The Faithful Tribe: An Intimate Portrait of the Loyal Institutions

11. (#litres_trial_promo) Martin McGuinness and Breandán MacCionnaith walk the Garvaghy Road. (Dan Chung/Reuters)

12. (#litres_trial_promo) Robert Saulters, Grand Master. (MSI)

13. (#litres_trial_promo) Press Conference at Craigavon, County Armagh, 27 June 1997. (Belfast Telegraph)

14. (#litres_trial_promo) Garvaghy Road, County Armagh, 6 July 1997. (John Giles/?? News)

15. (#litres_trial_promo) Apprentice Boys Pageant, Londonderry, August 1997. (Mark Stakem)

16. (#litres_trial_promo) RUC versus loyalists in Derry, aftermath of Apprentice Boys Parade, 1997. (Mark Stakem)

17. (#litres_trial_promo) Gerry Adams and Martin McGuinness at rally following Belfast anti-internment march, August 1997. (Mark Stakem)

18. (#litres_trial_promo) Chinook picking up soldiers from field above Drumcree church, 10 July, 1998. (Max Nash/Associated Press)

19. (#litres_trial_promo) Joel Patton and his supporters occupying the House of Orange in protest against the leadership, December 1997. (MSI)

20. (#litres_trial_promo) Protest march in Sandy Row, 6 July 1998. (Belfast Telegraph)

21. (#litres_trial_promo) Funeral of Jason, Mark and Richard Quinn, July 1998. (Pacemaker)

22. (#litres_trial_promo) Harold Gracey in his caravan at Drumcree, January 1999. (Martin McCullough)

Introduction (#ulink_0db07857-bc52-5dac-806e-969c2cd55581)

When I go to Northern Ireland, I’m looking back to my youth in the 1950s. I remember in Sheffield on Whit Monday when Protestant Sunday schools used to parade to a service and Boys’ Brigade, sea scouts, boy scouts, cubs, brownies, girl guides – scores of children walking past behind a banner carried by some adult. And we all used to go along and the preachers used to preach and everybody used to walk around talking to people you’d not seen for a year. I remember that from my boyhood and see a resonance of it in Northern Ireland. They are to some extent recreating the old virtues of family, sobriety, self-reliance, hard work and thrift.

It’s the Blue Remembered Hills: you can’t go back. We can all see that community and experience a sense of loss – because we know where we’ve come from. But it makes me feel angry that an entire community should be demonized for no greater crime than being out of fashion.

English Orangeman

AT AN ANGLO-IRISH CONFERENCE in 1996, I was standing in the bar with two Northern Irish Orangemen when a third came up and said: ‘I spent an hour last night explaining to X and Y [two intelligent and sophisticated members of the Dáil, the Irish parliament] why I’m an Orangeman. One of them has just bounced over to me and said: “We’ve been talking about you, and we’ve all decided that you can’t be an Orangeman. You’re too nice.” ‘ To which the second Orangeman replied: ‘I was in Dublin a while ago when someone in the group I was with who knew me quite well said: “Why don’t you tell those awful Orangemen to stop those parades?” When I explained that I was an Orangeman, they all said, “You’re not.” I said, “I am,” and they said, “You’re not.” “But I am.” “You’re not. You’re not. You’re not.” So I said, “OK. Have it your way. Obviously when I think I parade through Belfast in a collarette on the Twelfth of July I’m suffering from delusions.” ‘ And the third Orangeman, who had always believed the southern Irish mind was so closed it was a waste of time trying to explain anything, said, ‘There you are! What did I tell you?’

I spring from a southern Roman Catholic, nationalist tradition myself, but over the decades, I have become aware of my tribe’s effrontery and laziness of mind where Northern Protestants, particularly Orangemen, are concerned. ‘Why doesn’t the British government stop those dreadful bigots from strutting through nationalist areas?’ is the cry from people who’ve never met an ordinary Orangeman. And with the next breath they say that unionists have no culture worth talking about.

During the past few years, as I researched this book, I have met hundreds of members of the loyal institutions: the Apprentice Boys, the Orange Order and the Royal Black Institution. I have never known a community as misrepresented and traduced. In their pride and inflexibility, though, they have certainly given plenty of ammunition to their enemies. But then the qualities that enable people to endure a life under siege are not those that make for intellectual nimble-footedness and a talent for public relations.

Most members of the loyal institutions are ordinary, decent people, many of whom have endured extraordinary fear and suffering without becoming bitter. Many are among the finest people I have ever met and live lives that are an inspiring witness to their faith. And others, of course, are very bigoted and nasty.

Along the way I’ve asked Orangemen here and there what they hoped might emerge from my book. I enjoyed most the suggestion from the English Orangeman Mike Phelan, (who gave me the run of his library and his unpublished work on English Orangeism) that it should prove conclusively that compared to Orangemen the Knights of the Round Table were cornerboys. I’ve failed to do that, I’m afraid, but I hope I may have made some headway in satisfying some of my other advisers, like Henry Reid, who told me my job was to give an idea of the spirit of the ordinary Orangeman. Graham Montgomery elaborated: ‘I’d like it to show that Orangemen are just men and Orangewomen just women – just people. And that they can be terribly cultured people who go to the opera or holiday abroad or can be terribly pedestrian and watch the football and eat chips and watch Coronation Street and go to Newcastle for a short break. That they can be ministers or businessmen or lawyers or teachers or farmers or factory-workers – or, like Dr Barnardo, be philanthropists. That they cover the whole gamut of life in any society. That there’s something about the Orange that everybody, even outsiders, can identify with in some way. And that the Orange Order is something we’re involved in in our leisure time – something important enough for us to actually create leisure time for it.’

The Reverend Brian Kennaway added that he’d want the book to show that the Orange Order ‘is about more than parades; the perception in England and abroad is Orange Order equals parade. We are a people with our own identity and our own moral values, and we express those values within our institution. But we are also a people with a tradition and with rights and we are in the forefront of civil rights. Every Orange banner is a civil rights banner.’

Along the way, in trying to understand why members of the loyal institutions think as they do, I’ve had to acquire an understanding of the differences within Protestantism, get a grip on several centuries of European religious wars, look at Irish history from the perspective of besieged settlers rather than of the angry dispossessed and at British history from the perspective of the Puritan rather than the Cavalier. I’ve come to appreciate the virtues of a way of life that would never suit me. To anyone who believes that I am looking at Orangeism from too positive a perspective, I can say only that that is what I do in all my books: my biography of James Connolly, for instance, is sympathetic too, and I am neither republican nor socialist.

I have been much enriched by the whole experience. But I now know without a shadow of doubt that what we have on the island of Ireland are two tribes who might be from two different planets and that no amount of rhetoric will change that reality, however unpalatable it may be to wishful thinkers. It is not until men of violence give them the chance to learn mutual trust that the tribal mentality can be overcome and people can let go of the hatreds of the past.

For the most part, the tribes can be defined as being Protestant/unionist or Catholic/nationalist, though there are significant numbers of Catholics who are happy to remain part of the British state and a handful of Protestants who have become Irish nationalists.

I’ve interviewed many of the leaders of the loyal institutions, but I’ve been just as interested in hearing the views of innumerable foot-soldiers and their spouses. I can’t mention all those who helped me and there are, sadly, others, particularly in the border areas, who do not wish to be acknowledged in case they or their families are in consequence put at greater risk from thugs and terrorists from either side. But since they are readily identifiable anyway, I will mention the Reverend William Bingham and Janet, Edwin and Gail Boyd, Harrison and Beryl Boyd, Eric Brown, Bertie Campbell, the Charlton family, George Chittick, Johnny Cowan, Tony Crowe, Richard Dallas, Gerry Douglas, Tommy Doyle, Sammy Foster, Jackie Hewitt, Jack Hunter, Roy Kells, the Reverend Brian Kennaway and Liz, Alfred and Charlie Kenwell, Cecil Kilpatrick, Warren Loan, Gordon Lucy, Jim McBride, John McCrea, Lexie McFeeter, Chris and Joyce McGimpsey, Derek Miller, Lord Molyneaux, Gordon, Graham and Heather Montgomery, the late Jack Moore, Billy Moore, Noel Mulligan, Dave Packer, George Patten, Mike and Sue Phelan, the Reverend Warren Porter, Tom and Louie Reid, Bobby Saulters, Alistair Simpson, the Reverend Martin Smyth, David and Daphne Trimble, Denis Watson, Richard Whitten, Ian Wiggins and James Wilson. I am grateful also to Ian Black, Charles Fenton, David Griffin, the Reverend Gordon McMullan, Ian Wilson, Frederick and Betty Stewart, Cephas Tay, Hilton Wickham and all the other delegates to the Imperial Council who gave so much help. To all those other Orangemen and Apprentice Boys who gave me their time and trust, I give my thanks. It has been a privilege to be welcomed into a community as you have welcomed me and to know that you expect of me only that I tell the truth as I see it.

Among the non-Orange people to whom I owe thanks are Brian Walker, who took me to my first bonfire, and to various parade companions, especially Karen Davies, Rhondda Donnaghy, Bridget and Emily Hourican, Hugh Jordan, Shelly Kang, Gary Kent, Steven King, Gus Legge, John Lloyd, Paul Le Druillenec, Jenny McCarthey, Gerry McLoughlin, Úna O’Donoghue, Paddy O’Gorman, Priscilla Ridgway, Mark and Margot Stakem and James Tansley. I’m grateful too to the many friends who put up with me despite thinking I must be mad to have embarked on a project that took me away so often to squelch through mud in the company of religiously-minded men in bowler hats who keep making a fuss about walking down roads. ‘Oh, God, you’re not going Orangeing again, are you? Be careful,’ was the usual line. I’m particularly grateful, though, to the friends who listened, even if not always sympathetically, to what I reported back or those who told me I was doing something useful. Special mention must be made of two beloved and encouraging friends, Niall Crowley and Jill Neville, who died while I was working on the book, and of Paul Bew, Chaz Brenchley, Stephen Cang, Maírín Carter, Nina Clarke, Betsy Crabtree, Robert Cranborne, Colm de Barra, Barbara Sweetman Fitzgerald, Dean Godson, Graham Gudgeon, Blair Hall, Rory Hanrahan, Eoghan Harris, Kate Hoey, Eamonn Hughes, Sylvia Kalisch, Mary Keen, Liam Kennedy, Kathryn Kennison, Kuku Khanna, Janet Laurence, Gordon Lee, John Lippitt, Robin Little, Jim and Lindy McDowell, James McGuire, Janet McIver, John and Elizabeth Midgley, Sean O’Callaghan, Eoin O’Neachtain, Henry Robinson, Des Smith, Oliver Snoddy, Veronica Sutherland, Bert Ward, Julia Wisdom and my niece Neasa MacErlean. And Martin Mansergh kindly gave me the benefit of his researches into the Orange Order.

I am very grateful to David Armstrong, editor of the Portadown Times, Graham Montgomery, Sean O’Callaghan, Mike Phelan and Henry Reid for reading and commenting on the typescript. Along with Brian Kennaway, Graham, Mike and Henry have been the Orangemen on whom I have most relied throughout the last few years for help, hospitality, wit and honest answers to innumerable difficult questions. James McGuire, an historian of the seventeenth-century and one of the few southern Catholics I know who has close friendships with Ulster Protestants, has been the non-Orange equivalent. My brother Owen, who is notoriously generous with his time and his scholarship, took tremendous trouble, picked up several errors, filled in several gaps and engaged for about eight hours on the telephone in healthy disagreement with me about certain passages – most of which I amended. Not only is he exceptionally well informed about the subject, but his Catholic perspective was a very useful corrective: I greatly appreciate his support and encouragement.

It was Alan Ruddock, who as Irish editor of the Sunday Times first gave me space to write about the Orange Order, and Aengus Fanning and Willie Kealy of the Sunday Independent who have since he left been my main indulgere. I quote from or use here articles of mine in both papers as well in the Belfast Newsletter, Daily Express, Daily Mail, Daily Mirror, Daily Telegraph, Irish Times, Portadown Times and Spectator.

Michael Fishwick of HarperCollins took me to lunch to discuss a completely different project, listened to my babbling about Drumcree, and said: ‘That’s what you’re really interested in. Why not write a book about the Orangemen?’ Not only was he invariably sympathetic and helpful, but he did not even raise an eyebrow when he was given a typescript which was twice the length agreed. He was lucky that time did not permit me to do a proper job on Orangewomen or juniors, not to speak of the Orange Order abroad. My agent, Felicity Bryan, wanted me to do something far more sensible, but she gritted her teeth and as always, backed me up. The HarperCollins team including Janet Law, Phyllis Richardson, Prue Jeffreys and Moira Reilly, did me proud and my editor, Kate Johnson, who came late and over-worked to the project, was a pleasure to deal with and always laughed rather than cried.

But the name of my assistant, Carol Scott, should lead all the rest. Not only did she, as usual, look after me with patience and humour, but she listened to my stories, sympathized with the sufferings of my troubled Orange friends and readily accepted that Orangemen are people too. I hope others will show a similarly open mind.

1 (#ulink_36957ffd-1185-59bd-8b9e-071e96140edb)

Eight Parades, a Cancellation and Some Anthropological Notes from the War-zone (#ulink_36957ffd-1185-59bd-8b9e-071e96140edb)

I CAME TO THE LOYAL institutions bringing with me all the unconscious prejudices I had imbibed during a Dublin Roman Catholic

(#ulink_3bbe5e11-8e12-5614-b05c-fdeee86d5b55) childhood and a secular adulthood in London. The best way of explaining how my views have changed is to give my own parading history; so here is a cross-section of the dozens of parades, big and small, that I have attended. I have tried to show how my assumptions and attitudes changed along the way, so where I wrote at the time about a parade, I quote relevant extracts here.

1. Belfast, 13 July 1987

At the time I was chairman of the British Association for Irish Studies (BAIS) which, inter alia, sought to give public expression to all aspects of Irish history, politics and culture. Protestant and unionist perspectives received a decent airing at our conferences and public lectures, but we had never heard a positive view of Orangeism – a closed, unreadable and rather distasteful book to most academics. (‘For all I know about Orangemen after twenty years of living and working in Belfast,’ said an English academic friend to me recently, ‘they could live in burrows in the Glens of Antrim.’) So I thought I had better go and look at a Twelfth of July parade and see if I could understand what was going on.

Orangeism to me then represented thuggish, stupid, sectarian bigotry. I had a vague feeling that Orangemen were mainly working-class, and that aspiring unionist politicians cynically donned the Orange sash to help them get elected. People on the Anglo-Irish scene occasionally passed on the information that all unionist MPs, with the exception of Ken Maginnis, were in the Orange Order. Since Maginnis was and is a well-known liberal and one of the few unionist leaders to have friends in the Republic of Ireland, this was added evidence that Orangeism was for bigots only. It was ten years before I learned that Maginnis was in fact a member of a loyal institution with an even rougher reputation: the Apprentice Boys.

Northern nationalist friends spoke of the fear that gripped them on the Twelfth of July; middle-class Protestants and Catholics alike talked of how they always got out of town for the Twelfth and a Catholic friend from Portadown did a highly amusing imitation of an Orangeman swaggering along singing ‘On the Green Grassy Slopes of the Boyne’, with a chorus of ‘Fuck the Pope’, in which we all merrily joined.

It was sobering that no one wanted to go with me. Family and friends in London thought it another of my aberrations to want to look at a lot of dreary and possibly dangerous men stomping along in bowler hats and probably rioting. And my Northern Irish friends refused out of hand, except for one Protestant with an interest in political culture who agreed to take me to a bonfire on the night before the parade. Fortunately, my Dublin friend Úna is indulgent and adventurous, so she agreed to go north.

On an impulse, when I arrived in Belfast on Friday, I looked up the Orange Order in the phone book and presented myself at the House of Orange in Dublin Road. I was making a point for the sake of it: I expected to be greeted with distrust if not hostility. Instead I was given a friendly welcome by George Patten, the executive secretary.

I explained about the BAIS and asked some basic questions about how much work had been done on Orange history. What were the chances of an outsider ever being allowed access to Orange archives? I asked idly. George Patten shook his head. He was all for objective history, he said, but he couldn’t imagine the Order trusting an outsider.

Emboldened by his friendliness, I explained that Úna and I wanted to see the parade on Monday and that, being Dublin Catholics, we didn’t know where to go or what to do. Had he any advice on where we should sit? And how would we find out what was going on? Explaining that he himself would not be in Belfast, for he would be on parade in the country, Patten summoned a colleague who told me where we would have the best view: he would come and brief us for a while in the morning preparatory to joining his lodge.

I loved the tour of enormous bonfires on Sunday night. Perhaps I should have been offended that effigies of the Irish and British prime ministers were being burned as a protest against the Anglo-Irish Agreement, but I wasn’t. I had been rather uneasy that the two governments had made a deal without consulting unionists and that a mass demonstration of a quarter-of-a-million Protestants had been virtually ignored. Considering the massive sense of betrayal throughout the unionist community, burning effigies seemed a harmless way of letting off steam.

The following morning Úna and I seated ourselves on the pavement opposite Sandy Row – which I knew by repute as a street down which any Catholic went at his peril – and were soon surrounded by families and picnic baskets. There then arrived a contingent of five or six nasty-looking young men with tattoos, militaristic haircuts and rasping Glaswegian accents. They were carrying cartons of beer. It was a hot day and looked like being a long one so I nerved myself to ask where they had procured their supplies. ‘Sandy Row,’ they explained. It is a testimony to the insane levels of media exaggeration and extreme nationalist propaganda that I really thought that in the middle of the morning I was running a serious risk in exposing my Southern Irish accent in a Sandy Row off-licence, but I did, and only pride got me to my feet. The alcohol-buyers were a pretty rough-looking bunch, but everyone was perfectly civil.

When our guide arrived in his regalia, he explained a few basic essentials: that LOL on a banner or a sash meant Loyal Orange Lodge, that the numbers were originally related to the lodge’s seniority, and that temperance lodges were not necessarily composed of teetotallers but of people who disapproved of getting drunk. He told us that, contrary to what he understood was Catholic mythology, Lambeg drums were not made from the skin of Catholics but of goats. He stayed for about twenty minutes and then suddenly said goodbye and vanished into the middle of a group of men who looked indistinguishable from all the rest.

Úna and I had a good time. We sipped our beer and listened to the music and marvelled at the noise and colour and spectacle and tried to understand the banners. We took pleasure in the enjoyment evinced by the people all around us. I found the whole thing absolutely unthreatening except for some fife-and-drum bands composed of dangerous-looking young men, several of which, it was explained to me afterwards, came from Scotland. I felt uneasy, though, at the sight of small children wearing collarettes or band uniforms which, at the time, I took to indicate that they were being brainwashed in sectarian practices.

My martial blood was stirred by now and I was on for walking the five miles to Edenderry Field where the parade was heading, but Úna decreed lunch so we cheated and went later to the field by taxi. Even so, we were in time to walk up the lane for ten minutes with the last of the parade behind the Portadown True Blues, a tough-looking crew in military-style uniforms who nevertheless played with a verve that put a spring in one’s step. And when we reached the field we saw the arresting sight of hundreds of bandsmen and some Orangemen facing the hedgerows in a virtual semi-circle relieving themselves. Young fife-and-drum bandsmen, it was explained to me later, drink a lot of beer before and after parades.

We steered well clear of the platform and the speeches, skirted the picnicking Orangemen and their families and headed for the stalls. Having acquired red-and-white flags and hats saying ‘Keep Ulster British’ and ‘Ulster says No’, respectively waving and wearing them, we had our photograph taken at a stall and converted into keyrings. And when we had run out of amusements we headed back down the lane to find the taxi we had prudently booked to take us back to the city centre.

The ironic postscript came that evening in a restaurant. At the table next to us were half-a-dozen women having a very merry dinner with much wine and laughter. When we fell into conversation we found they were celebrating having made a vast amount of money running food stalls at Edenderry. They did this every year. And they were all Catholics.