by Laura Marney
‘Okay.’
‘I love you.’
‘I need to go.’
‘Maria, wait, listen to me.’
‘What is it?’
‘I love you.’
Maria makes no reply.
‘I’ll phone when the show’s finished. I’ll be waiting for you and I’ll come and get you. Everything’s going to be okay.’
Chapter 61
Back in the dressing room, Maria is relieved to discover that Brian has not died chewing his own vomit, one of the women is cleaning him up by the sink.‘What the hell are you doing in here?’ Maria barks. ‘Get out!’
It’s not a woman. It’s Ronald, Ronald the Madonna-impersonating willy waggler.
‘I, eh, I heard a commotion and eh…I came in to…’
In a red silk kimono and a tight cap on his head, Ronald insists on explaining, in a faltering creepy manner, that he wiped the sick from Brian’s shirt and washed his face and hands. This is all Maria needs right now: Phil to come back and catch this pervert fiddling with Brian. There will be murder.
‘You’re not allowed in here, you know that. Where’s McKenzie? He’s supposed to be watching you.
Brian violently pokes his keyboard, ‘Leave. Him. Alone.’
‘But I was only trying to …’
‘Get out!’ she screams.
Ronald scurries out, his red kimono wafting behind him.
Brian slumps in his chair. His arms, for once, seem relaxed, defeated. He has given up trying to control them. Ronald has combed Brian’s hair flat into an unfamiliar schoolboy side parting and now his face seems old and tired. He reminds Maria of an unwatered seedling, a shrivelled child. He refuses to look at her.
‘Brian, it’s okay,’ she tells him once Ronald has left, ‘nothing happened. Your dad didn’t hurt Dezzie. Ray talked him out of it. Honestly, Dezzie is fine.’
‘Where. Is. He.’
‘He’s gone. He had to, he had no choice. Your dad was making threats.’
‘Where.’
‘I don’t know Brian, honestly I don’t.’
‘So. I. Have. Lost. Him.’
‘Yeah, well, so have I!’ Maria shouts and then starts to cry.
She knows it’s indiscreet to tell Brian this. She’s not even sure if it’s true.
‘You. Can. Get. A. Lover. Or. A. Job. Or. A. Fucking. Sandwich. Anytime. You. Want.’
This only makes Maria cry harder. She’s no longer crying only for herself.
‘I. Have. A. Power. In. Me. Stronger. Than. Fear. And. Rage. More. Terrible. Than. Palsy.’
Is Brian trying to make a joke? Maria doesn’t understand, or even care what he’s trying to say, she’s tired.
‘It. Will. Propel. Me. From. This. Chair.’
Maria stops mid-sniffle.
‘And. I. Will. Kill. Him. Death. Is. My. Only. Weapon.’
Brian has stopped crying, concentrating hard on getting the words out of his Dynavox. The automated voice does not lessen the melodrama of the curse, it only makes it more sinister.
‘Stop it, just listen to yourself.’
‘My. Father’s. Death. Or. Mine.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Brian, get a grip, will you? You’ve been watching too much children’s TV. You sound like Masters of the Universe or something. It’s not helping.’
The idea of Brian’s tiny frame bounding from his chair and murdering his dad is ridiculous and so pathetic it makes Maria want to cry again. But his own death… She knows he can do that, she’s seen it before. Other clients, enraged at their impotence, employ the only power they have: the power to die. They don’t do anything, they just give up, and quickly they fade away. Maria has never seen Brian so floppy.
‘I. Will. Take. Out. A. Contract. On. Him.’
‘Oh, grow up. A minute ago you were a Master of the Universe, now you’re a gangster?’
‘It. Will. Propel. Me. From. This. Chair. It. Will. Propel. Me. From. This. Chair. It. Will. Propel. Me.’
‘Yeah, okay. I think I’ve got the message.’
There is a polite knock on the door.
‘Come in.’
It’s Marianne.
‘Maria, where have you been? We were depending on you for the scenery changes. Your lot were supposed to be on after the Hot Steppers. I had to put the Golden Belles on. I mean, really, two dance groups back to back, it doesn’t look good. It’s been singer after singer; all my careful programming has been shot to blazes. What the hell happened?’
‘Brian wasn’t feeling well.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ says Marianne, embarrassed, ‘is he well enough now? Are you well enough now, Brian?’
‘Not. Going. On.’
‘You’re not going on?’ Marianne says, her voice rising as she shoots a panicked look at Maria.
‘Yes he is.’
‘Stage fright, is it? Don’t worry, Brian; you’re not the only one. Magic Marshall was refusing to come out of his dressing room. You’ve missed all the excitement, Maria. Apparently somebody tried to punch your boss.’
‘My boss?’
‘The bloke in the yellow T-shirt.’
‘You mean Mike?’
‘I didn’t know Mike was gay. Oh, it’s been fun and games. Listen, I’d better get on. I’ll send the rest of your group back here. There’s no point in them hanging about backstage if you’re not going to go on, Brian, they’re only taking up space.’
‘No, Marianne, he’ll go on. Give me a minute with him.’
‘Okay, but we’re coming up to the interval so you better sort it out quick. I can’t have any more holes in the programme.’
And she is gone.
‘You have to do it,’ says Maria quietly.
Brian shakes his head.
‘Stop being so bloody selfish! What about Martin and Jane, don’t you care about them? They’ve worked solidly for a month on this. For Christ’s sake Brian, you’ll propel yourself from your chair for revenge but you won’t fulfil your duty to your friends.’
‘The. Power. Of. Christ. Propels. Me.’
‘Yeah, funny. You’re good with words. No good with promises though, are you?’
‘I. Am. Not. Going. On.’
‘Who is it you’re taking revenge on? Blue Group? What for? Or is it yourself? D’you want to sit here and wallow in self-pity and loathing? You’re the guy who wants to be a normal adult, to experience all of life, well the big news is: you’ve arrived, this is it. Welcome to the real world, Brian. It’s full of pain and disappointment. And opportunity and duty. Get busy living or get busy dying, it’s your call, Brian.’
Moments later the rest of Blue Group file back in to the dressing room. In their disappointment they don’t even notice Dezzie’s absence. They are dejected but at the same time concerned for Brian.
‘Are you okay?’ asks Nurse Jane, stroking his hair.
Martin pats Brian’s shoulder and says nothing, no recriminations although he must be gutted.
‘Are you scared?’ asks Fiona without malice.
Brian pulls his head back and drops it in a slow nod.
‘So am I,’ says Fiona. ‘I’m not doing it.’
‘Don’t you start!’ says Maria, ‘Martin and Jane don’t have an act without Brian but there’s no reason for you not to sing, you’ve been rehearsing for weeks. Fiona, you’re going to be great,’ Maria says Turning to Martin and Jane, she adds, ‘don’t worry, she’s going on.’
‘No I’m not. I’m not going to be the only one!’
This causes a storm of protest.
‘But you have to!’
‘You’re the best out of all of us.’
‘I’m not doing it myself,’ Fiona says firmly. ‘I’m not going on the stage without you.’
Martin and Jane look to Maria who looks to Brian. He obviously feels the weight of this.
‘You. Don’t. Need. Us.’ Brian says.
‘You can’t make me!’ shouts Fiona, becoming upset.
‘It’s okay Fiona,’ s
ays Maria gently and tells the rest of them, ‘Fiona doesn’t have to do it if she doesn’t want to.’
‘See?’ says Fiona, ‘so I’m not. They’ll laugh at me. They’ll call me a daftie.’
‘Okay, Fiona.’
Brian is furiously jabbing at his touch screen.
‘Do. You. Define. Yourself. By. Their. Terms.’
‘You’re a fine one to talk,’ says Maria, doing nothing to disguise the bitterness of her tone.
‘Can. You. Lot. Not. Do. Anything. For. Yourselves.’
Brian has asked a question but nobody answers, they all look to Maria.
‘Why. Do. I. Always. Have. To. Take. Responsibility. For. You.’
Maria can feel her and everyone else’s hackles rise but she holds up her hand to stay their protests.
‘Fiona. Is. Going. To. Sing.’
‘I’m not…’ begins Fiona, but, sensing a breakthrough, Maria shooshes her and waits to see what else Brian has to say on the subject.
‘The. Daftie. Will. Perform.’
It seems he’s finished and he’s not going to develop his argument or offer another solution but his Dynavox, slowly converting the text into words, continues, ‘All. Of. Us. Dafties. Will. Perform. Show. Them. Who’s. Daft.’
Again they all look to Maria for confirmation and she nods.
‘Bring. On. The. Dafties.’
‘Jane,’ says Maria quickly before Brian has a chance to change his mind, ‘you run through the lines again, I’ll go and tell Marianne.’
*
‘Right,’ says Marianne consulting her clipboard, ‘I’ve managed to juggle things around a bit and, so long as you don’t mind going on after Ronald – admittedly a pretty hard act to follow – we’ll still have time for your sketch and then your song, Fiona. In fact, you’ll be the last act on before the grand finale. Top of the bill!’
Bob and Gerry come back once again to take Blue Group, all of them this time, to wait in the wings. Fiona insists on more hugging all round before they leave Maria alone in the dressing room. She would like to go backstage with them but she’s promised to go out front to ‘laugh it up’. No one says so but they are all nervous that the audience will not understand the concept and might be scared to laugh at dafties acting daft. If the audience doesn’t laugh, Blue Group are going to be left with egg on their faces.
As she has a few minutes alone she sits down and closes her eyes, takes three deep breaths and quickly pops herself down to the shimmering river.
Nelson and Arlene embrace her.
‘You weren’t to know,’ says Arlene softly.
‘It is never wrong to love and trust,’ Nelson concurs.
‘I can’t be without him, it’ll kill me.’
They both smile.
‘It won’t.’
‘I don’t know if I can forgive him.’
‘You can.’
‘I don’t know what I should do. It’s hard to decide.’
Nelson and Arlene are still smiling.
‘Yes,’ they say, ‘it’s hard.’
A few moments later Maria emerges from the meditation. Whatever happens she’s in the most positive frame of mind she can be, ready for whatever awaits her.
Maria stands at the side of the stage where she’ll get a good view. It will be a few minutes until Blue Group are on. Ronald is just finishing his last number Express Yourself and, as predicted, it’s going down very well with the crowd. They’re hooting and clapping and it’s not clear whether the Hextors know or care whether Ronald is a woman or a man. As the wolf whistles fade and the lights come back up, against a painted backdrop of a shop there are now two men, one of whom is in a wheelchair. The shop is an off-sales. The shelves are stacked from floor to ceiling with one product and one product only, the cheap but potent tonic wine Buckfast. Outsize neon bright orange and green cards, cut into clumsy star shapes, display information:
We have in stock an excellent selection of fine wines.
Buy One Get One Free – offer applies only to employed persons.
Please do not ask for credit as a punch in the mouth often offends.
For your throat’s sake drink Buckfast!
Warning: Shoplifters will be severely pummelled.
Milk Tokens accepted here.
Please note this register holds minimum cash as everyone in Hexton is rooked.
Please respect our neighbours and smash your Buckie bottles in another street.
Wife giving you a hard time? Drink Buckie!
Titters break out here and there as the audience read the notices. They are pointing them out to each other and laughing. Maria breathes a sigh of relief. At least they get these jokes, and this sets them up to expect comedy. Backstage, Bob and Gerry will be pleased; they designed and painted it with Ray.
Martin, in his brown overall carries a Moet and Chandon box and heaves it on to the counter. He rips it open and produces a bottle: of Buckfast. He looks at the bottle and re-checks the box, he brings out another bottle: Buckfast again. He shrugs acceptance and the audience chuckle. Thank God.
‘How. Long. Is. It.’ says Brian’s machine.
Maria laughs loud, a lone voice in the packed hall. It’s not the audience’s fault. They’re not used to hearing a talking machine. There is an uncomfortable silence until Martin speaks.
‘How long is what?’ he says with his hands protectively across his crotch.
Maria laughs again. The audience laugh. Not spontaneously, but politely, in recognition that a joke has been made. Encouraged by this Martin now proceeds to look down the inside of his trousers. This gets a slightly stronger laugh. Then he looks at the audience. His expression is not a happy one; he has obviously not liked what he’s seen down there. They laugh again. Martin follows this up with some more traditional stage business: grimaces and jerky movements, and they laugh more. Maria can hear relief in the laughter now, the audience have tuned in to the willy jokes. As the sketch progresses they catch on quicker each time Brian sets one up. As Brian and Martin’s confidence increases the timing gets sharper and the pauses get longer. By the time Jane delivers her rabidly hysterical Pulp Fiction line the actors are forced to stop for a few moments until the applause dies down. Maria is laughing, not because she’s supposed to but because they’re so funny. Blue Group can’t hear her anyway, she’s being drowned out by two hundred other people laughing. They leave the stage triumphant.
And now it is Fiona’s turn.
There are a few pregnant moments while she stands alone waiting for the orchestra to find her sheet music. She looks so vulnerable and brave. She’s beautiful. Her green velvet dress is catching and reflecting the stage lights and her rich dark hair falls around her face in soft curls.
‘You promised me, and you said a lie to me,’ she sings, pitch perfect, the words from Donal Og, the old Irish ballad she has rehearsed so thoroughly. She sings as though it were a prayer. Fiona is a diva; lost in her song she’s oblivious to the audience and the thirty-piece orchestra that swells and swoons as it follows her voice.
‘I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you,
and I found nothing there…’
Maria has heard her sing this at least three times a day, every day, for the last month. She knows the words at least as well as Fiona does, but until now she didn’t feel the loneliness and grief and longing.
‘You promised me a thing that was hard for you,’
With each verse she feels it stronger.
‘You promised me a thing that is not possible,’
It was probably too much to expect of one person. Dezzie was her religion. She should have known it couldn’t be true.
You have taken the east from me; you have taken the west from me;
you have taken what is before me and what is behind me;
you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me;
and my fear is great that you have taken God from me!’
Fiona finishes her song and receives the applause with a
modesty and dignity Maria didn’t know she was capable of. She is also generous; in her moment of triumph she claps and stretches her hand out to indicate the orchestra, sharing the glory with them. The audience are clapping and whistling, Fiona is smiling graciously, majestic and effulgent. Hexton’s own Susan Boyle, the audience love her. Her talent shines from her, every inch the star, a hundred times more gifted and graceful than the synthetic celebs she worships in the magazines. The show is a runaway success. Blue Group have been the icing on the cake, they’ve topped the bill and stolen the show.
But it’s drawing to a close. Fiona leaves the stage and suddenly it’s the finale. The orchestra begins playing Nessun Dorma. The choirgirls file onstage from each side, followed by the primary school kids. They stand, sit and kneel on benches, raked rows of young heads like a tidy field of cabbages, their heads only just visible to the parents who squint to pick them out.
The Hot Steppers can be heard before they’re seen, beating the floor with their metal clad feet as though it owed them money. Blue Group come on, Jane pushing Brian’s chair, Martin holding Brian’s arm out victoriously, Fiona elegant and modest. Two lines of Golden Belles in their Moulin Rouge costumes high kick their way onstage from opposite sides in a pincer movement. They earn a laugh from the audience because dangling at each end of the silk and feathers line up are two very under-rehearsed men. Ray and Aldo cling on, kicking when they should be knee bending and hopping ignominiously. The audience scream with delight and this buffoonery only highlights the smooth professionalism of the Belles. Ronald leads on the solo artistes who, except for Magic Marshall, try to outdo each other for applause.
The audience are on their feet and clapping feverishly. Mums and dads gush proud tears. Light pulses in the darkness as cameras and phones flicker and flash.
Martin, unable to restrain himself, begins to sing along with Nessun Dorma. He doesn’t know the words but at this stage his exuberance far outweighs his professionalism.
‘Nah nah nah nah nah nah nah nah,’
The jubilant audience need no encouragement to join in. They don’t know the words either but ever since this song became a football anthem everyone is well-acquainted with the tune. In the absence of a libretto, well punctuated nah nah nahs suffice very well. The orchestra must play louder to match the passion of the congregation as the church sings with one voice. Everybody’s here, except of course Dezzie.