The Choir on Hope Street

by Annie Lyons

  Besides, I know people value me because I get things done. I’m on first-name terms with Julie in the school office and Mr Metcalfe, the Head, publicly thanked me after the summer fair last year. That’s the thing, you’re either a doer or a moaner. I never moan, I learnt that from my dad. He grabbed life by the throat and got on with it, even when he was ill.

  ‘I’ll go down fighting, Caroline,’ he’d told me right at the end when he was in that awful place. I’ve never forgiven my mother for letting him die in there, surrounded by strangers. I insisted on staying by his side. I even slept on the floor one night whilst my mother went home to her comfortable bed. Dad had told me not to judge her, that it was hard for her, but I didn’t see it.

  My mother and I never talked about it, not even after he died. In fact, we hardly saw each other for a while. It was better that way. My grief was very different to her grief. Sometimes, I wonder if she felt anything at all – I certainly never saw her cry. It might have been different if I’d had a sibling to talk to but it was just her and me. We didn’t have anything to say. I did try on a couple of occasions but she would always change the subject. It was as if Dad hadn’t existed somehow, as if he were gone and that was that.

  I took out a folder and handed copies of the agenda I had typed earlier to Phil, Head of Matilda’s school, who was sitting to my left. ‘Please take one and pass them on,’ I beamed. I was pleased with the turn-out. There were six of us and I had received several e-mails offering additional support too. ‘So, shall we go round the group and introduce ourselves?’ There were nervous murmurs of agreement so I decided to take the initiative. ‘I’m Caroline Taylor. I’m chair of the PTA at Felmingham Primary.’ I shot a smile at Phil, who nodded in reply. ‘And I’ve started this campaign because I think we all feel that Hope Street hall is an important part of our community.’

  ‘Yeah, and we don’t want the bloody Tories selling it off to some property developers to build posh houses that no-one can afford!’ cried a large bald man, who I recognised as our postman. I shot him a look. I noticed that he was still wearing shorts. ‘Sorry, Caroline,’ he added. ‘Didn’t mean to jump in.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. We were going to go round the room one at a time but I’m glad you feel so strongly. Please, go on.’

  He smiled at the group. He reminded me of a bear – he had a huge chest and a broad smiling face. ‘I’m Jim the postie – you all know me. I live on the next street over in my parents’ old house. I’ve lived here all my life and I can remember us celebrating the Silver Jubilee in that hall. My old mum used to tell me about the dances they had there during the war to keep up morale.’

  I nodded my encouragement, already thinking about the flyers I could ask him to deliver on his rounds. ‘So the hall has history. Phil, do you want to go next?’

  Phil had been sitting back in his chair but he sat bolt upright as I spoke. He had swapped his sharp headmaster’s suit for a casual-smart jumper and jeans. I appreciated Phil’s style. He was well dressed and always professional. I think that’s why we got on so well. ‘Hi, I’m Phil, Head of Felmingham Primary. I agree with Caroline that the hall is an important part of our community. We’ve always had links to St David’s Church, which I believe has used the hall in the past. I had a word with Father George, but sadly they only rent it from the council and they don’t have the money to take it on.’

  ‘Is that what it’s all about?’ asked a woman who I didn’t know. ‘I’m Pamela Trott, by the way. I run the Brownies and help with the toddler group. It strikes me that all these councils care about these days is money. What about the people? What about the kiddies and the mums and the old folk? Where’s the sense of community?’

  There were murmurs of agreement. ‘Well, I see the community coming into my store every day,’ said a school mother, who I recognised from the shop at the end of the road. ‘I’m Doly and I run the shop with my husband Dev. We know most people on these streets and we know they don’t want the hall to close.’

  ‘But what can we do?’ asked Pamela, looking worried.

  ‘Shall we finish introducing ourselves and then have a look at the agenda?’ I said, keen to get us back on track. ‘Natalie?’ I noticed her jump as I said her name. I also noticed that she was already on her second glass of wine and had nearly finished working her way through a bowl of root-vegetable crisps. Apart from Doly, she was the only school parent present. I had hoped that my school-mother friends, Zoe and Amanda, might appear but they had sent me texts about half an hour earlier with their excuses. It was fine, I knew I could count on their support when it was needed. I gave Natalie a smile of encouragement. ‘So, Natalie is the children’s book author, Natalie Garfield,’ I said. She looked embarrassed. ‘It’s a shame Ned can’t come and save us from this,’ I joked. Natalie gave a feeble smile. I wasn’t quite sure why she’d come if she wasn’t ready to take part. I ploughed on. ‘So do you have any ideas for the campaign?’

  ‘Er, fundraising?’ offered Natalie vaguely. I could tell that she wasn’t taking this seriously.

  ‘Well, yes, that might help but I think we need to be more focussed. If we could turn to the agenda, I have drawn up what I think needs to happen. I’ve done some research and the council are asking for offers in the region of half a million for the land. They say that there’s room for three properties. I am proposing that we raise the money to buy it ourselves and run it as a local community project.’

  ‘We’re going to need to have lot of bake sales to raise that kind of cash,’ observed Natalie, who had topped up her glass and was starting to slur her words a little. I noticed Doly raise her eyebrows in agreement.

  ‘There used to be a choir,’ said Jim, his eyes sparkling at the memory. ‘They were pretty good, as I remember. My dad used to sing tenor.’

  There were murmurs of approval. ‘I remember that,’ smiled Pamela. ‘They won prizes, didn’t they?’ Jim nodded. ‘I do love a sing-song,’ she added. ‘And the hall would be a lovely place to hold it.’

  ‘The Hope Street Community Choir,’ I offered. ‘I love the sound of that.’

  ‘Sorry, Caroline,’ interjected Natalie. ‘But how is that going to save the hall?’

  I could see that Natalie was going to be a challenge. She was clearly one of those people who wore the issues from their personal life like a badge. She might as well have been wearing a T-shirt with the slogan, ‘My husband has left me and this is now your problem.’ I couldn’t comprehend this kind of attitude. Everybody has problems. You can’t foist them on all and sundry. That was plain selfish. Put up, shut up and get on with it. That was the only way.

  I gave her a business-like smile. ‘Choirs are the big thing at the moment, particularly community choirs. It will give our campaign a focal point. We can hold concerts, get the local media involved, really show the council that the hall is needed. What do we think?’

  ‘Who’s going to run it?’ asked Doly. ‘We need a choirmaster.’

  ‘I think I know just the man for the job. Excuse me for a second,’ said Phil, taking out his phone and leaving the room.

  I was excited at the thought, as if we’d hit upon a really strong idea. ‘So, can I count on everyone to join?’ I asked.

  Pamela, Doly and Jim nodded, with smiling enthusiasm.

  ‘I’ve got nothing else to do,’ sighed Natalie with a ‘woe is me’ look. She took another large gulp of wine. I made a mental note to only hand out the cheap stuff next time.

  I heard my phone buzz from the counter with a call. I picked it up and glanced at the ID, feeling irritated as I recognised the number. They were always phoning me and to be honest, it was getting a bit much. I paid them enough, I didn’t see why I should have to solve whatever problem they were having. They were the professionals and should get on with the job I’d employed them to do. I would be calling them in the morning to tell them exactly that.

  I cast the handset to one side and turned back to the room, noticing with annoyance that Matilda was out o
f her bed and standing in the middle of the kitchen, grinning at everyone.

  ‘Ahhh, bless her, what a poppet,’ gushed Pamela, reaching out to pet Matilda’s cheek.

  Matilda was in her element. ‘I just saw Mr Metcalfe,’ she observed proudly, ‘and you’re our postman and you’re Sadia’s mum,’ she said to Doly, ‘and you’re Woody’s mum,’ she added to Natalie.

  ‘Matilda, what are you doing out of bed?’ I asked, adopting a stern tone.

  Matilda frowned at me. ‘Couldn’t sleep. You’re too noisy,’ she declared. Everyone laughed and she joined in. She loved an audience. ‘When’s Daddy coming home?’

  This was a good question. I had called him earlier in the hope that he might make it home for bedtime so that I would get a moment to prepare for the meeting. I could tell he was in a bar. I heard someone order a large Sauvignon Blanc.

  ‘Sorry, darling, just had some figures to finish,’ he said.

  ‘I know you’re in the pub,’ I replied. ‘I’m not an idiot, Oliver.’

  He had tried to sweet-talk me then, he could tell I was cross. ‘I just popped in for one, my love. And anyway, I knew you had your thing so I thought it might be best if I stayed out of the way. I’ll be home soon. Love you.’

  I had hung up, swallowing down my fury. My thing? What was my thing these days? Running the PTA, ferrying Matilda to whichever social event was lined up and now this community hall campaign. I used to run a department of over one hundred people, delivering profits in excess of twelve million pounds and now, I was trying to persuade lazy mothers to bake cakes whilst negotiating with my cleaner about the removal of limescale from the shower screen. If I thought about it for too long, I would probably explode so I tried not to think about it. I got on with my life.

  ‘Daddy’s working late,’ I replied, more for the benefit of the assembled company than Matilda. ‘And you need to go back to bed, otherwise you’ll be tired in the morning.’

  Matilda scowled and folded her arms. ‘Don’t want to. I want to see Daddy first.’

  I folded my own arms in reply. She stared back at me in defiance. I get this with Matilda. She’s always been her father’s princess and milks it for all it’s worth. I can’t blame her. I used to do the same with my dad.

  I could remember snuggling on his lap, watching television while my mother was in another room. I can’t ever remember hugging my mother. I must have done but she always seemed so remote and forbidding.

  I do recall one time when a child had been unkind to me at school. I can’t remember exactly what had happened but I remember being very upset. My mother was standing in the playground waiting for me. I approached her in tears but instead of reaching out her arms and pulling me to her as I would do with Matilda now, she had waited until I was by her side and then turned away and walked towards the gate. I had been incensed by her lack of feeling and my crying grew louder. At that moment she had grabbed my arm, ushering me out of the gate, hissing under her breath, ‘Caroline! You’re making a scene. Stop it at once!’ I had stopped out of shock but it had started again when we got home, whereupon my mother had sent me to my room until dinner time. I was still upset by the time my father came home. He had appeared at the door and my tears began afresh.

  ‘Hey, hey, what’s all this then?’ he asked. I told him everything including how my mother had sent me to my room.

  He tried to make excuses for her. ‘Your mother has a lot on her plate at the moment. I’m sure she just didn’t understand.’ He comforted and consoled me and we went downstairs to eat dinner in silence, my mother’s face fixed and severe. Later that evening, I heard them arguing. I crept out of my bedroom and sat at the top of the stairs, trying to pull my nightie around my freezing legs and feet. They were in the dining room with the door closed but I could hear my father’s voice.

  ‘She’s just a child! All she wanted was some sympathy.’

  There was a pause before my mother replied. ‘That’s all anyone wants, Charles.’ Then she opened the dining-room door, picked up her coat and bag and left the house. I sat a little longer, my heart beating in my ears, and then I heard my father crying. I’d never heard a grown-up cry before so it was unsettling. Part of me wanted to go downstairs and comfort him but part of me felt appalled. Parents weren’t supposed to cry. However, I was more furious with my mother. She had made my father cry and left him alone. I crept back to bed and lay awake for hours until I heard my mother return and my parents go up to bed.

  I am very aware of my relationship with Matilda when I think of my own mother and I have tried my hardest to ensure that I’m always available for her. We get along well enough, bake together, read together, all the things a parent is supposed to do with their child, but when her father comes home, it’s as if I fade from her line of vision. I tell myself that it’s because I’m the one who’s here the whole time doing the boring stuff – school runs, homework, cooking and of course dishing out discipline but still, I would like her to look at me as she looks at Oliver sometimes.

  I suppose I should just be happy that she loves her father so much. Fathers are the keepers of their daughter’s hearts and I know mine fractured when my dad died. If I’m honest, it’s never healed.

  ‘How about I tuck you in, poppet?’ asked Pamela, holding out a hand to Matilda. ‘I remember when my daughter was little and she couldn’t sleep, I’d sing her a lullaby. Would you like me to do that?’

  Matilda looked up at her and nodded shyly. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘If you’re sure, but no more nonsense, young lady.’

  Matilda pursed her lips. ‘Why don’t you give Mummy a kiss before you go up?’ suggested Pamela.

  I held my breath and felt my heart sink as Matilda turned on her heels and headed for the stairs. ‘I’ve already kissed her goodnight,’ she replied without looking back.

  I glanced at the other mothers in the room. ‘Children, eh?’ I cried, laughing off my hurt and embarrassment. My phone rang again. It was the same number as before. I seized the handset and turned it off just as I heard the doorbell ring. ‘Please, help yourself to more nibbles and wine,’ I said to everyone before heading down the hall.

  I opened the door and was surprised to find a man of around thirty, clean-shaven and smartly dressed, smiling at me. He seemed familiar somehow.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I hear you’re in need of a choirmaster. I’m Guy Henderson. I’m the new music teacher at Felmingham Primary. Phil just called me.’

  ‘Goodness!’ I exclaimed. ‘That was quick. Come in.’ I led him down the hall to the kitchen. He nodded to the group and smiled at Phil as he entered the room.

  ‘Everyone,’ I said. ‘This is Guy Henderson and he’s the new choirmaster of Hope Street Community Choir.’ There was a small cheer.

  I noticed Natalie nudge Doly and whisper, ‘I’m definitely going to choir now.’

  ‘Lovely to meet you all. I’ve only just moved back to the area but I’d be delighted to help your cause. I’ve always wanted to set up a community choir,’ said Guy, smiling.

  ‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘That’s wonderful – thank you. Why don’t we hold our first rehearsal next Thursday – Pamela, would you be able to book the hall please? It seems like a fitting venue.’

  Pamela nodded. ‘Course, ducks – can’t wait to get singing!’

  ‘Fantastic – thanks so much. May I suggest that we all try to get as many people as possible to sign up?’ Everyone murmured agreement. I reached for my glass. ‘I would like to propose a toast. To the Hope Street Community Choir!’

  ‘The Hope Street Community Choir!’ we chorused.

  ‘I’ll drink to that!’ cried Natalie, raising her glass with some gusto and almost falling onto Guy. ‘Oops, sorry,’ she said, giggling. ‘Maybe I should have a glass of water.’

  Or maybe you should lay off the free booze, I thought as I followed her over to the sink. ‘Let me get that for you,’ I insisted, fetching one of Matilda’s plastic beakers from the cupboard and filling it with water
. I was not about to risk my Dartington Highballs. They were a wedding present.

  Natalie accepted the cup with a lop-sided grin. ‘I bet you think I’m a complete mess, don’t you?’

  Not far off. I pursed my lips into a thin smile, thinking it might be best if I didn’t answer.

  ‘Well, you would be right, Caroline,’ she slurred, gesturing towards me with her cup and slopping water onto the floor in the process. ‘Whoops. Sorreee,’ she cried.

  Unbelievable. It was like having another child in the house. ‘It’s fine. I’ll get it,’ I said, reaching for the kitchen towel.

  ‘No, no, no, let me,’ she offered, lurching forwards and wresting it from my grasp. ‘My mess. I’ll clear it up.’ She knelt down and made a half-hearted attempt to wipe up the spillage. She remained kneeling on the floor for a moment, gazing up at me like a child hoping for a biscuit. ‘So anyway, guess what I did last week. Go on, have a guess.’

  ‘Erm, you wrote another book?’ I offered, glancing around the room in embarrassment, willing her to stand up.

  ‘Haha! Very good. No. Last week, I thought my estranged husband was dying.’

  I stared down at her. ‘Oh, my goodness. How terrible.’

  Natalie gave a drunken nod. ‘Yes. Very terrible. And so I followed him to hospital, to offer my support and be there ’til death us do part and all that.’

  ‘Well, that was very good of you.’ I could see Phil looking over, a frown of concern on his face. I gave him a reassuring smile.

  ‘I know,’ slurred Natalie, staring down at the balled-up paper towel in her hand. ‘I am basically a saint. So I turn up at the hospital ready to do my weeping wifey bit and guess what he was there for?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Natalie held my gaze as she delivered the punchline. ‘A hernia.’

  ‘A hernia?’

  She nodded gravely before her face dissolved into hysterical laughter. ‘A bloody hernia! I thought he was dying and he’s just got a hernia.’ She hugged herself, rocking back and forth as she laughed. Pamela and Jim smiled over at us, wanting to share the joke. I felt a rising sense of panic. I have to get this crumbling wreck of a woman on her feet and out of my house. Fast.