Have you ever tried to stop a leak by cracking a whip? Not even in rural Ireland, where one can still find the traditional skills of plumbing and good horsemanship, can such a phenomenon be achieved. Was Councillor Finvola O’Duffy cracking up rather than cracking down? Nothing so dramatic than that. The reaction was really nothing new. The long-term outcome of the increased level of security was preordained, but the O’Duffy security aides knew they had to go through the motions if they were to keep their jobs and their perks. Well, upon reflection, there were not that many perks really, but the jobs were worth retaining given that there was nothing else readily available in the immediate locality. The wheels of the O’Duffy security machine were set in motion. The seasoned carpet factory employees looked on with a degree of resignation. They knew from experience that the big flap would last only a few days, maybe even a few hours, and then all would be back to normal.
It did not take long for the new security arrangements to have noticeable public effects. That same morning at the Ballycarson salami factory Big David observed that many of his German workers had arrived very late for the early shift. When Germans don’t arrive on time, even in Ireland, clearly something is seriously wrong. Why had he not got word of this possibility in advance? Immediate investigation was required and a note was dispatched to the all-seeing overseers at the Spion Kop bus stop.
From their position of prominence at the Spion Kop bus stop the community supervisors could see extra activity at Checkpoint Charlie. But for several hours they had not been alive to what was really going on. Councillor Finvola O’Duffy had managed to divert their attention by a double, tactical master-stroke. It was a case of diversion accompanied by disguise.
The diversion came in the form of very obvious on-goings in the tiny and overcrowded chapel graveyard. The activity comprised an out-of-doors practice performance of a new musical written, so everyone assumed, in honour of the soon-to-arrive American president. As they gazed at the sentimental story being played out by a troupe of actors, the art critics in the Spion Kop bus stop were drawn in to the tear-jerking theatre amid the tombstones. A vaguely familiar tune could be heard above the normal noise of the town as it drifted up and over to the Spion Kop bus stop. Recorded music was being relayed to all and sundry by two enormous stacks of black speakers, each the size of a tombstone, and it was obvious the ill-prepared actors were largely just mouthing their parts. The performance was so bad it was impossible to ignore. This was just what the impresario Councillor Finvola O’Duffy had intended all along. The play’s storyline itself was not up to much and followed the traditional mould. There was a series of sentimental, tear-jerking songs performed by a singing nun with a very poor south German or Bavarian accent. Then a family of Austrian extraction, called “Von Klapp Trapp”, were forced to flee a housing estate in Ballycarson after suffering discrimination at the hands of a repressive right-wing Unionist administration. The action became a little confusing after that, but it appeared the entire family was trying to scale a part of the boundary wall that had been disguised as a series of Irish hills.
“This looks like the same old political soft soap,” quipped one of the critics in the Spion Kop bus stop.
“You’d think they would come up with something new. They used that same nun last week when they put on the first of the series of Father O’Hagan Re-Investigates Cold Cases,” responded the other.
“Yes, this is the same graveyard where the nun found the corpse last week,” said the third critic. “This is just a repeat. It’s no better than the television.” That was the damning conclusion of the written report penned by the leading critic and sent for filing at the L.H.O. hall via a sealed kettle and a doggy delivery.
Whilst the performing arts obviously failed to flourish in the graveyard, the tactic of disguise was applied to the activity slowly building up at Checkpoint Charlie. In contrast to the usual quota, there appeared to be a larger number of official attendants at the crossing point all acting as border guards. In addition, the seasoned Spion Kop bus stop observers eventually could not fail to see that the augmented number of crossing point attendants were all sporting a new uniform. Some semi-official ceremony was going on. It was clear that Councillor Finvola O’Duffy’s cousin, councillor and vice-chairperson, Councillor Seoras O’Duffy, was pursuing his familiar theme yet again. There he was at the checkpoint announcing from a megaphone that the old crossing point uniforms had been discarded on the basis that they were a remnant of the Royal Ulster Constabulary. Even though the old uniforms had long since been shorn of any royal insignia, the very cloth itself had now to be discarded as the threads themselves were steeped in a history of partiality. Instead of these ruined rags of ill-repute, the Nationalist-led Council had now acquired, at a modest discount, the uniforms, helmets, belts and boots of the former East German border guards. The professionalism of that sadly disbanded but efficient force would rub off on the new Irish wearers. The newly attired crossing point attendants lined up for admiration by the tiny assembled crowd of bemused onlookers. A number of Council photographers had arrived and, at the invitation of Councillor Seoras O’Duffy, took plenty of official snaps, presumably to record the event for posterity and to fill the walls of another corridor in the newly expanded Council offices. To the experienced onlookers in the Spion Kop bus stop it appeared a tedious repetition of innumerable similar ceremonies that had taken place since the fall of the Unionist-led administration in Ballycarson. The traffic wardens had received similar uniforms and an identical oration just last week. The month before it had been the attendants at the public toilets. In contrast to the tiresome tirade of Councillor Seoras O’Duffy, the graveyard theatrics retained a certain charm, if only marginally. It was little wonder that the attention of the spies at the Spion Kop bus stop drifted back to the tombstone thespians. It was all as Councillor Finvola O’Duffy had planned.
The information-collecting crones at the Spion Kop bus stop failed to see the queues of traffic that had built up at Checkpoint Charlie as the photographers continued to ensure the place in history of the newly attired border guards. The Spion Kop spies did not notice the vehicles and pedestrians backed up on the west side of the wall as the crossing gate remained shut and the lights controlling the flow of traffic remained on red. Until it was too late, they failed to observe how the photographers moved seamlessly into unison with the border guards and proceeded to establish a regime of additional body searches, photographing and form-filling as the gate was finally opened. The backlog of German workers wishing to cross to the east built up steadily. Those who possessed special skills for working in the salami factory were informed that they did not possess the newly printed green card required to permit their crossing. They would have to come back tomorrow with copies of all of their German grandparents’ birth certificates. It was no excuse that these had been lost in 1943 during the destruction of Hamburg. Some official from the Russian embassy in Dublin would have to confirm officially that Königsberg in East Prussia was now Kaliningrad in Russia. In addition, each and every one of the Germans wishing to cross at the checkpoint would need to provide written assurances, with suitable translations, that none of their family were intending to overthrow the newly elected Nationalist Ballycarson Council and that none of them had worked at the German embassy in Dublin during the 1939–45 Emergency. No, it did not help that their great-uncle had worked there as the ambassador and knew Mr. de Valera personally.
For all that it was traditional, even reactionary in outlook, the O’Duffy security machine had been innovative as regards these border checks. For a single, well-chosen morning, the new border guards had caught Big David off-guard. With a log-jam of his German workers at the Peace Wall, the salami factory was immediately under-staffed. By lunchtime, the amateur agricultural inspectors in the Spion Kop bus stop could see that lorry-loads of live pigs were being turned away from the abattoir and forced to park up at the L.H.O. hall. Both the pigs and the factory managers were beginning to squeal. A d
ark, strong-smelling liquid was beginning to seep down the side of the pig lorries and on to the tar. It was potentially the basking shark debacle in re-run, but this time it was at Big David’s front door. And Big David was nowhere to be seen. The old crones in the Spion Kop bus stop had not received any instructions for hours. However, they took modest reassurance from the fact they were not being picked out for special treatment.
Despite the increasing urgency of their telephone calls to the L.H.O. hall, the alarmed management at the salami factory could find out nothing. There was no answer except for the usual tape-recorded message:
“The office is closed. Staff are being given their marching orders during the marching season.”
Worried that this meant imminent redundancy on a massive scale, the salami factory bosses resorted to sending Frankie Alphabet on his disability scooter up to the L.H.O. hall. Surely a man of such stature and mobility could resolve the informational impasse and find out something. But all he discovered was that the front door security guards, Bob the Blob and Bert the Squirt, were guarding a hall that was locked up. That was unusual. The place was normally open twenty-four hours a day. In addition, the two guards looked slightly different. Their orange shirts, ties and sundry equipment had been augmented by orange handkerchiefs placed, cowboy-style, across their faces in an attempt by the wearers to cut down the smell emanating from the liquid-leaking lorries. This semi-successful stench-stifling sartorial signal was the only initiative they had shown for years. But despite the assault on their sense of smell, these guardians of democracy had shown true grit and had stuck to their posts to complete what they had been told was an important task. To any enquirers they were to hand out a single side of photocopied words of propaganda dictated by Big David earlier in the day and printed in small type on orange notepaper. The pompous prose of political prediction pontificated prodigiously. Digestion of too much of this sort of stuff would make anyone feel they had eaten too much chocolate, probably of the chocolate orange variety, but a small snippet is bearable and is sufficient to indicate the flavour, historical mis-reference and general lack of logic:
“This Nationalist disruption is no more than an irritant at the fringe of Loyalist Ballycarson. It may be a minor and temporary tactical gain for Councillor Finvola O’Duffy, but it will soon end up in a major strategic loss for pan-Nationalism. It will just be like the Suez crisis. In due course of the day, the Councillor Finvola O’Duffy will receive a phone call from the American embassy. She will be apprised of the Americans’ displeasure at this potential disruption to the president’s visit. She will be informed that the great Republican transatlantic alliance will be broken off if she does not cease this interference with a strategic transport route. Then Councillor Finvola O’Duffy will be forced to climb down publicly. Loyalists will emerge triumphant from these present difficulties.”
And on it went for several more repetitive and largely uninspiring paragraphs. This is not the material to encourage troops to storm a beach on D-Day, thought Frankie Alphabet. He was no fool. Even though at that very moment he was fortunately up-wind of the numerous pig lorries parked at the side of the road, he could still smell that something was not quite right. He knew only too well that this sort of verbal smoke screen was published simply to make sure the newspapers had something to print. Better still, if they printed it all, there would be no room to publish anything else. Further to that, the readers would struggle with the first paragraph and then give up. This form of media manipulation turned the logic of sound-bite politics on its head. What you had here was an entire meal of re-heated indigestible verbiage with seconds to follow. Franklin Delano Roosevelt Messerschmitt strongly suspected that Big David was elsewhere engaged on sensitive business that he did not want made public. He was right.
Big David had known all along that he would receive no assistance in the form of American intervention. Indeed, his sources had privately confirmed exactly the opposite of what he had publicly predicted in print. A message from the Spion Kop bus stop spoke of two well-dressed strangers at Checkpoint Charlie not long after the queues had formed. The two individuals were clearly American as they walked right up to the front of the queue and immediately engaged in some sort of exchange of views with the border guards. Other secret sources confirmed that these officials were part of the presidential advance party. But, much to Big David’s disappointment, the transatlantic dialogue at Checkpoint Charlie had been friendly. The Americans had indicated satisfaction that additional security was being put in place for the imminent presidential visit. “Keep up the good work,” were their last words as they were driven away. Clearly, there would be no breach in the transatlantic Republican alliance contrary to the predictions in Big David’s published statement.
Big David realised he had to trade something to unblock the flow of his supply of workers. He had to deliver to Councillor Finvola O’Duffy something she badly needed. Fortunately, he had the very thing. But, in Unionist and Loyalist eyes, it was an item so potentially disgraceful that he could not ever be seen to have possession of such an article. To avoid being cast out of Loyalist society forever, Big David had to complete the trade in the utmost secrecy and preferably through a third party. Better still, if the deal was completed by a third party who was already dead. And, when the trade was done, and when the tension at Checkpoint Charlie had then subsided, Big David could then claim his published statement about Suez revisited was right all along. Those words might have been turgid, but they were going to be proved true all along. They would be regarded as a prophesy. The great political profiteer, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy, would never wish to reveal the true facts either and she would allow him that small semblance of a public victory. However, for the future to play out appropriately, the whole thing had to be properly stage-managed.
So, alone in his office, Big David had spent part of the morning on the phone to Councillor Finvola O’Duffy. There was not the slightest hint of animosity or anger. There were no outbursts of rage. It was purely business. Both greeted each other cheerfully as old friends and then proceeded to choreograph the entire delicate event.
CHAPTER 19
A LAND WITH NO VISION
Eager to impress the security experts in the presidential advance team, the Nationalist-run Ballycarson Council for some time had been engaged in completing a variety of important precautions. In the few weeks prior to the anticipated visit the pace of precautionary activity had been frenetic. Chief amongst the new works was the extension of the Peace Wall into the new Ballycarson municipal cemetery. But it wasn’t all highfaluting considerations of foreign policy and grand strategy that had caused movement on this front. With her ear pinned firmly to the ground, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy had long realised that her moderate political thinking and traditionally rigid views could always be outflanked by sentiments even more extreme than those holding the valleys and swamps of the moral low ground of Ulster politics. Months before the president’s visit had even been suggested, she had heard the beginnings of the whispers to the effect that she had lost territory here. When it came to political bigotry, the excitement always appeared in the fast lane. And where was the fast lane in Ballycarson? It was in the public graveyard that she was most vulnerable to such a flanking move. What was better to protect your flank than the building of a graveyard wall?
So, as convenor of the Construction, Deconstruction and Reconstruction Committee of Ballycarson Council she ordered the extension of the wall into the graveyard. The route would split the fifteen-acre site roughly into two halves: east and west. But even those most unfamiliar with construction operations would have realised that this new segment of the security structure bore little resemblance to the part of the wall already built. Consistency lay in the fact that it was, from a vertical point of view, fifteen foot in extent just like the remainder of the wall elsewhere in town. But, in the graveyard, all of the new structure was dug into and sited below the ground. To be absolutely accurate, it was fifteen foot deep
and not fifteen foot high. On the surface of the ground the visitors to the graveyard could walk on the six-foot-wide top of the Peace Wall extension as if it were a ridge of sub-sea mountains that just breached the surface of the water. It would be, thought Councillor Finvola O’Duffy, a suitable testament to her stature and political achievements: “a Political Giant’s Causeway.”
A striking consonance of political pressures and commercial concerns had demanded such architectural novelty. On the stage of world politics, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy could assure the Americans that Ballycarson Council was protecting the commander in chief from underground attack. Not even the CIA had thought of that. There was a local spin off too. As convenor of the Income Generation and Franchise Committee, Councillor Finvola O’Duffy had realised the potential flow of revenue from the graveyard would be accomplished only if she could get the public to sign up to burial in that area. God’s acre could then become the golden acre or the gold mine. This was all the more important now that the O’Duffy carpet and linoleum factory had secured the exclusive funeral and interment franchise for the west side of the graveyard. Timeous and convenient political justification for the underground wall-building policy came from Bishop Eugene Miguel O’Hagan in his weekly broadcast to the faithful. He confirmed the western side of the graveyard would be suitable for Nationalist burials provided (and it was a major proviso that bore frequent repetition) it was permanently sealed off from the eastern part where the unfaithful others could be interred. In a densely reasoned explanation of traditional ecumenical policy he confirmed that the lesson for the day was “Balanced Burial to Comfort One’s Loss”: there would be a balance brought to the graveyard by permanent division. There could be no integrated interment. The separation wall had to be underground to prevent potential post-mortem complications. Heathens and heretics had to be sealed out and limited to the east otherwise there was a risk of cross-contamination. Perhaps Bishop Eugene Miguel O’Hagan wished to hide a secret personal departure from the official religious dogma of his Church and perhaps he did believe in transmigration of the soul after all. Maybe he thought the dead were itinerants that would wander in the afterlife and visit the other side. But here was the rub. Councillor Finvola O’Duffy knew the whole official religious justification was watered-down nonsense. Given the height of the water table, everyone was going to be buried above ground level anyway, so the mortal remains would forever lie above the level of the wall. Nevertheless, whatever unease she might feel at the unhindered sideways movement of those laid to rest, she consoled herself with the thought that the flow of income would begin. “Balanced Burial to Comfort One’s Loss”! What baloney! She could find greater comfort from healthy profits and balanced accounts. There was no loss in that.
Ballycarson Blues Page 19
