A Song for Tomorrow

by Alice Peterson

  ‘No! Stay! Please don’t go,’ I find myself saying, unable to bear the thought of him leaving again. ‘I want to know what happened after the crash,’ I say, ‘if you don’t mind talking about it.’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  Tom takes off his coat and sits down again.

  ‘Actually . . .’ I say, feeling the familiar crackling in my chest.

  ‘What? Oh . . .’ he says when he hears my hacking cough. ‘Sorry . . . sorry,’ I say, grabbing the plastic pot on the fridge. Tom hovers by the door. ‘Shall I call a nurse?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I tell him, before saying sorry again.

  ‘Stop saying sorry.’

  ‘Sorry!’

  I watch him leave the room, praying he realises I didn’t want him to leave for good.

  After my coughing fit, the rest of the afternoon flies by, Tom telling me that after six months in hospital he found a job, working in a bank. Even though Tom wasn’t a graduate, they had liked him enough to give him a place on one of their graduate trainee courses before he went on to work for them full time. ‘I like to move forward,’ he says. ‘It didn’t seem right going back to study. I always wonder if the whole accident thing was someone trying to tell me that I wasn’t suited to university.’

  ‘That’s a pretty dramatic way to tell you.’

  He looks at me with that sheepish grin. ‘A note would have been kinder.’

  ‘Do you believe in fate? That things happen for a reason?’ I ask him.

  ‘Never needed this complication, never wanted this situation, but it showed me the way to a stronger person . . .’

  He leans forward in his chair. ‘I desperately wanted it to be for a reason, otherwise you do end up thinking: why? I prayed; not that I’m religious, but I prayed that something good was going to come out of the accident.’

  ‘And did it?’

  ‘You might wonder,’ he says in a self-deprecating way. ‘I certainly learned that I didn’t like the finance world or having a boss. I’m no good with orders and rules but that’s nothing new. I remember one of my school reports saying, “Thomas sticks his head out of the train window and is surprised when it gets lopped off ”.’

  I smile at that. ‘You design websites, right?’

  ‘You have a good memory. I started out about a year ago, bought myself a twenty-four hour do-it-yourself guide. Took me two weeks.’

  As he carries on talking I remind myself of my ‘no men for three months’ pledge and decide I don’t mind giving Susie twenty quid.

  In fact, I positively want to.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ Mum says, coming into my room later on that afternoon, dressed in jeans, a chunky black polo neck and leather ankle boots, her honey-coloured blonde hair freshly highlighted. ‘I’ve fed the cats and Dad sends his . . . Oh!’

  ‘Mum, this is Tom.’

  ‘I recognise you,’ she says, as if trying to place him.

  ‘I went to Jake’s show, briefly.’ Tom catches my eye.

  ‘Ah, that’s it.’

  He lets her take his seat just as Jake flies into the room next, carrying a Scrabble board.

  ‘We spoke on the phone the other day,’ Tom says as he shakes Jake’s hand. ‘I was—’

  ‘Oh yes, you were an old friend of Alice’s,’ Jake says to Tom in a way that suggests my brother never believed him.

  ‘Something like that,’ Tom mutters.

  Jake turns to me, ‘Sorry, I meant to tell you.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ I’m only letting Jake get away with it since Tom is in the room and I am, in fact, forever grateful that he gave him my number.

  ‘Don’t go on our account,’ Jake says to Tom. ‘In fact, stay.’ He shakes the Scrabble board at us. ‘The more the merrier.’

  ‘Team up with me. I hate the game almost as much as Boggle,’ Mum says to Tom.

  ‘Jake fancies himself as the King of Scrabble,’ I tell Tom.

  ‘I don’t fancy myself. I am the king.’

  ‘No you’re not. I’m the Scrabble champion.’ I see Jake and me on family holidays playing furious games on the beach or by the fire, a dictionary by our side, each of us as competitive as the other. I tell Tom I won the National Under Eleven Scrabble Championship. ‘What can I say, I’m a geek.’

  ‘I’d better go,’ he says again.

  ‘You see that, Jake? Driven him away already.’

  Janet enters my room now, pushing in front of her a little trolley on wheels. She needs to take my blood pressure and temperature.

  ‘Take his too,’ I gesture to Jake. ‘Or give him some pills to make him less happy.’ He’s been in an eternally good mood ever since he proposed to Lucy a month ago.

  ‘Any pills to shut her up?’ Jake suggests. ‘There’s always one unruly patient, isn’t there.’

  ‘Just ignore my children,’ Mum suggests to Janet as she unclips my notes from the end of my bed.

  But Janet can’t ignore Jake. She always blushes at the sight of him. My brother has a certain way with women. They didn’t flock around him at school; he wasn’t particularly sporty, preferring the art room to a football or rugby pitch. He was clever but shy when it came to girls. Kindness, sensitivity and a sense of humour came way above trying to be cool. Now that he’s older and his career is taking off, he’s grown in confidence and suits the bohemian artist look. I look at him, hair in a stylish mess, dressed in his paint-stained jeans and trendy trainers.

  ‘All normal,’ Janet says, noting down the results.

  ‘Can I go home, then?’ I try it on.

  She leaves the room, the trolley rattling behind her, saying to us all, ‘Behave.’

  Tom puts on his coat and scarf. He can’t go. When will I see him again?

  ‘It’s getting crowded and your boyfriend will probably turn up any minute too.’

  Phil never once visited me in hospital, though to be fair, I didn’t ask him to. ‘He’s not my boyfriend anymore,’ I tell him.

  Indiscreetly Mum stands up, winking at Jake before saying she needs to go to the loo.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Jake says. ‘I’m not sure I put the correct money in the parking meter.’ Both of them scurry out of the room.

  ‘I’m adopted,’ I say to Tom.

  Please ask me out for dinner.

  He stands at the end of my bed. ‘It was good to see you.’

  ‘I’m glad you came by. And thanks so much for the chocolates.’ My heart is racing as he approaches me, before leaning down to kiss my cheek.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he says.

  Just as Tom leaves, he places a hand on the door and turns, saying, ‘Enjoy the special ingredient in Barbara’s soup,’ neither one of us able to wipe the smile off our faces.

  9

  That evening Cat and I go out to dinner at our favourite restaurant within walking distance of the Brompton. The nurses didn’t want me to leave the ward and Cat is always anxious of breaking the rules, but if I want to go out, I will.

  Cat orders spaghetti Bolognese and I have my usual calves’ liver with mashed potato.‘This is incredible,’ she says, continuing our discussion about Tom. ‘It’s like a film. Boy meets girl, they fall in love but he leaves without a trace before he tracks her down . . .’

  ‘In hospital, coughing to death,’ I point out, excited by Tom but also unable to wash away the slightly uneasy feeling I’ve had since he left. It was something Milly said. Should we let someone fall in love with us?

  ‘Cat, is it unfair to expect someone to be in a relationship with me when my future is uncertain?’

  She places her knife and fork down; flicks a strand of brown hair away from her eyes. ‘What’s brought this on?’

  Is Milly’s choice, to be on her own, the safest of all?

  ‘Is it?’ I press.

  ‘Is this about what Phil said to you?’

  ‘No. Well, maybe a little.’

  ‘I’m not saying your CF isn’t relevant, but Tom chose to v
isit you, Alice. No one forced him.’

  But, but, but . . .

  ‘To me you’re just Alice. Most of the time I forget you even have it.’ She pauses. ‘Although . . . it catches me sometimes.’

  ‘What does?’

  She hesitates.

  ‘What, Cat?’

  ‘I can’t imagine a life without you, OK?’

  ‘Don’t then,’ I say, equally emotional. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  We laugh. ‘You need someone strong, someone who gets it,’ Cat admits, ‘but don’t forget all the love you give a person too. Any guy would be lucky to have you.’

  ‘Same goes for you, Cat.’ I reach for her hand.

  Why shouldn’t I have the things other people take for granted? I might not be able to give a man like Tom any guarantees for the future, but is anyone able to? CF has taken things from me but I won’t let it take away my desire to lead as normal a life as I can, along with my dream to have a family. I’m not going to let someone like Phil tear my confidence apart. Nor am I going to live a life in fear, like Milly, too scared to open her heart in case she gets hurt.

  ‘Each time we meet someone new we’re opening ourselves up to pain,’ Cat reflects. ‘Love makes us all vulnerable.’

  I nod. Only recently Cat came out of a relationship after discovering her boyfriend had slept with someone else. She came over to see me the night she found out and we’d stayed up talking until the early hours of the morning. ‘How are things going?’ I ask her.

  ‘I’m over him, done.’ She pushes her plate aside as if to make the point. ‘I never thought Phil was right for you,’ she adds. ‘He was too weak. Too selfish.’

  Towards the end of the evening Cat polishes off the rest of my tiramisu. ‘I wish I could do your eating for you and give you some of my fat.’

  We laugh. ‘We could have a tube arrangement between our tummies,’ I suggest.

  ‘Let’s talk to the Prof about it. Thinking of him . . .’

  ‘Haven’t spoken yet.’ I tell her I’ll talk to him on Monday, before I leave.

  Cat reaches into her handbag and produces an old maroon scrapbook with my name on the outside and the date, 1985. ‘I found it in Mum’s attic. Do you remember that talk we gave on a person who had inspired us?’

  I feel a chill down my spine as I take the book from her. ‘How could I forget?’

  ‘It reminded me of how much you wanted to be a singer,’ Cat says.

  My chosen subject had been my mother’s mother, Granny, a concert pianist, brought up on discipline and Chopin. As I leaf through the pages filled with my old handwriting, letters, certificates and black and white photographs, I can still hear Daisy Sullivan’s voice inside my head.

  ‘I don’t know if this is too soon,’ Cat continues, ‘but I’ve been researching music managers.’ She hands me an advertisement written by a man called Peter Harris who has a studio in Kentish Town, North-West London.

  ‘He used to manage that band, didn’t he, that made it huge in America? How did you find this?’

  ‘I have my sources. Hundreds of people will answer,’ she warns me, ‘he’s only looking to take on a few.’

  ‘Well, I’ll reply on gold-plated paper. Thank you, Cat,’ I say, insisting on paying the bill in return for the favour. ‘When I meet Peter Harris, he won’t know what’s hit him.’ I look at my old scrapbook again. ‘It’s time to lay the ghosts of Daisy Sullivan and Miss Ward to rest, once and for all.’

  10

  1985

  I’m thirteen years old and at a new school in West London. It’s my turn next to give my presentation on someone I admire. Daisy Sullivan, the girl ahead of me, is doing her talk on Marilyn Monroe. No one will have heard of my granny. I look at Daisy, tall with long black hair and a grown-up padded bra that she loves to show off when she’s getting changed for games. She’s on the first team for tennis, hockey and netball. Cat and I always team up for tennis but we can’t hit more than one ball in a row. During games Daisy points at my skinny legs and sparrow kneecaps and laughs each time I fall over. Because I do fall; I fall a lot.

  I dread school dinners the most. Because my digestive system is blocked with mucus I have to take enzyme tablets that help me absorb my food. I also have to eat a special diet, so when we all sit down at the long wooden tables for lunch, Daisy scoffs at the way my mother’s chicken stew is heated up by one of the school dinner ladies, saying ‘Our food not good enough for you, Princess Alice?’

  It’s my turn soon. The knot in my chest tightens. The most upsetting thing Daisy did recently was to follow me into the loos. When I came out of the cubicle, she was leaning against the sink, pinching her nose before saying to her best friend, Louise, ‘I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.’ When I go to the loo my poo is often smelly and bulky because it contains undigested food. I’d pushed my way past them, telling myself not to cry, not to let them see how much it hurt. Cat tells me Daisy is jealous because I am prettier and cleverer than she is, and receive extra attention from teachers.

  I’m lost in my own thoughts until Cat whispers, ‘It’s your go, Alice.’ I walk to the front of the class with my maroon scrapbook. The thing is, if Daisy offered me friendship, I’d say yes. I’d do anything to fit in with the cool crowd.

  ‘The life of Granny,’ I begin before hearing a snigger in the front row.

  ‘She wasn’t as famous as Marilyn Monroe but she was just as talented,’ I find myself saying, which shuts Daisy up. ‘When Granny was little she and her sister Jane learned the piano. They practised in separate rooms. Their mother was strict; if they played a wrong note she would bang her stick against the wall and they would have to start again.’

  Daisy looks miffed when a few girls smile at that.

  ‘Granny sometimes thought her mum favoured Jane. There was one time when Granny was ten and eating bread and strawberry jam for tea. She had put the one plump juicy strawberry in the middle of the bread to save until last. Just as she was about to pop it into her mouth, her mother whisked it away, saying, “I can see you don’t want that”, and she gave it to Jane.’

  Daisy looks cross now when a few of the girls laugh, including Louise.

  I go on to tell them how she was awarded an open scholarship at the Royal College of Music when she was eighteen, which led to more concerts, many of them conducted by Dr Malcolm Sargent.

  ‘Who’s he?’ Daisy snarls.

  ‘Dr Malcolm Sargent,’ our teacher informs them, ‘or Sir Malcolm after he was knighted, was one of the most famous conductors in the country at that time.’

  ‘During her career she was invited to be a guest on the radio and was paid three guineas, which is about three pounds and fifteen pence. In 1933 she won a medal at the Royal College and then she met and married my grandfather that same year. He was famous too. He played cricket for Surrey and England. I wish I were as good at sport as he was. What a pity I’m not!’

  The whole class is laughing now, making Daisy furious. I clear my throat, disappointed to be nearly at the end. ‘One of her performances led to her first television interview in 1937. She was asked to wear a frock, but not black, white or pale colours because they don’t look good on TV. I chose Granny because I love music. I play the piano and I love singing, and one day I would like to be a singer and perform in front of a huge crowd. I would like to be famous, just like my granny.’

  Everyone claps.

  ‘That was funny,’ one of the girls says as I walk back to my seat.

  ‘I enjoyed the strawberry jam bit,’ another one adds.

  ‘That was excellent,’ Miss Reynolds praises. ‘You have a natural ability, Alice, to engage an audience. Maybe one day you will be a famous singer. Whose turn is it now?’

  As the next girl walks to the front of the class . . .

  ‘She won’t be a singer!’ Daisy stands up. ‘She won’t live long enough to become famous. She’s ill.’ Despite the deathly hush, she continues, ‘She’ll be dead soon!’

  ‘Tha
t’s not true!’ Cat says, before Daisy gives her a shove, causing her to trip and fall. I rush to help my friend up while Miss Reynolds grabs Daisy by the arm. ‘Apologise immediately.’

  But she won’t say sorry.

  ‘It’s not true, Daisy,’ Cat says, in tears. ‘She won’t die. I’ve read up about it in the library. The books say that medicine is getting better and better all the time and people donate organs . . .’ Cat turns to me ‘. . . so that maybe, one day, you can have a transplant . . .’

  ‘Enough,’ says Miss Reynolds.

  Cat and I cling on to one another as Daisy is marched out of the room to the Headmistress’s office.

  Later that evening Dad is in my bedroom. ‘Can’t I have one day off?’ I snap as he sings one of his made-up songs while he hits my back. ‘She was walking along at the Minos Beach Hotel . . . when she came to a little bridge and there she fell; Oh, oh, what a bloody fool, the girl who slipped into the sea snake pool!’

  On holiday I did fall into a sea snake pool. I thought I was going to die.

  Right now I wish I had.

  ‘How did your presentation go?’ he asks, carrying on.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’ I wish Jake were at home.

  ‘Alice?’ Finally Dad stops the thumping.

  She’ll be dead soon.

  I cry.

  Dad bunches his hand into a fist when I tell him what Daisy had said. I beg him not to talk to the Headmistress. ‘It’ll only make it worse.’

  ‘I’ll talk to your mother,’ he says at last, ‘but if it ever happens again, we will break down her door, do you understand?’

  I nod.

  ‘Alice, we could take you out of this school, if that’s what you want . . .’

  ‘I don’t.’ I am unable to think of leaving Cat behind.

  ‘The thing is, there will be another Daisy at a new school. The best lesson they can give you in school, in life for that matter, is to stand up for yourself.’ He pulls me into his arms. ‘Don’t let the likes of this Daisy make you doubt yourself. You are a strong beautiful girl . . .’