by Tom Butler
******
Several weeks passed before the champagne corks popped in the Murray household and a tour deal and dates were announced. It was still some way off, and there were plenty of University gigs to be fulfilled first. But the band were really going places and surely wouldn’t stay a support act for very long assuming nothing went wrong once they had embarked on the gruelling schedule ahead of them. A life-changing journey with potential rich rewards. City to city. Coast to coast.
For Noah, it was a time for reflection despite the pressures of maintaining the persona of a rock star. He had indeed kept James’s letter, and it did seem wholly appropriate that he use his brother’s imminent birthday as an occasion to eradicate the disharmony between them. Sylvia wanted it more than anything else, not for a long time had there been a handshake or a brotherly hug to console her. And, of course, Mary was willing it to happen, shutting out the terrible scenes at Monkspath Grange as though they had been part of a dream that ended in a nightmare.
The spectre that was Darren Bird had not completely gone away, unfortunately. Foul-mouthed texts had become fewer in number but more threatening, Wes even suggesting police involvement to warn the sender off. Then somebody signing in with an alias of Budgie Mark 2 latched on to Facebook, and the threats turned to subtle intimidation. James could do little more than ignore them, but he never went anywhere without repeatedly looking over his shoulder and walking on his toes in readiness to run.
Two days before his birthday, he was in a studio with Wes and two local musicians cutting a much improved upon demo disc that included a brand new song called Living It Up that Wes and wife Liz had written a mere few days ago after downing a bottle and a half of wine. James had played about with some of the lyrics, and the consensus was that it was a feel good factor song with a singalong chorus and catchy melody.
‘It’s still too Eurovision for me,’ Liz had commented after the recording session where she had taken a keen and active interest. ‘And it sounds a bit dated too,’ she added as the whole assemble queued to order pizzas.
‘Nonsense,’ barked Wes. ‘It’s better than all the doom and gloom in the charts at present. There’s too many songs about break ups and bitterness going around. We all need cheering up.’
‘But do people really want another “Knees up Mother Brown” or “Rule Britannia?”’ his wife replied.
Wes humoured her. ‘What’s wrong with good old fashioned sentiment and an occasional knees up.’
The two session musicians looked at each other and smiled. It mattered nothing to them. Just as long as they got paid, they’d play the National Anthem to a Reggie beat, if asked to. Neither passed a comment and kept the smiles coming.
‘What’s your opinion James, as a nearly sixteen-year-old?’ Wes asked.
There was some face pulling and no lack of thought.
‘I think it’s fun. Different, of course. But good fun,’ he said rather robotically.
‘Precisely,’ Wes concurred, turning towards Liz who saw she was outnumbered.
‘Well, it’s not what I think that counts. And I suppose some of the kids will utilise their gadgets and download it for sure,’ she shrugged.
‘And before there’s any arguments the royalties go to Crowley, Crowley and Swan, okay?’ Wes said, not intentionally looking at James.
‘I think that wouldn’t be entirely fair,’ James said straightaway. ‘I didn’t do anything. The song ought to be yours.’
Wes pulled a face. ‘Listen to him, we’re a team. All for one and one for all, if that means what I think it does.’
Liz nodded. James smiled. Wes did both at the same time. All for one it was. There would be no disagreements or misunderstandings. It would be put into writing if necessary and nothing left to chance. What could be easier. If only everything else was so simple.
‘I read once that Kate Bush was only fifteen when she wrote “The Man with the child in his eyes”,’ Wes said informatively, as they awaited a taxi to take James home.
It was his way of telling James that you were never too young to write lyrical masterpieces nor too young to be discovered as the next big thing.
‘And it’s never too late either,’ James shrugged, a reference to Liz who never before had displayed her prowess as a lyric writer.
Wes was deep in thought. ‘Just imagine what must have been going on inside that girl’s head at fifteen. It’s mind boggling.’
‘Do you suppose everyone has the ability to write a song?’ James asked.
Wes shook his head. ‘It’s a craft. A bit like poetry. You have to have a feel for the subject matter and write from the heart. It takes a good deal of patience too, I reckon, although some words and tunes just fall into place as if by magic. But all too obvious rhymes can make a poem or song sound much too corny and over commercial. It takes genius to find originality.’
Thinking aloud James confessed, ‘I don’t think “Let’s Get Close” would pass as original. It was my take on an old song so does that make me some sort of cheat?’
Wes re-examined what James had said in his head. ‘Many famous songs were inspired by others. That doesn’t make the composer a fraud. Inspiration is a form of flattery to those who laid down the original song and copyright protects them from being exploited or cheated upon. It’s inevitable that some songs end up sounding alike. Recorded music can earn people millions. It’s a cutthroat business. There are bound to be disputes.’
Realising what he had said he put a hand on James’s shoulder.
‘Careless of me,’ he grimaced.
‘It’s OK. I was a kid then. I didn’t know what I was doing.’
Wes wanted to tell him he was still a kid in some people’s eyes but ten times smarter than before. He sighed instead and praised him to the hilt.
‘God, I wish I had half your talent when I was your age. It frightens me to think what you could go on to achieve. The sky’s the limit. And in light of what you went through in your earlier life, it makes it all that much amazing.’
James shrugged. ‘I’ve done nothing yet. And there are people who might want me to fail.’
‘Well, if that’s the case, we’ll have to make sure we disappoint them. Keep the faith James, it will happen.’
Next morning, the day before his birthday, he overheard Sylvia and Phillip making plans, and assuming a surprise party was heading his way, he thought about what a slightly drunk Wes had told him last night. If he was honest with himself, he hated school and had done so for quite some time. Everyone bleated on about grades and career paths, and all he wanted to do was play, perform and write music. Song ideas were popping into his head all the time, and it had become an obsession. Even Liz, who had never shown the inclination before, was writing lyrics and getting quite a kick out of it, demonstrating how powerful the pull of putting words to music could be.
Perversely, he was beginning to remember things from the past that he had suppressed in his mind. Like the times, when barely out of infancy, he sat with a then happy family around a piano whilst his father played and his mother and Noah sang, albeit a little off key, whilst Mary stood and listened, and sometimes broke into a little impromptu dance that made everyone smile.
Also the concerts they attended, the instruments they were introduced to and the hidden depths that music could take you to before lifting you to another level. It had shaped Noah and James and should have bound them and Mary, even though she was less musical minded, together forever. In addition, James thought about the artistic qualities his mother had which was akin to creating music on canvas but in art form. She had sketched the children when they were babies and then again when they had just about the right amount of patience to stand or sit still for just enough time which would allow her to complete a decent outline sketch.
Memories from another era that shouldn’t be forgotten just because of the horrific events that followed. A timely reminder that those early informative years were now more important and relevant than ever before and sh
ouldn’t be lost or underestimated. Many people had told him not to be ashamed or embarrassed by his past, and this had helped. He was now beginning to feel that he was capable of coping with it without resorting to tears or becoming too emotional inside. It was all part of the long term healing process.
All that Sylvia had said to him on the subject of becoming sixteen tomorrow was ‘Something had been arranged,’ adding, of course, that his presence was required.
‘Don’t you dare go missing or messing me about,’ she told him in quite a strict tone. ‘Miss it at your peril, young man. Do you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear,’ he replied.
Sylvia had thrown birthday parties at the house before, and he knew the lengths she went to. He dare not do a runner or come over all shy or the occasion would be spoilt, especially as his behaviour was now under such close scrutiny following Noah’s eighteenth birthday bash.
He decided that whatever was to come his way he would try to enjoy it at least for her sake, but that didn’t stop him from engaging his little sister in conversation.
‘So what do you know? Have you made me some of your specials?’ he asked her, referring to her cakes.
‘Mmm, now wouldn’t that be telling,’ Mary shrugged. ‘Surprises aren’t the same if you know what’s coming,’ she teased.
He teased her back. ‘I’m going to force you to tell me. I’m going to tickle it out of you.’
Knowing it might just work if he did catch her in all the right areas she danced around him on her toes.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘You’ll get me into trouble. My lips are sealed. Don’t you dare try anything James, or I’ll scream the house down.’
He was toying with her of course, and it was good to see them in such playful mood. Not so long ago, Mary almost hated him for having the temerity to try to spoil Noah’s big day. It had taken her a while to forgive him and only after other people’s intervention.
‘Tell me at least who’s coming so that I know. I would tell you if it was your party,’ he probed.
She pointed to her closed lips and remained on her toes.
‘Spoilsport,’ he shouted across the room. ‘Tell you what,’ he went on, ‘I’ll call out some names, and you can nod or shake your head. So that way you won’t actually be telling me, okay?’
She shook her head and glared at him for thinking she would fall for something like that. She was thirteen not six.
He called out some names anyway, ranging from the Queen to the Prime Minister. This made her squirm and eventually giggle. His capacity to make her laugh had been something she had missed of late. She had forgotten how funny he could be. The house was a much happier place when they were messing around and being silly. From the kitchen where she was jotting down a list of things she still needed, Sylvia could hear them, and it made her stop and bask in a warm glow. She hoped tomorrow the theme would continue and the occasion would reignite the happiness she had worked so hard for and secretly dreamt of.
Still James wanted to know, and he wasn’t letting his sister get away from him easily. They were playing cat and mouse around the sofa in the lounge like it really meant something to them. James had his hands in tickle mode and Mary was swaying on the balls of her feet grinning at him from ear to ear.
‘You won’t get me, I’m far too quick,’ she said.
James scoffed. ‘Not as quick as me. I’m the king of the ticklers, and I will get you. Look out, here I come.’
He lurched at her, and she gave out a playful scream.
Sylvia couldn’t help but smile to herself. It was music to her ears.
‘Ha ha, you won’t get me,’ Mary giggled.
‘Don’t underestimate the king of the ticklers. He always gets his prey.’
As James made a real effort, Mary changed direction and sidestepped him.
‘Be careful you two,’ Sylvia joined in from the kitchen. ‘I don’t want any broken ornaments.’
Pretending not to hear, James and Mary continued circulating the sofa, James catching his shin on a coffee table and Mary laughing out loud as he took on a limp. Sylvia was by this time standing in the lounge doorway with her hands on her hips, but any harsh words were saved as she could see little harm coming to her possessions as the two of them cavorted.
‘Don’t mind me,’ she said. ‘Play your games as long as you are not too rough.’
‘James has been asking me about tomorrow. But I won’t tell,’ Mary said.
‘Good for you,’ Sylvia applauded her for not giving in to him.
‘Oh yes you will,’ James said reaching out with a hand and making contact. ‘Now just you come here and confess or face a fate worse than death.’
Although acquiring a pretty firm grip on her arm, he deliberately let go again, and she flung herself over the back of the sofa which seemed to take Sylvia aback.
‘Hey, that’s going too far, calm down before something or somebody suffers some damage.’
James pointed to his shin and said he was already injured.
Sylvia showed him no sympathy. ‘Well, it serves you right, why can’t you just wait and see what goes on tomorrow, providing there is something planned.’
‘I thought I might go to the cinema tomorrow night, there’s this wicked film on about a brother and sister. Sounds like fun,’ he teased.
‘You better not,’ she reacted, knowing only too well he wasn’t serious.
‘So there is something then?’ he questioned her eyes.
‘Oh, I give up. I have dinner to cook. Who’s up for a sausage casserole?’
Two hungry faces said yes straightaway.
‘Don’t go straying too far, Dinner in an hour,’ Sylvia warned, heading back into the kitchen.
‘So what shall we do for an hour, James?’ Mary asked immediately. ‘Fancy a game of computer tennis?’
In honesty, he didn’t, but he went to her room anyway and won by two sets to one. After banging his shin chasing her around, he was never going to let her win. That would be ridiculous.
After second helpings of casserole and tinned peaches for dessert, Wes popped round, but it was to see Sylvia not James who conveniently stayed in his room. There he got the first sinister text for a while from Budgie who had found out about his birthday. Without the four letter words and hard to decipher abbreviations, it said, ‘I wonder how many people have died on their birthday? I’m still gunning for you, music boy. RIP’
It was no worse than some of the others, and the Facebook taunts he had endured. Though naturally scared, he deleted the message immediately. ‘Why the fuck,’ he sighed to himself, ‘did I ever think Darren Bird was a friend?’
He would stay vigilant and not let it get to him. The world was full of mad bastards. Hadn’t he behaved like one himself not so long ago. And targeted his own flesh and blood.
It was convenient that his birthday had fallen on a weekend though it meant no idle Sunday morning for Sylvia and Phillip. Whilst she took to the kitchen and set about making cheesecakes and trifles, Phillip, who had already dusted off the trusty gas barbecue, used his construction prowess to assemble a small marquee in the garden with Luke’s help while James watched bleary-eyed from his bedroom window. Ever since he and the others had been integrated into the Proudlock family their birthdays had been celebrated on a grand scale. Sylvia did nothing by halves nor spared no expense, and though sometimes Phillip passed a comment or two about her extravagances, he always ended up applauding her efforts and foresight. It had begun from when Luke and Clare had been babies and carried on when her fold increased overnight from two to five.
In truth, though an only child herself, she had always wanted more children of her own, but Clare’s delivery had been a particularly difficult one, and that meant further pregnancies would be unlikely although she never gave up hope. Children were a blessing, and she savoured what she had. She knew of many childless couples who had gone down the adoption route or tried fostering. So to already have Luke and Clare when she herself sett
led on the latter alternative meant the experiences learned were invaluable. And, besides the fostering authorities preferred couples who had similar aged children to help with the rehousing of those who had been through sadder times in their lives.
Appropriately, Sylvia Proudlock had never once ignored the importance of having Luke and Clare and the role they were to play. And she told them regularly so that they would never forget. It meant that when arguments ensued and occasional jealousy emerged, they never sulked for too long or bore a grudge, reeling themselves back in to become mini towers of strength and infinitely supportive.
Whilst there were the many sounds of commitment going on downstairs, and Clare and Mary had now joined in too, James lay on his bed and daydreamed, which he was prone to do. He thought about what Wes had told him about Kate Bush and let his mind meander. Noah had been a mere fifteen when Peaceful Man had evolved so was there a parallel to be drawn? Did she sit in a bedroom on her own playing around with words or were there others present to bounce notes and potential lyrics off? What made her write such a mature, deep meaning song? Had it been written in an hour, or a day? Or taken longer. A week, month, year?
He sat up. What did it matter? It was irrelevant. He reached for a notepad and exercised his pencil. In ten minutes, he had a verse and a chorus. In another ten, another verse. It took him fifteen minutes to think up another. A tune sprang to mind, and it stayed in his head. The title was obvious, and a new song was born. How simple was that?
‘Thanks Kate,’ he said out loud. ‘This one’s for you.’