‘That’s your wish for Duncan.’
‘And you. Did you not feel enlightened and empowered when I said it? Was it too subtle that I was talking about you too? Well, that’s not like me at all. Maybe motherhood has softened me,’ she laughs.
‘That’s definitely not something you have to worry about,’ I say, picking up a discarded breastpad and chucking it at her head.
‘Good to know,’ she says dismissively, eager to get back to helping me, her desperado big sister. ‘You know, I don’t know if you’re going to find the answers you crave at the bottom of an empty bottle of gin, while having your brains shagged out of you by Alastair, or when you’re innocently walking down the road and reflecting on the wonders of life. However, you’ve got to put yourself first and get rid of the shit!’
‘Nicely put.’
‘Am I doing a good job?’ she asks, suddenly looking fretful, the atmosphere completely turning. ‘At this,’ she adds, gesturing towards Duncan.
The gear change from bolshie to fearful is sudden and dramatic, as though an emotion switch has been flicked.
‘Marvellous,’ I smile, without skipping a beat.
Michelle nods, nibbling on her lip as she looks back down at her son, her face full of worry. ‘The midwife came earlier. She kept asking how I’m feeling.’
‘That’s her job.’
‘Hmmm …’ she ponders. ‘Maybe she thought I wasn’t doing it right.’
‘You’re doing it perfectly. Look how happy he is,’ I say, pointing at the little bundle in her arms who’s contentedly suckling on her breast. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I didn’t realize it would be so hard!’ Michelle says, her breath catching in her chest as she screws up her face and tries not to cry.
‘Oh, Chelle!’ I soothe, jumping across the sofa and throwing my arms around her, taking care to avoid squashing Duncan, who’s now sleepily come off her boob and wanting to be winded. ‘It’s so new. It’s going to feel overwhelming at times,’ I offer, suddenly thinking about what a change the last forty-eight hours must be for her.
‘Yeah. And I just haven’t slept,’ she says feebly, pulling her shirt together.
‘Well, sleep. Now. I’m here to watch Duncan!’ I tell her, getting up and holding out my arms for him.
In that second an almighty squelching sound erupts from Duncan’s bottom. I look at his tiny frame in Michelle’s arms to find his offerings have fired out of his nappy and squirted all up his back. His white babygro is now a shitty brown.
‘That’s gross,’ I mutter, my nostrils flaring.
‘Thank you so much for the offer,’ my sister sings, on the verge of hysterically laughing and crying while handing over my nephew. ‘I completely agree that it would be good to have a nap. Right now.’
‘But … you …’ I say, speechless, looking from her to him. ‘You’ve just told me to stop being a sap and to start putting myself first!’ I squeak.
‘Yeah, but not when someone really needs your help,’ she sniffs, staring at me with an imploring look on her face. ‘We’re family.’
I hesitate, knowing there’s absolutely no way I can get out of this but not knowing where to start. I glance up at Michelle and notice she’s now looking delighted at my bewildered expression.
‘Changing mat, wipes and nappies are in here,’ she grins, handing over the changing bag. She’s lying back and curling her knees into her chest before I have a chance to protest. ‘I don’t need long. Ten minutes will fix me.’
I look down at Duncan to find he’s pulling an expression that pretty much sums up my own reaction to the situation. This stinks.
After kissing his nose for the hundredth time today, I retrieve the essentials, place him on the changing mat and get on with the task.
Some people are worth being a sap for.
30
‘I hope everyone has had a good Christmas and New Year!’ trills Jodie from the front of the group. The pianist runs his hands up and down the piano, encouraging the stragglers to hurry themselves along so that the first rehearsal of the year for the Sing it Proud choir can finally commence. The church is freezing, but Jodie handed me my new branded t-shirt when I arrived and I am happily wearing it while trying to ignore the goosebumps that are prickling their way along my bare arms and sending a chill to my bones. The heaters that have been placed around the room haven’t managed to take away the bitter bite from the air just yet, but seeing as the church has such high ceilings I’m guessing it’ll take a while either to warm up, or for me to get used to it or turn blue and die of hypothermia.
I’ve been looking forward to my first official session with the group since watching them before Christmas. I’ve had a flutter in my tummy any time I’ve thought about it and have found myself singing at every opportunity – in cars, supermarkets, or simply walking down the street. There was even one awkward moment where I was walking to the station and thought I was completely alone, so decided to break into a bit of Taylor Swift’s ‘Bad Blood’. Five seconds later a teenage boy overtook me, flashing me a worried expression.
Tonight I arrived early, have mingled and made small talk and am now standing in the front row of the organized group feeling anxious but raring to go. Apparently it’ll help me pick up the harmonies better if I stand close to Susan, the elderly lady I ended up speaking to when I came to watch before Christmas, as we’re in the same vocal group – soprano. I guess that’ll give me more confidence, although I’m not sure I’m going to be able to hear any noise that comes out of my mouth anyway. Having heard Susan carrying out her own pre-warm-up warm-up I’m astounded to hear she has a real set of lungs on her for one so tiny. The sound she creates is huge and powerful and travels down my eardrum at great speed.
‘First up I want to tell you about a concert I’ve penned in,’ continues Jodie with a clap, causing the rumblings of conversations in the room to cease. ‘We didn’t do a proper show this Christmas, and it was a complete oversight on my part. You all worked so hard, and while the emphasis within this group should always be about enjoyment there’s a lot to be said for the thrill of a public performance,’ she says, causing a stir of excitement from the group around me. Clearly they’re all in agreement, however the thought fills me with fear. ‘I was watching a programme over Christmas about loneliness during the festive period,’ she continues loudly over the group to encourage them to keep listening. They obey quickly. ‘It struck me that if the most magical time of year is the most lonely for some, then what is January? It has to be worse thanks to the weather turning more bitter and the reasons for people gathering together diminishing.’
‘And the TV is showing a load of rubbish,’ shouts Albie, Susan’s husband. ‘That doesn’t help.’
‘I’m sure,’ nods Jodie.
‘It’s a very isolating time,’ adds Susan.
‘It’s so true,’ says an elderly lady standing at the end of my row. She shrugs her shoulders and looks around at the rest of the group. ‘My son went back up to York with his family at the weekend. I probably won’t see him again until Easter. I can’t imagine what it would be like if I didn’t have you lot.’
Even though the members of the choir are an array of ages it seems to me they rely on each other for support and are a real community. It’s part of the reason I’ve been longing to come back. It’s more than just singing through a few pop songs and getting our voices to gel as one sound. It’s belonging to something; feeling part of a collective.
‘I’ve spoken with the church and I want to turn the last session of the month into a real event for the community, inviting everyone around here along and getting them out of the house,’ explains Jodie.
‘Great idea!’ enthuses a young blond man behind me who fiddles with his green-framed glasses as he talks. ‘We can all bake cakes for it, too.’
‘Better than a Christmas show,’ adds someone else, as the group gets even more vocal and further suggestions are thrown out, like members offering taxi services with their own
cars to help less mobile people get here and back.
I think of Michelle and the newborn whirlwind she’s currently in. We’ve spoken a lot since her emotional outburst yesterday and she seems to be doing more than fine at the moment, but it’s still a massive change for her. She’s up all night with Duncan, so hugely sleep deprived and generally walking about in a haze. I imagine a couple of hours out of her pyjamas and mixing with adults who aren’t Stu or her family would be a bit of a treat for her.
‘It would be good to target new mums too, and make sure they know they can bring along their little ones,’ I find myself saying out loud, feeling inspired by their plans.
‘Definitely,’ Susan bellows from behind me, making me jump. The rest of the group nod away, the excitement building. Having been lucky enough to watch this choir in action I know it’ll be a special night for everyone who comes along.
Jodie beams at the crowd in front of her, clearly happy that her idea has been met with so much enthusiasm. ‘If anyone has any song suggestions then please let me know by the end of tonight’s rehearsal. We have only three weeks to put together a fab show, so let’s pull out the golden oldies from previous sessions, but sprinkle them with extra magic.’
The pianist starts playing his scales again, prompting Jodie to look at us expectantly. Time to actually do a vocal warm-up.
‘OK, let’s go. Can I have an ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eeeeee,’ she sings, her voice rising and falling beautifully.
I take a deep breath and open my mouth in the same way I’ve seen Jodie do and go for it. I’m surprised by two things: one, that I can actually hear myself over Susan, and two, by the sound that comes out of my mouth. And not in a good way. I sound like a boy going through puberty who’s having to deal with his voice breaking. It cracks, crackles and dips between notes in such a peculiar way I think about miming. No, seriously. I could lip sync along quite happily and I’m sure no one would even be able to tell anyway.
I never used to sound like this. Fair enough, I never sang like an angel, but my parents have been going on about my ‘lovely’ voice for the last decade as though I threw away my chance of being the next Whitney Houston. Where’s that voice gone? Or were they just humouring me when I was nothing more than mediocre?
Perhaps that’s a bit harsh. I doubt they’d disillusion me on purpose. After all, almost every single dreadful contestant on The X Factor has a parent or two eagerly waiting in the wings for them, who genuinely believe their talentless child is the most gifted human being on the planet. Their unconditional love has not only left them blind, but deaf too. If I were to audition, Simon Cowell and Sharon Osbourne would be doing their best not to giggle their way through my audition before rejecting me and breaking all my hopes of popstardom. My mum would then come out and give the thoughtless judges an ear-bashing, but to no avail. They’d be forced to reiterate the fact that I shouldn’t give up my day job – which would be disastrous as I technically don’t have one right now. Cue more sob-story fodder.
The realization of this imagined scene leaves me deeply humiliated.
I squawk my way through the rest of the warm-up, feeling my cheeks redden and unable to look up at Jodie, even when she’s telling us what the first song is. It’s one of their favourites called ‘I Will Follow Him’, a song from the film Sister Act. I don’t know it. Even with the lyrics in my hands I can’t follow where we are in the song and I can’t get to grips with the melody. My mind is all over the place; I can’t think about anything other than how terrible I sound, so I try to be as quiet as possible so that I can’t be heard. I do the same for the following two songs, willing the session to be over so I can scurry away and never come back.
When it’s finally time for a break I sneak off to the toilet. My chin starts wobbling and despite telling myself that I’m being completely stupid, tears start streaming down my face. This is completely different to singing on my own in the shower, or in the car, where I can just let loose and do what I like. It’s immediately evident that singing in a choir requires far more skill in terms of breathing, timing and, most importantly, gelling with everyone else. I’m shit at something I really hoped I’d be amazing at and that’s a difficult pill to swallow. I am frustrated at myself for letting my brain get in the way of me having fun and embarrassed for my failings. Covering up my face with my arms I lean into the wall and try to calm myself down. I’m being an idiot.
‘Lizzy?’ I hear Jodie say softly from the other side of the cubicle door.
‘Yes,’ I say, trying to sound as bright and cheery as possible and failing. Instead I sound as though I’ve either suddenly contracted a severe cold and spent the last few minutes stuffing toilet paper up my nose, or been full-on ugly girl crying.
‘You’re doing brilliantly.’
I don’t respond because I know she’s lying. Instead my face contorts and screws up, as I try to ward off another sob that’s threatening to escape.
‘Lizzy?’
‘Yeah …’ I struggle.
‘Want to come out?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘It’s just me.’
I take a deep breath and wipe my eyes, shaking my body in the hope it’ll shake my blues away, just as Taylor Swift recommends. It doesn’t, but I realize I can’t stay in here for ever.
I open the door to find Jodie leaning against one of the sinks, looking at me sympathetically. It’s like we’re back at school and hanging out in the toilets at loo break so that we can dissect the latest gossip: was Phillip Deyes touching Connie’s boob really an accident (it wasn’t, he absolutely meant to do it), had Daniel Durrant actually been stuffing socks down his pants in PE (he had), or had Tracey Perkins really touched Simon Clark’s willy in the back of science class (apparently also true). The flashback makes me feel even more pathetic and a little sick for our younger selves.
I busy myself by going straight to the other sink and washing my hands. Looking up at the mirror I see my eyes and lips are red and swollen.
‘You are doing brilliantly,’ Jodie says, pivoting round so that she’s also facing the mirror above her sink, although I know she’s still looking at me.
‘I can’t sing,’ I say matter-of-factly.
‘You can.’
‘I can’t even hold a tune. Everyone else is amazing.’
‘They’ve been doing this a long time but the majority of them would’ve felt like you at the start.’
‘Bet they didn’t cry in the toilets,’ I reason, wiping my eyes on the cuff of my jumper.
‘A couple did. It’s a huge deal for people to be taken out of their comfort zones,’ she admits, drawing in a deep breath through her teeth. ‘Singing isn’t something we do as adults unless you’re in groups like this. I don’t audition people to be in this choir because I want people to see that singing is about so much more than rigidly banging out the correct notes.’
‘You’re a choir. Of course you want that! You want it to sound good,’ I argue, placing the backs of my wrists into my eye sockets to stop tears from streaming again. A few seconds later I look over to see her still staring at me.
‘Perfect notes aren’t everything,’ she says, shaking her head. Her face changes suddenly, as though considering something. ‘The odd moment of divine sound is more than enough to please me for a lifetime.’
‘See?’
‘But it’s the cherry on top of an already delicious bowl of ice cream, and it’s not why I started this group,’ she protests, banging her fist into her hand passionately. ‘I could’ve auditioned and turned people away who couldn’t hit a top C or hold a note for thirty seconds before perfecting a vibrato finish, but I didn’t want that. How do you feel when you sing?’ she asks, bringing her hands into a prayer position. She points them at me before placing them under her chin as though she’s begging or praying.
‘Out there I feel like I’m letting everyone down,’ I admit.
‘Forget out there for a minute,’ she tells me, gesturing to the door separa
ting us from everyone else. ‘What’s your favourite song at the moment? What do you belt out in the shower?’
‘ “Fix You” by Coldplay,’ I say, able to answer without giving it too much thought. Ever since I first heard that song (and then experienced it in motion in an episode of Lost) it’s called to me. I sing it in the shower with my eyes closed. Sometimes as I sing it, I’m promising I’m going to put myself back together, and other times I’m imagining I’m in a stadium singing it for the crowd with their lighters swaying in the air (I know it’s all iPhones now, but it’s not quite as magical) and everyone singing along. It’s euphoric and anthemic.
‘And how do you feel when you’re singing that song into your bottle of shampoo?’
‘Great,’ I admit, smiling despite myself as I think of my wonderful shower performances.
‘Because you’re not thinking about it, you’re just doing it.’
‘I guess. Plus, the acoustics in there are fab,’ I remind her.
Jodie laughs. ‘Sing it Proud is about a bunch of people coming together to celebrate their love for singing. It’s about taking confidence from each other and should be an extension of what you’re already doing in the shower. When people come through the door I want them to escape whatever is going on in their everyday lives. I want them to just be focused on the music in their hands, the sound of the piano and the emotion they feel when they open their mouths and tell the story of the song.’
‘I sounded like a cat being strangled,’ I admit, cringing at the memory.
‘I was standing in front of you and I can tell you that you categorically did not, but I saw your face looking deflated and knew something was up,’ she tells me. ‘Can you remember why you loved singing back in school?’
‘I was a bit of a show-off?’ I offer, thinking back to my Girls Can Too girlband days with knicker-flashing Connie. I might’ve only been seven years old when our success peaked with a performance of Bananarama’s ‘Love in the First Degree’ in assembly, but I remember feeling incredible when the applause erupted at the end. I can still remember the grins Connie and I flashed each other as we soaked up the admiration.
Some Kind of Wonderful Page 24