Dirt Road. James Kelman
Or something between. Not dreams and not nightmares, and not like wet dreams or whatever, and not music although sometimes music but weird music just like systems and things to do with planets, alien worlds and spirit worlds; worlds for dead people. Stupidities all crowding in, crowding out yer mind; the last nonsense ye heard on television, the more stupid the better. Why did they not just shut up? Some voices Murdo hated and ye wanted to drown them out.
What time was it? Who knows.
Mum and his sister, Eilidh. What world were they in? A spirit world, always surrounding you and you surrounding it. You are within it but they are within you.
*
He was awake early next morning and lay on in bed. Only a minute then he was up and the clothes on. Dad was sleeping. He didnt want to wake him. The bus was not until mid afternoon so it was okay. Dad liked long lies. The same when Mum was alive, the two of them. There were times they didnt show until after eleven o’clock. It made ye think of something else. So what yer Mum and Dad? if it was sex; sex is sex.
Murdo slugged milk out the fridge and left it at that. Teabags and Sunday breakfast. On his way out he lifted a ten-dollar note from Dad’s money and clicked shut the door. With luck he would be there and back before he wakened.
The same five cars in the carpark. A clear blue sky. Already it was warm. So peaceful. What other day could it be but Sunday! Is there something beyond enjoyment! This was more than enjoyment! No cars hardly at all. He was hearing sounds but quiet ones; insects and birds. Definitely. Mum would have loved it.
The sensation that he was seeing everything but nothing was seeing him. The road was here and him walking it. Nobody else. Not Dad and not anybody. He didnt know anybody. He hadnt seen Uncle John and Aunt Maureen since he was a baby. He didnt remember them. Who else? Nobody. Except that lassie in the shop, if ye could say he knew her. But he did. Sarah. And she knew him. Ha ha, it was true, she knew he was Scottish, whatever age she was, maybe older than him, but not much like if she was seventeen; another couple of months and him too. Ye were a man at seventeen. People said that. Sixteen is a boy and seventeen a man. Oh what age are ye? Sixteen. Wait till ye’re seventeen.
Would she be there? Maybe. Although late last night and now this morning: that was long hours to work. A girl like her who was very very good-looking and like just very very pretty, she was still a girl working. So if it was long hours that was the job. Otherwise get another. Ye needed money. That was him too, he needed money, he needed to work. So he needed to leave school. Things came back to that. It didnt matter America or Scotland.
He turned off the main road, going along the side street and hearing music, the closer he got, it was accordeon. A waltz. Jeesoh. People say about their ears playing tricks. With him it was his brains and floating away someplace thinking about whatever he couldnt remember, maybe his sister was there. He never knew until he “woke up”, although he wasnt sleeping.
Murdo and the music. Walking in the beat. The beat was him walking, walking in the rhythm. Going along the street and nobody else. This waltz playing; a nice one with a real good feel, that proper rhythm there for the dance; relaxed, yeah, that was the swing, doodilladooo. That feeling too he had been here already. Or was here already. Not talking about last night.
He approached the shop. It was open. Nobody at the entrance porch. Instead of stepping onto that he kept walking, following the music round the side of the building. A few trees were here, scrawny ones. He stayed behind them, so they wouldnt see him. An old lady, the accordeon player, sitting on a chair wearing a big hat and the girl out the shop – Sarah from last night – playing washboard, stepping from foot to foot. Another lady sat next to her, not as old, but quite old.
The old lady and the girl, it was great seeing them, something just beautiful about it, seeing the two of them there in the music. The accordeon itself; cream-coloured and as fancy as ye ever would see, light glinting in the morning sun, and that brilliant sound! What a sound! That was special. That was so special.
And the girl scrubbed it along facing the old lady who nodded her head on that two three beat rhythm, glancing around at the folk watching, smiling a little but only in the music, like how some musicians did that even when their eyes were shut. This lady kept on looking, seeing the people watching, keeping her eye on them. Murdo liked that. This was her playing, she was playing. She had her way and there she was.
Murdo didnt move in case people saw him. He was not hiding, only keeping out the way.
The other woman on the porch was not so old as the musician. But what age was that? Murdo didnt know. She had a hat on too, with a fancy sort of gauze stuff trailing down the back. She sat upright with her feet firmly to the floor, moving her right hand to beat time in a sharp movement like cutting or chopping; this was her right hand beating time but it was the three beats and her wrist jerking: flicking, cutting and flicking. She could have been on drums the way she was doing it; this rigour she brought to it, which seemed to set up a response like ye sometimes hear in music:
I told ye so, I told ye so, I told ye so.
A lot of musicians did that. They played something to you and you played something to them; stupid things:
you should know better, you should know better behave yerself behave yerself
dont you start, I told ye; dont you start, I told ye Naw ye didnay, naw ye didnay. I told you, I told you.
That was the other musicians telling ye, giving ye a wink and a nod of the head. It was two-way. You were on the melody. Behave yerself. That was the rhythm. The rhythm was telling ye to behave yerself. Guys Murdo played with did a lot of that for fun. And it was fun. You liked it and so did the audience and the dancers danced and off ye go, the dancers danced and away ye go, tricka tricka tricka, tricka tricka tricka.
The song ended.
Murdo wondered what would happen but nothing did happen. Somebody clapped and somebody laughed, and the accordeon player spoke to people. This was a community place composed of back gardens running into each other; some had fences and some didnt. Kids played wherever; girls throwing a ball and a couple of boys horsing around. A dozen folk were sitting on chairs, dotted about the grass. A few were standing.
The accordeon player spoke a few words to the girl then it was one, two and away they went into another. This was an upbeat number with a real driving rhythm, but in that same style again. But then it stopped. The old lady broke off out of nothing, and spoke a few words to the girl, then played in from a couple of lines before, and stopped again, and restarted, and off they went.
They were rehearsing! Of course! It was the real stuff. Ye knew that just by listening. It was so so obvious. This old lady was special! Jeesoh, man! Murdo was chuckling, and felt like laughing!
There was a lyric this time; the old lady on vocal driving it on and jees she really was something! God . . . And the way people responded to her. They knew. Murdo couldnt make out the words, then realized why: it was French! She was singing in French! Maybe some English. The girl and the lady with the fancy gauze hat were chorusing the line endings. It was a new kind of music for Murdo and exciting how it rocked along, that humour too, and funky, just brilliant for playing, and for dancing; the kids were jigging about. Murdo chuckled then was startled to find a guy standing next to him and right there in his face; angry-looking, so angry-looking. Murdo stepped back. The guy spoke in a low grunting voice. What you doing here? Huh? What you doing here? You shouldnt be here; this aint your place.
Eh it was just eh . . .
This aint your place. What you doing round here? What you spying on us!
The music had stopped. The guy stepped forwards and pointed Murdo out to them. People were staring. Murdo was embarrassed at being caught but was not spying if anybody thought that. Why would he spy? It was music. He saw the girl at the side and tried to smile but couldnt, but he called to her: I’m not spying.
Now she recognised him and she raised her arm. Hey! I know him! He came in the store last night.
This aint the store, said the guy.
Oh he’s