by Sophie Duffy
Tutor
I’d just been in to see my tutor. Professor Proctor. She’d summoned me to talk about my work. She asked me if anything was wrong.
‘Is there something bothering you, Cameron? Is there something you’d like to talk about?’ She looked at me earnestly, sympathetically, and maybe a wee bit pityingly. ‘Is it a girl?’
‘A girl?’ I said, Miss Jean Brodie at work again. ‘No, not a girl. I’m just finding it hard to sleep. I can’t concentrate and my head’s all in a fankle.’
‘A fankle?’
‘What my granny would say. A muddle. A mess.’
‘Would you like me to refer you to a counsellor? Someone to talk this through with. Or maybe see your doctor? Have you registered at the health centre?’
‘No. And yes. I’ll be okay. I’ll work harder.’
‘I don’t doubt your intentions to work hard. I just think perhaps you’d benefit from some guidance. To equip you with strategies for getting on top of your coursework.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said.
‘Cameron, it’s okay to ask for help if you need it.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. I could feel my cheeks burning up. ‘I’ll let you know.’ I aimed a smile at her, avoided eye contact, gathered up my things.
As I exited that stuffy room, I bumped into Christie, coming out of her tutor’s room. That tutor.
‘You’ll never guess,’ she said, breathless and ruffled. ‘“Bright Star” has got on the Radio 1 playlist.’
‘What?’
‘It means the song will be played on Radio 1. People will hear it! They’ll buy it!’
‘How did that happen?’
‘Some dude with a beard called John Peel really likes them.’
‘John Peel?’
The corridor seemed to be moving, the walls pulsing and the floor rocking, like we were at sea, all at sea. ‘You’re joking, right?’
‘Do I look like I’m kidding? I’m serious. Really, the Radio 1 playlist! Come on. Let’s go get a drink. I’m buying.’
‘What does your tutor have to say about this? I mean, doesn’t he think you should be concentrating on your studies?’
‘My studies? Richard isn’t interested in my studies. As for the band, he’s clueless. Only listens to Schubert and Brahms.’ She moved me down the corridor, leant in to me so she could lower her voice, tactful for once, the smell of flowers and summer fruit all mashed up. ‘You know, a few weeks ago he seemed like this big, strong, intelligent, powerful guy,’ she said. ‘Now he’s a broken man. I’ve totally broken him and I didn’t even have to try. Christie… I… think I should find you another tutor…’ She attempted to mimic him in a poor English accent. ‘I have behaved inappropriately…’ A scornful snigger. ‘As if he’s never done this kind of thing before. It’s finished.’
‘How will that affect your work? Will he take it out on you?’
‘Stop worrying about my work, Cameron. Enjoy this moment.’
I must have looked blank. Because she shook her head, confused that I wasn’t doing some kind of celebratory dance about the rise of The Lunes. Then she wrapped her arm around me and propelled me out of the department.
As we stood outside in the cold, leaves blowing around us, sleet in our faces, she said: ‘Anyways, I’m pretty sure Richard will be giving me a good grade.’ And she gave me a lewd wink.
By the time we reached the JCR, Tommo was already high on something. Someone had put money in the jukebox – Echo Beach, a Fylde anthem – and Tommo was dancing with Bex, up on a table, people standing all around them clapping and laughing and being quite ridiculous in their reactions. Bex looked embarrassed, lanky and awkward, but she carried on with it. She went with it. And I knew I’d have to man-mark* her or Tommo would ruin her life.
_________________________
*You might not expect me to use football terminology, but I come from a Hearts family, a father and three brothers with season tickets. Some of it had to rub off on me.
Cardigan
By the time the Charts next came around, ‘Bright Star’ had actually, astonishingly, made it to number 38. The following morning Christie gathered us together in the practice room. (When I say ‘us’, I tagged along, the lucky Scottish mascot.)
‘The Lunes are going to be on that TV show!’ she announced.
‘What show?’
‘Top of the Pops,’ she said, pretending to examine her fingernails, like this was nothing important, as if it meant little to her being Canadian, when she knew exactly what it meant. That it was really, really important. ‘That’s pretty good, eh?’
This revelation was followed by screams and whoops and much back-slapping. Tommo gave Christie a kiss, a big smacker on the lips, but before Bex had the chance to look put out, he’d grabbed her in his arms and bent her backwards, Rhett Butler-Scarlett O’Hara style.
I offered my feeble congratulations then made my excuses. I had a lecture. Which was true. But I didn’t go to the lecture. Instead, I caught the bus into town and sat in the Wagon and Horses with old men in flat caps, spit-and-sawdust style, and I downed pint after pint of some noxious brown ale that was served to me, sitting in a corner with a man called Vern, a retired undertaker, and of all the places I could think of right now, this was where I most wanted to be, learning about techniques of embalming and decomposition rates of bodies buried in Victorian multiple graves.
I can’t remember all that much about the journey down to London. The borrowed van was stuffed with equipment and Hyper’s canary yellow Cortina was joining the convoy. We got clogged up on the M6 through Birmingham but once out the other end, going south, we stopped for fuel and cans of Coke and Mars bars and a pee.
‘I want to remember all the details of today,’ said Tommo. ‘But it’s like nailing jelly to a wall.’
The details: the smell of the fir tree air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror. Sitting in the passenger seat, on a knitted blanket. Dave’s cracked knuckles on the steering wheel. Dave’s trademark ripped jeans, like Venetian blinds. Dave’s sick jokes that made you question how he’d ever got a university place. The taste of Mars bar mixed with Coke and a wee slither of sick in the back of my throat. Nothing important, random memories that when added up hardly come to anything substantial, nothing near to the reality of what was actually ahead of us.
I didn’t even know why I’d tagged along. It was just assumed I’d be there, I’d go, part of it from the start. Though I had no idea what that part was.*
By nightfall we ended up, stiff and knackered, at the dump of a hotel that Christie had booked. She said the band would only be getting session fees for appearing on the show so they couldn’t exactly afford to stay anywhere swanky. But if they played their cards right…
It was nothing like the telly. No glitz, no glamour. The rulings meant their performance had to be live so to make sure it was good enough for national television, they did what all the bands did and made a ‘live’ BBC recording which they would then mime to on the actual show.
While the band did this recording, Bex and I wandered off to a café down the road. I had that weird feeling again that I was being watched. There were so many people, how would you ever know? I didn’t like it here. Even the air smelt different and, inside the café, the voices were harsh and grating.
We ordered tea and toast. She nibbled at it, not her usual appetite.
‘Sorry, I’m not much company.’
‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘We don’t have to talk.’
So we sat in silence but I didn’t mind. We knew each other well enough so that it wasn’t awkward.
Afterwards, on our way out of the café, she swiped a copy of the Sun that was lying splayed open on Page 3, on a table by the door. She ignored the unusual swearing that its Cockney owner sent after us as we pelted down the street. Once round the corner, she rammed it in an overflowing dustbin. She was laughing hysterically. Then she was crying. She told me she’d had some news. But she didn’t want to talk
about it. She’d tell me some other time. Later.
The studio itself was disappointingly small, sort of shabby, like if you touched anything it might fall over or give you an electric shock. We were there for the technical rehearsal. The band had to know which camera was pointing where and when.
Bex and I watched Tommo prance around, making weird faces at the cameras. He was clearly the front man. The one they were going to love. Or hate.
It was an odd day to say the least. I saw George Michael disappear into the gents and A-ha were hanging out by the fire exit. There was so much to take in, the make-up artists, the technicians, the runners, the entourages, the dancers with Bananarama hair and Madonna rubber bangles. Everyone had a job, something to do, somewhere to be.
Then it was time for the dress rehearsal. Tommo looked the part, leather drainpipes, big quiff, blousy shirt. The Lunes were good. Very good, despite the idiotic miming, a shiny façade which Tommo was only too eager to prop up. A charade he embraced.
During a break, we hung out briefly in the dressing room. The band was talking with Christie, while Bex and I sat together in silence once again, apart from the crinkle and crunch of my cheese and onion crisps. ‘You okay?’
‘My ankle’s throbbing,’ she moaned. ‘And I feel sick.’
She edged slightly away from me and shoved her hands in her cardigan pockets. She’d bought the cardy in a jumble sale the previous week, a church hall somewhere in town. The cardy had those old man wooden buttons and square pockets to put your Woodbines in. She was searching in them for something.
‘What are you after?’
‘A letter.’
‘A letter?’
‘From my dad.’
‘That’s… nice.’
‘No, it’s not nice.’ She took it out. It was folded over and over so that it was a small, fat rectangle of furry paper. ‘I read it in the back of the Cortina, trying to make out the words, what they mean,’ she said. ‘I almost chucked it away, telling myself it didn’t matter, I didn’t care. But I’ve hung onto it; like a pain in my side.’ She squeezed the letter in her hand, wrapped her fingers tight about it.
I was about to say something comforting when Tommo butted in. He was standing over us, our huddle on the floor, tall and lean and annoying.
‘All right, Bex?’ It was a generalised question, not real concern. He had other things on his mind. Important things. Pop star things. And I could tell she was miffed with how much time he was spending with the Canadian Maid of the Mist. He should’ve been making more of an effort to involve her. They were meant to be back together, after all. If it was me, I would’ve said something nice then and there. I would’ve given her a hug and told her how much I loved her. But no. He said something else. Something you should never say to someone who looks so unhappy.
‘Cheer up. It might never happen.’
And that’s when she lost it. She cried again. This was so unlike her, all this weeping. I moved to put my arm around her but she shrugged me off, fled from the poky excuse of a dressing room.
‘Go after her,’ Tommo urged. ‘I can’t right now. The band needs me here.’
Tommo didn’t have to ask, the stupid idiot. I knew he wouldn’t go after her now. And anyway I was already on my way out the room to find her, down the corridor, down another one, checking all the rooms on the way, all the places I could think of until finally there she was, outside, leaning against a wall, her eyes clamped shut, breathing too fast. She was hyperventilating. She needed a paper bag. I pointlessly and foolishly checked my pockets, on the off chance, when Tommo was somehow there too, appearing from nowhere as if by magic, the way he always did, a thief in the night, talking to her, saying words that meant nothing, nothing that I could actually understand.
She handed him the letter which he read.
‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Were you expecting that?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I wasn’t expecting that.’
I might as well have been a ghost, a soft, silent ghost minding my own business, unseen and unheard, no one to haunt.
‘Why are you crying?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t think you had much time for your dad. Is he really that important to you?’ He put his hand on her hand and I thought my heart would crack.
‘He’s all I’ve got.’
‘You’ve got me.’
‘Have I?’
‘Course,’ he said. ‘I love you.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes, I do.’ He nodded his head emphatically. ‘But this isn’t the best time. We’ll talk later, yeah? I have to get ready. We’re on soon.’ He handed back the letter, dropped a kiss on her forehead. ‘Wish me luck.’
‘Good luck.’
Tommo turned to go, hesitated for a moment, turned back. ‘Come with me, Bex,’ he said. ‘I’ve got something for you.’ And he took her away, leaving me outside in the cold.
If only I smoked, I’d have something to do, though it would play havoc with my asthma, which was getting worse. I should see that doctor. Do yoga. Keep calm.
Then I saw it on the floor, the letter. I picked it up; Bex would be wanting that. I tried to fold it up, but I couldn’t get it right. I couldn’t help reading the words that crawled over the paper like ants in a nest.
Dear Rebecca
I trust this finds you well and that you are working hard at your studies.
I have some good news. Pauline Morris and I have become close. In fact, she has moved in with her son, Gary, who I believe you know from school. He’s in your room for now but will sleep on the sofa when you next stay. He’s only changed a few things in there, moved some of the stuff out to the attic.
Well, I look forward to hearing your news soon.
Yours, Dad
I made my way back to the dressing room, keeping an eye out for Bex. Tommo was there but no sign of her. I went to speak to him but he got in first.
‘She’s all right,’ he said. ‘Stop fussing. I’m getting this show on the road then I’ve promised to spend some time with her. She’s upset cos her dad’s moved in some tart and her spotty sprog, without even bothering to tell her.’
The letter burned in my pocket. ‘Where is she?’
He was vague, waved his hand, said she’d gone for some fresh air.
‘What did you give her?’
‘Nothing.’
‘But you said you had something for her.’
He gave me a look that told me I was a pillock.
‘Oh,’ I said. I left him then. I was the spare part. I’d go and wait in the van. But something stopped me. I had to see her. She was maybe wanting the letter. More upset than Tommo suggested. I went back down the corridor to head out into the open again when I heard this God Almighty crash. It came from the ladies’ loo. I didn’t even think, just reacted, the boy scout within always prepared and ready to help.
I put my head round the door. ‘Everything okay?’
No answer. I made myself go in, I had this feeling, and that’s when I saw her.
At first I thought she was playing a game. But then the shock of it hit me like a wet towel, taking the wind from me. She was lying on the floor, thrashing around like she was horizontally dancing. But she wasn’t dancing. She was fitting. I wanted to collapse on the floor myself but I couldn’t do that. I had to think. Think. The first-aid course I’d done on my Duke of Edinburgh. Make sure there was nothing she could bang herself on, no hard edges. Don’t hold her. Wait for it to pass. Then the recovery position.
But it didn’t pass.
Then thank God a woman came in, one of those trendy researchers with a clipboard and a walkie-talkie thing. She stopped dead, took in the scene, and shrieked at me: ‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’ As if I had done this thing to Bex.
‘She’s having a fit. She’s my friend. Call an ambulance.’ I heard the authority in my voice but didn’t trust it. ‘She’s not coming out of it. She’s not epileptic.’
‘What’s she taken?’ The woman was calmer now but urge
nt.
‘Taken?’
‘What drugs has she taken?’
‘She’s not a druggie!’
‘And she isn’t an epileptic. So she must’ve taken something. I’ll call the ambulance while you find out what she’s on.’ And she darted out and left me with Bex who was still fitting. Maybe it was subsiding, I couldn’t really tell. She was getting nearer the pipes on the wall and so I put my hand on her head as if I was blessing her. There was a puddle by her jeans and I felt so sorry for her that she should be like this, here, on the floor of a toilet, helpless. I’d help her.
Then it was all a rush. The paramedics arrived, shooed me out once they’d got all the information I could give them, which wasn’t much. Only then Tommo appeared, running his hands through his hair, muttering that it was cocaine. They did something to her, gave her oxygen, got her out of there and onto a stretcher waiting like a mortuary slab in the corridor.
Cocaine. She didn’t do that sort of thing. But then I looked at Tommo and saw the horror on his face. He’d given it to her. The woman he was supposed to love. The bastard.
Only it got worse. When they asked who was coming to the hospital, Tommo went even paler than he already was. All these emotions passed over his face, his expression swerving and swaying. Just for a moment. But I saw. And I grabbed my chance.
‘I’ll go,’ I said.
But then Tommo pulled it together. ‘No, no, I’ll go,’ he said. And he reached out to hold Bex’s hand.
‘Are you crazy?’ A voice hurled through the air. ‘You’re next up!’ Christie was breathless, fearsome, glaring intensely into Tommo’s panicked eyes, holding onto his arms like he was a child not wanting to go to school. ‘This is your ticket to fame and if you louse it up, it’s gone. For good. Let Cameron go. We’ll follow on after the show.’
