‘Gorgeous!’ Heather announced with a vigorous nod of her head. ‘It makes you look taller and really, really slim, and it’ll look lovely on the stage, the shiny material picks up the light.’
‘How’s the length?’ Kirsty checked, pleased that Heather said she looked a bit taller, as she was a good three inches shorter than her older sister and sometimes felt she got a bit lost with all the tall men in the band. ‘Not too long?’
‘Perfect,’ her mother said, delighted that she’d got the hem on the dress so straight. ‘It’s a perfect fit on you all over.’
‘Long?’ Fintan said, scratching his head uncertainly. ‘It’s almost up to your knees . . . and I think it’s a bit on the low side at the chest . . .’ He turned to his wife.
‘Could you not sew a wee triangle at the front where the bow is, and bring it up a bit higher? She’s a bit on the young side to be going out dressed like that –’
‘Daddy!’ Kirsty hissed, rolling her eyes. ‘These dresses are all the go – the Beverley Sisters and all the famous acts wear things like this. Don’t forget I’m the lead singer in the band. I’ve got to stand out from the rest of the girls at the dance.’
‘Well, you’ll certainly stand out in that get-up,’ Fintan said, nodding in exasperation. ‘And let’s hope it’s for your good singing and not for all the wrong reasons.’
‘I hope that oul’ fella that runs the hall has the radiators working tonight,’ Kirsty announced as two of the band members, resplendent in tuxedos and black bow-ties, reached their hands out to pull her into the back of the van, then went back to the bottles of beer they were drinking. Alcohol wasn’t allowed in the church halls so the lads always had a few drinks in the van at the beginning of the night, and another few at the break. They didn’t bother offering the young girl any, as they knew she preferred a lemonade or a cup of tea to beer – and they didn’t want to have to answer to Fintan Grace if he caught the smell of drink from his daughter.
Kirsty was warmly wrapped up in her mother’s fox-fur coat, with a finely knitted, blue lace scarf that her Auntie Mona had given her for her birthday back in October. A pair of sheepskin mittens completed the ensemble – Kirsty Grace was not taking any chances with the Scottish winter weather.
‘Once you get up on that stage, you’ll soon warm them all up,’ a dark, curly headed young fellow called back from the driver’s seat. Martin Kerr was the lead guitarist and the male vocalist who harmonised with Kirsty or took over a few songs halfway through the night to give her a break. He also owned the van in which they drove to their singing venues. ‘When we play those new numbers we’ve practised, they’ll all be up on the floor.’
‘It’s me I’m worried about, not the dancers,’ Kirsty laughed, carefully settling herself into one of the cracked, black plastic seats, which Martin had unsuccessfully attempted to repair with peeling black duct-tape. Apart from using the van to convey the musical equipment, he often used it as a minibus taxi to earn a few extra pounds when he wasn’t playing.
‘I had flu for a week the last time we played in this dive,’ Kirsty went on, ‘and I blame that oul’ fella for trying to save on the coal.’ The dance hall wasn’t one of their favourite venues, only being a church hall, but it always got a good turn-out in the winter when people didn’t want to travel too far from home.
‘There’s supposed to be a big booking agent from Glasgow here tonight,’ Martin called over his shoulder. ‘So you never know your luck.’
‘I’ve heard that one before,’ Kirsty reminded him, feigning the world-weary attitude of an older woman. ‘I won’t be holding my breath. I’ve never seen any booking agents at the places we play in.’ Then, as the van pulled away from the kerb, she turned around to the window to see if young Lily was watching out for the van. She spotted the little pixie face at her aunt’s window three houses down and gave a big cheery wave. The little girl held the dog up now, and waved its paw – obviously all ready and waiting. Kirsty laughed to herself. She was very, very fond of Lily, who was much more like a younger sister than a cousin. The conversation she’d had with Heather about never seeing Lily again suddenly came back into her mind and she shivered at the thought. ‘Oh, you’re a right cynic, for an eighteen-year-old girl, Kirsty Grace,’ Joe Hanlon, the drummer and oldest member of the group said now. For all he ran the local boxing club, Joe was known to be a mannerly, amiable type of fellow. ‘Where’s all the starry-eyed ambition that you used to have?’ He shook his head at the two fellows opposite him. ‘I can mind you only last year thinkin’ that every smartly dressed stranger that came into the clubs might be a famous booking agent that might discover us.’
‘Och, that was when I was daft and impressionable,’ Kirsty said, waving her hand. ‘A year makes a big difference. Weekends of driving from one damp, freezing dance hall to another fairly keeps your feet on the ground. Oh, there’s nobody will pull the wool over my eyes now, I know what to expect. I’ve no illusions about it, if it gives me a bit of pocket money for clothes and getting my hair done, that’s as good as it gets.’
‘Famous last words,’ Joe warned her. ‘Famous last words.’
The hall was inarguably warmer than the previous time they had played in it, and the fellows in the band constantly teased Kirsty about how she had terrified the poor caretaker into action. She cheerfully ignored their banter as they methodically set up their instruments on the small stage, thinking to herself that the whole place could have done with a good sweep out. Then, while the boys were setting up her microphone, Kirsty went off to find the beleaguered hall caretaker to see if he could find a bit of string that might hold up one of the faded green, velvet curtains so that it would at least look as though it vaguely matched the curtain opposite. She had mentioned this along with the lack of heating to him on their previous visit, and she intended to make the point again, taking the attitude that if nothing was said, nothing would be done.
The crowd started to drift in shortly afterwards, and within half an hour, the hall was packed and the band members were all ready to begin their warm-up numbers. Kirsty had already run through her songs in her bedroom at home, making sure that her voice was ready for the harder notes as the night wore on.
They slid into a few lively Bill Haley numbers that they knew would get the crowd stirred up, and then after Martin gestured to the caretaker to dim the main lights as he was supposed to have done, they played a few slower numbers before swinging into their set programme.
As she sang, Kirsty found herself going through all the words in a perfect but mechanical fashion, having no trouble hitting the notes in any of the songs, old and new. Recently, when she was on stage, her mind kept wandering to more exotic places like the scenes from South Pacific and films with Mario Lanza or whatever latest musical show she had seen or heard on radio. She even found herself thinking longingly of the amateur musicals she had been involved in back in her secondary school days. That’s where it had all started – her love of music and singing. With the help of an enthusiastic older music teacher who had encouraged her to go for proper singing lessons.
They stopped halfway through the night and the fellows went out into the van for their beer while Kirsty went down the rickety wooden steps from the stage into the small ante-room where a cup of tea and a small iced cake were waiting for her. She was leaning against the radiator with the fur coat draped around her shoulders and the hot cup in her hands, pondering over the latest situation with Heather and Gerry, when suddenly the door from the main hall burst open.
‘Where is he?’ snapped a familiarly aggressive voice, reminiscent of a movie gangster. It was a small local fellow with slicked-back red hair – well known to be a troublemaker – who had been banned from several clubs for fighting.
‘You’re not supposed to be in here – this is only for the band.’ Kirsty stated, her brows deepening and disapproval written all over her face. They often got clowns who had drunk too much causing trouble like this.
‘Fu
ck off and don’t tell me what to do!’ he said, looking back over his shoulder out into the crowd. ‘Where is that big bastard?’
‘Don’t dare talk to me like that!’ Kirsty said, moving from the radiator to the table at the centre of the small room. She slid the fur coat from her shoulders onto the back of a chair. ‘You’ve no right to come in here cursin’ and shouting your head off – and I haven’t even the faintest notion of who you’re talking about.’
‘That blidey Martin Kerr . . . he’s got it comin’ to him!’ His eyes were getting wilder now. ‘I’m goin’ to give him a right doin’ over the night,’ he said, his hand reaching suspiciously inside his jacket. ‘When I’m finished with him, I’ll make sure he’ll never be able to hold a guitar again.’
‘Aw, don’t talk nonsense!’ Kirsty said, her tone derisory now. It was amazing how drink made these eedjits so dramatic. ‘He’ll kill you – he’s nearly twice your height and build. Don’t be so stupid.’ Her voice lowered; fights were part and parcel of the dance halls, and most of them came to nothing more than skirmishes. But the wild look in this fellow’s eyes told her that it was best to try to diffuse the situation if at all possible – especially when his issue was with one of the band members. ‘Look, if I was you,’ she told him putting her cup down on the table, ‘I’d just forget whatever is annoyin’ you and go and enjoy your evening dancing. They’ll only chuck you out and ban you, and then you’ll miss all the good dances over Christmas and New Year.’ She gave him an understanding little smile. ‘Now, you wouldn’t want that to happen, would you? Christmas is the best time of the year.’
‘Fuck off, you!’ was his reply. ‘Nobody tells me what to do.’
Just then the door from the stage end opened and Joe Hanlon came down the steps followed by Martin.
‘Kerr – ya rotten big bastard!’ the little fellow said, advancing towards the men. His hand went inside his jacket again and this time it came back out wielding a toasting fork, a good nine inches long. He held the fork aloft. ‘Let’s see what a big man you are now!’
Joe and Martin moved backwards back up the steps, trying to size up the situation. The little fellow was known for being vindictive and unpredictable.
‘I’ve no row wi’ you,’ Martin told him. ‘I don’t know what all this daft carry-on is about.’
‘Well, I’ve got a fuckin’ row with you!’ the little guy informed him, waving the fork in the air. ‘Chuckin’ me off your mouldy oul’ rust-bucket of a van last weekend and leavin’ me to walk home two miles in the fuckin-well rain. Ma good suit was ruined!’
Martin had a vague memory of a drunken football crowd he had carried causing ructions in the back of the van and pulling into the side of the road where the worst two fellows were pushed out.
‘There’s no need for any of this!’ Joe warned him, moving between them now. ‘You can settle your arguments outside the hall when the dance is over, and without resorting to weapons.’
‘Put the fork down,’ Martin told him calmly, ‘and we can go outside right now and sort our differences out.’
‘Do it!’ Joe shouted, in an authorative tone. ‘Because if you use that thing, you’re only goin’ to get a sore face and maybe even land yersel’ in jail.’ Joe took up a boxing stance, his fists held out defensively, while Martin, eyes narrowed, came in close behind him. The red-headed fellow hesitated for a second, and when Kirsty saw his arm go slightly limp she came behind him and her hand shot out and grabbed the fork right out of his grip. Almost at the same time Joe moved forward and swung the fellow around, forcing his hands behind his back and his head down onto the table.
The little fellow fought back, kicking out viciously and mouthing obscenities, but when Martin put his big hand on the back of his neck he knew it was pointless.
‘Now, look,’ Martin told him, ‘I don’t know what your problem is, but I’m going to give you one more chance to get out of here before I break your blidey neck.’ He paused.
‘D’you hear me?’
There was no answer. Martin’s grip kept tightening until eventually the fellow gave a nod of his head.
‘Aw, just get somebody to phone the polis!’ Kirsty suggested in a scornful tone. ‘They’ll soon lock him up for the night when they see that stupid-looking fork he was carrying in his jacket.’
‘Well? Have you decided which way you’re going to go?’ Joe Hanlon said, pushing down hard on the small fellow’s arms. ‘Are we going to do this the smart way and forget all about it, or are we going to have to give you a good beltin’ and then let the polis take you?’
‘Aye,’ Martin hissed, ‘apart from assault they might just do you for stealin’ yer granny’s toasting fork!’
The taunt caused another short but vigorous struggle accompanied by the customary string of obscenities, but both men could feel it was only token and that he had more or less given in. A few minutes later, they had him up on his feet with Joe and Martin on either side, pinning his arms behind his back. In a stiff, halting way, as if they were all moulded together, the three of them moved out of the door and into the main hall.
The little fellow made yet another token gesture of struggling as they moved across the floor, but he quietened down when the hefty Martin hissed in his ear. ‘If you don’t go quietly, I’ll go back and get that blidey fork and stick it in your chest and eat you for ma breakfast in the morning!’ Martin gave him a shove. ‘You’re nothin’ but a belligerent wee nyaff, so ye are!’
The threat seemed to work this time and he calmed down again, allowing himself to be led out of an emergency exit door at the side of the hall.
Thankfully, Kirsty thought as the group disappeared, the other band members had gone out to the van to have a fly drink, and a lot of the young fellows at the dance had gone across to the working-men’s club at the break.
All they would have needed was a crowd from the fellow’s local village to decide to back him up against all the ones in the band, as a way to liven up the evening. She tutted to herself and went back into the ante-room to check her bouffant hair style was still in place, and to finish off her tea and cake.
Fellows like that were part and parcel of these places, and she had grown used to it. Most of them were just like lads she’d gone to school with – they acted the eedjit when they had too much to drink. She swallowed the last bit of her cake and then, catching sight of the offending toasting-fork, went over to examine it.
As she lifted it up, she sucked in her breath at the state of the thin, sharp prongs which looked as though they had been filed to an even sharper point. There was no doubt about it – it was a dangerous-looking thing.
She looked around the dilapidated room now, full of stacked chairs and crooked cabinets and chests of drawers, wondering if there was a safe place to hide the fork in case the little red-haired nuisance decided to come back in looking for it. She eventually decided on Martin’s guitar case, and after draining her cup of lukewarm tea went back up onto the stage to put it in the case and safely out of sight.
The second part of the night disappeared without any further incidents and all in all the band were happy enough with their performance of the new songs, one of which they planned to play in the talent competition in Hamilton the following night.
‘I see there weren’t too many booking agents there tonight,’ Joe said, winking across to the other musicians as the engine roared into life and they set off for home at the end of the night.
Kirsty was curled up in the back corner of the minibus, cocooned in her mother’s fur coat again, the lacey scarf wrapped several times around her throat, taking no chances until the van heated up properly.
‘Pity there wasn’t,’ Martin Kerr said in a droll voice, ‘because there was plenty of lively talent going on there, especially in the ante-room at the break. There’s many a man couldn’t have held his own the way that wee Kirsty tackled that fella.’
‘Well, boys, let that be a lesson to you all,’ Kirsty piped up from the corner.
Chapter 7
Sophie stepped out of the back door, a pink plastic baby’s bath piled up with newly washed towels, her eyes scanning the morning sky for signs of the rain that was forecast. Then, deciding that it was worth getting them out into the fresh air even for half an hour, she went down the three steps and into the square drying green edged all around with a neat privet hedge.
She dropped the heavy load onto the grass that Fintan diligently kept short, and reached for the small plastic peg basket that was hooked onto one of the rusty clothes poles. Then she set about the bending and stretching that was involved in pegging out the towels. The latch on the back gate went and in came the small familiar figure of Lily.
‘Are Heather and Kirsty up yet?’ she asked, closing the gate behind her.
Sophie took a peg out of her mouth, delighted to see that there was no sign of the yappy Whiskey along with her niece. ‘No,’ she said, ‘they’re still in bed.’
Lily slid in past her, although the fact she was still in her slippers did not go unnoticed by her aunt. ‘I’m just goin’ upstairs to see them for a wee minute,’ she said, before her aunt had a chance to protest.
‘They’re asleep! Don’t bother your head going up to see them,’ Sophie called, but it was too late. ‘You fly little bugger!’ Sophie said to herself, and went back to pegging out her washing.
Lily stood at the girls’ open door now, her hands shaped like a megaphone. ‘Wakey, wakey!’ she bellowed, her voice piercing the sleepy silence. ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock on a Saturday mornin’ and youse two lazy bizzims should be up!’
Both girls moved to cover their heads with the blankets, leaving trails of dark and blonde hair visible on top of their pillows.
The Grace Girls Page 4
