Blackwatertown. Paul Waters
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excitement of accompanying his father to ‘The Field’ near Belfast on the 12th of July, the height of the Orange year. Despite the officially sectarian tone of the day, the organisers hadn’t been fussy about the religion of the stall holders who kept the brethren fed and watered. It had been thrilling to hawk sweets and minerals to the thickets of black-suited men leaning on their swords and pikes. Back then, he’d drunk in their finery through big eyes. Now it seemed tawdry and pathetic.
*
Apart from a flourish of pomp as they’d left Kilmurray, the only sounds since had been amiable conversation and the striking of stout shoes and hobnailed boots on the road. One drummer kept time. They were saving their attitude for their captive audience in Ballydrum.
But as they approached the three-mile mark, the walkers’ backs suddenly straightened. At a barked command, the drums and fifes were roused, and Big Jim Courtney began to batter the thunderin’ bejaysus out of his big Lambeg.
Macken looked up. He’d been concentrating on just putting one boot in front of the other, and keeping the rain off his face. He exhaled sharply in irritation. This year, Ballydrum was not going to mutter under its breath as they passed. This year, Ballydrum had come out to meet them.
*
Boulders and branches blocked the road. Stern-faced men, some with sticks, stood behind the barricade. Macken saw cairns of smaller rocks piled nearby. He called a halt at what he hoped was further than a stone’s throw away.
The shouting began immediately: ‘Go home or we’ll move you’ met ‘Aye, you and whose army?’ The absurdity of that retort got a laugh from both sides, as the answer – Macken and his constables – stood between them in plain sight.
A hand landed on Macken’s shoulder.
‘Come on, man.’ It was the Lodge’s Worshipful Master. ‘Fire a volley. That’ll clear those Fenians from the road.’
He shook Macken’s holster. ‘Or are you forgetting who you are?’
No danger of that, thought Macken. What a mess. He politely removed the Worshipful Master’s hand from near his Webley 45 revolver. ‘I hope firearms won’t be needed, sir.’
‘Quite right, Sergeant,’ Macken’s district inspector intervened. ‘Madden, isn’t it?’
The voice of reason has arrived, thought Macken with sinking heart.
‘Macken, sir.’
‘Yes, of course.’ The DI was off duty, but present as a Lodge committee member. ‘We don’t like to see guns drawn if it can be avoided.’
He leant on his blackthorn stick. ‘Now, what’s your plan of action?’
‘Sir, if the Worshipful Master has a word with his opposite number,’ suggested Macken, ‘we may yet persuade the Ballydrum crowd that it’s honours even and find a way forward.’
The Worshipful Master snorted. ‘Is this the kind you have in the Royal Ulster Constabulary these days, George? Comparing us to yon rabble? He’d do better to enforce our right to walk the Queen’s highway. For if he’s not able, or not willing, there are those who are.’
Lodge members cheered the prospect of action.
‘Let’s stay calm, Sammy,’ the DI asserted himself. ‘This is a police matter. Of course rights must be upheld. If we can do so peacefully then all the better.’
The DI turned to Macken. ‘Go speak to them. Be firm. They’ve made their point, but they must disperse immediately. I hope they’ll listen to one of their own.’
Aye, there’s the rub, thought Macken, as he trudged towards the barricade. Someone is taking a perverse pleasure having the likes of me escort an Orange march.
*
One face at the barrier looked familiar, so Macken headed that way. He paused at the boulders to allow his presence to be felt. Everyone, deep down, has reason to fear the police. Macken slowly looked along the line of faces. Most avoided his gaze, as he willed their anxiety to grow into something he could use to dominate them – to let one man overcome a mob. They just need a nudge, he thought, from overt truculence back to grudging respect and then compliance. Almost there…
‘Jaysus, he came all this way and forgot what he had to say!’
Macken heard sniggering.
‘Don’t worry, we’ve room for one more round this side,’ said the familiar face, mocking him. ‘It’s about time you deserted that shower of Orange bastards!’
Macken realised his bubble had been burst, lanced by a sharp thrust of ridicule from someone with a nose for weakness. He consoled himself that if they were laughing, it eased the tension.
He opened his hands in a gesture of conciliation. ‘Hello, lads. Who’s running this show?’
The looks turned stony once more. The answer was another taunt. ‘I thought it was you, Sergeant Macken. Are you here to negotiate?’
More laughter. It was the sneering way he said ‘negotiate’ that reminded Macken of who he was.
They’d met a few weeks before, when he had been playing away for his local football team against some notorious bruisers. Size and toughness are significant assets in the knockabout combat into which Gaelic football can descend. Macken had both. But they had only begun warming up when he had become aware of pointing and discussion on the touchline.
When it came, the tap on the shoulder had been from his own shamefaced captain. The home team were objecting to Macken’s presence under Rule 21 of the Gaelic Athletic Association. It barred members of the Crown forces from taking part in GAA events. A gesture of defiance against the oppressor. Macken’s job was common knowledge, but no one had made a fuss before. Sure, there was no harm in being on good terms with the local policeman. And if you were on bad terms, then a game of football or hurling was the perfect opportunity to knock his block off.
Macken remembered that it had been the skinny martinet looking down on him from the barricade right now who had clung to the rule book that day. Bottom lip out, finger wagging, he’d rejected any offer to ‘negotiate’ – a word apparently so despicable that he’d spat it rather than say it.
Macken had departed the field, shoulders slumped, without complaint. He’d not wanted to embarrass his protesting teammates, who’d been decent enough to turn a blind eye to his status themselves. He’d been left on the sidelines, wondering where he belonged, watching a bad-tempered football game quickly turn dirty.
*
Better get on with it, thought Macken. ‘You’ve made your point, lads. Time to move before things get nasty.’
‘That sounds like a threat. Jolly by name, but not so jolly when it comes to his own kind. We know whose side he’s on.’
He must be a schoolteacher, thought Macken. Derision is his way of keeping control. But behind the bluster, not so sure of himself maybe? Too keen to pander to the back of the class. Time to find out if he can take it as well as dish it out.
Macken permitted himself a small smile, squared his shoulders and stared the schoolteacher in the face. The man blinked uncertainly, twitching bags under his eyes that sagged with the weight of past disappointments.
‘Away and chase yourself,’ growled Macken. ‘I’m making the rules today.’
His tormentor flinched, suddenly more quarry than hunter. But before Macken could press home his advantage, a stone hit him between the shoulder blades. More clattered off the nearby boulders.
Macken couldn’t very well hide behind the barricade, so he ran, feeling ridiculous, arm over his face,