Our Ladies, page 8
On radios, traffic reports last longer than weather forecasts and financial reports last longest of all. A castle acts as a vague focus of a capital that apes history but seems a stage set for some idea that’s been forgot, Whatever, it’s all a sham, Manda Tassy glares out the window as the Sopranos bus crawls into the West End of the capital, the busy pavements, so many boys with the same haircuts, the girls with real different styles.
Christ, it’s fucking stifling hot, I’m boiling, goes Fionnula beside, who has her sport bag up on her lap, Like a real open country girl, anxious and over-hurried to get off, ’s-if the bus’ll vanish or something, Manda thinks and says, Aye.
All the Sopranos have heard Come To The City jokes: An old woman from the Port visits for the first time, comes back to the Highlands on the late train and they ask her what the day in the big city was like; the old woman says the city is a wonderful place, so many shops and cafés and most wonderful, its all covered over with a roof of glass. (She never left the main railway station.) Or there’s a shepherd from Little Australia, out past the Port, who makes it out the station and up onto the main street of the Capital one summer. The shepherd pauses, amazed outside a huge department store window, raises his staff and shatters the plate glass into pieces, What! Ice at this time of year? he shouts.
Manda Tassy slunks back, tries to be city-cool. Manda still sleeps in the cheeky, baggy T-shirts that are fallout from her fourteenth year – cartoon characters in various sexual intercourse positions. When she sat at the fold-down scullery table that morning and her daddy put her tea wi four sugars down in front, the character on the mug matched the one on her T-shirt. Manda’d hissed turned the pink character away and sipped from other side the mug, so the handle faced left and she couldn’t see the character.
Now her big sis Catriona’s doing well, assistant manageress at the Hairhouse, she’s moved out, so Manda lives with her daddy and they eat from the plate that is largely empty. When Manda’s daddy sticks his head in from the scullery a cheery voice calls, Cowboy Dinner, as Manda thumps down in the armchair and remotes the telly on, home from school – it’s no cause of tomboy days when the three of them would watch westerns on telly thegether; it’s cause Manda’s daddy can’t cook very well and they haven’t paid for the Sky card this year and cause beans on toast is cheap.
On Saturday nights when Manda leaves the bathroom, towel above her tits and one wrapped round her hair, she turns into her room, pushes the door and hears the weekly sound of their poverty: the pause, never longer than a few minutes, then the bathroom door opening and reshutting as her daddy undresses and slips into his daughter’s used bathwater, this poor Cleopatra, the creaminess created by two cups of powdered milk poured under the hot tap.
Saves putting the immerser on again, her daddy: look of sorrow that first winter when he had to admit the bank balance was no geared up for it and ask her to start leaving the plug in. Straight away she could understand what it had meant to him, have to ask it. Okay Dad, she had says and they’ve never spoke of this arrangement again for three years of milky Saturday night baths. Before she started to get weirder, when they were really close, and she told Fionnula near all, she never ever told her the shared bathwater story.
Like in primary after Manda’s Holy Communion on the Saint’s Day, Fionnula rustled up a silver tray for the flower petals from somewhere or other, but Manda’s was the Tennents Beer one, Daddy would bash his head with on Hogmanay, wrapped in silver cooking foil, heaped with plucked hydrangea and carnation petals from Fagan’s greenhouse on the Convent lawn.
Two files of little children: boys and girls marching round the lawn, the model of each Saint on a circle of tables; the procession stops at the Saint table where the children genuflect then scatter the Saint with flower petals and walk on.
Poor Daddy. Manda wasn’t easy. Once her dad broke his toe gainst all the junk on her bedroom floor, he’d come barging in bawling at her to tidy the bloody place up. And there was boyfriend, Jamie Prenter that she went with for three year till Christmas past there. Prenter was a bad family, even when thirteen, Jamie’s mum and dad would take him to the pub too, so’s he could drive them back in their Nissan Datsun thing; Jamie propped up on sacks behind the steerwheel, his parents, laughing and giving him ten pence for every car he overtook. He’d get his pocket money on Saturday morn, his dad’ve won it back off him playing cards by lunch.
Aye, Manda Tassy. Can’t afford heating on winter school mornings, she’d sleep in her shirt, a panty-liner keeping her knickers okay, the digital alarm clutched to her chest – so perishing cold, she’d only to knot on her tie, pull on two jumpers, kick down the duvet, step into the ready-rolled tights and skirt and unstick last night’s chewing gum from the side of the drawer.
Aye, Manda Tassy, never seen a black and white movie in her puff.
Forth let the cattle roam,
Tee-ra leera lira …
The fifth-year choir: Our Lady of Perpetual Succour School for Girls had been shepherded along corridors to a crushed up dressing room with a low window that looked over a piece of flat lead roofing to a triangle of highly overgrown grass between two spiked iron fences below. There was no view of no castle.
The rounded corridors had been stringed with long trains of schools choirs in their different uniforms; one choir was a mixed one and the boys in their plum-coloured jerseys had a fair old share bonks among them. They had prayed and now Our Ladys were singing, stood in chevron columns of the five Thirds and six Seconds and the five Sopranos, backed up gainst the white, summer light coming in the open windows. You could hear cars, lorries, city sirens in between the sings.
Fionnula and Manda were slipping in the odd yokel accent on some of the words they sang, keeping looked forwarders so’s they didn’t splutter out in hystericals, but hearing each other sing in the boggery accent:
FORFFF LERGHT THE CA-HILL ROAM
Then the Seconds fucked it up.
Fagan the Pagan shouted from the back, behind Condom who’d turned to her with a plaintive look.
The room seemed very quiet.
Fionnula, Fionnula Morton not Fionnula McConnel, Fionnula you and Aisling, you’re steamrolling ahead, your timing is way, way out and WHY are you all following them?
Sister?
Yes Manda?
I’m famished, Sister.
Yes. We shall just run through this song then you can be on your way.
Sister, it’s hard for timing without the piano. Ana-Bessie stretched her arms, showing transparent sweat blotches.
Kylah nudged Manda who nodded.
Come along now, Forth Let the Cattle Roam, from the start. Condom raised her two arms.
Forth let the cattle roam,
Tee-ra, lira lira
Come drive them far from home
Tee-ra lira lo
Far across the mountains …
No, NO NO. Acrr-ossssss. Acrrossssss. Crisssssssp. Not ‘akroash.’ Acrrrrossss, acrrrosssss. Come on Again.
Far akkkkkkkkkrrrrrrosssss
the mountains yonder
oxen heifer now shall wander
Tee-ra lee-ra lee.
The voices divided, plunged, Sopranos skimmed atop and the Seconds made a wordless cushion beneath them all.
Now may this iron chain
Tee-ra lee-ra lee ra
bring them safely home again
Tee-ra lee-ra lo
The Sopranos held up a curtain of sound.
Grass grow green before them
Evil things abhor them.
The Sopranos and some of the others cautiously turned their heads towards Fat Clodagh.
Fat as butter
Sweet as honey
Manda reached out, as she sang and caught English Katie’s bra strap through the white shirt, gave it a sharp tug and let it snap back instantly.
English Katie rose up on her toes a touch but didn’t lose her note as, simultaneously, four digital watch alarms, that had been previously synchronised, started beep-beeping off on some wrists.
May they be worth a mint of money
When they go to market.
Oh stop, stOP STOP!! Put those watches off. Is that meant to be funny? Do you think that’s funny?
The Sopranos were standing up on a raised stanchion by the window, heads leaned with boredom to one side or the other, chewing at their tongues in an attempt to provoke a mouth examination. Fionnula was staring deliberately out the window. Kay Clarke had stepped up to peer out and been trapped there when Condom started her speech.
You will carry yourselves with grace through this city today. You will wear your ties at all times. On account of this glorious weather you may remove blazers; they’ll be safe left here. I know many of you have shopping money with you so look after it with great care. It is your responsibility.
The Pagan chipped in her worth, If you are not wearing blazers, have your shirts neatly rolled up above the elbows …
Yes, the Condom nodded. Now I want you to listen carefully. Behind the castle is a large open park around the Queen’s Residence. Under no circumstances should any of you be in this vicinity. It is not just the danger of being lost in the park; rapes, assaults and God alone knows what has gone on in those grounds. Also. Note. At the furthest end of the main street: a shopping centre. This structure is completely out-of-bounds for you. Drug gangs operate in that shopping centre, approaching young, impressionable school-goers.
We don’t want you running, The Pagan insisted.
Absolutely, Sister Fagan. No running or shouting or anything which can be considered a danger to yourselves. Anything amiss, you will find yourselves before Mother Superior in the morning. I insist nobody goes anywhere alone. Go around in groups and don’t allow yourself to become separated. Men are watching all the time. Wicked, wicked men …
As Condom sketched the sublime hostility of a universe her church was meant to have tamed, several choir girls had been delicately shifting towards the windows. The two Sisters had ignored them cause of the warmth – even though the gathering girls had a tendency to stare outwards. Orla Johnstone seemed to be virtually falling out.
Now we’re going to break for lunch. We are following a school called St Ninians on stage after eight o’clock. I want all Sopranos back here at seven. Not ten past nor ten to, did I say. Did I? Fionnula McConnell, Amanda Tassy?
No Sister.
No Sister.
No. Seven o’clock exactly. A minute later and none of you have any idea the trouble you’ll be in.
Altos: the Seconds. After lunch we’ll practise you first. When the singing is to Sister Fagan and I’s satisfaction we’ll let you go on your errands to the city centre.
Thirds. The Bass. I’ll practise you after the Seconds, so let’s say …
By now more than half the choir was up at the window, even Ana-Bessie had ambled over.
… After lunch then, Seconds gather here at two, the Thirds come at four then I want both Seconds and the Sopranos here for seven, together, and we shall practise, try to fit the jigsaw puzzle together. Please remember: Appearance. Let’s get your appearance … Correct. You are going to be on the television set so make-up will be respectfully applied … Excuse me, why are you all up at the window?
The choir that had bundled around the window, turned reluctantly to look at The Condom. Ana-Bessie, kind of moaned, There’s two … people, Sister.
Yes. Well get down away from the window please.
They’ve got no clothes on, Sister.
GET DOWN FROM THAT WINDOW!
Fionnula (the Cooler) and Kay Clarke had got pushed arm to arm by the window. Below them, deep in the dry, golden grass triangle between the iron rail: a girl on top was motioningly having an intercoursing fuck on a man under her; her palms fixedly back on her kidneys, elbows and arms triangles, ponytail moving every-so-softly – rolling side to side across her skinny shoulders. The two cream–coloured arse segments, divided by the dark, dark crack that rhythmically gaped open when she reached the lowest point in her cycle – showing the flat smoothness of pure skin between the buttocks there and … and the look on her face when she turned and glanced up at them … and the silence but for traffic and Condom’s voice annoying behind them as this strange trade went on between the faces of the schoolgirls and arousal of the couple below, knowing they were stared down on them. Kay and Fionnula turned from the couple having sex just below them, looked straight at each other’s faces. In surprise Fionnula blinked then, to own astonishment felt her face go a big red beamer of embarrassedness.
Outside the Concert Hall at the bottom of the steps there was a big television van with men dragging cables about. The Sopranos came tumbling down the stairs, looking around them and tugging off their ties.
Fucking hoor, fucking dirty wee hoor. Fuck, Manda Tassy shook her head, gave a weirdy smile, Ah mean that way she looked up at us.
Ha, ha, ha. Kylah, Orla and Chell were just laughing, faces flushed.
Hey. HEY! Manda shouted at the two baldy men hauling the cables, Yous shoulda been round the back taking pictures of what was going on there. Lucky Fagan’s letting us out.
Fionnula strode glum, a wee bit ahead, saying nothing.
Ah mean did you just see her, the dirty wee fucking hoor, right there in the middle … and. she knew we were there. Eh? Manda was looking at Fionnula by then.
Aye, Fionnula just shrugged.
Quickly Orla says, If the city girls are all like that, no much chance of scoring this afternoon, eh?
Look. Look! Kylah pointed.
Back, outside the window on the lead bit roof, Aisling and Iona were waving long arms side to side over their heads; they were sunbathing in their bras, skirts bunched right up.
The city was much noisier than the Port. Their senses were in kind of overload: all the colours and motion simultaneously. Their heads were moving fast, side to side to take sights in so they looked each other hardly ever in the face as they talked. In the Port they would never address each other without looking at faces. They thought the buses would say just the city’s name on the fronts but they have districts no one’s ever heard of up there.
At the burger place, Kay Clarke (tie on) was already sat by the mirrors wi English Katie and Fionnula (Ordinary). As the Sopranos passed and nodded, Fionnula (the Cooler) pretended no to see Kay but she noticed Kay had no food in front of her, no even a milkshake for fucksake!
Oh fuck, milkshakes, milkshakes!
Look, Barbie Happy meals! Chell says.
Look, let’s get those, those 99p Cool shades.
Oh, let’s all get them.
Right listen. Listen, Manda Tassy was talking so loud, folk in the queue in front turned round, Ma big sister was on one of the holidays – in Spain or in Greece or Kos or one of they places and growing, right there like that, by the counter, there was this loco-weed, big bushes of the wacky-baccy, getten grown inside a burger joint by the staff. Aye!
Brilliant, a herb burger.
Puts a new light on a quarter pounder, doesn’t it?
Um famished.
Barbie Happy meal for me, Chell smiled.
It’s only for kiddies.
What’re you getting Fionnula?
Dunno.
What are you getting?
Two cheeseburgers, large fries, chocolate shake, coffee and a hot fudge sundae.
Signs were everything and language was vanishing. No words: the gender of each toilet area, the gentle admonition to deposit used trays and containers through a flap, the yellow cone, warning of slippy floors after mopping: all had no words (the sign of a stick figure, hopelessly in motion). Language was disappearing, leaving only the tokens of pounds sterling exchanged for food, a few syllables, clicked back and forth at the counter – the lassie in baseball cap and hairnet, didn’t look at any of the Sopranos (who were not looking at each other but at all the Italian tourists around them) she looked down on the touch-till system, punched in the short bursts of identifying food nouns.
Up the stair section, the Sopranos, wearing 99p Cool Shades With Each Purchase, guffawed round their table. They were penetrating milk shakes and Coca-Cola containers with unwrapped straws; french fry containers, burger wrappers and angled straws were reflected in the curved, black gloss lenses of the sunglasses.
Ahm sobering up, says Kylah, who sounded as if she was anything but sobering up, puff-puffing onto a scorching-looking black coffee, the white steam chittering off it, vapour matching the white rim of the paper cup, above the disturbed black liquid.
You’re no sissying out, are you?
No ways, sides, ave drank tons more than you already, Manda.
Oooo.
Sambuca challenge then?
Aye. First pub, no bother.
There’s meant to be a whole street of pubs, you try go from one end to the other …
Wonder if there’s any got live music?
It’s the afternoon Kylah!
But there is a place, there is, ah just can’t mind the name; it does live music in the afternoon.
Then we’ll find it, Fionnula whispered and nodded.
Ah keep forgetting, with just the one contact in, ah felt pissed even when I was sober.
Ahm really browned off singing that garbage all that terra leera lay stuff. Orla abruptly giggled and says in a high up voice, It’s such total crap to be wasting our time on.
Ah know, went Manda, We were totally chronic; it’s great, we’ll never even make the second round.
Ana-Bessie was singing right but Kay was seeming to be no giving a fuck either.
Barely above a whisper. Fionnula leaned forward and asked, Kylah, what’re you wearing?
Well, mind on Saturday night ah says ah was going to bring the silver shirt, wear it three top buttons open and my light coloured stretch pants – those shiny ones that flare out at the feet, with the little pockets here and the side zips and with the black, strappyish sandals, tan toe-nail varnish, ma hair slicked back and glossed, with a parting, and tan eyeshadow, a totty wee sliver of silver cross top of the eyelids here, lighter on the bottom then a coat of black under that, mascara and dark colour lipliner, tan lipstick to go with ma nails an toes then a glisteny lipgloss on top … ?
