Demo

by Alison Miller

  Anyhow, I like my throw. I spread it over the duvet and put all the cushions on – the colour a pomegranate, the woman in the shop says – and my bed turns intay a big sofa. When I’m sittin on it, I can see mysel in my granny’s dressin table mirror. It’s dead old-fashioned, but it was my granny’s, so I’m no gonny part wi it, even if it is a bit big for my room. It’s got two side bits, wings that move, so’s you can see yoursel fae every angle.

  Which came in very handy when I done my dreads. I shut mysel in my room one Sunday wi a tub a beeswax, and twisted and waxed and back combed, till I had did the two sides a my hair. The only bit I couldny really do mysel was the back. So I waited till my ma and da went out to dae the shoppin and I phoned Farkhanda and she said she would come ower and help me.

  I never telt Farkhanda what happened in Florence – well, wi Julian, anyhow; I telt her about the demo. Sometimes I thought if I didny tell her, it would be hard to stay pals. And sometimes I thought if I did, it would be even harder.

  Afore she arrives, I take Julian’s dread out the back a my drawer where I keep it wrapped up in a poly bag inside my red T-shirt. One time I thought my ma must’ve saw it, cause the T-shirt was folded different. I’m nearly sure it was. But, if she did, she never let on, didny say nothin. So, I takes it out and lays it on my dressin table. Funny how it brings everythin back! I hold it beside my new dreads; it looks dead scabby beside mine; frayed and tatty and a bit dirty. Probably cause I slept wi it under my pillow and carried it around for ages in my pocket, so’s I could rub it between my fingers under my desk at school. It’s a bit of a funny colour too. I used to think it was dark blond, but no now. It’s hard to describe the colour really: a kinda no-colour colour.

  The basin’s ready. I take one last look at the lock the way it is, hold it up to my nose. Even the smell’s faded a lot, the beeswax and patchouli. It’s mair like – I don’t know – old matted hair, just. But I can still see Julian the way he was when he had dreads; afore that cow got tay him wi her scissors.

  I put on the rubber gloves, lift the dread and lay it lengthwise in the basin, makin sure it’s totally covered; I don’t want any a the original colour comin through in case somebody guesses. How long does bleach take? Half an hour should be long enough; another half-hour to get it dried wi my hairdryer. By that time, Farkhanda will be here. First it was gonny be the same colour as mine; then I thought I would never know what one it was if I done that, except for where I fix it at the roots. So I decided on bleach instead.

  By the time Farkhanda’s came, the whole room’s stinkin of it. Piss and chlorine.

  Clare, for goodness’ sake, what you doin? she says. And she coughs and covers her face wi her hijab. And then she laughs, You’re mental, she says. Mad. Wired to a Mars Bar!

  I’ll open the windie, I says.

  Too right. I don’t want to be asphyxiated.

  Is it that bad? I’ve no noticed it so much, cause I’ve been in here all the time.

  It’s that bad, Clare. She coughs again. Oh God, it’s a wonder your mother and father haven’t smelt it.

  They’re out gettin the messages. And they’ll likely go for a pub lunch after. Aye, so my da’s no here; you can take off your headscarf if you want.

  It’s a light blue one the day; goes wi her jeans. She unravels it fae her shoulders. It’s got weights sewed into the hem to keep it down, to make sure it doesny blow off in the wind. Tiny wee weights. Farkhanda squeezes one out through the stitchin to show me; a wee silver ball bearin.

  Weird, I says.

  No as weird as they matted bits a rope hangin fae your head, she says.

  I think I’ve offended her. But then she laughs and pulls her scarf right off and throws it on the bed. All her lovely hair comes tumblin down.

  Oh, Farkhanda, I says.

  What?

  I don’t know… just your hair… it’s…

  Are you cryin?

  No.

  Don’t cry, Clare, please; you’ll set me off. Come on, let’s get started. She puts her hands on my shoulders and looks at me dead serious. Her eyes are back to how they should be, dark, dark brown and shinin, with her thick dark hair round about.

  I’m OK. Let me empty that basin first. Your hair smells of honey and ginger; don’t want it to end up stinkin a bleach!

  When I’ve came back in, Farkhanda’s sittin on the bed, wi Julian’s dreadlock in her hands, turnin it round and round, examinin it. It’s near pure white now, and the fuzzy bits are like wee strands of light.

  She looks up at me. So what’s the story with this one? she says, and holds it out to me. Why one white dreadlock among the red?

  When I take it out her hand, I’m thinkin, Should I tell her, should I tell her; no, probably no. Then I says, It’s Julian’s.

  Sometimes I don’t know what I’m gonny say till it’s out my mouth!

  Julian’s?

  Aye, that friend a my brother’s I telt you about, that I met at the demo in Florence.

  I know who Julian is, Clare; you’re never done talkin about him. I mean, what are you doin with one of his dreadlocks?

  Well, his girlfriend cut them off after the demo and… I got one.

  His girlfriend gave you one?

  No exactly.

  No exactly?

  I just took it.

  She’s lookin at me like a wee owl; big round eyes.

  And you’re goin to do what with it?

  Questions, questions! You’re as bad as my ma.

  I need to know what it is I’m involved in here. She pulls her mouth intay a pout like she disapproves.

  Naybody’s forcin you to help me.

  Theft of a dreadlock’s a serious matter, she says.

  I notice her lips are twitchin at the corners.

  In some cultures it would be seen as an act of witchcraft.

  Aye right, I says. I could stick pins in it and gie him a sore heid.

  And she laughs, thank goodness, like clear water runnin ower stones.

  We better get a move on before your parents get back, eh?

  Yes. Listen, thanks, Farkhanda. I really appreciate this.

  She pulls her eyebrows up and dimples her cheeks. Don’t mention it.

  Still, I don’t think I could tell her about Laetitia’s diary.

  I sit in front of my granny’s mirror, wi Farkhanda standin behind me, and we start. The sun’s shinin in and the yellow walls are pure Florence. Julian’s dread looks silver in my hand.

  So, I just kinda twist a few strands of hair together first? Farkhanda says.

  Aye, and then take the comb and backcomb it. Right up to the roots. And seal it all in with some a the wax.

  Easy peasy, she says, and I feel the tug of the comb like a burst of pain on my scalp.

  Ooh, ya!

  Sorry! She looks at me in the mirror and smiles. I’ve never noticed afore, her mouth goes up more at one side than the other. I gie her a smile back and wonder if she sees me different too. And then I catch sight a my dreads. I mean, really look at them. My head goes hot and I pure panic! I pull Julian’s dread tight between my hands.

  Maybe this is no such a good idea.

  What?

  The dreads. Do you think they’re a good idea?

  Too late now! Farkhanda steps back a bit and bends down to look at me in the mirror. She has to haud her ain hair back wi her hand, so it doesny fall all over mine. It makes your hair shorter and thicker, she says. More sticky out.

  She’s right. My hair does seem a couple of inches shorter.

  All that backcombin. I feel round the back where Farkhanda’s workin on one, twistin and screwin it tight. There’s only a wee bit normal hair left. I smoothe it down one last time.

  Right, I says. Go for it.

  Darker too, Farkhanda says, workin away. Must be the wax makes it darker red.

  There’s wee points of pain on my scalp where the new dreads are; like when your bunches were too tight when you were wee. I suppose they’ll loosen a bit in a day or
two.

  OK, that’s it. So, what do you want done with Julian’s dreadlock?

  I canny really believe that was only a few weeks ago. And now Farkhanda’s goin to meetins in the mosque. Well, a meetin. I wonder if she’ll still want us to go thegether to the demo on Saturday. Or if she’ll stay wi Shenaz and her pals. A bit of the embroidery on my cover’s loose. I’ve been sittin in a dream, pullin at the thread, and one a the wee mirrors has came out. Really it’s a bit a silver metal. It looks like a fishscale lyin on my finger. I flick it wi my thumb. It lands back down on the bed and disappears among all the other mirrors.

  I’m used to my dreads now. My granny’s mirror’s used to them. I like them. Julian’s one hangs down at the left-hand side. I made Farkhanda promise she wouldny tell naybody. I didny know if it would work, but she done a really great job, Farkhanda. She wound some thread round and round at the top of one a my dreads, and I did the same wi Julian’s. Then she sewed Julian’s dread ontay mine, without jaggin me once with the needle. And she snipped some of the loose hairs off Julian’s, cause it looked mair frizzy than mine, no to mention a totally different colour!

  Some a the other lassies at school asked me how I done it; how I managed tay bleach one dreadlock without getting dye on any a the rest.

  Farkhanda looks at me and we wink at one another. It’s witchcraft, she says. Magic.

  And that pure pisses the lassies off. They ask if they can touch my hair. Or have a wee piece of it.

  That will be right! I says. That will be shinin bright! Away and make your ain dreads. And I fling my head forward then back, so the dreads go flyin, just to annoy them.

  I kneel up on the bed, to get a better view of mysel in the mirror. Dark red wool wi one white strand. Is that birdshit? one a the boys had says. But it shines in the light; sorta sparkles. I wonder what my granny would think of them. Patsy’ll like them, I bet, even if my ma doesny.

  When I walked Farkhanda to the door that Sunday, I ran right intay my ma and da, didn’t I, comin in the door wi the messages. My ma gasps and says, In the name a…! Then she burst intay tears and says, Oh, Clare, your beautiful hair!

  It was pure embarrassin, Farkhanda standin there with her hijab back on.

  Phone for you, Clare, my ma shouts through fae the lobby.

  I must’ve been miles away; I’ve no even heard it ringin.

  Where is it? I says. My ma’s still sittin readin. She’s took my da’s socks off and she’s playin wi the toes of her left foot on the sofa, and holdin her book in her other hand. She doesny look up.

  Over there.

  Where? Then I see the handset, perched on the arm of the chair. Is it Farkhanda? I says.

  Uh, huh.

  I don’t know what my ma’ll dae when she runs out a the Jane Austen. I don’t think it’s did the trick this time.

  I pick up the phone; the wee green light is blinkin. Hi, Farkhanda, I says. I’m gonny take the phone through to my room, OK?

  When I’m settled back on my bed on the pomegranate cushions, I say, Hi, how was your meetin?

  Alright, she says. We were –– kin at ––– ges –– Qu’ran.

  You’re breakin up, Farkhanda. Put the phone nearer your mouth.

  Is that better?

  Aye.

  Listen, I don’t have much time, Clare, my father’s waitin on a phonecall. It’s Monday the Sunset Song essay’s due, isn’t it?

  Aye, but we’ve got the demo on Saturday, mind, and we were gonny make placards on Friday night. Are you still up for that?…

  Hello? Farkhanda?

  Yes, I’m still here. I canny manage on Friday night now, Clare. I’m goin to another meetin after Friday prayers.

  Oh.

  I could come round early on Saturday mornin? Would that suit?

  Aye, I suppose so. OK. What time?

  Ten o’clock?

  Ten! That’ll no gie us enough time. The demo starts at eleven. By the time we get the bus—

  Alright, alright, keep your dreadlocks on! Nine, then. I’ll be round at nine. You got all the stuff we need? Pens, big sheets of paper and that?

  Aye, and my da’s bringin hame some scrap wood fae his work for handles.

  Great. Right, see you in school tomorrow. Bye.

  And that’s her away. I press the button on the phone and toss it on the bed. I’ve no even heard how her meetin’s went. My face looks dead pasty in the mirror. Peely wally, my granny would say. And my dreads are bigger.

  I suppose I’ll need tay make a start on the essay mysel. I lean ower the end a the bed, dig my English folder out my bag and find the sheet.

  With close reference to the text of Sunset Song, explain the various conflicts – political, personal, national, local – at work in the community of Kinraddie and round about, in relation to Britain’s involvement in the First World War.

  I take a piece of paper and write at the top: Sunset Song Essay, S5, Mr Forbes. The thought of him with his fags and his sweaty oxters puts me right off. It’ll be easier in the exams, cause it willny be him markin my paper. I don’t know why I feel that; he ayeways says nice things about me.

  Well done, Clare. This is very good. No taint in your written work of demotic Glasgow speech, I’m delighted to see!

  Demotic. I had to look it up.

  I canny be bothered daein this the now. I stick the essay sheet and the piece a paper back in my English folder and stuff it in my bag. Sunday’ll be time enough to think about it. I lean forward on the bed, lift up the edge of the throw and squeeze my hand under the mattress to see if Laetitia’s diary’s still there. It is. Still in the exact same place. That’s why I make my bed every mornin afore I go out now. My ma’s amazed. The throw’s too heavy to sleep under, so I take it off at night. In the mornin, I smoothe up my duvet, spread the throw on top, pile all the cushions back and prop them against the wall. I says to Ma, It’s cause I want my room to be mair like a bedsit. But that isny the real reason. It’s cause I don’t want her comin in, strippin the bed, turnin ower the mattress. Findin the diary.

  One last time. I’ll look at it one last time. I have to get off the bed to get it out. I kneel down beside it, slip my hand in under the cover, ease it in between the mattress and the base and pull out the bag with the diary in. It’s the bag I made in Primary Seven, wi my initials embroidered on. C. K. Green embroidery on a yucky colour a pink. Everybody had to make one; the boys’ ones were blue. Miss, what’s this for? they says. And they were all pure manky by the time we finished makin them. The teacher had to take them hame and wash them. I never found a use for mine till now. Laetitia’s diary fits in perfect, with room at the top to pull the drawstring, made out a the same green embroidery thread as my initials.

  I sit back up on the bed again and loosen the string. My heart aye starts beatin faster when I do this. It’s black, the diary, hardback, covered in cloth. I didny realize what it was when I first seen it. It was lyin on the floor at the window, beside a chair in Danny’s room in the flat in the West End. Well, the livin room, really, but Danny’s sleepin in it the now, till he finds somewhere else. I wouldny even a noticed it, but Laetitia came back into the room and picked up a wee brown leather book off the seat.

  Jed was there at some point that night, and Danny. Julian was there for a wee while, but he went out no long after Laetitia’s went through to the bedroom. That was the first time I’d saw him again after Florence. My heart was pure thumpin, when he walked through the door. I was sure they must be able to hear it, but they didny seem to notice, him and Laetitia. He was taller than I remembered and his hair had grew a bit. Still short but. Take him a few years to grow back his dreads, if he felt like it.

  I wasny plannin on takin the book. Julian was away; Laetitia was in her room; Danny and Jed were having a carry-on. And I seen it lyin there. First I thought it was an ordinary book, but when I opened it, it was all handwritin. I thought it might be Julian’s, cause I’ve never saw his writin. As soon as I read the first paragraph but, on the pag
e it opened at, I knew it was Laetitia’s.

  Julian has asked me to go with him to a demo in Florence the weekend after next. European Social Forum – anti-war, anti-globalization. Strictly comrades, he says. Strictly compañeros. Don’t know if it’s a good idea; I’ve only recently re-established some kind of equilibrium, after the split. Only recently begun any worthwhile work on my thesis. Do I really want to risk opening Pandora’s Box again? Why haven’t I immediately said NO!?

  I’ve got that bit off by heart now. And some other bits. I had my back to Danny and Jed, but I slung a quick look ower my shoulder. They were laughin and jokin. Naybody was lookin, so I slipped the diary in my bag.

  I flick through it to find my favourite bit. The book falls open at the page. God, if ever I dae manage to get this back to Laetitia, she’ll know right away what bits I’ve been readin!

  Julian, Julian! What is it about you that draws me to you? Keeps drawing me back, even after all that’s happened? Even after I’ve decided CATEGORICALLY, that it’s no good; our being together invariably ends in tears. Yet, here I am in a pensione in Florence, on the eve of the European Social Forum demo, my heart beating faster at the thought of seeing you in – what? – an hour or so, when your bus gets in. This will be a good test of our resolve to stay apart. My resolve, at any rate. MY resolve.

  She writes dead strange – like she’s talkin to hersel and Julian at the same time. It’s funny to think of her sittin in her room, writin away in this book, just as our bus is comin into Florence, wi me and Danny on it, as well as Julian. I mind how weird I thought he was then, wi his posh voice and his dreads.

  I lift my head up to see mysel in the mirror. If I half close my eyes, I can even imagine I am Julian now. Him in the mirror, his eyes half closed, lookin at me on my bed. I take his dreadlock in my hand. I can ayeways find it dead easy, cause it feels different fae my ain dreads. Different texture. Mair spongy and fuzzy. Ayeways I see it glintin out the corner of my eye. Silvery. Sometimes I think I feel a kinda vibration in it. A wee kinda tremor, as if it’s alive. And I get a bit spooked then, rememberin what Farkhanda says about witchcraft.