The Twelfth Day of July

by Joan Lingard

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  The Twelfth Day of July

  Joan Lingard was born in Edinburgh but grew up in Belfast where she lived until she was eighteen. She began writing when she was eleven, and has never wanted to be anything other than a writer. She is the author of more than twenty novels for young people and thirteen for adults. Joan Lingard has three grownup daughters and three grandchildren, and lives in Edinburgh with her Latvian/Canadian husband.

  Books by Joan Lingard

  The Kevin and Sadie books (in reading order)

  THE TWELFTH DAY OF JULY

  ACROSS THE BARRICADES

  INTO EXILE

  A PROPER PLACE

  HOSTAGES TO FORTUNE

  BETWEEN TWO WORLDS

  ME AND MY SHADOW

  NATASHA’S WILL

  TELL THE MOON TO COME OUT

  TUG OF WAR

  For younger readers

  LIZZIE’S LEAVING

  RAGS AND RICHES

  Joan Lingard

  The Twelfth Day of July

  PUFFIN

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Putnam Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd, 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books India (P) Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi – 110 017, India

  Penguin Books (NZ) Ltd, Cnr Rosedale and Airborne Roads, Albany, Auckland, New Zealand

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  www.penguin.com

  First published by Hamish Hamilton 1970

  Published in Puffin Books 1973

  Reprinted in Penguin Books, 1989

  Reissued in this edition 1995, 2003

  27

  Copyright © Joan Lingard, 1970

  All rights reserved

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN: 978-0-14-192668-1

  Contents

  1 The Seventh Day of July

  2 Down with King Billy

  3 Act of Provocation

  4 A Summons to Tyrone

  5 The Eighth Day of July

  6 The Ninth Day of July

  7 A Fight and a Fire

  8 Mrs Jackson Gets a Fright

  9 No Surrender

  10 No Sign of Sadie

  11 The Tenth Day of July

  12 Sadie Discovered

  13 A Confrontation

  14 The Eleventh Day of July

  15 On the Other Side

  16 The Fight

  17 ‘The Glorious Twelfth’

  For

  Kersten, Bridget and Jennifer

  Chapter One

  The Seventh Day of July

  It was the seventh day of July. Only five more days till the ‘Glorious Twelfth!’ Sadie and Tommy Jackson were marking them off on the calendar that hung on the back of the kitchen door.

  Their father was in a good mood. He had started his two weeks’ holiday, and he had just come in from the pub. He sat in his chair with the evening paper folded on his knee, smiling at his children. He remembered, when they were small, how he used to take one on either knee and talk to them. He leaned forward suddenly and asked them a question.

  ‘Who’s the good man?’

  ‘King Billy,’ they chorused with delight, falling in quickly with his mood.

  ‘What does King Billy ride?’

  ‘A white horse.’

  ‘Where’s the white horse kept?’

  ‘In the Orange Hall.’

  ‘Where’s the Orange Hall?’

  ‘Up Sandy Row.’

  ‘And –’ Mr Jackson lowered his voice – ‘who’s the bad man?’

  ‘The Pope!’ they shrieked, jumping up and down on the old settee.

  Mr Jackson sat back, well pleased with himself and his children. They knew all the right answers, for he had taught them well.

  ‘Come off that settee, for goodness’ sake.’ said their mother, who was less well pleased. ‘Where’ll we get the money from if you bust it? Not from your da anyway, you can be sure of that. Half of his money’s gone in the pub before he gets it home.’

  ‘Now then, Aggie, you’ve no call to say that.’ Mr Jackson continued to smile. He never lost his temper: he left that to his wife. ‘One bottle of Guinness is all I’ve had.’

  She sniffed, lifted an egg and cracked it sharply against the edge of the frying pan. The egg went into the pan with a splutter.

  ‘Gorgeous smell,’ said Sadie. ‘I’m starved.’

  She slid round the back of her mother and tried to steal a piece of bacon. Mrs Jackson smacked her over the knuckles with the fish slice. Then she dished out bacon, eggs and fried potato bread on to the four plates beside the cooker. Sadie thought she would die if she didn’t get some food into her mouth quickly. The smell filled the whole kitchen.

  Tommy looked longingly at the two eggs on his father’s plate.

  ‘What age do I’ve to be to get two eggs?’

  ‘Fifteen. When you’re working and bringing in some money.’

  ‘Another year.’ Tommy sighed. ‘It’s now I could be doing with it.’

  ‘You’re stunting his growth,’ said Sadie.

  ‘Less of your sauce, madam. Come on, then, here’s your tea.’

  Tommy and Sadie fell on the food greedily. Within minutes their plates were clean. Then they took slices of bread from the packet on the table and spread them with jam.

  ‘It’s no wonder I’m poor,’ said Mrs Jackson, ‘with you let to feed.’

  ‘Ah, give over, Aggie!’ said Mr Jackson. ‘You’re never done narking.’

  She sniffed.

  ‘You’re never done sniffing either,’ said Sadie, and ducked as her mother’s hand came up. Sadie was an expert at ducking.

  ‘You’re the cheekiest brat in the whole street…’

  Sadie fled from the kitchen, taking the last of her bread with her. She went round the corner of the house and leant against the gable wall to eat it. Theirs was the end of a row of terraced houses. Back-to-backs they were called, for they backed on to the houses in the street behind. They were built of brick that was now darkened with soot and smoke, and sat straight on to the street. No gardens. Sadie did not mind. She liked the street: it was full of noise and interest. Gardens were things she read about in books and sometimes saw from the tops of buses. No one in this part of Belfast had a garden.

  She looked up above the rooftops of the street that ran at right-angles to their own and let her eye rest on the shipyard gantries that stuck up into the sky. Her father worked in the yard and Tommy would, too, when he was fifteen. He would build ships that would sail the world over, cross the Atlantic and Pacific, call at New York, San Francisco, Rio de Janeiro… Sadie chewed more slowly. She would sail in those ships. She saw herself going up the white gangway, pausing at the top to wave to her family gathered on the quayside below; then she would duck her head and step into another world.<
br />
  ‘What are you dreaming about?’ asked Tommy, coming round the corner. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Sadie straightened herself up. She had been leaning against the flank of King Billy’s white horse. They had a fine mural of William of Orange and his famous horse on their wall. It was the pride of the street. And beneath it were printed the stirring words: NO SURRENDER. It commemorated the Battle of the Boyne which was fought in 1690. At it, the Protestant forces of William of Orange defeated the Catholics under the command of James II. Every child knew the story and especially liked the tale of the siege of Derry. Thirteen young apprentice boys closed the gates of Derry against the Catholic soldiers. James II, confident that the city must surrender, went to the walls of Derry himself to demand it, but the Protestant citizens lined the walls and shouted: ‘No Surrender!’

  ‘I can hardly wait till the “Twelfth”,’ said Tommy. It was the Protestants’ day of celebration and remembrance. Tommy was to walk in the Orange parade; he played the flute in the Lodge pipe band. It was the first time he would walk and his chest swelled at the thought of it. He played an imaginary tune now, ‘Dolly’s Brae’, one of the tunes that would sound out on the day, played by band after band after band as they covered the miles of city streets to the ‘field’ at Finaghy, just outside the town. There, the thousands would gather, eat, drink and be merry, and listen to the speeches reaffirming the Protestant faith.

  ‘’Twas on the twelfth day of July, in the year of’ 49,

  Ten hundreds of our Orangemen together did combine,

  In the memory of King William, on that bright and glorious day,

  Towalk all round Lord Roden’s park, and right over Dolly’s Brae.’

  As Tommy sang he did a little jig on the pavement.

  ‘It’ll be great crack,’ said Sadie. ‘Only five days to go!’

  She was to be a drum majorette and wear a costume of purple velvet. The skirt was short and flared; the jacket fitted her snugly. Mrs McElhinney in the next street had made the outfit for her. Sadie had stood for hours whilst Mrs McElhinney kneeled in front of her with pins in her mouth and an inch tape round her neck. Sadie hated standing still. But if the cause was big enough! When she got a creak in her side she had thought of the apprentice boys of Derry.

  She swaggered up and down the pavement, imagining that she wore the short, purple skirt. On her feet she would have white boots, and her long fair hair would be tied with a purple ribbon.

  ‘You don’t half fancy yourself,’ said Tommy. ‘You’d think you were going to be the main attraction in the parade.’

  Sadie stuck her tongue out at him. ‘Bet you play out of tune!’

  ‘Hey, here’s Steve and Linda.’

  Steve and Linda lived further up the street.

  ‘We’re going to Mrs McConkey’s for decorations,’ said Linda. ‘Are you coming with us?’

  Sadie and Tommy fell in beside them. Mrs McConkey’s shop was in the street that backed on to theirs. It was busy. Small children were buying penny fizzers and tuppenny lollipops, older ones bottles of coca-cola and packets of potato crisps. Two fat women leant against the counter gossiping. A few men came in and out for cigarettes, by-passing the queue and handing their money over the children’s heads to Mrs McConkey.

  The Jacksons and their friends pushed their way through to the counter. They managed to get their elbows on it, between the boxes of sweets and comics from the week before that had not been sold.

  ‘Well?’ Mrs McConkey looked at Linda, who held the money.

  ‘Bunting, please. Give us the best.’

  ‘I only keep the best.’ Mrs McConkey laid a box of red, white and blue bunting on the counter. The four heads bent over it. ‘Our street’s looking very nice, don’t you think?’

  ‘Ours is going to look better,’ said Sadie.

  ‘That’s what you think!’ called out someone at the back of the shop. ‘This is the best street for miles around.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Want to bet oh it?’

  The other children in the shop stood back to let the boy who had spoken come forward. He was large and red-haired, and at least two years older than Tommy. His chin stuck out aggressively.

  ‘Now you kids can stop your nonsense in my shop,’ said Mrs McConkey. ‘You can get outa here for a start. You’re holding up my business. And a poor widow woman’s got to eat.’ She folded her arms under her fat bosom. She was never done eating: she munched and crunched all day. ‘Out!’ she commanded.

  Linda took the bunting and went, followed closely by Sadie and the two boys. The red-haired boy brought up the rear.

  ‘So you want to bet on it, eh?’ he said. ‘Take a look at that!’

  They looked at his street. It was festooned with bunting, laced from house to house. Union Jacks hung from nearly every window. Pictures of the Queen and her family were pasted on walls and doors. Banners spanned the street bearing messages, NO SURRENDER, LONG LIVE KING BILLY. CEMENTED WITH LOVE. It Was, indeed, very impressive.

  ‘Aye,’ said Tommy. ‘I’ll take a bet on it.’ He stuck out his chin to match the other boy’s.

  ‘Ten bob?’

  ‘Done!’

  ‘Right you are then.’

  ‘Who’s going to decide?’ asked Linda.

  They were silent for a moment.

  ‘We could ask the minister,’ suggested Sadie.

  ‘O.K.,’ said the red-haired boy. ‘But we won’t tell him about the ten bob.’

  The Jacksons, Steve and Linda turned back towards their own street.

  ‘You haven’t a hope,’ the ginger-haired boy shouted after them. ‘Your street’s lousy!’

  ‘And you’re a right looking eejit,’ Sadie called back. Then they took to their heels and ran.

  They stopped when they reached the Jacksons’ gable wall and leant against it to consider their tactics. They would have to go from door to door stirring people up, making them conscious of their obligation to the street. Most were conscious of it, but some were old and some were lazy. The old and the lazy would have to be compensated for. The four of them would have to spruce these houses up themselves.

  ‘This lot’ll not go far.’ Linda held up the bunting.

  ‘And we’ve no money,’ said Tommy gloomily. He had spent all he had on a record the Saturday before, apart from his emergency fund which he would only touch for extra-special reasons.

  ‘Where’ll you get the ten bob from then?’ asked Steve.

  ‘He’s not going to need it,’ said Sadie firmly.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ said Tommy.

  ‘Of course I’m right.’ There was an edge of scorn to Sadie’s voice. ‘We’ll have to raise some money.’

  ‘That’s easier said than done,’ said Steve.

  ‘If the apprentice boys of Deny had felt like that their walls would have fallen to the Micks,’ said Sadie.

  ‘You tell us what to do then, Miss Smarty Boots!’

  ‘I’m considering.’ She paced the pavement as she did so.

  ‘There’s always bob-a-job,’ said Tommy.

  ‘They’re fed up with that round here,’ said Steve. ‘Besides, everybody’s skint buying new clothes for the “Twelfth”.’

  ‘Not everybody,’ said Sadie. ‘There’s a few with the odd bob lying around. And we’ll cut our rates. Sixpence a job. We’ll go round the whole district asking for work. It’ll be slave labour of course. Like kids being sent down the mines all over again. But you have to be prepared to suffer for the cause!’

  Chapter Two

  Down with King Billy

  The McCoy family lived several streets away from the Jacksons. Their street, too, was made up of small, red-brick terraced houses, but it was bare and drab. No bunting linked the chimneys, no Union Jacks hung from upstairs windows. It was a Catholic street.

  ‘I wish they’d stop banging those drums.” said Mr McCoy irritably. He was sitting
in his shirtsleeves in the kitchen reading the paper. He rustled it more than was necessary, fussing over the folding of it, slapping the creased pages. ‘They get on my nerves. They just do it to annoy us.’

  ‘Sure you should just shut your ears to them,’ said his wife, who was getting ready to start on a mountain of ironing. ‘I never let them bother me.’

  ‘You can shut your ears to anything!’

  Mrs McCoy spat on the iron. It hissed. She lifted a shirt from the pile and laid it on the scorched blanket that she had spread over the table. The shirt collar and cuffs were frayed but it would have to last a while longer. There were seven children in the family.

  ‘You could shut the back door,’ said Mr McCoy.

  ‘We need some air on a warm night like this. We wouldn’t be able to breathe if I shut it. And by the time I’ve done this lot I’ll be roasted alive.’ Mrs McCoy looked over at the corner where her second child’ was curled up reading. ‘Why don’t you go away out for a while, Brede? Do you good. It’s a nice summer night.’

  ‘I’d rather read.’ Brede did not even lift her head. She turned a page.

  ‘Away out,’ said her father. ‘All the other kids are out in the street.’

  ‘How do you know? You haven’t been out to see.’

  ‘I can hear them. ‘Them and the drums! Those damned Lambeg drums. Between the two a man can’t get any peace of an evening.’

  ‘I’m not making a noise.’ Brede turned another page.

  ‘You’ll ruin your eyes. It’s not good to have your nose stuck in a book all day long. Now away on out when I tell you!’

  Brede closed the book. She put it up on the shelf on top of the biscuit tin.

  ‘Don’t be late,’ her mother called after her. ‘Be back before dark.’

  Brede walked out into the street leaving the front door ajar behind her. It was seldom in summer that the door was closed right up. A boy careered past her on a bogey, just missing her toes. Some children were playing hopscotch, others were skipping. ‘One, two, three a leerie…’ Most days she felt too old for skipping.