Its Colours They Are Fine

Billy pulled on the trousers of his best (blue) suit, hoisting the braces over his shoulders, and declared that without a doubt God must be a Protestant. It was no ponderous theology that made him say it, but simple observation that the sun was shining. And a God who made the sun shine on the day of the Orange Walk must surely be a Protestant, in sympathy at least.

From the front room Lottie mumbled responses he couldn’t quite make out, but which he recognised as agreement. Over the twenty-three years they’d been married, she had come to accept his picture of God as a kind of Cosmic Grand Master of the Lodge. It seemed probable enough.

Billy opened the window and leaned out.

The smell of late breakfasts frying; music from a radio; shouted conversations; traffic noises from the main road. A celebration of unaccustomed freedom. Saturday had a life and a character all of its own.

Sunlight shafted across the tenement roofs opposite, cleaved the street in two. A difference of greys. The other side in its usual gloom, this side warmed, its shabbiness exposed. Sun on stone.

Directly below, between a lamp-post and the wall, a huddle of small boys jostled in this improvised goalmouth while another, from across the road, took endless glorious corner kicks, heedless of traffic and passers-by.

One of the most noticeable things about a Saturday was the number of men to be seen in the street, waiting for the pubs to open, going to queue for a haircut, or simply content to wander about, enjoying the day. For them, as for Billy, a Saturday was something to be savoured. He would willingly work any amount of overtime – late nights, Sundays, holidays – but not Saturdays. A Saturday was his. It was inviolable. And this particular Saturday was more than that, it was sacred. In Glasgow the Walk was always held on the Saturday nearest the 12th of July, the anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne. It was only in Ulster that they observed the actual date, no matter what day of the week that might be.

Billy closed the window and went through to the front room, which was both living-room and kitchen.

Lottie was laying out his regalia in readiness for the Walk – the sash, cuffs, white gloves and baton. She had laid them out flat on a sheet of brown paper and was wrapping them into a parcel.

‘Whit’s this?’ he asked.

‘Ah’m wrappin up yer things. Ye kin pit them oan when ye get tae Lome School.’

‘Not ’n yer life! D’ye think ah’m frightened tae show ma colours?’

‘That’s jist whit’s wrang wi ye. Yer never DONE showin yer colours! Look whit happened last year. Nearly in a fight before ye goat tae the coarner!’

‘Look, wumman, this is a Protestant country. A Protestant queen shall reign.’ He rapped on the table. ‘That’s whit it says. An if a Marshal in the Ludge canny walk the streets in is ain regalia, ah’ll fuckin chuck it. Ah mean wu’ve goat tae show these people! Ah mean whit wid HE say?’

He gestured towards the picture of King William III which hung on the wall – sword pointing forward, his white stallion bearing him across Boyne Water. In a million rooms like this he was hung in just that pose, doomed to be forever crossing the Boyne. This particular ikon had been bought one drunken afternoon at the Barrows and borne home reverently and miraculously intact through the teatime crowds. Its frame was a single sheet of glass, bound around with royal blue tape. Fastened on to one corner was a Rangers rosette which bore a card declaring NO SURRENDER.

‘An you’re askin me tae kerry this wrapped up lik a fish supper!’

‘Ach well,’ she said, shoving the parcel across the table. ‘Please yersel. But don’t blame me if ye get yer daft heid stoved in.’

Billy grinned at the picture on the wall. Underneath it, on the mantelpiece, was the remains of what had been a remarkable piece of sculpture. One night in the licensed grocer’s, Billy had stolen a white plastic horse about ten inches high, part of an advertising display for whisky. On to its back had been fitted a Plasticine model of King William, modelled by Peter, a young draughtsman who was in Billy’s Lodge.

But one night Billy had come home drunk and knocked it over, squashing the figure and breaking one of the front legs from the horse. So there it sat. A lumpy Billy on a three-legged horse.

He picked up the splintered leg and was wondering if it could be glued back in place when there was a knock at the door.

‘That’ll be wee Robert,’ he said, putting the leg back on the mantelpiece.

‘Ah’ll get it,’ said Lottie.

Robert came in. He was actually about average height but he just looked small beside Billy. He and Billy had been friends since they were young men. They were both welders, and as well as working together, they belonged to the same Lodge. Robert was not wearing his sash. Under his arm he carried a brown paper parcel which looked remarkably like a fish supper.

‘Is that yer sash?’ asked Billy.

‘Aye. Ach the wife thought it wid be safer like, y’know.’

‘Well ah’m glad some’dy’s goat some sense!’ said Lottie.

‘Ach!’

Billy buttoned his jacket and put on his sash, gloves and cuffs.

‘Great day orra same!’ said Robert. He was used to being caught between them like this and he knew it would pass.

‘It is that,’ said Billy. He picked up his baton.

‘Right!’ he said.

‘Ye better take this,’ said Lottie, handing him his plastic raincoat.

‘O ye of little faith, eh!’ He laughed, a little self-conscious at setting his tongue to a quote, but he took the coat nevertheless.

‘Noo mind an watch yersels!’

Lottie watched from the window as they walked along the street and out of sight. At least this year they’d got that far without any trouble.

As they rounded the corner, in step, Billy turned to Robert.

‘Ah’m tellin ye Robert,’ he said. ‘God’s a Protestant!’

*

Emerging into the sunlight from the subway at Cessnock, they could hear some of the bands warming up. Stuttered rolls and paradiddles on the side drums, deep throb of the bass, pipes droning, snatches of tunes on the flutes.

‘Dis yer heart good tae hear it, eh!’ Billy slapped Robert on the back.

Robert carefully unwrapped his sash and put it on, then defiantly screwed up the paper into a ball and threw it into the gutter.

‘At’s the stuff!’

Billy caught the strains of ‘The Bright Orange and Blue’ and started to whistle it as he marched along.

‘Ther’s the bright orange an blue for ye right enough,’ said Robert, gesturing towards the assembly of the faithful.

So much colour, on uniforms, sashes and banners. The bright orange and blue, the purple and the red, the silver and the gold, and even (God forgive them!) the green.

The marchers were already forming into ranks. It must be later than they’d thought. They hurried up to where their Lodge was assembled and took their positions, Billy at the side, Robert up behind the front rank, carrying one of the cords which trailed from the poles of their banner. Purple and orange silk, King William III, Loyal and True. Derry, Aughrim, Inniskillen, Boyne. These were the four battles fought by William in Ireland, their magic names an incantation, used now as rallying cries in the everlasting battle against popery.

They were near the front of the procession and their Lodge was one of the first to move off, a flute band from Belfast just in front of them.

Preparatory drumroll. ‘The Green Grassy Slopes’. Sun glinting on the polished metal parts of instruments and the numerals on sashes and cuffs.

To Billy’s right marched Peter, long and thin with a wispy half-grown beard. Billy caught his eye once and looked away quickly. He was still feeling guilty about ruining the Plasticine model that Peter had so carefully made. A little further on, Peter called over to him. ‘The band’s gaun ther dinger, eh!’

‘Aye they ur that. Thu’ll gie it laldy passin the chapel!’

It was as if they were trying to jericho down the chapel walls by sheer volume of sound, with the bass drummer trying to burst his skins. (He was supposed to be paid a bonus if he did, though Billy had never seen it happen.) And the drum major, a tight-trousered shaman in a royal blue jumper, would leap and birl and throw his stick in the air, the rest of the band strutting or swaggering or shuffling behind. The flute-band shuffle. Like the name of a dance. It was a definite mode of walking the bandsmen seemed to inherit – shoulders hunched, body swaying from the hips, feet scuffling in short, aggressive steps.

Billy’s own walk was a combination of John Wayne and numberless lumbering cinema-screen heavies. He’d always been Big Billy, even as a child. Marching in the Walk was like being part of a liberating army. Triumph. Drums throbbing. Stirring inside. He remembered newsreel films of the Allies marching into Paris. At that time he’d been working in the shipyards and his was a reserved occupation, ‘vital to the war effort’, which meant he couldn’t join up. But he’d marched in imagination through scores of Hollywood films. From the sands of Iwo Jima to the beachheads of Normandy. But now it was real, and instead of ‘The Shores of Tripoli’, it was ‘The Sash My Father Wore’.

They were passing through Govan now, tenements looming on either side, people waving from windows, children following the parade, shoving their way through the crowds along the pavement.

The only scuffle that Billy saw was when a young man started shouting about civil rights in Ireland, calling the marchers fascists. A small sharp-faced woman started hitting him with a union jack. Two policemen shoved their way through and led the man away for his own safety as the woman’s friends managed to bustle her, still shouting and brandishing her flag, back into the crowd.

‘Hate tae see bother lik that,’ said Peter.

‘Ach aye,’ said Billy. ‘Jist gets everyb’dy a bad name.’

Billy had seen some terrible battles in the past. It would usually start with somebody shouting or throwing something at the marchers. Once somebody had lobbed a bottle from a third-storey window as the Juvenile Walk was passing, and a mob had charged up the stairs, smashed down the door and all but murdered every occupant of the house. Another common cause of trouble was people trying to cross the road during the parade. The only time Billy had ever used his baton was when this had happened as they passed the war memorial in Govan Road, with banners lowered and only a single drumtap sounding. A tall man in overalls had tried to shove his way through, breaking the ranks. Billy had tried to stop him, but he’d broken clear and Billy had clubbed him on the back of the neck, knocking him to the ground. Another Marshal had helped him to pick the man up and bundle him back on to the pavement.

But this year for Billy there was nothing to mar the showing of the colours and he could simply enjoy the whole brash spectacle of it. And out in front the stickman led the dance, to exorcise with flute and drum the demon antichrist bogeyman pope.

They turned at last into Govan Road and the whole procession pulsed and throbbed and flaunted its way along past the shipyards. Down at the river, near the old Elder cinema, buses were waiting to take them to the rally, this year being held in Gourock. Billy and Robert found seats together on the top deck of their bus and Peter sat opposite, across the passage. As the bus moved off there was a roar from downstairs.

‘Lik a fuckin Sunday-school trip!’ said Robert, and he laughed and waved his hanky out the window.

They were in a field somewhere in Gourock and it was raining. Billy had his raincoat draped over his head. He was eating a pie and listening to the speeches from the platform, specially erected in the middle of the field. The front of the platform was draped with a union jack and like the banners it drooped and sagged in the rain.

Robert nudged him. ‘Wher’s yer proddy god noo!’

Proddy god. Proddy dog.

(A moment from his childhood – on his way home from school – crossing wasteground – there were four of them, all about his own age – the taunt and the challenge – ‘A Billy or a Dan or an auld tin can’ – They were Catholics, so the only safe response would be ‘A Dan’ – To take refuge in being ‘An auld tin can’ would mean being let off with a minor kicking. Billy stood, unmoving, as they closed round him. One of them started chanting –

‘Auld King Billy

had a pimple on is wully

an it nip nip nipped so sore

E took it tae the pictures

an e gave it dolly mixtures

an it nip nip nipped no more.’

Jeering, pushing him. ‘A Billy or a Dan . . .’ Billy stopped him with a crushing kick to the shin – heavy parish boots – two of the others jumped on him and they fell, struggling, to the ground. They had him down and they would probably have kicked him senseless but about half a dozen of Billy’s friends appeared round a corner, on their way to play football. They ran over, yelling, and the Dans, outnumbered, ran off – and as they ran, their shouts drifted back to Billy where he lay – ‘Proddy dog! Proddy dog!’ fading on the air.)

On the platform were a number of high-ranking Lodge officials. One of them, wearing a dog-collar, was denouncing what he called the increasing support for church unity and stronger links with Rome.

‘The role of the Order,’ he went on, ‘must increasingly be to take a firm stand against this pandering to the popery, and to render the strongest possible protest against moves towards unity.’

Billy was starting to feel cold because of the damp and he wished the rally was over.

‘Wish e’d hurry up,’ said Robert, rain trickling down his neck.

Billy shuffled. His legs were getting stiff.

The speaker pledged allegiance. Loyal address to the crown.

Applause. At last. The national anthem.

Billy straightened up. The blacksuited backs of the men in front. Long live our noble. Crumb of piecrust under his false teeth. Rain pattering on his coat. Huddled. Proddy god. Happy and glorious. Wet grass underfoot, its colour made bright by the rain.

Billy poured the dregs of his fourth half into his fourth pint. The discomforts of the interminable return journey and the soggy dripping march back to Lome School were already forgotten as Billy, Robert and Peter sat drying off in the pub. Soon the day would form part of their collective mythology, to be stored, recounted, glorified.

Theirs was one of four rickety tables arranged along the wall facing the bar. Above them, rain was still streaking the frosted glass of the window but they no longer cared as the night grew loud and bright around them.

‘Didye see that wee lassie?’ said Robert. ‘Cannae uv been merr than six year auld, an ther she wis marchin alang in the rain singin “Follow Follow”. Knew aw the words as well. Magic so it wis.’

‘Bringin them up in the Faith,’ said Billy.

Over at the bar an old man was telling the same joke for the fifth time.

‘So ther’s wee Wullie runnin up the wing, aff the baw like, y’know. So ah shouts oot tae um “Heh Wullie, make a space, make a space!” An he turns roon an says “If ah make a space Lawrence’ll build fuckin hooses oan it!”’

A drummer from one of the accordion bands was standing next to him at the bar, still wearing his peaked cap. Addressing the bar in general, he said, ‘Aye, if Lawrence wid stoap tryin tae run Rangers like is bloody builders we might start gettin somewherr!’

Robert hadn’t been listening. He was still thinking about children and the Faith. He turned to Peter.

‘Is that wee burd ae yours no a pape?’

‘Ach she disnae bother,’ said Peter, and added quickly, ‘Anywey, she’s gonnae turn when we get merried.’

‘Ah should think so tae,’ said Billy. ‘See thae cathlicks wi weans. Fuckin terrible so it is. Tell’n ye, see at that confirmation, the priest gies them a belt in the mouth! Nae kiddin! A wee tiny wean gettin punched in the mouth! It’s no right.’

‘Soldiers of Christ for fucksake,’ said Peter.

‘D’ye know whit ah think?’ said Robert.

‘You tell us,’ said Peter.

‘Ah think it’s because thur families ur that big they don’t bother wae them. D’ye know whit ah mean? Ah mean it stauns tae reason. It’s lik money. The likes a some’dy that hisnae goat much is gonnae look efter whit e’s goat. Well! Ther yar then! It’s the same wi families. Folk that’s only goat wan or two weans ur gonnae take kerr ae them. But thae cathlicks wi eight or nine weans, or merr, they’re no gonnae gie a bugger, ur they?’

‘They eat babies an aw!’ said Peter, mocking.

‘You kin laugh,’ said Billy. ‘But ah’m tellin ye, that’s how they huv such big families in the furst place. It disnae happen here mindye, but see in some a thae poor countries wher ye’ve goat famine an that, they widnae think twice aboot eatin a baby or two. Usetae happen aw the time in the aulden days. Likes a the middle ages, y’know.’

Peter didn’t argue. It might well be true and anyway it didn’t really matter.

‘Whit d’ye make a that cunt this mornin then?’ asked Robert. ‘Cryin us aw fascists!’

‘Ach ah’ve goat a cousin lik that,’ said Peter. ‘Wan a they students y’know. Wurraw fascists except him like. E wis layin intae me the other day aboot the Ludge, sayin it was “neo-fascist” and “para-military” an shite lik that. E says the Juveniles is lik the Hitler Youth an Ian Paisley’s another fuckin Hitler. Ah don’t know wher they get hauf thur ideas fae, neither ah dae. E used tae be a nice wee fulla tae. But is heid’s away since e went tae that Uni. Tell’n ye, if is heid gets any bigger, e’ll need a fuckin onion bag fur it!’

‘Sounds lik mah nephew,’ said Billy. ‘Tryin tae tell me that King Billy an the pope wur oan the same side at the Boyne! Talks a lotta shite so e dis. Ah jist cannae understaun them ataw. Ah mean, if wurraw supposed tae be fascists, whit wis the war supposed tae be aboot?’

(Those old newsreels again. Nuremberg rally. Speeches. Drums. The liberation of Paris. VE Day.)

‘Ach fuck them all!’ said Peter. ‘Smah round, intit?’ He made his way to the bar. ‘Three haufs ’n three pints a heavy, Jim!’ He made two journeys, one for the whisky, one for the beer, and when he sat down again Robert was telling a joke.

‘Huv ye heard that wan aboot the proddy that wis dyin? Well e’s lyin ther oan is death bed and e turns roon an asks fur a priest. Well, is family thoaght e wis gawn aff is heid, cause e’d always been a right blue-nose. But they thoaght they better humour im like, in case e kicked it. So anywey the priest comes.’

‘Impossible!’ said Peter.

Billy shooshed, but Robert was carrying on anyway.

‘An the fulla says tae the priest, “Ah want tae turn father”. So the priest’s as happy as a fuckin lord, an e goes through the ceremony right ther, an converts um intae a cathlick. Then e gies um the last rites, y’know, an efter it e says tae the fulla, “Well my son, ah’m glad ye’ve seen the light, but tell me, what finally decided ye?” An e lifts imself up, aw shaky an that, an wi is dyin breath e turns tae the priest an says, “This’ll be another durty cathlick oot the road!”’

‘Very good!’ said Billy, laughing. ‘Very good!’

‘Ah heard a cathlick tellin it,’ said Peter, ‘only the wey he tellt it, it wis a cathlick that wis dyin an e sent fur a minister!’

‘Typical!’ said Robert.

‘Ah’ll away fur a pee,’ said Peter.

While he was gone, Billy asked Robert if he’d seen any of Peter’s cartoons.

‘Ah huv not,’ said Robert.

‘Great, so they ur. E’s a bitty an artist like. Anywey, e goat this headline oot the paper – y’know how the pope’s no been well – an this headline says something aboot im gettin up, an Peter’s done this drawin a the pope humpin this big blonde. Ye wanty see it!’

Peter came back.

‘Ah’ve jist been tellin Robert aboot that drawin a yours, wi the pope.’

‘Ah think ah’ve goat it wae me,’ said Peter. He rummaged through his wallet and brought out a piece of paper. Gummed on to the top was the headline POPE GETS UP FOR FIRST TIME, and underneath Peter had drawn the pope with an utterly improbable woman.

He passed it round the table.

‘Terrific!’ said Robert. ‘Fuckin terrific!’

Peter put it back in his wallet.

The talk of Peter’s artistic talent reminded Billy, yet again, of the ruined Plasticine model. He quickly slopped down some more beer.

He set down his glass and held it in place as the room swayed away from him then rocked back to rest. He was looking at the glass and it was suddenly so clearly there, so sharply in focus. All the light of the room seemed gathered in it. Its colour glowed. The gold of the beer. Light catching the glass and the glistening wet mesh of froth round the rim. He was aware of his glass and his thick red hand clutching it. The one still point in the room. And in that moment he knew, and he laughed and said, ‘Ah’m pished!’

The group over at the bar were singing ‘Follow Follow’ and Billy shouted ‘Hullaw!’ and the three of them joined in.

‘For there’s not a team

Like the Glasgow Rangers

No not one

No not one.

An there’s not a hair

On a baldy-heided nun.

No not one!

There never shall be one!’

The barman made the regulation noises of protest, fully aware that they would have no effect.

‘C’mon now gents, a wee bit order therr!’

‘Away an fuck ya hun!’

The accordion band drummer produced his sticks and somebody shouted ‘Give us “The Sash”!’ The barman gave up even trying as the drummer battered out the rhythm on the bartop, and the drunken voices rose, joyful, and on past closing time they sang.

‘Sure it’s old but it is beautiful

And its colours they are fine

It was worn at Derry, Aughrim,

Inniskillen and the Boyne,

My father wore it as a youth

In the bygone days of yore

And it’s on the twelfth I love to wear

The sash my father wore.’

Billy was vaguely aware of Robert going for a carry-out and Peter staggering out into the street. He swayed back and aimed for the door, lurching through a corridor of light and noise, getting faster as he went, thinking he would fall at every step. Out of the chaos odd snatches of song and conversation passed somewhere near.

‘C’mon now sir, clear the bar . . .’

‘An ah didnae even know the cunt . . .’

‘RIGHT gents!’

‘So ah shouts oot tae um Make a space Make a space . . .’

‘Ah’m gonnae honk . . .’

No not one.

Into the street and the sudden rush of cold air. Yellow haloes round the streetlamps. The road was wet but the rain had stopped. He leaned back against the cold wall and, screwing up his eyes to focus, he looked up at the sky and the stars. All he knew about astronomy was what he had learned from an article in the Mail or the Post called ‘All About the Heavens’, or ‘The Universe in a Nutshell’, or something like that. Millions of stars like the sun making up the galaxy and millions of galaxies making up the universe and maybe millions of universes.

Robert came out of the pub clutching his carry-out under his arm. Peter emerged from a closemouth where he’d just been sick.

‘Yawright son?’

‘Aye Robert, ah’ll be awright noo ah’ve goat it up.’

Robert handed him a quarter bottle of whisky.

‘Huv a wee snifter.’

‘Hanks Robert.’ He sipped some and shuddered, screwing up his face. Then he shook hands lingeringly with each of them, telling them they were the greatest.

‘Ah fancy some chips!’ said Robert.

‘Me tae,’ said Billy.

‘Ah’ve took a helluva notion masel,’ said Peter, and the three of them swayed off towards the chip shop, passing the bottle between them as they went.

At the next corner, Billy stopped to drain the last drops, head tilted back to catch the dregs. Tenements looming. The night sky. Dark. Galaxies. He looked at Robert and asked him, earnestly, if he’d ever smelt fall.

‘Smelt whit?’

Recovering from a coughing spasm, he tried again, this time enunciating his words very carefully.

‘Robert.’

‘Aye.’

‘Whit ah meant tae say wis, have ye ever felt small?’

Robert looked thoughtful for a moment, before replying, emphatically, ‘Naw!’ Grabbing Billy’s lapel, he continued, ‘An you’re the biggest cunt ah know, so ah don’t see whit YOU’RE worried aboot!’

‘An neither dae ah!’ said Billy, laughing. ‘It’s fuckin hilarious!’

And in all the stupid universe there was not a man like himself, not a city like Glasgow, not a team like the Rangers, not a hair on a nun, not a time like the present, not a care in the world.

Telling it, he shouted.

‘God Bless King Billy!’

‘EE-ZAY!’

And he hurled his bottle, arching, into the air, into the terrible darkness of it all.