by Anne Donovan
And just at that moment, just when I was about to tell Patric what happened between me and Amrik, the phone rang and Patric went through to the other room tae answer it.
Keep an eye on those fishcakes, Fi – watch they don’t burn.
When he came back the food was ready and the moment was lost. We never returned to the subject till after the meal, while I was helping him stack the dishwasher.
By the way, Fi, what I was gonnae ask you earlier, about Amrik. It’s just that Lionel was talking about going to see him play tomorrow – apparently Amrik’s beginning to get a bit of a cult following.
Oh. I bent over, rearranged plates so I could fit in a casserole.
But we don’t have to go if you’d rather not. I don’t know how it finished between you guys, but if it’s not cool, then just say so.
Nae bother, Patric. It’s totally cool.
I straightened up, pressed the rinse cycle button and shut the door.
WE MET IN yet another trendy new bar, this time with a water theme. In the centre of the room was a huge pool with a waterfall, fish darting about and water lilies floating on the surface. The waitresses were dressed as mermaids in green silvery frocks with long fishtails at the back and the drinks had cocktail sticks patterned with green and pink flowers.
Lionel was a stunning-looking guy. Patric was six foot two but Lionel towered over him and had wonderful dreadlocks. He had a lovely voice, quite upperclass but wi subtle rhythmic undertones of the West Indies. Clara was a wee woman slightly older than him, mibbe late twenties. She wore a sparkly frock and chatted animatedly, waving her haunds about. Eventually we were joined by Owen, Simon and a couple of other pals. I went to the toilet which had basins like fountains and a pile of tiny green and pink hand towels folded tae resemble water lilies. When I came out I seen Patric and his friends fae across the room, draped artistically round the fountain as if someone had arranged them, glasses in haund, chatting and laughing thegether. They looked like film stars.
We squashed intae two taxis. I was with Patric, Lionel and Simon, speeding through the streets. I was starving. I was used tae having my tea at six o’clock every night, but for Patric’s crowd dinner at eight was quite early and more often the restaurant was booked for nine. Tonight we had some nibbles at the bar but were gonnae have what Patric called supper in a restaurant at 10.30. I wondered if I could last out. The taxi drew up and we spilled out on to the hot pavement. In fronty us was an elaborately patterned tiled frontage. Peaches.
The basement was arched like auld railway tunnels, original red brick exposed. It was dark wi nasty fluorescent coloured lights, acid green, yellow and pink, randomly changing fae one to the other. When I’d got used to the gloom I looked around. The crowd were mainly in their early twenties, a few slightly younger. It was a really mixed crowd, far mair so than the Glasgow scene. Folk of all colours and races, some cross-dressed and tranny. Patric’s team looked slightly out of place, a bit too well dressed, too cool, like film stars slumming it. And I always look out of place.
Patric thrust a bottle of trendy beer in my haund. This isnae the place for cocktails.
I guess.
A bottle of beer is safer in clubs like this – drinks can get spiked. Keep hold of it.
We took up residence against a wall, a few feet away fae the bar. The stage was at the other end, bare except for a mic and a few sad-looking coloured lights. The DJ played ambient music, trying hauf-heartedly tae get folk up to dance every now and again with something a bit faster, but this crowd werenae moving. They talked and posed; girls giggling and greeting friends like they hadnae seen them for years, guys trying to look cool, phones stuck to their ear. The hum of conversation grew louder and louder and I gied up trying to make mysel heard over it, lapsed intae silence on the fringes of our group. Then the DJ stopped his music and the hum of the crowd became a buzz of excitement.
All right, everyone, the regulars among you will need no introduction to our Friday gig, but for those of you who’ve just beamed down from the moon (That’s us, whispered Lionel in my ear, his dreadlocks tickling my nose) prepare to be impressed, be very, very impressed by the magical music of Amrik Singh.
It was a weird juxtaposition of the absolutely familiar with the absolutely strange. Watching Amrik on stage, listening tae him play, was the same – but the venue, the folk around me, even the way the London crowd responded, was different. They were quiet but there was less intensity in the way they listened. I thought mibbe I was imagining it; it was the acoustics of the cavernous bar, or the distance fae the stage. But I felt there was something, a quality of listening in the Glasgow crowd, that wasnae here. I stood, unable to lose mysel in the music as I normally did, trying tae work out what it was.
They were wildly enthusiastic, applauded ecstatically after each long exquisite number. The women loved him nae doubt, moving closer, some dancing self-consciously beside the stage.
Wicked, Lionel said when the first number stopped and I nodded, unable tae speak. The others were smiling, showing Lionel by their body language that he’d picked a winner.
Then I realised what the difference was. The London audience loved Amrik, recognised his special quality, but they didnae need him the way Glaswegians did. London love was clean and manicured; after the gig they’d go off and have a lovely supper in an elegant restaurant, or move on to the next club they’d heard was cool, or heid hame tae their trendy apartment, having pulled some guy or girl. But their souls werenae riven apart, their whole beings shattered and put back thegether in a new way. Mibbe they were incapable of it, or just didnae need it, but for the first time I truly understood what Amrik had meant about playing live; it wasnae some theory about his art or the precious musician-talk I’d heard that often. His music was different here because the people were different.
When Amrik finished I didnae know what to dae. Part of me wanted to go over and say hello, but another part would rather scurry aff with Patric and his pals. They’d started to debate whether there was time for another drink or if we should get a taxi to the restaurant when I felt his haund on my shoulder.
Fiona.
Hi Amrik.
I couldnae look in his face.
What are you doing here?
I’m in London for a wee while – I’ve a piece in a show here.
Cool.
I’m staying with my brother. Amrik, Patric.
Patric shook his haund. Hey, our names rhyme.
Different spelling, but. I said. Amrik with a k.
Amrik with a k, that was such a great gig.
Thanks.
Would you like to join us? We’re going for something to eat.
I was sure Amrik would say no, would disappear intae the crowd afore I’d be able to talk to him, find out his address, but he looked at Patric for a moment as though sizing him up, then said Sure.
Even though Patric sat me next tae Amrik we never got a chance to speak properly. As usual everyone wanted a piece of him but even that was different fae Glasgow. Lionel was a theatre director, Clara a dance reviewer; art in all its forms was the backdrop to their lives. Of course Amrik was great but to them he was just one of many great musicians. They wanted to dissect, debate, compare one artist to another, draw parallels between art forms. The conversation would start on music then move in the course of a few sentences tae sculpture or dance.
The subject of recording came up very quickly. Clara asked Amrik where she could get a CD of his music and Amrik shrugged and said I don’t do CDs.
Can I download it from your website?
Amrik placed a forkful of rice in his mouth and chewed it slowly. When he’d finished, he smiled. I don’t record my music. I believe that music happens in the moment. Recorded music is dead.
Gosh, that’s so zen. Clara took a sip of wine.
Lionel, who had been talking to Owen about some factory in South London that was under threat from developers, turned and looked across the table.
That’s such a the
atre concept. Theatre happens in the moment – which is why it has so much more impact than film.
Simon interjected. I won’t let you get away with that one, Lionel. Some films have as much impact as theatre – and surely any art form can only be understood by reference to the moment in which it takes place and the person who sees it. Take what might be considered the most static form of art – a building: a cathedral, let’s say, constructed of solid stone. Yet you can visit it on one day then go back the next and experience it in a completely different way.
I could feel the discussion slipping away. It was always like this with Patric’s friends, like being in a sea; a serene, kind sea, but the waves rocked you gently fae one part to another. Afore you knew, you were drifting far away fae where you’d started and far away fae where you might want to be.
But what Amrik’s saying, about music … Everyone looked at me respectfully as they always done when someone was talking, especially me as I said so little. I stumbled on haltingly. I’ve seen Amrik in Glasgow loads of times but tonight it was that different and that’s cause the folk here are different.
The viewer or listener of the art form is not a passive vessel, not just a receiver but actually forms part of the work itself, Simon began, and I could feel it happening again, felt the sea shifting, the drift under me and I burst in, interrupting in a way they never done.
Don’t you want tae be somewhere the audience really love you and need you, where you dae something amazing for them, rather than in a place where they’ve got so much stuff you’re just … I stopped.
Amrik looked round. Sometimes you feel one note is better or a run of notes has more depth or intensity. You think – ah, that’s it – but it’s not. If you keep doing the same thing, it becomes stale. If I stay too long in one place my music stagnates and it needs to be alive.
Alternate slices of avocado and beetroot fanned round the plate, red and green sauce spiralled over them. And in the middle a huge prawn, eyes staring up at me.
I felt hot, the restaurant was stuffy and my glass had been refilled that often I’d nae idea how much I’d had to drink. I stood up and pushed my chair back, stumbling slightly. I walked towards the bathroom, treading very carefully between the tables. The bathroom walls were tiled in brown and the towels lime green. Seventies theme. I managed to get inside a cubicle and threw up in the avocado toilet.
Slumped in the train on the way back next day, I closed my eyes and cooried intae my fleece. My Walkman covered my ears though I’d nae music on; it slightly blotted out the sound of the other passengers and this way naebody would talk to me. Patric had been amazed when he seen I still had a Walkman.
It’s like something out the dark ages.
I smiled. I’m a poor student, remember, fae a family that’s been rehoused by the social.
Cue the violins. He patted my airm. Never mind, Fiona, I’ll buy you an iPod.
Next time he came up there’d be a wee parcel for me. Patric was like that, never said things and didnae deliver.
It was another roasting hot day but the air-conditioning in the train was daeing overtime and I felt shivery, or mibbe it was after throwing up yesterday. I didnae want to think about it, it was too mortifying. Course everyone’d known what was wrang. When I hadnae returned fae the toilet Clara followed me to cradle my heid and wipe my face with a towel dampened in cool water.
She’d taken me back to the flat, too. Patric had offered, but she’d insisted.
A woman’s touch, she’d said. I need to leave now anyway – I’ve a meeting at ten tomorrow.
You sure, sis? Patric stroked my hair. I’ll come too.
Don’t be daft – they’ve just brought your food. I glanced at the leafy concoction strewn with pink peppercorns that passed for a main course but it made me feel queasy again and I turned away.
Okay. I won’t be long though. Get straight to bed. Drink some water first.
I will.
I waved goodbye to everyone and got out the door, never daring to glance in Amrik’s direction.
I don’t know what time Patric came in but he was up afore me next morning, clean and shaved, wearing jeans and another of his lovely linen shirts.
Can you face a bit of dry toast and a cuppa tea?
Okay.
I wasnae up for talking and Patric bustled round, making sure I had everything. He came with me in the taxi to the station, got me magazines and water and a sandwich.
You’ll probably feel starving about two o’clock.
He even came in the train with me, settled me in the seat like an invalid.
I’m sorry about last night, he said.
You’re sorry – it was my fault.
Happens to us all at some time.
I knew he was right but I couldnae imagine any of his friends throwing up in a restaurant toilet. Or if they did, nae doubt they’d recover and walk out five minutes later as if nothing had happened.
You take care and call me when you get back. And you must come down again soon. Everyone loved you.
He planted a kiss on my cheek then hugged me as much as he could with me sitting and him towering over me. For a second I was enveloped in the cool of his shirt and the subtle scent of his aftershave, then he was gone, waving goodbye fae the platform.
I dozed on and off for maist of the journey, then got a coffee and sat, flicking through wanny the magazines Patric had gied me. Articles about how tae have perfect hair and skin, organise your work and rustle up lovely meals in ten minutes. Photies of all the must-have accessories you couldnae live without. I tossed it aside, curled my legs under me and shut my eyes. It felt that different fae the journey doon, when I’d been full of hope about the exhibition. And seeing Amrik in that environment had been weird, but then mibbe it was just me that was weird. The train smelled stale and the air-conditioning had given up altogether. The folk across the aisle were eating crisps that honked like they’d been flavoured wi vomit. I looked at my watch. By the grace of Virgin Trains, I’d be hame in an hour.
I DID WANT to come hame, but back in Glasgow the summer stretched ahead of me like a desert, dry and dusty and arid.
Maist folk are desperate for the summer, look forward tae those two weeks in the year when they feel human, laid out on a beach or planked round the hotel pool, sun warm on their bodies, but I’d always felt a sense of dread when the summer holiday loomed intae view. I liked school, the routine of it. And even at Art School you still have things you’re supposed to be daeing, a place in the world.
But now I’d need tae earn some money. Even though Janice made sure we got all the benefits we were entitled to and had secured every student loan and bursary in existence for me, I still needed tae make as much as possible during the holidays to tide me over the next year. And if I was gonnae have tae leave hame – and I couldnae really see any way round it – then I’d need mair to pay for a flat.
So I spent every hour I could in the supermarket, took on extra shifts: late shifts, early shifts, every shift no one else wanted. I knew when I looked in the mirror what a toll it was taking on me – my eyes looked like a panda’s and my skin was breaking out in rough red patches. No enough sunlight or fresh air, food snatched at odd times of the day and night. But my bank balance was building up; I was working that many hours I’d nae time tae spend anything and every week when I put the money in my savings account I felt a warm glow at the thought of being able tae support mysel through the next term. Every now and again Janice would drag me round to hers for a home-cooked meal and tell me I needed to cut doon my hours but she was too busy to sort out my life. And I was that caught up in the treadmill I’d made for mysel that when Monica phoned and asked me to go and meet her and Jemma for coffee, I realised I hadnae seen my so-called best friends for months.
Monica was her usual neat self but Jemma looked like a supermodel. Tall and slim with her hair beautifully cut in subtle layers, she was wearing the kind of cropped trousers that make most folk look daft. Somehow that first year
at uni had changed that skinny gawkiness of hers intae slender glamour.
Then there was me. I knew I wasnae at my best; I’d come straight fae work, stuffed my overall in a poly bag and rushed across in the subway without having time to wash my face, but even so. I could tell by the look in their eyes.
It’s so good to see you. Monica hugged me and Jemma squeezed my haund as I sat doon.
How’s things?
Good, said Jemma. Passed the exams okay.
She came top of the class, Fiona. But she’s too modest to say.
Ach, said Jemma. It’s no big deal.
Away you go.
Anyhow Monica has even bigger news. Not only has she passed all her exams with flying colours, she’s got a boyfriend.
Monica blushed.
Who is he?
A boy on my course. Charles.
I’m amazed you ever have time to see him – you must have that much studying to do.
Oh you know, we go to the library together. And he goes to the chaplaincy at lunchtime. That’s how we got talking.
The chaplaincy?
You know the Catholic chaplaincy – they have mass at lunchtime.
When we were at school Monica was the maist devout of us – lighting candles, daeing novenas. Her mother went tae mass every morning afore her work in the family’s takeaway, and there were holy water fonts and statues in every room of the house. I wondered if Jemma still went.
The waiter came and I ordered penne amatriciana and a coffee. I’d been looking forward to seeing the others, but I was now beginning to feel a bit spare; they obviously still phoned regularly and met up, were part of each other’s lives, while I was an outsider, a shadow left over from some other time and place. No their fault but – mines.