I always liked Enniskillen. It was the same as Cavan only different in an Alice in Wonderland kind of way

The first gun I ever saw was in the holster of an RUC man stationed outside Woolworths in Enniskillen when I was a child. I saw nothing unusual in that. I just presumed that there must be a lot of deviant children robbing Milky Bars north of the Border and that the authorities had to station armed police at the doors of various shops. Maybe Milky Bars were very rare. Maybe that’s why the white chocolate was unavailable in Cavan, I thought.
Just outside the town hall I often stood enthralled for half an hour on a Saturday afternoon listening to street preachers. My favourite was a woman holding a black Bible in one hand and a microphone in the other; her voice blaring from a speaker at her feet. She wore black stockings and spoke with such passion about being in the arms of Jesus, and how he loved her and held her in his arms every morning that I sometimes wonder if those sermons might not have been the trigger that led to my lifelong enthusiasm for religion and for the born-again rhetoric of Ulster.
I remember one spring morning watching ladies in Enniskillen adorned in white dresses and hats, holding small white handbags and walking four by four in white shoes, behind a band that thumped their drums and blew their flutes with a vigorous swagger as they marched up the Main Street to the tune of Step We Gaily On We Go.
I asked my mother would she like to join the women, because in truth I would have loved to trail behind that parade and step gaily with the ladies. But my mother said no.
The women were white from brim of hat to hem of skirt, but my mother said, “Those are Orangewomen,” so I feared there was something deeper I could not see. Nevertheless I always liked Enniskillen. It was the same as Cavan only different in an Alice in Wonderland kind of way.
“What are you doing with a piano accordion?” the General inquired last week. It was lying on the back seat of the car. I said I am bringing it to Enniskillen to be fixed.
“Can I come?” he wondered.
“Of course,” I replied. Because sometimes myself and the General drive around just for fun. And any old excuse will do, even a piano accordion in need of repair.
I was standing at his door ringing the bell.
He squinted out from behind lace curtains that had not been washed since his wife found enlightenment and a good divorce solicitor more than 10 years ago.
[ Michael Harding: A funeral reminds me of the sweetness of silence, when conversation was more than just chatterOpens in new window ]
“Why are you hiding?” I wondered.
“I’m watching television,” he said almost in a whisper.
“I hope you’re not wasting your time on far-right YouTubers again,” I said.
“Au contraire,” he replied. “Last night I watched a lovely programme about the Prince of Wales. Perfectly good young fellow in a helicopter although it’s a pity he lost all his hair. He looks like an egg. But the programme was so uplifting that this morning I was looking for something similar and found a documentary about the Princess of Wales and I couldn’t resist. Did you know she’s an avid photographer like myself?”
We crossed the Border near Belturbet and 30 minutes later were parked up behind the Town Hall.
I met the man who fixes piano accordions in Blake’s bar, a cosy spot at the centre of town.
“I only do the buttons,” the accordion doctor said.
The General didn’t understand what he meant.
“You said you had an accordion,” the doctor explained, “But you never said it was a piano accordion. I only fix the button accordions.”
Then he pointed at the instrument on the table like it was a bomb.
“I don’t do them things,” he said. “Open them up and you can’t put them back together. They’re a complete nightmare.”
And that was the end of it. We walked back to the car deflated. Nobody was preaching at the corner and no sign of Orangewomen in white, marching behind any bands, although the shops were festooned with cheerful pride flags heralding the first Fermanagh Pride Festival on the morrow. Bunting dangled from buildings and hung in shop windows. A banner over main street celebrated the visibility of Fermanagh LGBTQ+ community.
“It’s all changed,” the General said. “It’s the age of inclusivity.”
“It is,” I agreed. “But where’s the inclusion for my piano accordion?” I wondered. “I still need to find someone to fix it.”