Various The Curae

An Anthology from the Inaugural Curae Prize
1. Auflage 2023
ISBN: 978-1-80447-168-5
Verlag: Renard Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, 96 Seiten

There are around 7 million carers in the UK alone - unpaid people who look after someone who needs help because of their illness, frailty, disability, mental health problem or addiction and cannot cope without support. The Curae Prize was established in 2022 to offer a platform to these writer-carers, offering creative focus and access to the publishing industry. Attracting a wealth of extraordinary submissions, the inaugural prize has been widely praised for its inclusivity and spotlighting of neglected talent, and this anthology celebrates the works that made it on to the shortlist.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Various

Leseproben

alp 650

Helen O Neill

Liverpool, 1967

It wasn’t that we didn’t listen to popular music. I mean, you couldn’t avoid it in the Sixties, especially in Liverpool, but our soul music was laid down behind our front door, when the radio was turned off and Dad dictated the playlist from his turntable.

My dad was fourteen when he bought his first record, after he heard his fellow coalminers sing ‘Va, pensiero’ in four-part harmony in the echoing, subterranean chamber where they washed the black dust from their bodies. After that, he saved his weekly allowance to buy 78-rpm records, and later 33s and 45s. By the time he married my mother he had a small, eclectic collection, a wind-up gramophone for his 78s and a basic record player for the rest. With these, he set the soundtrack to our early lives, imprinting on us the indelible music which would connect us for ever.

We had opera when other kids had The Beatles. We harmonised with Welsh choirs while washing dishes, hummed the melody from Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony as a lullaby and, for giddy winters’ nights by the fire, we had ‘The Laughing Policeman’ and Stanley Holloway. Dad always joined in, either singing or whistling, and for those giddy ones he did the actions, jumping around and gesticulating until our bellies hurt with laughter and tears streamed down our faces. Singing in the car, the harmonies we wove were reflections of the Deep South – soulful, spiritual songs about the Mississippi, sung by white Liverpudlians living by the Mersey. On my first day at school, the teacher asked us to come up in turn and sing our favourite song. I sang ‘La donna è mobile’ from Rigoletto, its beautiful Italian mangled by my broad Scouse accent. I’m fairly sure it stood apart from all the little lambs and ‘Penny Lane’s that the poor teacher had to endure that day.

For every season there was a sound, for every event a musical bookmark, for every silence a record.

Dad’s collection was always his place of rest. His records were neatly stacked on special shelves, each one labelled, indexed and meticulously cross-referenced. In the beginning, the top right-hand corner of each cover held handwritten numbers and letters, a mysterious code which linked it to his brown leather-covered drawer of filing cards. Later on, he bought a Dymo Labeller and the numbers and letters were dialled up and clicked out on to hard sticky tape and affixed over the handwritten ones. Funny thing was, he didn’t really need the referencing system. He could approach his shelves with his eyes closed and put his hand directly on to any record he wanted, his muscle memory knowing where he had placed it. It was all about the process, sitting for hours on end listening to Gigli or McCormack or Callas, lost in the blue and red writing on the cards, oblivious to everything around him.

I can still see my father removing a record from its sleeve with eucharistic reverence, balancing the rim on his thumb while his index finger fitted beneath the hole at the centre, and bring it to eye level to blow off any dust. I can hear the ritual stroking of the needle three times to check the volume before lifting the arm across and lowering it into the groove in precisely the right place. I see him close his eyes as the needle travels across the disc and the sound carries into the room, and as the last notes fade away, I see him pause. This moment is never hurried. He lets the echo of the music hang in the air before he breaks the connection. Waiting for the incense to dissipate.

Connemara, 1969

That summer of the Moon Landing was the first time I realised my father wasn’t perfect, and I was just six years old then, so I only had a few short years to know him as the man who could do no wrong.

At the time, my grandparents were caretakers of a big house near Clifden, owned by one of the Guinness family. When the owners were not in residence, we visited for long weekends, spilling over from Granny and Grandad’s small apartment into the ‘Big House’. We liked to pretend we lived there, in this grand house that had guest wings, a kitchen with two sinks, a glass case with a stuffed otter in the hall, which was bigger than our own ground floor, and fireplaces so large we could stand up inside them.

On that Saturday morning in July, while the rest of the family were outside on the front lawn, Dad and I were in a sunny room together. It was effortlessly simple, as the rooms of the wealthy are, with a perfection of shabbiness and a casual placing of glossy books and the latest albums on the shelves. I lay on my belly on the bay window seat, kick-swaying my feet, the green Connemara tweed cushions scratching against my cheek, and my hand draped downwards, slowly swinging in an arc, lifting the dust motes to dance in the sunshine slanting across the shiny, wooden floor.

Dad walked his fingers along the albums, whistling in that way he did, hardly moving his lips, his balding head tipped slightly to read the titles. He selected one called Harry and handed me the cover, telling me it was Harry Nilsson’s new album. I read the handwritten story about a magic lamp on the back of the cover, which was penned by a six-year-old girl, just like me. The cover was signed in flourishing hand by the owner, one Suzie More-O’Farrell.

Dad placed the vinyl on the turntable and landed the needle into the groove with the precision of the lunar module. He kicked off his shoes and sat beside me on the seat, leaning his back against the angled wooden shutter. I sat mirrored opposite him, the soles of our feet touching. We listened to Harry, from the beginning until the last note faded away, until the pause. Through the window we saw Mam beckoning us to come outside into the fresh air, but we waited just a bit longer. We were still swimming in the juices of the album, and we stayed to let it marinate.

Months later, I came across Harry in his record collection at home – ALP 650 – and I saw the owner’s signature, betraying his wrongdoing.

My heart felt a cold fear for him. I wanted to tell his sin at my first confession, and have it absolved, but it wasn’t my sin to tell, even though I carried it.

Nenagh, 1972

I followed the music to find Dad, to say goodnight. He was listening to Caruso singing ‘Vesti la giubba’ from Pagliacci. The album cover was on the table – there was the clown in his motley garb, arms draped dramatically over the back of a chair, with his dark eye make-up dripping down through the white powder of his face.

‘Why is he crying, Dad?’ I asked.

He paused for a moment and looked up at me.

‘It is his job to act happy, but he is sad.’

The sound of my mother’s knitting machine zipping over and back was a thousand miles away in the kitchen.

Ridi del duol che t’avvelena il cor…

Laugh at the pain which is poisoning your heart.

Nenagh, 1973

One evening we were waiting for Dad to come home for dinner. Eventually Mam sighed and put his dinner between two plates balanced above a boiling saucepan to keep warm, and we went ahead without him. I pushed my food around, trying to make it look like I had eaten some. It no longer smelled appetising. You can’t really eat food when you’re anticipating a scene. My younger sister, whose stomach always carried her worries, began retching the grisly meat into her cup of water while our frayed Mam shouted, ‘You’ll eat it if you have to sit there all night!’

We heard the key foundering a few times before the front door finally opened. Mam’s thunderous face turned to him as he came into the kitchen, his eyes red, his breath smelling of danger and the shiny record shop bag swinging from his hand. I knew from his swagger that Mam would have to stretch a pound of mince seven ways for a few days again. Before she launched we scattered like cockroaches, into the dark places out of sight. My littlest sister had to stay, trapped in her highchair. My older brother Michael and I ran into our bedroom, and we sat silently on the bottom bunk, listening as the yelling got louder and louder, across and back, with thumping and clattering, doors opening and closing, running, slamming.

‘There’s your bloody dinner…’ There was a smash as plates bounced off the tiled floor.

‘It was only a few after work!’

‘Well for you! And what are you doing buying more records?’

‘It’s that Perry Como one I’ve been...