Hope

by Rhian Ivory

  ‘Maybe…’ I hesitate.

  ‘Definitely. Try and get her to ask someone else to come, like one of her mates or that Gethin or Gavin bloke from book club,’ she sniggers.

  ‘More matchmaking? What is with you, trying to pair people up?’ I ask. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in romance?’

  ‘I’m just the messenger, but I’ve seen the covert looks he gives her in The Bird’s Nest over their cappuccinos at book club,’ Callie says with great authority.

  ‘Good plan, apart from the Gavin fairy tale. She’s so not into him.’

  Callie shrugs at me as I reach into my wardrobe.

  ‘What you doing?’

  ‘I’ve got something for you.’ I hand her the parcel, wrapped in layers of tissue paper.

  ‘Is that my Hope Chest?’ she asks. I nod. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she says, pulling back the wrapping and stroking the wood.

  I open the lid and search past the friendship bracelets, the bits of our Guides rug, cut-out blazer badges and all the other things I’ve put in there to show her what we are to one another. I find it near the bottom. Carefully I take out the snow globe she gave me, the very first one. She peels off the sheet music I’ve rolled the globe in, opens it up and skim reads it.

  ‘Is this song for me? Is this my song?’ she asks then reads the title out loud, ‘The Song of Us.’

  I nod, then shake the globe and we both laugh.

  ‘You’ve never written me a song before. I’ll keep this forever, even when I’m really old and can’t even remember what you look like or who you are anymore.’

  ‘What about when you can’t remember who you are?’ I laugh.

  ‘Even then,’ she promises. I close the lid of the Hope Chest. ‘Sing it for me?’ she asks, and so I do to the tune of her favourite Bangles song, ‘I’ll Set you Free’. We sit next to one another, holding hands, and I sing as the last flakes of snow fall.

  The Song of Us

  I remember when we were five

  all knowing, so small and wise

  The world was free and easy

  no reason to hide

  And now years later

  you still live inside my heart

  Even though we both know it,

  someday we’ll have to part

  Chorus

  All the things that I can’t say

  Are reflected back in your eyes

  You see past my fake smiles

  there’s more to me than my lies

  More to me than lies

  When you are not with me

  There’s no Us in the world

  You’re all the things that I can’t yet be

  Smiles and so confident girl

  hopes, wishes and teenage dreams

  I’ll never stop believing

  but nothing’s as easy as it seems

  Chorus

  All the things that I can’t say

  Are reflected back in your eyes

  You see past my fake smiles

  there’s more to me than my lies

  A Life without Us in it

  To me is just not a choice

  You shout clear and loud

  And singing gives me my voice

  gives me my voice

  So now we’ll carry on

  What more can we do?

  For we are brave and strong

  Together somehow, we will make it through

  I head down into the kitchen to find Mum to put Plan Erin into place but she’s got her head on the table.

  ‘Mum, are you okay?’ She’s clearly far from okay. Why do I keep doing that?

  She replies, ’Sffmmnhhm.’ I put my arm around her and wait for proper words. ‘Nonno’s…’ she starts, but then hiccups and coughs as the same time.

  ‘Nonno’s what?’ I scream. Oh God, where is he?What’s happened to him?

  She looks up at me, make-up smudged and hair all over the place.‘No! No, he’s fine. Not that, sorry, he’s fine. He’s still in Manchester – safe and sound. Don’t panic. He’s staying in the hotel with the rest of his choir tonight, they’re off out for a meal somewhere,’ she reassures me quickly. ‘He’s promised me faithfully he’ll order low-cholesterol food, no pudding and definitely no grappa.’

  ‘So why are you crying?’ I ask, relief making me fall into a chair.

  ‘He’s bought us a Christmas present.’

  I’m clueless why this has made her cry.

  ‘Of all the rude things! I mean, who does he think he is? Shopping for Christmas presents in September? Disgusting!’ I stop joking when she doesn’t smile. ‘Oh God, it’s not another cookbook is it. Don’t take it personally. We could open a cookbook library.’

  ‘He wants us to come to Italy. For Christmas! That’s so soon, so soon.’

  Now I get it. I pull her in tight, just like she would do with me.

  ‘Mum, we can do this. You and me. We can do it,’ I tell her over and over, trying to let her know without saying the words that we aren’t running away from Christmas without him, that going to Italy isn’t a failure. It’s the start of us two rather than us three. But I can’t say this, they’re just thoughts in my head.

  ‘It just took me by surprise. It’s already September. Look, he’s even bought our tickets so I can’t find an excuse. I know I don’t want to be here for Christmas, but I’m not sure I want to be over there either. There’s memories everywhere. Maybe we should talk about moving again…’ She’s thinking aloud, not really aware of me for a second, and finally we get to the heart of it.

  She cups my face in her hands, which smell of onions. I manage not to pull away. She’s been making spaghetti bolognaise for tea. The tomato sauce is burning on the hob. I don’t care about tea or the sauce or the fact that my cheeks will reek of onions all night.

  ‘Things get better,’ I tell her.

  ‘When did you get so sensible?’

  I wonder what the answer is.

  I get up and turn the heat down on the sauce for something to do, while I wonder how shameful it would be to take a tiny little bit of advantage of Mum right now and ask her a question.

  ‘Talking of Nonno, he’s coming to our concert, isn’t he? Manchester was their last date?’ She nods and I charge on before I can change my mind. ‘Good. So, is there anyone else you want to invite? I mean, I know people from work are coming and Callie’s parents have bought tickets. Any other friends you want to ask?’

  She says something about someone in her book group buying a few tickets and looks uncomfortable for a second. Maybe Callie is right about this Gavin one. She’s right about most things.

  I take my chance, it’s now or never.

  ‘I was wondering if this might be a good time for you to meet Riley. I mean, before we go to Italy with Nonno…’ I feel guilty for taking advantage of her but keep quiet all the same.

  She reaches down into the cupboard to get a pan for the water. She carries it over to the sink, fills it and puts it on the hob. She gets a packet of spaghetti – Nonno would be horrified. I hope he’s found a decent restaurant in Manchester, low-cholesterol food sounds deeply dull. She turns the gas on and waits for the water to heat. She says nothing the whole time the water comes slowly to the boil. I wonder if I’ve picked the wrong moment. But as the water starts to bubble up she says one word without looking at me.

  ‘Maybe.’

  She gives me the small word gift, wrapped in hope, and I take it.

  Every morning starts the same. Routine seems to help. I check my email to see what Riley has going on and reply. I try and limit myself to two or three emails before getting dressed but it isn’t always easy, because he’s always got so many funny stories about his dad’s farm. And then there’s the painful jokes. But I know that once I close down my laptop the panic will kick in – the fear that I’ll forget to take my Fluoxetine. I start listing all the things that could happen if I forget to take the little green and yellow pill. I start to wonder what I’ll do if I lose the box. And on it goes.


  I’ve stared dicing the packets up, just in case. Some are in the bathroom cupboard for emergencies, a few are in my bag, which goes everywhere with me, and the other foil tray is next to the fruit tea Mum’s bought me in the kitchen. It helps now I don’t have to hide it from Mum and Nonno. I don’t have to bury them underneath my bras and knickers. It’s as normal as the fruit tea, almost.

  ‘It’s your audition next week isn’t it?’ Pryia asks as just as we’re about to go into the ward.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How do you feel about it all?’

  I shrug. Part of me is nervous in a normal way and another part of me feels calm and ready. I talked it all through with Nonno. He didn’t say anything I hadn’t heard before about what music means to me and to him. But this time, I believed him. It was the truth talking and I was able to hear it.

  ‘I feel ready.’

  ‘Good. You are. So, what are you singing for your contemporary choice?’ Pryia asks.

  ‘Nina Simone’s “Feeling Good”.’ Just saying the song title out loud makes me feel happy. The trumpet and trombone make me feel bold, the flute makes me feel free and when all the saxophones come together I feel good. Really good.

  We’ve got a big steam clean this afternoon. Every four weeks every single item Singing Medicine owns gets cleaned within an inch of its life. I won’t see Pryia much after this week, apart from at the concert on Saturday night. We’ll be at choir practice but it won’t be quite the same. We won’t be working together any more.

  Nico throws a rattle on the floor as he sees us. Pryia passes him another but he throws that away as well.

  ‘I give up. He just wants you.’ She swaps places with me, moving to the end of Nico’s cot. He claps his hands in delight. ‘Little monkey! He’s got what he wants!’ She can’t help but laugh at Nico’s brazenness.

  ‘Hop! Hop!’ he shouts, reaching his chubby hands through the cot bars to me.

  ‘Hope,’ I tell him again, but he can’t get the end right. Him I’m going to miss, but he’s being discharged tomorrow anyway. We sing three songs to him before moving on and leaving him behind, calling out, ‘Hop, Hop back.’ But I can’t. It isn’t fair if we spend all the time with Nico, much as I might want to. I’m getting better at this, but I can’t deal with another Kofi, not yet. I wave goodbye to Nico, ignoring his fake crying. He shows his back to me.

  This isn’t the only thing I’m getting better at, I realise, because my phone isn’t in my pocket. It must be in my bag in my locker. It isn’t surgically attached to me, resting in my palm like a security blanket. I won’t be able to check it until lunchtime and that’s fine. I can wait until then to read his latest email or to finalise our plans for Saturday night.

  On Saturday night we’ll meet again. It won’t be like meeting a stranger because of everything we’ve shared. Last night we watched a really old movie together, Sleepless in Seattle, despite the sea between us. Our meeting place will be slightly less impressive than the top of the Empire State Building but Birmingham is doing its best by us.

  ‘What did your mum say when you told her about the audition?’ Pryia passes me another castanet. ‘How did she take it?’ she whispers, conscious that Mum is only across the room, cleaning away.

  ‘Better than I thought she would,’ I admit. ‘Actually, she was brilliant.’

  ‘Did you tell her about me?’ I know what she means instantly and I wish the answer was no, but I needed Pryia as back-up, as a case study of someone who not only has PMDD but is coping out there in the real world, functioning, someone Mum respects and trusts.

  ‘Sorry,’ I admit.

  She shrugs. ‘I would have too. Don’t worry about it, it isn’t like it’s a secret. I’m fine with people knowing. So…’ she presses.

  ‘She got it. She understood,’ I say, hoping that Mum does understand.

  ‘Uh huh.’ She waits for me to say more. So I do. I tell her about the conversation in the garden of remembrance, how Nonno came and found me in my room, after Mum had filled him in, and how he took my hand and told me all about Nonna and her problems.

  ‘I never in my life thought I’d talk about periods with my grandfather, let alone hear about my grandmother’s menstrual misery, as he called it,’ I tell Pryia, pulling a face. ‘I kind of wish I’d talked to him before,’ I realise. ‘I wish I’d talked to everyone sooner,’ I admit.

  ‘I told my dad before I told my mum,’ she confides, ‘it doesn’t matter who you tell as long as you tell someone. It isn’t safe to be on medication without someone knowing. I was going to tell your mum if you weren’t. Sorry.’ She shrugs again and her sorry is too light and fluffy.

  ‘Wow!’ I’m speechless.

  ‘I know what you’re going to say but you’d have done the same,’ she says, but I’m not convinced. There’s no way Callie would have told my mum. No way.

  Nonno sits on the back row. I can see him once I’ve cleaned my glasses. He takes his hat off and places it on the church pew next to him. He doesn’t see me, but I watch him for a bit and this calms me down. Despite what I said to Riley, I am nervous. Just a little bit.

  The church fills up – we’ve sold out. I keep looking and looking, searching the rows of people for him. I try and picture him on the ferry, his dark hair, his rich skin, his denim jacket, or was it leather? I can remember his lips and his grin, which was almost sly but just shy of it. But that’s it. It’s hardly a photofit but we decided not to send each other photos; it was too cheesy. I scan the faces in front of me and smile when I spot Callie and her parents – they must have got here really early to get such good seats. Ethan’s there too, sitting on the end of the aisle just in case he needs to leave. Callie gives me a massive over-the-top thumbs up and I roll my eyes at her. She pokes her tongue out at me then puts her hands together as if she’s going to pray. I snort but I’m so glad she’s here. It makes me feel calmer.

  ‘He’ll be here, then you can tell him your good news,’ someone whispers in my ear, making me jump. I turn in surprise and bump noses with Mum. My glasses fly off and the programmes she was carrying thud to the floor. She leaps forwards to catch the programmes and treads on my glasses. We hear the scrunch.

  ‘Oh no! Hope, your glasses. I’m so sorry…’ she starts.

  ‘What are you doing, creeping up on me?’

  We both reach down to the floor at the same time. She picks up my crumpled glasses.

  ‘They’re ruined,’ she tells me pointlessly. Even with my limited eyesight I can see that. ‘I’ve got a spare pair in my car, I think. They’re in the glovebox, I’ll go and get them.’

  ‘We haven’t got time. The car is parked too far. Never mind, it doesn’t matter. I can see the sheet music fine. I can get them later,’ I reassure her. I don’t want to make her feel any worse. Owen gives her more programmes. She mouths sorry at me again as she walks to the back of the church to hand them out to people standing. There aren’t any seats left.

  I calm myself by searching for Nonno again. Even though he’s blurry, I can make out his shape. I raise my hand to wave, but he’s talking to someone. He’s moving his hat to let the person sit next to him, already deep in conversation, his head bent. I can’t see well enough to read his face anyway. I wonder if he’ll hold up his hand.

  ‘It’s time to warm up,’ Nikhil tells us.

  I feel vulnerable without my glasses. We go back into the vestry for our last warm-ups. I’m a bit nervous now. I’ve never sung in public with this choir and even though I’ve rehearsed with them a few times, it’s always different in front of an audience.

  We climb up into the balcony, Mum close behind me in case I slip, and we light our candles. A hush falls over the congregation below. Mum and I make eye contact and for a split second it is as if we are the only ones in the church. The candlelight softens her deep-set brown eyes, highlighting her scattered freckles and the smile lines which are starting to creep back in around her mouth. Her whole face lifts when she smiles.

&nbs
p; Owen starts our chant and he and Nikhil’s baritones fill the eaves, until they’re joined by Mum and the other sopranos, Pryia and the altos, and finally it’s me, the only contralto in the choir. Together our voices flood the church with our blended sound.

  We stand on the stage for our finale. The audience are invited to join in. Callie is one of the first to stand up. Her dad and Ethan are missing, probably outside. Callie hates hymns and churches with a passion but she’s here for me.

  The candle flickers as I open my mouth and sing my first solo with the Singing Medicine choir. And it feels good.

  After the concert I stand in the street outside the church, waiting. I push my spare glasses up my nose, they really pinch. My face must have grown? Do faces grow? They definitely don’t fit as well as my normal ones. The rain keeps on dripping and spitting in a half-hearted way. I wish again that glasses came with windscreen wipers. I swipe my jumper over them, which doesn’t help. I check my phone to see if he’s emailed or even called to cancel. I thought he might turn up when I walked back to the car for my glasses, so I ran, possibly not the best idea. Poor eyesight and rain aren’t a winning combination.

  There’s a text. I knew it! He’s not coming. It doesn’t matter, it’s fine. I open it. It’s from Callie.

  Turn around. See me in the window? I’ve said a prayer for you, you know how God and I like to hang, so everything will be fine, promise.

  Have a little Hope (see what I did there?)

  <3

  Cx

  ‘Hope?’

  I recognise his voice instantly. I turn. He’s got his leather jacket on again and fitted black jeans tucked into big boots. His hair is longer and darker than I remember and tied back off his face. He has a beauty spot right by his mouth, just one. He looks like he did on the ferry, but a bit softer, with fewer edges. And this time he’s not smoking, so he smells a lot better.