Page 7 of What Would Dolly Do?

T he first few weeks working at Sonny’s Bar were a slog, but I threw myself at it like it was a life raft in a stormy sea.

I tried not to think too much about the ongoing police investigation and steered well clear of Grayson’s Jewellers on the advice of cautious Calum Crutchley, my wonder-boy solicitor.

Calum advocated a calm and measured approach which jarred with my instinct to go into Grayson’s and demand a full explanation from gormless Guy as to why he’d framed me for a jewellery heist I did not commit.

If I thought about it too much my blood would start to boil, so I tried very hard not to think about it too much.

Even harder was the urge to go and see the man I considered to be the real boss of Grayson’s, Guy’s father Gordon.

What must he and Morag be thinking? Surely, they couldn’t believe I was a thief?

Although, as Calum rather accurately pointed out, the police had found a stash of expensive jewellery from the shop under my mattress and Guy was Gordon’s flesh and blood.

I was going to have to tread very carefully if I didn’t want to make the situation even worse.

I had to accept Calum had a point – it was going to be very hard to explain – but as the days ticked by, I was increasingly desperate to defend myself to Gordon and Morag; until all this they had been a surrogate family for me.

Taking on the challenge of running Sonny’s Bar was a welcome distraction from all of that.

Simon and Gill Drummond had been brilliant, giving me a real chance as brand-new manager of the place.

They’d really loved all my ideas, my experience on club circuits, and I’d used all my performance skills to convince them I could do the job.

To be honest, I was convincing myself at the same time.

Managing Sonny’s Bar and creating a new venue space for Edinburgh’s arty crowd was a big task but I was determined to prove myself up to it.

There was something inside me that yearned to do a good job, whatever was asked of me.

I might only be a tribute act, not a big recording artist or performer in my own name, but every time I stepped on a stage I wanted to be the best Dolly Parton that I could possibly be.

When I took the part-time job at Grayson’s I’d listened carefully and applied myself to the work diligently, and quickly became a valued member of staff.

I believed in always trying my best whatever I did, which is another reason the accusations of dishonesty had hit me so hard.

I kept the police investigation to myself.

I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong so I just had to hope the truth would come out.

I would also be eternally grateful for the faith Robbie had shown in me.

Not only had he immediately trusted in my innocence but had clearly done a great job in talking up my abilities and helping me land the position.

I was so determined to prove myself worthy of the responsibility, I’d cleaned the place from top to bottom, reorganised the stock room, got my head around the ordering systems and taken over the social media accounts – posting some of my ideas for attracting new customers.

I also went old school, designing and printing leaflets to circulate locally to let folk know we were going to be a go-to place for music and comedy.

With the help of regular bar staff, Donald and Stella, I hung some funky framed prints all around the bar area.

They looked great against the rough brickwork.

I’d found them stuffed in a box on a junk stall when I was wandering around a Sunday market in Stockbridge a few years ago and I couldn’t resist buying.

They were only a few pounds, but I’d never got around to putting them up in my flat.

I suppose I’d thought putting all twelve up at home might make my flat look like an art gallery, but here they worked perfectly.

Dotted around, one in an alcove, a couple on the stone columns that held up the low ceiling, they drew the eye to different parts of the quirky space.

Each picture was done in an abstract, colourful style featuring musicians, performers, microphones, instruments and spotlights.

They were all very stylised and stagey. I’d never seen any other work by the artist, but they created exactly the sort of laid back, showbizzy vibe I wanted to get going at Sonny’s.

I got Stella to take down all the dusty glass wall lights and while Donald swapped the bulbs for ones with a more golden glow I gave the shades a much-needed wash in warm soapy water.

When they were all rehung and we switched on the lights we couldn’t believe how much difference it made.

Sonny’s Bar was looking more inviting than ever.

‘Hmmff’ Donald said. He was a man of few words but the nod of his head led me to think he was beginning to approve of my tweaks.

Feeling emboldened I even freshened up the toilets with a lick of fresh paint and stencilled some inspirational Dolly Parton quotes on the back of each cubicle door.

Well, people do like having something to read when they’re on the loo, don’t they?

Stella needed a bit of convincing but once she saw the white lettering on the dark red doors she had to admit it looked cool.

When I stood back to admire my own handiwork I was chuffed.

I doubted most customers would even realise the words had come from Dolly’s lips but that didn’t matter, the quotes stood up for themselves.

Some of them were a jokey take on life like, ‘If you see someone without a smile, give ‘em yours’ and ‘If you want the rainbow you gotta put up with the rain’. Others carried more of a warning; ‘When someone shows you their true colours, believe them!’ or ‘You’ll never do a whole lot unless you’re brave enough to try!

’ My favourite ‘Dollyisms’ though are always the inspirational ones.

As I finished writing the quote for the last cubicle I paused and considered it.

‘Find out who you are and do it on purpose’ …

Was that what I was doing? Was running Sonny’s Bar going to fulfil my dreams?

Make me happy? I supposed being manager of a basement drinking den was what I did now, but it didn’t give me any great answers as to the real Becky Mooney.

Who was I? A part-time Dolly Parton performer?

A novice bar manager? A jewellery thief?

I suppose it would depend on who you currently asked.

I’d love to find out who I really was, but Dolly hadn’t given any clear instructions on how I was supposed to do that.

In the end, I decided not to use my favourite quote in a toilet cubicle, instead I realised it would be perfect on the black wall at the back of the small stage opposite the bar.

It captured the mood I seemed to be in and reminded me of the talent I’d discovered I had for spotting fakes when I’d worked in Grayson’s.

I just hoped I could apply similar nous in my new calling.

With a steady hand I wrote ‘Be a Diamond in a Rhinestone world!’ and finished with an exclamation mark flourish.

As I backed away from the stage to take in the full effect a voice suddenly spoke from the doorway, shocking me so badly I dropped my brush, splattering white paint all over my blue jeans.

‘I think that’s a fine attitude to take, I consider myself a bit of a rough diamond,’ said the disembodied voice.

‘Donald?’ But it didn’t sound like the voice of the stocky barman from Stirling.

It would have been one of the longest sentences I’d ever heard him utter, and anyway, I detected an American accent mixed with the local Edinburgh burr.

He’d rolled the ‘r’ in rough and there was a crackle in his throat like he was used to smoky bars and shots of whisky.

I peered towards the staircase where a red velvet curtain was partially pulled back across the doorway but the figure was standing in the gloom of the stairwell, watching me.

‘Hello? Can I help you?’ I went into cheery, welcoming mode to cover my rattled nerves. Where had Stella and Donald disappeared to?

‘Well maybe we might be able to help each other?’ The voice suggested a younger man than Donald, the silhouette wasn’t too tall, but I could see he was slim hipped and broad shouldered. He sounded amused but I wasn’t sure if he was mocking me, taunting me from the darkness, and it put my back up.

‘Well, we’ll have to see about that.’ I didn’t mean to snap but I was fighting the urge to curse at the state of my jeans.

I grabbed a towel to wipe my hands and dab at the damage as the mystery man stepped into the golden light of the wall lamps.

He recognised me before I had chance to look him in the eye.

His gasped reaction caused my head to flick up and take in the denim-clad legs, western-style checked shirt and mop of wild red hair.

‘YOU!’ I actually staggered backwards as I realised the ginger menace who’d tried to snatch my bag outside the police station was now advancing towards me with his hand out-stretched.

I took firm hold of my paint brush and brandished it towards him in what I desperately hoped was a threatening manner. ‘Get back you … you … hoodlum!’

He stopped, put his hands in the air and looked me straight in the eye: ‘Don’t shoot!’