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‘WHAT THE HELL’S GOING on in there, Gracie? Some racket!’ Dixie made his way across the cluttered room, shuffling to avoid washing baskets and the well-worn trappings of a busy kitchen.
He had never fully acclimatised to the household chaos that a family inevitably created, and he was constantly agitated when he came home from a shift. Three young boys, all diverse and special in their own way, kept him and his high-school sweetheart, Grace Docherty, on their toes.
He looked over his shoulder still searching for an answer as he scrubbed the oil from his hands with the pink carbolic soap.
‘Dixie, leave them be,’ his wife responded. Her voice rose, emphasising her stress as she transferred the wet clothes to the spin compartment of the twin-tub washer. ‘Terence is setting things up. Fur the first time, Joe is interested in something other than an excuse fur no gaun tae school,’
Grace’s days were erratically busy. Keeping the house ticking over while working as a part-time cleaner in the evenings and ensuring her three boys did not stray too far off the straight and narrow fully occupied each waking minute.
The oldest of five siblings, her strained looks belied her age. Her tough upbringing in Ferguslie Park included a mother who died in childbirth and a father who spent any money he earned on drink in the New Fergus Hotel at the eastern edge of a sprawling estate known lovingly as ‘The Scheme’.
She was suitably proud of her achievements. From the age of fourteen, she had ensured her three sisters and brother were clean, fed and never missed school. They were all now making their way successfully in the world.
Grace clutched at any glimmer of hope that would ease her worry and allow her mind to rest. She was exhausted with the constant battle to enthuse and motivate her children to realise their potential. Joe, her thirteen-year-old son, was continuously breaking her heart. She was on first-name terms with the school’s truant officer; she feared the day she’d have to stand in front of the sheriff and receive a custodial sentence due to Joe’s habitual lack of attendance. Stephen, her youngest, was so full of energy there were repeated visits to his guidance teacher. The next stop for him would be Doctor McMillan; Valium for her good self and something to slow young Stephen down would make life easier.
At fifteen and a half, Terence was the oldest and he provided the most contentment. She disliked the Tubbs’ nickname he was labelled with, mainly because it made her feel guilty about his weight, which in part was her fault. Terence hated physical education after being humiliated in his first year of high school. At a swimming lesson, an aggressive supply teacher sent Terence to the deep end of the pool, dismissing his protests. The teacher guessed that, as he was wearing trunks with four swimming badges sewn onto them, he must be an accomplished swimmer. Unfortunately the trunks belonged to a neighbour because Grace couldn’t afford to buy new ones. Terence had to be rescued from the bottom of the pool by a lifeguard and never ventured near PE again.
These constant worries, coupled with Dixie’s wayward, adolescent outlook on life, ensured time had passed quickly together with her engaging youthful looks.
‘Just asking, love. Sounds like the Barralands in there,’ replied Dixie, drying his hands on his faded T-shirt.
‘Och, wheesht, will ye!’ she snapped. ‘You make more noise when ye come in pished at the weekend.’
Her eyes locked with her husband’s as she worked her way through a mountain of dry washing, separating, folding and stacking. ‘Look, Terence and Michael are putting together some band. Joe and his wee pal want tae join, so let them be for today, will ye?’ she lamented. ‘This town’s going to rack ’n ruin wae junkies and scumbags peddling hash or smack to anyone weak enough to fall into their trap. If a band keeps any of them from being tempted tae fall into their dirty clutches, yer bloody ears will need tae be sacrificed.’
‘Awright! Whoa.’ Dixie moved to give her a reassuring hug. ‘No probs, darling. A band? Ah kin sing like fuck.’ He laughed, about to burst into song.
Grace stopped him in his tracks, nipping his lips with her fingers. ‘Aye, right. Don’t think they’ll be playing any Val Doonican, ya idiot,’ she replied, throwing a clean towel at his face. ‘Use that next time, ya clat!’
***
Mikey paced nervously. He prayed she’d show, though he was far from convinced she would.
He’d spent the early evening preparing for the meet and choosing what to wear to make an impression. He’d finally selected his grey Sta-Press trousers, white polo shirt and red Harrington, his favourite piece of clothing. He was particular about his appearance but limited their use – these were his best clothes and there was no sign of replacements coming any time soon.
He’d bought them with his first provident cheque that he’d received for his last birthday. He felt he was finally grown up when he took the cheque to the town to buy his own gear. The provi man had changed; his dad’s mate Eddie Toner had done it for years, and wasn’t too fussed when repayments were missed now and again. Eddie had packed it in due to a spate of muggings. Owning to the increased frequency the new provi man came to the house looking for his weekly return, coupled with the excessive interest rates and his dad ignoring the continuous ringing of the doorbell, Mikey assumed that the new relationship was not as flexible. New gear was not on the horizon any time soon.
Setting up a band was sharp thinking. Showing an interest in her hobbies would go in his favour. He had strategically chosen the Big Apple as the meeting point. The large, popular amusement arcade situated on Broomland Street in the bustling West End had previously been a cinema. Now it attracted youths from all over the town. Mikey’s thinking was that if any of his pals clocked him standing outside getting a potential dizzy, he would have the excuse of waiting on Tubbs to play pool.
He began to daydream as the sun warmed him. Leaning against the white, roughcast, wall, he looked down Queen Street to his old primary school playground. Happy days in St Mary’s, he thought. Eat your lunch, run across the road, past Tannahill the Poet’s cottage, up to the playground for a sidey – same teams from the game that kicked off before 9am until last playtime.
‘Hello, Mr Mike.’
Her voice startled him, shaking him from his daydream. ‘Hiya. Ye turned up.’
‘You sound surprised,’ she responded.
‘You look great.’
She looked down: baby Doc boots, Levi’s and black check shirt. Hardly vogue. ‘So where’s this event taking place?’ she enquired.
‘Tubbs’ hoose stays doon here in Argyle Street, two minutes’ walk,’ he replied, pointing eastwards and leading her down the small slope of Queen Street.
A rich caustic odour of heated metal still hung in the air, its heaviness catching their throats as they turned left onto Cross Street where the small industrial units sat adjacent to the playground of his old school now redundant of the youthful weekday noise. Their destination, the large tenement properties, came into view and dominated the skyline. The structures were a small, eternal symbol of the town’s rich industrial past.
Mikey remained nervous as they walked in silence. He was seldom tongue-tied around girls. His telegenic looks, infectious personality and smooth tongue usually gave him the edge over his peers. But Mairi-Clare unsettled him with her confidence and attitude – maybe that was the challenge. She seemed totally in control and Mikey struggled as to how he could influence her feelings towards him. He decided only to speak when he thought he had something positive, interesting or meaningful to say that would impress her. They continued in silence.
‘Err, this is Tubbs’ close,’ he finally announced. ‘Used tae run businesses from the hooses back in the day. Ye can still see the names oan the side of the close,’ he added, pointing to the weathered sandstone entrance and leading the way up the dimly lit steps. The natural light on the landing was transformed into colourful beams of red, blues and greens by the large, stained-glass, windows.
‘Yep, my gran ran a dressmaker’s in Walkin Street for thirty years. So my mum says. That’s where I stay. If you weren’t so secretive, you could have saved us both a walk.’ Her voice echoed throughout the wide stairwells as she teasingly pushed him down the well-worn steps.
‘Mikey, come in.’ Grace greeted them with a smile, the heat emanating from the flat warming their skin. ‘Whose yer wee pal?’ she queried, guiding them into the hallway.
‘Mairi-Clare, Mrs Clark. No’ long moved intae the West End,’ he replied.
‘Welcome and God help ye hen ... only kidding. Right, listen. Joe and his pal – whit’s his name?’ she asked, glancing quickly at Mikey.
‘Shada.’
‘His real name!’ she scolded.
‘Err, Shadow?’ He shrugged.
‘Anyway, they want to try out for your band. Do not slag them, encourage them,’ Grace hissed in a low voice. ‘I’ve not seen our Joe so enthusiastic since the Co-op introduced pound slots in the shopping trolleys.’
‘No probs, Mrs Clark. Is Tub ... sorry, Terence in?’
‘Aye, just go into the living room. He has it all set up.’
‘Awrite, mate.’
‘Aye, Tubbs. You?’
‘Welcome to Chateau Clark, Mairi-Clare. Or should that be Shithole Clark,’ Tubbs announced, guiding his guest to a single, stained, cream-leather seat.
‘What the fuck ... sorry,’ exclaimed Mikey, catching a glimpse of a shiny, ruby-red drumkit taking pride of place in the spacious living room.
‘Lovely drumkit, Terence,’ Mairi-Clare said, spinning the sticks in her hand.
‘Call me Tubbs.’
‘I prefer Terence. More distinct, if I’m honest. But if you insist,’ Mairi-Clare responded assertively.
‘It’s Joe’s, Mikey. Don’t know where the hell he got it. Boy’s a rocket. He’s away tae get Shada.’
‘May as well wait for them then? Yer maw gave us gip on the way in, so don’t be giving the wee man a hard time, all right? Everyone got their choices?’ he asked, exerting control and eyeballing his friends.
They didn’t have to wait long. The silence was broken by two dapper, red-faced teenagers who had clearly struggled with the rush up the stairs as they burst through the mahogany-stained door.
‘Sorry for the haud up, troops. Had tae pick up this stand,’ announced Joe, placing the mic in front of the drumkit, which was nestling beside three large bay windows.
‘Joe, where the hell did ye get this gear?’ his brother queried in a whisper.
‘George fae the Record Market owes me ’n’ Shada a turn. We’ve been sticking posters up around the toon the last three weeks, some band playing in the Toon Hall. He’s punting the tickets. This gear’s the support band’s. Ah need tae get it back the night... The clobber?’ he added, tugging on his Fred Perry button-down shirt and looking towards his dogtooth Sta-Press, ‘is fae our money-making ventures. No’ bad, eh?’ he smirked, looking round the room expectantly.
‘Ye look great, wee man. Right, let’s get this gaun. Who’s first?’ Mikey asked, moving to the centre of the room with an air of urgency.
‘Me ’n’ Shada, troops. This gear’s tae be back soon.’
‘And yer suggestion?’ asked his exasperated brother.
‘Look, we need something to make us cash, right? Well, this mob will help dae jist that. They’re loaded. Tubbs, The Jam, side two, track one,’ he replied, pointing towards the smoked-glass Panasonic record player and stack of vinyl LPs sitting on top of the ornate pine dresser.
Tubbs removed the glossy black vinyl from the sleeve. The edginess of the cover, with band members pictured in front of self-prophesised graffiti, set the scene for the forthcoming tune.
‘Ah’m miming, obviously, but listen tae Shada. He’s playing these bad boys, amazing he is. Make sure it’s nice ’n’ loud, Tubbs.’ He wrapped his hands around the mic, lowered his head, and fixed his eyes on his two-tone bowling shoes, awaiting his cue.
A crescendo of bass guitar filled the room, followed by Shada springing to life with precision drumming. The music brought the room and its inhabitants to life. Joe worked the mic and his lip-synching was impeccable. The boy manipulating the drumkit seemed to have come out of nowhere and produced a faultless delivery that was far removed from the quiet, unassuming personality who was constantly in Joe’s shade.
The two had been inseparable since the first day of Primary One at St Mary’s. Joe had been inconsolable at having to leave his mother to enter the imposing black, iron, school gates. He thought she’d never come back. Shada had shared his packed lunch and made him laugh, which distracted Joe from his worries.
Their lives were now intertwined, always looking for money-making opportunities and sharing takings equally. Many thought Joe dominated his diminutive friend, though the pals knew differently; Shada was the brains. His more outgoing partner was the frontman.
Dixie swung his wife around the kitchen, her red hair flowing loosely over her shoulders, as the music blared from across the hall. ‘Yer no’ a bad mover, Gracie. Takes me back tae when Ah used tae nip ye up the dancing.’
‘Ah had many a name oan ma card, Dix. Consider yourself lucky,’ she laughed.
‘Bloody hell, ye kin hear that racket doon the street.’ Peter entered the kitchen laughing at his childhood friends’ antics. ‘Ah found this yin outside,’ he added, grasping the shoulders of the youngest Clark brood.
‘Join in, Big Man, music’s brilliant.’
‘Dad, kin a get a month’s pocket money, please?’ the small boy asked in a soft voice, slumping on a chair and staring sadly at the floor.
‘Whit?’ replied Dixie, concentrating on maintaining the beat with his dance partner.
‘Ah need tae buy lino!’
‘Stephen, whit you oan aboot?’
‘This stuff, lino!’ Stephen replied, stamping the square-patterned cream floor to emphasise his point. ‘Ah’m part of a break-dancing crew – Managers of Mayhem. Blazer bought the ghetto blaster, Frame got the trackies ’n’ Ah’ve got tae get the lino! We’re against the Bronx soon,’ he whinged, his face contorted with stress that belied his years.
‘Gracie, ah cannae keep up wae’ these weans,’ Dixie laughed.
‘Stephen, we will sort it,’ his mother reassured him, running her fingers through his unkempt shoulder-length hair.
‘Better! Or am oot a’ the Crew ’n’ ma name’s Shuffle,’ he scolded, making his way towards the kitchen door. The adults stifled their laughter to save the boy’s feelings.
‘And how kin we no huv Alpine?’ he shouted, slamming the door behind him.
‘Shuffle? Boys no’ half wise,’ quipped Dixie, ‘He wanted tae be Boy George last week.’
‘Even worse, he wants tae drink that shitty Alpine,’ laughed Peter.
Shada lowered the drumsticks while Joe surveyed the reaction to their performance around the room.
Mairi-Clare broke the silence. ‘I really enjoyed that. It was very upbeat, energetic, with a fair amount of passion. Very well done, you two. Shadow, where did you learn to play like that?’ She tilted her head to catch the younger boy’s eye.
Shada shrugged. ‘My Da used tae have an auld kit in the shed.’
Mikey was worried. How would his conquest view his proposal? ‘Great boys, don’t think we need to make a decision until we have heard all the suggestions, awright?’
‘Right, nae bother. Let us know,’ Joe responded, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, while beginning a mini de-rig of the borrowed equipment. ‘Me ’n’ Shada need tae get the kit back up the road. Keep George happy.’
The removal led to a vacant space around the bay windows, which Mikey chose to occupy.
‘Kin we call ye Mairi ... or MC?’ Tubbs interjected, stretching his body out on the comfortable sofa.
‘Is Mairi-Clare too much like hard work?’ She smiled. ‘Of course you can, I’m not precious.’ She ruffled her hair and held Tubbs’ glance.
‘Right, who’s next,’ Mikey interjected, feeling slightly left out and recognising something may be growing between his latest conquest and his best pal.
Tubbs rose slowly from the couch. ‘Right, be prepared to be mesmerised, enthralled and inspired all at the wan time. I’m gonnae play something which will blow ye away and awaken your inner spirit.’ He paused, eyeballing his audience. ‘But enough of me. Sit back, close your eyes and slip into the mesmerising glow of...’
He anxiously moved the needle over the spinning vinyl, carefully finding the correct track. ‘This is an auld album Ah got fae the Record Market’s discount bin but they sound brilliant. A group fae Africa. The guy that runs them is called Joseph Shabalala. Whit a name, eh? This is Awu Wemmmadoda by Ladysmith Black err ... Ladysmith Black Mombazo!’
The haunting capella sound of bass, alto and tenor male voices shrouded the room. The mesmerising tones caused sudden goosebumps on Mairi-Clare’s skin as she became engrossed in the harmony. Mikey closed his eyes to allow his mind to concentrate fully on the evocative sounds.
‘Whit the hell they listening tae noo?’ Dixie sniggered.
‘God knows. You any work going, mate?’ Peter enquired. ‘Need tae get oot the hoose. Even just a couple of hours tae help ye oot?’
‘Am no huving ye help me without paying. Ah’ve nothing just noo, but got a couple a’ prices in. I’ll let ye know.’ Whispering, he added, ‘Might be heading for the jail for whit a done tae that auld Fitzgerald’s front door the other week. Gaun tae that new lawyer oan Monday.’
‘Feck sake, hope not, Dix. Serves ye right though, ya nutter,’ Peter laughed. ‘Ah might go oan the taxis just for a wee while, though the thought a’ working for that scumbag Quinn turns ma stomach.’
Dixie shook his head emphatically. ‘Things must be right shite if you’d dae that.’
‘Aye, they are. It’s no great.’ Peter sighed, staring numbly out onto the manicured back garden. The well-laid out plots signified resident territory, with an assortment of huts and vegetable patches colliding with each other and, from his view on the third floor, merging into the earth’s surface.
Tubbs removed the needle arm from the vinyl, content with his submission.
‘I like it, Terence. Very emotional,’ said Mairi-Clare.
‘Tubbs, very good, mate. But just a couple of things: one we’re no black, and two we cannae sing African,’ interjected Mikey, shaking his head.
‘Zulu.’
‘Eh?’
‘It’s not African or Africana. They’re Zulus,’ responded Mairi-Clare. ‘They’ve been going for years, but with the ban because of apartheid no one has really heard of them ... well, apart from Terence.’
‘Even worse ... how the hell can we replicate that? Crying out loud, Tubbs! Could ye no huv’ went for Madness or Spandau Ballet or something?’ Mikey exclaimed, seeking to reaffirm his position in the group hierarchy.
Tubbs slowly made his way to the bay window. Wiping the condensation with the back of his hand, he peered out onto the grimy weathered sandstone. It dominated the landscape and competed with the black slate roofs as the most depressing urban feature even on the sunniest of days. After summer showers, when the sun emerged through the ageing sash windows to soak up the moisture and glisten once again, he would sit and sketch from his bedroom window. The solitude cleared his mind; art was his favourite subject and by far his most engrossing pastime. One day, he promised himself, he would travel the world taking in all the great galleries wherever they were; maybe his works would adorn their walls. He had never set foot outside Paisley, with the exception of two weeks on holiday in Millport. He knew there was a great big, exciting, world out there awaiting his company. Somehow he would get there to experience it.
‘Look, ah’m fat as fuck. Ah cannae sing. Ah cannae play any instruments but Ah kin dance!’ Tubbs bemoaned. ‘Huv ye seen they Africans dancing doon the street?’ he added, in an impassioned voice, whilst pointing towards the Panasonic record player in the corner. ‘Facing they racist polis with sticks, ’n’ getting’ shot wae bullets? Dancing, fucking dancing, facing up tae that. We kin dae’ that. Ah kin dae’ that!’ he exclaimed, slumping on the window ledge, his eyes fixed on the patterned carpet’
Mairi-Clare glanced at Mikey, waiting for him to take the lead and support his friend. Typically, the West End boy was not in tune with emotional attainment.
‘Terence,’ she spoke softly as she moved across the room to face him. ‘Don’t worry about not playing an instrument. You’ll carry out perfectly what I have in mind.’ She wiped the tousled hair from his face and raised his chin to face her. Why did I do that? she thought as her body froze for a second.
Recovering and moving towards the stereo she added, ‘Listen to this music. If you are really wanting out of this town this is your route to travel the world ... classical music. Trust me.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ muttered Tubbs, shuffling his feet.
In the other room, Dixie tugged at his friend’s arm and pulled him towards the table and chairs. ‘Ye cannae work fur him, Peter. Awright, I do a bit of maintenance fur him and they seem tae trust me, but I’m no’ dealing wae him. It’s cash in hand and see ye later. Trust me, some of the half-conversations I’ve heard! Thank God ah never hear the full script.’ Dixie became animated as he moved around the kitchen.
‘Dixie, I’ve got mouths tae feed, same as you. Christ’s sake, I’ve got fuck all, not a bit of food in the fridge, kids can’t go oan any school trips or have half-decent gear. Best thing about school is they get a free lunch, fuck’s sake! Mikey’s wearing cast offs from oor Barry’s weans in Canada. This is nae way tae live.’
‘He’s just worried, Peter. Everyone knows what Quinn’s like, bloody evil,’ Grace interjected, rubbing her friend’s arm.
‘I know, Grace, but if ah go tae work for him I’ll just do ma shift, keep ma heid doon and earn some cash,’ Peter replied reassuringly.
‘I know ye will. Just take care – and take them two fillet steaks in the fridge up the road with ye. They’ll be wasted on him the morra when he’s lying aboot with a massive bloody hangover.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. And yer right, they would be wasted oan him,’ Peter responded, wrapping his arms round her shoulders and placing a kiss on her forehead. ‘I’ll have a think about it. Ye never know, Ah might win Spot the Ball,’ he laughed. ‘Right, I’m off. Mikey, see you back at the house,’ he called out, punching Dixie on the back of the head as he left the room.
‘Well that wis different,’ said Tubbs, looking towards Mikey after listening to all fourteen minutes forty-three seconds of the absorbing symphony.
‘Capriccio Italien. Tchaikovsky wrote it after coming across a carnival in Rome and being inspired by the atmosphere and whole show being played out in front of his eyes. It’s all about fun and love. The trumpet crescendo introduction heralds the start of the event. However, like all good tales there are dips and high points. There are eighteen instruments in that one piece alone,’ Mairi-Clare said confidently, becoming animated with unbridled enthusiasm. ‘I guarantee I can find one for everyone.’
Mairi-Clare had fallen in love with classical music and Tchaikovsky in particular while learning the violin. In her previous life, when money was no object, her parents paid for piano and string instrument lessons twice per week. She settled on and excelled with the violin and the classical forms. The consistent ebb and flows of Tchaikovsky’s music in particular captivated her as the mesmerising, evocative, sounds allowed her to block out all that was happening around her and become engrossed in the moment. Every note of Capriccio Italien was embedded in Mairi-Clare’s mind. She would pass on her knowledge to her new friends, who knew where it may lead.
‘What you think Mikey?’ Tubbs asked in an uncertain tone.
‘Well, I...’
‘Sorry, I need to go,’ Mairi-Clare interrupted, grabbing Mikey’s wrist to scan his silver Casio timepiece, ‘I’ve got my school partner for the St Mary’s special Mass coming round.’
‘But whit about Mikey’s choice? We’ve still tae hear it.’
‘Mikey, I’m really sorry,’ she responded, widening her eyes and flirting gently with him.
‘No probs. Ah wis just gonnae dae Francois Chopin anyway.’
‘Do they no smash up instruments?’
‘So we’re gaun’ for this orchestra thing?’ Mikey responded.
The nervous nodding confirmed it.
‘Not a word in school, agreed? Or we’ll get our baws well and truly booted,’ Tubbs added worryingly.
‘Good choice, Mikey. We’ll arrange to come to mine after school. We can work it out then,’ Mairi-Clare replied quickly as she rushed out of the door.