This Has Been Absolutely Lovely

by Jessica Dettmann

  ‘It’s never too late for anything,’ said Jane, grinning. ‘I’ll borrow some scissors and do it for you in the loos if you like.’

  ‘Jane, I’m on stage in about ten minutes.’

  ‘Won’t take me more than four.’ Jane drained her drink. ‘Wait here.’

  In moments she was back, brandishing a pair of plastic-handled office scissors. ‘These’ll do the job. Right, Thorne. Into the ladies’.’

  Annie felt dizzy from nerves, but she followed Jane into the toilets and stood, awkwardly leaning over the sink as Jane pulled forward a section of the hair Annie had neatly centre parted, held it between her fingers and with less than no ceremony chopped off a good six inches. Annie gasped as she saw the hair fall into the sink. Jane let the hair drop, tousled it briefly to settle it into place, and let out a horrified gasp.

  ‘What? Oh my god, what have you done?’ asked Annie.

  Jane burst out laughing. ‘I’m only fucking with you. It’s amazing. Needs a little bit more off here —’ she snipped gently ‘— and here on the side, to bring it together.’

  Turning to look in the mirror, Annie brought her fingers up to her hair in astonishment. ‘How did you do that?’ It was a transformation on a par with a librarian turning sexy by taking her hair down from its bun and removing her spectacles. Annie the grandmother and the mother was gone. In her place was someone she couldn’t quite recognise but who looked a lot more interesting. ‘That’s so good. I look . . . I’m not sure. Insouciant.’

  Jane stood beside her and they both examined the new reflection. ‘You do. Insouciant is exactly right. You look insouciant as fuck. You’re Insouciant Sioux and the Banshees. Have you got an eyeliner?’

  Annie scrabbled through her bag and produced one. Jane applied it for her in a greater quantity and with more abandon than Annie would have dared to. ‘There. Now you’re Thorne.’

  * * *

  Back in the bar, Jane ordered two more drinks, although Annie had hardly dented her first. ‘When do you go on? Did Rainbow Brite give you a running order?’

  ‘I’m fifth. Of ten. There was only one other woman on the list.’

  ‘Great. You’ll stand out. That’s what we want. Get you noticed.’

  Annie looked around. It wasn’t so empty any more. All the tables were full, and people were standing three deep at the bar. The room hummed with anticipation. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. You have performed in front of many thousands of people before, she told herself. This is one scummy pub, with a hundred people, maximum. This is nothing.

  Aurora stood at the microphone stand and welcomed everyone. She shouted ‘Whoo!’ at the end of most of her sentences and Annie felt herself frowning. She readjusted her face to a pleasantly neutral expression, and set it there for the first four acts.

  Jesus’s Anaemic Brother was first up, playing the acoustic guitar, mostly with his eyes shut. The song was called ‘Not What I Meant To Say’ and it was, in Annie’s opinion, execrable. He sounded like a whiny Ed Sheeran, and the song was long and full of blame.

  He was followed by three more men who also looked like Jesus. Annie tried to distract herself from her nerves by figuring out appropriate nicknames. The second singer, who played his song on the keyboard like she was about to, was less scruffy than the first one, and the sleeves of his checked shirt had been creased neatly with an iron. He had an air of entitlement and a song called ‘Always Be Mine’, which he probably thought sounded nostalgic and sweet but actually had more of a stalkery ring to it. The song could equally have been about being broken up with by a girlfriend or being asked to move out of home. ‘Head Prefect Jesus’, she dubbed him. The next two were Ginger Jesus and Surf Jesus. Of the four, she liked Surf Jesus’s song the best.

  Suddenly it was Annie’s turn.

  Aurora came to the mike and said, ‘Next up, ladies and gentlemen, we have a bit of a treat for you. For the first time, fulfilling a lifelong dream — this is something she’s wanted to do for almost sixty years, people, can you believe it? We have the one, the only, Annie Thorne! Whoo!’

  Annie froze. What on earth did the girl say that for? None of that was true. She hadn’t wanted to do this for almost sixty years. She hadn’t been a newborn with a burning ambition to perform. And then the audience was clapping and whooping, and she wouldn’t have thought it was possible to clap and whoop patronisingly but by god that lot was managing it. She wanted nothing more than to turn and run from the pub, into the street, preferably under the nearest bus, but she would not give them the satisfaction.

  Jane grabbed Annie by the shoulders and squeezed. ‘Fuck them all, Thorne,’ she said over the applause. ‘Just fucking do it.’

  Annie took a last mouthful of her drink and made her way up. Even though it was just a small stage in a pub, there was a spotlight, and when she looked out she couldn’t see anyone beyond the front row of tables. That was good. She didn’t want to see the looks of encouragement. The good-on-you smiles she was sure were plastered to the faces of those people who were all so young, so confident of their worth in the world, so sure they would have time for everything they wanted to do.

  But I have no fear, she thought. I have that over you, at least. I’ve got nothing to lose. Her nerves had been replaced by a quiet calm. She took a deep breath, placed her hands on the keys, looked up through her new fringe and started to sing.

  Chapter 21

  At the end of the song, there was applause. It sounded like normal applause. Not rapturous, but neither was it pitying, or polite. There was a bit of whooping. Annie sat back down with Jane and ate a pizza while the remainder of the acts performed. They were less messianic and she liked them all more than the first lot. And the one other woman — a beautiful, shaven-headed creature dressed in the sort of high-waisted, baggy jeans that had been in fashion twenty-five years earlier — was amazing.

  The buzz in the room was huge after the last performer finished. People milled around chatting and congratulating each other.

  ‘Go over there,’ urged Jane, pointing at the young artists clustered around the bar. ‘Go chat with them.’

  Emboldened by adrenaline, Annie stood up. ‘I will. I think I just will.’

  ‘Do it.’ Jane raised her glass to Annie and winked.

  At the bar, Annie stood beside the shaven-headed girl, who was ordering a round of drinks.

  ‘I loved your song,’ she said.

  The girl turned as if she hadn’t realised anyone was there. ‘Oh, thanks.’ She went back to watching the barman adding tonic water to a glass from a soda gun.

  Annie tried again. ‘Have you performed here before? It was my first time.’

  ‘A few times, yeah. I normally play bigger venues, with my band, but they’re away and I thought I’d try a new song tonight, just to run it up the flagpole, yeah?’

  ‘Well, it was great. I really liked it.’ Annie waited for the girl to say something about her song. When nothing was forthcoming she added, lamely, ‘This is a good pub. I like the . . . green tiles.’

  Now the girl turned to her, holding her tray of drinks. ‘It’s not bad. They do a karaoke night too. You might enjoy that. Excuse me.’ Annie stepped aside and the girl headed over to a table where her friends were waiting.

  They thought she was a fun-loving granny. To them she was Susan Boyle. A joke. They hadn’t even listened to her song. It only mattered what you looked like. That was what had led to her being kicked out of Eurovision. Maybe that was all that had ever mattered.

  Tears stung her eyes and she angrily blinked them back. Her mascara wasn’t waterproof and the last thing she needed now was to look like a post-menopausal Alice Cooper.

  Jane wasn’t alone when Annie returned to the table. Two men were sitting with her. One was very tall and a bit younger than her, and the other looked about mid-forties. That Jane had allowed them to sit and not seen them off at once was reassuring: it meant they had passed a quick and thorough dickhead assessment.

  ‘G
ot a couple of fans here, Thorne.’

  Annie smiled, swallowing down her sadness. ‘Hello.’

  The tall man held out his hand. ‘Such a pleasure,’ he said, shaking her hand warmly. His accent was English and he had the rounded vowels of someone with at least one titled godparent. ‘I’m Philip and this is Ian. I just loved your song. You were the best by miles tonight. Absolute miles.’

  Ian piped up, almost bouncing in his seat. ‘You left them in the dust. That song was a knockout. It was a journey, you know? It had power and strength, and it was sad as well as being not just sad.’

  ‘Pathos,’ said Philip. ‘It had real pathos.’

  ‘But it wasn’t depressing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Annie.

  Philip was looking at her intently. ‘Is there any chance we’ve met before? You seem terribly familiar.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Where do you live?’

  ‘Shorewood, at the moment, but before that London and a few places in Europe.’

  ‘I lived in London a long time ago,’ she said. ‘Early eighties.’

  ‘You must have been a child.’

  ‘Not quite. I was in a band then. Maybe you remember me from that?’

  His face brightened and transformed as he realised. ‘Love Triangle! You were the girl in Love Triangle. I loved you. Had the most tremendous crush. I was horribly bullied about it at school!’

  ‘I’ll bet you were,’ Annie said, laughing. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Wow,’ said Philip, shaking his head in amazement. ‘How extraordinary.’

  Jane, who seemed to have appointed herself Annie’s manager, interrupted. ‘Are either of you in the music industry? Annie’s been on hiatus for a little while and we’re keen to get her back in front of a bigger audience.’

  ‘Jane!’ Annie was mortified. ‘I haven’t decided that. And don’t harass them, they’re just being nice.’

  ‘I’ve no objection to their being nice. I’d just prefer them to be nice and give you a record contract.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Ian. ‘I’m a private building certifier. I’d give you a record deal if I could. Best I can offer is maybe looking the other way a bit if you want to do something to your house other than what you have council approval for. Add a window or a skylight or something. Maybe even a driveway.’

  Philip frowned at him. ‘Ian, don’t say things like that. You’re one of the honest ones. You wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Ian. ‘You’re right, I wouldn’t. Just trying to sound cool. I’ve never had a cool job.’

  ‘Is this a place where music producers typically come?’ asked Philip.

  ‘So we’ve heard,’ said Jane, ‘but if they were here they’d be beating a path to Annie’s — sorry, Thorne’s — door by now.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not how it works,’ said Annie. ‘No one plays one song and gets signed. It took us a couple of years of gigging really hard last time. It’ll be even harder this time.’

  ‘Bullshit. Everything’s instant now. The world moves faster. I reckon if the right person sees you, they sign you, then they record and release your work in a couple of weeks, tops. Like that Dancing Monkey girl from Byron.’

  Annie wondered if someone had spiked Jane’s drink with unjustifiable confidence. ‘There’s barely even anyone in here old enough to buy alcohol,’ she said. ‘If these are the people in charge of what music gets signed and released these days, it’s not going to happen. I think I’ve left it too long. No one our age is in charge of anything any more. It’s all down to the kids now.’

  ‘No no,’ said Philip encouragingly. ‘The grownups still run things. I’m not in the music biz but I know one or two people back in England who are. You might say I’m industry adjacent. They’re old blokes like me. It’s very likely they’re the same men who were around when you were starting out. They’re still there, up the top of the businesses now. Some of them will remember you, I’m certain of it.’

  ‘That is both mildly encouraging and the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard,’ said Annie.

  ‘I can’t promise anything, but I could see if I could get your work in front of the people I know,’ said Philip. ‘Would that be helpful? I’ve no doubt you’ll be snapped up at the next one of these, of course, but it never hurts to get yourself heard more widely.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Annie. ‘I’d be very grateful for that. Here look, I have a USB with some songs I can give you. I just need a pen to fix something on the label.’

  Philip produced a fountain pen from the breast pocket of his sports coat. Annie took it. Who carried a fountain pen these days? She unscrewed the lid and carefully struck through the word Annie until it was a black ink blot. Now it just read Thorne.

  ‘I don’t know anyone,’ said Ian cheerfully. ‘But I’ll take one if you have a spare. You never know.’

  Annie felt a flicker of hope.

  Chapter 22

  Molly and Petula spent two days in the hospital, while Molly learned there were ways to breastfeed her child that were less likely to result in screaming pain. There didn’t seem to be any completely painless ways, which was a pity, but some positions weren’t as bad, and there were tricks to use on Petula to help her get better at it. It seemed insane that both mother and baby needed instruction in breastfeeding. How had the world become so overpopulated when it was this hard to keep a baby alive? Things would improve with time, the nurses assured her.

  That the feeding would get easier was just about all the midwives did agree on. There seemed to be no consensus about how best to swaddle Petula, with one nurse telling them the child’s arms must be down by her sides before she was tightly wrapped in a blanket, which made her look like an Irish-dancing burrito. Another claimed the arms must first be brought out to the sides, so the top of the blanket could be folded around them before the arms were then crossed in front and lashed down. All the methods left Petula looking like a bald baffled hostage.

  ‘Can’t we leave her unwrapped?’ ventured Molly to the least terrifying midwife around two o’clock the second morning.

  The nurse looked at Molly like she’d suggested they let the baby sleep on the roof of a moving car. ‘Of course you can’t. Startle reflex. If you leave her unwrapped, she’ll punch herself in the face all night and neither of you will get a wink of sleep.’

  Molly didn’t know what a startle reflex was. She googled it while the midwife was strapping Petula down and learned that her baby had a deep latent habit of contracting her muscles and flinging out her arms when alarmed. It was an ancient reaction to the perceived loss of support, a survival instinct to help a newborn grab hold of its mother. When was she supposed to have learned all this? Was it something everyone but her knew about? She’d never heard of it. She’d never wondered why babies were wrapped up tightly. She hadn’t, to be honest, spent much time around babies — an omission that suddenly felt like it might be a problem.

  The nurse was strangely pleased about the extent of Molly’s ignorance.

  ‘God, love,’ she said, ‘it’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t think they know it all. Most of the new mums we get have read so much about newborns they think they can do my job better than I can.’

  Molly thought Toggle the dog would do a better job than she would.

  Wrapped or not, after the first twenty-four hours, during which she didn’t seem to notice she had been born, Petula wasn’t much interested in sleep. But there was no shortage of visitors to hold her while she cried or stared intently into people’s eyes, which was all she did apart from feeding. The family seemed to be trying to atone for their conspicuous absence while she was giving birth by maintaining a near permanent vigil at the hospital.

  On Sunday morning, Annie had sat at Molly’s bedside for hours, cradling Petula in her arms, or dancing her around the ward and up and down the corridors, singing quietly.

  Molly didn’t mention it — because what on earth would she say? — but after the first flood of mate
rnal adoration and protection had washed over her in the immediate aftermath of birth, she didn’t feel very much towards the baby, one way or another. She hoped the detachment was caused by still being in the hospital. After that first night in a private room she’d been moved into a ward, and it was hard to bond in a room of six women — at least one baby was always screaming, and there was usually a mother in tears too. More and more she found herself tuning out the sounds around her. Sometimes she didn’t even realise when the crying was coming from Petula in the Perspex cot beside her. But Jack or her mum was usually there to pick up the baby and jiggle her, and everyone kept reassuring Molly that she could just rest now. Rest and feed.

  She should take advantage of the help. There would be time to bond later. After all, it wasn’t as though she felt anything especially negative towards the baby: she just felt so tired, and like she could do with some quiet. And she felt sore. And a bit empty.

  The nurses were very keen on people getting up and out of bed as much as possible, but that was completely at odds with what Molly wanted, which was to be horizontal at all times, preferably with her eyes closed. She soon found that if she told them she’d just been for a lovely walk all the way to the end of the corridor, twice, they would leave her alone.

  She lay on her side and wondered what she would do when they made her go home. It would be all right. The upside to so many people being in the house was that there would be tons of help. Petula had a father, three grandparents, two aunts, an uncle and a pair of cousins on tap. Molly would sleep until she felt better and then she would tackle this parenting thing. Eventually, she figured, she would wake up and not have forgotten she had a baby.

  * * *

  In the corridor outside the ward on Monday morning, Jack caught Annie as he went to the kitchen to make Molly a cup of tea. Annie had a sleeping Petula propped up over her shoulder, and she was swaying in front of the picture window that looked out towards the sea.

  ‘Hello, Granny Annie,’ he said.