‘We’re going to the Breakers Festival next week.’
‘Then how about when you get back?’ Leanne asks. I write down an appointment date in my diary.
Nothing happened in counselling, but I feel okay. More than okay. Eddie does too.
Mum rings as we’re on the way home. She’s still at work. ‘So how was it?’
‘All right.’ Mum tries to force out more information but I haven’t got any. ‘I told you, Mum, it was all right. We’re going back in a couple of weeks.’
I hear the relief in her voice. I hear music inside my head:
I’m so sick of lying,
Life is just a game
Who am I supposed to be?
What am I supposed to say?
When we get home there’s a postcard from Dad in the letterbox. It’s a photo of a band, and the first postcard I want to tear up.
Dear Pip,
Looking forward to your concert and hearing your band.
Love always,
Dad.
He added ‘always’, which is different. I feel guilty about ‘Psycho Dad’. I don’t tear up the postcard in the end. I put it at the bottom of my pile of his postcards.
Saturday. Memorial day. Angie, Karen and I stand in front of the synagogue. It’s a plain square brick building with a seven-branched candelabrum engraved on the front. Two security guards check us before we’re allowed to pass through the security fence. This isn’t exactly a rock concert. These people don’t look like they’re bringing in contraband.
When Irina sees us she runs over. ‘Thank you for coming.’ She hugs us one by one.
‘What’s that about?’ I gesture to the guards and the wire fence.
‘Synagogues get bombed. There’ve been swastikas graffitied over there.’ Irina points to the side wall. I can just make out a faint outline that couldn’t be scrubbed away. ‘That’s hate for you.’
I watch kids playing, old grandmothers gossiping. They’re just ordinary people. There’s no one here to hate.
We follow Irina into the building. The men are given black caps. No caps for us. There aren’t any flowers. An older man hands us each a booklet. ‘Shalom,’ he says, nodding. There are stained glass windows, pews, a pulpit. An intricately carved wooden cabinet stands on a platform at the front. A gold and blue embroidered curtain in front of the cabinet hides the contents. We slide into a pew beside Irina.
The service begins. The rabbi welcomes us. ‘This service is in memory of those who have died in Russia. We pray for those who have been imprisoned and suffered because of their faith.’ The rabbi reads out a long list of names. Irina presses my hand when the rabbi calls out her grandfather’s name. ‘We pray for their souls.’ A man standing beside the rabbi sings in Hebrew.
I open the booklet. It’s written in Hebrew on one side and the English translation on the other. It starts on the back page and moves towards the front. The booklet is strange, but the service and prayers feel familiar. I look around as the rabbi speaks. I stop when Psalm 23 resonates through the congregation.
The LORD is my shepherd;
I lack nothing.
He makes me lie down in green pastures:
He leads me to water in places of repose;
He renews my life…
Though I walk through a valley of deepest darkness,
I fear no harm, for You are with me;
Your rod and Your staff—they comfort me.
The sermon is simple, citing crimes against humanity and the duty of everyone to pursue peace and celebrate life. Karen looks pale. She whispers, ‘Though I walk through a valley of deepest darkness, I fear no harm.’ She rests her head on the pew in front of her. ‘Is dying living with God?’
‘You’re living with us. God’s protecting you here.’ I put my hand over hers. ‘No mermaids here.’ I hold her hand so tightly she gasps. ‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’
When the service finishes, we wander down to the hall. The mood of the congregation changes as we move away from the synagogue.
When we get to the hall, Angie and Karen stand in the doorway with their mouths open. I look inside at a scene that jars with the service. Then Irina is beside us and suddenly we’re pushed into another world. No one else is surprised as they rush to claim their tables. The room is decorated with streamers. Balloons are tied to chairs. The self-serve trestle tables groan under the load of food. Pickles are a major theme: pickled herrings, cabbage, onions, cauliflower, beetroot. Nearly every known vegetable is pickled, with the highlight being pickled watermelon. That’s not even a vegetable. Beetroot soup fills a huge stainless-steel pot. Red caviar dots cut-up boiled eggs, and slices of beef, veal and tongue are piled high next to baskets of chicken pieces. The potatoes star, boiled, battered, creamed, fried and just lots of potatoes. Breads are warm—seeded, unseeded, rye or black—and delicious. It’s a feast.
We start laughing. Irina laughs too. ‘It’s called overcompensation. Just wait for the cakes to come out.’
Bottles of vodka sit on every table. I nudge Karen. She grins and shakes her head. Vodka seems to connect everyone. ‘Does this mean everyone is going to have a good time?’ I ask Irina.
‘I think so.’
Then the band takes the stage. It’s made up of three middle-aged men. Two have moustaches. All are wearing shiny blue satin shirts and black trousers. The silver belts are a giveaway. We’re in a time warp. A woman with more make-up than even Angie can imagine saunters onto the stage with a microphone in her hand. I nudge Angie. She gets it and smiles. The lady is wearing gold sequins. Her hair is bottle-blonde and her eyes are startlingly blue. She welcomes everyone in Russian, then English, and then it’s on.
These Russians can party. The music is loud and all in Russian and we have no idea what’s happening, except it’s crazy. Eating and drinking take on new meaning—especially drinking. There are nonstop toasts. Irina says they are for ‘good health’ and ‘good luck’ and ‘a safe trip home’ and ‘God bless your mother’ and any excuse for another vodka. The dancing is wild, with men doing Cossack jumps, whirling and leaping into a circle of dancers. Even Irina’s father can’t stop himself. He does a jumping swirl into the circle. Two boys who are obviously in love with Angie are bouncing around her. She’s lapping it up, of course. Karen and I are holding hands, swirling in our own circle. Irina is dancing with her mother, who is laughing. The blonde Russian lady is singing her heart out. Everyone is dancing and rocking, and Irina’s grandfather is finally having a great send-off.
Chapter Nineteen
Angie’s rung me fifteen times. There’s an urgent change of bandannas. The red colour sometimes runs. Angie wants white. ‘No chance of running, and it’ll pick up the colours of the spotlights really well.’ I want to wear white for a different reason. Irina’s fine with it. Of course, no one can contact Karen. I refuse to worry. On Sunday night, Angie does a desperate dash with her mother and buys four white bandannas.
It’s a mad week at school. Monday’s a blur. Tuesday is worse. It’s concert day. Last-minute touches, set-ups and arrangements have sent the Music Department into a frenzy. Irina has given up studying for the two days. Angie has been organising the hall decorations, instead of coming to our Not Perfect lunchtime practices. And we need some final practice sessions for ‘Psycho Dad’.
‘Why white?’ Karen pants while I try to keep up with her as she races to the bathroom for a smoke. She doesn’t wait for an answer. I want to tell her my real reason, but I can’t today. It’s a Krazy Karen day. A white bandanna feels right. White means hope. No mermaids.
Mr Connelly’s calling me and I run towards him, away from Karen.
I’m scared. Not Perfect is performing ‘Psycho Dad’ tonight. We have to be good. Really good.
Tuesday night. The concert at last.
Angie and the girls have done a great job on the decorations. They make the school hall look like a party. Some parents are seated and waiting. They’re the early parents. Late parents
are rushing in.
Mr Connelly is organising everyone. His two little boys are sitting in the front with Mrs Connelly. ‘Daddy, Daddy,’ they shout when they see him. He goes over and hugs them, before charging into the backstage chaos again.
The performers are excited and nervous. Boys, lots of them, are milling around the courtyard, happy at the open invitation to invade the girls’ school. There’s Oliver. No one cares about that the bear incident any more. That includes me. It was so important then, but unimportant now. Oliver is talking to Christopher. There’s Karen. Who’s she with this time? Is it Josh? It can’t be. He looks around twenty. Is that why she hasn’t brought him around? Because he’s older? I wave to her.
She sees me, looks around, then pounces on Josh, kissing him hard on the lips. He tries to back away, but she doesn’t let him. What’s she doing? Parents are staring. Oh God, I see her father walking up with that woman beside him, looking very pregnant. Is that the reason for the deep-throat kissing here, now? Her father’s face is thunder. Yes, he saw it, just like she wanted him to. I run up to her and grab her arm, dragging her away from Josh’s face and her father, who’s storming towards her. I quickly say to Josh, ‘Hey, she’s got to go backstage. Come on.’ I yank her away. ‘What are you doing, Karen?’ I whisper when we’re far enough from Josh.
She waves her hand in the air. ‘Nothing.’
‘Your stupid games. Not now, Karen.’
‘I didn’t say a proper goodbye to Josh.’
Josh has disappeared, which seems like a good idea. ‘Let’s go.’ I drag her to our allocated get-ready room. ‘Karen, this has to be good. Okay? Okay?’ Karen nods.
I see Angie at work. She waves at me but doesn’t stop. She is the wardrobe queen, adding sparkles to singers’ eyes, adjusting bandannas and gold capes, checking everyone.
Karen and I sneak backstage and look out from behind the curtains into the audience. Where are Mum and Eddie? Karen’s mother and boyfriend are sitting in the front row. I point them out to Karen.
‘Mum’s boyfriend is so great.’ She giggles. ‘Especially when he gets up in the morning. If he gets up. A guy for Mum to look after. Anyone, rather than me.’ She really starts laughing. ‘He doesn’t hit her like Dad did though. That’s an improvement.’
Karen’s laughing is too much. I stare at her. Oh, God. ‘Have you taken something?’ I pinch her arm. She giggles again. She has. I look at her huge pupils in a rim of blue. I shake her. ‘Karen, get your act together.’ She laughs some more. I turn my back on her. Where are Mum and Eddie? I want to cry. No, they’ll be here. They wouldn’t let me down. I turn around to Karen, who’s still laughing. ‘Stop it.’ I look out again into the audience. I feel better when I see Mum and Eddie coming in with Irina’s parents. I forgot. Mum was going to pick them up. Mum looks around and spots Angie’s parents, who have been saving them seats. No Dad. Good.
Mr Connelly herds us into a back room. ‘Just be quiet and listen. The first group is getting ready on stage.’ He motions to everyone to be ready and wait for their turn. When the chaos calms, he leaves, heading for the stage.
I force Karen to sit next to me. I give her some water. ‘Drink that and don’t make a sound. I’m serious.’ She quietens down. Irina sits on the other side of her, so she’s glued between us. At least for now. ‘It’s starting,’ I whisper. Karen wriggles between us. ‘It’s starting.’ I say again. ‘Stop moving.’
We hear Mr Connelly’s voice welcoming the audience. He announces the first act. There’s some shuffling and then it begins. The music seeps into our back room. Violins take over, then the wind instruments join in, then the brass. When the voices of the choir begin, no one even whispers.
Amazing grace how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now am found
Was blind, but now I see.
Their voices soar, interconnecting as they move from one part to another, heralding the soloist: ‘The Lord has promised good to me’. Altos, sopranos, basses chant ‘Praise God, praise God, praise God’.
As ‘Amazing Grace’ finishes there’s cheering. We can hardly hear Mr Connelly calling us: ‘Are you ready? Insomniac Road performers, come on.’
Ready? No, we’re not. I take a few deep breaths, pushing away panic and ‘Amazing Grace’. Everyone is nervous after that performance. ‘Amazing Grace’ was so good. Even Karen’s quiet—for the moment. ‘Karen concentrate. You can do this. For us. For you.’ I pull Irina over to help me. ‘Hey, come on, everyone. Look at me.’ Heads turn as Irina taps out the beat. When she sees everyone listening, Irina stops and hands over to me. ‘Okay. We’re going out there. They were good. Amazing, even. We’ll be a different sort of amazing. Is that right?’ Heads nod. ‘Is that right?’
Irina leads the ‘Yes’.
‘So let’s do it.’
The stage is set. The musicians are waiting. Irina hits the drums. That’s the signal for the band. They start playing a song from Passages of Living and Dying. I dance onto the stage behind the singers. They form a circle around the stage, filling the space with black figures. The lights catch the gold and silver sparkles on their faces as the music increases in intensity. Karen and two other girls spin to the front flashing gold capes, swirling them into a dance of rocky emotions. The singers swing into their positions. They look to me. With my arms up I motion to them with my conductor’s baton. ‘Right,’ I mouth, and they begin. All their voices rise together. Loudly, powerfully. I raise the stakes, conducting the singers to near-screeching level. I point to the altos. They sing. Then the sopranos break in midway. The backup singers increase the tempo and it’s over to Karen. I close my eyes for a second, willing Karen to be all right. Willing her to perform, like only Karen can. Her voice belts through the hall as she takes control of the stage, until we’re all together in this rock opera of drums, guitars and voices.
Finally I make the over-and-out signal with my baton. The music stops but the echoes still fill the hall. I motion to the choir to bow. Applause. Karen and the backup singers bow. Applause. The musicians bow. Applause. Irina does a final pounding of the drums. And then there’s stomping of feet, clapping of hands in the audience. Eddie is standing and whistling and Mum is standing beside him.
We’re breathless as we leave the stage, hugging each other, laughing, knowing that we were good. Really good. Mr Connelly is glowing. ‘Proud of you’ rings in our ears. Then he’s organising the next act.
Non-performing girls are on the move, helping other groups. Girls who have finished performing go outside to meet boys and girlfriends. Karen goes with them. I grab my trumpet. I’m in the orchestral performance later. Irina, Angie and I go to the back of the hall to watch the next part of the concert. Our parents are looking around for us. When they see us there are excited waves. Embarrassing waves. Eddie heads for the back to annoy us. ‘Not bad,’ he teases, ‘for girls.’
‘And you think you can play the guitar?’
‘Sure can, Pip Squeak. I’m playing in this band called Not Perfect.’ He thinks that’s hilarious.
‘Not tonight.’ Then I whisper in his ear, ‘Have you seen Dad?’
‘No. Something to do with a problem at work, but he’ll be here.’
That’s how much his postcard means. That’s how much he cares. Anyway, I don’t want him here. Not for ‘Psycho Dad’.
Karen arrives with Josh behind her. I whisper, ‘Don’t make out here, okay?’
‘Have you got a problem, Pip?’
Problem? I can’t believe she’s asking me that. ‘I think you have one.’
Josh looks at me seriously. ‘I’ll look after her.’
Who are you? I don’t know you. ‘Shush.’ Angie elbows me. The next group has started.
Dad rushes into the hall. He trips over himself and luckily lands on the seat, rather than under the seat. He’s sitting next to Angie’s father. At least he’s not next to Mum. He waves as I walk onto the stage to take my place in the brass
section of the orchestra. I’m playing lead trumpet, but my heart isn’t in it. I keep thinking about ‘Psycho Dad’. He claps with all the parents and takes photographs. I wish he wouldn’t.
The acts keep coming. The good, the bad and the ugly. Some people just can’t sing, except they think they can. It’s called self-delusion.
My heart is thumping as we get nearer to the end of the concert. Mr Connelly calls the four of us backstage. Karen is jumpy. Irina tries to calm her down. Angie is fluffing her hair so much it’s going to have stress disorder. ‘Are you all right?’ I ask her.
‘Just nervous, Pip.’
‘Me too.’
At last Mr Connelly announces to the audience that the rock band Not Perfect is giving the final performance of the night. ‘These girls wrote and arranged this song themselves.’ The lights flash into our eyes as we walk onto the stage. We’re wearing black. White bandannas. No capes. It’s just us and our music.
Irina nods. Right, it’s on. ‘For us,’ she whispers. She hits her drums, giving us the beat, drawing us into Not Perfect. And we’re there, playing the rhythm, bass, lead, heading into our lyrics. Our song. Karen’s, mine, ours. ‘Psycho Dad’ rocks into the audience.
All of the times I cried
I wished you’d just die
Shouting and all the rest
But now I have learned best
What you did was wrong
That’s why I wrote this song
So maybe you would see
Just what you have done to me
’Cause I don’t want you
And I don’t need you
You were so bad
You were my psycho dad
You call me all the time
You won’t give us a dime
That's Why I Wrote This Song Page 20