JA:Right, so this is where the album might be considered to be controversial—
CC:Do you know, I’ve heard that a lot since I came back up to Scotland and I really don’t see why.
JA:Well, lyrically, there’s a lot of violence – and unsavoury subject matter, shall we say – in what some of these young men talk about, and you can understand some traditionalists might be upset—
CC:Jim, if you ask me, that’s some coded racist nonsense. If people up here are upset because some black and Asian musicians are offering their own interpretations of a long-dead poet, rather than finding it positive that his work is still reaching people, then I think that’s really their lookout. I mean, are you familiar with the work of any of the musicians I’ve got guesting on this album?
JA:Ha ha. Well, you’ve got Donald Bain on there, who long-term listeners might know as a very fine fiddler indeed – he’s contributed to any number of excellent albums in recent time and his presence will probably be a point of reassurance for some. And I understand he’s your uncle, is he?
CC:He’s my godfather. But why would people need reassurance, Jim? Surely we’re not that precious about the work of a man who died two hundred years ago that we can’t let a woman and some non-white men sing his songs?
JA:Ha ha. Of course not. And on that note, let’s hear one of the songs from A Northern Lass – Clio Campbell, singing Robert Burns’s ‘Ae Fond Kiss’.
DONALD
Edinburgh, 1993
Donald hated wearing a suit. It was increasingly necessary now, or at least the waistcoat and shirt were, seemed to be expected at certain gigs, but he couldn’t thole it. Just felt the whole time that he was buttoned up wrong, over-fettered. A silly damn muddle.
She’d actually said at first, ‘And don’t you bother wearing a suit or anything. Just come as you please. A great big jumper with holes in the elbows, and your fiddle. That’s how I remember my Uncle Donald.’ The girl knew how to work him, he’d give her that. No contact for months then a sudden rush of affection down the phone. But that had always been her way. Almost as though she’d rediscovered him, unearthed him in her memory.
‘Well of course it’ll be you to walk me down the aisle. Who else would I ask, eh? And maybe you’d play for us too? Just at the signing? It seems right to me.’
The next call was from Mansfield himself, explaining that his parents would probably expect a certain level of attire. ‘I mean, it’s not a big wedding. Not at all. Just family. But they are taking us all out for dinner somewhere nice afterwards. And you know, the pictures. So. All right, pal. Yeah?’ A dry cough. The sternness of a tour manager.
So. A suit it was. He swore at the idiot collar buttons in the tiny bed-and-breakfast mirror, noticed a shaving cut had leaked blood onto the starched point, pulled the damn thing off and started all over again.
Just family. He was directed to the smallest room of the registry office, with the names Mansfield/Campbell on a printed-out sheet, pinned to the door. There were eight people in the two rows at the front on the right, two small children ducking and weaving in and out of the chairs. Mansfield and a young man who could only be his brother were laughing by a table at the top. On the left, only one head, barely visible over the chair back. Black hair gleaming blue in the afternoon sun, a bright pink feathery growth over half her head. Well, they were outnumbered, but at least she was here.
Mansfield caught his eye and strode towards the door, hands outstretched.
‘Ah, Donald! Great you could make it. Clio will be along shortly, I hope.’ He paused for a laugh, pulled a face, crossed his fingers, and Donald, who was never a violent man, wanted to punch him. ‘So if you want to stand outside, she’ll meet you there.’
Eileen had turned her plumaged head around with some difficulty to follow her future son-in-law. Her lips were painted the same colour as the hat thing, a visual shock in the motley brown room. She gave him a tiny smile and he raised a hand. She looked very close to tears. He pointed to the door and mouthed ‘later’, stashed his fiddle two rows back as he left.
He’d expected she’d keep them all waiting, but Cliodhna was not late. She bounded up the stairs and threw herself into his arms before he’d quite realized what was happening.
‘Oh, thank you for this. Thank you thank you. Shall we do it, then?’
‘Just a second there, lass! Let me look at you first, eh?’
Donald didn’t know anything about women’s clothes; he registered that she was wearing something creamy, the colour of her own skin, with almost bare shoulders and a flower in her hair, but she was lovely, and he told her so, because Malcolm should have been there to say that.
‘Is it just you, Clio-girl? You don’t have a whatjamacallum – bridesmaid or anything?’
It seemed to be the first time it had occurred to her. ‘No. I suppose I don’t.’ She laughed. ‘I could pop in there and borrow one of Danny’s many sisters, I guess. Ach, let’s just get this done. Bring on the marriaging.’
‘Cliodhna, you know your mother’s in there, do you?’
The grin dipped and she froze.
‘She came?’
‘Aye, she came. She’s by herself.’
‘OK. OK. Well, that’s good to know. I’m glad you told me that before I went in there. She didn’t say – we didn’t hear from her. So I’d just assumed—’
He gave her a hug, a small one. She was too delicate and he didn’t want to crush her; and he was all too aware that he’d started to sweat.
‘Is it time now?’
‘Aye. Let’s go.’
Once he’d escorted her the ten or so steps to her winking fool of a groom, he turned and sat himself down by Eileen. Protocol seemed to demand it. Her jaw was locked in place, her hands fretting at the hem of her pink jacket.
‘It’s good you came,’ he whispered, corner of his mouth, as the registrar droned through some sort of legal requirement.
‘It’s my daughter’s wedding, Donald Bain. I’d not miss that, thank you very much.’
Cliodhna did not turn her head to them once during the brief ceremony, which he was glad of, as Eileen sat there with an expression that suggested she smelled something terrible. Maybe she did and it was himself. Anytime someone wasn’t speaking, he could hear the plasticky fabric rubbing between her fingers, little wheech wheech noises.
And it was done, and they kissed, and everyone applauded, even Eileen. Clio beckoned him up as they took their seats for the official bit. He wasn’t sure where to stand, and the registrar wasn’t much use, seemed to have tuned out. Eventually he wandered off to the side, turned half away so he couldn’t see Eileen’s black-crayoned scowl, and struck up the tune Clio had asked him for, gentle and soft and slow. ‘The Northern Lass’. It went on a little longer than it took them to sign their names, and he was conscious that they were all sitting there waiting for him to finish, Mansfield smirking a bit at his audience, so he stopped after the second verse.
‘And thank you, Donald,’ the new groom said, his vowels flatter and posher than they had been with the lads on the tour. ‘Now, everyone, my wife and I –’ again, that pause for recognition; one of his sisters let out an obliging whoop! ‘– would like you all to join us in the square outside for the photos. We’ve got a couple of photographers with us – Ernie, who’s doing the shots for us, and a snapper from the Scotsman’s society pages. So, best smiles on and all that!’
Donald marvelled at the man again. Here he was, talking to a small gathering of relatives, and his voice still had that soft greasy tone like he was introducing a singer in a club. The couple set off down the aisle, grinning at each other, and the room emptied quickly. He hung back, seeing Eileen just standing there, let the Mansfield family file out before he went to her.
‘Well then, Eileen. Shall we go downstairs?’
He offered her his arm, for some reason, and she took it, although she barely came up past his elbow herself. Her grip was tight, and they stood very still together for
a second until the registrar coughed importantly at their backs.
‘Society pages,’ Eileen said, quietly, as they walked down the stairs.
‘Aye,’ said Donald. ‘He’s a bit like that, your son-in-law.’
As he watched Mansfield directing the action around the two clearly cheesed-off photographers, insisting that hands be placed just so, that they pose up the steps to the ornate entrance, he picked up on a sort of vibration coming from Eileen. She had that face on her again, and he realized she was probably feeling too many things all at once. She was a lone streak of pink in the stone courtyard, and even a babe in the woods like Donald could tell that her clothes were too bright and tight – Mansfield’s mother and sisters were flitting around in elegant jackets and dresses of beige and light green, the other men all wore grey, and apart from her flash of hair Cliodhna was a pale sickle moon, almost translucent in the sun. Despite being at the centre of every picture, she seemed to be holding herself apart from it all, smiling whenever she was told to, but off in a dream. The two women still hadn’t acknowledged each other.
‘Why don’t we get the bride’s parents up here then?’ One of the photographers was striding towards them, apparently attempting to wrest back some control. ‘Mum and dad! You’re up!’
Donald half-tried to explain, as the little man put a hand on each of their backs and shoved them towards the staircase. Eileen was silent.
‘Right. Ladies in the middle, and how about we have the groom by his new mother-in-law and Daddy by his little girl, eh?’
Eileen and Cliodhna stood side by side, obedient to a higher power.
‘Is that dress a – a nightgown?’ he heard Eileen whisper.
‘Lovely to see you too, Mum.’
‘OK, that’s nice, that’s nice. Now, ladies, can you turn in towards each other?’
A tiny curl had fallen over Cliodhna’s forehead. Eileen put a hand up to it while her daughter looked at the camera, then changed her mind and retreated.
‘Dad, Dad, can you look over here please? Dad?’
Donald suddenly realized this meant him.
‘He’s my uncle, not my dad,’ Cliodhna called out.
‘He’s not your uncle,’ Eileen muttered.
‘OK, OK, have we got enough of that one? Yeah? Great. I think that’s a wrap, eh gents?’ For once Donald was glad of Mansfield’s interference. He pulled Eileen to one side as they all made their way through crowds of tourists to the restaurant just down the hill.
‘Eileen. You’ve not seen the lassie for how long? Ten years? It’s her wedding day, and it means a lot to her that you’re here. I know it must be strange for you, I know you must be feeling – a lot of things. But you’ve not come all the way across the country for the day just to pick a fight, surely?’
‘I’m not picking a fight, Donald Bain. If anyone’s picking a fight—’
‘It’s her wedding day, Eileen. Her daddy’s not here. She’ll want her mammy. Please.’
‘And exactly who are you to tell me what to do with my own daughter?’
He stopped her, held onto her arm, the two of them an island in a fast-flow of bodies.
‘You know who I am. You know what I’ve done. And I’m saying there will be no more of this today. I’m saying that as your old friend and Cliodhna’s godfather. All right?’
Eileen stared down at her pink, pink shoes, a chastened child in its mother’s make-up.
‘If that little madam would just look at me—’
‘Eileen.’
‘And she’s wearing a bloody nightgown! With no bra that I can see! It doesn’t even look new! And that woman, his mother, looking at me thinking was she not even brought up right to know how to dress?’
‘Eileen.’
‘I just—’
‘Have you got it all out?’
Eileen inhaled, her nostrils standing to attention.
‘I just need a bloody fag. But I don’t want them looking down on me even more for it.’
He fumbled in his pocket for the cigarettes, and her shoulders sagged.
‘Here you go. We’ll join them in a couple of minutes, eh?’
‘Thanks.’
A pause as they both blew out smoke, making space for each other.
‘It’s good to see you, Donald Bain.’
There was some faffing around when they finally arrived – ‘Got a bit lost!’ Donald had muttered, to cover them – as the restaurant had had to add an extra chair for Eileen, jammed in at the corner of the table.
‘So sorry about this, Eileen,’ Mansfield’s mother was saying, standing up to usher them in. ‘I’m afraid the postman must have lost your RSVP. My own fault for not adjusting the booking earlier.’
Donald understood she was being gracious, trying to mask the mistake; he also saw that Eileen was taking it as a slight.
‘But the mother of the bride shouldn’t be all the way over there in the corner! Susie, Adam, would you two scooch round, please? Eileen, you must come up here and sit with me. It’s so wonderful to meet you finally. I’ve heard so much about you.’
Donald gripped Eileen’s hand for a second, felt her nails dig his palm, imprinting on him even after she’d been bustled away. Sitting up there with her silly hat still pinned on, nodding at Mrs Mansfield, staring at the table, she looked like she was drowning, her usual hard-as-nails armour failing her. He felt overwhelmed himself, as he squeezed into the tacked-on corner seat. The menu was in French with an English translation in tiny print, and there was far too much cutlery in front of him. Cliodhna still seemed to be in her own wee world, sharing jokes with her husband and smiling politely at his father to her left, but mostly absent. It wasn’t that she looked unhappy to be married, exactly, more as though it was happening to somebody else and she was watching it all from a comfortable seat in a cinema. It was an expression he’d become familiar with over the years, had seen it on her even as a child in her quieter moments. The unknowability of Miss Cliodhna Campbell. Well, the girl was what she was, and who could blame her if she wanted to hold a bit of herself back?
He ordered soup and beef when the waiter came around, had no idea what would show up. A girl put a hard bread roll on his plate with tongs and he picked it up and bit into it, caught Mansfield’s brother looking at him across the table with a smirk that must run in the family. He put the roll back down. The sister at his side turned to him.
‘That was really lovely, that piece you played at the ceremony. Was it something you wrote?’
There were crumbs in his beard, he was sure of it.
‘Oh, eh. No, no. That’s a Burns song that one. No, I couldn’t write something like that.’
‘But you are a musician, aren’t you? Professionally, I mean.’
‘I am. I am that. Yup.’
‘Runs in the family then?’
‘Well, yes. Yes. Cliodhna’s daddy is a singer too.’
‘Lovely. And that’s quite some accent you’ve got there. Is it from the Highlands?’
She was talking to him like a child, this woman thirty years or so younger than him. He tried to stay pleasant, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever been more uncomfortable.
‘Western Isles, yes, yes, that’s right.’
‘Such a beautiful part of the country.’ She had a very smooth voice. He couldn’t place it. There was a pause, and he realized he was supposed to be continuing this conversation, possibly for as long as the meal lasted, and they hadn’t even had their first course yet.
‘So, you’re Danny’s sister, then?’
‘One of them, that’s right. The baby of the family!’
‘Ah.’
‘And you’re an uncle? On her mother’s or father’s side? No, wait, sorry – you mentioned her father, didn’t you. He’s not here?’
The girl scanned the table, perhaps looking for some father she’d simply missed.
‘He’s not here. He lives in America now.’
‘Ooh, a long journey. And really, such short notice – I’
m not surprised he couldn’t make it!’
Her laugh was ugly, a breathy har-har-har with no mirth behind it.
‘Yes, they really did take us all by surprise with this one. I mean, only my mother had even met Clio before last week. I suppose you don’t really know Danny, either?’
‘I was on the tour with both of them last year. A few months ago now.’
‘Ah yes, where they fell in loooove.’ It occurred to him that the girl might possibly be drunk; her wine glass was empty.
‘So are you in her band, then? That’s nice. Nice to keep it in the family. Does the mother play music too?’
The mother. He stood up gently.
‘If you’ll excuse me just for a moment …’
The girl nodded, relieved. Across the table, Eileen tried to command him to stay with panicked eyes.
It was cool and quiet in the corridor to the toilets, and he just paused there for a while, allowed himself to stretch out to his full height.
‘Did you run away too?’
‘Hello, Cliodhna girl. How is married life?’
She seemed almost sleepy.
‘I think it suits me fine so far.’
‘Have you left your mother in there by herself?’
‘She’s fine. Danny is being all charming and shit. He’s talking her ear off and she’s loving it. Rather him than me.’
‘At least she came, love.’
‘At least she came.’
‘She’s just nervous. You know how she gets. It’s a strange situation for anyone.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ She raised a glass she’d brought with her.
He decided to steer the topic off for a while. ‘So, the society pages, eh?’
‘I knew you’d have something to say about that. Danny’s idea. He thought it would be good for my profile, keep me in the public eye and whatnot till I’m ready to do some new material.’
Scabby Queen Page 22
