Bright Stars

by Sophie Duffy

  By the end of the song, I’d slid down the wall, was slumped on the dirty fag-strewn floor, cross-legged, head in my hands trying to stop the small monkey pogoing around inside it. I was back in the classroom, the boy on the edge, listening to the popular kid reading out his work. I didn’t know why, but I was on the verge of tears.

  If only I drank like the other students. If only I drank like a true Scot. If only I drank properly, idiotically, paralytically, so I could reach that haven of oblivion. But I couldn’t even do that.

  Then silence. Tommo filled it with his faux Cockney accent, cracked some joke about men in skirts and introduced their second and final song, their weapon. ‘Bright Star’.

  ‘Bright star’. The pain and joy of love. The sweet unrest. Simple, poetic and really, really catchy. ‘Bright Star’. Keats. A love song. About Bex. The bloody great song they’d been looking for? They’d found it.

  And it was clear the judges had found their winner. It might only be a poxy Battle of the Bands but it was judged by someone who mattered, a bloke who knew what he was talking about, who had influence, and the prize was to support The Damned at the Great Hall on campus, following in the footsteps of T. Rex, Queen, Pink Floyd, Thin Lizzy, The Ramones, The Clash, The Stranglers, Ian Dury, Blondie, Madness… Tommo was fast becoming one of the bright stars. And I was the random piece of space dust drifting in this new orbit, blinking feebly while he shone.

  We don’t support or endorse training techniques using pain, fear or dominance and we strongly believe that the (electric training) devices are unnecessary for treating behaviour problems in animals.

  RSPCA

  Edinburgh, December 2013

  Btw

  It is time to open the other email, the one from P. Dulac.

  Cameron! Great to hear from you, mate. Good to know you’re alive and kicking. As for next week, yep, we’ll both be there. Looking forward to putting on the Ritz.

  See you then!!!

  Tommo

  Btw. We’re bringing our twins. They’re 16, one of each. You might have to duck the flying sarcasm in their presence.

  And another btw. The other half is now Rebecca. Has been for a long time. Weird to hear her called Bex again…

  Rebecca. That suits her much more than Bex, reflects the softness within her that was always hiding just beneath the tough skin.

  Jeremy says I should think carefully before I go to London. I will be in a place that has bad memories with people who have a traumatic shared history. Although he wants me to explore the events of my past – hence this lengthy, wordy journal or whatever it is – he’s not sure I should actually encounter the people who were key to these events. My behaviour is somewhat erratic, he says. Perhaps he is right. Am I sure this is really what I want?

  Lancaster University, 1986

  Trip

  I was sitting in Alex Square eating a cheese and onion pasty from Birkett’s, sipping penny-brown tea from a polystyrene cup. A blustery day but I was protected with my bobble hat and college scarf and warm inside my duffle coat, the one that Tommo said made me look like a boffin. I liked being a boffin. It was safe being a boffin. At least I wasn’t a show-off. He was a show-off. A great fat bagpipe of a show-off.

  Problem was, I hadn’t been much of a boffin lately. I had three essays to do in a week. I’d let things slip. I’d always handed my work in on time at school but now I was struggling. I’d been to nearly all my lectures, every one of my seminars, understood pretty much everything, but I couldn’t concentrate. I’d tried working in my room, in the library, even in the senior common room, but my mind would wander, not towards anything specific, just a general meandering, a sense of being adrift. I was used to being apart from those around me, never anything like my brothers, my classmates, but this was a more fuzzy feeling, like I wasn’t quite in my body. I was displaced, a drop of oil in a sea of water.

  It was something to do with Tommo. The last couple of weeks were a blur of events – Battle of the Bands, Andy Kershaw, a demo tape, and now the gig at the Great Hall just a few days away. I couldn’t concentrate because of Tommo.

  I ate my pasty, not tasting it, but feeling it heavy and sticky in my gullet.

  Campus was quiet, a few students beetling along, heads down, hunched against the cold, on their way somewhere, lectures, the cash point, the bar. The pathetic sun cowered behind a barricade of porridge-grey clouds. The wind was frisky, biting into my cheeks. I longed for my dressing gown and slippers. I might be the bairn but I was born old.

  Tommo would never make old bones.

  I swiped away the crumbs onto the step below. A pigeon appeared from nowhere, ignoring me, aiming for my leftovers. I couldn’t be bothered to shoo him away, carried on sitting there, watching the bird peck, its silly head nodding.

  The square was empty now, the concrete austere and sparse as a Scottish heath. Without the bogland. Or the coconut smell of gorse. Or any vegetation. I felt this unease creep over me, as if someone were spying on me, which was stupid. Who would spy on me, Cameron Spark, with my pasty and duffle coat?

  I’d go to the library. Put my head down. Be a good boy. Good boy, Cameron.

  Only before I’d even made it across the square, Tommo appeared and that put paid to that.

  ‘The Lakes? What do you want to go there for?’

  ‘I need to get away, mate. This place is doing my head in. I can’t breathe.’

  Always the drama queen.

  ‘Maybe you’ve got asthma. You should make an appointment at the medical centre.’

  ‘I haven’t got asthma.’

  ‘You can borrow my inhaler.’

  ‘I haven’t got asthma, you plank. It’s this campus. This whole place. You can’t move for students.’

  ‘It’s a university.’

  ‘I know that, MacCameron. I just need to get away.’

  ‘In case the students harass you for autographs?’

  ‘You’ve noticed?’

  ‘Where do you have in mind then, Show-off?’

  ‘Anywhere.’

  ‘That narrows it down. And do you want to go on your own?’

  ‘No, not on my own, though I could do with a break from Hyper. How about the four of us go have a daytrip to the Lakes?’

  ‘The four of us?’

  ‘Bex, Christie and us.’

  ‘The Lakes?’

  ‘They’re just up the road and we should take Christie else she’ll never believe England is actually a green and pleasant land.’

  ‘Since when has it been pleasant?’

  ‘Enough of your Scottish insanity.’

  ‘You didn’t think it insane when you nicked my kilt.’

  ‘I apologised profusely for that.’

  ‘Too right,’ I said, not prepared to forgive him yet. ‘I would’ve thought you’d be happier on a day out to Manchester. Or Blackpool.’

  ‘You think Christie would like Blackpool?’

  We shared a wry smile at this. But then maybe she’d feel at home. From how she’d described Niagara, it sounded just as gaudy. For all her haughty prettiness, she wasn’t a snob.

  We borrowed Hyper’s Cortina on the promise of a payback. I was reticent about this but didn’t want to show concern as they’d only call me a Scottish wimp. The Cortina was at least fifty-seven per cent rust with a distinct lack of working seat belts but, on the bright side, it had a few days tax on it. I offered to be driver, but Bex jumped in – a wee bit quickly – and offered her services.

  By the time we were through and out the other side of town, she was used to the sticky gearbox. I was up front with her, nominated navigator by Tommo who said he was rubbish with maps. He was in the back, next to Christie, the pair of them banging on about the gig. The demo tape was blasting from the cassette player – the only thing that worked properly in the car – and they were singing along. I didn’t join in. I gazed out of the window at the passing fields, cocooned in my duffle coat, trying not to think of the work I should be doing, the missed dea
dline and the extension that was zooming ever closer. The A6 blurred into the M6, then off at Junction 36 onto the A590 and then the A591 and then it all got hazy, blurry, hills and fells and bare trees and then finally a loch. A lake. Stretching into the foggy distance, gloomy and grey.

  The music stopped just as we arrived in Bowness-on-Windermere with its hotels, boats and jetties. Bex found a parking space overlooking the lake and cut the engine. We watched the wind scuffling the surface of the water, listened to the wind whistling through the rust holes of the Cortina.

  ‘Well, then,’ she said. ‘What now?’

  ‘Let’s take a walk,’ Christie said. ‘I feel nauseous after that drive.’

  Bex was peeved, pulled her woolly hat low over her ears and I could picture the small girl she once was and felt a desire to protect her. And there was Tommo, with all this frenetic energy crackling randomly like fire. It was up to me to keep an eye on him. And be there for Bex.

  I followed the others, through a fine drizzle. I couldn’t take in the scenery, couldn’t take my eyes off the backs of their heads. Bex’s dark curls escaping from her hat; Christie’s blonde, tidy ponytail; Tommo’s black irritating, ridiculous quiff. They didn’t even notice I wasn’t keeping up. Christie was my friend. I’d found her. And Bex. I’d found her first as well. But I had to share them with Tommo now. The posh lad, the spoilt brat. He would hurt Bex. I hoped she’d never take him back but it seemed inevitable.

  ‘Oi, Cameron, mate. Wotcha doing back there? Come on. Time for a pint.’

  I’d have preferred a cup of tea, to ward off the chill, but didn’t want to sound like a complete wuss.

  So the pub it was. Then maybe afterwards we could go on a proper hike and clear Tommo’s precious, genius head.

  Tommo pronounced himself better after a couple of pints. Bex was nursing an orange juice, a conscientious driver, asking when we could go and do something.

  ‘Okay,’ Tommo said. ‘Let’s go and do something.’

  Christie snorted with laughter. Some lager trickled out of her nose. He laughed at her. She laughed back. A gut-busting laugh.

  ‘Are you drunk, Miss Armstrong?’

  ‘It’ll take a whole lot more than a couple of beers to get me drunk, Mr Totempoley-whatever-you’re-called. Remember I’m the daughter of winemakers.’ She shook her hair like a best-of-show dog, shrugged on her ski jacket and strode out the pub, knowing the rest of us would follow her, the sheep we were.

  We mooched along the lakeside, the playground of rich Victorians, with their suffocating class, heavy clothes and frigid ways. At the edge of town, we headed up a footpath, up a hill that disappeared into mist, Tommo wheezing but persevering with his roll-up, just like my dad, so unlike my dad, Christie bounding ahead, Bex doing her best to keep up, a competition, me dawdling behind. I could feel my own flinty face, my mouth in a zipped-up line. I wasn’t a violent man, but sometimes I wanted to chin Tommo.

  Once at the top, my calf muscles burned and my chest felt tight like I’d outgrown my jumper. The Incredible Hulk, or the Incredible Sulk as Tommo called me when I disapproved of something he’d done, which was quite often. Most days. All the time.

  ‘All right there, MacSparkle?’

  I gave him a full-on bruiser of a scowl.

  ‘If it was good enough for the Romantics, it should be good enough for me, right?’ He didn’t sound convinced. He stood there in the thickening fog, in the sleety chill, as if he were posing for an album cover, Christie nearby scribbling in a notebook like Dorothy Wordsworth.

  I searched for Bex but couldn’t see her. It was dreich. I was shivering with cold. I panicked a little, so I headed back the way we’d come, stumbling over tufts and rabbit holes. And the relief when I found her, some way down the hill, hobbling, her injured ankle playing up.

  ‘Here, you sit on that rock while I fetch the others. You shouldn’t be out in this.’ And for once she didn’t argue. So I left her there with the promise I’d be quick, and I jogged back up that hill, minding my way, through what felt like clouds.

  I found them where I’d left them, only now they were up close, holding each other, Tommo’s arm around her, Christie laughing, leaning into him. They pulled apart when I was almost upon them. They could’ve been two friends having a laugh. Two mischievous cherubs in their heavenly realm. I should’ve been happy, Tommo away from Bex. But I wasn’t. I had a bad feeling.

  ‘You all right, MacDuff? Seen a ghost have you?’

  ‘It’s Bex.’ I tried to say these words but I was wheezing too much. Christie was beside me now, rummaging in my pockets. She found what she was looking for and put it to my mouth.

  ‘Breathe, you idiot.’

  I took a puff of my inhaler, held it in, let it out.

  ‘It’s Bex. Her ankle. Can’t walk.’ And then another puff. ‘What were you doing?’

  ‘Stop talking. We’ll find her. Come on.’ And she grabbed me by the arm, not giving Tommo another glance.

  ‘We were only talking about the band, having a laugh,’ he whined but we took no notice, left him there, in his foggy, blowy Xanadu.

  We found Bex, sitting where I’d left her, rubbing her ankle, eyes glistening. Tommo was a prize tosser. And there he was, materialising beside us, having followed us after all.

  ‘Come on, you invalid. I’ll give you a piggy-back.’ She smiled up at him and he hunkered down while she clambered aboard.

  And somehow the four of us scrambled back to the Cortina, which of course Bex couldn’t drive. So that left me because I hadn’t been boozing. Me in the driver’s seat with the Canadian as navigator, Bex in the back with her leg stretched over Tommo, nestling against his crotch, him grinning like a kid.

  And then the snow came.

  By the time we got out of town, visibility was poor.

  ‘Why don’t you guys have winter tires? There’s no grit on the road.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We have snow in Scotland, you know.’

  The roads were slippery and it was getting dark. I had to really concentrate to keep the car steady. We’d be okay when we reached the A6.

  ‘You’ve got your lights on, right?’

  ‘Of course I’ve got my lights on.’

  ‘I’m trying to be helpful here.’

  ‘I’m trying to concentrate.’

  ‘Sorry, Cameron. You’re doing fine.’ And she gave my knee a squeeze, which was a bad move, a really bad move, as I swerved, skidded, and somehow, by the grace of God or Fate or pure luck, there was no oncoming vehicle. Christie lurched and yanked the wheel. The car squealed and the noise cut through me so I could hear nothing else, only the noise, only the squeal, and all I could feel was my hands squeezing the steering wheel and all I could see was the whiteness outside. It was only a moment. Then the car was at a standstill, at the roadside, in relative safety.

  ‘What the hell did you do that for?’

  ‘I saved our asses. You should be grateful but hell, no.’

  I got out the car, slammed the door, and stormed off into what was now a blizzard. I walked through it, one foot in front of the other.

  The thing with snow is that it distorts sound. It can swallow it up or amplify it. I could hide like a ghost and I could hear every word they said, Tommo and Christie.

  ‘What the bloody hell happened there?’

  ‘Geez, my rib. I could’ve done without that.’

  ‘Will Bex be okay on her own?’

  ‘She’ll be fine. She only has a sprained freaking ankle. I’m more concerned about Cameron. He’s been acting kind of nuts.’

  ‘He has? More than normal?’

  She laughed a not-funny laugh, winced again.

  ‘He could be anywhere. Let’s leave the daft bastard. He’ll have to hitch back.’

  ‘Seriously? He wouldn’t even think of it. And he wouldn’t have the balls. He’s never even done it at the hitching post on campus because he’s afraid of being mugged by those rugby women or something.’

  ‘He should be s
o lucky.’

  ‘Tommo, concentrate. We can’t leave him. Come on, keep going.’

  ‘It’s not far back to town. He can get help there.’

  ‘I guess…’ Her voice didn’t sound certain. ‘He might be wrapped up well, he might be from Scotland, but he’s Cameron. He’s asthmatic. We have to at least try and find him. It’s getting cold, even by my standards.’

  ‘He’s a hardy Celt, he’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’m not so sure.’

  Then they appeared, one behind the other, Hiawatha and Minnehaha.

  ‘There you are, Cameron! Thank God.’ Christie looked genuinely surprised and relieved to see me.

  ‘Let’s get you back to the car, MacGrumpy.’

  ‘Sod off.’

  ‘Don’t be a plank,’ Tommo said. ‘It’s bloody freezing.’ And then, more diplomatically, as an afterthought. ‘We need you.’

  ‘I’m not driving.’

  ‘You want me to?’ Tommo suggested, knight-in-shining-armour style. ‘I should be all right. It was only three pints and that was ages ago.’

  ‘No way,’ she said. ‘Never drink and drive. I’ll do it.’

  ‘You can’t.’ I had to speak out now. ‘You’re not allowed to drive over here, are you? And it’s the wrong side of the road. And the car’s a manual.’

  ‘I can use a shift stick, no problem. We’ll be fine. It’s our best option. Now come on. I’m half-starved. We can stop off somewhere. One of those Little Cooks.’

  ‘You mean, Little Chefs,’ I said. Even to my own ears, I sounded like a small boy in a mood, lured by the offer of sweets. I heaved myself up reluctantly, and we turned to make our way back to the car as if this was all normal. A delightful day out.

  ‘Yes, Little Chefs, that’s what I’m talking about. Some of your crappy coffee and a plate of your finest sludgy food and we’ll all be fine and dandy.’

  Only we weren’t all fine and dandy, were we?