Dirt Road (20 page)

But what had he expected? No black people at all.

One of their posters was brilliant: Music is the Glory of God.

They had T-shirts for sale: Redemption, Freedom, Forgiveness. Murdo was going to take their leaflets but when they didnt move to give him one he didnt offer. Some posters and pictures were not paintings but photographs of stained glass; stained glass and four girls killed

– four girls killed. Murdo read the poster, not getting too close. Four girls. A bomb did it. A bomb at a church. Was that true? It had to be true otherwise it wouldnt have been there. Four girls and killed. Four girls. Murdo stepped back from the stall. He was going to take a leaflet but didnt. Was it true? It had to be otherwise

how could it not be? Otherwise it wouldnt be there. Jeesoh! Four girls killed. Four girls killed! Murdo walked on. Imagine Sarah. She would have got angry, so so angry, just so angry. She would have talked to the black people. What happened? But it said what happened, a bomb. If ye were black ye would have been so so angry. But white too. If ye were white, what would ye feel? What did he feel? Not like talking. Maybe to Sarah. Except she wouldnt have been here, she wouldnt have come. Queen Monzee-ay! Never. Aunt Edna! Ha ha.

*

A sign at the entrance to the marquee listed the times of the day's events: Declan Pike – 3 p.m. Session – 5 p.m. Hielan Fling: Doors Open 7.30 p.m. Round the sides of the marquee families and small groups of people picnicked on the grass. A few dogs were jumping about. A collie was off the leash and two boys were running with it. People wore kilts and T-shirts and the males had Glengarry hats. The buckles on their leather belts looked the same design. A couple of the guys had the same face-paintings as the kids. One had “Sons of Red Eagle” printed on his T-shirt.

Uncle John was there, smoking another cigarette. He saw Murdo and waved him over. He was sitting with old guys underneath a massive umbrella. He saw Murdo and held the cigarette aloft. A filthy habit, he said. Now I'm asking ye son, at all costs, dont tell yer Auntie Maureen. Or I'm a dead man.

The other men laughed.

I only do it once in a blue moon and this is the blue moon,
bom di bom bom. One of these days I'll stop it altogether. He pointed at one of the other smokers. He's the rascal gave me it! Temptation saith the Lord. Uncle John covered his eyes with his other hand. Get Thee behind me!

Uncle John put his arm round Murdo's waist and drew him forwards. My nephew Murdo, all the way from
Scatlin
.

We're the Neighbourhood Watch! said one of the men.

Grandpop brigade, said one.

Your Dad passed here twenty minutes ago, said Uncle John. He thought this was a union meeting. These guys dont know what a union is. It's a train line right! Union Pacific. The old Dixie line. Uncle John took a drag on his cigarette then stubbed it out, turned to Murdo: You see the Alamo stall son?

Eh…

Look for the Alamo stall. See the Scottish names! Four maybe five born Scotsmen all fought for Texas. Same with the Confederate army. D'ye see the Civil War stuff? Scots, Scots-Irish. That's Ulster. Plus you got the ordinary born Americans with Scottish names. All the way through you got them. That'd be something for the schoolkids if ye set them a project eh, count the Scottish names.

Sounds like a lot of fun, said a man.

Uncle John chuckled. Then he stood to his feet and groaned, rubbing at the small of his back. He stepped away from the group, side on to Murdo so that his actions were shielded. He put his hand into his hip pocket, withdrew money and slipped it to Murdo.

Aw Uncle John…

Go and have some fun.

Ye dont have to do that.

Behave yerself. Just stick it in yer pocket.

Thanks, thanks a lot.

Mind now with yer Auntie, about the smoking. Dont say a word. Whatever ye do, ye must not.

Murdo smiled.

Uncle John was dead serious. Mind now.

Definitely.

Uncle John gripped Murdo by the arm and whispered: Forget about that religion carry-on, what I said to ye earlier on son I got it wrong. Completely wrong. You know what a dumpling is? I'm a dumpling. Okay?

Of course.

Uncle John smiled. He gazed at Murdo and was going to say more but instead clapped him on the shoulder. Away and have fun. He said, There's boys kicking a ball about by the way.

I saw them. They're a bit young.

Ach join in anyway.

Murdo grinned. Uncle John sat back down with his pals. Murdo checked what he had given him. One note. A fifty! Fifty! Jeesoh! Murdo stopped and examined the note. $50. One note for fifty dollars. Uncle John. $50. Jeesoh. Plus Dad's twenty equalled seventy. Seventy dollars.

He was starving. Things were expensive. Weer stalls were better. At one two lasses were getting served. One fair hair and one dark; both in Hielan dance outfits. Maybe they had been in the jig contests. Probably. Short kilts. Amazing how short, long socks high up.

They were friendly to the woman serving as though they knew her. She was an older lady and had on a shawl, although it wasnt tartan. Or was it? Maybe it was an old style. Ye felt that about the Gathering, they were like old style, from bygone days.

At the side of this stall the price list for food was broken into individual items. Not actual meals but there was savoury stuff, pies and bun things; plenty donuts. In bigger writing it read:

$6 FOOD-PLATE FOR HUNGRY BEAVERS

$8 FOOD-PLATE FOR HUNGRY BEARS

$12 FOOD-PLATE FOR HUNGRY HORSES

Murdo waited behind the girls. American voices. The lady returned their change and they lifted their plates. They half turned, watching
to see what Murdo would do. He wasnt sure what to order except he was hungry. There wouldnt have been much difference between what a horse would eat and a bear. Except four dollars. Bears might even have been hungrier than horses. They could tear a person limb from limb. A horse didnt. What did a horse eat? Murdo couldnt think. Oats? Did they eat meat? Maybe they were vegetarian.

The woman was waiting. I'm just wondering please what ye get, said Murdo. I mean like the difference between the plates, if ye take the six dollar or else the eight?

Huh?

The two girls had walked a little farther off, but were listening. Probably the lady hadnt understood him. Murdo said, I was just wondering please about the actual food? Do I choose it or eh…

The lady smiled suddenly. You Maureen Simpson's nephew?

Eh… Yeah I mean eh my Aunt Maureen.

From Scotland?

Yeah. Murdo grinned. Simpson was Dad's mother's name before she got married.

Well now, said the lady. She signaled a man seated to the other side of the stall. Murdo had noticed him but didnt think he was part of it. He was older too and thin-looking wearing a baseball cap, sipping a cup of coffee or tea. A slogan on the cap read Duncan Bizkitz Outlawd. Duncan Bizkitz. Him there's Chess. I'm Clara, Clara Hopkins. Now your name son?

Murdo Macarthur.

That's right, yeah. Thank you Murdo for coming here to our table. The lady waved at the food and passed him a wide cardboard plate.

Thanks. Murdo peered at the food, moved a step to the right, seeing the various stuff. He stepped along and paused, then returned. Eh… he peered along at it all again.

Here, she said and took the plate back off him. She began putting food onto the plate herself, not asking him but just doing it. Murdo was glad. She was giving him a real pile.

Get one aboard afore the plate sinks! said the man, pointing at the donuts.

He's Maureen's nephew.

Huh?

Come all the way from Scotland.

Oh yeah… Guess you must be hungry son.

Yeah, thanks, said Murdo.

Dont say thanks to him, said the lady, he's joking. She settled a donut on top then passed him the plate.

Murdo was waiting to hear what it cost. She checked what she had put on the plate then checked it again. She hesitated then jerked her head sideways, looking away from him. He waited but she ignored him, as if she didnt know he was there. He knew what it was. He was just to go away. She didnt want him paying.

The man shifted sideways and bent towards him like he was going to say something but he didnt. He sniffed and sat back on the chair, folding his arms.

Murdo said to the lady: Thanks very much.

Uh huh, she muttered.

Murdo balanced the large plateful of food between both hands and walked away. He looked to see the two girls but they werent there. Then he did see them, heading toward the tents at the side of the area, maybe for a sit-down on the grass.

*

Murdo was in the marquee before three o'clock and it was almost empty. He sat by the end of the third row, along from the corner of the stage platform. He had food on the plate and was sipping water out of a paper cup. He had forgotten to buy a bottle at the stall and didnt want to return for one. Unless he could have paid. He would have preferred that. It was too awkward if she didnt allow it and would have looked like he only went there to get it
for free. So he looked to buy one elsewhere and found a church tent dishing out free water. They had big containers of it and served it in individual paper cups. It was good and would make people think about their church; ones like Murdo who were not one way or the other.

The entrance to the marquee was from the opposite side of the space where he was sitting. Ye walked in and the stage was to yer left, a raised platform. The main seating all lay to the right. A line of tables went down each side. Down from the stage was a fair-size space for dancing.

It was still quite empty when the musician arrived, Declan Pike. He wore a beard, long hair and a baseball cap, jeans and a leather jacket. He stuck his sunglasses into a pocket then moved about by the mic, checking things out, positioning a chair nearby the mic stand. In one band Murdo played with a standing joke with the older guys was technical support at small venues. There never was any! Ye would turn up at a church hall and somebody would ask the wee woman making the tea: Where's the sound man? and she would faint. That was the joke. They didnt have any sound man here either but the PA worked.

Folk had come in by now and sat in various places. The musician noticed them. He gave the impression he was pleased to see them. He adjusted his guitar and started tuning. It was twenty past three already. Maybe he was waiting for more. He took off the guitar and propped it against the chair by the mic stand. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. People watched him. He gestured with the pack, patted his chest as if to apologise and headed towards the entrance, withdrawing a cigarette as he went.

A few more arrived. People sat dotted around. Sometimes for a wee audience ye wished they would all sit together at the front. When they were all wide apart it just seemed what it was: empty. Although what does it matter, ye just play. The musician switched on the mic when he returned. He peered up at the overheard sound speakers and called to a couple of folk at the back. You all hearing me okay?

Nobody replied that Murdo could hear but he nodded so they must have done. Then he battered straight into “Johnnie O'Breadislea” taking Murdo by surprise! Quietly in but full-sounding every note like how ye want, and a particular quiver he was getting too, taking ye right into the story. One song and whoh! Murdo might have been first in with the clapping. The musician was surprised. He looked across and grinned. Murdo felt a bit daft but at the same time who cares. The guy introduced the next one about coal mines in Kentucky, and a wee town getting destroyed by a big company. It was strong. This one had a good chorus. He had a hard voice, occasionally rasping, but it was fine. The music piped through the system to speakers outside the marquee entrance and more people arrived. The musician called to them: Afternoon!

An older man answered: Afternoon!

He was bald with a wee white beard and wearing a waistcoat with bright colours. The musician noticed, pointed out. I like it!

This old guy paused a moment: Oh you do?

Yeah.

Well now I'm glad of that son might of gone home if you hadnt.

People laughed. The old guy then offered the musician a beer. But it was good fun, a nice atmosphere. The musician introduced himself, Declan Pike – call me Declan – and how he came from these parts but was now living in Houston, Texas. Part-time musician, full-time oil-worker.

Murdo liked hearing this. Guys back home did ordinary jobs too. Ye felt with him that he was trying for songs that were real. Stories from life. That style and voice of his, saying about the next song, written by this guy down in Texas who got shot dead in an argument over a welfare check. A slow track and that guitar just barely doing anything, ding, ding, telling the story, hear a verse, ding, ding, perfect spacing. And when he sang it he
had
the audience, they were just engrossed. Really it was a beautiful song, and strong applause from the audience. Aunt Maureen was among them.
Murdo hadnt seen her since they first came in. Josie and another woman were with her.

The older man from the foodstall stood by the entrance, still wearing the Duncan Bizkitz baseball cap; he held a fiddle-case under his arm. The musician had noticed him and given him a nod while affixing a harmonica onto the guitar.

He had a good attitude. Some musicians act blasé, making it cool to ignore the audience. This guy didnt do that. He looked straight at people. A group of younger guys in kilts and Glengarry hats had a table along the side and he called to them: How's it going boys?

They looked at him, surprised.

He was about to set off on the next number then gazed at the roof and spoke in a stagey growl: It's the goddam daylight man I aint used to no daylight.

Some of the audience laughed. Aunt Maureen wouldnt have liked the “goddam”. He saluted somebody at the entrance now, a woman who was standing with people – Dad too, Dad was with them. They made their way into seats near Aunt Maureen and when they were seated the woman was next to Dad and she was saying something to him. Dad bent to hear what she was saying – it was weird, his head was quite close to hers. Not touching, it was just weird. Murdo couldnt remember seeing him sit beside a woman before.