by Gill Hornby
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For my mother
And each town looks the same to me, the movies and the factories.
And ev’ry stranger’s face I see reminds me that I long to be
Homeward bound.
Simon and Garfunkel
Her eye caught the clock: half past five. She felt the stirrings of a familiar low-level panic and put her foot down. It wasn’t that she was late—she was never late; prided herself on it—it was just that there weren’t enough hours in the day. And the governors’ meeting dragged over just those few extra vital minutes. Still, if she really belted, she should be there just about on time. Well, she had to be and that was that. The electric piano and all the sheet music were right there on the back seat. They could hardly start without her.
The rain pounded onto the windscreen. It had been pounding on and off all day, now she thought about it, but she had been dodging around, running into one thing and out of another, and it hadn’t really mattered. Until now. Her panic moved up another notch. Now, it really mattered. Oh please. It couldn’t rain on them tonight. Not tonight of all nights. They had to be out in that High Street and they had to sing. Tonight was crucial. The future of their choir depended on it.
What were they actually going to sing, though? It had been such a busy week, she hadn’t quite got round to working that bit out. Should they kick off with something from the musicals? Not the Sound of Music medley, for God’s sake. She was desperately, subtly, trying to bury that one but it wasn’t easy. They did not exactly embrace change, her lot. She smiled, shaking her head. What about Les Mis? Had she even packed the Les Mis? She turned and looked behind her, reached an arm to the pile on the back seat–just at the moment that a lorry pulled out and flung around her a curtain of spray. And when she turned back, it was to find the whole world was now invisible. Then she was spinning… spinning… spinning… quite out of control…
At ten to six, Tracey was, as usual, steering her way through the tunnelling that would take her up to the surface of the earth. Even on a good evening it took a while to get out of the car park. She always used those few minutes to select the soundtrack for the journey home–an eye on the bumper in front, a hand rifling through the CDs on the passenger seat. According to Billy, this was the last car to drive across the First World with such a prehistoric sound system. He was always on at her about it, like she was an Amish, or Fred Flintstone. He didn’t seem to notice that they would need to win the lottery just to upgrade to central locking. And anyway if he wanted Tracey’s opinion–yes, if–the CD player was the best thing about this car. It gave a physical dimension, an extra sensation, to her music that advanced electronics denied her. Here in the excellent Flintmobile she could still touch it, spread it out, sift through the albums of the gods of rock like a jeweller her diamonds… And tonight, it looked like she would have even more time to play with than usual. She settled in to the long slow queue for the barrier and set about making her choice.
‘Here.’ The parking attendant knocked on her window. ‘Something’s up.’ She wound it down. ‘It’s terrible out there tonight. Keep away from Bridgeford if you can help it.’
‘Ugh,’ Tracey tried to say, but nothing came out. ‘Wish I could.’ She cleared her throat. ‘But thanks…’
She slumped back against the car seat and clutched at her hair. She’d already put up with a bog-standard, run-of-the-mill, utterly dehumanisingly normal day at ONS Systems–emails, contracts, emails about contracts–sitting alone, sit-offishly, in the corner. She coughed again–her vocal cords were in serious danger of atrophy. There had been a ‘Bless you’ to a sneezing junior and a twenty-second sing-song for a birthday–it being the office and there being the law of averages, it was bound to be somebody’s birthday–but apart from that, nothing. She needed–she really, properly needed–to hear the sound of her own voice. Something shouty, that was what she wanted tonight–straightforward and shouty. She found just the disc, flicked it out of its cover and into the machine and waited. The driver of the car ahead stopped to take on a couple more passengers; windows opened, hands stuck out, fingers waved. Someone called, another laughed; Tracey growled. At last, it was her turn. She passed through the barrier, back into the world and pressed Play. ‘Meat Loaf,’ she announced, ‘you may escort me home.’
… paradise by the dashboard light
Tracey emerged and scanned the dark sky. It throbbed with the rhythmic blue of the emergency lights but was giving no sign of what sort of day she had missed. Tracey, as usual, had no clue. They didn’t really go in for weather at ONS: it didn’t bother them, so they didn’t bother with it. The enormous metal-box structure had its own climate, permanently set to ‘very pleasant’; a little patch of northern California, just handy for the M4. Still, the roads were sodden, it was the middle of England in the depths of winter: it could only have been grim.
She took to the slip-road, thumping on the steering wheel, singing–bellowing–along until she came out to the roundabout and a sudden stop. Craning her neck to look ahead, Tracey saw straight up and into the van in the next lane. Three young blokes, all lined up on the front seat, still in their overalls, were laughing away at her. So she shouted a bit louder. Not what they expected from a woman in her forties dressed in her sensible office clothes? Didn’t they like it from someone old enough to be their mum? Just because she didn’t look like a rocker, didn’t mean she wasn’t a rocker. She stuck out her tongue, showing them her stud, pressed it to the window and pulled her Ozzy Osbourne face. She might even have mooned them, but then they inched forward and her sport was over.
‘Oh, come on.’
Nearly twenty years she had been doing this commute, and it generally pulled some sort of trick on her at least once a week. It had caused her no end of trouble in the past–especially when Billy was little–and yet she had never been tempted to look for some sort of job on her own doorstep. Living in Bridgeford was dismal enough; she couldn’t possibly work there, too. It might not be exactly exciting coming out here every day but it did at least throw in another dimension to her existence, increase her imprint upon the earth, just a bit. Tracey tried to imagine her days and years without it and felt a shiver–her whole life would seem such a little thing. She leaned forward, switched off Meat Loaf and fiddled with the tuner.
Officially, Tracey never listened to Dave at Drivetime–soft pop and local radio being, obviously, landmarks in the Valley of Musical Death. Unofficially, though, she had to tune in quite often for the traffic updates, so she always made sure to keep her guard up. For the more vulnerable listeners, the traffic update could just be a dangerous beginning, like a gateway drug. Tracey worried about them, innocently tuning in to hear about a pile-up on the A-whatever and suddenly find themselves filling their brains with all that other stuff: humming along to Maroon 5, smiling dopily to a bit of Michael Bublé… She shook her head in sorrow. Of course, that could never happen to her, but still, even as she waited her own brain was being filled with ‘News from Your Neighbourhood’. ‘Ugh, please, spare us,’ she muttered, drumming her fingers on the gearstick.
‘… the demonstration tomorrow night at the proposed site of the new superstore planned on the London Road…’
>
That reminded her: she needed to stock up the fridge yet again. The sooner they built a superstore the better, and London Road would be very convenient. She would be able to swoop in on the way home without battling into town, so let them get on with it. Honestly, of all the things to protest about. Third World hunger all sorted then, was it? World peace in the bag? People round here could do with some real problems.
An air ambulance clattered into the sky and one by one the cars ahead of her started to move.
‘… recruitment drive. Yes, the Community Choir has announced that they are going BACK to the County Championships this year after a few quiet seasons. And this time they are in it to win it for your town. But they really need some new voices. So come on, you lot. We know you’re out there. All you belters of Bridgeford…’
Tracey hooted as, at last, she shifted up into second gear. ‘Belters of Bridgeford!’ There was an image. She must remember to tell Billy when she got home. They would have a right laugh at that one.
She crawled on to the motorway–past the wreckage piled on the hard shoulder, the flashing lights, the police in high-vis jackets and the traffic cones–and pulled out into the middle lane.
‘Where can she have got to?’ asked Annie. ‘Let me try her again…’
‘What are we going to do?’ worried an alto.
‘We’ll just have to start without her,’ shrugged Lewis, stamping his feet to keep warm.
‘Without her?’ echoed a soprano. ‘Sing? Without Constance?’
The Choir had arranged to meet outside the supermarket at six o’clock, but it was now quarter-past, the turn-out was still low and even their leader wasn’t there yet. She was always a little bit late, but not quite this late. Annie fiddled in her bag for her phone as she scanned the dark High Street and the damp Market Square. All the other shops were shut: most just for the evening, of course, although a few had closed for good in the weeks since Christmas. The rain had just stopped, so the usual kids were back in their customary position on the war memorial, waiting out the years, swigging out of tins, until they could get served in the pub. Otherwise, there was almost nobody around. She dialled Connie’s number again, listened to the tone, frowned and shook her head: it really was quite out of character. Still, Lewis was right: they were here now and they would have to carry on regardless. Annie tried to put on the sort of inspirational, mood-changing, charismatic leader’s voice that Constance always used. ‘Shall we start?’
It had seemed like such a good idea after choir practice, but then everything seemed like a good idea after choir practice: they always came out on a high. Even with their sadly depleted membership they still sounded so amazing to themselves that at the end of every number they burst into wild, spontaneous applause. There might not be many of them at the Tuesday-night session in the Coronation Hall, but it always felt electric, ground-breaking, a whole new dawn for music–like the opening night of Cats.
So when Constance announced her recruitment drive, it had seemed the easiest thing in the world. All they had to do was get out there and put on a cracking performance to the hundreds of potential new young members and there they would be, back to the highest levels of competition standard, like they were in the glory days. To be fair, even in that atmosphere of buoyant self-confidence, nobody had actually suggested a proper concert. They knew, from the past few attempts, that the whole bookings-and-tickets-and-bums-on-seats thing was not exactly the right vehicle for the Community Choir at the present moment and they had accepted that. Well, most of them had. There was still a little residual bitterness in some sections after that rather grim business with ‘The Magic of Les Mis’. But they did agree that if Bridgeford wouldn’t come in for the music, then the music should go out to Bridgeford, and so here they were. They shuffled into a semicircle. Annie clung to its outer edge.
A bit of everything, that was what they had decided on for tonight’s showcase. They were, as Connie was fond of saying, an eclectic bunch and Lewis, one of their more outspoken members, did like his folk music. He stepped forward and raised his hands. Annie–she had perfect pitch; town tuning-fork was one of her many voluntary roles–hummed the note and they began.
Earl-y one mo-or-ning, just as the sun was ri-i-sing
They sang up and out into the empty night. A few members had argued in favour of a lunchtime event, but they were all the sort of people who were out of town all week working, and had no real understanding of how nearly everybody these days was out of town all week working. It was in a perfect position, Bridgeford, handy for everything–and that was its problem. There was an excellent train service and a choice selection of arterial roads and only the residents left behind who didn’t get on one or other of them, like Annie, could really understand quite how they sucked the life-blood out of the place every single day.
So they came up with this idea, to catch the commuters on their way home, and the last-minute shoppers popping in to what was still, just, the only supermarket. And everyone did agree that Bridgeford was at its best in the evening. A bit of darkness did the town centre a favour. You couldn’t immediately see that most of the shops sold only posh knick-knacks or second-hand clothes, that the bakery was now a tattoo parlour, that the gutters were full of scratch-cards. Of course, it didn’t do quite as good a job as snow. Bridgeford in the snow was Annie’s absolute favourite–when you couldn’t tell which century it was or even if it was the real world; you could pretend you lived in a period drama. Shame it only happened once a year. But still, the dark nearly did the trick. Standing out here, they could almost, at a pinch, through a squint, kid themselves it was the 1950s.
… a po-or maiden so?
It was always a little dispiriting to finish a song to no applause whatsoever. But onwards and upwards and they decided to do musicals next. There was a little hiatus, as they all had to change positions, even Katie in her wheelchair. Lewis came forward, fiddled about with the brakes and tucked the rug around his daughter’s knees. Once that was sorted, it was time for Maria’s big moment. The rest stood back in deference as she pointed her mouth towards the streetlamp, took careful aim and belted:
Sum-mertiiiiiiiiiiime
And the liv-ing is…
Maria’s soulful performance had brought tears to the eyes of past audiences. Tonight, though, all that could be heard was that ugly, barking laughter peculiar to the adolescent boy–half man, half sea-lion–slicing through the beauty of the song.
Over on the war memorial they were, rather deliberately, seeing the funny side. The boys were pretend-fishing, the girls were lying back for a sunbath. Annie’s spirits sank a little further. It might not be the perfect set for a Wednesday night in January, but it was still the best set they could come up with for a Wednesday night in January. That was what happened when you did something for everyone–not everything was perfect. Anyway, what was the alternative? No singing at all? Was that what these people really wanted?
There was a deep rumble as the 6.18 pulled out of the station and the first consignment of commuters started to rush through. Most of them kept their heads down and their eyes averted; several crossed the road; a few took leaflets, but then dumped them in the bin down the street, by the cashpoint. Annie watched Jazzy, in her waitress uniform, standing at the door of the Copper Kettle, leaning on a broom, looking deeply unimpressed. She just caught the retreating back of a chap in a suit–now who was that?–carrying one large potato and pressing past in a hurry. Like everyone else around, he was not in the mood for music tonight. They were all just desperate to get home.
One of the many beautiful things about a choir of long standing is that the members can develop a telepathy, a corporate sixth sense–as Annie, who had been one of the Choir for over thirty years, understood only too well. She knew what it felt like, to be able to sense what your colleagues are thinking while they are singing. And she knew that, right then, what they were thinking was: this is a right waste of time.
Tracey signalled and turned left on
to the High Street, towards the shop. They were bound to be low on bread and milk, they always were–Billy had, apparently, to consume one or other at all times simply to stay alive. It was but one of the many similarities between having a young adult son and keeping a baby bird. Billy was, basic ally, a baby bird just on an epic scale. She parked across the road from the supermarket and reached down for her bag. The 6.18 was just leaving, and there was a rush of commuters walking through, so she did not immediately notice that there was a small crowd over there. In fact, she was dangerously close to getting out of the car and walking straight into them. She might have had to listen or talk to someone or accept a leaflet or something. Thank God she spotted them just in time. She sank back into her car seat, locked the car for good measure: safe. Trapped, but safe.
She couldn’t quite work out what was going on at first. Bridgeford was famously–or not at all famously–the town where nothing happened, and yet clearly something was happening right in front of her this very evening. Her mind ran through the most obvious options–hunger riot; extremist political rally; wild midwinter Home Counties Mardi Gras–until the truth finally hit her. They were the actual belters of Bridgeford. And, what’s more, they were actually belting. What were the chances? This was her lucky night.
A home-made sign was propped precariously in the corner of a young woman’s wheelchair: THE BRIDGEFORD COMMUNITY CHOIR, it said. Hardly, thought Tracey. She would concede they were in Bridgeford, but ‘choir’ was pushing it. And as for ‘community’, well… who did they think they were kidding? This was not exactly a representative sample: it was mostly women, for a start, and they all looked pretty ancient; well, certainly middle-aged. Tracey peered more closely. The few that she recognised straight off, she knew to be certifiably bonkers. There was that swimming teacher who put Billy off water for good, and the weirdo who ran Cubs, and the woman who poured tea at Outpatients–and that was just the front row.