by Anne Donovan
The adjudicators praised his work highly.
Mature, dynamic … tonal quality … flawless composition. A Cartier-Bresson in the making.
Everyone clapped. A warm feeling rose inside me.
Jaswinder attends Burnside High and the school is to be highly commended for the quality of its students’ work. The next entrant, Fiona O’Connell, has not displayed the technical mastery which characterised Jaswinder’s work, but her exhibit, Barbie Bits, is a compelling and ehm … edgy piece of work with an understated violence. She pushes the boundaries of our perception of childhood, of women, and makes us question our assumptions. The juxtaposition of the doll images over the winter scenes is disturbing and the pyre of broken Barbies is a master stroke.
Jas squeezed my haund. I felt my face flame.
Now to the part which we adjudicators hate. There has to be a winner and it goes without saying that this was a very difficult decision but we are confident we have made the right one. The competition was set up to reward innovative and risky art as well as technical brilliance. So, in reverse order – third place goes to Paula Mason from Anderston High School.
A skinny blonde lassie in a navy blazer went up to get her envelope and everyone applauded.
Second and first place go to pupils of the same school – a tremendous achievement for Burnside High. In second place is Jaswinder Singh, and, for a courageous and innovative work, first place and the chance to go forward to the Scottish finals, go to Fiona O’Connell.
It’s amazing how much difference winning the prize made. If Jas had won (and if even one of the judges’d been different, it would of been him, as Miss Mulhern reminded us on several occasions), then his position as best artist in school and my position in his shadow would of been retained. Coming second would of been easier – Miss Mulhern could be nice to me, put me in the box she’d already labelled. Winning knocked out her whole way of looking at things. I’d spent weeks stuck at the computer in Mr Lyons’ room and suddenly produced the goods, taking the prestigious prize away fae her star pupil. You could see how it would scunner her.
It made a big difference tae my family. Of course they’d known I was good at art, just like I was good at English or History, but Art was a frivolous subject, no something tae base your life choices on. But the cheque for a thousand quid changed that. Da couldnae believe it, kept shaking his heid in amazement and saying, You’ll need tae take care of this, Fiona, as if I was gonnae drop it in the street or accidentally tear it up or something. Janice took me out and helped me open a special savings account.
It seems a lot, but when you’re a student you’ll find it’ll be a real help.
The only person it didnae affect was Jas. I worried he’d be pissed aff I’d won the prize, kept watching him for signs of things changing between us, but there was nothing. He was just the same.
THE LAST WEEK of school everyone’s in party mood, looking forward tae the Christmas holidays. Hauf the weans have stopped coming and teachers keep the rest quiet with videos and chocolate. As I walk alang the corridor laughter and music spill fae every classroom.
It’s Mammy’s anniversary.
She died on the 19th of December and it took all Janice and Patrick’s determination and organisation to get her buried by Christmas Eve. Sudden deaths cause confusion, sudden deaths mean post mortems, new lairs being opened, but my Mammy’s … a sudden death where a birth had been expected. Two deaths in one.
Voices on the phone, expecting good news.
A boy or a wee lassie?
What’s the weight?
Who does she look like?
Then the voices trailing aff intae silence.
Janice, list in haund, gaun through the details wi my da. Maist of the time he didnae seem tae care or even hear her, but noo and again he’d dig his heels in over something, made things mair difficult for her.
We can get the parish hall for after the funeral, Bobby. They’ll do sandwiches.
Geraldine wouldnae of wanted the parish hall.
It’s hard tae get anywhere else at this notice just before Christmas – every hotel’s booked up with office parties and Christmas dinners.
She hated the smell of stewed tea. She hated they pinnies the wee wifies wear.
Is there any particular hymn you want for the funeral? Father O’Hara’s coming round in half an hour.
Star of the Sea. When we’re walking out the chapel. And Janice … He grabbed her sleeve. I want her tae have white flowers fae the baby.
I hated the baby. Hated the wee white coffin placed next tae hers. Marguerite. Da said that was what she’d wanted to call the baby if it was a girl. A pearl.
‘Those are pearls that were his eyes.’
Nae wonder Shakespeare used that. Pearls are dead white.
Sitting in the front row of the chapel between Patrick and Mona, hatred rising in me as if all the blood in my body had boiled and risen intae steam, hatred concentrating itsel on that one wee white box, and the person inside who had killed my mammy.
Afterwards folk said how calm I was at the funeral, how I’d no shed a tear, how I’d kept gaun for my daddy, who’d shed enough tears for the whole lot of us, who’d wept and wailed his way through every hymn and every word of the service, who had to be helped doon the aisle, couldnae even take his turn tae carry the coffin.
Only when the familiar strain started,
Hail Queen of Heaven, the ocean star.
Only then did it hit me as we walked doon the aisle after the coffin and I was blinded wi salt water.
I’ve no been tae confession since.
Jas and me were sitting in the café at lunchtime, rain on the windae blurring the street outside, spinning out two coffees and a chocolate muffin between us.
Is that bad, no going to confession?
When Mammy was alive we used to go every month. You’re supposed tae go once a year at least – so I guess, technically I’m still okay till Easter.
Why don’t you want to go?
How can I kneel there and tell a priest I hate a baby?
You don’t, but.
I do.
I looked at my watch. We’d better get back.
I never expected you to be in school the day.
My da thought it was better for us.
What you doing later? Will you go to the cemetery?
Da didnae want to. He doesnae feel that’s where she is. He’s asked someone fae the chapel to say a rosary with us in the house. Patrick will be here the night and Janice thinks we should all be thegether.
What do you want to do, Fiona?
Hide.
* * *
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.
The furniture was pushed back so we could kneel doon in the living room. Mr Gallagher said the first part of the prayer and the rest of us joined in; Da and the twins loudly, me and Patrick quieter and Janice no saying anything, except Amen at the end. As I worked the plastic beads through my haunds, the words of the prayers leaving my mouth on autopilot, I stared at the statue of Our Lady. It was a plaster Madonna hauding Jesus in her airms, and one of the baby’s fingers was chipped at the edge.
A few weeks ago Jas and me visited the chapel efter school. He walked round, looking carefully at everything; the crucifix, the wee light that’s always kept burning, the altars to various saints. I never expected all this, he said. I’ve only ever been in a church for school services and it’s dead bare.
That’s the Church of Scotland. They don’t have statues.
We’ve got pictures of the Gurus too, but in the Gurdwara it’s the word that’s important – the holy book.
The Guru Granth Sahib.
Hey you’ve been swotting up.
I still like the statues but – I guess it’s what you’re brought up with.
We stood in fronty Our Lady, golden stars round her heid.
Da always lights a candle at Our Lady’s altar, carries rosaries in his pocket. But Mammy never liked statues of he
r – thought she never looked human. No real, like Jesus, suffering on the cross. She wanted pictures of Mary daeing a washing or making a dinner.
The Fifth Glorious Mystery. Our Lady’s Coronation and the Glory of the Saints.
Ten past eight. We’d be finished soon, make a cuppa tea, sit for a while, then it’d be time for bed and it’d be over. We’d all dreaded it so much, this day, and there’d been endless discussion about how we should mark it, what we should dae. Visit the graveyard, said Janice. Too depressing. Go for a meal, said Patrick. Too much like a celebration. Stay aff school, said Mona and Rona. Aye right. No one but Da had been keen on the idea of the rosary but in the end it was the right thing. An ordinary Tuesday evening of an ordinary day, made extraordinary by what was gaun on inside us all. The repetition of the familiar words, the feel of Rona’s airm next to mines, the quiet respectfulness with which Mr Gallagher led the prayers. A deep calm descended on the room, and, for the first time, I felt she was still with us.
WHEN SCHOOL FINISHED for the Christmas holidays I went to meet Jemma and Monica in the café near Cowcaddens subway, where we used to come every Friday. They were waving at me fae the table in the windae, big grins across their faces.
Hi, Fiona. Monica stood up and hugged me. Our favourite table.
The three of us used tae rush up the road, praying the table in the windae would be free. If it wasnae we’d take another, then move across when the customers left.
You don’t mind, do you, Mr Giardini? Monica would say.
For you young ladies, no problem, he’d reply, helping us move our coffees across.
Jemma pointed. Hey, look at you – don’t they have a uniform at Burnside?
Monica and Jemma were wearing maroon blazers, grey skirts and white blouses. Monica’s tie was perfectly knotted, while Jemma’s top button was undone and her tie positioned a deliberately casual inch below.
No one wears it.
You’re lucky. Jemma sat back and crossed her legs. Mrs Diamond gied me into trouble for wearing black tights yesterday. I tellt her it was freezing and they were the warmest I had but she just goes ‘Not the regulation colours, Jemma. And remember you have to set an example to the younger girls.’ Auld bag.
I prefer uniform. Monica spooned the foam neatly off her coffee. Then you don’t need to worry if you haven’t got designer clothes. That’s how my parents sent me to St Phil’s – it’s about the only school left round here that wears a uniform.
There is a sweatshirt at Burnside, I said, but no one wears it. Only the wee first years.
Sweatshirts are gross.
Hello there – it’s the third degree.
Mr Giardini always called us the three degrees.
Hi, Mr Giardini.
You’ve no been here for ages.
I’m at a different school now.
So where is it – the moon? No excuses. You have to come back – these two are lonely without you – two degrees is no use. Now, what can I get you?
Hot chocolate, please.
Jemma pushed her cup across the table. So, how’s things, Fi?
Fine.
Fine, she says. What about this boyfriend of yours?
He’s fine too.
So tell us about him. Some friend you are. We only found out cause Susie saw you with him.
Sorry.
I did feel bad. Monica and Jemma were my best friends, had been for years, but somehow, on leaving St Phil’s I’d swept them away with all the other things I didnae want to think about. I took a deep breath.
His name is Jas, short for Jaswinder. He’s in sixth year at Burn¬ side, in my English and Art classes. He also does Chemistry. He loves Shelley, does photography, and is very nice.
And nice looking, from what Susie said. Jemma grinned. Small, dark and handsome.
Well he’s not tall, that’s true.
What is he going to study when he leaves school?
Mon …
It’s important, Jemma.
She’s obsessed just now. Everybody is. If I hear one more thing about UCAS forms or planning your future I think I’ll go daft.
Everyone isn’t like you, though. Monica turned to her. You’ve always known what you wanted to do and stuck to it.
Jemma was gonnae be a speech therapist. She saw a TV programme about it years ago and has never wavered. And while I’d no inclination whatsoever to be a speech therapist, wasnae even sure what they done, part of me envied her certainty. When she graduated she’d get a good steady job in the health service – a job that was useful, a job you never had tae justify. Jemma was smart, sensible, got on with folk – she’d be brilliant at it.
So, what is it you’re gonnae dae with your life this week, Miss Wu? Brain surgery, nuclear physics or biometric technology?
I spluttered on the hot chocolate. You made that up.
No, Monica said, taking aff her glasses and wiping away a speck of chocolate which had travelled across. I went to an open day and got a leaflet on it.
So what is it?
No, no, don’t go there! Jemma waved her arms. You should see the desk in her bedroom – she has an entire file of leaflets she’s picked up at these open days – the only thing the courses have in common is they’re unpronounceable, no one’s ever heard of them before and you need a brain the size of the Clyde Tunnel to do them.
Monica smiled. At least I don’t have a mouth the size of the Clyde Tunnel.
In unison Jemma and I put our haunds to our cheeks – Ooooooh!
We all fell about giggling.
Later, at the desk in my room, I sat staring at the forms. For years I’d hoped tae go to uni and study literature if I got good enough grades. Now, I was swithering. Even though I’d always loved art I’d assumed that Art School was only for a few special folk. Winning the competition had changed that.
Last week I’d had my interview with Mr Fraser, the Deputy Head who’s in charge of the fifth and sixth year, fills in the references. I felt strange going into his office as I don’t really know him – another disadvantage of moving schools when you’re in sixth year. But in some ways it’s an advantage cause he has no preconceived ideas about who I am, just sees a lassie like every other sixth year, a list of grades and reports on his desk. He doesnae know my sisters or my da or even probably what happened to Mammy. He’s no walking on eggshells, feeling sorry for me. And nae doubt he has a hundred other folk to see and wants this over with quickly.
Right, Fiona, let’s see – you already have Higher English, Art, Maths, History and French. Four As and a B. This year you’re doing Advanced Higher English, Art and History. He looked up fae the forms. Where are you applying?
Well, I always wanted to do English at uni … but I’m wondering about Art School now.
Your grades are good all round – really you could do either. You’ll need a portfolio for Art School but your teachers’ll keep you right on that.
It’s just, Art’s not very practical, for getting a job.
Doing English at university doesn’t exactly guarantee a career nowadays either. You could always teach, though I don’t know I’d recommend it.
He pushed his specs up on top of his heid and looked at me.
The other possible option if you want to do English and keep the interest in Art going is to combine it with Art History – do a joint degree.
But that wouldnae actually be doing art.
No, I’m afraid you’ll have to make a decision one way or another. He looked at his watch. But you don’t need to choose now. Why not apply for university and Art School, see what you get offered, then decide.
He handed me some leaflets. I hear Dundee is very good nowadays.
I don’t want to leave Glasgow.
Really? You definitely don’t want to move away from home?
No.
That was the one thing I was sure about.
Everyone in my year was desperate to leave but when I thought about next year, I envisaged mysel waking up every morning in my
ain bed, walking towards the big gothic spires of the uni, or taking the subway a few stops to the Art School. When I tried tae imagine getting on a train with a suitcase, even to somewhere no that far away, Aberdeen or Dundee mibbe, opening the door of a wee room in a Hall of Residence, everything went blurry.
Patrick tried to get me to change my mind. He was sleeping in my room and came in tae sort out his things while I was filling in the forms. When I tellt him I was only applying for courses in Glasgow he put doon the shirt he was folding and said, Why on earth, Fiona?
How d’you mean?
Why don’t you get out?
Don’t want to.
Is it because of this boyfriend?
No. Jas has a place in Aberdeen.
I hope you’re no being a martyr, thinking you need to stay and look after Da and the twins. They can manage.
It’s no that, it’s just … this is hame.
C’mere. He sat on the bed and patted the cover for me to sit beside him.
Fiona, I know it’s scary but there’s a big world out there. And this is the time to go, when you’re young. Why don’t you apply somewhere in London – there’s fantastic art colleges there – with that prize on your CV you’d stand a good chance of getting in. I’d show you around, introduce you to folk. You could even come and stay in the flat with me till you made your own friends.
Me and Patrick in a flat. Me gaun to a trendy college in London. Jas could come and stay some weekends. I could still come hame to visit.
Have a think about it, Fi.
I nodded, gathered the folders thegether and left Patrick sorting out his stuff. But somewhere inside I knew I wouldnae take up his offer.
* * *
Christmas. The second one. Last year we were all rid raw wi grief. Last year no one expected anything except pain.
This year we squeezed round the table in the kitchen, as close as we could so there were nae spaces between us, nae empty place where Mammy should’ve been, but the gap was as obvious as if we’d left a chair for her. Still, we got through dinner. Patrick had cooked a nice meal of salmon, tatties and veg, followed by a chocolate profiterole dessert, far different fae the traditional turkey roast we’d always had at Christmas. Janice, Angie and Evie came round and that helped. Evie was at the stage where she needed constant attention – laughing, dancing and getting intae every drawer and cupboard – so we were all kept busy.
