| |
MAIRI-CLARE GREW INCREASINGLY contented with her new surroundings. School had settled down and she was absorbed in working with her ‘Mass partner’, Mary, and the hymn they had chosen to recite.
Her biggest surprise had been how drawn she was to Tubbs. The two were constant companions outside St Saviours, spending time sitting on the dyke outside her close or walking to Maxwellton Park to work the weather-worn swings, the rusted bolts screeching with each movement. What was the attraction? Maybe it was his vulnerability and openness, or the fact that they were comfortable sitting in silence as the world passed by. The only interruption was the old men clacking bowls beyond the large sandstone wall of the adjacent bowling green. Tubbs’ deep, dark eyes seemed to draw her in and mesmerise her. Would he ever ask her out?
One day, she broached the issue of girlfriends. Tubbs shrugged. ‘I usually leave all that kind a’ stuff tae Mikey.’
Her Mass partner was equally intriguing. As an only child, Mary had a defiance that bordered on rudeness and bitterness towards life in general which, she learned, emanated from the premature death of her father four years earlier. Her initial meeting with Mairi-Clare had been tense, with Mary declaring her input would be minimal. God, if he existed at all, had been evil to rob her of her father.
‘I’m only here to stop my mum nagging at me to take part in this useless event,’ she said through gritted teeth, her eyes smothered by her lowered eyebrows.
***
‘I’ll get it,’ Mairi-Clare announced, as the doorbell sounded.
Tubbs and Mikey were attending the inaugural meeting of the fledging group. Joe and Shada, despondent with the preferred choice of music, had decided to stick to their various entrepreneurial activities around the town.
‘Come in. Down the hall, last door on the right, that’s my room. I’ll get some juice.’
‘I’m in her bedroom already, Tubsy boy,’ Mikey sniggered.
Music blared from beyond a dark oak door. It had been left open, revealing a tall, scrawny male dancing in front of a full-size mirror wearing nothing but yellow Y-fronts and a pair of fur-lined tucker boots.
Mikey and Tubbs stopped, momentarily stunned. The male, his blond hair tied back in a ponytail, was on all fours as he pointed to an imaginary crowd. Simple Minds boomed as he mimed and gyrated around the room, overlooked by posters of Fidel Castro, statesman-like in his army fatigues, a helmet-clad miner pleading Coal not Dole, and the Rainbow Warrior heading out to sea to take on the latest multi-conglomerate.
The youth calmly glided towards the door and assessed the two visitors. His wide eyes eying them up and down. ‘Bet you wish you could move like me, brothers. Peace,’ he said quietly, then slammed the door shut in their faces.
‘You’ve met my brother, then? Paisley’s answer to Bono – or is it Jim Kerr? Can’t remember,’ Mairi-Clare quipped, leading her friends to her room.
‘So, we’ve agreed on classical music and we’ll all learn an instrument for one piece, Capriccio Italien, and try out for orchestras. Mikey, you’ll learn the orchestral flute – my dad has an old one. There are three flute players in this piece, so any mistakes you make won’t be picked up. I’ll join the strings and play the violin. Terence, you’ll learn the bass drum.’
‘She’s quite bossy, Tubbs eh?’ Mikey said.
‘Typical, the fat guy plays the big drum. Good job I’m at one with my weight. And where am Ah going tae get a bass drum?’ Tubbs smirked.
‘Come here.’ Mairi-Clare clutched his hand and led him to the large bay window. Mikey followed. ‘Up there.’ She pointed towards Case Road Orange Lodge, a large detached, red-sandstone building, which dominated the brow of a hill and sat at the crossroads of the two streets,
‘The Protestant Boys Memorial Flute Band, I think they’re called. They walk from there every Saturday without fail in the summer. We’ll steal it for you,’ she said assertively.
‘Aw aye, Ah kin see that happening, nae bother,’ Tubbs responded, moving away from the window as if to protect himself from the danger he imagined would be forthcoming, while raising his eyebrows and glancing toward Mikey.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Mikey laughed. ‘Yer mental, hen! They’ll leather us from one end of the toon to the next. Ye don’t know these folk, dae ye?’
Mairi-Clare paused, fixing her glare on Mikey. ‘I’ve a plan and I’ve been watching that building and that band right through the summer, both morning and evening. I had no choice – they woke me up every bloody Saturday without fail. After you asked me to join your merry musical band and we chose classical, it seemed the natural choice. They’re creatures of habit, are usually under the influence by the time they come home around 5pm and, from what I’ve observed, easily manipulated. And Mikey, don’t call me hen,’ she hissed.
‘Look, just keep listening to the music and think about your instrument. There are easy-to-learn books you can pick up in the library. I’ll simplify the notes for you and give you timings for when you play during the piece,’ she went on, walking between her friends. ‘Two weeks’ time, we take the drum. I understand they’re playing at some anniversary event in Carluke, so they’ll arrive back even drunker than usual. This weekend I’ll triple-check the plan. I believe there’s some sort of function on at Troon, so it will be a dry run.’
‘Mairi-Clare, Ah’m no sure ’bout this. Seriously, that is ... err ... serious,’ Tubbs whispered, rubbing her shoulder. ‘If ye know what Ah mean.’
‘Ye seem to have good sources but I agree with Tubbs. It’s well dodgy,’ Mikey piped up, feeling isolated.
‘I get that, boys, but I’ve come up with a plan which will work, trust me. Terence needs a bass drum. None of us can afford even a second-hand one. They have one, a beautiful piece I should add.’ She moved towards the stereo, reasserting her control. ‘For now, we listen to the Capriccio Italien.’
‘Can Ah no’ play the tambourine?’ Tubbs pleaded.
‘No.’
‘Say yer prayers, mate,’ Mikey grimaced.
***
Mairi-Clare rang the bell of the top-floor flat at 10 Tweed Street. The close, which was in darkness, the lights subject to neglect, reeking of urine and stale air. Only one family occupied the building. All the adjacent and parallel tenements were vacant, derelict, and victims to scavenging for scrap metal and roofing lead. Sun-bleached floral curtains fluttered in the evening breeze through the broken windows, while metal doors prevented any unauthorised entry.
This would be her third session with Mary and gradually, tentatively, the barriers seemed to be receding.
A small, middle-aged, woman answered the door and beckoned her inside. ‘You must be Mairi-Clare. Very pleased to meet you. I’m Diane, Mary’s mum. She’s in her room just now – we’ll have a quick chat then you can join her down there.’ She said in a thick Irish accent, directing her into the living room.
‘Please take a seat, Mairi-Clare. Such a lovely name.’
Diane settled her soft eyes on her visitor. The room was the opposite to the external surroundings: warm and welcoming with a touch of opulence. Thankfully, it lacked the garishness Mairi-Clare had witnessed at some of her old school friends’ homes in Kilmacolm.
‘I want to thank you for helping Mary, and for your patience. I wish she would get out more. I assume you know about her dad. She hasn’t got over it yet. I don’t think she ever will. She blames me, blames the world, the good Lord and sometimes her dad himself, God rest him. I realise it won’t be easy working with her but if she can free her mind, I think you’ll discover a lovely person and maybe a friend. Mary would like...’
‘Sorry, Mrs Cassidy, could you be quiet?’ Mairi-Clare interjected sheepishly, pointing to the living-room entrance while tilting her head to hear more clearly. A young girl’s voice was echoing throughout the flat. The mellifluous, weightless tones were delivered with a precision that prompted Mairi-Clare’s rude interruption.
‘That’s Mary,’ Diane whispered, smiling proudly and leaning toward Mairi-Clare. ‘She only sings in her room. She sang constantly before Billy died. He would sing to her every day and each night when he put her to bed. He was from County Cork, a wee place called Reenascreena. Wouldn’t imagine you’d have heard of it. They say the Cork folk sing when they talk and he had a beautiful lilt. He never really settled here, so he sang songs from home, to Mary. She’s a great singer too. She doesn’t get it from me because I can’t sing a note,’ she added, half smiling. ‘I’ll let her know you’re here. Don’t tell her you heard her sing – she’ll just get upset,’ she added, moving slowly towards the door.
‘Hi, Mary, how are you doing?’ Mairi-Clare queried as she entered the bright bedroom decorated in pink, with boy-band posters positioned high on all the walls. ‘I’ve brought my guitar so we can practise the hymn, then maybe head up to the Big Apple for a game of pool. What you think?’ She smiled and sat on the edge of the quilted bedcover.
‘Sounds great,’ Mary replied dismissively. ‘Have you ever looked at this street?’ She continued to peer through the Venetian blinds covering the window. ‘Look at it. The place is a midden. That empty close across the road number fifty-nine – all sorts goes on in there. I don’t miss anything. Nothing else to do in this dump.’
‘You may be right, girl, but we have a song to learn. Here’s your tambourine. Have I still to strum the guitar and do all the singing?’ Mairi-Clare asked, nudging Mary’s shoulder.
‘Why do I have to go to a special school? I don’t want to be fuckin’ special,’ Mary announced in a low tone.
Mairi-Clare was unclear whether she was actually engaging with her or just talking aloud to herself.
‘We’re not special but different, eh?’ Mary faced her companion, her expression full of frustration. ‘That’s what it is, they can’t do different ’cause my eyes are puffy, my voice croaky. It’s not as if we’re thick. Gavin Corr can recite poetry of by heart, and Skye Munro can do algebra and has a boyfriend, the wee cow.’ She giggled. ‘I used to sing, told I was good.’
At last, a breakthrough, Mairi-Clare thought.
‘So why the special school?’ she repeated. ‘Scared in case we get called mongos, protecting us? Protecting the normal kids, more like. Wouldn’t want them feeling uncomfortable round us, would they?’ She turned toward the window again, despondently, awaiting a response.
‘Well, maybe this Mass will be the start of it. It’ll showcase all our talents. Let them see we’re all the same – just different. Then we might all end up together in the one school,’ Mairi-Clare suggested, gently poking her friend’s ribs. ‘Showing talent... Not just hitting a bloody tambourine eh?’
‘No, not a chance,’ Mary responded assertively.