HONEY, I'M STILL FREE
by Alan Bissett

The entire balcony shakes as if poised to break like wedding cake, cascade down in huge, rock-hard crumbs. And still they sing, clap, lapping it up: women in their seventies and Seventies kids in kitsch gear, here with Agnetha-style eye-shadow and daughters too young to know any of the songs. And it’s not even Abba. It’s an Abba tribute band. Yet they stomp, dance, hammer at the balcony, holiday-rep cheerful and lost in the moment: Joanne, twirling wrists in time, flicking her hair, her braids, her broad smile reminding me of birthdays long-ago: a paper hat cocked awkwardly on her head like a little queen’s, streamers streaming, the Ribena blush on her cheeks, and me balancing the cake, careful, loving. And Murray said,

This is our baby. This is a day that we made.

But the whole balcony now is falling apart.

‘Ooh,’ Joanne says, ‘I like this one.’

‘Me too,’ coos Mother, ‘If you change your mind…I’m the first in line…’

I try to stand, reach an exit, but find myself jammed into a generation gap: Mother and Joanne with a grabbing hand each.

‘Oh no you don’t,’ says Joanne, ‘You’re not going anywhere until the break.’

‘Jo, let go of me.’

‘As your daughter I command you to stay,’ she says. ‘If you go someone might. Die.’

‘Death by Fernando,’ Mother smiles, scrabbling in her packet of Revels.

‘Can you hear the drums, Fiona?’ sings Joanne, throws octopus arms around me, then pulls away, serious. ‘Hey,’ she says, ‘Did you or Dad buy any of these singles? Cos they might be worth a bit now.’

‘Oh no,’ says Mother, on my behalf, the same way she would in front of hand-picked boys when I was young. ‘She was into that nasty punk stuff. The Jam and The Crash and The Sex Weapons and all that.’

‘You?’ gasps Joanne, ‘Punk!’

I shrug. They laugh. That laugh. Its ha-ha-ha scours at the very idea of it, smoothens that spiked image of a punk-like me back out into she who drops-off at college, she who draws up the rota of chores on a whiteboard, who requests that the girls speak one at a time, who plaits their hair when they go out, waits up for them coming in, cleans the toilet of sick when they do, tuts, ‘I don’t mind cooking food as long as it’s eaten,’ when they push full plates away, who watches home makeover shows with Murray, sips wine, comments, ‘I don’t care for that pelmet,’ who pushes fingers into the sink to extract cabbage, beans, who will find Murray his keys – why can he never find his own keys? – who is patient, who buys the Big Issue, who never expects thanks, no, who never once expects thanks. Who is not thanked.

But. I remember a time when Murray kicked-in a phone box and I watched, smoked studiously like Debbie Harry, affected the sneer of Siouxse Sioux and nothing mattered but the sound of breaking glass. ‘Bravo,’ I went, ‘Eight out of ten.’

‘Only eight?’

‘You didn’t smash all of the windows.’

Murray winked, said, ‘Cheers babe,’ and with a Sid Vicious hiss, attacked. But then he lacerated his hand and started crying, and I had to haul him home and get Mother to help, and we all stood in the kitchen while she wrapped his thumb with bandages, clucking twelve years of nurse words and glaring at my piercings, Buzzcocks badges, as though they were Swastikas.

This past dissolves in Joanne’s laugh. It didn’t happen. I was never there, that age, only here, this age, teenage daughter in tow at an Abba – worse, an Abba tribute – show.

‘Oh stop mooning, Mum,’ tuts Joanne, tugging my hand, ‘Jig about a bit. Loosen up. At least try to enjoy yourself.’

‘Jo,’ I explain formally, ‘It’s not a matter of enjoying myself, I just…’

I stand. The dramatic fall to the stalls below: it swims vertiginously, and the theatre waves like in a queasy dream-sequence. Head. Flutter. Faint. Sit. Listen to the music, just listen to the music, Fiona, I tell myself. Mother swings arthritic hips, punches the air. ‘Show some life,’ she grins at me. ‘Dance,’ Joanne adds. ‘Dance!’ she repeats. ‘Dance!’ she almost screams.

I yawned this morning then lost my husband.

It was a yawn backed by the legacy of twenty years’ worth of routine. I turned, stretched sleepily to see Murray awake and staring.

And I knew.

The dawn light slanting in, sliced by blinds, like scores of other mornings. Yet no peck. No smack on the cheek. No ‘hi honey’ either, just a hard, gathered gaze, a mind behind it already contacting its lawyer. I could hear his thoughts: he’d stay with his brother for a while until he sorted himself out, make sure the girls were provided for, perhaps he’d already booked a cab? He had. It would soon be outside, blaring impatiently. And though we both knew, neither of us would do it, say it, so we just lay, heads creasing twin pillows, gazes creating a dense silence. He blinked, and it broke the spell and meant that he could give body to his thoughts, those non-corporeal fears which had appeared, phantasm-like and half-glimpsed, between us, those words unspoken finally set to be invoked, as if by a medium summoning ghosts: all those things that had ever happened to us, accumulating, rolling snowball-like and gathering speed through the years towards this tiny moment in time, crushing it. ‘Don’t,’ I said, and touched his lips. He removed my finger. I put my hand on his mouth. ‘Please don’t,’ I said in a tiny voice. His gaze softened. He took my arm, the pads of his fingers pressing bird-bones at my wrist. The radio was babbling far away. A weather report. The girls flitting about downstairs, oblivious as insects. ‘One nod for yes?’ I said. He nodded, once. I closed my eyes. Then he spoke aloud that fact which I’d known since overhearing a midnight phone-call exactly one week ago:

‘It’s over.’

I finish my drink as soon as it’s poured. ‘Steady on, Mum,’ says Joanne, shaking her match and pointing at my glass. ‘We’ve the whole second half to go.’

‘That’s what I might just do, Joanne.’

‘What?’

‘Go.’

Mother clutches at my arm and hisses. ‘A fine night this is, Fiona. We take you out, pay for your tickets as a treat, and this is what we get. This…’ She stands back as if assessing a science project that has gone wrong.

‘This what?’

‘Drunken degeneracy.’

Joanne splutters. ‘Ha! Drunken degeneracy? Get a grip, Gran. It’s Mum we’re talking about.’

‘That’s the problem,’ I say. ‘It’s always Mum you’re talking about.’

Joanne pouts, folds arms, her cigarette tip glowing like a single beady eye. ‘Now now,’ she enunciates, ‘Let’s not get bitchy, Mum.’ I look at her fag, longing for a slow cool drag on it. I wish I could let it touch my lips, let myself suck dirty breath into my lungs and turn healthy pink flesh into a dark, spiteful grey, love becoming hate. I haven’t smoked since I was seventeen. Not since Mother found some in my studded-jacket pocket, freaked, made me promise to give up, give up, give up, you hear me? Give up everything.

‘Another drink there, boy!’ I call to the pimply young barman. He pushes it to me like an anonymous glass-washer in some noir film about deception, grief. All three watch me drain it.

‘How can you dance half-cut?’ Mother says.

‘I don’t want to dance.’

‘Never could hold your drink,’ Mother smiles, glancing over the rim of her glass at me, and her jest is laced with cyanide. ‘I remember you coming in after your first night out dancing -’

‘It was the school disco, Mother, I was twelve.’

‘There was a crash! A stumble. I opened the toilet door and there you were on the floor, and I said to you -’

‘The same year I wanted to be Wonder Woman.’

‘Do you remember what I said?’

‘Yes,’ I sigh. ‘You said, “Is there any way, Fiona, you can see yourself doing this in twenty years’ time?”’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I said, “Gegggghhh.”’

‘And what did I say?’

‘You said, ‘Well if you can’t see yourself doing this in twenty years time, why don’t you stop now?”’

Mother stares. ‘Yes, Fiona,’ she says, and for the first time I hear a faint concern mist her voice. ‘So if you can’t see yourself doing this in twenty years’ time, why don’t you stop now?’ She lifts the drink from my hand, places it on the bar.

The moment catches.

I look away – quick – round the room at blue eye-shadow, lips humming Lay All Your Love On Me, tackily-dressed thin men and middle-aged slappers doing cheesy routines: You may be straight, love, but you think gay. Flares. Anecdotes about Anni-Frid: Apparently she didn’t get on with Agnetha, yeah, jealous of her arse you know, all the attention she got. Well, she was better looking, wasn’t she? Abba fans. Drag queens. Fag-hags. And there’s Mother and Joanne, all sharp glances in my direction and laughing, laughing, ha ha ha ha. Ha ha ha ha ha!

In the toilet I kneel slowly and vomit. The colour of stomach. This is what’s inside me. This is what it looks like. I mop the edge of the pan with paper and hold the cistern, quiet. It is important no-one hear. Vital! Bare knees on a cold floor. Tiles! On the side of the white sink is a swan mid-swim. He’s gone. He’s gone to her. And they don’t know, don’t even know, and I won’t let him off the hook by looking puzzled when they ask why he couldn’t come tonight, won’t say he’s unwell, no. I’ll tell them their loving father and son-in-law has the hots for a bit of stuff younger than Joanne. Younger. Than. Fucking

I flush. The pan drains with a low, throaty roar.

On with the show.

It recommences with twinkles of guitar and a shiver of piano. Chiquitita tell me what’s wrong. You are chained...by...your own sorrow. But on the chorus I actually sing, Chicken tikka, you and I know, and Joanne sighs with feigned disgust.

‘Hey,’ I protest, ‘At least I’m on my feet now.’

‘Hoo,’ Joanne says, ‘Ray.’

Agnetha comes to the front of the stage and starts to applaud our efforts. ‘Of all the towns we’ve played on this tour,’ she says in a Swedish accent so fake I recall the chef from the Muppets, ‘You guys are the best yet.’ She punches a finger into the air. ‘Number one!’ The crowd cheers.

‘Oh please,’ I tut. I bet Murray says that to his junior staff, you guys are the best yet. Every girl thinking she’s special, that she’snumber one! that he doesn’t say this to each of them, every year, all sincere over a lunchtime coffee, quality time with a trainee whose work has real promise, whose portfolio shows real potential, who keeps adjusting her bra-strap, giggling, touching her hair, stunned that someone thinks they have talent, intellect, from management no less.

‘Fuck Abba,’ I say.

Joanne tuts. ‘You’ve no soul, Mum.’

‘I’ve no soul?’

‘It was stolen by Johnny Rotten.’

‘And spat on,’ adds Mother.

‘And traaaaaaampled.’ Jo rolls the word.

I shake my head. ‘Jo, she’ll say that exact same thing to Nottingham, to Burnley, to Edinburgh...’

To Wendy, to Teri, to Lisa...

Never had a trainee like you.

‘But we are the best crowd.’

‘We’re the best crowd, Fiona,’ Mother states with finality.

‘Darn tootin’’ Joanne winks back. ‘C’mon, Mum, let’s believe in the dream.’

‘Hmph. Ihad a dream.’

‘Wish Dad was here.’

‘What?’

‘He’s more fun.’

‘Sorry?’

‘At least he’d dance.’

I look at Jo. She makes a face as if to say: well? As if to say: well? And with tight-set lips I turn to put her straight about a few things concerning her father, when:

Dancing Queen. It appears like a girl splitting an argument between drunks. Benny drags his hand on the keys and sends shivers down spines: a gasp of recognition. Screams, arms, waving, the air filled. Someone tugs the back of my blouse, thrilled. Piss off. The massed ghosts of wedding and anniversary dances, disco lights, lightly bouncing Farrah Fawcett hair, the harking-back of those here no longer young and sweet nor seventeen to school crushes, fun, sunny parks, fumbles. Murray walking home with me, teenage and leather-clad, and the future yawning and stretching before us, endless, endless. Our first goodnight kiss, on my doorstep. Someone bangs my shoulder: piss off. Middle-aged women and kids jig, sweat around me, and I remember Murray standing on a stage when he was in The Drunk Fuckpigs and I was his coolest groupie (with a mother who thought she was at flute practice) going, ‘Yeah, yeah. Better than Weller,’ and as he roared, ‘Youth explosion!’ he leapt into the air, windmilled his guitar, came down onto an amp, perfectly, like a cat, and I thought:

We will never ever ever grow old.

There’s a tap on my shoulder.

‘Piss off!’ I turn and bark. The usher raises his hands, taken aback.

‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘Just wanted to tell you you’ve dropped your purse.’

‘Oh,’ I say, picking it up and clutching it, ‘Thank you.’

‘No problem,’ he says, backing off as if from some animal display of aggression, combing his long hair behind his ear with embarrassment. I dribble an apology, but he’s still retreating, with a nope-aint-gonna-mess-with-you-lady frown on his face.

God I want a fag. I’d make an affair of that first breath. A fuck of it. I’d let it kiss and take hold, my eyes closed to its harsh love. I remember the first cigarette Murray and I ever shared, at sixteen, curled up in his bed after the first lovemaking we ever shared. He stroked my face. He placed the cigarette between my lips, lit, and we smoked it and he held me and I held him and my sudden thought was that we smelled like adults.

Fake Abba end with The Winner Takes it All.

In the lobby everyone is sweat-drenched and texting. Joanne has a grin in her eyes and a chorus in her whistle.

‘That was so good,’ she says, ‘I think I’m going to pee myself.’

In one hour’s time we’ll be home.

‘Not here,’ says mother.

In one hour she’ll know.

‘Well, hold my hand as I go to the toilet, granny dearest.’

I am shaking.

‘I can dance with ya honey,’ sings Joanne, ‘If ya think it’s funny. Does yer momma know that you’re out?’ Joanne disappears to the ladies and the song recedes into babble, into good-night-out pleasantries. And it was. Of course it was. A right good night out. A right good night out before the end of the world.

A tap on my shoulder. I turn, almost roaring.

‘Look I didn’t mean to scare you earlier,’ the usher says, palms still up and checking my pockets with his eyes. ‘Don’t have any....sharp weapons do you?’

I lower my head. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I just -’

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘I get it. You’ve been hurt.’

I flood with cold. ‘What?’

‘By men at Abba gigs. Let me guess: wham bam, thank you for the music.’

I resent the laugh. But laugh. ‘I thought I told you to piss off earlier.’

‘And I did,’ he smiles. ‘But I’ve come back. Just have a thing for angry women, y’know, it must be the Michael Douglas in me.’

He is unshaven, has long hair, and wears brown leather boots. These are sure signs of bad boys in the movies, and I wonder how long he has spent cultivating the image, what age he had to be before he looked grizzled enough to get away with it.

‘Look, um...’

‘Toby.’

‘Toby. I’m sorry for snapping at you. But I’m really not in the mood for -’

‘Abba?’

‘For Abba,’ I sigh. ‘Yes. I’m certainly not in the mood for Abba.’

‘What about me?’ he appeals. ‘I work here. I’m turning Swedish!’

‘Poor man.’

‘I want to buy a Volvo and drive it to Ikea!’

We both look at the floor, concealing smiles.

He sees it, what’s happened, recognises it. Either that or there’s some wounded girl in his past that he didn’t manage to save, and he’s taken each one he’s met since by the hand.

The carpet is fascinating. It has to be.

‘Do you know,’ he says, ‘That sharks can smell one molecule of blood in a cubic foot of water?’

I look up.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘And right now you’re a cubic foot of interested and one molecule of irritated. So I’m going to split while the going is good.’

‘That’s probably a good idea,’ I warn him.

He smiles. I smile.

‘But listen,’ he says. ‘I’m in a band. We’re playing the Rainbow Lounge next Friday, you know next to Rory’s Bar? Come see us.’

‘Well I don’t know about that. What kind of music do you play?’

‘Rock mainly,’ he shrugs. ‘Cream, Zeppelin, that kind of thing. But we do some Clash and Jam stuff too.’

‘Music for the die-hards,’ I nod, and can imagine the scene: grey hair and greasy jackets. Boots up on stools. Musos evoking a time when songs were songs and not this recycled, sampled shit. Men who could remember the original, and old punks, and their still-drunk girlfriends.

I long to go.

‘You don’t understand,’ I say, ‘This isn’t -’

‘The sort of gig you’d normally go to?’

‘The sort of gig I’d ever go to. But I said that about Abba tributes.’

He nods and looks around, as if the word Abba itself is doom-laden, pregnant, somehow discordant with the mood we’ve created. Then his eyes flick back on. ‘Oh!’ he says, reaching into his pocket, ‘Take one of our cards. Give me a phone if you want to check out the band.’

TURQUOISE GRANITE, the card reads, Monsters of Love and Rock

. ‘Monsters of Love and Rock?’ I say. ‘What else could a girl want?’

He folds his arms and makes an okay-okay gesture. ‘That was the bass-player’s fault.’

‘It’s always the bass-player’s fault,’ I say. ‘What do you play?’

He breathes out. ‘Um,’ he says, ‘Bass.’

We both laugh.

A fizzing of atoms announces their return. Mother and Joanne stand beside me and make we’re-back sounds. Toby fidgets. ‘Anyway,’ he says. ‘See you next Friday?’

‘Rock and love?’ I say. ‘Count on it.’

‘Yeah yeah,’ he grins. ‘Dump the card.’

‘Oh I will,’ I tell him, ‘But before you go?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Do you have a fag?’

‘Sure,’ he says and pats his jacket. He pats his jacket. The panic as he pats his jacket. When he finds a crumpled packet his whole structure relaxes, visibly. ‘There you go.’

‘Matches?’

He tosses the box. I catch it. He stands nodding, looking.

‘Didn’t I tell you to piss off?’

‘You did,’ he smiles. ‘I will.’

He does.

The street shouts taxi! There is the lowest-grade agitation; people milling for metros, bus stops, train stations. Dependence is clothed in the taking of a partner’s hand, the musing upon music, the brief smiles and brief smiles back. But nothing’s enough. People make reassessments of their life every few minutes and ignore the results: the blips and beeps, the nods and gestures, the timbre of a whisper that suggests everything is broken. ‘How are we going to get home?’ Joanne asks. ‘We’ll have to drop Gran off then -’

‘I’m not going home,’ I say.

Mother snorts then turns to Jo. ‘If we can get the cab to drop me off first then I’ll pay for some of the -’

‘Mother?’

She looks up sharply. ‘Fiona!’ she snaps. ‘Do you realise that’s twice you’ve interrup -’

‘I’ve something to say.’

Mother stands and lets her annoyance decant.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m not going home,’ I tell them. ‘I’ve met someone else.’

Mother looks from me to Joanne. She quietly consolidates her mood into rage. ‘Oh shut up, Fiona,’ she says. ‘I’ve had enough of your antics tonight. Why don’t you make yourself useful and stick out your arm for a taxi.’

‘I’ve met another man and have fallen hopelessly in love and the sex is amazing. I’m not going home.’

They stare at me.

‘Ever.’

I turn and walk off down the street, through lights and coats and the general happiness of the aftershow. But the whole world behind me feels as though it’s been slapped.

‘Fiona?’ Mother shouts, ‘What do you mean you’ve found someone else?’

‘Mum?’ Joanne calls, an edge in her voice. ‘Mum, stop. Where are you going?’

‘I don’t know,’ I call back, ‘I don’t know where I’m going.’

But I keep walking.

Further down the street I take Toby’s card from my pocket. On the back he’s written, ‘Love, Rockand Roll.’ I smile, crushing up his card and dropping it into the nearest bin.

See that girl, I think as I light up the fag and inhale. Watch that scene.

© Alan Bissett

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