Sunday Concert

[R. Broath]

He'd come our way on a Sunday. Sunday afternoons, to be precise. While our parents slept through the black-and-white movie, and we maintained that hysterical hush which overwhelmed us each Sabbath; a sort of contained resentment that we had school in the morning and no better entertainment to amuse us than the sound of their contrapuntal snoring.

From the bottom of the street we'd hear doors opening and the squeals of children, 'Here he comes. Here's the Beardy Man.' And somehow, no matter from whose dreamy arms she had to tear herself, Ma would awaken.

'Open the window,' she'd command.

Eager to see this strange figure, and grateful that our ennui was temporarily lifted, one of us would fling open the window, while the others veiled themselves in net curtains and awaited the performance. Behind us we might hear Da smacking his lips as his slumber was interrupted by the commotion and the rush of cool air.

The Beardy Man took up his position in the middle of the street, a bedraggled being in ankle length coat and hair past his shoulders. Then he'd cup right hand to right ear and the alfresco concert would commence. Most songs I do not recollect. But I do remember Danny Boy sung in a clear, tenor voice. While he sang he seemed to forget the rags, and stand in the spotlight of some imaginary stage. The still Sunday air vibrated to his unfaltering notes. Two, maybe three, songs later and he would scoop his tattered cap from his head, bow deeply to his hidden audience and await payment.

I'd hear Ma sigh and reach into her apron pocket for some coppers. She'd hand them to me and I would have the job of conveying her thanks to him in the form of these few grubby pennies. Though I'd never admit as much, I was afraid of this melodic stranger. I'd run the few yards to where he stood and drop the offering into his cap.

Sometimes, though, Ma would have a request for the singer and I'd have to speak.

'My Ma wants to know will ye sing 'Jerusalem'?'

The hairy face would break into a smile, revealing brown teeth, and in a lilting voice he'd reply.

'You tell your mammy she has exquisite taste.'

Whether it was my perennial head cold, or my haste to remove myself from his company, I don't know. But the message I brought back was slightly garbled.

'The Beardy Man say you have eggs in a case.'

'Hey? What are you talkin' about?'

'That's what he said, Ma.'

But while she puzzled over this cryptic message he'd begin her song, and for its duration she was lost to all sense.

When he'd received his tribute from as many in the street as could afford it, he'd take a last bow and trudge off to serenade others.

Ma would glide into the scullery to make a cup of tea, still humming his last song. Then our talk would turn to the Beardy Man's origins.

'He's a gippo with a caravan parked up the Gallows Hill,' I'd opine, knowing my sisters preferred a more romantic story.

'Not at all. Did you hear how clear his voice is? He's a trained singer who fell in love with his leading lady,' said one.

'Yes but she was married to a rich man who didn't like her singin' operas with beardy men an' took her away an' that broke his heart so bad he couldn't stick it no more an' just walked out an' started singin' in the streets to forget her', said the youngest in one gulped breath.

Ma's story was that his young family had been killed in a terrible accident and he'd taken to the roads to sing out his sorrow amongst strangers. How she came across this tale was a mystery, but when she'd made the pronunciation she'd fold her arms across her bosom and nod a few times. Such signals indicated infallibility and we knew that further discussion would be superfluous.

From my Da, grumpily awakened by the rumpus, came his considered version.

'He's a boozer who cons women and childer outta their pennies with silly, sad songs. Now close that window, I'm foundered.'

'Takes one to know one', Ma called from the scullery as Da squirmed deeper into his chair trying to recapture his Sunday dream.

[wildmountainthyme]

r.broath
neat wee tale, moves along at a happy pace, my favourite lenght of story, short, matches my attention span.
mother always knows best! good one.
dan

[R. Broath]

Say what's to be said and get the hell outta here - to paraphrase an old Brother who used to teach me. Can't say I've followed all of his advice so assiduously but at least he got through to some extent. Thanks for the read.

Jimmy

[Ros]

I enjoyed this, Jimmy. Nice characterization of Ma, and it had a Proper Ending.

Rosemary

[R. Broath]

Thanks Ros. When I write such pieces I always think they have a sort of 'Folk Story' element, which I suppose means, as you indicate, that they have a 'wrapped up' feel to them.
Good of you to venture into the echoing emptiness of the Prose hall.

Jimmy

[BenJohnson]

Another venturer here, I often read but forget to comment. This is a very neat piece the characters are great, I loved the jumbled up message that returned to Ma, hope she managed to unravel it. As Ros said the ending is just right it leaves the reader feeling that there is nothing more to be said here, no strings left untied.

[R. Broath]

Thanks Ben. I am a fan of short-stories and have written a few of the 'open -ended' type. You know, the sort meant to give the reader a dimension beyond the last full-stop. But with these I was looking for the 'vignette' and am pleased to find that it works for you.
Good of you to 'venture' into Prose. Seems poetry's the thing but there's always room for a bit of a story, I think.

Jimmy

[Oskar]

This was such a pleasure to read, Jimmy. I particularly liked the dialogue between the family. You've managed to create completely natural sounding interactions and a genuinely touching warmth between ma and her children. Shades of Laurie Lee to me.

If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it - Elmore Leonard

I reckon you've more than passed the test.

[mesmie]

The Beardy man..just brill I was hooked from the start, what a lovely tale.