Irish Blood, English Heart, Ulster Fry

by Annie Caulfield

  Less contented, possibly suffering a little spasm of greeneyed monsters, Mikey complained to me when the programme finished.

  ‘It’s very unsophisticated, isn’t it?’

  ‘A great idea, though.’

  ‘A great idea? I thought you worked in television? I’d say its days are numbered.’

  ‘It’ll run for ever,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, maybe here,’ Mikey said disdainfully. ‘But they won’t sell it round the world.’

  ‘They’ll sell the format,’ I said. ‘A programme like that works anywhere.’

  ‘Anywhere? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Annie’s travelled all round the world,’ Veronica told him, with a sly wink at me. ‘Annie, don’t they have a version of Little School Around the Corner everywhere?’

  ‘Everywhere.’

  ‘Everywhere?’ Mikey still wasn’t having it. ‘I don’t believe you. Have you seen it for yourself?’

  ‘She’s been everywhere,’ Veronica said. ‘Of course she’s seen it.’

  ‘Afghanistan? Have you seen it in Afghanistan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, they’ve got it. Little School Around the Corner in Kabul.’ A pause, then laughter erupted. Mikey stared at me reproachfully.

  ‘Oh, you. Little School Around the Corner in Kabul You’re as silly as… How could anyone ever take you seriously?’

  Being taken seriously, even by myself, wasn’t something I was used to. Intermittently in Northern Ireland it bothered me. I’d hear about tragedies and think, I’m too ill informed and far too flippant to take all this on. Bookshops in Northern Ireland had banks of military analysis, political memoirs, IRA men’s memoirs, UDA men’s memoirs, victims’ memoirs, historical analysis, religious analysis, sociological, psychological… So many serious people had written about Northern Ireland, I worried my foughtering about the country would be worse than some kind of jeans-in-church type of sacrilege; it would simply be consistent insensitivity. But life in the country was not homogeneous – there was no more room on the bookshelves for seriousness. There was no law that said only Northern Ireland’s sadness and darkness could be recorded eternally. There were other things. And enough light to make the dark places seem even sadder.

  ‘Weren’t you here before?’ the boatman asked as he helped me down the steps.

  ‘I did the other tour last week.’

  ‘The Titanic tour? And you’re back again? Well that’s good. We must have acquitted ourselves well.’

  The little boat that toured the harbour had alternate days when it went in the opposite direction, up the Lagan to Stranmillis.

  As the boatman fiddled with ropes and canvas flaps, a different guide came on board.

  The other fellah loves boats and ships, this is your man for the river history,’ the boatman explained as he made the introductions. ‘Each to his own.’

  Three families came on board next, all from Northern Ireland with assorted sizes of children. A thin, quiet man I’d assumed was another customer was introduced to us: ‘This is our friend who’s a quick sketch artist and caricaturist. He works so quickly and quietly, you won’t know he’s drawing you. But if you like what he’s done, he only charges three pounds for the sketches and you can sort yourselves out with him at the end.’

  I gave the thin, nervous man a warning look. If he thought I’d like to see what a caricaturist did to my aquiline nose, he had better think again… He wasn’t new to the job – he knew his best bet was drawing the children and he left adults who might be touchy well alone.

  The boat set off, this time away from the harbour. The guide told us the colossal value of the flats opposite the Waterfront Hall.

  ‘Anyone who bought into property along the Lagan early on, they’re laughing now. The penthouses over there are worth 450,000 pounds each.’

  The Lagan banks had several apartment complexes, with river-view balconies and roof gardens – the guide knew the current value of all of them.

  ‘The river was a different place before the weir. The banks were all stinking mud at low tide. And the shore was lined with warehouses and factories, but now people have more access to the river, it’s become part of city life.’

  He pointed out a big dye works still in operation.

  ‘With all the development going on, the land that factory’s on is worth a fortune. They could make a profit if they relocated, but I expect they’re holding out for an even bigger price rise.’

  As well as prices, he knew every inch of the river. As he pointed out new bars and trendy warehouse conversions he told us what had been there before.

  ‘That was flour, that was meat-packing… Over there used to be an abattoir. Life’s got easier for the members of Queen’s University rowing club since it closed down. They used to have to row through slicks of blood and bits of… I apologize, children present.’

  He handed round photographs, showing an old ferry boat that had run across the river, pointing out where the landing stage had been.

  ‘They’re thinking of bringing it back, with some kind of animal-shaped boat as a bit of fun for the kids in summer.’

  Beside another luxury development of flats was what looked like a giant rubbish tip. The flats behind it were painted with UFF at every gable end.

  ‘It’s only April, but they’ve started to build the bonfire for the nth of July. The locals have to live with it looking like a tip head, but it’s going to be a massive bonfire. If you like that kind of thing.’

  On the opposite bank, near the Ormeau Road, was a mural of a No Entry sign, with a silhouetted figure of an Orangeman inside the circle. The guide pointed away from it: ‘Look a few houses along, there’s a more unusual type of mural, some student group have been putting these up.’

  It was a white square with lower case black writing, all run together: ‘howcanquantumgravityhelpexplaintheorigin-oftheuniverse?’

  Once we’d all deciphered it, the guide grinned. ‘It could still be religious, but it makes a change.’

  We were handed more old photographs of former factories where there were little parks now. A whole swathe of the bank had been designated a wildlife conservation area.

  ‘There’s water birds coming back, fish in the river. Industry was good for the coffers but it created stink and filth.’

  As we came to the attractive wooden boat sheds of Queen’s rowing club, he said Errol Flynn had done some rowing there. ‘His father taught at Queen’s, so people had to lock up their daughters whenever Errol came to visit.’

  Beside some more increasingly valuable flats was a small jetty.

  ‘Now there’s a sad story about that jetty. We had the idea it would be a great idea to run a commuters’ river bus service from here down to the centre of town. We began with five loyal customers, and ended with the same five loyal customers. Those five loved it; we’d give them coffee and newspapers in the morning and a glass of wine in the evening. They swore by the service and we all became the best of friends. But after a few months, we had to face the sad fact that no more than five were ever coming. There was weeping and hugging and wine flowed at the party afterwards but we had to face reality.’

  They’d been downhearted for a while, then couldn’t believe their luck when someone made a film about the Titanic. They called up their mate, who knew the shipyards like his own soul, and they were off again, part of the flotilla of determined individuals who made Northern Ireland unexpected, hopeful and workable.

  The boat meandered on, up to the pretty enclave of buildings around Stranmillis weir.

  ‘The plan is to shift that weir and widen the channel, so boats can go all the way up to Lough Neagh. There’ll be holiday homes, pleasure-boat cruises galore, swimming areas, one big long waterfront resort stretching for miles from central Belfast. Queen’s University and Trinity are going to have an annual boat race to rival Oxford and Cambridge. This river will be alive, lit along the banks, advertised by the tourist board… As yo
u can imagine, we’re very cheerful about that. We’ve struggled away with our idea that a boat had to be an idea, and now we’re thinking we’ll soon get a second boat, maybe a third.’

  He beamed and jumped down from an upturned crate he’d been using as a stage to deliver his history lesson.

  ‘We’ll turn back now. I’ll keep quiet, put on some music and let you enjoy the river in peace.’

  He put on a gentle piece of Mozart. The sun sparkled on the water, blossom-laden trees trailed the banks and the music wafted away into near blue skies. Rowers outside Queens were taking to the water and the boatmen murmured to each other contentedly, two boats soon, maybe three… Even the smallest of the children on board settled to a mood of dreamy detachment as we chugged home. Through the Mozart another tune came into my head: ‘Its stopped hailing, guys are swimming, guys are sailing…’ And little boats, if not ships, were coming in.

  Author’s Note

  Since this book was written, footballer George Best died in a London hospital, aged fifty-nine. There was constant international press coverage of his last days. Police estimated that a hundred thousand people, Protestant and Catholic, lined the streets of Belfast for his funeral.