Only Strange People Go to Church (9 page)

During her morning meditation Maria has a brilliant idea. She’s just at the part where she’s down by the shimmering river at the edge of the forest. So practiced has she become at meditation that often when she’s at the river, she can actually hear birdsong. What’s different today is that the birds are accompanied by wonderful orchestral music.

Something has been nagging at Maria for a while now. Everyone in Hexton is a singer but not many are musicians. There are a few accordion and flute players but they have been banned from doing so in the show on the grounds that they only know sectarian marching tunes. For lack of a band she’s had to ask people to provide their own backing tapes but these have been of varying quality. While the orchestral music swells through the forest Maria accesses a snippet of memory from last week: Alice showed her a brochure, a directory of voluntary services.

At the Elderly Forum auditions, while a very elderly lady gave a bizarre warbling rendition of
Like A Virgin
, Maria leafed through the directory. Now it comes to her that she saw an entry for an orchestra of retired musicians based ten miles away in the city. At the time she was so focussed on this being a Hexton show that it didn’t register. But there’s no law to say that participants
have
to come from Hexton. Surely an orchestra could only enhance the show.

Now, down by the shimmering river, she realises that she must book this orchestra.

For a moment Maria inhabits two imaginary worlds. Whilst by the river listening to the music, she is simultaneously at the opening night of the show. The orchestra, handsome and distinguished in
their dinner suits, are playing something classical, Mozart maybe. The centre is buzzing with excitement. The audience, Hextors and clients, conduct themselves with style and grace. They nod their hellos, the ladies demure behind fans, the gentlemen attentive and gallant.

It’s a brilliant meditation, the best she’s had this week. She emerges from the med physically and mentally tip-top. She can feel her serotonin levels soar. As soon as she sets foot back in the real world she goes and finds the directory brochure.

Maria is confused.

‘Rangers?’ she says. ‘I thought you were a Celtic man, Brian.’

Dezzie is standing behind Brian’s chair. He seems to have taken a special interest in Brian and now spends a lot of time with Blue Group chatting to him. Maria wonders if it is a strategy to get close to her. If it is then it’s working, she no longer simply fancies Dezzie, she might be falling in love with him.

With a huge effort Brian shrugs his shoulders. His left hand is bent out of shape, as is his mood. Without a physio session it will probably remain this way for the rest of the day. His fingers are curled so tight he won’t be able to access his keyboard, he is effectively mute and this usually makes him angry and difficult to cope with.

Brian can speak, years invested with a very patient therapist trying to train his unruly tongue has given him blurry words that only his parents, and sometimes Maria, can properly understand. Maria wants him to speak, use it or lose it she says, but he refuses. He says his own voice makes him sound like a spastic. Maria discourages him to think in such negative and un-p.c. terms but she secretly agrees. When he uses his natural voice rather than his electronic one, strangers speak slowly, moronically simply, repeating themselves, louder and louder. Luckily Dezzie doesn’t speak to him like this.

‘Aye, he used to be Celtic but he’s seen the light, haven’t you my man?’ says Dezzie.

Another demanding shrug, another slow smile. Brian is obviously chuffed to be called ‘my man’. It’s a guy thing, of course. For lots of reasons Maria calling Brian ‘my man’ would not be appropriate but she wishes she had such an easy rapport with him. Although it’s sweet of Dezzie to take an interest in Brian, she is, after all, his Key Worker.‘But you’ve always been a Celtic supporter. Don’t tell me you’ve switched teams?’

Tired out from the shrugging, Brian is non-committal.

‘C’mon, Brian: Rangers,’ Dezzie teases. ‘You know it makes sense.’

Brian’s face displays the quandary he is in and Maria knows exactly what’s going on in his head: he doesn’t wish to be seen as a turncoat but neither does he want to lose alliance with his new friend. Maria and Dezzie both watch Brian for the slightest flicker.

‘It’s just that if you were a Rangers supporter we could go to the home game next Wednesday night. They’re playing Aberdeen.’

Maria is worried about these underhand tactics. She tries to speak to Dezzie discreetly.

‘Dezzie, don’t. You’ll disappoint him. He doesn’t realise you’re kidding.’‘I’m not kidding!’

Dezzie addresses Brian directly. The teasing finished, his voice and face are serious.

‘If you want to come to the match, I’ll take you.’

Brian lifts his head and lets it fall in an emphatic nod. With supreme effort he unfurls his middle finger to the knuckle and raps at the keyboard.‘The. Choice. Is. Clear. Rangers.’

Maria shakes her head in mock sorrow, Dezzie laughs.

‘Yes! Front row disabled area here we come!’

Dezzie lifts Brian’s arm and gives him a victorious high-five but it is all too much for Brian and he vomits. ‘Oh, you’ve got him too excited. He’ll need to be changed now.’

‘It’s okay, I’m on it.’

‘Really?’

This is one of the other things Maria likes about Dezzie. He’s
never afraid to get his hands dirty. The cleaning and changing of any client of Blue Group is her responsibility. Dezzie’s has already changed Brian once today but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. Brian, usually so shy, even with Maria, seems okay with it.

‘Yeah, no bother. We’ll see if we can find you a Rangers top, eh Brian?’

The two lads are giggling.

‘Hello. Hello. We. Are. The. Billy. Boys.’ says Brian’s suave electronic voice as Dezzie wheels him up the corridor.

She shouldn’t be encouraging unruly behaviour but Maria can’t help but smile. Dezzie really gets the best out of people, he’d make a wonderful father. Tomorrow morning during her meditation, she must have a word with Arlene about this.

‘Hello, Mr Spencer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh hello Mr Spencer, I’m so glad to finally get a hold of you. You’re not an easy man to track down, I’ve been trying to get you all week.’

‘Yes, I’ve been a bit busy. My wife was very ill.’

‘Oh I’m sorry, but anyway, I’ve got you now.’

‘I’m sorry Miss but I don’t have time at the moment, I’m actually on my way out the door.’

‘Mr Spencer, I’ll just be a second, I’ll tell you what it is. My name is Maria Whyte. I’m a Community Development Worker and I’m organising a community show.’

‘Could you call me later? I’m actually on my way out to bury my wife.’

‘Oh! Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Thank you. She was very brave.’

‘Oh Mr Spencer, I’m so sorry, that’s terrible.’

‘Yes, terrible.’

‘Of course I’ll call back but, to save me wasting your time, is the orchestra available on the 3rd of July? That’s a Friday night a month today.’

‘Well, I haven’t got the diary to hand …’

‘It’s a Diva Tribute Extravaganza.’

‘A what?’

‘You know, contemporary divas like Lady Gaga?’

‘Lady who?’

‘It’s for Hexton Comm…’

‘Hexton? Sorry Miss, we don’t play Hexton, too dodgy. Sorry.’

‘But it says in the brochure that you come and play in communities. The centre are hosting it, we…’

‘What centre? Autumn House is it?’

‘Eh, no, actually it’s the Adult Learning Centre for…’

‘For Mongols?’

Not wanting to contradict him, Maria is stuck for words but before she can think up a tactful reply Mr Spencer has continued.

‘She had a cousin who went to the spastic training centre. Andy his name was, he was a Mongol. She loved Andy. She used to bring him to our performances.’

‘That’s nice.’

Normally Maria would be the first person to correct such pejorative old-fashioned terminology as spastic and ‘mongol’ but she doesn’t want to spoil her chances with him. Silence descends and Mr Spencer appears to be lost in a reverie about his wife and her spastic mongoloid cousin, Andy.

‘You should have told me it was for the spastics. We’ll do it.’

‘Sorry?’

‘We’ll do your show. The members won’t like travelling to Hexton but they’ll do it. It’s what she would have wanted.’

‘Oh, that’s fantastic! Thanks a lot, Mr Spencer. Now, I’ll give you the address and we have to talk about rehearsals and…’

‘Can you call back? I’m going to be late for the funeral.’

‘But the orchestra will definitely do it?’

‘Yes. I’ll explain to them. They’ll do it for her.’

As per Maria’s plans and creative visualisations, things are progressing nicely. As per usual, this is not for long.

Maria has been looking forward to this meeting. She’s relishing Mike’s face becoming infused with the light of Inclusion Initiative fervour when she tells him how many groups she has on board. He’s got to admit that she’s struck community development gold with this show.

She’s already decided that her response should be a qualified smile and a gracious nod. She’ll be smart enough to avoid crowing; or rather she has been strenuously warned against it this morning by old Mr Soberpants Mandela.

‘Nobody likes a Smartarse, Maria,’ Nelson said.

She sometimes wishes Nelson would just lighten up a bit, but, as he never tires of telling her, ‘the struggle is my life’.

Thank God Mike has no idea of Maria’s rich spiritual life and relationship with Nelson as he would certainly poo-poo it. She knows she would not be able to stop herself punching his smug face to a bloody pulp if he dared poo-poo Nelson.

‘Come in, come in Maria! Don’t hang about out there in the corridor.’

It’s less that he’s keen to be in her presence, and more that he’s in a hurry, as he always is, to get the meeting done and dusted. It must stick in his craw to praise me, she thinks with some satisfaction.

‘Maria, first things first, have you bought yourself goggles yet?’

Goggles? What the hell is he talking about?

‘Eh, no, I…’

‘Well, get a pair. Bert says you still haven’t got in the pool with the clients. It’s your job. Do it.’

Maria is too stunned to make a reply and Mike casually carries on.

‘So how’s it all coming along?’ he says lightly, not looking at her, flicking through her file at lightning speed. ‘I’m hearing great things. Bert tells me you’ve got all the community groups involved.’

So not only has he dubbed her in for not swimming, Bert’s also stolen her thunder. What did she ever do to him? Maria is winded by the double whammy, but she’ll have to take it on the chin.

‘Yeah, the concert’s shaping up nicely.’

‘Yeah? So what have you got?’

Impress me, he seems to be challenging her. Well, he’s going to be impressed.

‘Them all, the full set: School choir and various schoolkid acts, Elderly Forum Glee Club and Golden Belles…

‘Golden Belles?’

‘Old lady cabaret group.’

Mike nods and takes notes, ticking boxes.

‘Our own Blue Group, obviously, with a drama presentation. Mother and Toddler’s…’

‘Any non-affiliated? Like, just random members of the community?’

Oh puhlease, does he imagine she won’t have this covered?

‘Tons of them, up to our stumps in Randoms. Mostly singers and break dancers.’

‘Religious groups?’

‘Yep, Pastor McKenzie’s All Stars.’

‘Hmmm, I suppose that’s good.’

‘No, actually, they’re shit, but they’re in.’

It’s fun to sit here and contradict the boss and there isn’t a damn thing he can do about it.

‘Even better,’ says Mike. ‘I love to see Christians making an arse of themselves.’

She had forgotten his phobia of Christians.

‘Oh yeah, and I’ve got an orchestra.’ She drops this one in casually.

Mike looks surprised. Bert obviously hasn’t briefed him on the orchestra.

‘What, from the school? Kids playing kazoos?’

‘No Mike, not kazoos,’ she says in the superior tone she can now afford. ‘An orchestra. Retired professional musicians with proper instruments. ‘Orchestre Octogene’ they’re called, it’s French, it means orchestra of eighty-year-olds.’

‘I’d kind of gathered that.’

‘Although they don’t actually have any in their eighties anymore.’

‘What, you mean they’re ninety now?’

‘No, the eighty-year-olds died. The rest of them are younger.’

‘Excellent, that’s what we need, the lifeblood of septuagenarians coursing through the community,’ Mike says, happier now that he’s found something wrong with them, something to moan about.

‘They’ve agreed to back a few of the more professional singers, those with their own sheet music, as well as a few of their own classical numbers.’

‘Classical numbers? That’s going to go down like a cup of cold sick in Hexton.’

Maria’s jaw clenches as her hand presses her sternum. Why does he have to reduce everything to ugliness?

‘How many of these frisky seventy-year-olds have you got then, four?’

‘Actually Mike, four would only be a quartet,’ she says sweetly. ‘Mr Spencer said the full complement is 34, but not all of them have transport so it might be a few less.’

‘I don’t think you’ve thought this through, Maria. You won’t get 34 musicians and their instruments on that stage.’

‘I’m not putting them on the stage; I’m putting them on the floor in front of the audience.’

‘Well, you’re not leaving much space for audience, that’s going to cut down your seating capacity quite a bit.’

‘We’ll manage.’

‘And how are you going to rehearse these people? We can’t have 34 doddering musos wandering round the centre.’

‘I have rehearsal space, in the church.’

‘What church?’

Mike’s lip is twisted into a disbelieving scoff now, or perhaps it’s the mention of a church that so freaks him out. Maria is beginning to wonder, with his aversion to all things Christ-related, if Mike isn’t some sort of devil worshipper.

‘
The
church, the only church in Hexton.’

‘No, you’re wrong there, Maria, it’s empty, boarded up, it has been for years.’

‘No, I’m afraid
you’re
wrong, Mike. There’s a joinery company in there now, or at least a joiner. He’s offered us his main hall, which is twice the size of the centre’s.’

‘Oh,’ he says, obviously stumped, ‘right.’

Maria shifts triumphantly in her chair. Nobody likes a Smartarse, Nelson whispers in her ear, but it’s too late. She leans back and slowly uncrosses and then crosses her legs in a Sharon Stone stylee. This would be much more impertinent if she had chosen this morning to go commando instead of the big sensible pants
she’s wearing. Perhaps he’ll catch a glimpse of her gusset. An evil smile spreads across her face.

‘Well done. Good job,’ Mike says, his head down in the records.

Maria waits but that’s all she’s getting. He closes the file; the interview is at an end. Maria stands up to leave.

‘Oh, and Maria?’

Her hand is on the doorhandle.

‘Yes Mike?’ she asks breezily.

‘Seeing as it’s so much bigger and better, I think we should hold the performance in the church hall.’

‘What? But, we want people to come to the centre, to get an understanding of what we do here. What about integration? I thought that was the idea in the first place.’

‘Yes, but you said it yourself, the church hall is twice the size, ergo: twice the audience; twice the community. And anyway, Bert doesn’t want to be left having to clear up the mess. The clients’ll get excited; some of them are bound to be sick. It’ll be a bacchanalian orgy. It’s Bert’s budget the cleaner’s overtime will have to come out of.’

Mike’s negativity is taking the shine off her triumphal moment. It’s melting away like snow on her hair, becoming a cold drip down her back.

‘And so long as our clients are involved with all the other groups it still fits the requirements for the Inclusion Initiative.’

‘And that’s the most important thing, is it? Ticking the boxes?’

Maria’s getting shrill. Mike takes the high ground by dropping his voice to a whisper.

‘It doesn’t matter where the show’s held.’

‘But Mike, rehearsal space is one thing, but I might not get the church hall for the show, I don’t know if the joiner will give me it.’

‘Oh I’m sure he’ll give you it, Maria,’ he says with a sleazy grin, ‘just flash your pants.’

Often on her way home, tired out after a day of Fiona’s antics and Brian’s sulks, Maria pulls up the hood on her hi vis jacket and avoids eye contact with anyone on the bus. It is at these times, while heading towards her cold expensive flat to put a sausage under the grill for her tea, that life becomes unbearably real.