by Maureen Lee
‘But,’ Cora began, disappointed, because she wanted the whole world to know that this was her son: Maurice, the jail bird, belonged to someone else.
Then Cormac put his small white hands round Cora’s scraggy neck and began to squeeze. ‘If you tell another soul, Aunt Cora, so help me, I’ll kill you. I swear it. No matter where I am, I’ll come back and kill you stone dead.’
She was gagging. ‘Leave go, son. I won’t tell a soul.’
He removed his hands. ‘You’d better not,’ he said threateningly. ‘And don’t, don’t ever call me son again.’
With a sense of perverse pride, Cora realised that soft, gentle Cormac, who everyone thought wouldn’t have hurt a fly, who had never been heard to raise his voice in anger, meant every word. She herself had killed, a long time ago, two people. A chip off the old block, she thought. He’s his mammy’s son, that’s for sure. She sighed happily. Cormac knew the truth and that was all that mattered. One of these days he’d come round and learn to love his mam.
Cormac went into the Gents and stared at himself in the mirror. Within the space of a few minutes the bottom had dropped out of his world. He hadn’t realised how swiftly life could change, that you could be completely happy one minute, in the depths of despair the next.
He had never liked Aunt Cora. She gave him the jitters. There was something unhinged about her. As he grew older, he’d become convinced that she was mad and, if she truly was his mother, then he, Cormac, could easily become mad himself. He hadn’t, for instance, considered himself remotely capable of murder, yet minutes ago he’d grabbed a woman by the throat with the intention of strangling her. He wondered if he would have done it if there hadn’t been other people around.
By some obscene coincidence her name could actually be made from the letters of his: Cormac, Cora, as if, inadvertently, there’d been a connection between them all along.
The idea that everything that had happened so far in his life was due entirely to the quirk of a crazy woman wandering around a hospital in the dead of night made his stomach curl with horror. It was enough to make anyone lose his mind.
On the other hand he supposed he was lucky. It could have been him, not Maurice, brought up in the house in Garibaldi Road with a cane hanging on the wall.
Poor Maurice! Cormac shuddered.
He no longer felt sure who he was, whom he belonged to, which family was his. He told himself that Aunt Cora was talking rubbish, as he’d first thought, except that the person staring back at him from the mirror had the cold eyes and the nothing face of his detested aunt. The eyes were a different colour, that was all.
Oh, God! Why hadn’t he noticed before? Why hadn’t anyone? Until now, he’d always considered himself at least averagely good-looking, but the face in the mirror looked like that of a corpse.
‘We don’t know who on earth he takes after,’ Mam said when people remarked Cormac was nothing like the rest of the family. No one had noticed the remarkable resemblance between the woman who now claimed to be his mother and himself. He would never, never be able to get his head round the fact that Alice wasn’t his mam.
There was a knock on the door. ‘Cormac, are you all right, son? I hope you haven’t made yourself sick with all that beer. Oh, by the way, I’ve got a cloth meself.’
‘I’m all right.’ He couldn’t bring himself to say ‘Mam’, he just couldn’t. ‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ he called.
Chapter 11
1965
Cormac lay flat on his back within a circle of brittle corn. He stared at the sky through the corn tunnel that grew narrower and narrower until the top seemed no bigger than his eye. The flattened plants beneath him stuck sharply into his body through his thin Indian top and flared cotton pants, though they didn’t hurt. His arms were spread as wide as they would go and his hands were hidden within the yellow stalks. The tips of his fingers touched those of Wally on one side and Frank the Yank, snoring his head off, on the other.
He imagined himself a bird passing overhead and seeing himself and his friends spread out like a row of little paper men.
‘Why is the sun red?’ Wally murmured.
‘I don’t know,’ Cormac answered. ‘Why is everywhere so hot?’
‘Because the sun is so red, man. It’s on fire.’
‘I need a drink.’ Cormac sat up and experimentally touched his bare toes. The fact that he was physically capable of such an act meant he was badly in need of a joint as well as a drink so that his senses would become sufficiently blurred.
He got to his feet and staggered towards a luridly painted coach that was parked in the corner of a field in Suffolk, Sussex or Surrey, he couldn’t remember which. He knew they were on their way to play at a pop festival in Norwich, which would start the day after tomorrow. The farmer whose field they were on was so far unaware he had trespassers. If he noticed before they left that night, they would be turfed off sharpish with the aid of a couple of savage dogs, a shotgun, or possibly both.
Inside, the coach buzzed with flies. When bought, it had already been converted into a mobile home with six bunks, three each side, as close as shelves, a tiny sink and a table at the rear with fitted, plastic-covered benches. Behind a screen a chemical lavatory remained unused because no one was prepared to empty it and there was a tiny fridge that no longer worked. The windows had been painted over to provide privacy, apart from the one in the roof, which wouldn’t open. The sun scorched through the glass like a blowtorch, turning the cramped space into an oven.
Cormac could hardly breathe in the suffocating heat. He opened the fridge and remembered it was broken when he came face to face with half a mouldy tomato. Nothing came out when he turned on the tap over the sink – the water tank must be empty. He searched everywhere, in the cupboard under the sink, under bunks, under the clothes that littered the bunks, but could find nothing except a few empty beer bottles that yielded not a drop when he attempted to drain them. In the process he knocked over a guitar, which fell to the floor with a hollow boom and he noticed one of the strings was broken.
Then he recalled that the girls had gone into the village to buy supplies: Tanya and Pol, but his memory was hazy as to the time they’d gone. It could have been five minutes ago or five hours.
Jaysus, the smell in here was foul. Someone had been sick the night before and everywhere reeked of vomit. Perhaps that was what attracted the flies. There was another smell, quite strong, and Cormac realised it was paint. The fiery sun was burning the paint off the outside of the coach.
He’d die if he didn’t have a drink soon. Perhaps a joint would lessen his thirst. He remembered a joint was one of the reasons he was there and reached under the pillow on his bunk for the battered Golden Virginia tin in which he kept his stuff.
‘Hello, friends,’ he said affectionately to the contents of the tin: a packet of red Rizla papers and a book of matches nestling within a bed of tobacco and, most important, a lump of hash that felt warm. He spread the tobacco on a paper and shredded a portion of the hash with his fingernail so that it was evenly spread, then put back the remainder carefully. He lit the spliff, took a long, deep puff, then went out and sat in the shade of the coach, his back against it. It didn’t feel even vaguely cool, but at least he was out of the sun.
‘Hi, man.’ Wally appeared. ‘Is there anything to drink in there?’
Cormac shook his head. ‘Not a drop, man.’
‘Where’s Tanya and Pol?’
‘Gone somewhere. Where’s Frank?’
‘Asleep.’
‘Shouldn’t someone wake him? He’ll get sunburn.’ Did you get sunburn or catch it?
‘I suppose someone should.’ Wally must have decided it wasn’t going to be him. He sat beside Cormac and gestured towards the joint. Cormac handed it to him. They shared everything, including the girls. Cormac and Wally had shared each other, only the once, but had decided it wasn’t for them.
Frank the Yank provided most of the money. His pa had sent him abroad to
escape the Vietnam draft and wherever they went, Frank only had to find a Lloyds bank and produce his passport, and massive amounts of cash would be handed over. It was Frank who’d bought the coach and they’d painted it together. The others signed on the dole if they stayed somewhere long enough, but that didn’t happen often.
A pleasant fog had formed inside Cormac’s head. He was no longer thirsty. This hazy sensation of wanting nothing, needing nothing, was something Cormac wished to retain for the rest of his life. His ambition was to get from one day to the next in the deepest possible daze without actually becoming unconscious – unconsciousness appealed, but was impractical.
The girls returned, loaded with shopping. Cormac feebly raised a hand in greeting. Pol smiled, but Tanya eyed them balefully.
‘You’re stoned,’ she said accusingly. ‘I bet you haven’t cleaned up inside.’ Tanya was tall, breathtakingly beautiful and extremely bad-tempered for most of the time. She wore a full-length flowered skirt and a skimpy T–shirt. Her mother was a famous model.
‘Cleaned up inside?’ Cormac and Wally said more or less together. They looked at each other. It was the first they’d heard of it.
‘It stinks in there. It wasn’t Pol or me who was sick. You promised you’d clean it.’
‘Did we?’
‘I’ll do it.’ Pol was short and slight, and merely pretty. She had crisp brown curly hair and a heart-shaped face. In her limp, shapeless cotton frock, she looked no more than sixteen, though she was twenty-one, three years younger than Cormac. ‘As my horrible mother used to say, “If you want something done properly, then do it yourself”.’
‘Alice used to say something like that.’ Cormac grinned.
‘Where’s Frank?’ Tanya demanded.
‘Asleep,’ Wally said.
‘In there?’ She pointed to the coach.
‘No, over yonder,’ Wally said poetically and gave a vague wave in the direction of the field.
‘Tsk, tsk. He’ll get sunburnt.’ Tanya marched away, her back rigid, like a schoolmistress. Cormac supposed that someone had to keep them in order. He was glad Tanya was around. And Pol. Particularly Pol.
‘I’ll put these away.’ Pol staggered as she picked up one of the bags laden with shopping.
Cormac’s innate courtesy came to the fore and he stumbled to his feet. ‘I’ll give you a hand with those.’
‘Ta, Cormac. Phew, what a smell!’ Pol gasped when they were inside the coach. She tripped over the guitar and it slid along the floor until it stopped under the table with a thump. ‘We need to find a launderette and wash the sleeping bags. There’s bound to be one in Ipswich, and they’re usually open till late. I’ll chuck everything outside for now.’ With that, she began to grab the sleeping bags and the scattered clothes, and to throw them out of the door. The worst of the smell went with them.
Where on earth did she get the energy from? Cormac wondered. He himself would have found it a simple matter to wallow in filth for the rest of his life rather than wash a sheet. ‘Is that where we are, Ipswich?’ He’d only vaguely heard of the place before.
‘About five miles away. Are you thirsty?’ She was putting the food away under the sink.
‘I think I might well be.’
‘Would you like some lemonade?’
‘That would be most acceptable.’
‘Sit down, then, and I’ll pour you some.’
‘Thank you, Pol,’ Cormac said gravely.
‘When we stop in Ipswich to do the washing, it wouldn’t hurt if you washed your hair, Cormac. It’s getting quite matted. You could do it in a Gents toilet.’
‘I like it matted.’ Cormac touched the hair that went halfway down his back. It felt greasy and unusually thick.
Pol shrugged, easygoing. ‘Please yourself.’
‘I’ll wash me hair for you.’ He liked Pol very much, perhaps a bit too much. He was beginning to resent having to share her with Wally and Frank. Perhaps they should find another girl and split into three separate couples. ‘I think I love you, Pol,’ he said seriously.
‘Oh, Cormac! You’re too stoned to think most of the time.’ She looked at him curiously. ‘Why do you do it? I mean, I like a spliff myself, but you seem to be on a permanent high.’
‘It’s a long story, Pol. Something happened.’ Cormac spoke slowly, carefully enunciating the words, hoping they made sense. ‘One day, no, one minute, everything was perfect, next minute it was shit.’
‘What was it that happened?’
‘I discovered I wasn’t the person I’d always thought meself to be.’
Pol looked impressed. ‘That sounds deeply disturbing, Cormac.’
‘Intensely deeply.’ Cormac was about to reach for her, pull her on to a bunk, when Wally fell into the coach, following by Frank, who was being led by an irritable Tanya. Frank’s face and arms were as bright red as his hair and slightly puffy.
‘I’m all right, man,’ he protested. ‘Stop making a fuss.’
‘You won’t feel all right tomorrow. You’ll be as sick as a dog. Is there calamine lotion in the first aid box, Pol?’ It was Tanya’s idea to have a first aid box, and Cormac had to concede it came in useful from time to time.
‘I don’t think so, no.’
‘Then I suggest we leave now, straight away,’ Tanya said briskly. ‘We’ll call in Ipswich, do the washing, fill the water tank, buy some calamine lotion. Are any of you three fit to drive?’
Cormac occasionally drove, even though he’d never had a lesson. ‘I’m ferfectly pit,’ he announced.
‘Oh, yeh!’ Tanya glared at Wally who had collapsed on the floor. Frank had started to shiver violently for some reason. ‘It looks as if I’ll have to drive myself. One of these days we’ll be stopped by the police and I haven’t got a proper licence.’
The surface of the large field had baked as hard as clay. It was impossible to imagine the soil having been soft enough for the huge tyres of tractors to have made such perfect moulds – they made comfortable seats, Cormac discovered, just wide and deep enough for his bottom to fit.
Pol sat between his legs, leaning against him. His hands lay limply on her lap. They sprawled at the very edge of the field, where they could hardly see the group playing beneath an awning that fluttered not an inch on such a windless day. The music stopped and there was a smattering of applause from the crowds that dotted the field like confetti. The audience included many children, most of them naked. A few of the women were bare to the waist. The numerous dogs seemed to have been trained to defecate and piss as frequently as possible.
Today, Pol wore a different frock, just as shapeless. He nuzzled her hair, which smelt of soap. His own hair, beautifully clean, was wondrous to behold: clouds of pale-blond locks held together at the back with an elastic band.
‘Where do you come from, Pol?’ he asked. She’d probably told him before, but he’d forgotten.
‘Lancashire, same as you. Blackpool.’
‘I went to Blackpool once. There was something called the Golden Mile.’ He’d gone on the big wheel with Fion and Orla. Maeve had been too scared. Grandad had been there. It was before he’d married Bernadette.
‘You should see the Blackpool Lights in a few weeks’ time, they’re terrific.’
‘Shall we go together?’
‘No chance, Cormac. I might meet my mother.’
‘Would that be so awful?’
‘Awfully awful. She’s a bitch.’
‘So’s mine.’ Cormac shuddered.
‘I thought you said your mother was lovely.’ She turned her face towards him and he kissed her nose. ‘You’re always on about Alice.’
‘Alice isn’t my mother, she just thinks she is.’
‘Oh, Cormac, you don’t half talk rubbish. Were you adopted or something?’
‘No, I was given away at birth.’
‘Who by, a bad fairy?’
‘Well, yes, as it happens. Very bad.’
‘You’re something of a mystery, do you kno
w that, Cormac?’
‘I’m a mystery to meself,’ Cormac said darkly.
‘Are we playing here tomorrow?’
‘I doubt it, not if Frank’s still laid low with sunburn. And I think one of the guitars is broken.’ The Nobodys were usually the first on the bill, hired to keep folks amused while they looked for somewhere to sit, or searched for their seats if the concert was indoors. Frank and Wally played guitar not very well. The only decent musician was Tanya who was brilliant with the fiddle.
Pol had a sweet, high voice and Cormac could rattle a tambourine as well as anyone. He was the group’s manager-cum-roadie. At least, he was when he remembered. The Nobodys were unusual in that they recognised their limitations and weren’t interested in either fame or money. It was just something to do, giving occasional point to their otherwise meaningless lives.
‘I think I’ll go back to the van, bathe poor Frank’s head, or something,’ Pol said.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Cormac said with alacrity. He didn’t want her alone with Frank, who might not be one hundred per cent incapacitated by the sunburn.
‘There’s no need, Cormac.’
‘This group are shit and I need a rest.’
‘What from? You’ve been sitting in that rut virtually all day.’
‘I need a rest from sitting in this rut.’
Vehicles were parked nose to tail along the narrow country lane: buses, caravanettes, lorries, large vans, small vans, ambulances with the word ‘Ambulance’ painted out, the occasional car. According to the radio, it was the same for miles around. The police had decided to let the festival go ahead rather than turn hundreds of vehicles away. It would cause less hassle. On the radio, several local residents had huffed and puffed, and said it was disgraceful. Why weren’t these people at work? How dare they descend on a peaceful, law-abiding community and create havoc? Pubs, restaurants, one or two garages, had signs outside, ‘No Festival Goers’. The Nobodys were out of water again and it was impossible to get more.
