Demo (29 page)

She's right. My hair does seem a couple of inches shorter.

All that backcombin. I feel round the back where Farkhanda's workin on one, twistin and screwin it tight. There's only a wee bit normal hair left. I smoothe it down one last time.

Right, I says. Go for it.

Darker too, Farkhanda says, workin away. Must be the wax makes it darker red.

There's wee points of pain on my scalp where the new dreads are; like when your bunches were too tight when you were wee. I suppose they'll loosen a bit in a day or two.

OK, that's it. So, what do you want done with Julian's dreadlock?

I canny really believe that was only a few weeks ago. And now Farkhanda's goin to meetins in the mosque. Well,
a
meetin. I wonder if she'll still want us to go thegether to the demo on Saturday. Or if she'll stay wi Shenaz and her pals. A bit of the embroidery on my cover's loose. I've been sittin in a dream, pullin at the thread, and one a the wee mirrors has came out. Really it's a bit a silver metal. It looks like a fishscale lyin on my finger. I flick it wi my thumb. It lands back down on the bed and disappears among all the other mirrors.

I'm used to my dreads now. My granny's mirror's used to them. I like them. Julian's one hangs down at the left-hand side. I made Farkhanda
promise
she wouldny tell naybody. I didny know if it would work, but she done a really great job, Farkhanda. She wound some thread round and round at the top of one a my dreads, and I did the same wi Julian's. Then she
sewed
Julian's dread ontay mine, without jaggin me once with the needle. And she snipped some of the loose hairs off Julian's, cause it looked mair frizzy than mine, no to mention a totally different colour!

Some a the other lassies at school asked me how I done it;
how I managed tay bleach one dreadlock without getting dye on any a the rest.

Farkhanda looks at me and we wink at one another. It's witchcraft, she says. Magic.

And that pure pisses the lassies off. They ask if they can touch my hair. Or have a wee piece of it.

That
will
be right! I says. That
will
be shinin bright! Away and make your ain dreads. And I fling my head forward then back, so the dreads go flyin, just to annoy them.

I kneel up on the bed, to get a better view of mysel in the mirror. Dark red wool wi one white strand. Is that birdshit? one a the boys had says. But it shines in the light; sorta sparkles. I wonder what my granny would think of them. Patsy'll like them, I bet, even if my ma doesny.

When I walked Farkhanda to the door that Sunday, I ran right intay my ma and da, didn't I, comin in the door wi the messages. My ma gasps and says, In the name a…! Then she burst intay tears and says, Oh, Clare, your beautiful hair!

It was pure embarrassin, Farkhanda standin there with her hijab back on.

Phone for you, Clare, my ma shouts through fae the lobby.

I must've been miles away; I've no even heard it ringin.

Where is it? I says. My ma's still sittin readin. She's took my da's socks off and she's playin wi the toes of her left foot on the sofa, and holdin her book in her other hand. She doesny look up.

Over there.

Where? Then I see the handset, perched on the arm of the chair. Is it Farkhanda? I says.

Uh, huh.

I don't know what my ma'll dae when she runs out a the Jane Austen. I don't think it's did the trick this time.

I pick up the phone; the wee green light is blinkin. Hi,
Farkhanda, I says. I'm gonny take the phone through to my room, OK?

When I'm settled back on my bed on the pomegranate cushions, I say, Hi, how was your meetin?

Alright, she says. We were –– kin at ––– ges –– Qu'ran.

You're breakin up, Farkhanda. Put the phone nearer your mouth.

Is that better?

Aye.

Listen, I don't have much time, Clare, my father's waitin on a phonecall. It's Monday the
Sunset Song
essay's due, isn't it?

Aye, but we've got the demo on Saturday, mind, and we were gonny make placards on Friday night. Are you still up for that?…

Hello? Farkhanda?

Yes, I'm still here. I canny manage on Friday night now, Clare. I'm goin to another meetin after Friday prayers.

Oh.

I could come round early on Saturday mornin? Would that suit?

Aye, I suppose so. OK. What time?

Ten o'clock?

Ten! That'll no gie us enough time. The demo starts at eleven. By the time we get the bus—

Alright, alright, keep your dreadlocks on! Nine, then. I'll be round at nine. You got all the stuff we need? Pens, big sheets of paper and that?

Aye, and my da's bringin hame some scrap wood fae his work for handles.

Great. Right, see you in school tomorrow. Bye.

And that's her away. I press the button on the phone and toss it on the bed. I've no even heard how her meetin's went.
My face looks dead pasty in the mirror. Peely wally, my granny would say. And my dreads are bigger.

I suppose I'll need tay make a start on the essay mysel. I lean ower the end a the bed, dig my English folder out my bag and find the sheet.

With close reference to the text of
Sunset Song,
explain the various conflicts – political, personal, national, local – at work in the community of Kinraddie and round about, in relation to Britain's involvement in the First World War.

I take a piece of paper and write at the top:
Sunset Song Essay, S5, Mr Forbes
. The thought of him with his fags and his sweaty oxters puts me right off. It'll be easier in the exams, cause it willny be him markin my paper. I don't know why I feel that; he ayeways says nice things about me.

Well done, Clare. This is very good. No taint in your written work of demotic Glasgow speech, I'm delighted to see!

Demotic. I had to look it up.

I canny be bothered daein this the now. I stick the essay sheet and the piece a paper back in my English folder and stuff it in my bag. Sunday'll be time enough to think about it. I lean forward on the bed, lift up the edge of the throw and squeeze my hand under the mattress to see if Laetitia's diary's still there. It is. Still in the exact same place. That's why I make my bed every mornin afore I go out now. My ma's amazed. The throw's too heavy to sleep under, so I take it off at night. In the mornin, I smoothe up my duvet, spread the throw on top, pile all the cushions back and prop them against the wall. I says to Ma, It's cause I want my room to be mair like a bedsit. But that isny the real reason. It's cause I don't want her comin in, strippin the bed, turnin ower the mattress. Findin the diary.

One last time. I'll look at it one last time. I have to get off the bed to get it out. I kneel down beside it, slip my hand in under the cover, ease it in between the mattress and the base and pull out the bag with the diary in. It's the bag I made in Primary Seven, wi my initials embroidered on. C. K. Green embroidery on a yucky colour a pink. Everybody had to make one; the boys' ones were blue. Miss, what's this for? they says. And they were all pure manky by the time we finished makin them. The teacher had to take them hame and wash them. I never found a use for mine till now. Laetitia's diary fits in perfect, with room at the top to pull the drawstring, made out a the same green embroidery thread as my initials.

I sit back up on the bed again and loosen the string. My heart aye starts beatin faster when I do this. It's black, the diary, hardback, covered in cloth. I didny realize what it was when I first seen it. It was lyin on the floor at the window, beside a chair in Danny's room in the flat in the West End. Well, the livin room, really, but Danny's sleepin in it the now, till he finds somewhere else. I wouldny even a noticed it, but Laetitia came back into the room and picked up a wee brown leather book off the seat.

Jed was there at some point that night, and Danny. Julian was there for a wee while, but he went out no long after Laetitia's went through to the bedroom. That was the first time I'd saw him again after Florence. My heart was pure thumpin, when he walked through the door. I was sure they must be able to hear it, but they didny seem to notice, him and Laetitia. He was taller than I remembered and his hair had grew a bit. Still short but. Take him a few years to grow back his dreads, if he felt like it.

I wasny plannin on takin the book. Julian was away; Laetitia was in her room; Danny and Jed were having a carry-on. And I seen it lyin there. First I thought it was an ordinary book,
but when I opened it, it was all handwritin. I thought it might be Julian's, cause I've never saw his writin. As soon as I read the first paragraph but, on the page it opened at, I knew it was Laetitia's.

Julian has asked me to go with him to a demo in Florence the weekend after next. European Social Forum – anti-war, anti-globalization. Strictly comrades, he says. Strictly compañeros. Don't know if it's a good idea; I've only recently re-established some kind of equilibrium, after the split. Only recently begun any worthwhile work on my thesis. Do I really want to risk opening Pandora's Box again? Why haven't I immediately said NO!?

I've got that bit off by heart now. And some other bits. I had my back to Danny and Jed, but I slung a quick look ower my shoulder. They were laughin and jokin. Naybody was lookin, so I slipped the diary in my bag.

I flick through it to find my favourite bit. The book falls open at the page. God, if ever I dae manage to get this back to Laetitia, she'll know right away what bits I've been readin!

Julian, Julian! What is it about you that draws me to you? Keeps drawing me back, even after all that's happened? Even after I've decided CATEGORICALLY, that it's no good; our being together invariably ends in tears. Yet, here I am in a pensione in Florence, on the eve of the European Social Forum demo, my heart beating faster at the thought of seeing you in – what? – an hour or so, when your bus gets in. This will be a good test of our resolve to stay apart. My resolve, at any rate. MY resolve.

She writes dead strange – like she's talkin to hersel and Julian at the same time. It's funny to think of her sittin in her room, writin away in this book, just as our bus is comin into Florence, wi me and Danny on it, as well as Julian. I mind how weird I thought he was then, wi his posh voice and his dreads.

I lift my head up to see mysel in the mirror. If I half close my eyes, I can even imagine I
am
Julian now. Him in the mirror,
his
eyes half closed, lookin at me on my bed. I take his dreadlock in my hand. I can ayeways find it dead easy, cause it feels different fae my ain dreads. Different texture. Mair spongy and fuzzy. Ayeways I see it glintin out the corner of my eye. Silvery. Sometimes I think I feel a kinda vibration in it. A wee kinda tremor, as if it's alive. And I get a bit spooked then, rememberin what Farkhanda says about witchcraft.

I turn the page to the next bit I like, skip the first half about Laetitia and Danny, cause I'm embarrassed readin it – God, if Danny knew, he'd kill me! – and get to my favourite bit.

Danny's young sister, Clare, is a stunning girl. Sixteen with a wild cloud of dark red hair surrounding a pale Pre-Raphaelite face. A cross between a Burne-Jones and a Waterhouse vaguely, with hair by Rossetti…

I didny know all they names at first, but I looked them up.
Stunning.
It was that word surprised me.

… The entire effect is somewhat compromised, however, by a Glasgow accent thicker than her luxuriant hair. Those glottal stops!

That's the part I
don't
like. As if her voice is anythin to write home about. Frightfully, frightfully, dahling!

But here's the best bit.

And now a café, a caffeine injection, and a nicotine boost, while Danny's off buying postcards, before heading back to the pensione to meet up with Julian and Clare and go on to the demo…

Julian and Clare. Clare and Julian.

… I did wonder at breakfast if there was something going on between those two. But no, not with a sixteen-year-old. Not even Julian. And anyway, it's pretty obvious he hasn't got over me yet; he behaved abominably in the restaurant last night…

Somethin goin on – aye, if you only knew! Snooty bitch! The first few times I read it, I was like, dead upset, cause a what happened in the end, Julian goin back to her and that. Then when I thought about the nice things she'd says about me, I felt bad. Really guilty. Specially for pinchin her diary. Specially when she looked that no well the day I went round to the flat wi Danny's things. Thin and white, mair white than me. Her hair all straggly. It's hard to stay mad at her when I think of her like that.

I need to try and get it back to her somehow. The only other time I was in the flat, I had it in my bag. I was gonny try and slip it down the side a the sofa, but that's where Danny sleeps; he opens it out every night. It's a couple a months since I took it, so he would a noticed. Either that, or he would get the blame for it; they would blame him for takin it, cause he's still got a thing for Laetitia. I would feel even worse if that happened, and Danny would be pure mortified. But I didny get a chance to leave it anywhere, cause there were folk there all the time. Danny, Jed, Laetitia. No Julian. I was dyin to see him too. And when Danny had to go out, I couldny really
stay; it would a looked a bit odd. So… I'm gonny have to get intay the flat again sometime. On Saturday, maybe, efter the demo. Danny says they're all goin. We've to meet at the edge a Glasgow Green, beside the war memorial, cause the march is startin there. I canny wait.

Farkhanda says she would be here at nine the day, but it's nearly ten the now, and she's still no came. I've made two placards, cause she'll no have time when she gets here. One says:

WAR ON IRAQ?

NOT ON
YOUR

LIFE!

And the other says:

BUSH, BLAIR,

BERLUSCONI