Being Emily. Anne Donovan
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area. The winner would get through to the final with folk fae the other regions in Scotland.
Miss Mulhern looked at her watch. The adjudicators are giving their decision at twelve, so be back here at five to. You could go and see what the other entries are like, get some ideas.
Jas whispered in my ear. Let’s go and get a coffee.
The main foyer was a soulless barn of a place, all plastic and metal with posters advertising concerts for has-been bands at extortionate prices. In one of the other halls there was a craft show, and teams of auld dollies in haund-knitted jumpers and lace-up shoes daundered about, carrying poly bags full of cross-stitch kits. Jas and me sat on a bench, sipping coffee out of paper cups.
You know, I think I prefer coffee like this. It tastes better than out of real cups.
Stays hot for longer. But then, paper cups are so bad for the environment.
Afore I met Jas, I’d never thought much about the environment but it was one of his things. I even knew what he was gonnae say next.
It’d be so easy to have recycling bins in here.
He was right, of course, and being with him had made me aware of how folk just chucked stuff out, of the overpackaged products and the way you got handed a poly bag in every shop – I’d even started taking bags to the supermarket mysel. But there was a difference between us. I knew in my heid that throwing a paper cup away was wrong and wasteful, but it actually pained Jas to dae it. I knew that when it was time for us to go back in the hall he’d place the cup in the bin gently and a look of distress would cross his foreheid; Jas could feel the hole in the ozone layer growing even by a particle, could sense the tiniest molecule of carbon monoxide sighing into the air.
I looked at the time on my phone. Ten to.
Finished?
Jas nodded, and I took the cup fae him, put it inside mines as if somehow that made it less bad, then threw them in the bin.
He stood up, held out his haund, and the two of us heided towards the door.
Everyone expected Jas tae win, of course. He’d always been the golden boy of the class, got the school Art prize every year. His photies were perfect; not only were his composition and technique breathtaking, his work had a way of making you feel as if you were seeing an everyday object for the first time. It was true, shot through with Jas’s directness, his sense of purpose.
The adjudicators praised his work highly.
Mature, dynamic … tonal quality … flawless composition. A Cartier-Bresson in the making.
Everyone clapped. A warm feeling rose inside me.
Jaswinder attends Burnside High and the school is to be highly commended for the quality of its students’ work. The next entrant, Fiona O’Connell, has not displayed the technical mastery which characterised Jaswinder’s work, but her exhibit, Barbie Bits, is a compelling and ehm … edgy piece of work with an understated violence. She pushes the boundaries of our perception of childhood, of women, and makes us question our assumptions. The juxtaposition of the doll images over the winter scenes is disturbing and the pyre of broken Barbies is a master stroke.
Jas squeezed my haund. I felt my face flame.
Now to the part which we adjudicators hate. There has to be a winner and it goes without saying that this was a very difficult decision but we are confident we have made the right one. The competition was set up to reward innovative and risky art as well as technical brilliance. So, in reverse order – third place goes to Paula Mason from Anderston High School.
A skinny blonde lassie in a navy blazer went up to get her envelope and everyone applauded.
Second and first place go to pupils of the same school – a tremendous achievement for Burnside High. In second place is Jaswinder Singh, and, for a courageous and innovative work, first place and the chance to go forward to the Scottish finals, go to Fiona O’Connell.
It’s amazing how much difference winning the prize made. If Jas had won (and if even one of the judges’d been different, it would of been him, as Miss Mulhern reminded us on several occasions), then his position as best artist in school and my position in his shadow would of been retained. Coming second would of been easier – Miss Mulhern could be nice to me, put me in the box she’d already labelled. Winning knocked out her whole way of looking at things. I’d spent weeks stuck at the computer in Mr Lyons’ room and suddenly produced the goods, taking the prestigious prize away fae her star pupil. You could see how it would scunner her.
It made a big difference tae my family. Of course they’d known I was good at art, just like I was good at English or History, but Art was a frivolous subject, no something tae base your life choices on. But the cheque for a thousand quid changed that. Da couldnae believe it, kept shaking his heid in amazement and saying, You’ll need tae take care of this, Fiona, as if I was gonnae drop it in the street or accidentally tear it up or something. Janice took me out and helped me open a special savings account.
It seems a lot, but when you’re a student you’ll find it’ll be a real help.
The only person it didnae affect was Jas. I worried he’d be pissed aff I’d won the prize, kept watching him for signs of things changing between us, but there was nothing. He was just the same.
THE LAST WEEK of school everyone’s in party mood, looking forward tae the Christmas holidays. Hauf the weans have stopped coming and teachers keep the rest quiet with videos and chocolate. As I walk alang the corridor laughter and music spill fae every classroom.
It’s Mammy’s anniversary.
She died on the 19th of December and it took all Janice and Patrick’s determination and organisation to get her buried by Christmas Eve. Sudden deaths cause confusion, sudden deaths mean post mortems, new lairs being opened, but my Mammy’s … a sudden death where a birth had been expected. Two deaths in one.
Voices on the phone, expecting good news.
A boy or a wee lassie?
What’s the weight?
Who does she look like?
Then the voices trailing aff intae silence.
Janice, list in haund, gaun through the details wi my da. Maist of the time he didnae seem tae care or even hear her, but noo and again he’d dig his heels in over something, made things mair difficult for her.
We can get the parish hall for after the funeral, Bobby. They’ll do sandwiches.
Geraldine wouldnae of wanted the parish hall.
It’s hard tae get anywhere else at this notice just before Christmas – every hotel’s booked up with office parties and Christmas dinners.
She hated the smell of stewed tea. She hated they pinnies the wee wifies wear.
Is there any particular hymn you want for the funeral? Father O’Hara’s coming round in half an hour.
Star of the Sea. When we’re walking out the chapel. And Janice … He grabbed her sleeve. I want her tae have white flowers fae the baby.
I hated the baby. Hated the wee white coffin placed next tae hers. Marguerite. Da said that was what she’d wanted to call the baby if it was a girl. A pearl.
‘Those are pearls that were his eyes.’
Nae wonder Shakespeare used that. Pearls are dead white.
Sitting in the front row of the chapel between Patrick and Mona, hatred rising in me as if all the blood in my body had boiled and risen intae steam, hatred concentrating itsel on that one wee white