Being Emily (6 page)

WE’D JUST TWO
hours tae set up our work in a space ten feet by four, like a box with three sides, painted white. Even though I knew which photies I was gonnae use I hadnae decided how to display them. In the end I worked totally on instinct, with nae idea whether it’d be brilliant or a load of posy rubbish.

When time was up we all stood back. Each space looked completely different: Rosie’s garishly coloured papier-mâché sculptures of exotic birds with sweetie necklaces tied round them, Jas’s stark sleek black and white images, Matt’s ethereal abstract watercolours, and mines.

Four big colour photographs hung on the back wall; apparently idyllic winter scenes of snow and ice from the November
day in the park, crystallised puddles or delicate leaves rimed in frost, but each with an amputated or mutilated doll superimposed over it. One floated heidless above the trees, another looked as if it had been stamped tae bits in a frozen puddle. And in front of the photographs, on a table covered by a white cloth, lay a mountain of doll parts, each with a Barbie Elastoplast over some part of it. Some had their eyes covered, others their ears, and some wore crossed plasters like a bikini. The title ‘Barbie Bits’ was printed in pink italics on a card in front of them.

Jas stood beside me, looking intently. After what seemed like ages he spoke.
Awesome, Fiona
.

Really?

Yeah, I’d never in a million years have thought of doing anything
like that with those photos
.

Hey, Fiona, what have you done?
Rosie appeared behind us.
Barbie Bits – wicked
.

Miss Mulhern was making her way along our exhibits. When she came to mines she looked critically as if taking in every detail, then started to nod and smile.
Nice concept, Fiona
– good placing of the doll parts and the plasters – but …
She looked around worriedly.
Where’s your text?

I didnae know you had tae write one
.

There’s nothing in the rules to stop you hanging the visual work
on its own, but, nowadays, the artist has to contextualise their work … too late now, of course, but you can do it for your exam
.

I don’t see why you need tae explain your art. Turner and all these
guys just painted
.

That’s not really the point, Fiona … anyway, the adjudicators
are coming
.

We stood back while the three judges – two artists and one guy fae the crisp company – looked at the pieces, clipboards
in haund, ticking boxes and scribbling on their sheets. They were judging all the entries from schools in the Glasgow area. The winner would get through to the final with folk fae the other regions in Scotland.

Miss Mulhern looked at her watch.
The adjudicators are giving
their decision at twelve, so be back here at five to. You could go and
see what the other entries are like, get some ideas
.

Jas whispered in my ear.
Let’s go and get a coffee
.

The main foyer was a soulless barn of a place, all plastic and metal with posters advertising concerts for has-been bands at extortionate prices. In one of the other halls there was a craft show, and teams of auld dollies in haund-knitted jumpers and lace-up shoes daundered about, carrying poly bags full of cross-stitch kits. Jas and me sat on a bench, sipping coffee out of paper cups.

You know, I think I prefer coffee like this. It tastes better than out
of real cups
.

Stays hot for longer. But then, paper cups are so bad for the environment
.

Afore I met Jas, I’d never thought much about the environment but it was one of his things. I even knew what he was gonnae say next.

It’d be so easy to have recycling bins in here
.

He was right, of course, and being with him had made me aware of how folk just chucked stuff out, of the overpackaged products and the way you got handed a poly bag in every shop – I’d even started taking bags to the supermarket mysel. But there was a difference between us. I knew in my heid that throwing a paper cup away was wrong and wasteful, but it actually pained Jas to dae it. I knew that when it was time for us to go back in the hall he’d place the cup in the bin
gently and a look of distress would cross his foreheid; Jas could feel the hole in the ozone layer growing even by a particle, could sense the tiniest molecule of carbon monoxide sighing into the air.

I looked at the time on my phone. Ten to.

Finished?

Jas nodded, and I took the cup fae him, put it inside mines as if somehow that made it less bad, then threw them in the bin.

He stood up, held out his haund, and the two of us heided towards the door.

Everyone expected Jas tae win, of course. He’d always been the golden boy of the class, got the school Art prize every year. His photies were perfect; not only were his composition and technique breathtaking, his work had a way of making you feel as if you were seeing an everyday object for the first time. It was true, shot through with Jas’s directness, his sense of purpose.

The adjudicators praised his work highly.

Mature, dynamic … tonal quality … flawless composition. A
Cartier-Bresson in the making
.

Everyone clapped. A warm feeling rose inside me.

Jaswinder attends Burnside High and the school is to be highly
commended for the quality of its students’ work. The next entrant,
Fiona O’Connell, has not displayed the technical mastery which characterised
Jaswinder’s work, but her exhibit, Barbie Bits, is a compelling
and ehm … edgy piece of work with an understated violence. She
pushes the boundaries of our perception of childhood, of women, and
makes us question our assumptions. The juxtaposition of the doll
images over the winter scenes is disturbing and the pyre of broken
Barbies is a master stroke
.

Jas squeezed my haund. I felt my face flame.

Now to the part which we adjudicators hate. There has to be a winner
and it goes without saying that this was a very difficult decision but
we are confident we have made the right one. The competition was set
up to reward innovative and risky art as well as technical brilliance.
So, in reverse order – third place goes to Paula Mason from Anderston
High School
.

A skinny blonde lassie in a navy blazer went up to get her envelope and everyone applauded.

Second and first place go to pupils of the same school – a tremendous
achievement for Burnside High. In second place is Jaswinder
Singh, and, for a courageous and innovative work, first place and the
chance to go forward to the Scottish finals, go to Fiona O’Connell
.

It’s amazing how much difference winning the prize made. If Jas had won (and if even one of the judges’d been different, it would of been him, as Miss Mulhern reminded us on several occasions), then his position as best artist in school and my position in his shadow would of been retained. Coming second would of been easier – Miss Mulhern could be nice to me, put me in the box she’d already labelled. Winning knocked out her whole way of looking at things. I’d spent weeks stuck at the computer in Mr Lyons’ room and suddenly produced the goods, taking the prestigious prize away fae her star pupil. You could see how it would scunner her.

It made a big difference tae my family. Of course they’d known I was good at art, just like I was good at English or History, but Art was a frivolous subject, no something tae base your life choices on. But the cheque for a thousand quid changed that. Da couldnae believe it, kept shaking his heid in amazement and saying,
You’ll need tae take care of this, Fiona
, as if I was gonnae drop it in the street or accidentally tear it
up or something. Janice took me out and helped me open a special savings account.

It seems a lot, but when you’re a student you’ll find it’ll be a real
help
.

The only person it didnae affect was Jas. I worried he’d be pissed aff I’d won the prize, kept watching him for signs of things changing between us, but there was nothing. He was just the same.

THE LAST WEEK
of school everyone’s in party mood, looking forward tae the Christmas holidays. Hauf the weans have stopped coming and teachers keep the rest quiet with videos and chocolate. As I walk alang the corridor laughter and music spill fae every classroom.

It’s Mammy’s anniversary.

She died on the 19th of December and it took all Janice and Patrick’s determination and organisation to get her buried by Christmas Eve. Sudden deaths cause confusion, sudden deaths mean post mortems, new lairs being opened, but my Mammy’s … a sudden death where a birth had been expected. Two deaths in one.

Voices on the phone, expecting good news.

A boy or a wee lassie?

What’s the weight?

Who does she look like?

Then the voices trailing aff intae silence.

Janice, list in haund, gaun through the details wi my da. Maist of the time he didnae seem tae care or even hear her, but noo and again he’d dig his heels in over something, made things mair difficult for her.

We can get the parish hall for after the funeral, Bobby. They’ll do
sandwiches
.

Geraldine wouldnae of wanted the parish hall
.

It’s hard tae get anywhere else at this notice just before Christmas
– every hotel’s booked up with office parties and Christmas dinners
.

She hated the smell of stewed tea. She hated they pinnies the wee
wifies wear
.

Is there any particular hymn you want for the funeral? Father
O’Hara’s coming round in half an hour
.

Star of the Sea. When we’re walking out the chapel. And Janice
… He grabbed her sleeve.
I
want her tae have white flowers fae
the baby
.

I hated the baby. Hated the wee white coffin placed next tae hers. Marguerite. Da said that was what she’d wanted to call the baby if it was a girl. A pearl.

‘Those are pearls that were his eyes.’

Nae wonder Shakespeare used that. Pearls are dead white.

Sitting in the front row of the chapel between Patrick and Mona, hatred rising in me as if all the blood in my body had boiled and risen intae steam, hatred concentrating itsel on that one wee white box, and the person inside who had killed my mammy.

Afterwards folk said how calm I was at the funeral, how I’d no shed a tear, how I’d kept gaun for my daddy, who’d
shed enough tears for the whole lot of us, who’d wept and wailed his way through every hymn and every word of the service, who had to be helped doon the aisle, couldnae even take his turn tae carry the coffin.

Only when the familiar strain started,

Hail Queen of Heaven, the ocean star
.

Only then did it hit me as we walked doon the aisle after the coffin and I was blinded wi salt water.

I’ve no been tae confession since
.

Jas and me were sitting in the café at lunchtime, rain on the windae blurring the street outside, spinning out two coffees and a chocolate muffin between us.

Is that bad, no going to confession?

When Mammy was alive we used to go every month. You’re supposed
tae go once a year at least – so I guess, technically I’m still okay till
Easter
.

Why don’t you want to go?

How can I kneel there and tell a priest I hate a baby?

You don’t, but
.

I do
.

I looked at my watch.
We’d better get back
.

I never expected you to be in school the day
.

My da thought it was better for us
.

What you doing later? Will you go to the cemetery?

Da didnae want to. He doesnae feel that’s where she is. He’s
asked someone fae the chapel to say a rosary with us in the house.
Patrick will be here the night and Janice thinks we should all be
thegether
.

What do you want to do, Fiona?

Hide
.

* * *

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee
.

The furniture was pushed back so we could kneel doon in the living room. Mr Gallagher said the first part of the prayer and the rest of us joined in; Da and the twins loudly, me and Patrick quieter and Janice no saying anything, except
Amen
at the end. As I worked the plastic beads through my haunds, the words of the prayers leaving my mouth on autopilot, I stared at the statue of Our Lady. It was a plaster Madonna hauding Jesus in her airms, and one of the baby’s fingers was chipped at the edge.

A few weeks ago Jas and me visited the chapel efter school. He walked round, looking carefully at everything; the crucifix, the wee light that’s always kept burning, the altars to various saints.
I never expected all this
, he said.
I’ve only ever been in a
church for school services and it’s dead bare
.

That’s the Church of Scotland. They don’t have statues
.

We’ve got pictures of the Gurus too, but in the Gurdwara it’s the
word that’s important – the holy book
.

The Guru Granth Sahib
.

Hey you’ve been swotting up
.

I still like the statues but – I guess it’s what you’re brought up
with
.

We stood in fronty Our Lady, golden stars round her heid.

Da always lights a candle at Our Lady’s altar, carries rosaries in
his pocket. But Mammy never liked statues of her – thought she never
looked human. No real, like Jesus, suffering on the cross. She wanted
pictures of Mary daeing a washing or making a dinner
.

The Fifth Glorious Mystery. Our Lady’s Coronation and the Glory of
the Saints
.

Ten past eight. We’d be finished soon, make a cuppa tea,
sit for a while, then it’d be time for bed and it’d be over. We’d all dreaded it so much, this day, and there’d been endless discussion about how we should mark it, what we should dae.
Visit the graveyard
, said Janice. Too depressing.
Go for a meal
, said Patrick. Too much like a celebration.
Stay aff school
, said Mona and Rona. Aye right. No one but Da had been keen on the idea of the rosary but in the end it was the right thing. An ordinary Tuesday evening of an ordinary day, made extraordinary by what was gaun on inside us all. The repetition of the familiar words, the feel of Rona’s airm next to mines, the quiet respectfulness with which Mr Gallagher led the prayers. A deep calm descended on the room, and, for the first time, I felt she was still with us.