Kilbirnie Scotland: The Night Dusty Played (Loving Blue in Red States, #1)

by Kitty McIntosh

  Kilbirnie Scotland

  The Night Dusty Played

  Kitty McIntosh

  Contents

  Patty

  Frankie

  Patty

  Frankie

  Patty

  Frankie

  Frankie

  Patty

  Frankie

  Frankie

  Patty

  Patty

  Frankie

  Patty

  Frankie

  About the Author

  Patty

  1964

  Just five more minutes. I can’t keep my eyes off the huge clock on the far wall of the factory floor. As soon as the hooter sounds, I’m off out of here. The weekend starts and I can leave the smell of fishing nets and the noise of the machines behind for two whole days. Kathy Kirby is playing at the Walker Hall tomorrow night, so for once my mother won’t complain. It’s not easy being a part of the swinging sixties for a good Catholic girl, but she thinks the sun shines out Kathy Kirby’s arse. Although, if I hear ‘Secret Love’ blasting from the record player one more time I’ll scream. I can’t wait ‘till the end of the summer when Dusty Springfield is due to play. The place will be packed. I’ll need to drag Mags out early that night to be at the front of the ticket line. I love Dusty Springfield, so there’s no way I’m missing that concert.

  The blast from the hooter pulls me out of my daydream, one that involved a beehive and panda eyes and the sultriest voice I’ve ever heard. Mags appears at my shoulder, pulling on her heavy, green pea-coat. Arm-in-arm we walk along the main street, passing the various departments of the Co-Op and struggling without success to keep dry. We arrive at Etta’s Hair Salon and are hit by a blast of hot air and hairspray. It seems like every girl in town has beaten us to it, as all the hairdryers are in use, half a dozen beehives drying off under the hoods. We take a seat and wait our turn, reading the latest gossip mags that have been left lying for customers to pass the time. I love this part of the week. By the time I leave here I’ll have the hairstyle that has to last me all week. I’ve got a headscarf in my bag to keep it from blowing out or getting wet on the way home. Then Mags and I will go to her place and do our nails and we’re all set for the weekend.

  Frankie

  At last, five o’clock! I’ve been bent over this table for the past two hours and my shoulders are killing me. I sometimes wonder if getting a French polishing apprenticeship was such a good idea. I roll my shoulders and have a good stretch to try and get the kinks out. I can’t wait to get home and have a long soak in the bath. I love a Friday night. Fish and chips from the chippy, reading a book in the bath and an early night. Then it’s hell for leather tomorrow. I’ve got the match in the afternoon and then, if I get back in time, a night out at the Walker Hall in Kilbirnie. I’ll get the third degree once I get back from mum. Have I met a fella? Why not? I know why not, but I’m not about to tell her yet. Maybe ever. She wouldn’t understand.

  Patty

  “Open that door, I want to get ready!”

  The dulcet tones of Sherry, my younger sister by eleven months and, unfortunately, my room-mate, reverberates throughout the house. With six other siblings there was no way I was ever going to get peace to titivate myself, and I had been lucky there was enough hot water for a bath. A rarity. I’d managed to keep my hair well out of the water thankfully, so now it was just my make-up to do and I’d be off for a night of music and dancing. I’d ask Sherry to help with that. She might be annoying as hell and with enough sass and attitude for ten sisters, but she had a talent with make-up and dress-making that I could never hope to achieve. She’s already dolled up, her eyes caked in kohl and wearing the teeniest mini dress I’ve ever seen. How on earth she’s going to get past my mother with that on I don’t know.

  “Come on, I don’t have long. I’m meeting Terry for a drink before the Walker Hall.”

  Yet another boyfriend. She seemed to have a new one every week. Me, I have tried, but to tell the truth I don’t know what all the fuss is about.

  Frankie

  Looking in the mirror I’m happy enough. I know I’m not feminine and I’ve lost count of the times I’ve been mistaken for a boy while wearing my work overalls. I don’t see the point in wearing a dress. I look ridiculous – and it just doesn’t feel right. So, I’ve bought black pedal pushers – I can get away with that if Audrey Hepburn can. I’d rather wear a suit and tie like The Beatles, but I’d get lynched in this town dressing like that.

  The grandfather clock in the living room strikes seven. I’ve got ten minutes to make it to the bus stop. Grabbing my handbag from the hook by the door, I sprint out the door and manage to make it just before the bus pulls out. There’s not a spare seat to be had. Every young person in the Garnock Valley seems to be heading to the same place. The bus conductress cranks the handle of the ticket machine,

  “One and six” she says. I hand over the coins and rest against a pole, catching my breath and hoping the run to the bus stop hasn’t left me too sweaty and unkempt.

  Patty

  Mags and I eventually get to the front of the queue. I’ve been staring at the flaking green paint on the ticket booth for the past half an hour, as we inch closer to the window. I was worried we’d be too late and wouldn’t get in. Ticket stubs in hand, we make our way to the ladies’ loos and stake a place in front of the mirrors. Our beehives have survived the journey into town, make-up still plastered to our faces, caked on and unlikely to move. Sherry made a great job of my eyes, but the kohl is making them itch like hell.

  “Come on, I want near the front”

  Mags is in a hurry. She always wants to be right at the stage. When there’s fellas playing, she likes to give them the eye. And I know for a fact she had it off with one of the guitarists from a well-known band last month. Naming no names.

  From the big hall I can hear the music starting. Like Mags, most of the girls rush to the front of the stage. The fellas hang back, trying to look cool, and not wanting to admit to liking Kathy Kirby. She’s standing in the middle of the stage, a spotlight silhouetting her against the dark blue stage curtain. Her band are dressed in tight black suits, a contrast to the virginal white taffeta and silk dress she wears. As the first notes of ‘Secret Love’ fill the room, the girls scream, drowning out the music. My mum wants a blow-by-blow account of the performance. I’ve been listening to her sing it all week and I’ve had enough. I prefer the Doris Day version for some reason. More heartfelt.

  The heat of the room is getting to me and I’ve had my toes trodden on three times already. I need to get out of the crowd and cool down. Mags has made it perfectly clear she’s not moving, but if I don’t move, I’ll pass out. I make my way to the back of the hall and find I’m not the only one finding it stifling. A girl who looks about my age is leaning against the wall, calm and apparently unfazed by the whole occasion. She’s tall and fit looking, wearing black trousers and a crisp white blouse turned up at the collar. Nothing like any of the other girls here. She looks straight at me, green eyes catching my attention. She doesn’t look away and it would normally be uncomfortable, but for some reason I’m mesmerised. The first song finishes, and the few seconds of silence compel me to say something.

  “You feeling the heat too?”

  “Aye, it’s a bit close in here. But I prefer to stand back anyway. The smell of cheap aftershave and Brill Cream in that crowd is not appealing.”

  I notice she has a local accent, but I can’t remember seeing her here before. But people come from all over to these concerts. She could
be from Glasgow or Ayr for all I know. I hold out my hand to her,

  “I’m Patty. I’m here with my pal Mags, but she’s up front and she’s not for shifting. I doubt I’ll see her for the rest of the night.”

  “Frankie. Nice to meet you.”

  She takes my hand and her grip is strong and confident. I look up and our eyes meet again – and this time I feel as if my stomach has been invaded by butterflies. What is that about?

  Frankie

  It’s eleven o’clock already and the band are packing up. The night has gone in so quickly. I’ve been talking to this girl for hours and I don’t want it to end yet. I can’t even remember much about the music. All I know is that I can’t keep my eyes off of her. Can she tell? I feel tingly all over and quite breathless. She seems oblivious, but what do I know? I’ve never felt anything remotely like this ever. I notice her looking over in the corner.

  “Your pal seems to have found herself a lad.” I say

  “Par for the course with Mags.”

  “Were you planning on walking home together?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t look like that’ll be happening now. I’ll be fine. It’s only ten minutes up the road.”

  “I can’t let you do that. You don’t know who’s hanging about with a drink in them.”

  And I’d found my excuse to be with her a little longer.

  Frankie

  The town is busy as we leave the hall. Four buses are parked outside, ready to ferry the concert-goers to towns near and far. A few stragglers are slobbering over each other before boarding. Patty and I walk side by side, weaving in and out of the crowd. I notice her stealing quick glances at me and I want to take her hand. But I don’t. Kilbirnie isn’t ready for that. I’m startled as she hooks her arm into mine. It feels so good, sending shivers up my spine. No-one bats an eye around us. It’s perfectly normal for friends to walk like this together. Perfectly normal. Before I know it, we are in her street and at her garden gate. Orange street lights illuminate the path to the door and a well-tended front garden.

  “Well, I suppose I better go then” I say.

  “I never asked where you live. How are you getting home?”

  “I’m from Beith. I’ll catch the local bus.”

  “That might be a problem. I can see it pulling out of the street. You’ve missed it, and you can’t walk back to Beith in the dark.”

  What will I do now? I don’t have any family in Kilbirnie to stay with.

  “Hey, don’t worry. You can stay here. My sister is spending the night with her friend in Longbar, so there’s plenty of room. That is if you don’t mind sharing a bed with me.”

  I can see a faint blush appear in her cheeks – and I’m sure I’m bright red too. Does she know? Or am I just imagining it all? I can’t imagine anything I want more than to lie beside her all night. This has taken me by surprise, but I know it feels right. My heart is racing at the thoughts going through my mind right now and I lean towards her, almost close enough to touch. A light from the hallway of her house startles us both and we jump apart. The door creaks open and a middle-aged woman in rollers and a headscarf smiles down at us. She’s small and dark-haired, with high cheekbones. An older version of Patty.

  “Mum!” Patty recovers her composure quickly.

  “Frankie here walked me home from the concert and she’s missed her bus. Is it OK if she stays?”

  I’m impressed at the quick recovery and the angelic, innocent look on Patty’s face. Her mother ushers us in.

  “Not a problem. One more won’t make a difference. Come on in. I’ll make some tea and toast. You girls can tell me all about Kathy Kirby.”

  Patty

  I give Frankie a fork with a slice of bread speared on it and we sit on tiny wooden stools, toasing over the open fire. Mum is in the scullery making the tea and has had the foresight to shut over the living room door. If the kids hear the kettle whistling or smell the toast they’ll be up and wanting some too. And I don’t want them here. Not now. I want Frankie all to myself. I don’t know what it is about her, but I can’t stop myself from sneaking a peek. She’s fascinating. She’s not girly at all and wears her hair more like a boy. And her clothes – so different. I’m drawn to her, but I don’t know why.

  “I don’t remember seeing you at the Walker Hall before. How could I have missed you?” I ask.

  Frankie looks away from the flames of the fire and looks straight at me. My God, she’s beautiful.

  “I go when I can, but I’m more of a football fan. If the team are playing away, I don’t usually get back in time.”

  “I just assumed that we’d have bumped into each other before now, you being from Beith and all. I know it’s a cliché question, but what school did you go to?”

  A look passes over her face, and I know why. She knows what that means. Are you a Catholic or a Protestant? I feel bad asking, but it does make a difference. Maybe not to me, but it will to my dad. Being an Irish Catholic immigrant, he comes up against discrimination every day. Sometimes it’s subtle, sometimes not. Getting passed over for jobs and finding out it went to the gaffer’s pal in the Orange Lodge. Or having the flutes and drums stop right outside your door on the twelfth of July, making sure you know where you stand. He’ll nod and say ‘good morning’ to the neighbours, and they’ll do the same back. But we don’t go in each others’ houses, and we definitely don’t date or marry them. But we’re just friends though, so why did I even ask?

  “I went to Beith Academy, then got my apprenticeship as a French Polisher in the Cabinet Works straight after.”

  I knew as much. If she had been a Catholic, I would know her already. Every Catholic in the Garnock Valley went to St Bridget’s, and we all go to mass on a Sunday. I shift on the stool I’m perched on, wondering how I’m going to put it. I steal a quick glance at the scullery door to see if my mother is listening.

  “Could we maybe not mention that to my mother tonight? She’ll be OK about it, but my Dad won’t. He’s Irish and has reason to be a bit bitter. Every time he goes back home, he has to pass through Belfast on the way south. They don’t treat Catholics well there, and it’s not much better here. He’s not keen on us socialising with Protestants.”

  Her mouth falls open and she seems momentarily stunned. I’m ashamed that I even brought the subject up. But then she surprises me. She takes my hand,

  “It’s not a problem. I get it. I…I like you Patty and I’m not about to make waves. I want to spend time with you again…..if you want to.”

  A blush creeps up her neck, and it’s not the heat from the fire. That much I know.

  Because I know what she’s saying. It’s what I want too.

  Frankie

  There’s not a sound in the house as I lie beside her in her lumpy double bed. She fell asleep quickly, but there’s no way I can sleep. I watch the covers rise and fall to the rhythm of her breathing and I can’t take my eyes off of her. My body is certainly reacting to her proximity. For the first time in my life I have an inkling as to what I’ve been missing. When my mum said I’ll know when I’ve met the right one, this is what she meant. But I bet she wasn’t thinking that ‘the one’ would be a woman. I can see now that the hero worshipping and crushes were more than that. I could never fathom what other girls were on about when they raved about the fellas they fancied. It was alien to me. Now I know why.

  Frankie

  Another Saturday night, another concert. I couldn’t care less who is playing though. I’ve waited a whole week to see Patty. For the past few months we’ve been meeting at the Walker Hall at the weekend and trying to meet up on a Wednesday night after work at Bert’s Café for hamburgers and coffee. But it’s not enough for me – and I think Patty feels the same. This week we couldn’t meet on Wednesday as she had to go to Mass. She said it was a Holiday of Obligation – something to do with a saint’s day. She can’t get out of that. We still haven’t told her Dad about me. But he’s never in when I go there after the concerts. He’s been wo
rking away a lot. She’s told me that’s about to change as the bridge he’s building up north is nearly finished. Then we’ll have to come clean. About the fact I’m not a Catholic – not the fact that I’m in love with his daughter. That’s a step too far.

  I wait by the statue outside the Hall for her. As the bus pulls in front of the building I see her get out with Mags. She still hasn’t told her about us, either. She said Mags wouldn’t understand. But she has told her sister, Sherry. And surprisingly she’s been brilliant. She’s not bothered by the religion thing because she’s seeing a guy who’s a Protestant and keeping it schtum too. I thought maybe she’d baulk at the lesbian thing, but no! All for it. Just shows you can never tell.

  My stomach is doing summersaults. I’ve missed her so much and need to hold her hand. Because in this crowd that’s all we’ll be able to do. No-one ever notices in the dark of the concert hall. We stay at the back and stand as close to each other as we can. And when I walk her home tonight, she will put her arm through mine, and I can dream that we can be together. Every minute of every day is consumed with thoughts of this woman. I feel on a high whenever I think of her. And then I remember that we are both women – and if that wasn’t bad enough, we are different religions. I want a future with her, but I can’t see how.