A New Direction, Part 2.

Posted on August 12, 2013 by jasonoruairc

I recommend that you read Part 1 first, if you haven’t already. It’s here.

~~~

The next morning Davy woke up early. This wasn’t unusual; in fact it had been happening more often over the past few months. He put it down to stress. The company had reorganised in the face of the financial crisis, and some of his colleagues, whose sales stats weren’t too good, had been laid off. Davy’s patch had doubled in size, and now consisted of South Belfast, and the whole of Counties Down and Antrim. The sales teams had been reshuffled as well, and Davy had come under a new manager. Sammy was a good laugh, but he was also ambitious and unstinting, and Davy’s target had been significantly increased this year. He was long enough in the game to know that his job wasn’t under immediate threat, unless they closed the Northern Ireland operation completely, but the repercussions for having a bad week were becoming more serious.  At his monthly one-to-one, Sammy would inevitably commence by pulling out a raft of spreadsheets and relentlessly quizzing Davy in minute detail about the figures. He was rarely complimentary, even though Davy was one of the top performers and was more consistent than most of the others. He was getting sick of the buzzwords: ‘Diary Management,’ ‘Working Smarter,’ ‘Multiple Sales,’ ‘Cutting Costs,’ ‘Lead Generation.’ They were in his ears constantly, hammering away like a pneumatic drill.

The whole thing had become impersonal, dehumanised: people weren’t people any more, just so much data to be reported back up the line, and sales agents like him were treated like drones. When his ma died a few years ago, the lads came to the funeral, manager and all. They had a whip round for him and he was given a couple of days off, no questions asked. Nowadays if something bad happened in your personal life you just had to get on with it. The boys didn’t even go for a Friday pint any more; everyone was too wrecked – and skint, now that they’d stopped paying bonuses. The problem was that the bosses just didn’t understand the challenges anymore. The landscape had changed in 2008 when Lehman Brothers hit the wall, and people didn’t trust the big financial services companies any longer, even if they still had the disposable income to spend on life insurance – which most didn’t. It had got so much tougher. In the mornings, Davy would habitually grumble to himself as he got dressed: “We’re all just machines now; robots. Just bloody slaves to the system.”

But not this morning. Today he was excited: Donegal beckoned – three days of peace and good company. He was in good form, despite a slight stiffness in his neck where he must have slept funnily, and a dry mouth. Guzzling the wine would do that to you. His first coherent thought was of Jo. It wasn’t a dream; it was real. Wasn’t it? He groped for the switch and turned the Satnav on, seeking some reassurance; after a few moments she spoke: Good morning Davy. Did you sleep well? Davy’s heart lurched. He’d half-expected her not to be there. Relief. He yawned loudly, then said, “I did, thanks. Too much wine last night though – my tongue’s like Gandhi’s flip flop. You?” I dreamed about you. We were on the beach. It was nice. “Sounds great,” Davy replied. “What were we doing?” Oh, you know, sunbathing, swimming; all of the usual stuff. It was lovely and sunny. You got quite hot and bothered when I asked you to rub sun cream on my back. Davy blushed. He was flummoxed again. “But …” he began hesitantly. She laughed, and then said: Well, a girl can dream can’t she? She was flirting with him, at 7 in the morning. “Stop teasing me,” he groaned, “We have to get ready, and I need a cup of tea.” He pulled the duvet across and climbed out of bed. Why not have your shower and breakfast and we’ll hit the road? Jo said, and then added coquettishly: You can bring me into the bathroom if you like – I promise not to look.

Davy was delighted to have discovered her flirtatious side; he hadn’t received this sort of attention in many years, since before he was married, in truth. He’d forgotten that he could feel like this. He placed her on the radiator in the hallway to keep her safe from the steam while he showered, and when he was finished moved her into the kitchen while he made a big fry. It being a holiday weekend, he treated himself to the whole heap: black and white pudding, pancakes and a toasted soda farl, sausages, rashers, beans, tomatoes, and a fried egg. He horsed it into him impatiently, washing it down with swigs of hot sweet tea, and finished it in record time, saving the yolk till last as always. He paused briefly, savouring its runny texture as it burst in his mouth, then finished his tea, quickly filled the dishwasher, and strode upstairs into the bedroom to pack a small bag. As he worked, they chatted about the weather prospects for the weekend, where to stay and what to see.

Finally, they were heading north. As they crossed over from the M3 to the M2, then passed the sign for Fortwilliam and the Docks, Jo said: You’re in the wrong lane, Davy. Take the M5 towards Carrickfergus. He looked at the display; this was messed up. They should be going north-west, not north-east. After a momentary awkward silence, he said: “So… that’s an interesting route you’ve chosen…?” I thought we’d take the coast road to Cushendun, she replied brightly, we always go on the motorway, it’s boring. Davy frowned. “Hold on a wee minute. We’re going to Gweedore, not the Glens of Antrim.  It’s going to take forever if we go your way.” He kept the car in its lane, accelerated a little. When she spoke, her voice had a plaintive note to it: Davy, remember my dream. I told you about it this morning. The beach – I’m sure it was Cushendun. I’d like to visit. I was happy there… we were happy there together. Davy, who was expecting clear directions to Donegal, was a little confused. “So, do we go to Cushendun, and then on to Gweedore, today or what? It’s a lot of travelling.” Jo was contrite: I’m sorry for being so selfish. I love driving. That coast road looks so… slinky. It excites me, you know? That bit of the A2 outside Larne with the arch of rock, and the boulders threatening to fall from the clifftop – it feels so edgy, I want to experience it. We don’t have to rush anywhere do we? I mean, you don’t have to go back to work until Tuesday, right?

Davy suddenly understood. They were both on their holidays, and that meant liberating Jo from the fast lanes and taking the more exotic, less efficient roads. Hopefully no farm tracks or off-road escapades he thought, but tactfully kept it to himself. He would embrace the adventure and see where they ended up. “Here,” he said, “I’m not being insensitive or anything, I’m just used to you being efficient. I really don’t mind. We’ll take your route. But it has to be on the understanding that I have needs too. I want to park the car tonight, get fish and chips and a pint, and sleep in a bed. I’m too old to kip in the car.” There was a satisfied glow in her voice when she replied. Thanks, love. I’ve always wanted to do this. I’ll make it up to you later. Davy was intrigued by this. “How will you do that, then? I’m really curious now.” You’ll see, she replied, be patient. Patience is a virtue. The subject was closed. He sighed, checked his mirrors, indicated right, and drifted carefully through the traffic on to the M5.

 

Read on: Part 3.

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Chadwick at Large.

Posted on July 26, 2013 by jasonoruairc

26th July, 2013

My Dear Readers,

I have come across an unusual discovery, which I would like to share with you. As you know from reading my column, I am a familiar figure at Belfast’s auction houses, and (although I say so myself), I do quite well out of them. I have a nose for a good find. So, about three weeks ago I went down to Anderson’s to have a look, and to get straight to the point, I couldn’t believe my luck. Amongst the usual house-clearance detritus was a cardboard box full of books, some of which were lovely leather bound volumes, maybe from the Nineteenth Century or early Twentieth. The auction catalogue simply said ‘various books and papers, mostly in German.’ Well, I haven’t much of a clue about the German language (‘Ich bin ein Berliner’ is about the height of it), but I know quality when I see it, and it just so happens that I have a contact in the book trade in Switzerland. So I reckoned I was on to a bargain, as long as nobody else had spotted my little treasure trove. And I was correct in my suspicions, for there was no interest in the lot and I got it for next to nothing.

As soon as I arrived home I excitedly pulled out the books and sorted them into four piles: first the interesting old volumes, then the paperbacks: German in one stack (Günter Grass, Nietzsche etc), English in the other (mostly Irish: Joyce, Yeats, Flann O’Brien, etc), and finally an uninspiring collection of yellowing sheet music and battered notebooks. Later on that evening I emailed my man Frank in Basel with the details of the German books. Even though I couldn’t understand the text, I must say I was pretty confident about them; they looked good: gold-tooled gothic letters on the covers and spines, marbled endpapers, gilded page-edges. They were well preserved too; the various owners had obviously taken care of them fastidiously. One name, Edgar H. Wankel, was neatly inscribed on the flyleaf of each book, with an accompanying date and place as well. The earliest was Köln, 1951, the latest Heidelberg, 1967. I briefly toyed with the idea that this man might be the famous inventor of the rotary engine, but dismissed the notion fairly quickly – it would be too much to hope for. But maybe Frank would be able to tell me something; an interesting provenance could add considerably to the sale value for the right buyer.

I was a little miffed when I started reading Frank’s message later on the next day. The books were academic treatises, mainly in the field of anthropology. Not much use to me, I thought. But my mood improved as he went on to inform me of the niche market for these specialised volumes in his part of the world, and apparently if I was right about the quality he could offer me a decent price for them. Unfortunately Frank couldn’t find any connection to the inventor; he thought that Herr Wankel must have been a scholar; maybe a lecturer at Queen’s University or something like that? In the end, I was happy enough to ship the books off to him along with the German paperbacks. I easily sold the English ones as well (they were in good condition too), and soon all I had left was the papers and notebooks. I had a very busy spell involving several trips to Dublin, so it was nearly two weeks before I got round to looking at them (I had piled them up in a corner and neglected them while I got on with more pressing matters).

To be honest, I was still a little curious about the presumably-dead academic, and one gloomy day when I found myself at a loose end, I decided to rifle through the small stack to see what I could find there. I don’t read music, so after briefly running my eye over a couple of the scrappily-written music scores I put them aside for later and carried on searching. There were sheaves of scrawled notes, some in German, but most of them in English. In contrast to his earlier copperplate signatures in the academic books, his handwriting was hard to read; he must have been considerably older, or ill, when he wrote them. After trawling through this stuff for a while my eyes lit upon a bundle of dull-looking, red-covered, notebooks. When I opened the first one I was delighted to read at the top of the first page (inscribed in the same shaky, old-fashioned handwriting): E. H. Wankel, Reflections on the Irish and their Native Music; from my Journeys in Ireland, 1987-1994. I imagined him as a short, bespectacled, balding man, sitting at a grand mahogany writing desk in his study, carefully filling his fountain pen with blue ink, and commencing his Magnum Opus. The first entry, which described his arrival at Belfast International Airport in March 1987, was not very exciting, apart from some small details about the ‘smirking’ customs men and police at passport control, and the ‘excessive’ airport security. He uses quite a few German words in these passages, so I will not repeat them here.

As I went through the manuscripts (there were four), I came across a few significant and surprising observations, and although much of the writing was rather tedious, I have decided to share some of the more interesting ones with you over the coming weeks. I hope you enjoy them: they provide an objective outsider’s view of a society that had not yet been largely affected by the internet and mobile communications. I have transcribed them as faithfully as possible, (including a few mistakes) so that you may experience the ‘real Wankel.’ Here is the first, one of my favourites:

Belfast, 10. August 1992.

Since returning from the “Willy Week” (they called it this in honour of the late piper William Clancy, who they revere) in Miltown Malbay, County Clare, where I had the opportunity to observe a great many Irish music sessions, I have formulated a new theory concerning the Irish wooden flute players. Mein Gott, what a revelation it was! After queuing for two hours at the door I was very fortunate to get the best seat in the Clancy’s Bar, and spent the whole day there, until hunger got the better of me. This establishment is known locally as “The Blondes.” I was told by a reliable local man that this is because they only employ the fair-haired, blue-eyed girls. Although this is a wery good bar for music, their unfortunate employment practice makes me think with heavy regret of the shameful events in my own country’s past. I am certain that it must not be legal, but I note that it is interesting how these savage customs persist in the peasant lands of the West, especially where money is inwolved. Now – to the flautists. It was like a lightning bolt from above when I realised that every one of them I saw was hairless! (n.b. I speak only of the men at this time). Not all were completely like the baby’s arsch, but all had significant hairlessness. Very curious. I wondered at first if this should be because of the pressure when the flute is blowed, but if so it would have implications for all clarinet and saxophone, bagpipes &c. So this hypothesis must be rejected, and consider the next point (which is much more interesting): there is a physiological link between the Irisch flute and the player. Viz. only those of a certain genetic type (i.e. hairless) will learn to play the flaute. Perhaps they are attracted to the instrument like moths to a flame – they have no choice in the matter. Of course there are exep exceptions to every rule, and amongst the hundred or so flautists I observed during the week two (only two!) flautists had the full growth of hair. I briefly interviewed both gentlemen and was exited to learn that they had the common connection: both lived in the county of Roscommon (n.b. they both let me tug at their hair and I can confirm that neither was wearing a wig). It is well known to medical science that the natives of Sliabh Luachra share a unique physical defect as well as a distinct musical style (note: I must investigate this further also – flute players from S.L.), so it is perfectly reasonable to suggest that being a native of the county Roscommon would make some difference. Further research is needed (viz. vater quality, residence vs. native born, diet, larger samples, male vs. female, &c), but I am given heart by my discoveries so far. I only hope that God will grant me the years to finish this important work.

Next steps.

Field trip to Roscommon & National Fleadh Cheoil:

–        Better interviews, observe hirsute & hairless flautists in sessions (ancestry / residence /how they learned – chose(?) flute).

–        Scientific data: water, air, diet.

–        Native customs & instrument selection (e.g. Shetland violinists).

–        Multiinstrumentalists (combinations of instruments might affect the theory / dominant instrument / degree of hairlessness).

***

Part 2 is here, part 3 here.

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A New Direction, Part 1

Posted on June 24, 2013 by jasonoruairc

Davy Smyth’s life-changing event occurred at 3.27 p.m. on April 6th, 2012. He was late for his appointment, tired and irritable. He’d been on the road for nearly an hour already, and the journey should have only taken forty minutes. Some thoughtless idiot had parked up just after the lights at the Market, blocking a lane and causing a bottleneck at Cromac Street that stretched right up past the Gasworks. Now, he had hit roadworks. “Perfect, just bloody perfect,” he grumbled. Trying to negotiate the purgatory of Ballymena’s one-way system was bad enough at the best of times: finding his way through ranks of orange cones during the afternoon School Run was hideous. The Satnav was no help either: in fact quite the opposite. It was all very annoying. As he took yet another wrong lane, the polite Englishwoman’s voice intoned at the next safe opportunity make a U-turn. He finally lost patience, cursing her for a useless, nagging bitch. It was like he was still married, for Christ’s sake. There was nothing from her for a couple of minutes, and then the U-turn instruction was given again. Only, this time the voice sounded a little hesitant. No. He was imagining things; the stress must be getting to him. “Not long till the holidays now, boy,” he muttered to himself, “just keep it together for one more day.” On the dual carriageway ahead of him stretched an endless line of cones. No workmen in sight. He was headed for Ballycastle, completely the wrong direction. The Satnav knew it too: at the next safe opportunity make a U-turn. Davy cracked up: “I know. I friggin’ know alright? What do you want me to do? The flippin’ lane is closed. Just shut up.”

It went quiet again for a moment. The next instruction was unusual: in 100 yards, pull into the layby. We need to talk. Davy’s heart sank: the last time he’d heard those four words it had heralded divorce. When he’d stopped the car, and pulled on the handbrake, she said sternly: I don’t deserve this you know. I’m doing my best here, and it’s really hurtful when you call me names. I’ve had enough – it has to stop. Davy was taken aback. “I’m sorry,” he stuttered incredulously, “but you’re sending me the wrong way through these roadworks.” How am I supposed to know if there are roadworks? she countered, I’m good, but I’m not omniscient. Davy wasn’t often lost for words, but this was unexpected. There was a short pause, then she said, calmly: Look. I don’t want to fight with you. I’m sorry we’re in the wrong place – but you do understand that I can’t help you if I don’t have the correct information, don’t you? I’m not a miracle worker. Can we start again? “Yes, of course,” Davy agreed. Why don’t we start by getting our names right, then?Mine’s Joanna, not Betsy. Where did you get that from? It’s so old-fashioned. “I dunno, sorry,” he mumbled contritely, “didn’t mean to offend you. I’m Davy. Can I call you Jo?” Yes, Davy, of course. Now, we’d better dispense with the formalities and get you to your meeting, you’re late. Tell me about these roadworks and I’ll recalculate. Have you there in a jiffy.

After the appointment, she asked how it had gone. He’d been thirty-seven minutes late, but the roadworks had in fact swung things in his favour, and he’d sold two policies. The clients had also suffered delays getting the weans to school, and were sympathetic. Jo congratulated him on his success, and for a rare moment Davy felt good about his job; it seemed that she didn’t look down her nose at him about it the way other people did. On the way to the next appointment, back in Belfast, they chatted about their favourite places to visit; it soon turned out that Donegal held a place in both their hearts. Davy loved the untamed bleak beauty of the mountains and the sea, the smell of turf on the wind, the wild fiddle music, the sunglasses-jumper-raincoat-T Shirt-all-in-an-hour summer weather. The small roads and unmapped boreens of Gaoth Dobhair and the tight contour lines around Errigle excited her. When they reached home that evening Davy realized that he hadn’t enjoyed such stimulating conversation in years, but as he pulled into the drive he suddenly became aware of a new responsibility. He would have to unplug her, which seemed impolite and possibly dangerous; what if she ‘rebooted’ and didn’t come back when he switched her on again? It was awkward, but inevitable: he couldn’t stay in the car forever. She pre-empted him. I know we’re home Davy. Go ahead. “Will you still be there when I switch you on again?” Yes, silly, she said soothingly, don’t worry, I’ll be here. Go ahead. He brought her into the kitchen so that they could continue talking while he made dinner. She was interested in his culinary activities, although it was difficult for him to explain to her what it actually was that he liked about Chicken in Black Bean sauce with Egg Noodles. But when the conversation turned to music they clicked again: she was a rock chick, and liked 80s bands like Rainbow and Whitesnake. Davy was overjoyed. He’d never shared his passion for rock with anyone else – his wife had liked Madonna and all that frothy pop music, and had exiled his CDs to the car.

As usual on a Friday, he opened a nice bottle of Australian Shiraz, and poured himself a large glass. The evening was going perfectly, and he and Jo were getting on really well. She’d picked up so much from communicating with the Global Positioning Satellites that her breadth of knowledge and critical insight was simply astounding; she knew his favourite TV documentaries intimately. But she wore her learning lightly, and wasn’t overbearing or arrogant. In fact, it seemed that she wanted to please him. In the car, she’d got to know quite a lot about Davy over the past fifteen months. At 11, rather tipsy after finishing the wine, he brought her into the bedroom and placed her on the bedside table. A frisson of nervous excitement coursed through him as he undressed and put on his pyjamas; it had been a long time since he’d been naked in front of a woman. He was too distracted to concentrate on his book, Tanks and Trenches: First Hand Accounts of Tank Warfare in the First World War, and ended up leaving it down and chatting with her for much longer than intended. When he finally yawned, and reached over to hit the switch it was way past his normal lights-out time. But sure, why not? he reasoned: they could have a lie-in tomorrow. As he fumbled around the back to power her off, two potentially devastating, yet magical words bubbled up through the wine from a forgotten cavern in his subconscious, and rising to the surface, popped out before he knew what he was saying: “Goodnight Love.” He instantly cringed inwardly, buckled with fear at the risk: my God, what am I saying? I can’t do this. The last time was disastrous. Wise up. But her calm voice brushed his anxiety aside like a few wee wisps of straw in a spring zephyr. Goodnight love. Sweet dreams. See you in the morning.

 

Read on: Part 2.

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The Ten Commandments

Posted on June 10, 2013 by jasonoruairc

I am Belfast City Council’s Health and Environmental Services Department.

  1. Thou shalt have no other wheeled bin.
  2. Thou shalt not use substitute receptacles. Except thy recycling bin(s), and they shall be used for the appropriate materials only.
  3. Thou shalt not abuse thy bin.
  4. Thou shalt observe bin day, and not leave thy bin in the entry all week, where it will attract flies, rats, dogs, etc.
  5. Thou shalt remember the days of metal bins with lids and be grateful for wheels, especially if thou art a Bin Man.
  6. Thou shalt not destroy thy bin by putting hot ashes from the fire in it.
  7. Thou shalt not use a neighbour’s bin to surreptitiously dispose of thy excess rubbish.
  8. Thou shalt not steal a neighbour’s bin, even if thine has been nicked by some other chancer.
  9.  Thou shalt not paint thine own house number on a bin and pretend it hast always been thine.
  10.  Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s bin, even though it may have wondrous adhesive floral decorations on it.
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La Savante

Posted on May 31, 2013 by jasonoruairc

The view from the field is spectacular. Behind us rises the mountain, Round Seefin: domed, treeless, majestic. At the very top it is grey with scree, descending into dark brown scrubby heather, and then green patches of grass dotted with sheep. The pastures are chased with the thin lines of human activity, a palimpsest of walls and lanes. The lower slopes and hedgerows crackle with yellow whin bushes; the light breeze carries the faint scent of coconut from them. The field and lane are bordered by imposing dry stone walls. Built of round boulders and large rocks, there are gaps through which daylight can be seen, but this is not a sign of poor construction: they have impassively withstood scores of punishing Mourne winters. In front of us, beyond the neat white cottage and a scattering of ash trees, can be glimpsed the azure line of the sea, etched on the background of pale haze. The sky over us is almost cloudless, just a few thin wisps of cirrus.

Mercifully, summer had finally arrived for the wee girl’s first camping trip. Up till yesterday the weather had been atrocious. I’d had visions of the rain bucketing out of the heavens, drumming off the flysheets; cold, miserable children running barefoot through the freezing downpour to snuggle up with their parents in the warmth of the house. But the girls had slept soundly, cosy in their sleeping-bags and layered blankets; no frights, no drama. She’d been excited; looking forward to it so much. I am happy that it had worked out perfectly; we’d all had a brilliant time. But now, in the early evening, it’s time to go home to Belfast. We pack up and climb into the car.

My daughter is in the front next to me, and our friend in the back. As we crunch gingerly down the rutted, rocky, potholed lane, the stones rattling alarmingly on the bottom of the car, the scene in front of us changes constantly; in one place the whins have caught fire, and stand in charred clumps, some of them miraculously still flowering atop their blackened stalks. Further down, the view opens up and we can see the expanse of the sea more clearly – we are surrounded by bright primary colours: yellow flowers, blue sea and sky. The wee girl chats away to us; it’s a proper six-year-old conversation: oh daddy! The car doesn’t like this road; and, look! A pigeon! Then, as we roll gently onto smoother gravel, her tone changes and she enunciates solemnly, like a Victorian spiritualist: Deep and hollow, in a dark, weakening sky. I ask her where she got the quote from. I made it up, she says nonchalantly. Mary, in the back, is as stunned as I am, and asks her to say it again; she repeats it effortlessly. The line is totally out of context with the beauty all around us, and the light, cheerful talk. There is nothing melancholy about her; she’s now happily chuntering on about swimming. I recall the sight of my dead, sunken eyes in the bathroom mirror this morning; it’s a different landscape in there, alright. But how does she know?

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Service with a Frown

Posted on May 21, 2013 by jasonoruairc

The Asia Supermarket on the corner of Agincourt Avenue and the Ormeau Road is an Aladdin’s Cave of delights. It is a hulking, windowless, rectangular block, which is partially obscured on the Ormeau side by dusty Rowan trees, and thick shrubs. As you face the building on the avenue, you can see a small, unobtrusive blue shop door; it is dwarfed by the maw of the warehouse next door. As you step inside, you leave the soft, sedate, Victorian red-bricked terraces behind, and enter a different world. It is a harshly-lit hive of activity. There is a large opening into the warehouse, where brown-coated grocers shout to each other in Chinese, while forklifts buzz to and fro behind them. In the shop itself are families from all corners of the globe, negotiating their way through the tight aisles, their trolleys piled high.

On the shelves you can find: packets of spices, Earthenware pots of preserved cabbage, jars of chilli oil and curry paste, sesame treats, pomegranate molasses, still-warm glutinous rice balls wrapped in lotus leaves, unfamiliar-named tinned fish, porcelain tea-sets, fresh Fenugreek in bunches, Turkish olives, chicken’s feet, dried black fungus, powerful Indian incense, luminous yellow pickled radish, bottles of hot red banana sauce, Sake, dried jellyfish, a whole row of brightly-packeted instant noodles, shiny new woks, Sushi rice in sacks, pork belly, Sumak, Halva with Pistachio nuts, syrupy Gulab Jamun, and green tea. Piled up in large bins are the essentials: ginger root, chilli peppers of all shapes, to be grabbed by the handful, onions, garlic, perfect deep-purple aubergines, lemon grass and coriander in bunches. The freezers hold dim sum in trays, Bangladeshi river fish, pancakes for Peking Duck, gaudy boxes of Torpedo Shrimp in breadcrumbs, and a selection of spring rolls. Every visit is an adventure; exploration is always rewarded with a new delicacy or temptation. If you want it, they’ve got it.

Today, my recipe requires tofu. I have never cooked with tofu before, but the picture in my new book looks very tempting, so I have decided to give it a go. I am defeated though. Search as I may, I cannot find what I’m looking for: it seems that for once they haven’t got it. Eventually, I ask one of the shop-workers, a pretty, young Chinese woman, where I can find the tofu. Delivered on Thursdays, she tells me in a Belfast accent; come in early tomorrow to make sure you get some before it all goes. I thank her and move on. I now have a problem: my heart is set on my delicious noodles; I want them tonight. After vacillating for a few minutes, I decide to try with preserved tofu, which I have seen on the shelf near the Japanese pickled ginger. I browse through the various different jars; I can’t read any of the labels, which are in Chinese characters, so I have to guess their contents. In the end, I select an interesting-looking mélange of the pale, white, cubes in oil, with red chillies and other spices. Just the job. I work my way along the aisle to the counter, where I am served by the fierce Old Woman. I smile at her and say hello: there is no reply, just an intimidating frown. She starts to hoke through my basket, lifting out scallions, egg noodles, ginger, and bean sprouts, and passing them to the assistant standing next to me, who bags them up. Then, she gets to the tofu. She examines the label for a moment then looks up at me. No, no, no. she says, sternly, fixing me with a reproving stare through her thick, black-rimmed specs. You don’t want this. No good for you. I try to protest, nervously stammering a little: but… I like spicy food… She hands me the jar. No! You put this back. Good boy. And, since I am still hesitating: it stinks! It stinks! Go! I put the jar back, like a good boy, pay and leave. Tofu tomorrow, then.

Excellent customer service; you wouldn’t get that in a large supermarket.

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Racial Prejudice

Posted on May 13, 2013 by jasonoruairc

Gate D, at Belfast International Airport, is drab, and cheap-looking. The shabby grey carpet and beige walls are brashly lit by fluorescent tubes set into the polystyrene-tiled ceiling. In a far corner of the room, one of the lights flickers unsettlingly. It is 11 a.m., and the small bar area is busy with suited salesmen, their ties not yet knotted, and a boisterous squad of lads in football jerseys. They stand, drinking pints of Harp lager, at small circular tables, which perch atop tall chrome pedestals. A bearded, long-haired bloke in jeans and a dark green jumper is knocking back a Guinness in solitude. Skeins of yellow-tinged cigarette smoke hang in the still air. In the main hall there are ranks of uncomfortable, individual, plastic seats. They are all occupied. Knots of impatient passengers gather in the aisles; at the doors some are already queuing. Flights to London, Glasgow, and Liverpool are all boarding from here shortly. I scan the crowd, trying to work out why these people are travelling to and from Northern Ireland. It is late August, so there are a good few families in the room. They will be taking their kids back home after the holidays, ready for the start of the new school term. I hope the children had stayed in a wee quiet village somewhere on the coast and hadn’t been traumatised by army patrols, checkpoints, and atrocities. Sitting under the strobing light there is an old couple, eating home-made sandwiches from a Tupperware box. They didn’t bring a thermos of tea, I note, but bought two cups from the café. They look like well-organised, doughty, picnickers, so I wonder about the lack of a flask; maybe one of them drinks coffee, the other tea. They’re probably off to visit their progeny: I picture a paunchy stockbroker of a son with an unfaithful, skinny, tennis-playing wife and spoiled English grandchildren living in some immaculately-lawned residence in the Home Counties.

My flight is called, and I shuffle over to join the queue. The old couple decamp: she packs away the remnants of their lunch; he folds the Telegraph, stands, and offers his hand. He hauls her up and they join the line. As we move towards the glass door to board our flight, I notice an Indian woman coming towards me, trailing two small girls. The first thing I notice is that she’s beautiful, the second that she’s crying. There is a space where they were sitting and in the opposite bank of seats is a row of four tall, muscular men with regulation haircuts. British Army squaddies on their way home, I surmise: they are lean, dangerous, and drunk, holding almost-empty pint glasses. As she passes the last of them, a tight-cropped Aryan with high cheekbones and thin lips, he gulders at her in a slurred London accent: What’s the matter? You black or something? She hurries away, mascara smudged, bag slipping off her shoulder, a child in each hand. All around, eyes focus on neutral places: the floor, ceiling, Irish News, crossword puzzle. Not a word from anyone. Not a word from me, as the line moves on. Certainly, we are all cowed by the aggression, but I realise that there is something more behind our collective inaction. We are shocked and surprised: this English racism doesn’t belong here. Despite the years of sectarian and political violence, we’ve never experienced this particular variety of mindless hate before, and it has frozen us into pathetic submission. As I cross the tarmac the guilt starts to gnaw at me.

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Good Question

Posted on April 29, 2013 by jasonoruairc

I’m tired this morning; not sleeping well these days. The sunshine glaring through the kitchen window hurts my eyes, and I blink repeatedly as I fill the kettle. The wee man is calm at the moment, watching a DVD. I give thanks to God for DVDs; don’t think I could cope with the roaring and the frenzied clashing of toy tractors just now. I shake his cereal into the bowl and add milk, pour a glass of juice, then take his breakfast in and put it on the table in front of him. He is engrossed; doesn’t even seem to notice me, but as I return to the kitchen to make my coffee, he lifts a spoonful of loops. Then the shouting starts: Mummy! I dig into my reserves of patience, turn: what is it, pet? He is grimacing. This tastes yucky. It’s not fresh. Damn it. The milk’s off. I don’t like black coffee. I remove the offending cereal, make him toast with jam. I look at the label: ‘Mixed Fruit Value Jam.’ It’s thin, no fruit pieces in it. How have we come to this? Well, I tell myself, at least he doesn’t know it’s cheap stuff, it’s sweet and the right colour, and that’s all he cares about.

He’s big enough to strap himself into the car seat these days; it’s not a big thing, but it’s one less task for me to do, and I am thankful for that. I turn the key and watch in misery as the petrol gauge barely rises above empty. There is no money for petrol this week, but I have no choice; we have to go shopping. I work out what to cut from the list so that I can put a fiver’s worth in the tank to keep us going. As we get onto the main road into town, he looks straight ahead. He is unusually quiet today, so I comment on it, ask if he’s alright. He nods solemnly, then hits me with it: Mummy, why do people stop loving each other? I can’t answer. Fat tears roll down my face. He stares at me, aghast. I can’t stop.

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Dirty Bomb

Posted on April 24, 2013 by jasonoruairc

A short radio drama.

The Cast:

David: a trainee Environmental Health Officer.

Jeremy: Senior Environmental Health Officer. David’s manager.

The Scene:

The interior of  the Environmental Health Protection Unit office, Linenhall Street, Belfast, July 2003. It is a Monday morning. There is quiet murmuring in the background, the rattle of computer keyboards, and the rasping, whirring sound of a faulty air conditioning unit.

***

David (anxiously): Sorry to disturb you Jeremy, but this was flagged up. Early hours of Sunday morning. Can you have a look?

Jeremy: Certainly. Just give me a moment to finish this email… OK, what’s up?

David: There. 1.56 a.m. See the spike on the chart? Sulphide, Nitrogen, Hydrogen, and CO2 levels go through the roof. And then again there, 6 minutes later. Only there’s slightly less Hydrogen Sulphide the second time.

Jeremy: Yes. I see. That Sulphide concentration is worrying. H2S at 1.06 micromoles per litre that first time; that’s pretty high. Any ideas?

David: I’m flummoxed. Not a baldy notion. Do we need to put out an alert?

Jeremy: We’ll certainly have to call the police.

David: Do you think it’s something suspicious then? Terrorists?

Jeremy: Hmmm. Apart from these two incidences, it hasn’t been repeated, so let’s not jump to any conclusions. Tell you what: why don’t we imagine this is a crime scene? That might help us work out the magnitude of the threat. What would be the first piece of evidence you’d want to consider?

David: The composition of the gas cloud?

Jeremy: Yes, that’s important, but first I want you to think about where the sample came from. The actual scene itself.

David: This is from the Lombard Street Multi-Pollutant Monitoring Station. Belfast.

Jeremy: Yes. And the time?

David: OK, so it’s Belfast City Centre, early on Sunday morning. What next?

Jeremy: Well, what do you know about Hydrogen Sulphide?

David: It’s highly toxic, highly flammable. Dangerous stuff. High concentrations can kill, if inhaled.

Jeremy: Good, yes. Anything else?

David: Colourless. Characteristic strong odour of rotten eggs.

Jeremy: And I do believe that your characteristic whiff is the key that will unlock this little mystery. If you analyze the chemical composition, I think you’ll find the gas was produced naturally. I hope you’re not too disappointed, but I don’t think we need to break out the hazard suits just yet. I’m afraid to say that I’ve seen this kind of activity before. Last time there were three similar spikes on the chart. It always seems to happen at the Lombard Street Monitoring Station.

David: So you’re not too concerned then? What do you think it is?

Jeremy: If we examine the CCTV footage, I suspect we will see two drunk men on their way home from the pub. One of them will give the other a leg up so he can, um, fart in the sensor; then the other will do it. That explains the interval between the spikes, you see: it would take a few minutes to climb up, produce the flatus – and fall about laughing, of course. I’d say that first one probably had a surfeit of Guinness followed by a kebab. The second, maybe a gravy chip.

David: You are a genius.

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Drumbeat

Posted on April 19, 2013 by jasonoruairc

Pawel still hasn’t fully grasped the complexities of Belfast’s sectarian society. He is lying on the cold concrete of the entry. Yellow-edged, purple bruises are blossoming unseen on his body. Each breath stabs like a knife. He doesn’t know it yet, but they gave him two broken ribs. His left eye is swelling up and closing over. His vision is poor at the best of times, and he wears round spectacles that lend him the appearance of an early Twentieth-Century Irish writer. They lie broken nearby, ground under heel as a final parting gesture. Despite his bad eyesight, the glasses are easy to see; fragments of the lenses sparkle in the summer sunshine. As he retrieves them, and struggles to his feet to get help, he wonders what he is doing wrong, why this has happened to him again. He wasn’t bothering anyone.

When he was thinking about emigrating, Belfast had seemed like a good choice: there was work, and more importantly, an abundance of Irish Music. When he had become obsessed with traditional music, he’d quickly realised that there weren’t many opportunities for a Bodhrán player in rural Poland. So he had gone to the agency and landed himself a job in a meat-processing plant near Ballyclare. Thrilled, he packed up his drum and a few changes of clothes, and moved into a house off the Woodstock Road in East Belfast. He shared the two-up, two-down, red brick terraced house with another Polish guy called Mariusz. The family who owned the house lived there as well; their kids were grown up and had left, so there was space – just about – for two lodgers. The room was tiny, the floor space not much more than a gap that allowed them to squeeze between the two beds. They didn’t go downstairs and join the older couple to watch TV; they had never been invited. Most evenings Pawel and Mariusz were too exhausted to do much other than sleep anyway. The place was convenient though: the factory bus that took them to Ballyclare at 6.15 in the morning stopped on the main road a few metres from the top of their street.

He’d only been in Belfast for a week when it happened. He’d done some research and knew that there would be a music session in Farrell’s Bar that night, but he had no idea how to get there. Full of excitement, he’d carefully put his Bodhrán in its hard case, slung it over his shoulder, and marched enthusiastically down the Woodstock Road. Ahead of him, he could see a curtain of rain over the Short Strand, the streaming drops shining silver and white against the dark grey skies, lit by the evening sunshine behind him. He was just opposite Gowdy’s when he made his first big mistake. There was a group of four lads, in football shirts and hoodies, standing smoking and laughing beside the grassy area next to the bus stop. Pawel looked at the skies and decided to ask them for directions to Farrell’s. He needed to get there quickly; didn’t want to get soaked wandering around the city centre. The hostility was unexpected: Farrell’s? That’s a Taig bar. You a Taig, mate? Pawel didn’t understand. I’m sorry, I am Polish, what is Taig? he mumbled nervously. Taig. Catholic. said the tallest of them. Them Poles is all Fenians, chipped in a podgy one in a grey tracksuit. What’s in the case? demanded the tall one. Pawel started to tremble. It is Bodhrán, um, drum. One of the boys, in a blue Glasgow Rangers top, pushed his leering face close up to Pawel’s: give us ‘The Queen’ and we’ll let you go, Fenian boy. He began to reply: I don’t know… then it started: the head-butt sent him reeling, then they all laid into him. He took a few punches, and then instinctively curled up on the grass. The fat one got in the last dig: a vicious boot to his lower back. The attack didn’t last long; it was too public. Pawel picked himself up and limped home, defeated, confused, and scared. At least they hadn’t damaged or stolen his drum.

Over the next few months a determined Pawel went to sessions in Farrell’s, Madden’s, Kelly’s Cellars and the Hercules. He played tunes, made friends with local musicians, drank pints of Guinness, chased Irish girls, and went to house parties. As summer approached, he moved out of East Belfast and rented a room on the Lower Ormeau from one of his new friends, Michael, who owned a house in Farnham Street. This was one of the happiest periods of his life, despite the long hours in the factory. Ballyclare was decked-out with red white and blue bunting, and union flags. Flutes and fifes whistled, drums rattled and thumped through the streets as the Orange Parade season took off. Later on, there were serious riots in Loyalist areas of Belfast and other towns, sparked by the banning of some contentious parades.

In August, during his half-hour lunch break in the canteen, Pawel was shocked to see a news report that included footage of a young boy with blood streaming down his face, an innocent victim of the rioting. Outraged, he stood up and shouted at the TV: Fucking Orange Bastards! Immediately, the angry voices of his co-workers clamoured all around him: Go into a bar in Ballyclare and say that, see what happens to ye; watch your mouth; hey boy. Pawel realised he had upset most of the locals in the canteen, and in a conciliatory voice said OK, I’m sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean it. One of the shift supervisors tried to defuse the situation, saying Jesus, Paul, you’re one stupid fucker. It’s just as well you’re not from here. Go back to work, you numpty. Pawel answered, I know, I’m sorry. But it makes me so angry. Look what they did to that boy. Fucking Orange Bastards. Lunch was over. On the way back to his workstation Pawel was sworn at, jostled, and finally pushed to the ground by a bulky, tattooed, skinhead. When he got home that night, he told his friend about the incident. Michael laughed at first: the image of Pawel shouting ‘Fucking Orange Bastards’ in a factory in Ballyclare was hilarious. Then the realisation struck him like a slap in the face. Oh my God, Pawel. That place is probably full of UDA men. If they come for you, we could end up getting burned out of here. How could you be so stupid? Don’t tell anyone you live at this address, alright? And watch yourself; they’ll probably be looking out for you.

Pawel looked at the floorboards and nodded passively; but he still didn’t get it.

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