‘No pressure then,’ Marley jokes, but some of the band are looking distinctly uncomfortable. Romy looks like she’d bolt out of the door given half a chance, and Sasha is fanning herself with a printout of the lyrics.
Barney Bright pulls his headphones back on and hands a spare set to Marley, and we watch the clock tick round agonizingly slowly. Suddenly, Barney launches into a high-energy intro about the Battle of the Bands.
‘Some might say we’ve saved the best till last,’ he crows. ‘But I’d better let you be the judge of that! The Lost & Found are young, talented and tipped for the top – by none other than sixties pop legend Ked Wilder! They wowed audiences at Millford’s recent Protest Festival in support of the libraries, but can they wow listeners today? Marley Hayes, lead guitarist and brains behind the band, what do you think?’
‘I think Ked Wilder might be on to something,’ Marley quips, confident as ever. ‘I’m not about to argue with him, anyway! We are young – we all go to Millford Park Academy, or most of us, anyway – and we’re quite a big band, twelve of us in all. We like to think we’re a little bit different; our music has heart and soul.
‘We’d be thrilled to win the Battle of the Bands because we are passionate about what we do and we want to get to the very top! We’re going to play you our newest song, based on the experiences of one of our band members who is a Syrian refugee. I’m warning you, it’s a tear-jerker, so keep those tissues handy!’
I grit my teeth and look daggers at Marley, but he’s too hyped to notice.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is “Song for the Sea”!’
There’s a moment of silence, and then into the silence comes the sound of waves breaking on the shoreline, timed perfectly by Jake. As the sample fades away, George begins his cello piece and I step forward, my flute solo piercing the air and setting the scene for Sasha to step up to the mic and sing.
Except that she doesn’t. The guitar, bass, drums and keyboards all come in on time, but Sasha stands frozen, silent, her face blank, staring. A trickle of perspiration runs down from her forehead, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Is it stage fright? Panic? Is she ill?
I reach out, touch her elbow.
‘You OK?’ I ask, and Sasha looks up at me, frowning, as if she can’t quite work out what’s happening.
‘You missed your cue!’ Marley hisses under his breath as the various instruments crash to an undignified halt. ‘Get a grip, Sasha! This is no time to flake out on us!’
‘Sorry!’ Sasha’s cheeks flood with colour and she wipes the sweat from her brow as Lexie offers her cold water, kind words.
‘Sorry, folks, a small technical hitch there,’ Barney Bright is saying. ‘The joys of live radio, hey? Never work with children and animals! Hahaha! Let’s take that from the beginning!’
Quietly, the sound guy steps up out of nowhere to reconnect Bobbi-Jo’s keyboard. The bloke is clearly too good; even in that twenty seconds of chaos, he noticed it was unplugged and jumped in to sort it. Our fate is sealed.
‘From the top!’ Marley shouts, and Jake’s sampled intro begins again. This time, Sasha, still looking shaken, takes her cue at exactly the right moment and starts to sing. Her voice is heartbreakingly clear. Also heartbreakingly clear are Bobbi-Jo’s keyboard skills, or, rather, the lack of them. Dud notes and a mortifying switch to synth style in the last section seem to drown out the perfect harmonies, the violin and cello pieces, the little trumpet solo. It’s all I can hear: a jangle of discord.
‘Well, I think we can all agree that after a slightly sticky start, that was really, um, interesting,’ Barney Bright booms. ‘Listeners, if you want to vote for the Lost & Found, pick up your phones now and make a call.’
He goes on to list the cost of calling from a landline as opposed to a mobile, and explains that the lines will be open until six o’clock before lining up a new R&B track and sliding off his headset.
‘Bit of a dog’s dinner, that,’ he says bluntly, the minute we’re off air. ‘That’s the trouble with teen bands. Inconsistent. All talk and no talent – and as usual, I let myself fall for it. By the way, I’d get yourselves a new keyboardist, if I were you …’
He heads back to the main studio, leaving us to dismantle the drum kit and pack up. We trudge across town in silence. Back at the old railway carriage, we dump our stuff and Sasha bows her head and starts to sob.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Lexie tells her, although Marley’s stony face suggests that he thinks it was. ‘Stage fright can happen to anyone. You sang beautifully!’
‘What did Dad mean about getting a new keyboardist?’ Bobbi-Jo asks, clearly confused. ‘It was Sasha who missed her cue! Did I mess up too? I didn’t mean to. I was just trying to make the keyboard part more interesting. Was it my fault?’
‘Not really,’ Bex says with a sigh. ‘It just wasn’t our day.’
‘Maybe it’s the keyboard,’ Bobbi-Jo ploughs on. ‘Let’s face it – this one’s not the best, is it?’
Marley rolls his eyes, exasperated. ‘Whatever,’ he says. ‘Anyhow, I don’t think your dad wants to be our manager – he made that clear.’
I think the rest of us are quite relieved about that. Barney Bright is too brash, too sharp-tongued by far, whatever his musical connections. l remember how he spoke to his daughter, how crushed and embarrassed Bobbi-Jo looked. I am pretty sure that all she wants from life is a single word of praise or respect from her father, and also pretty sure she’ll never get it.
‘Look, I’ll make it up to you,’ Bobbi-Jo is pleading. ‘I promise! I’ll do whatever it takes! Besides, the votes aren’t in yet … we could still win!’
I think she is the only one to actually believe that. When the votes are counted, it turns out we’ve polled 312 to come in just behind Pretty Street, and it’s a miracle we managed that. Marley looks sick with shame.
‘I really thought we had something,’ Lexie says to me that evening as we sit together on the rusty old fire escape behind the dry-cleaning shop. ‘I thought that song was powerful, that it could win. I’m gutted, Sami!’
‘The song is good,’ I tell her. ‘We just didn’t play well on the day.’
Lexie has a kid’s jar of bubble mixture, bought from the newsagent on the corner; she’s showing me how to use the little wand to blow skeins of bubbles across the warm evening air. They drift out beyond the half-filled skip from the charity shop next door, iridescent, magical. They make me think of Nazz and Joe and Amira, and how much they’d have loved this spectacle.
‘Sasha feels awful,’ Lexie frowns. ‘It’s not like her to mess up like that, and I even felt sorry for Bobbi-Jo. No wonder she’s so pushy – her dad’s horrible, and she’s desperate for a bit of praise from him!’
‘Not someone we want for a manager,’ I agree. ‘I think we had a lucky escape.’
Lexie blows a bubble at my face, and it pops as it touches my cheek; one moment it’s a perfect sphere of shiny possibility, the next it’s a smear of diluted soap, drying to nothing. If we’re not careful, the Lost & Found could find that their bubble bursts too.
‘Marley’s going to have a mutiny on his hands if he doesn’t sort things out,’ I say.
Lexie puts down the bubble mixture and snuggles closer, dropping her head on to my shoulder.
‘Yeah, Marley’s lost the plot this summer,’ she agrees. ‘He was convinced we’d win; all his plans hinged on that.’
But we’ve lost, and Marley’s hopes and dreams are done for.
19
A Work of Art
Once upon a time, not so long ago, my life was set out before me like the pattern pieces of a suit, cut from good fabric and ready to sew. I knew what it would look like, and I knew it would be a perfect fit.
Now, those pattern pieces are torn and spoiled, like the worn-out silver lining of my father’s old overcoat. I can’t see how to stitch anything at all from them, but still, I am determined to try.
I train myself once more to look for silver things �
� foil wrappings, squashed aluminium cans, paper clips, tinsel. I collect feathers too – soft white feathers, mottled grey ones, tiny downy ones. I take some time every day to stitch my treasures into the coat.
‘Oh, Sami, it’s worse than ever!’ my aunt laments.
But I think it’s a work of art.
Bobbi-Jo doesn’t appear for Monday’s practice and, after waiting ten minutes for her, Marley decrees that we get started anyway. ‘We’ll run through the covers,’ he says fiercely. ‘We can’t let this setback get to us. Let’s give it all we’ve got!’
After two or three songs, we begin to relax and enjoy the rehearsal – and it sounds good too, perhaps because there are no keyboard disasters.
We’re halfway through ‘Dancing in the Street’, the mood lighter than it’s been for weeks, when Bobbi-Jo bounds into the railway carriage and starts waving her arms around.
‘Listen!’ she screeches above the sound of our playing. ‘Big news! Stop playing, quick – Mum’s waiting for me in the car!’
The song limps to a premature finish, and Bobbi-Jo looks around, beaming.
‘OK,’ she announces. ‘Wait till you hear this! I need all of you to clear your diaries for tomorrow – no excuses, no arguments! You will not believe this!’
‘Believe what?’ Jake wants to know. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We’re in the studio,’ she declares. ‘All day! I got my dad to call his friend, the one with the recording studio. They’ve had a last-minute cancellation, and we can take it, free of charge.’
I frown. ‘But we lost!’ I say. ‘We didn’t win the studio time, so how come …?’
‘Don’t ask,’ Bobbi-Jo says. ‘I begged my dad, all right? I got my mum to argue for me. I said we’d had a bad day and reminded him how close that result was – there were just eleven votes in it. I told them that we picked the wrong song, that we’d record something better on the day. He pulled some strings. It’s short notice, I know, but we all need to be at the studio tomorrow bright and early!’
Marley blinks. ‘You’ve got us studio time?’ he checks. ‘No way! That’s amazing, Bobbi-Jo!’
‘I knew you’d be pleased!’ she says. ‘I pulled out all the stops to get this opportunity for us. This is our big break!’
Silence settles over the railway carriage, awkward and uneasy.
‘Are we actually ready for this?’ Dylan asks. ‘With things the way they are just now? What about Ked Wilder? Shouldn’t we wait to see what he thinks?’
‘For goodness’ sake,’ Bobbi-Jo snaps. ‘We can’t sit around forever waiting for that old fossil to remember we exist – we have to take control! Marley and me have a clear vision for the band. We have to move forward, and if anyone’s not up to scratch, they’re out!’
She shoots a dark look at Sasha, who wilts visibly under her glare.
‘I feel awful about Friday,’ Sasha says. ‘I don’t know what happened. One minute I was stressing about getting everything right, the next minute I’d blown it and everyone was staring at me. I don’t understand it. I’m really, really sorry!’
‘We all have our off days, Sasha,’ Lee says. ‘It could have been any of us.’
‘We just weren’t good enough on the day,’ Jake agrees.
The others chip in their support, and Happi, Romy, Bex and Lexie step forward to give Sasha a group hug.
‘Forget about Friday,’ Marley cuts in. ‘This is a fresh start – let’s make the most of it. We need a single. Our stuff needs to be up on SoundCloud and Bandcamp and Spotify. We need reviews and publicity – not just in the local paper but nationally. We’ve had a setback – let’s put it behind us, move on!’
‘What’s all this about you two having a clear vision for the band?’ Bex asks. ‘Where does that leave the rest of us?’
‘Someone’s got to think big,’ Bobbi-Jo says with a shrug. ‘And sometimes you have to make quick decisions, right? If we hadn’t taken this cancellation, there might not have been another chance for ages!’
‘We’re still a team,’ Marley says. ‘We always will be – but Bobbi-Jo’s right, not everything can be decided by group vote!’
‘Not anything, lately,’ Bex grumbles.
‘We need to pick a song for the single,’ Marley pushes on. ‘I think we should go for “Train of Thought”, because “Song for the Sea” just didn’t work for us on Friday. If anyone disagrees, just say. Everyone’s views count. Teamwork, right?’
I stare at Marley, dismayed – using ‘Song for the Sea’ as our first single would have been the perfect way to get the refugee message out there, but he isn’t even considering the idea. He can’t meet my eye. Nobody argues, but Lexie shakes her head and reaches out to squeeze my hand.
‘Just be there tomorrow,’ Bobbi-Jo snaps. ‘If you lot get the eight-twenty train from Millford, I’ll get on at Brookleigh. Don’t let me down, OK? I really had to sweet-talk my dad to swing this!’
Lexie is the first to break the silence. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘Thanks. We’ll be there. We won’t let you down.’
‘Good,’ she says. ‘Look … I’m skipping practice today. Like I said, Mum drove me over; I can’t keep her waiting much longer. Get yourselves sorted – I’ll take the keyboard and meet you on the train in the morning.’
She blows a kiss in Marley’s direction and walks away across the grass, keyboard case swinging.
‘She gets the wrong end of the stick sometimes,’ Marley says into the stony silence.
‘Mainly because you won’t tell her the truth,’ Bex snarls. ‘I’m not that girl’s greatest fan, but anyone can tell she’s sweet on you. She must be majorly short-sighted, but that’s not the point. Come clean – tell her you’re gay. It’s no biggie!’
‘I will, eventually,’ he says with a sigh. ‘Just not yet …’
I can see things crumbling, falling to pieces right in front of me. We’re just a bunch of kids in an old railway carriage, playing a lot of mismatched instruments and singing songs that a few weeks ago had the power to send shivers down my spine, the power to make a festival crowd of several thousand people scream themselves hoarse in the hope of an encore. We had something special. Ked Wilder knew it, the TV people knew it, the newspapers knew it – but things have changed since then.
These days, our music is more likely to curdle milk than send shivers down anyone’s spine. Everyone but Marley knows it, and right now we have a revolution on our hands.
‘Bobbi-Jo knows what she’s doing,’ Marley argues. ‘She’s not stupid – she knows her keyboard skills aren’t great. She’s bluffing her way through because she wants to be famous. If I am using her – and I don’t think I am – she’s using me just as much. She wants her dad’s approval, and this might just do it. He might still agree to manage us if this works out!’
‘Do we want him as our manager?’ Bex asks. ‘I looked him up on the internet last night. That boy band he managed, the Bright Boys, broke up after a couple of hits; they sued him for mismanagement. He ripped them off, basically – they never made a penny!’
Marley looks as though he might cry. ‘OK, we don’t have to have him as a manager. Just let’s give this a go!’
Bex shakes her head. ‘If we record a dud single, it won’t make the band – it’ll break it! You need a reality check, Marley. Besides, this thing isn’t just about fame!’
‘I know,’ he says. ‘I’ve got this, I promise. I’ll suggest to the mixing guy that Bobbi-Jo records her track after we lay down the guitar, bass and vocals. Maybe some of it will be usable, but whatever happens, I’ll get Bobbi-Jo out of there by midday. We’ll have the option of a back-up plan. I do share your concerns and I know a lot of you aren’t sure about Bobbi-Jo …’
‘We’re sure all right,’ Dylan mutters. ‘Sure she’s hopeless!’
‘The plan is that Sasha also records the keyboard piece,’ Marley goes on. ‘If it’s better – let’s face it, it will be – we’ll ask the sound guys to use that. Bobbi-Jo need never know that it
’s not her playing on the single.’
It’s a sly move, a sneaky move, and I can tell with one glance that Lexie feels just as uncomfortable with the deception as I do, but the relief of our band mates is clear. Lee blows a trumpet salute and Bex chucks a cushion from one of the bench seats at Marley’s head, which he dodges, laughing.
The revolution has been averted, and we have peace again – for now.
20
A Crowded Train
If you have ever tried to travel on a rush-hour train in almost tropical heat with nine friends and a full-size drum kit, you will know that it’s not much fun.
Jake has slept in and texts to say he’ll follow in an hour, but he’s our tech guy rather than a main player so Marley shrugs and manages not to freak out. George has his cello and Marley and Bex have bulky guitar cases to wrangle, so they’re off the hook, but the rest of us get lumbered with various bits of the broken-up drum kit, which has been hastily bundled up in blankets and bin bags held together with packing tape.
The train is stuffed with office workers headed to Birmingham; they eye us with disgust, and there’s no way we can battle our way through the carriage to find seats. We stick together near the doors, where anyone getting on or off has to shove past us amid much swearing and sharp elbow jabs.
Bobbi-Jo gets on at Brookleigh, barging her way on to the train using her keyboard case as a battering ram.
‘Careful,’ I say, edging backwards and bumping into Romy, who is clutching her violin case and looking hot, bothered and miserable. ‘Sorry, Romy!’
Bobbi-Jo shoves past a red-faced businessman who has somehow found himself stuck in the crowd of teenage musicians. Lexie fails to get her plastic-wrapped hi-hat stand and cymbals out of the way in time, and accidentally prods Bobbi-Jo in the ribs before dropping the whole thing on the businessman’s shiny shoes. He grimaces, looking as if he’d like to be anywhere but here. He’s not the only one.
‘Ouch!’ Bobbi-Jo shrieks, doubling up as though she’s been stabbed. ‘I bet that’s going to bruise!’
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