Story II by Anthology

Author:Anthology
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: epub, ebook, QuarkXPress
ISBN: 9781909844209
Publisher: Parthian
Published: 2014-06-04T00:00:00+00:00

DAT’S LOVE

Leonora Brito

Dat’s love, tra la, la, la, dat’s love – remember that song? Well she won’t be singing that at the funeral. In fact, although the crowds have gathered like moths around this candlelit church, just to hear her sing, Sarah Vaughan won’t be singing at Dooley Wilson’s funeral at all.

I will, for I am what’s known as a ‘godly’ singer. I sing at funerals. Chapel or Church; Pentecostal or Congregational – I go where I’m asked. Though the Church of the Blessed Mary will always be my funeral-singing home, so to speak. ‘Mrs Silva has never put red to her lips, she does not smoke, or blaspheme, or take strong drink. And when she lifts up her voice, it is to sing God’s praises in his house.’

Father Farrell is a nice enough man. His face is moist and white as an unbaked loaf, risen and unwrapped for the oven. His face has that unwrapped look, though his eyes are very dark and sincere. When he says his little piece, I go along with it. Shake my head, pull down the corners of my mouth in a little smile. I worry about other things like: are my new shoes too tight for my feet? Did I remember to take the price labels from the backs? Today, especially, I’m worried that the creases will start to show in my costume, which is on the small side for my ampleness. Vanity is mine.

I take my seat about halfway down. ‘His Eye Is on the Sparrow’, I am hymn number three on the hymn board. A few rows in the front have been left empty for the family – what family there is. Most of the people have packed themselves in at the back, with the crowds stretching out into the road. In the end, he was one of us; the local entertainer who paved the way for others – meaning Sarah Vaughan – to reach the heights.

I can feel the sway of bodies behind me, hear their breathing, sense the awful hush of excitement. It’s the one thing I don’t like about funerals today, this excitement over death, the leaning in on grief, and they won’t hold back.

I’m getting too emotional; but I knew Dooley Wilson before he was Dooley Wilson, when he had a room in my father’s boarding house just after the war. He was known as Archibald something or other then and he played piano, wonderful piano, in between features at the Bug-house or up at the young people’s club – the Rainbow Club, on the bridge. All the popular tunes of the day, whatever you cared to ask for, he’d oblige. And he could imitate all the stars, with that wonderful singing voice of his. ‘I’m the sheik, of Arooby!’ Wonderful voice, wonderful smile. We all admired him, especially us girls.

He was a smart-looking man. Big built, but smart-looking, with a beautiful razor moustache, and a fine blue suit which he always wore on Sundays, when he played piano in our front parlour, with the family gathered round.

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