scene in the street immediately outside the Third Ballycarson Free Reformed Independent Non-subscribing Evangelical Congregationalist Church. Charlie, attended by his mother dressed in her best stage frock, was broadcasting his outrage to the world at large from the backseat of the open-top Volkswagen Beetle. As if this strange sight was not enough to attract attention, Charlie Rae was impressing his views on the passers-by with the help of a microphone linked to a large black music speaker tied to the bonnet. These voluble comments on the state of society were hardly valuable and were certainly not valued by the passers-by, the minister, the Reverend Grim Jordan or the church members who had been participating in a church mission evening. The members had put in considerable effort to entice in the passing pedestrian casually contemplating repentance. They had even gone to the length of draping a huge banner over the front door with large red letters bearing the heartfelt and heartening message “Backsliders Welcome”. But the path to salvation was being obstructed by a wall of sound. The bile and vitriol spewing from Charlie Rae’s lips was putting off even the most determined back-slidden, potentially repenting visitor. The racket Charlie was making was clearly the din of iniquity.

  Charlie’s impassioned intimations of his disgust to the public may have been merely a minor case of casting false pearls in front of real swine, but, after several increasingly acrimonious exchanges between him and the church members, the constabulary intervened.

  The conflict amongst Church, state and the performing arts was brief. To avoid a further breach of the peace, Charlie Rae was invited to spend a night in the newly painted cells. It was another of Big David’s successes. His painting squad had very recently administered a very attractive coat of white gloss to the entire interior.

  After only a few hours in the renovated and still wet cell, Charlie Rae was released early. It had nothing at all to do with the fact the jailers felt sorry at the ruin of Charlie’s country gospel star-spangled black suit by the white gloss paint sticking to it every time he walked into a wall. It was solely down to the petition seeking his release on humanitarian grounds received by the officer in charge of the station. The petition, started by one inmate on a large piece of toilet roll, was signed by every police officer on duty in the cell block and all the inhabitants of the other cells together with a number of visiting solicitors who had been holding interviews with their clients. Regardless of their political persuasion, they had all been entirely persuaded that Charlie Rae’s talents were best demonstrated elsewhere after he had forcibly entertained them with an endless selection of quasi-religious tunes and uplifting melodies played on his mouth organ. Charlie Rae had kept this harmonica of hope hidden like a medallion under his shirt to provide solace in emergencies just like this one. As the harmonica was connected to a chain around his neck, the police had to let Charlie Rae out to get rid of the problem.

  Since then Charlie Rae had been confined to home base as the evangelical gigs dried up more quickly than the paint on the cell walls. The organisers of such non-secular soirées were quite happy to be entertained by reformed criminals provided they acknowledged that they had seen the light, but Charlie remained in darkness and was persisting in a denial that he had ever done anything wrong. He remained an unwelcome, unrepentant, hardened backslider. His career slid back into obscurity, alleviated only by the occasional performance at low-budget weddings. Some cash-strapped fathers of the bride had discovered that the best way to ensure small wedding receptions was to advertise on the invitations that the musical accompaniment at the reception would be provided by Charlie Rae.

  However, Charlie continued to dream of a wider and more discerning audience. He retained what he saw as his foothold in the musical world with a series of high-level, open-air recitals. From the tiny concrete balcony leading from the first floor bedroom in his Council house, he entertained passers-by in the street with performances on a second-hand electrical Hammond organ. This had been salvaged from the bombed-out wreckage of the Hibernian Hall on the far side of town. Although a few of the notes did not work properly, this provided an ample substitute for the instruments lost in the previous terrorist outrage on the open road. Someone had even replaced his horse by providing him with a second-hand cardboard cow endowed with an enormous pink udder. Unfor
tunately, the complete stylistic effect was slightly spoiled by the advertising on the side of the animal betraying its origins: “Udderly Satisfying – Milk.” Still, one cannot have everything.

  What the Republican terrorists have taken away, the Loyalist defenders of democracy have duly provided, thought Charlie Rae. There was justice after all.

  In fact, the truth was the reverse. It was a group of Charlie’s Loyalist neighbours who had burned the trailer for the sake of peace and quiet. It was Nationalists from the far side of town who had provided the Hammond organ and cardboard cow simply to make sure Charlie continued to annoy his Loyalist neighbours.

  From then on the neighbours, including the King family, were duly serenaded with the organ played at full volume and stuck on a reggae beat regardless of the musical genre aped by the organist from time to time.

  There was one modest upside for Billie King. With all the din, for a long time Charlie Rae was not able to hear the equine manoeuvres going on next door, at least that was until a hoof and then a head appeared through a hole in the wall of his bedroom. Eventually, faced with two complaining constituents, Big David made his judgement of Solomon and had favoured the musical Philistine above Goliath. The horse had to go, although on a promise of sanctuary in the lush green pastures beside the abandoned railway and disused canal. As yet these Elysian Fields had only been marginally affected by the leaching of the dumped barrels Agent Orange from the canal into the soil.

  “How did you convince Big David to give you a new home for the horse?” asked William Henry.

  “No problem. He likes White Rum. She’s now on the organisation’s payroll. Wait till you see this…” responded Billie.