A voice came over the backstage PA announcing thirty minutes to curtain up.
“But are you OK, Audrey? I haven’t wanted to pry, but is everything all right after your trip to the hospital?”
Audrey thought about the half-truth she’d told Ben at the first rehearsal after her collapse: about the low blood sugar and the blackout, but nothing about the cancer. She was about to repeat herself, felt the little white lies line up in her mouth like foot soldiers intent on protecting her. But then she saw something behind Ben’s eyes—a glimmer of light struggling to break through a thick, dark cloud—and suddenly the words were tumbling out before she was sure she wanted to set them free.
“Not really, no. I’ve got cancer. Stage four: breast, liver, lymph nodes, lung. The doctors think I’ve got about three months left. I haven’t wanted to make it public—I’m sure you can appreciate why.”
She might have said more but horror was spreading across Ben’s face like ink on blotting paper.
“God, Audrey, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I don’t know what to say. Should you really be here? Shouldn’t you be—I don’t know—at home resting or something?”
Audrey couldn’t help smiling. “I joined the choir to escape unnecessary fussing. I’m more than well enough to take part this evening so please don’t worry. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
It was only as she spoke that Audrey realized the truth of it. Waiting to go onstage, she finally allowed herself to acknowledge how much she’d been looking forward to the concert, how much she’d been holding on to it with both hands, determined not to let the opportunity slip from her grasp. There had been so many times over the past three months when she’d thought she might not make it, when she’d feared the cancer would beat her to the finish line. But here she was, about to head out onto one of the most famous stages in the world, and there was nothing she’d let get in her way.
“Well, I’m very glad to hear it. We wouldn’t want to do it without you. But I really am very sorry. If there’s anything I can do to help—not just tonight, but whenever—you will let me know, won’t you?”
Audrey nodded, and as they exchanged a rueful smile, she had an uncanny feeling that she would know Ben for the rest of her life, however fleeting that might be.
“But what about you? That day at rehearsal before I fainted, you were in the middle of telling me about your family and I feel bad we haven’t had a chance to talk about it since. I wanted to say how sorry I am about your son. I don’t think there’s anything worse for a parent than losing a child.” Audrey was conscious of her airways narrowing, of a struggle between her desire to say more and her fear that she simply couldn’t.
Ben stared at her, unblinking, and Audrey felt sure he was going to turn around and walk away. But then he took a deep breath and began to speak. “There’s no need to apologize. I haven’t wanted to talk about it for five years so there’s no reason anyone else should.”
Something in Ben’s voice—a thin shard of light edging around the frame of a closed door—emboldened Audrey to continue. “Well, if ever you did want to talk about it, I don’t think I’d be the world’s worst listener.”
Ben glanced at her, then down at the floor, his body quite still, and it seemed to Audrey that she could see the grief leaking out of him, a vapor rising from his skin like a plume of gas from the surface of a distant moon.
“Your daughter—Erin, isn’t it? How old is she?”
He took a deep breath, as if something in the air might provide him with the fortitude he needed. “She just turned sixteen. I . . . I haven’t seen her in a while. I’ve been traveling. After Zach . . . it was just . . . it was just too . . .”
His voice faded and Audrey watched the steady rise and fall of his chest, the clenching and unclenching of his jaw, the pinching of the skin at the bridge of his nose. She could almost feel the heat of his grief. She thought about placing her hand on his back, wondering whether there was any way of telling him that she understood without either of them having to say anything at all.
“Mr. Levine? I’m sorry to interrupt but one of the stage managers needs to have a quick word with you. Would you mind coming with me?”
Ben looked up, eyes glazed, as though he’d just woken from a deep winter sleep. He shook his head as if trying to free his thoughts before looking up and nodding at the young man wearing a headset, carrying a clipboard, and fidgeting from one foot to the other as though precious seconds were being unnecessarily wasted. “Will you excuse me, Audrey? I’ll be back soon. I want to get the choir together for a pep talk before we go onstage so don’t let anyone wander off, OK?”
He smiled at her, all traces of distress wiped from his face, and headed down the corridor with the young man.
Audrey watched him until he’d rounded the corner. She leaned against the wall, her shoulders lighter now that she’d told him the truth. It was as though her diagnosis had lost a little of its power now she had entrusted it to someone outside the family.
She turned around and walked into the dressing room where her fellow choir members were waiting to go onstage, hoping that Phoebe would find her way back soon.
“OK, folks, can you all gather around? Can you guys hear me at the back? Harry, Siobhan—can I have some quiet, please?”
Audrey shuffled forward with the rest of the choir to where Ben was standing on a wooden crate, head and shoulders above them all. She looked back toward the door just as Phoebe rushed in.
“God, Gran, this place is a rabbit warren. I thought I’d never find you. What have I missed—anything important?”
“No, you’re just in time. Ben’s only just called us together.”
Audrey squeezed Phoebe’s hand and looked up at the clock on the wall—five minutes until the concert began, thirty-five minutes until they were due onstage—before turning her attention back to Ben.
“I just wanted to say a few words. First off, I want to thank you all. It’s been a crazy three months and I know some of you doubted at the outset that it was possible to whip a hundred random strangers into a choir in such a short space of time. To be honest, I doubted it myself once or twice . . .”
A light wave of laughter rippled around the room.
“But the thing I’ve been constantly impressed by is the commitment you’ve all shown to making this thing work. When you step out onto that stage tonight, I want you to feel proud of what you’ve achieved. Because I’m proud of you. I know you’re going to do a fantastic job out there. And this song we’re singing—just think about the power of that title: ‘I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free.’ I want you to feel every single word of it, just like Nina Simone did back in the day—feel it, sing it, communicate it, and let’s help raise a ton of money for charity.”
An almost imperceptible crack in Ben’s voice caused him to pause, swallow, breathe. He caught Audrey’s eye and she smiled at him.
“Now, I know it’s late notice and I don’t want anyone to freak out but I want to make a tiny change to our song tonight.”
Panic bristled around the choir. Ben raised both his hands, palms flat toward the group, as if preemptively seeking forgiveness. “Just hear me out, OK? It’s not a huge change. I want to start the song as a solo—just the first verse, nothing more—and then we’ll pick it up as a group exactly as we’ve done throughout rehearsals. And I’d like you, Audrey, to take that solo.”
Audrey felt ninety-two pairs of eyes pivot toward her, felt their collective gaze burn into her cheeks.
Ben grinned at her, eyebrows raised. “What do you say? Will you do that? Just the first four lines, that’s all. I think it’ll be so much more powerful as a solo. And you can do it, I know you can.”
“Oh, go on, Gran, you must. It’ll be awesome. You have to say yes.”
Audrey was aware of Phoebe’s arm around her shoulders, of nearly a hundred faces gazing at her expectantly, of Ben waiting for a response.
She felt words begin to morph into recognizable
shapes in her head. Words that felt familiar, safe, reliable. Words that began to make their way toward her mouth as if knowing through decades of experience that they were the right ones.
No, I can’t. Don’t be silly. Of course I can’t.
Audrey readied herself to reply. And then a snapshot of memory flashed into her head.
She is lying on her bed, feet crossed at the ankles, the voices of contestants on Call My Bluff filtering through the partition wall from the sitting room next door. Her diary is propped up on her pillow, a pen in her hand. She writes. As she pours her hopes and dreams into her diary on the evening of her sixteenth birthday, she experiences an unbridled sense of optimism: that the whole world is out there waiting for her, just as long as she is brave enough to go out and grab it.
Audrey looked around the room at the faces of her fellow choir members, strangers three months ago and yet now part of a group to which she felt deeply attached. She raised her head to look at Ben. And then, without affording herself an opportunity to change her mind, she heard herself reply, loudly and clearly, “OK. If you really think I can, I’ll do it.”
In the hubbub that followed—Phoebe hugging her, the choir applauding, Ben calling them to order to explain exactly how it was going to work—Audrey could see out of the corner of her eye the ghost of her sixteen-year-old self, leaning against the wall and smiling at her.
Chapter 38
Audrey
Audrey stood listening to the last few resounding chords of Beethoven’s 9th, the entrance to the auditorium within touching distance ahead of her. As the sound of applause crashed through the closed doors, she breathed in through her nose and let the air out slowly through a tiny circle in the center of her lips.
“Right, that’s your cue. Good luck—and enjoy it!”
The stage manager ushered them forward, Ben first, Audrey fourth in line. She cast a glance over her shoulder to see if she could spot Phoebe but her granddaughter was too far behind.
And then, suddenly, she was through the doors and the glare of lights was hot on her face. She squinted into the brightness, her eyes taking a moment to adjust.
She walked onto the stage, toward the front row of tiered platforms. Behind her five rows of the choir filed in, the stage set up in front of them for a full orchestra but empty of players now save for a pianist, a drummer, and a double bassist.
As Audrey looked out into the auditorium, from the tiny figures standing high up in the gallery to those seated in the orchestra, she couldn’t believe how different it looked—how different it felt—from when they’d rehearsed there that afternoon. Then it had seemed bare, cavernous, uninviting almost. Now it felt as though half of London must be in attendance.
Her right leg trembled and she tried to restrain it but realized it was operating on a network beyond her control. She instructed herself to ignore it, hoped it wouldn’t be noticeable to any TV viewers watching at home. She felt someone squeeze her shoulder but didn’t dare turn around for fear that if she looked anyone in the eye she might realize the enormity of what she was about to do, and how many people were depending on her to do it well. Then the shuffling of feet behind her stopped and the purest silence fell like a blanket over the auditorium.
And there was Ben, standing in front of them on a small square podium, grinning and nodding. He gave a thumbs-up that made Audrey want to giggle but she held it tight behind her lips because she knew it was just nerves playing tricks on her, and she feared that if she began to laugh now she might not be able to stop.
Ben caught her eye, raised his eyebrows in a silent question, and she nodded in reply.
She watched as Ben lifted his arms and conducted a single bar of silent time-setting before the pianist placed his fingers on the keys and the drummer poised his brushes in midair. Together they began to play the first notes of a sixteen-bar introduction that Audrey knew so well it was as if it had soaked into her skin and now flowed through her veins. Her heart clenched and unclenched like an impatient fist and she tried to swallow but there was nothing there.
It was too late anyway. Ben was looking at her, that broad, encouraging smile reassuring her that he believed in her, that she could do this, that all she had to do was believe in herself and she could pull it off.
Audrey managed to prize her dry lips apart, felt her diaphragm expand, and then she heard the sound of her voice singing into the microphone clipped to her daffodil-yellow blouse. And there was a split second of shock at its volume, how all-encompassing it was, her ears full of the sound of her own voice.
She sang note-perfect, her voice so much more confident than she had ever imagined it could be, and it was as though her sixteen-year-old self were holding her hand, singing alongside her, reminding her of all the things she had once hoped her life might be. There, in her voice, was the optimism she had once felt for the future, the plans she had once dared to make, the courage she had lost sight of for so many years and only now regained. Wrapped inside Audrey’s singing was all the love, the loss, the grief, and the guilt that she had been carrying inside her for almost thirty years.
Chapter 39
Jess
Jess leaned forward in her seat, oblivious to the fact that she was blocking the view of the person behind. Her hands gripped the armrests, her knuckles the color of chalk.
That was her mum. Her mum. And yet it was someone else entirely: someone who was wearing the same black trousers and yellow blouse as the woman who’d left her house earlier today, but who was doing something Jess could never have imagined her doing. This woman was standing onstage and singing a solo in front of five thousand people as though she’d been doing it all her life.
Her mum’s singing was rich and deep and resonant, a sound that awakened in Jess a sequence of memories that had been long forgotten: a sound that had, once upon a time, sent her to sleep every night accompanied by the gentle sweep of fingers through her hair and kisses across her forehead. A sound that had been whispered into Jess’s ear—warm and comforting—as she had lain awake through the night, encased in her mum’s arms, while her twin sister occupied a hospital bed two miles away. A sound that spoke of refuge from bee stings, bullying classmates, grazed knees, and bad dreams. It was a sound of love and hope, encouragement and comfort.
As Jess stared unblinking at the stage, listening to her mum sing for the first time in decades, her scalp tightened as a cold, unwanted knowledge crept into her head. It was knowledge Jess had kept locked away—not daring to look at it, not daring to admit its presence—ever since she had been told nine months ago. Now, for the first time, the thought opened up in her mind that her mum would not be around forever. That there would come a time, very soon, when she would no longer be there to listen to the story of Jess’s terrible day at work or to answer prosaic questions Jess had asked countless times before but always needed to ask again: how long to roast a whole chicken, when best to have her flu shot, which month she should plant her bulbs. There would come a time all too soon when her mum would no longer be there to provide all the support and reassurance Jess had spent a lifetime taking for granted.
It was only now, sitting in the Royal Albert Hall, that Jess realized her mum was the only adult with whom she’d maintained a relationship for the past fifteen years. That in spite of all that remained unsaid between them—all the tales Jess had never dared tell, all the times she had pushed her mum away to protect them both—her mum had always been there, unwavering in her love. And soon she would be gone. And the acknowledgment of it clutched at Jess’s heart as if it might never let her go.
Someone clasped her hand, and she turned to see Mia beaming at her. As their fingers interlocked, Jess realized that she couldn’t remember the last time her daughter had willingly held her hand.
Jess watched her mum sing, knowing that the realization of how much she would miss her had come almost too late. And it was only when Mia handed her a tissue that Jess understood the reason her face felt hot and damp was because of the tea
rs streaming down her cheeks.
Chapter 40
Lily
Lily had heard her mum sing hundreds of times during her childhood but never quite like this, never with a voice that filled every corner of a concert hall, seeming to burrow under your skin and anchor itself to your heart. Sitting in the ninth row of the orchestra, staring up at the choir onstage in their black trousers and rainbow of colored shirts, she felt as though she were watching her mum transform into someone new, someone different, someone confident, poised, extraordinary.
Glancing sideways along her row of seats, Lily saw the face of every audience member break into a wide, surprised smile. She turned back to the stage, her chest swelling with pride.
Her eyes flicked above her mum’s head to where Phoebe was standing two rows behind, looking down at her grandmother and grinning as though there was not enough room on her face to contain all her admiration.
Lily experienced a flash of anger that Daniel wasn’t there. He should have been sitting beside her, watching his daughter onstage. He should have been there to see his mother-in-law in this moment of unexpected triumph, not just because Lily wanted him there but because her mum deserved to have everyone hear for themselves how incredible she was.
As Lily watched and listened, a sense of unreality washed over her: the perverse truth that at this moment her mum could not have seemed more alive, more full of vitality, or have had more reason to want to go on living.
Lily kept her eyes glued to the stage, determined not to miss a single second of her mum’s performance. Because she knew, even without consciously acknowledging it, that in the months and years ahead, this would be a memory to treasure.
Chapter 41
If Only I Could Tell You Page 18