James Kelman - Dirt Road

He’s Maureen’s nephew.

Huh?

Come all the way from Scotland.

Oh yeah… Guess you must be hungry son.

Yeah, thanks, said Murdo.

Dont say thanks to him, said the lady, he’s joking. She settled a donut on top then passed him the plate.

Murdo was waiting to hear what it cost. She checked what she had put on the plate then checked it again. She hesitated then jerked her head sideways, looking away from him. He waited but she ignored him, as if she didnt know he was there. He knew what it was. He was just to go away. She didnt want him paying.

The man shifted sideways and bent towards him like he was going to say something but he didnt. He sniffed and sat back on the chair, folding his arms.

Murdo said to the lady: Thanks very much.

Uh huh, she muttered.

Murdo balanced the large plateful of food between both hands and walked away. He looked to see the two girls but they werent there. Then he did see them, heading toward the tents at the side of the area, maybe for a sit-down on the grass.

*

Murdo was in the marquee before three o’clock and it was almost empty. He sat by the end of the third row, along from the corner of the stage platform. He had food on the plate and was sipping water out of a paper cup. He had forgotten to buy a bottle at the stall and didnt want to return for one. Unless he could have paid. He would have preferred that. It was too awkward if she didnt allow it and would have looked like he only went there to get it for free. So he looked to buy one elsewhere and found a church tent dishing out free water. They had big containers of it and served it in individual paper cups. It was good and would make people think about their church; ones like Murdo who were not one way or the other.

The entrance to the marquee was from the opposite side of the space where he was sitting. Ye walked in and the stage was to yer left, a raised platform. The main seating all lay to the right. A line of tables went down each side. Down from the stage was a fair-size space for dancing.

It was still quite empty when the musician arrived, Declan Pike. He wore a beard, long hair and a baseball cap, jeans and a leather jacket. He stuck his sunglasses into a pocket then moved about by the mic, checking things out, positioning a chair nearby the mic stand. In one band Murdo played with a standing joke with the older guys was technical support at small venues. There never was any! Ye would turn up at a church hall and somebody would ask the wee woman making the tea: Where’s the sound man? and she would faint. That was the joke. They didnt have any sound man here either but the PA worked.

Folk had come in by now and sat in various places. The musician noticed them. He gave the impression he was pleased to see them. He adjusted his guitar and started tuning. It was twenty past three already. Maybe he was waiting for more. He took off the guitar and propped it against the chair by the mic stand. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. People watched him. He gestured with the pack, patted his chest as if to apologise and headed towards the entrance, withdrawing a cigarette as he went.

A few more arrived. People sat dotted around. Sometimes for a wee audience ye wished they would all sit together at the front. When they were all wide apart it just seemed what it was: empty. Although what does it matter, ye just play. The musician switched on the mic when he returned. He peered up at the overheard sound speakers and called to a couple of folk at the back. You all hearing me okay?

Nobody replied that Murdo could hear but he nodded so they must have done. Then he battered straight into “Johnnie O’Breadislea” taking Murdo by surprise! Quietly in but full-sounding every note like how ye want, and a particular quiver he was getting too, taking ye right into the story. One song and whoh! Murdo might have been first in with the clapping. The musician was surprised. He looked across and grinned. Murdo felt a bit daft but at the same time who cares. The guy introduced the next one about coal mines in Kentucky, and a wee town getting destroyed by a big company. It was strong. This one had a good chorus. He had a hard voice, occasionally rasping, but it was fine. The music piped through the system to speakers outside the marquee entrance and more people arrived. The musician called to them: Afternoon!

An older man answered: Afternoon!

He was bald with a wee white beard and wearing a waistcoat with bright colours. The musician noticed, pointed out. I like it!

This old guy paused a moment: Oh you do?

Yeah.

Well now I’m glad of that son might of gone home if you hadnt.

People laughed. The old guy then offered the musician a beer. But it was good fun, a nice atmosphere. The musician introduced himself, Declan Pike — call me Declan — and how he came from these parts but was now living in Houston, Texas. Part-time musician, full-time oil-worker.

Murdo liked hearing this. Guys back home did ordinary jobs too. Ye felt with him that he was trying for songs that were real. Stories from life. That style and voice of his, saying about the next song, written by this guy down in Texas who got shot dead in an argument over a welfare check. A slow track and that guitar just barely doing anything, ding, ding, telling the story, hear a verse, ding, ding, perfect spacing. And when he sang it he had the audience, they were just engrossed. Really it was a beautiful song, and strong applause from the audience. Aunt Maureen was among them. Murdo hadnt seen her since they first came in. Josie and another woman were with her.

The older man from the foodstall stood by the entrance, still wearing the Duncan Bizkitz baseball cap; he held a fiddle-case under his arm. The musician had noticed him and given him a nod while affixing a harmonica onto the guitar.

He had a good attitude. Some musicians act blasé, making it cool to ignore the audience. This guy didnt do that. He looked straight at people. A group of younger guys in kilts and Glengarry hats had a table along the side and he called to them: How’s it going boys?

They looked at him, surprised.

He was about to set off on the next number then gazed at the roof and spoke in a stagey growl: It’s the goddam daylight man I aint used to no daylight.

Some of the audience laughed. Aunt Maureen wouldnt have liked the “goddam”. He saluted somebody at the entrance now, a woman who was standing with people — Dad too, Dad was with them. They made their way into seats near Aunt Maureen and when they were seated the woman was next to Dad and she was saying something to him. Dad bent to hear what she was saying — it was weird, his head was quite close to hers. Not touching, it was just weird. Murdo couldnt remember seeing him sit beside a woman before.

Declan had begun on the next song, a join-in one about the railroad. A few people knew it. The old guy with the fancy waistcoat punched the air with his fist clenched, caught up in the story and angry.

Seeing people angry about a song. Ye didnt get that much. Murdo had never heard the song before but thought of the train cars down from Chattanooga having to cross the Tennessee River on boats. Ye could imagine all sorts.

When the song ended Declan adjusted the mic a little, and called to the man with the fiddle-case: You want to help me out here Chess! Then he introduced the song while Chess approached the stage:

Any Macphersons in the company? It came out like “MacFIERCEsons” the way he said it. There were a few jeers and laughter in reply but no Macphersons. My mother was a good Appalachian girl, he said, Macphersons was her people, come from Scotland some time. All dead, most of them, far as I know. Hanged them. Damn near wiped them out altogether huh! That’s what the next song’s about. Guy robbed the rich to feed the poor; yeah, Robin Hood. Was Robin Hood Scottish? No sir, he would not wear no green uniform! Declan chuckled into the mic. Scotch joke right?