by Gill Hornby
Tracey sat in the corner of the sofa, hugging her knees, glued to Bargain Hunt; Billy was at the table, poring over forms, poking at a calculator, a pencil behind his ear and a pen in his hand. ‘Can you turn it down a bit over there, Mum? Can’t hear myself think.’ His phone gave a whistle. ‘See?’ he said. ‘That’s Annie downstairs and we didn’t even hear the doorbell.’ He leaned over, scribbled something on the corner of a scrap of paper. ‘Do you mind letting her in?’
‘Eh?’ Tracey was mystified–cross and mystified. ‘Yes, I do mind. She’s only coming to drive me to choir like I’m bloody six. If I go, I shall walk down in a bit.’
‘Not “only”–she’s come to see me too.’ He leapt up, hitched up his jeans and called from the stairs, ‘She said she would last time I went into the library.’
They came in together, chatting–her only child and this other, trespassing woman. Tracey heard the word ‘visas’ and suddenly felt unnaturally cold. Billy walked over, picked up the remote control and killed the sound.
‘Evening,’ Annie sang.
‘What do you mean,’ Tracey was outraged, pushing herself up and out of the sofa with both hands, ‘you went to the library?’
‘Uh,’ Billy went back to the table and rifled through bits of paper, ‘I went to the library. Time was, Mum, when you were all for me going to the library.’
‘I was all for you going to the library to take out and read books in order to contribute to the broadening of your mind,’ she retorted. She had not used this tone of voice with him for years–if ever. ‘Not for this kind of stuff. It’s probably all out of date, anyway, knowing that place. If you want to do something for charity, why didn’t you just say so? We can go and see some people–proper people–who actually know what they’re talking about. Don’t bother with the library unless you want to change the habits of the last decade and actually read some bloody books.’
Annie reached into her basket. ‘So I’ve brought the books you asked for, Billy.’ She was, at least, a bit sheepish for once; Tracey would give her that. ‘That one’s got the best overview of the Rwandan genocide, and the one I was telling you about, Is That It?’
‘Cool.’ Billy leapt over and nearly snatched them from her grasp. ‘This,’ he explained to his mother like she was the village idiot, ‘is by a guy called Bob Geldof? He did this thing that Annie was telling me about called Live Aid?’
‘Did he now?’ Tracey drawled. ‘Wow, Billy. That must have been ama-zing.’
‘Oh, I’m sure Tracey knows all about Live Aid, Billy. I don’t think we need to—’
‘Well, she never told me about it.’ Billy shrugged. ‘She never talks about anything like that. It’s all heavy rock and new stuff round here, the indie-er the better. She hates old music and all that, don’t you, Mum?’
‘Ah, well, I’m not so sure she does actually—’
‘And the way she throws out old food when there’s nothing wrong with it. Don’t think she’s ever even heard of the starving in Africa…’
For what seemed a lengthy interval, Tracey stayed on the sofa, staring from one to the other with her mouth open. Then she leapt up, stormed across the room and grabbed her coat from the chair. That, she thought, wrenching the belt around her waist, it should come to this. This–this miserable domestic inter-generational conflict–was exactly what she had been trying to spare them both for the last twenty-two years. And here was Billy, the lucky spared child, firing the first shots. She slipped her feet into her shoes. During all that time, with no support–moral or otherwise–and often in the face of considerable provocation, Tracey had been determined to keep the peace. She threw a few cushions around the place, in search of her phone. Her childhood had been a torture–torture–of instructions and commands, moans and misunderstandings. For years, she had been mocked and derided about her clothes, her records, her friends. She found the mobile and chucked it into her bag. She had been forced to listen to lectures on how much better the music had been in the old days, how much worse the food, how terrible their each and every day in their separate offices and how she, Tracey, did not know she was born. And as a parent she had made a point of never saying anything like that to her child, not ever–until now.
‘Just listen to yourself, Billy Leckford.’ Tracey headed for the door–‘You don’t know what you’re bloody talking about’–and battled her way down the stairs. ‘You don’t even know you’re bloody born.’
She slammed the door and stood alone on the dirty, narrow pavement, waiting for the angry tears to subside and the shaking to stop. She wasn’t going back in there to talk to that ungrateful little sod for a bit–he could stew. And she certainly wasn’t going to be trapped in the car with that mad meddling old bat. She stood with her arms tight round her chest, looking up and down the street, first one way, then the other, trying to decide where to go and what to do. Then she tied her shoulder bag round her coat and set off for choir on foot.
The WI had been in the hall all afternoon, enjoying a Great Bridgeford Bake-off, and the atmosphere was toxic with the acrid smell of burnt oats. Annie ran around trying to help the kitchen back on the road to recovery–honestly, the WI? You would think…–but there was only so much she could do without some very powerful oven cleaner.
Leave it open, leave it open
she sang to the tune of ‘Frère Jacques’ as Judith came beaming in.
Yuk it stinks, yuk it stinks
she trilled happily as she trotted over to the chair stack. Judith seemed to be in a particularly good mood tonight.
You seem very cheerful, you seem very cheerful.
Annie, scrubbing away at the counter, studied Judith through the hatch, with a raised eyebrow and a curious smile. But then Lewis was among them:
Got bad news, got bad news.
‘Oh no!’ wailed Annie. ‘Now what?’
Mrs Coles had now been admitted to Parkway Hospital as well, with a nasty chest brought on by a late night at the Anti-Superstore Rally. She was on the same ward they were singing in the other day, the one that Connie would soon be moving down to; at least they would be together. But the tone of the evening was a little subdued as everyone came in, heard the bulletin, took their seat and wondered aloud where on earth they were going to find another accompanist–and in time for the contest, too. It was yet another blow. Only Judith seemed cheerful despite it all.
Maria was the first to spot why. ‘Judith! What is this on your finger? It’s as big as the Ritz!’
Judith flashed a stone the size of an ice cube on her left hand, and blushed almost prettily. ‘Got engaged… At the weekend. Oh, thanks… Oh, bless you… Oh, you are kind…’
‘Oh yeah?’ said Pat to Lynn. ‘Good thing we were all born yesterday.’ And then to Judith: ‘Can I just have a look at that, please, love?’ She beckoned towards the ring with an imperious manner, clearly intending to sink her teeth into the stone to check it was real. Judith looked panicked and Lynn rather nastily amused. The situation was teetering on the brink of unpleasantness when a new voice broke through the air.
‘Excuse me.’ She was tall and auburn-haired, and tapped towards the circle in vertiginous heels. ‘I’m here for the Bridgeford Community Choir.’ She flicked her long curls back. ‘I do hope I’m in the right place?’
Several men were instantly on their feet, but Lewis–moving at a speed of which nobody hitherto knew he was capable–was the first to the chair stack. He shoved Maria along and made a new space, right next to himself. ‘Come through, come through.’ He ushered her over. ‘Do, please, introduce yourself.’
Her name was Emma and she lived about ten miles away, had been a member of her local operatic society for many years but found that there had been an influx of new people, with new ideas–didn’t they all just loathe it when people got new ideas?–and she just wasn’t getting the parts she deserved any more. ‘And then I thought: That’s it. I’ve had enough. It’s their loss,’ she said brightly. ‘So here I am, to seek musical pastures
new.’
‘Welcome, welcome,’ said the basses.
‘And why us, exactly, out of all the choirs in Britain?’ asked Pat with narrowed eyes.
‘Hmm. How did we get quite so lucky?’ added Lynn.
‘I have family in Bridgeford.’ Emma directed her answers to the friendlier side of the circle. ‘They told me all about you. I don’t know if any of you know my sister, Bea—’
‘Not Mrs Stuart?’ Jazzy turned her nose up, poked out her tongue and said to Katie, ‘She used to come to the caff.’
‘—and my mother…’
‘Pamela?’ Annie’s smile was a little frozen. ‘Ah yes, lives two doors down.’
‘There we are,’ concluded Lewis. ‘Bridgeford enough for me. Shall we begin?’
‘Surely you want me to audition first?’ Emma laughed. ‘That was the other thing that went wrong at my old place, by the way. Can you believe it?’ She held both hands up and out like a Hindu goddess. ‘They stopped auditioning.’
‘Oh, we never—’ Annie began.
‘Of course,’ cut in Lewis. ‘What was I thinking? Please. Go ahead.’
Emma leapt to her feet; coming as she did from the operatic tradition, she didn’t just sing her Gilbert & Sullivan, she acted it too. That sun, whose gaze was all ablaze, was quite real, at least to her. It was somewhere up near the cobweb that Annie couldn’t reach, on the strip lighting–she kept pointing at it. Pat sighed and took out her embroidery, Lynn picked up a cruise brochure and Jazzy, who quite possibly hadn’t heard any operetta before, got the giggles.
Somehow the Choir had assumed that Emma would be treating them to just the one song. They were quite taken aback when she became one of three little maids from school, broke through the chairs and started shuffling round the hall. Katie started giggling too; the two young girls had their heads together and were whispering. The others, though, were less subtle. Emma had, it seemed, by taking herself out of the circle, made something of a tactical blunder. Once she was out of their direct line of vision, everyone lost interest. Of course, they could still hear her–pert as a schoolgirl, she was, apparently–but really, if they weren’t allowed to sing themselves, then they had the more pressing business of Judith’s engagement to be getting on with.
‘Where’s it going to be, then–this “wedding”?’ Pat was still openly sceptical.
‘Do you need a choir?’ asked Tracey. ‘With a bit of practice we could do you a mean “Lean on Me”.’
‘You could make the cake.’ Jazzy elbowed Katie.
‘That’s the thing.’ Judith sighed, her left hand to her face. ‘It might have to be abroad…’
Going to abroa-oad and she’s
Going to be ma-a-a-rried…
Maria drowned out Emma for a moment.
‘Oh, shame,’ Annie was a bit sad, ‘not to do it in Bridgeford, really, when you’ve lived here all your life.’
‘And where we would have been able to witness it really happening with our very own eyes.’ Lynn and Pat exchanged knowing looks.
‘Three little maids from school.’ Emma was kowtowing to herself.
‘Quick.’ Lynn gave Lewis a kick. ‘Stop her now before she starts doing the bloody Ring Cycle.’
‘Don’t call us,’ muttered Pat.
‘That was terrific,’ said Lewis as Emma came back towards them. ‘We’ve had a chat and we think we can offer you a place.’
‘Oh my God,’ squealed Emma, hands over her mouth. ‘No! Really?’
‘Really.’ Lewis was warming to the role that Emma had assumed for him. ‘You nailed it out there. That performance gave me goose bumps. You’re coming with us.’
‘Oh, I am thrilled.’
‘We’ve got an important competition coming up. This is a crucial moment in this choir’s history and we need all the talent we can get. Emma,’ he patted the chair beside him, ‘you sit here and share my lyrics. We’re going to start with our celebrated—’
‘Oh fuck… Please, no… Jeez… I can’t take it, I’m dying here, literally… Bury me now,’ whimpered Jazzy.
‘—Sound of Music medley.’
At break time, Annie rushed over to the tea table as usual, only to find that Bennett had beaten her to it. He had his glasses on the end of his nose and was inspecting the urn.
‘I think there’s a loose connection in here, Annie. I’ll take it home with me tonight and have a look.’ He took off his specs, popped them into his top pocket and turned to the row of cups. ‘I’ll pour, you do the milk.’
Lynn grumbled over to the table. ‘I’m getting mine, as nobody else seems to have thought.’ She piled in the sugars. ‘By the way, did you get anyone to help with the Evergreens’ lunches?’
‘No, just me at the moment,’ said Annie. ‘I have to take the morning off work every time now. I can hardly cancel it, can I? They haven’t got anything else to look forward to, poor old loves.
‘And they’ve earned it, anyway. They all did their bit, didn’t they? Bit of quiche on a Wednesday, least they can expect. Trouble is, none of this lot do their bit or any bit at all. Who’s going to serve our quiche on a Wednesday and give us a drink through a straw?’ She flicked her head at the room behind her. ‘Not that rabble, that’s for sure. It’s the same down at Outpatients in the afternoons,’ she went on, through a slurp. ‘You know, I’ve been doing the teas there since Mrs Thatcher was on the throne.’ Annie laughed, but Lynn was deadly serious. ‘There’s just nobody out there to take over. I think I’ll be stuck doing it till I collapse on the job.
‘Useful place to collapse, at least.’ Annie filled the pot again.
‘You have got to be joking.’ Lynn picked up a cup to take back to Pat. ‘They’ll kill you soon as look at you in that dump. I must say, I’ve got my worries about poor Constance. I know I’m alone, and I don’t like to be the one to spread gloom and misery, as well you know, but I didn’t think she was looking too bright the other night.’
Tracey handed a cup to Lewis and sat down next to him. ‘It’s all getting way out of hand now.’ She took a sip. ‘Leaflets, fund-raising and now bloody visas. I mean, visas? Actual visas?’
Lewis looked sympathetic.
‘It’s plain ridiculous.’ She shook her head. ‘And it’s not just that he’s applying for permission to clear off as far as possible. Oh no, that’s not upsetting enough for everybody, nowhere near. So in the meantime, just to twist the knife a bit while he’s waiting, he has chosen to remove himself into temporary accommodation right at the top of the moral bloody high ground.’ Her voice was rising again. ‘He’s only just found Africa on the map and now he’s lecturing me–me!–on food wastage when he’s never eaten a pizza crust. It’s all her fault.’ Tracey looked over at the small, slight, busy figure of Annie, smiling and chatting as she passed round the ginger biscuits she had knocked up for them all before her long day’s work in the library. ‘That bloody woman is an absolute menace.’
Lewis wasn’t really listening to Tracey’s woes. He was watching Katie and Jazzy–absorbed in each other’s company, busy taking selfies–and clearly trying, subtly, to listen in.
‘She just turned up. Not a word for four and a half years and then there she is on the doorstep.’ The girls put their heads together and beamed. ‘But I’m sorry, I still don’t trust her.’ Jazzy gave the thumbs-up and snapped again. ‘I just don’t bloody trust her and nor does my nan.’
‘But she is your mum.’ Katie stuck her tongue out and Jazzy pulled her eyes down. ‘You got your mum back. I mean, how lucky is that? If I had could have just one wish…’
A flash of pain crossed Lewis’ tired, middle-aged face. Katie’s mother had died in the accident that had left Katie in her wheelchair. She almost never talked about it–when her spinal cord was severed, a part of her personality shut down too. But there she was, with a friend of a few weeks’ standing, being as open as could be.
‘Yeah, well, yours sounds like she was lovely.’ They mock-throttled each other. ‘Mine’s just
some random junkie mentalist who turns up every four years. The stuff she’s got up to–honest, even if I told you, which I can’t because it’s just so crap, you still wouldn’t believe half of it.’
‘I still say you have to give her a chance.’ They blew kisses at the camera. ‘I mean, what else can you do? If she says she’s clean then you’ve got to believe her.’ Katie used her firm voice–the one that nobody ever bothered to argue with. ‘It’s not like another Jazz’s mum is going to turn up. This is the only one you’ve got.’
Jazzy went behind the chair, put her head on top of Katie’s and grinned. ‘It’s weird knowing you.’ Her phone flashed. ‘I’ve never been mates with someone worse off than me before.’ She made a face like a goldfish. ‘It’s actually well rubbish.’
There was a scrape of chair leg as Lewis got up and rushed out to the car park. Everyone should carry on without him, he called; he was perfectly all right–just needed a bit of fresh air.
The men’s voices were a little tentative against the backing track blaring out from the boombox. Even the hitherto unembarrassable basses looked, well, a bit embarrassed.
I’m up all night to get some
The women, peering down their noses and through their reading glasses, replied in their best, politest Julie Andrews sopranos.
Katie and Jazzy–driven half mad by the endless repetition of ‘The Lonely Goatherd’–had had enough. Lewis was always on about people power and true democracy: well, that meant that they had a say, too. Earlier, on Jazzy’s afternoon off, they had decided to take matters into their own hands. It was time for some proper music, and to have a bash at dividing up into parts.
It was going OK so far, although none of the men looked very comfortable with their solo lines and Bennett, in particular, seemed to be squirming, contorted with some physical or psychological discomfort. But when the room came together for the chorus, there was strength, harmony, even a little foot-tapping from–almost–everyone.