Read Online Grand Change by William Andrews - Free Book Online Page B

to try some potato music, are youse,” The Old Man said. He was laying on the couch smoking his pipe and peering over his glasses with a wry look.
    â€œLet’s see what youse can do. How about ‘Saint Ann’s Reel’?”
    â€œI’m a little cold right now,” Wally said.
    â€œGood way to thaw out your fingers.”
    We got set up and Wally got off after a few false scrapes with me flailing away best I could with the lice comb I was using as a pick. The pick Alban Gallant gave me broke and it hadn’t dawned on me that I could have gotten a bunch for ten cents when I ordered the guitar. When we stopped we sat looking at The Boss like two hounds hoping for a bone. We couldn’t tell much by his expression; he had his hand over his mouth. When he finally took his hand away, he had a bemused smirk.
    â€œNot bad,” he said. “Youse could pretty well tell what youse were trying to play.”
    â€œAs if he’d know,” Nanny said, her knitting needles clicking, “the old goat. Youse sounded lovely. Youse should get in on the school concert. They’d love to have you.”
    â€œThink so?” Wally said.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œThink we could have a tune in your parlour, just this once, Mrs. Jackson?”
    â€œSure. The Queen Heater is lit. It’ll be nice and warm.”
    â€œGo into the little room at the side; leave the door ajar,” The Boss said.
    We hadn’t really considered the Christmas concert before that. But by the time Wally went home we were sold on it. With our new equipment, we thought ourselves quite the professionals and we went at it pretty well every night right up to when they started practising for the concert.
    It was customary for the teacher to begin giving the concert assignments—the skits, songs and whatever—amidst the daily lessons at school. We worked so much each day until the last two weeks, when we took everything to the hall full-time right up to the big day.
    Our teacher had that up-beat exuberance all teachers seem to have when we approached her. “Bring your instruments,” she said. Next day, she set us up front by the blackboard with everyone else watching stiff, still and big-eyed. Of course, Wally was set on ‘The Barley Corn Reel,’ or the gist of it, which was no doubt somewhat less than we imagined. Wally’s bow arm locked right off, making the bow veer at angles. His jaw and tongue were working kind of out of sync, too. But we worked away, finally locking into some semblance of music.
    Most of the class, including the teacher, had their hands over their mouths, and some were bucking at the shoulders. They managed to hold back, though, except Gail Macdonald. Johnny Hately caught her arm and jerked her hand away from her mouth and she let out a yelp.
    â€œGive them a hand,” the teacher said when we finished. She had to choke out the words. She didn’t take long getting us into our lessons.
    Every so often, pretty well right up until recess, the odd person would be seized with shoulder bucks, taking sneak peeks at us with a hand over his or her mouth. At recess, with strained composure, the teacher told us to just practise at home until we moved to the hall.
    On our way outside I said, “Wally, I’ve been meaning to tell you something. You know, your tongue lolls out and your jaw works sometimes when you play.”
    â€œThey do?”
    â€œYeah.” Wally gave me a dour look. In the yard, on two opposite snowbanks, divided by a large dip, most everybody else was forming up in two opposing lines for a snowball fight. “That’s got nothing to do with the music.”
    â€œBut it looks funny.”
    â€œAh, go on,” Wally snarled.
    He went and stood by himself by the side of the school and waited until I picked a side and took the other.
    â€œLet’s get Jackson!” Wally yelled and I was hit with a hail right off the top.
    The battle