A Song for Tomorrow

by Alice Peterson

  I cheer when she adds ‘I’m no longer Milly the nun!’

  We laugh, knowing Susie would be saying ‘Hilarious’ to that too. But we also know she’d be so happy for Milly. Milly and I have spent hours talking on the phone about this man she’s met through her new job.

  ‘We’ve only been on about five dates, so it’s not exactly time to buy a hat yet, but I really like him,’ she tells Susie. ‘He’s a teacher.’

  I go on to tell her that Pete is engaged and is going to be a father. ‘He’s terrified, but what a lucky child.’ I stop. Breathe. ‘I’ve written two new songs. One’s called “Waiting”. You can guess what that’s all about. The other’s called “Everywhere”. It’s about you, Susie, how you’re always with us,’ I say, singing my song to her.

  75

  ‘Guess who was playing on the radio on my way over to you,’ Rita says during physio. She visits regularly now, as a support to all of us. We call her Saint Rita.

  ‘Harder,’ I insist, leaning forward on my bed, as she hits my back.

  ‘Why do you watch this silly programme?’

  She’s referring to Dawson’s Creek.

  ‘Seems to me like a bunch of pathetic teenagers,’ Rita continues, ‘with nothing better to do than moan about how beautiful they are and that no one understands them.’ Whack. ‘They wouldn’t know a real problem if it hit them in the face.’ Whack! ‘All this romance stuff, it’s not real. Life is hard. Marriage, relationships, they’re tough.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, but this is escapism, Rita. Do you think you’ll ever marry again?’

  ‘Once bitten, twice shy,’ she says, now rearranging the cushions and pillows on my bed. ‘I love my job, Alice. Who needs a man? Besides, I can’t imagine doing the dating scene.’

  I laugh.

  ‘Now now, madam. I used to be thin once. After my divorce I lost a lot of weight. Every cloud has a silver lining. I was quite nice looking, actually.’

  ‘You still are.’

  ‘If you say so.’ She shrugs. ‘Could do without the bingo wings.’

  ‘You could tone up at the gym?’

  ‘If God had wanted us to be stick insects, he wouldn’t have invented doughnuts.’

  ‘But he invented running machines and celery.’

  ‘Pah! So which admirer is visiting you today? Pete? Tom? Milly? Cat?’

  Rita is in awe of the string of friends who come to the house during the week. I don’t leave my bedroom much these days, apart from my weekend trips with Tom in the wheelchair to the cinema or our local Italian. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m relieved to be here. At home I have everything I need. I can watch MTV or episode after episode of 24. I can spend all day talking on the phone. The truth is I no longer have the energy to trek anywhere.

  I tell Rita Vanessa is coming over to help me prepare for my interview on TV tomorrow.

  Cat is coming over later, too, after work. She is impossibly happy with Mark. I think he is ‘the one’. And hopefully Tom will be with me tonight, that’s if he can leave the office in good time. ‘He’s so frustrating sometimes,’ I say to Rita, who is now tidying up my room.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘By the time he gets here, it’s so late I’m usually asleep.’

  ‘The poor man is trying to make a living, Alice. Give him a break.’

  Rita sounds like Cat.

  She picks up one of my shirts. ‘Dirty or clean?’

  ‘Clean.’

  ‘Well why’s it on the floor, then?’

  ‘It went for a walkies.’

  She laughs. ‘You get away with murder, young woman.’

  When she turns her back, I pull a face at her.

  ‘I saw that, Alice.’

  ‘How? You don’t have eyes in the back of your head.’

  It’s a strange thing, CF. It has made me wise beyond my years; there’s a part of me that had to age too quickly, to fend off the Daisy Sullivan types at school and survive every day living with an incurable condition. But at the same time here I am, at home, aged thirty, Rita telling me to tidy my bedroom. Maybe there will always be a part of me that remains young at heart. I pick up my guitar. ‘There’s no one sweeter, sweeter than Rita,’ I sing. ‘And there’s no freak neater, neater than Rita . . . she’s only happy when she’s dusting . . .’

  ‘Oh, stop it!’ Rita giggles back.

  I glance at my bleeper on the bedside table. ‘You know, I dream, Rita, that if I had the transplant, I’d dance all night, go to the gym . . . sing and lie down on my bed without feeling breathless . . . without coughing.’

  ‘Hold on to that,’ she says, turning to me. ‘We all need dreams to stay alive.’

  ‘You’re late,’ I murmur when I feel Tom’s arms wrap around me.

  ‘Sorry, work was mad today and then I took a shower at home.’

  ‘You could have had a shower here.’

  ‘I prefer my soap. Sorry, did I wake you?’

  He didn’t. I’ve been restless, waiting to hear the key in the lock. I don’t sleep well without Tom by my side. I turn on the light before switching off the monitor alarm on my bedside table. ‘Alice,’ he says in a warning tone. ‘We can’t.’

  I trace a finger down his arm. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because . . .’

  ‘Shush.’

  ‘But what if . . .’

  It’s a weak ‘but what if’.

  I know what he’d been about to say. ‘It wouldn’t be a bad way to kick the bucket, would it?’

  ‘Alice, don’t joke like that.’

  ‘You need to relax,’ I say, his body awakening at my touch, ‘and you know what helps me relax . . .’

  I want and need Tom more than when we first met. I never tire of his lips, his touch, humour and strength, his strength so different to mine. A strength that helps me prepare for what lies ahead. Gently he raises my arms and slips off my top. He knows every single mark and scar on my body and loves me all the same. He knows my darkest secrets. I know every single part of him too; between us nothing has been left undiscovered. ‘Are you sure?’ he whispers, before we kiss again, his mind made up.

  I feel Tom squeezing my foot gently. ‘Morning, funny feet.’

  I groan. It can’t be daylight yet, can it?

  ‘Good luck with the interview. I’ll be tuning in.’ He kisses me on the cheek before I hear his keys in the lock. ‘See you later,’ he calls. ‘I’ll take you out for dinner to celebrate.’ When the door shuts I drift back to sleep.

  Later that morning slowly I make my way to the bathroom, telling myself I can get through today. Breathe in. Breathe out. Adrenalin, extra drugs and my oxygen machine will keep me going. Think what this exposure on television will do for my career. The taxi is picking me up and dropping me right at the door. Trisha is going to be with me for support. I can do this.

  I open my wardrobe. Lodged at the bottom, behind pairs of shoes and trainers is the bag we took to Harefield that fateful night. To think how often I’ve stared at it since, willing the hospital to ring again, praying for my bleeper to alert me to news, and this time for it not to be a false alarm. It still could go off any minute. Oh, Alice, you’re not fooling anyone. I couldn’t survive the surgery now, could I? But they haven’t taken me off the list either. ‘Where’s there’s life, there’s hope . . .’ Professor Taylor’s voice still says inside my head. But I have to put his voice to the back of my mind. All I can think about right now is my outfit, breakfast and doing my treatments. I take out a pair of jeans that I’m going to wear with a navy jacket and ankle boots. The studio will do my hair and makeup. I go over the questions in my head again, the things the panel might ask me.

  ‘You have always been determined, where does this drive come from?’

  And I’ll go, ‘Time drives me on. I don’t have the luxury to say, “some day I want to be . . .” or “maybe one day I’ll give it a go”.’ Or I could say, ‘I’ve had a lot of personal trauma, as have a lot of other singers or writers, but I don’t want that
to define me. If you’re unwell, people want to pat you on the head and say, “There there, poor you”, or “such a pity!” But I am not a poor thing. I am living my dream . . .’

  Living my dream? Is that a cliché?

  Who cares, it’s true.

  Then they’ll say something like, ‘You were a model first, weren’t you? What took you so long to become a singer?’

  Fear.

  Doubt.

  Cystic fibrosis.

  Voices from my past . . .

  I realise now that nothing is impossible if you want it enough.

  ‘And what advice would you give anyone out there with CF? Or to anyone for that matter?’

  ‘Sing, dance, love, laugh, take risks, never give up and, above all, make every second count.’

  ‘Alice! Breakfast!’ Mum calls, interrupting my thoughts as she comes downstairs with a tray of black coffee and plain yoghurt. ‘Thanks, Mum,’ I say. I lay my clothes out on my bedside chair, ready to get dressed later. ‘What’s going on upstairs?’ I ask her, lying back down on my bed and taking the tray from her. ‘What’s with all the noise?’

  ‘We’re having work done in Dad’s study. He’s dealing with the builders.’

  Dad has taken a rare day off. Mum opens my curtains. She’s wearing a pretty cream tunic jumper with jeans. It’s a beautiful spring morning, sunlight streaming through the windows. ‘How are you feeling?’ she asks.

  ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘I love this time of year. Aren’t the daffodils looking pretty?’

  ‘Um.’ I take a sip of coffee.

  ‘Ready for the interview?’

  ‘Yeah. Excited.’

  ‘Mary!’ Dad shouts. ‘We need you.’

  ‘Coming . . . Shall I wash your hair later?’ Mum adjusts the pillows behind me.

  ‘That would be great. Thanks.’

  ‘Call me when you’re ready.’ Mum heads back upstairs. I turn on the television, take another sip of coffee before dipping my teaspoon into my yoghurt. What shall I wear for Rose’s christening? Maybe Tom and I can go shopping. I might treat myself to a new handbag. I pick up the remote, change channels . . .

  I feel something in my chest.

  That numbness in my face . . .

  In my arm . . .

  I swallow, trying to control the blood.

  Please go away.

  Not before my big day.

  I must sing my song . . .

  I see blood across my duvet.

  Stop.

  Please stop.

  But I can’t control it.

  I scream.

  Hear noise coming from upstairs.

  See more blood.

  I’m scared.

  Can’t breathe.

  I see my mother.

  She’s close to me.

  I can smell her fig scent.

  ‘Call the ambulance, Nicholas!’ she yells. ‘Call Jake! Tell him to call Tom!’

  I arch my back. I’m stiff. ‘I’m . . . Mum . . .’ I can’t get any more words out, except . . . ‘Mum . . .’

  Someone is rushing downstairs. It’s Dad. I know the sound of his footsteps. ‘They’re on their way,’ he says. ‘They’re coming.’ I see the anguish and pain in his eyes. I want to tell him how much I love him, what a wonderful father he has been, even if he has terrible taste in music. I want to thank Mum for keeping me safe, for not once making me feel like a burden but for looking after me so beautifully. I also want to thank them both for giving me the freedom to take risks. They have never held me back from following a career in music. They haven’t wrapped me up in cotton wool. They have let me live my life to the full. I want to tell them it’s going to be fine . . .

  But I can’t.

  More blood.

  ‘How long, Nicholas? Why aren’t they here!’

  ‘Any second now,’ Dad promises her, ‘and Jake’s on his way.’

  With what little strength I have left, I squeeze Mum’s hand. I want to tell them I love them with all my heart and soul, that nothing would have been possible without their support. But I can’t find any words. I fight for breath. Help me. Please help me. I don’t want to die. Not before I see Jake and Tom . . . Cat . . .

  Not before I’ve told them . . .

  But then peace overtakes my panic.

  A sense of calm washes over me.

  They already know. I have loved them since the day Mum brought me home from the hospital and Dad sang his made-up songs to me during physio. I picture myself as a child clinging on to Jake’s back in the sea and our furious games of Scrabble by the fire. I see baby Rose and hope maybe she’ll be an artist like her parents. Perhaps one day Lucy and Jake will have another baby, a boy next time, a brother that Rose can adore, just as I have loved my own. I want Lucy to look after my sheepskin coat. I see Cat and me as five-year-olds, running naked through the sprinkler in her garden. I hear her standing up for me in front of Daisy Sullivan and laughing at my ET impression. Tom and I are flying in Paddington. I’m not scared as we ascend the sky. I see his handsome face that very first time he was brave enough to visit me in hospital. His tears when he’d listened to ‘Inside of You’. How I have loved Tom. How I have loved them all, every single step of the way, and they have loved me.

  How lucky I have been.

  I have no regrets.

  I see a flash of uniforms.

  They gather around my bed.

  Mum keeps hold of my hand.

  Please wear my necklace engraved with my name. Play my songs in the kitchen and dance with Dad. When you hear my voice singing, know that I live on. I am always here.

  With you . . .

  And Dad. And Tom. Jake . . .

  My hand is slipping.

  I close my eyes.

  I am a child again. Six years old.

  I am with Jake.

  We are holding hands, frightened by the large clawed feet we have just seen in our bathroom. We tiptoe behind Mum, barefoot and dressed in her long floating nightgown. Bravely she lifts the owl into her arms, holds it gently in a towel.

  Jake and I follow her out on to the balcony and watch, in awe, as Mum releases the bird.

  It is the most magnificent thing I have ever seen.

  I am not scared anymore.

  I am free.

  I watch as this beautiful wild creature soars away, down the valley and into the dawn light.

  Alice’s Story by Alice Peterson

  In 2002, I read an article about Alice Martineau, a singer looking for a record deal, but a singer with a difference. She had cystic fibrosis (CF) and was on a triple transplant list. As I was reading her story I found I could relate to it on many different levels. At eighteen, my own professional tennis career was cut short when I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis (RA), an autoimmune condition for which there is no cure. Overnight the carefree life I once knew was exchanged for a life of uncertainty, pain and fear for my future. Alice Martineau was born with CF, so her outlook and experiences will have been very different to mine, but essentially I felt we both knew the courage and sheer grit it takes to carve something meaningful out of life when faced with so many obstacles.

  Alice used to hide her CF, just as I went through a phase at university of hiding my RA. Both Alice and I wanted to appear glamorous, healthy and, above all, we wanted to be considered ‘normal’. Like Alice, I was also fiercely ambitious. Alice was determined not to be defined by her CF. She wanted to be a singer, recognised for her musical talent. I too have never wanted people to have any sympathy for me. I cannot stand people calling me ‘brave’. In Alice I recognised my own determination, defiance, a similar sense of humour along with a canny knack of making others do as I wish! But we also both have huge gratitude and love for our families, understanding that without their support our lives could have been very different. My family and friends have been through some of the darkest times with me, just as Alice’s parents, Liz and David, along with her brother, Luke and her boyfriend, Alex, stood by her side to her v
ery last day.

  Alice’s story moved me in such a way that I wrote to her following the article. I was thrilled when she wrote back and we began a correspondence on email, sharing our experiences. Sadly we didn’t meet, since she was on the verge of launching her music career and was also spending large chunks of time in hospital. When her album, Daydreams, was released later that year, I bought it immediately and fell in love with her haunting voice and the emotion in her lyrics. I felt so happy that her dream of getting a recording deal had come true. I felt no one deserved success more.

  Thirteen years on, I was walking my dog, Darcy, in the park, wondering what to write about next. I had just completed my last novel and was excited to have a new agent, Diana Beaumont, at United Talent. We’d been discussing ideas for the next novel, but nothing felt right. I wanted to write something I was passionate about, a subject that challenged my writing and me. I like my characters to go to that dark place where they fight adversity. Nothing was coming to mind. Suddenly, I remembered Alice. I don’t know what it was that triggered her memory but I stopped walking. I called Diana immediately, unable to draw breath, telling her I had to write about Alice. Diana and I met Jo Dickinson at Simon & Schuster and the three of us discussed the best way to approach the family along with how I might write a novel, but at the same time do justice to Alice Martineau’s legacy.

  This book is a novel in that the majority of the characters are fictional, as are many of the events that take place. I have taken the bones of Alice’s story, following her journey from wanting to be a singer to getting a record deal. In honour to Alice, I have kept her medical background and her family, along with her inspiring love story, as close to the truth as possible. We also wanted Alice’s name to be celebrated in the book, along with the titles of her songs. This was important to the family, and I believe this is how Alice would have wanted it.

  The Martineau family, along with Alice’s close friends from home and in the music industry, have been tremendously supportive with this book. I could not have written it without their generosity, courage and their trust in me to capture Alice’s spirit. Alice’s medical team and the Cystic Fibrosis Trust, a vital charity supporting those with the condition, have also helped by putting me in touch with others who live with the condition. Both have been hugely helpful in giving me an in-depth idea as to what it must have been like for Alice and her family, living with CF every day and waiting on a transplant list.