Sing
by John McGroarty
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Can Sonia’s childhood memories be turned into another wee sad story, another document of suffering?
_____________________________________________________________________
Sonia had been bad for a couple of weeks now. That was the way it always was. Into the depths. Then she would recover and life would slip back into its old meaningless groove. Her heart would beat normally again and, sometimes, she would even smile. Even laugh. Be normal. Do all the things normal people do. Live her life. As if it mattered. As if there were purpose to it all.
Where the hell was Louise? She was always late. Always had her waiting, starting to feel weird, unsure of herself. The wee girl riding hood in the land of the wolves. She hadn’t even wanted to come. Who cared what some ex-prime minister had to say? He was just trying to sell his book. A tour of universities. Whip up some interest in his long forgotten deeds and misfollies. And bloody Edward Heath! A Tory. Louise liked him because she was a lesbian. That was it. I mean Judy Garland, or Morrissey or Marlon Brando. But Edward Heath? Some lesbian feminist icon he was.
The university refectory was empty now. You could hear the silence and, if you strained your ears hard enough, the far away murmur of life. Sonia played with the remnants of her coffee. Stirred the little black milky dots at the bottom of the cup. Turned the sugar dispenser upside down and then wiped the fallen snowy white pile onto her palm. The girl behind the counter banged the dishwasher shut. Sonia jumped. Then she saw her. The person in the corner watching her. Sonia looked down at her bag on the next seat. When she looked up again the person was already on her feet. God, she was coming straight towards her. She caught and held Sonia’s eyes.
“Hi,” she said, at Sonia’s side, “are you going to the lecture?”
Sonia didn’t know. She looked around.
“I’m waiting for a friend and then we’re going together, are you going?” she said, unsure of herself.
“No,” said the girl.
She shrugged indifference to the ex-prime minister and all his works.
“Can I buy you another coffee while you’re waiting for your friend?” she said.
It was her smile and the way that the light fell on her face just then. Sonia recognised her. She started to feel a little nervous. And then some overwhelming feeling started to take hold of her. Some urge. Some impulse. She was going to tell this person. Tell her everything. Her heart had started to pound.
“Okay,” said Sonia. She nodded.
The girl went up to the counter and ordered two watery coffees in wee sawn-off mugs. She put one down in front of Sonia and sat herself at the other side of the table. She flicked the sugar bag from side to side as if she were fanning herself.
“Do you drink a lot of coffee?” said Sonia, to break the silence.
The girl nodded, “Aye, too much,” she said.
“When you’re writing?”
The girl looked at Sonia quizzically.
“Sorry,” said Sonia, “I didn’t recognize you straight off, but your face was familiar and then I got to thinking about you and I found your face in my memory. I’ve got a good memory. I’ve read a lot of your books, those wee sad stories, they’re like documents of something, of suffering or something like that. Well, they help.”
The girl smiled, “Documents of suffering, I like that, aye that’s exactly what they are, maybe you could write a blurb for me.”
Sonia was losing her shyness and her passive aggressive streak was emboldening her. She would suffer for it later. Run over all the words and all the gestures and smiles and frowns.
“I’ve got a theory about your stories,” said Sonia, stirring her coffee.
The girl smiled a sort of bewildered half-nervous smile.
“Do you remember when we used to drink tea? When you go to University you start drinking coffee, sort of moving up in the world, up into the middle-class,” Sonia waved her hand, “yeah, but, sorry that’s not the theory, that’s another idea of mine. Well, okay, sorry, look what I mean is you’ve written a lot of really deep, really sad stories and they can’t all have happened to you, you know, all the experiences in the stories.”
The girl nodded indulgently. Sonia was finding it hard. Harder than she had expected to put her thoughts into words.
“Well, I’ve started badly, cause I said that about drinking coffee at University, well, I meant it,” Sonia searched for the word, “like literally, physically, I mean I never went to University by the way, I’m here to meet my friend, she’s the brainy one, she’s studying biology, well, but I’ve read a lot of books, literature, and that’s how I know you, know your face from the back cover, I’ve got a good memory for faces, well for everything, but I could have gone to University but I didn’t like school that much, you know all those rules, the uniform.”
Sonia stopped. She was doing that working class thing, that explaining yourself thing, making excuses. That wasn’t what she wanted to say. She didn’t want to excuse herself. She wanted to tell this girl something about herself, explain not herself but her being, something she could use in one of her stories.
“I don’t think your friend is going to come,” said the girl.
She took a big gulp of her coffee.
“No,” said Sonia, “I don’t really care, it was just something to do, it was Louise, that’s my friend, who wanted to come. I’m not interested in what Edward Heath has to say, I mean he’s a Tory.”
Sonia was trying to concentrate on what exactly she was going to tell this girl. This storyteller. This cipher to God. And then, and then, how could she tell that? To anybody. To communicate that? About her father. About the drink. About when he was drunk. About her mother. God loves you, darling. Um gonnae bounce ye awe ather this hoose ye fuckin’ fat cow. Slap. The slaps. The fuckin’ slaps. Scream, scream, the screams. About trying to barricade her door. About her wee brother. About the blood. About all the blood.
“Weren’t you going to tell me about your theory about my stories?” said the girl, her soft Morningside voice breaking into Sonia’s head. She sounded interested. Really interested. But Sonia had lost it. She looked around nervously. She felt rooted to the chair. How was she going to get home? She hyperventilated. The girl went round the table and touched her. Sonia took her hand. Gripped it tight.
“It’s not important,” the girl said.
Sonia managed to come out of the swirl that had caught her up and threatened to lift her right out of the building and up into the torment of the skies and slap her back onto the hard rock of this no pity world.
“I’m alright,” she said, “I’m sorry. Really sorry.”
Apologising again.
The girl shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, honestly.”
“No but it does, I wanted to tell you about my father, he wasn’t,” Sonia paused, breathed, “he wasn’t a very nice man, but I can’t do it, I just can’t do it. I’m so sorry”
There was a voice behind her. Louise. Late as always. There at last.
“Sorry, honey,” she said, bending down to kiss Sonia, “the underground was full and then it stopped for fifteen minutes in Cowcaddens, Can you believe it? I thought I was going to explode. Come on, we’re going to miss everything.”
“You go ahead, Louise, I’ll be there in a minute, keep me a seat,” said Sonia.
She smiled encouragingly.
Louise headed for the auditorium. Sonia stood up. Felt her feet on the ground. It was okay. The storm of bad memory had passed. The terra was firma. She turned to the girl.
“I wanted to tell you, thought I could get rid of it like that, you know if you put it in a story. Make a little art with it. Make it have some mad meaning somewhere.”
The girl nodded. “I’ve heard enough,” she said in her Morningside lilt.
Sonia was already half way out of the refectory. She stopped and turned.
“Aye, that’s all you can do with something like that, I suppose,” she said. “Tell a sad story. Write a book. A poem. Give it a voice. Sing.”
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: Can Sonia’s childhood memories be turned into another wee sad story, another document of suffering?
_____________________________________________________________________
Sonia had been bad for a couple of weeks now. That was the way it always was. Into the depths. Then she would recover and life would slip back into its old meaningless groove. Her heart would beat normally again and, sometimes, she would even smile. Even laugh. Be normal. Do all the things normal people do. Live her life. As if it mattered. As if there were purpose to it all.
Where the hell was Louise? She was always late. Always had her waiting, starting to feel weird, unsure of herself. The wee girl riding hood in the land of the wolves. She hadn’t even wanted to come. Who cared what some ex-prime minister had to say? He was just trying to sell his book. A tour of universities. Whip up some interest in his long forgotten deeds and misfollies. And bloody Edward Heath! A Tory. Louise liked him because she was a lesbian. That was it. I mean Judy Garland, or Morrissey or Marlon Brando. But Edward Heath? Some lesbian feminist icon he was.
The university refectory was empty now. You could hear the silence and, if you strained your ears hard enough, the far away murmur of life. Sonia played with the remnants of her coffee. Stirred the little black milky dots at the bottom of the cup. Turned the sugar dispenser upside down and then wiped the fallen snowy white pile onto her palm. The girl behind the counter banged the dishwasher shut. Sonia jumped. Then she saw her. The person in the corner watching her. Sonia looked down at her bag on the next seat. When she looked up again the person was already on her feet. God, she was coming straight towards her. She caught and held Sonia’s eyes.
“Hi,” she said, at Sonia’s side, “are you going to the lecture?”
Sonia didn’t know. She looked around.
“I’m waiting for a friend and then we’re going together, are you going?” she said, unsure of herself.
“No,” said the girl.
She shrugged indifference to the ex-prime minister and all his works.
“Can I buy you another coffee while you’re waiting for your friend?” she said.
It was her smile and the way that the light fell on her face just then. Sonia recognised her. She started to feel a little nervous. And then some overwhelming feeling started to take hold of her. Some urge. Some impulse. She was going to tell this person. Tell her everything. Her heart had started to pound.
“Okay,” said Sonia. She nodded.
The girl went up to the counter and ordered two watery coffees in wee sawn-off mugs. She put one down in front of Sonia and sat herself at the other side of the table. She flicked the sugar bag from side to side as if she were fanning herself.
“Do you drink a lot of coffee?” said Sonia, to break the silence.
The girl nodded, “Aye, too much,” she said.
“When you’re writing?”
The girl looked at Sonia quizzically.
“Sorry,” said Sonia, “I didn’t recognize you straight off, but your face was familiar and then I got to thinking about you and I found your face in my memory. I’ve got a good memory. I’ve read a lot of your books, those wee sad stories, they’re like documents of something, of suffering or something like that. Well, they help.”
The girl smiled, “Documents of suffering, I like that, aye that’s exactly what they are, maybe you could write a blurb for me.”
Sonia was losing her shyness and her passive aggressive streak was emboldening her. She would suffer for it later. Run over all the words and all the gestures and smiles and frowns.
“I’ve got a theory about your stories,” said Sonia, stirring her coffee.
The girl smiled a sort of bewildered half-nervous smile.
“Do you remember when we used to drink tea? When you go to University you start drinking coffee, sort of moving up in the world, up into the middle-class,” Sonia waved her hand, “yeah, but, sorry that’s not the theory, that’s another idea of mine. Well, okay, sorry, look what I mean is you’ve written a lot of really deep, really sad stories and they can’t all have happened to you, you know, all the experiences in the stories.”
The girl nodded indulgently. Sonia was finding it hard. Harder than she had expected to put her thoughts into words.
“Well, I’ve started badly, cause I said that about drinking coffee at University, well, I meant it,” Sonia searched for the word, “like literally, physically, I mean I never went to University by the way, I’m here to meet my friend, she’s the brainy one, she’s studying biology, well, but I’ve read a lot of books, literature, and that’s how I know you, know your face from the back cover, I’ve got a good memory for faces, well for everything, but I could have gone to University but I didn’t like school that much, you know all those rules, the uniform.”
Sonia stopped. She was doing that working class thing, that explaining yourself thing, making excuses. That wasn’t what she wanted to say. She didn’t want to excuse herself. She wanted to tell this girl something about herself, explain not herself but her being, something she could use in one of her stories.
“I don’t think your friend is going to come,” said the girl.
She took a big gulp of her coffee.
“No,” said Sonia, “I don’t really care, it was just something to do, it was Louise, that’s my friend, who wanted to come. I’m not interested in what Edward Heath has to say, I mean he’s a Tory.”
Sonia was trying to concentrate on what exactly she was going to tell this girl. This storyteller. This cipher to God. And then, and then, how could she tell that? To anybody. To communicate that? About her father. About the drink. About when he was drunk. About her mother. God loves you, darling. Um gonnae bounce ye awe ather this hoose ye fuckin’ fat cow. Slap. The slaps. The fuckin’ slaps. Scream, scream, the screams. About trying to barricade her door. About her wee brother. About the blood. About all the blood.
“Weren’t you going to tell me about your theory about my stories?” said the girl, her soft Morningside voice breaking into Sonia’s head. She sounded interested. Really interested. But Sonia had lost it. She looked around nervously. She felt rooted to the chair. How was she going to get home? She hyperventilated. The girl went round the table and touched her. Sonia took her hand. Gripped it tight.
“It’s not important,” the girl said.
Sonia managed to come out of the swirl that had caught her up and threatened to lift her right out of the building and up into the torment of the skies and slap her back onto the hard rock of this no pity world.
“I’m alright,” she said, “I’m sorry. Really sorry.”
Apologising again.
The girl shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, honestly.”
“No but it does, I wanted to tell you about my father, he wasn’t,” Sonia paused, breathed, “he wasn’t a very nice man, but I can’t do it, I just can’t do it. I’m so sorry”
There was a voice behind her. Louise. Late as always. There at last.
“Sorry, honey,” she said, bending down to kiss Sonia, “the underground was full and then it stopped for fifteen minutes in Cowcaddens, Can you believe it? I thought I was going to explode. Come on, we’re going to miss everything.”
“You go ahead, Louise, I’ll be there in a minute, keep me a seat,” said Sonia.
She smiled encouragingly.
Louise headed for the auditorium. Sonia stood up. Felt her feet on the ground. It was okay. The storm of bad memory had passed. The terra was firma. She turned to the girl.
“I wanted to tell you, thought I could get rid of it like that, you know if you put it in a story. Make a little art with it. Make it have some mad meaning somewhere.”
The girl nodded. “I’ve heard enough,” she said in her Morningside lilt.
Sonia was already half way out of the refectory. She stopped and turned.
“Aye, that’s all you can do with something like that, I suppose,” she said. “Tell a sad story. Write a book. A poem. Give it a voice. Sing.”
About the Author
John McGroarty was born in Glasgow and now lives in Barcelona, where he works as an English teacher. He has been writing short stories for many years. His acclaimed long short story Rainbow is a McStorytellers publication.