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Chief Street, Ardoyne

It must have been early in 1970 when we were moved to Chief Street from the

main school, because I was about half way through P.6. I think the move was caused

by the destruction of the schools mobile classrooms in one of the frequent spats.

They decided to move three classes, P.5, 6 and 7, over to an ancient, long closed, tinyschool that was still haunted by the mean, vicious ghosts of Christian Brothers.

Actually, I think Holy Cross was not really that crowded, as we ended up back there

the second time we were burnt out. That was just the cover story. There were always

cover stories. Probably, they feared awful atrocity in the parish and didnt want all

their eggs in the same basket. Priests are cunning and paranoid like that, I had

overheard one whispering to our teacher that we were all to be confirmed two years

early because- We fear a lot of them arent going to make it that long.

Chief Street was from a long gone and unlamented era. It had been built at one

side of Ardoyne Church, at the bottom of their garden, which was level with the

schools back wall; technically a ha-ha. The school was about fifteen feet above Chief

St., reached by inset concrete steps that seemed to go on forever. The building itselfwas one large room, divided into three classrooms by enormous wood and glass

partitions. There was a claustrophobic playground at each end of the little plateau the

school was built on, with outside toilets at the far end from the steps. I think it had

been built in the early twenties, the first Parish school before they built Glenard, out

of brickwork that bore the blackened, dull patina of old Ardoyne. It was cold and

damp and stank of guilt.

The trouble about Chief St. was that it was on the wrong side of the Crumlin

Road, actually in what was now protestant territory. The houses opposite were almost

all burnt out or smashed and looted and the walls were daubed with words assuring us

that this street was in Upper Shankill and taigs would not be tolerated on it. We

should never have been put there. I also suspected belligerence and territorialism

amongst the priests of the parish may have forced the move through. We had some

terrifying priests to whom young lives were well worth spending in a good cause. I

remember one howling from the pulpit that anyone who didnt come out at three

oclock in the afternoon to arm the people and give the Brits a bloody good kicking

was a cowardly blackguard who the Lord Jesus would no doubt curse and punish. My

family changed churches.

So there we were, living on the frontline. For months, Id had to go through

an IRA checkpoint to get into Ardoyne, complete with masked gunmen, concrete

pillbox and a tripod-mounted, belt-feed Browning machine gun, quite capable of

slicing a Saladin armoured car in half. I found the no-go area deeply comforting,refreshingly free of B-Special thugs, attacking mobs and Paras. Now I had to run a

new gauntlet every day. I was so glad I didnt have a uniform. We came under daily

attack in Chief St. Teenagers mitching from Sunningdale up the road were climbing

into the derries opposite and raining bricks and bottles down on us. Casualties were

daily, some kids were hospitalised.

They wouldnt let us stay in over break or lunch, one teacher said we had to

learn to fight. The protestant kids were about three to four years older than us, and

were above us or across the street in the derries behind smashed windows. Sometimes

we spent lunch flattened behind walls eating sandwiches while the playground rang

with glass exploding. Eventually we evened the odds with staple catapults and bolts.

Then they took to coming round behind us, through the church shrubbery and

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attacking us at point blank range from the shrubbery on top of the ha-ha. There was

no hiding from this kind of attack; we had to organise.

Somehow, a suggestion of mine was put into practice. We had a door into the garden

with a latch at our side only. We put three teams of four people armed with pointy

clubs up into the shrubbery at the start of any break. When the enemy came and

attacked, the teams leapt on them and beat them senseless. After a week wed won.The attacks from the back ceased and our clubbing teams had suffered no casualties.

We reckoned wed hospitalised three, but the clubbers may have exaggerated. It

didnt stop the attacks from the front, though they became less frequent and more

cautious. I got a stone in the eye from one of the houses that left me a bit bruised and

shaken. I told Mum I fell. If Id told her half of it, Id never have been allowed out of

the house.

Even inside the school was hardly safer, Holy Cross teachers were a vicious

lot and I never learned how to stop talking. I dont remember a day when I wasnt

beaten with strap or cane. P.7 was a cane year. Mr Cusack had a split cane with a

curved handle. A bitter republican misogynist with a beret and mackintosh, he had

been developing his sadism for years. Every time he broke a cane over your hand, hewould make a new one, splitting the end four inches with a razorblade and sellotaping

the very end. This doubled the pain, and the sharp, split edges would cut and splinter.

After three, you wouldnt be able to hold a pen for half an hour. Most kids howled

and cried after one, some screamed and couldnt stop.

The front wall of the school was about four feet high, of bricks sloping up to a

point. On the other side, it was quite a drop to the street. One of our games was to

drop things on passing foot patrols, well, pretty much on passing anybodies really. We

would also engage in traditional chanting, which was compulsory. One day, I

borrowed a tricolour which someone had smuggled into the school. Tricolours were

illegal in those days so there was much illicit pleasure in waving one. Somehow I

combined waving the flag, traditional chanting and the perfect dropping of a large

water bomb directly on to the head of a passing soldier. The whole foot patrol raised

their rifles and came flying up the stairs.

I ran the length of the school and hid the tricolour behind a cistern in the

toilets. I just lost myself in the lunch crowd when the brits spotted me and

frogmarched me to the teacher, threatening to run me in or do me in unless the flag

was surrendered. I swore there never was a flag and that they were lying brits. Total

denial until the evidence is uncovered seeming by far the best policy. The teacher

screamed at me to do what they said. I felt sorry for the squaddies, they were just

stuck here and I really had nothing against them. I just had to play Ardoyne games or

go under; everybody knew most of my friends were protestant. Cusack, on the otherhand, claimed to be a militant republican. And here he was demanding I give up the

flag to British Crown Forces and be convicted for flying a flag I didnt care about and

he did.

I wouldnt budge, several paras went off to search the playground. I started to

just answer all questions with Mark Madden, Schoolboy, P7, as I believed was my

right under the Geneva Convention. Eventually, the Paras got the point and, failing to

find the flag, told me to watch my back in the area and departed. Cusack demanded

the flag. I deadpanned and stuck to my story. He knew I was lying. Hed seen me

wave the thing himself. He threatened me with priests, expulsion, terrible beatings. I

cared not. I had already chosen which trouble to be in and I was also expected to show

class and get the flag back safely. They were hard to get. So I was sentenced to theultimate- twelve of the best, an unheard of level of beating.

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I never made a sound. I wasnt a brave kid, but there you are. It was a pleasure

I always forbade the old perv, and he knew it- not a whimper, not a gasp, Id just stare

straight into his eyes, not hiding my disgust. Holy Cross had taught me very little, but

it had taught me how to take regular senseless beatings. He began to beat me harder

and harder, on the slightest pretext, many times a day. He was going to break my

spirit, or I his, that much was sure. One day, mid-beating, I whispered- Youre gettingtoo excited, sir, everybody knows what you are- God, he went apeshit and cut my

hands near to pieces, but I smiled at him the whole time and knew Id won. It took a

fortnight to regain the use of some of my fingers, but after that the beating were

cursory. I hope he died lonely and in great pain.

He used to tell us that we should keep away from women, who were no

suitable company for men due to their inferior brains. One of his favourite reasonings

was that if women were such great cooks, how come all the worlds best chefs were

men. Hed also tell us that when our time came, we must offer ourselves

unquestioningly to the great cause of Ireland, and look forward to martyrdom and a

clean death fighting the Brits. Then hed tell us that women were evil, bodies were

evil and we should consider a vocation with holy mother church. By that time, itwould be time for him to beat another ten year old until he pissed himself for

dropping his pencil. This deranged old faggot was preparing us for the 11 plus. There

were 34 of us. Two of us taught ourselves, the rest were sent to Saint Gabriels.

The school had been firebombed over the summer, but they got it out in time

and re-opened for us in time. Sometime in P7, they came back and did the job

properly, gutting the place and removing the last taigs from Chief St. for ever. Its still

blocked off with a peace wall to show its territory Ardoyne lost. Like I care. We P7s

were moved to a little hall on the other side of the church, the original, one room

National school, beyond the frontline. It was so horrible and wet and abandoned, more

like a shed. Eventually, room was found for us back in Holy Cross itself. Id always

hated the bloody place, but it was actually quite a relief to get back to the ghetto

safety of old Ardoyne.