Scabby Queen

by Kirstin Innes

  She smiled. ‘They’re nice. Thanks.’

  ‘Why not try them on. Let’s see if they fit.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Sure! Why not here? Nobody’s looking.’

  She fumbled at her feet, untied the laces on the shoes she was wearing. The waiter came over and Malcolm wanted to wave him away, but Cliodhna seemed to jump at the chance, curling her stocking soles under the table.

  ‘I’ll just have some chips, please.’

  ‘No, no – have more than that. You need to eat more. How about the steak? Eh? That looks good! Two steaks.’

  ‘I’m a vegetarian, Malcolm. Just the chips, please.’

  ‘Well, let me get you a big good drink, instead. You know what? This is a celebration, isn’t it! A family reunion. We’ll have a bottle of champagne!’

  ‘No. Come on.’

  ‘Nonsense, nonsense. A bottle of champagne, buddy.’

  ‘And the steak, sir?’

  ‘Well, no. No. I’ll just – aye, I’ll just have some chips too. Chips and champagne! That’s a song title right there for you!’

  ‘And a jug of water please. Tap water.’

  The waiter drifted off.

  ‘Look, Malcolm. You don’t need to do that – you don’t need to feel that you have to spend a lot of money or anything. If you’ve not got it.’

  He waved her off, embarrassed, wished she’d stop.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m fine. Got it covered.’ He winked, tried to slap the charm on her. ‘Come on, beautiful. Let’s see those boots on you, eh?’

  It came out wrong and they both winced, but she pulled the boots on under the table, stuck a leg through the drapes for him to see.

  ‘How do they feel?’

  ‘Roomy, but that’s OK. I’ll wear them with big socks.’

  ‘You will wear them?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Because it was quite a travail bringing them over, let me tell you. I’d hate to think they were just going to gather dust.’

  ‘I’ll wear them. I’ll wear them onstage tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Aye. I’m playing a couple of tunes tomorrow at Princes Street Gardens. The big bandstand.’

  ‘Really! Oh, I need to see that. Maybe I could get a different bus, stay a bit.’

  ‘It’s late on in the afternoon. Might be about five. You’d never get all the way back up north after. Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal.’

  ‘Princes Street Gardens, though. That sounds like a big deal to me. I’d like to be there, Cliodhna. As your da— father. I’ve only ever seen you singing on the Internet.’

  ‘Really. I don’t want to make you hang around here for two extra nights. Not in a hotel. Not for five minutes or whatever. It’s just two songs. No, no.’

  ‘Well, you could maybe show me around a bit? Didn’t Donald tell me you used to live here?’

  ‘Briefly. Back when I was married. A long time ago. But I’m staying with friends, Malcolm. I’ve got quite a lot to do before the gig tomorrow – I wouldn’t want you to feel out of place. We’ll just – this is our time, right here.’

  Well, he was a man who could see a no. He’d always prided himself on that. Not pushing something like a daft laddie, embarrassing himself. The girl didn’t want him to come and that was clear. No point trying. The champagne arrived, was popped undemonstratively under a tea towel. Malcolm said ‘Wahey!’ anyway, felt immediately foolish for it. The bottle was seated between them, in its own little silver high chair, ice clanking every time one of them moved.

  Their glasses filled, he bent his head to his daughter.

  ‘Well. Slàinte mhath, my dear. Your very good health.’

  ‘And yours,’ she said, then looked down. She knows, he thought, suddenly. She’s only here because she knows. And she’ll only know because Donald will have told her. A guilt trip, maybe, go and see your old dad before he pops it. Donald. Her ‘Uncle’ Donald. As interfering as a bloody woman. Always there where he wasn’t wanted.

  He pulled himself up tall, took a big sip. Perfumed vinegar. Wersh. Those stupid bubbles. He’d never really liked champagne, or any sort of wine, but he wasn’t going to show that now, in this fancy place, with this fancy woman already half-pitying him.

  ‘Aaah. That’s the stuff. And good stuff, too. So, this gig. Tomorrow. Why is it only two songs you’re doing?’

  ‘Well, it’s a rally. After a march. There’s going to be a big demonstration tomorrow, against the war. Then they get loads of speakers and musicians on after.’

  ‘The war?’

  ‘In Iraq. George Bush is visiting London, so.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s important. Making a big public stand. I saw they were doing it while I was up visiting you anyway; I know the organizers from a while back – we used to march against the poll tax together, back when I lived up here.’

  ‘Aye. Donald did mention you did a bit of that, but I’d thought you’d maybe grown out of it.’

  ‘Grown out of what?’

  ‘All this – marching. Marching. Stupid business. That’s your mother you’ve got that from, so it is. I mean, what’s it going to do? It’s not like your whatsisname Tony Blair or whatever is actually going to be there, is he? He’s not in Edinburgh. You can’t stop these bastards from doing what they want to do and hang the ordinary people. It never changes, lass, believe your old father here. You know that. You’re hardly a wee girl now, are you? All the likes of you and me can hope to do is cheer them up with a couple of tunes. That’s why we were put on this earth. That’s our purpose, you and me. You’ve got a God-given gift in that throat of yours, lass – you use that rather than your feet. Sing a song for people and at least you give them some hope.’

  She took a drink, a big greedy drink. Attagirl, he thought.

  ‘Is that not worse, though? Giving them hope? If in your opinion nothing is going to change?’

  He laughed.

  ‘We’re all going to die, my lovely. I don’t know about you but I’d rather skip off to the gallows with a smile on my face than spend the walk worrying about rope burn.’

  She was quiet, just taking it in. He felt a warmth spread over him. The lassie had been confused, had needed some guidance, some proper fatherly advice, and while he might have missed a few years, he’d been able to come through for her when it counted. They had this in common, the gift they had, the life they’d chosen, and he realized that he could help steer her through it.

  ‘I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s hard, this life of ours. The music. She’s a cruel mistress, eh? There’s the days when you don’t know where your next meal is coming from and the weeks when you just can’t bring yourself to play a note. I’ve been sick of her, so sick I’ve wanted to pack the whole thing in. Many times. But the joys, m’ghaol. You’ll know this. That feeling of setting a whole room dancing, taking them with you, getting them all to hooch and cheer and feel alive again. There’s nothing like that, now. Nothing else like that in the world. And once you’ve done it, once you’ve had that, there’s no way you could ever properly do anything else, could you now? I mean, where else would I go?’

  ‘So you were playing regularly in the States, then?’

  ‘Och, every night, lass. Still would if I could. Me and your stepmother would hit the road – she was a big star back in her day, was Anouli, could still pack ’em in – shove the instruments and a bag of clothes into our van and we’d be off for months, making music every night. Country joints and watering holes, some of them with stages the size of this table, some of them huge, hundreds of people; bottle of bourbon and our guitars under the stars on the nights we slept in the van. Your old man played in every single one of the forty-eight, so he did. Can you imagine? I’ll tell you what, my love, I could put you in touch with the right people if you ever wanted to tour the States. I know everyone on that scene, and they’d lap you up, with the hair and the accent. Your looks. Just say the word and you could be there.’

>   ‘I don’t think it’s as easy as that. I’d probably struggle to get a visa, for a start.’

  He didn’t really know what she meant but was conscious he had to keep the talk flowing.

  ‘Aye, aye, visas are tricky things, so they are. But just you say the word. Just you say the word.’

  ‘It’s not really where I’m at just now, you know. I haven’t written a new song for years.’

  ‘Writing? You don’t need to write a song. There’s enough songs out there in the world already. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that people really only want to hear songs they’ve known before. I mean, don’t get me wrong, that was catchy, that wee hit of yours. But the punters, they go to a gig for one reason.’

  ‘For joy? Or for hope?’

  He couldn’t quite place the look on her face. He sensed she might be being cheeky.

  ‘Aye, well, that too, that too. But the reason people go there is to hear those songs that mean things to them, to add in more layers on top of that. Songs that their mammies used to sing to them, songs that they remember being sung at parties growing up, maybe, songs for funerals, their dead daddy’s favourite number – they want to get that feeling again, they want to touch it and make it mean something else. Och, what’s that word – nostalgia. That’s why people want to hear music. I mean, I bought your wee album. I did. I ordered it specially over from the States and everything. I was – it was very good. I was proud. That’s some voice you’ve got there, you know? But the best song on it was that version of “Green Grow the Rashes” at the end. Beautiful. Beautiful. I played it to your stepmother, and she wept. Your voice. You’re a singer, love, and that’s good. You’re an instrument. You don’t need to be a songwriter, eh no? You’ve already got a beautiful talent to help light up people’s lives.’

  The chips had arrived, steam rising off them, drawing their eyes and focus. Two tiny bowls, great big skinned potatoes chopped into two or three. Not crispy. She fell silent again, dipping potato into a tiny silver pot of something white. He watched the way she ate, delicate, with small movements. Like someone who wasn’t hungry.

  ‘Now that’s a chip, eh? Wedges, I’d call these. Not seen the like of this since I left the auld country. In the States, they’re called fries. Fries. And they’re skinny.’

  She looked up, nodded, that half-smile, looked down. Christ, this was hard.

  ‘So then. Cliodhna. Divorced, eh? Welcome to the club!’

  ‘Well, it was about ten years ago.’ She shook the hand he’d proffered, though.

  ‘You want to see if you can make it twice, like your old man here. Got husband number two lined up?’

  Why didn’t she smile, properly? Just these little thin things. He was funny. He’d always known it. Everyone said he was a funny guy. Scotty, they’d say to him, those big burly roadies at the after parties, in Austin and Nashville, you’re a funny guy.

  ‘No, there’s nobody else at the moment. I’m at a stage in my life where I’m just happy with me.’

  ‘Fair enough. Fair enough. Your stepmother was like that. Till she met me, of course! Nothing wrong with that for a woman. No need for all that flapping about with babies or whatever when you’ve got a voice like that. It’s your gift to the world, isn’t it?’

  Those thin lips.

  ‘So. What are you planning on doing with yourself, Dad? Now you’re back here.’

  She hadn’t noticed the slip, and he didn’t want to spoil things by pointing it out to her, but he felt the blood flow through him a little faster. He busied himself topping up their glasses, trying to hide his smile, feeling the need to celebrate this one. She could ‘Malcolm’ him all she liked, but somewhere in there behind the skinny smile he was still her dad, and he always would be.

  ‘Oh, you know. I’m going to get myself back out there. Do some gigging again. Actually, while we’re here – there’s a great auld folk pub you might know? The Sandy Bell’s? Your un— Donald says it’s still going strong. Anyway, I thought I’d swing by there this evening; brought the bodhrán down especially, see if there’s a wee jam happening. Fit myself back into the old networks again, get a few things in the pipeline. See if anyone’s needing a session guy. Well, you know how it works. In fact –’ and he was careful to make it look like the idea was just then dawning on him ‘– why don’t we finish this bottle and head there together? I bet you’d go down a storm – they’d all know who you are, and we could do a wee daddy–daughter number! I mean, I bet there’s folk there don’t even know we’re related. “Auld Lang Syne”, it used to be when you were tiny, you and me at the end of a gig. All the tourists in tears. The tips were amazing on those nights.’

  Something in her face closed even further down. He wasn’t sure what the hell had happened.

  ‘I’m not really a folk singer. It’s not my scene so much.’

  ‘Ach, come on. You know the songs. They’d eat you up out there.’

  ‘Well, I put my guitar and my bags in a left-luggage locker at the station there. I can only really afford three hours of it.’

  ‘Bring the guitar! All the better!’

  ‘Not my bags too, though. And my friends are expecting me.’

  ‘They could come along. Be nice for them to see, no? You could use it as a wee trailer for tomorrow, for your big Princes Street Gardens gig.’

  ‘It’s not – no, Malcolm. Not this time. It’s not going to be possible.’

  ‘Maybe another time then?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Tell you what, I’ll get along there today and suss out the lie of the land. Drop some hints, see if we could get a couple of gigs on the go, eh? Mention your name. You give me – have you got one of those mobile-phone thingies? Lost mine at the border but if I take your number I can give you a call from a box.’

  He grabbed a napkin, pushed it over to her, fumbled in his coat for a pen. A waiter was passing and he snapped his fingers.

  ‘Here! Here! Excuse me! Hello. Could you let me use your pen there? Just for a second. Just to get the girl writing down her number for her old dad. Eh? Thank you.’

  She bent over the napkin, and he flushed, warm again with the success of it. This was going pretty well, after all.

  SAMMI

  Brixton, 2009

  A picture of a middle-aged man, grainy, profiled, taken in bad light. A moustache, a tuxedo, a champagne flute.

  SAMMI MY FIREND TOOK THIS ON HIS PHONE IS THIS MARK CARR????!!!!

  She’d waited a bit, before replying. Thought it through.

  Brixton, 1996

  Mark had woken her and pulled her out of bed in the middle of the night, taken her up to the roof, even though she’d protested that she didn’t want to climb the ladder (her pregnant brain had made her risk-averse and paranoid). He wrapped a blanket round her and held her there, in the street light. His breath smelled rough and he had tears in his eyes.

  ‘This is – I can’t – it’s not—’

  ‘What’s wrong, baby? What is it?’ She’d stroked his arm, sleepily.

  ‘It’s not what I want, Sammi. This is not what I want to happen.’

  ‘What’s not?’

  ‘I’ve got to go away, princess. I’ve got to leave here right away. I’m running. Tonight.’

  ‘You’re what?’

  ‘Running. An old – an old comrade from back in the day just tipped me off. I’ve been made. For some stuff I did a long while back. A long while before you, sweetheart. So don’t worry. You’re not implicated or anything. They’re coming for me, though, so I’ve got to go. I think I might actually have to get out of the country.’

  She wondered vaguely if she was still dreaming.

  ‘OK. Should we pack just now, or will it wait till the morning?’

  ‘No no no, princess. Not you. You’ve got to stay here and look after the baby. It’s just me. I don’t want to risk anything happening to you, or you getting tarred by association with me.’

  ‘You’re – leaving?’ She felt helpless and stupi
d and female saying it.

  ‘Just for a bit. Just for a little while, eh? I’ll go somewhere and lie low. No, no, what I’ll do, I’ll go and get some casual work somewhere – pick fruit, I could pick fruit, yes – and wire you the money.’

  He was never usually so scattered, so jerky. He never usually spoke without thinking it through first.

  ‘Mark, I think you’re drunk. This is all seeming a bit weird. Maybe you just need a sleep?’

  ‘There’s no time, beautiful girl. No time for sleep just now. I shouldn’t even have come back here tonight but I couldn’t leave you without letting you know.’

  ‘But – the baby. We’re having a baby together. In, like, four months. Are you going to be back for that?’

  He attempted to put a long kiss on her, holding her jaw in his hand and laying his wet mouth over hers, then tried to turn it into a series of smaller kisses as she wrenched away.

  ‘Answer the fucking question, Mark. Are you going to be here for the birth?’

  ‘Princess. I will do’ – kiss – ‘everything in my power’ – kiss – ‘to be back by your side before this’ – kiss – ‘baby is born.’ Kiss. ‘Back by your side is where I’m supposed to be. It’s where Mark Carr belongs. And I’ll write to you. I’ll write letters anonymously but I’ll find a way of making sure you know it’s me. I’ll send you ways of getting in touch with me along the road. And the second it all blows over, which I’m sure it will, you’ll have your man, this baby’s father, right back home again.’

  There were tears on his face, glassy in the street light.

  ‘I have no choice. I need you to hear me on that. I have to run, right now, or they’ll get me. You know that, don’t you, Sammi? You hear me.’

  She hadn’t known what to do. She’d clung to him, cried, shouted, insisted on coming with him, all the while feeling him peel her off him, sensing that he wanted to leave immediately. She’d suggested they go downstairs and he talk it through with her properly; this had proved a mistake, as it allowed him to make a physical break. He’d placed her, heaving sobs and all, in a chair while he crept into the sleeping space and grabbed a couple of belongings. He’d hugged her again, he’d pulled up her top and kissed the bump, and he’d left.