16
Letting Go
The past is like a genie I’ve kept trapped inside a jar for so long that I don’t quite know how to take the lid off. With or without my help, though, the genie is breaking free – it just takes one last turn of the lid to let it go.
Lexie and I are in the park with Mary Shelley, a piece of string tied round her middle so she can’t stray too far. I’m lying on the grass, looking at the sky and keeping tortoise watch; Lexie is scribbling in a notebook.
‘I had an idea for the song,’ she says. ‘But I’m worried it might be a bit too much. It’s about what happened on the boat. It’s going to be subtle; it doesn’t spell out what’s happening – but maybe it’s too close to the bone?’
‘It needs to be that way,’ I tell her. ‘It’s OK.’
Lexie goes back to her scribbling. ‘How did it feel?’ she asks me after a while. ‘When you went into the water?’
‘I thought I would die,’ I tell her. ‘Everyone was screaming, my mother and my sister were trying to hold on to me, but it was impossible. I had no choice but to let the waves take me. So many people died that night, Lexie. I don’t understand why I lived!’
‘I’m glad you did,’ she says.
‘I’m glad too,’ I tell her, and for the first time I actually mean it.
Mary Shelley the tortoise stops grazing and marches up to me, nudges my palm with her head. If she were a dog or a cat, I’d say she could sense how I am feeling and is offering comfort, solidarity. As it is, she’s a tortoise, so … well, I guess it’s exactly the same.
I stroke her shell gently and wonder why it is that some creatures come into this world equipped with a hard shell that protects them from danger, while others have nothing but soft skin and flesh – no armour at all. Human beings have to make their own armour, their own shell, and it might keep predators at bay, but it also stops people from getting too close. I always thought that was a fair trade-off, but now I’m not so sure.
I roll on to one side and trail a finger over the little tortoise’s head. Do tortoises wonder what life without a shell might be like? Probably not.
Back at my uncle and aunt’s house, I close the bedroom door and step in front of the long wall mirror. I see a boy with bird’s-nest hair and burning grey eyes that hold a world of pain. I see a boy in an ancient overcoat, a ridiculous overcoat – too big, too hot, too heavy. I see a boy in a threadbare suit of armour, a shell to protect him from the world, a shell that’s worn out and no longer needed.
I peel off the overcoat, drop it on to the bed – a whole heap of love and grief and memories. I feel lighter without it, as if I’ve shed a skin. I haven’t worked out yet whether I can function without that skin, but I’ll figure it out. It’s time to let go.
Aunt Zenna would probably pick up the coat between her thumb and forefinger and take it out to the wheelie bins behind the shop; she’d drop it in with all the rubbish, slam the lid shut. She’d say ‘good riddance’.
I can’t do that.
I love this coat. I still have all the things I found in its pockets: the hard plastic box with my father’s passport and photographs inside, his mobile phone. There’d been money too, two hundred euros in small notes that I used along the way when things were desperate.
The things are in a shoebox underneath my bed, and I take them out now, spread them across the duvet cover. My father’s treasures, kept safe from the Aegean Sea.
I pick up the phone, press the button, but it’s dead, like my long gone father. I’d give anything to speak to my father one last time, tell him how the coat kept me warm and safe all the way across Europe, how the love he’d stitched into every seam had wrapped itself around me and pulled me back from a hundred different dangers and bad decisions. I’d tell my father that I love him, that I’m doing OK, that I finally made it to Britain and to safety.
I know he wouldn’t be able to hear that voicemail – but somehow, on some level, he’d get the message and understand.
I think of Lexie, leaving letters and notes for her missing mother, and my heart aches. She told me to find a charger, leave a message for real – is that such a crazy idea? The internet can supply just about anything these days. I pick up my own phone and search eBay, find the right charger for less than a quid and click to order it. If I can get the mobile to work, leave a message, it could be my way of saying goodbye.
I find a hanger, slide the old overcoat on to it and place it carefully on the hook on my bedroom door. Inside I can see the tattered lining, the glint of silver stuff I stitched into it on the journey, desperate to keep that lining silver even as the fabric frayed and the colour faded. Ring pulls, silver paper, a lost earring, a piece of foil tray … not so long ago, they’d seemed like treasure, magic. Now they just look like what they are: random bits of rubbish sewn into a tatty old coat.
Is it possible to revive the magic?
I look at the coat for a long time, then I scrabble around for a half-filled school sketchbook, pick up a pen and start to draw.
17
Song for the Sea
The first time I leave the flat without the ancient overcoat, Aunt Zenna goes crazy. ‘At last, at last!’ she shrieks, pulling me back into the hallway. ‘I knew you would see sense! I knew you would listen, in the end! At last we can get rid of that horrible old rag!’
‘I am keeping the coat,’ I tell her firmly. ‘It’s all I have left of my father!’
Aunt Zenna nods. ‘I know,’ she tells me. ‘I understand, Sami. We can put it away then, keep it safe. When you’re ready. But look at you, so clean and handsome and well-dressed! I’m just so happy to see you without it, looking like a normal boy!’
I’m looking as normal as I ever have, I suppose, in Converse and skinny jeans and a white T-shirt with a blue plaid shirt layered over the top – after years of hiding in the overcoat, I feel underdressed without it. It doesn’t matter how I look, though. I’m not like everyone else; I never can be.
‘I am so proud of you,’ Aunt Zenna declares, and pulls me in for a quick hug before running a critical hand through my hair. ‘Next, we’ll book you a haircut! You look like you’ve been sleeping in a hedge!’
‘Don’t push your luck,’ I tell her, and drop a quick kiss on her cheek before heading down the stairs.
On the street I feel conspicuous, as if everyone is looking at me, laughing at me; in fact, I know that now they no longer have reason to stare or laugh. People often made comments about the overcoat: kids laughed at it, teachers huffed, old ladies tutted and shook their heads. The coat was frayed and stained and scruffy, but it was part of me. Without it, I feel exposed, raw, vulnerable.
I meet Lexie at the park, watch her do a double take as she sees me.
‘No coat?’ she checks, as if I have it hidden somewhere. ‘Really? That’s awesome! How does it feel?’
‘Weird,’ I tell her. ‘Scary. Disloyal. But also like I’m breaking free, moving forward. It’s hard to explain!’
‘You’re explaining it well,’ she says, and I am glad that Lexie has read my notebooks and knows the story behind the overcoat, knows why I wore it, loved it, hid beneath it.
‘What will you do with it?’ she wants to know. ‘The coat. Store it away somehow?’
‘Maybe,’ I tell her. ‘Eventually. But for now, I have some ideas for it. I want to repair it, patch it up, add a bit more to the lining perhaps …’
I open my palm to reveal a silver bottle top, a shard of glass, a twist of shiny silver wire. ‘I think it’s going to be a kind of art project; keep a lookout for silver stuff. And feathers!’
‘OK. Sounds mysterious, but I will,’ Lexie says. ‘I’ll actually miss that coat, y’know. Even before I got to know you properly, you were the boy with the big overcoat and the cool hair. You stood out from the crowd. And now you have to learn to live without it, learn to blend in. No more magic coat.’
‘Blame Mary Shelley,’ I say. ‘She got me thinking about the advantages and disad
vantages of having a hard shell. I decided to do without. I’m done with hiding.’
‘Well, I liked the coat, but I’m glad you don’t need it any more,’ she says. She puts an arm around me. I feel the warmth of her skin burning into my body, and I’m glad too.
Later, at the old railway carriage, I get a whole load more positive comments and even a hug from Marley.
‘Mate,’ he says. ‘You look amazing! I hated that old rag of a coat, y’know!’
‘I know you did,’ I say.
‘It was a health hazard,’ Bobbi-Jo says. ‘An eyesore. Yuck!’
But the rest of the band understand how much the coat means to me, even though they don’t know why, and their comments are kind and low-key. I am the topic of the day for all of five minutes, and then Marley shuts down the chat by announcing that he’s put in our entry for the Battle of the Bands.
‘We’re in the studio with Barney Bright two weeks on Friday,’ he explains. ‘It’s the last slot in the competition, because he says he knows all about us and wants to save the best till last. Good, huh?’
Bobbi-Jo shrugs. ‘I asked him to,’ she says. ‘The last band to play is the one the voters will remember – hopefully! And of course he knows all about you – I tell him all the time!’
‘We need to decide what we’re going to play,’ Marley points out. ‘Sami and Lexie have come up with some new lyrics, and we’re working on a melody for them now, so we should have something for everyone to work on soon.’
‘Hope it’s upbeat,’ she says.
‘An upbeat song about the refugee crisis?’ Marley says. ‘I don’t think so! We’re going for powerful and emotional. The question is, will it be the best choice for the competition? I guess we can see how it turns out and make a final call later this week.’
Bobbi-Jo pulls a face. ‘Dad says there are quite a few entries already,’ she tells us. ‘He’s going to start airing the entrants one a day, starting on Monday, and there’s lots of hype about getting people to vote. It should be good! I know that Pretty Street have put their name down. T-Dawg is still nagging me to join them as a dancer. He’s very persistent …’
‘Not tempted?’ Bex asks, looking hopeful.
‘Not really,’ Bobbi-Jo says with a shrug. ‘I don’t want to waste my time with amateur outfits. I think we’re going to make it, and I’ll get Dad to manage us, get us signed by one of the big labels. I mean, I wouldn’t be here otherwise! I want a career in the music business. I’m determined!’
‘More’s the pity,’ Bex says under her breath.
Luckily, Bobbi-Jo doesn’t hear.
I’ve never been part of the songwriting process before, but this time Lexie and Marley make sure I’m involved in every step. It’s fascinating to see how the two of them bounce ideas off each other. Marley takes the words Lexie writes and plays around with sound and melody, working up a couple of possible approaches. Lexie and I are instinctively drawn to one of them, and then it’s a case of perfecting the tune and adjusting the chorus to fit with this.
The overall sound is simple, spare, melancholic … but with powerful sweeps of violin and flute that sneak their way into your soul and won’t let go. Marley works up a basic three-note rhythm for Bobbi-Jo to play, something so simple that even she won’t be able to go wrong. He asks Jake to find a sound sample of waves breaking on the shore to use as an intro and fade out for the song.
The first time we play it as a band, my heart aches so hard I think it might break … Sasha’s voice is so pure, so haunting. She’s been quiet and daydreamy these last few weeks, as if there’s something on her mind, but the moment she has the new song lyrics she’s back on form – and how.
It takes a while for the rest of us to pull it all together – Lee has an idea for a dramatic trumpet solo in the middle, George comes up with an amazing cello piece to ease the transition from the waves sample to the music – but finally the new song is sounding tight.
‘It might even be the best thing we’ve done,’ Marley declares. ‘Sasha’s totally nailed those vocals and the harmonies are heartbreakingly good. Sami’s flute solo gives me the shivers. This is special – I think we’re on to a winner!’
The Battle of the Bands competitors begin airing every afternoon on The Barney Bright Show, and we tune in daily to hear our rivals. School bully Sharleen starts things off with a screechy version of a Katy Perry song; Jake’s stepdad’s ceilidh band plays an eightsome reel, and there are lacklustre performances from assorted other contenders we have never heard of. That first week, nobody scores more than a hundred votes.
The second week, we listen to Zombie Massacre, then the middle-aged ska band and a small girl singing ‘Silent Night’ – all poll almost two hundred votes, although we’re pretty sure that Rick from Zombie Massacre has rigged the voting somehow, or maybe just got his mother to ring in repeatedly. On Thursday, the one and only Pretty Street have their slot. The schoolboy rap band are actually not bad, if you like that kind of thing – their entry, ‘Pretty Street Sweet’, is a clever rap about falling for a beautiful girl who just doesn’t want to know.
‘Inspired by anyone we know?’ Bex asks, and Bobbi-Jo smirks.
Their performance gets an impressive 323 votes.
‘We can beat them,’ Marley promises. ‘Easy. Remember to get your families and friends to vote. We’ll meet at midday tomorrow for a final run-through, and then head to the radio station. Good luck, people!’
And, just like that, our slot for Battle of the Bands rolls around.
18
Star of the Show
‘There’s nothing to be scared of,’ Bobbi-Jo tells us as we wait to be called into the studio at Millford Sounds Radio. ‘I’ve been here millions of times.’
‘To play?’ Lee asks, and Bobbi-Jo gives him a scathing look.
‘Obviously not. Look, I was thinking – “Song for the Sea” is sounding good, but it needs something more intricate from the keyboards. I’ve been working on something …’
‘No,’ Marley says firmly. ‘We’ve got everything perfect. We only get one shot at this – let’s not start meddling now. We play what we’ve practised, OK?’
Bobbi-Jo scowls, but she doesn’t argue.
An assistant arrives to take us to a side studio, and we take the drum kit through and set up everything else around it. A couple of sound guys mooch around checking that everything’s where it should be, and then we do a soundcheck so they can get the levels right. After a couple of false starts, everyone is happy with the levels and Sasha is belting out the lyrics with passion. The rest of us are pitch perfect – except Bobbi-Jo. In spite of Marley’s warning, she is playing a completely different tune, making her piece a jumble of dud notes and tinny melody.
‘What do we do?’ Lexie asks Marley once the sound guys disappear and Bobbi-Jo is at a safe distance, listening to The Barney Bright Show through a fancy headphone set. ‘She’s going to wreck our chances. She just can’t follow instructions, and she has no idea how bad she is …’
‘I know,’ Marley agrees. ‘I have a fall-back plan. I’m going to unplug her sound lead. It’s the only way!’
‘Unplug her?’ Lexie whispers, aghast. ‘So nobody actually hears her? She’ll go nuts!’
‘Only if she finds out.’ Marley shrugs. ‘Look, we don’t have a choice! Trust me. It’ll be fine!’
Bobbi-Jo turns back to us, grinning, sliding the headphones from her ears. ‘Dad’s just announced that we’ll be on right after the three o’clock news, so he should be through any minute!’
‘Cool,’ Marley says to Bobbi-Jo. ‘Just focus and stick to the piece you’ve been practising. No fancy extra bits; it’s just going to confuse matters, OK? Can I trust you on that?’
‘Of course!’ Bobbi-Jo says grudgingly.
‘Also, when we’re all amplified, it can sound a bit different from normal,’ Marley explains. ‘You can’t always get the whole picture; you have to trust that the sound guys have got it mixed perfectly. They will
have. Just don’t panic if it sounds like you’re not making any sound – that sometimes happens!’
‘It does?’ Bobbi-Jo questions. ‘How weird!’
‘Yeah, weird,’ Marley agrees. ‘But the listeners will be able to hear, so just keep doing your thing and everything will be fine!’
The rest of us exchange glances, trying not to look guilty about colluding to keep Bobbi-Jo’s contribution to the song strictly unplugged, and I almost miss the moment when Marley casually swipes the lead from the keyboard. The deed is done.
Barney Bright comes in then, grinning broadly and shaking everyone by the hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ he says. ‘Bobbi-Jo never stops talking about you! I hear she’s quite the star of the show!’
‘Er – that’s right,’ Marley says, his face frozen, awkward. ‘Something like that. We’re very glad to have her on board!’
‘Well, rather you than me,’ the DJ barges on. ‘It’s taken thirteen years for someone to unearth Bobbi-Jo’s musical talent. Always thought she was tone deaf, myself; the only one in the family who skipped the musical talent gene! Maybe she’ll prove me wrong after all!’
I glance at Lexie, wide-eyed. We’re all slightly shocked at Barney Bright’s harsh words, and I notice that Bobbi-Jo is staring at her shoes, a flush of crimson staining her cheeks. Her pushy ways are clearly a family trait, but underneath them is a little kid trying desperately hard to win some praise. I can’t help feeling sorry for her. On the outside, she looks like the luckiest girl in the world, but maybe inside she’s as lost as the rest of us.
‘So the news will be on for, what, another four minutes,’ Barney Bright is saying. ‘As soon as it finishes, I’ll introduce you. I’ll ask you, Marley, to say a few words about why you think people should vote for you. Sound OK?’
‘Perfect,’ Marley says.
‘And then you’ll go straight into your piece – “Song for the Sea”, yes? Remember it’s live, so give it all you’ve got!’
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