by Gill Hornby
It was results night for the Bridgeford Community Choir’s elections, so it was never going to be a quiet one. The Coronation Hall would anyway be buzzing–the members would be walking a little taller, speaking a little louder, behaving in that exaggerated way we all do when we are at a crucial moment in our lives that will be recorded in our own memories until the memory itself starts to fail us. So throw into the mix the afternoon’s events at the sit-in and the excitement had to go off the scale. How could you quantify the energy in the room that night? The scientific instrument capable of reading those sorts of numbers was yet to be invented.
‘Come on, Bennett. Tell us everything.’
Bennett stood, bashful, in the middle of his admirers. He was looking as clean and smart as usual; he had changed his clothes since the afternoon.
‘It was just brilliant.’ Maria was still excited. ‘Most fun that’s ever been had on the London Road, I can tell you.’
Annie poked her head through the hatch from the kitchen. ‘Did you see him on TV? He was actually on the local news!’
‘I can’t believe I missed it.’
‘Why wasn’t I there?’ wailed Tracey. ‘Born too late for Wood stock; stuck in the office for Bennett versus Capitalism.’
‘I know: act it out for us!’
Judith, who in a filthy boiler suit with a beanie on her head was still showing off that eco-warrior sort of look–and giving off that eco-warrior sort of smell–cleared a few chairs back and pulled Bennett over into the space. ‘OK, lie down,’ she instructed. And to the rest of them: ‘Imagine a deep and rutted puddle.’
Bennett lay, hands crossed at his breast like a knight in a tomb, and his fellow-protesters arranged themselves around him in a half-moon.
He shall not, he shall not be moved
‘And try and imagine I’m a bulldozer,’ Judith continued.
Jazzy and Katie spluttered into laughter.
‘People power,’ shouted someone from the council.
‘Hallelujah!’ called Lewis, elated. ‘It’s the Bridgeford Spring.’
Spirits were high, they were all singing, at top volume, clapping along. Pat, Lynn and Maria struggled to their feet and began to lead half the members round in a conga.
‘Ben-nett, Ben-nett, Ben-nett,’ they chanted, kicking a leg out on the final ‘nett’. ‘Ben-nett, Ben-nett, Ben-nett.’
The door opened and smacked against the wall. Emma and Jonty led the way and Edward–greatcoat slung over his shoulders, bundles of music in his arms–swished in behind them. He let the door slam, took position in the centre of the hall and clapped his hands.
‘Good evening, everybody. Exciting moment for the future of the Choir, so those of you who are lying on the floor pretending to be dead might want at this juncture to rise.’ His voice dipped with that cadence most regularly associated with the more pompous wing of the English clergy.
Bennett rose and, with the rest of the Choir, scuttled around and back into place as Lewis drew himself to his moderate height and intoned: ‘They will rise, Edward, when they choose to rise and not a moment before.’
Edward smirked. ‘Thanks for that, Lewis. I’m well in my place. And oh look, they seem to have risen. Sit down now, there’s a good chap.’ He made a suggestive little flap with his hand. ‘So here goes. I would like to ask Pat to come forward with the resu—’
‘Hang on.’ Lewis was up again. ‘Who are you to ask Pat to come forward? Why are you suddenly in charge of things?’
‘Ooh.’ Edward jumped to one side in mock-fear. ‘I’m so sorry, Lewis. Quite forgetting my place there. What was I thinking? You’re so right. Why don’t you ask Pat to come forward and announce the election results?’ He gestured to Lewis that the floor was his, crossed his arms and waited.
‘All right then.’ Lewis looked, and clearly felt, horribly ridiculous. ‘I will. I would like to ask… obviously… Pat… to… so, you know… results.’ He sank back into his chair and studied his knees, while Pat heaved herself up and waddled into the centre.
‘Thank you very much, Edward. I haven’t got the exact numbers with me, I’m afraid. I put the bit of paper out on the kitchen table so I wouldn’t forget it and what did I do? Anyway, I can remember the gist of it. So I, as returning officer for the Choir elections, can tell you that Bennett got the most votes for treasurer and Edward for leader and hereby duly they are hereby elected as, um, those things.’
At first there was a stunned silence in the room, broken only by a subdued ‘Well done, Bennett’. But then Emma, Jonty and a number of sopranos burst into such warm applause for Edward that the rest of them had no choice but to join in. Tracey, clapping politely, bit her lip and caught nobody’s eye.
‘Thank you, all who voted for me,’ boomed Edward, taking to the centre of the circle. Emma passed him a music stand and he snapped it open. ‘Just a bit of business before Jonty’s new warm-up–a few little parish notices.’ Emma passed him a baton.
‘We’ve never had a baton before.’ Lynn gave a jump of alarm.
‘Oh, I like a baton,’ Pat shot back as she returned to her seat. ‘You know where you are with a baton. I’m pro-baton.’ She nodded smugly. ‘I’ve actually always wanted a baton, just never said so.’
Lynn looked at her sideways and shook her head. ‘I hope you know what you’ve started.’
‘I love his shirt,’ Maria muttered, to no one in particular.
Edward called for silence. ‘The first, I know you don’t need reminding, is that we only have five weeks until the County Championships.’ He poked the baton in the Choir’s direction. ‘Obviously, this is not going to be easy. I know that you saw that I was the person to deliver you that victory.’ Tracey raised an eyebrow, crossed her arms and looked off sideways. ‘With that in mind, I have planned an ambitious programme for the night, which frankly not all of you’–the baton poked out again–‘are going to be able to cope with. So,’ he shrugged off his coat, somehow indicating that he had arrived at the least interesting point of his speech, ‘if any of you find it too challenging then you might want to think about whether you want to get involved at all.’
‘What? No!’
‘That’s not what we’re about.’
‘See?’ said Lynn to Pat. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’
Annie stood up. ‘Edward, if I might just explain, fill you in on the history of our little group. I’ve been coming for decades, and my mum came for years before that. The Bridgeford Community Choir have been going, in varying strengths and numbers, but still continuously going, for over fifty years. You see, Edward, we sing for friendship. We are a community within a community. And we have never, ever, not once, barred anyone from entry or tested them on their vocal strengths.’
There was a smattering of applause; a muttering of ‘Hear, hear’.
‘I know, and it’s what makes you so very, very special.’ Edward unscrewed the top of a bottle of vitamin water and took a glug. ‘I think I can honestly say I don’t think I have ever heard a choir quite like this one.’ Emma sniggered; Jonty played a few Hammer Horror chords. ‘But OK, if that’s the way you want it. Only I thought I heard something about actually winning, rather than just turning up.’
Annie rose again. ‘Actually, Edward, we have already won, three years ago, without any censorship or exclusion, under the guidance of our beloved leader Constance.’
‘Then if that’s the general standard we’re laughing, aren’t we? Right. Let’s get started.’ He tapped his baton on the stand. ‘Tonight’s warm-up comes from the Eskimo people of–of… Jonty?’ he shouted over to the piano. ‘Where are these particular Eskimo people from again?’
Annie poured out two cups for Lynn. ‘How are you feeling about the election result?’ she spoke quietly. ‘I must say I was rather surprised. I wasn’t aware that Edward was a popular choice.’
‘We should all be extremely surprised, in my view.’ Lynn splashed some milk around. ‘God knows what we were singing in the first half there but i
f everyone wants to get up at the competition and sound like a load of tom cats out on the piss, then they’ve picked the right man for the job.’
‘I think it was Tavener.’
‘Is that what he calls himself? I call him a bloody racket. Be Sondheim next, you mark my words. Then,’ she drew herself up to her full five foot two, ‘I’m warning you: I might have to consider my position.’
‘Hey, Maria,’ said Jazzy, without looking up from her screen.
‘How are you, love? It was nice to see your nan this afternoon. I do miss seeing her every night. And you, of course.’
Jazzy looked up and smiled. ‘We’re fine, ta. My mum’s doing really well. She’s got it all running like clockwork and my nan’s hardly complaining at all.’
‘You do know, don’t you,’ Maria settled herself on the next chair and adopted a bedside manner, ‘that it wasn’t easy for the GPs down at the practice to get your nan’s care sorted at home.’
‘Yeah.’ Jazzy walloped an angry bird. ‘So?’
‘And they were a bit worried when your mum dismantled everything like that. We’ve all been a bit worried.’ She shuffled in her seat. ‘Has she talked to you about it? Only, if she were to… Well, I’m sure she won’t for a minute but if she were for any reason—’
Jazzy put down her phone, crossed her arms and looked at Maria head-on.
‘—to need to move on again, well…’
‘Well what?’
‘Well, it will be hard for us now, under this new system, to get it all back in place at the level you’ve been used to.’
‘Really?’ Jazzy went back to her phone. ‘Then it’s good she’s not going to move on, isn’t it? It’s good that we’re being a proper family and she’s really got her act together at last and everything’s fine. Isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Maria patted her on the shoulder. ‘That’s great. It’s all anyone wants for you. So how are you enjoying the new music tonight? Different, I thought…’
‘Crap. The music is crap and the singing is crap and the contest will be crap. I’m not coming back here again. And I didn’t vote for that stupid wanker. Wish I hadn’t bothered. What’s the point of bloody voting if you end up with someone you don’t bloody want?’
‘Political apathy in a nutshell.’ Lewis shook his head sadly.
‘Here, Katie.’ Jazzy took an earphone and put it in her friend’s ear. ‘Let’s listen to something decent before this lot send us mental.’
Lewis passed a biscuit to Tracey and sat down next to her. ‘You OK? I’m sorry you’re not the leader. It doesn’t feel right, this regime. It beats me why all those people would have voted for him.’
‘Oh, yeah, whatever.’ Tracey dismissed it all with a brash flick of her right hand, and with the heel of her left quickly rubbed away a tear. ‘I only put my name down because Bennett talked me into it. And anyway,’ she gulped and sniffed, ‘as from tomorrow my life is changing for good. Six o’clock tomorrow morning and Billy is finally out of my hair.’
‘It’s actually happening?’
‘Yep. And I was just thinking in the first half–during, I must add, the strangest piece of music I have ever had the misfortune to sing, what was all that atonal crap?–that I don’t have anything to keep me in Bridgeford any more. Everything is about to open up for me now. I can feel my horizons pulling off into the distance; my world opening, oyster-like, before me.’
‘Lewis,’ called Jazzy, ‘Katie needs the toilet.’
Bennett slipped into Lewis’ chair as he vacated it. ‘It’s all completely ridiculous, I don’t know what happened, I am so terribly sorry.’
‘Congratulations, treasurer.’ She bent her head in deference. ‘And don’t worry about it. I’ve enjoyed myself here, but this stuff you’re doing now, it’s not my scene. I’m going to have a look at what other choirs there are out there, look for the one that suits me, not just the one that’s closest.’
‘Oh. No.’ Bennett looked stricken. ‘You can’t, please don’t do that.’
‘Yes I can.’ Tracey jutted her chin at him. The whites of her eyes were palely pink. ‘And yes I will.’
Edward rapped his baton on his stand. ‘That’s enough chit-chat, everybody, thank you very much. On to the lighter end of our competition repertoire and–I know you’re all going to love this–it’s a vintage bit of Sondheim.’
‘Thank you and goodnight,’ called Edward, clapping in the general direction of the Choir before collecting his music. ‘If you can all take your music home with you, practise hard over the next week and learn your words, please.’ His own words were drowned out by the scraping of chairs and the disgruntled mutterings of friends.
‘Just one notice before you go,’ Bennett called, with a new loud authority. All the other noises ceased. ‘I’m having an open house on Saturday week for my birthday, all welcome, from seven o’clock to… um… silly o’clock! Hope you can all make it. Flyers with details are on the table by the door.’
‘Well done, sir.’ Another stranger patted Bennett on the shoulder as he waited to cross the road.
‘Thanks. Got to show them, haven’t we?’ Bennett hadn’t known such popularity since he was the ice-cream man at the St Ambrose Summer Fête. If he was honest, and took all confectionery out of the picture, he had never known such popularity ever. He took to the pedestrian crossing, and waved at the waiting driver tooting his horn in admiration. He had never been one of those popular sorts of chap. Indeed, since he had first grasped the fundamentals of the English language, Bennett had understood that ‘popular’ was an adjective used only ever in relation to others.
‘Good on you, mate,’ shouted a man out of a van.
So the fact that, for the first time in his life, it could now be justifiably applied to him was really–he bounced in his shoes–quite extraordinarily pleasant.
‘Here he comes,’ said the lady in the newsagent: her face was very familiar, but her name and basic biography? Bennett didn’t have a clue. ‘Our hero. There you are, love–packet of wine gums on us.’
‘Oh, how lovely, thanks. I just want to pick up some stationery, if that’s OK. Back in a sec…’
And the fact that this sudden popularity had hit right now he found rather interesting. Last Tuesday, in a matter of minutes and for the first time in his life, Bennett had found himself contravening, in quick succession, every edict of acceptable behaviour that his parents had ever taught him. He had got his best clothes dirty–that puddle had, he feared, cost him a good suit, but he still didn’t regret it; he had challenged authority: in this particular debate he was on the opposing side of the council, the planners and a major FTSE100 company, yet he felt perfectly comfortable over there; and–most significantly for the elder Parkers–he had, that most evil of upper-middle-class crimes, drawn attention to himself. And boy, had he drawn attention to himself. He was all over the local news and he was the talk of the town and the fact was it was all very bucking up. Clearly he had been leading his life according to a set of outmoded values. He should have disobeyed his parents years ago.
He wandered down the aisle full of notebooks, diaries and writing materials and felt happier still. The role of treasurer was an excellent and genuine excuse for some brand-spanking-new stationery and oh, how Bennett loved stationery. It was a passion that belonged to his old, pre-revolutionary–pre-popular–self; it was founded on his enthusiasm for a new term, his passion for exams; it spoke to the most successful side of him, the swot. He picked up a ledger that was not what he was looking for, looked around him furtively, flicked the pages and inhaled deeply. Virgin paper–couldn’t beat it. He shivered and exhaled like a horse.
‘I saw that,’ said a voice behind him.
Bennett jumped. ‘Sweetheart.’ He kissed Araminta on each cheek. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Same as you.’ She gestured to the pens. ‘God, Dad. How dare you come in here without me? You’re supposed to share your interests with your kids, you know. And since stationery is yo
ur one actual interest in the whole actual world, you could at least have called. I’m at a difficult age.’ She pouted and leaned in to him, wagging her finger. ‘And from a broken home now.’
‘I’m so sorry, it was just—’
‘Dad. Stop. Joke.’ She flicked him away–‘Don’t care’–and reached over to stroke a notebook. ‘Anyway, we’ve got something else in common, haven’t we? You little rebel, you. We couldn’t believe it when we saw you on the news. Ha. You should’ve heard Mum. She seems to have changed sides all of a sudden. Smell that.’ There was a new brand of perfumed gel pen; they sniffed together in happy unity. ‘Suddenly she’s all for one of those hypermarkets the size of a planet. So bloody predictable.’
‘Is she? Really? Is that how you think of her–predictable?’ Bennett had long ago decided that Sue’s responses and opinions had the predictability of a roulette wheel. To find that his daughter had, all the time, some formula by which she could find actual patterns in the behaviour was simply astonishing. The girl was a marvel. Was there anything she didn’t know? He lowered his voice. ‘Do I know that lady on the till over there? She gave me some free sweets. What’s her name?’
Araminta sighed and flicked through an address book. ‘Dad. Such a dork. Carol. Babysat us for literally a thousand years. I know,’ she pointed at the shelf: ‘pick a colour.’
What, just like that? In his old life, Bennett had been known to spray around decisions of great import as fast as he could articulate them; it was what had made him–or at least he had always it assumed that it was what had made him–such a highly valued colleague. Although, do highly valued colleagues actually get made redundant? There was a chilling thought. Back to the stationery: for the new, more thoughtful, domestic-goddess Bennett, however, a decision of that magnitude–picking a colour, of all things–well, that could take him hours. He just took the plunge like a madman and, all caution to the winds, went for the tan. She overruled him, grabbed the navy, held her hand out for some money and took off for the till. ‘Hey, Carol,’ he heard from the other side of the shop, and drifted off again into his choice of ledgers for choir accounts.