Puccini's Ghosts by Morag Joss

Author:Morag Joss [Joss, Morag]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Psychological
ISBN: 9780440336303
Google: 4eCbFFwNTo4C
Amazon: 0385340907
Barnesnoble: 0385340907
Goodreads: 7552779
Publisher: Delta
Published: 2005-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

So this is how it happens. Mr Mathieson’s frail and mournful surface dissipates. He’s a fiend of an organiser. He comes to the front of the meeting and takes charge and soon has the whole room confessing to skills and contacts and signing up to do special favours. There is nobody he does not commandeer. It’s all written down; he gets promises that he intends to see kept. In no time he is Production Manager and Mrs Mathieson is Production Secretary. Uncle George is happy just to scribble notes.

People grow trusting and optimistic and talk as if they have been waiting all their lives to be useful. They form committees and subcommittees for this, that and the other. Mr Mathieson scolds us to be brief and keep to the point. Just as I think there can’t be anything left to talk about, Uncle George whispers a few words in Mr Mathieson’s ear. He nods.

He says, And now George here reminds me of another crucial matter and that is fund raising. We need to raise money…

More hands go up. We hear more ideas and make more lists. The Burnhead & District Advertiser might publicise any fund-raising events for free. Some of the ladies will organise a raffle. The shops will have collecting tins on their counters. Mrs Mather will suggest to Mr Mather a donation from the Round Table.

Aye, fine, Mr Mathieson says, but we need something bigger, a big event that’ll raise a good sum. It’s dear, opera.

And soon there’s talk of a ceilidh. It’s to be in the shed at the farm, once it’s painted. A date is set, ticket prices decided. Folk will flock to support such a good cause, tickets will go on sale throughout Burnhead. Trestle tables can be arranged, plus a few chairs. Mr McArthur can find straw bales for extra seating but insists it’ll have to be soft soles only; boot nails could spark on the concrete. Jimmy Brock’s brother-in-law in Annbank lives next door to a man who gets up an accordion band every Hogmanay and Burns Night; he’ll do it no bother for beer and expenses and maybe a wee fee. The ladies will do a tea. Tea will be extra so we’ll make a bit more that way.

Sounds like a real old-fashioned barn dance, Luke says. I’ve been to plenty of those! Lila, is the gas connected here? Does this work?

No mention in the notes, of course, of my heart boiling with jealousy as Joe’s attention wanders. I can see him out of the corner of my eye but I sense it anyway, his focus lengthening across the room and alighting on Senga and Linda and Deirdre. He doesn’t need to wink though I can see he may want to. They’re drawing themselves up straighter and turning about to show themselves at better angles, as if he jerks wires tied to their ankles and wrists. They whisper together, mouths behind hands, eyes on him. He tips his head back against the wall and inspects them down his hawkish nose.

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