Ahoy for Joy (2 page)

The female officers, who also served in the Boys' Brigade, would mainly manage the kitchen tent headed by Miriam, the Captain's wife. She was a harsh looking woman who managed to conceal the sympathetic side of her personality with as much success as she revealed her uncompromising commitment to the high standards of performance and respect she expected from the boys. This made her a formidable and feared defender of all things central to the camp, the preparation of food being the most important (in her opinion) and the serving and consumption of it being the second most important.

The northern edge of the marquee was the business end with the entrance just on the adjacent wall to the east and away from the coastal draughts. This would stay open at all times save for very poor weather and the marquee when not in use for formal meetings, consumption of food and religious praise was an open, accessible and central meeting point at all times of the day. The kitchen tent was situated just behind the main north wall, so that food could easily be carried around and through the main entrance for serving of the meals.

Finally, those who had completed their tasks already, were put to work carrying the trestle tables, benches and chairs into the marquee before setting about preparing it for use. The tables were all placed parallel to the north wall, such that the benches were facing either, towards the front or back and these would be the boys' seats, with those facing the back being required to turn one hundred and eighty degrees during praise or when the Captain or other officers were addressing the camp. The officers' tables were positioned at the front. These were of the same trestle design but they had conventional chairs and all faced towards the centre of the marquee, such that they could watch the boys as they ate. The tables were then covered with woven plastic tablecloths of a red gingham design and clipped at the sides to prevent them from being blown away should the wind rise up, the marquee walls being of only partial protection. Finally, the last item to be located was the organ which was diligently carried over and carefully placed at a forty-five degree angle to the perpendicular opposite the main entrance.

Once fully set up, a Boys' Brigade camp of the late 1970s was quite a sight to see. Years of experience and military precision, designed and commanded by men, but largely carried out by boys had turned the farmer's field into a living, working camp capable of surviving weather of every kind as well as just about every other occurrence likely to happen where over eighty people of vastly dissimilar ages and backgrounds, set about living for a week under canvas on the north west coast of England.

At around 5.00pm, a coach liveried
Marlor of Lancaster
, arrived with a further fifty or so boys on board. These were mostly younger children, who had taken a more leisurely route to camp and stopped off for some sightseeing on the way, together with a few more officers who had supervised the travel. They alighted the coach, one by one carrying all sorts of personal belongings before dragging their far-too-heavy suitcases to their allocated tents. After a while, they emerged, dressed in their smart Boys' Brigade uniforms. These consisted of a dark blazer (usually their school jackets sufficed) white laundered haversack with a diagonal strap about two inches wide that attached to a tiny pouch with a brass button that sat just below a leather belt around the waist. The belt bore a shiny brass buckle at the front embossed with the Boys' Brigade symbol, of an anchor, and motto; “Sure and Steadfast,” and was worn tightly over the jacket holding the haversack in place. The uniform was completed with a blue cap, best described by the boys themselves as a ‘Thunderbirds' cap due to its similarity to those worn in the television series of that name that was popular at the time. The officers wore uniforms too, of dark blue suits with Boys' Brigade emblems on the collars.

“Where is Michael Coglan?” shouted the Adjutant as he rushed around, “where is Michael Coglan?” Michael moved forward. “Ah, Michael, would you like to be the bugle caller this year?”

Michael looked confused, his eyes almost meeting those of the busy officer.

“Come on, you know. Sammy usually does it, but he's left now. You have to sound the calls for camp, assembly, reveille and that.”

Michael stared. “Hello, hello. For God's sake Michael, why won't you ever speak?”

Michael shuffled nervously. “Is there no one else who can do it?”

His words sounded awkward and stifled in his ears like they were not his but those of an imposter seeking to take on his persona towards dubious ends. How he hated BB camp. Here there was no hiding in the calm of solitude where his mind could wander toward placid lakes. Instead this would be a week of pressured babbles of incoherent conversation and unwelcome incursions into the only peace he knew which lay within.

“Michael, if I could get someone else to do it, I wouldn't be asking
you
, now would I?” He smiled encouragingly, leaving a short pause he knew instinctively would yield agreement from the young lad.

“Seriously though,” he went on, “it is pretty important and I need someone I know I can rely on.”

Everyone was different and the Adjutant was adept at understanding every boy in the company and the required process for acquiescence which he customised to perfection. But Michael was a different challenge. He had never met anyone so nervous and withdrawn, or anyone who looked so pained that he might burst into tears at the sound of authority.

“Come on. Here, tie this to your bugle.” He handed Michael an elaborately woven rope of burgundy and maroon, which Michael looped in place, pulling the cord tight around the body and leaving the tassels dangling. The bugle had been in the company for many years and handed down from boy to boy as were aspects of the uniform such as the belt and haversack. Michael's Dad had seen to it that the bugle was polished to perfection prior to the trip and with the battalion colours attached and the warm summer sun glinting on the shining brass, it did indeed look like a very fine instrument.

“OK then, let's hear it. Call assembly.”

Michael slowly lifted the bugle to his mouth and pursing his lips carefully, sounded the familiar notes that could be heard throughout the camp. Michael had seen Sammy do this many times before, heard it sounded many times more and responded to the very same call at every camp he had attended. Still, he was surprised as boys and officers too, hurried towards him from every direction, filing past and into the marquee for the formal opening of camp.

Michael stood fast and as they passed by and a rather unsuspecting sense of pride came over him. He did look smart with his uniform, perfectly turned out as always, the gleaming instrument in his hand, adorned with colours and tassels. They were his notes everyone had responded too. It was he who had commanded camp just now.

“I am the Trumpet Major,” he muttered to himself. “Well the bugle Lance-Corporal at least.” He looked across the valley towards the town and out to sea. He looked at the high trees behind, at the town below and at the cottages in the distance to the north. It was indeed a fine sight to see.

“The Trumpet what?” asked a voice breaking his solitary thought. It was Fred, a skinny boy about a year younger than Michael, who persisted in attempts to engage the quiet boy in conversation and was one of the few with whom he interacted at all.

“The Trumpet Major. It's a novel by Thomas Hardy. We're reading it at school. It's about this girl, Anne Garland, she's called, who can't decide which bloke she fancies.” He stopped talking and paused, his mind drifting as he looked around once more at the surrounding countryside; S
he could be out there right now looking up at us setting up our camp like the soldiers in the book. She could be out there looking up at me, with my smart uniform and my shiny bugle glinting in the sun, flashing random reflections over the meadows.

“Any good?” asked Fred, interrupting Michael's thoughts once more.

“Pretty sedate really. It's set in Dorset during the Napoleonic wars.” He stopped once more, musing to himself, rather surprised, more at the positive flicker in his mind than his sudden willingness to share the literature he spent so much time reading, “he does really bring the Dorset countryside to life though.”

“Is this Dorset then?”

Michael smiled. “No, this is Lancashire I think. Dorset is down in the South.”

“What, the South of
Ireland
?” Exclaimed Fred vexed.

“No, not the South of
Ireland
, the South of
England,”
replied Michael exasperated. “Dorset is in the South of
England
.”

“Alright, alright! I just didn't want you reading about everyone chasing after some wee
taig
from the South”

Michael shrugged. He could see Fred's slow thought process was evolving.

“Napoleon, he was the French guy, right?”

“Yes he was. Invaded most of Europe, ‘till Wellington defeated him at Waterloo. You wouldn't have liked him though. He was definitely a
Fenian
!”

“Waterloo, like the Abba song?”

“The very same!” said Michael, “Come on, we better head inside.”

Michael and Fred took two of the last seats in the back row, shunting the boys along the bench to make room.

The Adjutant sat at the organ and pedalled. With a creak and a grunt, the bellows filled, the first chord was sounded and the Boys' Brigade camp of Morecambe 1978 burst into song:

While they were singing and unnoticed by any in the marquee, the five bar gate opened once more and two rather overladen, small cars drove through. The occupants gazed briefly at the white tents and could hardly have missed the sounds of the organ and singing, before turning left and heading down hill to the far end of the long field.

Four young men, aged around 18 or 19, got out of the first car. They had long hair and wore blue jeans and T-shirts with bright slogans and images printed on them. Two more boys similarly dressed emerged from the second car, quickly followed by two girls, younger than the others. For the second time that day, a bewildering array of goods emerged from inside and on top of vehicles and before long, a second camp had been struck in the farmer's field overlooking Morecambe Bay.

The night time, just after
lights out
in the boys' tents, was always a mixture between torment and chaos, especially the first night of camp when spirits were high from travel and the boys still well slept from the relative serenity of home life. For the younger boys the experience was closer to torment. Activities such as
blacking
, the application of shoe polish to various parts of the anatomy, or
whiting
, the equivalent but with toothpaste which if gotten into the eyes, was quite seriously distressing for the victim, were popular. In between there were of course the thumps and punches, often over zealously applied to aid capitulation and all of course carried out with the unreasonable odds of the many upon the one. More usually, the process was carried out in near silence for shouts and screams were the equivalent of
grassing
to the officers, a crime which was bound to carry a much greater punishment to be meted out later in the week.

Invariably the youngest boys at their first camp would be left sobbing into their pillows, begging for their mothers' arms. For the older boys the choices were to participate in the bullying, a kind of perverted revenge for the assaults received themselves in younger years, or to just lie back and snooze, feigning disinterest hoping that they would avoid becoming the victim of a concerted attack, perhaps where personal resentments that had built over time were settled.

Such resentments did exist, for besides the usual arguments and disagreements, BB members came from all different backgrounds and in terms of social class, almost every group was represented. The church from which the company mainly recruited was situated in an area where the demographics were changing fast. The families of some members had been attending for generations and were drawn from the affluent classes of merchants, factory owners and managerial professionals that used to live in the large residences close to the city centre. These people had long since deserted the area and moved to the leafy suburbs with more modern housing, improved law and order and the calmness and serenity of tree lined avenues, neatly trimmed hedges and flowers and shrubs blooming in the gardens. But traditions hang heavy in Belfast and many would still travel across town to attend church, offering generous financial support in return for Christian witness and perhaps an element of stability in an uncertain world.

By the late 1970s, the area surrounding the church had become further run down and ravaged by sectarian violence and social unrest. Many houses were empty. Some were grand ornate residences of yesteryear that now stood still and silent, their windows boarded, now home only to a town fox or two. Others were squatters' pads, occupied more by drunks and outcasts than Bohemians and revolutionaries where the muffled sounds of nonsense chatter could still be heard in the dead of night. The shops in the area were now mainly of a specialist nature, selling car parts or second hand furniture and there was also a huge cinema, the subject of a bomb blast several years earlier, that stood on the corner of the main road, a burnt out shell, like a giant monument to a society that had gone horribly wrong.

There was only one shop, a general store, that served the local community in any way and it sat grey and lonely with dim lights inside and windows protected with huge mesh trellises, more resembling an army barracks than a retail outlet. While a stoic working class still existed, the area was now predominantly home to the downtrodden of society, those without the means to move out or to others, underperformers, social misfits, or those who just sought low cost housing. Unemployment was high, prospects dire and the streets dangerous. Still the church persevered with an unwavering resolve, a combination of Christian commitment and dogged determination not to let the gangland culture win. As a result new members were found from amongst these groups. For many young men of the day, the Boys' Brigade represented a perilously thin line between a life of honest endeavour, albeit a challenging one and one of misplaced political action, or just good old fashioned crime and punishment.

This lead to a diverse membership, almost irrational in its range, from the privileged elite of Belfast society who would go on to attend the top universities throughout the British Isles, with the prospects such an education offered to others whose life opportunities would be limited to humble occupations, or more often unemployment. This fractious mix of society would meet and function on a weekly basis pursuing activities including regimented drill, team games (volleyball was popular) and badge classes.

Michael had never been that sure where he might fit in such a diverse group, but he did know he was different, quite different from most or even all of the boys there. His tacit intellect and thoughtful sensitivity was like a red rag to the rougher kids more adept at functioning in high spirited, streetwise environments, who considered him privileged and accused him of pretending he was
better
than them. This was far from the truth for while he had won a scholarship to a good school and his family had enjoyed some past wealth, such affluence was a distant notion of which Michael had no memory. Today, while he hailed from a loving home, the financial pressures were if anything more severe than for others in the Company. As well as this, he was a deeply troubled young man whose personal motivation in all aspects of life seemed somehow to have become lost in a shady past he understood more through feelings and emotions rather than relationships and events. He was awkward, insular and his ability to function socially, rather limited.

Tonight however, as he lay awake in his sleeping bag listening to the stifled squeals of the victims and the sadistic sniggers of the tormentors, he was left alone. Maybe it was his age; he had just turned sixteen and was really now one of the older boys. Perhaps it was some new, subconscious authority his bugle provided with its polished brass form, now adorned with the grandeur of the battalion colours and the clear sharp tones of command that had echoed throughout the camp earlier in the day. Or, maybe the others had just become bored with beating on the quiet boy who never fought back and had turned their attentions to the more animated squeals of the new quarries that the camp supplied each year. He turned his face to the pillow.
Perhaps he should intervene
. No one had
ever
intervened, not really, perhaps for fear of the wrath of the group. But for Michael, whatever his circumstances, he never found peace of mind. He felt shame. He wasn't sure why, but he felt it all the same. Shame, loathing,
self
-loathing were constantly dominant in his mind, but he just didn't have the courage even to comment or plead for restraint. Fear pervaded his senses, and an abject sickness swelled in the pit of his stomach bringing tears to his eyes. Finally, he curled up and eventually went off to sleep.

*

Michael woke early the next morning, much earlier than the others. Indeed, he had slept well, and he almost chuckled to himself as he set about checking the guy ropes. The sky was a deep blue once more and the sun rose behind the trees to the east promising a fine summer's day ahead. He sucked in the cool, early morning air, his lungs keenly absorbing the oxygen, waking his body and his mind. The birds sang in the trees and the scent of wild flowers wafted across the silence of the camp seeking his nostrils like they had a message for him.
Maybe this year's camp would be better
. He felt an emotion, almost new to him.
An unfamiliar feeling
. He felt wary of it and at first pushed it from his mind, the way he had always done. For as long as he could remember, he had crushed any positive emotion with an ardent resolve for reasons he neither knew nor challenged. Today however, it returned, persisting like a seedling, pushing through the soil and feeling the warmth of the sun's rays for the very first time. Michael felt positive, hopeful even.

BB camp was a regimented affair with a set timetable throughout the day consisting of sports, games, sightseeing and competitions. Breakfast and evening meals were always held in the marquee and included a sprinkle of religious worship, usually a hymn and a prayer, but evenings were mostly free.

However, the day always started with camp inspection. This involved the comprehensive cleaning and tidying of the tent interior and providing the weather was fine, would include the rolling of the brailing. To do this, the sides of the bell tent were unhooked from the ground, then neatly rolled and tied with cotton strings to the underside edges of the great canvas roof. This allowed the tent to be brushed out and all the bodily smells of youth to disperse quickly into the surrounding air, a welcome cleansing in preparation for the coming night. Once complete, with no visible sides, this made the canopies look like they were floating on air, like giant Chinese lanterns rising from the heat of the land. The white canvases set against the multi-coloured hues of the countryside with rows of well turned out youngsters ready for inspection in their dark uniforms with glinting adornments to their apparel, was a distinct source of pride to the officers who gave their time freely in the guidance of the young.

As the second oldest in the tent, Michael was de facto second in command. The tent leader was Derek, an affable young man when it suited him, but dim witted and harsh towards those smaller and weaker than himself. He was a year older than Michael, and had left school already having been fortunate enough to secure an apprenticeship with a plumber in the city. Michael's father had also started out as a plumber's mate, so they had perhaps something in common, though he had never thought to mention it.

Derek was ambitious to see that his tent would win the coveted inspection prize this year, but despite Michael's cooperation, he did have his work cut out for him. There were always one or two boys in the company that no one seemed to really know where they came from.
Little squirrels
, Derek called them. They attended irregularly, were always filthy and stank, not entirely of the body odour of poor personal hygiene, but of a wretched, abject neglect. Uniforms were never cleaned, brass was tarnished and shoes went unpolished. On Mondays one of the officers, who should surely be admired for sheer dedication, would pick them up for parade night activities from their broken homes in unsafe parts of town where parents were often absent or drunk. Sometimes a woman in pyjamas would greet the officer with a cigarette dangling from her mouth, quickly ushering the child out of the door. Other times, some aggressive, burly bloke could tell him to ‘eff off', causing a brief glint of concern for his personal safety. For these children, abuse of every sort was part of their daily lives and where they lived terror organisations ruled the streets, feeding their finances from the local community and recruiting vulnerable youngsters to fight for their
cause
.

For these boys, who always appeared younger than their years, looked thinner than the other boys and for whom the simplest of tasks always seemed a struggle, the abuses of BB camp held no fear and the tent leader's threats had little effect in raising standards. One such boy in Michael's tent was called Johnny. Michael showed him how to fold his sleeping bag. Folded, then folded again into four, he demonstrated. On top would be placed the towel, again carefully folded, then the bible on top of that. Johnny's towel was filthy and the bible absent, so Michael sent him to the marquee, to see Miriam, the Captain's wife to ask if he could
borrow
(Michael had emphasised) a bible for the inspection. In the meantime, he opened his can of
Duraglit
and sat down to polish the boy's brass belt and haversack button, buffing both quickly to a smart shine. Moments later, the lad arrived back, bible in hand and Michael laid it carefully on top of the towel.

“We'll try and get that towel washed for tomorrow, eh?” he sighed, looking at the child's blank expression. “Here, look, I've done your belt. Are those the only shoes you have?” He looked down despairingly at the lad's dirty trainers. Johnny nodded. “OK, don't know what we can do about that.” With that Derek entered;

“Jesus, you really stink, get out of the friggin' tent” he shouted kicking the boy hard on the rear end as he scurried for the exit. “Bloody miracle if we win, with him in the team.” Michael went outside with the boy's worn jacket in his hand, frayed at the edges and a few sizes too small.

“Here, get this on,” he sighed, holding the garment open, revealing the lining ripped and torn inside. In moments, Michael had him dressed with dirty haversack and filthy jacket complete with gleaming brass button and belt buckle.
Not sure that's an improvement
thought Michael thinking the contrast only emphasised the dirt.

The boys lined up, the older ones straight to attention, the younger ones suddenly afflicted by shakes and itches and little Johnny on the end, seemingly unable to even stand with his toes aligned with the others in the group. The Captain walked past slowly, standing before each boy, checking him up and down and making the occasional comment. He paused by Johnny, smiled warmly and moved on.

At last the command came:

“
Stand at ease
” and a short moment later, “
stand easy
.” The tent groups relaxed. Derek looked over at Michael and nodded, indicating behind him,

“What are those tents doing down there then? I thought this was supposed to be our site.”

Michael turned and gazed down the long field. There was indeed a little collection of blue tents in a group at the far north end of the field beneath a giant oak tree that grew out of the hedgerow like a great colossus watching over the land. It cast a welcome shadow over the site delaying the rapid rise in temperature that would make further sleep for the inhabitants impossible once the morning sun hit the canvas unhindered.

“Don't know. I guess the farmer was offered a few more quid by someone. I don't suppose they're doing any harm. They are quite far away.”