Personality Page 4

  Maria had taken a box from the drawer. Inside were cardboard models with dresses and skirts and blouses you could fasten onto them: Rosa had shown her how. Maria knew the models weren’t very modern. The hair on the women looked like the hair they had in photographs she’d seen of women during the War. They had long thin legs and the skirts were like wool. ‘Some men have nothing but filth on their minds‚’ said her mother, turning a T-shirt inside-out. ‘They’re dirty inside themselves some men, they aren’t clean and you wouldn’t want them anywhere near you. Good God you can’t be too careful with some men, hen, they want to ruin people that’s all they want to do and you’re as well keeping yourself to yourself. Hold on to your dignity, Maria.’

  Maria was now up on her toes looking down into the street.

  ‘Are you listening to me, Maria?’

  ‘There’s something happening‚’ Maria said, and Rosa came over to look. A lot of the children and parents were gathered at the doors of the Winter Gardens, only the older people were still sitting at the long table. A big shout came from somewhere, followed by cups and jugs of orange squash and trays of sausage rolls flying into the air. A drunk man was charging up the middle of the Jubilee table kicking things to smithereens.

  ‘Is that not bloody terrible?’ said Rosa. ‘That William Rooney, look at the state of him. Drunk. Oh my God. The bloody state of him. Look, he’s kicking all the nice stuff off the table.’ Everyone down on the green turned round at the commotion. William Rooney was home from the oil rigs and he was running up the table in his big tackety boots causing havoc. ‘Oh my God would you credit that?’ said Rosa, tut-tutting. ‘His poor wife’ll be black affronted. All the way up that nice tablecloth as well. What did I just tell you, Maria? Men are a bloody waste of space, God forgive me.’

  ‘Comeintaemeyafuckinbluenosebastardsthatyoozare!’ shouted William Rooney as he pounded up the table, cakes flying, plumes of white spittle issuing from his mouth. ‘Alltakeeverywanaeyeez – yafuckinbunchatubes!’

  When Rooney got to the last few yards of the table he dived down onto his stomach and slid all the way to the end, napkins, paper plates, half-empty tumblers, abandoned hats rolling into one great ball of stuff around him as he dropped off the table, landing in a heap on the tarmac with his hands spread-eagled and a Union Jack wrapped about his head. ‘Leave the bastard‚’ said Mrs Rooney, gathering her nephews outside Timpsons the shoe-shop and ushering them along the pavement towards the Gallowgate. ‘He’s a drunken, no-use pig of a man. Leave him there to rot. I don’t want to know him, the bampot that he is.’

  The last ferry left for Wemyss Bay and the sun went down behind the Argyll Hills, over in the direction of Tighnabruaich. The neon signs above the doors of the pubs flicked on as the sea went pink for half an hour, the darkness seemed to come quickly after that, then just as quickly came to life as music started pouring from the pubs. Giggling, holiday-minded children took the last of the Empire biscuits from the table and groups of sailors came walking up the seafront in their uniforms. Old George Samson, with medals, three-piece suit, and a new haircut, lit the bonfire on the rocks with a torch handed to him by the local MP. Everybody roared. Then fireworks exploded above the bay and the colours swam over the water.

  6

  Sugar

  The Winter Gardens opened its doors. In no time at all the place was mad with the scraping of chairs and the ringing of the bar till. A woman quite drunk on lagers and lime won a bottle of Bacardi at the raffle and was too embarrassed to go up and get it. Her son was famous for his cheek, and when she sent him up he took the microphone from the bandleader, Davie Devine, and gave a speech about how much he wanted to thank his agent and his hairdresser. Everybody laughed and clapped him through the cigarette smoke and said to each other he was an awful boy. Some of the younger kids were winding themselves up in the velvet curtain and the caretaker chased them. The tables were covered in pint jugs and they all had foam sliding down their insides and the dancefloor smelled of Brylcreem and Old Spice.

  Kalpana Jagannadham, still in her Queen Victoria costume, was sitting in a plastic chair covered in coats. Nobody was wearing a coat because it was too hot, and now and then she would duck under a mackintosh and take a slug of shandy. When Maria had gone in to get ready for the concert, Kalpana had hung around inside the venue, staring into space and stealing drinks from the tables. ‘And how’s the wee lassie doing then?’ said a drunk man leaning over with his tongue sliding along the edge of a cigarette paper. He could hardly stand up and his wife was all ruby-cheeked and creasing with laughter at his side.

  ‘I’m all right, I’m counting my fingers, shush‚’ she said. The man was insinuating something with his drunk finger in the air.

  ‘You just look like a wee monkey‚’ he said. ‘Hey Ella. How about a wee banana for the lovely wee monkey sitting here?’

  Ella laughed at the top of her voice and spilled some of her vodka. ‘Never mind him‚’ she said to Kalpana, ‘he’s daft as a brush.’

  ‘Wee Pakistani monkey. Geez a kiss‚’ he said.

  ‘I’m Indian‚’ said Kalpana, ‘so fuck off, you fat prick.’ Ella immediately stopped laughing.

  ‘I’ll tell you, lady‚’ she said, ‘you have a right dirty mouth on you. If that father of yours was here. Such a nice man as well. He gives your people a good name. Come on, Freddie. She’s a right wee tear-away, that one.’

  ‘Byzee bye‚’ said Freddie, ‘my wee spicy monkey.’

  Kalpana just stared at him. She was used to this. On the sly she drank the rest of the shandy and slid the tumbler inside the arm of somebody’s fur coat and it hit the floor with a clunk, but nobody noticed because the band had started and the compere was already reading out the names of the acts.

  Over in the café, Maria was sitting on top of the counter with Alfredo fixing her hair. Lucia was at one of the tables with a hot orangeade and an Askit Powder. ‘I heard you were a royal personage today‚’ said Alfredo, moving a fat jar of beetroot out of the way so he could lay down his brushes. ‘They were all talking about it in the salon. I saw you coming down Castle Street in the procession‚’ he said, ‘you and Kalpana. The two of you looked smashing.’

  ‘Were we the best?’ Maria asked.

  ‘No doubt about it‚’ said Alfredo.

  The jukebox was playing Abba. There hadn’t been a single place where music wasn’t playing that day. There had been a band on the royal procession, there was music coming from the pubs and down from people’s windows, and Maria remembered there had been music on the putting green. Even the ship had had music: the music for the Queen and that other music. There was music in every room of her mother’s house: the transistor radios, the record player in the bedroom, the jukebox here in the café.

  Sitting on the counter, Maria looked along the jars of sweets up on the shelf. She knew the look and the taste of each one. As Alfredo teased her hair, Maria mouthed the names of all the sweeties you bought by weight and thought of the way they tasted and the way they felt on her tongue.

  ‘Sweet peanuts‚’ she mouthed.

  Caramelly in your mouth a bit tough and then sugary then you cracked them open and gritty inside.

  ‘Midget Gems‚’ she said out loud.

  Nice and rubbery and millions in your mouth at once and the black ones are best you can make a ball in your mouth and swallow them in one go at the end.

  She said: ‘Cola Cubes’.

  Fizzy sugar and rub them down smooth with your tongue and crack them with your teeth and goo comes out.

  ‘Edinburgh Rock.’

  Crush like powder and it sticks inside your mouth.

  ‘Parma Violets.’

  Only flowers.

  ‘Soor Plooms.’

  Like marbles and lemons and sour they make you pull your cheeks in like sherbet does.

  Maria looked down to see if she could see her face in the shop window. ‘Uncle Alfredo, do you like Cough Candy?’

  Alfredo, smiling, twisted one
of her curls round his index finger and lifted a can of lacquer from under his arm to spray it into place. ‘I like all of them‚’ he said, ‘except chocolate mice. They’re rotten.’

  ‘Can I have a sweetie for after?’ asked Maria.

  ‘Okay‚’ said Alfredo. He put his hand over the glass counter and got a packet of Munchies. He broke the tube in two and put both pieces into her sequined purse, then he lifted her down onto the floor and stood back. ‘That’s you done, Maria. Look at our famous kidlet, mammo. Ma che carina – è veramente bellissima, no?’

  Maria jumped down and smiled into the silver of the counter. A brace of blonde curls rolled from her head. Lucia looked up and smiled. Her granddaughter’s lips were Candy Super-Pink and glossy as all get-out. The lids of her eyes were Frosted Summer Jade with an ivory highlighter from Boots, the No. 4 Rimmel blusher, and mascara: Lady Night-Time Blue. Maria looked into her own eyes in the counter and used her hands to smooth the creases at her waist. At the top of the yellow dress she straightened the bow. She had Woolworths doily-patterned white socks up to the knee and black, single-strap shoes, shiny enough to capture the movement of shadows around her.

  She stood in front of her grandmother, who put down her long spoon and gave her a look of concentration. It was very often that way with Lucia: she looked into the eyes of the people close to her and she stayed looking for a long time. ‘You are a perfect and lovely young woman‚’ she said. Her eyes filling up, she put the ends of her fingers on Maria’s face. ‘In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost‚’ she said, touching Maria’s forehead and stomach, one shoulder and the other. ‘God bless you and keep you, my lovely wee lassie.’ Lucia looked up at Alfredo and something passed between them and she placed her hands on Maria’s small shoulders. ‘Brava, brava, bellissima‚’ she said.

  Maria turned round and looked through the greasy window of the fish fryer. Giovanni was crouching on the other side with his white teeth all smiling and a handkerchief pouring from the top pocket of his brown suit. ‘Aaahaa‚’ he said, tapping on his side of the glass, an array of battered hamburgers, black puddings and fish between his face and Maria’s. ‘And who is this lovely person I see on my television screen tonight? Is it not the world-famous Maria Tambini? Everybody give a big hand for the most talented and lovely-looking little friend of mine – Maria Tambini!’

  Maria pulled herself up on the counter and hung there for a kiss. ‘Mmmwa!’ said Giovanni loudly. ‘And anybody who says any different will be getting that.’ He showed a fist and round eyes to Maria and when she giggled he clipped her nose.

  Lucia produced a small box from her pocket and turned to Maria. ‘This is for you‚’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Maria. ‘Is it jewels, mammo?’

  ‘No, it’s not jewellery but it is treasure.’

  Maria opened the box and picked out the coin. It was shiny in the chip shop and Maria stared at it. She spoke as she read what it said: ‘Queen Elizabeth II Silver Jubilee Nineteen Seventy-Seven.’

  ‘Now is that not special?’ said Alfredo.

  ‘Thank you, mammo‚’ said Maria.

  Looking at Maria’s pleased expression, Lucia unconsciously fingered the chain around her own neck, its silver crucifix and miraculous medal. ‘I’ll go over the road and find my seat‚’ she said, getting up and putting her hands into her coat pockets.

  ‘You’re still wearing your slippers, mammo‚’ said Maria.

  ‘There’s no need for me to be dressed up at my age. Now do your best, Maria. And remember that no matter what happens you are the best one. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Thanks, mammo, and thank you for my coin.’

  Lucia took the coin from Maria and turned it over in her fingers. They all watched as the strip lights glinted off the coin and made it look like the centre of the chippy and the centre of the turning world. ‘You know they were not always good to us, these people, the English‚’ she said, and Maria noticed that mammo’s hand was trembling. ‘They did bad things and we mustn’t forget the bad things.’

  ‘Oh Lucia‚’ said Giovanni, walking over to the till. ‘This is a happy day.’

  Lucia threw Giovanni a look. ‘This has nothing to do with you, what I say to my family‚’ she said. However, Giovanni’s remark had brought her up short. The adults would speak Italian only seldom‚ usually when there was something they didn’t want the little one to hear. ‘It’s not worth the effort‚’ said Alfredo. ‘Non vale la pena.’

  ‘He only pays attention to his good looks‚’ said Lucia. ‘Si dedica soto soltanto al suo bell’ aspetto. Just remember‚’ she said as she kissed Maria’s cheek and turned to lay two kisses on Alfredo, ‘you come from proud people who are clean and tidy and have morals. Nobody can take away what we have worked hard for, Maria. I’ll get across the road now.’

  The bell rang over the door as she left, then two small boys came in carrying armfuls of empty lemonade bottles. Maria was still standing next to the fryer, but she was in a world of her own, going ‘step ball-change, step ball-change’ and moving her lips to remember the words of a song.

  ‘You better hurry up‚’ one of the boys said as Giovanni leaned over and took the bottles from him. ‘It’s starting over there.’

  Just then Rosa was hurrying down the stairs into the shop pulling at the straps of her dress. ‘Come on, miss‚’ she said. ‘Are you ready, Maria? Is she ready, Alfredo? Pull your socks up for goodness’ sake, Maria, you’re not a baby and that’s us ready.’ Rosa looked at Giovanni who looked back and smiled over the counter. ‘You’d think it was you that was going onstage, Mr Universe‚’ she said, taking Maria’s hand. ‘Give me the pink ones‚’ said Rosa. Giovanni handed her a jar of sweets labelled ‘Plantation’s Sugar Bonbons’. She took two out and turned to Maria. ‘Open wide‚’ she said, and she put the two sweets into Maria’s mouth.

  ‘Yes!’ said Maria.

  ‘Elaine will take over‚’ said Rosa, gathering last-minute things. ‘It’s time for us to get over there. I can hear the band.’

  ‘You all right, Elaine?’ Alfredo said, giving her a nod.

  Elaine was wearing black lipstick, and seemed no happier than usual; but she was glad to be free of McNab and the hairdresser’s, so she teased her spiky helmet and tried to smile gratefully at Alfredo. ‘No bother, Mr Tambini.’

  The bell rang again and the door closed and the shop was quiet. Elaine looked bored chewing a mouthful of gum as she rattled a basket of chips in the fryer.

  ‘Can we get the money for these?’ asked one of the boys standing the empties on the counter.

  ‘No‚’ said Elaine. ‘You can get chews or anything from the sweetie jars up there or else chips.’

  ‘Can we no get the money?’

  ‘I said no didn’t I? What do you want?’

  ‘Can we no have ten Bensons?’ The boys looked at each other.

  Elaine blew out her breath, still chewing, then, staring at the two boys, she reached under the counter and took the lid off a tin of Hamlet cigars. ‘You can have two singles and the rest in chips‚’ she said, ‘but if you tell Rosa yous are dead, right, and I’m no kidding.’

  The night-time glow of the street spread over the window and passed through the glass, lighting on the chip shop’s silver counter, and the smiling boys, the empty bottles, and the boxes of chocolates up on the shelf.

  *

  ‘What do you call a Glasgow bloke in a shirt and tie?’

  ‘The accused!’ shouted Ella from the table.

  ‘And what do you call his lady wife?’

  ‘The witness for the prosecution‚’ shouted the barman.

  The comedian was using darts as part of his act. ‘Okay‚’ he said, aiming for the board at the back of the stage, ‘for the double top. Oh Jesus, that’s a left-handed screwdriver.’ The dart had stuck on number 5. A few spare laughs came from the crowd and the comedian plucked the dart and slugged from a pint.

  Dr Jag had found Kalpana and h
e decided to be lenient and let her stay to see Maria sing. They stood up the back. Maria waved to her friend when she came in and Kalpana smiled back and chewed her bottom lip. The doctor gave Maria the thumbs-up, and when she saw him she too began to bite her lip.

  Lucia was sitting on a chair next to the cloakroom. She wasn’t drinking or talking to anyone; she just sat with her hands clasped on her lap. Meanwhile Bill McNab the hairdresser was howling with laughter at the bar and downing vodkas. He was wearing a purple shirt open all the way down with a gold sovereign on a chain. ‘Alfredo‚’ he said when the Tambinis arrived, grabbing Alfredo by the arm, ‘somebody’s looking for you. A flashy young lady, Alfredo, not from round here. She’s done up to the nines.’ He looked round the room then drew close to Alfredo’s ear. ‘She said she’s from the London television.’

  Alfredo led Maria and Rosa to the soft seats that ran along the side. Rosa was staring at the band and occasionally primping Maria’s hair, and Maria was miles away. She always got like that when she was about to sing. She went into herself. Giovanni came in behind them and went straight away to the bar. He brought over a gin and bitter lemon for Rosa and took a drink over to Lucia but she just nodded for him to sit it on the floor next to her.

  Cigarette smoke billowed over the tables. Glasses rattled on trays. People were chatting and laughing even when the acts were on, then the band made a flourish and the compere was back onstage. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for an amazing bit of talent from Ardrossan, Tony McFarlane. A round of applause, ladies and gentleman, that’s the stuff. Now it’s been a grand day today with the festivities and the like and I know that every one of you will be ready for a wee song. So please give a big Rothesay welcome to our ain wee bit of Highland fling – down from Oban, please welcome Hamish and Hazel Watson with a personal tribute to Jimmy Shand.’