Behind Bars:
Part Two
by Kevin Crowe
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: In their new Highland retreat, Brendan continues with a dangerous liaison, Kathleen makes a strange friend and Catriona spills the beans.
Swearwords: Lots of strong ones.
Description: In their new Highland retreat, Brendan continues with a dangerous liaison, Kathleen makes a strange friend and Catriona spills the beans.
Chapter Nineteen: Brendan
1
Seeing the Birmingham postmark, I wondered who the letter was from and what it contained. Was it from Graham or had one of those bastards discovered where we'd moved to? Kathleen, her fuse as short as ever, said: “For fuck's sake, you won't know who it's from until you open it.”
I tore open the envelope. It was from Graham. “What does he say?” Kathleen asked.
“I won't know till I read it, will I?”
Wanting to be alone when I did so, I went up to my room. It said:
Dear Brendan,
I'm sorry for the delay in answering your letter, and I hope you will understand why. I have had to do a lot of thinking and praying, seeking guidance from God, but still I don't know what to do.
First of all let me congratulate you on getting a job so soon after moving to the Highlands, and I hope you continue to enjoy it. I also hope life there is much, much better for you than it was down here.
I know how you feel about me and I feel the same about you, but things aren't that simple. I have given my life to God as one of His priests and that means I should obey the vows I took when I was ordained. One of those vows was to remain celibate throughout my life. I doubt many people find that easy, and I certainly never have, but since meeting you it has become even harder. I have already broken that vow.
Not only that, I have also broken another law of the Church. Like many other faiths, the Catholic church condemns homosexuality as an evil, as something immoral. Those of us who have homosexual feelings are urged to fight them and to pray for the strength to overcome them. Some Catholics have even attempted therapy to overcome these unnatural desires, including a priest I once met. He claimed the therapy had cured him, but a few weeks later he was arrested in a public toilet.
I have been to Confession in another parish, one that is in another diocese where no-one knows me, and I promised to do my best to avoid temptation. That's another reason I didn't answer your letter before now: by writing to you I would be putting myself in the way of temptation. But I can't stop thinking about you and the way you made me feel. For the first time in my life I felt whole. For the first time in my adult life I felt loved. And I know that sounds like blasphemy: after all, surely God loves me? But I can't help the way I feel, and God must surely know that.
I know all this God talk probably puts you off. If it does, then so be it, and that itself could prove to be an answer to my prayers. My faith and my vocation are both so important to me, yet when I think of you and when I was with you nothing was more important than my love for you. Nothing. Not God, not faith, not the Church. Nothing. And that again is surely blasphemy: to put my warped desires before my duty. But I can't help it. No matter how much I pray, I can no more deny my love for you than I can deny Christ. Yet I must deny one of you.
Our training teaches us that Satan comes in many guises, some of them attractive. Yet I cannot see you as the Devil, nor can I see the way we feel for each other as evil or immoral. Yet the laws of my faith tell me it is so.
I can't reconcile any of these contradictions. All I can do is pray and I hope I will make the right decision, whatever that may be.
I think it best we don't see each other at the moment, not that that would be likely given the distance between us, but please feel it is okay to write to me when you want to. I would like to hear how you and the others are getting on.
With all my love,
Graham.
I read the letter several times, and each time he seemed to be saying different things, contradicting himself. He claimed to love me and yet he seemed to be saying our love was the devil's doing, so how could that be love? He said he would have to choose between me and Christ, but that didn't make sense to me. Why couldn't he love both of us?
I screwed up the letter and threw it in the bin. Then I retrieved it, smoothed it out as best I could and read it again.
There was a knock at the door. “Are you okay?” I heard Kathleen say.
“Yes, fine.”
“Can I come in?”
I nodded. She sat next to me on the bed, and without saying anything I passed her the letter. After reading it, she said: “Just shows you what a load of fucking crap religion is.”
“That's not particularly helpful,” I told her.
She was about to respond, stopped herself, bit her lip and then said: “Sorry, it wasn't, was it? He seems to be tying himself up in all sorts of fucking knots. What are you going to do?”
“Fuck knows. Nothing, I suppose, just drift as I usually do and hope for the best. At least he said I could keep writing to him. That's something.”
She took my hand. “I'm really sorry the letter wasn't what you were hoping for. I really hope you do find someone, just as I found Catriona, thanks to you.”
“What did I have to do with it?”
“Well,” she said, still holding my hand, “without you I wouldn't have given up the game and tried to make a living from music, and then I wouldn't have met Catriona. So, it is thanks to you.”
I smiled at her. “Come on, let's go back down. Otherwise she'll think we've both turned straight and she'll be dead jealous.”
I couldn't take much sympathy, so when Catriona began to say how sorry she was, I mumbled my thanks and decided to go for a walk: I needed to be alone.
I put on the hiking boots I'd bought not long after moving here and soon I was striding across open moorland, enjoying the fresh clean air and the colours, sounds and scents of summer. At first I had followed the course of the river until the banks were so overgrown with thistles and nettles there was no way through, then I headed south towards a group of ruins that had once been a settlement. Some locals told me the people and their livestock had been moved out during the Highland Clearances. I'd never heard of them but soon discovered they were still a cause of anger and recriminations even though it was over a century since they had occurred. I wondered why they'd never been mentioned in school history lessons, then remembered that neither had the 19th century Irish famine, which I only knew about because of the effects on my family.
It seemed wherever they went the English caused mayhem.
At first I had wondered why anyone would build a settlement in such a remote place, but then I realised it only seemed remote from late 20th century perspectives. The township had been built in a valley near a water source, a gurgling burn that eventually fed into the river Dubh, the valley was sheltered from the worst of the winds and, if the undergrowth was anything to go by, was reasonably fertile. Now the land was empty and desolate apart from the sheep, the reason the tenants had been evicted in the first place.
Still, the old settlement was a good place to rest for a while and to reflect on things. Not that my reflections led anywhere: they just kept going round and round in my head.
2
At work that evening I was a bit distracted, and made a couple of silly mistakes, short-changing one regular and giving the wrong drinks to a tourist.
“What's up with you tonight?” someone asked. “Been shagging that woman of yours too much, have you?” I smiled, and others who heard him laughed.
“Sorry,” I said. “I'm not feeling myself today.”
That caused more hilarity, particularly after someone shouted: “Not surprised. No need to feel yourself when you've got that bint of yours to do it for you.”
If only, I thought, if only they knew the truth.
When we closed and after what had been a busy night in the bar and restaurant, James asked me if everything was okay.
“Fine,” I told him, “just a bit tired today.”
“Okay, but if you need a couple of days off for whatever reason, I'm sure we could cope.”
I thanked him, but said I'd be fine with a good night's rest. I still couldn't get used to having a boss who gave the appearance of caring for his staff: it was a new experience for me. None of my previous employers, whether in the pubs or the factories, had given a fuck about any of us. As far as they were concerned we were just objects whose only purpose was to do the job then disappear until needed again. It had been clear from day one that working at the Dubh Hotel for James and Fiona was going to be very different.
When earlier I'd told Catriona how much I enjoyed working for them, she had nodded.
“I'm not surprised,” she said. “They have an excellent reputation. It used to be a dump, but ma tells me when they bought the place three years ago, they transformed it. Good luck to them, even if Charlie at the Ford Bar doesn't get on with them.”
“Yeah, I'd heard that, but don't know why.”
“According to ma, until they took over the Hotel, Charlie got most of the trade that was going, and I think he's just annoyed he's got decent competition. Lots of the locals use both places and just laugh at him, but there are a few people who object to James and Fiona because they're incomers who have taken some business away from the Strathdubh born and bred Charlie.”
Kathleen had been exasperated. “For fuck's sake, how petty.”
Catriona shrugged her shoulders. “It's what happens in small close knit communities. People look after each other, but everyone knows everyone else's business, and little disputes get blown up out of all proportion. But,” she added, with a grin, “at least no-one's likely to attack you with a weapon.”
Over the next few days, Kathleen and Catriona spent most of their time either rehearsing or looking for work. Catriona had also applied to be a supply teacher. Kathleen had in the past been dismissive about Dave, but once they had to start finding their own gigs she realised how much he had done for the collective. Although she still thought him an “obnoxious pompous prat”, she did acknowledge he was good at what he did, saying: “I didn't realise it involved so much effort finding work.”
Their efforts began to get results. An agency in Glasgow expressed interest in them, so they made an appointment, and in order to make the trip worthwhile they'd arranged a couple of gigs, one they would be paid for and one where they were told they were welcome to pass the hat around. “A bit like busking, but with a captive audience,” Kathleen said.
The morning before they were due to leave, there was a knock at the door, and when Kathleen opened it she found Rob on the step. Not one of my favourite people, I had to admit: drunk most of the time he was on shore, he had an irritatingly childish sense of humour and like many children never knew when he'd gone too far; however I disliked the way others took advantage of him, letting him buy them drinks but rarely getting him one back. With his toothless mouth, vacant eyes and body odour, he didn't seem the sort of person Kathleen would choose as a friend.
As so often I was wrong. She invited him in and offered him a cup of tea. He'd clearly made an effort: his hair was combed and his clothes were cleaned. Shit, he must fancy her, I thought, which made it all the more surprising Kathleen seemed to like him. I don't think Catriona did, though.
Once he was sat down with a mug in his hand, Kathleen asked him: “When did you get on shore?”
“Yesterday. Got a bit pissed at the pub last night.”
Surprise, surprise, I thought.
Kathleen smiled at him. “Well, it's good to see you again. How long before you're back at the fishing?”
He stared at the floor. “I'm not. Leastways not on that boat. They've told me I'm not needed anymore.”
“Oh fuck, Rob. Really fucking sorry to hear that. Why?”
He was silent for a few moments before saying: “There's a rule about not drinking on the boat. I smuggled some vodka on, and when the skipper found it, he told me this was my last trip.”
“Shit. Seems a bit fucking harsh to me.”
“It wasn't the first time. I'd been warned before.”
“I suppose you'll have to find a job on another boat.”
“I don't think I can. He told me he was going to let other skippers know about me.” He hesitated then said: “I hope I didn't cause offence when I saw you last time.”
Kathleen put an arm around him. “Of course not. What are you going to do now?”
“Dunno. Look for something, I suppose. Hope I'm not disturbing you. I was wondering if you could play that tune for me, you know the one you were playing when I met you.”
“Sure, Rob.” She picked up her guitar and she turned to Catriona who had been sitting there in stony silence and asked her if she wanted to accompany her, telling her it was one of the pieces they'd been rehearsing. With Kathleen on guitar and Catriona on piano they played a haunting melody which they'd named “Strathdubh Waltz”, an evocative piece I'd never heard before.
Throughout the performance, Rob didn't move a muscle, just sat there entranced, a faraway look in his eyes, a smile on his lips. The smile remained after the music had ended. “Beautiful,” he kept repeating, “beautiful, just beautiful.”
Kathleen grinned at him then did something I'd never seen her do before, and from the look on Catriona's face neither had she: she curtseyed. Rob clapped his hands and giggled. Before he left, Kathleen told him to make sure he signed on the dole and if he had any problems with the forms to come and see her and she'd help him.
After he'd gone, Catriona asked: “How the hell did you get to know him so well?”
Kathleen sneered. “Jealous are we?”
“What! Jealous of a filthy drunk like him? I don't think so!”
Kathleen laughed, then said: “I met him along the river one day and we got talking. I feel so fucking sorry for him. He's never had a chance, and the way everyone treats him: either taking the piss and his money or avoiding him, well, I think it's fucking disgraceful. I could have ended up like him, or even worse. And I don't think a fucking tart with a criminal record has any fucking right to look down on anyone.” She stopped for breath. “Anyway, despite all the shit the world's thrown at him, there's not an ounce of malice in him. He needs a friend, and I'm happy to be one.”
Catriona lowered her head. “Never thought of it like that. But sometimes it's hard to get past the smell.”
3
While they were in Glasgow, I invited Andrew round one afternoon. I hadn't told either Kathleen or Catriona. I tried to convince myself it was none of their business, that this was as much my home as theirs, but in truth I doubted Catriona would have approved, which would have led to Kathleen also objecting. It was only recently I'd seen a side to Catriona I hadn't known about previously and that became apparent in her attitudes towards Rob and Andrew, two very different people at opposite ends of the social scale. She had taken a dislike to both of them and it didn't look like she was about to change her mind. Perhaps she was right, perhaps not, only time would tell.
Of course, it could just have been I recognised myself in that side of her character.
When I phoned Andrew his secretary answered and took my name and number. When he rang me back he was angry, wanting to know what I was playing at and did I realise how much trouble I could cause for him?
I said: “How on earth could me calling my councillor and saying I had a problem in any way get you in the shit? I'm one of your constituents, aren't I?” I told him I thought the safest way to contact him was to phone his office, and if I was wrong perhaps he could tell me a better way.
He relented, saying I was probably right, but emphasising how careful he had to be considering his position. Jeez, I thought, he might be a good fuck, but was it worth all this hassle?
He seemed to be impressed with the work we had done on the cottage. “This used to be an eyesore,” he said, “and I was all for forcing the owner to either fix it or have the council get the work done with her being sent the bill.” No wonder Catriona disliked him. “But I'm amazed at the transformation.” He had already looked at the newly painted outside and the repaired roof. He now wandered round the inside, looking at the work with a joiner's eyes. “Of course, professionals would have done a better job, but hey I get that you couldn't afford to employ me. Still, you've turned it into a warm, cosy home.” He did point out some things that still needed doing, but that was probably just him making the point that amateurs always missed something.
He made himself comfortable in Kathleen's favourite armchair. I had to stop myself from telling him he couldn't sit there, and if she'd walked through the door at that moment she would have had a fit, but – as the saying goes – what the eye don't see the heart don't grieve.
As the afternoon progressed, I liked him less and less. Oh, the sex was great, despite his paranoia about being outed, but no matter how satisfying the sex, it can't make up for deficiencies in the other person's character and attitudes. When he began talking about “nignogs” and assuming I'd moved from Birmingham because of the number of “blacks and Pakis” who live there, I wondered what he would have said if he'd known about Graham. He also ranted about “Fenians and Tims”.
“Do you follow football?” he asked. When I shook my head, he said: “I'm a Rangers man, I've got no time for Tims and Fenians. I hate them: traitors the lot of them. Terrorists, traitors, murderers. Take their orders from Dublin and the fucking Vatican, that is when they're sober enough to understand orders. Thick as pig shit, uneducated, lazy, drunken, wife beaters, good for nothing.”
Perhaps that was the moment I should have told him my background. Instead I tried to change the subject, asking him what he thought about Rob getting the sack.
“Lazy drunken bastard deserves everything he gets,” was his response. “I've got no sympathy for him. His sort should be put down at birth, in my opinion.” This led to a rant about scroungers living off the state, and how anyone who didn't work should get nothing. “They'd soon find themselves a job, if it was the only way to get money. I'll tell you that for nothing.” I was beginning to wonder how he'd ever got elected, and how he'd managed to retain his seat at several elections.
When he left, I swore I'd never see him again. Except the sex was good.
Chapter Twenty: Catriona
1
Phew! What a few days. The last time I'd been to Glasgow was with my parents years ago, when I was a child, but Kathleen had never been there, so I acted as a guide. Although there were parts of the city best avoided, there was no denying its vibrancy, and anyway Kathleen was used to the rough parts of cities. As she said to me when I cautioned her about some areas: “Don't worry. A fucking street wise tart, that's me.”
One of the places I wanted to show Kathleen was the Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery, and the park next to it. In particular I wanted her to see that great painting of the crucifixion by Dali. When I'd told her about it she hadn't seemed impressed: her response had been to say that surely once you'd seen one painting of Christ on the cross, you'd seen them all.
She changed her mind. “Fucking hell,” she exclaimed, “look at it. Look at the perspective, with us looking down on Christ looking down at the ground, floating in the air. Fucking wow!” She stared at the painting, her mouth open wide, her eyes fixed. I explained to her it had been inspired by a dream and told her how Dali had use geometry when creating it.
She'd never expressed much interest in art: music was her thing, and when I'd suggested spending most of the day at a gallery, she'd yawned and gave the impression she was just humouring me. But once she'd seen the Dali, her attitude changed and her desire to see more art was almost insatiable. She admitted the only art she'd seen in the past were religious paintings and images in church and the sort of cheap mass produced reproductions of bland rural scenes that pollute so many walls.
“But this is fucking real art,” she said. “It makes me think and makes me feel – oh, I don't know what, it just makes me feel. Shit, what have I been missing out on?”
As well as the Dali, we viewed the French and Flemish collections and those from the Glasgow Colourist school, and much more. She skipped from painting to painting, quietly and unconsciously humming, getting as close to the art as was permitted, on one occasion even tentatively attempting to touch a piece, before a member of staff told her that wasn't allowed. It was as if she were in a trance as she kept saying things like “What a use of colour” or “Just look at how that figure has been drawn” or “How did the artist manage that?”.
She bought a few prints and a couple of books on the history of art. “I'm going to learn to paint,” she said. I just smiled. I had been worried in case she hated the place, but instead she was enthused and inspired by the gallery.
As the weather was good, we spent some time in the park. After making pigs of ourselves eating ice cream, she picked up her guitar and began playing an unfamiliar melody, slow and reflective and in a minor key. When I asked her what it was, she shrugged her shoulders and told me she didn't know, that she thought it was inspired by the Dali, and it did sound vaguely hymnal, but nothing like the awful metrical psalms I used to have to sing in the kirk. When I mentioned this she smiled and said she might have heard something similar back in the days she had to go Mass. Listening to her, it seemed to me it would work well on a keyboard, and later, back at the cheap B&B we were staying in, we experimented with a guitar and keyboard arrangement. At least, that was, until the landlady banged on our door, telling us to keep the noise down.
It wasn't the nicest B&B we could have chosen: the rooms were damp, dark and dirty, the walls were so thin you could hear everything happening next door and the landlady was a disciplinarian: the first things she'd told us were what we couldn't do, a long list. She viewed us with suspicion and eyeing our instruments told us she hoped we weren't drug crazed hippies. We assured her we weren't, but she didn't seem convinced. The breakfasts weren't particularly appetising: lukewarm salty porridge followed by eggs and bacon floating in a sea of grease. But it was somewhere to lay our heads overnight and it was cheap.
The appointment with the agency went well. We had sent him a tape in advance, which he said he liked, and he asked us to play something else for him. Kathleen played the melody she had composed in Kelvingrove park, much to my amazement and annoyance, as it wasn't what we had planned, and I had to follow her as best I could. At least we had worked out part of an arrangement. When the agent asked her where it had come from, Kathleen just told him it was something she'd made up that afternoon after visiting Kelvingrove.
He whistled. “You mean you just came up with that a few hours ago, on the spur of the moment?”
Kathleen nodded.
“Do you do that a lot?”
“What? Make up tunes? Yeah. Doesn't everybody?”
The agent smiled. “No, dear, most people don't do that. Are you sure it was only today you composed that?”
“Yes. But I'm not sure 'compose' is the right word. It was like it was just floating around in the air and all I did was grab it.”
He turned to me. “What about you? Do you do that?”
I shook my head. “I wish I could. I can play well, but I can't compose.”
“For fuck's sake, don't put yourself down,” Kathleen said, then turning to the agent: “Sorry about the language”. She returned her gaze to me. “Listen, you can write music down, I can't. And you can play more instruments than I can. And your voice, oh, it's just heavenly.”
I think I blushed.
2
The agent said he'd liked what he'd heard and wanted to sign us. He gave us a contract which I was ready to sign immediately without reading it, but Kathleen wouldn't let me. Turning to the agent, she said: “You don't mind if we take it away with us to read, do you?”
He shrugged. “If you must, but everything in it is standard for the industry.”
Kathleen gave him her sweetest smile. “Oh, I'm sure you're right, but I don't believe in signing anything unless I know what I'm signing up for.”
When we left his office I asked her why she didn't trust him. “After all, he liked us and runs a respectable business.”
She stared at me as if I was a moron. “So you think it's okay to sign contracts without reading them, do you?” When I didn't answer, she continued: “Looking respectable and smiling a lot doesn't mean a fucking thing. I should know: I've been shagged by enough so-called 'respectable' men. Look, you're probably right, but it won't do any harm to read it and if there's anything we're not sure about, check it out with a solicitor.”
“Oh yeah? And how much is a solicitor going to cost us.”
She laughed. “A lot fucking less than getting ripped off.”
Kathleen had arranged two gigs for us in Glasgow, both with the help of some of the Strathdubh musicians. The first of these was at a folk club where the booked act had cried off for personal reasons at short notice and they were relieved to have found a replacement, even ones who were unknown. It went well, in fact it couldn't have gone any better.
Kathleen believed in allowing plenty of time for any journey, reasoning that getting there too early was better than arriving late, and that night we arrived before the organiser did. No problem: we sat in the bar with drinks, only non-alcoholic as Kathleen insisted on us being totally sober when on stage. “I've seen too many people make fucking idiots of themselves after a few drinks or smokes, while truly fucking believing they were giving the performances of their lives.” She was right, of course, but that didn't stop me wanting something a bit stronger than orange juice.
We got the impression the organiser would have been happy with anyone who could play their instruments and sing in tune, but he was so pleased with our performance he told us he would book us again and let other clubs know just how good we were. Our egos were certainly massaged.
If only the gig the following night had gone half as well, instead of being the unmitigated disaster it proved to be.
It took us ages to find the King Billy, and when we did we almost wished we hadn't. Even from the outside we could see it had seen better days and the bars on the windows should have told us it wasn't likely to be the friendliest of places. When we walked inside, we were faced with a sea of male, white and mainly middle aged men who all stopped talking and turned to stare at us. The dirty walls were covered in Rangers paraphernalia and posters advertising the Orange Order. The place stunk of grease, tobacco and stale beer, the atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke that irritated the back of the throat. I was hoping this was the wrong place.
Sadly, it was the right pub. When we got to the bar a disinterested barman, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, went to fetch the manager who showed us the stage, which was little more than an unstable platform next to the toilets with a small curtained area at the side that was supposed to act as a dressing room. The speakers and microphones had clearly seen better days, but worked after a fashion.
He looked us up and down, and said: “You're not really what I was expecting?”
Kathleen responded by saying: “And this wasn't what we were expecting.”
“Looks like we're both disappointed,” he said. “Start when you want to.”
After setting up the microphones, we did just that. It soon became clear no-one was interested in listening to the music. Most people just got on with their conversations, but a few began shouting at us. Things like: “Get 'em off, darlings”, “Show us your tits” and similar, chants that were then taken up by others. I began to get concerned for our safety.
We persevered for a few songs. Then Kathleen looked at me, indicated we should stop playing, put her guitar away and then, in her huskiest voice and with what she called her tart smile painted on her face, said: “So you want to see my fucking tits, do you? Okay.” She removed her top and her bra, then her trousers and knickers and stood before them, motionless and naked. I stared at her, open mouthed, wondering what she was going to do next, asking myself how we were going to get out of here. I also felt embarrassed for her.
At first there were a few wolf whistles and comments about her body, but as she continued to stand there without moving or speaking, the noise level gradually fell until there was total silence. She picked up the microphone from its stand and began to sing unaccompanied: a medley of two songs. It took me a while to realise what she was doing and even then I didn't know whether she was stark raving bonkers or was giving a rational response to an irrational and potentially violent situation. Both songs were about male impotence and sung from the perspective of the woman: the traditional numbers “Maids When You're Young Never Wed an Old Man” and “My Husband's Got No Courage in Him”. To make the point even more obvious, she changed the last chorus of the latter to: “You wankers got no courage in you”. When she'd finished, she covered her naked body with her coat, picked up Frankie in one hand and her clothes in the other, jumped from the stage and beckoning me to follow her stormed through the crowd, which like the Red Sea separated for her, and walked out of the pub. Both me and the pub manager followed behind her and had to run to catch her up.
The manager got to her first, grabbed her arm and pulled her round so she was facing him. “What the fuck was that about?” he demanded.
She shook him off, saying: “Touch me again, cunt, and you'll fucking regret it.”
“How dare you behave like that in my pub.”
“What the fuck!” she yelled. “You invite us to play then allow those fucking Neanderthals to shout out obscenities at us. You can shove your fucking pub up your arse.”
A crowd was beginning to form, so I grabbed Kathleen and pulled her away. “Come on,” I said to her, “they're not worth bothering with. Let's go.”
With a degree of reluctance she followed me, muttering to herself, and we went into a nearby Ladies, where she dressed.
When she reappeared, I said: “You do know how stupid that was, don't you?”
She ignored me, refusing to even look at me, so I repeated what I'd said. Still she ignored me, almost as if I wasn't there, so we continued in silence until we reached our B&B. Once the bedroom door was closed behind us, she collapsed on the bed and burst into tears. I put my arms around her, making what I hoped were reassuring noises. Gradually her sobbing eased and she fell quiet.
She grabbed a handful of tissues and, wiping her face, said: “I'm so fucking sorry. The red mist just came down.” She bit her bottom lip. “All those men yelling and treating us like we were just meat, well, it was like I was a fucking prostitute all over again, being used and abused by men.” She looked up at me. “I've fucked things up, haven't I?”
I stroked her beautiful hair and told her that no, she hadn't. “They got what they asked for, and the look on their faces as they realised what you were singing about, standing there in your birthday suit, I'd have paid a lot for that.” I kissed her. “When did you learn those songs? They're wonderful, and perhaps we should include them in the future, but perhaps not in the way you introduced them.”
She began giggling. “Oh, I do love you.” After a few moments she continued: “I'm going to have words with the fucking idiot who recommended that pub to us. Either it's changed since he was last there or it was his idea of a joke.”
3
Back in Strathdubh, Kathleen challenged Donald about recommending the King Billy. He had the grace to apologise and told us he thought we knew he wasn't being serious.
“And how the fuck would we know that?” Kathleen asked. Donald apologised again, and Kathleen let it go at that. I couldn't, though: I took him on one side and told him that, despite appearances, she was sensitive and lacking in confidence, and that if he ever pulled a stunt like that again I would make sure he regretted it. He was shocked: it was a side of me he'd never seen before, even though we were at school together. Later, I told Kathleen it was totally out of character for him to do something like that.
Later that week I had lunch with ma. “Thought it was about time we caught up,” she said.
Just as I'd done when a kid, I helped her with the preparations, making the salad in the way she had taught me all those years before. While eating, she told me all the local gossip and I told her how we were all settling in. She was pleased about how things had gone in Glasgow (I didn't tell her about the King Billy, though); she was even more pleased I was now on the list of supply teachers.
Then she asked me the question I had been dreading: “Caty, why did you give up such a good, secure and well paid job to come back here? Both me and your da think it's a backward step.” Ma was the only person who ever got away with calling me Caty, and though I didn't like it, it was too late to stop her after all those years.
“I wanted to get out of the rat race, and I wanted to do something with my talents rather than just teaching.”
“Nothing wrong with teaching,” she said, after taking a sip of her tea, “nothing wrong at all.”
“I know that, ma, that's why I'm going to be doing some supply teaching.”
She harrumphed, but let my answer pass. She changed tac: “And how's your love life?”
“Ma!” I exclaimed, “that's not really any of your business.”
She shrugged. “Just asking, that's all.” I stayed silent. She continued: “How did you meet those two? Kathleen and Brendan?”
“I met Kathleen when she began singing at the same folk club, and we became friends. She introduced me to Brendan.”
“Are they lovers?”
“Again, that's none of your business, ma. Why are you so interested?”
“Oh, you know what a small place this is. You've only got to sneeze and people at the other end of the strath think you've got pneumonia. I'm sure you won't be surprised to know there's been lots of rumours.”
“Like what?” I folded my arms and stared at her.
She looked away. “Oh, you know, when people don't know things they make them up.”
“Such as?”
“If you must know, some people think Brendan's running a harem. Or you've turned the cottage into some sort of free love hippy commune.” When I didn't respond, she continued: “Oh, I know it sounds ridiculous. Some people think you may all have had to leave Birmingham for some reason or other: no-one's come up with any specifics. And Kathleen's appalling language hasn't gone unnoticed.”
“So she swears a bit. So what? It's not a crime.”
“Caty, Caty, I'm your ma, you can tell me anything. I don't believe the three of you just decided to move up here and give up your jobs, assuming those two had jobs, for no reason.”
I looked at her, seeing the love and concern written on her face and decided she had a right to know what had been happening. Not everything, of course, there were some things that would probably have shocked her and perhaps even frightened her, but I told her the basics: what Kathleen had done for a living before I met her, about the violence they had both experienced without going into graphic details. I told her Brendan was gay, and that Kathleen and I were singing partners, and that moving up here was my idea.
“Right,” she said, “let me get this straight. You've moved here, in the same village as me and your da and all your old school friends, the village we have to live and work in and where I like to think people respect us, you've moved here with a queer barman, a tart who now sings rather than shags for a living, in order to escape some nasty people those two had got involved with. They also managed to get involved with the IRA, and he was arrested as a suspect in the pub bombings in Birmingham. How am I doing so far?”
“Ma, it's really not like that. They are nice, friendly people who just got caught up in things they had no control over. And neither of them have ever been involved with terrorism. It's just the police were looking for anyone who was Irish to pin it on. Honest.”
“Ha! There has to be more to it than that. I really don't believe you're that naïve, Caty. Come on, there's something you're not telling me.” I blushed, and she jumped to conclusions. “Oh, so that's it, is it. Brendan's your boyfriend? Is that right? In which case, how can he be queer?”
Before I could stop myself, I said: “No, you've got it all wrong. It's not like that.”
She smiled. “So tell me, what is it like?”
Ma had always been shrewd, and it was almost impossible to con her. She had me cornered, so I told her. “It's not Brendan whose my lover. It's Kathleen.” Ma's mouth fell open. I could feel the tears pricking my eyes. “I fell in love with her the very first time I saw her, before I knew anything about her.” It was Ma's turn to remain silent as the threatened tears began to roll down my face. “Ma, surely you remember what it's like to fall in love and how when you did, it didn't matter what anyone thought, all that mattered was the person – the man – you loved. My da.”
Much as I tried, I just couldn't control the tears. Ma put her arms around me and pulled me to her chest, patting my back and telling me everything was going to be okay. It wasn't long before she too was in tears, and we were both hugging each other, comforting each other, crying our hearts out.
That was how da found us. A no-nonsense, unsentimental hard working farmer, he was nonetheless a loving husband and father, who used to dangle me on his knee and tickle me until the giggles turned to hiccups. It didn't take him long to find out why we were in tears.
His response was typical of him. “I'm sure you know, darling, that you can't keep secrets for long up here. But whatever happens, me and your ma will support you. We trust you and your judgement, even if we don't understand. No matter what happens, we are here for you. And if necessary for your friends. This family will stay together, and we won't treat you like your ma and me were treated.” He kissed me on the forehead. “Now, is my little girl going to smile for her da?”
He got his smile. Then I put an arm around his waist and said: “Da. I know you and ma had problems once, but all you've ever done is drop hints. I'm a big girl now. Don't you think it's about time you told me?”
“Oh, that's all in the past now. No need to rake over the coals.”
“Please. Knowing how you coped might help me.”
Da looked across at ma, who nodded her head. “Okay,” he said. “It's probably better coming from us than hearing it from others. But one thing you need to know straight away is that we wouldn't change a thing, your ma and me. After all, no-one could ask for a better daughter than we have. So where should I start?”
Ma looked at him and said: “Malcolm, why not start at the beginning, when we first met.”
“Ah yes, when we met for the first time. A good place to start.”
1
Seeing the Birmingham postmark, I wondered who the letter was from and what it contained. Was it from Graham or had one of those bastards discovered where we'd moved to? Kathleen, her fuse as short as ever, said: “For fuck's sake, you won't know who it's from until you open it.”
I tore open the envelope. It was from Graham. “What does he say?” Kathleen asked.
“I won't know till I read it, will I?”
Wanting to be alone when I did so, I went up to my room. It said:
Dear Brendan,
I'm sorry for the delay in answering your letter, and I hope you will understand why. I have had to do a lot of thinking and praying, seeking guidance from God, but still I don't know what to do.
First of all let me congratulate you on getting a job so soon after moving to the Highlands, and I hope you continue to enjoy it. I also hope life there is much, much better for you than it was down here.
I know how you feel about me and I feel the same about you, but things aren't that simple. I have given my life to God as one of His priests and that means I should obey the vows I took when I was ordained. One of those vows was to remain celibate throughout my life. I doubt many people find that easy, and I certainly never have, but since meeting you it has become even harder. I have already broken that vow.
Not only that, I have also broken another law of the Church. Like many other faiths, the Catholic church condemns homosexuality as an evil, as something immoral. Those of us who have homosexual feelings are urged to fight them and to pray for the strength to overcome them. Some Catholics have even attempted therapy to overcome these unnatural desires, including a priest I once met. He claimed the therapy had cured him, but a few weeks later he was arrested in a public toilet.
I have been to Confession in another parish, one that is in another diocese where no-one knows me, and I promised to do my best to avoid temptation. That's another reason I didn't answer your letter before now: by writing to you I would be putting myself in the way of temptation. But I can't stop thinking about you and the way you made me feel. For the first time in my life I felt whole. For the first time in my adult life I felt loved. And I know that sounds like blasphemy: after all, surely God loves me? But I can't help the way I feel, and God must surely know that.
I know all this God talk probably puts you off. If it does, then so be it, and that itself could prove to be an answer to my prayers. My faith and my vocation are both so important to me, yet when I think of you and when I was with you nothing was more important than my love for you. Nothing. Not God, not faith, not the Church. Nothing. And that again is surely blasphemy: to put my warped desires before my duty. But I can't help it. No matter how much I pray, I can no more deny my love for you than I can deny Christ. Yet I must deny one of you.
Our training teaches us that Satan comes in many guises, some of them attractive. Yet I cannot see you as the Devil, nor can I see the way we feel for each other as evil or immoral. Yet the laws of my faith tell me it is so.
I can't reconcile any of these contradictions. All I can do is pray and I hope I will make the right decision, whatever that may be.
I think it best we don't see each other at the moment, not that that would be likely given the distance between us, but please feel it is okay to write to me when you want to. I would like to hear how you and the others are getting on.
With all my love,
Graham.
I read the letter several times, and each time he seemed to be saying different things, contradicting himself. He claimed to love me and yet he seemed to be saying our love was the devil's doing, so how could that be love? He said he would have to choose between me and Christ, but that didn't make sense to me. Why couldn't he love both of us?
I screwed up the letter and threw it in the bin. Then I retrieved it, smoothed it out as best I could and read it again.
There was a knock at the door. “Are you okay?” I heard Kathleen say.
“Yes, fine.”
“Can I come in?”
I nodded. She sat next to me on the bed, and without saying anything I passed her the letter. After reading it, she said: “Just shows you what a load of fucking crap religion is.”
“That's not particularly helpful,” I told her.
She was about to respond, stopped herself, bit her lip and then said: “Sorry, it wasn't, was it? He seems to be tying himself up in all sorts of fucking knots. What are you going to do?”
“Fuck knows. Nothing, I suppose, just drift as I usually do and hope for the best. At least he said I could keep writing to him. That's something.”
She took my hand. “I'm really sorry the letter wasn't what you were hoping for. I really hope you do find someone, just as I found Catriona, thanks to you.”
“What did I have to do with it?”
“Well,” she said, still holding my hand, “without you I wouldn't have given up the game and tried to make a living from music, and then I wouldn't have met Catriona. So, it is thanks to you.”
I smiled at her. “Come on, let's go back down. Otherwise she'll think we've both turned straight and she'll be dead jealous.”
I couldn't take much sympathy, so when Catriona began to say how sorry she was, I mumbled my thanks and decided to go for a walk: I needed to be alone.
I put on the hiking boots I'd bought not long after moving here and soon I was striding across open moorland, enjoying the fresh clean air and the colours, sounds and scents of summer. At first I had followed the course of the river until the banks were so overgrown with thistles and nettles there was no way through, then I headed south towards a group of ruins that had once been a settlement. Some locals told me the people and their livestock had been moved out during the Highland Clearances. I'd never heard of them but soon discovered they were still a cause of anger and recriminations even though it was over a century since they had occurred. I wondered why they'd never been mentioned in school history lessons, then remembered that neither had the 19th century Irish famine, which I only knew about because of the effects on my family.
It seemed wherever they went the English caused mayhem.
At first I had wondered why anyone would build a settlement in such a remote place, but then I realised it only seemed remote from late 20th century perspectives. The township had been built in a valley near a water source, a gurgling burn that eventually fed into the river Dubh, the valley was sheltered from the worst of the winds and, if the undergrowth was anything to go by, was reasonably fertile. Now the land was empty and desolate apart from the sheep, the reason the tenants had been evicted in the first place.
Still, the old settlement was a good place to rest for a while and to reflect on things. Not that my reflections led anywhere: they just kept going round and round in my head.
2
At work that evening I was a bit distracted, and made a couple of silly mistakes, short-changing one regular and giving the wrong drinks to a tourist.
“What's up with you tonight?” someone asked. “Been shagging that woman of yours too much, have you?” I smiled, and others who heard him laughed.
“Sorry,” I said. “I'm not feeling myself today.”
That caused more hilarity, particularly after someone shouted: “Not surprised. No need to feel yourself when you've got that bint of yours to do it for you.”
If only, I thought, if only they knew the truth.
When we closed and after what had been a busy night in the bar and restaurant, James asked me if everything was okay.
“Fine,” I told him, “just a bit tired today.”
“Okay, but if you need a couple of days off for whatever reason, I'm sure we could cope.”
I thanked him, but said I'd be fine with a good night's rest. I still couldn't get used to having a boss who gave the appearance of caring for his staff: it was a new experience for me. None of my previous employers, whether in the pubs or the factories, had given a fuck about any of us. As far as they were concerned we were just objects whose only purpose was to do the job then disappear until needed again. It had been clear from day one that working at the Dubh Hotel for James and Fiona was going to be very different.
When earlier I'd told Catriona how much I enjoyed working for them, she had nodded.
“I'm not surprised,” she said. “They have an excellent reputation. It used to be a dump, but ma tells me when they bought the place three years ago, they transformed it. Good luck to them, even if Charlie at the Ford Bar doesn't get on with them.”
“Yeah, I'd heard that, but don't know why.”
“According to ma, until they took over the Hotel, Charlie got most of the trade that was going, and I think he's just annoyed he's got decent competition. Lots of the locals use both places and just laugh at him, but there are a few people who object to James and Fiona because they're incomers who have taken some business away from the Strathdubh born and bred Charlie.”
Kathleen had been exasperated. “For fuck's sake, how petty.”
Catriona shrugged her shoulders. “It's what happens in small close knit communities. People look after each other, but everyone knows everyone else's business, and little disputes get blown up out of all proportion. But,” she added, with a grin, “at least no-one's likely to attack you with a weapon.”
Over the next few days, Kathleen and Catriona spent most of their time either rehearsing or looking for work. Catriona had also applied to be a supply teacher. Kathleen had in the past been dismissive about Dave, but once they had to start finding their own gigs she realised how much he had done for the collective. Although she still thought him an “obnoxious pompous prat”, she did acknowledge he was good at what he did, saying: “I didn't realise it involved so much effort finding work.”
Their efforts began to get results. An agency in Glasgow expressed interest in them, so they made an appointment, and in order to make the trip worthwhile they'd arranged a couple of gigs, one they would be paid for and one where they were told they were welcome to pass the hat around. “A bit like busking, but with a captive audience,” Kathleen said.
The morning before they were due to leave, there was a knock at the door, and when Kathleen opened it she found Rob on the step. Not one of my favourite people, I had to admit: drunk most of the time he was on shore, he had an irritatingly childish sense of humour and like many children never knew when he'd gone too far; however I disliked the way others took advantage of him, letting him buy them drinks but rarely getting him one back. With his toothless mouth, vacant eyes and body odour, he didn't seem the sort of person Kathleen would choose as a friend.
As so often I was wrong. She invited him in and offered him a cup of tea. He'd clearly made an effort: his hair was combed and his clothes were cleaned. Shit, he must fancy her, I thought, which made it all the more surprising Kathleen seemed to like him. I don't think Catriona did, though.
Once he was sat down with a mug in his hand, Kathleen asked him: “When did you get on shore?”
“Yesterday. Got a bit pissed at the pub last night.”
Surprise, surprise, I thought.
Kathleen smiled at him. “Well, it's good to see you again. How long before you're back at the fishing?”
He stared at the floor. “I'm not. Leastways not on that boat. They've told me I'm not needed anymore.”
“Oh fuck, Rob. Really fucking sorry to hear that. Why?”
He was silent for a few moments before saying: “There's a rule about not drinking on the boat. I smuggled some vodka on, and when the skipper found it, he told me this was my last trip.”
“Shit. Seems a bit fucking harsh to me.”
“It wasn't the first time. I'd been warned before.”
“I suppose you'll have to find a job on another boat.”
“I don't think I can. He told me he was going to let other skippers know about me.” He hesitated then said: “I hope I didn't cause offence when I saw you last time.”
Kathleen put an arm around him. “Of course not. What are you going to do now?”
“Dunno. Look for something, I suppose. Hope I'm not disturbing you. I was wondering if you could play that tune for me, you know the one you were playing when I met you.”
“Sure, Rob.” She picked up her guitar and she turned to Catriona who had been sitting there in stony silence and asked her if she wanted to accompany her, telling her it was one of the pieces they'd been rehearsing. With Kathleen on guitar and Catriona on piano they played a haunting melody which they'd named “Strathdubh Waltz”, an evocative piece I'd never heard before.
Throughout the performance, Rob didn't move a muscle, just sat there entranced, a faraway look in his eyes, a smile on his lips. The smile remained after the music had ended. “Beautiful,” he kept repeating, “beautiful, just beautiful.”
Kathleen grinned at him then did something I'd never seen her do before, and from the look on Catriona's face neither had she: she curtseyed. Rob clapped his hands and giggled. Before he left, Kathleen told him to make sure he signed on the dole and if he had any problems with the forms to come and see her and she'd help him.
After he'd gone, Catriona asked: “How the hell did you get to know him so well?”
Kathleen sneered. “Jealous are we?”
“What! Jealous of a filthy drunk like him? I don't think so!”
Kathleen laughed, then said: “I met him along the river one day and we got talking. I feel so fucking sorry for him. He's never had a chance, and the way everyone treats him: either taking the piss and his money or avoiding him, well, I think it's fucking disgraceful. I could have ended up like him, or even worse. And I don't think a fucking tart with a criminal record has any fucking right to look down on anyone.” She stopped for breath. “Anyway, despite all the shit the world's thrown at him, there's not an ounce of malice in him. He needs a friend, and I'm happy to be one.”
Catriona lowered her head. “Never thought of it like that. But sometimes it's hard to get past the smell.”
3
While they were in Glasgow, I invited Andrew round one afternoon. I hadn't told either Kathleen or Catriona. I tried to convince myself it was none of their business, that this was as much my home as theirs, but in truth I doubted Catriona would have approved, which would have led to Kathleen also objecting. It was only recently I'd seen a side to Catriona I hadn't known about previously and that became apparent in her attitudes towards Rob and Andrew, two very different people at opposite ends of the social scale. She had taken a dislike to both of them and it didn't look like she was about to change her mind. Perhaps she was right, perhaps not, only time would tell.
Of course, it could just have been I recognised myself in that side of her character.
When I phoned Andrew his secretary answered and took my name and number. When he rang me back he was angry, wanting to know what I was playing at and did I realise how much trouble I could cause for him?
I said: “How on earth could me calling my councillor and saying I had a problem in any way get you in the shit? I'm one of your constituents, aren't I?” I told him I thought the safest way to contact him was to phone his office, and if I was wrong perhaps he could tell me a better way.
He relented, saying I was probably right, but emphasising how careful he had to be considering his position. Jeez, I thought, he might be a good fuck, but was it worth all this hassle?
He seemed to be impressed with the work we had done on the cottage. “This used to be an eyesore,” he said, “and I was all for forcing the owner to either fix it or have the council get the work done with her being sent the bill.” No wonder Catriona disliked him. “But I'm amazed at the transformation.” He had already looked at the newly painted outside and the repaired roof. He now wandered round the inside, looking at the work with a joiner's eyes. “Of course, professionals would have done a better job, but hey I get that you couldn't afford to employ me. Still, you've turned it into a warm, cosy home.” He did point out some things that still needed doing, but that was probably just him making the point that amateurs always missed something.
He made himself comfortable in Kathleen's favourite armchair. I had to stop myself from telling him he couldn't sit there, and if she'd walked through the door at that moment she would have had a fit, but – as the saying goes – what the eye don't see the heart don't grieve.
As the afternoon progressed, I liked him less and less. Oh, the sex was great, despite his paranoia about being outed, but no matter how satisfying the sex, it can't make up for deficiencies in the other person's character and attitudes. When he began talking about “nignogs” and assuming I'd moved from Birmingham because of the number of “blacks and Pakis” who live there, I wondered what he would have said if he'd known about Graham. He also ranted about “Fenians and Tims”.
“Do you follow football?” he asked. When I shook my head, he said: “I'm a Rangers man, I've got no time for Tims and Fenians. I hate them: traitors the lot of them. Terrorists, traitors, murderers. Take their orders from Dublin and the fucking Vatican, that is when they're sober enough to understand orders. Thick as pig shit, uneducated, lazy, drunken, wife beaters, good for nothing.”
Perhaps that was the moment I should have told him my background. Instead I tried to change the subject, asking him what he thought about Rob getting the sack.
“Lazy drunken bastard deserves everything he gets,” was his response. “I've got no sympathy for him. His sort should be put down at birth, in my opinion.” This led to a rant about scroungers living off the state, and how anyone who didn't work should get nothing. “They'd soon find themselves a job, if it was the only way to get money. I'll tell you that for nothing.” I was beginning to wonder how he'd ever got elected, and how he'd managed to retain his seat at several elections.
When he left, I swore I'd never see him again. Except the sex was good.
Chapter Twenty: Catriona
1
Phew! What a few days. The last time I'd been to Glasgow was with my parents years ago, when I was a child, but Kathleen had never been there, so I acted as a guide. Although there were parts of the city best avoided, there was no denying its vibrancy, and anyway Kathleen was used to the rough parts of cities. As she said to me when I cautioned her about some areas: “Don't worry. A fucking street wise tart, that's me.”
One of the places I wanted to show Kathleen was the Kelvingrove Museum and Art Gallery, and the park next to it. In particular I wanted her to see that great painting of the crucifixion by Dali. When I'd told her about it she hadn't seemed impressed: her response had been to say that surely once you'd seen one painting of Christ on the cross, you'd seen them all.
She changed her mind. “Fucking hell,” she exclaimed, “look at it. Look at the perspective, with us looking down on Christ looking down at the ground, floating in the air. Fucking wow!” She stared at the painting, her mouth open wide, her eyes fixed. I explained to her it had been inspired by a dream and told her how Dali had use geometry when creating it.
She'd never expressed much interest in art: music was her thing, and when I'd suggested spending most of the day at a gallery, she'd yawned and gave the impression she was just humouring me. But once she'd seen the Dali, her attitude changed and her desire to see more art was almost insatiable. She admitted the only art she'd seen in the past were religious paintings and images in church and the sort of cheap mass produced reproductions of bland rural scenes that pollute so many walls.
“But this is fucking real art,” she said. “It makes me think and makes me feel – oh, I don't know what, it just makes me feel. Shit, what have I been missing out on?”
As well as the Dali, we viewed the French and Flemish collections and those from the Glasgow Colourist school, and much more. She skipped from painting to painting, quietly and unconsciously humming, getting as close to the art as was permitted, on one occasion even tentatively attempting to touch a piece, before a member of staff told her that wasn't allowed. It was as if she were in a trance as she kept saying things like “What a use of colour” or “Just look at how that figure has been drawn” or “How did the artist manage that?”.
She bought a few prints and a couple of books on the history of art. “I'm going to learn to paint,” she said. I just smiled. I had been worried in case she hated the place, but instead she was enthused and inspired by the gallery.
As the weather was good, we spent some time in the park. After making pigs of ourselves eating ice cream, she picked up her guitar and began playing an unfamiliar melody, slow and reflective and in a minor key. When I asked her what it was, she shrugged her shoulders and told me she didn't know, that she thought it was inspired by the Dali, and it did sound vaguely hymnal, but nothing like the awful metrical psalms I used to have to sing in the kirk. When I mentioned this she smiled and said she might have heard something similar back in the days she had to go Mass. Listening to her, it seemed to me it would work well on a keyboard, and later, back at the cheap B&B we were staying in, we experimented with a guitar and keyboard arrangement. At least, that was, until the landlady banged on our door, telling us to keep the noise down.
It wasn't the nicest B&B we could have chosen: the rooms were damp, dark and dirty, the walls were so thin you could hear everything happening next door and the landlady was a disciplinarian: the first things she'd told us were what we couldn't do, a long list. She viewed us with suspicion and eyeing our instruments told us she hoped we weren't drug crazed hippies. We assured her we weren't, but she didn't seem convinced. The breakfasts weren't particularly appetising: lukewarm salty porridge followed by eggs and bacon floating in a sea of grease. But it was somewhere to lay our heads overnight and it was cheap.
The appointment with the agency went well. We had sent him a tape in advance, which he said he liked, and he asked us to play something else for him. Kathleen played the melody she had composed in Kelvingrove park, much to my amazement and annoyance, as it wasn't what we had planned, and I had to follow her as best I could. At least we had worked out part of an arrangement. When the agent asked her where it had come from, Kathleen just told him it was something she'd made up that afternoon after visiting Kelvingrove.
He whistled. “You mean you just came up with that a few hours ago, on the spur of the moment?”
Kathleen nodded.
“Do you do that a lot?”
“What? Make up tunes? Yeah. Doesn't everybody?”
The agent smiled. “No, dear, most people don't do that. Are you sure it was only today you composed that?”
“Yes. But I'm not sure 'compose' is the right word. It was like it was just floating around in the air and all I did was grab it.”
He turned to me. “What about you? Do you do that?”
I shook my head. “I wish I could. I can play well, but I can't compose.”
“For fuck's sake, don't put yourself down,” Kathleen said, then turning to the agent: “Sorry about the language”. She returned her gaze to me. “Listen, you can write music down, I can't. And you can play more instruments than I can. And your voice, oh, it's just heavenly.”
I think I blushed.
2
The agent said he'd liked what he'd heard and wanted to sign us. He gave us a contract which I was ready to sign immediately without reading it, but Kathleen wouldn't let me. Turning to the agent, she said: “You don't mind if we take it away with us to read, do you?”
He shrugged. “If you must, but everything in it is standard for the industry.”
Kathleen gave him her sweetest smile. “Oh, I'm sure you're right, but I don't believe in signing anything unless I know what I'm signing up for.”
When we left his office I asked her why she didn't trust him. “After all, he liked us and runs a respectable business.”
She stared at me as if I was a moron. “So you think it's okay to sign contracts without reading them, do you?” When I didn't answer, she continued: “Looking respectable and smiling a lot doesn't mean a fucking thing. I should know: I've been shagged by enough so-called 'respectable' men. Look, you're probably right, but it won't do any harm to read it and if there's anything we're not sure about, check it out with a solicitor.”
“Oh yeah? And how much is a solicitor going to cost us.”
She laughed. “A lot fucking less than getting ripped off.”
Kathleen had arranged two gigs for us in Glasgow, both with the help of some of the Strathdubh musicians. The first of these was at a folk club where the booked act had cried off for personal reasons at short notice and they were relieved to have found a replacement, even ones who were unknown. It went well, in fact it couldn't have gone any better.
Kathleen believed in allowing plenty of time for any journey, reasoning that getting there too early was better than arriving late, and that night we arrived before the organiser did. No problem: we sat in the bar with drinks, only non-alcoholic as Kathleen insisted on us being totally sober when on stage. “I've seen too many people make fucking idiots of themselves after a few drinks or smokes, while truly fucking believing they were giving the performances of their lives.” She was right, of course, but that didn't stop me wanting something a bit stronger than orange juice.
We got the impression the organiser would have been happy with anyone who could play their instruments and sing in tune, but he was so pleased with our performance he told us he would book us again and let other clubs know just how good we were. Our egos were certainly massaged.
If only the gig the following night had gone half as well, instead of being the unmitigated disaster it proved to be.
It took us ages to find the King Billy, and when we did we almost wished we hadn't. Even from the outside we could see it had seen better days and the bars on the windows should have told us it wasn't likely to be the friendliest of places. When we walked inside, we were faced with a sea of male, white and mainly middle aged men who all stopped talking and turned to stare at us. The dirty walls were covered in Rangers paraphernalia and posters advertising the Orange Order. The place stunk of grease, tobacco and stale beer, the atmosphere was thick with cigarette smoke that irritated the back of the throat. I was hoping this was the wrong place.
Sadly, it was the right pub. When we got to the bar a disinterested barman, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth, went to fetch the manager who showed us the stage, which was little more than an unstable platform next to the toilets with a small curtained area at the side that was supposed to act as a dressing room. The speakers and microphones had clearly seen better days, but worked after a fashion.
He looked us up and down, and said: “You're not really what I was expecting?”
Kathleen responded by saying: “And this wasn't what we were expecting.”
“Looks like we're both disappointed,” he said. “Start when you want to.”
After setting up the microphones, we did just that. It soon became clear no-one was interested in listening to the music. Most people just got on with their conversations, but a few began shouting at us. Things like: “Get 'em off, darlings”, “Show us your tits” and similar, chants that were then taken up by others. I began to get concerned for our safety.
We persevered for a few songs. Then Kathleen looked at me, indicated we should stop playing, put her guitar away and then, in her huskiest voice and with what she called her tart smile painted on her face, said: “So you want to see my fucking tits, do you? Okay.” She removed her top and her bra, then her trousers and knickers and stood before them, motionless and naked. I stared at her, open mouthed, wondering what she was going to do next, asking myself how we were going to get out of here. I also felt embarrassed for her.
At first there were a few wolf whistles and comments about her body, but as she continued to stand there without moving or speaking, the noise level gradually fell until there was total silence. She picked up the microphone from its stand and began to sing unaccompanied: a medley of two songs. It took me a while to realise what she was doing and even then I didn't know whether she was stark raving bonkers or was giving a rational response to an irrational and potentially violent situation. Both songs were about male impotence and sung from the perspective of the woman: the traditional numbers “Maids When You're Young Never Wed an Old Man” and “My Husband's Got No Courage in Him”. To make the point even more obvious, she changed the last chorus of the latter to: “You wankers got no courage in you”. When she'd finished, she covered her naked body with her coat, picked up Frankie in one hand and her clothes in the other, jumped from the stage and beckoning me to follow her stormed through the crowd, which like the Red Sea separated for her, and walked out of the pub. Both me and the pub manager followed behind her and had to run to catch her up.
The manager got to her first, grabbed her arm and pulled her round so she was facing him. “What the fuck was that about?” he demanded.
She shook him off, saying: “Touch me again, cunt, and you'll fucking regret it.”
“How dare you behave like that in my pub.”
“What the fuck!” she yelled. “You invite us to play then allow those fucking Neanderthals to shout out obscenities at us. You can shove your fucking pub up your arse.”
A crowd was beginning to form, so I grabbed Kathleen and pulled her away. “Come on,” I said to her, “they're not worth bothering with. Let's go.”
With a degree of reluctance she followed me, muttering to herself, and we went into a nearby Ladies, where she dressed.
When she reappeared, I said: “You do know how stupid that was, don't you?”
She ignored me, refusing to even look at me, so I repeated what I'd said. Still she ignored me, almost as if I wasn't there, so we continued in silence until we reached our B&B. Once the bedroom door was closed behind us, she collapsed on the bed and burst into tears. I put my arms around her, making what I hoped were reassuring noises. Gradually her sobbing eased and she fell quiet.
She grabbed a handful of tissues and, wiping her face, said: “I'm so fucking sorry. The red mist just came down.” She bit her bottom lip. “All those men yelling and treating us like we were just meat, well, it was like I was a fucking prostitute all over again, being used and abused by men.” She looked up at me. “I've fucked things up, haven't I?”
I stroked her beautiful hair and told her that no, she hadn't. “They got what they asked for, and the look on their faces as they realised what you were singing about, standing there in your birthday suit, I'd have paid a lot for that.” I kissed her. “When did you learn those songs? They're wonderful, and perhaps we should include them in the future, but perhaps not in the way you introduced them.”
She began giggling. “Oh, I do love you.” After a few moments she continued: “I'm going to have words with the fucking idiot who recommended that pub to us. Either it's changed since he was last there or it was his idea of a joke.”
3
Back in Strathdubh, Kathleen challenged Donald about recommending the King Billy. He had the grace to apologise and told us he thought we knew he wasn't being serious.
“And how the fuck would we know that?” Kathleen asked. Donald apologised again, and Kathleen let it go at that. I couldn't, though: I took him on one side and told him that, despite appearances, she was sensitive and lacking in confidence, and that if he ever pulled a stunt like that again I would make sure he regretted it. He was shocked: it was a side of me he'd never seen before, even though we were at school together. Later, I told Kathleen it was totally out of character for him to do something like that.
Later that week I had lunch with ma. “Thought it was about time we caught up,” she said.
Just as I'd done when a kid, I helped her with the preparations, making the salad in the way she had taught me all those years before. While eating, she told me all the local gossip and I told her how we were all settling in. She was pleased about how things had gone in Glasgow (I didn't tell her about the King Billy, though); she was even more pleased I was now on the list of supply teachers.
Then she asked me the question I had been dreading: “Caty, why did you give up such a good, secure and well paid job to come back here? Both me and your da think it's a backward step.” Ma was the only person who ever got away with calling me Caty, and though I didn't like it, it was too late to stop her after all those years.
“I wanted to get out of the rat race, and I wanted to do something with my talents rather than just teaching.”
“Nothing wrong with teaching,” she said, after taking a sip of her tea, “nothing wrong at all.”
“I know that, ma, that's why I'm going to be doing some supply teaching.”
She harrumphed, but let my answer pass. She changed tac: “And how's your love life?”
“Ma!” I exclaimed, “that's not really any of your business.”
She shrugged. “Just asking, that's all.” I stayed silent. She continued: “How did you meet those two? Kathleen and Brendan?”
“I met Kathleen when she began singing at the same folk club, and we became friends. She introduced me to Brendan.”
“Are they lovers?”
“Again, that's none of your business, ma. Why are you so interested?”
“Oh, you know what a small place this is. You've only got to sneeze and people at the other end of the strath think you've got pneumonia. I'm sure you won't be surprised to know there's been lots of rumours.”
“Like what?” I folded my arms and stared at her.
She looked away. “Oh, you know, when people don't know things they make them up.”
“Such as?”
“If you must know, some people think Brendan's running a harem. Or you've turned the cottage into some sort of free love hippy commune.” When I didn't respond, she continued: “Oh, I know it sounds ridiculous. Some people think you may all have had to leave Birmingham for some reason or other: no-one's come up with any specifics. And Kathleen's appalling language hasn't gone unnoticed.”
“So she swears a bit. So what? It's not a crime.”
“Caty, Caty, I'm your ma, you can tell me anything. I don't believe the three of you just decided to move up here and give up your jobs, assuming those two had jobs, for no reason.”
I looked at her, seeing the love and concern written on her face and decided she had a right to know what had been happening. Not everything, of course, there were some things that would probably have shocked her and perhaps even frightened her, but I told her the basics: what Kathleen had done for a living before I met her, about the violence they had both experienced without going into graphic details. I told her Brendan was gay, and that Kathleen and I were singing partners, and that moving up here was my idea.
“Right,” she said, “let me get this straight. You've moved here, in the same village as me and your da and all your old school friends, the village we have to live and work in and where I like to think people respect us, you've moved here with a queer barman, a tart who now sings rather than shags for a living, in order to escape some nasty people those two had got involved with. They also managed to get involved with the IRA, and he was arrested as a suspect in the pub bombings in Birmingham. How am I doing so far?”
“Ma, it's really not like that. They are nice, friendly people who just got caught up in things they had no control over. And neither of them have ever been involved with terrorism. It's just the police were looking for anyone who was Irish to pin it on. Honest.”
“Ha! There has to be more to it than that. I really don't believe you're that naïve, Caty. Come on, there's something you're not telling me.” I blushed, and she jumped to conclusions. “Oh, so that's it, is it. Brendan's your boyfriend? Is that right? In which case, how can he be queer?”
Before I could stop myself, I said: “No, you've got it all wrong. It's not like that.”
She smiled. “So tell me, what is it like?”
Ma had always been shrewd, and it was almost impossible to con her. She had me cornered, so I told her. “It's not Brendan whose my lover. It's Kathleen.” Ma's mouth fell open. I could feel the tears pricking my eyes. “I fell in love with her the very first time I saw her, before I knew anything about her.” It was Ma's turn to remain silent as the threatened tears began to roll down my face. “Ma, surely you remember what it's like to fall in love and how when you did, it didn't matter what anyone thought, all that mattered was the person – the man – you loved. My da.”
Much as I tried, I just couldn't control the tears. Ma put her arms around me and pulled me to her chest, patting my back and telling me everything was going to be okay. It wasn't long before she too was in tears, and we were both hugging each other, comforting each other, crying our hearts out.
That was how da found us. A no-nonsense, unsentimental hard working farmer, he was nonetheless a loving husband and father, who used to dangle me on his knee and tickle me until the giggles turned to hiccups. It didn't take him long to find out why we were in tears.
His response was typical of him. “I'm sure you know, darling, that you can't keep secrets for long up here. But whatever happens, me and your ma will support you. We trust you and your judgement, even if we don't understand. No matter what happens, we are here for you. And if necessary for your friends. This family will stay together, and we won't treat you like your ma and me were treated.” He kissed me on the forehead. “Now, is my little girl going to smile for her da?”
He got his smile. Then I put an arm around his waist and said: “Da. I know you and ma had problems once, but all you've ever done is drop hints. I'm a big girl now. Don't you think it's about time you told me?”
“Oh, that's all in the past now. No need to rake over the coals.”
“Please. Knowing how you coped might help me.”
Da looked across at ma, who nodded her head. “Okay,” he said. “It's probably better coming from us than hearing it from others. But one thing you need to know straight away is that we wouldn't change a thing, your ma and me. After all, no-one could ask for a better daughter than we have. So where should I start?”
Ma looked at him and said: “Malcolm, why not start at the beginning, when we first met.”
“Ah yes, when we met for the first time. A good place to start.”
About the Author
Born in Manchester in 1951, Kevin Crowe has lived in the Highlands since 1999. A writer of fiction, poetry and non-fiction, he has had his work published in various magazines, journals and websites. He also writes regularly for the Highland monthly community magazine Am Bratach and for the Highland LGBT magazine UnDividing Lines.