The Girl From Yesterday (13 page)

‘Your turn,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you started, but I want to hear you all sing.’

They didn’t need a second invitation. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought each and every one of them had lived the life of the migrant rail worker.

‘Beautiful. Now, keep it going.’

I moved about the room, encouraging first one group then another. Jessie had gotten creative on the djembe and was trying rolls and fills with increasing confidence. Rachel was as steady as ever on the tambourine. My chair beaters had worked out a kind of alternating beat that was hilarious to see, but strangely effective. I was kind of swaying in time to their ministrations, singing a harmony line to the lead melody, when the door was flung open and a horrified-looking George Taylor stormed in. To the credit of the group, no one stopped playing.

‘Hey Mr Taylor,’ I said over the music. ‘We’re kind of in the middle of something here.’

‘You can be heard on the street!’ he said. ‘And I don’t think that whiteboard markers are meant to be used that way.’

‘I’ll replace any that are damaged,’ I promised.

‘I . . .’ Taylor said.

I waited politely.

‘Goodbye,’ he finished, and strode out.

* * *

We kept the train song going for fifteen more minutes. During that time we had a couple of verses sung just by the girls, a couple just by the boys, a ‘drum’ solo from the whiteboard marker players and another from the chairs. When we finished, everyone clapped and applauded our success, then slumped down into their seats, glowing with the fun of it all.

‘Okay, you all just chill out there for a moment,’ I said. ‘I’ll play you something of a relaxing nature.’

I picked up the autoharp – an American old-time instrument, sort of a cross between a harp and an accordion – and played the old Scottish ballad, ‘Black is the Colour’. It is one of the first folk songs I ever learned, and remains one of my favourites.

Black is the colour of my true love’s hair

Her lips are like some roses fair

She’s got the sweetest eyes and the gentlest hands

And I love the ground whereon she stands
.

I received a gentle clap when I finished, not out of lack of enthusiasm, just because everyone was so content and mellow.

‘Before we pack up for the night, would anyone else like to sing something?’ I asked. ‘I’m not forcing ye at all, but now that your musical muscles are kind of warmed up . . .’

‘I’d like to,’ a voice said, and there was Gladys, with her hand up.

‘Great,’ I said. ‘Would you like me to back you?’

‘If you want to,’ she said.

‘Okay, well, you just start and I’ll fall in.’

She settled in her seat, closed her eyes, and began to sing.

Oh the snow it melts the soonest when the winds begin to sing

And the corn it ripens fastest when the frosts are setting in

And when a young man tells me that my face he’ll soon forget

Before we part, I’d better croon, he’d be fain to follow it yet
.

I found her key easily (she sang the song in B flat) and simply affected a strum on the autoharp, which suited the old English folk song perfectly. Gladys had a wonderful lilting voice with a natural tremolo that was not intrusive. The song is about (as so many are) lost love and the fleeting nature of happiness. It struck me profoundly, as I played along on my autoharp, itself an instrument invented in the Victorian era and a favourite of English players of that time, that the song Gladys was sharing with us could easily have been played on the ancient pianoforte I had come across in the Blaney house. Our vocalist paused for a moment, nodding for me to play a solo. I obliged, and she finished with a refrain of the first verse. This time, no one held back on the applause.

‘You are very, very talented,’ I told Gladys as we finished. ‘Where in the name of God did you learn to sing like that?’

‘My mam and dad are both singers. My dad plays the melodeon, as well. I always picked up songs since I was little. As me parents got older the sessions in the house stopped,’ she laughed. ‘I haven’t had an evenin’ like this in a long time!’

There was general agreement to that.

‘Well I want to hear more of your voice,’ I said. ‘And I want to hear Biddy play that accordion. But for tonight, that’s all we have time for.’

I watched Gladys leave that evening, and there seemed to be an added spring to her step and a glow about her. I hoped the experience, and the fact that she had taken a chance on singing and it had paid off, would bolster her self-esteem and pay dividends in the weeks and months to come.

I came out of the classroom laden down with instrument cases, and found Jessie waiting for me.

‘You all right, Jess?’ I asked.

‘Would you like me to carry some of those for you?’ she asked.

‘That’d be nice. Grab the uke – yeah, the small one – and the bag with the percussion gear in it. That’s great, thanks.’

We walked towards the car.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Jessie inquired.

‘Of course.’

‘If someone you know is carrying on in a way that isn’t right, but that person is sorta extra vulnerable – should you turn a blind eye or should you do something about it?’

‘Jess, you’ve lost me I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘You’re going to have to be a little less cryptic.’

We’d reached my car now and I opened the boot quickly and started to put the instruments in.

‘Maybe the best thing for you to do would be to look at this,’ Jessie said, taking out her phone.

I paused, my guitar half in and half out of the car.

‘Are you about to show me a rather racy text message?’ I asked.

Jessie froze, clearly amazed.

‘How did you know that?’

‘Sometimes I amaze myself,’ I said drolly. ‘And do you either suspect or know that the sender of that message is a person most often seen on a set of wheels.’

‘I do,’ Jessie said.

‘Let’s just say that this isn’t the first time our friend’s phone antics have been brought to my attention,’ I said.

‘You’re not serious!’ Jessie said, getting annoyed. ‘He seems so harmless. I felt sorry for him.’

‘Did you give him your number?’

‘I did – he came up to me in the library, wanted to know how to use their online system to put aside a book. He’s always on his own, y’know.’

I suddenly realized we were being watched. It was just a sensation at first, but then I caught a flash of movement and, peering into the shadows, I spotted Jeff McKinney trying to shrink back farther into the dark.

‘I can see you, Jeff,’ I shouted over at him. ‘Either come out and face us or kindly fuck off.’

I waited, and it seemed he had gone, skulking away around the back of the school building.

‘He is one weird puppy,’ Jessie said, shuddering.

‘I think it’s time I had a word with Mr Taylor,’ I said. ‘Our Jeffie is starting to make quite the nuisance of himself.’

‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t mention my name,’ Jessie said.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Do you mind my asking why?’

‘He’s in a wheelchair . . .’ Jessie said. ‘It seems a bit wrong to complain about him.’

‘Would you prefer he continue sending you obscene texts?’ I said.

‘No,’ she said firmly.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I said. ‘But unless you’re willing to come forward, I’m not sure what can really be done.’

I had a definite feeling I was being watched when I got home, but if Jeff was there, he was well hidden.

Despite everything, I slept like a log that night. Or at least, I slept like a log until about three, when I was awakened by someone kicking me – and not gently.

I had that moment of disorientation – how could I be so roughly awakened when I live alone – and reached over to switch on my bedside lamp. When the gloom was illuminated I was greeted by the sight of Lonnie Whitmore, dressed in his usual mismatched assortment of children’s clothes and ill-fitting small adult wear, standing on my bed right beside me.

‘Lonnie,’ I said, my voice still thick with sleep, ‘what the fuck, man? It’s the middle of the night!’

My friend’s response was to draw his leg back once again and deliver a crushing blow to my guts.

‘Jesus Christ,’ I gasped. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’

‘You are a goddam asshole,’ Lonnie said, leaning down so he was nose to nose with me. ‘A useless’ (kick), ‘good for nothing’ (kick), ‘stupid hippy asshole!’ Kick.

Completely winded, I rolled off the bed and onto the floor. It took me a couple of seconds to get air back into my lungs, but that was long enough for me to get the ends of the quilt wrapped about both hands. When I came up again I rapidly flung the duvet over my angry friend and bundled him up in it.

‘You lousy shit,’ he screamed, fighting like a miniature tiger. ‘I’ll fucking kill you.’

‘You had your chance, Chucky,’ I said, and hefting the weight of the bundle, I swung it into the wall with a pleasing thud. That shut him up.

‘Okay,’ I said, ‘Are you finished being difficult, or do we go a couple of rounds more?’

‘Fuck you,’ came the meek response.

‘Your choice, Mini Me,’ I said, picking up the duvet for another swing, this time at the door, perhaps.

‘Okay! Okay, I’ll come nicely,’ Lonnie bawled.

‘You disappoint me,’ I said, undoing the knot I had tied and releasing my visitor.

‘You don’t fight fair,’ he said.

‘Look, you caught me while I was asleep,’ I reminded him. ‘That is surely the very definition of fighting dirty.’

Lonnie accepted that truth begrudgingly.

‘Fix me a drink,’ he said. ‘We need to talk.’

I poured him a dram of whiskey, and one for myself, and we sat in the living room in the semi-darkness.

‘So to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’ I asked. ‘I mean, don’t think that I don’t enjoy you coming into my room in the middle of the night to try and beat me to death, but, y’know, sometimes it’s nice to get a phone call first.’

‘You really don’t know why I’m mad?’

‘No. I don’t.’

‘Do you remember the last time we spoke I suggested you keep a weather eye on the Blaney family?’

‘Yeah. I have been.’

‘You have been?’

‘Yes. I have.’

‘In what way, exactly?’

‘I have been looking into things.’

‘And what have you learned?’

‘It looks very much like one or both parents are beating the kids.’

Lonnie made a ‘get on with it’ motion with one of his hands. ‘And?’

‘And the kids are dirty.’

‘And?’

‘And hungry.’

‘And are they attending school?’

‘They’re getting home schooled.’

‘Right. And would you say that you have been out at the house at all hours of the day – early morning, lunchtime, mid afternoon, evening . . .’

‘Yeah. I suppose.’

‘And during that time, have you ever seen any lessons going on?’

‘C’mon, Lonnie. You know as well as I do that home schooling doesn’t work that way.’

‘It’s indicative though, isn’t it?’

‘Indicative of what?’

‘That those children are being left to stew in their own juices!’

‘No, it does not mean that!’

‘Come on, Shane! You know that what I’m saying is true. Twelve months ago, you’d have been out there with a team of social workers and whipped those children into care without thinking twice about it.’

‘Maybe I would.’

‘So what’s holding you back now?’

‘All those times I did that – every time I sailed in and did my knight on a white charger thing – did it ever really do any good?’

‘Of course it did!’

‘See, that’s where we differ. I think I got way ahead of myself, and started developing notions of grandeur, a sense of self-importance I really did not warrant. I’m not making that mistake again.’

‘Yet you go out there with food, you play games with the kids, you go and talk to the school.’

‘How do you know about that?’

‘Shane, I’m dead! I know everything.’

‘You do?’

‘It goes with the territory.’

‘You don’t look any smarter.’

‘Believe me, I am.’

‘Prove it.’

‘The Blaney children are in trouble, and they need somebody to help them. And I don’t mean a moderate, not too serious kind of trouble. I mean that, if something isn’t done fast, one of those children will die.’

‘Now you’re being overdramatic.’

‘I am not.’

‘You are, too.’

‘No I’m not.’

‘Are.’

I drained my glass and stood up.

‘I’m going back to bed. Thanks for stopping by, but could you maybe send me a text or something – a white dove or whatever is appropriate in your circumstances – before your next manifestation. Some of us have to work, you know.’

‘What are you going to do about the Blaneys?’

‘I am going to go back to sleep and think about it in the morning. It’s not as if I
haven’t
been thinking about it.’

‘I want a more definitive answer than that,’ Lonnie said.

‘Well you are not getting one. And stay the fuck out of my room, will you? It’s fucking creepy you keeping on showing up the way you have been.’

‘I can make my presence felt from out here too, you know,’ Lonnie shouted as I closed the door and went back to bed.

I assumed he meant he could get furniture to move on its own, but he didn’t. He regaled me with his own utterly tuneless rendition of the entire album
Never Mind the Bollox
by The Sex Pistols. Somehow I got to sleep about five. As usual, the all-singing, all-dancing Lonnie was gone when I awoke.

I had arranged to go out to the Blaney house the following morning. Despite my restless night, I was up just after seven and set about making a picnic, trying to include as many different items as I could. I had bought a proper picnic basket (a good-sized one) after my last visit with the kids, and I filled it with a variety of sandwiches: I remembered from my time in residential care that egg mayonnaise was always a popular option, so I made some of those as well as ham and some cheese and tomato. I made lemonade which I put in large plastic bottles and packed into a cooler. I had baked an apple pie and made some cupcakes with butter icing, and this time I brought some grapes, plums and pears for the fruit course. Congratulating myself on the preparation of such a fine feast, I carried it out to the car.