The Two Charlies Go To Belfast

17 March 2013

643

R. Linda:

In me quest to supply you with stories, it seems life doesn't move fast enough. Even me usual sources for a good "yarn" seemed dried up. I don't know if it be everyone be getting ready for the big Irish day today or that everyone has a job and their nose be to the grindstone.

So scraping the bottom of the pickle barrel, I sat there munching on the very last one, and I was thinking about Ireland and all the excitement for the big day coming in Dublin. I cannot say I have been to Dublin for St. Patrick's Day, but I hear it can be a blast if you be a tourist. Otherwise, this very holy day on the rest of the Island is celebrated quietly compared to the celebrations in the States. I think Dublin has enlarged her parades and such to accommodate the Americans who come over thinking this be the entire island's biggest holiday. And as an enterprising race when it comes to the tourist, the Dubliners in particular are there to please. Americans want a big festive day, they'll give them one, just bring some green of their own -- the almighty dollars.

Meanwhile, up in Norn Iron (Northern Ireland) the day passes pretty much ignored. What's a Paddy to do? The grumpy "British" population is spending it as business as usual. Well, this munching on me last dill or as me boyo says, "dull" pickle, brought bubbling up from the bottom of the pickle barrel a story. I remember having a conversation with a friend some years back where he was complainin', yes complainin' that he was disappointed in finding his tourist self in Northern Ireland on St. Patrick's Day. His tour had been to Dublin and then set off quicker than he could say, "Mrs. O'Leary was his mam and owns a cow too!" and there he was sitting outside Town Hall in Belfast City. Just sitten' there he was like a bump on a log, he and the missus. They had been dropped off (which seems to be the tour guide way of doing things) to have a look around the old historic place, maybe have a spot of lunch or a wee dram of something good for you, OR (and I rather thought this was interesting) "mingle with the locals for a wee bit of light-hearted chat." Em . . .

So Charlie O'Leary was born of Irish parents and the first son to be born in the good old U.S. of A, and he knew nothing about the country he was visiting, he trusted his Republican driver and took up the advice. But first, they sat on the bench looking around discussing (by use of their tourist map), which would be the best place to go. They had four hours to kill and after perusing the map they decided to go to a little place called Sandy Row. It sounded like a fishing spot, so they thought pretty river Lagan ran through a scenic part of town. Yes, they did think that. Maybe there they'd find a local open celebrating the day they were missing in Dublin.

Off they went, catching a black cab and telling the driver to take them to a pub on Donegal Street in Sandy Row. The driver took a momentary pause at the name of the pub, and he was somewhat suspicious his fare didn't know where on earth they were going. The driver asked where they be from and such and you know the small talk that goes along with it. So the driver is getting himself an education he is all about what Americans tink of da old sod (I know I be getting Irish, but this be an Irish story, so bear with me). Charlie and wife Charlene (yes, the two Charlie Chaplins they became known as, but you'll see), are all chatty about how dey are all about sight-seein' and how much they are enjoyin' da trip and how sad it will be ta leave and all dat.

Now the cabby, one Nigel Twombly was tinkin' to himself dat dese people had no clue where dey had him drivin' them to. He even suggested that if Sandy Row be the place, he'd recommend the Royal Bar dere. But no, that's not the pub they had decided on, they wanted local flavour so local flavour it would be. The cabby was suspicious he had a Catholic fare in the backseat, but money was to be made and well . . . he had asked, so he pulled on down toward Sandy Row when all chatter in the backseat stopped. He pulled passed this very slowly so the Charlie's could read and self-educate. . . or not:

Oh not too threatening now is it if ye be a Catlick?

And the only peep out of the backseat was Mrs. Charlie saying, "Oh my."

As Nigel drove deeper into Sandy Row the amount of Union Jack flags had both Charlies thinking they were suddenly transported to England. They pinched each other to make sure that wasn't the case and the "Oh my's" coming from both of them finally got an "Oh my God!" in unison when they stopped at a crossing for a good-sized crowd carrying placards much like this:

 

Yes indeed

Making their Catholic selves as small as possible, and making the sign of the cross, they watched as the good size parade disappeared down the street with the shouting and chanting fading into the distance.

The cabby grunted and put the motor in gear and pulled on down to where the local was located. He pulled to the curb and turned toward the huddled O'Leary's and said, "That'll be £9. There is yer pub," (and he pointed to it) as Mr. O'Leary got his pound notes and counted them out. Mrs. O tentatively opened her door and stepped out looking in the direction of the "parade" and then noticed the arches over the street and down as far as the eye could see with banners of flags, buntings all touting the Orange Order and worse the UFF! With Mr. O in tow, they quickly stepped into the pub.

I be sure the cabby wanted to tell them that Catholics were a rarity, but for some unknown reason (perhaps it was the hiked-up fare) he neglected to tell them that. He pulled off shaking his head, but well, they wanted to go, he took em', he had his fare, end of story for him.

Once inside the pub, the Charlies thought maybe a St. Paddy's Day celebration might be in full swing, with the old standby of corned beef and cabbage, some Irish stew, Riverdance music, some Irish dance maybe, but no, it was rather quiet. Their eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness and as they shuffled toward the near-empty tables they noticed standing at the bar, a long line of black clad men as they had come in all the chatter had stopped. A cough or a clearing of the throat was about the only sound made over the shuffle of the couple's feet as they reached a table and Mrs. O squeaked at the men, "Is it okay to sit here?" All eyes were on Mrs. O and the barkeep was the only one said, "Fer sure! And wot kin I git ye?" The O'Learys exchanged glances and said a Guinness each please, to start.

"Ye may want sumting stronger," the barman suggested with a wink.

And both Charlies kind of thought they might so they ordered two shots of Jameson.

"Em . . . no, none of dat 'ere. How bout Bushmills." The barkeep said not making it a question but a statement that Bushmills was the whiskey of choice. Jameson? Ach no!

The men turned their backs and went back to their discussion as the barman brought over the Bushmills and the beer and asked if they wanted lunch. They both nodded afraid to open their mouths and the man gave them the short list of "bangers and mash with bubble and squeak, or the Sandy Row Special." All very British.

"Uh . . . what is the special?" Mr. O asked.

"Dat would be our steak and kidney pie wit a side of chips."

"No Irish stew?" Mr. O asked taken aback (for he was growing very fond of Irish lamb and after all, it was St. Patrick's Day). His wife (while he was finding out about the menu items), had realised just what kind of locals they were amongst. As she glanced around the walls she noticed a distinct military theme to the place. There were pictures of men in balaclavas holding rifles, there were men in the same dress kneeling in front of huge murals, there were newspaper headlines that said things like, Home Rule Crisis, Ulster Volunteers Men of Courage, Call to Arms in the Shankill, Orange Order Parade Route Disputed and the topper, a huge Union Jack spread across the ceiling. She kicked her Charlie under the table to shut him up before the barman could even answer.

"We'll both have the bangers and mash with the bubble and squawk."

The barman grinned at the inaccuracy of his menu but went off to call someone named Andrew to get two orders up. Meanwhile, the O'Leary's nervously sipped their beer whispering to each other how they were going to get back to north Belfast. Now let me say when two people you have never seen before come into your local pub and start whispering with their heads together if you are anyway associated with any of the Orders of Orange, you get a mite suspicious you do. Well, one or two of the boyos at the bar had nudged the nearest to them, and once again all turned in the direction of the two Charlie Chaplains who, Mrs. Charlie seeing the unwanted and suspicious looks they were getting, broke off the whispering, but Mr. Charlie not facing the boyos at the bar, kept on and this had Mrs. Charlie sitting still as a statue, eyes growing larger as two of the boyos started in their direction.

Both went to the table next to her, which made her sigh with relief, but then her heart began to pound when they scraped the chairs to sit on either side of her and Mr. Charlie.

"How nice, guests," Mr. O smiled genuinely excited to be about to partake in that local flavour he had heard so much about. As for Mrs. O she was sitting in stunned silence, feeling like she was about to faint.

"Sos howzya?" The man on Mr. O's left asked.

Neither Charlie knew what on earth he said, but they nodded and smiled like two dummies they did.

"Whereya frum?" Asked the second burly boyo.

"Where are we from?" Mrs. O asked to be sure, "Oh we are AMERICANS." She said loudly hoping that made it all better.

"Oh yeah, frum where?" The second boyo asked.

"We are from Boston, Massachusetts . . . USA . . . " and when nothing was forthcoming from the two meaty Irishmen, she said, "That's across the pond."

"We knoe where it 'tis." The first one said a little too aggressively. "A lot of Irish in Boston."

"Oh yeah quite a few," Mr. O said oblivious, "Lots of em'. Almost as many as here." And he laughed, but his table companions did not include his wife.

"So wot affiliation are ye? I mean ye are Irish Americans are ye not? Because why else woodya be here." The first man said with a false laugh.

"Uh . . . affiliation?" Mrs. Charlie asked with apprehension.

"Yeah, we understan' dat a lot of the Irish in Boston donate to certain organisations."

"OH like the Hibernians!" Mr. Charlie said like it just dawned on him.

The two laughed, and said, "Ay, like the Hibernians."

"Not the American Protective Association?" Someone from the bar shouted.

"Never heard of that, have you dear?" Mr. Charlie asked Mrs. Charlie who shook her head vigorously that no, she hadn't.

 "You a member?" The second asked the Charlies. "Of the Hibernians?" He clarified.

Well, no neither were but Mr. Charlie wanting to fit in said, "Oh yes, yes, the Hibernians. We go to the annual dance every year."

"Ach! Dat would be a fundraiser of sorts dere eh?" The first man said.

"Oh yes, yes, I would suppose it is." Mr. Charlie dug his trench deeper.

"And dose funds are sent here." Said the second man brightly.

"Oh yes, yes, I suppose they are." And he leaned in toward the man and winked, "I would think the money is used wisely."

"Oh fur sure it 'tis," said the first boyo looking at his friend sitting across from him.

"And wot doo ya tink the Irish over 'ere use dose monies fur?"

"Well, I don't know exactly," Mr. Charlie said, feeling in his gut something wasn't quite right.

It could have been because the line at the bar was suddenly surrounding the table. Hum.

"Ah, fur sure an take a guess wot all dat Irish American Hibernian money be used fur." Someone said.

"I really don't know." Mr. Charlie said looking around.

"I don't either," Mrs. Charlie said. But that was all right, the conversation took a life of its own over their heads.

"George, ye tink it's used to help da church?"

"Wot church wood dat be dere Alan?"

"Why da Catlick church."

"Em . . . probably dat and ye knoe so mooch money dey must 'ave sum left over fur da IRA. Rioght?"

"OH the IRA," Mr. Charlie said, "That's probably it!" It was like a light bulb had gone off in his head, much to Mrs. Charlie's horror, because she was well aware by then, that they were not surrounded by Catholic lads, no indeed, they were in the wrong place at the very wrong time. And oh how to stop her husband from having their throats slit out back. But he was unstoppable.

"SO when do the St. Patrick's Day festivities begin?" Mr. Charlie asked all enthused, looking from one frozen smiling face to the other.

"And wot festivities might dey be? Oh, dats rioght boys it be da green shamrock day. Hey, Johnny, ye don't have a handful of shamrocks pinned ta yer collar. I don't see any of yas wearin' da green."

"Well," Mrs. Charlie piped up, "look at the time, we really must go." She had had enough and knew if dancing was mentioned, it would be her and Mr. Charlie becoming the entertainment when the guns came out.

"Ye haven't had yer loonch," the barman said bringing it over as Mrs. Charlie stood up excusing her chair bumping into the man standing behind her. "Oh that's all right we are out of time," she said looking at her wristwatch, "Time flies, so we'll pay the bill, and why don't all of you enjoy." And she smiled as she gathered up her coat and purse, but Mr. Charlie sat with his mouth agape.

"Charlie, I am enjoying the locals here." He said to his frightened wife in a perturbed voice.

"Well dear, you will have to bid them goodbye because we have to get back to north Belfast and well, it looks like a long walk."

"Must ye go so soon? We were just gittin' started," someone said.

But Mrs. Charlie was halfway to the door, no she didn't even wait for her husband, she had figured if the old fool wanted to dawdle with his new "friends" she was at least getting to safety on her own. Well, Mr. Charlie paid his bill and tab and took the time to shake all hands, yes he did, and then whistling the only tune he knew thinking to impress his new Irish friends, he strolled out the door, but it was This Day God Gives Me, an old Catholic refrain to St. Patrick. Oi! And it took a minute or two for someone to recognise it.

"HEY!" Someone shouted, but Mrs. Charlie had just pulled her whistling husband out the door.

When Mrs. Charlie heard the shout as her old man came out the door, she told him to "RUN!" And they did, both of them, Mrs. Charlie in breathless need to enlighten the ignorant husband as they pounded up the street. The boyos had all come out with their beer jars and stood watching them take off three blocks before they finally slowed down. They had a laugh they did. They thought the whole episode funny and there be many a way that tale is told in Sandy Row these days. But I know who the two Charlie Chaplins' are, yup I do. Mrs. O'Leary will tell the story, but Mr. O won't. He's very embarrassed he did not know enough about where his family was from to know better. Though it bothers him greatly his own nationality doesn't get along. Mrs. O sits and reflects each time she tells it. Never a giggle or a laugh, it all frightened her so.

But in hindsight, the Proddys knew they were tourists, they knew they didn't know any better, and they also knew they weren't a part of the troubles. It seems they were amused. And that was a good thing, probably the only good thing that came out of a trip by two ignorant tourists to a place they should have known to avoid.

Sigh. Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Gabe
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