Demo Read online

  Cheers, I say. Thanks. I stand up wae my jeans round my ankles and reach up for it. Blood runs down the inside of my thighs. That’s great, thanks.

  In fact here, have the packet; mine’s just finished. And a wee blue and pink box slides under the door. That’ll do you till you can buy some. What is the Italian for tampons? Don’t know, the other one says. Then she says a bit louder, You’ll likely be able to pick them up in a supermarket, anyway. You’ll no need to ask for them.

  Thanks, you’ve saved my life.

  Don’t mention it. Been there. Got the bloody T-shirt. And they laugh. That’s us away now, love. Back into the fray. Enjoy your night.

  Bye, I shout. And their voices disappear into the noise fae the restaurant.

  I bend down fae the pan and pick up the box. There’s six in it. That was dead nice of the lassie. I look at the one I’m holdin. I’ve never used a tampon before. I know it’s an old wife’s tale – even my ma says that – but there was aye a rumour at school you shouldny use them when you’re a virgin. I didny fancy it anyway. Stickin something up you. I like the pads wae wings. So do a lot a the lassies at school. Different now, but. I peel the Cellophane off and drop it in the pan between my legs. The tampon’s dead wee and it slips in easy. I look at my pubes and the blue string hangin down. That’s that, then.

  I stick the box in my bag, throw my knickers in on top of the blood and paper and fasten up my jeans. Then I pull the flush. The whole lot sucks away and the lavvy glugs and gurgles like it does when you put too much down. But I don’t care.

  The three of them’s already eatin when I get back to the table.

  Oh, there you are, Clare, Laetitia says. We started without you. Hope you don’t mind?

  No, I says. I look at my place. My pizza’s no there. It’s some sorta pasta with like brown stewy stuff on top. Wae bones stickin out. I look at Julian. He’s cuttin right through the middle of a pizza wae ham and tomato.

  That’s mine, I says. I didny order this… stuff. They all burst out laughin. Even Danny.

  You should see your face, Clare.

  Oh, the horror, the horror, Julian says, and swaps the plates round. His blue eyes are laughin at me. You mean to tell me you don’t like pappardelle alla lepre ? A Florentine speciality.

  Aye, very funny, I says. And I probably would a laughed too, if I wasny nearly greetin. I sit down. I can feel my face burnin.

  Och, don’t be like that, Clare, it was just a wee joke, Danny says.

  Well, at least everybody’s laughin for a change, I says.

  Mind Granny sayin how she would never eat rabbit? Danny says. Dirty-lookin dogs, she said, runnin about the countryside eatin rats. No mind?

  Is that what that is? Rabbit?

  When you were brought up in a tenement in the Gorbals, the countryside was as foreign as… here… Florence. And he waves his arm at the restaurant.

  What you fucking talking about? Julian says. Half of Glasgow is seated here at these tables. He turns to me. Actually, it’s hare. Pappardelle – that’s the pasta. He lifts up a bit of wide pale pasta with the point of his knife. Alla lepre – that’s the hare; wild hare in fact. And he picks a bone wi reddish meat on out the brown sauce and sucks at it. A dribble of gravy runs down his chin. Il piatto del giorno, he says, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Right, I says. Hare. I take another look at it. It’s even more disgustin than the seashells.

  First catch your hare, Laetitia says. She’s cut her whole pizza up into wee squares and she eats one at a time. Daddy used to shoot one occasionally. And he would skin it himself. My mother wouldn’t touch it till it looked like meat and not a furry animal with floppy ears. But, I’m with you, Clare. She smiles at me like she’s tryin to make me feel better. Never could eat it. Not even Mrs Beeton’s recipe for jugged hare.

  Mrs Beeton? She your cook then? Did yous have a cook? Danny says.

  Laetitia and Julian burst out laughin at the same time. And they’re lookin right into each other’s eyes. No, no, Laetitia says, she was a Victorian cookery writer.

  Oh well, pardon me, Danny says, for no bein up on my Victorian cookery writers. He shoves a big chunk of pizza in his mouth and swills it down with a slug of wine.

  I’m glad I never says nothing; I thought she might be Laetitia’s Home Eekies teacher. I pick a bit of ham off my pizza and chew it. It’s lovely ham.

  Anyway, I says, my granny didny really say that about rabbits. That was just my da’s joke. Cause she was my ma’s ma.

  Family apocrypha. I love it, Julian says. He’s got a wee pile a bones at the side of his plate now. I try no to think what bit of the hare they come fae. The smell of it clashes wae the pizza. Sorta like Bisto but spicier. And a kinda meaty smell I’ve never smelt afore.

  Aye, she did say it. Danny speaks with a mouth full of pizza. He jabs his fork in the air. I was there. It was afore you were born. I mind my da laughin on the way hame on the bus. Eatin rats!

  Mind you, I wouldn’t put it past the Scottish rabbits, Julian says. He’s pokin through the stuff on his plate, lookin for more of the meat. It looks all bones to me. Rabbitus Scotticus, he says, with a wee rag of meat on his fork. Eats rats and talks shite.

  I see Danny lookin at him, but he doesny say nothin.

  Did your gran really live in the Gorbals? Laetitia says to me. Wasn’t ita bit – well – rough for an old lady?

  No, she went intay sheltered housin in Castlemilk a few years afore she died, I says.

  You shouldny believe all you hear about Glasgow, Danny says. He’s ate all his pizza except the crust, just like he does at hame. Nothin wrang wae Glasgow. It’s —

  Well, hello, Julian, you old dog. I thought that was you lurking beneath the dreadlocks.

  I look round and there’s this guy standin behind us with a red plastic bucket. It’s got a leaflet stuck on it but I canny read it.

  Hector! Julian says. Didn’t know you were coming to Florence?

  Hector? I think. Where do they get they names?

  Julian gets up and claps the guy on the shoulders with his two hands. Danny, Clare, this is my old friend Hector from university.

  The guy’s face twists as if it’s sore to smile. He’s got wan a they faces. Like somebody sat on it when it was still warm, my ma would say.

  Laetitia stands up and offers him her hand across the table. Hi, Hector. Nice to see you again.

  It’s been a long time, he says. At first I’ve thought he was English like Julian and Laetitia, but when you listen closer you can hear he’s really Scottish.

  Danny, he says. Pleased to meet you. And Clare? The name’s not really Hector, by the way. It’s Douglas. Acquired the moniker amid the college cloisters.

  So, what you selling, Hector? Julian says, and he points at the bucket.

  Hector… Douglas holds it up and shoogles it. There’s a pile of coins in the bottom that rattle and jingle. Collecting for the Carlo Giuliani Fighting Fund. Care to lob in a bob or two? One of the fringe meetings was devoted to him. His mother’s mounted quite a campaign. Very impressive.

  You don’t mean to tell me you’ve been attending the actual Social Forum itself ? Since when did you get so involved? And where’s the Harris tweed? Julian pulls at the sleeve of Hector’s jacket. It’s denim and he’s got the collar turned up. Like he’s tryin to be cool but he canny.

  Long story, old boy. I’ll save it for another day. So…? Anyone? He holds up the bucket again.

  Laetitia and me fish for our purses in our bags under the table. I watch to see what Laetitia takes out. I think it’s two euros. She puts her hand in the bucket and drops the coins in. I’ve only got a ten-euro note and some cents. I pull out the note.

  Have you got change? I says.

  Chrissake, Clare. Danny snatches the note out my hand and flings it in the bucket. That’ll do for the baith of us. I’ll square up wae you later.

  Very generous, Hector says, and he looks at Julian.

  You know me, Hector
, financially embarrassed as usual. He shrugs his shoulders.

  The soul of a true Englishman, Hector says.

  Perennial student, Julian says.

  Oh yes… how is the PhD coming along? What’s it on again?

  Julian waves his hand, like he doesny want to talk about it.

  The Role of Sex in the Novels of D. H. Lawrence and Henry Miller, Laetitia says. A.k.a. Wanking for Boys.

  Sit down, Hector, Julian says. It’s ages since I’ve seen you.

  No, can’t stay. Got a target to reach for the fund. Good to see you, Laetitia. A pleasure to meet you, Clare. Danny. He twists his face again. See you anon, you old skinflint. He touches Julian on the shoulder and moves to the next table with his bucket.

  I look round the table. Everybody’s watching Hector.

  Who the fuck is he? Danny says.

  You could at least have put a couple of coins in his damn bucket, Julian. He is your friend, after all.

  You know I never give money to charity… the feelgood, conscience-salving activity of the moneyed classes.

  It’sa fighting fund, Danny says.

  What’s it for? I says.

  Carlo Giuliani. Guy that was killed by the Italian polis in Genoa at the G8 summit in 2001. Twenty-three years old. Bastards opened fire on the crowd and he was killed. His maw goes round now tryin to raise awareness of what it’s like under Berlusconi’s fascist regime. Crush opposition with the full force of the state…

  I aye switch off when Danny starts to talk like that. But why was he killed? I says.

  Don’t be so naïve, Clare, Danny says.

  Come to think of it, it was a pretty tame demo today, Laetitia says. Hardly any carabinieri to speak of.

  Aye, they’re shit scared, wae the eyes of the whole of Europe on them. Don’t want a repeat of Genoa.

  I bet it’s a woman. Everybody looks at Julian. Hector, he says. The new threads. Old Hector dipping his wick at last.

  Oh, for Christsake! Laetitia says. If it’s not politics, it’s sex. What is it with you, Julian?

  I’m lookin at Julian to see what he’s gonny say. His eyes kinda flicker and for a nanosecond he looks dead hurt. Then he turns to Laetitia and says, What else is there? Hmm? What else?

  Laetitia takes the wee skinny end of her roll-up out the ashtray, puts it in her mouth and flicks a flame to it. It’s that close to her lips, you’d a thought she would burn hersel. She takes one big draw at it, then squashes it hard back in the ashtray and grinds it in with the ash that’s already there. She clocks me lookin at her. It’s too dark to see properly, but I think she might be greetin a wee bit. I think I see a tear kinda shinin in the corner of her eye.

  She smiles at me. You don’t miss much, do you, Clare? She lifts her hand to my face and – dead gentle – rubs a smear of ash ontay the middle of my forehead.

  What’s that for? I says.

  Ash Wednesday.

  It’s in February.

  So it is.

  And this is Saturday.

  Yeah?

  Aye.

  Danny’s pissed off again. He gets up. Hey, Laetitia, want to come and meet they guys I was tellin you about? They’re over there. His face is in the light now and he points across the restaurant.

  What, now?

  Aye, how no?

  The place’s got gradually noisier while we’ve been eatin.

  Folk are talkin and laughin and it feels much mair relaxed. Well – at some a the other tables anyhow.

  Later, perhaps, Laetitia says. I’d like another glass of wine.

  Danny sits down again, but you can see he’s no pleased.

  I wish that wee French guy was here the night, I says, so’s we could have another singsong. The three a them look at me and laugh.

  Oh, to be young, Laetitia says.

  Aye, right, I think. Whatever. I stand up and I just catch their faces turnin up to me surprised afore I start to sing:

  Ol’ pirates, yes, they rob I,

  Sold I to the merchant ships…

  The place has went quiet and everybody’s starin. I keep singin. I don’t even really hear it; the words just sing theirsels. All I see is the faces lookin at me, gold in the candlelight and sort a floatin in the dark. And they’re listenin to me. They’re listenin to me.

  Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery…

  Somebody whistles.

  Won’t you help to sing

  These songs of freedom?

  Some guys have started singin alang wi me now. By the time I’m finished, it sounds like the hail restaurant’s singin.

  Cause all I ever have –

  Redemption songs…

  Then a lot a them’s on their feet clappin and whistlin and cheerin. Gaun yersel, darlin, a woman shouts.

  Somebody else’s turn now, I says. And I sit down. I’ve got a big riddy. The three a them’s still starin at me. I keep my eyes on my glass first, then I take a wee peek up at Julian. I don’t know what he’s thinkin. His face doesny give nothin away. Danny’s mouth’s hangin open.

  That was lovely, Clare, Laetitia says. What a beautiful voice you have.

  Hello there. A lassie’s came over to our table. It’s her fae the Ladies, the one with red hair. She smiles right at me.

  That was crackin, she says. I’ve never heard ‘Redemption Song’ delivered like a Catholic hymn afore. Where did you learn to sing like that?

  I shrug my shoulders. School, I suppose.

  Well, there’s hope for the education system yet.

  Hey, that you, Bernie, Danny says. How’s tricks?

  Danny Kilkenny. I didny notice you there. Is this talented young woman a friend of yours?

  That aint no Young Woman; that’s ma Baby Sister, Clare.

  Pleased to meet you again, Clare.

  This is Laetitia. And Julian.

  The lassie gives them baith a nod and turns to me again.

  Listen, if you ever fancy singin wae some like-minded women, come and join our choir. She hands me a wee card wae Circe on it and a name, Bernadette McCarvil. It’s got my mobile number and my e-mail address. We could do with some new young blood – especially wae a voice like yours. Fantastic.

  Thanks, I say. And I put the card in the back pocket of my jeans.

  A lassie’s started singin over the other side a the restaurant. Bernadette turns round to look.

  That’s my table, she says. My pal, Shona. Better get back; she’ll need handers for the chorus. Really great to meet you, Clare. Hope I’ll see you again. By the way, have your pals no telt you, you’ve got a black mark up here – she puts her finger up between her eyes – on your forehead. Ciao, Danny… guys, she says. And she weaves away through the crowded tables.

  Nice to meet you too, Julian says, even though she canny hear him by now. So… Clare, this is the light you’ve been hiding under that bushel of red hair? He’s leanin on one elbow across the table, his dreads all spread out, squintin round at me. His voice sounds mockin but his eyes look serious. They catch a wee gleam of light fae the candles and I get that feelin shootin through me again, sharp and soft at the same time. He dips his fingers in his glass and rubs at the mark Laetitia’s made on my head. A drop of wine runs down the side of my nose.

  Let’s go and meet these friends of yours then, Danny, Laetitia says. She’s lookin in her glass and her hair’s hangin down, so I canny see her face.

  What, now? Danny says.

  Yeah, Laetitia says, why not? She stands up and her face is sad in the light just for a second till she turns and walks away. Danny shoots to his feet. He looks dead chuffed when he goes after her.

  Julian doesny even glance up when they go; he keeps his eyes on me. Then he picks up a napkin and wipes the wine and ash off my face.

  There, he says, that’s better. He picks up the carafe and pours some more wine in my glass. And in his. Then he lifts it up to me. A toast, he says. To the sweetest songbird with red hair in all of Florence. He clinks my glass. And the smiliest.

  I
didny realize I was smilin so much; it must be the wine. I’m still lookin into his blue eyes and I don’t notice Hector till he’s right beside us.

  Thought I’d take you up on that offer to join you, old man, he says. He puts two wee glasses on the table with this like clearish liquid in them. And he pulls up the chair opposite Julian. Grappa? I brought only two, I’m afraid, he says, lookin at me.

  Would you like one, Clare? Julian says.

  I’m no bothered, I says. I’ve got wine. I stare out into the restaurant, so’s I don’t have to look at Hector’s fizzog.

  Julian picks up the grappa glass and holds it up to me. All the better to toast you with. Did you hear Clare sing? he says to Hector.

  Oh, was that you? he says. Very nice. I’ve always liked that Dylan song.

  Julian and me look at each other and smile. Clare and I prefer the other Bob, he says.

  Eh?

  So… did you reach your target?

  Oh, exceeded it, old man. Way over. I’ll be taking the loot to the Giuliani fundraisers later. Very gratifying.

  Good for you.

  No thanks to you, of course.

  Never let it be said… Julian says. He stands up and reaches into his pocket, takes out a ten-euro note and hands it to Hector.

  Fabulous, Hector says. Even better. I knew you couldn’t resist a just cause in the end. Or is it the influence of this delightful young lady? He looks at me and corkscrews his mouth into some kinda smile, but his eyes are borin right intay me. He gives me the creeps a wee bit. I can’t see him and Julian really bein friends.

  Is she not a bit young even for you, Julian? Looks like jailbait if I’m not mistaken.

  I’m sixteen, I says, and I must a sounded angry, because he holds up his hands, palms out.

  Terribly sorry. Didn’t mean to offend.

  You never did know when to shut the fuck up, Hector, did you? Anyway, what’s with the new gear? Where’s that suit you said would last a lifetime? Then Julian turns to me. Hector turned up at Cambridge wearing this bright green tweed suit, 1994. You would think three decades had simply never happened.