moment of decision, all the shouting and jeering, the drums and the fifes, seemed to fade to silence in Macken’s mind. The violence was about to begin – the striking out at head and body with stone and bar and baton and rifle butt. And he was going to be the one to start it.
*
The parade was one of those annual territorial pissing contests. Like a dog reminding its neighbours who is cock of the walk. And just as a mutt has its regular lamp posts, so the local Orange Lodge doggedly stuck to its traditional route along the Longrock Road. It was the very long way round from their meeting hall on the Irish Sea coast at Kilmurray to their chosen church service. A long tramp through unprepossessing hill country, inhabited only by incurious sheep. But it had the merit of passing through the village of Ballydrum, which was both the only obstacle and the real objective. For what would be the point of asserting one’s inalienable right to walk the Queen’s highway if there was no one to object? For the Catholic and stubbornly nationalist residents of Ballydrum were no fans of the Orange, nor any of the other loyal institutions dedicated to celebrating the monarch and damning the Pope.
Usually, Ballydrum and Kilmurray happily went their separate ways. But once a year, every year, the Diamond Star of Hope Kilmurray Defenders, Loyal Orange Lodge No. 1598, had an irresistible atavistic urge to pay Ballydrum a visit. It would have been a dereliction of duty and an affront to the ancestors if they’d failed to remind the benighted Catholics just who was top dog in the valley, and indeed the state.
Ballydrum residents were not required to line the route, cheering for the Queen. It was enough that they tolerated the banners, the kick-the-Pope band and the walkers with their bowler hats, collarettes, furled brollies and unsheathed ceremonial swords. The marchers were content to perform to an audience of gritted teeth, closed doors and empty streets. And most years they did.
But word was it would be different this time. The band’s warm-up walk had lingered outside a Catholic church and drowned out the prayers inside with a particularly rousing rendition of ‘The Sash My Father Wore’, listing past Protestant battle victories. The disapproval that spread through neighbouring townlands had grown into defiance. Ballydrum resolved that the historic victory of King Billy over King James would not be celebrated in their village. Not this year. They fancied a wee break.
But traditions do not brook interruption. Especially new traditions. The police suggestion that Kilmurray Lodge revert to its previous, shorter, traditional route, avoiding Ballydrum, was met with suspicion and scorn. So it was, that Sgt Jolly Macken found himself the miserable leader of the Diamond Star of Hope Defenders, marching as to war.
*
Macken and his score of constables came first. Behind them swaggered the Pride of the Valley Orange band. The fifes and side drums were littered like piglets round the huge rolling sow that was Big Jim Courtney and his legendary Lambeg drum. Jim’s belly was a legend in itself, but he needed his bulk to support the even bigger drum propped vertically in front. Macken was impressed, despite himself, that such a fat, waddling figure could summon forth the strength and stamina to even carry the Lambeg, never mind beat out the dread rat-a-tat-tat on its two faces.
Following Big Jim and the band were the officers of the Lodge, and then the ordinary brethren – respectable types to the fore, bank manager, business proprietors and elected councillors. Macken suspected that many were just as keen as he was to be out of the drizzle. But it was the one day of the year they had to publicly prove their credentials.
Bringing up the rear was a rowdier contingent of younger men, boys and some women. The promise of trouble had swelled numbers. Macken knew that, if challenged, the parade marshal would describe this element as spectators or supporters, absolutely nothing to do with the official walk. But they sure came in handy in a bust-up.
*
As a child, Macken had enjoyed Orange gatherings. He remembered the 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
