Yes, I did mention long voyages, Tania. Do you remember, you said something about wormholes opening and closing? Well no, there aren’t any wormholes. And if there were, you really wouldn’t want to go near one. Our best theories suggest they’re incredibly rare, invariably lethal, and in time, perfectly capable of sucking the whole universe inside them and then shutting the lid after it.
Instead, we’ve developed something more sedate. Basically you end up shrouding normal matter with exotic matter. No, it’s not the same as antimatter—you need something which has, or can have, negative mass. Do that, and from the perception of the universe, you have a bubble of net-zero mass, so you then scoot off at light speed, whither you will.
Inside the shroud, of course, it’s business as usual, meaning that you carry your own time with you. So it takes a year of subjective time to travel one light-year. To get anywhere useful, it takes years. Or centuries, more usually. So it’s just as well the People are long lived, Tania. And just as well that we reproduce by synthesis.
So on our voyages, we build and raise our young. And when we’re not doing that, we enrich ourselves through study.
Do we have fun, you ask, Tania? Oh, yes. Oh, very yes. Perhaps we’re a little short on slapstick, but you’re no clown yourself, are you? But most definitely polysensory diversity has its banana-skin moments, too.
Thursday, November 20, 2053
I need to read that again. The e-mail I just read.
Wow!
It’s from Amanda. Do you remember, Zog? The bassist with Mike Clip and the Stands, the lady who got me started playing the bass. She’s asked if I’ll stand in for her, for the next couple of gigs.
Of course. That was an easy decision. I mean, why wouldn’t I?
We’re sort-of friends, you might say. I tell her about the gigs we do, and send her some demos and live recordings we’ve done. She mails back some of their own recordings, so I’ve a good idea how the songs go. I reckon I can learn them, in time for the first gig, in two weeks’ time.
I hope.
I just called John to let him know.
He went silent for a bit too long, and I realized he was a bit shocked.
“Hey, lighten up, Ginger Mop. It’s just a gig.”
“I know, but…”
“It’s not like I’m quitting the band.”
(Mumble.)
“Well, I’m not. I’m just standing in for a couple of gigs.”
“Hang on, I thought you said one gig. Now it’s a couple. How many is it really?”
“Two. That’s all she said. Honest. Cross my heart.”
“What heart would that be?”
That was unfair, and I told him so.
“Do I ever call you Copper Curls?”
“No, but my hair isn’t copper. Whereas you do not have a heart. Neither literally nor figuratively. Or you wouldn’t be putting our band into cold storage, and breaking my own heart. Purely figuratively, of course.”
That was better. At least he was joking about it, if somewhat blackly.
“Look, the first gig is at Antonio’s. Will you come? Bring the band?”
“Okay, Paddy.”
Paddy. He hasn’t called me that since our first row. I wonder what that means.…
Thursday, November 27, 2053
After school on Wednesday we rehearsed the play—it’s starting to come together. All that rehearsing with Siân seems to be working, at last, and suddenly I can believe that Siân really is Portia, a noblewoman trapped by the constraints of her father’s will. It doesn’t take a brain the size of a planet to realize where she’s finding the character, either. So I shouldn’t really claim too much credit.
We just ran through her first scene, with her maid Nerissa, and it was really eerie, when she says,
… But this reasoning is not in the fashion to
choose me a husband. O me, the word “choose!” I may
neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom I
dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed
by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard,
Nerissa, that I cannot choose one nor refuse none?
There was real venom in her words, and I saw poor Jemima flinch, and fluff her own lines.
Then I got called away for my first fitting—my costume, that is. It was still a bit unfinished—pins here and there, and I nearly stabbed myself on one, as I wriggled through the unfamiliar cut of the robe. It was golden yellow, trimmed with brown, and quite, quite gorgeous. It was, as I’d hoped, a costume to start a fight, hugging my waist and subtly emphasising my hips. The bodice was perfect—low cut and with plenty of “push” from beneath. Not remotely subtle. I hoped John would appreciate it. If he came … no, when he came. I’d see he did.
“Do you like it?”
It was Sally, a sixth-former, and one of the dressmakers, anxiously checking that everything was all right. I nodded.
“It’s fine.”
“Not too tight under the bust?”
“No.” Well, maybe it was, but I loved the effect, and I wasn’t going to let her slacken it off.
“I like it just the way it is, Sally. You’ve done a lovely job.”
She flashed me a smile. Earnest, like a spaniel. And then she winked at me.
“Just make sure you can breathe,” she warned. “I don’t want you fainting on stage. Mrs. Golightly won’t be pleased.”
“And she doesn’t mind you making the dresses like this in the first place? She doesn’t think we’re out to seduce the boys?”
She looked puzzled.
“No … she loves these costumes. She encourages us to show you off. To make the most of your figures.”
Two-faced, then, but that was no surprise. Just petty vindictiveness from Mrs. Golightly.
So I allowed myself a few more poses in front of the mirror. I was suddenly reminded of the design room at Oxted, with Doctor Thompson at the controls. And I had an irresistible urge to wander round to where the boys were getting outfitted, and check the effect.
The boys …
They were a real mixed bunch. Some were all elbows and knees, spots and greasy hair. Some were really rather … attractive. At least, if I weren’t going out with John, they might be.
So I took a wander, and found a couple of lads in costume standing outside their own dressing room. I could feel their eyes swivel as I walked past. Mmm …
“Enjoying the rehearsal, boys?”
They started, surprised. And looked up at my face.
“Uh, it’s all right, I guess.”
Simians. Total simians, the pair of them.
“I see you’re trying out your costumes.”
“Yeah. A bit naff.”
“Naff? Why?” I asked.
“Y’know, old-fashioned. I was hopin’ we’d do a modern settin’.”
“Yeah,” said the other. “Somethin’ milit’ry. Guns an’ knives. Nazis in black leather. Combat stuff. Sort of contemp’ry interpretation.”
So you two boys can play soldiers. Right.
“I’m not sure I see the relevance to The Merchant of Venice. Othello, perhaps, or Coriolanus…”
The first speaker tried to look haughty and condescending.
“It’s, like, art.”
“Oh, I see. Thank you for explaining it so well.”
He looked pleased. Whoosh! The sound of sarcasm flying high over his head. I should stop doing it.
“So are you boys doing speaking parts?”
“Nah. We’re like, magnify … what did Mr. Kerry call us?”
I could make a suggestion. Whoosh!
“Magnificoes,” volunteered the other. “What about you?”
“I’m an extra, too. An attendant.”
“Oh. Say, who’s that girl playing the heiress?”
“Portia. That’s Siân.”
“Friend of yours?”
“Yes, actually.” Boy, you are so transparent.
“Uh, she looks … nice.”
>
There are other adjectives in the English language, boy. But I get your meaning. You’d like an introduction to the stunning woman in the lead female role.
I laughed, as gently as I could.
“Sorry, boys. Her boyfriend is six foot two and a Karate black belt.”
“Is he?” They looked crestfallen.
“Not really. But they are an item.”
“Oh.”
“Cheer up, boys. Aren’t there any other girls you fancy? Erica, maybe? She’s nice, too. I could introduce you to Erica.”
“Who’s she?”
“Short girl. The redhead. A bit freckly.”
“Uh, not really.”
“Oh, well, not to worry. Anyway, nice meeting you boys. Must be off.”
And I disappeared round the corner.
And stopped. And listened.
“Why didn’t you ask her?”
“Me? It was you what couldn’t stop lookin’.”
“I was not lookin’. Besides, she’s a stuck-up bitch. All hoity-toity an’ brainy with it.”
“Yeah, she’s a posh cow all right. Shame, ’cause she’s got a smashin’ pair of…”
That’s enough, Mister Zog. I don’t repeat such words in my diary. I crept away, feeling mostly smug. But “brainy” and “posh”—that smarted a bit.
No, that hurt a lot. And I very quickly didn’t feel at all smug. I felt horrid inside. I wanted to …
No, not wanted—I was crying.
I’d been looking for compliments, and I’d got hatred. Why? Why? Hadn’t I been polite to them? Hadn’t I struck up a conversation with them in the first place, gangly and spotty as they were?
Inside there was a tiny voice saying something I didn’t want to hear, but I didn’t listen; I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.
Saturday, December 13, 2053
Mike was as I remembered him, wearing the black leather jacket that defined his stage persona. Close up, he was craggy, and I could see streaks of gray beginning to show in his hair. But he was completely rock ’n’ roll. Like Keith Richards, is the obvious example, or Roger Daltrey. He was charming as I came into Antonio’s, sliding gracefully from the bar stool, and holding out his hand as he greeted me.
“Hi, nice to see you, Tania.”
I shook his hand and returned his smile.
“Hello, Mike.”
He caught the nervousness in my voice.
“Don’t worry, Tania. Just do your best. We’ve got half an hour to run through what we can, before the punters come in. It may not feel like a long time, but Amanda spoke very highly of you. Still, I promise you we’re not expecting miracles.”
“How is Amanda?” I’d not heard from her since she’d asked me to do the gig for her.
“Still in hospital and still rough, I hear. But they’re looking after her there. She’ll be okay soon enough. Anyway, would you like a drink, or do you want to get set up first?”
I just wanted to get going, and said so. They’d set up Amanda’s gear for me, because it was miles better than my rig. Rig! I had the church amp and a cheap chorus pedal. That was my “rig.” Plus my lovely Warwick Corvette, which I had brought with me. Anyway, I plugged it in, and it sounded okay. So I fiddled a bit, and got something that sounded three-quarters decent.
Mike called us to order and gave us the set list. It was all stuff I’d heard them play before, like “Cuts” and “Ace.”
“Nothing new, or fancy, guys. Make it easy for Tania to find the groove. It doesn’t have to be great. It just has to be good enough. Remember that, Tania. Good enough. We start with ‘Cuts’—are you okay with that?”
I nodded, though “Cuts” was dead tricky. I ran through it in my head. Two snare beats, then in. Everybody in and full on. I had to knit my melody with the guitarist’s, against a fast backbeat that left no room for mistakes.
I knew how tight it was, because I’d practiced against the recording I had, and it was sort-of okay. But when I’d asked John to help me do the thing in real time, over the TeraNet, something had defeated us. Maybe it was just the delays—John calls it the latency problem.
Anyway, Mike called us to tune up, and then said, “Like I said, Tania, the first one’s ‘Cuts.’ Are you okay with that, or would you rather start on one of the easier ones?”
I wanted to start with one of the easier ones, but pride spoke up without checking with common sense.
“Let’s do ‘Cuts’ first. If I can’t even get close, it’s best you find out early.”
And then it was snare, snare, and in, with the most godawful bum note and lurch ’cause my fingers weren’t stretched or ready and I was a sixteenth note late and a second fluff and what-was-that and there and …
We were rockin’.
It was like riding a bike. You push off, and you wobble a bit, and you crunch through the gears, but suddenly you’re riding, and you’re part of the machine, and you can feel everything working together.
My hands knew what to do. My brain didn’t need to think or worry. It just happened.
I didn’t dare look at Mike, or Gary or Gus. I had to keep looking at the fret board, to know where I was, but that was fine. It was no way as effortless as Amanda had made it look, but the song was moving, and it was a living thing.
It was beautiful.
And then, too soon, the moment where you have to pull in to the curb, bring the bike to a halt, and dismount.
What was the cue? Four bars after Mike stops singing, something happens. Argh, it’s me, playing a variation of the melody an octave up. Count one bar, two, three, four—go! And hold for the crash … and stop.
Yes!
We’d got there, and it wasn’t too “just about.” There was a smattering of applause and I looked up. Gary was giving me the diver’s okay sign, and beaming from beneath his dreadlocks. Gus and Mike were nodding and clapping. And over at one of the tables was Siân, together with John and Kieran, who’d come in sometime during the first song, all whooping their congratulations.
“Thanks, guys,” I called to them, “but save it for when I get the intro right.” And to the band, “Sorry for lousing up the intro.”
And Mike called, “Once more through the intro, then, for Tania?”
That was better, and we moved on through the set, or at least enough of the set to feel comfortable.
Then we had to stop. Antonio had given us the sign that he wanted to open the doors for his customers. Antonio was actually Welsh, I discovered, because he came over to me as I was wiping down my bass, and offered me a glass of orange juice.
“You did really well, love”—his Valleys lilt was unmistakable—“but you need to relax a little bit more.”
“Thanks, I’ll try. If you don’t mind me saying, you don’t sound like an Antonio.”
He laughed, and his eyes crinkled as he explained.
“My great grand-da’ was Italian, love, and he fought at Alamein. He was captured, though, and taken back to Wales as a POW. After the Italians surrendered, he was given work on the land, and he met a local girl and married her, see, and here I am now, a true son of the Valleys running an Italian dive in the middle of London.”
He heard a sound, evidently, because he turned and called, “Sorry, customers at the door.”
I joined my friends at their table.
“Thanks for coming, guys.”
“Well,” said John, “if we can’t get a gig here in our own right, at least we can support our very own Tania Deeley, making her debut as a one-night Stand.”
We all groaned at his atrocious pun and our conversation moved on to other things. Around us, Antonio’s started to fill up, with the regular fans of Mike Clip and his band. I began to feel butterflies in a way I never had before. I looked across to see if I could catch the eye of Mike. Sure enough he saw my anxious glance, and smiled reassuringly. Gary saw me, too, and came over.
“Hi, Tania, is this your regular band?”
So I introduced the band, and Gary quizzed us
about the kind of music we played, and how we’d got started, and stuff like that, which distracted me from my worries a bit. And he said some complimentary things about my bass playing, which made the butterflies come right back.
Butterflies, Mister Zog? It’s like butterflies in your tummy. It’s not really butterflies, of course, but there’s a physical feeling of something odd and unsettled, that’s like I imagine real butterflies would feel.
And then there was no avoiding it, a real feeling of dread that filled my whole being. I rushed off, heading for the toilets, sure that disaster would strike. Dizzy, feeling strange, I went into a cubicle, not knowing what was happening or what I would do, and suddenly found myself staring at the toilet bowl, with no idea what would happen next.
Did I throw up now? Could I throw up? Or did I sit down and let my bowels empty? And if so, how was that going to help?
I heard someone come in.
“Are you in there, Tania?”
It was Siân.
“Uh, yes. I’m in the loo.”
“Are you all right? You just ran out so quickly, we wondered if something might be wrong.”
“I’m feeling a bit strange.”
“Strange?”
“Butterflies. Really bad butterflies.”
“Do you want to throw up?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
“Do you need the toilet, then?”
“I don’t know what I need. I don’t think I’m designed for this.”
“Well, if you’re not going to use the loo, can you come out?”
“I’m not sure.”
I began to hear voices, calling. One of them was John’s.
“John!”
“What is it? Are you all right?”
“Ish. Can you come here?”
“It’s the ladies’.”
“It’s all right. There’s only Siân here.”
Door bangings.
“Okay, Tania, I’m here. Can you come out?”
I did a quick butterfly assessment.
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