by Gill Hornby
‘Morning, Trace. What took you so long?’ Jazzy came through, shut the door, barged past Tracey and up the stairs. ‘Annie said to meet her here. Need to go over my solo. No, I haven’t had breakfast, thanks for asking.’ She banged about the eye-level cupboards until she found Billy’s last packet of Frosties.
‘Here.’ She strode past Tracey towards the fridge. ‘You look a bit rough. What you been up to?’
And then there were footsteps on the stairs and Bennett stood before them, wearing nothing but Tracey’s old kimono and holding her guitar.
‘Oh my GOD-uh.’ Jazzy stared at the apparition with her mouth open. ‘What’s he doing here? You haven’t… You didn’t… You had sex with him… Oh you can’t have… Sex? With Bennett? Oh my GOD-uh. SEX with BENNETT? Christ, Tracey. That’s not even funny.’
‘It wasn’t supposed to be funny.’ Bennett frowned and strummed a few chords.
‘Shut up, Ben,’ said Tracey.
‘Yeah, shut up, Ben,’ added Jazzy. They stood there, each in their own separate minor shock, and then the doorbell rang again.
‘That’ll be Annie. Bagsy I’m the first to tell her. I want to be first to tell everyone. After all, I found it. So it is my thing.’
‘Your thing?’ Tracey spluttered, arms open, imploring. And to Bennett: ‘It’s her thing?’
But Jazzy was already down, tearing open the door and squealing: ‘You’ll never guess, you’ll never guess, quick, come up, it’s actually the funniest thing ever like bloody hilarious…’
And when they both arrived in the room: ‘LOOK! They’ve been having SEX!!!’
‘Oh, Bennett.’ Annie dropped her basket and put both hands to her chest. She seemed almost crushed with disappointment. ‘How could you?’
‘What, is he having sex with you too, Mrs M? Cor, Dirty Ben. You are a one…’
‘And in front of Jazzy, of all people.’
Jazzy was enjoying herself enough already, Tracey was well aware of that. But she saw that this new, Jazzocentric approach took her to a whole other level of delight. ‘I know right! In front of me!’ She grabbed Annie’s arm and shielded her own eyes. ‘Oh, thank God you’re here. It’s been horrible.’
‘But we didn’t have sex in front of Jazzy.’ Bennett, quite calm, was studying his fingers as he changed the chord. ‘Why on earth would we do that?’
‘But you let her come round, Bennett! And you let her find you like this!’
They’re all completely potty, thought Tracey, staring at them with her mouth open. She quite wanted to throttle them, rather wanted to scream and really, really badly wanted a decent cup of coffee. But instead she walked to her electronic keyboard and started playing the intro to ‘Lean on Me’.
‘Is this what you came for?’
‘That’s Tracey Leckford on piano, ladies and gentlemen,’ soothed Bennett. He started playing: ‘Ben Parker on guitar.’
Ooh. Ooh-ooh-ooh. Oooooh
‘Annie Miller on backing.’
Lean on me
‘And the very wonderful, extraordinary, most talented Jazzy on vocals.’
Tracey was standing up, swaying at the hips as she played, smiling with her eyes to the others as they all sang. A sense of peace came into her lounge. Jazzy was doing OK with the solo part. If Annie wanted her to do it so very badly then Tracey would go along with it. But, without the rest of the Choir around, she did notice something else. Something she had probably known for a while, but that she was only now acknowledging to herself for the very first time. Something that did not really suit Tracey to know or to think or to have to believe. And it was this: out of all the voices she had been privileged to work with over the past few weeks, only one of them was properly extraordinary. And that one belonged to Annie Miller.
The Choir were gathering behind the tea tent. Tracey had insisted that, although the St Ambrose Primary School Summer Fête was an extremely informal affair, they would still observe the basic formalities of performance. This was, after all, their dry run for the Championships. It could not be more important. So they were all wearing white–well, white-ish in some obvious cases–tops and black bottoms and hanging around waiting to be put into order ready to file neatly on to the stage.
As the adrenalin pumped around, in and out of the bike shed, nearly all of the singers were at least a little altered by the experience. Tracey, radiant in crisp white cotton shirt and tight black trousers, was leaning against the post, clutching her baton and music, laughing gently with Bennett. White suited him too, and the reflection of his open-necked shirt gave his face a new, healthy pink–or something had given him a new, healthy pink at any rate. Lewis, so used to raising his voice in no end of professional and political situations, was trembling. Judith and Kerry were clinging together for support. Jazzy dug Katie’s inhaler out of her kit bag and passed it to her–she looked almost blue. Squat was holding up a mirror for Curly, who was carefully tending his long clean hair. ‘It’s gone wrong,’ he wailed and stamped his foot. ‘Told you this would happen if I washed it. It’s all gone WRONG.’
They all cared passionately about this gig, were desperate not to let anybody else down. But most nervous of all, clearly, was the one to whom it should feel the most natural. Jazzy kept peering round the corner to check the crowd out there, then prowling around the bike shed wringing her hands. ‘Here, I could do with some of that,’ she said to Katie.
Katie tried to smile around her puffer and patted the arm of her chair. Jazzy perched and put her arm around her friend. ‘They did say they were coming. Mum promised. Probably just taking a while to get my nan out the house, that’s all. It’s not easy looking after her, as I well know.’
‘They wouldn’t miss it for the world, Jazz, you know that.’ Katie had got her colour back and Lewis was looking at bit less worried. ‘They’ll cry when they hear you, I bet they will.’
‘Will they?’ Jazzy was round-eyed. ‘Does that really happen? I mean, in real life and not just on the telly?’ She thought for a bit. ‘They’ve never actually come and heard me before.’
Annie came over and took Jazzy’s hand. ‘Here you are again, then. Back where you started, singing at St Ambrose.’ She kept hold of Jazzy but turned to Katie. ‘I first saw this girl perform when she was a tiny little speck in a gingham frock, you know. And after that she got all the solos twice a year. My lot couldn’t get a look-in. So we all pretended she was ours.’ She kissed Jazzy on the cheek. ‘Good luck, love. I know you’ll do us proud.’
‘They’re not here,’ Jazzy mumbled. ‘They said they’d come this time, but they haven’t. They’re not here.’
Annie held her in her arms, and stroked the mass of her long dark hair.
‘Everyone else has come. Even stupid Squat’s got someone out there. I’m the only one who hasn’t got anyone.’
‘No you’re not.’ Annie pulled back to look at her; she too had tears in her eyes. ‘I haven’t got anyone either. My lot never turn up to anything.’ Jazzy looked at her, disbelieving. ‘And what’s more, my bloody husband is having an affair.’
A slight, rather confident, well-dressed woman with a clipboard appeared from around the tea tent and gestured for them to stop talking. ‘Good afternoon to you all,’ she said in a low voice, not wanting to spoil the surprise for the punters. ‘I’m Heather Carpenter, the school secretary, and I just wanted to thank you for giving up your afternoon for us. There are hundreds of people out there who are all going to love you. None of us can wait. So, you know, break a leg’–she made an awkward fist, and pulled an awkward face–‘or, um, something.’
And with that Tracey came forward, put them all in order, gave them a huge smile and the thumbs-up, winked at Squat and led them out on to the playing field, beneath the bunting and the blazing sun.
They were on the second encore of ‘Happy’ and still nobody out there seemed to want it to end. The older generation were all sitting at the tea tables, clapping along, and a line of infants, kneeling in the front, were doi
ng a rather messy Mexican wave. But everyone else was up and dancing; even the headmaster was getting into it: his arms were round his pretty wife and they laughed as they watched a stalky little red-haired girl twirling round with a baby on her hip. All the stalls were deserted as the whole fête came to witness its main event. The singers were completely carried away by the enthusiasm of their audience. The moves of the younger members–so carefully choreographed by Tracey–were getting more individual and extravagant. The Squat Fan Club–a loose organisation with a previously low profile–was out in force; after showing their dedicated support to the cider tent, they were now really rocking, and every time Squat stepped forward to do his four-word solo, they went wild.
As they came to the end of the song yet again, Heather Carpenter came up and took the microphone. ‘Ladies, gentlemen and children, will you all show your appreciation please for our very own Bridgeford Community Choir.’
There was a roar of cheering and applause and the happy chant of, ‘Squat. Squat. Squat.’
‘That was their last performance before the County Champion ships next week. What do we think? Are they going to win?’
She put her hand to her ear as the crowd screamed its support and the Choir cheered back.
‘Are you SURE?’
There in the middle of the St Ambrose playing field, the singers were locked in, secured by a wall of joyous sound. Cat-calls, whoops, screams, ‘Squat’s and shouting filled the air. A light breeze lifted the bunting, the flag of St George fluttered against a pure blue sky. The new local heroes soaked it all up–most were laughing, some were crying, there was a suggestion that even Curly had something in his eye. Arms around the shoulders of their neighbours, they glanced up at the heavens and then they took their bow.
‘You heard them.’ She smiled at the singers. ‘Sounds like it’s in the bag. Best of luck!’
Tracey gratefully received all the slaps on the back and kisses on the cheek from people she had never seen before and soaked up all the compliments that were being showered upon her. The singers were dispersing now, absorbed by their families and friends. She watched Lynn head over to the bric-à-brac, Maria join the queue for the cakes, Squat sign autographs for an orderly queue of ten-year-old girls, Annie catch up with the teachers. ‘The school said she would get in but she just wouldn’t apply…’
She felt Bennett’s arm around her shoulder, the beginnings of a squeeze and a warm flutter deep inside her. He’d been brilliant up there this afternoon; she could hardly keep her eyes off him. She had watched him sing before, of course she had, but she hadn’t seen him perform. Now she knew: he was the one. Not the one for her, necessarily, she still had doubts about that. But he was the one among the men in the Choir–the charisma, the star dust–and that was quite hard to resist. She scoped the fête–the old-toys stall, the books, the guess-the-weight, the tombola–searching for a corner somewhere they might duck away for a quick—
‘Pa, Pa, sup-er-star.’ There was the lovely Min.
And beside her, presumably, Casper: ‘Good stuff, Dad.’ A boy in a polo shirt, with yellow trousers, clean hair and deck shoes pumped his father’s hand. ‘Pretty damn good.’ He was–they had already discussed this–the same age as Billy, but he was not–and they had failed to work this out before–from the same planet. He held up a hand to Tracey in greeting; she saw his signet ring and nearly got the giggles. This one had just landed in a space-ship from the 1980s. Of course it was completely impossible for her to sustain any sort of relationship with Bennett. Imagine Christmas with Casper and the Billster, passing the port, sharing the bong. Was Casper–what a name–a fan of The Bloodshitters, did we think? Or more of a Supertramp sort of cove? It was all ludicrous. Just a shame, that was all, that every time she heard Bennett’s voice she was overwhelmed with a desire to rip his very classic clothes off.
‘You ought to go on The X Factor,’ chortled Casper.
‘But first you’ve got to do the lucky dip.’ Min grabbed his arm. ‘His favourite,’ she added to Tracey. ‘Come with us.’
‘I’ve got stuff, I just remembered… We’ll catch up later.’
She wandered around for a bit, bought some jam and a pack of Bridgeford Christmas cards, wondering as she did so if she knew anyone to send one to. She met Maria’s mother and stuck a pin on a treasure island, swerved away from a knitted-scarf stall when she saw that Pat lurked behind it like a crocodile with a killer grin. It was a joyous occasion and one that Tracey had never before attended. Seven years Billy had spent at this school, and so keen was she on her keep-ourselves-to-ourselves philosophy, neither of them had come even once.
The Upper School Dance Club was doing a routine outside the tea tent, all in a line and dancing to Katy Perry, surrounded by dads recording their every move. Billy might have liked something like that, but she would never have let him do it: he was brought up from the beginning to be different; too cool for school. How much fun had he missed? she wondered now. How much fun had they both missed, come to that? She could still see why she had done it all, but she could also now see that she was wrong.
‘Dr Khan, hello.’
‘Tracey, that was fantastic.’ He shook her warmly by the hand. ‘I’m only sorry now that I haven’t made it there since Christmas. I would have loved to work with you.’
‘I’m probably only standing in, I think, Doctor. Just until Constance is up and about again.’
He frowned at her and narrowed his eyes. ‘Where did you hear that from? Connie’s in a coma, has been since the accident. Of course, we all hope for the best, but…’
A child grabbed his hand and pulled him along.
‘I wonder, could I have a word?’ said the headmaster in her ear as the dancers took their applause. They walked together across the grass. ‘You’ve done wonders with that choir, you know. We’ve had them here before and let’s just say–ahem–we all noticed the difference today.’ He rolled his eyes.
Wow, thought Tracey. Was that an expression of–the ultimate wickedness–anti-Connie sympathy? Was this man an actual non-Connie-believer? She had not heard anything so sacrilegious all year. And it was music to her ears. ‘Um, thank you.’
‘Anyway, I’ve been looking for someone to start a choir since I came here, and after that set this afternoon I just know my children would love to learn music from you. I wonder, are you fully committed elsewhere?’
‘Fully committed to a desk job, unfortunately.’ A desk job in a windowless office in a climate-controlled metal box on the side of the motorway, where nobody really knows me and I never really speak. She looked around, at the pleasant Victorian architecture, the pretty new library on the edge there, a tractor mowing a field just beyond. ‘But to be honest, I bloody hate it.’
His face lit up. ‘Of course we wouldn’t be able to pay much, but…’
Annie stood outside the tube station, holding her battered old A–Z and blinking into the late-afternoon sun. Apart from theatre trips and the odd dash to Selfridges, she had been buried in Bridgeford for so many years that she was unsure how much of her own capital she would recognise. While Annie Miller had been suspended in aspic, London had, apparently, hurled itself into the future. It was as if someone had tipped up the country at one end and all the good stuff had just rolled down here. She stood there–bemused like Catweazle, probably looking like Catweazle, certainly dressed à la mode de Catweazle–and tried to get her bearings.
No wonder home seemed such a ghost town: every living person under the age of forty was doing their living up here. She jostled her way along the main road, past well-dressed workers and Lycra-clad joggers. No shops closed here, that was for sure. The street was alive with the business of choices being met and PINs being entered. Had she stumbled into a Potemkin village, or was it just another country? Next time she came up here, she would probably need a visa. And, what’s more, they probably wouldn’t give her one. This city had nothing to do with the rest of the country any more, and it wasn’t the first time she ha
d noticed it. It reminded her of the night of the opening ceremony of the Olympic Games, when she had sat at home–on her own yet again, funnily enough–genuinely unsure whether she was witnessing an actual national triumph or the most fantastic, elaborate CGI joke.
She made a right and a left and then stopped for a moment, leaned against a wall and took several deep gulps of air. This was it. She was going to turn that next corner, open a door and ruin her own life. Or at least let someone else ruin it for her. But it had to be done. The suffering had to stop. Tracey and Jazzy had given her a talking-to and made her come here, and of course they were right. This was emotional Dignitas–she was giving her marriage the swift, easier, honest death that she believed it deserved.
It was a tall, stucco-fronted semi-detached house that James spent his week-nights in; a lot more elegant than the square-built 1950s home he came back to at weekends. Annie looked up at the top floor–his quarters–and wondered what she was going to find. Of course, it wasn’t possible to tell by just looking at the two little windows up there; there were no exterior signs of adultery, no SHAGGERS LIVE HERE graffiti on the gently flaking white walls. If she had to guess, if it was a sweepstake down at the library and she had to put her name against something, it would be ‘thong’. Rustling in her bag, she found the spare key she had lifted from his cufflinks box. She couldn’t say why, but for a while now, as some people dream of lottery numbers, she had been thinking thong. She let herself in, tested the silence, inhaled the scent of another person’s house–faint tobacco smoke, washing powder, the charred crumbs of that morning’s toast–and shut the door gently behind her. Indeed, when James had left that morning, pecked her on the cheek, said he would see her on Friday, it had even come to her in a sort of mystic vision: a red thong like a bloodstain on an acre of polished wooden floor. She began to climb the stairs. His bedsit didn’t actually have a wooden floor–and if it did she was pretty sure he wouldn’t have polished it–but still: the thong was the thing. It was a sign, and she had to follow it.