‘Och, Graham.’
‘We wouldn’t forget you, Maggie, even if you’d like us to.’
OUTSIDE, THE BRIDGE across the canal was beginning to shine with frost. There was a thin mist on the water, no movement beneath. Everything as Margaret had left it before she came in. She had looked down and seen a small moon, deep in the cold water, a smirr of orange streetlight, but no sign of herself, not even a shadow.
For a moment, she was almost afraid. There came a feeling that somebody might be behind her; that a reflection might fall on the water, showing her own face and then another. She felt colder than the night should make her.
‘Daddy?’
Her whisper floated down and off the bridge, caught in a little breeze, thin and white. Margaret thought of the place where her father was now: the black green trees and the frost grey grass. She couldn’t imagine him in the earth, nor in anything other than the present tense.
‘I can’t be dancing with you. Not tonight. But I’ll dance for you.’
The little moon was a painful white as she looked up, like a hole in the sky, leading through to a very bright room.
‘You said I should live Dad. Everything else is a waste of time. You told me. A waste of time.’
She waited for a while, trying to hear a noise from the dead water.
‘But all I do is waste my time. How am I supposed to do anything else? Nobody told me. You never said a word and we’re family, remember?’
It is the only time she recalls being angry with her father. She put her hands on the burning cold of the metal handrail and wanted to hit it, to hit him. And then his face came clearer in her mind than she had seen it since he left her and she knew she couldn’t hurt it, couldn’t let it alter under any kind of pain. Her sigh misted over the bridge and down.
‘I know it’s nobody’s fault. I know that. It was just, we ran out of time. I wish we hadn’t. It makes me angry. I’d have told you things. If you’d been here I would have let you know things. Like, I can breathe fire. I learned how to do that. And other things. There are lots of things you didn’t know I could do. Lots of things you thought I could.’
A wave slapped against brickwork and she noticed her hands were throbbing. She thought of slipping them flat against her father’s back and rubbing her chin into his shoulder as if they were going to start a slow dance. As if they were going to stand that way for ever.
MARGARET SAW COLIN before he noticed her. He was sitting with his head bent forward, polishing glasses. Heather nudged his elbow, pointed, and he turned. He smiled. He smiled a smile entirely for Margaret. A broad, broad grin.
It always surprised her somehow, when Colin was so pleased, so easily; when he answered the phone, quite formal but polite, and then heard her voice and changed and warmed in the space of a word. It was almost painful to think of. Now, before she knew it, they were both smiling, almost laughing, and then walking to the point where they would meet.
‘Geez a kiss.’
‘What kind would you like?’
‘I don’t know, let me try one.’
There was a time, around twenty past eight, when it seemed the thing would never get started. One of the dominoes players sat and waited at the door beside a table full of tickets and stacks of change. A few couples straggled in and then hid themselves in the bar. The rooms seemed cold and too brightly lit. Margaret sat beside Colin against the wall, watching nothing happen, and then they came.
As if a queue had been forming somewhere out in the dark, or a coach had arrived, as if an agreed time had been reached, in the people came. Within fifteen minutes the air was hot and poisonous with cigarette smoke, hoarse with noise; the bar staff were surrounded and the first turn was on.
Mr and Mrs Lawrence appeared, rather quietly, while a duo sang and played the spoons. One of the singers confessed the spoons were a recent innovation and somewhere a shout broke through.
‘You could have been playing they things for years, it’s the singing that’s shite.’
The Lawrences were locked in, side by side, as if their arms had been sewn together in some terrible accident. Their lips moved while their faces stared out at the crowd. Perhaps they were shouting; nobody could hear them, if they were. They struggled apart and left the room through separate doors. Mr Lawrence returned with two plates of stovies, found himself a seat then draped his coat across another. He waited for a while, then ate his stovies and waited again. A man came and sat on his coat, leaning forward and clapping his hands while a fiddler played jigs and reels. When the man pointed to the other plate of stovies, Lawrence gave them him and turned to the sign beside them both. He might have been reading it, although from a distance it seemed that his eyes were closed.
In the front office, by special permission, the Youth Theatre was drinking cider and telling itself it shouldn’t be drinking cider, not at its age. It worried its way quietly through rows of glasses, lines of songs. When Margaret opened the door, Susan gave a small scream.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m gonny die and no one believes me.’
‘That’s a shame. Will you manage to do a wee gig before the interment?’
‘You don’t believe me either.’
‘Just ignore her, Maggie. She’s been dying all fucking day.’ Gus leaned back in his chair, feet propped across a drawer extending from Margaret’s desk. He tapped his cigarette ash into a matchbox. Maggie winked at him.
‘Well, in that case you’ll all be very glad to know that this is your five-minute call. I suggest, because the place is packed with adoring crowds, that you come out now with your hands up and try to work your way towards the stage.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means you’re on.’
The room was already scrambling up, adjusting, clearing its throat. Tam, luminous with aftershave, dipped his head down to kiss Margaret as he led the way past and through the door. Margaret then found herself kissed by all the boys and hugged or pecked professionally by the girls.
‘Break a leg.
‘Good luck.
‘You’ll be great.
‘Good luck.
‘Good luck.’
She felt as if she were witnessing a strange kind of parachute jump as their line moved off, pushing into the smoke and darkness, the bars of light. Onstage, a friend of Heather’s was delivering ‘The Flowers Of The Forest’ with bursts on a militant guitar. Margaret closed the front-office door and waited.
Gus and Tam had sprung to the microphone before the last turn’s final chord had clattered into place.
‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, this part of the evening’s entertainment will be provided by your friendly neighbourhood Youth Theatre and, without further ado, I would like to recite for you some old and greatly respected Scottish verse, taught to me by my old and greatly respected grandfather. I would ask for your silence and attention, this is a very sad poem; indeed, a yearning lament for all the lost glories of the bens and glens, the purple heather and the Famous Grouse. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you “The Effan Bee”.’
Heads appeared from the Blue Room, lipsticked mouths were pursed and Bobby The Dug’s Other Sister suddenly laughed like a cat sliding down a hot fence. Margaret felt her hands unclench.
‘There you are.’ Colin slipped his arms around her, just above the waist. ‘The team’s doing alright, eh?’
‘Taught them everything they know.’
‘I don’t think I’d admit to that, if I were you. I’m starved, do you want some oatcakes and stuff, they’ve run out of stovies.’
‘Alright, I’ll just stay and watch them, though. If you don’t mind. And don’t do that.’
‘What?’
‘That. Someone will see.’
‘Nobody’s looking. And who cares if they do see? I’m not ashamed.’
‘Neither am I, love, but I’m technically on duty. I don’t think that’s meant to include getting groped.’
‘I’ll get your oatcakes.’
> ‘Hang on and give us a kiss, though.’
‘No, I’ll not embarrass you at your work.’
‘Colin.’
‘What?’
‘When are you singing?’
‘I don’t know, when Graham tells me.’
Colin left her to watch while Tam joined Gus to sing ‘Three Men Fae Carntyne’ and ‘Hot Ashphalt’. The choruses from the floor were relaxed and willing, sliding gently into incapacitation. Bobby The Dug’s Other Sister was still laughing.
He took me for a picnic, doon by the Rouken Glen,
He showed tae me the bonnie wee birds and he showed me a bonnie wee hen.
‘Oh God, is he no gorgeous. Him in the leather jacket. The wee one with the nice eyes.’
He showed tae me the bonnie wee birds fae the lintie tae the craw,
‘If I was twenty years younger.’
Then he showed tae me the bird that stole my thingumyjig awa’.
‘He’d no huv been born, pet, dinny upset yoursel.’
The boys finished strongly, refusing all encores, and Gus led on Toaty Boady. Colin slid back with two plates.
‘Prepare to see grown men cry and here’s your oatcakes.’
‘What?’
‘Here’s your oatcakes.’
‘Thanks. Oh, fuck.’
‘Now what?’
‘Lawrence, I can see him behind your shoulder. He’s waving me over. I don’t want to speak to him now. Not now.’
‘Pretend you haven’t seen him.’
‘He’ll only come and get me. Hold my oatcakes, I’ll be back. Colin?’
‘Aye?’
‘If I’m not, come and get me.’
‘Sure. Of course. Sure.’
Mr Lawrence waited, rubbing one hand across his face, as if he really wished it would go away.
‘Margaret. I do apologise for this. I really wouldn’t involve you if I didn’t have to. This is difficult. I –’
Lawrence seemed to forget he had been speaking, his eyes wavering over something beyond Margaret’s shoulder. When she spoke he gave a slight start.
‘There’s something you want me to do.’
‘Oh. Yes. Ah, no, not want. I need you to do something. I don’t want it at all. Can I trust you?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Good. Good. I hoped I could. The ladies’ lavatory, I can’t go in. My wife, you see, she has been in the ladies’ lavatory for quite some time now and I – There is a possibility she could be ill. Would you?’
‘What, you want me to go in and check how she is? You’re sure she’s in there?’
‘That would be quite difficult to say. I believe she is. If you could. Her first name is Daisy. Sometimes, I find, she doesn’t answer to “Mrs Lawrence”. Daisy.’
‘Fine, OK.’
‘Great. My turn to apologise. Really. There was no one else I could ask.’
He walked slowly into the crowd, saying something Margaret couldn’t hear.
There were only two cubicles in the ladies’. Margaret pushed the first door gently and it swung in, bouncing slightly when it hit the wall. Nobody home. The sudden quiet made her ears ring. It was cold, almost clammy. And then she recognised the perfume. Someone behind the second door had that peculiar smell of perfume and decay now mixed with a new, oily sweetness.
‘Mrs Lawrence? I mean, Daisy? Are you there? Are you alright?’
There was breathing coming from the cubicle, quite deep and slow, as if the person might be asleep. At least she was alive.
‘Mrs – Daisy, if you’re in any difficulty, I’m sure we can help. There’s no need to be embarrassed.’ The breathing continued a slow beat. ‘Are you awake? Are you alright?’
Margaret backed away slowly, hoping she would be able to see beneath the door; a sign of something, water, blood. Her feet were very loud on the linoleum.
‘Is there something I can help you with?’
‘If you like.’ The voice from the cubicle was deep and slurring.
‘Oh. Oh, good, you’re there. How can I help?’
‘You could strangle my husband.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Oh don’t be that. You want to help me, you can strangle my husband.’ There was an odd laugh and a shifting of feet.
‘Would that help?’
‘Of course it wouldn’t help, you silly cunt. Of course it wouldn’t help, nothing will help. Fucking help. Did I ask for fucking help. No. I ask you, I ask you to strangle my husband. Because it would make me enormously happy.’ Again the laugh.
‘I’ll just go and tell him you’re alright. You are alright? I’ll just go and tell him how you are. I’ll be back, I’ll be right back.’
‘Don’t expect him to be surprised, hinny, don’t expect that. And come back with a drink. I need a fucking drink. Easier. You bring me a little bottle and you won’t need to run about. A big bottle. You see I’m very thirsty, but I don’t feel well, so I can’t come out just now. Whisky’s the best when I’m not well. Don’t listen to that wee shite. Whisky’s the best. Thank you dear, I know you’ll help me. You understand.’
Colin was waiting outside in the corridor.
‘What’s the matter? Has that little prick said something to you?’
‘No, no, look –’
A blonde-haired woman was heading for the toilet door.
‘I’m sorry, you can’t go in there.’
‘Whit?’
‘You can’t go in there.’
‘And where else am I supposed to go?’
‘Well, could you be quick.’
‘Whit?’
‘Nothing, nothing. That’s fine. If you take the one nearest the door, that’s fine, that’s fine.’
A pale back, almost concealed in blue satin was already disappearing into the empty cubicle.
‘I wouldny go in the other one, would I? I’m no gonny sit on her lap.’
Margaret tugged Colin’s sleeve.
‘Come over here. Mrs Lawrence is in there. She’s totally pissed and locked in a cubicle. Lawrence asked me to find out how she was. He must have known how she fucking was. I can only assume that this makes it my fault. Now I’ll have to go and tell him. Could you stand here and listen. In case anything happens? Thanks. You’re very good to me.’
‘I know.’
Lawrence was sitting very close by the door, watching Toaty Boady, or rather watching the lines of backs between him and her voice. As Margaret moved towards him, heads turned aside, there were coughs and sniffs. She brushed behind Mr Ho, his face smiling and bathed in tears. Big Douglas towered above a press of dark suits, head back, eyes closed. The whole audience was tensing against the onset of emotion and then slowly giving way. Toaty Boady made them want to give way.
‘Mr Lawrence.’
‘I saw you coming. She’s still in there, isn’t she. She won’t come home.’
‘She is in there, yes, and she didn’t mention coming home.’
‘Drunk.’
‘I think so.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You think so. How obvious does it need to be. Thank you for saving my feelings, but in this case I have none to save. Not there any more.’
The look Lawrence gave her, made Margaret catch her breath. It was wild, almost hungry, unwillingly confined. Margaret cleared her throat.
‘I haven’t even seen her. She’s locked in a cubicle. She sounds very drunk. She sounds upset.’
‘Did she give you any message?’
‘No. No, she didn’t.’
‘I see. Not like her to be shy. I would like you to tell her that I’m leaving in twenty minutes and I hope to take her with me. If I cannot remove her, someone else will have to. That may mean the police. We’re getting used to that. She has twenty minutes.’
‘Well, I’ll do my best.’
‘And Margaret?’
‘Yes?’
‘You understand, don’t you?’
‘I, I don’t think –’
He leant very close.
>
‘I seem to have developed a rather limited social life, emotional life. I didn’t want it to be like this. I simply seem never to get what I do want. I appreciate your efforts.’
‘Um, that’s alright. That’s no bother. Twenty minutes.’
‘You give me hope, sometimes. I didn’t expect that.’
‘Mr Lawrence?’
‘See what you can do.’
He forced out his hand to shake hers, pushing her back to arm’s length and then held her by the wrist until it hurt.
‘See what you can do for me.’
Toaty Boady’s voice was flickering above them now, clearer than a soul, bright and beyond reach. Around the room, the staring, blinking, fluttering eyes saw a collier’s boy, bodies felt his chill in their bones and minds were almost at the place where they would act, where they would make a move to somehow save him. When Toaty Boady finished, they would still be at the edge, then they would topple back and be safe, come to very quietly. Perhaps slightly changed. Margaret felt uneasy, forcing her way through such intent bodies.
‘Colin?’
Colin was standing with his back to the door of the ladies’, tears rolling down to his chin. He looked round at Margaret and smiled.
‘She’s wonderful, isn’t she. Fucking amazing.’
‘Have you heard anything.’
‘No, no, nothing at all. The blonde came out, that’s all. Fucking amazing singer, that wean. Kiss me.’
‘Aye, OK. Look, I have to go in there for a bit, alright? And don’t let anyone else come in here.’
‘Whit?’
‘Well try your best.’
Margaret went to the bar and bought a half-pint of diluting orange juice, then she went into the toilet and slid it under the second cubicle door.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ The glass disappeared. ‘I suppose this is a joke. My husband’s idea of a joke.’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘This fucking piss.’ There was the sound of a liquid being poured into more liquid. ‘Get me a drink.’
‘Your husband sent a message.’
‘Get me a fucking drink. Drink, then the message. That’s the rules.’
‘If I get you a drink, you have to go with your husband in twenty minutes. More like fifteen minutes now.’
Looking For the Possible Dance Page 15