Authors: Jackie Kay
Joss’s holiday clothes are all here. Colman’s model aeroplanes, fishing rods, old green bottles dug up from the sea. Colman’s little antique collection. His coins. Joss’s records. A box of his mild cigars. Everything that mattered to us, we celebrated here. When we first adopted Colman we brought him here, not long after. We chose his name here too. Joss and I nearly divorced when it came to naming Colman. Joss wanted Miles; I wanted Campbell. Joss wanted Louis; I wanted Alastair. Joss wanted a jazz or a blues name. What about Jelly Roll, I laughed. Or Howling Wolf, Bird, Muggsy, Fats, Leadbelly. I was bent over double: Pee Wee. Joss slapped me across my face. ‘That’s enough,’ he said. ‘White people always laugh at black names.’ I rubbed my cheek. I couldn’t believe it. I just gave him a look until I saw the first bloom of shame appear on his. We gave up on names and went to bed. Sex is always better if you argue before. After, we compromised on Colman spelt the Irish way and not like Coleman Hawkins. That way we could get an
Irish name and a jazz name rolled into one. Colman comes from the Latin meaning dove, I told Joss, pleased with myself. ‘Is that right?’ he said. ‘Well, I hope to Christ he brings us peace.’
I must go out. It is a terrible day, the sky all gloomy and bad-tempered. It could turn sour. It could pour. But I need to get out. I put on my old mackintosh and sniff the salt in the air outside. I lock my door, just in case. I take a couple of steps down the road and realize I just can’t do it. There are people here who will nod and say hello and ask me how I am. It’s been four months or so since we were last here. I can’t face them. Not today. Maybe later when it’s dark I’ll go out. I unlock my door. Take off my coat and sit down by the fire. It is still there, glowing. I feed it an extra log, the long red fingers snap it up with great gusto.
Most people here are oblivious to the happenings in the jazz world. Never heard of Joss Moody, Britain’s legendary trumpet player. Some of them might have seen the papers. There’s one thing: most people here just read the local paper. That was what we loved about coming here, the complete anonymity. Not a dicky bird out of anybody until the day that Joss told Angus, the fisherman, about himself. Angus came off his old leaking boat one day, reeking of fish. ‘What’s this I hear, eh? You didn’t tell me your husband played the trumpet. Why the big secret? Can we no have a wee shindig?’ Before the week was out I was showing Angus the trumpet: the big jewel
in the huge jewellery box. I’d sometimes catch Joss stroking the velvet insides of that box with the same tender concentration that he stroked cats.
I first brought Joss to Torr in the middle of the winter. 1956. Our tyres skidded in the black ice on the road up here. When we finally arrived Torr was thick in snow and Joss was for turning back. The cottage seemed as if it possessed a memory of its own, one of those memories that remembers the distant past better than the recent. It clung to smells of people who’d lived here years ago. The rug was worn down to the bone. The paintings on the walls were old oils by local artists with plain titles. Fishing Nets. Mist on Sea. Early morning, Kepper. Only one title disturbed me, Skeleton. A watercolour of an abandoned fish on the beach. I remembered it from when I was a child. I stared at the shape of the bones. I could see how simple it would be to choke to death. There were large cobwebs everywhere, hanging from corner to corner like fishing nets. Two mouldy coffee cups sat on the table. Duncan was last here. I was feeling the old excitement I’ve felt since I was a girl coming here on holiday, arriving to the smell of the past. The past had lived on in those small airless rooms whilst we had been away living our life. The past had been here all the time, waiting. It was wonderful. The dank musty smells of last summer. Punching the old spicy pillows. Sleeping in the noisy, creaking beds, the smell of rust and old blankets, the smell of damp walls. By the time we left after our fortnight’s holiday, the cottage smelt different again, as if it had suddenly come into the present.
‘Is this it?’ he said. ‘Right, the only way I’m going to get to like this place is if we christen it right now.’ And we did. I slid down the wall and knocked a few cobwebs off when I came.
Once I was a fearless girl. I came to Torr every summer, climbed rocks, ran down the hills, dug graves for my brothers till the tide came in. Combed the beach for strange shells. It feels so long ago, it is as if it was somebody else who lived that part of my life. Not me. The girl I was has been swept out to sea. She is another tide entirely. Way back in the distance. I can’t imagine what she’d think of my life now, whether she’d think it was the life she was expecting to have or not. She always wanted marriage, I remember. Marriage, children. She wouldn’t have been surprised at that. I married a man who became famous. He died before me. He died recently. Now what am I? Can I remember? Joss Moody’s widow. That’s what I am, Joss Moody’s widow. She never imagined being a widow, did she? Of course she didn’t. What little girl ever imagines becoming a widow?
Tonight, after dusk, I go out into the half-dark, wearing my bottle-green windcheater with the hood over my hair. Joss used to comb my hair every night. It was one of the few feminine things he did. I loved it. Him sitting behind me, pressing against me, combing my thick dark hair in firm downward strokes.
I follow the road down to the sea. This walk is so familiar the memory of it is in my feet. I don’t even need
to look. So many times with Joss, down the steep hill from Torr, round the corner of the harbour and up the other side towards the cliffs. Arm in the crook of arm down the hill, then when we came to the cliff path we’d separate, single file, Joss always behind me. It is muddy with all the rain. Slippy, dangerous. I keep on, taking one step up the cliff path at a time. The sea is moaning like a sick person. I can’t take my eyes off it. No matter how many times I am near it, it never ceases to frighten me. I stand and watch the sea’s wild movements, the huge awesome leaps. I can hear Joss saying, ‘The great beast.’ Down below, the upturned fishing boats look lifeless, lonely. I know which boat belongs to which man. Their oars, like long sad arms waiting to be lifted and brought to life. I am tense; afraid somebody is going to pounce on me. I shouldn’t have come out. I’ll need to head back. It is even harder coming down. I must be mad. I could tumble and fall into the sea. The idea is strangely attractive to me. There is nothing behind or in front of me: just me and the wind and the sea. Everything is so familiar it is terrifying. I try to hush my breathing. I break into a run. My legs are shorter. Grief is making me shrink.
I unlock my door and rush inside the house. My heart is in my mouth. It feels wrong; there is something the matter with this place. I listen for noises. It is as if somebody else is here or has been here. I go from room to room looking. My own coat hanging on a door hook startles me. The sudden flashlight of a car sweeping past outside. Nothing. This fear is taking me over. If they are not stalking me, I am doing it to myself. I try to make
light of my fears. It was our secret. That’s all it was. Lots of people have secrets, don’t they? The world runs on secrets. What kind of place would the world be without them? Our secret was harmless. It did not hurt anybody.
There must be a mistake we made. A big mistake; hiding somewhere that I somehow missed.
I sit down on Joss’s armchair. I am not sure what to do with myself. I find myself getting agitated, now wondering what to do with my hands. I pick up a book and try to read a paragraph but it doesn’t go in. The words spill and lurch in front of me making no sense. I close the book and turn on the television. But the sound of the chat-show host’s voice, the speed of his talk, distresses me. I turn it off. I put on some music. I can listen to music. I try and breathe with it because my breathing still isn’t right. It is still too fast. Joss’s breathing became very fast in the end. Fast and shallow. When I think of the breath he used to take in and out to blow that trumpet! When he was dying, I thought if only he could have one big trumpet breath, he’d get some relief.
The summer before I met Joss, I was here at Torr with my brother and his family. I felt restless, discontented with my life. I wanted a passion, somebody to speed up time with a fast ferocious love. We didn’t have hot water then. At night, I’d sing in the freezing cold bathroom whilst I washed myself with the pot full of hot water in the old cracked sink,
Some day he’ll come along, the man I love; And he’ll be big and strong, The man I love … Maybe I shall meet him Sunday, Maybe Monday – maybe not; Still I’m sure to meet him one day – Maybe Tuesday will be my good
news day
. Then I’d lie on my thin hard bed trying to paint him in watercolours. I gave him a strong jaw.
I can still picture him the day we met in that blood donor’s hall in Glasgow. How could I have known then? He was well dressed, astonishingly handsome, high cheekbones that gave him a sculpted proud look; his eyes darker than any I’d ever seen. Thick black curly hair, the tightest possible curls, sitting on top of his head, like a bed of springy bracken. Neat nails, beautiful hands. I took him all in as if I had a premonition, as if I knew what would happen. His skin was the colour of Highland toffee. His mouth was a beautiful shape. I had this feeling of being pulled along by a pack of horses. In my mind’s eye I could see them, galloping along until they came to the narrow path that led to the big house. The huge dark gates. It was as if I had no say in what was going to happen to me, just this giddy sick excitement, this terrible sense of fate. We both give blood, I thought to myself. I wondered what made him give blood, what family accident, what trauma. We didn’t speak that first time, though I could feel him looking at me.
The fire is shrinking too. Collapsing in on itself, turning to ash. I get up and put the guard over the fire and go into the kitchen. I stand next to the kettle for an age, rubbing my hands till the shrill whistle pierces through me as if I wasn’t expecting it. I make myself a cup of tea to take to bed. Sleeping in our bed here is so terrible, I considered sleeping in Colman’s old room, or sleeping on the couch downstairs, or sleeping on the floor. I felt as if I’d be deserting Joss though. I climb into our
old bed and place my cup of tea at my side. The space next to me bristles with silence. The emptiness is palpable. Loss isn’t an absence after all. It is a presence. A strong presence here next to me. I sip my tea and look at it. It doesn’t look like anything, that’s what is so strange. It just fits in. Last night I was certain it was a definite shape. I bashed the sheets about to see if it would declare itself. It won’t let me alone and it won’t let me sleep. I try to find sleep. Sleep is out there where Joss is, isn’t it? That’s what the headstones tell you. Who Fell Asleep On. Sleeping. Fell Asleep on Jesus. Joss is out there sleeping behind the sea wall. I can’t sleep any more. Not properly. Sleep scratches at me then wakes me up. I dip down for a moment then surface again, my eyes peeling the darkness away. I don’t know how many hours I have had of it since he died. It can’t be many. It was a form of torture, wasn’t it, sleep deprivation?
If I don’t try to sleep, it might sneak up on me, capture me. I won’t try to sleep. I will try to remember. The next time is six months later. We are back giving blood on the same day, Tuesday. I am brazen, full of knowledge. I approach him and ask him out. It is 1955. Women don’t do this sort of thing. I don’t care. I am certain this man is going to be my lover. When you are certain of something, you must take your chance; you mustn’t miss your opportunity or life is lost. I remember my grandfather telling me that; how he knew with my grandmother, how he courted her until he had her. I tell him I’ve noticed him here before. We talk about giving blood, how we both hate it, but like clenching our fist
and the biscuit afterwards. I ask him if he watches the blood being drained out of himself. He says he looks away at anything else. He says he is quite squeamish. What about you, he asks me, what do you do? I tell him I like to watch the blood filling up, the wonderful rich colour of it. He laughs as if he suddenly likes me. Then we both fall silent and he stares at me awkwardly, puzzled by me just coming up to him like this. But he isn’t trying to get rid of me. He is looking me up and down as if appraising me. I am glad that I am wearing my good dress, with the polka dots and the straps. I know I look good.
We go for a drink in Lauder’s bar. He tells me his name is Joss Moody and I ask him if that is his real name. He is offended. I see a look cross his face that I haven’t seen before. Of course it is his real name, what am I talking about. I tell him it sounds like a stage name, like a name that someone would make up in anticipation of being famous. He laughs at that and tells me he is going to be famous. I laugh too, nervously. I know he’s going to be famous also. I could have noticed then, I suppose. The way he was so irritated with me asking him about his name. I say, ‘My name is Millie MacFarlane,’ as if I’d just heard it for the first time, as if my own name was miles away from who I am. I say, ‘Millicent MacFarlane, but my friends call me Millie,’ suddenly shy. We talk about anything. He tells me he plays the trumpet. He is so pleased with himself for playing the trumpet, I can see that. He says the word, ‘trumpet,’ and his eyes shine. ‘Would you like one for the road, Millie?’ he asks. Him saying my name makes me weak. I hold onto the table
and watch him go to the bar for his whisky and my gin.
He walks me to my flat in Rose Street, Number 14. And leaves me. ‘I know where you are now,’ he says. A little kiss on my cheek. I get in and throw myself on my bed, punch my pillow. Then I stroke the side of my cheek Joss Moody kissed and say, courting to myself, courting, courting, courting until it sounds like a beautiful piece of music.
We court for three months. A kiss on the cheek at the end of the date. Meeting at Boots’ Corner, at The Shell in Central Station, or below the Hielan’ Man’s umbrella under where the trains come out of Central Station on Argyle Street, between Hope Street and Union Street. The times I’ve waited for Joss sheltered from the rain, under the Hielan’ Man’s umbrella, imagining the Highland men years ago, fresh down from the Highlands talking excited Gaelic to each other. Either we go drinking or we go dancing. Great dance halls in Glasgow. Dancing at the Playhouse, at Denniston Palais, at the Locarno, the Astoria or the Plaza, it seemed nobody would ever get old. Nobody would ever die. Even the ugly looked beautiful. Joss was a wonderful dancer; he loved to strut his stuff on those dance floors. A hive of jive. He was showbiz itself already. They all were. I remember laughing till I cried, watching one man after another get up at the Locarno and imitate Frank Sinatra singing ‘Dancing in the Dark’. The Carswell Clothes Shop competition. I remember loving the names of those bands at the dance halls – Ray McVey Trio, Doctor Crock and the Crackpots, Joe Loss,
Oscar Rabin, Carl Barritean, Harry Parry, Felix Mendelson, and, my favourite, the Hawaiian Serenaders. Dancing makes us both happy. Big steps. Quickstep. Dip. We dance at the Barrowland way into the early hours. The atmosphere, jumping. The dance style, gallus. There is no tomorrow. There is just the minute, the second, the dip. The heat and the sweat. That feeling of being your body. Body and soul.