by Rhian Ivory
‘Callie, I’m fine, there are no dead bodies. Well, there are, obviously, but I haven’t seen any,’ I try to reassure her.
‘Uh huh, I’m going to get you another slice of cake.’ She busies herself with cleaning the table, putting our cups onto a tray and lifting it with one hand, leaving behind the scary pictures I’ve painted, as if she could simply wipe them away like the crumbs with her cloth. A few minutes later she’s back with my cake and more persuasion.
‘I’ve just had a word with Evie and she says there’s definitely room for you here, she always wants holiday staff. You’re here for the live music nights anyway. Evie says you can do a solo session if you like and sing some of your own material, come on now, you can’t say no to that! And you might as well get paid while you’re at it. You could do my holiday cover!’ She sounds delighted, completely missing the point of our conversation. This place is so her, with baked-bean cans hanging from the ceiling instead of traditional lights, the roof covered with wicker or willow with little birds hanging from it, old Marmite jars instead of sugar pots and someone nearly always playing something jazzy on the piano. ‘Much better for you than being with all those ill people. I don’t think it’s good for someone like you,’ she chatters on, as I sit in silence, listening to her rearrange my life into a slightly better version for her.
‘Someone like me?’ I whisper. ‘What do you mean someone like me?’
‘Oh, don’t take offence, I didn’t mean it in a bad way. It’s just you take things to heart and you worry about everyone else’s feelings all the time. But that’s just because you’re so lovely. To be honest, I think you’d be happier working somewhere else. And we’d get to be together all the time!’
She’s right, I could take it easy and fill in here and just wait until she comes home from her holiday to pick up where she left off. I could but I’m not going to.
‘Nah, I’m alright thanks. I’ve probably made it sound worse than it is. And Mum needs me.’ I pull out the well-worn Mum card and Callie backs off, as I’d known she would, and I feel a little bit guilty.
‘I bet it is as bad as you’ve made it sound and it’ll get worse you know. But if you think you can handle it? Anyway, you’re coming back tonight, right? Everyone’ll be here for open mic. You’ll kill it, and it’d make up for bailing on me in The Boathouse the other night. I’m not singing with Aisha again, she’s such a crowd pleaser. C’mon, we can sing one of your songs, I bet you’ve got something new to showcase?’ she challenges.
‘I can’t. I’ve got work in the morning.’ I get up to leave.
‘What? Hope Baldi turning down a live singing session? Have you caught something from that hospital?’
‘I’m fine Callie, just tired,’ I lie. I’m not going into whatever the hell is going on with my voice, or lack of voice, with her right now.
‘Alright, but next time, yeah?’ She sounds needy, which surprises me. She hugs me before crossing the restaurant to take someone else’s order. She doesn’t want to hear about Kofi and I didn’t even bother mentioning Fatima to her because Callie and I have already had the organ donation argument many times and we don’t need to go there again. Maybe there’s someone else I can talk to. I text and walk to the bus stop, making tonnes of spelling mistakes along the way.
Need tto atlakt had a weird day at work.
Riley texts back as I sit down on the bus.
The first thing we need to sort out is your shocking spelling. Jayziz! It doesn’t matter what kind of a day you’d had at work, you can’t go letting your standards slide like that. First your spelling slips, who knows what’ll be slipping next ;)
Another text comes in before I have a chance to reply to the first one.
Look, we could get you some help you know. I could be your private tutor, 1-1s are my thing. There’s so much I could teach you, young Padawan.
Normally I’m a big fan of your Star Wars banter but is there any chance of you taking things seriously for a second?
Chill bambino (you are Italian right? You look Italian, bella!) tell me everything.
There’s this boy on the burns ward. He has bandages right the way across his chest and he can’t sit or stand or walk properly. He’s in this room away from all the others on the ward. Pryia and I go in and sing with him, except I can’t. I just stood there trying not to stare like a kid.
Hold it right there, back the truck up a second! Who is this Pryia one?
A girl/woman at work. Anyway, I know we’ll be going back in to see this boy and I’m really nervous.
Could we talk about Pryia a bit more, y’know just so I can picture your work environment? Have you any photos of this girl/woman you can send over in the interest of full disclosure like?
I’m not supposed to talk about any of this, not even say names.
I won’t tell a soul. Boy Scout’s honour.
I should add in the interests of full disclosure that I was kicked out of Scouts. I can’t go into it here and now for legal reasons.
Stop being a dick! I’m serious, what do I do?
Dick? For real, is that the best you can do?
Are you going to answer my question or not?
Challenge accepted. You’ve to think of that poor wee fella and what’s happened to him and stop moaning.
Don’t hold back there will you.
You picked this job, if you can’t take it or don’t fancy honking out a tune every day then just leave and get another one. Just walk out.
I can’t.
Well shut up then, get on with it.
No, I mean I can’t get on with it. I can’t sing.
Why not? I don’t get it. How can you be working with those singing types if you can’t hold a tune? Is it that you’re tone deaf or just a bit flat?
No, it’s not that. I’ve lost my voice.
What? Sore throat like? Get some whiskey down you.
No, I mean I can talk and stuff. I just can’t sing. When I try I get this strip of wood across my throat, like something’s blocking it.
Okay, you’re sounding a bit freaky now.
Forget it.
Maybe you need to get checked out by someone. I’m no doctor but I’m up for the job.
Stop making cheap innuendos!
No idea what an innuendo is but if it involves making something with you sign me up. Although I’m not so taken with the cheap part. I’m a class lad.
Sure, I’ll meet up with you – when you’ve gone through puberty. Class my arse!
And so we’re back to arses. It’s a pattern with you. Maybe you need help.
Shut up.
A thousand apologies. Now, what were we talking about?
I can’t even remember. Clearly a great conversation.
I stop texting him, there’s no point. I was delusional thinking I’d be able to have a sensible conversation with him. I scroll through my contacts list hopelessly before giving up and switching my phone off.
‘Where’s Fatima?’ I ask two ten-year-old patients playing cards. I recognise one of them, Marley, but not the other. ‘She’s not in her bed.’
‘Gone,’ he replies.
I feel sick. There’s water coming into my mouth, warm and sour like gone-off milk.
‘Gone where?’
‘Home,’ Marley sighs, turning back to his card partner.
I walk across to Fatima’s bed and sit on the end of it and wait. Why would they have sent her home? To die? Or maybe because she got a transplant? But wouldn’t I have heard? I need to know now. Eventually a nurse I recognise walks past, sees me and smiles.
‘Good news, hey? Fatima got the transplant!’ He doesn’t stop, just shouts it across the ward before going behind a curtain. And that’s it. That’s that? She’s gone, she’s fixed, mended, sent home and I missed it. I thought we were friends, which seems stupid now. I guess I won’t see her again. We didn’t even finish our book. I remind myself to feel happy for her, that she finally got her kidney. She’ll be going back to school and her l
ife will carry on. But someone somewhere is missing a kidney. Someone somewhere has probably died.
And I can’t forget that, no matter how hard I try.
When I walk into the staffroom Pryia is at her usual post, making coffee. She points to the kettle and puts her head on the side. I shake my head remembering I’m supposed to be cutting out caffeine. I feel pleased that I’m more on top of things.
‘Ooh, I need this,’ Pryia says, dumping her steaming mug of brown liquid down on the table. It smells vile, like Marmite or something yeasty. I crack open a bottle of water, feeling virtuous.
‘You alright?’ she asks, scootching closer. As usual the staffroom is buzzing with noise and people.
‘Yeah, just feels weird that Fatima’s gone. I won’t see her again, I guess.’ I take another sip of my water, trying not to breathe in the Marmite aroma of Pryia’s coffee.
‘Kid on Pan? Heard she got a donor at last. All happened pretty quick, late on Friday night. I think her sister took her home. You made friends then?’
I look to see if she is taking the piss, but she’s smiling in a nice way.
‘Sort of.’ I shrug which feels dismissive.
‘Used to get to me, too, when they first moved on or got transferred or, even better, got signed off. You get used to it. Try not to get too close because…’ She is interrupted by Owen.
‘Come on, Pryia. We’ll be late! Alright, Hope? How’s it going?’ Owen bends over to tie his shoelace. His bag slides off his shoulder and falls open on the floor. He swears softly as he tries to pick up the contents. Pryia and I kneel down to help him. She passes him a box of tampons with a raised eyebrow.
‘Something you want to tell us there, Owen?’
‘They’re my girlfriend’s. She runs out sometimes,’ he replies without a shade of embarrassment and Pryia breaks into a huge grin.
‘Well, aren’t you just adorable!’ She passes him his mobile phone and a packet of crisps. I hand him his wallet and what looks like a diary.
‘Thanks. Come on then, ladies, ward time.’
‘Don’t call us ladies, Owen. We both know you’re only doing it to annoy me and the consequences of such a course of action will result in your tears,’ Pryia tells him. They launch into digs and jokes at the other’s expense with the ease of people who have known each other for a long time.
Kofi is in bed but sitting in a strange position: his back isn’t touching the pillows. His legs are out of the bed being dressed again by two nurses. I can’t not look. His calves are covered in white netting through which I can see welts, blood, scarring and his bright red raw flesh. I am the only person looking, everyone else is acting as if this is completely normal, as if they see this kind of devastation every day – maybe they do. I look up at Kofi’s face. The skin on his face is mostly black but there are tiny patches like splashes by his neck which are almost white. He’s watching me watching him and refuses to break eye contact. Instead of looking angry with me, he crosses his eyes and sticks out his tongue. We stare at each other for a few seconds, although it feels a lot longer, until I eventually break eye contact. He’s won the first staring competition and looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
Pryia steps forwards and offers Kofi a choice of maracas or castanets. He picks both, which makes his mum laugh. She’s got a lovely husky laugh. I wonder if she ever leaves the room, if she ever gets a break. Her hair is held off her face by a bandana. There are traces of her personality in her jewellery and the nose stud she wears. Her nail varnish is worn and chipped but was once bright blue and her clothes underneath her plastic apron are bold.
‘What do you fancy singing today then, Kofi?’ Pryia asks him and his face changes.
‘Can we sing one about space?’
I notice his t-shirt. Today he’s sort of dressed, although you can see the shapes of the bandages underneath his top. It’s a Doctor Who t-shirt and I see a sonic screwdriver on his bedside table next to a Tardis alarm clock. They weren’t there yesterday or maybe I just didn’t see them in my panic.
‘How about we make up a song? Give us some words and we’ll write it together,’ Pryia offers, gesturing to me and Owen. Kofi tries to sit up but his mum raises a hand to stop him.
‘Sit still, honey. Remember what the nurse said.’
He rolls his eyes. His mum looks a bit fed up. I can imagine it isn’t easy to keep Kofi still. He must be feeling a lot better than yesterday. Maybe the nurses gave him some pain medication. Whatever they’ve done has cheered him up.
‘Tardis, Oswin, Pond, Dalek, two hearts, Time Lord, Gallifrey, Cybermen and the crack,’ Kofi reels off words at such a speed I can’t remember half of them. Gone.
‘Alright, we’re going to need your help, Kofi, because Owen isn’t sure how to say some of those words and Hope definitely doesn’t know any of them!’ Pryia jokes, making Kofi giggle.
He begins to explain in a very serious but patient manner the inner workings of Doctor Who, listing the last three actors and the pros and cons of the doctor being regenerated. I tune out after hearing why Peter Capaldi is the worst doctor. I find myself staring at Kofi’s legs again, which are now completely mummified.
‘Hope!’ Pryia nudges me to repeat the chorus of the song she and Owen have written with Kofi. I’ve no idea what they’ve just sung, let alone what comes next, not that I was going to sing in the first place. I shake a tambourine, hoping I look like I know what I’m doing.
‘Sing!’ Pryia whispers between breaths, but I shake my head. She can’t make me, even I can’t make me and I can’t remember how to write songs anymore – I just can’t. I can feel her tense, but she doesn’t push it. I smile at Kofi, who is conducting us with his sonic screwdriver to the strangest song I’ve ever heard about space and time travel.
After we leave Kofi, we head to Paddington Ward. I haven’t been on this ward yet and feel nervous. Before we go in, Pryia hesitates. She’s pulling an ‘I’m going to have to say something’ face. She waves Owen on through and leads me to some chairs perched in an alcove.
‘Why didn’t you sing? I know it wasn’t your average song but we did write it with him.’
‘Sorry,’ I offer, hoping it’ll be enough. It isn’t.
‘You haven’t done anything wrong. I just wondered what the problem was,’ she carries on. ‘You haven’t sung once that I’ve heard.’
‘I just don’t want to sing.’
‘Ha! Well, that might be a bit of a problem, you know, shadowing for Singing Medicine. The clue is in the title. Is it that you don’t want to sing in here or at all?’
We pause as a nurse swipes her pass and the door buzzes open.
‘At all,’ I reply.
‘Is it that you don’t want to sing or is it that you can’t?’
‘Can’t.’
‘I’ve read quite a lot about musical therapy as part of my degree and sometimes people lose their voice following a trauma, or…’ She stops when she sees my face.
‘It’s got nothing to do with that.’ I refuse to say his name. She thinks this is something to do with my dad, but I won’t use him as an excuse.
‘Your muscles will lose strength if they are underused for long enough…’ She leaves that hanging there. Does she think she’s actually helping?
‘That sounds like a threat!’ I challenge.
‘No, not at all. It’s just there’s normally a trigger for these things.’
I wonder if she thinks she’s like some therapist and that I’m going to open up to her suddenly because she read a chapter on voice therapy or trauma or whatever. ‘Can you remember the last time you sang?’ she asks and I know she’ll just keep asking questions until I give her an answer.
‘Oh, you want to know about the last time Isang? Alright then. It was in Dublin, at my last audition.’
I’m instantly back there. I can smell the sweat, the nerves and the tension and I remember. As I start talking all the empty spaces I’ve had in my memory are filled in, in technicolor detail.
>
*
‘Hope,is it? Yes, ah, here you are, Hope Baldi. Right, can you tell us why you’ve chosen… erm… James Taylor?’ the woman on the judging panel asked, looking down at her sheets of paper. ‘An unusual choice.’
I didn’t know we’d have to talk about our song choice. I was going to keep that to myself and just sing. ‘I … um, sorry…’ I stuttered.
‘Just tell us why you chose it,’ one of the men on the judging panel interrupted me sharply.
‘Right, well… It’s my dad’s favourite. I mean was my dad’s favourite.’ I heard bitterness creeping into my voice.
‘Oh, I see. I’m so sorry.’ The woman did a head-tilt sympathy combo which made me dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand. I didn’t want to explain the playlist of my heart to her.
‘I’m ready,’ I croaked. My vocal chords were clogged with grief. The music started up. The opening chords to James Taylor’s ‘Fire and Rain’ transported me back to our kitchen, to the music playing on the radio, the extractor fan blowing away the smell of garlic and my dad in the middle of all his herbs and spices, singing to me. I heard the guitar and the place where I should sing the first line. Instead a noise came out of my throat that was all the things I’d kept hidden, all the feelings I’d been pushing back down. The pianist stopped playing.
‘Are you going to be able to sing for us? If not…’ The sharp man pointed at the exit with his pen. I nodded and swallowed, but something solid was wedged in my throat. Not now, not now. I wiped my nose on the back of my hand and shook my head a little. I couldn’t do this now. I couldn’t break down here in front of these other students eager to take my place. The music started up again but when I opened my mouth I couldn’t get any sound out.
‘You’re clearly not ready. Come back next year,’ the man dismissed me, putting my sheet of paper in another pile. ‘Next!’ he shouted.
‘No! I mean, I can do it. Give me one more chance?’