Remember remember remember. Just because somebody is far away it doesn’t mean they have to stop being your best friend. Alfredo and her are getting the overnight bus from Glasgow and you can sleep on it or have sandwiches and drinks and stuff, her mum put on a red dress for specialness this morning because it was Maria’s big day. I helped Maria pack the bag it was full of dresses and two leotards and another bag is all shampoo and talcum and stuff you might need in a strange house and shoes. I’m waving her off and we said we would keep looking until the boat is out of sight and oh God it’s not fair she will have a great time but it’s true we can still talk about everything and write loads of letters being silly and that.
17
Chorus
Lucia was married to quiet and patient industry. She could spend hours over her torn gloves with a needle, mending holes and tears. In the late afternoon of the day Maria and Alfredo were leaving for London she sat at her living-room table, the secondhand gloves spread out and almost done, content in her solitude. Her pension book sat on the table’s edge with a sheaf of banknotes fanned across the top, and next to it, wrapped in wallpaper, was her Mass Missal.
She was working on a pair of mittens, then put them down, checked the clock, lifted the notes and walked through to the kitchenette, where the whiteness of everything startled her. The silver of the draining board glinted under the window; a single, half-pink Brillo pad lay on the corner, and a cloth was neatly folded in two and hung on the arc of the high tap. The cooker was never on: it gleamed, and the door of the grill was permanently down, a shelf now for pots that were dusted but never scoured. Lucia lifted the lid off a red casserole dish and placed the notes among rolls of other notes. She wasn’t rich. She owned the café but never took anything out of there. She found she had got to the age where she hardly ever spent money, and most of what came to her, this way and that, ended up in the pots and covered dishes of her old kitchen. She no longer believed in banks.
She took a few steps out of the kitchenette and turned back again. She put her hand inside the red dish and took out a roll of money, and for no reason in particular rolled the rubber band back and forth with her thumb, and then she put the roll of money up to her nose and sniffed. Dead, she thought.
There used to be what is now called a nursing home at Lochgilphead, in its heyday called a home, and at the time of its opening called an asylum, which was meant for people who didn’t know where they were. It was once filled with people from all over the world, people with uncertain nationalities, Scots, Poles, Italians, Germans, people who had somehow landed among the mountains and trees at the head of Loch Fyne, people who found they were both Scottish and nothing, lost people, mute people, and those whose minds, according to their ailments, coagulated the waking hours and dampened all memory, and so they had existed for years, strangers in that house at Lochgilphead with the many windows.
A boat with red funnels used to leave Rothesay for the port of Ardrishaig, a pier at the head of the Crinan Canal, the nearest to Lochgilphead, and people in Rothesay would often say, if a person’s mind wasn’t right and the person wasn’t listening, that he was ‘away on the red-funnelled boat to Lochgilphead’. By the 1970s the old house had closed and the council moved the remaining occupants to Bute, and new people joined them, in what was now called a residential care centre for the deaf and the speechless. It was often said, and was always true, that all the important events of Rothesay life were retold, somehow, in that new place at Ardbeg Point, and the house was famous as a hotbed of local gossip, passed from one to another, in a semi-circle of high-backed chairs, rain, hail, or shine, in the afternoon atmosphere of the television room. Some of the people could lip-read but most of them signed with their hands. Their heads were full of vernacular, and somehow, over the years of their acquaintance, that too was communicated by the hands.
Lucia arrived with her bag of mittens. For years she had been coming down to the house at Ardbeg Point with her sewing or with cakes: she sold them to the deaf and dumb for a few pence, and she collected the money in a whisky bottle clad in sea-shells, to be handed over every Christmas to the Lifeboat Appeal.
MARY NUGENT (with hands): God love her. There she’s. Old Tambini with her bag of stuff. Better buy a pair of mittens Ina the nights are fair drawing in and you feel the cold, you know that.
INA STRANG (mouthing): Hello hen.
LUCIA : Hello Ina. I’m just leaving this bag here right hen and I’ll away and get a cup of tea. See what yous want and I’ll get yous in a wee minute all right?
THOMAS GEDDES (standing up and pointing): Gloves!
LUCIA: Aye Thomas, how you doing son? That’s gloves in there, right? Have a wee poke through. Aye, on ye go. There’s men’s ones as well. See if there’s anything you want in there.
INA (with hands): That pair’s braw Thomas. You suit the blue. It’s no everybody can get away wi’ blue. Look at him. He fair fancies hisself God love him. That’s a wee man that loves a bargain tae. Oor Jimmy was the same. He’d wander all the way from Buchanan Street to Wester Ross to save he’s-self the trouble of paying for anything. Them’s nice as well, Thomas. Try them on, son. Fawn’s a nice colour for a man.
MARY (nodding towards the kitchen): That wee lassie’s away the day. She’s away to London for that talent thing. They need to watch they don’t push that wee lassie too hard I’m telling you. It’s a big place London.
INA (signing back): But that house Mary. You’ve got Rosa running that business and about half-daft with that man. Don’t get me wrong he’s a lovely fella but Christ he’s got her heart roasted. Been with every lassie on this island and half the mainland and a’. Her heart must be roastit wi’ him.
MARY: I know. Mind you, she’s a handful that lassie nae doubt. I’ve never seen such a greetin-faced woman in all my life. I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but no wonder that man’s away half the time. She’d put years on you. I remember we used to bring her things for the wean when she was born. Hats and wee dresses, good stuff. Oh aye, she would thank you right enough, but you’d never see the wee lassie wearing any of the stuff. Wasnae good enough for her.
INA: A lot of pressure for a young one to be going to London like that. London’s that far away. It’s a far away place London and if you don’t know people. I mean, who’s going to talk to you away in London? It’s the world’s worst.
MARY: People go away there and never come back.
INA: Oh aye, and even badder. That’s what I mean. That wee lassie’s got a lot going for her right enough. And she’s probably just as pleased bless her to get away from all the carry-on. It cannae be good for a wee yin to have that all the time. They argue the bit out. Too much pressure. Mark me. That wee yin’s got a talent, and she should just say to hell wi’ the lot of them and get on wi’ it.
MARY: Doesny say much. She’s a quiet wee thing.
INA: What a singer though. I can just feel it. She could definitely go places that wee one. Even at her age she’s better than half the ones. I cannae really hear her right enough but you can tell all the same.
IRENE BUTTERLY (leaning in from another chair, and signing): Everything’s sorted up for her in London. She’s going to a special school and everything. You can make a lot of money at that thing nowadays. If you know the right ones.
INA: Oh I know Irene. Our Stephen was in a band. He went about the halls, weddings and that. He made a fortune. I mean years ago you had to have money to begin wi’. These young ones just lift a guitar and the next minute they’re away to America and all sorts. They all like to dance.
MARY: Well, they say all those London ones have been up and down to see them. Managers and all them. She’s got a fair crack at it right enough. But, oaf, that wee Tambini lassie’ll have it rough down there. She’ll have to work like a dog and turmmle her wilkies into the bargain for they people. They people don’t just take anybody, Ina. One false move and you’re out, that’s what your Stephen always says.
IRENE: Aye Mary, he’s ri
ght enough. But you wonder if that auld one will be able to cope without her. I tell you she’ll miss that wee lassie.
INA: Oh definitely.
IRENE: You know I think half the time she mixes her up with that other one. Bless her heart. She speaks about Maria as if she was the other one.
INA: Is that the one that died?
IRENE: Oh aye, she drowned it seems. But nobody can talk to her about it. She’s never talked about that. It’s as if, you know, it was a secret, but half the island knows. There was some weird business there, I don’t know what. There’s definitely a story but she’ll… she’ll probably take it to the grave with her.
INA: I’ve heard that before right enough.
MARY: Oh, they say it was terrible, really bad. But she’s a good old soul bless her. She never passes the door here, I’ll say that for her.
INA: And was she with the wee lassie when she drowned?
IRENE: I couldny tell you Ina. I really don’t know. I don’t think anybody knows what actually happened there.
INA: It’s a shame all the same it really is.
MARY: Sofia was her name.
IRENE: That’s right. They say she was a lovely wee thing but you’re talking years ago now.
MARY: But it’s true enough Irene. Even after all this time she gets her mixed up with that wee singer.
IRENE: Aye.
MARY: She’s used her name a few times when she means the other one. As I say she’ll be lost when that wee one goes to London because …
IRENE: Oh aye, she’s a great wee thing. Just looking at her you can tell. The talent in her is no real. Did you see her Ina?
INA: Oh aye. Well she’s got that much confidence. That is …
MARY: Oh that’s half the battle Ina. If you’ve got the confidence you can do anything.
IRENE: You can feel the beat of it coming right through the floor. And …
THOMAS (offering gloves): You.
MARY (signing): No you’re all right son, we’ll see them in a minute. He’s no the full shilling that one.
IRENE: What a family right enough. They used to be that well-known the Tambinis. We used to go down to that café years ago and it was something I’m telling you. All the fine boys used to meet in there. That was a different Rothesay in them days.
MARY: Do you remember Mario, her man? Oh he was a lovely fella him Irene. Never passed you. Dressed like a lord. Worked like a dog that man. He was never out of that café and what a beautiful white apron he had. Beautiful. On a summer’s day out there. Oh he would always stick in an extra snowball when you went for cakes. What a gentleman. Never said much. Quiet.
IRENE: They say he’d a lot to put up with.
MARY: So they say.
IRENE: The town was busy then. He was just a pure gentleman that man. Never passed you. Always had a smile so he did and never looked at anybody apart from her.
INA: Other women?
IRENE (shaking her head): Not at all. Not at all. She’s never been right since he died you know. He was a right gentleman. He never looked at another woman. I mean that café was busy at one time, but no, he was daft for her. You could see it on him. He was the one that did all the running after her.
MARY: Aye, it’s a changed place noo.
IRENE: You’re no kidding there Mary. It’s dead out there. You think they would do something to gee it up a wee bit wouldn’t ye? A swing park or something. It’s a shame for the young yins. I don’t know. There’s nothing for them.
INA: That’s the swimming baths shut doon.
IRENE: Is ‘at right?
INA: Aye. They didnae have the money. ‘S always the same. They’ve got plenty of money tae gi’ themselves wage rises right enough but there isnae a bloody bingo hall left in the place.
MARY (staring forward): At her time of life, Lucia should be sitting back and letting them all get on with it. They’re all the men and women they’ll ever be noo. But they’re all still at it. She runs the bit out for that family. Nae wonder she’s depressed.
IRENE: Has she got the depression an’ a’?
MARY: So they say. Lassie that works in the chemist says she’s been in for tablets.
IRENE (accepting gloves off Thomas): They’re a nice family right enough Mary. I mean, you’ve got to admit they’ve done a lot for this place wi’ the cafés and that.
MARY: Oh but I could tell you a few stories.
IRENE: They say that Alfredo’s got a boyfriend.
INA: Away ye go!
IRENE: Aye. So they say. He was always the odd one out that fella. Nice enough. But oaff… You wouldny credit the half of it.
INA: Good God, I wouldny have thought it. Our Carol’s been getting her hair done there for years.
IRENE: Well there you go. Who would have thought it? A nice fella all the same. But they say he’s like that.
MARY: They’ve said that for years.
IRENE: Oh I know.
MARY: Me, I don’t think there anything the matter with the fella. I think he’s just quiet.
IRENE: Well, you never know the time of day round here right enough.
MARY: (coming to the edge of her chair): Okay Thomas. What ones do you think I should go for the day? Do these ones suit me? Well, do you think they’ll get me a dance at the Pavilion? Eh Thomas. Will they get me a lad?
Lucia was always amazed at how peaceful and quiet it was in the home at Ardbeg Point. She said hello to the nice young man, the warden, and made herself a cup of tea in the spartan kitchen. There was hardly a sound coming from the dayroom, just the odd bark or moan, and a creaking sound from the chairs as the deaf and dumbs shifted, and the same as they moved their hands in silent conversation. You could hear the fingers beating together as they did their sign language.
She could hardly believe how composed Maria had been, the wee thing, standing downstairs in the café with her scarf on and her suitcases up on one of the tables, and Alfredo that nice in his dark suit, the two of them ready for the long journey to London. Thinking about the overnight train made Lucia think of journeys she’d taken a long time ago when the trains were clean and tidy. They weren’t always happy right enough those journeys. When they first came to Scotland from Italy they passed Greenock on the train and all the smoke was coming out the chimneys and she remembered thinking all the people sitting on the train had eyes that looked like animals’ eyes.
But, bless her, Maria stood ready to go. In the white formica of the kitchen Lucia thought of Maria and Alfredo going to London. When Lucia stopped by the shop they were all ready to go and Rosa was combing Maria’s hair and panicking about them missing the boat although the boat wasn’t even in yet. Lucia had kissed her only granddaughter in the middle of her forehead. She had drawn close to Alfredo and pressed the roll of money into his hand and shushed him and that was that. There had been so much fuss in Lucia’s life that now she just wanted to let events happen as they might. She had said goodbye and walked towards the glass door of the shop. Maria came up and hugged her grandmother again. Just at that moment Lucia was filled with grief for a thousand particulars in her life. Somehow, over time, she had moved the small things to the centre, but here, standing at the door and feeling the draught, she was instantly aware of the larger forces in her life, and was moved by them, and tears came into her eyes. For a moment she stared into Maria’s lovely clear face. ‘I’ll come if you ever need me,’ she said, and then she closed the door behind her.
Oh it was lovely and quiet in that kitchen. Ardbeg Point was a place without noise or fuss of any kind. When she walked back into the dayroom Lucia saw that Thomas was standing between the women and a large vase of imitation flowers. The mended gloves were spread out on the carpet. He was laughing and signing with a pair of them on. The women’s faces shaped themselves to laugh but only moans came out. It sounded like the noises children make, but there was experience in the women’s eyes. Lucia stood in the gloaming of her own thoughts. Her green-coloured eyes, her old eyes, gathered the remaining light fro
m the windows and drew it to themselves, and as she stood there the sky became dark, and still she stared out, peering into the world from the centre of her deepest privacies. The deaf-and-dumbs were putting on the gloves and making sounds in their throats.
The television was on low. Lucia put her hands on the glass and the glass was cloudy from the breathing of the women and from her own breaths too. Her mind had come back to where she was in front of the window; looking at the darkness outside she told herself the stars had come into the water. But it wasn’t that; it wasn’t stars: what she saw in the water were the lights of the last ferry as it passed on its way from Bute to the mainland.
PART TWO
1
Mr Green
Every time I drink a glass of claret it goes straight to my face. I’m not kidding. And when I pass a mirror and check out my chops I know I’ll be dead in no time. Don’t worry, viewers: don’t write in. I’m a hundred and one times happier than the version of myself the doctor’s been recommending to me all these years. You can bet your life on that. So just sit back, put your feet up, relax a little, and stay tuned for the old conversation, for what ails us is present in the world before we are.
Showbusiness. Before you call it an illness you want to think what it does for people. I’ve met everybody, and I’m telling you there ain’t a single soul who couldn’t use a little more shine on their shoes. Who can’t love a person whose purpose in life is to offer a purpose to life? Showbusiness is glory in the afternoon and sunshine after dark. There you go. I’m a man of definitions, you can ask anybody. Showbusiness is tearing life down and putting it all back together again, funnier, larger, shinier, more harmonious, Goddamit, purer, more special. Don’t tell me after all this time the world don’t want special. I know it does, I’m telling you straight. I’ve watched it for fifty-odd years and I know.
Personality Page 12