Ballycarson Blues

by Roderick Paisley

  That problem was solved at least for the moment. But it clearly was not a good day. No sooner had Big David put down the orange mobile phone than yet another phone started to ring. This time it was the special green mobile phone. The call came from Big David’s secret source in the Republican community, known by the code name “Deep Throat”. This name was no mere allusion to the top source in the Watergate scandal (although the Ballycarson “Deep Throat” also was close to the Republican leadership). The truth was more mundane. The Ballycarson “Deep Throat” was Wee Joe Forsale’s wife. She simply swallowed all the whiskey and sausage meat Big David could send her way and, in exchange, proved particularly loquacious. So Big David had two independent sources within the same family on the other side of town. In fact, totally unknown to each other, the two members of the Forsale household constituted a double-cross-community fount of information. Double the flow of facts: marvellous. Corroboration of the substance of rumours: even better.

  Deep Throat’s revelations confirmed her husband’s earlier reports of the likelihood of a presidential visit to the west side of town. For the Loyalists and Unionists in the east the news was particularly dispiriting. It was rumoured that the American officials were hoping to hold a ceremony at the pig sty beside Sevriano O’Donnell’s farm in the townland of Ballydrumbairn. The Council-employed historian and archivist was almost ready to declare that this was the site of the ancestral home of the present American president. It was just a matter of the relevant birth and death certificates coming to hand. The whole thing was Councillor Finvola O’Duffy’s trump card. This sty would be one in the eye for the Loyalists and Unionists.

  Big David rang off and considered this new west-side story. In fact, like most news in Ireland this genealogical information was not at all new, but it was depressing to hear it repeated from two such well-connected sources. It confirmed the rumour that had been going round ever since the election of the American president the previous year. The enterprising farmer in question (and, in the tradition of true genealogists, one must award him his full name – Joseph Mary Brendan Mulcachy Xavier Sevriano O’Donnell) had even opened up a visitors’ book for his pig sty. With an undisputed, but as yet unproved, claim that he was the president’s long-lost, closest living Irish relative, Joseph Mary Brendan Mulcachy Xavier Sevriano O’Donnell was already conducting guided tours for any visiting Americans (on a paid basis of course). He was cleaning up and, as long as he kept that sty looking filthy and ancient, he would continue to clean up.

  Faced with this potentially disastrous news, what would Big David do? Resorting to type was a possibility. The public hurling of abuse and the insidious propagation of outrageous half truths were reputed to be endemic in Ulster politics at a local level. If Big David was going to rescue the Loyalist position in Ballycarson, his first thought was that he would have to discredit this pigsty. For that purpose, mud, mud and more mud would have to be slung. In fact, shovel-loads of mud would have to be shovelled. And for Big David, a true worshipper in the temple of unadulterated mud, what could be better?

  But, for once, a strange and more sophisticated thought crossed Big David’s mind. Perhaps digging up the historical truth would be even more effective than the slinging and shovelling of mud. But in Ireland, the historical truth, for all its oft-stated unchanging nature, was sometimes more liquid than solid. It was a truly fluid substance distilled over centuries. In America, the president’s visit would be heralded by the political pundits as a showpiece of ethnic solidarity aimed at the Irish-American vote. It would be portrayed as the reunion of the victims of natural disaster and political oppression separated by the cold waters of the North Atlantic and over a century and a half of struggle. The sons and daughters of destitute Irish men and women who had been forced to leave during the potato famine could once more embrace their countrymen whose ancestors had suffered equally from the same tragedy but who had faithfully remained in their native isle. But was it not also the truth that many of those Irishmen who had remained in Ireland after the famine were the very middlemen who had exploited their destitute compatriots before they emigrated? Was the present meeting of long-lost cousins not really a case of reconciliation rather than reunion? And were indeed the vast bulk of Americans now claiming to be Irish not really the descendants of a much earlier wave of emigration when Ulster Scots had fled political and religious persecution and ended up founding the United States? And perhaps most of these Scotch Irish had nothing at all to do with the Irish famine? And maybe most of the modern Irish-Americans were more closely related to Ulster Loyalists than to Irish Nationalists?

  These deep thoughts were interrupted by yet another phone call from Deep Throat. For another crate of spirits and a case of salami she would show Big David how to derail the Republican roadshow. The deal was done instantly and Deep Throat spilled the beans.

  “All you have to do is find a closer relative of the president – a Loyalist. If you do that, the president will visit your side of town instead.”

  Big David leaned out of the front office window. “Get my official limousine! We’re off to the L.H.O. hall,” he yelled down to the dedicated duo comprising Bob the Blob and Bert the Squirt, who were standing at the front door to the L.H.O. hall and Big David’s office.

  To any outsider this instruction might have appeared strange. Big David’s office was in the same building as the L.H.O. hall, so he simply could have gone down the stairs. Indeed it would have been quicker to do so even though the official car was parked beside the front door. However, in a land where immediate and shallow political impression was everything, Big David had to be seen leaving and arriving by limousine even if it meant coming back to the very point from which he started two minutes ago. It was a fundamental principle that he extended to his political negotiations because it was always safest to move in circles and end up where you were already. That way one never trod on uncertain ground, one never went off at tangents and one could never be accused of selling out to new ideas. These well-tested political traditions had to be maintained even if they constituted a road to nowhere.

  The diligent doublet standing guard at Big David’s door were a double act in function as well as appearance. Bob the Blob and Bert the Squirt were not only bouncers but also official drivers of Big David’s official limousine. That conveyance was an ancient orange Volkswagen Golf. Driving the car was a joint effort because the car had a primitive and unique form of joint controls and could be driven only if at least two people were in it. This was nothing to do with Big David running a driving school on the side and everything to do with a defect in the car itself. Simply stated, the accelerator pedal no longer worked. But the car could still be driven as long as the front passenger pulled hard on a fan belt attached on a wire running under the dash to the remains of the original accelerator cable inside the bonnet. Clearly good timing and synchronisation were needed when a gear change was required. But Bob the Blob and Bert the Squirt worked as a team and were used to this. They clearly knew each other’s minds. That was perhaps less an achievement than at first it might seem. Cynics stated they even shared their only single thought.

  Big David jumped into the back of the car, the mutually complementary drivers took up their posts and they all headed off for a two-minute circular jaunt inevitably leading back to the very spot from which they came: the front door of the L.H.O. hall.

  Big David made a quick phone call from the back of the car. The voice at the other end assured him that the genealogists in the L.H.O. hall had already prepared the historical papers on the local celebrity known as Mason Auchrim Carson (or “Mac” for short). This local celebrity was a man with tattoos of King Billy on his arms, legs and torso. Here was a man with an orange bath, an orange tea set and an orange fake suntan. More importantly, here was someone who could be proved by documentary evidence to be a relative of the American president and, in that regard, Mason Auchrim Carson was closer than anyone known to be living in Ballycarson.

  This wil
l stymie the latest Republican plot, thought Big David.

  He was right. For the American president there were no votes to be gained from the Irish-American community if he were to be photographed shaking hands with an Ulster Loyalist, particularly if his shirt sleeves were rolled up so the tattoos of the seventeenth-century Dutch prince were in full display. For the leaders of the Irish-American community all Irish relatives were worth finding except those not made in their own image. Far from being made in their own image Mason Auchrim Carson, even if abbreviated to “Mac”, was a product of the Irish-American community leaders’ worst imagination.

  For one single moment it felt like victory for Big David and then it didn’t. Suddenly, Big David realised that if Mason Auchrim Carson were to be revealed to the world, the American president would not come at all. Ballycarson would be bypassed by the presidential cavalcade. That would destroy Big David’s own aspirations to stand in the spotlight on the world stage. Yes, the playing of this particular Orange card would lead to mutual simultaneous destruction of the Republican and Loyalist causes. Loyalism would not live to see the demise of Republicanism. It was an earth-shattering moment. Whilst not exactly having found a common cause shared by both Republicans and Loyalists, Big David had realised he had found a common effect.

  “Get moving! Stop the car!” yelled Big David. “And get back to the L.H.O. hall immediately!”

  The car started up, moved forwards several yards and then made the ordained stop. Then, after some muffled swearing from the back seat, the car began to reverse at low speed requiring more fancy operation of the accelerator cable. Had progress of the Loyalist and Unionist political cause also gone into reverse? The answer to that question remained in the balance and depended on the outcome of some further genealogical investigation. True to form, the future of Ballycarson would be determined by what was thrown up by the past.

  CHAPTER 17

  PETRIFIED POLITICAL VIEWS

  Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll, the history teacher in the Ballycarson Christian Brothers’ Academy, usually wore the agonised grimace of a man who suffered continuously from untreated irritable bowel syndrome. Rumour had it that his outward appearance had to do with the potato purification programme that he personally had initiated several years past. The councillor had been outraged when the local branch of the Irish Potato Producers Association had advertised a “tasty tuber” festival to highlight the nutritional benefits of potatoes in all their varieties, be they red, white or blue. Since then Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll had staged a one-man protest against such obvious political bias in the tuber cultivation business and had gone on a well-advertised nutrition strike. This involved him in a lunchtime diet of boiled green potatoes or, if he was feeling particularly adventurous, fried green potato skins. “It’s what’s on the outside that matters” was the campaign slogan indicating the relevant colour of the skin of the potato in question but wholly ignoring the problems caused for the councillor’s insides. In addition to this dietary oddity, Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll’s entire personality appeared to be projected through his short, narrow moustache. He was short in understanding and temper and narrow in his mindset. He groomed himself daily to retain the status quo in all respects.

  Today his pupils were especially worried. His facial expression bore the vaguest resemblance of a thin smile. Clearly, this unaccustomed feature indicated that something was up. The slightest hint of pleasure – no, that was putting it too high; the word was probably “satisfaction” – had come about from a double success.

  The first victory was evidenced by what Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll was carrying under his left arm. It was a miniature silver rubbish bin. To be more precise it was an empty miniature silver rubbish bin. The colour of the object and its inscription betrayed the fact that the thing was actually a trophy won by Ballycarson for the “Best in Class – Tidy Town Award”. The presentation of the award had occurred the night before at a glittering ceremony in a top Belfast city centre hotel. Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll had been sent, with three assistants and several official guests, to uplift the spoils of success as it was his very idea that had led to the outstanding municipal triumph. The award had been for impressive improvement in the provision of tidy picnic sites. This had been a big turnaround from the litter-strewn picnic sites that had existed under the prior Unionist administration. Political change, it seems, does lead to the greater good. Immediately after the Nationalist victory in the local government elections the newly elected Council had sought to bring to the attention of tourists who might stray into their area the revered names of deceased Republican hunger strikers. The Council had been able to do this, on Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll’s strong recommendation, by naming each of the existing municipal picnic sites after one of the calorie-controlled candidates. In further honour of the super-starved soldiers of destiny, the Council had passed a bye-law that the behaviour of those enjoying the facilities now or in the future should be modelled on that of the deceased diehards. So there was a general ban on eating or drinking within the picnic sites. The prohibition was advertised in large print on the roadside signs: “Picnic Site: No Eating or Drinking Allowed”. The result was spectacular. No food. No rubbish. No litter. No overflowing bins. The overall upshot: tidy picnic sites for all to behold. A civic award was guaranteed. No wonder Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll was impressed with himself. If the troublesome tourists wanted to tuck in, they could drive on to the next county and take their rubbish home. “We want tourists to continue to tour and not to stop here.”

  The second triumph of the councillor’s day had come about because of the pupils he had sent on the school science trip. This single adventure had proved the correctness of Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll’s life-long-held political principles. The two top sixth year pupils had been sent on a hot air balloon trip. It had gone badly astray when the balloon pilot had become unconscious shortly after the balloon rose into the air. Prior to the take-off the pupils’ parents had been rather anxious when this man appeared to speak with a variant of English that was gargled through whiskey. The nervous mums and dads were only slightly reassured by Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll who had attempted to allay their fears by indicating that this was a lesser-known dialect of Irish that obviously had avoided contamination by English. “A mellifluous language such as that should be allowed to flourish,” were the history teacher’s final words of comfort as the balloon rose into the air.

  The hot air balloon had set off from the school hurling pitch half a mile to the west of Ballycarson. It was then driven south for several hours in the face of a brisk north wind. Very shortly after take-off it was clear to the pupil passengers that the balloon pilot had not just nodded off but was actually unconscious. From having watched far too many repeats of poor comedy films during their homework hour, they recalled that sleepers usually wake up when they have water poured on them, but, as he lay on the floor of the basket, this individual remained oblivious to the fact that he and the pupils were being completely soaked in a storm. Fortunately, one of the pupils had brought her mobile phone and sent pictures and an urgent distraught message back to her parents. Whilst the mobile phone battery lasted, a hastily organised air traffic control centre was assembled in the Iceberg Café. The frantic parents were able to find someone who could relay flying instructions to the pupils over the airwaves. The man in question was Frankie Alphabet, who was hastily awarded the role on the sole basis that he might have inherited some of his father’s wartime flying skills. Frankie Alphabet was assisted by Wee Joe Forsale who read out mathematical detail from a series of technical manuals and an ancient and outdated volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. The ancient and illicit repositories of information had proved their worth at last in this marvellous example of cross-community crisis co-operation. Incomers to Ireland, or at least the immediate descendants of incomers, had proved their worth yet again. Between the two of them, Franklin and Wee Joe were able to talk the pupils down over the phone by
passing on simple ditching instructions. After the balloon had drifted across several county borders it finally landed in a boggy field in County Leitrim in the Irish Republic.

  The pupils, who had been sent up in the air without additional warm clothing, were freezing and soaked but safe. The Provincial Observer ran a headline that particularly enraged Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll:

  “Pupils Blue with Cold”

  “This is a disgraceful misrepresentation of the political affiliations of the academy pupils. My scholars are all dyed in the wool Nationalists. Each is green to his spleen,” was the quoted response of Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll as he spilled his accustomed bile into the reporter’s sound recorder.

  But there was a very silver lining to this particular storm cloud. After he had fumed at the local press, it became clear that Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll was ecstatic or, at least as mildly self-satisfied as a man in his condition could be. The series of fuzzy and rain-obscured photographs taken by the frightened phone-bearing pupil as she passed over the county border between counties Tyrone and Cavan showed no red line on the ground where the Unionists alleged there was an international border. There could hardly be clearer demonstration that the Irish authorities had always been correct not to show such a false and fictitious dividing line on their officially produced maps. There could scarcely be a greater encouragement for Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll to continue to pull down any purported indication of a pretended international border. The councillor made a note to recommend these pupils for a school award for political science and geographic studies. Their parents would be pleased. He himself might even get an award for services to advanced methods of education. To be certain, however, he had best recommend himself.