Such uplifting thoughts encouraged Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll to believe that it had indeed been the culmination of a great, indeed historic, few days for education and civic society in the Northern Counties. He was more than content with his week’s work. As well as securing his future in the Irish educational hall of fame, he had just exposed an attempt to set up a false religion in Ballycarson. It wasn’t just the usual persistent Protestant heresy. His pupils had been well warned against such contagion. Instead it was far more dangerous. It was the seductive new-age message that had already led astray many Irishmen and women even in the Gaelic heart-lands of County Cork, County Westmeath and New York. Just as he had long predicted, the pestilence had arrived in Ballycarson.
A stall advertising “Psychic Readings” and “Clairvoyance” had been set up in the Sunday afternoon market at the bottom of the street that used to be known as Grafton Street in west Ballycarson. The middle-aged woman providing the services was of native Irish extraction and appeared friendly. Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll even knew two of her grandparents. He had taught her uncle. Upon the councillor’s approach, the woman had enquired “How are you doing?” She even knew how to say the words in Irish. This transparent attempt at false affability did not fool the councillor and led to the woman’s immediate public exposure as a fraud. “You would not need to ask that question if you really were a psychic,” was the devastating response of the dedicated protector of local morals. The stall was shut down within an hour. The crisis had passed. I bet she did not foresee that, thought the councillor smugly as he headed off to detect and pursue other renegades.
Encouraged by his success, the councillor was on the trail of a prostitution racket run from the crane hire business at the top of Irish Street. The poster on the badly painted office door advertised “Wench for Hire”. Disgusting, wasn’t it. “No sex please, we’re Irish,” was the immediate and forceful demand of Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll as he hammered his fist on the front desk in the office of the crane hire business. The unfortunate receptionist was confused and made a quick phone call to her boss who was out on a building site supervising the lifting of iron girders. Five minutes later Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll discovered the illusory call girl ring was the product of a spelling mistake in the homemade poster painted by the receptionist. “Wench” should have been “Winch”. Nevertheless, one cannot be too careful and the exercise in moral cleansing had been useful after all. Everyone, even receptionists in a crane hire business, needed to know what not to do even if they had no idea what they were presently not doing. And what was the outlook of the unfortunate receptionist who had suffered the moralistic harangue? “That comedian did not even recognise me as one of his former pupils!” was her complaint. “If he had spent less time on these idiotic political crusades and more time at the school, I might have learned to spell.”
It would, however, be a gross underestimate of the consistent care and sustained solicitude of Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll to suggest for one moment that he had been neglecting academic matters. He was fully aware of the reading abilities of his students because he had been training them for months on how to read classic works of literature such as the electoral register and ballot papers. “These documents are the key to success in Ballycarson,” he had repeated as he wrote the words up on the blackboard.
“Make sure your name is on this list for several different addresses. Practise making the letter ‘X’. You will also need to know 1, 2, 3 in case they bring in proportional representation.”
Again, it would be wrong to suggest that the level of education was low in Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll’s class. Rather it was the case that the councillor had unilaterally re-focussed the application of traditional educational skills so that his pupils could make the best of the world for their local political leaders. The sixth form school project for the last few months had been tailored and crafted to assist Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll in a novel and far-reaching blend of politics, history, art, religion and theology. True to the traditional toilet humour of the sixth form, the bored students had condensed these subject names to their initial letters. To describe the endless reading of lists that consumed their day, they had coined the term “the PHART Project”.
Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll’s PHART Project was aimed at adapting the existing voting system in local government elections. The whole idea was to render it suitable to the many voters who were struggling to read and who never would be able to read because the completion of important educational projects meant that there was too little time in the school day to open a book. The notion was that the ballot papers would carry a well-recognisable symbol to identify politicians of the two traditions. Words would not be needed. Reading would become redundant for the sophisticated electorate in the local government wards of Ballycarson. Such an imaginative and forward-looking innovation in political education for voters of the next generation had not gone un-noticed in Brussels. Extensive European funding was made available to the councillor on condition that the ballot paper symbols chosen did not have Irish or Ulster origins. One might suppose the idea was that such foreign symbols would not thereby be seen to cause local offence or occasion any form of domestic bias. Driven by his legalistic outlook on life, Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll was meticulous in his compliance with the condition. True to requirements, the symbols chosen were both animals not found anywhere in Ireland (excepting always the Belfast and Dublin zoos). For the Nationalists and Republicans the animal selected was the mole. This velvet gentleman had been responsible for the death of King Billy in 1702 when his horse stumbled on a mole hill. For the Unionists and Loyalists, Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll chose the creature that St. Patrick had driven out of Ireland: the snake.
Now Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll was off to complain to Councillor Finvola O’Duffy about bias in broadcasting on the fourth of the local community channels. The problem was quite simple. There was not enough bias. The channel in question, the weather and history channel, had been set up to be completely uncontroversial and for that purpose had received even more European investment than usual. Hour after hour of broadcasting was filled with historic weather forecasts. Repeats of rain clouds, sunny intervals, snow storms, scattered showers, high pressure areas, cold fronts and depressions filled the airwaves and provided material for stimulating conversation amongst the Ballycarson apolitical elite. But this was not good enough for Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll. He wanted the broadcasts edited so that every time the twelfth of July was featured it would show rain falling on the parade. Sunshine had to be edited out when that date was featured. It may well have been the case that the sun shone on the righteous and the unrighteous, but it was important not to encourage the latter by giving the impression that they got equal treatment.
But when he arrived at her office Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll did not receive his usual friendly welcome from Councillor Finvola O’Duffy. She was preoccupied by troubles of her own and received him with little more than a perfunctory exchange of pleasantries. Hardly had he begun to outline the latest list of dangers threatening good morals and civilisation itself in Ballycarson when she dismissed him with the line “Get out and go back to Ballygobackwards!” Accustomed as he was to reverential silence from his pupils, who drank deep on his words of wisdom, Councillor Eugene O’Driscoll was so surprised that words failed him as he sought without success for a devastating response. Dumbfounded, he turned on his heels and headed off back to the academy. What on earth had caused such unwarranted rudeness? Clearly, it was more than his philosophy could comprehend. It must have been something to do with the real world.
There was trouble at the O’Duffy carpet and linoleum factory. The members of the workforce were resisting the attempt to extend their shifts without extra pay. For some reason the usual incentives and managerial exhortations had not yet succeeded. Only yesterday, by means of carefully worded tannoy announcement, it had clearly been explained to the workers that the new twelve
-hour shifts would be imposed in eternal memory of the twelve dead hunger strikers. With such a significant number forming the proposed new structure of their working day, the workforce should feel more than honoured to be selected to renew their patriotic zeal in a commercial context. However, far from fostering fanatical fervour in fabrication, the announcement had precipitated unambiguous demonstrations of discontent. The workers had even demanded a lunch break in defiance of the exhortation to honour the hungry heroes by emulation of their efforts. If that was not bad enough, someone had gone so far as to sabotage the entire supplies of green dye necessary for the presidential carpet of honour. No substitute was available. This was serious given the imminence of the American presidential visit. The carpet, carefully woven from the hairs of German shepherd and Alsatian dogs, presently lay in an un-dyed and natural state. It could not have been worse. The colour of the dog hair was black and tan. For Councillor Finvola O’Duffy the political implications were obvious and stark. Domestic and international humiliation stared her in the face.
To keep the workforce producing carpets for extended hours, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy had to play her trump card. She would impose a new time for the work shifts to finish in the evening: 1916 hours. No self-respecting Irish Nationalist or Republican could refuse to comply given the obvious allusion to the revered, if unsuccessful, revolt against the British. Additional time would have to be worked to honour the martyrs of that sacred Easter rising. Yes, it was a very clever strategy, especially since she had taken steps to ensure all her employees held suitable political sentiments or, at the very least, lived under her protection in west Ballycarson. It was certain to work. Her appointed shop stewards would ensure sufficient revolutionary fervour. Noone would be silly enough to prove un-enthusiastic in public. As an employer, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy would immediately gain an extra free sixteen minutes’ work per day from every worker. A similar device could be used again. It was fortunate there were so many important Irish dates in the twentieth century. Over time, she could extend the work shift incrementally to 1922 (the founding of the Free State), onward to 1948 (the leaving of the Commonwealth) and even all the way to 1957 (the Fethard-on-Sea boycott). One could only hope there would be further auspicious dates in the early twenty-first century so she could ratchet up the working time commensurately. And, into the bargain, it was an approach her rival Big David could not use to his advantage at the Ballycarson salami factory in the east of the town. The key date in the Loyalist calendar could not be similarly employed. There was no such time on the clock as 1690.
With the immediate crisis passed, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy could now turn her attention to the organisation of the public event to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of her engagement. Something traditional would be best – a traditional procession along a traditional route with traditional music and traditional dress. She plumped for an evening street march by her supporters up Irish Street, through the town and out to the graveyard. In all of this she would be accompanied by flaming torches and a strutting bodyguard. This particular tradition had been handed down to her from her childhood hero – actually her distant cousin – Eoin O’Duffy. She could remember the days when her grandfather told her fireside tales of their much admired relative and his pre-Emergency street rallies with the legendary blue-shirted warriors and the uplifting speeches accompanied by the mesmerising chants of “Hail O’Duffy! Hail O’Duffy! Hail O’Duffy!” The torch had now been handed on to her. Those fond and flame-lit days and nights would come once again to west Ballycarson. But first of all, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy had to ensure that there was indeed something to celebrate. She had to look her best as she was the focus of the celebration. When she lifted her right hand to salute the crowd she wanted them to see the light of the flames reflected from the new engagement ring.
Inspired by the hindsight of reviewing her ancestor’s political achievements, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy was never short of foresight. Indeed only last week she had been preparing for this very moment. She had ordered a new engagement ring because the original thirty-year-old ring had worn out. Diamonds were not forever; true love, it seems, does take its toll. The replacement ring was now being crafted at public expense by the released and cost-effective volunteers manning the jewellery side of her business. Tradition had to be maintained. Just as with the treasured original, she herself had chosen the replacement ring. She had chosen it alone. What had it got to do with anyone else? Just as with the acquiring of the original ring there had been no need to involve her fiancé except to invoice his sand and gravel business for the price. The second diamond was certainly the most expensive rock her fortunate fiancé had ever purchased. That said, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy consoled herself on the basis that he would be able to recover the amount spent as a tax-deductable expense provided he hid it under his quarry accounts under the term “supply of stone”. An eagle-eyed tax inspector might consider it odd that stone was being supplied to a quarry instead of by it, but that was a small risk that probably would not materialise. In any event, to have her fiancé attend the jeweller’s for the choosing of a new ring would only have taken his mind off those essential, continuous political campaigns. And, as Councillor Finvola O’Duffy recalled to her great satisfaction, she owned the jeweller’s anyway. Business and political priorities had to be maintained. It was just a paper exercise after all.
A diamond suitable for the renewal of such a dynastic engagement does not come along every day. This acquisition of renewed sparkle had required considerable preparation. Councillor Finvola O’Duffy had had to bide her time until she had assembled a suitable quantity of canine ash to make an especially large doggy diamond. The final product had come from a mixture of the ashes of Great Danes and Scottie terriers. The employees who attended to the manufacture proudly called the resultant mixture a “Grottie”.
“It is a pity these mutts don’t have gold fillings. We could have extracted that to made the ring shank also,” Finvola thought as she watched one of her employees set the new diamond in the new ring.
“But I suppose that if the dogs had metal like that in their teeth that would short circuit the Zapper,” responded the employee much to Finvola’s surprise.
It was only then Councillor Finvola O’Duffy realised she had been talking aloud. How many more of her secrets had she been revealing to the world? Perhaps, without even realising it, she herself was the long-suspected leak of inside information to Big David. “When it comes to political security you can trust noone – not even yourself,” she concluded thoughtfully. The employee nodded in agreement, flattered that Councillor Finvola O’Duffy had once more taken him into her confidence.
Councillor Finvola O’Duffy’s engagement plans had indeed leaked out some weeks before. For all of that time reliable sources had spread the story of Finvola’s plans to renew her sparkle by having former political prisoners create a new diamond. But the reaction from the Loyalists in general and Big David in particular was not what one might have expected. Unknown to Councillor Finvola O’Duffy but to almost everyone else’s knowledge and surprise, the whole crew, including Big David, were being most gallant. To celebrate the symbol of Finvola’s renewal of marital promise, Big David had secretly instructed Eva Brunette to teach the Ballycarson Young Defenders Flute Band a new tune as a musical appreciation of his long-standing political adversary and her new ring. In addition, new band uniforms of a particularly surprising design had been covertly designed by Eva Brunette in an attempt to update the image of the band. Big David had first exploded with rage when he discovered the unsanctioned proposal, but, on re-consideration of the potential to hijack preparations for Councillor Finvola O’Duffy’s intended celebration, he realised an opportunity had arisen to turn the new design to his own advantage. He readily ate his previous words of wrath to Eva Brunette and sanctioned a famous rock and roll outfit as a way forwards for traditional Loyalism.
When all was ready, in their new white sparkling Elvis Presle
y “Las Vegas” outfits, the band assembled outside the jeweller’s shop where, at that very moment, Finvola was examining the large stone fabricated by the ex-prisoners. And what was the tune they played to celebrate the ex-prisoners’ renewal of the diamond for the engagement ring? It was none other than “Jailhouse Rock”.
CHAPTER 18
WORKFORCE WORRIES
Despite being the butt of a very public Loyalist musical joke, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy had not lost any of her long-standing confidence in her own special abilities. Nor was she deflected from the course of self-appointed leadership, wisdom and truth that she knew was hers by virtue of birth-right, bank balance and natural ability. She knew that all she needed to do was to look into her heart if she wanted to know what her Nationalist constituents wanted. That was an easy thing to do as she had such a big heart.
“So much for Détente!” yelled Councillor Finvola O’Duffy as she stomped down the shop floor of the O’Duffy carpet and linoleum factory. Her closest security aides scurried behind her in an attempt to keep up with this woman of boundless energy. The Loyalist musical appreciation of her renewed engagement had rankled, at least after the joke had been explained to her by reference to a book listing Elvis Presley’s back catalogue of hits and a dictionary of English slang.
“Clearly Big David is getting information because things around here have become too lax. How did he know I would be at the jeweller’s shop at exactly that time? How did he find out about the new diamond? Did I inadvertently tell him myself?”
It was clearly a major worry. If the Americans heard about the nature of the workforce or the source of the carbon, it was just possible that the president would refuse to accept the miniature silver replica of the Irish wolfhound with its eyes set with locally produced diamonds. How was this information leaking out? Surely she herself could not be the source of the leak? But even if she was, someone else had to be passing the information on as she herself had not spoken directly to Big David since she had made the decision about making the new ring. With no answers immediately forthcoming, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy resorted to type and ordered an immediate crackdown on leaks.
Ballycarson Blues Page 18
