- Vol. 05
- Chapter 09
I think we thought it would be something to kill time. She could talk into the microphone, tell memories (ones we had already heard), fill empty strips with sound, capture the past, not us.
Last week we found the old tape recorder, record of an idea.
The batteries had left green on its insides like sea like leaves like the littered grass that lined the path.
What she really wanted is anybody’s guess, but what she didn’t want was to talk for hours with only the machine listening.
All those stories. Remember how they fooled around behind the cash desk in The Forum (where we ate ice creams after sports day and talked to someone from church). How picking blackberries by the burn was a way to lose hours. The women with their price on the soles of their shoes who sat cross-legged at bars in town. Remember there were shipyards and laundries, black sheep and bairns.
Those days we taped the charts on Sunday nights on Radio 1, those days we sang along in the car. If she had known I’d find this cassette now in a jumble of summer (after coffee in the shed when we marvelled that a grandmother carries her grandchild inside, no way of knowing who they’ll be and isn’t that the weirdest thing you’ve ever heard) would she have said something? Would there be, tightly wound round spools, a little bit more history in my hands?