The Scottish Heart

Chapter 2-3

The last song was Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. Philomena was bittersweet for Christmases past as Nathan used the mute, stretching the melody, heightening Philomena"s sadness. The band reprised the tune; the tenor worked behind Nathan"s horn. Philomena, statuesque, waiting, the points of her breasts moving with her breath. Nathan discarded the mute and Philomena, clutching the mike, eyes closed drawing the song away from Yuletide, slurred words, an invitation to her bed.

“Play wi" me again?” Philomena said.

“Sure,” Nathan said. “Ah"d like that.”

Walking home that night after the gig, Nathan told her that a better professional name was Philo O"Donnell, but she dismissed it. “People know me as June Connor an" Ah"m stickin" wi" that. But you can call me Philo.”

Philomena"s voice was good and would have been much better had she studied with a teacher. Nathan mentioned it. “Ye sing well, Philo. Ma teacher could recommend someone. Yer no" too old. Ah"ll help reading music.”

“Tae Hell wi" it. Ah"m far too busy.”

Philomena had reached the apex of her fame, preferring the tawdry glamour of Westburn"s shabby clubs and dance halls. Her season in the candlelight brightened by the occasional gig at a golf club or a company dance.

She asked Nathan to come to her flat to look at some new songs. “We can go over them on the piano.” After an hour of half hearted practice, she turned to Nathan, “How about it?”

Nathan obliged. One night, he said “Philo, Ah care for you.”

“Cut tha" oot,” Philomena said. “Jist get up me an" get me aff.”

Nathan and Philomena screwed a lot, and she adored sodomy. She persuaded Nathan to try it, “Jist this wan time.” A French doctor working at the local infirmary gave her a taste for it when he"d picked her up at a gig.

When Nathan sodomized her it had to be perfect. Philomena"s attention to detail was thorough, keeping a tub of Vaseline to lubricate her arse. “Rub it well in. Don"t put too much on,” she said. “An" put some on yer self.”

But Philomena didn"t undress. She preferred hiking up her skirt, rolling down her drawers, baring her rear end as she bent across her dressing table to look at her reflection in the mirror. Nathan was surprised by her pink satin corset as he smeared Vaseline on her and himself. He expected something dark, silky, and glamorous. When he got in she lit a cigarette, dragging deeply, grunting until she got off. Often she"d tell Nathan, “That was fuckin" great.”

Nathan liked the narcotic of anal screwing. He was curious about Philomena"s dedication to sodomy. “Why dae ye like it this way?”

“It"s jist so fuckin" good. An" Ah"ll no" get a wean. Ah love it. Ah canny get enough o" it.”

And they drank. Philomena drank Nathan to a standstill as they went round for round, whisky and beer chasers. They went to a dance in the Dockers" Club where she was singing accompanied by an accordion, fiddle, clarinet, and drums. A couple of dockers insisted on chatting up Philomena, and as the star she revelled in their attentions. Nathan, very drunk objected; he got the hammering of his life while Philomena was singing.

The hiss of steam and moving rolling stock wakened Nathan. He"d no idea why he was lying on the railway. He screamed and staggered clear of the train.

When Nathan hobbled into the streetlights, he saw his own vomit on his torn jacket and pants. Stones cut his left foot where he"d lost a shoe. He touched his swollen left eye and felt round his mouth, relieved that his teeth were intact. The deep ache in his legs and torso got worse, and the dry heaves brought him to his knees.

Ma woke him. “I threw out your suit. It"s ruined and that odd shoe as well.” She examined the eye and the bruises on her grandson. “Get up. Yer goin" tae the hospital an" Ah"m goin" with ye.”

They taped Nathan"s ribs and gave him embrocation for his legs. The eye was OK but the swelling needed a dressing. Nathan was off work for a week. That Sunday Ma let him stew. Next morning, he managed to get up for breakfast and she didn"t miss him.

“Yer a damned disgrace, Nathan Forrest. Ye"ll lose a week"s wages bein" off work. Ye could"ve lost yer eye and that would"ve ended yer music and yer trade. Don"t bother tellin" me whit happened. Ye"ll only make me angrier and worry me. Ye can stay here if ye mend yer ways or ye can leave now.”

He caught her arm as she turned away. “Ah"m very sorry. It won"t happen again. Ah promise.”

“See that ye mean it.”

“Well, well, if it"s no" the World Champion. Nathan, ye need a lesson in boxin",” Philomena said when he appeared at her flat. He told her that it was all over; and he"d not play for her again.

Philomena smirked knowingly, eyeing Nathan up, inhaling smoke, fingering ash onto the floor as she exhaled. “S"at a fact? It"s about a" ye"d expect from a bastard.”

Nathan had liked Philomena. Playing with her had been good. He"d helped improve her singing, and he"d become a better-known musician. Nathan squirmed with guilt: he couldn"t resist humping and sodomizing Philomena; and he couldn"t handle the drinking. He was glad to be free.

Leo told him Philomena was in a bad way. She was hitting the drink and that her better gigs were drying up. Nathan regretted that she treated the gift of her voice so casually, wasting her talent when she could"ve done so much with it. He was sad that she"d let minor celebrity drag her down.

Nathan climbed the four stairs letting himself into the house and went to bed. To lose Dorothy because of that episode was unthinkable and as he drifted off into a shallow sleep, he murmured a half-forgotten prayer to Our Lady, begging that Dorothy would never hear about it.