The Grace Girls (9 page)

‘Are you actually quiet when you’re in bed at night, Kirsty, hen?’ Joe Hanlan asked now. ‘Or do you blether on all night in your sleep?’

‘We’re sixth in line,’ Kirsty said, studying the sheet of paper that gave the running order. ‘We’re just before the novelty sword-dancer – whatever that is, when he’s at home.’

‘I saw a kiltie fella when I was in the Gents’,’ the drummer said thoughtfully, ‘but he didnae look novelty to me, in fact he looked quite serious. He was all decked out in the kilt and sporran and everythin’.’

Kirsty looked at her reflection in the mirror, checking that all her little rosebuds were still perfectly in place and that there were no curls straying out of her beehive hairdo,
then she went back to study the performance sheet. ‘There
’s three other groups – but I’ve only heard of two of them. There’s three women singers called Sweet Sensation that are supposed to be like the Beverley Sisters.’ She pulled a face. ‘And that Stella Queen wi’ the screechy voice that thinks she’s like Vera Lynn – and it’s got to be the fourth or fifth band she’s sung with. The fellas say she’s terrible to work with, and she keeps fallin’ out with them.’ She pointed her finger around the group. ‘Youse boys don’t know how lucky you are havin’ somebody as easy-going as me for a singer. You could land wi’ a right cracker, bossing everybody around and then throwing tantrums when they don’t do what she wants. You’d know all about it then.’

‘Oh, don’t you worry,’ Martin said, ‘we all know how lucky we are with you, Kirsty, hen. And we’ll know even more the night if we get placed in the contest.’

Kirsty leaned forwards, her face serious now. ‘D’you think there’s much chance of us getting placed?’ she whispered. ‘Even third would be great . . .’

‘A lot of it’s luck with these things, hen – and your audience and judges. The judges will be swayed by the level of clappin’ and whistlin’. And if they’re oul’ die-hard Scots, the sword-dancin’ kiltie will go down well – mark my words. They always do.’

Kirsty nodded vaguely, wondering if her voice would perform at its best tonight. It was funny how she often thought of her voice as a separate thing from the rest of her – something that had a life and a will of its own. Of course, she did all the right things to help it – warming up by singing before she left the house, and trying to keep out of the smokiest parts of the halls – but that wasn’t always ea
sy. She also tried not to eat too much cheese for a few days before an important performance, as she’d noticed that it sometimes made her a bit nasally, but that wasn’t easy either as she loved nothing better than a roll and chees
e at lunchtime in the shop.

The dressing-room door opened. ‘Don’t look now, here comes the kiltie,’ Martin said, under his breath.

‘How’s it goin’, boys?’ The kiltie said in a hoarse, throat
y voice, as if Kirsty didn’t exist. And as he walked along to a table at a smaller mirror, she noticed that he had a bit of a limp. ‘The hall’s startin’ to fill up now. It looks like they’ll get a good crowd in the night.’

‘Aye,’ Joe agreed, nodding his head. ‘They say wi’ all the facilities that it’s one of the most popular venues for this kind of thing.’

The kiltie pulled out a flowery-cushioned chair and sat down with a weary sigh. ‘Thank God for a seat – the oul’ leg’s not so good tonight.’ He gave Kirsty a friendly wink now, suddenly noticing her. ‘I hope it doesn’t let me down when I’m on stage. I would well and truly be on my arse then.’

The men all laughed and though Kirsty threw an amus
ed glance at Martin, she said nothing.

The kiltie took out a packet of Capstan cigarettes, and offered them around the group, who all declined. He took
one for himself and lit it with a fancy lighter. ‘Och, I suppose
I should give this game a bye one of these days,’ he said, rubbing at his left shin. ‘But whit would I do wi’ myself? That’s the big question. Whit would I do wi’ myself in the long, winter evenings?’

His question hung in the air, then remained unanswere
d as the door opened and an impeccably dressed blond-haired fellow wearing a white jacket and a black bow-tie entered carrying a music folder. He gave a brief nod of acknowledgement to the others in the room, and then went and sat in an armchair in the corner where he went over his sheets of music.

‘A serious type,’ Bill King said, nodding in the fellow’s direction.

‘Nice outfit, though,’ Kirsty commented, looking aroun
d the band members. ‘Maybe you lot should get decke
d out in white jackets.’

Martin gave her a sidelong glance. ‘I could just see us. They wouldn’t be white for long, not wi’ the oul’ van.’

For the next half an hour, the dressing-room door banged o
pened and shut as various artists came and went, sometime
s only glancing in to have a look at the competitio
n. On one occasion, a group of women swept in with a little girl dressed as Shirley Temple and wearing a curly blonde wig in their midst.

‘No . . . not in here,’ a woman with an identical curly blonde wig said in a loud voice, as her eyes scanned the group.

‘Definitely not in here!’ the little girl echoed with a shake of her head and a distasteful curl of her lip.

‘Melody should have a changing-room to herself!’ the woman stated. ‘She shouldn’t have to share with these people. Someone will have to complain!’

The group swept out as dramatically as they had come in, leaving a shocked silence behind them.

‘If it had been Shirley Temple herself,’ Kirsty said out loud, ‘she couldn’t have been any blidey worse – spoiled wee brat!’

‘Well said, hen!’ the kiltie said, clapping his hands in agreement.

A short while later Stella Queen – sporting a tall, well-lacquered black beehive – and her group arrived, all hot and flustered at being late, and after some heated debate decided to move to the changing-room at the other side.

‘Thank God,’ Kirsty said, ‘by the looks of her crabbit face, I’d say she’s caught the lacquer-bug!’

‘Her and Shirley Temple should get on just fine,’ Bill King retorted.

An hour later the whole tone of the place had changed, as everyone crowded around the entrance to the stage listening to each act in turn. At one point, Martin had returned from a visit to the toilet and told them in a hushed voice that there was a rumour sweeping the hall that one of the biggest booking agents in Lanarkshire was in the front row.

‘I’ve heard that one before,’ Kirsty said, throwing him a sceptical look.

When the act before them was on, The Hi-Tones stood silent, all comedy gone as each one mouthed ‘good luck’ to the others. Kirsty started taking deep breaths to air her lungs for the top notes, and found herself actually needing it to keep her nerves steady. Then, just as they were due to go on, there was a thud on the tiled floor in the dressing-room, and everyone turned towards the kilted dancer.

‘Christ almighty!’ Joe said. ‘He’s just taken off his leg!’

‘What are you talking about?’ Kirsty whispered, craning her neck to get a look. And there, lying on the floor in front of the dancer, was an artificial leg. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she gasped. ‘He’s on after us . . . how’s he going to get that fixed before he goes on stage?’

‘It’s no’ our problem,’ Martin said, poking Kirsty in the back. ‘Get movin’ – they’ve just announced us!’

Kirsty atomatically blessed herself, took another deep breath and walked onto the stage, head high and sore feet forgotten.

Her voice was better than ever, and as she hit her high notes easily, she knew that if the judging system was fair, they should definitely be placed somewhere amongst the winners.

As the band took a bow before leaving the stage, a dark-haired, handsome, well-dressed man in the front row caught Kirsty’s eye. ‘Fantastic!’ he called to her, holding his thumb up and winking.

Off stage, the band all shook hands and congratulated each other on a brilliant performance. Kirsty’s heart soared as each of the lads took turns in hugging her.

‘This just might be our big night!’ Martin Kerr whispered in her ear, in an unusually serious and slightly emotional voice. ‘You were brilliant, hen!’

‘If youse can just let me pass now, lads,’ the kilted sword-dancer suddenly interrupted them. ‘They’ll be callin’ for me next.’

They turned and watched, open-mouthed, as he hoppe
d up the stairs with the aid of the banister, and stood poised at the side of the stage on one leg.

‘Good lad,’ the kiltie said aloud as he watched the fellow who was to accompany him on the accordion carefully place the two Claymore swords across each other in the centre of the stage. Then his name was called and off he went.

All thoughts of their own performance were forgotten as Kirsty and the group scrambled to the side of the stage to watch the unique performance.

‘Would ye credit it . . .? I thought by this time in my life I’d seen it all,’ Joe Hanlon said, shaking his head. ‘A one-legged sword-dancer!’

Chapter 12

‘
I wonder how she’s getting on?’ Sophie said, eyeing the clock anxiously. It was twenty past nine and the talent c
ompetition should be in full swing by now. She ke
pt thinking about Kirsty, and couldn’t concentrate on the intricate dress pattern she had been cutting out upstairs, so she had put it aside until she was more relaxed, and was now sitting by the fire hand-hemming her sister-in-law’s skirt.

Heather nodded, lifting her head from an article she was reading about Elizabeth Taylor in
Photoplay
magazine. She’d been stuck on the same page for ages, as her mind kept flitting back to the scenes from last night and this afternoon with Gerry. ‘I’m sure Kirsty and the group will do fine,’ she told her mother reassuringly. ‘That new song they picked really suits her, and her voice sounded great before she left the house.’

‘It depends what the judges are looking for,’ Fintan said warily, getting to his feet, and starting to undo the three buttons on his blue casual sweater, ‘and whether the competition is rigged or not.’

‘Rigged?’ Sophie said, taking her glasses off and putting them down on top of Mona’s skirt. ‘Surely they couldn’t get away with that?’

‘They can,’ Fintan said, pulling his sweater over his hea
d, ‘and they do. I’m going down to the club for the last hour. Pat said he’d order me a couple of pints before the bar closes.’

‘I meant to ask you,’ Sophie said, putting down her sewing and following him out into the hall. They went into their bedroom, which was nice and warm since Fintan had put a fire on earlier in the evening. Sophie removed the small fireguard to let more heat out while her husband was changing. ‘Mona mentioned something about you all planning a trip over to Ireland in the summer.’

Fintan’s brows came down. ‘First I’ve heard of it. Are you sure? There’s been no mention about it to me.’

Sophie shrugged. ‘That’s what she said . . . and she was none too pleased about it.’

Fintan grinned. ‘That’s no surprise – when is Mona ever pleased about anything Pat does?’

The doorbell sounded.

‘That’ll be her now,’ Sophie said in a low voice, ‘no doubt looking for her skirt.’

‘Well, at least that’s another thing out of the way,’ Mona said, smiling broadly at her sister-in-law. She turned this way and that in front of the fire, checking that the hem was the same length all the way round. Sophie was great with a needle, but you could never be too careful. ‘I can hang it up in the wardrobe and forget it until next Saturday morning.’ She unzipped the skirt and stepped out of it, then pulled on her dark working skirt again over the black petticoat that had protected her modesty. ‘Do I owe you anything for it?’

‘Not at all,’ Sophie said with a wave of her hand. ‘It wasn’t a big job.’ Then, thinking that Mona might just decide to land her with a few more ‘small jobs’, she added, ‘It shouldn’t have taken me so long, but it’s just that I’m snowed under with stuff at the minute. I’d say I’ve enough sewing to keep me going until well after Christmas.’

‘Shockin’, isn’t it?’ Mona said, tutting now. ‘Christmas will be on top of us before we even know it.’ She had nearly brought a few pairs of trousers of the lads over with her, but decided that it was best to get the important skirt off the lackadaisical Sophie before it got lost under the mountains of work she never seemed to get to the bottom of. ‘That Lily is drivin’ us mad already showing us pictures of party frocks and bikes and scooters in catalogues and going on about the toys in the Co-op window.’

‘I was going to ask you what we could get her,’ Sophie ventured. ‘Maybe she’d prefer a toy this year . . . she might be sick of the pyjamas and
The Broons
or the
Oor Wullie
annual, although our girls haven’t grown out of the annuals yet, they still look forward to them.’ She paused. ‘Mind you, I heard her mentioning the other day that she wanted roller skates.’

‘The pyjamas will do her just fine as usual,’ Mona said, w
ith a definite nod of her head. Sophie made a pair of pyjamas every year for the little girl, picking soft winceyet
te with pictures of fairies or snowmen on it. ‘She has enough toys and books cluttering the house up without adding roller skates for us all to be trippin’ over.’ She shook her head. ‘Give me lads any time, they’re far easier to please. They don’t care what they wear and they’re happy if they have a football to kick about.’ She turned to her niece now. ‘Y
ou’re surely quiet this evenin’, Miss – you’d hardly kno
w you were in the same room. If it was the other lady, we’d soon know she was around.’