by Anita Notaro
Later that night, I had the weird dream again. The one where I was standing in front of an audience in a huge stadium, the lights hot on my face. My armpits were clammy and my stomach had tightened into a knot. This time I opened my mouth and nothing came out, not one single note. Booing began, and a slow handclap, and I wanted to turn and run. But I didn’t. Instead I looked out at the front row, to see my mother there, a huge smile on her face. She waved at me and blew a kiss, and her lips formed the words, ‘My little nightingale.’ And then I opened my mouth and sang, and as I did, I had the strangest feeling, a tingling sensation from my head to my toes. I can sing, I thought, as the notes poured out. I can really sing.
7
THE INVITATION WAS still there the next morning. Right where I’d left it. I tried not to look at it as I ate my morning porridge and listened to the news. I glanced at the clock above the cooker. Only 7 a.m. I could hardly ring them now, could I? So I decided to put it off for a bit. I’ll go for a walk, I thought. I used to love walking. It was something Dad and I had done every Sunday after Mass, while Mum had cooked a huge roast: long walks over the Wicklow hills, stopping in the Hilltop Inn for what Dad would call ‘a medicinal beverage’, winking at me as he ordered a hot whiskey for himself and a Coke for me. The thought of it now made me smile.
I hadn’t really walked much at all since Mum’s stroke, I thought, as I went to the cupboard under the stairs in the hall and poked about until I found what I was looking for: a pair of battered brown walking shoes. They were Dad’s, but they fitted me perfectly – I remember he’d often used to tease me about my big feet. I laced them up carefully underneath my old tracksuit bottoms, and pulled on an ancient green windcheater – also Dad’s. I look a fright, I decided, catching a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror, my hair sticking up at the back of my head and my face still blotchy from all the crying I’d done the night before. Oh, well, no one will see me at this hour anyway, I thought, letting myself out of the front door on to the street, which was eerily quiet.
I wasn’t sure where to go for a moment, but then I remembered that Dad and I used to love the walk along the river, the one which ended near the valley. That’s what I’d do, I thought, striding purposefully down the road until I reached the bridge, where I turned left and took the path along the river. It wasn’t a long walk, just a couple of miles – ideal for a rusty walker, like me, who hadn’t pulled on a pair of hiking boots in five years. The path was thick with damp, rust-coloured leaves and there was a smell of autumn damp, and as I walked I began to feel myself relax a bit, the tension leaving my shoulders as I inhaled the soft air. I didn’t think about anything for a bit, just allowed my mind to empty as I walked steadily along the bank, humming to myself. After about half an hour, I came to a small waterfall and sat down to watch the brown river rush over the stones. Dad and I used to love standing on these stones, I thought, keeping a careful eye for the flash of a passing brown trout. I waited there on one of the rocks, still singing under my breath. And then the sun broke through the clouds and I tilted my face up to feel its warmth, the notes coming louder now, until I realized I was singing out loud, alone in the middle of the woods. I must be completely mad, I told myself, resisting the sudden urge to giggle.
‘You’re in fine voice, Antonia!’ The voice was so sudden behind me that I jumped and let out a little scream, putting my hand to my throat in fright.
‘Oh, I’m sorry …’ the speaker began, and I turned around to see Sally O’Rourke standing behind me, her large lab, Lola, sitting obediently beside her. Sally was the wife of Gerry O’Rourke, the local garda, and a lovely woman not much older than me. She was in the choir, too, and had a sweet voice.
‘God, Sally, you gave me such a fright,’ I gasped. ‘I’m sorry, here I was, just warbling away to myself—’
‘It sounded beautiful, of course.’ She grinned, then her face became more solemn, assuming that look of concern that everyone had around me these days. ‘How are things?’ I knew that she meant well, but I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand it: the sympathetic looks, everybody’s kindness. I felt I just didn’t deserve it.
‘I’m fine, Sally. You look great.’ I nodded at her jeans, her silky jersey top and sheepskin gilet. Even the wellies she was wearing were stylish – bottle green with tiny yellow flowers on them. Her hair was long and golden and beautifully highlighted. I thought of my horrible tracksuit bottoms and blushed to the roots of my hair.
‘Ah, sure.’ She shrugged her shoulders as if it were the most natural thing in the world, to go around the place looking a million dollars.
‘How are the kids?’ I asked politely, rubbing Lola’s head as she came close to me, nuzzling my hand and licking it gently. Gerry and Sally had two young boys, bundles of energy who fidgeted and giggled throughout Sunday Mass.
‘Oh, they have my heart broken, but they’re just wonderful, of course.’ Her eyes lit up at the mention of them, and I wondered what it would be like to be a mother. It seemed such a ridiculous thought, somehow, as I’d barely kissed a man, not to mind doing anything else. What kind of mother would I be? Like Mum or like the woman who’d given me away?
We were silent for a few moments, small talk exhausted, until Sally said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to your practice.’
‘Thanks.’ I smiled. ‘It was good to see you.’
‘Good to see you, too,’ she said politely. ‘Come on, Lola. The boys will be driving Dad mad and I still have to buy the papers.’ She turned to go back up the path towards the village, but then turned and said, ‘I just remembered, my brother-in-law’s been trying to contact you. You know, Niall?’
I shook my head, puzzled. I didn’t know any Niall.
‘Niall, Gerry’s brother?’ she said hopefully, as if this would jog my memory.
‘Sorry, Sally, I don’t know any Niall. I can’t remember ever meeting anyone of that name.’
‘He’s a doctor at University Hospital,’ she said to me gently. ‘I believe he treated your mum before … well …’ her voice trailed off.
Of course. Dr O’Rourke. How had I not guessed? Why on earth was everyone in this place related to everyone else? And of course, his full name had been on his tag. ‘Niall … I didn’t … I forgot that was his first name.’ I stiffened as she continued to look at me earnestly.
‘Antonia … he wanted me to give you a message. Something about your mother’s wedding ring?’
I thought of the ring, at home in my jewellery box. ‘I don’t understand. I have it at home …’
‘He said that you should ring him. He said you’d understand.’
‘Oh, well, sure, Sally. I’ll do that, thanks,’ I said. ‘And now, breakfast calls.’
I pulled myself up from my perch on the large rock on the edge of the river, brushing my horrible tracksuit bottoms down and wishing, for the millionth time, that I’d thought to get dressed properly that morning, but Sally interrupted me. ‘He told me to give you his mobile … hang on …’ she said as she rummaged in her gilet for her phone. Here it is … O’Rourke, Niall – in case I forget which one I’m married to.’ She smiled, and I smiled back in spite of myself. ‘087 … do you want to write it down or something?’
‘I don’t have a pen …’ was my lame excuse.
‘Hang on.’ She rummaged further in her gilet, pulling out a pile of receipts, a bit of Lego and a small pencil. ‘The boys are always dumping their stuff on me.’ She grinned. ‘Now, all I need is a clean bit of paper …’ she muttered to herself.
I stood there on the path, my thick hair greasy around my shoulders, my eyes caked with sleep. I could hardly run off now, could I? She’d think that was just too weird for words. So instead I just waited, feeling foolish, while she tore off the remains of a Lotto ticket. ‘Hope these aren’t my winning numbers,’ she joked, as she consulted her phone, then carefully wrote down the number. ‘Here you are.’
‘Thanks, Sally. I’ll give him a call,’ I lied. ‘It was great to see you.’
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‘Will you be back at choir practice next Friday night? Everyone really misses you, Antonia. And no one can sing in tune without you.’ She laughed.
‘Sure. Of course I will, Sally. Wouldn’t miss it.’
Of course I didn’t ring Niall. Because I suppose I was too angry with him for pointing out my shortcomings, and because I knew that he was right. But I did do one thing. I picked up the phone and dialled the number in the Celtic TV letter. I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was that dream, or even meeting Sally, but somehow I knew that Mum was up there, looking out for me. And that this was something she’d want. If I couldn’t do it for myself, I’d do it for her.
‘We loved your demo, Toni, so I’m really looking forward to meeting you,’ the girl at the other end, who’d introduced herself as ‘Karen, the PA’, gushed.
‘You did? That’s great. I’m really pleased.’ And then I couldn’t think of another thing to say. ‘Thank you for inviting me to the audition,’ I burst out. ‘My Mum died and … well, this could be just what I need right now.’
‘Oh,’ Karen sounded immediately sympathetic. ‘I am so sorry. Are you OK? It’s not too soon?’ she wanted to know.
What on earth did I say that for? I thought, as I added, ‘No, no it’s fine. In fact, it helps, if that doesn’t sound too odd. It just … well, it helps me, to focus on something else,’ I told her.
‘Of course, I understand.’
‘Ehrm, do you mind if I ask about what to sing at the audition? I have some ideas, but I’d really like to know what it is you’re looking for …’
‘Well, your demo was a classic, and it sounded just beautiful, so you could try something like that again – you’d stand out because we have a lot of pop chart stuff. I’m trying to showcase other types of music, as our audience will be very broad.’
‘Well, my favourite song is “Bridge Over Troubled Water”. Is that too old-fashioned?’ I’d no idea where that had come from, it just seemed to pop into my head. I hadn’t heard it for years. It was one of Dad’s favourites – that and ‘The Boxer’. I remember that it was his party piece.
‘Actually, that sounds perfect, Toni. Shall we pencil that in for you? And if you change your mind you can call me any time.’ Karen sounded so enthusiastic that I resisted the urge to tell her that my name was Antonia. Nobody called me Toni.
‘OK. But I haven’t sung it in ages, so I’ll need to practise …’
‘Oh, of course,’ Karen said warmly. ‘Don’t worry, the auditions are very … informal, just the production team, really. We pre-select for the judges, and you’ll only meet them if you get to the heats. And then, we start rehearsing with the band, et cetera, and you meet the musical director and so on.’
I swallowed. ‘Rehearsing?’ ‘Band?’ What on earth had I let myself in for? ‘Perfect, thanks.’ I managed to sound breezy, confident.
‘Well, brilliant, then, fabulous,’ Karen gushed. ‘Can’t wait to meet you, Toni!’
When I got off the phone, I was drenched in sweat, and my heart felt as if it was beating at a mile a minute. I had to close my eyes and count from a hundred backwards, the way Mum had always told me to do when I got into a flap, until I could feel my breathing settle and my heartbeat slow. If I was in this state after just one phone call, I’d be lucky if I managed to get to the auditions at all.
The papers lay, unread, on the kitchen table, and I picked one up and then put it down again. I didn’t feel like reading.
And then I had it. I’d ring Sister Monica. She’d know what to do. She always had done, ever since I was a little girl.
The phone rang for a while, and I could just imagine her rustling up the convent stairs in her long, old-fashioned habit. She’d never changed into the light grey dresses all the other nuns wore. ‘I’m far too set in my ways,’ she’d said. And yet she was the most modern woman I knew.
‘Antonia!’ Her voice sounded surprised, and I felt guilty for a minute. I hadn’t spoken to her since the funeral over a month ago, and I hadn’t realized just how much I missed her. Even though it was a full eighteen years since she’d waved me goodbye, standing at the front door of the convent, as I drove away with my new parents, up until recently we’d still spoken every single week.
Of course, she didn’t give out to me, not a single, ‘Where have you been?’ or ‘Why didn’t you ring me?’ Just, ‘It’s so good to hear your voice.’
‘Hi, Sister.’ I’d been hoping to sound different, normal, but instead my voice came out in a croak. Oh, no, I don’t want to sound like this, I thought. I want to sound as if I’m coping, managing just fine.
‘Oh, Antonia, what’s the matter?’ Her voice was calm and even, just as it had been when I was seven and I’d sat on her knee, telling her about my day at school. I’d always been able to tell her everything.
‘Nothing.’ I snuffled.
‘You can tell me, you know that. You can always tell Sister Monica,’ she coaxed.
‘Well … I’ve entered a talent show. At least, someone else entered me, I don’t know who. And so I rang, and the auditions are on Friday week, and I’m scared out of my mind …’ The words came out in a rush, and I felt foolish all of a sudden. ‘Sorry, I’m gabbling, it’s just …’
But Sister Monica laughed. ‘Well, isn’t that great, Antonia? Fancy having the courage to do that. Your mum would be just thrilled, I know she would. She was always saying what a wonderful singer you are. Good for you.’
‘Yes, but it wasn’t me, Sister. I didn’t do it.’ I knew I sounded pathetic, but I didn’t care right now. I was just too scared.
‘Sure, what does it matter who did it? Someone obviously thought you were good enough. And you are,’ she added firmly.
‘But I’m terrified, Sister.’ There. I’d said it out loud.
‘Of course you are, Antonia. It’s normal, but who is it that said, “Feel the fear and do it anyway?” I can’t remember. Now, let me think – was it Betty Ford? No, don’t think so. It might have been Mrs Nixon – no, she had no personality …’ As she went on, I smiled. I’d done the right thing, ringing Sister Monica. It wasn’t that she knew everything, even though she nearly did. It was just … she had this knack of always saying the right thing, somehow. The one thing that would make you feel better, or stop and think, or learn something.
Feel the fear and do it anyway. It was Susan Jeffers. I knew because after I put the phone down to Sister Monica, I googled it. And ordered the book. It looked like I might be needing it.
8
‘ANTONIA. WELCOME BACK!’ at the church door, billy pulled me to him and gave me a big hug, patting me on the back and murmuring, ‘There, there,’ until I had to disentangle myself.
‘I’m fine, Billy, thanks.’ I had to smile. ‘Really.’
‘Ah, sure, how could you be? But boy, are we glad to see you. Mrs Ferguson has my ears scalded with her warbling.’ And he grinned, squeezing my hand.
‘Thanks, Billy, I really appreciate the welcome,’ I said. ‘The last few weeks, well—’ I began, before he interrupted me.
‘They’ve been horrible, and you have no idea when the pain will end, but it will, believe me. It’ll fade, and you’ll still have the memories.’ His hands were warm around mine, and I looked up into his watery blue eyes. Of course, his wife Celia had died four years ago, and he’d told me once that he’d thought he’d die too. ‘But then I realized that I just had to keep on living.’ He smiled. ‘Because Celia would have wanted me to. And because I have such a lot to live for.’
‘Thanks, Billy. I’ll try to remember that.’
‘Good for you. Now, I need you to keep Bridget away from me. She has me driven mad altogether.’ He rolled his eyes to heaven.
‘Trying to chat you up again, is she?’ I said.
‘God Almighty, she is. She’s a nice enough woman, I suppose. Bossy, of course, but then so was Celia in her way. It’s not that, it’s just the idea of the whole thing, at my age.’ He grimaced, as if the very i
dea of Bridget liking him was too painful to contemplate.
‘It’s never too late, Billy. And, sure, you’re only a young man,’ I joked.
‘A mere sixty-one.’ He puffed out his chest in pride. ‘But enough of this nonsense. Eithne will kill us if we’re late.’ He looked up the stairs to the choir loft. ‘After you.’
‘Thanks, Billy. You’re a gentleman,’ I said. ‘I can see why Bridget likes you.’
‘Very funny, Antonia.’ He smiled, patting my shoulder. ‘Very funny indeed.’
‘Hi, everyone.’ I was shy for a moment, when I got to the top of the stairs, and just stood there, before Billy, bless him, saved the day.
‘Now, everyone, a warm welcome for Antonia. We’ll be singing in tune again before you know it.’ The laughter broke the ice, and the others came up to me and shook my hand or hugged me.
Bridget gave me an extra squeeze and whispered, ‘Save me from Mrs Ferguson, for God’s sake, Antonia.’ At which we both giggled like schoolgirls. Fortunately Mrs Ferguson was deaf, and too busy ferreting in her handbag for her reading glasses to see us. Only Eithne, the choir leader, seemed a bit, well, cool is the only word for it, merely nodding at me, ‘Antonia,’ before flicking through the pages of music on her lectern. She said briskly, ‘Right, everyone, “God is Our Saviour”. From the top.’
I was a bit hurt, to be honest, and couldn’t think for the life of me what I’d done. I made a mental note to ask her as I sung my way through Sunday’s hymns, racking my brains to work out how I could have caused her offence. She’d been training me as a singer since I’d started secondary school, giving me extra lessons on Wednesday evenings, which I hadn’t been able to make recently. Maybe that was it? I’d made sure to involve her in Mum’s funeral, as I knew it would mean a lot to her to do the hymns, and she’d been delighted, so supportive. It was funny, really, to see Eithne so frosty, because she was normally so sensible and reserved. She wasn’t given to big displays of emotion. And she’d never given me the cold shoulder before. I’ll have to ask her, I thought, in the middle of ‘The Lord is My Shepherd’, feeling my stomach tighten at the very thought. I’ve never exactly been good at that kind of thing. I’ve never really had to. God, I thought, not for the first time, I wish I wasn’t like this. I really do.
