by Liz Eeles
‘We’re fine, thanks,’ says Kayla, licking chocolate crumbs from her bottom lip.
‘Where are you from? You don’t sound like you’re from round here.’
‘Australia. I’ve been in Salt Bay for a while and work in the pub, but I don’t think we’ve ever met.’
‘I can’t be doing with the pub these days, not since Roger took it over and changed things round. Cecilia, my wife, used to enjoy a lime and lemonade in there but she’s not here any more.’ He pauses and wipes his eyes with a grubby handkerchief. ‘What did you want to say to me, then? I haven’t got all day.’
He’s a curmudgeonly old soul but I like Mr Barnley, and the frayed collar of his creased shirt is breaking my heart. I’m not saying it’s a wife’s job to do the ironing and buy her husband’s new shirts – I haven’t slipped through a wormhole back to the 1950s. But there’s something poignant about a dishevelled widower. They look so… lost.
Kayla is perching on the edge of Mr Barnley’s tiny sofa and I take a seat next to her.
‘We’re hoping to relaunch the Salt Bay Choral Society. We think it would be good for the village. But first we want to check that relatives of choir members who died in the Great Storm wouldn’t mind.’
‘There aren’t many people directly affected left in the village now. Susan lives in County Durham. She wanted me to move up there with her when Cecilia died but I didn’t want to leave here. This is where Cecilia and I lived all our married life. Did you know Cecilia?’ asks Mr Barnley, looking confused.
‘Sadly, no,’ I say gently. ‘I’ve only recently come to Salt Bay.’
‘And how’s your grandmother?’
‘I’m afraid she died.’
‘That’s a shame.’ Mr Barnley shifts in his chair and squints at me. ‘Did you say your mother is Joanna Trebarwith? You look very like her, apart from your eyes. What’s she doing now?’
‘She died too.’ I’m beginning to feel like the Grim Reaper, reeling off a list of people who’ve passed away. I’m tempted to ask Mr Barnley for his memories of my mum, but Kayla nudges me in the ribs. ‘We won’t take up much more of your time, Mr Barnley, if you could let us know how you feel about us restarting the choir. We’d be very respectful about the men who were lost.’
‘You can do what you like. I don’t care much either way because it won’t bring them back.’ He rubs a thick finger across a photo of Benjamin and Peter on the sideboard next to him, and dust swirls into the air. Suddenly his demeanour changes and he looks agitated. ‘I’m going to have my dinner now so you need to leave.’ After pulling himself out of his chair, he leads me and Kayla through the dark hallway and pulls the front door open as far as a pile of unopened post and flyers will allow.
‘Thank you, Mr Barnley, for seeing us and I hope talking about the choral society didn’t upset you. I left your magazine on the sofa.’
‘Yeah, thank you,’ mumbles Kayla, standing on the front doorstep.
A thought strikes me when Mr Barnley turns to retreat back into his dark, lonely house. ‘You said that you belonged to the old choral society. Why don’t you come along to the new one? You’d be very welcome.’
‘I don’t get out much.’ He tugs at the bottom of his cardigan, which is done up on the wrong buttons, and closes the door in our faces.
I’m half-expecting Kayla to grumble about rude old folk, seeing as she’s in a mood today, but she’s quiet all the way to the harbour. The sea’s calm today, a gently undulating sheet reflecting the grey sky, and we sit on the harbour wall for a while, dangling our legs over the water.
‘You were right,’ she blurts out at last, kicking her heels against the smooth, cold stone.
‘I’m always right.’
‘Ha, no really, you were right to insist that we check with people like Mr Barnley about setting up the choir again. Poor old bugger, living in that house on his own with only his memories for company. I was choked up when he talked about his grandsons.’ She gazes at the grey horizon and sniffs. ‘But he seems all right with us going ahead which is good news. What about the widow that Alice phoned?’
‘She was going to let me know if Mrs Pawley was against the idea, and she hasn’t said anything.’
‘So it’s all systems go and the auditions can go ahead tomorrow. That’s fantastic.’ She gives a huge beaming grin and throws a stone, which plops beneath the waves. ‘Don’t look so worried, Annie. Just channel your inner Gareth Malone and this choir is going to be amazing.’
Chapter 16
The auditions are being held in the back room of The Whistling Wave and I get there early on Friday evening to help get things organised. The small room smells of stale beer and has a sticky carpet but there’s a battered piano in the corner and people can audition in private. Kayla has already placed a table at the end of the room along with paper and pencils, for us to make notes, presumably.
‘This is so exciting’, she gushes, breezing in and giving me a once-over. I’ve made an effort tonight, ditching my jeans in favour of a fitted, periwinkle-blue dress from Monsoon and putting on mascara and lipstick. ‘You look nice. That dress matches your eyes and makes you look sexy. You’d better keep away from Roger.’
On cue, Roger shuffles in and sits at the table which I notice has three chairs. Kayla shrugs her shoulders and grins. ‘He insisted on being a judge if we’re using the pub.’
‘We’re not judges. This is an audition, not a competition,’ I hiss, but Kayla is already at the door calling in the first victim.
A young nerdy-looking lad in torn jeans sidles in and stands awkwardly in front of us. He grunts hello at Kayla who announces, ‘This is Tom from Trecaldwith,’ before picking up her pencil and tapping it on the paper in front of her.
‘How old are you, Tom?’ I ask.
‘Eighteen.’
‘Do you enjoy singing?’
‘I guess.’ Tom blushes to the roots of his straggly, brown hair and looks at the floor.
‘What are you going to sing for us?’
‘“Halo” by Beyoncé.’
‘Bold choice!’ says Roger, sitting back and folding his arms. ‘When you’re ready.’
Tom pulls his mobile phone from his pocket, touches the screen and Beyoncé’s voice floods out. He closes his eyes and starts to sing along, faintly and hesitantly at first. But his voice is sweet and clear and when he gets caught up in the music, he sings more strongly. His body sways slightly in time to the beat as he forgets the daily embarrassments of being an awkward teenager with too much testosterone and too little confidence. When Tom sings, he becomes sure and strong, which is why I love music and its transformative powers. You can keep your sex and drugs, give me rock ’n’ roll any day.
When Tom finishes singing, he starts fidgeting.
‘Was that all right?’
He’s twisting his phone over and over in his hands and looks so anguished I want to leap up and give him a hug.
‘That was lovely, Tom. Thank you so much. You’ll be fantastic in the choir.’
‘We’ll let you know,’ interrupts Kayla. ‘Have you left your mobile number and email address on the list outside?’
Tom nods and I show him out of the room, whispering as I open the door, ‘That was brilliant singing. You’re definitely in.’ He gives me a big grin, hoicks up his jeans over the top of his black pants and scurries out of the pub.
When I get back to the table, Kayla stops drawing a tick next to Tom’s name on her sheet of paper and gives me a stern look.
‘We can’t tell people tonight if they’re in the choir or not. We’ll contact everyone over the weekend.’
‘Or we could let everyone in who fancies joining the choir.’
‘What, everyone?’ snorts Kayla. ‘We want this choir to be good, don’t we?’
I thought the whole idea of resurrecting the choir was for the good of the local community. But perhaps Kayla has a point because the next few people who audition aren’t as good as Tom. They’re not awful but getti
ng them to sing in tune could be challenging, and Roger keeps writing ‘shite’ on his piece of paper.
‘Just two more people to go,’ says Kayla, opening the door and beckoning the next person in. She stays where she is and flattens herself against the door frame so the man in blue jeans with bulky thighs has to brush against her to get into the room. Oh, for goodness’ sake, it’s Ollie. Kayla walks back to her seat with her hips swaying and starts sucking the end of her pencil in a frankly provocative manner.
Ollie stands before us in full Greek-god mode with straw-blonde hair falling across his forehead and upper-arm muscles bulging through his sweatshirt.
‘So why are you here, Ollie?’ Kayla’s voice has gone all twenty-cigs-a-day husky.
‘I’m always singing and I love it; always have done and always will. Everyone knows that.’
‘Do they?’ I glance at Kayla who stares steadfastly ahead. ‘What are you going to sing for us?’
‘I’m going to sing the Adele song, “Make You Feel My Love”. Does that sound OK?’
‘That sounds fucking fantastic,’ drools Kayla, elbows on the table and chin in her hands.
Sadly, though Ollie loves his singing surely to God no one else does. He’s incredibly flat, so much so that it’s hard to fathom how something so ugly can come out of such a beautiful mouth.
When he finishes, there’s a stunned silence before Kayla claps and jumps in ahead of Roger who’s itching to give his opinion.
‘That’s amazing Ollie. I’ll be in touch about the choir over the weekend so look out for a text or email from me. That’s Kayla: K-A-Y-L-A. Or I might give you a call. Or we can meet up so I can let you know in person.’
‘Uh, OK. That’ll be good.’ Ollie leaves the room, looking puzzled.
‘He’s in.’ Kayla puts a large tick next to Ollie’s name and draws a little heart while Roger licks the end of his pencil and writes ‘absolute shite’.
‘Tell me the truth; is he the main reason you suggested re-forming the choir?’ I whisper so Roger won’t hear.
‘Absolutely not. Definitely not. No way. Not the main reason. I didn’t even know he liked singing,’ blusters Kayla, picking up her list and scanning down the names. ‘Good grief, it’s Jennifer next so get out your earplugs. She’s the last one.’
Josh didn’t come along with Ollie. That’s great. Really great, because I was worried he might want to be in the choir. And then he’d be all snippy about my skills as a choir leader and I’d have to ban him for insubordination which would cause all sorts of problems. So the fact he doesn’t want to be in the choir is fantastic news. I pull down my dress which is riding up over my thighs and wish I’d worn my jeans which are far more comfortable.
Kayla is only half-way to the door when it’s flung open and Jennifer stomps in, looking flustered and cross. A young girl is scampering along behind her.
‘I’ve been waiting for ages and have had to put up with Peter Seegrass and his friends who have had far too much to drink and are making inappropriate jokes. It’s not acceptable.’
‘We’re very sorry, Jennifer. We’ve had more people auditioning than we expected.’
‘Yes, well it’s not very well organised,’ she sniffs at me, riffling through her handbag for sheet music that she hands to the girl who has long, blonde plaits and can’t be more than twelve.
‘What are you going to sing?’ asks Kayla, sounding totally uninterested now Ollie has left the building.
‘Mozart’s “Laudate dominum”.’
‘Blimey! Are you sure?’ It’s one of my favourite pieces of classical music but terribly hard to sing and only usually attempted by a professional.
‘Of course.’ Jennifer looks affronted that I’ve dared to question her musical judgement and barks at the girl who’s sitting at the piano, ‘Michaela, are you ready?’ Michaela blinks rapidly and starts to play as Jennifer takes a deep breath and I prepare for Mozart to be mangled.
The funny thing is that Jennifer doesn’t sound like Jennifer when she sings. Talking in the shop, she sounds like your average middle-aged Cornish woman. But when she starts singing, Jennifer has the voice of an angel. An angel floating on a cloud of marshmallows in a sky made of spun sugar.
‘Bloody hell!’ whispers Kayla, her mouth falling open, and Roger’s pencil clatters to the floor as he sits bolt upright. I’m finding it hard not to cry every time Jennifer hits a high note with crystal-clear precision and we’re not the only ones who are gobsmacked. The door opens a crack and a couple of men peep their heads round to listen to Salt Bay’s answer to Susan Boyle giving Mozart some welly.
As the final note dies away, we all clap like mad and Jennifer smiles and bows like we’re a proper audience.
‘Where the hell did you learn to sing like that?’ splutters Roger.
‘At the Conservatoire de Paris in the early 1980s.’
‘You’re kidding.’ Roger looks bemused. ‘I didn’t know that you learned singing abroad.’
‘There’s a lot you don’t know about me and what I did before I came back to Cornwall, Roger. The world doesn’t begin and end with Salt Bay, you know,’ grumbles Jennifer, and I start to like her a little more. She snatches her music from the piano and crams it into her black Mrs Thatcher handbag. ‘Let me know when and where the choir is meeting and I’ll see if I can make it. Come on, Michaela. Your parents will think I’ve kidnapped you.’ Michaela jumps to her feet and follows Jennifer without a word.
After everyone’s gone and we’ve tidied up the room, Kayla and I find a cosy corner in the pub and look at our notes while swigging back vodkas. Roger has already handed over his written opinions which are short, to the point, and make Simon Cowell look like a pussycat.
We agree on most people, more or less, until we get to the thorny subject of Ollie. Folding my arms, I say sternly, ‘You want the choir to be good and, on that basis, Ollie doesn’t make the grade.’
‘Are you deaf? He was brilliant!’ Kayla splutters, spitting bubbles of vodka down her low-cut jumper. ‘He was at least as good as Adele; probably better.’
‘Only if you were listening with your ovaries rather than your ears.’
Kayla sketches an arrow through the love heart next to Ollie’s name.
‘Maybe I’m slightly biased but he’ll look good in the choir if we stick him in the front row and we can ask him not to sing too loudly. Or he can mime.’
‘Or we can let everyone in who wants to join the choir and then Ollie is guaranteed a place.’
‘Huh.’ Kayla stabs the paper a couple of times until her pencil lead snaps. ‘I guess we could, but only if I’m the one who gets to tell Ollie that he’s in.’
‘It’s a deal,’ I laugh, sliding the list of mobile phone numbers across the table. Kayla and I have both got what we wanted. Now all we have to do is successfully resurrect a shattered choir and bring back some joy into this subdued little corner of Cornwall. No pressure, then.
* * *
At closing time, I’m walking home with my earphones in when I get a spooky feeling that someone’s close behind me. All I can hear is Radiohead belting out ‘Creep’ but I know something’s not right when the back of my neck starts prickling. It’s happened before in edgy parts of London – Mum used to call it my spider sense – but I wasn’t expecting it in sleepy Salt Bay.
When I flick off my music, there are heavy footsteps right behind me and I can hear a man breathing heavily as though he’s been running. My first thought is that if I can survive Stratford Tube station at midnight I’ll be safe in a Cornish backwater. My second thought is that the pepper spray Maura brought me from America is in my handbag and now might be the perfect time to try it out. I’m too spooked to turn round but I pick up speed as the man’s long shadow falls across me.
Hurrying past the dimly lit village green, I start scrabbling in the bottom of my bag while the man keeps step. My fingers close round tissues, pens, keys, purse, notebook, but there’s no spray and, with an icy rush of adrenaline,
I remember decluttering my handbag yesterday and putting the spray in my suitcase. It seemed redundant in Salt Bay which is ironic now my spidey sense is on full alert.
Suddenly the man steps in front of me, blocking my way, and blood starts pounding in my ears. It’s funny what goes through your mind at moments of crisis. Eye-gouging and crotch-kicking techniques would be useful right now. But all I can think, as the man towers above me and my fingers close round my keys, is that there’s no way I’m being buried in Salt Bay and spending all eternity with Samuel Trebarwith on a wet and windy cliff top.
Just before I jab out with my keys and leg it, the broad-shouldered man tilts his head and light from a street lamp catches the contours of his face.
‘Are you going to stop and talk to me?’ he demands in a gruff Cornish accent. ‘I called when you came out of the pub but you ignored me.’
‘For goodness’ sake, I didn’t hear you because I was listening to music.’ I take deep breaths to steady myself, not sure if I’m furious that the man who’s following me is Josh Pasco or relieved that I didn’t overreact and rake my keys across his face. He’d look even more like Poldark with a scar down his cheek.
‘Are you all right?’ He moves so close the soft wool of his jumper grazes my chin and I ignore a faint flicker of disappointment that he’s fully dressed. ‘I didn’t mean to make you jump. Do you need to sit down?’
‘Of course not. I’m absolutely fine. Why did you want to speak to me?’
I’d love a sit down, actually, because my legs are still like Bambi on ice but there’s no way I’m letting on that Josh Pasco scared me. He’d probably blame it on murder rates in London and me being neurotic and we’d end up arguing. Again.
‘I’ve heard about the auditions that were held in the pub and thought you might know something about them. I saw you leaving the pub when I parked my car.’