by Jean Ure
She was such an annoying old person. One minute she’d be lecturing me and really getting on my nerves, the next she’d be saying something flattering, like how I had special qualities, so that I’d go all melty and forget how totally irritating she had just been.
As I left she said, “Maybe next time we’ll try something a bit different… a bit of real singing. But only if you promise to do your breathing exercises!”
I muttered that tomorrow was Sunday. “I won’t be around, I shouldn’t think.” I didn’t want her to start taking things for granted. “And next week… I dunno. I dunno what I’m gonna be doing next week. I mean… I might be able to get in. I dunno. I can’t say for certain, it all depends.”
She smiled when I said that. What was there to smile about? I hadn’t said anything funny. I told her that what I meant was, I couldn’t make any sort of proper appointment. I know sometimes with grown-ups, and specially old ones, they like to have everything all worked out, like when, exactly, and where, exactly, and what time, exactly. It’s no good just saying morning or afternoon, cos they get all fussed and bothered in case you might turn up when they’re eating their lunch or taking a nap.
Mrs P didn’t seem particularly fussed or bothered. She said, “That’s all right,” in soothing tones, like it was me getting fussed. “If you happen to be in the area, you know where to find me. I’ll be here all day, I’m not going anywhere.”
I asked Mum that evening if we could get some peppermint tea. She said, “Peppermint tea?” You’d have thought I’d asked for drain cleaner, or something. “What do you want peppermint tea for?”
“Just thought it would be nice.”
“Well, it wouldn’t be, it would be a sheer waste of money. You wouldn’t drink it.”
“I would drink it! It’s good for you.”
Mum said, “Oh yes? Since when have you been interested in things that are good for you?”
“I’ve tried it,” I said. “I like it!”
“Might just as well drink a mug of hot water,” said Mum. “Where did you try it?”
“At Indy’s.” I said it absolutely without hesitation. I didn’t even blush. I was becoming a hardened liar! But I didn’t want to tell Mum about Mrs P; she would only batter me with questions, like who was she, and where had I met her. It was just all too complicated.
Next day being Sunday I didn’t really have much excuse for going anywhere. I could have said I was meeting Indy, but then suppose she went and rang while I was out? She doesn’t always call me on my mobile. Mum would pick up the phone, and how embarrassing would that be? Oh, I thought you were supposed to be meeting each other?
I could say I was going to see Josh; Mum didn’t know he was in Malta. Except suppose she found out? Then what would I say?
God, this was ridiculous! It was like being in a spy movie. I guess it’s what happens when you start leading a double life.
Brightly, I told Mum that I was going to go into town and look round the shops. “I could buy some peppermint tea while I’m there. And I might go over to Indy’s.” Lies, lies, lies. “Is that OK?”
“Fine by me,” said Mum. She was having her Sunday lie-in and couldn’t have cared less. “Just make sure you’re back by tea time – and don’t expect me to drink that peppermint muck!”
There wasn’t any health-food store down at Sheepscombe but I discovered that Tesco did peppermint tea, and while I was there I got two strawberry tarts for Mrs P, as I reckoned it was the sort of thing she might like. She didn’t seem all that surprised when she opened the door and found me standing there. She said, “Well done! Just in time for lunch.” She did seem surprised when I handed her the strawberry tarts.
“For me? Well, that is a kind thought! Very much appreciated.”
She tried to get me to eat one. I was really tempted cos I adore strawberry tarts, but I know that they are probably fattening, what with the cream and the pastry, and true to her word Mum had bought a raspberry pavlova for last night’s tea. I do think you have to be a little bit disciplined. (Unless you are like Indy, who could eat raspberry pavlovas every day for an entire month and not put on any weight.) I made the excuse to Mrs P that “You can’t sing on a full stomach.”
She laughed at that and said, “A lesson well learned! I, however, can eat as much as I like. My singing days are over; yours are just beginning. Did you do your breathing exercises?”
I said that I had, and this time I wasn’t lying. I had actually done them before I got up! She was pleased about that. She said, “It shows you are serious. It’s no good having a voice if you’re not prepared to do the hard work. Let us begin!”
We started off with scales again, and then she said she wanted me to sing Auld Lang Syne “Very slowly and gently, as if it’s a love song. Hold on to those notes… don’t rush them. Slo-o-o-w, slo-o-ow… long, deep breaths… this is where your exercises will pay off.”
Well! I could hold the notes, no problem, so I still didn’t really see why I had to do her boring exercises, not that I dared say so. She had this habit, if she thought you were being stupid, of making her lips go all tight and thin, and sort of shrivelling you with her beady eyes. But I reckon she must have guessed what I was thinking cos very sharply she said, “You won’t be young for ever, you know! If you really wish to make a career as a singer you need to lay the foundations now, before your muscles get set in their ways. Unless, of course, you’re planning to retire by the time you reach thirty?”
I felt like retorting that by the time I reached thirty I’d be so old I’d be past it anyway, but I knew that would be silly, and in any case Mrs P wasn’t the sort of person you talked back to. I didn’t want her to shrivel me. I wanted her to… well! Be impressed. It somehow seemed important.
We worked for about an hour, and then she said that was enough for one day. “Now we’ll sit down and have a little chat.”
I wasn’t sure I liked the sound of that. What did we have to chat about? I perched myself gingerly on the edge of the sofa and waited for her to say something. I wasn’t going to say anything! It was up to her, not me.
“All right.” She leaned forward. “Tell me why you aren’t going in for this talent contest. What is it called? Top Pop?”
I said, “Top Spot.”
“Top Spot! Why aren’t you putting yourself in for it?”
I wriggled, uncomfortably. Of all the things I didn’t want to talk about, this was the one I most didn’t want to.
“How do your parents feel? Have you discussed it with them?”
Slowly, I shook my head.
“Why not? Aren’t they interested?”
I said, “Not specially. My nan used to be.” And then, before I knew it, I was telling her all about Nan and her great ambitions for me, and all about Mum, who just wished I would lose weight and not bring shame upon her, and all about the dad I’d never known, on account of Mum not actually being a hundred per cent sure who he was.
“She went to Spain,” I said, “and got drunk and can’t remember. It could have been a Spanish boy.” I like to think of myself being half Spanish. I do have dark hair and brown eyes, whereas Mum is quite blonde, so maybe it could be true and not just a romantic fantasy. “It’s why she called me Carmen,” I added.
“Well, Carmen is a good name. Excellent for a singer! Imagine if you were called Daphne Bloggs – or Lily Banks, if it comes to that.”
Now she was being kind, and trying to cheer me up. I’d probably got a bit self-pitying talking about Nan and Mum and my non-existent dad. I agreed that Carmen wasn’t a bad sort of name, as names go. Nowhere near as lovely as Topaze, of course, though I don’t suppose she was actually christened Topaze. On the other hand, she might have been.
Mrs P said, “Your first name’s Carmen, but what is your surname?”
When I said “Bell”, she clapped her hands.
“Carmen Bell! Wonderful! You see, you have an advantage over some people straight away. All right, then, Carmen Bell! Why are
you not entering yourself in this talent contest?”
I might have known she wouldn’t give up. I humped a shoulder and muttered, “I dunno.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? With a voice like yours? That is totally absurd! I can’t imagine you’d have much in the way of competition. Tell me at once what the problem is. Speak up! Don’t be bashful.”
I said, “I’m not bashful.”
“So what is the problem?”
“Haven’t got a problem.”
“Carmen Bell.” She sat up, very stiff and straight. “Tell me the truth!”
I couldn’t look at her. I had to whisper it to the carpet. “I’m too fat.”
“What?” She leaned forward. “You’re too what?”
I said, “Fat!”
“Too fat? Who gave you that idea? Not your mother, I hope!”
I shook my head.
“Then who?”
“Girls at school.”
“Thin girls, I make no doubt. Do they have good voices?”
“Not specially.” Marigold has a voice like a police siren. Ashlee can’t even sing in tune.
“So what does it matter what they say? Surely it’s the voice which counts? That plus the personality – of which, I may say, you have more than your fair share!”
I frowned. She didn’t know what it was like to be sneered at and made fun of.
“Come here a moment.” She stood up, and beckoned me across the room. “This is a photograph of me, at the start of my career. I wasn’t exactly what you would call pretty, was I?”
I hesitated. What did she want me to say?
“Oh, come along, Carmen Bell! Be honest! I was a very plain young girl. Very plain. And even worse as a middle-aged woman.” She moved across to another photo. “Age does not generally improve a person’s looks. Alas! I always so longed to be beautiful. Or even just moderately attractive. I remember at school one year – I must have been fifteen, sixteen – they were auditioning for the end of term show. Something by Gilbert and Sullivan. I overheard two of the girls in my year discussing who was likely to get the lead. They said, ‘Lily’s the best singer, but she is such a fright.’ And then they giggled – you know how girls giggle – and one of them said, ‘She’d be all right for a horror film!’ I was so mortified, I almost didn’t audition. But then I thought, I’m not going to let two silly girls get the better of me! So I went ahead, and I got the part, and I never looked back. I’m not saying it’s easy, but you have to have faith in yourself.”
She broke off, to study me. “You’re not convinced! What makes you think that plain Lily Banks might have been able to do it, but not Carmen Bell?”
“You sang in opera!” It burst out of me before I could stop it. “Opera’s different. Nobody cares what people in opera look like!”
“Oh, my dear, that is where you are so wrong. People always care what you look like. Always. Maybe they shouldn’t – but they do. You have to learn to make the best of yourself. Dress well, move well, speak well… me, I knew I could never be beautiful, but at least I could be smart.” She waved a hand at the photograph. “After a bit, people stopped thinking how plain I was and thought how elegant I was. Now, you—” She cupped my chin in her hand, forcing me to look up at her. “You have so much! You have a face I would have died for. Skin I would have died for. Hair I would have died for! I always had to wear a hair piece. I would have looked at you with such envy! And on top of all this, you have a voice which is pure gold. Don’t, I beg you, let any stupid girls prevent you from using it!”
I don’t know why it is, but I get the prickles all over when people pay me compliments. I just can’t take it! Anyone says anything nice to me and I go into some kind of mad, squirming overdrive. Sternly, I turned to the photograph she’d been pointing to.
“That thing round your neck,” I said. “Is it fur?”
“I’m afraid it is.” She gave a little laugh. Sort of apologetic, but not terribly. “We weren’t very enlightened in those days.”
“Go out in it now,” I said, “you’d probably get paint chucked over you.”
“Is that what you would like to do? Chuck paint over it? Well, it’s still in my wardrobe, I can fetch it for you, if you like. I don’t have any paint, but I have some red nail polish, if that would do.”
I scowled, and moved away. “’S all right.’ S not gonna save the animal, is it?”
Gravely she said, “No – but it’s not too late to save you. Please! Don’t give up so easily. Don’t let those foolish girls get the better of you.”
Nag, nag, nag! Why couldn’t she just mind her own business?
“Don’t you feel the urge to get up there and show them? Have you no fighting spirit? I’m sure, if your nan were here, she’d back me up.”
Angrily, I said, “My nan wouldn’t ever try to make me do something I didn’t want to do! She was on my side.”
“And so am I, my dear, believe it or not.”
“Well, don’t be!” I yelled. “I don’t want you on my side! Just leave me alone!”
I felt bad afterwards. But she shouldn’t have brought Nan into it! She had no right. Nan always loved me and stuck up for me. She’d have given Mrs P a right ear bashing. I could just hear her. You let that girl be! She’ll make her own mind up what she wants to do. She doesn’t need the likes of you shoving your oar in.
Oh, I did miss Nan! I missed her so much. More and more as the weeks went by. I didn’t have anyone now; I’d even managed to upset both of my two best friends. All I had left was this horrible old woman, who nagged me.
That night when I went to bed I called Indy. If she’d answered the phone, I would have apologised to her. I would have made things right between us! But nobody came; there wasn’t even any message service. Just the ringing of the phone in the empty flat. It seemed like even Indy had gone away for half term. Either that, or she was out for the day. I knew she had an auntie who lived near London, and cousins she used to play with. I pictured her there with them, laughing and happy and not ever once thinking of me, cos why should she? I’d yelled at her. Told her I wouldn’t ever speak to her again.
I just felt so alone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I didn’t go out at all either on Monday or on Tuesday, just stayed in and moped. I couldn’t settle to anything. I tried a bit of telly, but it was all so rubbish I had to switch it off. Then I tried a bit of reading, a book we’d been doing in class. I thought maybe I should catch up on what I’d missed, but then I thought what was the point? The book was dead boring anyway. Everything was boring. I couldn’t even listen to my music – she’d even gone and ruined that for me. It didn’t matter how high I turned the volume up, I still kept hearing her tinny old voice nagging at me. I began to wish I’d never met her. I wanted Josh! I wanted Indy! I wanted everything to be normal.
If things had been normal, I’d probably have been meeting Indy in the shopping centre. We’d have wandered round, looking at stuff, pointing out any boys we happened to fancy, having a bit of a giggle. Or maybe I’d have caught the bus and gone round her place and we’d have listened to CDs and played with her little brother. Nothing special. We never really did anything special; we didn’t need to. We were just happy being together.
I kept wondering whether Indy was home yet, and if so what she was doing. I tortured myself, imagining her wandering round the shopping centre with Connie instead of me. Imagining Connie going back to her place, playing with Darren. I loved that little boy! He’d once told me I was his favourite girl friend. I couldn’t bear the thought of Connie taking my place.
I knew I ought to try ringing again. It was up to me to make the first move, not Indy. I actually picked up the phone, several times, and started punching out numbers. But when it came to the point, I got, like, paralysed and couldn’t go through with it. Truth to tell, I was scared. Me and Indy had never quarrelled before, and I didn’t know how to handle the situation. Suppose I rang and she said, “I don’t want to talk to y
ou any more,” and slammed the phone down? Even just the thought of it shrivelled me.
When Mum arrived home on Tuesday she was considerably annoyed that I hadn’t done anything. Hadn’t washed up, hadn’t got dinner, hadn’t even bothered getting dressed.
“For goodness sake, Carmen! What have you been up to all day? Go and put some clothes on. You look like a slattern!”
Whatever that may be. I slouched off angrily into my bedroom and yanked on a sack-like T-shirt and a pair of baggy jeans. Mum pursed her lips, but didn’t actually say anything. Just as well, or I might have exploded. I’d been nagged quite enough by Mrs P, I didn’t need Mum having a go at me as well.
Next morning she came into my room – where I was still attempting to sleep – and said, “I don’t know why you were in such a bad temper last night, but I don’t want to come home to the same thing this evening. What are you doing all day? What have you got planned?”
I mumbled that I didn’t have anything planned. Mum said, “Why don’t you go and visit someone?”
Like who?
“There must be somebody,” said Mum. “What’s happened to all your friends?”
I snapped, “Nothing’s happened to them! They’ve gone on holiday. People do,” I said. “Normal people.”
“Don’t you get on my case,” said Mum. “What’s put you in such a foul mood? Maybe you’d better come to the salon and I’ll see if I can fit you in for a facial.”
That got me shooting up the bed. “It’s all right,” I said. “I’m going out.”
I hated visiting Mum at the salon. Everyone there was stick thin and gorgeous, and I always felt that before I arrived Mum was probably apologising in advance for having a daughter that couldn’t squeeze into a size six. I knew she was secretly ashamed of me.
“I’ve just remembered… I’ve got things to do.”
“What things?” said Mum.
“I dunno! Just things. Like… things.”
“Well, make sure you have your phone with you. I like to know that I can reach you.”
I could have taken a chance and gone to Indy’s. Or I could have been brave and called first, to make sure she was there and that she was still talking to me. But I didn’t do either. Instead, I caught the number twenty bus and went to Sheepscombe. If I’d taken my guitar I could have pretended I was going there to sing, but I left the guitar where it was, in my bedroom. I knew I wasn’t going to sing – well, not to my adoring public. (OK, I’m only joking! Though one old man did actually call out to me as I walked across the square: “No songs today?”)
