Ten Little Words

by Leah Mercer

  The manager of the pub gestured her to the stage, and she sighed. Hopefully, the man would stay long enough for her to find out this time. She went to her little corner and picked up the mic, straining to make out where he was with the blinding lights the manager had so helpfully switched on for her. She launched straight into ‘Summertime’, the song from the promenade when she’d first noticed him. He’d seemed to like that then, so maybe he’d stick around now, too.

  She couldn’t see anything but she sang every song – every note – for him, hoping he was just as entranced as he’d been a few days ago . . . hoping her music had managed to capture him once more. After thirty minutes, she smiled, said thank you, and ducked out of the spotlight, sweeping her eyes around the bar as her heart pounded. Please may he still be here.

  She let out a little snort to quell the butterflies inside. He was just another man, she told herself, and for all she knew, he could have the world’s worst BO or breath that would kill you. There was no need to get so worked up.

  ‘Hey.’ A male voice at her side made her turn, and she was smiling before she made out who it was. It had to be him. But her heart dropped when she saw it was his friend, the bloke in the tight T-shirt. Up close, he wasn’t quite as good-looking as she’d thought: his swarthy skin was pitted with acne scars and his eyes were a little close together. But even if he’d been an Italian film star, she didn’t care. He wasn’t the one she wanted to talk to. Where had the other bloke gone?

  ‘Hi.’ She craned her neck, trying to spot him.

  ‘You’re a really good singer,’ he said, leaning even closer. ‘And I should know. I’ve worked in the industry.’

  Jude’s pulse picked up pace, and she felt her cheeks redden as happiness swirled inside. He worked in the industry and he thought she was good? She thought she was okay, but no one who knew anything had ever complimented her on her singing.

  She opened her mouth to say thank you, but before any words could emerge, he put a hand on her arm. ‘Can I buy you a drink? Let me buy you a drink.’ Without even waiting for her to answer, he’d signalled to the bartender and ordered her a beer.

  She raised her eyebrows, grudgingly admiring his confidence. It took a lot of guts not only to assume she’d say yes, but to make an executive decision on what she’d drink. She didn’t really like beer, but she didn’t want to offend him. He thought she was good! She held the thought in her mind, repeating it over and over as a little thrill ran through her. An industry professional thought she was good. What exactly did he do in the industry? she wondered. Did he know anyone in London?

  The man lifted his arm, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Hubert! Over here!’ He smiled down at Jude. ‘I’m Frank. And this is my brother, Hubert.’

  Jude’s heart lifted as she took in the man from the pier. Finally, here he was. Thank God she hadn’t lost him.

  ‘Hi.’ Hubert smiled, and she loved how his whole face changed from sombre to sunny. ‘I saw you on the promenade the other day. I love how you sing, and that song . . . the one about summer . . . it was brilliant.’

  ‘Clever choice, too. Ella Fitzgerald is always a crowd pleaser,’ Frank said, and Jude felt a pang of delight that he’d complimented her not only on her singing, but also on her savvy selections. ‘Most people recognise her songs, even if they don’t know her name, and once the music starts, you can’t help but sing along.’ He hummed a few bars of ‘Summertime’, and Jude nodded enthusiastically.

  ‘Exactly!’ she said, thrilled to have someone who understood how hard it was choosing the right music to keep people engaged. ‘And she’s such a musical icon. I can only hope that, one day, I’ll be half as good as she was.’

  ‘Keep singing like you did tonight and I’d say you’re on the way.’ Frank raised his beer and excitement leaped inside her. If an industry insider thought that, maybe she did have a solid chance of making it, after all.

  Hubert shifted beside them and Jude turned in surprise. She’d almost forgotten he was there for a second. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t leave you anything that day on the promenade,’ he said. His cheeks flushed, and he looked down at the counter. ‘I didn’t have any change, or I would have stayed even longer. But let me get you a drink now, to make up for it?’ His cheeks flushed even more, but he managed to raise his head to meet her eyes, and Jude felt that same zing go through her. It felt like he was really looking at her, as if he really saw her . . . not like countless other men, who only saw her chest.

  ‘I’ve already got her one,’ Frank said, gesturing to the beer in front of Jude. Hubert’s face dropped and Jude squeezed his arm, thinking that, for brothers, they couldn’t seem more different. And while, normally, she’d be more drawn to Frank’s brash confidence and their musical connection, Hubert’s quiet, calm demeanour was so soothing. Already, after only one minute in his presence, she could feel herself relaxing, her insides unwinding.

  ‘You know, I am quite thirsty after all that singing,’ she said. ‘I’d love a gin and tonic, too.’ Actually, she’d never had a gin and tonic, but she liked the way it sounded.

  Hubert met her eyes, his smile returning. ‘Coming right up.’

  Hubert ordered her drink and Frank pushed back from the bar, telling her he needed the loo. Jude watched him go, both glad and anxious that he’d left them alone – she was itching to find out more about his ties with the music industry, but she was also desperate to talk to Hubert. Frank would be back again, she told herself, and she’d have plenty of time to chat to him about the music industry. Right now, she wanted to get to know this man in front of her.

  She sipped her gin, enjoying the cool, woodsy taste in her mouth and wondering what to say. Usually, she could talk for hours about anything, not caring what she came out with. Men only listened to her with half their brain, anyway. But there was something about Hubert which made her want to weigh up her words, to not throw them at him like he wasn’t important.

  ‘Do you ever go by Hugh?’ She cringed. She’d been thinking for a minute about what to say, and that was what she came out with? But Hubert just shook his head.

  ‘No. But Frank calls me Bertie sometimes,’ he said. ‘Says Hubert sounds like an eighty-year-old at a church picnic.’ He laughed. ‘You can always trust my younger brother to tell it like it is.’

  Excitement leaped up in Jude again. If that was true, then Frank really must think she was good.

  ‘Can I call you Bertie, too? Hubert just seems so . . . formal.’ She bit her lip, hoping he wouldn’t take offence, but Frank was right. Hubert was better suited to an eighty-year-old at a church picnic.

  He smiled, an endearing lopsided grin. ‘I’d like that.’ He stuck out a hand. ‘Bertie McAllister. Nice to meet you.’

  Jude placed her hand in his, loving how his fingers closed firmly around hers. ‘Jude. Jude Morgan. Lovely to meet you, too.’

  The bell rang for last orders, and Frank grabbed Bertie by the arm. Jude bit her lip, hoping they weren’t about to leave. ‘I don’t know about you two, but I’m famished. Let’s grab something from the chippie and eat it down on the beach. Come on.’ He charged off towards the door, and Bertie shook his head.

  ‘Sorry about him,’ he said, smiling and rolling his eyes in the same exasperated way Jude was sure Carolyn did about her sometimes. ‘He comes across a little strong at times. I’m the typical older brother, always trying to rein him in.’ Bertie paused, uncertainty flashing across his face. ‘Do you want to come and get a bite to eat with us?’

  Jude nodded. She could never eat before a show – if you could call this a ‘show’ – as singing on a full stomach was torturous. She was ravenous now, and even though she usually spurned the greasy chippies at all costs, she could murder some hot, steaming, crunchy battered fish.

  But that wasn’t the real reason, she knew. The real reason was that she wanted to spend more time with Bertie. And, afterwards, have a chat with Frank and pump him for information. It wasn’t often – okay, it wasn’t ever – that she
ran into someone who knew anything more about music beyond the dire pop songs the local radio station played.

  ‘Let’s go, then.’ Bertie held out his hand, and she followed him into the dark night. Usually, she hurried home as fast as she could along the promenade to Carolyn’s, rejecting Carolyn’s plea to call a taxi but never feeling one hundred per cent safe, either. Now, with Bertie clutching her arm, she let herself relax and breathe in the summer air. The city was quiet on a Monday night, except for the laughs of punters leaving the pub behind them. She stood on the promenade and stared out at the sea, marvelling at the vastness in front of her. She shivered, leaning back against Bertie.

  ‘Here we are.’ Frank appeared, clutching huge paper bags already soaked through with grease. ‘Come on, let’s sit down by the water.’

  They picked their way through the rocks and over to the sandy stretch, plunking down on the soft sand. The tang of the salty air made the fish and chips taste miles better than she ever remembered, and she devoured her meal.

  ‘So, is this your first time in Hastings?’ she asked Bertie, who was trying to eat his fish and chips without making a mess. She couldn’t help smiling at his futile attempts.

  Bertie nodded. ‘Yes. I came to visit Frank.’ He gestured to his brother, who was now paddling in the sea. ‘He moved down here to help build . . . something or other.’

  Jude’s heart sank. Frank was a builder? Had he been lying to soften her up?

  ‘He mentioned to me that he worked in the music industry?’ She couldn’t keep the hope from her voice. Perhaps she’d been an idiot, but she’d wanted to believe that someone who knew something thought she was good.

  ‘He’s done some work setting up for bands on tour and in pubs, that kind of thing,’ Bertie responded. ‘It’s a hard industry to get regular work in so he does other odd jobs when he needs to, but his heart is really in the music scene. He says it’s where he wants to be, so he takes whatever comes his way.’

  Jude nodded. She could certainly understand that. And while Frank may not be an industry bigwig with loads of contacts, it sounded like he did have a little experience. He’d been around professional musicians; he knew what it took. If he thought she was good, it carried some weight.

  Enough about Frank. Jude forced her thoughts from the future and smiled at Bertie. ‘What about you? What do you do?’

  ‘I live in Edinburgh,’ Bertie said, and Jude’s heart dropped. Edinburgh? That was miles away! But it didn’t matter, she told herself. It wasn’t like she was about to dive into a relationship with this man. She barely knew him. Anyway, she had other things she wanted to do.

  Things like moving to London and getting started on her dream.

  ‘And I work as an accountant,’ he said, making a face. ‘Not the most exciting job, I know, but I like it. There’s something about working with numbers that just makes me feel . . . like everything is okay. Like the world is a sane, solid place, instead of all this craziness.’ He laughed and shook his head. ‘I know that sounds strange.’

  Jude squeezed his hand. ‘It doesn’t, actually. Not at all. It’s exactly how I feel when I sing.’

  He reached out an arm and placed it gently around her, and she told herself to stop thinking about the future and let herself enjoy the night – and Bertie. Even if it was just for a few hours, she’d found someone she could have a real conversation with; a connection that was more than just physical.

  The waves crashed in her ears, and she leaned back against Bertie’s chest and closed her eyes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ELLA

  After my shower, I crawled into bed with Dolby and grabbed my book. As a child, books had always been my shield against the images waiting to ambush me at night. Now they were a comfortable companion, gently lulling me off to sleep. This time, though, the book I was reading lacked its usual anaesthetising power. When I did manage to fall asleep, I jerked awake after what felt like just seconds, my heart beating fast as I struggled to take in air. Dread seeped through me, and I sat up in bed.

  I’d had the dream again – the dream that had played in my mind for years, starting the night after my mum had left me.

  It began with her walking into the sea in the black of the night. I was on the beach, trying to call out to her, but the howling wind swallowed my voice. Mum kept walking, waves crashing into her, higher and higher, until one went right over her head, enveloping her in dark water. I tried to run, but I couldn’t move. I could do nothing but watch the waves, praying to see her head re-emerge, unable to do anything to save her.

  When I was younger, I always awoke screaming and crying. Carolyn and Rob would run to me, Carolyn cradling me in her arms even as I pushed her away, with Rob biting his lip and his face creased with worry. Carolyn always asked me to tell her what the dream was about, saying talking about it would make it less scary. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t begin to explain I was dreaming that my mother was dead. That would make it true.

  The dream stopped when I’d finally accepted that my mother was dead . . . when I’d finally stopped hoping. The scenario that had played out in my subconscious was no longer a nightmare but a reality.

  I crawled from the warm covers and padded to the window. The sea was dark except for white foam capping the waves, and I shivered as I stared at it, feeling exposed and vulnerable. Before I could stop myself, I yanked the blinds closed and burrowed back under the covers, pulling Dolby’s warm body up against me.

  This was ridiculous. My mother had been gone for thirty years. My mother had been dead for thirty years, and any hope – any longing to see her once more and have a mother again – had vanished ages ago. I was over the swamp of fear, the panic and the desperation I’d lived in for so many years as a child. Life was moving forward, carrying me with it, and it would take more than a random advert to burrow through my barriers and plunge me backwards.

  But in the days that followed, I felt just that: plunged into the past again. My mum’s voice lingered in my brain, those ten words looming larger each time I closed my eyes. The comforting, soothing concoction of safety, trust and love I’d felt in my mother’s arms slid over me – a feeling I hadn’t had since she’d disappeared – followed swiftly by the brutal see-saw of hope and loss that had engulfed me when she’d gone.

  And instead of providing an escape, the nights made it worse: every time I sank into sleep, I was pulled into that same old dream of waves breaking over the top of my mother’s head as I screamed in vain. I’d awaken with Dolby crouched under the bed in fear and my pillowcase soaked in sweat.

  I told myself over and over that I was past it all, but my subconscious wouldn’t listen. I went into work early and left late, but even the huge list of sound files to digitise didn’t distract me. In fact, I’d made my first ever mistake at work after cataloguing the files in a completely different era, then accidentally deleting the whole folder when I’d tried to move them. Luckily, we’d been able to restore them.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Jane had asked, tilting her head to look closely at my face.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I’d said, although I knew I looked anything but. Nights of little sleep had left dark circles under my eyes, and I’d run a hand through my hair so much I resembled a hedgehog. I’d neglected to do my weekly shop, which meant my familiar packed lunch was now down to three Babybel cheeses I’d found in the back of the fridge. I’d been so off-kilter lately that I’d forgotten to do my usual Wednesday night load of laundry, so I was sporting a T-shirt that a diplomatic person might say was ‘a little snug’. I looked a mess, and that was exactly how I felt inside, too. For God’s sake, I’d almost forgotten to feed Dolby this morning.

  ‘Just . . . er, well, just be careful next time you add a file, okay? Siobhan almost lost a few months’ work.’ Jane had looked uncomfortable giving me a warning, since I’d never made a mistake before. I prided myself on my concentration and my accuracy.

  ‘Okay.’

  Jane had given me another look and t
hen backed off, and I knew she didn’t believe I was fine any more than I did.

  Because for the first time in years, I wasn’t fine. I could decry it as much as I liked, but seeing that advert had punctured the neat, ordered bubble I’d been living in. A chink somewhere in my subconscious had allowed those ten words to penetrate, igniting the charred remains of memories I’d thought had long since burned out but were obviously still smouldering. And those memories of my mother’s death and the painful aftermath were burning now, trying to consume the defences I’d worked so hard to build; the life I’d worked so hard to build.

  I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat and I couldn’t work. All my attempts to ignore the flames and carry on as usual were failing, and I couldn’t keep going like this. I needed to find a way to put out that fire for once and for all . . . to patch up my armour and get my life – get me – back again.

  But what could I do?

  I drew my knees to my chest as my brain whirled. Perhaps instead of trying to run from the memory of my mother’s death, I should invite it in full force. It might sound implausible, but I’d never allowed myself to wonder why my mother had killed herself, and I’d never permitted myself to remember that day. I couldn’t, if I ever wanted to move forward. And while my efforts might have worked as a stopgap to let me live the life I wanted, clearly it wasn’t a permanent solution.

  Clearly, some part inside of me still needed rooting out.

  But . . . I wrapped my arms around my legs as hesitation filtered in. Was I prepared to fully abandon my defensive stance? To ask the questions I’d buried and bring back that day – the day my mother had died; the day the waves had broken over her head and the sea had swallowed her under?

  I had to. I had to, if I ever wanted to return to normal. By knowing what had happened, my subconscious would finally be at peace and the dream would disappear for ever. I’d have my life back again.

  I crossed to the window and opened the curtains. I wasn’t a hurt, confused little girl any longer. I knew my mother was gone, and years had passed since she’d died. That advert with those ten little words may have stirred up something inside me, but I was stronger.