‘Kalpana Jagannadham, I’m going to wash your mouth out with soap. Your language is terrible. Come on Maria, we’ll away in and get ready for the concert. I hate that bloody noise. It’s normal music they should be playing on a day like today.’
Kalpana rolled her eyes at Maria and ran off towards Castle Street. ‘It’s a good hiding that girl’s needing‚’ said Rosa holding her daughter’s hand. ‘The language on her! No wonder her family don’t know what to do with her. A doctor’s lassie. She’s like a big drunk man of sixty the way she talks. Don’t let me ever hear you using them words, Maria. It’s a filthy way to go on that and it’ll just hold you back. Where you’re headed for they don’t use words like that. You’ll be among nice people.’
Lucia was coming down the hill and ran into the Orange band. The noise troubled her: with her hand close to the neck of her coat she made a secret sign of the cross. The man at the front of the marching band had a big red face and was out of puff, spinning the stick round his body and throwing it into the air. Lucia could hear the coins jangling in his trouser pockets as he twisted his arms deftly to keep the stick in motion. She needed to get to the other side of the road.
Protestant rubbish I’m not kidding you on, this is really ridiculous would you look at that and such a lovely day it was meant to be and them with their flutes that lot are pure bloody rubbish God forgive me would you credit this carry-on and how am I supposed to get over there I tell you it’s a good wash they’re all needing and there’s women with prams over there can’t get moving for these bloody whistles oh for goodness’ sake.
She had her purse in her hand. There were young men in blue Rangers scarves applauding the band and people and sailors on the other side were cheering for them too. She was getting angrier by the second.
Bloody rubbish God forgive me.
Unable to hold back, she stepped into the road in front of a row of drummers marching under a banner saying ‘Airdrie Quarter Commemorates the Battle of the Boyne’. One of the marchers twisted right round with his drum. ‘Get back, ya old fucking cow‚’ he said. ‘Gone, ya fucking old pig that you are. You’re no’ getting across here till we’re by.’ Some of the men on the pavement pulled Lucia back by the coat. ‘You better bide your time or you’ll cause murder here, Mrs‚’ one of them said. She just looked at him with her lip trembling, then stared down at her slippers trying to think of other songs.
She wondered what Alfredo would say. He always said she was a dare-devil out on the street and now here she was, about to be mauled by a crowd of people with drums. Alfredo always came into Lucia’s mind in times of trouble. She hadn’t seen him since the day before and that was to do with panic about the cistern in the bathroom. She decided there and then that she wouldn’t wait for these bad people to pass, she would stay on this side of the road and walk straight down to the square, to the hairdresser’s, where Alfredo would give her a cup of tea.
*
‘When I want your opinion, I’ll give it to you‚’ said Bill McNab, plucking a roller from the wheely-basket and throwing a look at Elaine, his junior, in the mirror. McNab wore a ginger toupée and big silver glasses; he hovered about the salon as if levitating on his angrier thoughts, flicking his wrists, tutting, whipping the scissors from the top pocket of his overalls like brandishing an axe. He had a frightening laugh: he whinnied on a top note, and the customers loved the sheer velocity of his bitchiness, and the staff cowered. Alfredo was his business partner and known for his quietness.
With the crowds outside, the salon was busy and young Elaine was getting the worst of McNab. ‘I don’t know what your problem is, Elaine‚’ he said, ‘but I’ll bet it’s hard to pronounce. Hurry over here, hotpants, and pass me up the rollers.’ He spent as much time looking at himself in the mirror as he did at the heads of his customers. He touched the edges of his toupée with the tips of his fingers. ‘I like you, Elaine‚’ he said. ‘You remind me of when I was young and stupid.’ The customer in the chair couldn’t stop laughing.
‘Bill‚’ said Alfredo in a low voice further along.
‘Well, no wonder‚’ McNab said with a smile. ‘What am I? A flypaper for freaks?’
Elaine put down the rollers and papers. ‘Mr Tambini, I don’t have to take this. I’m only on work experience. He’s a cheeky bastard and he’s never off my back.’
‘Tsk tsk‚’ said the woman in McNab’s’ chair.
‘Don’t worry about it, dear‚’ said Alfredo. ‘Just get on with your work and ignore him. You know what he’s like.’
‘He’s right out of order.’
‘Ready when you are, Miss Hotpants‚’ said McNab, standing back from the chair with his hand resting on his hip. ‘We’re all refreshed and challenged by your unique point of view.’
‘It’s nice to be nice‚’ said the woman in the chair.
‘But of course, Madame de Pompadour‚’ said McNab, fixing his client in the mirror with a wink. ‘I’ll try being nicer if you try being smarter‚’ he said to Elaine.
‘Bill‚’ said Alfredo.
‘Mr McNab‚’ said Elaine, taking off her overall and throwing it down into a chair, ‘go and take a gigantic fuck to yourself.’
‘Would you listen to that‚’ said the client.
‘Oooooh!’ said Bill, following Elaine with his eyes as she lifted her coat and bag from the hook.
‘Bill!’ said Alfredo.
‘Well tatty-bye, Miss Piss. Send us a postcard.’
‘You can stick your job up your arse‚’ said Elaine marching to the front door.
‘Is that not ridiculous?’ said the chair.
‘We’re not the brightest crayon in the box now, are we dear?’ said McNab in a slightly raised voice as young Elaine pulled open the door.
‘Oh‚’ said Lucia, bumping into Elaine at the door. ‘Are you all right, hen?’ Elaine, in tears, forced her way forward. ‘He’s a fucking bastard‚’ she said, disappearing into the noise outside.
‘Bill‚’ said Alfredo, quite angry now, ‘how many times?’
‘Okay, okay‚’ said McNab quickly. ‘She was useless anyway. Did you see the bloody nicotine stains on they fingers?’
‘I did, actually‚’ said the woman in the chair. ‘Not at all attractive in a young girl.’
‘It was tint, Bill. That’s us back to square one. Thanks very much.’
McNab pursed his lips and looked in the mirror. Alfredo shook his head and went back to clippering the man in his own chair. ‘Yes‚’ said McNab, smiling a big smile at himself, ‘I am an agent of Satan, but my duties are largely ceremonial.’
‘You’re unreal‚’ said McNab’s client.
‘Yes my dear, but aren’t I lovely? Oh hello, Mrs Tambini. Trust you to arrive just in time for the cabaret.’
Lucia nodded shyly at McNab and the lady in the chair. She headed for the coat-rail and Alfredo helped her off with her coat. ‘Hello mammo‚’ he said, ‘are you okay? What’s the matter?’
‘Can I go through the back?’ said Lucia.
‘Of course, mammo. Come on through.’ Alfredo turned to the gentleman in his chair. It was the famous George Samson, the island’s oldest resident, wearing his best suit. ‘I’ll be with you in a second, George.’
‘Oh Alfredo, I got an awful fright out there‚’ said Lucia, sitting down on a stool underneath the hairdressing products. ‘I ran into that bloody band and I couldn’t get across.’
‘Mammo‚’ he said, ‘you’ve got to ignore the band. You know what they’re all like on a day like this. Tea?’
‘Aye, put two sugars in‚’ she said. ‘It’s just they’re all so loud and they’ve got no business being out today. It’s supposed to be nice.’
‘Never mind‚’ said Alfredo. ‘It is nice. Did you see Maria all dressed up? Have you been down the green?’
‘No yet‚’ said Lucia. ‘I was on my way.’
‘We’ve been busy‚’ he said. ‘All those people coming in off the boat, and now we’re s
hort-handed again.’ Alfredo smiled. ‘That mirror shook when the guns went off.’
‘Lovely day for it‚’ said Lucia, dusting the hair off the arm of his white coat. ‘Lovely day altogether.’
Alfredo put his hand on top of the kettle. In a few seconds he could feel the heat rising steadily through the handle as he stared into some postcards Blu-tacked to the back of the kitchen cupboard, pictures of Jersey and Spain, the Italian coast.
4
Broadcasting
Young Michael Aigas worked in the island’s television shop and he listened to jazz all day. There were always at least a dozen televisions playing in the shop at the one time. It was an afternoon programme about the beatniks that got him into jazz; he’d watched John Coltrane’s face on all the screens and decided then and there he wanted to be American. He wanted to be American and he wanted to be black. And that was the story of young Michael Aigas. He sat in Harris’s shop all day listening to jazz and thinking about what he’d be doing if he lived in New York. He read the same book again and again.
‘Where’s the action, pops?’ said Michael.
A few dozy words came down the phone. He was speaking to Gary, who was unemployed and proud of it.
‘I know, man‚’ said Michael, ‘I’m all creeped up about this Jubilee shit. The Queen is not cool, Gary. This joint is as bare as hell’s backyard today man, I swear.’
Gary asked him to shut the shop. He said the pubs were swinging down at the harbour.
‘I’m behind the eight ball‚’ said Michael. ‘The old man’s coming back here. It’s a drag. Later on. Yeah. Let’s hit that stupid concert tonight. Jim says he’ll pay me extra for working the holiday. We’ll go out and get heaped, man.’
Michael turned all the screens over to BBC2 and watched the test card for the next hour. He put a Furry Lewis LP on the turntable and turned the volumes down on the tellies. Then he put his chin on his hands and looked into the eyes of the girl on the test card, the girl with the clown and the faraway eyes. ‘Tell it like it is, wee sister‚’ said Michael to the empty shop.
The phone rang. ‘Hello, Mrs Bone‚’ said Michael. ‘Yup. You just want to know what’s on?’ Michael unfolded a Daily Record on his desk and read from the television page. ‘Mainly royal stuff on today. Well. Golden Shot at half past seven. You don’t like him. Okay. Rising Damp? Nine o’clock. Within These Walls?’
A lot of the old customers phoned like this. They just wanted someone to talk to on the phone, and they thought because it was a TV shop they should know what was on the TV. They’d bought a television for company, but it wasn’t enough. ‘No, Mrs Bone, you don’t need a new television set yet. That’s right … that’s just the way it should be.’
Mr Harris came in. ‘Okay Mrs Bone‚’ said Michael, ‘we’ll come and check it out for you next week. Cheerio.’
‘More social work?’ said Mr Harris.
‘As per‚’ said Michael.
5
The Girl’s World
Maria’s best toy sat on the dressing table in front of her window. Girl’s World: it was a life-size plastic head, with the hair all honey-blonde and shining and nylon. The special thing was that the hair could grow; you pressed a button on the doll’s pink neck, it made a clicking sound, and then you could pull a long extension from Susie’s head.
That was her name: Modern Susie. There were several versions of Girl’s World; this one had Mediterranean blue eyes and raised eyebrows and a tiny nose, a nose you could hardly breathe through. She came with special make-up and brushes. You could give her earrings and spread lip gloss over her smiling mouth. Maria spent whole evenings up in her bedroom playing with her. With the record player down low and glitter on all the plastic faces, Maria would sometimes put on a show for her old dolls, and she would make it that Susie was the big star in the room. Maria would sing to her, as if she were a real person, and late at night, when even the seagulls were asleep and the seafront was quiet, the light from outside, from the street lamps, would glance off the diamonds in Susie’s special tiara, causing sparkles to travel over the wallpaper.
Rosa was going up and down the banister with a duster and Mr Sheen. This was her deepest habit: not only to clean, but to make cleaning into one of life’s grand and protracted gestures. Rosa hated dust – she hated its settling and gathering, as if it could only throw a terrible light on the failure to cope. In no other respect was Rosa more like her mother. Every day they went about their housework as if it were an act of violence. Rosa liked to drink tea from a cup and a saucer, and sometimes, after doing the house, she would sit herself down on the sofa, exhausted and flushed, the base of the teacup rattling on the saucer’s edge.
Maria was up in her bedroom giving Modern Susie a ponytail. The Jubilee street party was loud outside the window, but she put on a record and stared at the doll. As she pulled the hair through her fingers to trap it in bobbles, the static electricity made her hands feel like somebody else’s hands, and the skin along her arms began to feel fizzy, as if tiny bubbles of electricity were running up inside them. Rosa had finished her cleaning and now she stood behind Maria at a creaky ironing-board. Doris Day was on the turntable. ‘You need to learn to stand on your own two feet‚’ Rosa said. ‘You know there isn’t a man in the world who isn’t out for what he can get. Mark my words. Before you know it you’re washing nappies and looking at the door to see if he’s coming back or not. Just you watch yourself, Maria. Keep them at arm’s length, hen.’
‘I’m thirteen‚’ said Maria, rolling lip gloss back and forth over her lips and staring in the mirror.
‘That’s enough of that‚’ said Rosa. She drove the iron over the dress and then whipped the dress over. ‘That’s enough gloss. You don’t want to make yourself look greasy. I know what age you are, Maria. I remember the day you were born as if it was yesterday. What a day that was let me tell you. I was lying up in that ward and not a bugger came to see me. Your Uncle Alfredo came right enough, and my daddy came with gritted teeth. You were such a wee thing.’
Maria’s mother often talked like the songs. She didn’t care that Maria was thirteen, or what age anybody was. She put down the iron. ‘Don’t ever think I regretted you‚’ she said. ‘I can still see your wee face lying there. That was before I was friends with Giovanni. That man’s been a good friend to me, Maria. He’s not perfect, I grant you that, but I don’t know how I’d have coped lifting and laying for everybody. He’s been a good help about here. He’s just a friend, but it’s nice to have a friend. If you’ve got a lot on your plate you know. Men will always be men, Maria.’ She propped her arm on the ironing-board and rested her chin. ‘It’s true what they say. When it comes down to it, hen, you’ve only got your mother. You remember that. There’s no another bugger to care about you.’ Rosa lifted the iron again and went over the creases.
‘They teachers of yours are half-daft‚’ she said after a minute. ‘I don’t know what they think they can learn you, Maria. You’re miles ahead of those other wee lassies and you won’t be sitting around here waiting to get your books marked. You’re a wee woman of the world, Maria. All the education you want has come out of that.’ She pointed to the record player. She laughed to herself and took some pleasure in her thoughts. ‘It’s true enough, Maria‚’ she said. ‘You and I know what we’re talking about. You know your songs. Just you wait and see. I know she’s no your teacher anymore but that Mrs Ogilvie out there’s as old as tea anyway. What does she know about young lassies nowadays? Old thing like her. She was a waitress at the Last Supper, that one.’
Rosa winked at Maria as if to acknowledge it was a bad thing to say about a teacher. ‘We love the old tunes, so we do‚’ she added, picking a thread off the dress she was ironing and placing it in the pocket of her overalls. She pointed a finger at Maria. ‘Mark my words hen, there’s nobody around here to understand a wee person like you. They’re all just out for what they can get. Every one of them, and you mark my words.’
‘D
o you think Uncle Alfredo would curl my hair at the bottom?’ said Maria, looking into the mirror, folding her hair under her small hand.
‘Like Lena Martell? Aye, he’ll do that no bother. You’ve got nicer hair than her right enough. You’ll need to remember to lift your chin up though, Maria. You make your chin look that baggy when you do that. Lift it up. You need to be smarter about yourself. Nobody likes to look at a wee pudgy lassie up on a stage.’
Maria continued to stare at her face in the mirror. Rosa had taught her to sing by constantly putting the needle back to the start of the record and making her try again. She told her all the stories. Since before she could remember, it was Deanna Durbin this and Judy Garland that, Doris Day wore this, and Lulu said that to the newspaper. ‘Nobody ever got to where they want to be by sitting on their backside moaning all the time‚’ said Rosa.
‘I’m not moaning‚’ said Maria.
‘No‚’ said Rosa, ‘but you just need to make the effort and smile a lot more. You need to show your nice teeth. You cannae beat a big smile. There you are.’ Her mother let the dress float from her hand to come down softly on the bed. It was covered in yellow polka dots and had a big bow at the throat. Maria turned around and made herself smile. She liked the look of empty clothes. She liked to imagine famous people in them and then see herself in them when she was dressed up.
‘You must try to hold yourself in a wee bit when you’re singing‚’ said Rosa, rooting in the drawer for an Alice band, ‘like all the great Italian singers. Hold yourself in one place and let all the lovely sounds come out, cause you’ve a lovely singing voice on you, Maria. You’re only letting yourself down if you slouch. You’re a woman now. I can’t be doing with slouchy lassies. You’ve got to make an impression.’
Maria lifted the dress and held it to the window. ‘You’ve been going great guns in the dancing, Maria, but you have to lift up your chin do you hear me? There’s nobody likes to look at a singer that can’t do justice to herself. Are you listening to me?’
Personality Page 3