Only Strange People Go to Church (6 page)

‘Next!’ Maria calls, trying hard not to sound like a jaded 1930’s Broadway producer. But jaded she is. It isn’t that there’s no talent in Hexton; the problem is that there’s too much and it isn’t self-selecting. Those who possessed ability are often shy and reluctant to perform, while those who are spectacularly untalented are blissfully oblivious and line up to make fools of themselves. Sifting through the dross is time consuming, exhausting and has already used up Maria’s limited reserve of tact.

‘Yeah, thanks, eh…’ Maria consults her list, ‘thanks Gerry, we’ll let you know.’

‘Does that mean I’m in?’

‘Eh, not sure yet, we’ll get back to you.’

‘Well, when’s the rehearsals? I’ll need to know. I’m a bus driver; I’ll have to sort out my shifts.’

‘To be honest I’m not sure we’ve got space for another rapper, we’ve already seen quite a few today.’

‘Aye, but have you seen anybody else who can do this?’

Gerry gets down on the floor and attempts to spin on his head, except that he can’t. He tries four times, the last time falling forwards and squashing his nose on his square of linoleum.

‘True, we haven’t seen anybody do that.’

‘You tryin’ to be funny?’ says Gerry, somewhat nasally. ‘Get it up you,’ he mutters as he leaves with his rolled lino under his arm.

‘Charming!’ Maria tuts.

Marianne agrees.

Marianne Bowman is the Headmistress of Hexton High and has volunteered to help with today’s open auditions. A career woman,
Marianne is conventional in that she is of traditional headmistress age: an immaculately conserved forty-something, and has her glasses dangling from a string of pink pearls. She wears knee-length tweed skirts and chunky heels. Judging from the smell she appears to steep herself in a bath of
Georgio
every morning. Before addressing a remark to Marianne, Maria turns aside to breathe, trying not to fill her lungs and nose with the heavy perfume.

It was this headmistressy tweediness that initially distanced Maria from Marianne but in fact Marianne has been terrific. As soon as Maria put the idea to her of a community concert on a diva theme, she was immediately behind it. Within a week she had organised the school choir into an eighties, nineties and noughties Madonna, Queen of Pop, tribute. Marianne also had her school kids go out and poster the neighbourhood to advertise the auditions she is generously hosting in the school assembly hall.

‘You could have the place for rehearsals as well if we weren’t about to get our major refurb. And not before time, we’ve waited years. This place is falling apart.’

The question of rehearsal space is not one that until now Maria has considered. Bert won’t let her have the assembly hall; she knows that without asking. The evening concert is one thing but daytime use is going to be pretty much out of the question. Apart from it being the clients’ gym and dining hall, classes are scheduled in there all day every day. This is a problem that Maria will have to solve, but not now, her head is bursting with it all. Audition day has been exhausting but it certainly hasn’t been fruitless.

There are good singers aplenty. This in itself is a problem: who to choose and who to reject? Marianne who is, from the outset, more organised than Maria, has devised a system: after they have performed the hopefuls are filed in one of two boxes: Accept or Reject. The difficulty is that the Accept box is brimful.

‘Maria we can’t have them all, there just isn’t time. If we take everyone you’ve put in the Accept box, the show’ll run till four in the morning. We’ll have to throw buckets of water over the audience to keep them awake.’

‘Well, okay, but which of them are we going to reject? You tell me.’

‘God knows. Anyway, we’ve still loads to get through. Who’s next?’

Maria consults the list.

‘The Victory Singers.’

‘The hunky minister?’ asks Marianne.

‘Pastor McKenzie, yes.’

‘Oh goody.’

Maria rolls her eyes, ‘Okay, wheel them in. Next!’

Pastor McKenzie and four of his flock enter.

‘Sorry, we weren’t sure if we were next.’

Maria doesn’t trust him; he’s too handsome to be a cleric, and he’s always smiling.

Pastor McKenzie is as slim and tall as a male model in a catalogue. His suit looks neat on his broad shoulders. As he enters he undoes the three buttons on his jacket which now falls open informally to display his trim waist and slim hips. His legs are long, his feet are big and his backside is extremely tidy for a middle-aged man. He probably works out, and his blue-black hair has got to be dyed. His dark eyebrows and slick sideburns seem indecent on a reverend. All he needs is a thin moustache and a watch chain and he’d be a riverboat cardsharp.

Despite being kept waiting almost three hours McKenzie’s smile lights up the room. Always in a good mood, he is never less than radiant. The man seems to emanate joy.

‘Thank you for your patience, Pastor McKenzie,’ says a coyly smiling Marianne. ‘Please, in your own time, begin.’

So far the Headmistress has been hard-nosed and no nonsense but now she’s way too gushy for Maria’s liking.

They begin, the Pastor tapping his foot and snapping his fingers to keep the beat.

 It has to be conceded that the Pastor has a more than passable voice. As he conducts his choristers they seem to become charged with his burning exuberance. They smile and click their fingers too. Soon, the rhythm has infected their hips; they’re nodding their heads and clicking their fingers and shaking their booties in fervour. Filled with confidence, they sing with gusto.

Unfortunately the King of Kings has not seen fit to bless the Pastor’s followers with the gift of music. They’re tone deaf, an enthusiastic rabble.

When they finish, they are laughing and triumphantly swapping high fives. It takes Pastor McKenzie to put his finger to his lips to restore the modest demeanour they came in with.

‘Well,’ says Marianne, not quite speechless, ‘that was certainly something!’

‘Thank you Miss Bowman,’ the pastor nods diffidently. ‘Christ be with you.’

‘We’ll let you know, Pastor.’ Maria says.

His immaculate eyebrows are momentarily snagged but the beaming smile quickly makes a comeback.

‘I don’t think we should be too hasty,’ says Marianne as soon as they’ve left the hall.

‘But they were terrible!’

‘Yes, I know, but…Actually, I find myself unable to dispute that,’ says Marianne, smirking.

‘They were God-awful!’

‘Maria: Inclusion Initiative?’

‘You only want him in because you fancy him.’

‘Again,’ says Marianne, this time openly chuckling, ‘I am unable to dispute that. But the fact is that the Victory mission is the only religious group left in Hexton, you
have
to include them.’

Maria lets out a huffy sigh. She knows she’s beat. Standards are
crashing and they haven’t even finished the auditions yet.

‘Or no promotion for yoohoo!’ Marianne sings gleefully as she files the paperwork in the overflowing Accept box.

The next time Alice sticks her head round the door of the church it’s a different matter. He’s not the poor lonely soul he’s made himself out to be. He’s whittling away at his sideboard while three young neds sit on a pew, smoking and carrying on. He, the Ray fella, is telling jokes.

‘Here, I’ve got one for you: why do women wear white wedding dresses? To match the other kitchen appliances.’

The neds snort.

‘No bad, eh?’ says Ray, laughing along with them until he spots her.

‘Alice, come away in!’

He makes out he’s pleased to see her but the Young Ones squirm the way Young Ones do when confronted with a Senior Citizen.

She comes in, hesitantly, she’s had trouble with the Young Ones before, at the post office, if not these actual Ones then similar Ones. She used to know all the Young Ones in the area, she knew their parents, but she hardly recognises a soul in the street now.

Ray is as friendly as ever, which is a bit embarrassing in front of these Hooligans.

‘A wee cup of tea, hen? The kettle’s just boiled; I was giving the lads a cuppa.’

Alice thinks about it a minute. She should stick around and make sure they’re not going to steal from him.

‘Aye, go on then, if I’m not keeping you off your work.’

As she says this she stares pointedly at the Young Ones. They
are
keeping him off his work. They should be out looking for jobs.

‘I’ll get it myself, Ray; I can see you’re busy there.’

‘Cheers, hen!’

The neds seems to find this exchange funny. They’re sniggering. With a screwed up face and a nod in their direction Alice silently questions Ray: what’s going on? Why are they sniggering, in fact, why are these neds here? A look quickly flits across Ray’s face and, thank God, he seems to realise now. He’ll ruin his wee business if he encourages these neds to come into his place. But this is apparently not the realisation he has come to.

‘Sorry, Alice. Lads, can I introduce you to my friend, Alice? This is Bob, Aldo, and, Gerry, is it?’

The ned nods.

‘Aye, Gerry, right. The lads have been keeping me going, telling me jokes. Mind you, I don’t think they’re the kind of jokes you’d like Alice, a nice lady like yourself.’

She sees what he’s doing. He knows that they’ll try to take the piss out of a pensioner; it’s what Young Ones nowadays do. He’s trying to tell them not to, but it won’t work. She doesn’t like it; these Young Ones are taking advantage of his good nature, he’ll come a cropper. Ray’s loneliness puts him at risk. It doesn’t do to let them know you’re weak.

‘I’ll take another cup if you’re making one, milk and three,’ says the one called Gerry but he doesn’t look at her, he’s more interested in making his pals laugh. He’s showing off, taking the piss out of an OAP. Without looking at him directly she takes the mug from his hand.

‘Never heard of the word ‘please’?’

They all snigger, including Ray.

‘Aye, okay, please.’

One nil to Alice. As she’s walking away she hears him add, ‘Nan.’

He wasn’t quick enough to think of it at the time. Or maybe not brave enough. Everyone laughs again, Ray as much as the rest of them and Alice feels her face burn.

‘I’m not your Nan and I’m not here to run about after you. Get your own bliddy tea.’

This time Ray doesn’t join in the laughter:
now
does he understand what they’re playing at?

‘Gerry’s only kidding you on, Alice,’ Ray says, and she hears the reproach in his voice.

He’s taking sides with the Young Ones; he’s actually ganging up with them against a Senior Citizen.

Alice is preparing to leave, she won’t tolerate this, when she hears another one of them, the tall stupid-looking one, Aldo, point at her and openly abuse her.

‘I don’t know what that is but it needs a right good ironing.’

This is intolerable; this is what comes of bringing neds in off the street.

Nobody laughs this time. Big Stupid Aldo looks to his cronies for support for his witticism who in turn look to Ray. Ray puts his tools down. He moves to the pew, sits beside Aldo and puts an arm around him,

‘Hey, bit a respect, eh?’ says Ray gently.

‘Aye, man. You’ve taken that too far,’ agrees Gerry.

Bob nods.

Aldo either pretends not to know what he means or is too thick to understand, so Ray elucidates.

‘The thing is, Aldo, Alice is one of my mates. I’ve known her longer than I’ve known you so if I have to choose, I’d choose her. Don’t make me do that, Aldo.’

‘I’m no making you do anything!’ says Aldo in a thin scared voice.

‘Well, see, if you give Alice, or any of my pals, any bother? See that two by two?’

Still with his arm softly around Aldo’s shoulders Ray indicates a long narrow piece of wood propped against the wall.

‘I’ll have to shove that so far up your arse you’ll be using the splinters as a toothpick. D’you get me, Aldo? See where I’m coming from, man?’

Aldo doesn’t speak, he seems unable to speak, but he nods his head. ‘Well, that’s us sorted then,’ says Ray with a satisfied smile.

He gives Aldo a gentle pat on the back.

‘Right, Alice, you sit down, hen, and give us your patter, Aldo here’ll stick the kettle on. Milk and two for me please Aldo, and Alice as well, she’s the same as me.’

So far the show is turning out to be top-heavy with singers. They’re good but too much of the same thing will be boring. For the last four weeks, Blue Group has been role-playing a familiar scenario in their Wednesday afternoon drama workshop. This has potential as a sketch sandwiched between other acts. If they can get it right it’ll give Maria’s clients a prominent profile in the show. But this is going to require stamina and zen-like patience of everyone. She is confident they can do it, much more confident than they are.

Clients at the centre are aware that they’re different, that other people are smarter, but although there is often frustration, this isn’t generally a cause for sadness or inferiority. Maria has learned a lot about dignity and humility from her clients.

When she first got this job she called her girlfriends and told them how proud she was of the work she was doing now. At last she had found her vocation. At the time they were all supportive but last year in Inverness Anna said things, horrible things, that have haunted Maria ever since.

They’d got together for Bethan’s hen night. Colette and Anna were already married by then, Colette to a merchant banker and Anna to a television executive producer. Bethan’s wedding, to the modest forestry worker Craig, was to be a milestone. There was already a long list of them: their housewarming party in the Kelvin Street flat where Bethan met Craig, Anna’s engagement party, Colette’s wedding, Anna’s wedding, Colette’s baby’s christening. But for Maria, Bethan getting married would be the most significant milestone so far. She’d be the only one left of the Kelvin Street Kids
who could be described with so many ‘un’ words: unaccompanied, unattached, unwed.

She tried to stay positive, enthusiastically telling the girls about a new art class she had initiated at the centre. Colette was pregnant again at the time and therefore off the sauce but Anna was hammering it and it was beginning to show.

‘My cousin George goes to one of those places you work in,’ said Anna. ‘It’s a shame.’

‘Is it? Why’s that then, Anna?’ Maria let a reproving tone creep into her voice.

‘What I
mean
is it’s a shame that those places are all the provision there is. Short classes and long tea breaks, it’s hardly a stimulating or meaningful way for anyone to spend their lives, is it?’

Anna has changed since Kelvin Street. Now she’s a big shot publicity guru in London. She’s used to speaking her mind and getting her own way.

‘Leave it Anna,’ said Colette.

‘No Colette,’ said Maria, quite capable of holding her ground. ‘I’m interested in Anna’s perspective. I’m keen to find out what Anna actually knows about caring for people.’

‘Oh excuse me, I know, and
you
know, that my cousin George gets parked there during the day to take the strain off his Mum and Dad and prevent him going into care. I know you’re doing a great job providing a cheap babysitting service. You’re saving the tax payer a fortune: Saint Maria of the Blessed Finger Painting.’

Colette and Bethan were quick to jump to Maria’s defence. The next morning Anna apologised tearfully, profusely and repeatedly. Of course Maria accepted her apology but the damage was done. It was clear that Anna had no respect for Maria’s vocation and if anyone felt pity for anyone else it was the rest of the Kelvin Street Kids for Maria.

Maria seethed. Okay, her clients aren’t undertaking PhDs but they enjoy their day at the centre. It
is
stimulating. It
is
meaningful. To a hot shot London-based publicity guru it might only be setting a table or writing a poem but these tasks are challenging and rewarding to someone with fewer abilities. So, with Anna’s
sneering words still ringing in her ears, Maria does everything she can to stretch her clients.

‘Okay, from the top. Jane, you’re the customer and Martin, you’re the shopkeeper.’

Maria claps her hands directorially; if she had a riding crop, she’d whip her thigh with it.

‘Everybody ready? And, action!’

Martin takes the floor. He immediately begins miming carrying a heavy box and filling shelves from it. Some of the shelves are taller than he is, forcing him to reach up on his tip toes. When he empties the box he stores it carefully away and begins ticking off items from an invisible clipboard. His face is creased in a frown; he looks worried, perhaps about discrepancies in his shop stock.

Martin enjoys drama workshop much more than any of the other Blue Group clients. He takes his role seriously and tries hard to bring his character to life by getting inside the skin of the shopkeeper. It is a joy to have a client like Martin. He’s tremendously sociable and throws himself wholeheartedly into every activity. When he loves something he loves it passionately: music, sport, swimming, drama group, breasts, and he embraces life with an enviable lack of inhibition. Every opportunity he gets Martin will look at and attempt to feel breasts.

Maria thinks that Martin is different from other men, not because his fascination for mammaries is excessive, but because he doesn’t attempt to conceal it. Having concluded his stocktaking, Martin commences checking the contents of the till, playing his part with conviction and confidence. Martin’s elderly parents, who appear to be almost unaware that Martin has a disability, hero-worship him. They find him endlessly fascinating, funny and charming, which, for the most part, he is. Although he’s a small tubby lad, his self-image is of a movie star whose rightful place is in the limelight. It is for Martin’s sake that Maria has kept the Wednesday afternoon drama workshop going, always hoping that his enthusiasm might infect the others. It hasn’t worked so far but now with the exciting news that they’ll share the stage with the cream of Hexton’s talent and perform to a bona fide audience, she
hopes it’ll be stimulating for them. The problem is they have to want to do it. It’s her job to encourage, to guide, but it’s a fine line between stimulating clients and traumatising them. She’ll invite the Kelvin Street Kids to the performance, make a week end of it, and Anna will eat her words. All of them will see the work she does here. This is no passive babysitting, it’s hard work, for everybody. The show will undoubtedly stretch Blue Group, but Maria hopes, not to breaking point.