Love from Lexie

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Good girl,’ Mandy says.

  I grab a cereal bar and head out of the house, Mandy huddled in her dressing gown on the doorstep, waving until I’m out of sight.

  I walk through the park, the dew staining my red Converse. Already, vans and trailers are driving across the grass to their pitches ready to set up food and merchandise stalls. A team of festival officials in hi-vis jackets are directing everything and, as this is a free festival for those attending, I wonder just how out of pocket Louisa Winter will be by the end of it all.

  If we do manage to save the libraries, a lot of it will be down to her.

  As I walk though the wild garden at Greystones, I see Marley, sitting on the steps of the old railway carriage, his head in his hands. He looks up as I approach, and I see that his right eye has swollen shut, an ugly purple-black bruise mottled around it. I flinch.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says at once. ‘I’m so, so sorry. About everything. You have every right to hate me …’

  ‘I don’t,’ I promise, sinking down on to the steps beside him. ‘I could never hate you, Marley.’

  ‘I’m a disaster,’ he says, head in hands. ‘I hate myself, if that’s any consolation. But you need to know that I didn’t mean to hide stuff from you – it’s more that I’ve been hiding it from myself. I’ve been in denial ever since what happened with Dad …’

  ‘Does anybody else know?’ I ask, and he shakes his head.

  ‘Nobody – not even Mum or Dylan. Dad was so ashamed of me he didn’t tell a soul, not even in court. I suppose I should be grateful.’

  ‘Grateful?’ I echo. ‘No, Marley. Your dad must have had his own fears and prejudices about this to lash out so badly, but what he did was very, very wrong. He made you feel like a piece of dirt just for liking boys instead of girls. You’ve been carrying this big secret for too long – it’s eating away at you!’

  Marley lets out a ragged sigh.

  ‘There is nothing wrong with you,’ I tell him softly. ‘No matter what your dad told you, no matter what he did. You know that, don’t you? It’s OK to feel the way you do. It’s not a crime, or anything to be ashamed of. I wish things were different, but I’m on your side, Marley, I promise.’

  He takes my hand, holds it tight.

  ‘I kept thinking that if I just found the right girl, everything would be OK,’ he explains. ‘I thought – I really did – that with you everything would be different, but it doesn’t matter how hard I try … I’m still rubbish inside, just like my dad said …’

  ‘Not rubbish,’ I tell him sternly. ‘Never. Crazy boy with death-wish tendencies and a slave-driver streak yes … but that’s why we love you! From a personal point of view I wish things were different, but at least I understand now why things were so clunky between us.

  ‘We’ll figure this out together, I promise you. I think you should tell people; your mum and Dylan, the guys in the band. Maybe not now, if you’re not ready, but some time soon, OK?’

  Marley pulls me in for a gentle hug. There is no buzz, no passion – there never has been, I realize, but me and Marley are still friends. That’s all that matters.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Right now we need to work out what to do about your eye and your ribs … and the gig.’

  ‘Nothing you can do,’ Marley says. ‘I’ve blown it. Today I was going to meet Ked Wilder, maybe get us all a chance at the big time. All that hard work and I’m the one to wreck it all. The others are going to hate me for that!’

  I roll my eyes.

  ‘Ditch the self-pity, Marley,’ I say briskly. ‘We don’t have time for that. Nobody’s going to hate you, and the show will most definitely go on. There’s too much at stake – the libraries, and the band, everything. Don’t worry – I’m good at rescues … Leave this to me!’

  30

  Pirates

  By the time Sasha and Dylan get to the old railway carriage, Marley has already gone up to the house with Jake, who promises he’ll make sure Marley showers, washes his hair and eats some breakfast. ‘We bumped into Sharleen’s boyfriend again in the park last night,’ I told Jake. ‘Let’s just say things didn’t pan out well – we need a miracle here.’

  ‘Don’t panic,’ Jake said. ‘I’m on it.’

  I tell Sasha and Dylan the same edited version of events; Dylan is not impressed.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ the youngest Bob brother growls. ‘I knew he was in trouble when he didn’t come home … but today of all days!’

  Sasha just opens up her make-up case on the counter. There are more pots and tubes and brushes of colour than I have seen outside an art room.

  ‘It’s what I want to do when I leave school,’ she explains. ‘If the singing doesn’t work out, obviously! How bad is it?’

  ‘Bad,’ I tell her. ‘The eye’s pretty much swollen shut. Jake is going to try putting a bag of frozen peas on it, but I don’t think anything will make it go away in time for the gig.’

  ‘Are his hands are OK?’ Dylan checks. ‘He can still play? Still sing? Maybe we can stand him at the back?’

  ‘Maybe. Or brush his fringe down, or make him wear an eye patch …’

  ‘That might work,’ Sasha says. ‘An eye patch like a pirate? You can get away with all kinds on stage, can’t you? What if we throw the odd striped T-shirt and bandana into the mix? It wouldn’t be so very far from our black-and-red theme, and nobody’d think twice about the eye patch then!’

  I grin. ‘Sasha … you might just be a genius! OK – stripy T-shirts and bandanas … I’ll start ringing round!’

  By ten o’clock, when the others start arriving, half of them clutching random stripy T-shirts, Marley is sitting on the railway carriage sofa with a bag of frozen peas held to his face.

  ‘No shouting today,’ he promises as the others pile in. ‘My head hurts too much. I’m sorry I got so wound up last night. You were right, Soumia. All of you. I was stressed and strung out. I was being an idiot. It’s a skill I have.’

  ‘I was just so tired,’ Soumia says sadly. ‘I’m sorry too.’

  With good relations restored, Sasha sets to work tweaking things so that everyone has a touch of pirate style: a red spotted bandana here, a stripy top there, and we are good to go. Sasha tries a big black felt pirate hat belonging to her little brother on Marley, but everyone decides it’s too distracting for the lead guitarist, so Dylan gets it instead.

  Little clumps of players start up: George, Happi and Romy going over the string sections, Bex and Dylan working on the bass, Lee playing random trumpet solos just for fun. Weaving through it all, Sasha goes from person to person checking make-up – a cool pirate girl in a red dress with added petticoats, her blonde hair backcombed to within an inch of its life and tied up with a spotted bandana. George gets a cartoon fake moustache, Lee and Dylan a swipe of cheeky Jack Sparrow eyeliner. Romy looks so different, older and more confident. Even Bex submits to the paintbox and brushes and emerges looking the fiercest pirate of all.

  As for Marley, he seems a whole lot better than he had first thing. Showered and fed, with homeopathic arnica cream gently rubbed into his face and ribs as prescribed by Jake’s mum, he looks like he just walked off the set of Pirates of the Caribbean in his striped top and skinny jeans and bandana and pirate patch. You can’t see the black eye at all; nobody would even guess it was there.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Thanks to Lexie, Sasha, Jake and my long-suffering little brother, the crisis has been averted. We’re back on track, a bit behind schedule but still in the game, and that’s what matters. There’s time for one more run-through of the set before we have to head over to the park for our soundcheck, so get ready …’

  He hands something small and jangly to Jake, who takes it, looking puzzled.

  ‘OK,’ he adds. ‘A last-minute addition to the line-up. Jake’s going to be playing triangle, as he promised all those weeks ago. You’ve been amazing behind the scenes, Jake, we couldn’t have done without you – but all the tech stuff is taken care of
for today’s gig and I didn’t want you to miss out on the limelight. So … anyone got a spare stripy top for Jake? Your little sister gave me the triangle, so I know you’ve been practising!’

  Jake groans and tries to wriggle out of it, but he’s outvoted.

  ‘OK – the whole set, once more, from the top …’

  Lee’s ear-splitting trumpet call erupts, and we’re off.

  31

  Hold On

  An hour later, we’re down at the park, wearing our ‘artist’ ribbon wristbands and scoping out the main stage. The area in front of the stage is still fenced off because the main events don’t begin until two, but even so it looks daunting. In a little while we’ll be up there, soundchecking, then playing for real. It doesn’t seem possible, somehow.

  The festival is packed already. Little kids are tripping about dressed as Alice in Wonderland or Harry Potter or Little Red Riding Hood, and families are lining up to take pictures with the big painted character boards that have sprung up all around the park, poking their faces through the cut-out holes and morphing suddenly into Peter Rabbit or the Famous Five or Wimpy Kid. A slinky green dragon is snaking about through the crowds, and someone dressed as Willy Wonka is handing out golden tickets that turn out to be forms to sign up for a library card.

  The librarians are in costume too: the grey-haired assistant from Bridge Street has transformed into a very convincing Beatrix Potter and others disguised as Dumbledore, the Gruffalo and Angelina Ballerina are lurking by the Book Zone tent where a blackboard advertises storytelling at set times throughout the day. Right now, a queue of teens is building up for the Rae Kelly event (Bex has to grit her teeth and look away) and a crowd of excited middle-aged women are clutching books to be signed after listening to a talk by bestselling author Miranda Marsh, an old friend of Louisa Winter. Boo McLay and Joshua Chikelu are doing events too, and a TV camera crew are filming a pop-up poetry slam as we pass by.

  ‘The telly!’ Marley says, and I nod, half wired and half terrified at the thought.

  Outside the Fun Zone tent, students from the local art college are working with kids to paint a huge image of the BFG, and we are careful to give the Music Zone a wide berth when we hear the whiny, grating voice of Sharleen Scott screeching out over the loudspeakers. Whoever is in charge must think the same as we do because the volume is reduced abruptly. The others exchange glances, but I cannot find it in me to hate Sharleen Scott now; I’ve seen her crying, vulnerable. I think that underneath the tough-girl veneer she is as lost as any of us.

  ‘Mandy and Jon will be here soon,’ Bex reminds me. ‘With Jon’s friends from Yorkshire and Mandy’s mum and her friend. If you think this is busy, think again – it’s just the start.’

  ‘My parents are here already,’ Sasha says. ‘No pressure then!’

  ‘I hope mine don’t show,’ Soumia comments. ‘They don’t know I’m doing this. They think I quit the band weeks ago, when they told me I couldn’t do that photo shoot at the library. If word gets out, I’m in big trouble …’

  ‘No way,’ Sasha says. ‘You should have said! Let’s hope they don’t find out …’

  I check my mobile for the hundredth time.

  ‘OK, time to go,’ I say to Marley. ‘Are you OK?’

  He squeezes my hand. ‘Better than OK, thanks to you,’ he says. ‘I’m good. Let’s do this thing!’

  Heading backstage feels slightly surreal, as if we’ve sneaked in illegally to stalk Ked Wilder. We are treated like professionals by the sound crew, trekking up on to the stage to set out our instruments and work out placings. It has already been agreed that Dylan will use the drum kit from Ked Wilder’s backing band, to make the transition easier and because it’s about a million times better than his own battered kit. He sits down behind it and runs through a few beats, his face lit up with the thrill of it.

  When the sound crew realize that we’ve never played in public before and don’t actually know what we’re doing, they’re kinder than you’d expect, asking all the right questions and helping us to spread out across the stage in a way that makes sense both visually and musically. Unexpectedly, I’m at the front, sharing a mic with Romy and Happi; Marley, Sasha and Bex are right up there too. George is happier sitting further back, and parks his stool and cello near Soumia’s keyboard, while Lee and Sami settle for a space near the drums. Jake, terrified he’ll mess up, tries to hide in a corner, but Marley tells him there’s nothing much he can get wrong with only a triangle to play. ‘Mime, if you’re worried,’ he says.

  We run through ‘Back Then’ a couple of times so the sound guys can check the levels, and it must sound OK because the crew are grinning now, giving us the thumbs-up sign. ‘Nice vibe,’ one of them tells us, and when everything is checked, and everyone is happy, they tell us to relax in the Green Room while they soundcheck Ked Wilder.

  ‘Why is the artists’ waiting area called the Green Room?’ Marley wonders as we approach the backstage tent. ‘It’s not green, not even a room …’

  ‘It’s all to do with the colour your face is going to turn as the nerves kick in,’ Bex tells him, and he sticks his tongue out at her.

  We flash our wristbands and go inside. The buffet table is piled high with sandwiches, fruit and chocolate. Bottles of fizzy water and cartons of orange juice are crammed into ice buckets to cool.

  ‘Wow,’ Sasha says. ‘Is this real?’

  ‘It’s definitely real, and I think we should eat,’ Dylan says. ‘Some of us had to skip breakfast, thanks to my annoying brother!’

  I take a paper plate and collect a few bits to nibble. I’m too nervous to relax. Two o’clock is bearing down on us like a runaway train, and it’s terrifying.

  I spot Miss Walker with Joshua Chikelu and Rae Kelly, and Bex runs over to meet Rae and have a brief fangirl moment. Two older women wander in: one turns out to be a famous TV actress, and the other is the author Miranda Marsh.

  Then Louisa Winter sweeps in with Ked Wilder, and we’re wide-eyed and speechless in the presence of this sixties pop legend, tall and stringy and much older than the pictures in the newspaper would have us believe. He’s still dressed time-warp style, as if he’s just stepped out of a boutique on London’s Carnaby Street, in mirrored shades, skinny black jeans, a turtleneck sweater and winklepicker boots. He has a black suede fringed jacket slung casually over one shoulder, and the same moptop haircut he wore in the sixties. It looks slightly odd on a man who must be in his seventies, but I have to admit he looks like a star.

  He and Louisa have made today possible, called on friends, courted publicity, cashed in favours – even dipped into their own pockets to stage this festival. All for the libraries, and all because they believe that people don’t have to sit back and let bad things happen.

  ‘Children!’ Louisa Winter calls out, waving. ‘Oh, let me look at you – yes, I am loving the styling! Clever! Are you excited?’

  We fall over ourselves to tell her just how excited we are, how thankful for the opportunity, how grateful for her help, but she just laughs.

  ‘Oh, you’ll be brilliant, I’m certain of it,’ she says. ‘My good friend Ked here has been looking forward to meeting you! Ked, I’ve had you to myself all morning and you’re probably sick of the nostalgia trip. Stay here with the kids and relax a minute. I’ll get us something to drink …’

  Louisa wanders away and we swarm around Ked, shaking hands, babbling compliments, telling him how thrilled we are to be his support act.

  ‘I’m probably your biggest fan,’ Marley gushes, barely able to stand still. ‘I’ve read your biography – from the library, of course – and I’ve tried to model myself on you. Music is my life! I’m ambitious, I’m determined … I really want to get to the top!’

  ‘You certainly sound like a younger version of me,’ Ked responds, laughing. ‘I was probably a little full-on, back then. I’ve learned to slow down, but still, I have to admire that youthful enthusiasm!’

  Ked Wilder pushes his mirrored sh
ades back on his head and without them he looks less starry, more like someone’s granddad dressed up for a fancy-dress party.

  ‘We write our own songs,’ Marley rushes on. ‘All originals –Lexie and I work in partnership, then build up the arrangements as a team. We have a big line-up because we wanted a full, rich sound … something powerful, something different. I think you’re going to like it!’

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ Ked Wilder says. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing you play … This is your first big gig, right?’

  ‘First ever gig,’ I blurt out. ‘I think we’re all terrified!’

  Ked Wilder just laughs. ‘If you weren’t a little bit scared, you wouldn’t be human,’ he tells us. ‘Just channel that energy and pour it into the music. Here’s a tip – when you’re up on that stage, act like you belong there. Believe that the audience are there just for you and play them the best bloomin’ set they’ve ever heard. Blow ’em away!’

  Then Louisa Winter is back with two glasses of champagne she’s conjured from somewhere, and a photographer appears and starts taking shots of us with Ked Wilder, and before we know it one of the sound guys appears and tells us it’s time. Romy’s face is white with fear and George looks clammy and sick – and Marley looks so hyped I think he might explode. I lean in for a hug, avoiding his ribs.

  ‘Thank you,’ he whispers. ‘For everything, Lexie. Let’s go and be awesome!’

  ‘I’ll be in the wings to watch you,’ Ked Wilder says, and Miss Winter squeezes my hand and tells us she’ll be introducing us, and I’m so high I think I’ll either fly or faint – I can’t tell which.

  We all walk outside together, and we can hear the crowd, see that the space around the stage that was empty earlier is now overflowing. My limbs seem to have turned to water.

  Miss Winter strides on to the stage, a small, fierce figure in crumpled jade silk, the red hair streaked with white and bound up with twisted jade and turquoise scarves that trail down her back like pennants. The crowd stills as she takes the mic and welcomes everyone to the festival.