Read Online Be Near Me by Andrew O’Hagan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Andrew O’Hagan
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'I've got the key to their honeymoon suite,' she giggled.
'Hey, motherfucker,' said Mark, 'stop telling everybody.'
'We're going to put loads of johnnies all over their bedroom. Do you think that's a good idea, Father?'
'Very good,' I said. 'Just don't tell the Bishop.' I dropped the thing onto the carpet and didn't look down.
'Or the Pope!' said Mark.
A group of boys came up holding pints. 'Check them out,' said Mark. 'Ties and everything. Totally fucked up.'
The lagered boys seemed unsure what to do at a wedding. Each just stood around in his shiny black shoes. Their way of talking kept jolting me back to another time: they spoke like redneck Yankee soldiers from the 1960s or film mobsters, or was it black people they'd never met except on music videos? Two of the boys nodded to Mark, and he turned to me and lowered his voice. 'Don't go yet,' he said. 'See you out the front in half an hour.' One of the boys spoke into Mark's ear and then the whole group disappeared into the Gents.
I went to the bar in the reception suite. I'd noticed there was a general apartheid at this sort of wedding: men drank at the bar while women sat with other women at the tables, passing cigarette lighters back and forth and occasionally squirting perfume on one another. The noise level seemed to grow and the night leaned backwards.
'Look, Tommy,' said one of the men. 'There's your Jean. Holy Christ. They're all up for the Slosh.'
'What's that?' I asked.
'Your man here doesnae know the Slosh,' said a man with razor burns down his neck and a sodden tie.
'It's a dance that women do at weddings,' said Mr Nolan. 'Don't worry yourself, it's a Scottish thing.' He looked up as he said this and a slight gleam of hostility showed in his eyes.
'A Scottish country dance?' I said.
They laughed.
'Not really,' said a bald man with glasses. 'It's a west coast of Scotland thing. Or maybe an American thing. This side of the country is closer to America, Father. We've got their Trident missiles. We've got their air bases. We've got their telly programmes. And we've got their dances.'
'It's no' American,' said Mr Nolan. 'It's a Scottish dance. It's a working-class kind of a thing.'
'Oh, I see,' I said.
'But I don't suppose you know very much about the working classes now, do you, Father?' he said.
'I'm a product of the 1960s,' I said. 'We assumed we knew everything about the working classes.'
'Aye, Father,' he said. 'But you don't know your authentic Scottish
pro-le-tariat,
do you?' He said this through half-gritted teeth.
'Well, Mr Nolan. My life hasn't perhaps been as sheltered as you may think.'
'Oh, "perhaps",' he said. 'Look, fellas. It's "perhaps". Perhaps his life hasn't been quite so sheltered. Hey, Mr Perhaps, maybe your life's not been so sheltered as we think.'
One of the men handed me a glass of whisky and I put it to my lips and fed off the fumes for a second or two.
'People like you,' said Mr Nolan, 'people that talk like you. Posh arseholes from England...'
'Come on now, Dom, that's out of order,' said the man with the glasses. 'You don't talk to a priest like that.'
'No,' said Mr Nolan quite calmly. 'It's just us talking in private here. Forget everybody else. You don't mind a wee heart-to-heart discussion, do you, Father?'
'Carry on, by all means.'
'By all means,' he said. 'Perhaps I will.'
He took a long drink from his pint and looked up. 'Middle-class arseholes from England, pardon my French. You think Scotland is a playground for shootin' and fishin'. You think it's all fucken kilts and haggises and crap like that. You think it's folk songs and single malts and Hogmanay and the fucken Isle of Skye. Well, it's nothing like that. And it's no' hairy-arsed warriors wantin' to die for freedom either.'
'Come on, Dominic,' said another man. 'It's no' half as bad.'
'I'm no' sayin' it's bad,' he said. 'I'm sayin'
their view
ae it is bad. We've been listenin' tae it for hunners a years. They think we're a novelty act up here,
'Hey, motherfucker,' said Mark, 'stop telling everybody.'
'We're going to put loads of johnnies all over their bedroom. Do you think that's a good idea, Father?'
'Very good,' I said. 'Just don't tell the Bishop.' I dropped the thing onto the carpet and didn't look down.
'Or the Pope!' said Mark.
A group of boys came up holding pints. 'Check them out,' said Mark. 'Ties and everything. Totally fucked up.'
The lagered boys seemed unsure what to do at a wedding. Each just stood around in his shiny black shoes. Their way of talking kept jolting me back to another time: they spoke like redneck Yankee soldiers from the 1960s or film mobsters, or was it black people they'd never met except on music videos? Two of the boys nodded to Mark, and he turned to me and lowered his voice. 'Don't go yet,' he said. 'See you out the front in half an hour.' One of the boys spoke into Mark's ear and then the whole group disappeared into the Gents.
I went to the bar in the reception suite. I'd noticed there was a general apartheid at this sort of wedding: men drank at the bar while women sat with other women at the tables, passing cigarette lighters back and forth and occasionally squirting perfume on one another. The noise level seemed to grow and the night leaned backwards.
'Look, Tommy,' said one of the men. 'There's your Jean. Holy Christ. They're all up for the Slosh.'
'What's that?' I asked.
'Your man here doesnae know the Slosh,' said a man with razor burns down his neck and a sodden tie.
'It's a dance that women do at weddings,' said Mr Nolan. 'Don't worry yourself, it's a Scottish thing.' He looked up as he said this and a slight gleam of hostility showed in his eyes.
'A Scottish country dance?' I said.
They laughed.
'Not really,' said a bald man with glasses. 'It's a west coast of Scotland thing. Or maybe an American thing. This side of the country is closer to America, Father. We've got their Trident missiles. We've got their air bases. We've got their telly programmes. And we've got their dances.'
'It's no' American,' said Mr Nolan. 'It's a Scottish dance. It's a working-class kind of a thing.'
'Oh, I see,' I said.
'But I don't suppose you know very much about the working classes now, do you, Father?' he said.
'I'm a product of the 1960s,' I said. 'We assumed we knew everything about the working classes.'
'Aye, Father,' he said. 'But you don't know your authentic Scottish
pro-le-tariat,
do you?' He said this through half-gritted teeth.
'Well, Mr Nolan. My life hasn't perhaps been as sheltered as you may think.'
'Oh, "perhaps",' he said. 'Look, fellas. It's "perhaps". Perhaps his life hasn't been quite so sheltered. Hey, Mr Perhaps, maybe your life's not been so sheltered as we think.'
One of the men handed me a glass of whisky and I put it to my lips and fed off the fumes for a second or two.
'People like you,' said Mr Nolan, 'people that talk like you. Posh arseholes from England...'
'Come on now, Dom, that's out of order,' said the man with the glasses. 'You don't talk to a priest like that.'
'No,' said Mr Nolan quite calmly. 'It's just us talking in private here. Forget everybody else. You don't mind a wee heart-to-heart discussion, do you, Father?'
'Carry on, by all means.'
'By all means,' he said. 'Perhaps I will.'
He took a long drink from his pint and looked up. 'Middle-class arseholes from England, pardon my French. You think Scotland is a playground for shootin' and fishin'. You think it's all fucken kilts and haggises and crap like that. You think it's folk songs and single malts and Hogmanay and the fucken Isle of Skye. Well, it's nothing like that. And it's no' hairy-arsed warriors wantin' to die for freedom either.'
'Come on, Dominic,' said another man. 'It's no' half as bad.'
'I'm no' sayin' it's bad,' he said. 'I'm sayin'
their view
ae it is bad. We've been listenin' tae it for hunners a years. They think we're a novelty act up here,
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