The Faithful Tribe: An Intimate Portrait of the Loyal Institutions. Ruth Edwards Dudley

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СКАЧАТЬ the mad bigots’ stall at Scarva, manned by courteous evangelists who with the help of wares like The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk, The Convent Horror, Escape from a Catholic Convent, Horrible Lives of the Popes and The Scarlet Woman of the Apocalypse take one on a journey back in time.

       Going home

      Perhaps the best moment for me [wrote Alister Minnis, a teacher who comes home from Scotland every year for the Twelfth], is to stand watching the parade reassemble. The colour is overwhelming, the sights and sounds heady enough to sustain me until next year (or at least until Scarva). Of course, somebody who likes the sound of his own voice and has the public speaking appeal of Douglas Hogg is on the platform delaying the proceedings, but that only gives me all the more time to remember exactly who and what I am. And then the evening. To have the fellowship of our meal, to listen to the story-tellers, the singers. And later, to sit with a cool beer with my friends and family and to talk about ‘days of yore’ or ‘What will become of us?’

      Drink does for some participants before they ever make it home.

      One supreme recollection [wrote Rowel Friers] is of a country lodge returning from another townland where the celebrations had been hosted. When they started out they were led by His Majesty King William on a dapple-grey. William, pointing his sword defiantly heavenward, led his men to battle with an assurance worthy of d’Artagnan. Though hardly historically accurate in every detail, his uniform was acceptable to all but purists. Perhaps one could admit to a certain amount of antipathy towards his work-a-day wellies without doubt a jarring note. Nevertheless, despite any flaw in his royal raiment, his mind was fixed in the period. Proudly he led his men to glory, and if ever a leader was born, this was he.

      The return journey was one of obvious triumph. Flushed from a successful day at the Field, with fresh air, good fellowship and brews, they marched homeward with chins, where possible, held high. Some had their jackets hung nonchalantly over one shoulder. Here and there a tie hung crookedly from an open shirt collar, and an odd sash had changed position – no longer de rigueur. The battle had yet again been won and William’s conquering heroes were returning. A kaleidoscope of colour – the brilliant uniforms of the bands and the glory of silken banners dancing in zigzag rhythm to the rousing music – added firmness of purpose to the multitude of boots marching muddied from the damp field. In the midst of his warriors, William sat astride his trusty, but now bored, steed. He had dropped back from the lead he held on the outward journey and was showing obvious symptoms of bottle fatigue. His hat sat at a rakish angle on a wig, now worn peek-a-boo style, and with sword pointing earthwards Billy drooped forward, nose almost buried in the horse’s mane. A loyal brother on either side of the mount kept steadying hands on His Majesty, thus ensuring that he remained, if not upright, at least mounted. The Prince of Orange had revelled in the bottle, but now neither the papist James nor anything else troubled his happy mind. His Majesty’s immortal memory had deserted him, and 1690 to him could just as well have been a phone number.

      The historian David Hume is attached to a more sober lodge: ‘And then, after the Field and the return parade, they will march back along that country road, wearier this time around, and the band will play a hymn and the National Anthem after they have all lined up outside the hall. And someone will look around at someone else and as sure as anything, say, “Well, that’s the Twelfth over for another year.” ‘

      ‘How did you get over the Twelfth?’ is what his sister asks a Belfast friend of mine every year. As Catholic children in largely loyalist East Belfast, in the 1950s and ‘60s they spent every Twelfth in a house with the blinds down, listening to aggressive drumming sounds and fearful of violence when loyalists got drunk. ‘I’ve no difficulty believing that most Orangemen are OK,’ observed the apolitical and non-sectarian Eamonn. ‘But when you’re being beaten up, it’s hard to care whether it’s by Orangemen, bandsmen or just thuggish hangers-on. It hurts just as much.’

      It was around that time that the public servant Maurice Hayes, though Catholic a fan of the Twelfth,

      began to sense from Catholics in other areas that they saw the marching as a threat, a means of putting them in their place, of letting them know who was boss and that they were in a minority in a society ruled by Protestants and they had better know it and behave themselves. There was annoyance too at the sheer number of marches which kept people in houses, blocked roads, business interfered with, and the further aggravation of party tunes and some ‘kick-the-pope’ bands which insisted on playing more loudly when passing churches or chapels and the menacing beat of the Lambeg drums.

      I wondered to myself why people wanted to march at all, and why others who were annoyed could not just pull down the blinds and refuse to be annoyed?

      Hayes’s hope for the future is that of all sane people in Northern Ireland: that Orangemen will make more effort to explain themselves to their neighbours and that Catholics will try to understand that Orangeism is a celebration of civil and religious liberty. ‘We should be able to hold on to and to encourage the exercise of a tradition which is not only important to many people, and therefore to the rest of us, but which could add to the colour and meaning of life for all.’

      It will be necessary, too, for both sides to deal with the thugs that do awful things in their name.

      ^* With the exception of William Bingham, George Chittick and Worshipful Master Charlton, whom I interviewed, and Neil Jarman, Elaine McClure and John Moulden, who appeared on a radio programme, the quotes from everyone else named in this chapter come from their contributions to The Twelfth: What It Means to Me (ed. Gordon Lucy and Elaine McClure).

^* Giving children pretend collarettes or lending them proper ones is common. Although Orangemen take their regalia seriously, they do not give it mystical status. I was watching a parade one day when I was summoned into it by Chris McGimpsey, who removed his bowler, placed it on my head and said: ‘That’s a thank you for taking the trouble to find out about us.’ I wore it slightly uneasily, afraid of giving offence, but when I consulted the Worshipful Master of my unofficial lodge he explained that no one would mind. Further, he told me that if I wanted a collarette as a souvenir, he would provide me with one. He duly sent one to me along with a miniature of Bushmills to toast it with.

       4

       The Family Abroad

      A loyal band of Orangemen from Ulster’s lovely land,

      They could not march upon the Twelfth – processions were all banned,

      So they flew off to the Middle East this dreadful law to dodge

      And they founded in Jerusalem the Arab Orange Lodge.

      

      Big Ali Bey who charmed the snakes he was the first recruit

      John James McKeag from Portglenone taught him to play the flute

      And as the oul’ Pied Piper was once followed by the rats

      There followed Ali from the lodge ten snakes in bowler hats.

      

      They made a martial picture as they marched along the shore

      It stirred the blood when Ali played “The Fez my Father Wore’.

      And СКАЧАТЬ