Something to Declare by Cyclist

Chapter 8

Dick Gaughan is a man of passions that burn through a sparse, hard vocal style, and he knows the words that cut through your mind to the soul beneath and leave you in glorious pain. I always get emotional to his music, and now was no exception.

I found myself tearing up again at one song, and felt Kelly take my hand. I gave hers a squeeze back to say thank you, and Geoff nudged my arm. A tissue…where from, I don’t know, but there it was.

Finally, that was all we could have. The curfew was biting for the amplified music and it was time to hit the main bar. There were proper loos here, and the ale was working through me. Kelly saw my thinking and linked arms with me to walk over to the ladies’.

“It’s no biggy, it’s just other girls in there”

I stopped dead but my stomach kept going, and I looked at her. She knew.

Well, of course she knew. I’ve already said I am no fair flower of the West, but I had almost started to believe…to hope. Shitshitshitshit. I started to shake, and Kelly stepped forward to hold me tight as the tears filled my vision. I found myself digging my fingers hard into her back as a flood of incoherent complaint dropped stupidly from my mouth. She pulled my head into her shoulder, and softly murmured to me.

“It’s OK, it’s all OK. You don’t look bad at all, you know, and that can be made even better with a little work. We all knew as soon as we saw you, it was the way you couldn’t get out of your tent in a skirt”

She giggled, and so did I through the tears.

“Just listen. Do you think we really care what you were born as? I’ve been watching you, my parents have been watching you and Geoff…..Geoff has REALLY been watching you. You are a girl, there’s no doubt, I watched you during the Oysterband set, but we also think this is your first time out Are we right?”

“Mmmfyeah…”

“So stay near us and be safe. That is all I am going to say for now, but there’s no way you were ever a man. What you are is a woman who needs a pee and a face wash. Then we have some music to play”

“Mmmdbutyouain’tgotnoinstrument…”

“Watch and learn, Grasshopper!”

I will gloss over the toilets. One block of mobile toilets is much the same as any other, apart from urinals, and it was no cleaner than the male one, but it had running water and I cleaned the mess from my face.

“You don’t use make up, do you?”

“Nope, always been a step too far”

“Further than wearing a dress? Puhleeze! Hold still”

She had apparently decided that some mascara would hide the redness in my eyes, and over my objections the deed was done, with a veiled threat.

“Not waterproof. No more tears. OK?”

I was a subdued and quiet Steph as we rejoined the others and I collected my fiddle and sweatshirt. I hung my head to cover Kelly’s artwork, and so almost missed the nod she gave to her mother, who stepped forward and gave me a wordless hug, followed in turn by Bill and Geoff. Kelly whispered in my ear.

“Not waterproof…”

My world was bounded by gentle arms and what felt like genuine affection, from people I had not known existed until a very few hours ago. I was suddenly far more hopeful of what awaited me at work. This weekend was always meant as a trial run, with the eventual outcome an announcement to those that mattered and edge towards beginning my real life test. I was terrified, and Sally had struggled to help me understand the difference between my self-destructive delight in taking a risk that would harm me and my dread of the risk that could heal.

I kissed all four gently on the cheek, smiling my thanks and struggling womanfully to keep my eyes dry. N.W.

The bar was filling as the marquees emptied, and we found ourselves a small space where the boys set out five chairs in a horseshoe. Kelly had been lugging round what looked like an artwork portfolio, and when she took a pair of wood and leather clogs from her bag I realised what her “instrument” was. Bill pulled out a concertina, Jan a bodhran and Geoff the beautiful bouzouki. I tightened the nut of my bow, gave it a good coat of rosin and checked the tuning. We ran through a list of the pieces we had in common, and Bill said

“Jimmy Allen and then Salmon Tails? In G, Jan”

“Sod you, Woodruff!”

As we got used to each other’s style, driven on by Jan’s impeccable rhythm, we got adventurous. For the second run of Salmon tails, Bill dropped a fifth so that we had almost a bagpipe effect, and by the time we finished there were a variety of other stringed instruments twanging along. Another fiddler shouted “Stool of Repentance in A!” and we were off.

At one point Jan went to get more ale, and I borrowed her bodhran to spare my left-hand fingertips. Left hand stretching the skin, right hand loose at the wrist, my hair hanging down over the whole process as I lost myself in the rhythm and swing of music with spark and soul. My left leg was set under the drum and my right stretched out to the side, straining my skirt as my body wrapped up the sound. The fall of my hair hid everything but my flying right hand and I played in an auburn haze. Sharp ringing chords came from Geoff as Kelly’s feet struck out a rapid percussion and sweat flew everywhere. This was what I was born for.

And “time” was called at the bar. The second fiddler grinned over at me and said

“You can play with me any time, girl. Got a slow one to wind up with?”

“Road to the North and Maurice Ogg?”

“Got them. I’ll let you call the change, but we stand for this. Let them see who’s playing.”

We almost touched foreheads over the clogging sheet, in his smell of beer and tobacco and mine of who knew what, and I led into the first of the two beautiful tunes. The older guy was so much better than me, and as I soared up the E-string he was weaving improvised harmonies around my melody. The bar was absolutely still as the last note of “Air for Maurice Ogg” died with my bow, and I looked up to a round of applause and a grin from someone I immediately recognised.

“Bugger me, you’re Jimmy Kerr! I normally pay good money to hear you!”

“Aye, lass, but this is where the real fun is. Give us a call if you’re ever up my way and we’ll play some more”

He gave me a card. Me Him. One of the gods of the fiddle and he wanted to hear me. I almost forgot the situation with the Woodruffs in my delight. Geoff’s hand fell on my shoulder.

“Earth to Steph…..”

“Uh, yeah, um”

I have no false modesty about my musicianship. I’m good, though no genius, but more than adequate. I can usually get what I want from my fiddle, but clearly my vocal skills are not equal to that. Such eloquence.

With head torches we found our way back to the tents and stashed our instruments. A few awkward (for me) hugs and we were off to our respective beds.

I was just drifting off, the buzz finally gone, wrapped in big knickers, giant T-shirt and down sleeping bag, when I heard the zip opening on my fly sheet, then the one on the inner tent. In the dim light from the toilet blocks I saw Kelly.

“Budge over. You are not on your own tonight. For starters, you’ve probably not got the mascara off”

She efficiently cleaned my face, and slid a mat and sleeping bag next to me. As she curled around my back, she whispered

“You’re on brew duty in the morning. I’ve brought a mug.
And no snoring nor farting”