by Morag Joss
‘It wasn’t my fault,’ Lila said. ‘I couldn’t help it.’
‘Mr Mathieson just means you’re missing yourself, dear,’ Mrs Mathieson said. ‘They’ve been going over an hour. So you’ll not be needing a ticket, will she, John?’ She gave him another nudge and nodded towards the book of tickets fluttering on the table. Lila shivered and rubbed at the gooseflesh on her arms. ‘John, she doesn’t need to pay now, does she?’
Mr Mathieson scratched the space between his eyebrows with one finger. ‘Well, everybody else paid,’ he said. ‘We’re trying to raise money here.’
‘Yes, and we’ve already made what we thought we would,’ Mrs Mathieson told him. ‘And everybody else has had over an hour already.’ She turned to Lila. ‘You warm enough? I’ve a cardigan you can borrow. It’s grey, it’d go fine over your dress.’
‘No, no, I’m fine!’ Lila said, not managing to conceal the horror of the idea, a grey cardigan borrowed from an old person. ‘Thank you very much, anyway.’
‘Well, away you go in then. We’ll be right in after you.’
Mr Mathieson nodded. ‘On you go, then,’ he said. ‘I’m going soft.’
Lila was staring ahead. A single string of light bulbs had been suspended between two of the sycamore trees, making an archway in the yard. The lights glared a strangely dull electric white, caught in the sun’s last falling rays. The shed was still out of sight behind the barn. She could feel it waiting.
‘Is everybody else here? I’d better hurry. Thank you,’ she said, skirting past the trestle table.
‘Wait!’ Mr Mathieson called her back. ‘Here. You’ll be needing a tea voucher as well.’
Lila took it and thanked him even though she had no intention of having anything as ordinary as tea.
‘You have yourself a nice time now,’ Mrs Mathieson sang after her. As soon as she was out of earshot, she sighed and stood up. ‘She looks ready for a party, any road,’ she said.
Lila walked slowly under the arch of lights in the direction of the music. She was nearly level with the long side of the ceilidh shed now. Soon she would round the corner and find the wide doors standing open and a wedge of bright light hitting the ground in front of it. The music grew louder, a flippant tune she didn’t recognise; it drove on brusquely. She shivered again. The sky was changing rapidly now. The slow blazing-down of the sun would soon be over, leaving the sky empty and waiting for the inky wash of the dark.
A figure loomed towards her from the dark alley between the barn and the back of the shed.
‘Joe?’
‘Hey, you. That you?’ It was Billy.
‘Hey, where’ve you been?’ he said. His voice was not friendly but Lila felt a moment’s gratitude; even hostile recognition might help her feel less lonely and conspicuous. She felt out of place, too bright and too big and exotically plumaged, a flamingo in a flock of starlings.
‘You promised me a wee dance, didn’t you? You trying to avoid me?’
He came up close, swaying a little and staring through watery, exhausted eyes. His shirt, coming loose from his trousers, was badly grass-stained. Almost as a gesture of sympathy, he brought up one hand and took hold of her shoulder, though he seemed also to need the support.
‘You all right?’ he said. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Have you seen Joe?’
‘Joe?’ The other hand came up on her other shoulder and he pulled her against him. ‘What’s it with you? I thought you weren’t coming.’ Over his beery breath came the smell of grass and sweat. Bringing his mouth close to her face he said, ‘I was waiting on you coming.’
His arms were tight around her. Her damp hair had been spun by the wind into clumps and he worked his fingers into it, stroking, until both his hands were entangled. She tried to withdraw, though only a little.
‘Ouch! Billy!’
They staggered together and almost fell and then Billy found his footing, dragged her up straight and pushed her over to the wall. He pinned her against it, one hand cupping the back of her head. Lila knew this was something she was not supposed to allow, never mind want, but Billy sank his head into her neck with a little moan and began nudging gently at her face with his mouth, making soft cries. She gave a gasp. It was a kind of mewing, bewildered and weak. He was beseeching her, as if she were the one with the power. His lips on her neck and cheek were warm and dry and nibbling. How could she push him away when he wanted to cling to her, when he sounded how she felt so much of the time?
But this was Billy. She squirmed as his hand in the small of her back slipped lower and turned her head sharply away from his mouth. Then he pushed himself hard against her and murmured something and she felt giddy and warm again.
‘Well, excuse me! Am I interrupting something or can just anyone join in?’ Enid, emerging from the alley between the barn and the shed, stood in front of them, arms crossed. Billy sprang away. Lila pressed the palms of her hands into the wall to stop them shaking; she was trembling in case anyone, Billy included, might guess what she had been feeling. Had come close to feeling.
‘Well?’
Enid’s engorged mouth was a bright, labial mauve. Someone else’s mouth had been giving hers such a mauling that it was pulpy and tender and seemed no longer suited to speech; her lips moved as if her tongue had thickened and was pushing against the back of her teeth and trying to loll its way out. The only vestige of her lipstick that had not been sucked away was smudged across her chin and in the turquoise wreckage of her makeup her eyes were black dots. Her hair was dragged downwards in sticky tufts.
‘Did you bring me the sandals?’
‘Oh, I forgot,’ Enid said, glaring. Actually they were in a gingham slipper bag on the floor under one of the tea tables at the back of the shed, next to a box of spare tablecloths. She and Lila stared at each other. Across the yard Mr and Mrs Mathieson strolled past on their way to the shed, Mr Mathieson humming along to the dance tune as he went.
‘I forgot, sorry,’ Enid said.
From the shed they heard the accordions start up with ‘The Dashing White Sergeant’. The notes flickered and raced along, fast and fluttering. Lila knew she couldn’t possibly dance without shoes. Her feet would be trodden and crushed, the concrete floor would lacerate them.
‘Billy, you coming?’ Enid stepped forward and stood next to him.
There was hardly any light now. Lila could see only the angle of his head and a gleam from the whites of his eyes. She turned away from the sight of the pair of them, pushed herself off the wall and walked away. She did not want to watch Enid pulling Billy back into the shadows.
Inside the shed about fifty people were dancing and dozens more stood or sat round the walls, chewing through piled platefuls of food. Everyone gleamed with sweat. The kilted men danced with sombre faces as if to counterbalance their comic, elderly legs, but the women bobbed and bounced with flat smiles, mouths fixed open and showing double rows of dry dentures that shone yellowish against the white surroundings. Hairdos flopped, armpits wore dark damp grins, stockings were shredded. Lila stared past the revolving bodies. She was in the wrong place. Everyone of her age was out in the fields, probably doing the same as Enid and Billy.
‘The Dashing White Sergeant’ came to a finish with a long, emphatic harrumph from the accordions; the dancers sighed, drew breath and clapped and made their way to the water jugs, the straw bales, the tea tables. A few people looked in her direction and turned away. She needed Joe here. Maybe she did look a little odd, hovering alone on the edge of things without him to make it clear, by his admiration, that she was meant to look like this. But Joe was somewhere else. From the back of the shed she became aware of movement, and looked up.
‘Oy! Oy, Lizzie!’
Threading his way towards her from the back of the shed came Uncle George. She beamed at him. He was coming to rescue her. He would know where Joe was. She wasn’t in the wrong place after all.
‘Uncle George! Where’s Joe? Is he here?’
�
��Lizzie!’ he bellowed. ‘What the bloody hell are you doing? Just what the bloody hell are you up to?’
She could hear his words but she had no idea why they were being addressed to her. He was accusing her of something, so there must be some kind of mistake. How could she have made him so angry? People in Uncle George’s path melted to the sides and her mother strode along just behind him, dressed perfectly in a red flared skirt.
‘Jesus Christ, Lizzie! Have you no sense? You’ll ruin that!’ he thundered. ‘You stupid child! Suppose you tear it? Do you think this whole thing’s a game? Do you think this is about dressing up?’
Lila’s mouth opened and closed. The lights of the shed were striking too brightly off the walls; the shapes of people were losing their edges, moving in a silent, confusing dream. Heat poured through her and burst in a wave of sweat over her skin.
‘Jesus Christ! I’m trying to do something to a professional standard here. Don’t you know we’re up against a deadline, most of the costumes aren’t even half-done, and you jeopardise all that work for the sake of dressing up?’
Still she could not speak. Though surely she was being misunderstood, she felt like a criminal. Fleur laid a hand on George’s arm. Lila looked at her. Stop him, she begged her mother silently. Explain. Speak for me.
Fleur gently pushed George away and came forward. ‘Just what do you think you look like?’ she said. Her voice was soft and deadly. ‘You’ve got proper clothes, haven’t you? What do you think you’re doing, appearing like that, you silly girl? Honestly! You look like…like a…demented bridesmaid!’
She looked round, bringing the other women into it. Her voice cracked in a short, hard laugh. ‘Honestly, kids! Who’d have them!’
‘Please…’
Uncle George said, ‘No, but honestly, Lizzie, you’ve gone too far, it really won’t do…’
Lila looked round desperately. Mrs Mathieson had handed her plate to Mr Mathieson and was ambling over to the band. She leaned over and spoke to the leader, a man with sleek black hair, and he nodded to the others and off they sailed into a new swirling tune, releasing everyone. Mrs Mathieson caught Lila’s eye with a look of calm goodwill and walked slowly back towards Mr Mathieson. Before he had handed back her plate, Lila had disappeared.
It was now quite dark. Lila ran as hard as she could under the swinging lights in the yard and down the track, not slowing until her short sobbing breaths and the high rasping of the silk as she went were louder in her ears than the grinding of the band. Inside the bright shed it was Ladies’ Choice. As Raymond and George looked on, Fleur swished her skirt around her ankles and took to the floor in a Canadian Barn Dance with Mr McArthur. At the same moment, Enid ran out into the dark from the space between the shed and the barn and fell on her knees, belching up cidery gas and crying with shock at what Billy had got her to do. She tried to gasp out a prayer, her first in weeks, but she knew it was too late for that. The Lord wouldn’t want her now, a tainted Eve cast out from even this improbable Eden, kneeling in a thriving clump of Ayrshire nettles that were stinging her legs all the way up to her thighs.
Behind her, Billy picked up the cider bottle and retreated back to the alley and further into the dark. He sank down against the wall and drained the bottle. He thought he might be sick, later, but now he rammed his hand into his open trousers and with his eyes glassy and teeth clenched, he turned his face towards the moon and concentrated on pumping himself to a hot, raw finish, racing ahead of the throb of the band. Overhead, the sky poured darkness over the sighing sea, the dunes and the scrub grass, the Pow Burn and the banked shapes of Seaview Villas. Across the thistles and abandoned tyres and the patient hulks of Mr McArthur’s cows grouped for the night round the pylon in the field, the beat of the music followed at Lila’s back until she was enveloped in the dark and her sobs lessened. The track, abandoned again under the night, fell silent.
ACT III
The Third Riddle
Ice which gives you fire
And which your fire freezes still more!
Lily-white and dark,
If it allows you your freedom
It makes you a slave.
If it accepts you as a slave
It makes you a King!
TURANDOT.
That night in Peking, no-one sleeps. Turandot’s guards go through the city issuing the royal decree. Under pain of death, whoever knows the stranger’s name must reveal it. When Turandot learns that Liù the slave girl knows it, she is put under torture. Liù, rather than be forced to betray her love, seizes a sword and kills herself.
Her sacrifice moves even the icy Turandot. Calaf places himself in her power, telling her who he is.
As the sun rises, everyone in the city assembles to learn the prince’s fate. Turandot proudly announces that she has discovered his name: it is Love.
The betrothed lovers embrace and the crowd rejoices.
i’m well down the second tea chest now. Another cutting, another big photograph. Christine would like this:
Burnhead & District Advertiser Thursday 4th August 1960:
Ceilidh in Support of
BAST ‘Outstanding Success’
Leading lights of the Burnhead Association for Singing Turandot pictured (L to R): George Pettifer, conductor and musical director, Fleur Pettifer (‘Turandot’), Raymond Duncan (Stage Manager), Audrey Mathieson (Production Secretary), John Mathieson (Production Manager), Moira Mather (chorus), Sandy Scott (‘Pung’), Veronica Clarke (chorus), Alec Gallagher (‘Timur’ & BAST Press Liaison Manager). Also pictured are Stanley McArthur of Pow Farm and Jackie Shenley, whose band played for the dancing. A substantial sum was raised.
By Staff Reporter Alec Gallagher
The picture shows them in a line, arms linking arms or hooked over shoulders. Looks as if the photographer told the women to show a bit of leg.
Come on now, ladies, big smiles please! Let’s have a bit more of those lovely pins?
Moira Mather and Veronica are making a big effort but my mother does it best. She’s a natural. She’s lifted one knee and made a little quarter turn of the leg inwards to show a fine gleaming shin and the line of a strong thigh under the flared skirt. She has pointed her raised foot like a ballet dancer’s. She’s not a tiny woman by any means, she’s curvaceous, heavy breasted, but she has delicate ankles and she looks like a glossy, high-stepping thoroughbred. In contrast Mrs Mathieson, her arm locked on one side in Mr Mathieson’s and on the other in my father’s, looks homely. She is content to stand with just the back of one foot lifted a little from the floor and she is smiling without showing her teeth. George, on my mother’s other side, is making such a silly pouting mouth to the camera that I wonder, now, who is taking the picture. Mr McArthur and Jackie Shenley the bandleader watch from the side.
It occurs to me that Christine’s gone missing. I haven’t seen her since she brought that doctor here and I’m not sure exactly when that was. I wonder if she likes doughnuts, Christine. I’ve got three left.
When she answers the door she’s in very big pyjamas and she looks a little rumpled and she doesn’t smile. Behind her, her house is very hot and bright. I hear a television. It’s got very pink inside, that house, since old Mr Henderson’s dark green and cream days.
Do you like doughnuts?
The bag is all greasy now and as I proffer it I can see she thinks there’s a catch, or maybe something wrong with me.
Come on in, she says. You’d better come in for a minute. You shouldn’t be up and about on that foot.
I follow her down the hall. Washing drapes the radiators like bunting; lines of coloured garments are hardening over the heat and the air is sticky with scorching polyester and the tang of washing powder. Steve is lying in an armchair in front of the television, his chin resting on his chest. He seems about to slide to the floor.
It’s nearly eleven o’clock at night, you know, he says without turning from the screen. Time folk were away to their beds.
Steve, don’t y
ou start. Then Christine says to me, Never mind him. You’re all right for a minute, we’re still up.
Is it really that time? I don’t have a watch. I was thinking maybe Paris likes them, I say. Doughnuts, I mean.
Paris isn’t very well, Christine sighs, otherwise I’d have been in to see how you were doing. She shifts a mug and some magazines off a chair. Sit down a wee minute. You’re welcome to stay a minute. Though I’ll not be up that much longer, I’ll be away to my bed.
Steve looks over at her and says, I told you over an hour ago you should be in your bed.
What’s wrong with Paris? I ask. Is she all right? I was thinking she might like a doughnut.
Just a wee cold, says Steve. She’s all right.
It nearly went on her chest, Christine says, frowning at him. It is on her chest a wee bit. She’s sleeping now.
Sleeping? Oh, can I see her? I’d love to see her asleep. The words are out of my mouth without warning, before I even know it’s what I want. I say, I won’t disturb her. I promise I won’t make a sound.
Steve says, Jesus, what now? and looks hard at us both. Eh? What next?
Christine says, Well, I was just going up to check on her. You can come up and see her, and then I’ll be going to my bed, okay? You should get to bed yourself, she says, peering at me in her usual worried way, which I no longer object to. I may even have missed it.
We climb the stairs, me with my stick, taking them one at a time, resting now and then on my good foot. As we go the smell of carpets gets stronger. Paris’s room is full of shadows. There are hundreds of tiny luminous moons and stars and planets studded all over the ceiling.
Oh! I whisper. Oh, how pretty! How magical, all those stars! The moons!
Christine frowns. You get them in packets, she says.
Paris is snuffling, curled up on her side like a little human comma. She’s lying under two mobiles suspended over the bed: one is of sheep, the other’s composed of shapes I can’t make out. They hang utterly still. Her puffy feet are turned in like resting flippers and the palm of one hand lies open, her little flakes of fingernails scraping the pillow. In the other hand she is clutching Stripey, or was; her hold has relaxed and Stripey has fallen away from her lips. Her eyelashes are soft, tiny fans placed carefully upon her cheeks, and her mouth is open and damp. At the side of the bed is a glowing green lamp in the shape of a tree. Bathed in its votive light she lies, small and calm on her green shrine. Christine looks at her and her daily fight to be brisk and practical and all together melts out of her. Sedated by love, she smiles and yawns and sags, and the room swells with adoration. As she arranges the covers around the child I can tell she is resisting an urge to lift her up and hold her in her arms until dawn. She touches Paris’s cheek with one finger, smiles and yawns again and pushes me gently from the room.