Personality Read online

  Alfredo found the woman from London at one of the faraway tables. He shook her hand and sat down. He had spoken to her several times before – in fact that morning, to give her directions from Glasgow. She was Miss Black, a young talent scout from London Weekend Television, wearing a short skirt, enjoying her drink and smiling as she looked about the place. She was posh but up for a laugh, Alfredo reckoned.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s all a bit, you know … maybe a bit rough‚’ he said.

  ‘Not at all‚’ she said. ‘I spend a vast proportion of my time in these places.’

  ‘And how did you get on in Glasgow?’

  ‘Oh, remarkably well. It was something called the Clyde Showboat. They have it every summer. It’s a good place to sample some of the new talent. So it worked out well – receiving your letter. And the tape! She has such a great voice. You’re her uncle, is that right?’

  ‘Yes‚’ said Alfredo. ‘Everybody loves her and she’s always been really serious about her singing.’

  ‘Absolutely‚’ said Miss Black. ‘How did you know me, by the way?’

  ‘We don’t get many of you to the pound round here‚’ said Alfredo, and then he blushed, looking over his glass.

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment‚’ she said.

  ‘Do you want to meet her?’

  ‘Not just now, Fred. I find that children get over-excited if they think … well. As I said on the phone, it’s always better for them to be surprised if there’s to be any good news … and … you know? I just arrange the auditions for Mr Green and the production team. I don’t have the power to do anything more than bring her to the auditions. It’s quite bizarre, Fred, you know: everybody wants to be on television nowadays. But only a few turn out to be good enough.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I kept it quiet‚’ said Alfredo.

  ‘Who’s that woman Alfredo’s talking to?’ said Rosa. She screwed up her eyes and fiddled with her chain. But Maria wasn’t listening. Noiselessly, she was moving her lips, thinking of words, and she kept her eyes fixed to the tiles on the floor.

  Hamish Watson was wearing a kilt and had an accordion. His wife Hazel wore a long tartan skirt, a ruffled blouse, and a pair of blue National Health spectacles. A giant theatrical laugh came from the bar as Bill McNab spat his drink out and tried to cover his mouth with the collar of his shirt. ‘Shush you‚’ said the girl next to him. ‘A wee bit of respect for the performers.’ The people at the tables held up their glasses and swayed to ‘Flower of Scotland’.

  ‘Are you all right now?’ asked Rosa, looking at Maria. ‘Remember to hold yourself up. Smile and give it everything, eh? I don’t need to tell you anything, hen, you’ve done it all before, but just sparkle, that’s all. Lift your head up and sparkle. Hold your stomach in when you go up there. I’ll make you one of my specials later on.’ Maria felt she had to smile at her mother so she did that and then she stared out, thinking only of the words.

  ‘All right, ladies and gentlemen, a big round of applause please for Hamish Watson and his lovely wife Hazel. I can tell you these two have won many talent contests all over Scotland and they have a big future ahead of them. Rothesay people are famous for liking a good laugh – a fact I’ve often relied on when it comes to asking my mother-in-law to buy me a drink – so our next act is down from Glasgow, a comedian again, he’s done one or two bits on Radio Clyde and he tells me he’ll be turning professional at the end of the year. We’re lucky to have him here tonight, ladies and gentlemen, please give a big welcome for Crazy Davie from Tollcross!’

  Crazy Davie came on wearing a cloth cap, with jagged spears of ginger hair poking out the back. ‘Hello, hello, hello‚’ he said. ‘Isn’t it nice to be in sunny Rothesay on a day like today?’

  The crowd cheered.

  ‘My father was a shipbuilder you know. Oh yes. The great ships of the Clyde. We used to come doon the watter to Rothesay as a way of avoiding the bathhouse. That’s right, the soap-dodgers can mingle in no bother in Rothesay. Yous are that black-enamelled in this town, nobody would notice if you had rabies never mind a bit of dirt behind your lugs.’

  There were a few sniggers, then a few boos.

  ‘Oh away and give us peace‚’ he said, looking over the crowd. ‘I’ll tell you what, it’s nice to be here right enough. Usually I would go to Italy for my holidays but the cost of the disinfectant’s become too much for me.’ The band’s drummer struck his snare drum.

  ‘You’re shite!’ shouted a man over the edge of his tumbler.

  Crazy Davie leaned into the microphone and lit a cigarette and he stared at the audience with a crooked smile on his face. ‘We all love Italians, don’t we?’ he said. ‘But it’s a good job half of them are living in Scotland. Have you ever wondered why Italy’s shaped like a boot? Well, think about it, fun-seekers, you could hardly fit that amount of shite into a tennis shoe. No. It’s true. When I was a kid I used to wonder why Italians didn’t have freckles, well, it’s obvious when you think about it: they would slide off, wouldn’t they?’

  Laughter started to come up from the tables.

  ‘It’s all true‚’ he said, ‘but my father, he fought at Anzio you know, and he came back with a few funny observations about the Tallies. He used to say, he used to say, Davie, how do they advertise World War Two Italian rifles for sale? Never fired, and only dropped once. Ha ha. Oh we love the Italians. And they say there’s a lot of life in their culture, which reminds me, what’s the tiniest book in the world? Well, it’s the Italian Book of War Heroes. It’s got four pages of instructions on how to run backwards dressed in opera costume.’

  The audience were really laughing now. Some of the men were dead silent and groups of women tutted and shook their heads but the crowd was listening, and the comedian came into his own. ‘But honestly folk, the Italians are good with their families, they could certainly show the British how to look after their own. I mean, look at the Mafia. The last time I was in Italy I heard a barber asking one of the godfathers if he wanted his hair cut or just a change of oil.’

  Giovanni was standing at the urinals when Alfredo came in to splash water on his face. Giovanni caught his eye in the mirror. ‘All right?’ said Giovanni. ‘It’s starting to get a wee bit stuffy in there eh?’

  ‘Same old tripe‚’ said Alfredo. ‘Heard it all before.’ The trough of the urinals was filled up with white deodorant cubes and the smell of them seemed to claw at the tiles. Giovanni stepped away and patted Alfredo on the back.

  ‘Who’s the woman you’re sitting with?’ said Giovanni.

  ‘Don’t say anything, Gio‚’ he said, ‘but she’s a talent spotter. She’s from Opportunity Knocks, you know, the thing on the telly. I wrote to her a while ago and it turned out she was going to be up here this weekend, so she’s come over specially to hear Maria.’

  ‘You’re kidding, man.’

  ‘No, I’m not. But shush about it. I didn’t even tell Rosa.’

  The Gents door swung open and they heard clapping.

  Michael Aigas from the TV shop had just come into the Winter Gardens with his pal Gary. They walked up to the bar. ‘Let’s crack some suds‚’ said Michael.

  ‘Are you old enough for drink?’ said the barman. Michael raised an eyebrow and shook a beaded wrist in the barman’s direction. ‘Cool your jets‚’ he said, ‘the twenty-fifth of the first’59. I was eighteen last month.’ The barman knew this wasn’t true, but he said nothing more and put two pints of lager on the bar and drew them a look, taking the money.

  ‘Here’s how‚’ said Michael. Gary looked around and swallowed his lager and felt he was disappearing into his anorak. Michael always made him feel like a tramp. Gary felt spottier next to Michael, and he felt more stupid – Michael was cool and he watched TV all day and made out like nothing ever bothered him. ‘Check all these oldsters digging their time‚’ said Michael.

  ‘I know‚’ said Gary. ‘They really fry my wig.’

  Michael scanned the crowd until he saw Maria. Wh
en he caught sight of her he went over and said hello. ‘You look amazing, kiddo‚’ he said. Maria blushed. Michael was always nice to her. Then she smiled and he raised his tumbler and wished her luck.

  ‘How come you know that big no-user?’ asked Rosa when he’d walked off. ‘He’s a complete weirdo, that boy.’

  ‘I like his shop‚’ said Maria.

  ‘Who’s the wee chick?’ said Gary.

  ‘She’s just a nice girl‚’ said Michael. ‘She’s just a girl but there’s something amazing about her.’

  ‘Hey-hey.’

  ‘You’re a half-wit, man‚’ said Michael. ‘She’s just an amazing little kid that’s all. She’s awake. Check her out when she sings. She always does those onion ballads, but wait till you see the way she burns them up. Look. There’s all these deadbeats in here, and there she is in the middle – totally switched on.’

  Gary turned to the bar. ‘Let’s get mashed‚’ he said.

  The compere skipped back onto the stage.

  ‘Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. It’s been a couple of years since we first heard the sound of Rothesay’s very own little queen of song, Maria Tambini. She was knee-high to a grasshopper then, and she’s only a wee bit bigger now. Under the guidance of her mother Rosa and Madame Esposito’s Dance Class here in Rothesay, Maria has gone from strength to strength. She’s won every competition going and I’m sure you’re in for a big treat tonight. Please give a big hand for Rothesay’s very own wee darlin’ starlin’ – a smashing lassie we’re all proud of her – Maria Tambini.’

  Rosa put her hand on the small of Maria’s back and gently pressed her forward. Maria walked between the tables thinking of the words and keeping her hands tidy.

  I don’t care what’s right or wrong I don’t try to understand let the devil take tomorrow cause tonight I need a friend yesterday is dead and gone and tomorrow’s out of sight all I needed now is gone.

  ‘Hello everybody‚’ Maria said. Now her eyes were shining and she was smiling every second. ‘With the help of Jack Clark and the band I’m going to sing a song. It’s called “Help Me Make it through the Night”. Take it away boys.’

  ‘Mow them down, Maria!’ shouted McNab from the bar. The women at the tables turned round saying shush.

  Lips teeth tip of the tongue lips teeth tip of the tongue.

  Maria looked over the faces.

  All I needed now is gone.

  She didn’t see her mother or Alfredo or anyone. Everyone disappeared as the music started. All the eyes out there were becoming one eye – one great eye and a single beam of light – and the sound she could hear was the sound of her own thoughts in time with the band as it opened up the verse.

  Let me lay down by your lay down by your let me lay down by your side …

  She opened her mouth.

  ‘Go on, sugar‚’ said Michael Aigas to himself.

  Nobody ever heard a little girl sing like that before. The sound came from somewhere else. She gripped the microphone and swayed into every note; she bent her knees and clambered up for the feeling in the words; her eyes grew wide and then suddenly narrow: she couldn’t be without the song. She spread out her fingers and beamed and her eyes filled up with tears. She pulled back the wire of the microphone, throwing her head back, hugging herself, raising herself, stopping dead.

  ‘Daddy‚’ said Kalpana.

  ‘Oh my God‚’ said Miss Black from London.

  McNab was quiet. Giovanni shook his head. Michael Aigas was lost in the dense sparkle of her performance. ‘Now that is what you call talent‚’ said Alfredo. Lucia Tambini sneaked out of the door and cried quietly to herself as she walked up the road.

  Maria finished the number with her eyes closed. When she opened them and put down the microphone the whole room was up on its feet.

  Watch there are cameras there and smile yes keep smiling and walk to the side oh listen to all these people don’t forget to hold yourself the nice way, oh this is a happy day.

  She reached the bench and sat down. Her mother was staring forward and didn’t move. She put a hand on her daughter’s knee, and spoke so no one would notice. ‘Pull your socks up‚’ she said.

  7

  Migration

  Walking back to their house in Craigmore, Dr Jagannadham said what a beautiful evening it was, and told Kalpana about the huge orange sunsets he remembered from his boyhood in Madras. Kalpana was always at her best alone with her father. She walked along the promenade in her Queen Victoria costume and she held on tight to his hand.

  ‘Somebody at the concert called me a monkey‚’ she said.

  ‘There are very ignorant people in the world, Kalpana‚’ he said calmly. ‘We must learn to forgive their ignorance, if not to forget.’ Then he changed the subject. ‘We have been eating very badly today‚’ he said, ‘and we have been speaking badly. Tomorrow we will show an interest again in clean living and go down to the beach. How does that sound, my little Scottish friend?’ Kalpana smiled and put her head on her father’s arm.

  The doctor was interested in the world. He thought it was joyous that Maria had such a talent for singing, but he did not, like other people, enquire about how the world would reward her talent. Indeed he thought talent was its own reward. He was a moderate man and a good doctor: he seemed to comprehend the value of human gifts, but his real interests were scientific and historical. He was a good father. He brought Kalpana a sense of the past and a sense of the wonder of her own future.

  The sea was oily now and dark, and the beam from the Cowal lighthouse moved across the water while a group of pigeons walked on the roof of a bus shelter at Craigmore. ‘Do you know‚’ he said, ‘what happened to the passenger pigeon?’

  ‘Did they carry messages?’

  ‘Yes. Once the most numerous birds in the world. In America, when they flew in number they blackened the skies, millions of them, a giant shadow, they could block out the sun. Yes, I think they were probably the most numerous. When they came in great numbers it must have been like an eclipse.’

  ‘What were they like?’

  ‘Well. They had blue heads. Behind the neck they were green or purple or bronze, according to the light. The breast I think was rust-coloured and then white. They moved, you know, at a very good speed. Very beautiful, Kalpana, and I read that when the birds at the front moved or dipped in the sky – all the others, sometimes going back three miles in the air – the others would move in precisely that way.’

  Mrs Jagannadham whistled at their lateness when she opened the door. In two minutes, Kalpana was sitting on a large cushion, her mother wiping her face with tissues and cold cream. ‘You were very very good today‚’ said her mother. ‘They were all saying such things.’

  The doctor had taken a book down from his study and opened it on his lap.

  ‘Here‚’ he said. ‘Listen, Kalpana. “In the early years of your reign …”’

  He looked up and laughed, and Mrs Jagannadham also laughed.

  ‘This writer saw one of the great flocks of passenger pigeons at a river in …’ He drew his finger across the page. ‘Kentucky.’ Then Kalpana’s father began to read from the page. ‘“Here they come!”’ he read. ‘“The noise which they made, though yet distant, reminded me of a hard gale at sea passing through the rigging of a close-reefed vessel. As the birds arrived, and passed over me, I felt a current of air that surprised me.’” He turned the page. ‘“The pigeons, arriving in their thousands, alighted everywhere, one above another, until solid masses were formed on the branches. Even the reports of the guns were seldom heard, and I was made aware of the firing only by seeing the shooters reloading.”’

  ‘What happened to them?’ said Kalpana, peeling a tangerine her mother had given her.

  ‘Well, it was the hunters. The birds were shot in great numbers by hunters in America.’

  ‘But I thought there were millions.’

  ‘Yes. That’s what I’m telling you Kalpana. They shot millions of them.
It says here there was one competition where to win the prize you had to bring 30,000 dead pigeons to the judges.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes, it says so here. And by the year 1910 there was only one passenger pigeon left. Only one. Look here, there is a picture of the last one. She was called Martha.’

  ‘Martha‚’ said Kalpana, showing her white teeth.

  ‘Martha. The very last one.’

  ‘And what then?’ asked Kalpana.

  ‘Extinct‚’ said Dr Jagannadham.

  ‘All right … bedtime‚’ said Mrs Jagannadham getting up from the matting and stroking Kalpana’s hair. Kalpana looked up at her mother. ‘Bloody hell‚’ she said, ‘all of them gone. That’s amazing.’

  They stood beside the door and looked at the doctor. ‘“When an individual is seen gliding through the woods,”’ he read before closing the book, ‘“it passes like a thought, and on trying to see it again, the eye searches in vain; the bird is gone.”’

  8

  The Athletic Bar

  Maria was on a piano stool at the back of the Athletic Bar, and people were closing in from all over the pub, some to say nice things to her about her singing, some to kiss her cheek or pat her head or just to look at her with memories of themselves at that age.

  Alfredo was playing new Scottish tunes on a piano, then old Italian ones, Hamish the accordionist joining in between single malts, while Hazel was trying to find her specs under one of the tables. It was four-deep at the bar, and there were clusters of pint glasses on the wooden top, overflowing with lager or heavy or McEwans Export. It was so hot that the cubes of ice melted as soon as they were dropped into the glasses. Big Jack the barman had put a barrel against the door to keep it open, and the music and the shouting poured into the street.

  The Athletic Bar smelled of sweat, thought Maria. Although there was noise and a lot of smoke, and although she smiled a big and constant smile, she was in fact sitting there in complete silence. On her low stool she was dwarfed by all the bodies standing around her. She sipped a glass of Irn Bru, and sitting there, with the loudness of the pub, the music, the faces bobbing and weaving in front of her, she felt she had retreated to somewhere else. She liked the feeling, liked to imagine herself here but not here, the sweetness of the Irn Bru and its bubbles nice in her mouth.