Being Emily Read online

  I mean it. You can dae anything … if you really want to enough.

  I looked at him. What about you, Jas? D’you still keep up your art?

  Never really have time. I mean I still take photies but it’s no the same. It’s just a way of remembering.

  Jas walked me back to the flat where we said goodbye casually, like pals who would see each other around.

  I couldnae sleep but tossed and turned then finally got up, wrapped in a blanket, and looked out the windae. Stared across at the bit of wasteground with its fringe of scabby trees and bushes. A frozen puddle of water glowed blue and violet in the lights fae the streetlamps. I kept thinking about the light installations, the way they had made the city a different and lovely place.

  My wee boxes were nearly ready for the end of term show and there was only a couple of weeks left. I’d nae clear sense of how I could take the half-formed ideas and feelings that had arisen inside me tonight, use them to make something better. It seemed too big somehow, like trying tae keep a tiger inside a pillowcase.

  I went back tae bed, blanket still wrapped round me like a shroud. I shut my eyes and kept gaun over and over in my heid every detail I could remember of the light show. I knew I should relax, try to let go so I could sleep but every time I did an image of Jas came over me and I must not think of him.

  IT WAS CRAP. Everyone else said it was good but to me, smouldering with all these ideas about art being alive, being about change and risk, it was static, dull, predictable.

  A row of shoe boxes, the interior of each done out like a pensioner’s living room, with beige carpet and wallpaper. I’d tried real wallpaper but the pattern was too big in proportion to the room so I’d used lining paper, painted neat regency stripes and faint geometric patterns on it. The furniture was made out of matchboxes and bits of plastic. I’d upholstered chairs in scraps of fabric, crocheted tiny antimacassars and tablecloths, used washing up liquid tops for cups. Each room had a TV made fae a matchbox, and on each was a different image: a football match, a garden, a woman’s face, an advert for washing powder. There was no one in the rooms.

  The only bit I really liked was the hedges which ran along the outside of each room, like one of those hauf-doors they have in stables. Some were in thick luxurious wool, others funky yarn wi glitter or ribbons woven through it – I’d even knitted one out of wire. I’d struggled for ages with a title, a sure sign that there was something unclear about the work. Eventually I called it ‘Hedging’.

  We were having what was called a peer-group assessment session by a group of students in my class, supervised by the tutor. Because I’d had the exhibition in London folk expected something special from me and I think he was disappointed. But they’re no supposed tae be judgemental – their role, as it says in the handbook, is to lead each student to the development of their unique talents, to nurture and bring out the inherent qualities of each piece of work, rather than using alien criteria.

  Very low-key compared to your other work, isn’t it?

  I guess.

  Anyone else like to comment?

  I like the hedges, said Mihaila. So suburban. It’s neat – something which is meant to give the householder privacy actually reveals them to the viewer.

  Yeah, added Paul. And there’s no one in the house, only a TV on. More of that urban alienation stuff you did with the Barbies.

  All very positive. The tutor smiled like a primary teacher whose class had performed well in front of an inspector. But, if I might suggest something? Your little knitted chairs and furniture?

  Uhhuh.

  I can see what you’re doing, of course.

  I’m glad someone can.

  But they’re so neatly made that they’re in danger of eclipsing the irony rather than pointing it up.

  How d’you mean?

  If you make them a bit rougher round the edges, do them with less precision, then we can see them as art rather than something a real granny might make for her grandchild’s doll’s house. D’you see what I mean?

  Knitting is only art when it’s done badly?

  He laughed. Have I walked into some hornet’s nest of feminist reclamation of craft, Fiona?

  I just don’t see what you’re getting at. I don’t think this is my best work – mibbe it’s something I need to dae on the way to something better – but I really don’t see how knitting badly will give it more artistic credentials.

  Actually, Fiona, I wrote a monograph on this very subject – the relationship between art and craft. I’ll lend you the book if you like but the gist of it, as I’m sure you’ll know anyway, is that for craft to be art it must be done with a knowing, self-referential eye. Your granny making a tapestry chair cover patterned with the Mona Lisa because she thinks it’s nice is not art, but an artist using the Mona Lisa as an iconic reference in her own work is.

  I knew I’d pissed him aff but I was so mad.

  I’m sorry, I said. I didnae mean to be rude.

  It’s good to get angry at criticism, Fiona, all part of the healthy debate and dialogue which keeps art alive. Have a think about what I’ve said and we’ll meet again in January. I liked what you said about this being a step on the way to a bigger and better project. I like your honesty, I think it’s part of what makes your art so vibrant. Now, let’s look at your sculpture, Jason.

  I was mad, but no at what he’d said. I was mad at myself, mad that this crap I’d produced was even being taken seriously. My granny used tae crochet chair covers, knit clothes for dolls – it was her taught me tae knit. Chair covers and dolls’ clothes were leisure pursuits to her; during the time her ain family were growing up she’d had tae spend hours knitting jumpers for her man and her weans – Mammy, Janice and the two older brothers who’d emigrated tae Canada years ago. There was nothing ironic or self-referential about her arthritic fingers flying over the stitches, one eye on Coronation Street. The wee covers the tutor thought I’d made too perfect were pathetic compared to what my granny could dae wi her eyes shut. As for the cardboard boxes that served as houses, my grandpa would of made them in wood with beautifully dovetailed joins. Even my daddy made us a doll’s house when we were wee – out of a kit just – he wasnae the craftsman my grandpa had been but he’d laboured for hours over it, painted and wallpapered it, even redecorated it when the twins spilled juice all doon the walls.

  Patrick and me used tae spend hours playing with that house, moving the wee dolls in and out, sitting them round the table for their meals, putting them tae bed at night. My da never thought it was right for Patrick to play with it, used tae try to get him away. Come and have a wee kickabout in the back court, son. But Patrick wasnae interested and only the twins ever wanted to play footie. I wondered how much of a disappointment we were tae my da. Clearly Patric wasnae the son he’d expected to bond with, but then we werenae his ideal daughters either. I was too weird, too arty, and for all he loved wee Grace it was hard on a man so deep-doon conventional to have a daughter pregnant at fifteen.

  It was easier for Mammy. She could accept us for who we were, seemed tae understaund who needed a bit of freedom and who needed to be kept on a tight rope, knew when she should speak and when tae let us be. Mibbe that’s part of being a mother, no a father, or mibbe it was just her nature. And I’ll never know cause I cannae ever ask her now. Somehow her dying has robbed me, no just of the times I’ve had with her but of times to come, when I could talk to her like an adult. But then look at what Da had lost. Mibbe we were too hard on him after all.

  MONA AND DECLAN got engaged at Christmas, no long after the twins turned sixteen. Declan was at college noo, studying catering, but he’d a part-time job in a hotel and had saved up for the ring. Declan’s parents took us all out for a meal and I took photies. Mona’s favourite was of her and Declan, with Grace on her knee, her ring in full view of the camera, so I made a large print which she framed and hung in the living room, next to the others of Grace. Afore the fire there were loads of photies, a wall of them where y
ou could read the story of our family from Mammy and Daddy’s engagement and wedding through the baby photies, school photies, first communions, all the formal occasions. Mammy kept albums of snaps too – holidays, maistly – us making sandcastles, or her and Da having a glass of wine in the sun at a beach café. I preferred them to the posed ones. We seemed mair real in them, just better looking, less peelywally versions of wur real selves. But there werenae that many – this was afore digital cameras made it okay to take endless snaps in the hope that one would turn out good.

  There were nae photies of the memories I wanted to preserve; us sitting round the table having tea, playing in the back court wi a tent made out the washing line, a doll’s tea party with water slittered everywhere.

  But what difference would it make – they’d of been destroyed in the fire too.

  Afterwards Janice had given my da a few of her snaps of Mammy but, though he looked at them privately, he never put any up in public. That different fae Jas’s house where a photo of his dad was displayed prominently, flowers in front of it like a shrine.

  Patric came up for Christmas but Amrik stayed in London. He’s gigging three days solid, said Patric. He poured a few drops of bleach in the sink, filled it with cold water and swirled it round. I think I might go back for the New Year.

  To London?

  He nodded.

  The smell of bleach caught the back of my throat. If Patric did go away for the New Year it would be the first time ever. And in our fragmented lives I kept hauding on tae every bit of continuity there was.

  D’you have tae?

  No, I don’t have to but …

  He pulled out the plug and the water glugged away.

  * * *

  In the end, Amrik came to Glasgow. Patric was tentative about it, walking on eggshells round me.

  You don’t need to see each other, Fiona. Unless you feel okay about it.

  I didnae know how I’d feel. But if Patric and Amrik were serious, I’d need tae get used to it.

  Patric brought Amrik round for the bells at my da’s house afore they went aff tae some trendy party thegether. He’d asked me to go wi them but I don’t think he was too disappointed when I said no. Which made me feel sad, cause it was the first time in my life I’d felt Patric didnae want me to be with him.

  Da had already had a few too many afore they came round.

  Have a whisky, son, he said. Fiona, get Patric’s pal a whisky, hen.

  No thank you, Mr O’Connell, said Amrik.

  Is that cause you’re a Muslim?

  No Da, Amrik is Sikh.

  Sick, that’s a good yin, said my da. Rhymes an all. Amrik is sick. Have a wee whisky – it’ll make you feel better.

  Da … I said pointedly.

  Sorry, son, nae offence, nae offence.

  None taken, Mr O’Connell. In any case I do not practise Sikhism now.

  Ah mean ah’m no a racist, you know, ah couldnae care less what colour anybody is. Fiona’ll tell you. That lassie’s only ever had two boyfriends and baith of them were Asian. And did that bother me – no it never did, well you know ah’d of preferred if they’d been Catholic Asians, but.

  Rona came intae the living room. Mona and Declan are on their way – had tae change Grace at the last minute but they should be here afore the bells.

  That’s good. Rona, meet Patric’s pal.

  Amrik put out his haund. Amrik.

  Amrik and Patric – hey that rhymes – just like me and my twin sister – Mona and Rona. And Fiona – sort of.

  Amrik nodded.

  Have you no got a drink yet, son? Fiona, get the boy a drink. If you don’t want a whisky what’ll you take? A beer? A lemonade?

  I went in the kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out a beer. Patric followed me. I’ll strangle him, I said.

  It’s cool, said Patric. Bells in ten minutes.

  What d’you want?

  I brought some wine – it’s over there.

  Patric helped me take drinks through. My da continued to try tae engage Amrik in conversation. So what is it you dae doon in London, son?

  I’m a musician. I play sitar.

  Zat right? Fiona, thon guy you went wi for a while – Jas’s brother – did he no dae that too? What was his name, hen?

  Amrik.

  Aye, Amrik. He looked from me to Amrik and the penny dropped, but just at that moment Mona, Declan and Grace arrived in a flurry of wet coats and baby paraphernalia.

  Just made it.

  Amrik, this is Mona, Declan and Grace. This is Patric’s friend.

  Hi.

  What d’yous want tae drink – only five minutes tae the bells.

  I’ll have a vodka and coke – and a beer for Declan.

  When I returned everyone was squashed round the living room. As I handed out the drinks, my da said, Is there no a bit of shortbread in the hoose, hen? It’s no the New Year without a bit of shortbread in your haund. I went back in the kitchen, piled some on a plate and gied that out as well. There was naewhere tae sit so I stood at the kitchen door while Da adjusted the sound on the TV to watch the countdown to the bells. Some TV presenter muffled in scarves, with Edinburgh Castle in the background and folk shouting and waving in the street behind her, then a messy join to Big Ben and the countdown to the bells. Three, two, one.

  Declan kissing Mona then Rona. Mona and Rona hugging each other, then me and Declan. I came out of the squash to see Patric hugging my da first, then Da’s stunned face as Patric turned and kissed Amrik full on the lips.

  My da must of been too shocked to say anything and after the bells there was such chaos – a phone call fae Janice and Angie, Declan phoning his ma, Grace waking up and needing fed – that the moment passed.

  After Patric and Amrik had left for their party, Mona, Rona and Declan put on their coats.

  Are you coming with us, Fiona?

  I shook my heid, though the last thing I wanted was to sit in the hoose.

  Naa, I’ll stay and look after Gracie if you like.

  It’s cool, we’ll take her with us. Mibbe see yous later if you’re still up.

  So there we were, me and the da, clocked on the couch with folk in tartan frocks and sashes birlin round in fronty us.

  D’you no want the sound up on that, Da? I said.

  Ach, I’m no bothered.

  Will I make us a cuppa tea?

  Dunno hen. D’you want one?

  I didnae want anything but I thought it might be a chance to get him tae stop drinking, put some food inside him.

  I returned fae the kitchen wi a tray of sandwiches, teapot and two mugs.

  I poured the tea out, put in milk, one sugar in his, and stirred. He took a sip and put it doon. Hot.

  Have a sandwich, Da. They’re your favourite.

  My da loves sandwiches with disgusting fishpaste in them.

  Thanks, hen. He took one, nibbled a corner then replaced it on the plate.

  Fiona, did I just see what I thought I did?

  I nodded.

  He sighed. I don’t understaund.

  I thought you knew Patric was gay.

  He never said.

  Aye but he’s twenty-five and he’s never had a girlfriend.

  I never had a girlfriend till I was twenty. And I never brung a girl hame till I met your mammy and we were gonnae get engaged. Folk didnae.

  I know, it’s different now.

  Too different. I’m a dinosaur, hen. Extinct. If your mammy had been alive, it’d of been different. She’d of known. She always knew – whatever was happening with yous weans, she understood.

  I know.

  But I don’t understaund. I mean I know it happens – but watching your son kissing another man, well, it made me feel sick inside.

  I took his haund, squeezed it. I couldnae say a word, because, deep doon, for very different reasons fae my da’s, it made me feel the same. I’d thought I was cool about Patric and Amrik, could haundle it. But when I seen him and Patric kissing, everything went blurr
ed. No because they were men, that wasnae the issue – but because I just didnae want him tae be with my brother.

  * * *

  When the phone went I thought it’d be Mona or Rona to say they were staying over wi Declan’s folks.

  Da roused hissel fae his dwam in fronty the TV. I’ll get it, hen. Hello? Suddenly Da sounded a lot mair animated. Happy New Year to you too. It’s Mrs Kaur.

  That’s nice, I said. He blethered away and I went intae the kitchen, started to clear away the dishes and food.

  Fiona, he called me through to the living room. Mrs Kaur wants to speak to you.

  I took the receiver.

  Hello.

  Hello Fiona, I just wanted to say happy New Year.

  Happy New Year to you too.

  Are your sisters with you just now?

  They’re out at a party – it’s just me and my da in the house.

  Like me and Jaswinder.

  Oh. I paused. That’s nice.

  Would you like to speak to him dear? I’ll pass you on.

  Thanks.

  I could hear her saying something in the background then Jas’s voice, clear as if he was next tae me.

  Happy New Year.

  You too. Pause. You hame for the holidays?

  Aye.

  Having a nice time?

  Quiet.

  Me too.

  My da was signalling something at me. Look, I think my da wants to speak to your ma again.

  Okay. Well, have a good holiday.

  You too.

  See you.

  I put my haund on my da’s shoulder.

  I’m away tae bed noo, Da.

  Right, hen.

  Don’t stay up too long.

  I’ll no.

  In the room that used tae be mines but was now Rona’s, papered with posters of skinny women and guys wi six-packs, I lay awake for what felt like hours. I tried tae read and it did make me feel sleepy but when I put the light out my mind returned tae endless birling.

  I only seen Patric once on his ain during the holidays, when we went out for some fresh air the day after New Year. It was miserable; puddle-grey sky that kept threatening but never actually did rain. No much open apart fae the supermarket but in Byres Road you can always find a café and we sat in the wee one next the chippie, cosy and steamy wi damp coats and the smell of frying food.