‘I didn’t hear that. I can’t hear until I’ve had a drink. Rules.’
Margaret came back with a whisky and water, slid it under the door. The half-pint glass was already down there, full of a cloudy yellow liquid.
‘Now you can take the other glass away.’
‘No.’
‘Sorry, that’s the rules. Or no message. In fact, take both the fucking glasses away.’
An emptied tumbler was set down on the linoleum. Margaret lifted it away to the shelf above the sink.
‘Both glasses. That’s the rules.’
Margaret picked up the other glass. It was warm, wet, the liquid inside had a chemical smell. She emptied the glass in the other toilet then ran it and her hands under the tap.
‘Both empty. Satisfied?’
‘No, why should I be?’
‘Why should you be? I’ll tell you why you fucking should be. Because no human being should have to do what I’ve just done.
Why don’t you piss on the floor, if you have to, like any other fucking animal? I don’t have to slop out for you. I don’t even know you. I don’t even want to be here. Why don’t you just fuck off with your fucking husband. Whatever your problem is with him, it’s none of my bloody business.’
‘You alright in there?’
‘Aye, Colin, fine. Mrs Lawrence is just teaching me some points of etiquette.’
Now, from inside the cubicle, there was crying. Long, heavy sobs.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. Colin, go and get a whisky, a double. It’s fine, just go and get one.’
Colin left and the sobs continued.
‘Do you really want to finish the night drunk and crying in a toilet.’
‘No, I don’t. I don’t want anything. I want to die.’
‘Wait till you start to sober up, things will seem better. It’s always worse at night.’
‘What the fuck do you know?’
‘Nothing. I just think you deserve better. Anyone would. Come on out. Someone’s bringing you a whisky, but you’ll have to come out.’
‘No tricks.’
‘There’s a whisky coming, but you have to be out.’
Inside the cubicle feet skidded, something fell against the door, pulled back and the crying continued. Almost five minutes passed before the door jerked open and Margaret and Colin slid forward to catch Mrs Lawrence. She didn’t look good.
‘OK, Daisy, we’re going to get you outside to the car. You’re doing fine.’
‘Where’s the fucking whisky.’
‘Try and do without it.’
‘Fuck you.’ She twisted wildly in their arms.
‘Alright, alright, you’ll get it.’
They held her upright from either side while Margaret held the glass to her lips. Daisy spilled some of the whisky, too anxious to swallow, choking it down.
Out in the room, Elaine was singing ‘Come On Baby Light My Fire’ and Daisy was pressed through the crowd, the almost solid, sticky air, with hardly a murmur of notice. Outside the night was icy and bitter with the exhaust smoke pluming from Lawrence’s car. Daisy vomited.
Lawrence pushed his head out of the driver’s window. ‘Is she coming?’
‘I’d rather fucking walk.’
‘No, Daisy, you’ll be better off in the car with your husband. You can’t walk.’
‘Of course I can fucking walk. I just needed to be sick. Fucking stovies. Make anyone sick.’
‘Is she coming?’
Daisy shook her props away, took a step and fell.
‘I’m fine, I’m fine. Ice everywhere. Fuck! Get back, you cunts, I’m not a fucking cripple!’ She scrambled up and lunged towards the car, kicked it, almost falling, and leant forward to walk again, shouting to no one in particular, ‘You know why I married the little fuck? I knew he’d make me drink, I fucking knew he’d make me drink.’
Margaret stepped forward from the doorway. ‘Mr Lawrence, do you want us to help her into the car.’
‘Does he fuck!’
‘Mr Lawrence?’ But Lawrence had already opened his door and grabbed his wife from behind. She fell again, or perhaps was overbalanced, and he dragged her by the arm to the passenger’s door, opened it and punched her in. She screamed and laughed alternately as he locked the door.
Lawrence stood, his face white and open in the dark, wiping his hands on his jacket sleeves, panting. A pale hand flared towards Margaret and then fell.
‘You’ll dance with me, Margaret, when I come back. You’ll do that for me?’
He smiled, his eyes making two neat spaces through and into the night.
IT’S ODD IN the train without James. The carriage windows seem to have run out of countryside and Margaret watches one dull town smirr into another. When they pass into sun the graffiti she sees by the track is unfamiliar, definitely English now. A foreign country opens ahead and then closes behind her and she can imagine the white light on the lines, pushing all the way to London on her behalf.
A thick black marker pen was left on James’s seat. Now it is in Margaret’s pocket; something she feels she will keep to remind her of a friend.
DIFFRENT
‘Yes, but I still don’t understand that.’
NO ME
‘How can you not be you?’
EASY
‘Actually, now you say it, yes. I do it all the time.’
NOW?
‘No, not now.’
?
‘Because –’
???
‘Alright, alright. Because it’s different on trains. I was told. Worries on board and off they go without you. They go on ahead, or in the guard’s van or something. I was told. I mean, you can relax here – this isn’t anywhere. Whatever happens outside, there’s nothing we can do about it right now. And you meet people that –’
Margaret remembers that she stopped herself from saying they were people you would never see again; that it didn’t matter what you told them. She wanted to see James again. That was important.
PEOPLE CAN TALK TO
She had the impression he wrote that very quickly, as if he were hurrying to save her from embarrassment. The way a friend would.
PEOPLE CAN TALK TO
‘Yes. You meet people you can talk to and be yourself with. Not often, but you do. Are you yourself now?’
YES NO PILLS NO JAGS ALL MEEEE
‘One-hundred per cent James Watt. I’m honoured.’
FUC
‘Away you go. You should learn to take compliments better, then you’ll get more.’
FUC WON HUNNER PERCEN MEEEEEE
Which was all that seemed to matter at the time. She hopes no one manages to change that.
AS MARGARET AND Colin walked back to the ceilidh the grind of Lawrence’s car was fading along the road, Bobby The Dug waved his arm and smiled.
‘Only God can make a tree. Eh? Only God can make a tree.’
He nodded until his glasses began to slither down his nose, then sat at rest, smiling and certain another thought would come. A good one.
Graham stepped up quietly and took Margaret’s arm. She continued to walk, slung uncomfortably between the two men.
‘Bit of bother?’
She pulled them to a stop and freed herself before she answered.
‘Mrs Lawrence seemed to be upset about something. Possibly her life. Colin and I passed her on to Mr Lawrence. He was upset, too. I think I’m upset, if anyone’s interested. I think I’m upset.’
Margaret walked to the back office, turned on the light and went in. Almost as soon as she sat and closed her eyes, a knock came at the door. She knew it would be Colin.
‘Can I come in?’
‘Sure, sure. Just don’t expect me to make any sense. Did you see his face. Christ. How the hell do you think they survive? I’d go mad.’
‘Maybe they have.’
‘And Lawrence wants me in there somewhere. Holding his hand. Whatever. He wants to add me into that.’
‘Do you want to cr
y?’
‘No, I do not want to fucking cry. I’m fucking angry. Fucking angry. I should have done something. We should have. But what is there you can do?’
‘Well they deserve each other.’
‘No they don’t. They don’t deserve that. Nobody does.’
‘It’s alright.’
‘No it’s not.’
‘We’re alright. We can’t do anything about it. That’s up to them. We’re alright. Aren’t we alright?’
‘Yes. Yes, we’re alright.’ She slid her fingers between his. ‘I think that’s what makes it worse when other people aren’t. We’re alright. No problem.’
When Colin sang that night, Margaret could still feel the pressure of his fingers between hers. His aftershave was in her hair and on her neck. He seemed to be going down well, heads around him swayed, feet keeping time softly, beating like a fragmented heart. Whenever Margaret heard him she was surprised that his voice wasn’t deeper; he looked to her as though he would have a deeper voice. But it was soft and light, seeming to carry almost in spite of itself. There was a moment when she felt his eyes find her among the other faces, she smiled a little and looked away, realising she felt quite proud, in fact, very proud.
There was a tug on Colin’s arm as he moved to join Margaret. He turned and saw a neat, slim man with an oddly bright smile. The man extended a hand for shaking.
‘How do you do?’
‘Fine, great, hello.’
‘You’re Colin McCoag.’
‘Could well be. Who’s asking?’
‘Nobody. I was merely confirming an assumption. I’m very pleased to meet you, Colin McCoag. You have a good voice – distinctive, like your face.’
‘Thanks, but I’m not giving up the day job.’
The man continued to stare at Colin, continued to grip his hand, quite firmly. Colin shivered him off.
‘I think I’ve already said thanks. And now, I have someone waiting for me. I’m going to join them.’
‘Of course, so sorry to have detained you. I just enjoy meeting people, can’t get enough of it. Cheerio. See you.’
When Colin and the man with the perfect teeth meet again, there will only be a flicker of familiarity, of old dreams, which Colin will ignore.
Graham had taken the floor now, introducing Mr Ho, and Colin fetched Margaret to ease her near the front so they could both smile their support. Mr Ho, gleaming and dumpy, released a deep, warm croon. He snuggled up to the microphone, hands held forward in supplication, and delivered a medley of Crosby and Sinatra hits. The room sang along, rippling slightly with each communal breath. Margaret pinched Colin hard on the arm when she discovered he was giggling.
‘Ow.’
‘Don’t be so rotten, he’s wonderful.’
‘I know; he’s fucking terrific. I just never imagined him as a cabaret star. This man sticks pins in people.’
‘I thought you liked that.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Mr Ho permitted two encores and then took his bow, denying all further demands.
‘God love the wee man, I could just put him in my pocket and take him home.’
Appearing next to Colin, Mr Ho shook hands politely with Margaret and then gave Colin a huge smile.
The next act was a duo: two elderly gentlemen in evening dress who played the ukelele and the washboard respectively. Both had glistening, crimson faces and swayed where they stood, jogging along neat enough; the washboarder swigging occasionally from an unmarked bottle.
When the ukelelist launched into a tuneless ditty commenting on the character of Jews, Japs, Gerries and Pakkies Colin was the first to grab him by the collar. Graham and Colin huckled off the would-be singer between them while the man with the washboard picked up his instrument and staggered away before Big Douglas could even reach him.
Perfect silence descended slowly as the noise of a gentle scuffle drifted in from outside, then a ragged cheer erupted as Graham, Douglas and Colin reappeared. They were smiling. Margaret felt she should say something to Mr Ho.
‘Not at all. They didn’t even mention slant-eyed Chinamen, nor our habit of cooking Alsatian dogs and children.’
‘I’m sorry anyway.’
‘You have nothing to apologise for. This seems to be the general rule: that those not responsible will always apologise for things which are unimportant, not at the heart of the matter. Do you see?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you feel guilty and so apologise in order to remove your guilt.’
‘I suppose.’
‘Do you? Or are you allowing me to insult you because I am a member of a racial minority?’
‘I think both. You have a lovely singing voice.’
‘Thank you, I think so.’
He giggled and squeezed Margaret’s hand.
‘Now I will present you back to your friend who seems to be slightly wounded although not at all in need of my assistance.’
‘What?’
Colin had removed the skin from all the knuckles on his right hand.
‘I never hit anyone, only the wall. Big Dougie took care of everything, Graham stood and watched and I punched fuck out one of the walls. It’s very dark out there. Oh, Mr Ho, look –’
‘Don’t mention it, I know, you’re sorry and I have an astonishingly wonderful voice. Go with Margaret and have some first aid applied. Some privacy. Go, go.’
So Margaret went off to the back office and fell asleep across three chairs, her head rested in Colin’s lap.
That was how Lawrence found them.
‘Good evening. Do I know this gentlemen? Do you? I came back to be sure that the evening had passed off well. I returned to thank you for your help. No, don’t get up. Why bother now? I thought . . . We’ll discuss this on Monday. In private. Because I respect other people’s privacy.’
Graham’s face appeared in the doorway behind Lawrence.
‘How’s it going Maggie? You feeling better now? Maggie was taken not well about a half an hour ago, I think it was the heat. That and all the running about she’d been doing. And what an evening, eh? Successful, well behaved and a high point in the life of the community. Provost Grant stuck his head in a while back, Maggie showed him round. He wanted to wait for you, Mr L. but I think you were elsewhere. Trouble at home was it?’
‘No, no trouble thank you.’
Margaret sat up slowly. ‘Yes, I’m fine now, thank you, Graham. Ready to start clearing up. Mr Lawrence this is Colin, my fiancé, I think you met earlier. Outside.’
‘How do you do, Mr Lawrence?’
‘How do I do?’ The eyes were dead now, an odd shade of grey clouding across something less pleasant. ‘Oh, I’m well, I’m well. I hope Margaret is well, too. Properly taken care of. I hope we’re all well. Of course.’
‘Oh, we’re fine, Mr L. – just fine.’ Colin stood as he spoke. There was something a little threatening about the speed with which he moved.
‘Well, be seeing you then, Mr L.’
Lawrence stood in the doorway, silent and unblinking as the lights flickered on full in the main room and a final cheer went up.
‘Colin and I need to help clear up now, Mr Lawrence.’
‘Of course. Of course. I will go home now. I’m glad everything is alright here. Delighted. Goodnight. Goodnight.’
Lawrence quickly, dryly, pecked her cheek and turned away without looking back, his arms folded.
‘Goodnight, Margaret.’
She felt she should call something after him, but could think of nothing, no words.
Ashtrays were emptied, tables wiped and the floor mopped down as chairs were stacked by the walls and feet made new tracks of dirt across the wet tiles. Margaret whistled and heard three or four other whistles joining in. Mr Lawrence’s car jerked away across the gravel outside.
Graham peeled the last of his notices down. ‘Heather, come here and dance, come here till I tell you something.’
He recited, holding the wilting paper up for
her to see. ‘“But . . . to sing, to dream, to laugh, to go where I please, to stand alone, to be free.” To be free, to be free.’ He cleared his throat and caught both her hands in his, beginning the Saint Bernard’s waltz.
Margaret’s last memory of the ceilidh is of dancing a Saint Bernard’s waltz with Colin in a room without music, but full of stepping and spinning couples. She can hear the slide and stamp of their feet, steady clapping and someone humming under their breath. And she is sure a familiar mind is watching.
Held in the swing and dance of the carriage, she again has the sensation of being observed and of knowing her observer. She feels something like the small heat of her father’s smile and remembers flattening her hands against Colin’s back and thinking he danced as if he might be family. It would be good if they could all be together like that.
GOING HOME SLOW and early in the small hours of Saturday, everybody agreed how well things had gone. Resting through the weekend, sometimes remembering this or that moment; a certain light on a face; everybody was sure of their success. Back at the Factory on Monday, voices were sleepy and contented with now and then a laugh breaking out from nowhere in particular. Everyone, even Bobby The Dug, had made something that worked and was wanted. Cracked it.
Not a smile faded when Mr Lawrence arrived, just before four o’clock. He looked a little tired and he wore a dark suit. Sammy and Lesley and Margaret were all in the front office when he walked in.
‘Miss Hamilton.’
He closed the door behind them and spoke to her where they stood, pressing one fist against the wall from time to time, as if he was making a slow punch.
‘I’m going to be honest with you, Margaret. I’m going to confide in you. I’ve done that before and regretted it, but I don’t, at the moment, feel that any more harm can be done.
‘To begin at the beginning, I returned to this Centre, to the ceilidh, because I wanted to apologise. I wanted to say I was sorry for the incident with my . . . for Daisy. She – well, you saw.
‘I also wanted to thank you. I also wanted to speak to you a little, perhaps about nothing very important; it certainly isn’t important now. You are easy to talk to. Or I have found you to be. I ask myself why and the answers I find are disturbing. Perhaps you made yourself that way.’
Looking For the Possible Dance Page 16