‘Dad . . .’ I try to wriggle out of his embrace.
‘. . . and if you want to be a singer you be a singer! You go back to school and show that Daisy you’re not scared of her.’
‘She laughs at me all the time, Dad,’ I say through my tears. ‘She once put a rubber spider in my stew. She grabs my hands in front of her friends, says my fingers are weird.’ Because of my CF the tips of my fingers are swollen and rounded. I can feel Dad’s anger rising as I continue, ‘And if I fall . . .’
Finally his grip around my arms loosens as he looks me in the eye and says, ‘If you fall, you get up, dust yourself down and carry on, stronger than before.’
The following morning, Daisy and Louise approach Cat and me by the tennis courts during break time, a group of girls following closely behind them. ‘Hey, funny fingers,’ Daisy says. When they circle round me like sharks I hold my bony finger up to the sky and say, ‘ET, phone home’, Cat and I impersonating ET’s way of walking too, which makes everyone except Daisy giggle, one of the other girls saying, ‘Do it again, Alice. Again!’
When Daisy tells me, after a biology lesson on respiratory conditions, that people with CF die, ‘they DIE,’ I respond, ‘Great, when I die I can’t wait to haunt you,’ and the entire class erupts into more laughter. Over the next few weeks I pick up on the power of conquering fear and the strength of humour. I might have funny feet and clubbed fingers but I have a sharp wit and mind and it’s about time I used them both.
And if I fall . . .
I look up at Daisy towering over me during a netball game. My knee is grazed, I can see a line of blood trickling down my leg, but I pick myself up, look her in the eye and play on.
11
It’s Monday morning, my release date from hospital. I’m packing my suitcase when Professor Taylor enters the room, holding my hefty brown medical file. I realise he holds my life in his hands.
‘How are you feeling?’ he asks, spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
‘Great.’ I am feeling much stronger after my course of antibiotics, enforced rest, Tom’s visit and the thought of answering Peter Harris’s ad. ‘You were right, I needed to be here.’
He gestures to the suitcase. ‘Good. Now you can go home and enjoy Christmas.’
‘Wait,’ I call out as he reaches the door.
He turns to me in surprise.
‘Can you stay? Just for a minute? I need to talk to you.’
Professor Taylor adjusts the position of his glasses. ‘Go ahead.’
‘Right. Yes.’ I breathe. Compose yourself. ‘As you know, I’ve given up modelling.’
‘Yes.’
As usual, he gives little away. Who knows if he ever thought modelling a good idea? ‘Anyway, I’ve been thinking about a different career.’ Get straight to the point. His pager could go off at any moment. ‘I want to write music and sing.’
‘Sing,’ he repeats, narrowing his eyes. ‘I’m not quite with you.’
I look around the bare hospital room.
This can’t be it for me. My life can’t be summed up by hospital visits, needles, blood and more antibiotics; the clock ticking, reminding me that every day I don’t sing is another day wasted. There has to be a reason for my heart to beat.
‘Alice?’
My stomach is a tangle of nerves.
Tell him it’s nothing. Let him go.
‘Alice, you will never be a singer,’ Miss Ward’s voice says inside my head.
He’s going to say no . . . why would he tell me that singing is a great idea for my damaged lungs? He’ll advise that he can’t stop me but that he is strongly against it, and he’ll say it in that calm, caring but firm old way of his. I wouldn’t mind if it was anyone else but I would fly to the moon and back for his approval.
‘I want to be a singer,’ I say again.
Before I die I have to leave something behind, something that means something to me, to others, something I will be remembered for—
‘A singer?’
‘Since I was a little girl I’ve loved music and writing my own songs.’ My voice fills with emotion when I say, ‘I just never thought I could do it because of my CF.’
I’m ready. Ready to put up a fight.
‘I think that’s a very good idea.’
‘I knew you’d be concerned but . . .’ I stop. ‘Hang on, what did you just say?’
‘It’s a good idea as long as you can sing.’
‘But what about my lungs, my coughing . . .?’
‘I’m not going to stop you from doing what you want, Alice. If I felt it unduly unsafe, then of course I’d have grave concerns, but I’m a big believer in following your heart. If singing makes you happy, do it.’
I want to scream. Shout. Dance. Laugh. Hug him.
‘You’re also lucky to have the support of your family.’ He adjusts the position of his glasses again. ‘I can’t possibly comment on your chances of becoming a singer, but regarding your health, we carry on doing our best and we cross any complications when they arise. Remember, we’re a team.’
I feel so choked with emotion that I can’t speak. Briefly he touches my shoulder. ‘Well, if that’s all, I’d better get on and leave you to embark on your new adventure.’
As he’s about to leave, I manage to say ‘thank you’, resisting the urge to rush over and fling my arms around him. ‘You don’t know how much that means to me.’
He rests one hand against the door. ‘I think I do.’
‘One day you’ll hear one of my songs being played on the radio, Professor Taylor.’
He smiles. ‘Happy Christmas, Alice.’
12
It’s a week before Christmas and Jake and I sit in the auditorium, watching the adverts before we get to You’ve Got Mail, a romantic comedy with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks, my choice of film tonight. ‘Is this the only film you fancy?’ Jake had asked as if it were his idea of hell.
Our regular movie nights began years ago when I came home after surviving only three weeks at university. I was back in London, studying for my English degree from home, having been in and out of hospital for the past four months. Jake was at Oxford, enjoying student life and in a happy relationship. One weekend, just before Jake was about to return to Oxford after the long summer break, he and I went to see a film on a Friday evening. I sensed he felt guilty that there he was, leading exactly the kind of lifestyle that should have been open to me, but what could he do? Stop living too? He’d glanced at me, before saying, ‘Everything OK, Leech?’
It was a nickname he’d given me on one of our family summer holidays, when I used to cling on to his back in the sea.
So much was loaded into that question. ‘Not really,’ I’d replied, biting my lip and staring at the screen, frightened I was going to cry. Everyone was living but all I could see was blood, more blood and no hope. No future, only hospital visits. No future, only death. Earlier that day I’d written a song called ‘Killing Myself’: Take me away, away from today, will I ever be saved. I’m so cold under this sky, I’m frozen, frozen in time. Writing things down helped me to express myself, say things that I couldn’t say to my friends or family.
‘Come on,’ Jake had whispered, pulling me to my feet before the trailers had even finished. ‘Let’s go.’
We went out for a pizza instead. When Jake encouraged me to believe that there was something out there for me and that I would get through this, his kindness was too much, making me feel even more tearful. We talked for hours until the waiters began wiping tables, warning us they’d be closing in five minutes.
We went back to the cinema the following day, and enjoyed a comedy with Steve Martin, Jake saying we should make a movie night a regular brother sister thing.
It’s funny. Growing up, Jake could have resented how much attention my relentless daily two-hour physio routine stole from him, along with all the hospital visits. I can only recall one Christmas when he threw a tantrum. I lean over to him, whispering, ‘Do you remember when you were about seven,
Mum telling you not to open any of your presents until Dad and I had finished my physio?’ I take another handful of popcorn.
‘No.’ He doesn’t sound too interested to find out what happened next, but I continue: ‘You marched into the sitting room, sat down by the tree and ripped open one of your presents.’ I vividly remember it was a set of toy soldiers.
‘How rebellious of me,’ Jake says, looking thrilled since he has never been much of a rebel. Mum and Dad were delighted when he was busted at school for smoking. They almost wanted to take him out to celebrate.
Equally I could have resented him for not having the faulty CF gene. Why had it only been me? Of course I have many moments of cursing my persistent coughing and the fate I have been given, but I’d hate Jake to have it too. Can you imagine Dad having to do physio on both of us? Or Mum loading up the car with double the amount of boxes of medication. It’s unthinkable.
‘How’s it going with Tom?’ Jake asks, breaking my thoughts.
‘Don’t know.’
‘Really?’
Since coming home from hospital Tom and I have been out three times. On our first date he took me to a Chinese and ordered ‘two Coca Colas, one kung pao king prawn and one chop suey,’ I repeat to Jake in Tom’s funny Chinese accent, making me laugh again just thinking about it.
‘You probably had to be there at the time,’ Jake suggests.
‘Probably.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘I don’t know, that is the problem. We have such a great time together but nothing happens.’
‘Right.’
‘At the end of each date, we’re standing on the doorstep, he leans towards me and I close my eyes—’
‘I don’t need all the detail, Leech.’
‘And then he shakes my hand.’
‘What?’
‘As if we’re in a bloody boardroom meeting.’
I’d talked it through with Cat for hours on the telephone that night. Maybe he didn’t like me in that way after all? But we’d debated that if this was the case, why did he keep on arranging dates? We came to the conclusion that perhaps Tom was being a gentleman, sensitive to the fact that I hadn’t split up from Phil for long and had only just come out of hospital. But then again, blokes are blokes. When do they ever miss an opportunity for a kiss or sex?
As the trailers begin I tell Jake about date two in Tom’s flat, his flatmate barging in on our supper and making herself comfortable when Tom had asked politely if she would like a glass of wine. Date three was in a bar with some of Tom’s friends. I hadn’t eaten properly, so by the end of the evening Tom had to force me to drink a cup of strong black coffee. I remember resting my head on his shoulder as he stroked my hair. I have vague memories of his friend George saying, ‘You need to take her home.’ But I didn’t want Tom to take me home. I’d murmured something like, ‘What about us?’ I can’t remember what happened next, except that I woke up the following morning in bed with only my cats, Charlie and Nutmeg.
‘What does it mean, Jake?’
‘Maybe he’s not right for you. Don’t get me wrong, I liked him, but you don’t need another Phil or—’
‘He’s nothing like Phil,’ I raise my voice, attracting a few stares. ‘He’s the opposite.’ Phil couldn’t get me into bed quick enough . . . ‘Remember when you met Lucy?’
He nods.
‘You knew she was the one, right?’
Another nod.
I shrug as if to say that’s how I feel.
‘Wear a padded bra or a low-cut top or something, then,’ Jake suggests.
‘Seriously, I can’t make it any clearer except if I jumped on him and stripped his clothes off.’
‘Do that. That’ll work. Maybe he’s gay?’
‘He’s not gay,’ I say. ‘Why would he bother to call you at the gallery and then visit me in hospital? Men hate hospitals.’ Especially someone like Tom who had spent so many months in one . . .
Perhaps he was having second thoughts. Doubts.
Finally You’ve Got Mail comes on to the screen. Certificate PG.
‘Like your love life,’ Jake mutters, making both of us laugh, especially when we hear a ‘shush!’ coming from someone sitting in the row behind us.
As Jake and I eat dinner in a crowded Italian restaurant close to the cinema we agree the film was charming even if saccharine, ‘which is exactly why I needed to watch it.’ Every now and then I need a healthy dose of comfort food.
‘My turn next though. Need to regain my masculinity,’ Jake says.
‘How’s the unpacking going?’
Jake and Lucy have recently moved home. ‘Don’t tell Lucy this, but I really miss my old flat.’ He means his old rented room crammed with his keyboard, guitar and drum kit, along with his paints, easel, takeaway cartons and stained coffee mugs. Jake plays in a band with friends from university, and he and his flatmates used to have rehearsals that caused ripples of complaints within the building. When I’d visited his bachelor pad, squalid as it was, there was something deeply appealing about it, too. It felt like the student days I’d missed out on, which is why I’d desperately wanted to try moving out of Mum and Dad’s again. ‘Lucy’s been ordering paint and fabric samples, it feels far too grown up. Looking forward to Christmas?’
Each year Mum makes Dad and Jake heave the biggest fir tree you can imagine up our front steps and into the house. Our home drips with accessories and twinkling fairy lights. ‘It won’t be the same when you’re with the in-laws next year,’ I confess, already dreading his absence, just as I used to dread the days before he returned to boarding school.
‘You’ll be all right,’ he says, as if he’s already thought about it too, how life will inevitably change when he marries. He will belong to two families. Ours is like this wonderful quartet; each one of us plays a role. Who will play carols on the piano instead of Jake? Who will I beat at Scrabble? I wonder if Jake ever thinks what life will be like when I’m gone. Who will sit in my chair around the kitchen table?
But I’m not going. I shift in my seat. I have so much left to do. Peter Harris needs to respond to my reply to his ad. I have an album to record and a BRIT award to mount on my mantelpiece. I want to fall in love again . . . with Tom . . . and . . .
As the waiter clears our plates, ‘I want to be a singer,’ I say at last to Jake. I had intended to wait until I’d heard from Peter, but I’m unable to hold it in any longer.
He almost spits out his coffee. ‘What?’
‘A singer.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve answered this ad.’ I tell him about Peter Harris.
‘I know that name. Didn’t he manage that band . . .?’
I nod. ‘He’s looking to recruit new artists. He manages and produces. I want to be signed by a record company.’
Jake is quiet. ‘You think I’m copying you, don’t you?’ I say.
‘No!’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Yes. No.’ He frowns. ‘Sort of. No, I don’t know, Alice . . . why now?’
‘I’ve always loved it, just as much as you, but I never thought it was a serious option.’ I tell him about Professor Taylor’s support. ‘I’m lucky enough to be in a position where I can give this a go.’ What I mean by lucky is I don’t have to pay rent and bills, or a hefty mortgage like Jake and Lucy. So while I’m not earning, I have income, money I’ve saved from my modelling career; and Mum’s mother, the musical Granny, left both Jake and me some money in her will, which I’ve invested carefully. ‘Modelling was never really me. This feels right.’
Jake remains quiet. Maybe he’s worried how disappointed I might be if nothing comes of it. He doesn’t want me to build up my hopes, only for them to come crashing back down . . .
‘I can’t train for years to be a lawyer or an architect—’
‘Alice, don’t.’ He stares ahead, knowing what I’m saying.
‘This could be my last chance to do something with my life. I don’t want to copy you, t
hat’s the last thing—’
Jake cuts me off. ‘I was being stupid, OK. If I’m honest I felt, I don’t know . . . I guess I’ve always fancied myself as the rock ’n’ roll dude in the family,’ he confesses with a wry smile. ‘I’m lucky, so lucky to have Lucy and to be making a living with my art and—’
‘You’re not lucky. You made it happen.’
‘I think Dad would have loved me to be more sporty and macho. I remember him buying me a cricket bat and then expressing disappointment that I hadn’t taken it up to bed with me.’
‘Dad’s proud of you. So am I. In years to come people are going to say, “you know that Jake geezer, I bought a painting from him for a couple of hundred, now it’s worth thousands!” ’
‘Don’t be stupid.’ He blushes. ‘Don’t you mean millions?’
We laugh. ‘You took a leap of faith and it’s time I did the same,’ I say.
‘I had no idea you felt so strongly about this.’
‘I do, but I need you to believe in me.’
‘I believe in you more than I believe in anyone. If I’d gone through half the stuff you’ve had to endure, I’d be on the scrapheap.’
‘No you wouldn’t.’
‘I’m scared of wasp stings, getting into cold water, needles.’ He laughs, as if remembering something. ‘The only scary thing I’ve ever had to do was play the Chariots of Fire theme tune on the piano in front of my entire school. I’m not brave. I used to have nightmares that the headmaster would call me into his office with news from home, news about you.’
Jake went to boarding school when he was eight, partly because Mum needed more space and time to look after me, but mainly because she thought he’d thrive in a new setting. I realise now it must have been hard for Jake moving between such different worlds. Both Mum and Dad wrote to him regularly but Jake was perceptive enough to read between the lines when he knew things were far from well. When I was about to turn ten, Mum took me on a weekend trip to Norfolk. On the Saturday morning I’d rushed into my parents’ bedroom with terrible stomach pain and before we knew it we were travelling in an ambulance at breakneck speed back to London. I’d had a violent stomach bleed. The nurses said they’d never seen anything like it. Mum was convinced that they were going to lose me so they had to write to Jake, warning him as gently as they could that I hadn’t been well. ‘I still remember Dad’s semi colon in that letter,’ he reflects. ‘He was trying so hard not to make it sound frightening for me but the truth is I’ve always been terrified of losing you. Still am.’
A Song for Tomorrow Page 6
