Being Emily Page 7

  I thought it would happen on Christmas Day. I thought it’d be my da too, the one that would break, that we’d find him in floods of tears in fronty some sentimental rubbish on TV or lying on their bed hauding her photie in his haund. He wasnae working noo, barring the odd homer, though he wouldnae admit he’d been sacked. You know how it is, sometimes there’s no the work gaun round, he’d said tae Patrick.

  But it happened on Boxing Day, when I thought the worst was over, and it was Mona, no my da, who was the one tae fall apart.

  We’d been sitting in the living room, Da flicking through all the crap on TV, when he came across some talent competition. Two lassies daeing a routine tae an eighties pop hit, dressed in what looked like bikinis wi glittery fringes attached to them.

  Would you look at that? he said. And there’s the twins can dance far better than them.

  Do yous still keep up the dancing? Patrick asked.

  Aye. The Dance School has a show in January. In the SECC.

  Let’s see some of it then.

  Aye, right. Mona flicked her hair back fae her face.

  I havenae seen you dancing for ages.

  Well you should come up mair often.

  You’re bound to be better than that lot.

  C’mon, Mona. Rona tried to pull her to her feet.

  Naa. Don’t want tae.

  C’mon. Let’s go and get changed. Patrick – you get the CD.

  They returned a few minutes later, in short fringed skirts and sparkly tops. They giggled and nudged each other, missed the start of the music.

  C’mon, Mona.

  Okay, okay. Patrick, start it again.

  This time they went through their routine flawlessly. The fringes swung in unison, the identical heads of straight hair rose and fell as if they were one person. Even the smiles that seemed pasted to their faces were the same. Nae matter how often I’d seen them it amazed me. They finished with a little curtsy and posed for a moment while Patrick, Da and me applauded. Then Mona stumbled and tripped against Rona, falling over. Patrick reached to help her up.

  You okay?

  Aye, she said. It’s just …

  The seam of her skirt had ripped when she fell. Mona held the pieces of fabric in her haunds, staring at them, then sank tae the flair and suddenly began tae sob, great big shuddering sobs that made her shoulders heave up and doon. Rona flung her airms round her.

  I didnae understaund.

  We can mend it – it’s just a skirt.

  The words hirpled out. Mammy – made – it. She – made – it.

  Then Rona began tae greet too, her shoulders heaving in time to her sister’s, the pair of them entwined thegether like some classical sculpture of grief.

  NAE MATTER HOW still I tried to keep, the seat squeaked at the slightest wee movement. Jas squeezed my haund, breathed in my ear. Sounds like you need oiled.

  Fortunately the music was that loud and there was so much noise in the auditorium anyway – rustling sweetie papers, girny weans, folk pointing out their children on stage – I wasnae gonnae disturb anyone. It was always like this at the dancing displays but this year the teacher had hired a bigger hall so the buzz of excitement was even greater. All her classes, fae pre-schoolers tae adults, done at least one routine, while some, like the twins, were involved several times. It was gonnae be a long evening.

  Not only had Jas volunteered tae come, he’d also got a ticket for his ma. She was two seats along, next tae my da, nodding and smiling as he listed the twins’ achievements. Patrick sat next tae Jas. It was the first time they’d met and it gied me a warm feeling to see my tall fair brother shaking haunds with Jas, small and neat and dark. I was sure they’d get on with each other, hoped there’d be time for them to talk properly afore Patrick had tae rush back tae London.

  The twins still done line dancing but they’d learned other kinds too. The show was a mixture of everything: wee moppets prancing around dressed as fairies, middle-aged women with top hats and canes tripping through tap routines, lumpy teenagers in skimpy tops thumping about tae hiphop. The audience applauded enthusiastically after every set.

  When are the twins on? said Jas, peering at the programme in the hauf-light.

  Next – Big Spender. Jemma’s in this too.

  There were five of them, dressed in fishnet tights and spangly leotards; the dance involved a lot of draping themselves round chairs and wiggling their bums in the air but the twins, wi their deadpan expressions and perfect timing, somehow managed tae make it look almost classy. Jemma looked mortified but got all the moves right and her long legs looked great in the fishnets.

  At the interval we went tae the bar, well what passed for one. A barn of a place wi one guy doling out drinks in plastic cups and naewhere tae sit.

  What’re you having, Mrs Kaur?

  I’m fine, Mr O’Connell.

  C’mon, no even a wee lemonade or something?

  No, really.

  What about yous kids – Patrick?

  I’ll get them Da.

  Naw, I’ll get them, son. He waved his wallet about and notes started tae drop fae it. Jas and me crawled about on the flair retrieving fivers, while Patrick steered him towards the bar.

  Coffees okay for you, Fi? Jas?

  Fine.

  Da?

  Double whisky. Celebrate the twins’ show.

  Aye, but you don’t want to be seeing them double.

  We stood in a circle, plastic cups in haund. Da grew even mair talkative.

  See, Mrs Kaur, the twins have always been brilliant dancers. Even when they were two year auld.

  I can see how talented they are. And they must work very hard. Things which look easy don’t come easy.

  Aye practisin so they are.

  My Amrik is just the same. Sitar never out of his hands. Of course Jaswinder is more artistic.

  Our Fiona too. And Patrick.

  I couldnae take any mair of this parental pridefest so I heided aff to the toilet. When I returned Patrick and Jas were talking away thegether.

  I touched Jas’s airm. Let’s go in – the bell’s just gone.

  I thought the second hauf was never gonnae end – my bum was numb with the effort of trying tae keep still so the seat wouldnae creak too much. I knew the twins were in the finale so when the curtains opened on a tableau of rockabilly lassies in flared skirts, hair tied back in pony tails, I perked up. ‘Blue Suede Shoes’ blared fae the crackly speakers and the audience bounced in their seats as the lassies jived and hopped, slid through each other’s legs and done acrobatic tricks. Of course the twins were pure stars. Their high kicks were higher, their splits wider, their footwork neater and mair precise, and, as always, they moved as one, even their pony tails flicking at exactly the same angle.

  The audience went wild, jumped to their feet tae gie them a standing ovation. The dance teacher came on waving at the crowd to quieten them, then said, You want more?

  The crowd let out a huge roar and the girls repeated their final routine. Then there was an endless parade of everyone that had been in the show, class by class, for their bow. Finally we heided out intae the mad crowd. Fortunately Patrick had taken charge and ordered two taxis. He put my da and Jas’s ma intae one, looking round for Mona and Rona.

  Hope the girls don’t take too long tae get changed. Mibbe you and Jas could go in this taxi instead and I’ll wait for them?

  Naw, says my da. Ah want tae see my wee lassies.

  Da had been like a man possessed during the final number, dancing and clapping and shouting out, and the energy he’d expended and the drink he’d taken seemed tae have hit him all of a sudden, like a wean suddenly felled by tiredness after a party. He shrunk intae a corner of the taxi, leaning on the armrest.

  How much has he had? I whispered to Patrick. Two whiskies at the interval wouldnae of had that effect.

  I think there was a hipflask in his pocket.

  Just then the twins appeared, dressed in their normal clothes. The heavy stage make-up on
their faces made them look like dolls.

  Ah’m that proud of yous. My da lurched forward and tripped, steadied hissel on the handrest, then turned towards Mrs Kaur. Sorry, hen, sorry.

  Are you all right, Mr O’Connell?

  Ah’m fine, just fine. He made tae get up again and this time collapsed on the taxi flair. Patrick and Jas scrambled to help him up.

  The taxi driver, who up till now had sat with a deadpan look on his face, listening tae heavy metal music on the radio while the meter ticked away, turned and addressed Patrick. Now look son, I can put up wi folk having wan too many but if he’s sick in ma cab, somebody’ll need tae pay for it.

  It’s okay, said Patrick. He’ll be fine. He thrust a tenner in my haund. I’d better get in with them. You and Jas go in the other cab by yourselves. See you back at the ranch.

  With Jas close beside me as the taxi sped through wet streets, it felt peaceful after the chaos of the night. But my cheeks were burning at the thought of what Jas’s ma might think of my da. Jas was quiet, looking out the windae for a few minutes, then he said, Why did you never tell me Patrick’s gay?

  Dunno. We just never talk about it. Did he say something to you?

  Hello, I’m Fiona’s brother and I’m gay.

  I giggled.

  Jas put his haund on my knee. When did he come out?

  He never really did, not at hame. I always thought that was why he left, but mibbe he’d of left anyway. Cannae mind when I first realised. It’s hard with your brother cause he’s just …

  Your brother. I know.

  We never had any big discussions about it. One time about three year ago some guy he’d been at school with had just got married and there was the usual jokes about who would be next. Later, when we were on wur ain he said, ‘You do know I won’t be getting married,’ and I just said, ‘Yeah, I know,’ and then we changed the subject.

  We were silent for a few moments, then Jas spoke. I guess you just take them the way they are, the way you never accept anyone else, even your parents. Like Amrik – it’s not just his music – it’s him that’s special. I cannae explain – you’ll need to meet him. He does things differently and somehow gets away with it. Other folk think it’s because he’s an artist, but to me, he’s just Amrik.

  WE SPILLED OUT the minibus, glad tae stretch wur legs after being cooped up for what seemed like forever. We’d set aff at six which felt like the middle of the night, and maist of us had slept till the stop in a motorway café for breakfast. Mr Lyons had been driving but Ms Harris took over for the last stage to gie him a break.

  The air felt fresh and cold and there were wee patches of white on the surrounding countryside, though the sun shone in a bright blue February sky. A sign in the corner of the car park read ‘The Parsonage’. I felt a quiver in my stomach. Here at last.

  The trip to Haworth was a big surprise, a fluke. Karma, said Jas but I didnae believe in that. The English class were supposed to be gaun tae Stratford to see Measure for Measure and The Tempest – two nights in a B&B and a visit to Shakespeare’s birthplace. We’d paid deposits and the dates were all sorted. Then something went wrang. We never got tellt what it was – mibbe someone screwed up the booking or the grant to subsidise the trip never came through – but one Monday in January Ms Harris sat us all doon and tellt us the trip was cancelled.

  Oh naw, Miss, said Kevin. I was soo looking forward to seeing the plays.

  Getting three days off school, you mean, said Alice.

  Kevin pouted. You just don’t understand my feelings about culture.

  I’m really sorry about this, said Ms Harris, and I’m trying to arrange an alternative visit to Haworth, birthplace of the Brontës.

  Is that the only other possibility, Ms Harris? asked Hassan.

  The only other feasible one would be the Lake District – we could see some of the sights associated with the Romantic Poets. But the accommodation would be a little more expensive, and since Fiona is studying the Brontës the Haworth trip would be of benefit.

  Jas smiled at me while everyone else seemed to be looking at their feet. I knew maist of them were bored rigid by the very idea of the Brontës, but a trip was a trip.

  Kevin piped up. What about the rest of us, but? Can we no go somewhere we could find out about our writers?

  I don’t think the school is likely to subsidise a trip to the US, where most of the novels are set … and Shelley travelled extensively in Europe which rules him out too.

  What about thon ‘Lord of the Rings’ place? Could we no go there?

  You already spend most of your time there, Kevin.

  Whit’s she on aboot?

  Alice patted his haund. In a fantasy world.

  Of course, added Ms Harris, looking at Lucy, We could always go to Wigan Pier.

  Lucy smiled. I’d rather go to Haworth, Miss.

  I’d assumed it would be a dead gloomy place. All the books went on about how it was that remote and isolated and the villagers were all dying aff of cholera. But as we heided up the steep main street I was amazed at how cutesy it was, loupin wi tearooms and souvenir shops.

  The Heathcliff Café, the Brontë Tearoom, Jas muttered. I wonder if they dae Branwell Buns?

  Wi laudanum insteidy raisins? I giggled.

  Haw Miss, can we stop for a can of juice?

  Later, Kevin. We have a booking at the Parsonage at eleven thirty. It’s just up here.

  At the top of the street the tourist stuff petered out. We took a turning intae a wee lane that ran along the side of the churchyard, and all of a sudden there it was. Bigger than I’d imagined – prettier too, wi neat windaes recessed in the pale stone.

  We huddled intae the narrow hall. On one side was the parlour, but you couldnae get right in as it was blocked aff. I fumbled wi the rope as Jas and me stood looking round the bare space, reading wee labels on the bits of furniture, maist of which wasnae really their furniture, just like something they would of had. Then I seen it, black shiny surface wi the stuffing spilling out.

  Jas, I whispered. Jas, that’s it.

  What?

  The sofa Emily died on.

  Oh so that’s the sofa Emily died on. Kevin’s voice was loud in my ear. It looks very comfy.

  Get knotted, ya tube.

  Miss, she’s calling me a bad name. Miss, Miss.

  Opposite was the auld man’s study, the desk where he wrote his sermons and the piano Emily had played. I pointed it out to Jas.

  A lot of lassies learned cause they were gonnae be governesses … but Emily was really good.

  Jas and me waited in the back kitchen tae let Kevin get round the top flair afore us. I knew her bedroom was there and I couldnae bear tae have him wittering on in my ear when we seen it.

  Narrow camp bed. Plain white walls with wee drawings on them, fae when they were weans and used tae play wi Branwell’s toy soldiers, make up stories and magazines. One windae, looking out on the graveyard.

  Imagine looking out on that every day.

  And night. Quiet neighbours but.

  I’d seen photies of the graveyard afore but nothing could of prepared me for it. Layer on layer of gravestones falling over each other; stringy trees, staunding gaunt as though they too had consumption, guarding the plain stone church beyond.

  Must of been dead creepy at night, the wind moanin.

  And didn’t Branwell walk up every night from the pub? Nae wonder he took stuff.

  But she loved it here, Jas. She hated to be away, got homesick – and no just sad, physically ill.

  He took my haund. C’mon, we’ve still the museum bit to see.

  Afterwards we ate packed lunches sitting in the minibus, then set aff across the moor.

  We won’t go all the way, said Ms Harris. It’s too cold. But it’ll give you a flavour of what their life was like here.

  It was hard tae imagine what it would of been like for them. Walking alang a neat path wi Kevin daeing impersonations of Emily dying on her sofa behind Ms Harris’s back
, kinda took away some of the atmosphere. And we never went as far as the waterfall, turned back when the sky threatened rain.

  Can’t have you lot getting consumption, can we? smiled Mr Lloyd.

  Ms Harris gied him a look. Now, folks, you’ve an hour to wander around the village, get a coffee or look at the shops. Meet us back here and we’ll go and have a look at the steam railway. She put her haund on my airm. Fiona, I wondered if you would prefer to go back to the Parsonage. I spoke to the curator and you can use the library there if you like. I know you won’t have much time but even a couple of hours …

  Thanks.

  D’you want me to come with you? Jas took my haund.

  It’s cool. You go with the others.

  In the end I didnae spend long in the library. There was that much stuff I’d nae idea where tae start and anyway maist of it was things other folk wrote about her. I looked at a few manuscripts in her spiky writing, then returned to the museum, stood in the wee room trying tae feel what it must of been like for her, alone with the light of a candle and the ghosts in the graveyard outside, her heid filled with Heathcliff and Cathy.

  We had tea in a fish and chip place in Keighley. Everyone was exhausted as we’d been up so early but as usual Ms Harris looked as if she’d had ten hours’ sleep.

  So, what did you think of Haworth?

  Weird, said Alice. I mean, their lives were soo weird. No wonder their books were so intense.

  I hadn’t realised the brother had ambitions to be an artist, said Mr Lyons.

  Ms Harris nodded. Everyone thought Branwell would be the golden one of the family, but he ended up dead at thirty, an alcoholic drug addict, who never achieved anything.

  From what I saw, he wasn’t much of an artist anyway. I was surprised how good Emily’s work was – her drawings of the hawk and the dog were really sensitive. And when you think how little training she must have had – it’s impressive.