The Gamal (19 page)

But sometimes. Might be for a verse. Maybe even a whole song. But more often just for a few seconds in a song, the sound they would make. The sound that Sinéad’s voice would make. With James on the piano. The sound they would make sometimes was something that rose above. The very very very rarest beauty it was. In sound form. Sometimes. I believe they’d definitely have become famous. I don’t know that for sure of course. That’s why I said I believe. I believe that anyone who heard Sinéad’s voice would have wanted to hear more. Just like anyone who ever seen her wanted to see her again. And again. And blah. Sinéad was more-ish. In the same way, people find me less-ish.

There was this one song that they didn’t sing, but spoke. They just spoke the lines with James playing a slow soft eerie tune on the piano. Sinéad had come up with the tune. Simple and magic cos it played tricks with your heart, the tune of it did. She’d hummed it to James, and James found it on the piano. The song was a conversation between two lovers who were dead. It was called ‘Love Song from Beyond the Grave’.

It’s weird, all along I’ve been avoiding thinking about James and Sinéad’s singing and their songs all because of my headaches and in case an dubh would floor me again. But I’ve no headache now. I’m not crying either. Maybe I’m getting better. Maybe I’m getting worse. Maybe I’m not remembering them as good as I used to. I dunno if that’s a good thing or not. Like the brain isn’t bad at remembering but it’s shit hot altogether at forgetting. Fuck it. Only thing worse than remembering is forgetting isn’t it? Sadder. Seems very fucking unjust isn’t it?

Just

Adj. 1. fair and impartial; acting with fairness and impartiality 2. morally correct; done, pursued, or given in accordance with what is morally right 3. reasonable; valid or reasonable [14thC. Via French
juste
from Latin
justus,
from
jus
‘law, right’.]

It’s a pity you can’t hear Sinéad’s tune for the piano that played softly behind their voices. Soft but resilient. Put up a good fight for life, her tune did, but faded away and died in the end, just like the couple in the song. This is the start of it. The first line was James, then Sinéad,

—
So you’re dead now too

—
No shit Einstein

—
Ha! . . . There were lies told

—
Damaging cruel lies babe

—
Do you miss your kids?

—
All the time. Do you?

The voices talked about happier times and how wrong their whole lives felt cos they weren’t together. But Sinéad and James’ voices were too young for it. It needed old people’s voices. But it was the over and back that would get you. Same as life and music. The communication isn’t it? The effort. To really hear and to really be heard. And it impossible really and the way of things and the stupid daft heads up on us all. But the tune would leave you kind of stunned. This was the end of the song anyhow.

—
Think that’s the deal now

—
We evaporate

—
Goodbye

—
I loved you

—
I loved you too

Sinéad’s tune evaporated too at the end, the way it faded. Fuck it anyhow. I just ran in to the jacks and vomited and I’ve this fucking headache. I’m going away getting tablets and some fresh air maybe. And something to get rid of the taste of vomit.

Shane McGowan

Shane McGowan said he only likes talking to bums and drunks. Cos they’re the only people who take the time to stop and think about anything. Most people go through their whole lives without ever having a chance to stop and think about anything. Let alone everything. I’m like an alco that doesn’t drink. When you’re thinking about something, you’re not thinking about something else isn’t it? Most people always have to be thinking about something so they never have time to be thinking about the something elses. I spend loads of time just thinking. About the something elses. Like what has money got to do with thinking? Or what has sex got to do with pride? Or what has food got to do with friendship?

I’d say I could get along with Shane McGowan if I could understand a word the bollicks says. Slurring a lot nowadays, he is. Do you even know who he is? Imagine not knowing who Shane McGowan is. Well if you don’t, he’s a famous drunk and singer and songwriter. That’s who. Wise up.

He’d a band called Póg Mo Thóin but when they started to become famous they had to change their name cos Póg mo Thóin means Kiss My Ass and the BBC wouldn’t play any song on the telly or on radio by a band called Kiss My Ass cos the queen would get offended cos she has no ass. So they changed the name to The Pogues so they could make money in England cos everyone knows that’s where the money is. Money is money isn’t it?

Anyhow Sinéad and James liked The Pogues’ song ‘Fairytale of New York’. Might have kinda given them the idea for ‘Love Song from Beyond the Grave’. Two lovers talking. Talking away their regrets isn’t it? You can write in ‘Fairytale of New York’ here.

I can hear the mother and father arguing below. She’ll put on music and he’ll storm off. Always the way. They’re arguing about me. The father wants to act the hard man and tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself and my mother wants him to let me be.

My father never really likes the sight of the old records. They upset him. Some American fella my mother knew in America long ago got her into all the music. She lived in the Bronx in New York. Fella in the same apartment building was into music. My father said to me one time you never know what a woman is thinking. I said to him,

—Sure mam doesn’t know what you do be thinking either.

—Sure I don’t be thinking anything, my father goes.

My mother would dig out all her old records and listen to them if they were after having a falling out over something. Drive him daft, it would, thinking of this American fella long ago.

James had a music teacher for the piano. Sinéad kept it on as a subject through secondary school. But really everything they learned they learned it from each other. And sometimes from me. I swear. Especially early on when I played for them all my mother’s old records. Elvis in Sun Studios. Bob Dylan’s Bootleg series. Van Morrison’s
Astral Weeks
. Nina Simone. Louis Armstrong. Seán O Riada. Marlene Dietrich. Aretha Franklin. David Bowie. Edith Piaf. Emmylou Harris. The Beatles. John Lee Hooker. Leonard Cohen. Lou Reed. Maria Callas. The Jackson Five. Miles Davis. John McCormack. Simon and Garfunkel. Queen. U2. Neil Young. Willie Nelson. Odetta. Sam Cooke. Kate Bush. Frederic Chopin. Joni Mitchell. Tim Buckley. Roy Orbison. The Rolling Stones. Arvo Pärt. Cindy Lauper. Luke Kelly. Makem and Clancy. Claude Debussy. Not one person alive who had to go to school like we did listened to more music than the three of us. Mainly that was what school was. Time not listening to music. In our young lives we’d already listened to many many many lifetimes of music. Hours and hours and hours and hours that all added up would be years and months and weeks and days and more hours still probably. These words and any words are only a fucking paleness next to the sounds that we travelled in together. All the books in the world aren’t worth a fuck. It’s all languages to all people every place, same as the smile on your face isn’t it? The music. I used to like Vaughan Williams, the English composer. They asked him if he believed in God. He said no. The one who asked him couldn’t believe it and she asked what he thinks will happen when he dies. Said he’ll just become music, that his spirit will dart all around the place in the notes and enter the souls of people everywhere. Sinéad really liked it. That idea. We all listened to
Fantasia on a Theme
up in the library. Got lost in it we did. She said after she could feel Vaughan Williams all over her and James and me laughed and she said shut up ye pervs. I just listened to them talking like I used to always then.

—What happens like? Sinéad said.

—What? said James cos he didn’t know what she was talking about.

—In music. What exactly happens? Like . . . what’s going on like? Where were we just now like? Where did we go? Felt like sailing or something.

There were tears in Sinéad’s eyes.

—Or gliding.

—Yeah . . . like . . . what . . . like what’s going on like? You kind of know the feeling being expressed. The like . . . ideas maybe . . . no not ideas . . . more vague than that . . .

—Sentiment . . .

—What does that mean?

—Not sure really.

—Like there’s something being expressed and no words can describe it. Like it can’t be translated into words.

James smiled at her like he kind of understood what she meant and he thought she was the most amazing person he ever dreamed could be.

—Yeah, he said.

—And like . . . the movement like . . . it’s like I was in a thousand different rooms or landscapes or something like. Just floating.

—Yeah I know what you mean, he said. Like not a visual world.

—Exactly like but definitely like. A world with dimensions you know?

—Yeah.

—Like being a bat maybe. Negotiating terrain with sound. Some unseen magical terrain.

—Yeah.

—It’s like there’s the music of exploring and the music of coming home.

—Yeah like. And both are cool.

—Yeah. And need each other like. Like the bitter and the sweet.

She turned to me then.

—What do you think Charlie?

—I dunno.

—You do.

—No, I said.

—It’s so unbelievable isn’t it? It makes me feel so happy cos it’s like this thing that God has given us to let us know he’s there. That’s what I think. All the scientists and all who say there’s nothing like . . . they can’t explain what happened with us just now listening to that. Like listening to that like . . . it communicated what language can only . . . language is just lost for words you know? You just know that at the end of the day, we’re OK. We’re not alone. Definitely we’re not alone.

—Yeah, said James.

—Yeah, I said too.

She said,

—Remember the old woman from the documentary in school that said if Hitler could have stopped and listened to
Moonlight Sonata
how he might not have been so full of hate.

It was an old woman who was in the camps long ago and they lived on music. The Nazi guards let them have a choir and a piano cos it was so nice for the guards to listen to. When the old woman said that about Hitler and
Moonlight Sonata
, and then the camera pulled back and you could see she was sitting at a piano and she played it. She looked as old as the world.

—Will you play it there James, Sinéad said.

He played it nice and I seen Sinéad wipe tears from her eyes.

The mother has a Van Morrison song on below now. And it’s after making me upset. I can think about music sometimes but hearing it is the worst. Sometimes I’d be doing fine and the mother would put on some tune and I’d go down hill fairly fast. It’s best if I stay away from music. Makes me weak and I get the shakes sometimes. The terrors. All the fuss over music long ago seems a bit stupid really. Fine thing to be content with plain life same as everyone else.

Had to lie down that time and I ended up falling asleep. I don’t know what time it is now but it’s the middle of the night and it’s fierce quiet thank God. No fucking music. Song the mother had on that upset me is called ‘High Summer’. Sinéad used to say that that song says the most in the chorus. There’s no words in the chorus. Just Van Morrison playing a sound over and over and over on the harmonica. The very same CD the mother had on cos I borrowed it long ago for Sinéad. Heard it a million times up in the library of the castle. Was the summer before James went to Dublin.

I always had a love of words. A fascination for them. The beauty of language delighted me always. The mystery of words. That’s the way the writing nerds I met once went on. Dr Quinn had it all set up so that he could bring me to one of their sessions after my appointment. All these people reading bits of what they wrote about themselves and their problems. Making a shit story out of their shit lives. And telling each other how great their stories were then.

—I want to thank you for sharing that with us. It was really special and wonderfully crafted I thought.

They all go then, ‘Yeah.’ ‘Really lovely.’ ‘It was.’ ‘Really good like.’ ‘Well done Margaret girl.’ and the usual all fierce nice lick-arsy shit like that.

Then Dr Quinn goes,

—Did you find the process of writing that therapeutic Margaret?

—Ahm . . . well like . . . I suppose definitely like really, in fairness . . . I think it like helps you to take a step back from things, you know?