Sami's Silver Lining

by Cathy Cassidy

  Lexie gets tangled up in a rush of apologies, but Bobbi-Jo is having none of it. ‘Look, Lexie – just because you’re not with Marley any more, don’t get violent, OK?’

  ‘Violent?’ Lexie protests. ‘Are you kidding? It was an accident!’

  ‘Of course it was,’ I argue, trying to calm things down a bit. ‘This train is like a sardine can – nobody has room to move. Lexie didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  ‘You reckon?’ Bobbi-Jo snarls. ‘Dream on, Sami. Jealousy is not a nice thing!’

  ‘Huh? Why would I be jealous?’ Lexie asks. ‘And who exactly am I supposed to be jealous of?’

  ‘Me, obviously,’ the other girl snaps. ‘Because now that I’m in the band, Marley confides in me instead of you. We talk through plans together. We share a vision.’

  I’m not sure what the vision is, but I’m willing to bet it’s more about fame, fortune and power than anything to do with the actual music. Bobbi-Jo is clearly in a foul mood, but typically Lexie doesn’t rise to the bait.

  ‘That’s great,’ she says. ‘I’m happy for you!’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Bobbi-Jo retorts, smug and snarly at the same time. ‘Of course you’re not. Drop the sickly-sweet act – it’s not fooling anyone! You’re green with envy because Marley’s with me now! We’re together, OK?’

  Over by the opposite door I see Marley look across, catching the mention of his name, straining to hear what’s being said.

  ‘You’re actually going out with Marley?’ Lexie says.

  ‘Well, duh!’ she snaps. ‘That’s what I said, isn’t it?’

  Lexie, Romy and I exchange baffled glances.

  ‘So … he’s not gay any more?’ Romy blurts out. ‘Really? Wow!’

  ‘Gay?’ Bobbi-Jo echoes. ‘Of course he’s not! Tell her, Lexie!’

  Lexie blinks. Two spots of colour bloom in her cheeks, but she’s trapped in Bobbi-Jo’s glare, with no escape possible. ‘Um, actually I think you’ll find he is,’ she says.

  Bobbi-Jo looks so furious that even the red-faced businessman tries to back away in alarm.

  ‘Marley!’ Bobbi-Jo shrieks. ‘Come over here now! Marley!’

  Marley pushes his way through the crowd, his guitar case jabbing everyone in his path. His face appears over the businessman’s shoulder, grinning.

  ‘Someone called?’ he says. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I can’t say it,’ Bobbi-Jo whimpers. ‘Romy and Lexie, they accused you … They said … Oh, it’s horrible!’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘This young lady asked if you were still gay,’ the businessman reports. ‘And the other young lady said of course you were. The question is, Marley, are you? Or not?’

  The businessman tilts his head to one side as if trying to guess. I think he probably sees us as a particularly dodgy form of sideshow entertainment, but one he can’t quite resist. ‘Well?’ he prompts.

  ‘Of course I am!’ Marley says. ‘I was, um, planning to mention it, Bobbi-Jo. Eventually. So nobody is accusing me of anything. And it’s not horrible either. It’s just the way I am!’

  Bobbi-Jo looks horrified, as if Marley has just announced he likes to eat worms for a hobby. ‘You’re kidding me?’ she says. ‘I mean, I thought … I thought we had something! All those extra keyboard lessons; all that planning for the band. I thought you were special, Marley Hayes!’

  ‘I kind of am,’ Marley says, smirking.

  ‘Marley!’ Lexie says. ‘Stop being an idiot for once in your life!’

  A sudden quiet falls all around us. Every member of the Lost & Found is watching now, waiting to see how this will unfold.

  ‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Bobbi-Jo says. ‘And everyone knew except me!’

  Marley sighs. ‘Look, I’m sorry if you got the wrong idea. If I’ve been a bit flirty … well, it’s just the way I am. I’ll flirt with anybody!’

  He throws an exaggerated wink at the red-faced businessman, who grunts and turns a fetching shade of purple.

  ‘I’m just trying to show that I don’t mean anything by it,’ Marley explains. ‘We’re friends, right, Bobbi-Jo? I can’t think when I’ve ever said anything that might make you think otherwise.’

  ‘It’s just … I thought you liked me,’ she whispers. ‘And now, well, everyone’s laughing at me!’

  ‘Nobody’s laughing,’ Lexie promises, but Bobbi-Jo ignores her.

  ‘I told my dad we were dating!’ she exclaims. ‘I begged him to sort the studio time. I wish I hadn’t bothered, because nobody in this stupid band cares one bit about me!’

  ‘We do care!’ a handful of voices protest: Happi, Lexie, Sasha, George and Romy. It’s not enough for Bobbi-Jo.

  ‘Yeah, right,’ she snaps. ‘Well, guess what? I don’t! I never wanted to be in your poxy band anyway. All those soppy, wimpy songs and slit-your-wrist violin solos. I’ve never seen a bigger bunch of misfits in my whole life! You were just using me for my looks and my keyboard skills.’

  There’s a snort of muffled laughter from the back of the crowded carriage as Lee and Bex struggle to keep straight faces.

  ‘And you, Marley,’ Bobbi-Jo goes on. ‘You’re supposed to be coming to supper later to meet my mum and talk about making a video for the new single.’

  ‘I can still do that!’ Marley says brightly.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ she snaps.

  A stony silence descends.

  Bobbi-Jo takes out her mobile and starts texting furiously, while the rest of us clutch our drum-kit parcels and exchange anxious looks.

  The red-faced businessman loosens his tie. ‘It’s going to be a scorcher again today,’ he announces, to nobody in particular. ‘These trains could do with air conditioning, don’t you think?’

  ‘I am sick of this stupid band,’ Bobbi-Jo declares, still texting, and I think that the businessman is sick of it too, and sick of having the neck of a guitar jabbing into his side and sick of being hemmed in by teenagers and random bits of drum kit and stuck in the middle of a row. I am almost certain he is planning to take an earlier train to work tomorrow, or possibly call in sick with some stress-related ailment. Who could blame him?

  At last the train pulls into Birmingham New Street and everyone spills out on to the platform. Bobbi-Jo dumps the keyboard case on the platform and marches off towards the escalators.

  ‘So, um, what’s happening?’ Dylan asks. ‘Are we doing this thing or not?’

  ‘Of course we are,’ Marley tells us. ‘Wait up, Bobbi-Jo! You’ve forgotten your keyboard!’

  For a moment, I think that Bobbi-Jo will ignore him and go on walking, but she stops and turns to face us, eyes flashing anger.

  ‘Not my circus, not my monkey,’ she quips. ‘I won’t be needing it any more. The stupid thing’s out of tune anyway.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Lee mutters.

  ‘Shhh,’ Marley says. ‘C’mon, Bobbi-Jo, there’s no need to make a big thing of this. We need you. You’re our keyboardist, plus you’re the only one who knows where this studio is! We’ve got a single to record, right?’

  ‘Wrong, Marley Hayes,’ she says. ‘No single, no studio time, no video, no nothing. I’ve just texted Dad and he’s cancelled it all. I’m going to catch a train back to Millford now, because I have an important meeting with T-Dawg and Pretty Street about joining their band. At least they appreciate me. So long, losers!’

  She waggles her fingers, then turns on her sparkly wedge-heeled sandals and stalks away.

  21

  Making the Best of Things

  Marley sinks down on to the station platform, legs crossed, head in hands. He looks as though he might cry.

  ‘Mate,’ I say, touching his shoulder. ‘It’ll be OK. It’s not the end of the world!’

  ‘How would you know?’ Marley mutters, and I have to laugh, because, although Bobbi-Jo’s departure is bad news for the band, it really isn’t the end of the world. I’ve seen what that looks like, more or less, and it was nothing like this.

  ‘
C’mon, Marley,’ Lexie coaxes. ‘I didn’t take you for a quitter! We’re here now – what do we do?’

  Bex prods him gently with the toe of one shiny pink Doc Marten boot. ‘You made a mistake,’ she says. ‘So what? I’ve made a million. Won’t be the first time, won’t be the last.’

  Marley looks up. ‘Just don’t you dare say “I told you so!” ’ he growls, and Bex laughs.

  ‘As if,’ she teases. ‘Why would I? It’s much more fun to watch you beating yourself up! Get up, idiot. I think we need breakfast and a new plan …’

  Half an hour later, we’re holed up in a little cafe just round the corner from New Street station, drinking orange juice and crunching through mounds of toast and jam, our instruments piled up around us. This cheers us all up, even Marley; the loss of promised studio time and the chance to record our first single seems a little less painful.

  ‘I’m really, really sorry,’ Romy says for the hundredth time. ‘I got confused. Bobbi-Jo was winding me up. I really didn’t mean to drop you in it, Marley!’

  ‘My fault,’ Marley says. ‘I thought I had it all sorted, but you lot were right. I was kidding myself, playing stupid games. I knew Bobbi-Jo fancied me a bit – well, obviously, who wouldn’t?’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Bex snaps, throwing a toast crust at him. ‘Not if you were the last boy on the planet. You are the vainest, most arrogant and ridiculous boy I have ever met!’

  ‘I love you too,’ Marley quips, biting into the toast. ‘I know I’ve messed up, let you all down – I thought that having Bobbi-Jo on board would open new doors for us. I didn’t bank on her being tone deaf, or having a crush on me. I wanted to tell her I was gay, but I didn’t want to upset her.’

  ‘I’d say you failed on that one,’ Lexie points out. ‘Still, it’s water under the bridge now. We’ve lost an opportunity – but I’m actually kind of glad.’

  ‘I reckon we’d have been in even more trouble if everything had gone to plan and the single had been released,’ Dylan says. ‘What’s the use of putting a single out when we all know we’ve lost our spark? We need to get back to basics!’

  ‘Like how?’ Marley frowns.

  ‘Playing live, writing new songs and working together to give them that special sound,’ Lexie suggests. ‘That’s what I miss. It’s been all tense and stressy lately. We need to bring the fun back!’

  ‘It’s not that easy.’ Marley says, scowling.

  ‘It could be,’ Bex says. ‘If you’d just listen to the rest of us occasionally. We need to work as a team. Don’t just assume you know best – you clearly don’t. We’re not just some glorified backing band for your meteoric rise to fame, y’know!’

  Marley sighs. ‘I know. I’m sorry. I’ve let you down, dragged you here on a wasted journey …’

  Bex grins. ‘Nope!’ she says. ‘It’s only a wasted day if we don’t make the most of the opportunity. We’re here, in one of the UK’s biggest, busiest cities, and we have all our instruments. Why not set up and play? Get some practice, have some fun, maybe earn enough to cover the cost of our train fare and our breakfast?’

  Marley blinks. ‘Play where?’ he asks.

  ‘Anywhere,’ Bex says. ‘Everywhere! I’ve just texted Jake and he’s on his way over with a couple of busking amps and two mics. Nice and simple. We can play those summer covers you’ve brainwashed us with. Lord knows, we’ve practised them enough, and they’re the perfect set list for a day like this! C’mon, Marley – let’s get out there and make a mark on this place. Unless you’ve got any better suggestions?’

  ‘I … well, no,’ Marley says. ‘That’s the best idea I’ve heard in weeks!’

  Before long, we’re set up on the corner of the High Street. Dylan finds a plastic beer crate to sit on to play the drums, and then Jake appears with the mics and busking amps, and we’re in business. It feels quite strange to set up our kit in the street, with passing shoppers eyeing us curiously, but the moment we start to play the shyness evaporates.

  We’re playing for the fun of it, and Bex is right – it gives us an edge, a buzz. Sasha sets up the keyboard and plays while she sings, the way she did before Bobbi-Jo appeared, and the difference is huge – turns out it’s easy to play when you don’t have constant earache. After all we’ve been through with Bobbi-Jo, it looks like we had the perfect keyboard player in the band the whole time.

  After the first couple of songs, we relax into it, jamming on Marley’s summer covers playlist to grab the attention of the punters and slipping the occasional original in among them. Slowly at first, coins and even paper notes are thrown into Marley’s guitar case. We’re making money in the sunshine, doing something we love.

  At half eleven we take a break, drink ice-cold smoothies and move on towards the Bullring where we find an even better pitch. We’re already in profit, and that’s after the breakfast bill and the cost of the smoothies has been deducted. We work our way through the summer playlist again, and this time a small crowd gathers to watch and listen.

  Buzzed and elated, the band seem to be taking Bobbi-Jo’s advice about getting some dance moves out there too. Marley and Sasha have evolved a cute little wiggle-and-bump routine, Romy and Lexie are belting out the harmonies with added shimmies as they sing, and Lee gets everyone whistling and whooping as he breaks into a crazy, gawky, jazzy stomp to accompany his trumpet solos. Lexie turns to me and sings a snippet of ‘Walking on Sunshine’ at me, the two of us grinning and improvising a dance of our own that ends up with a jokey, exaggerated jive. It feels like the band is back on track – the fun’s definitely back, anyway, and the crowd love it, getting out their phones to record us.

  We launch into our version of ‘Dancing in the Street’, and every single one of us is on a high. If you’d told me two years ago I’d be clowning around playing flute with a bunch of British kids while people made videos and threw money, I’d never have believed it. It’s like I’ve shed whole layers of sadness along with my father’s coat. I’m learning to be happy again.

  22

  A Message from the Past

  The money rains into Marley’s guitar case. Little kids are bopping around in front of us, their mums taking photos. Jake makes a sign with the band’s name written in black Sharpie pen, with our Facebook, Twitter and Instagram links.

  We break again at two to sit in the shade and eat sandwiches and ice cream, and then it’s back to work for the last part of the afternoon, big smiles on our faces. As we’re delivering a truly blistering version of ‘School’s Out’, I catch sight of a familiar face in the crowd. Soumia, our ex keyboard player, is standing watching, arms linked with an older girl in a sparkly white hijab who is almost certainly her sister.

  We wave and grin, and Marley dedicates our Beatles cover, ‘Here Comes the Sun’, to Soumia. She holds up her mobile, recording it, and when that song ends Sasha steps forward and tells the crowd that we’re switching styles a little to sing one of our originals, ‘Song for the Sea’, inspired by the refugee crisis in Europe. She doesn’t mention me, and I am grateful for that.

  The crowd are silent as Jake’s sample of crashing waves begins to play. George does his cello piece and I come in with my flute solo, and this time Sasha takes her cue right on time. Her voice is cool and clear and haunting, and when Romy and Lexie join in with their heartbreaking harmonies there’s a different kind of buzz going on.

  We have the audience in the palm of our hand, and we know it.

  When the last soaring violin notes fade away, you can hear a pin drop, and then the crowd erupt into riotous applause. Soumia, smiling from a distance, films the whole thing.

  It’s late when we get back to Millford. We were loud and happy on the train, full of celebratory pizza and fizzy drinks as well as the thrill of success. Now, as we carry the equipment back to the old railway carriage, the talk is all about a future that suddenly seems hopeful again.

  ‘Today didn’t quite go to plan,’ Marley is saying. ‘But I’m glad! Sometimes fate knows best, huh?�
��

  ‘And fate decreed that after weeks of trying to get you to dump Bobbi-Jo, she dumped us,’ Lee comments. ‘Oh, the irony!’

  ‘You were right, though,’ Marley admits. ‘She couldn’t play. Not at all. She was so bad that at times I thought she was doing it on purpose.’

  ‘And, boy, did she fancy you!’ Bex says. ‘There really is no accounting for taste!’

  ‘I bet she’s joined Pretty Street by now, y’know,’ Jake says. ‘It might be more her thing, anyway – what did they want her to do? Dancing and backing vocals?’

  ‘She might be OK at that,’ Sasha concedes.

  ‘She’s the kind of girl who always lands on her feet,’ Lexie says. ‘I think she’ll be OK. I hope so.’

  ‘She will, and so will the Lost & Found now,’ Marley declares. ‘Playing live is what we do best. How did I ever forget that? We’ve got something special – today proved it. I’ve messed up, made some mistakes, I know that. We lost our way for a little while, but I think we’ve found it again!’

  ‘Deep,’ Bex teases. ‘Lost & Found on the streets of Birmingham, huh?’

  ‘We’re much more than a busking band, obviously,’ Marley states. ‘But … well, today was pretty cool.’

  ‘Don’t knock it,’ Bex says. ‘We’ve paid our train fares, had breakfast, lunch and tea, bought cold drinks and ice cream and suncream and we’ve still got some left over. Has anyone checked our social media?’

  ‘Fifty-three new likes on our Facebook page, over a hundred new followers on Twitter and loads of new followers on Instagram too,’ Happi reports. ‘And Soumia’s put that video of “Song for the Sea” up on our Facebook page too – it’s getting loads of views and shares! Not bad for a day’s work!’

  ‘Not bad at all,’ Marley grins. ‘I’ve learned my lesson. We’re a team, and we work together. Any big decisions, we all get a say. I think we can safely say we’ve got our spark back!’

  I feel so happy I barely notice the walk home. My head’s in the clouds, my heart daring to hope again.

  That Arctic summer … I keep forgetting that it can’t go on forever.