She stationed the horse beside the Queen Anne Boleyn Bridge and proceeded to stand on the saddle.
“There you have it!” she observed. “Mobile scaffolding for the next paint job. And all the kit is in the saddle bags. Hand me it up, will you?”
The kit comprised paint brushes and a large pot of red gloss paint.
“I thought this painting job was done for the day,” said William Henry.
“No,” replied Billie. “Big David said I was to go down and give you a hand.”
And hand painting it was. Billie was known as the “hands-on wumman” not only because she had a large following of male admirers but also because she alone looked after the large red hand of Ulster that took up the top left side of the rampart on the railway bridge.
This was no ordinary hand. It was a six-foot-high symbol of Ulster’s independence – the O’Neill’s severed hand – repeatedly visited and photographed over the years by legions of Orangemen and Dutch tourists from Antwerp to Zeebrugge. In this digital age people on the modern European Grand Tour diverted to Ballycarson for this very purpose. Obviously they still hungered for real culture. There was even a visitors’ book open for signature for a modest charge, in the security hut at the foot of the bridge, manned twenty-four hours a day by the ever vigilant attendant, Councillor Joe Hutt.
Normally, those people who make gestures with fingers do so because of a lack of vocabulary. But this complete hand spoke volumes for the political persuasions of the area. Further to that, local peculiarities were in evidence too. This particular painted hand had one thumb and five fingers. Yes, five – not just four fingers. It comprised five fingers and a thumb. The unintentional excess had been added by an over-enthusiastic Billie King in her first year of painting. But, once painted, the symbol’s removal would have resulted in considerable loss of political face for Big David not to speak of the waste of a lot of white spirit. In the political jargon of the day, a “more constructive solution” was sought. The Council historian, employed by the then Unionistrun Council, saved the day.
In those blue-sky days of unchallenged Unionist Council hegemony, a special ceremony was arranged and duly boycotted by the elected local representatives of the then Nationalist minority. The arch of the bridge was decked out in purple and blue and an orange ribbon was cut underneath the arch. A plaque was unveiled. Speeches were made. Drinks were drunk. Champagne was eschewed. France, with its links to revolutionary ideals, was a country politically and religiously suspect for such events, even though its flag was white, red and blue. At least that was the Unionist party line. The truth was more mundane. The fact was that the local source of French wine had been shut down. The Élysée Café had been closed by the Council environmental health officers. Gaining the reputation of the “Ill Easy Café” amongst the locals on account of some slapdash food preparation, the café had attracted a dawn raid by the protectors of public cleanliness and hygiene. They had discovered a scandalous amount of long out-of-date drinks and considerable volumes of crème fraîche of an uncertain vintage. The upshot was that the supplier of local French delicacies was no more. So, instead of French-sourced liquor, to facilitate major corporate and municipal celebrations such as that going on at the railway bridge, bottles of German Sekt were opened in celebration. This was regarded as a neat political stroke as it would go down well with the large local German community who worked at the salami factory in the Ballycarson industrial estate.
Whilst all this was going on, at the far side of the railway bridge the more hard-line Unionists held their own re-naming ceremony with glasses of white and brown lemonade and orange juice. Long gone were the days of “United We Stand, Divided We Fall”. They were there to abstain in person. In the heydays of the Unionist ascendancy in Ballycarson anyone running a Loyalist splinter group with more than three members was regarded with suspicion as having sold out to the establishment, whatever that was. Yes, it was a sad truth, observed by the traffickers in tried and tested truths in the shelter at the Spion Kop bus stop, that some of these people had been political Protestants for so long that they had forgotten what they were protesting about. The real fact was that it was amazing the Unionist administration in Ballycarson had lasted so long. Undoubtedly it was a case of persistence beyond the call of talent. But, for all that, it was a mere local application of the universal truth applicable to politicians: durability is longer than ability.
Yet something substantial and concrete had appeared out of this petrified political protest. What was once a mere anonymous, abandoned railway bridge on a long-closed branch line in the townland of Drummullaghfurtherland had been renamed “The Queen Anne Boleyn Bridge”. The repute of such an important and solid structure was clearly enhanced by this addition of the auspicious name of the first Protestant Queen of England and mother of Queen Elizabeth I of England, the scourge of the Irish. The fact that Anne Boleyn had never been a queen of Ulster was irrelevant.
What was truly important was that the local historian had discovered that the loyal Anne Boleyn actually did have five fingers and a thumb on her left hand. A digit for each county of Northern Ireland and for each point of the star in the Northern Ireland flag. Clearly she had been destined for this role even if she didn’t know it. So, in her immortal memory, the six-digit hand on the disused railway bridge was restored and repainted every year since.
Given his resounding success at justifying the error, the Council historian was quietly headhunted by the Local History Organisation and put in charge of overseas marketing.
There was one last twist to the parochial politics surrounding the bridge-renaming ceremony. Flushed by their success with the Queen Anne Boleyn Bridge, the Unionist councillors looked round for further similar publicity opportunities that might prove useful in the run-up to the impending local elections. Councillor Robinson Sydney Milliken hit on a scheme of renaming the five remaining disused railway bridges around Ballycarson after the remaining wives of Henry VIII. It was a fond coincidence that the only bridge in the west side of town, the Nationalist area, could be re-named the “Catherine of Aragon” bridge after King Henry’s first, Spanish and manifestly Catholic wife. The whole town could be brought into the renaming scheme. Noone could claim the Unionists had given no thought to their Nationalist neighbours. This was a genuine cross-community policy. The bridge renaming was genuine bridge-building. Even better was the possibility that the one railway bridge in what had become the German area of town could be named the “Anne of Cleves” bridge after the fourth wife who came from the German town of Kleve. There was a real chance to pick up the ethnic, floating voter.
With a growing premonition of impending defeat in these elections, the Unionist administration feared for their place in history. They forced through the motion to carry out the bridge renaming at the final meeting of the full Council in the dying days of the last Unionist administration. Perhaps there would be an Orange sunset after all.
The first act of the Nationalists after electoral victory was to enrol a motion to rename once more the renamed bridge in the west side of town
“Queen Catherine of Aragon has nothing to do with us. We don’t need these pseudo-aristocratic connections. We want an ordinary name with obvious local connections linked only to the common Irish man and woman,” was the Nationalist policy asserted forcibly by Councillor Michael Lavery Fitzmaurice. So Catherine of Aragon was voted out.
“Spanish Onion to Be Removed from Irish Stew” ran the next headline in the Provincial Enquirer.
So the railway bridge in the west of town was renamed yet again, but this time after an individual hailed as a genuine local, working-class, Irish Republican heroine.
It was reborn as the “Countess Constance Markievicz” bridge.
CHAPTER 9
CARY GRANT
As his name suggested, Cary Grant claimed to have connections with the big time in America.
He tried to foster this impression by his choice of associates. He once had a girlfriend called Holly Wood, but hi
s mother disapproved of her as she was a barmaid in what was regarded as a disreputable drinking establishment near the Peace Wall dividing the town. The hostelry in question was originally known as the Stagger Inn and comprised two Portacabins left over by the contractors who had built the wall. Attempts by a new German owner to move it up market and rename it as Hanover Lodge had failed. An unfortunate typing accident in the Council’s liquor licencing department had resulted in a licence being granted to Hangover Lodge. The name stuck and Cary’s romance was doomed.
Cary’s social life and many short-term loves had been dominated by his mother. In truth she had been the determining force in his entire life. He had received his name just because his mother was a huge fan of the big screen. Cary was conceived in a burst of passion after a showing in the Ballycarson cinema of one of her idol’s latest releases. There would be no such excitement in future years because, shortly afterwards, the IRA burnt the cinema to the ground after the owner was tardy in paying his protection money. It took two days for the local fire brigade to quell the blaze because the paint supply in the next-door hardware shop had also caught fire. Big David had had to source his supplies elsewhere for weeks and the annual painting of the gable walls had been threatened. The price of paint followed the flames as they, too, went through the roof.
Still the Peace Process had stopped such flagrant extortion. Now, noone paid protection money. Instead, businesses paid a similar sum of money to the same people at the same time every month, but the payment was known as a “community contribution”. In addition, noone had been beaten up since the start of the Peace Process and the paramilitary cease-fires. But there had been a massive increase in the number of people falling down flights of stairs. A small step for a man could become a giant fall for late payers. Even most modern bungalows built with an EU grant had a single step outside the front door and the injuries sustained in falling from that single step could be surprisingly severe. The newspapers locally called it “Front Door Freefall Effect”. Somewhat at odds with the suggested direction of travel, the sociologists at the local university explained it as the “escalator effect” of the Peace Process and several academic conferences were arranged to discuss the theoretical underpinnings of the doctrine. The participants resolved that there should be more research and pencilled in a conference in Monaco where the comparative aspects of the phenomenon could be subjected to scrutiny. The Ballycarson Council also debated the issue, but, despite the application of the best political brains available, there was no cheerful outcome. They thought it was too costly to award grants for the installation of ramps outside bungalows so that those who had been beaten up or knee-capped could get their wheelchairs into their own houses. However, a decisive step was taken when the Council voted to have an annual site visit of select councillors to comparable facilities in Australia and various parts of North America.
Despite the cinema’s fiery destruction and the magnificent efforts of the fire brigade, the flame of love had obviously burned on for Cary’s mum. Over the next few years she produced four more sons. Although she had only one screen idol, names were not a problem. However, she had a bad memory, so she gave them all names that rhymed. For simplicity’s sake she had named her five sons Cary, Larry, Harry, Barry and Garry. Five ginger-headed sons in total, followed by five ginger-headed daughters, Cora, Dora, Flora, Nora and Lora. Obviously the Grant family were big on memorising the alphabet and practising simple rhyme but were not otherwise strong on imagination. It was just like the content of much local poetry and since there was an EU grant to produce more of that doggerel, so reasoned Cary’s mum, the state might give her a grant or some sort of award for exuberance in child production. It did not really work out quite like that. The reasoning behind the list of names was lost on both relatives and neighbours. Indeed, most people, apart from their mum on a good day, could not even remember the children’s individual names and resort was had to a collective nickname. With some link to their hair colour, the children were known to all and sundry as “the Red Army”. In future they would make up the entire front row of drummers in the Ballycarson 1690 Young Defenders Flute Band. They made for an impressive prospect. They were all of equal stature, giving a level and balanced front row to the musical unit. The benefits did not stop there. Cary’s mum reckoned that their equal heights would make it easier for them to carry coffins. If death was a great leveller, it surely was appropriate that every coffin was carried on an even keel and not at an oblique angle. The potential for money-making at Masonic funerals opened out. So, as a substantial side earner, the family hired themselves out to suitable local undertakers for a decent rate.
It had been consistently rumoured in the byways of Ballycarson that Cary Grant was in some way related to the former American soldier and president Ulysses Simpson Grant who was of Ulster descent. It could hardly be said that Cary had ever denied the possibility, but that was largely due to the fact that he scarcely knew who the man was.
Only once had Cary attempted to use his very vague knowledge of the great Ulster American hero to his advantage. That was when he applied for a job as a decorator in the renovation of a new tourist attraction sponsored by the Council – the ancestral home of a great-aunt of the former soldier and president. Upon scrutiny of the job application the councillors were immediately excited at the positive publicity possibilities. Inspired by the equally attractive prospects of a day out, Councillor Eugene Gerald Fitzmaurice hit on an even better idea. There were ancestral homes of relatives of US presidents all over Ulster. Ballycarson had the ancestral home of the great-aunt of this particular president, but the neighbouring Council had the direct line of descent – the ancestral home of his maternal grandparents. Why didn’t the Council visit the neighbouring area and arrange for a photoshoot at the ancestral home of the president’s grandparents? It would be a day out at taxpayers’ expense. However, the councillor sought to guard himself against possible accusations of a junket. There was a precedent for borrowing these neighbouring facilities and linking the historic town of Ballycarson with the homes of illustrious deceased heroes. Councillor Eugene Gerald Fitzmaurice’s oratory rose to the occasion as he saw the chance to convince his fellow councillors. To clinch the vote he referred to locally applicable precedent. In his own parish noone had died for a few years. The parishioners there had not had the benefit of a funeral or a wake and were worried about getting out of practice in relation to the usual formalities and festivities. So their parish priest saved the day. He had borrowed a corpse from the neighbouring parish so his parishioners could practise their celebrations. And what was the moral of this tale? “The benefits of a deceased were made for sharing,” observed the councillor. And so it was also with dead presidents and ancestral homes. His odd logic proved convincing to an already persuaded audience longing for another day out. The Council required their rapidly expanding Department of Communication, Reports and Publicity to pass the word to all three local papers that there would be a major photographic opportunity the next afternoon outside the ruined steading. Their potential employee Cary Grant would pose with his brushes and bottle of thinners outside his and the former president’s grandparents’ ancestral home. In the spirit of openness required by the Peace Process, the job interview would be carried out live and in public.
Unfortunately, not one of the three local papers, the Provincial Express, the Provincial Enquirer and the Provincial Observer, fully lived up to their names. Whilst remaining provincial, none of them was particularly expressive, enquiring or observant. Consequently the expected scrum of local paparazzi did not turn up. Perhaps it was because all three papers had just been taken over by the new local media tycoon, Pat Buller, who had made her money in the supply of cattle for the processed meat and offal market. She was known in the trade as “Cow Pat” and her penchant for ruthless business efficiency and trimming the fat had led her to send only one sixteen-year-old photographer with an antiquated tape recorder. This solitary individual was to take a snap a
nd provide a report for all three of the papers whilst the remainder of the newspaper staff attended the salami factory open day and annual formal dance known as the “Ballycarson Meat Ball”. The highlight of the evening was to be the judging by Cow Pat’s American cousin of the “Ballycarson Miss Reconstituted Steak of the Year” beauty contest.
“Get a different angle for each paper,” the editor had instructed. In the eyes of the sixteen year old this meant telling Cary to turn his head left, then right and then face straight into the camera.
Those organising the interview and press shoot for Cary Grant at the president’s grandparents’ ancestral home should have stuck to photographs alone. Before the assembled ranks of councillors could protect Cary from the lone press inquisitor, the cat was out of the bag.
The initial enquiry seemed simple enough: “Why should you get this job?”
If Cary had stuck to a simple response of “painting is what I am good at”, he would probably have got away with it. But he was inspired to see someone, even a solitary sixteen year old, ready to scribble down and record his words – yes, his very words. Noone had ever done that before except when he ordered sausage and chips at the local German fast-food restaurant “Best Wurst”. So, duly encouraged, Cary told the trainee reporter that the former president, his close and admired relation, had put in a good word for him by acting as his referee.
“President Speaks from Grave” was the headline that week in all three papers.
So the councillors resolved not to offer the painting job to Cary, despite protests that he was apparently very good at whitewashing. Although a number of the councillors, of all political persuasions, suspected they might need his skills in the future, this was a time for drawing the line.
Success was grabbed from the jaws of failure. After his appearance at the Council interview, Cary was recruited for a part-time job. It involved a double role paid for by the joint committee of Big David’s Volunteer Defenders and the Local History Organisation. They recognised him as someone not only with a talent for painting but also with his finger on the very pulse of dead history. He could do this in his time off from the family business of moonlighting as an undertaker’s assistant.
Ballycarson Blues Page 9
