by John Maley
Joanie said they hold the bride’s dress and walk up and down looking cute.
‘I can do that,’ said Papa. ‘But there are two brides.’
‘You’ve got two hands,’ replied Joanie. ‘Anyway I think these are just honorary roles. Stick to looking cute.’
Bobbie hadn’t made any night-time calls to Papa as he was in the habit of disconnecting his phone before he went to bed. ‘She’s looking good,’ said Papa about the bride-to-be.
‘What about bride number two?’ asked Joanie, wanting Papa to dish some dirt.
‘She’s solid, dependable. She’s bright. Bobbie needs that,’ said Papa.
Joanie thought that was maybe what he had against her. He’d expected somebody wild and beautiful and here was someone as plain as the nose on your face. He was losing Bobbie to drab domesticity. He wanted the old Bobbie back, the boozy Bobbie with her tales of finger fucking and fatal attractions. He wanted her on her ownsome at the bar, bitter and blue and bawdy.
‘This wedding –,’ began Joanie. ‘It jist seems so sudden. It’s been drawn up like an architect’s plan – and with as much passion.’
‘Some people are passionate about architecture,’ responded Mama. ‘Anyway, I hope those girls will be able to build something beautiful together.’ It was no good, thought Joanie. He would have to bless this mismatch of a marriage.
It was the day before the wedding and Joanie was at Bobbie’s flat in Dennistoun. They were eating a Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table.
‘I’m surprised I can eat, I’m that excited,’ said Bobbie, sweet and sour sauce on her chin. Joanie wiped at her chin with a tissue, like he was her mammy.
‘Bobbie?’ he said softly. ‘Are ye sure ye want tae do this? Get married?’
‘That’s whit people do when they fall in love,’ she said.
‘Straight people,’ said Joanie. ‘We’re queer. We’re not allowed tae get married.’
‘Don’t get sensible with me,’ replied Bobbie. ‘Rae and I are in love. We want a weddin’. We want our families and friends tae share our joy.’
Joanie shoved a bit of chicken in his mouth to stop himself saying something else. He listened to Bobbie’s background music, sweet Carol Laula, the galloping glory that was Horse.
Later, they finished a bottle of white wine in front of the TV. Joanie swore to himself that if Bobbie mentioned Rae again he’d hit her with the empty bottle. All day long it had been Rae this, Rae that.
‘Aren’t the invitations lovely?’ asked Bobbie out of the blue. ‘Rae designed them.’
‘Wonder Woman eat yer fuckin’ heart oot!’ snapped Joanie. They looked at each other, alarmed. They both knew the cat was out of the bag. Joanie felt like the murderer unmasked at the end of some crappy old thriller.
‘Joanie,’ said Bobbie tenderly, ‘you’re jealous.’
Joanie burst into tears and Bobbie joined him.
The brides stood side by side in their Sunday best. Bobbie wore a cream tailored trouser suit with a jazzy patterned shirt. She looked serene. Rae, her bride, wore a long ivory dress that made her look like a straw, she was so skinny. Gathered around them in the backroom in Delilah’s were friends, family, straight and queer, to witness and celebrate their love. Conducting the service was a tiny dyke with the loudest voice in the world. She addressed the congregation with the authority of a Caesar. She told them they were in the presence of two people, two women, Bobbie and Rae, who had pledged to love and honour one another, have and hold, keep each other warm, keep each other from harm.
Joanie looked around at the gathering. Papa was there, immaculate in a charcoal grey suit. Mama was wearing a preposterous hat and seemed to have glued a camera to her right eye. Bobbie’s brother and sister were there. Her brother, Lewis, was nearly as handsome as Bobbie. The sister, Fiona, had the biggest hair Joanie had seen since the halcyon days of Dynasty. She looked genuinely moved by her sister’s wedded bliss. Joanie recognised some of Bobbie’s friends, old and new, bunched together. Near the couple, on Rae’s side, were a group of ferociously plain people who were apparently her family. Or possibly FBI, mused Joanie. The tiny dyke’s voice reached a crescendo and then stopped. Bobbie and Rae turned to each other and tenderly kissed. The place erupted with cheers and applause.
It took a while for Joanie to get near enough Bobbie to congratulate her. Pushing his way through a scrum of dykes the only marker he had to guide him was the huge hair of Fiona. ‘Quick! Follow that perm!’ he exclaimed. Eventually the friends came face to face. Joanie hugged Bobbie and they rocked in each other’s arms. Rae appeared by their side and Joanie saw there was something arresting, something luminous about her. She looked like a lady in an old painting. She had grace, poise. He hugged her too.
After champagne and congratulations the next stop was Kelvingrove Park, where Rae and Bobbie insisted they had their photographs taken. A coach took the key wedding players and selected family and friends there too. It was a bright clear day and the girls posed patiently. They hadn’t hired a professional photographer but a friend of Rae’s, who had studied architecture with her, was apparently a talented snapper. Mama went through four spools. She got the brides, the brides with their families, the brides with Papa and Joanie, the brides with friends, the brides eating ice cream cones, the brides winching.
As they headed back to the coach Joanie recognised a leather queen with a Chihuahua in his arms coming towards them. He marched past, calling out to Joanie.
‘Hi Joanie darling! Fancy meeting you here during the day.’
Joanie laughed and ushered the brides onto the bus. He hadn’t seen the logic of going to Kelvingrove Park just for photos but apparently it had been Rae’s mother’s idea. Rae’s parents had got their wedding photos taken in the park, her mother saying it was a family tradition. Bobbie saw that as a warm welcome to the family so wanted to honour her wishes.
They arrived back at Delilah’s around mid-afternoon. There was a light buffet and champagne ready and waiting for them. Joanie found himself involved in a variety of conversations that left him with an empty glass and a nagging bladder. Several guests, Delilah’s regulars, commented on his appearance. Joanie was out of drag (saying he didn’t want to upstage the ladies) and wore a light blue suit, white shirt and navy tie. A big homely gal pal of Bobbie’s said she hadn’t realised how handsome he was. A bitchy queen said ‘You must be Joanie’s father.’ Rae’s mother struck up a cryptic conversation with him.
‘I hear you dress up as a lady,’ was her opening gambit.
‘That’s true,’ said Joanie.
‘Have you been realigned?’ she continued, bravely.
‘Realigned?’ asked Joanie.
‘Surgically,’ she said.
‘Naw, pet,’ replied Joanie. ‘It’s aw done with mirrors.’
‘Well I think you’re all marvellous,’ said Rae’s mother and then she glided off like a beanpole ballerina into the swarm of guests. Then it was Mama’s turn to talk to the best man. She materialised in front of Joanie with two glasses of champagne. Joanie put his empty glass on a table and accepted a glass from Mama, who looked as if she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘It’s great to celebrate something,’ she said. ‘To celebrate love. I’m fed up with doom and gloom. There’s too many lonely people. You must see it all the time in here.’ Joanie nodded. ‘People should celebrate,’ continued Mama. ‘People should jump for joy when they find love. Because it’s like finding gold, Joanie. It’s like striking oil.’ She held out her champagne glass for a toast. ‘Here’s to love, darling.’
‘To love,’ said Joanie. They clinked glasses and drank.
‘It’s what we’re here for,’ said Mama, with great conviction. Papa appeared beside them. He put an arm around Joanie.
‘You two girls havin’ a good time?’ he asked. They nodded. ‘I was speakin’ to the bride’s family,’ said Papa.
‘Which one?’ asked Mama.
‘Rae’s. They’re sweet. I thi
nk they’re also quite well-to-do. She’s a lecturer and he’s a judge.’
‘A judge?’ exclaimed Joanie. ‘And here we are, perverting the course of justice. Well, if he wants to wear his wig, he’s come tae the right place.’
They were interrupted by cries of ‘best man’ and Joanie had to mount the small stage usually reserved for karaoke divas and DJs. Someone handed Joanie a clutch of messages and cards wishing the brides well. Before he read out the messages he made a short speech. Some guests were expecting gags about dildos and muffdiving but Joanie didn’t want to do anything too blue. Bobbie had asked for something simple and sincere. Besides if her father-in-something was a judge he didn’t want to end up in the jail for breach of the peace.
‘Some people think gays and lesbians don’t fall in love,’ said Joanie. ‘Because we’re forced tae hide our love. When was the last time you saw two guys walkin’ arm-in-arm down Sauchiehall Street? When was the last time you saw two women winching in Argyle Street? Glasgow is full of invisible lovers who can’t show their feelings or their love. They won’t let us. They say it’s unnatural.’
‘Fuckin’ breeders!’ snarled the tiny dyke with the mighty voice.
‘They say we can’t get married,’ continued Joanie. ‘I mean straight people have these big fancy weddings full of pomp and ceremony, mincing about like they just fell off a cake – he’s looking like a tailor’s dummy and she’s like candyfloss, and they call us camp! Who recognises our joys? Who blesses our unions? We’re here today to celebrate the love of two lovely women for each other. Bobbie, my Bobbie dazzler, a very good pal of mine, and Rae, the woman who’s come intae her life and swept her off her feet. Rae, we don’t know each other very well but all I want tae say is – any woman who can make Bobbie as happy as you’ve made her is a fuckin’ star in my eyes!’
There was loud cheering and applause and when both had subsided, Joanie began to read out the greetings. There were messages from friends of Rae’s from as far afield as Iceland and Rio de Janeiro. Messages for Bobbie tended to be more local in origin, from Possilpark, Pollok, and Partick. A message from Bobbie’s parents read simply ‘Love Always’ and moved her to tears. There were rude and lewd messages and heartfelt and sincere ones. When he had finished reading them Joanie led three cheers for the brides.
Next on the agenda was a coach trip for those going to the evening reception. A marquee had been set up in the grounds of Rae’s parents’ home and high on the guest list were Joanie, Papa, Mama and a posse of Bobbie’s girls. Her huge-haired sister and bonny brother were also going. The rest were Rae’s set. Before they could make good their escape there was an impromptu karaoke session which included Woman sung by a Japanese transsexual friend of Rae’s, who went by the name of Kimonova Here. Then a lady in Lycra who looked like an aerobics coach sang The Greatest Love of All in the worst voice of all. Bobbie’s brother closed the set with a stunning rendition of Luck Be A Lady Tonight.
Classy Caterers had been contracted to provide dinner, which they served in the marquee. Joanie enjoyed the meal and the patter of the guests. After dinner they were entertained for about an hour by an Asian string quartet called The Singh Quartet who played everything from Mozart to Cole Porter.
‘I fancy the guy playing the big violin,’ whispered Joanie.
‘I think that’s called a cello,’ replied Papa. On closer inspection the cellist turned out to be a chick. Initially guests had sat or stood around listening to the music. Then Rae had persuaded Bobbie to have first dance to Every Time We Say Goodbye. The quartet then played What A Wonderful World and Papa spun Joanie across the lawn, leading all the way. ‘What d’ye call this?’ asked Joanie. ‘The Shirtlifter’s Waltz?’
The guests grew drunker, the quartet was dispatched, and DJ Diva appeared behind her decks, blasting out a selection of disco stompers. People danced in big circles holding hands, formed an impromptu conga chain and finally fell into free fall. Joanie danced himself dizzy, wanked a waiter in the nearby bushes, and finally found himself dancing in Bobbie’s arms.
‘It’s finally happened,’ said Bobbie. ‘Love. That four letter word that’s so much harder to say than shit or fuck or cunt. I love her, Joanie. I love her.’
They held each other close and still as the dancers dallied around them.
A fleet of taxis had been ordered by the father of the bride to take drunken guests home. After they had hugged Bobbie near to death, Papa, Mama and Joanie piled into a cab. Papa fumbled in his wallet and said he wasn’t sure he had the money to pay for it. Joanie said he’d work the fare off in the back seat. Mama offered the driver her watch.
‘It’s paid for,’ said the driver cheerily and rattled down the driveway. The journey took twenty-five minutes and the cab had to stop twice so Mama and Joanie could pick Papa up off the floor. Mama ended up with an arm across his chest to keep him in place.
They dropped Mama off first, her leave-taking lasting all of ten minutes and featuring a rendition of Evergreen, the Streisand standard, and a myriad of kisses for Papa, Joanie, the taxi driver and a passing policeman. Then the cab moved on to Papa’s flat. Papa insisted Joanie come up for a coffee although Joanie suspected he just needed somebody to stick the key in the door.
Joanie made the coffee while Papa lurched around the flat, switching on and off lamps, putting on a CD, and dry retching in the bathroom sink. Eventually they sat down together on the sofa and sipped at their coffee.
‘To Bobbie dazzler,’ said Joanie.
‘To Bobbie dazzler,’ said Papa.
Beside Papa’s phone were various flyers and menus for fancy restaurants, theatre programmes and personal cards. Joanie was looking for a taxi number. He could hear Papa gargling in the bathroom. Joanie picked up the lemon coloured wedding invitation, which had cordially asked Papa to attend at the wedding of Roberta ‘Bobbie’ Ross and Rae Duncan. Papa came in, his trousers at his ankles and toothpaste on his lips.
‘Where’s Mama?’ he asked.
‘Mama gone home, baby,’ said Joanie, softly.
Papa shuffled across the living-room like a wean who had just learned to walk. He stumbled and Joanie stepped forward and caught him in his arms.
He stayed there.
And So They Came to Delilah’s
And so they came to Delilah’s, bursting out of closets, defying bombs and bigots, leaving day jobs looking for blow jobs, smelling of mothballs and desperation, clutching at condoms and straws in the plague years.
Star-crossed lovers like Ruth and Laura, who were an ill-match; Morag and Carol, who let pussies come between them; Pat and Rick, two halves of the same faggoty self; Greg and Jim, who had a hairy night together; Joanie and Lance, who didn’t stand a chance; Harry and Gary, who went up in a poof of smoke; Bernie and Dan, the married man; Caroline and Denise, who were Ellen’s degenerates; Rodney and Matt, who were haunted by the people’s princess; Maureen and Karen, and two men and a baby; Tam and his transatlantic tricks who swam across an ocean of loneliness; Bobbie and her womyn, who was a bitter lemon; solitary cruisers, brave losers burning with lust and longing, strangers in the night.
They came in peace, they came in a fog of booze and smoke, and they came in each other’s arms. Looking for love but unable to love themselves, hiding from their families and exposing themselves to strangers, crying like rivers and screaming like banshees. Drinking to kill the fear and free the fairy in themselves, trying to find Ecstasy in a pill and heaven in a lorry driver’s arms, reaching endlessly through the night, the night of a thousand eyes and a million kisses and relentless one night stands they hoped would last forever. Old queens struck by lightning, young queens who wept for Diana and bogarted joints, humming show tunes, riding on a carousel of cock and karaoke, lipstick lesbians and homos in high heels, mourning lost lovers and feckless friends. To Delilah’s they came, like the damned to Hell, the saved to Heaven, in terror and triumph, looking for true love and going by false names, only a fuck away from freedom, and in the thick of it all
was Joanie. In the throbbing prick of it all was Joanie, like a glorious Madonna watching over her children, their griefs and their gropings, rattling their loose chains at the bar, bitching each other to sweet death, falling in mad love, flying past his funny face like some crazy jailbreak. They were queer on a Saturday night and straight on a Monday morning and they came to Delilah’s to dance like dervishes and sing like schoolgirls.
They were Glasgow’s invisible lovers, suddenly warm and alive in each other’s arms.
John Maley was born in Glasgow in 1962. He has written for the stage and screen and penned Daddy’s Girl, which won the Jury Prize for Best Short Film (Fiction) at Cannes 2001, and the Jury’s prize at the Paris Film Festival 2002.
Delilah’s
First published in 2002 by
an imprint of
Neil Wilson Publishing Ltd
www.nwp.co.uk
© John Maley, 2012
The author has asserted his moral right under the
Design, Patents and Copyright Act 1988
to be identified as the Author of this Work.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced
in any form or by any means without the permission
in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer
who may quote brief passages in a review.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Print edition ISBN: 978-1-903238-54-7
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-906000-30-1
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