THE SING SONG MAN

Recently my story, The Sing Song Man was included in the third issue of the Postbox Anthology.

See story below.

Published alongside some very fine company indeed.  See contents index.

The magazine is edited by Colin Will and published by Red Squirrel Press.  They are currently accepting submissions for issue four.  For submission details, and information about their other excellent publications see their website.www.redsquirrelpress.com
             

                     
             

THE SING SONG MAN 

The story goes that the Sing Song Man knows all the lyrics and every tune that has ever been written down or sung.  He can sing them in any language that has ever been written, or spoken, in the history of the world. 

This is his curse.

Or so they say.

Or maybe it’s yours.

If there is a tune that flies into your mind un-bidden, or a lyric that circles your memory searching for an open window, that is you summoning him.

What does he look like?

He dresses the part with his rainbow suit and sun coloured wide brimmed hat.  Like a country singer with too much Nashville I’ve heard him described.  His guitar is weather beaten. The strings stretched and for all the world you expect them to snap at any moment. 

They never do.

He plucks at his guitar.

He sings what you say.

Your soul opens.

Robbie summoned him on a cold December day on Sauchiehall Street. He hadn’t meant to of course, nobody does, for meaning is another name for control, and you have no control of the song playing inside your head.

A crowd had gathered around him as he tuned his guitar. Song titles were getting thrown at him, some desperately, most in mockery. 

Then he looked up from his guitar and looked straight at Robbie, and said quietly. ‘I’m ready.’ 

 ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining.’ Robbie said in barely a whisper.

The Sing Song man began to sing.

‘You're everywhere and nowhere, baby,
that’s where you're at.’

Robbie’s soul opened.

And the voice came out of the heat and blinded Robbie’s fifteen year old eyes.

‘Any chance of a game?’  The voice said.

Schoolboys running out the remaining school days before the summer holidays. Every day filled with football and lazing, and dreaming, and eyeing the girls, and even more football.

Robbie doesn’t answer.  He did what his mother says he shouldn’t.  He looked directly into the sun. But okay today. For a giant blocked it out.

Robbie had the ball at his feet. Like everyday since he could walk.  Football, football, football all the live long day.  In his back garden.  In the streets.  Any patch of grass that could be found.   Today Robbie had been first down the playing fields, throwing down his school jumper to act as one of the goal posts, ready and impatient for the others to catch up. 

Robbie kicking off.  Robbie flicking the ball through hapless defenders legs.  Robbie with Hampden Park in his minds eye. Robbie ready to smash the shot into the far corner of the imaginary net. 

Then the voice had come and he had hesitated.  He’d turned, ready to kill, whoever…

‘ Sorry. Didn’t mean to put you off.’ The voice had said.

Then the voice emerged from out of the glare of the sun.  The eclipse passed.  The voice walked as if in slow motion, a gladiator at ease with himself as he entered the arena. 

And Robbie tried to say something but failed.  For what do you say to a God? 

Robbie’s mouth flapped open as the voice stopped in front of him. 

The voice asked again.   ‘Any chance of a game?’ 

Another fifteen year dreamer stuttered.  ‘Yes.’ 

Who was the gladiator?

The mightiest gladiator in Scottish football.  

Bobby Campbell.

Who did he play for?

Airdrie Athletic.

Robbie’s team. Not the biggest team in the world.  They never touched the heights. But  in Robbie fifteen year old mind they just might, with Bobby’s help. With Robbie shouting support from the terracing, all the time aching to be on that green turf.  The terraces only a touch away from the arena, close enough to glimpse the sweat dripping from the gladiators as they battled-- for you. 

Robbie dreamed. Robbie played out his own game inside his head.  Robbie the hero of every hour.

Bobby Campbell ruled. He ripped the opposition apart. He burst the opposition net.  And one day Robbie would do the same.  

Bobby Campbell towered over him.  He really wanted a game. 

Would we mind?

What a question!

The gladiator moved, one against the multitude, drifting past them all with ease.  He hardly broke sweat and it was the hottest of days.

Suddenly Robbie saw his chance. Bobby Campbell moving towards him the ball juggling between his feet.  Robbie had it all worked out in his fifteen year old head.  It looked so easy.  Keep your eyes on the ball, move into the tackle and flick the ball away. Then move onto it,  home in on goal, pull back the trusty right leg and let fly and burst that net.

So easy.

He’d done it a million and one times before, in a million and one games down the years. Robbie Brown was good, everyone said. First pick in the school team, at Primary and High School.  Robbie moved towards his target.  A smile sneaked onto his face. If only his mother was here now to see this.  She never missed a game.  He loved and hated every minute of her shouting from the touchlines.  Robbie’s father had said that was the Grants for you.  The Grants were competitive.  Robbie was more of a Grant than a Brown.  The Browns were a quiet, sit in the corner family.  The Grants shouted to the world that they were there. 

And Robbie was there now.  The sun taking up the whole of the sky as Robbie advanced on the gladiator.  Robbie practicing his moves inside his head.  Robbie remembering what his mother had said.

‘My Uncle Thomas used to play for Hearts. You’re the spitting image of him. I’ve always said.’

And then.  It was over.  In the blink of an eye, Bobby Campbell was past him.  Robbie tackled fresh air, his leg whipped back on him, crumpling him onto the hard unforgiving grass. 

It burned through his school trousers. It singed his bare hands and arms.  Through the pain he twisted on its scolding surface to witness the gladiator, a real player burst the net.

It was then that Robbie awoke from his dream.  Reality stood over him laughing into his face. 

He would never be a gladiator.  No amount of telling himself, what did he expect?  Bobby Campbell was bigger, stronger, faster.  He was a grown up.  No.  He was only three years older than Robbie.  That moment he knew.  He would always be a fan and never a player.

The Sing Song man’s words faded and applause from those still there echoed around him. Robbie heard only his own sighs as his soul began to close. The Sing Song man was looking at him with the saddest of looks on his face.  Then someone called out another song and he turned away.

Rhona was waiting for him in the café.

‘You okay hun?’She asked.

‘Mmm?’

‘ Christmas shopping getting you down?’

‘A bit. You know me.’

‘I know you. You don’t have to get me anything special. A card will do. What else is there to buy for each other?’

 ‘He sang Hi Ho Silver Lining.’

‘Who did?’

‘The one I used to sing on the way to the football?’

‘When you were going to play for Scotland?’

‘Yea.’

‘Are you having your usual??’

‘Yea.’

‘Jings you’re in a mood today.  Sit there boss and I’ll get you it.’

‘Ta.’

‘Then I have another couple of shops to go to.  That’s all. And then we’ll head home.  Promise. You sit and relax your feet.’

‘I’ll have a German biscuit as well then.’

The German biscuit crumbled from his mouth, sprinkling the table as the doorbell tingled and Rhona was gone.

Rhona laid the two bags on the pavement, and stretched her shoulders, Christmas shopping all but complete. She should head straight back to the café.

‘I’m ready.’ Said the Sing Song man.

‘Denis.’ She heard herself say.

The Sing Song man began to sing.

‘Oh Denis, ooh-be-do, I'm in love with you.’
 Rhona’s soul opened.

‘You’ll be fine.’ Her sister said.

‘The place is mobbed.’ Said Rhona.

‘This is what you wanted eh?’

Rhona nodded.  Since she was knee high to her mother she’d sang at every opportunity. She had been in every choir since Primary. She sang at birthdays and weddings, no coaxing required for a party piece at the family gathering at New Year.  She was ready now for the world stage. Since seeing Debbie Harry and Blondie on Top of the Pops she’d known where her destiny lay. She was going to lead her own band. The Basement club was only the first rung on the ladder to success, she’d told herself throughout a sleepless night.

‘Calm down sis, you’re shaking.’ Her sister laid her hand on Rhona’s. ‘This’ll be the first of many gigs.  It will.’  Rhona nodded frantically.  Her sister said. ‘Imagine it’s our bedroom, and I’m your audience. You’ll rock the joint.’ 

‘I will, I will.’

‘By the way does mum know you’ve dyed your hair?’ Her sister smiled.

Rhona glanced at her newly blonde hair in the polished table. Glimpses of her true brunette could be glimpsed but she would blonde them out for the next rung. 

‘She’ll come round. When I’m rich and famous.’ She told her sister, knowing full well her mother wouldn’t.  Her mother wasn’t a fan of blondes. 

‘Blondes have more fun!  We all know what that means.’ She’d said mid Top of the Pops Blondie, much to the embarrassment of her daughters.

‘You’re up Debbie!!!’ Her sister said.

‘You taking the piss?’

‘No, go for it sis.’

Rhona knew every word but her voice strained, cracked and choked, and she could see the rigid pain on the audience’s faces.  She imagined she saw Debbie’s somewhere in the shadows, shaking her blonde head, and walking out, smiling to herself that her throne was safe. 

Another wannabe exactly that.

Rhona died inside when the sniggers came during her sad attempt at the French part of the lyrics.

Her sister smiled a strained smile and hugged her when she sat back down but couldn’t find any words.  They waited long enough so it didn’t look like they were walking out in shame, then left.

That night Rhona dyed her hair back to its true colour. She knew she was always going to be in the audience and not on stage.

The Sing Song man’s words faded and applause from those still there echoed around him.

Rhona heard only her own sighs as her soul began to close.

The Sing Song man was looking at her with the saddest of looks on his face. Then someone called out another song and he turned away.

‘We’ve got a train to catch.’ Rhona said.

‘Have you bought the whole of Glasgow?’ Robbie asked.

She shook her head and was already heading out the café.

They walked in silence and in the cold, and carried by the wind they heard the words. ‘I’m ready.’

Both looked across in the direction of the Sing Song man.

A woman stood apart from the small crowd. They could see she was forming a song title on her lips.

‘No.’ They said together.

.