Jacob adds, ‘I mean it, Dex. No drinking.’
‘All right, dude. Take a pill. You sing, lady?’
‘Her name’s Astrid. You wanna sing for us, Dex?’ Jacob slaps him on the back. ‘Despite his manners, this kid’s got talent.’
Dex bounds over to the music centre, jabs at the iPad. Jacob gestures for me to take a seat. I choose the red lips sofa this time.
When Dex sings ‘Pillowtalk’, he’s spellbinding. His voice and his Italian-origin looks make a good package. Jacob paces behind Dex, sipping from an orange-juice carton and offering Dex occasional tips.
‘Want to give something new a shot?’ asks Jacob, once Dex proves to be a quick learner. ‘Astrid’s a songwriter.’
‘Holy coif. It’s my lucky day.’ Dex pulls out one edge of the piano stool with a flourish. I get up and move toward the piano. ‘That’s why the room stinks.’ Dex points at my bare feet and pegs his nose. The boys chuckle.
For the next hour I write down parts of my songs, and Dex sings them. Jacob makes suggestions, correcting Dex’s breathing technique or sight-reading or phrasing. Jacob’s mood is brighter, and I sense it’s a little lighter in here, as if the air has been emptied of ghosts. This is the real Jacob. This Jacob isn’t broken or defensive or confused. This Jacob draws me to him.
When Jacob’s phone rings he whips it from his pocket. The caller ID image is of the tanned girl in the photos. He beams and swipes to take the call. ‘Harper.’
The girl has a name.
‘An actual phone call,’ he continues, his face lights up as brightly as if Harper just surprised him in person. ‘How’s America?’ He’s smiling but as she replies shadows move across his face. He stares straight through me. He’s not in the studio with us anymore. ‘Sounds great.’ His words are wistful. ‘But I hope you miss home a little. It’s not the same without you. The Purple Woods need you, too.’ That smile again.
I swivel back to the keyboard and continue playing, extra loud to avoid overhearing their conversation. Dex takes his cue and sings until his watch alarm beeps, at which point Jacob ends his call saying, ‘Still love ya’, like he’s trying to be all casual, but by the way gloom straps itself to him as he hangs up, it’s clear he does still love Harper.
To reach his bag, Dex vaults the Lego sofa. ‘Gotta go, dudes. Can we do this again, Miss Scusami? Bring your music next time.’
‘Please,’ says Jacob.
‘What’s the rush, Dex?’ I ask. He tornadoes around the studio searching for his shoes and mumbling about being a bugiardo. ‘I could drive you home.’
Jacob chucks some empties into a big bin. ‘We gotta keep this a secret. His mamma doesn’t know about the singing.’
‘It’s not easy being the nephew of a bishop who threw out his sister – my poor mamma – when she got knocked up.’ Dex pounces on his shoes. ‘He used to slap her to knock out the evil in her. Mamma would never hit me, so she says sinning will come easy to me.’ Holding his shoes by their laces, he makes for the door yelling, ‘Pop songs are sinful. Byeeee.’ And with that he struts out the studio impersonating Lady Gaga singing about going where others can’t hurt us.
Jacob pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Jeez. Kid’s got to brush up on his manners. But I’ll say it for him – thanks for spending all your time on him.’ Jacob’s collating sheets of music but the inches between us are not enough to stop my blush. ‘What’s bugiardo mean?’ he asks.
‘A liar. Poor Dex.’ I get up from the stool, patting my pockets for car keys. ‘I better go.’ Silence swings heavily between us like a pendulum. When I glance up, Jacob’s studying me. I examine my toes.
‘You were crying before Dex came in,’ Jacob says, soft. ‘I saw you wipe your tears.’ It’s such a contrast to his earlier wariness at the beach that the moment seems intimate. I suppose we did spend the rest of the afternoon sharing our biggest worries and secrets.
I jangle the keys and blurt, ‘That song. My sister sang it a lot. Savannah. She died when I was five.’
Jacob brings the heel of his hand to his forehead. ‘And here’s me going on about my shit. And you – jeez, I’m sorry. Sucks.’
I let the stillness swing between us a little longer rather than respond.
He adds, ‘But four singers in one family. That’s – totally out there. My parents wouldn’t know a D flat from a G sharp.’
‘It’s not always a good thing.’ I check my phone. Maestro’s texted me twice. I’ll have to say I lost all sense of time in Mo’s Music Shop. He won’t be impressed that I haven’t finished the homework he set. ‘There’s a lot to live up to,’ I say. ‘By the way. Dex is amazing.’
‘Even if he is completely egocentric.’
‘He’s a fifteen-year-old boy with a father who walked out on him and an uncle who hit his mother for getting pregnant. I assume it’s an act. You know, to cover up how he feels.’
‘And his voice fits your songs like sand goes with surf.’ Jacob ambles nearer. He waggles my ballet flats at me. ‘You should team up with him – record something.’
A whole future of the three of us working on my songs lays itself before me like a picnic blanket inviting me over. But I doubt my songwriting is good enough. And Maestro would never allow it.
‘I mean, if you want to,’ Jacob adds, when I don’t respond. He tugs at his earlobe and opens the studio door for me.
Stepping backwards I wave, and then turn and head for the gate.
‘Hey, would you give me a lift back to the beach?’ he yells after me. ‘Just hang on while I find my spare car keys.’ Without waiting for my answer, he takes the back stairs into his house, two at a time.
11
Jacob
Doc Bell’s music room’s high on a hill, so it’s as though the room’s filled with sky. Unlike my cave of a music studio, light and fresh air fill every corner; the three French windows are thrown open and, in the distance, there’s even a glimpse of the tips of the sails of the Opera House.
I study the painting above the fireplace, where someone’s lit a fire in the grate. The woman resembles Astrid apart from the dead straight auburn hair that makes her face seem long and pale. Veronika Bell, I presume. I’m not sure I could sing at all with my legend of a mother staring down at me.
Doc Bell welcomes me back without referring to me running off halfway through my first lesson or playing hooky yesterday. He leaves the room saying he needs to fetch juice.
My phone dings with a text in the silence. Dad. This is your last chance. He called the doc to explain about my broken hand.
‘Jacob, you met Astrid during your last session here,’ says the doc when he returns. He’s carrying a tray of pineapple juice. ‘I’ve asked her to join us.’
I check the door, but there’s no sign of Astrid. He pours three glasses of juice.
‘I thought the two of you could amuse yourselves with some songs. How’s “You’ll Never Walk Alone”?’ He straightens and glances toward the door. ‘Astrid?’
Astrid’s small hand appears before she does. Her fingers brace the edge of the half-closed door for a few seconds before she pushes it open.
‘Right here.’ She flashes him a smile, then acknowledges me with a bob of her head. Her cheeks are fiery. I’m guessing she hasn’t told the doc about coming to my studio and how we sang together, and that means this duet idea’s all his. Except the song has to be her choice – we sang it before she ran from my studio like Cinderella at midnight, except what she left behind was more valuable than a glass slipper: I felt happy.
Smirking, I track her, but she won’t turn my way. She’s wearing a grey knitted dress that wraps around her tiny shape and ties in the middle. By comparison, Harper’s tall – almost my height – and strong, with powerful shoulders, and she never wore anything but jean shorts with singlets, or tennis clothes. Astrid dresses more like a mum than a teenager, yet I ha
ve the urge to watch out for her. Perhaps it’s the way she looks at me as though she’s afraid I might hurt her. When she does that I can see the person I’ve become, and I wonder if I want to be that person anymore. Problem is I don’t know who the hell I’m meant to be.
‘The Gerry and the Pacemakers version or some opera one?’ I ask the doc. Astrid’s on the verge of giggling.
‘You can do both?’ The doc arranges himself on the piano stool, rips through a couple of scales, and goes straight into an intro for the original version. ‘Take it easy. Use it as a warm-up. Come, come.’ He beckons us closer, then dips his chin at Astrid as her cue.
Her attention on her father, she sings the first line, soft, a whispering melody. Yesterday, Astrid asked if I went surfing as some sort of attempted suicide. I guess I was leaving it to fate. Or luck. Right now, singing this song, I feel the same and decide to go with it – see where fate leads me.
‘Have fun with it, Jacob,’ says Doc. ‘Enjoy the music.’
My mouth goes dry as I shove aside thoughts of the boys – they worshipped this song. But I remember how good it felt to sing, first with Dex, and then with Astrid, and I make myself breathe through the emotion of it and open my mouth. And sing about the end of the storm, about sweet silver songs and about walking on.
The doc’s lips purse – in approval – I think. We launch into the chorus and finally Astrid pans across to me, smiling through the words. But she splutters and giggles.
Her father frowns at her in a not kidding way. ‘Again,’ he barks.
We begin again, soft and cautious, building to the chorus. We sing it another three times.
‘Good. I want to attempt something. You have some rich classical tones in your voice, Jacob. A good range. Can we change it up a bit, a little vibrato, more full-bodied. Astrid, the Carousel version. Listen first, Jacob, then join in. We’ll do a few scales first though.’
After the scales, which involve lots of agility exercises including complicated octave jumps, Astrid begins the song again. This time her soprano voice cuts through the sky in the room like a rainbow.
‘Join in when you can, Jacob.’
I shift my weight, fingering the micro memory card in my pocket. Yesterday, I recorded Astrid while she sang in the soundproof booth. I need to find a moment to slip it to her. Doc Bell doesn’t pay me any attention and instructs Astrid to ‘give more support’ or have ‘higher resonance’. At the end they go straight into the start again. Astrid focuses on a point out the window, perhaps to avoid giggling. I remember singing with her last night and want to repeat the moment; my chest busted with that much exhilaration it could’ve split wide open.
I make a tentative start, adjusting my throat for a fuller sound as Dr Sofia taught me. I feel stupid in front of Astrid, but my voice sounds okay so I keep going. When the corner of Astrid’s mouth lifts for a moment, I commit to the song, wanting to impress her.
The room swells with our melody, and I’m astonished at how my skin pricks with goosebumps. It’s like rushing headlong through the Purple Woods in the old days, a kind of explosive joy bursting from my pores.
The classical style of singing seems more intense and empowering – perhaps it’s the tradition behind it, of hundreds of years of music, that gives it more soul and more muscle. Or the fact you sing it using your entire body, from the head right through to the gut. Whatever it is, somehow singing the classical greats allows me to release every emotion I’ve ever wrapped up and buried, as if they were lifeless birds; now each one flies free of their grave and swarms the air.
When the song ends it feels like I’ve been dropped back to earth.
‘You should’ve sung opera not jazz at your audition last year,’ says the doc. ‘You’ve got quite an instrument there. It’s unique. And you’re first-rate at placing your voice in the mask – in the nose and cheekbones where the sound resonates.’
I snort at him blowing smoke up my arse. ‘If I can sing Astrid’s opera garbage, she can sing what I normally sing.’
‘You think I can’t?’ she fires back, the first words she’s directed at me all morning.
‘Maybe. Prove it. Olly Murs. “Troublemaker”. Can you play it, Doc? I’d offer, but –’ I lift my cast in the air.
‘It’s Dr Bell, not Doc. And no I can’t, but I can find it on the iPad. Wait a moment.’
When he gets up Astrid peeks at me from under long lashes, her freckles lost in a mild blush. ‘Is “Troublemaker” your middle name?’ she asks.
‘Très drôle,’ I reply, slipping the micro memory card into her palm.
The music starts and I launch into the lyrics, pointing and gesticulating like a rapper until she joins me. She knows the words – guess this is the kind of stuff she writes. When we hit the chorus I have the urge to dance, but Doc wouldn’t approve. He straightaway clicks off the music when the song finishes. But Astrid carries on, turning the chorus into a rap at the speed of light. I swear her lips move so fast it’s as if she’s pre-programmed. She adds hand gestures, as though she’s Cardi B in some rap battle.
My laugh comes out full-bellied. It loosens something inside me. ‘You win. You win. That was awesome.’ I fist-bump her.
‘Where did that come from, Buttercup?’ Doc appears kind of shocked, and not in a good way. ‘I didn’t know you liked the genre. Impressive.’
‘I like everything.’ She transforms back into dutiful daughter and passes round glasses of juice. ‘Music is music.’
‘True. Similar to sport, all music unites.’ The doc turns to me. ‘Jacob, your voice is an immeasurable gift. If it could be sold, it would fetch a high price – you could exchange it for a Stradivarius. It lies smack bang in the middle of two worlds of music – pop and opera.’
‘Popera.’ I snort, recalling how strongly Dr Sofia urged me to sing opera and popera.
‘Your voice is big while at the same time having accessible pop tones. You need to nurture it. This will become your inimitable brand. Your style and voice cuts across cultures and ages. It speaks to all music lovers. It’s what’ll get you record deals.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ I say. Astrid gives me a ‘told you so’.
‘You play the flute and the drums? Classical and modern. Popera is merely modern music sung classically.’
Astrid crosses her eyes. Harper used to do that. Laughter gurgles and pinballs a bunch of memories into my brain: the times when I rehearsed in the Hunters’ kitchen with Aria last year – Harper listening in and tossing popcorn at us if we made a mistake. To prepare for the Con audition we competed for Harper’s applause on each instrument. She’d award scores and Aria and I would squabble. I miss those times. I miss being part of their family. I miss my Purple Daze family. A lump forms in my throat and I’m struggling to hold onto my shit.
Spinning away from the piano, I stride over to the fireplace. The ashes in the grate take me back to the funerals. The band would have a giraffe if they could hear me sing popera. Geek. That crap’s scarring my ear drums. Evil, man. I turn toward the windows. ‘But I don’t want to sing that stuff. I’m into chart music.’
‘No reason you can’t do both – sing modern music with a big voice, with more vibrato. It’s how it was in the fifties and sixties anyhow. Those artists did all right. Otherwise you’re no more than a copy of the next guy, trying to make your mark in a sea of sameness. Let me show you.’
With more cajoling from them both, we spend the morning converting my favourite pop music into ‘full-voiced’ songs that aren’t quite opera but are big, open-throated affairs. Astrid helps me adapt them, hearing harmonies that compliment, and I have to admit the sound is good enough to forget everything in my life but the music.
For ten days straight I have a lesson with the doc. And Astrid and her father step into the gaping hole in my life. Twice, I even stay for dinner. Doc Bell usually teaches at the Con most afternoons a
nd privately in the music room the rest of the time, but some young talent he’s been nurturing, Heinrich someone, has laryngitis, leaving an opening for me. I have a reason to get out of bed every day, even if my bed is the Lego sofa. Even if I don’t get up till midday.
The doc pushes me; he’s strict and doesn’t let up. But neither do I. It’s similar to when I’m surfing dangerously large waves – the complex lessons, the discipline, the repetitive vocal exercises are something to grab hold of, instead of emptiness. They need my absolute focus and take me away from – everything. And I finally make the doc smile. His smiles are so rare I count them, but stop after reaching eighteen. I’m less proud that I made him cry once. He’d asked about Purple Daze. I became defensive, angry even, and turned the question back on him.
‘Astrid told me about losing your daughter too,’ I said.
Doc stopped collecting sheet music. He faked a smile, tears brimming.
‘It seems neither of us are ready to talk about our loss.’ He gave me a complicated look though, one that said sorry and I understand and we’re in this together all in one short, brilliant moment.
Is this what it feels like to have a proper father?
‘He’s really happy with you,’ says Astrid one night as I fetch the salt and pepper and she places three bowls of spaghetti and meatballs on the kitchen table. The sound of the doc humming in the music room is an excited, high-pitched purr. ‘You made his week.’
‘Don’t know about that.’ I remember one set of vocal gymnastics we repeated fifty times.
‘He’s not usually this cheerful all the time. He can get horribly moody. And last night, he said despite your attitude to opera, you’re his best student ever and he’s never met anyone –’
The Astrid Notes Page 8