by Jean Ure
I went back and peered more closely at the photographs, and in some of the later ones I could just about see the resemblance – she hadn’t yet become prunelike and withered. But definitely it was the same old woman.
I heard her returning with the tea and hastily perched myself on the edge of one of the pale green chairs.
“There you are… peppermint tea. Made with fresh-picked mint.”
It had leaves floating in it. I wondered what I was supposed to do with them.
“Give them a few minutes, then just take them out and put them in the bowl. Have you not had mint tea before? It’s a good habit. You can grow the mint yourself – indoors, in a pot, if you have no garden. You should ask your mother to get some.”
Yeah, I could just picture Mum’s face if I suggested we started drinking peppermint tea! Come under the heading of “cranky”, that would. Mum’s into her tea in a big way. She likes it deep dark brown and bitter. Horrible, if you ask me, but it’s what she’s used to.
“So, my dear…” The old woman settled herself in the chair opposite. The chair was so big, and she was so small, she practically disappeared. “Why are you not in school?”
I thought, Here we go. Carelessly, I said, “It’s half term.”
“Already?”
“Yup.” I nodded. “We have two weeks.”
Terrible how the lies can just pour out of you. But come Monday it would be half term, so it wasn’t such a big lie as all that. In any case, what business was it of hers?
“Which school do you go to? It can’t be Holy Cross, I know they’re not on half term yet. It must be Ravenspark.”
I toyed for a moment with the idea of making up a name, but I wasn’t quick enough. By the time I’d got my brain into gear, she was off again. “I understand you’re going to be putting on some kind of talent contest later in the term. For aspiring pop stars?”
She cocked an eyebrow at me. I muttered, “Yeah.” How did she know about it?
She smiled, as if reading my thoughts. “Believe it or not, I was asked to be one of the judges, but oh, my dear, what do I know of pop music? It’s for the young. Like you! I take it you’ll be entering?”
“Mm-mm.” I shook my head.
“No? Why ever not? I would have thought it was right up your street.”
I didn’t say anything to that; I didn’t want to talk about the talent contest. I busied myself fishing leaves out of my cup and flobbing them into a dinky little green bowl. Everything was green. The cups were green. The tea was green.
“You do have a very good voice, you know.” She leaned forward and ever so delicately picked up her tea cup. She had a lot of style, in spite of being so ancient. “Well, you obviously do know, don’t you? How could you avoid knowing? No one has a voice of that quality without realising they’ve been given a very special gift.”
That melted me, I have to admit. But then she had to go and blow it.
“What you may not realise, however…” She wagged an old, gnarled finger at me. On the finger was a massive ring with a gleaming green stone. Emerald, I guess. “What you may not realise is that an instrument such as yours needs nurturing. You should treat it with respect. A voice is like a delicate bloom – like the finest crystal. You misuse it at your peril!”
She seemed to expect me to say something, but I didn’t know what to say cos I hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about. Just that she seemed to be having a go at me.
“You cannot simply blast out at full volume for hours on end as if you’re some market trader selling cabbages!”
I resented that. What’s wrong with market traders? I didn’t see she had any call to get all snobby.
“Surely, my dear, you can understand my concern?” She peered at me out of strangely bright, birdlike eyes. “You’re putting your voice under tremendous pressure!”
Somewhat annoyed, I said, “I’m not putting it under pressure. It’s just the way I sing.”
“Well, it shouldn’t be! You’ll do permanent damage if you carry on like that.”
Now she was really starting to annoy me. It was my voice; I knew what was right for it. I said, “I’ve been singing that way ever since I can remember. It hasn’t done it any harm.”
“Not yet, maybe. But if you continue singing full out, without any kind of training—”
“Judy Garland sang flat out!” It was one of the things I knew about her. I knew quite a lot, as a matter of fact; I’d once watched a programme with Nan: Judy Garland the Legend. “She was famous for always giving her best.”
“Yes, and she had great problems with her voice as she grew older. Take it from me! I know what I’m talking about. You can still give of your best without straining your vocal chords. It’s a question of technique… I could teach you, if you wanted.”
I knew I ought to be gracious, and thank her very kindly, but sometimes I get embarrassed when people offer to do things for me – specially when I’m not quite sure what it is they’re offering. I mean… Mum couldn’t afford for me to have singing lessons!
I mumbled that that was all right; I wasn’t aiming to be an opera singer. Maybe – through embarrassment – I said opera in a sneery kind of way, cos she raised both her pencilled eyebrows into her wrinkly old forehead and said, “So for any other kind of singer it doesn’t matter if they ruin their voice? Is that what you’re telling me? But surely a singer is a singer no matter what! Or maybe you consider your sort of singing to be in some way inferior? In other words, as far as you’re concerned, the voice is of no importance?”
That wasn’t what I was saying! How dare she put words in my mouth? I gulped down the rest of my minty tea and shoved the cup back on the tray. Then I stood up and grabbed my guitar.
“Oh,” she said, “are you leaving now?”
“Gotta get back,” I said. “Gotta get Mum’s dinner.”
“Well, think about what I said.”
As I made for the door I stopped and looked again at one of the photos. “Is that you?” I said. “Are you Liliana…” I hesitated.
“Pruszynski.” Pru-shinsky. “Born plain Lilian Banks, in Manchester. Pruszynski is my married name. You can call me Mrs P.”
Why should she think I wanted to call her anything? It wasn’t likely I’d be seeing her again.
“Thank you for the tea,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said. “Hearing you sing was a pleasure.”
It’s funny, cos she was just an ancient old woman, but when she said that it gave me a real buzz. She’d obviously been someone, in her time; she knew what she was talking about. I did have a voice! I could become a star!
I strode back across the paved area, past the flowering shrubs and the benches full of old people, with my guitar slung over my shoulder, feeling that even if I wasn’t yet a star, I was a professional. I’d made money! I’d made at least twelve pounds.
I decided that before catching the bus home I’d go into Marks & Spencer and see if I could find something nice for Mum. Something in the food department. She hardly ever buys stuff from M&S cos she says it’s too expensive, but she really does like it; and for some reason I suddenly had this great feeling of fondness for her and wanted to make her happy. I dunno! Maybe it was guilt. Anyway, I bought a big fruit tart covered in cherries and grapes, and tiny little bits of orange and melon. I thought she’d enjoy that. She couldn’t say that fruit tart was fattening. I mean, fruit… it’s supposed to be good for you.
While I was waiting for Mum to come in I had a text message. It was from Josh, telling me that he was off to Malta to visit his grandparents. He often does that during school holidays. If it was anyone but Josh I would be dead jealous, but he never brags, like some people do. Like when Marigold went to New York one time. God, we never heard the end of it! Normally he’d have called me and we’d have chatted, but after the way I’d yelled at him I felt grateful to hear from him at all.
I texted back, Have fun Carmen xxx. I was just so relieved that I hadn’t
turned him against me. Unlike Indy. I had a horrible feeling Indy might never want to speak to me again, after the way I’d treated her. Suppose she became best friends with Connie and I got squeezed out? I couldn’t bear it! I knew I ought to call her and apologise. I just couldn’t quite get brave enough. If only she’d had a mobile, or was on email! It would have been so much easier.
In the end I decided I would wait until half term was over. If Indy hadn’t called me by then, I would definitely call her. And definitely apologise. Definitely.
Mum came home at six o’clock. Her eyes lit up when she saw the table all ready and laid. “Oh, how lovely! You’ve done it again. You’re spoiling me!”
“I just took stuff out the fridge,” I said.
“Yes, yes, that’s fine! What’s this?” She nodded at the fruit tart. “Where did that come from?”
I said, “Marks & Spencer.”
“But who bought it? You bought it?”
“I thought you’d like it,” I said. “It’s fruit.”
“It looks scrummy! But what were you doing in Marks & Spencer?”
“I went down there after school,” I said. “I wanted to look in HMV.” More lies. Now that I’d started, I didn’t seem able to stop. “I thought you’d like something special for your tea… as a treat.”
It did make me feel a bit bad when Mum gave me this big hug and said how it was a lovely thought and she really appreciated it. Mum doesn’t give hugs all that often. Nan and me were always kissing and cuddling, but Mum is quite an enclosed sort of person.
“Well, it’s my turn next,” she said. “I’ll pop out in my lunch break tomorrow and get us something really wicked… how about a raspberry pavlova?”
I said, “Wow!” She knows how I hanker after raspberry pavlovas. “All that cream and meringue?”
Mum giggled. “I know, it’s shocking! Very unhealthy. But once won’t hurt you… and I think you deserve it.”
Needless to say, that made me feel worse than ever. But I still wasn’t going back to school!
CHAPTER SIX
Next day was Saturday, which meant I was now officially on half term. Mum had to work, same as usual, so I thought I might as well take my guitar and go into town and do a bit more singing. After yesterday, I had got quite a taste for it. Not just for earning money; I’d still have done it even if I hadn’t earned a penny, though it is good to feel that you are appreciated. It wasn’t like I’d asked people to put anything in my doggy bowl. Nobody could accuse me of begging. They’d only done it because they thought I was worth it. I’d kept them entertained, and this was their way of thanking me, showing that they had enjoyed my performance. I think that is as much as anyone can ask.
Marigold would probably have turned up her nose and said they were all old, like being old meant they didn’t count. It was true that if I’d done rock songs instead of show tunes they’d probably have clapped their hands over their ears and complained about the noise, and the lyrics, and said how it wasn’t proper music, but I still had this great surging buzz of satisfaction when I saw their faces break into big beams, and they all fell silent, just sitting there listening. To me! I didn’t even mind – well, I did a little bit. But not too much – when they opened their mouths and started trying to sing along, in their quavery voices all out of tune. I didn’t care that they were old and that I wasn’t singing my sort of song. I had them hooked, and that was all that mattered. They were under my spell!
It may seem a funny thing to say, but I can’t ever imagine wanting to do drugs, or even drink alcohol. Why would I want to, when I can just get up and sing? I thought at first, when I left home that morning, that I wouldn’t go back to Sheepscombe, I’d take a different bus and go a bit further afield. After all, I didn’t want to be singing the same songs all over again to the same people; I needed a change of audience. But then a number twenty came along, and that is the bus for Sheepscombe, and before I knew what I was doing I had jumped on it and stayed on it, and once I got there I couldn’t really think of any place to stand except the paved area opposite M&S, where I’d stood before. I mean, there just isn’t anywhere else that’s suitable. With any luck, the old lady – Mrs P, as she’d said to call her – would stay indoors, snoozing in one of her pale green chairs on her dark green carpet, which was what an old lady should do. She’d been out yesterday, she didn’t need to come out again. I didn’t want her to come, bullying and bossing me and going on about straining my voice. All the same, I kept a sharp lookout, just in case.
By midday, when she hadn’t put in an appearance, I told myself that I could relax; she obviously wasn’t coming. That was good. That was what I wanted. I didn’t need any bossy old person nagging at me. At the same time I had this curious feeling of having been let down, which didn’t make any sense at all.
I was just deciding that I might as well pack up and go home when I saw her, tottering across from the bus station. Immediately I began on another song, one of Nan’s favourites from My Fair Lady, but instead of belting it out, full throttle, like I normally would, I made this determined effort to hold myself back. I swooned it, and crooned it, making my voice drip like honey. Rather revolting, to my way of thinking. But I did it just to show her! I didn’t have to be Judy Garland; I could be slow and slurpy, if that was what she wanted.
She stood listening, with her head to one side, her beady eyes fixed on my face. When I’d finished, she came up to me and said, “Dear me! What was that all about?”
I said somewhat rebelliously that I was resting my voice. “Like you told me to!”
She smiled at that, and shook her head. “How long have you been here this morning?”
“Not long.” It was true, I hadn’t arrived till nearly eleven.
“Quite long enough,” she said, “I am sure – especially after yesterday’s marathon. How would it be if I were to offer you some lunch?”
I hesitated. There was one part of me that wanted to get all haughty and on its high horse and say, “Thank you, but I am meeting my boyfriend.” Then there was another part which was just dying to go back and have another look at all the photographs and posters and hear the old woman tell me again that my voice was a special gift.
“If you’re worried that you haven’t earned enough money…” She poked delicately at the coins in my doggy bowl with the tip of her walking stick.
“No!” I stooped, and snatched the bowl up. “I’m not doing it for the money.”
“Ah! Well, that’s good to know. Come, then! Let us go and eat.”
Mum would really have approved of the stuff she gave us for lunch. Stuffed vine leaves, with cherry tomatoes, followed by some kind of fruit salad with all exotic kinds of fruits. Passion fruit and kiwi fruit, and some I didn’t even know the name of. I bet she got it from M&S! She looked like the sort of person that would shop there.
“A light lunch, I know,” she said, “but you can’t sing on a full stomach.”
I told her that actually I was probably going to go home. “I wasn’t going to do any more today.”
“Oh, not out there,” she said. “I agree! But in here, for me. I thought maybe a few scales… unless, of course, you have something else planned?”
I would so like to have been a bit sophisticated! A bit cool and casual. I suppose I could always stay on just a little while longer, if you really want… Instead, I heard my voice eagerly assuring her that I had nothing whatsoever planned and would love to do some scales.
As a matter of fact, scales were quite fun. I enjoyed doing scales! What I wasn’t so keen on were the breathing exercises. They were quite boring, and I didn’t see why I needed them.
“I never run out of breath!”
She still insisted. She made me lie on the floor and relax, taking in great lungfuls of air and holding them, then putting my hands on my waist so that I could feel my diaphragm.
“Do you feel how it goes in and out? That’s the muscle which supports your voice. It’s very important it should be kept
in trim. A flabby diaphragm is no good to anyone!”
She said that if I were really serious about being a singer, I should get into the habit of doing breathing exercises “every single day”. I think I must have looked at her in some kind of disbelief cos she said, “It’s up to you. I know you think I’m just a bossy old harridan, but one of these days you’ll thank me. Now, tell me who your favourite singers are!”
That was better. I scrambled to my feet and said eagerly that my favourite male singer was Darrin O’Shea, the lead vocalist with Urban Legend, and my favourite female singer was Topaze, who sings with Chain Reaction. She hadn’t heard of either of them! She hadn’t even heard of the bands.
“Oh, my dear,” she said, “I’m old, I’m out of touch! In my day we didn’t have rock and roll. Tell me what it is you like about these two singers.”
I said, “Well… Darrin O’Shea is just, like—” The hottest thing on two legs! Only I wasn’t quite brave enough to say so. “He’s got this really great voice,” I said. “And Topaze used to go to my school and is just absolutely amazing! If I could be like anyone, it would be her.”
Some hopes! Considering she’s a) black and b) beautiful and c) slim.
“I know it’s just a dream,” I said. “I know I can’t ever really be like Topaze. But I might be a second Judy Garland. I wouldn’t sing her sort of songs, but I think I might be the same sort of singer.”
Mrs P was giving me that look, with her head to one side, her bright bird eyes blinking.
“It puzzles me,” she said, “why you would aspire to be like someone else. Why should you want to be second? Why not be first? Why not be you?”
I said, “Oh, well, yes! I want to be me. But you have to have a role model.”
“There can be people you admire,” she said. “I have no quarrel with that. But never lose sight of the essential you! You have your own very special qualities, and those are what you should concentrate on.”