Being Emily Page 18

  One day, after footering about at Art School, I came hame and took out the album that held photies of all the work I’d done. I flicked through, examining them, hoping I’d get some idea of the next step. All the books claimed there was a progression in an artist’s work; one thing led tae another, there was organic development, change and growth. I didnae have a scooby about all that but I knew one thing. Nae mair Barbies.

  With only the vaguest of ideas in my mind, I started to collect shoe boxes. I went round to my da’s and rummled about, made mysel open his wardrobe, though it felt as if I was prying. His only box held good shoes, stiff and new, for Sundays and special occasions, and I replaced them carefully in the tissue paper. I could get some fae the twins who never put anything away in boxes anyway.

  For weeks, as the piece slowly developed, I hardly looked at anything except to weigh up whether it could work in some way, and in the flat I kept picking up things that might be useful. Eric went mental when I took the top aff the washing up liquid.

  Sorry, I need it for my artwork.

  We need it for doing the dishes.

  It still works without the wee bit at the top.

  Yeah, but it pours in too fast, you end up using twice as much.

  Clytemnestra came in on my side but. She had it in her heid that anything I did was because I was an artist. Nae doubt if I’d started drinking the washing up liquid it’d be because I was an artist.

  Fiona’s an artist, Eric, she said, pronouncing the word ‘artist’ in that precious way. We’re so lucky to have the opportunity of living with an artist, seeing how the creative process works. I think it’s worth putting up with a few little inconveniences, don’t you?

  Eric grunted. He obviously didnae think that but it was her house after all.

  Each box represented the front room of a house with a hedge protecting it. The first one worked out quite well but the hedge at the front was rubbish – I’d made it out of scrunched-up tissue paper and it flopped all over the place. Then I remembered the wee hats I’d knitted for the last piece. The texture of the wool would make a nice contrast wi the card and plastic. Angie had recently started knitting since it had become trendy. Last time I seen her she was making an enormous furry jumper for Janice.

  Gwyneth Paltrow and Kate Winslet do it on the sets of their films. You know, when they’re hanging around.

  Bizarrely, Angie took a keen interest in the lives of young women film stars. Gwyneth and Renee and Kate. She could always tell you what diet they were on and which designer label they dressed their weans in. I couldnae figure it out – Angie was definitely no the frivolous type.

  But she let me go through what she described as her stash, and I picked out oddments of wool. She was right – it was therapeutic, though I wasnae knitting jumpers or even something for the baby. After a day at Art School I’d sit on my bed knitting hedges out of green wool and covering the furniture I’d made out of matchboxes.

  I was just as besotted with Grace as everyone else, but I found it hard to be natural when there were other folk around. They seemed tae coo and baby-talk so much easier than me, their fingers were not clumsy when they changed her nappy or wiped babygunk aff her cheek. It was only when she and I were alone thegether I felt at ease. Sometimes I’d take her out in her buggy – just me and Grace, gaun through the park. I kept up a running commentary about the flowers and trees, while she cooed away tae hersel. One day in November when the sky was cloudless and the trees swayed wildly in the wind, I sat on a bench with the buggy beside me. I looked at Grace’s smiley wee face and something inside me cracked. Tears ran doon my face.

  I wish it was a special moment of being at one with the universe but it wasnae. It was shame. In that moment, looking at Grace’s innocence, I realised how awful I’d been. Who was I judging Mona and Declan? Who was I, thinking I was better than them? What had I done with my life compared to what they had, producing this perfect being? I wanted to start over, be cleaned out.

  I wiped my eyes on the corner of a crumpled tissue. I’d nae mirror so I hoped there wasnae any make-up or smudges on my face. Though I still went to mass on and off, I’d no been tae confession for ages, no since the time I’d copped out, no since Amrik. I had a lot to say.

  I set aff doon the hill, a lump still screwing up my stomach, but feeling if I could only get tae confession, everything would be all right. I knew it was on at St Clare’s afore ten o’clock mass the morra but I didnae even want to wait that long. Mibbe I could go and ask the priest – they would gie you confession any time if you asked – but that was a daft idea, too complicated and embarrassing. Naw, I’d need to go the morra; I’d just try tae hold this ray of hope inside till I could really, truly start over.

  I pushed the pram towards the gate, paying nae attention to the crowds of folk attracted intae the park by the unexpected weather. Then I heard a voice say, Fiona. I turned and there he was, Jas.

  It was barely a year and a hauf since we’d seen each other but he looked different, thinner in the face and with a solitary white hair growing among the black, just above his left ear.

  Is this Mona’s baby?

  You heard?

  Ma said she’d had a wee girl.

  We stood staring into the buggy, something to look at that saved us fae having to look at each other.

  She’s lovely. He bent doon, held out his finger which Grace grasped firmly. She stared at him, as if she was summing him up.

  How old is she?

  Ten weeks.

  Such lovely eyes. What did they call her?

  Grace.

  That’s nice.

  I bent over and settled Grace’s dummy in her mouth. Are you back hame for the weekend?

  I try to get back every two or three weeks unless I’ve an assignment due. Thought I’d catch this festival of light thing in town as well. How’s your da?

  Better. The baby’s made a huge difference to him.

  That’s great. She’s really a lovely baby. Say congratulations to Mona.

  Sure.

  We were standing in the middle of the path at the front gate. A woman in a wheelchair weaved her way round us.

  I think we’re kind of blocking the entrance.

  Yeah. We moved over to the side a bit, still hesitating. I didnae know what else to say.

  I think I’d better go. Ma will be expecting me.

  And I better get Grace hame.

  See you.

  In the heat of the moment, overcome by Grace’s innocence and the light in the park, it had seemed like a good idea, but at nine-thirty next morning on a hard wooden pew in a gloomy church hoaching wi statues, it didnae seem that hot.

  The only other folk waiting were a wee wifie in a rain-mate, an auld guy in a sour-smelling sportsjacket and a mum with two wee boys. I kept my eyes downcast, and tried, really tried, tae conjure up some sense of how I’d felt yesterday but I was numb. Worse than numb – stupid. When it came my turn to go in I almost got up and left but the wee wumman dunted me in the ribs and I found mysel in the confessional afore I knew it.

  Bless me father for I have sinned. It is nearly three years since my last confession.

  I’d written it all doon last night in case I was overcome with emotion. But I never felt anything as I went through my list:

  I missed mass many times, I slept with a man many times, I felt hatred for my da, contempt for my sisters, I was selfish, I hurt other people, I lied …

  When I stopped there was a small silence. Then an unfamiliar voice, high-pitched, thin.

  My child, your father in heaven is rejoicing that his lost sheep has come back to him.

  I still felt nothing but mibbe it didnae matter, mibbe it was daeing it that was important, no the feeling.

  Can you say an act of contrition?

  I stumbled out the words, stumbled out the box, out the chapel, blinking intae the grey light of a November street.

  I DIDNAE EXPECT the light festival to be up to much. Glasgow’s always putting on
festivals but Edinburgh always manages to dae it bigger and better; there’s something feels haund-knitted about the way we dae things. Mibbe all the folk that know how tae run them get snapped up by Edinburgh and we get left with the has-beens. Mibbe it’s because Glaswegians cannae seem to go anywhere without leaving trails of sweetie wrappers and fast-food packages lying around behind them. Or that we don’t know how tae dress. Or talk. Or something. Anyhow I’d no been that fussed about gaun tae the festival. But that night I found mysel round at my da’s trying to persuade him and the twins to come.

  What is it anyway, hen?

  They’ve lit up all these buildings in the toon so you can walk round and look at them. There’s exhibits as well, wi sound and motion and that. And a café in the City Halls.

  Nae answer.

  It’s free.

  I thought that might get my da interested but he said, Sounds a bit arty for me.

  Da, it’s just a chance tae walk about and see the architecture of Glasgow in a different way. You’re the one always gaun on about how we don’t appreciate wur ain buildings in this city, keep knocking them doon.

  I resisted the temptation, never very far away, to add that he had almost contributed to the destruction of one of Glasgow’s buildings.

  He turned tae Mona and Rona. What d’yous think, girls? D’yous want to go? Take the wee one tae see the lights?

  Don’t be daft, it’s baltic the night, said Mona. Anyhow we’re taking her in tae see the Christmas lights in George Square next week.

  You could see them the night.

  Aye but the shops’ll be shut.

  That’s the idea, so you can go and see the buildings.

  Naa. Why don’t you phone Janice – sounds like the kind of thing her and Angie will be intae.

  But Angie and Janice were gaun tae a party. I’d either have to go on my ain or sit around watching The X Factor.

  I’ll see yous the morra, okay.

  Fine, said my da, turning the volume up. Mind you wrap up warm, now.

  It was as if the city had been reborn. Families, couples, people on their ain, all just walking, looking round them, laughing and pointing out the illuminations. Cars had been rerouted and, insteidy the hum of traffic, voices rang out intae the cold air. It was wonderful, what they’d done. Some buildings changed colours as you watched, others had a detail lit up, something you’d never normally notice. My da was right about folk in Glasgow – we never see what’s round us. So much of the beauty of the buildings is high up and we’re scurrying about at ground level, looking intae shops, heiding tae work. Like insects. But the Victorians who built Glasgow were proud of their city, wanted all the fancy stuff – columns and capitals, statues and gold leaf. I snapped away with my camera, hoping that at least some of the effect would come out with the flash, though I didnae hold out much hope. Then I turned the corner of the street that led along to GoMA. The front was all lit up in fluorescent green and they’d roofed the spaces on either side with tiny star-lights. I laughed out loud when I seen it, then felt stupid in case folk around thought I was mad.

  The big event of the festival was about tae start and I made my way up the steep hill beside Strathclyde Uni, following the crowds to the viewing area on a piece of wasteground. There was a group of oldies at one side of me, and they moaned about how it was supposed tae start at eight o’clock and how come they never had any seats. I squeezed past them, stood at the back, high up so I could see better.

  Doon below, at the bottom of the hill, was the contraption. You couldnae call it anything else – it was like something fae an auld Frankenstein movie, a machine made out of bits of metal and parts of engines, kind of like a train with big funnels. Even at this distance, it was enormous.

  It began. Noises, at first like wee toots, then louder. A guy in a fluorescent suit, some kind of safety thing, was climbing around on it, twiddling stuff. By controlling the flame he could make different tones come out the funnels. He played tunes on them, turned the flames different colours. Fireworks went aff in time with the music, colours and sounds in rhythm and harmony, the guy running round the installation working it, calibrating everything. Like a DJ works the decks, works the crowd, samples and puts the music thegether, so this guy done with the light, the music, the machinery – everything working as one. Amazing.

  I became aware of someone standing closer than a stranger would of. Jas. Out the corner of my eye I could see him. We never spoke or moved, just stood there watching, listening, experiencing, side by side.

  The final part was a huge explosion of colours that zoomed and swooped intae the sky, accompanied by loud bangs and shrieks. A moment’s silence then the crowd started tae move. Jas and I stood – I think neither of us was quite sure what to dae. Then I heard the voice of wanny the auld guys.

  Well, that wasnae up tae much, was it?

  Naw, says the auld dolly next tae him. Nothing much really happened.

  I looked at Jas and we both burst out laughing.

  He came closer, whispered in my ear. True enough, no much happened. Just twenty minutes of explosions, sound, lights, fireworks all in synchronicity. Wonder where they’ve come fae – Beirut?

  I whispered back. And they could of been at hame watching ‘Celebrity Come Dancing’.

  We started to walk doon the hill thegether, part of the massive crowd of folk. It was cauld, but sharp and fresh, and I was wrapped up well so I didnae mind the nip on my cheeks.

  It’s weird how lighting makes such a difference tae the buildings.

  I feel like I’m no in Glasgow, said Jas. Naa, that’s no right – it looks different, but it feels like Glasgow underneath.

  I walked beside him in silence for a moment. It did feel the same even though everything else had changed.

  Must be the smell. No ‘Glasgow’s Miles Better’ but ‘Glasgow Smells Different’.

  Jas laughed. Aye, like the subway. My da always went on and on about that. How when they done it up in the seventies it never smelled the same afterwards. I used to think he was such a saddo.

  We reached the junction of Ingram Street and stood, hovering. Jas had on a thin jacket and his haunds were in his pockets. I had a leaflet with a plan of the light installations and Jas nodded at it. Can I see?

  He placed his finger on the map. Look, we’re here. He moved so we were staunding side by side under a streetlight, wanny they new ones that casts a natural light instead of the eerie orange glow that makes your face look blue. That’s this corner. His elbow touched my side, muffled by layers of fleece. And there’s something along here. He bent his heid and the side of it touched my forehead, just as it had in the library that first time we kissed. Then he straightened and pointed alang the street.

  The Ramshorn Kirk is stark and gloomy, in keeping with the rows of solemn gravestones ranged at the back. But tonight the garden was starred with light, bushes and trees sprinkled wi glitter. As we walked round, the lights changed colours. You’d move towards one and it suddenly leapt at you. The lights washed over the trees; as one set went aff another went on, waves sweeping fae blue tae green tae pink.

  A wee girl skipped along the path in fronty us, hauding her daddy’s haund. We’re in fairyland!

  Aye, hen.

  Jas said softly, Fiona, look up.

  Usually the city sky has a cloudy cover which muffles the starlight. But tonight it was a vault studded by stars with a perfect crescent moon like a sliver of ice, riding high in the darkness.

  They’d set up a café in the Candleriggs but Jas and me drifted towards the west end. At the junction of Byres Road we stood, Jas cupping his haunds over his mouth and blowing on them.

  You gaun back tae Aberdeen the morra?

  I think I’ll hang on and get the early train back on Monday.

  Oh – right.

  He nodded, looked round. Got time for a hot chocolate?

  So what’s Aberdeen like?

  Baltic.

  Worse than the night?

  That’s wha
t caught me out. Glasgow always seems warm by comparison so I never put on enough layers.

  Global warming.

  I guess. But it was great for the festival – too cold to rain.

  Having a festival outside in Glasgow in November is really brave. Or stupid.

  It was brilliant but. He stirred the froth of his coffee. So how’s your work, Fiona?

  Dunno. Hard tae say really.

  Ma said you won a prize. It was in the free paper – she reads it from cover to cover, says it’s the only way you ever find out what’s happening in Glasgow.

  I was surprised Mrs Kaur mentioned me to Jas.

  I got to show my work in a London gallery.

  Cool.

  I guess.

  I mean you should be winning prizes and all that – just they don’t always go to the right folk.

  I’m no sure they got it right with me – I’m trying tae get this thing finished the noo and it’s driving me mad.

  Divine discontent. Who was it, Michelangelo or someone said that – the artist is never satisfied with their work.

  It’s no just that, but. See the installation the night—

  Jas put doon his cup and turned to me and it was the old Jas – animated, like when he used tae talk about Shelley or photography. It’s awesome how the guy made everything work thegether – light, sound, technology – like an old car that needs tae be coaxed into life by someone who knows it. There’s always a risk something’ll go wrong and it’ll fall flat. He has to be in tune with it, be with it – every time he does it, it’ll be different.

  And no just because the audience is different. I stared at the bottom of the mug where the remains of the chocolate had solidified.

  What you thinking, Fiona?

  Wish I could dae something like that.

  Why not?

  Don’t be daft.