(Just when I thought the door had closed on October and my haul of competition hits was complete and impressive and enough, I find there's even more! I am there on another shortlist and I am second in another competition. That's 24 competition hits for the year so far and October has been the richest month and that feels quite good. Here is the last piece for Saturday in Port Brokeferry. Sunday will be the last day of this project so we are moving towards the close of this creative exercise.)
BERLIE’S IS ENOUGH FOR WALLACE
It’s called Berlie’s but for as long as I have been a part of things there’s never been a Berlie. Tom Gough was in charge before me and a man called Cathal before him. There was a Berlie once, years and years back. A woman called Berlie, only it was spelled different and she was nothing to do with the name that hangs on all our posters.
Been on the road longer than not, I have. Suits me, really. It’s who I am. I hear some of them talking behind my back, like I might be sick and not know, and they talk about what’ll happen when I stop, but I don’t see that anytime soon. It’s all the family that I have is Berlie’s, and it is like a family and I’m the old man. I look after things. Look after them, like they might be mine. Settle disputes when they’re thrown up.
Take Lynn. I know she’s a bit loose. Likes a drink, she does, more than a drink, and I’ve told her before about the trouble she leaves behind her and she listens to what I say and for a while at least she tiptoes the straighter line. But men are just drawn to her. Like flies to shit, I have heard said, but that is unkind. She’s not as young as she is in her head. That’s what I think. And life’s for enjoying and she does enjoy life. There’s no arguing with that. But tonight there was a man deeper in his drink than she was. Lachlan’s his name. And he wouldn’t leave Lynn alone. Nothing malicious, but I could see she hadn’t an interest in him, so I had to gently move him on at the end of the night. Athol Stuart was a help in that. He’s no bother if you stay on the right side of him is Athol Stuart. Can’t always say the same for that Mad Martin. Mad is what he is, for sure, though the dogs like him well enough and there’s no harm in him.
You have to be made of a certain kind of stuff to stick the life that Berlie’s offers. It’s not for everyone. There’s May. Older than me, if anyone’s counting. She reads fortunes in the bottoms of tea cups, or in the lines on a person’s palm. It’s all hokum, and she knows it, but she looks the part and she’s good at what she does. I don’t ever see May sitting in a brick house waiting for the dark to come down. It’s not part of who she is. Been with Berlie’s since before me and she’ll be with Berlie’s till the end, I reckon.
But then there’s the lad, Kelso. At first I thought he fitted right in. He had a way with him. And with the lasses. Like he was in a sweetie shop and no one there to stop him dipping into any jar that he chose. If I’m being honest, I saw something of myself in him, I did. Not that it’s like that for me now. Things settle with the years and a man changes. I curl up with May some nights, but it’s her company I’m after.
But Kelso. There’s a difference in the lad now and I don’t see him lasting beyond this season. There’s a girl here in Port Brokeferry. She’s a looker, too. He was with her last year and maybe the change in him started then. I see he is back with her again, like they’ve picked up where they left off. Mind you, there’s one or two others still tilting their hats in his direction so maybe I don’t know it all. And this afternoon he came back with a quiet storm in him and something is not right there. I’ll maybe have to keep an eye on the lad.
You get to see things in this business. The best of places, mostly. Like seeing only the postcards of a town and snapshots of the people. That’s not enough for some. Some want more. They want to be rooted someplace, the ground beneath their feet familiar and the faces passing their windows faces they recognise. I can understand that. Of course I can. But it’s not for me, the settled life. Berlie’s is enough for me and I like it fine.
And the best time of all is at the end of the night, like now, and a quiet comes over everything and the show lights are all out and the people all gone, and I see May's light is still on in her trailer, and I take my time and enjoy a last cigarette before turning in.
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