Harry had sometimes brought his three children around to the harbour, where a large brown van sold fish suppers ‘straight off the boats’. He’d carry the steaming hot food wrapped in newsprint across to the small rectangular parking area where Gary, Bobby and Hettie were waiting expectantly. Together they’d sit in contented silence, watching this lonely piece of rock until the streetlights around the island’s only perimeter road gradually illuminated its base and it was time to head home. The only movement was the stocky, lugubrious, black-and-white ferries that traversed the normally calm water between Ardrossan in the distance, and Brodick on the Isle of Arran. They moved so slowly and directly it was as if they were being operated by a pulley system. It was entirely appropriate that Hettie and Gary should spend this last day of his R ‘n’ R here.
They were way beyond the starter’s hut on the Royal Troon Golf Course when Gary eventually stopped and set Hettie back on her feet. He’d spotted a sheltered section of the dunes and motioned for her to follow him over. The rain was still relatively light, but the sand was dry within the protective structure of the banking and the westerly wind that had been blowing into their faces as they had progressed down the beach towards Prestwick was now billowing far above their heads. They both sat down on Gary’s jacket. He pulled black sandshoes from its inside pockets and arched his long, bony feet into them.
‘Mum’ll have been pleased wi’ yer prelim results then,’ said Gary before lighting a cigarette.
‘Yeah, but Dad’s a bit annoyed that ah’ve dropped the biology. Ah was doing OK, but ah couldn’t do that and art and music.’
‘You need to do the subjects that you want tae do. It’s got fu … It’s nuthin’ tae do wi’ him.’ Gary worked hard to avoid swearing in Hettie’s presence. She had never asked him not to; it was just a self-imposed boundary he had always felt that he shouldn’t cross.
‘He doesn’t mean to be negative,’ said Hettie. ‘He just can’t see how a good job can come out of goin’ tae art school. He’s obsessed wi’ me doin’ medicine or law or something …’
Gary cut across her. ‘… Aye but just so he can brag about it tae auld bags like Sadie Flanagan! Trust me, you dae exactly whit fires ye. Yer cleverer than any ae’ us an’ when ah come back up after the summer, ah’m no wantin’ tae hear that you’ve dropped these subjects cos’ a school jannie made ye.’
‘What do ye mean … after the summer?’ asked Hettie, a little aggressively.
‘Ach … we’re maybe gettin’ a postin’ in the next few weeks.’ Gary said this quietly and then paused before adding, ‘… an’ there’s a lassie … doon in London, ken? Anyway auld Harry’ll be glad ae’ the peace after this wee trip.’
‘He’s really proud ae you tae, Gary. Ah ken it. Ah’ve heard him talkin’ to Mum about ye. About how ye’ve done somethin’ he dreamed about himself. Somethin’ he’d always wanted tae dae, but never got the chance.’
‘Ah didnae ken he’d wanted tae join the Army!’ said Gary.
‘Naw, go an’ get a tattoo,’ laughed Hettie. This made the proud Scots Guardsman laugh as well, before pushing his sister over onto her side then leaning over and gently and repeatedly dummy-punching her left upper arm.
‘Gary, stop it. Stop! Ah’ll pee myself,’ she giggled. Gary eventually let her up and they sat side-by-side on his black donkey jacket, gazing out over the Firth of Clyde, neither of them speaking until Hettie eventually broke the silence.
‘So, a lassie, then? Ye kept this quiet. C’mon, spill. Whit’s her name? Whit’s she like?’
Gary blushed a bit. He’d been partly hoping she hadn’t fully heard him.
‘Ah dunno if anythin’ll come ae it. She works in a hotel near the barracks. Ah saw her a couple of times when the platoon was out runnin’. Then, later, we got talkin’.’ Gary turned away. He was beginning to wish he’d kept this part of his life a secret.
‘Has she actually got a name?’ asked Hettie, prodding her brother in the ribs.
‘Eh … aye, it’s Debbie.’
‘Anything else? Any distinguishin’ marks? Facial ticks? Whit does her dad do?’
‘Jesus Christ, Hets. It’s probably nuthin’. I like her but we’ve only been out the once.’
‘Ye’ve been out wi’ her … and that’s me just finding out about it? Aw those bloody borin’ letters about marchin’ and funny chinstraps an’ ye miss this out!’ Hettie was enjoying tormenting her brother and she could see he was also trying hard to suppress a smile. She beamed as she began to realise that, for the first time in ages, he was genuinely happy.
‘We went for a walk through St James’s Park a coupla’ weeks ago. It was freezin’, but really great, ken? Had a coffee an’ that, an’ talked for ages.’ He could sense Hettie was desperate for more information. He decided she deserved to hear it.
‘You’d like her Het. She reminds me a lot ae’ you. Her mam’s an artist. She was born in India. No sure whit ‘er dad does but ah think it’s somethin’ along the same lines as Stan May. She’s lived in aw these bizarre places like Cairo an’ Marrakech an’ that. Loads more ah huvnae even heard ae.’ Gary was aware that Hettie was enthralled by this and that she would already be thinking about when they could meet and visit an art gallery together. Gary kept going.
‘Her dad was really sick, so they came back tae Wakefield when she was fifteen. But they didnae settle. Nomads, she calls them. So they’re aw doon in London now an’ she’s working for a wee while before college after the summer. That’s about it.’ Gary sat back as if in need of respite after an emotional confession.
‘Age?’ asked Hettie.
‘Twenty-two … naw -three, ah think.’
‘Ye huvnae asked? Whit if her birthday’s next week when ye go back? When are ye seein’ her again?’ Hettie was becoming a touch impatient at her brother’s apparent lack of direct action.
‘Ah’m no sure. Nothing really planned.’ Hettie found this too much.
‘Nothin’ planned? Jesus, Gary, how many girlfriends have you actually had?’
Gary formed the words to answer without appreciating the rhetorical nature of the question.
‘No that many that ye can afford tae play the hard-tae-get, ah’d have thought!’ continued Hettie. ‘When ye were talking about her there, yer face was glowin’. Whit’s the matter wi’ ye? Get in there!’
This last phrase was designed to make him laugh. When talking to Joey Miller, Bobby used it as a catchphrase so often that Gary and Hettie had made a pact that they would have it inscribed on his gravestone. Unusually, though, Gary didn’t laugh this time.
‘Ah’m no really wantin’ it tae get too serious just now,’ said Gary. Hettie suspected something important was coming so she let the resultant pause play itself out.
‘It looks like ah’m goin’ tae Belfast in a few weeks.’ Gary stared more intently as if he could now visualise himself on a patrol away over on the other side of this black stretch of freezing water.
‘A few ae the boys have been talkin’ about it doon in London. They’ve said it’s no actually that bad. We might be goin’ tae the Bogside, just mainly doin’ foot patrols an’ helpin’ the polis wi’ searches an’ that.’ It was clear that this wasn’t going to be a two-way conversation, but Gary pressed on in his well-intentioned attempts to inform and placate his sister. He was now nervous and he sensed that Hettie knew it.
‘We’re a deterrent tae the bampots. The foot patrols can maintain contact wi’ local folk an’ it makes us seem more human an’ no whit aw the Republican propaganda would want them tae think.’
Hettie had never heard her brother talk like this before. It seemed like he was using words he had learned from an Army training manual; repeated so often that he had brainwashed himself with them. Gary had never been a respecter of Queen and country before, and Hettie couldn’t understand why he was now.
‘Ye ken, Hets, after ah went doon tae London … once ah’d been there for about six months, ah just wanted tae have somethin’ tae belong
tae. There wisnae any work, an’ ah’d been caught sleepin’ rough in the park twice. There’s loadsa guys ah kent for a wee while; aw ended up on the rent at Euston. Ah could see maself goin’ the same way. Last time ah got picked up, it was the polis guy that told me tae go tae the Army recruitment station. Even gave me a few quid tae get cleaned up an’ that. Came back two days later wi’ a shirt and a tie as well. Best thing that coulda happened tae be honest.’
Hettie was still sitting with her knees pulled up, hiding her face – and the fact that she was now gently sobbing – from Gary.
‘The Army’s been really good for me. Ye said so yerself. The barracks are a’right an’ ah’ve got good mates now. Everythin’s goin’ well for me.’ He stood up. ‘Don’t you worry about me. Belfast’ll be a breeze, man.’
Gary wasn’t sure what else to say. He didn’t want his last day for six months to be remembered as one when he had upset Hettie. But he needed to tell her that a tour of duty in Belfast was looking likely. It was one of the main reasons for suggesting they spend the day together. This couldn’t be something that he’d write in a letter from the comparative safety of his cramped London barracks.
‘Come on, H. Ah’ll race ye back tae the Forum Café. The fish suppers are on me, eh?’ He suspected she was crying, but didn’t want to see it. So he burst away up the hill and over the rolling dunes, only looking back when he knew he wouldn’t be able to witness the hurt he’d caused her. Yer a fuckin’ coward, Cassidy, he thought to himself. The bombs and bullets of County Fermanagh would surely be easier to cope with than the tears on his sister’s face, but this had just been the rehearsal before the main act. Gary still had Ethel, his hypertensive mum, to face.
PART II
Llew Gardner, journalist for Thames TV
‘Prime Minister, how long do you wish to go on being Prime Minister?’
Mrs Margaret Thatcher, the Prime Minister
‘Until I’m tired of it.’
Llew Gardner
‘How long will that be?’
Mrs Margaret Thatcher
‘Oh, I don’t get tired very easily.’
18th February 1982
Interview for Thames Television’s TV Eye
THERE’S AN OLD PIANO …
18TH FEBRUARY 1982: 2.35AM
‘Well, whit dae ye think? Ah thought that went a’right.’
‘Ah think you’re fuckin’ mental if ye think ah’m doin’ that again.’
Two friends sat on a Kilmarnock pavement after their first mobile DJ experience, reflecting on an evening of unexpected surrealism. Two halves of the same coin: Bobby Cassidy – optimistic entrepreneur – relentlessly heads up; Joey Miller – pragmatic fixer – obstinately tails down.
‘We’re out here stood on the fuckin’ pavement … it’s half-past two in the mornin’ … the gear’s gettin’ soaked fae aw this fuckin’ rain … we didnae get paid … an’ there’s nae van here to pick us up!’ Joey stood up for greater effect. ‘Ah’m really not sure how that fits intae the definition ae a’right.’
‘But …’
‘An’ another thing. If ah hear that fuckin’ Shakin’ Stevens record one more time, I’m gonnae fuckin’ kill somebody … probably you!’ Joey sat back down on the big black speaker and folded his arms. He was breathing hard and had turned away from Bobby to look down the length of John Finnie Street.
Bobby decided not to push it further for the moment. He reckoned that Joey’s frustration was borne of crushing disappointment. In the week running up to the gig – even though there only was one, Bobby had continually referred to it as a ‘gig’ to seduce Joey into believing that they were a part of the live music industry – Joey’s demeanour had changed to one in which his nervous anticipation was palpable. There remained a lingering concern about the number of records required for a night of mobile DJ-ing and it was clear from the outset that neither man would be making any money from this inaugural activity. But both had recognised the excitement of this do-it-yourself venture when rehearsing with the decks in Bobby’s bedroom. They had become comfortable with the equipment since picking it up from Hairy Doug’s at the beginning of a week-long hire. He’d turned out to be a decent – if unapologetically squalid – geezer, patiently demonstrating how the spaghetti of cables all found their various input and output points to provide life for the machine.
‘It’s all pretty easy, boys. And if that fat cunt Duncan can do it, well that should tell ya … any fooker can.’ And with that send-off, Hairy Doug truly endeared himself to Joey Miller.
The only thing the hirsute rocker couldn’t give them was a working microphone; but Bobby called in a favour and borrowed an old one from Dale Wishart – singer with local Mod band, The Vespas. But they didn’t rehearse with the microphone. They didn’t decide on who would speak, preferring to leave it until they got to the venue. The logic for this was similar to that of the football team awarded a penalty, but electing to let the taker be the player who most felt up to it on the night. It was often heard from professional football players that they couldn’t really practise for a vital penalty because the pressured context of a real match was impossible to create. And so Bobby Cassidy assuaged his embarrassment and prevaricated on the one key skill that a DJ needed. It would be a wrong call that would be regretted by more than just the two budding disc jockeys.
17TH FEBRUARY 1982: 6:48PM
‘Whaur’s ma new rid lippy, ya wee gadgie!’ Audrey King knew what was coming, but wasn’t quick enough to avoid it.
‘Maaaaammmmm!’ she howled as her elder sister yanked her back into the room they both shared by her long bleached hair. ‘Ah … sob huvnae … sob even seen it … sob … ya big fat cow!’
Lizzie King instinctively let go just as their step-mother strode in.
‘Whit? Ah ne’er even touched ‘er,’ exclaimed Lizzie, arms outstretched. ‘She’s ay fuckin’ whinin’ aboot suhin’, her.’
Lizzie was the second eldest of five children, all living in a three-bedroomed, mid-block council flat in Shortlees, with their Dad, Frank King – an Elvis Presley fanatic – and his third wife, Anne. The Kings’ was the only flat in a block of six that didn’t have its windows boarded up.
Back in the small, square bedroom, Tony Hadley gazed down impassively from the wall at the familiar scene.
‘Hey you. Language. Audrey, huv you been at her stuff again?’ Anne had her hands on her hips like a contemporary Maw Broon.
‘Niver touched it,’ bubbled Audrey, feeling her scalp and repeatedly investigating her hand for incriminating evidence of her own blood.
‘Liar!’ Lizzie screeched. She made a grab for Audrey again, but Anne had positioned herself between the girls.
‘You, awa’ intae the livin’ room.’ Audrey didn’t need a second invitation. Anne turned to Lizzie, pushing the door closed behind her. ‘Whit’s up wi’ ye? It’s yer party tonight an’ ye look bloody miserable. Everybody’s been on flamin’ eggshells wi’ ye aw week. Whit’s goin’ on?’
‘It’s nothin’ a’right. Just leave it, Mam,’ said Lizzie.
Anne smiled.
‘Whit?’ asked Lizzie.
‘Ah just like it when ye call me Mam.’ It hadn’t always been like this, but after a difficult couple of years, this last twelve months had seen them become more familiar with each other.
‘Ye’ve earnt that, ah suppose.’ Lizzie smiled briefly, then turned away to conceal it. She was still angry with Audrey.
‘Thanks … ah think,’ said Anne.
‘Well, it’s no like ye’ve had tae compete wi’ the auld yin,’ said Lizzie.
Frank’s previous wife, Isa, had up and left. If she had died, Anne might have had some memory to contend with. As it was, while Lizzie and her siblings hadn’t exactly made life easy for her at the beginning, it was obvious their father couldn’t look after them all by himself. As Lizzie saw it, without Anne, they’d have been on the phone to Esther Rantzen every week.
For her part, Anne had known taking on
a man like Frank – set in his ways and with four headstrong kids – wasn’t going to be a walk in the park. She smiled at Lizzie. ‘It would’ve been a lot harder if you … well, ye ken whit ah mean.’
‘Just keep him oot the bookies an’ we’ll aw be happy,’ said Lizzie.
‘He’s just goin’ through a bad patch. He’s got too much time on his hands, an’ nothin’ tae dae. Ken, he says tae me the other night, aw serious tae … “Whit age dae ye have to be tae get oan a Youth Opportunities Scheme?” Ye shouldnae laugh, but Christ, he’s nearly forty!’
‘Naw, yer right, Mam … ye shouldnae laugh. He’s fritterin’ away and jist dyin’ ae apathy. Three million folk … Jesus, whit a waste of life. If only they aw realised that ye could start a revolution wi’ they numbers. But then, the three-thirty at Cheltenham always gets in the way an’ diverts their attention.’ Lizzie looked she was going to cry. Anne moved closer and touched Lizzie’s arm. ‘Ah’m fine,’ said Lizzie.
‘Listen, Lizzie, there was somethin’ ah wanted tae tell …’
‘Shit!’ Lizzie interrupted.
‘Whit …? Whit’ve ye done?’
‘Ach, ah’ve just broken a bloody nail. Been ages paintin’ them anaw. Shit!’ Lizzie was annoyed again.
‘Ye sure you’re a’right? Time ae the month?’ enquired Anne.
‘Aye, but it’s no that. It’s just gettin’ a bit claustrophobic in here … sharin’ a room wi’ her an’ Linda,’ sighed Lizzie.
Anne gulped. ‘Are ye worried it’s no’ gonnae go well tonight? You’ve got loadsa folk comin’. This’ll just be nerves, eh?’ Anne had her arm around Lizzie.
The Last Days of Disco Page 6
