by Louise Voss
“We could have a rehearsal and see how it goes,” I said tentatively.
He smiled and the blood rushed into my cheeks, making me feel dizzy. “Great! How about tomorrow night? ”
Luckily that wasn’t Bible study or choir practice. “Fine. Where?”
“Seven-twelve Indiana. Say, six o’clock?”
“Okay.”
“Okay, see you then.” He slouched back round the doorframe out of sight, and I heard his rubber-soled sneakers squelch away on the parquet floor. I took a deep breath, breathing in the strong school smell of adolescents and antiseptic, and swallowed down my excitement. I’d just give it a go. Maybe I could even adapt a couple of my songs so they weren’t about God. It would be easy enough to do, and I would love to hear them performed by a real band. I felt faintly traitorous at this thought, but quelled it by reasoning to myself that it was all additional practice for me, practice that would better serve my mission of praising the Lord through my gift of music.
The rehearsal was not a huge success. It was just the two of us, in the Beckers’s basement games room, and at first I was so nervous being in Justin’s presence that I could not seem to play anything properly. We had a stab at “Oliver’s Army,” reading the lyrics out of Justin’s Elvis Costello Songbook, but Justin wasn’t very good at playing his guitar—he couldn’t get the chords right—the song sounded truly awful without drums, and his mum kept coming down to complain about the noise.
Justin was a total poseur, and sang as if performing in front of thousands instead of a quivering cat and his harassed-looking mother. He did have a wonderful voice, though. After a while he abandoned the guitar and we sang the song in harmony, with just my bass to keep time. It didn’t sound too bad, and I began to be a little more cheered. We decided that if we could find a drummer and a keyboard player, we might have something. I told him that next week I would bring in a couple of my songs for us to try. At that point Mrs. Becker reappeared to say that my father had arrived to collect me, so we called it a day. As I packed up my bass and amp, I asked Justin if the band had a name yet.
“Blue Idea,” he said firmly, smiling his gorgeous smile at me. “We’re gonna be huge. You wait.”
I wondered if that “we” included me, but I didn’t have the nerve to ask. Instead I said good-bye to Justin and his mother and, much to Dad’s irritation, sang the harmony line to “Oliver’s Army,” loudly, all the way home in the car, my brain filling in the crashing jubilant staccato of the piano chords and Elvis’s mellow tenor: “ ‘And I would rather be anywhere else, tha-an here to-daaay. Woah, oh, oh, ohhh-oh, Woah oh-oh-oh-ohhhhh.’ ”
The following week I went back again. When I arrived, there were two other boys in the basement, drinking Dr. Pepper and horsing around with Justin. I instantly felt even more shy and very out of place, especially since Justin showed no signs of introducing me. I got on with tuning up my bass until finally the shorter of the two, a nerdy-looking character with thick black-rimmed glasses and tufty black hair, came over. “Hi, Helena, I’m David,” he said. “That’s Joe over there, in case you didn’t know.”
I waved hesitantly across the room to Joe, who was trying to slamdunk a foam basketball into a wall-mounted hoop. He was incredibly tall and lanky, with a neck and wrists that seemed to go on forever, and he had heavy metal braces all over his teeth. He waved back at me in a friendly fashion. I vaguely recognized both him and David from school.
After a while I got fed up with waiting for something to happen, and just started to play a bass riff over and over again. Eventually David sat down on a stool behind a shabby-looking three-piece drum kit and picked up the beat, Joe wandered over and started playing some melancholic accompanying chords on a little Casio keyboard he’d brought with him, and Justin managed to add a reggae-style guitar skank over the top of it all. It didn’t sound half bad. We bashed away for almost ten minutes until the tune died a natural death and we all petered out, ending it with a cacophony of crashing drums and writhing, frantic guitar chords (luckily Mrs. Becker was out that day). Justin was windmilling his right arm round and round as though he was Pete Townshend onstage at the Rainbow, until I was afraid he might try to smash up his guitar on the three-quarter-sized pool table.
In the ear-ringing silence that followed we all looked at one another, grinning and flushed with the success of our first-ever jam session. Justin and Joe exchanged triumphant high fives and all three boys whooped and yelled with excitement.
After that we started to play together regularly, quickly learning to belt out versions of our favorite pop and New Wave songs with great conviction. I also taught them the melodies of several songs I had written, substituting the words “my love” for “my Lord” where appropriate. I didn’t think anyone guessed that they had ever been anything but simple rock songs about being in love, or finding one’s way home. (I’d deleted the line that had originally explained that “home” was in fact “heaven.” It worked a treat.)
May 1, 1982
Dear Tan Smarg (Squirrel Comber and Hedgehog Brusher),
Get this—I’m in a band!! We’re called Blue Idea, and it’s me and three boys from school: Justin Becker, David Somerstein, and Joe Jennings. They’re all seniors (like sixth-formers). Justin is really, really gorgeous. It’s his band—I can’t believe he’s letting me be in it, too. And I’ve started writing pop songs, so we might even do them as part of our set!
Oh, guess what—I nearly made such a fool of myself (what’s new, I hear you cry). You know when, ages ago, you used to really like that awful group Guys n’ Dolls? Well, I’d kind of got them mixed up in my mind with an American band called the New York Dolls—who are punks! We were round at Justin’s rehearsing, and the New York Dolls came on TV, all leather jackets and outrageous makeup and long hair. I said to Joe: “Boy, they really had a change of image, didn’t they!”
It wasn’t till later that I realized my mistake! Luckily Joe had no idea what I was on about.
I’m so excited, being in a real band! I wish you were here so you could sing backing vocals or something—wouldn’t that be a laugh? You never know, maybe Blue Idea will come and play Salisbury City Hall sometime! I’ll give you a backstage pass and Melanie will be totally jealous!!!
Lots of love,
Helena xx
Soon band practice took over from choir practice as the high point of my week. I was still going to church every Sunday without fail, and to Margie’s Bible study class most Wednesdays. But I wasn’t that keen on Margie anyway, and it was not difficult to start skipping a few of those here and there. Besides, the band missed few opportunities to make jibes at me for being a Bible-thumping dweeb. At first I rose above it, but as they began to take up more and more of my time, it was hard not to be influenced by them.
We made our triumphantly awful debut in the living room at one of Justin’s mates’ parties on a Saturday night, a few months after we’d first practiced. We did all cover versions, as we weren’t yet confident enough to perform any of my songs, and we wanted to make sure that our first audience got the crowd-pleasing numbers they obviously wanted. It was terrible, but no one at the party seemed to mind. They danced and cheered, and someone spilled a plastic cup of beer over me and my bass, and a good time was had by all. I didn’t get home until one-thirty A.M., sneaking up the stairs on tiptoe so my parents wouldn’t hear me. They had not waited up, so I thought I’d gotten away with it, but the next day I received the first in a series of lectures involving the phrases “concentrating on your schoolwork,” “not getting in with the wrong crowd,” and “what’s wrong with just being in the choir?” It was all water off a duck’s back to me.
That morning in church I was so tired that I dropped off during the sermon—not an ideal thing to do in my very noticeable spot with the choir, out in front of the congregation. My neighbor had to nudge me awake, and I could see Margie shooting daggers at me from her front-row pew. Since I’d joined the band she had become almost openly antagonistic toward
me—in a very Christian way, of course. I had no idea why, nor did I care.
In fact I was very happy. I’d gradually become “one of the boys,” and after a while, even Justin’s smoldering grins ceased to move me. I liked him, but he could be an arrogant little creep. Instead of blushing and simpering in his presence, I started to bully and push him to be more reliable, practice his feeble guitar playing, and cut down on smoking so as to preserve his voice. Eventually, as we learned more and more of my songs, I emerged as the natural leader of the band, and reveled in the responsibility.
I was so relieved not to fancy Justin anymore that I thought for a while I was well and truly back on my spiritual path. But it turned out to be something more insidiously compelling than hormones that ultimately made me stray: the new and heady sensation of raw ambition.
HOME SWEET HOME
IT WAS ANOTHER TWO DAYS BEFORE I SAW TOBY AGAIN. ALL THE hospital emotions stirred up by the last kiss had been quietly simmering, and were just coming to a boil of resentment. Why were we doing this? I knew enough about men to be completely sure that whatever happened, he’d never leave his wife.
I was scribbling away at my manuscript like a mad woman when, out of the blue, he appeared at my door.
“Hello, stranger,” I said. “Come in.”
“It’s only been two days,” he replied defensively, but he came in anyway. He did kiss me, but only a peck, and I could tell immediately from the way his eyes slid away from my face that we weren’t about to carry on where we’d left off in the visitors’ room.
“How’s the book going?”
“Good, I think. I’m getting there, slowly.”
“So what happens when you finish? Are you trying to find a publisher? ”
“Not at the moment, no. I’m sure it won’t be a problem, though.”
Toby laughed. “No, you’re a celebrity. Of course it won’t be. Publishers welcome people like you with open arms, don’t they?”
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean, then? ”
I sighed and put the notebook back under my pillow. “Nothing.”
Toby looked at my legs. “I like your jeans. I thought so the other day, only didn’t get a chance to mention it. I mean, it’s good to see you in real clothes. Surely you’ll be going home soon, won’t you? You seem so much better.”
I stood up and walked over to the window, peering out between the slats of the blinds at the huge Edwardian guest houses and hotels across the road.
“The doctor’s going to let me know when he comes in today. He doesn’t want to talk about fitting me with a fake eye until I decide whether or not I really want one. I’m not sure. And I think everything else is okay now, except my ear and a bit of leftover concussion—I still wobble a bit when I walk—so it depends on that.”
“So tell me more about your book. Is it about Blue Idea?”
I felt a bit uneasy talking about it, but he seemed genuinely interested, and genuinely not interested in a repeat of what had happened after the Animal Snap game.
“It’s about everything. Childhood, Sam, moving to America, being a teenager. The band. I’m just getting to that bit now. I’ve got some letters somewhere that I’ll probably add in later, too, and they’ll help me cross-check dates and stuff.”
“How do you remember everything without them? ”
I felt prickles on my neck. I mustn’t give too much away, I thought. “I, um, think of what records I was listening to at the time, and then think back to how I felt.”
“Oh yeah, that’s how you DJ, isn’t it? I’ve been doing my homework. So you’re taking your own requests now, are you? Cool—that would make a great show!”
“Yeah, I suppose it might.” I had to bite my lip to prevent myself from blurting out the Plan. Suddenly it was no longer any fun at all, keeping it to myself. With effort, I changed the subject. “Do you have a favorite record, Toby? I’m not putting you on the spot. You don’t even have to say why it’s your favorite, I’m just curious.”
“Phew—bit of an impossible question, that one. There are so many I absolutely adore that I’m not sure if I could narrow it down to one. Lou Reed’s ‘Perfect Day,’ perhaps. Bowie’s ‘Life on Mars’? ‘Another Girl, Another Planet,’ just as an example of a perfect pop song. I’d need to think about it more before giving you a definite answer, though.”
“Fair enough. I notice you haven’t mentioned any of Blue Idea’s records.”
Toby went red. He was so easy to tease.
“God, Toby, I don’t know how you ever managed to be a journalist. You blush far too easily. I’m joking!”
He stuck his finger up at me flirtatiously, and all of a sudden looked so cute that I had a small ballooning urge to leap on top of him.
Then he became serious again.
“So what will you do with yourself once you get home and your mother’s gone back to the States?”
“I don’t know—celebrate, probably. No, I’ll finish the book and then … Well, that’s it, really.”
Toby was obviously remembering my saying I didn’t have many friends.
“There’ll be someone to look after you, though, won’t there?”
I scowled at him. “I won’t need looking after! I’m going home because I’m better, aren’t I?”
“But I mean, what are your long-term plans?”
He knew I’d lost my job, but I hadn’t told him about Geoff’s offer of the nighttime show.
“I haven’t got any long-term plans, just one short-term one.”
As soon as I said it, I thought, What a giveaway. A huge cliff-edge of bitterness had crept into my voice, and I honestly didn’t know if I’d manufactured it for Toby’s benefit or if it was genuine. The only thing I did know for sure was that one more kiss like the last one and I might not be able to go through with the Plan.
“You will be all right, won’t you?” Toby persisted. “I mean, I know you’ve been a bit depressed and everything. I’m worried about you, that’s all.”
My indecision and his reversion to “guilt mode” were beginning to annoy me. “Oh, no need to worry. I am going to top myself, but not right now, okay? I would hate to give you something else to feel guilty about.”
Toby looked at me with what was probably the look he gave Ruby when she drew Magic Marker on the sofa—cross and disappointed.
All of a sudden I made up my mind. I was going to push him further, goad him into leaving, and then I could really just get on with the Plan. He’d had enough traumas lately, and I was sick of him blowing hot and cold with me.
I took a deep breath. “You really think that’s what I’m going to do, don’t you? You think I’m actually writing a book about my life so that I’ll be remembered after I’m dead? Well, if you think you’ve got it all sussed, then fine. Perhaps you want me to do it so you’ll be able to tell everyone that you knew me, that you kissed me a couple of times. Would that give you a thrill? Or maybe you’d like to write my obituary for me? Go ahead—the job’s vacant.”
Emotions flitted across Toby’s face: astonishment, hurt, fury. He moved across the room to where I stood by the window and grabbed me by the shoulders, almost shaking me.
“You listen to me, Helena. I’m sorry if I’ve got it all wrong—I hope to God I have got it all wrong—but you’re bang out of order. Don’t you even say that as a joke, or even think it, you understand? And how could you say I’d actually want you to do something as sick as that—what’s the matter with you, anyway? I’ve told you how I feel and how hard this all is for me! Can’t you cut me some slack, for God’s sake? ”
I felt dangerously out of control. “I’ll think and do whatever I bloody well want to! Get off me! How dare you tell me what to do, after you’ve messed me around the way you have! You come on to me, kiss me; your wife wakes up, you ignore me. We have another kiss, and now you act like nothing’s happened! You’ve treated me like shit, and I want you to get lost and leave me alone—for good. I wo
n’t be second best!”
I wrenched his hands from my shoulders.
Toby’s arms flopped down to his sides, and he turned his back on me.
“It’s not like that,” he said, in a voice I’d never heard him use before. “I never meant to mess you around, and I’m sorry. But you know what else I’m sorry about? I’m sorry that you obviously think so little of me. So I’ll do what you want and get lost now. Okay? ”
He started to walk out of the room, slowly, as if he was waiting for me to stop him. Every stitch of me wanted him to stay, but I didn’t move or speak. After the fattest of pregnant pauses, he finally picked up the pace and left.
Operation: Send Toby Away had worked a treat, much better than I could have hoped for.
The doctor came round later and told me yes, I could go home. Mum booked us a taxi, and I packed up my notebooks and pens, wash-bag and nightclothes. I said good-bye to the nurses and put on my Abba disguise.
Toby didn’t come back, and I didn’t leave my number or address for him. It would be best that way, I told myself bitterly.
Being in my own house again was so blissful that I forgot temporarily about the row with Toby. I cried like a virgin bride being lifted across the threshold as I came through the front door—the joy of being reunited with my bed, my coffee mugs, my refrigerator! I was convinced that even my toilet seat was more comfortable than the hospital one.
With Mum staying there in my absence, everything was spookily perfect-looking—house plants all green and perky, drunk on Baby Bio, no dust on the TV screen, kitchen surfaces as swabbed and sterile as the operating theater. The stag beetle in the outside drain and the small spider who’d been living in the fireplace had upped sticks and moved on, obviously in search of a quiet life.
“You put your feet up, honey, and I’ll make us a nice cup of tea,” she trilled when I came downstairs after a whirlwind tour to reacquaint myself with my home. Then she stopped and clapped her hand over her mouth. “No, wait,” she said. “I nearly forgot—there’s a very exciting message on the answering machine for you!”
