I am Tom Calder, selling dilute orange and aged burgers to a dwindling crowd of true believers on the edge of a wood, a top a green carpet of sward, fertilized by faith.
Yer man in the white suit is the Big Man, Big Ian, you’ll have seen him jawing on time and time again. He doesn’t like catholics, much. Mind you he probably doesn’t have much time for the moslem or the jew niether. Especially if they came from Monaghan. Well, Great Protector, a catholic has just serve you tea. He smiled up at me and asked my name. ‘Tom Calder Mr Paisley, pleased to meet you.’ I thrust my hand a little eagerly towards him. He grasped it and squeezed with brotherly tenderness. ‘Good tea, Pilgrim, good tea.’ He was then hustled away by two young virginal Orangmen towards the flat bed where we watch him now. They held him at the elbows, as thought they were carrying a delicate chair.
He wouldn’t know I was born a catholic, have lived a catholic and my full title is Mr Tomas Fintan Callaghan. Then why would he? I wear no silver cross, no Padre Pio icons adorn my hot food vehicle and I bear no stigmatic signs. I slip unnoticed into this tiny crowd of bible readers as like a thief in the night, and serve them poor food and weak drinks to sate their diminishing appetites. I watch them congratulate themselves on their safety, until timely scolding reminds them of the need for constant vigilance. Then they look outward, to the edges of the field, but no one comes.
I remember last year, I was out the side of the van idly smoking a Regal, listening to the approaching bands, when a man, unsashed, idled up to me, tapping a smoke. After I’d lit his fag, he looked out over the field and spat into the grass and mud. He was dressed in gray slacks with, a cheap white shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal ‘Wynchurch Loyal and True.’ ‘Look at these poor fuckers, just look at them.’ ‘Sorry mate, look at who?’ ‘Not one of them has any balls. Peelers are useless, tied down. Put any of these fuckers in an H-Block and they’d start organizing a disco.’ I started to make the obligatory ‘I’m on your side’ noises, but this boy had axes to grind.
‘Think any of these would starve themselves to death for the cause? 72 days Sands lasted – 72 minutes with these and they’d be ringing a taxi to the nearest chippy. Look at them.’ He took a long last draw of his Regal, and flicked it between forefinger and thumb into the trees behind the van. He turned to face me, and I saw his eyes for the first time. ‘Born to lose’ he spat, half hoarse.
As if someone else, someone braver and more stupid, had become me in that minute, I reached out and gripped his elbow. ‘Don’t worry mate, it’ll be alright.’ His face changed from angst to a blank wall. I let go his elbow and he turned and left, perhaps for home, perhaps not. I turned to look into the field and saw the bands had arrived. I stepped up into the van, and turned up the fryer, there was work to be done.
Copyright: Hugh Odling-Smee
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