All Together Now

by Gill Hornby

  And at least there was someone there to watch them, even if they did look a bit bored.

  And clap and turn.

  Some went the right way, but just as many didn’t. There was a bit of a muddle while they all caught up with each other. They had practised, but for whatever reason it hadn’t quite gone in. The truth of it was that, despite the much larger numbers and more consistent attendance, they still weren’t functioning quite as a proper choir should. That telepathy they had once enjoyed had long been silent, and there still wasn’t the confidence to attempt proper harmony. It turned out that there was more to a choir than just enthusiasm, and their lack of progress was causing a group frustration.

  Let me-ee enter-tain you

  The applause was thin; if it expressed any emotion at all, it was relief.

  ‘Thank God that’s over,’ said Lynn as she stomped off the stage.

  ‘I’m up first,’ replied Pat. ‘Save us a place.’

  As the stage was being prepared, Annie came and sat next to Tracey.

  ‘By the way,’ she said as she settled herself down, ‘I meant to ask you earlier. Any chance you could help down at the protest next week?’

  Tracey kept her eyes to the front. Pat’s act so far seemed to involve her sitting on a chair on her own with her bag by her feet. This represented no great change from Pat’s normal position. ‘Sorry. Too busy,’ Tracey said out of the side of her mouth. ‘Do you think her act is going to be sitting there having a moan till someone brings her a cup of tea?’

  ‘Oh no, she’s doing her Knitting Nancy,’ replied Annie. ‘She does it every year. Anyway, you’re not going to be too busy for long, are you? I mean, Billy’s off in a couple of weeks, after all. And although they’re supposed to be all grown up, you certainly find you have more time on your hands once they’ve left.’ She pressed her lips together and turned her mouth down. ‘Believe me.’

  ‘Yes, well,’ hissed Tracey, ‘if it wasn’t for you I wouldn’t have to worry about it, would I? You—’

  And then Pat was bellowing to them from the stage: ‘So, first of all you take your wool. Any thickness will do…’ The first act had begun.

  Pat’s knitting was average in most respects, apart, mercifully, from its speed. And Lewis and Maria’s double act–a joint rendition of ‘Your Knee Bone’s Connected to Your Thigh Bone’, delivered while Maria bandaged Lewis up from head to toe–seemed to go down a storm. The under-eighteens, especially, were very amused. So then it was time for Judith, who emerged from the cupboard to the right of the stage and climbed up the steps wearing apparently nothing but a swimming towel.

  ‘As many of you know,’ she smiled, and ran her hands through her frizzy ginger hair, ‘I have felt an almost overwhelming affinity with the French film star Marion Cotillard—’

  ‘Never heard of her,’ heckled Lynn.

  ‘—ever since I discovered that we actually share the same birthday.’ She let the towel drop to the floor, revealing a Lycra swimsuit clinging tightly to her ample form. ‘You will no doubt remember that last year I did an excerpt from her Oscar-winning Edith Piaf biopic La Vie en Rose.’

  ‘Seem to have blocked that one out,’ said Pat.

  ‘And tonight I would like to re-enact for you some of my favourite scenes from one of her greatest dramatic films, Rust and Bone.’

  ‘Is that a sex film?’ asked a senior citizen.

  ‘When I cover a Cotillard, I prefer to do it in the original French, so I would like to ask Kerry to come up on stage and provide tonight’s narrative description and simultaneous translation.’

  Kerry had joined the Choir as one of the lot from the council, but she and Judith were firm friends now. She beamed with pride as she took her position stage left.

  ‘So Stephanie is, like, this killer-whale trainer in the south of France…’

  ‘Allez, allez, allez.’ Judith started to gesture wildly with her arms, throwing imaginary fish into an imaginary pool. ‘Et voilà.’ She smiled and applauded her imaginary whale.

  ‘… and she has developed an incredible empathy with this orca. At least, I think it’s an orca…’

  Judith stroked its pretend-nose, pulled back from a splash, laughed and bowed to the audience.

  ‘But today is no normal day at the whale display…’

  ‘Non, non.’ Something very bad was happening on stage, very bad indeed. Judith was flinging herself around, falling down, sliding about, screaming. ‘Non, non, non. Sauvez-moi!’

  ‘This is MENTAL.’ Jazzy was standing up, filming it on her phone. ‘It’s gonna go viral, this is.’ The rest of the audience, though, was subdued, squinting at the stage in silent puzzlement.

  ‘Aaargh!’ roared Judith, clutching at her leg and losing pretend-consciousness.

  Pat passed Lynn a bag of Murray Mints and checked her watch. ‘I wonder,’ she mused to herself, ‘if this will ever end…’

  They paused for a scene change, assembling a collection of school chairs into a bed, upon which Judith lay down with eyes closed.

  ‘It is after the whale attack, and Stephanie is now in hospital. She has been in a coma for many days, and does not yet know the seriousness of her injuries.’

  Judith started to wake, moan quietly and feel around the bed.

  ‘When she finally comes round, she is alone. There is nobody to warn her that she has lost both legs.’

  ‘Ah non. Qu’est que c’est—’

  Tracey could stand it no longer. She slipped out of the hall on to the balcony and took a few good draughts of clear night air. That was a right collection of prize nutters in there. For twenty-odd years she had deliberately avoided getting to know anyone in the vicinity, for her own, very good, reasons, but even just observing them from a distance she had always suspected they all had a communal screw loose. Now she knew for sure they did, and yet somehow she found herself right in the middle of them. How did that happen? Through the window she could still see Judith, now writhing all over the floor, clearly none too happy with her sudden leglessness–Tracey could hear the Gallic wailing even out here. She turned round, put her fingers in her ears and gazed out over Bridgeford. The lights were all glowing beneath the network of satellite dishes. Everyone seemed to be in for the evening. Tracey looked down at the cosy scene, imagined the kettles being put on, the cheap entertainment being beamed in from all over the world, and felt a surge of irritation. All the organisation that had gone into this so-called talent show, all the efforts of the performers–Judith let out a bloodcurdling scream and a torrent of awkward French–the desperate financial state of their own community choir, and there was the rest of the town down there, sunk into its armchairs, with its backs to them.

  Occasionally, Tracey found herself having to visit other places during a normal working day. She would alight in the high street of a Home Counties market town, or the corner of some small provincial city that rather fancied itself. She would watch, with detachment, its inhabitants going about their business. And she would want to laugh. The self-importance with which people strutted about their own territory was amusing, of course it was. The way they hurried to and from jobs that didn’t really matter, rushed in and out of shops for things they didn’t particularly need, ran around in the frantic rearing of children that were never to amount to anything: it was all just part of the human comedy and their own seriousness was, in itself, the biggest joke of all.

  Yet somehow, here tonight, it didn’t seem so funny. Of course, the chaos of the evening still did have an indisputable dark humour; that nobody could deny. But she, Tracey, had changed. She knew these people now; they had identities; she understood them–well, some of them. She had got used to them, put it that way. She even found, to her surprise, that she cared about a few of them, too. And if Billy really was about to clear off and leave her, she didn’t have anybody else in the vicinity to care about. And that meant that she was no longer a critic sneering out from the stalls at the human comedy that was Bridgeford. She now had a part–OK,
a bit-part, but definitely a part–in it. Everything felt different. She turned back to the hall, where Judith was bowing and generously applauding Kerry for her efforts. ‘Merci, merci, alors, trop gentils…’ They might be prize nutters, thought Tracey, but they were her prize nutters. And they needed sorting out before their comedy turned very black indeed.

  Bennett came out and leaned on the railing beside her. She rolled her eyes at him; he raised his brow at her and together they turned to look out at the view.

  ‘You’re right. We can’t go on like this,’ said Tracey, continuing her train of thought out loud.

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ he chipped in.

  She looked at him sideways. ‘Was that a joke?’

  ‘Um… sorry… yes, I think it might…’

  ‘Didn’t have you down as the joking type.’

  ‘I’m not, usually,’ he admitted. ‘Or, um, ever. I think that was a bit of a first.’

  ‘You might want to think twice before having another go.’

  ‘Sorry. Yes. Of course. I do apologise.’

  Tracey couldn’t quite make this Bennett chap out. He was like no other man she had ever met–and not in that way. It was her observation that you generally only found two sorts of bloke getting involved in communal activities. The loser types, who joined in with great unembarrassed enthusiasm–like Lewis, say. Oh dear, she thought with a pang. Poor Lewis. And then there were the Bennett types–suited, booted and successful, a bit of gravitas–who only got involved out of some moral or historic duty and did so with a perfected air of swaggering yet rigidly detached irony. There weren’t any of those in the Choir–that nice GP was a member, apparently, but far too busy to ever turn up. Bennett was the only one who looked the part–but, disconcertingly, he never acted it. There was no swagger, no detachment, and he seemed to be genetically incapable of processing any sort of irony. She couldn’t work out quite what he was doing there.

  ‘You wouldn’t have a kitchen table for sale, would you?’

  ‘Not on me.’ She stared at him. ‘Was that another joke?’

  ‘Absolutely not, not at all. I do actually need, rather urgently in fact, a second-hand kitchen ta—’

  Tracey held up her hand to stop him, to seize control of their dialogue. ‘Back to the beginning: this choir cannot go on like this. This “democracy” lark–it’s just another word for a bloody shambles. Everyone in there is making a complete arse of themselves. Seems to me they’re all just willing Constance to get better and haven’t noticed that week after week she never does. If we really want it to carry on–with or without her–then we need to get organised. Have a structure. Another leader: one person in charge with the authority to tell us all what to sing and when to sing it.’

  ‘I quite agree.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And it should obviously be you.’

  ‘Me?’ Tracey reared back in alarm. ‘Oh, no. No, no, no. I was just suggesting… I’m not—’

  ‘Of course it should be you.’ He looked straight at her with his strange pale eyes. ‘You’ve got the voice and so on…’ He paused and seemed to consider what he was going to say next. ‘Listen. I hope you don’t mind me asking this.’ Tracey started to feel nervous. ‘The thing is, I’m just hopeless with this sort of thing. And I don’t want to offend you, not at all.’ She stepped back a bit further, pressed into the wall. ‘But I know I know you from somewhere.’ He gave a little chuckle. ‘I mean, I’m hopeless but I’m not that hopeless. The thing is, I just can’t remember from where.’

  ‘Ha. Well, I’ve got good news. You’re not hopeless at all. I remember everything and I know for a fact we have never met. So there you are. You can relax.’

  ‘Honestly? But—’

  The door of the hall clanged open. ‘Hope I’m not interrupting,’ trilled Annie.

  ‘Not really.’ For once, Tracey viewed Annie’s arrival with relief.

  ‘Thought I’d just have a breather before the next act. It’s going well, don’t you think?’ Annie looked down at her list. ‘Now that Judith’s turn is over we’ll be trotting through.’

  ‘What do you think, Annie?’ Tracey’s hands were trembling. She clasped them behind her back. ‘We were just saying it’s about time that someone took control of the Choir. We need a leader.’

  ‘Ooh.’ Annie frowned. ‘Hmm. Gosh. Connie will be back soon, I’m sure. And what about the pure democracy? I think the members rather like the—’

  ‘What are you lot plotting out here?’ Jazzy shut the door behind her and felt in her pocket for a cigarette. ‘You having Judith put away? Very sensible, Mrs M. She’s a serious mentalist.’

  ‘Jazzy, I don’t think that’s on.’ Annie was smiling but her tone was firm. ‘You can’t smoke on primary-school property.’

  ‘Really? You used to be able to.’ She looked around her with a nostalgic air. ‘It’s where I started, come to think of it. Right down there, on Sports Day.’

  Tracey stepped forward, removed the cigarette from Jazzy’s fingers and stubbed it out. ‘What about your singing voice? What about this career you’re always talking about?’

  ‘I was enjoying that,’ whined Jazzy. ‘And what about my career? Nothing wrong with a bit of smoking. Have you never heard of Amy Winehouse?’

  ‘Yes. I have. And I know she’s not doing too well.’

  ‘Yeah, but that’s not the fags’ fault.’

  ‘Why aren’t you performing a solo out there tonight, anyway?’ asked Bennett. ‘We’re all very keen to hear you.’

  ‘My solos are for bigger gigs than this.’ Jazzy smiled smugly. ‘I’ve got some auditions coming up in the next few months. I’ll keep myself pure for them, thanks. Me and Katie are doing a little double act instead. We’ve been practising.’

  The second half was altogether more successful than the first. Bennett, to popular surprise, took himself off to the piano at the back of the hall and played Poulenc’s Novelette in C Major. The instrument was not in perfect condition, but Bennett’s playing was sublime and the beauty of the piece moved some of the audience to tears. As the final chord died away, they leapt to their feet in ovation.

  ‘Who knew he had that in him?’ said Pat. ‘And proper music, too. I do like a bit of proper music.’

  ‘A lovely addition,’ agreed Lynn. ‘And I’ve just flogged him my old kitchen table.’

  Jazzy and Katie’s rendition of ‘Cups’ was not in the same league, but just as moving none the less. Partly because they had clearly been working hard on it and there is nothing like young people trying their best at something–from the Olympics to their homework–to make the older generation just melt inside. And partly because they performed it rather nicely, albeit a little slowly. But mostly because all of that upper-body movement was not easy for Katie and she was pushing herself to her limits up there with every single member of the audience willing her on. Whether she liked it or not, the applause was so deafening at the end that they simply had to do an encore to shut the crowd up. And that meant that there was no time, after all, for Lewis and the lads from the council to do their Full Monty routine.

  ‘What a shame,’ they all agreed.

  ‘Maybe next time.’

  But before the Choir could get up for the joint finale of ‘Those Were the Days’, Edward–to everybody’s surprise–appeared on stage holding a mic, which was attached to a neat, portable sound system.

  Time, to say goodbye

  He slid his little round glasses, which so many of the ladies found rather adorable, up on to his hair, revealing crinkling blue eyes and angular cheekbones, and then undid another button on his deep-blue shirt.

  Paesi che non ho mai

  Pat gasped and clutched at her bosom. ‘Oh.’ She looked over her left shoulder. ‘That’s Italian!’ she mouthed helpfully. ‘Italian!’ she added, over to the right.

  Edward’s honed and polished baritone sang down to the hall with a tone of entitlement, its notes tossed out like alms to the poor. A small fo
rtune had gone into that voice; it was obvious to anyone.

  Con te partirò su navi per mari che, io lo so

  They could hear every lesson, every practice, all those exam grades and recitals and parental applause… They could hear some natural talent too, to be fair, but it was quite buried beneath the rest of it. Still, you get what you pay for, and clearly it was worth every penny. The audience–well, everyone bar Lewis–was properly impressed. Their own choral rendition of Mary Hopkin was redundant. Edward alone had already taken the show to its climax.

  ‘Oh, bravo!’ cried Pat, leaping to her feet in ovation. ‘Bravo!’ She blew a kiss at the stage. ‘Brav-o. Marvellous, that was.’ Her hands kept clapping towards the stage and Edward, but she was talking to Lynn and the rest of the sopranos. ‘Bloody marvellous.’

  Annie was counting up the takings on the table at the door as Bennett wandered past. ‘How much did we make?’

  ‘Not a huge amount.’ Annie tried a bright smile.

  Tracey was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, waiting for her lift. ‘If we can top it up with a decent grant from the government, we might get a new box of teabags.’

  ‘Still, on the whole, it was a very good evening.’

  ‘Weirdly enough,’ Tracey admitted, ‘it was, rather.’

  ‘Quite damp out there, Bennett–can we drop you off at home?’

  For once, Annie didn’t seem to have anything cumbersome to transport, and her front seat was free. But Tracey and Bennett went straight for the back automatically. It was rather a nice feeling, this, Annie thought as she brought across her seatbelt: driving home after a fun evening out. Like all those disco pick-ups with the girls. She looked at them in the rear-view mirror as she pulled out into the road. ‘So did we all have a lovely time?’ She had to stop herself asking if there were any nice boys.

  ‘I’m sorry you didn’t sing, Tracey,’ said Bennett, as if Annie had not spoken. ‘I was hoping—’

  She flicked him away. ‘So, what are we going to do?’

  ‘We must,’ Bennett thumped the middle armrest, ‘elect a leader forthwith.’