Robinson - Teardrops on my drum

It was Liverpool on the twelfth of July, the Orangemens day. Thousands of people filled the city sidewalks. A boy stood on the edge of the pavement. He had arrived very early, anxious to miss nothing. Mounted policemen patrolled the streets, their highly-trained steeds groomed to perfection, leathers shining, harnesses glittering and chains burnished. The snorting animals and their uniformed riders filled the boy with wonder as they trotted and pranced, pushing this way and that to control the crowds.

When will it start? thought the boy. When will they come? Will they ever come? Will I see it all? Then, in the distance, he saw a banner billowing in the wind, like the great sail on a Viking longboat. It was supported by two large polished oak poles, hand-carved and tipped with brass and gleaming leather. From the tops of the poles came thick silk cords, stretching out to the hands of the other standard-bearers. The main poles were supported in special holster belts, worn proudly by the men marching beneath the wonderful colours and embroidery of the banner.

Then he heard the music. He heard the band and drums, heard the crash of marching feet in perfect step as if trained by a drill sergeant of the Grenadier Guards. The bandsmens uniforms were immaculate and they held their heads high as they approached the city centre. The tall drum-major tossed his baton high in the air; it was a superb baton, polished oak and silver crested, and every time it fell safely into the quick, white-gloved hands of the drum-major. Then he raised it high and made the long-awaited signal to the big drummers.

The crowd cheered. The powerful arms of the bass drummers bashed away at the quivering pigskin and the noise was thunderous. Big, broad-shouldered men, covered with the skins of tigers, lions and leopards, they would use their muscles for more than drumming before the day was out. As the side-drums and kettle-drums started to tat-a-tat-tat, abusive chants began to fill the air.

Thump! Thump! Paddy was a bastard! Thump! thump! Paddy was a bastard! Rat-a-tat-tat! Paddy was a bastard all his life!

The Catholics in the crowd retaliated loud and clear. He! Hi! Billy was a bastard! Billy was a bastard all his life!

The drums drowned the protests and the marching men sang on We are the sons of Billy and to hell with Popery! King Billy on his white horse screamed out from every banner, as Catslicks and Prodidogs relived the Battle of the Boyne. The parade came on and on: more men, more, bands more drums. The Netherfield Road contingent, wearing navy uniforms dry land sailors from the good ship neverbudge but no rabble, they were the toughest squad among the Prods. The skirl of the bagpipes warned of the coming of the Liverpool Scottish Regiment, kilted and spalted, with skean-dhus tucked into the tops of their stockings. They were Loyal Orange Lodge and proud of it. Men in bowler hats and business suits sporting the orange sash, veterans from the British Legion, Apprentice Boys, beautiful girls in white silk dresses, the parade went on and on

As the tide swept past a skinny-legged Mary Ellen, wrapped in her street-traders shawl, stared vacantly. She was singing to herself an old skipping-rope song; Mary Ann SHE! Mary Ann SHE! She locked her door and turned the key. Every few minutes she would step into the road and pick up steaming balls of horse droppings, keeping a wary eye open for the police. As she put the droppings into a straw handbag, some people thought she was simple but most knew that she was preparing for the big moment in the parade when a handsome young man would appear on a white horse, the King Billy of the day.

At last he arrived, the replica William III, escorted by six sword-bearing Scote. The crowd gasped, and then they were all singing: We are the sons of Billy, and to hell with Popery. The boy sang too. He didnt know who Billy was or wlhat Popery was but he knew the tunes he had heard them all his life. He knew that Paddy was a bastard and Billy was a bastard and wondered if everyone was a bastard. Were the mounted police on the great: black and chesl:nut chargers bastards?

The emaciated Mary Ellen stepped into the path of the King. Shit, shes going to throw the shit at King Billy! shouted the crowd.

Shove it down his fuckin gob!

Knock his friggin ead off!

She put her hand in the straw basket but a half-ton police horse knocked her flat. Ee Eye Ee Eye Ee Eye O! Ee Eye Ee Eye Ee Eye O! Paddy was a bastard, Paddy was a bastard all his life

The woman lay in a mess of blood, horse piss and droppings. Two St Johns Ambulance men carried her away, her shawl dragging in the gutter. The parade went on to fill the ferry boats crossing the Mersey.

The boy watched them go. Contingents from Toxteth, contingents from Speke and Everton, from every place he had ever heard of. Nurses and chaplains, boy scouts, girl guides, Wigan miners and Warrington brewers, men from Knotty Ash, Tuebrook, West Derby, PressC and St Helens He had seen enough. He turned and started the two mile walk home. He was tired and hungry, his bare feet were bruised and dirty, but it had been a great day. As he made his way up the hill to London Road, he wondered if there would be any food in the house, if his father would be drunk, if his mother would belt him across the ear for being out all day. A- Prescot Street he saw the teams of chain horses waiting at the bottom of the steep hill, ready to link up and help with the heavy carts carrying loads from the docks.

At the bottom of Brunswick Road he saw a single horse, straining under a massive load. The boy looked at the carter who smiled at him, so he began to push with all his might. A dock labourer on his way home from work joined in, then a young man added his weight. They stopped at the water trough outside Grants Gardens and the horse drank and rested a while. The docker gave the boy a package wrapped in the Last City edition of the Echo, and so did the cartee. The boy soon had them open. Bread and cheese and pickle, bread and marge and chunks of corned beef. Oly Jeezus, its my lucky day!

The boy sat on the edge of the horse trough and sank his teeth into the sandwiches. When he had finished eating, he picked up the heavy steel drinking-cup chained to the trough, rinsed it out and filled it from the tap. He was happy and he wasnt hungry. It had been a wonderful day. He ran and skipped the last hundred yards to his miserable home, singing, My name is Jackie Robbo and to hell with Popery. Tonight he would sleep well beneath the old overcoats that served as blankets, not caring about the fleas which shared them.

Vote! Vote! Vote for Harry Walker! He is the man to fight for us! Hes a solid Labour man! We will have him if we can! And well throw the other bastards in the dock! At eight oclock! In the morning!

The Kazoo band shabby, worn-out men, flat-capped and mufflered, with mouth-organs, comb and paper, coneshaped kazoos and penny whistles knocking out the tunes -marched down the street in their faded overalls, dusty down-at-heel boots and baggy trousers.

The intimidating words flew fast and furious. If you dont vote for him! We will bust your door in! And youll never ree your Daddy anymore! They carried sticks and cardboard pictures, and slogans that read Vote for Harry Walker! One of the men left the filthy gutter, stepped onto the pavement and thrust some leaflets at my dad. Vote for Harry! he shouted.

Go to fucken ell! raid my old man.

The ale-house ir open! raid his mate Billy.

Well come knockin at your door! sang the dusty bully boyr. If you dont vote for him

Billy Krilly leaned on his crutch, swung his one and only leg and staggered into the ale-house with my dad.

Whos Harry Walker? asked my young friend Doris Green.