Our Ladies, page 10
Ardlui folded stole and alb, passing them by his nose to see if the stench of the thurible was there. He took out the whisky bottle from the cupboard and blew sharply into both small glasses.
Not for me, Father.
He ignored him, filled both glasses with the Linkwood fifteen, thought, From Brotherhood or was it … ? says, Water?
Ah, no thanks.
He handed the captain a glass. The captain didn’t touch it but removed a cigarette holder and was soon smoking well, with direct, confident movements, Terrific part of the country. Father, love to retire up here.
You don’t find it bleak?
Well that’s the attraction.
Development. That’s what we need up here. I was thinking, glass-bottomed submarines would be popular in the summer!
Mmmm, the captain nodded.
I saw one in the United States, fascinating vessel.
The captain exhaled, Unusual, a town of this size to have a cathedral.
It’s an honour we share with Brechin. Here’s the church and here’s the steeple but where the hell are all the people? A bit of a folly like our monument, the symbol of our town up on the hill there.
The coliseum structure? Very classical.
With Gothic windows! Victorian bad taste, the Greeks were never here.
The captain smiled, Well the family were relieved he could rest somewhere like this. I fully expect he’ll be off your hands by late this evening or early morning. Terrible business.
Tragic, Ardlui looked out the window, clearly bored, Vision captain, that’s what we need here, vision and development, you know, I sit on the Hotel Board here. I wouldn’t go as far as to say as Spiritual Advisor …
The captain snapped his cigarette case, smiled.
Some of our patrons, for the roof-renewal project, for the Lourdes trips, are very generous. Interests to protect. Ardlui lifted the whisky to his mouth, he suddenly says, Kilimanjaro, under the snows of Kilimanjaro, captain, there are the ruins of an international airport, wild animals wandering through the terminal buildings, the drained swimming pools of luxury hotels. All built in the seventies, waiting upon a tourist rush that never came. Only wars came. Do you know what the motto of the Kilimanjaro Project was, captain?
No.
‘Tourism is the flower which grows in every country.’
The sailor grinned grimly, You were in Kenya?
Eleven years, Ardlui nodded, refilled his glass and turned, It’s not a mountain hanging like a dream in pink skies you need now captain, you need greater things than mountains: you need psychology, something that forces the people to come to you. We have our share of mountains. What we need are shrines. We need new miracles; all the old ones are stale or worn smooth at any rate. Sometimes the people need a new song to sing.
The captain had thanked Ardlui for his little service. It was the policeman, McPherson, the one who’d bought over that den, the Mantrap, pulled up in a Land-Rover to give the captain a lift back to the pier. Ardlui nodded to him, thought of the start of a Niall Dubh poem:
In loveless port
Steamers are swaying.
The House of Stained Glass
Above the piers,
The sailors emerge
Pull up their collars.
Where my mother gave birth …
McPherson was planning to use the rooms above the dance hall as a brothel. He needed women from the city though.
Ardlui watched the captain trot down to the waited police car, and duck his hat without looking back, under a tremendous, vertical fall and slither of sunlight, released from a fast cloud. For an instant there was the arrowhead of a bird-shadow streaking on the earth; the priest looked up, chuckled, expecting the bright colours of a parrot.
He walked through the vestry and could see the coffin of the heart-attack sailor through the door. The captain hadn’t touched the whisky. Ardlui mumbled, World full of atheists and sinners, but how they come running to us for burial in the end, he snapped the drink back in one gulp.
Citadel
Three rings of Sambuca shots were on the dark table the Sopranos surrounded, far deep into the pub. Each girl struck a match quick, on the same box.
Sure?
Aye, goes Orla.
Don’t hold it the too long in your mouth, Fionnula nudged her and Fionnula’s rolled-up sleeve on her blue shirt, slipped down, so’s the cuffs parted and slowly cradled into her elbow.
As the Bishop says to the actress, Chell looked round and yelped.
The girls all tipped their heads back and clicked the shots into their mouths, paused, then dipped the matches down out of sight, into the dark cups of their mouths below rounded lips. In the tavern gloom, gentle blue and purple flames rose out the mouths of the five girls. There was silence as they looked from sides to sides, whites of eyes bright to each extremity, then Manda bit her lips shut, paused to make sure the flames died and swallowed that warm liquer down.
Yah.
The others followed, making faces, shaking heads, reaching for their Hooch or Bud chasers.
Hot shite.
Fucking mental.
Another! Orla stood.
Whoa babe!
Orla’s goin for it.
The Pill Box! goes Kylah.
Eh?
The Pill Box, that’s yon club plays music in afternoons.
Is it loads of drugs there like: the Pill box?
Nah, Pill Box is just a thing from wars, like a concrete box where’d put big guns and that, there was one on the dunes when we went caravanning up Cocklawburn, says Fionnula.
Cock what?
Thatsalottacocks, goes Kylah, in a man-American accent with her chin shoved down onto the shoulder of her blue T-shirt, to deepen her voice.
Cocklawburn. It’s down The Border, she sucked on a cigarette.
The Border?
What Border?
The fucking Border.
Oh.
Right.
Kylah slid along the uncomfy bench, with a exaggerated, shielding hand, mock-whispered, Manda! maybe it’s the border to the kingdom of five.
Manda laughed.
Tellingyous. It’s just beautiful down there, better beaches than any Spain or Greece … miles to the nearest pub mind. Ah got a lift from this couple, they were twenty-one, dead nice with a static like ours. Drove me home. Mum n Dad let me out on ma life no to be drinking an I spent all ma holiday money on twelve Hooches. Ah was so wasted ah was lying on the actual back seat, ma head resting on this Kim lassies’s lap …
Whooooaaaa!
… Short skirt an ma legs are actually hanging out the back door window, from ma knees, down the side of the door and it was mental … and her boyfriend driving right, he goes so close into the verge, on the wrong side of the road, this bush swishes by an takes off one ma shoes!
Christ.
Did ya no get him to go back?
What pair was that?
Nah, I was just in the stitches, no caring an they stopped outside our caravan then drove off, peeping the horn like mad. Ah seemed okay for a second but then ah fell over. Ah was SO pissed I’d no noticed ma legs were utterly numb with the coldness from the car wind, cause it was fucking freezing as per-usual. Ah collapsed in a heap an started crawling to the caravan but the car peeps had brought Mum to the door so’s ah goes, ‘Ahm no drunk Mum, ma legs got cold hanging out a car window.’
Everyone laughed.
That was me: grounded rest of the holiday.
You’re a dark horse sometimes. Ya never told me that one afore, Manda stared.
Fionnula shrugged, lit another cigarette.
Orla came back with ten more Sambuca shots on a tray.
What’s this?
Fionnula’s dark secrets.
Och more of them! I’m no ready for that. What was it then?
She couldnie stand up.
History about ta fucking repeat itself then.
What’s the plan?
Get these down our gullets.
Ah want to hit the shops fore am too lagered.
Aye, shopping when yur mashed is dangerous, ye find yourself wearing weird colours.
Chell slid the box Scottish Bluebells middle of the table to formally begin proceedings.
Think we could light them with the ends of our cigarettes? Manda frowned.
It’d put the fag out, would it no?
Try it then.
Excuse me.
The girls with their backs to him turned round.
I’m sorry, it’s not me, but the manageress was asking if you could maybe not do that.
Manda got herself more comfortable and says, Now what do you mean?
Well she’s concerned … you might burn yourselves.
Pafff!
We paid for them aye … ah means our money’s good enough, aye?
Well is it no our business how we drink then?
Look … well we never asked you for ID did we?
Howdye mean? Are you saying we’re underage?
You’re saying you’ll serve us though ya think we’re underage, but only if we drink certain things?
Look, it’s obvious enough we’re, you know, turning a blind eye to you lot, all she’s asking is that you maybe go easier on the flaming Sambuca session. There was a girl up the end of the street in Dirty Dick’s, scorched her throat and it swole right up, closed her oesophagus.
Kylah sniggered.
Dirty Dick closed her what?
Her throat.
Did she die? Orla smiled.
She wasn’t feeling too good.
Fionnula says, Look mister. We paid for these drinks. We’ll suck them up our arseholes if we want to.
Everyone looked at Fionnula then laughed.
The barman shrugged and hunched away, slapping his dishtowel.
What’s he, fucking Australia or New Zealand?
‘Summer Bay.’
Someone laughed.
It’s Henry from Neighbours!
It’s a fucking ancient old ugly grot that’s what that is, Manda shouted.
Cmon, let’s try wi cigarettes.
The heads went back, the tips of cigarettes were slowly lowered into the dark mouths and the flames popped up, cept Orla whose Marlboro Light faltered with an abrupt fiss then, in surprise, some of the Sambuca went wrong way down Orla’s gullet.
Outside she stopped coughing but her mush was beetroot.
Sure you’re okay?
Aye. Next pub? she goes, a bit unconvinced.
Fionnula went, Look, why don’t we all go shopping. Meet in yon Pill Box later? Fionnula tugged the sleeve of her shirt, then crossed her arms.
Orla had straightened up. I’m going to Schuh, it’s down one of those on the left.
Ah want to go to French Connection an Gap an River Island and HIV, goes Chell.
Kylah fished out a CD list the boys in the band had give her, secured by an elastic band against rolled twenty pounds notes. She looked at it glumly.
Where is it then? Manda looked at Kylah.
We’d need to ask, she says.
Everyone stood a bit aimless.
Right. Let’s meet in yon Pill Box at four then.
Four then aye? For sure.
What if one us can’t find it?
This place then, Manda flicked her fringe at the pub beside them.
Five Bells, Kylah squinted.
Right. Pill Box at four and here if you can’t find it.
Whatever, seven at the conference centre with uniforms on, eh?
Aye.
Aye.
Aye.
Aye.
Fionnula strode along with Kylah and Chell. Fionnula turned to watch Orla and Manda move up the lane and behind, criss-crossing city folk.
It’s shame we’ve got to hulk these silly fucking bags round with us.
Specially we get some shopping.
We could try find lockers. In railways stations or that.
The others didn’t look convinced.
Are you really up for shopping?
Course.
I’d be pretty happy just to get sat and drink.
I sort of promised the boys I’d get this weird stuff you can’t get at home.
CDs?
Aye.
An ah know you want a good look at stuff.
Aye, well.
How about I meet yous somewhere else in a wee while. Hour or that?
Where then?
An hour! Wi her I’ll still be in the first shop, Kylah laughed, squinted.
Where are you going then?
Just a dander.
Aye, well please yourself.
We’ll meet you in HIV in an hour then.
HIV?
HMV she means.
The record shop on the main street just there, we passed it on the bus.
Oh right, I’ll find it. See yous in there then.
Aye. See you.
See you, Fionnula. Be careful, eh?
Fionnula turned and grinned, was away, among rushing people in jackets.
What’s she up to?
She’s been queerer and queerer lately, the crazy chick.
Kylah went. She doesn’t know a thing about music.
Chell goes, Years ago, the day Kurt Cobain died, ah was down at the bus-stop in the morning an Fionnula got a lift in. Sandra Goretti n Patricia were there, just greeting like mad, just crying their eyes out an Fionnula comes walking up the hill and goes, ‘What’s wrong?’ … I says, ‘Kurt Cobain’s dead.’ She goes ‘What happened?’ an I goes, ‘He shot hisself’ and Fionnula frowns, up, towards the boys school and says, ‘What year was he in?’
Kylah laughed, shook her hair and went, Fionnula says to me, know how Cast and that have the name of the band painted on the front of the drums an how you see that wi seventies bands.
Aye.
Well Fionnula says, when she was little she used to think there was this band, that really kept changing their image, sometimes long hair, sometimes short, sometimes crap sometimes good but aye sounding different and called Yamaha, cause that’s what was on their drums!
Kylah burst out laughing as her and Chell swung left, in through the warm-day-open-doors of French Connection.
Can we see the ones ah tried on first? The black ones.
The girl turned and walked back to the counter area where she’d heaped the differing boots.
What a snotty townie, Manda whispered.
She’s no thin enough for those trousers, Orla went.
She’s no thin enough for the top.
The girl pranelled back towards them on her platform boots.
Ta.
I’ll leave yous tae have a wee think about it.
Aye.
The girl wandered back and whispered to the girls by the till.
These are the best ones. See it’s the laces ah like.
Mmm.
I like these tall ones and I like the laces all the way up an ah can get other coloured laces and wi the right skirt, covers the skinnyness of ma legs.
They’re really nice, aye.
Orla leaned way, way forward – right up there – better so as to tug on the farthest reaches of the boot, gather its flappery tongue and clicking laces that she had to re-thread. She leaned so’s Manda could see the lizard’s tail curl of her spine at the back of her neck.
Once Orla had pulled both boots on and done the laces, you could see how out of the puff she was … she seemed just jiggered.
Manda?
What?
Ah find the laces and all that sexy, y’know?
Aye. They look great on you.
Orla stood up and made a funny face, Sure? No think ah look like a skinny drug addict or something?
Manda laughed, Nut, you don’t. She glanced over at the girls by the counter. Orla knew too; it was her they were chatting about, cause she wasn’t wearing a skirt an you could see how skinny she was under.
Look, ah can wear them now, she bended right over and pulled the trouser legs down so’s the high boots just looked like neat little bootees.
The nosey townie slag came doddling back over.
I’m going to take these, Orla started hurrying to get her purse out of her schoolbag and Manda almost told her to haud her wheesht, cause you paid at the till.
Manda goes, I’ll wait outside for you.
Eh?
I’m just going to look in the window; she walked out feeling like a right bitch. Ah feel like a right cow, just cause she’s so thin an gawky looking, am no wanting to be seen with her in a posh fucking city, ah mean that’s just awful … a mean it was just a bunch of trendy-fucking-city-lassie fashion victims, if it was guys you might just understand and I’m no turning into a lezzie or anything … why am ah so het-up about what people think about me; who am I trying to impress?
She was taking ages. Manda had put the shades from McDonald’s on and turned, looking up at the castle bove the heads of all the good-looking guys, remembering the rampant feeling when they looked down on the girl’s arse and knowing it was the guy’s big … beastie, in under there, going right up in that girl.
I got you them!
Manda turned and Orla was holding out the Doc Martens box.
What! NO, Orla you can’t, you just can’t.
Hey ah want you to have them.
No Orla, not with your money and look, they don’t even go with what I’m wearing.
I’ll carry them for you.
NO Orla, no ways. Right?
But you can keep them in your bag, we’ve got to hulk them about and now you’ve finished your drink. Please. I saw how you loved them.
They were grey boots, but they sparkled, sparkled silver. Manda really did want them but she had an afraidness; awful, awful afraidness that some badness would happen if she accepted. Manda went and says, Ah mean, how ya know they’ll fit me; ma shoes are aye a size too small cause it’s such fucking donkeys years inbetween me getting any!
Just take them, here. Orla tipped off top of the shoe box, got in a pedestrian’s way as she stepped fwd and rammed the shoe box top into an already stuffed litter bin cross the pavement. She hoisted the sparkling Doc Martens boots out, holding them aloft so’s the tissue paper slithered down around her pokey, smiley face and even through Manda’s sunglasses they were sure-enough sparkling. Orla put that lower box down at the side of the bin, lunged back at Manda, tissue still trailing, thrust the boots into Manda’s arms till Manda laughed, kneeled, unzipped her old shoulder bag and was heaving out the almost empty squash bottle, and shoogling the boots in, flatways. Then Manda popped back up and gave Orla a huge hug, her cheek right next to wee Orla’s. That cheek felt cold.
