A Christmas Gift

by Sue Moorcroft

  The students all looked hopeful, hands moving as if preparing to pull their phones out too.

  ‘I’m not here in that capacity,’ Joe all but shouted.

  ‘Not appropriate,’ Oggie snapped at the same time, sounding as sharp as Joe had ever heard him.

  Yvette shot off a couple of shots of Joe anyway, and Oggie took her aside for a private conversation. Joe was incredibly embarrassed to see her get her phone out again and delete the photos like a sulky kid. The students giggled. A few Sir John Browne Academy students loitered, recognisable by their black sweatshirts, grinning as they listened in. Joe turned his back in case they caught on to what was happening and whipped out their phones too.

  It wasn’t an auspicious beginning, though Yvette soon bounced back, taking every opportunity to brush against Joe as she gave him a tour of the box. Oggie stayed close, and at least she didn’t get her phone out again.

  After a thorough, if awkward, familiarisation with the sound and lighting decks, Joe and Oggie got the crew back to Acting Instrumental for three o’clock, relief and anxiety warring in Joe. Oggie was frowning. Without being asked, he followed Oggie to his room and shut the door.

  ‘That was unexpectedly tricky,’ he admitted wearily, to save Oggie the bother.

  ‘Indeed.’ Oggie’s frown hadn’t disappeared. ‘I didn’t appreciate quite what a genie was being let out of its bottle when your friends showed up yesterday.’

  ‘Possibilities dawned on me, but I didn’t realise it would be quite like this.’

  They talked about the situation for a few more minutes. Oggie was reticent about where they went from here, saying he needed time to think.

  Joe left him, more conflicted than he’d been at any point in the past five weeks. The rift in the band looked on its way to being healed.

  But he’d apparently paid a price.

  Had they shown up without notice hoping that exactly this would happen? He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t deny that if his position here was made untenable then there would be one less thing preventing him from returning to the band.

  Not one to give up easily though, he headed to Georgine’s room to report on events at the Raised Curtain. Just as he reached the doorway, he realised she was speaking on the phone. When he heard her say ‘Aidan’, his feet paused mid-step.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve got another job and the debt charity was useful,’ she continued. ‘But I haven’t rung to get on your case. I just want you to know that I’ve had a windfall and cleared the arrears with the household bills.’ She paused, presumably letting Aidan reply.

  When she spoke again her voice was full of outrage. ‘It’s none of your business how much! If I do have any left over it’s going on a car or a holiday, not to help you out.’

  Joe shouldn’t be eavesdropping on a conversation between Georgine and her ex-boyfriend about money. He turned and walked silently away. He’d award himself an early finish and spend a bit of one-on-one time with his laptop – his own MacBook Pro rather than the heap Acting Instrumental loaned him – mulling over The Hungry Years’ schedule next year.

  He’d promised them a decision after Christmas, and that was only two weeks away.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The next day, Wednesday, catapulted Joe straight into hell.

  It wasn’t even eight thirty when his phone buzzed and Pete the Beat showed on the screen. About to leave his apartment, he answered the call with one hand while opening his front door with the other. ‘Can I ring you back, Pete? On my way to work.’

  ‘You might want to hold on.’ Pete sounded grave. ‘The Daily Snoop has done a piece on you and you’re not going to like it.’

  Blood turning slowly to ice, Joe closed his front door. ‘What?’

  Pete sighed gustily. ‘Best you read it for yourself. I’ve emailed you the link to the online version.’

  It took only moments for Joe to drop down on the sofa and wake up his MacBook Pro, open Pete’s email and click.

  CINDER-ROCKER – Punk-star victim of ‘wicked’ stepfather in sink-estate childhood, roared the headline, bigger and bolder than that of the snowmageddon the paper was predicting for the UK next week. Joe’s stomach plummeted into his boots as he read the words that sat alongside a picture of him sweating over a drum kit, sticks a blur.

  Drummer JJ Blacker, of pop-punk band sensation The Hungry Years, spent most of his young life in the care of an alcoholic mother and her ‘aggressive’ partner, the Daily Snoop can reveal.

  In a shocking exposé, a source close to the tattooed drummer tells of the true extent of abuse dealt out to Blacker by Deborah Leonard, 56, and her single-named partner, Garrit, 58, on the Shetland estate in Bettsbrough, Cambridgeshire.

  ‘Garrit was a nasty piece of work,’ says the source. ‘The whole family was scared of him and he and JJ’s mum drank whatever money they got. Schoolmates gave JJ the nickname “Rich” as a joke because he was brought up so poor.’

  JJ – real name John Joseph Blackthorn, aka Johnjoe or “Rich” Garrit – was rescued by his music-producer uncle, Shaun Blackthorn, 58, in December 1998. Full story pages 6&7.

  Hands shaking, Joe clicked the link to take him to the more in-depth piece, eyes flicking over a selection of picture-library shots of him on stage, at awards evenings or out shopping.

  Almost too shocked to take it all in he read every painful detail about Timothy Blackthorn, JJ’s natural father hiding his toddler son from the affluent Blackthorn family and that Timothy drowned, swept out to sea in the strong currents off England’s east coast. A post-mortem showed Timothy to have had almost three times the recommended level of alcohol in his blood.

  ‘The source’ was quoted liberally, talking about hunger and deprivation; that Deborah and Garrit bothered more about where their next can of lager would come from than ensuring JJ, along with Garrit’s daughter from a previous relationship, Chrissy, had food.

  The piece seemed to go on and on, a lurid portrait of Rich Garrit that made Joe shiver, though he still wore his coat. Everything he’d least wanted in the public domain was there. He felt invaded. Exposed. Dirtied.

  The final blow was struck by a paragraph about Joe’s current whereabouts at Acting Instrumental, a further education college for the performing arts in which he has a philanthropic interest. Young people attend this college, the premises of which JJ owns on the outskirts of Middledip village in Cambridgeshire, a few miles from the Shetland estate where, according to our source, he grew up a member of a gang where crime was the norm.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ Joe breathed, dumping the computer on the sofa. He rubbed his hand over his face, brain racing. Who’d talked? He stared at the wall, forgetting all about Acting Instrumental and the scheduled complete run-through of A Very Kerry Christmas.

  Finally, heavily, he rang Pete back. ‘This is shit. Do you know where it came from?’ His phone began to buzz with incoming messages and the beep-beep of a call waiting sounded in his ear.

  ‘No idea, mate.’ Pete sounded sympathetic. ‘I suppose you can get Jerome onto it but although it’s sensationalised—’

  ‘It’s fundamentally true,’ Joe finished, feeling sick.

  Pete cleared his throat. ‘The journalist’s emailed me. He’s asking if you’ll give your side of the story.’

  ‘Tell him to fuck himself.’

  ‘I think a firm “no” is sufficient.’

  Joe managed a hoarse laugh. ‘And ask him what shit-eating lowlife gave him the story.’

  ‘And we’ll get a firm “no” in return,’ Pete replied. He hesitated. ‘You’ve no idea?’

  ‘I suppose there are quite a few people it could be, but they’re mainly close to me, which makes it doubly shitty.’ Joe groaned, closing his eyes and letting his head flop back. The phone continued to buzz alerts intermittently. He’d get to the messages later. He let his mind run for a few seconds.

  ‘Billy keeps coming into my head,’ Pete said tentatively. ‘But, no, we can’t think that!’ And, as
if trying to convince himself, ‘Can we?’

  Joe groaned. ‘I’m trying not to.’ His heart sank like a stone.

  ‘Until the past few weeks it wouldn’t even have crossed my mind, but his last little stunt was about money. Tabloids sometimes pay for stories like this.’ Pete let the thought hang in the air, then sighed gustily. ‘I’m not sure how you’ll find out. Anybody –’ he paused, as if to say naming no names ‘– you challenge is unlikely to admit it.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Joe said goodbye and disconnected. He scrolled through the notifications on his phone screen. Raf, Nathan, Liam and Billy – but he’d have to get in touch, even if it was him, wouldn’t he? – had all texted Have you seen??? type messages, as had Chrissy.

  Raf, Liam, Chrissy and Georgine had all tried to call him. With the sensation of sticking a pin in a list, he returned the call to Georgine.

  ‘You OK?’ she asked quickly. Like Pete, she sounded apprehensive.

  ‘You’ve seen it then?’ he asked wearily.

  She hesitated. ‘Seen what?’

  ‘The reason I might not be OK.’

  ‘Is this a new game? Random answers to reasonable questions?’ She sounded puzzled.

  He took a deep breath, realising people might want to talk about topics other than what had just happened to him. ‘Sorry. Can I help you with something?’

  Another pause. ‘Wellllll … it’s nine twenty and the run-through starts at ten o’clock. I appreciate you’re not exactly contracted staff, but if you’re not able to make it I need to get someone else to give everyone their calls when they’re due on.’

  Abruptly, the day he’d expected before reading the horrible newspaper article came into focus. ‘Shit. I’m sorry. I’ll be there by nine forty-five latest. I’ve got to make a call first.’

  ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ she said briefly.

  He could imagine her immediately turning her attention to the job at hand, preparing to find alternatives if he didn’t turn up after all.

  Quickly, he returned Chrissy’s call.

  ‘There’s this article about you—’ She sounded flustered.

  ‘I’ve read it,’ he cut in. ‘Bastards. No idea where the story’s come from, but sorry your name was dragged in.’

  He heard her blow out a big, shaky breath. ‘It was really freaky. Someone from my year at school put it on Facebook and tagged me. Everyone’s going bonkers in the comments section, asking me if it’s true that you’re JJ Blacker.’

  ‘Just ignore it,’ he said quickly. ‘Log out of Facebook till it’s forgotten. Then even if some journalist tracks down the Facebook thread they won’t be able to reach out to you.’ He rubbed his hand over his head as if to encourage his brain to work under his unaccustomed soft, conservative hairstyle, then tacked on, ‘Unless you want to reply to the comments or talk to the press, I suppose.’

  Chrissy sounded shocked. ‘I thought you wouldn’t want me to.’

  ‘I absolutely, totally don’t,’ he said frankly. ‘I’ve never talked about the bad stuff for fear of exactly this sensationalism.’

  She laughed. ‘I won’t talk, Johnjoe. I remember who was on my side when Dad and Debs were as they were; and who got me food when my belly was empty. We come from the same boat. I wouldn’t do anything to screw you over. Ever.’

  For a moment his eyes burned with the poignancy of the shared memory of rock bottom. ‘Thanks, Chrissy.’

  He rang off and, glancing at his watch and despite promising Georgine he’d make only one call, made another as he got up to leave. ‘Mari?’ he said, when his mother’s companion picked up. ‘Have you or Mum been approached by anyone?’

  Mari sounded as confused as Georgine had. ‘Anyone?’

  ‘You haven’t seen the article about me today?’ He let himself out of the outside door and began to jog down the steps to ground level in freezing rain, debating how much to say. It wasn’t absolutely beyond his wildest imaginings that Debs had succumbed to a journalist’s chequebook if the craving for alcohol had gripped her strongly enough. But then, she’d had years to do that, and hadn’t. And she’d appear in the article in a much better light if she had.

  Quickly, he filled Mari in, rounding the jut of the big rehearsal room and heading directly for the studio theatre. ‘I suppose Mum might want to read it for herself, but try to keep her calm if she does, because she doesn’t come out of it well. Actually …’ He paused outside the door, huddling into his coat. ‘You’d better put Mum on and I’ll speak to her myself.’

  It took him several more minutes to brief his mother, asking her not to get involved, whatever the temptation. ‘It’s not what I wanted, and the story’s really sensationalised. What the journo didn’t know, he’s made up,’ he said, which wasn’t true but he didn’t want Debs getting upset or defensive about the past. Things were bad enough without something sending her off on a bender.

  By the time he’d finished reassuring her and trying to find ways to suggest she didn’t read the article, he was outside the studio theatre, it was nine forty-six and he was late. ‘Got to go, Mum. Ping me a text if you want to talk later, but best thing is just to ignore the whole thing. Particularly any approaches from journalists,’ he added. Then he ended the call and went inside, already saying a breathless, ‘Sorry!’ to Georgine and ‘Sorry, sorry!’ to everybody, throwing his coat off and grabbing up Georgine’s production file because he’d completely forgotten his own. He knew she kept a spare running order in the back … yep, there it was. He was all set.

  Georgine was looking at him as if he was slightly mad, but that he could cope with.

  Many of the students were staring at him too but whether that was because of The Hungry Years or because they’d read the Daily Snoop, he neither knew nor cared. At this second, submerging himself in his role at Acting Instrumental was all he wanted in the world. Something to make him feel normal.

  Georgine tried to ignore how weirdly Joe was behaving. She hadn’t ever known him to be late, or seen him look so spaced out.

  She followed him as he made his way to the other side of the studio theatre staring at the running order as if he’d never seen it before. Errol, Keeley and Maddie were casting him puzzled glances too as they checked the positioning of the props for the first set, the opulent lounge of Uncle Jones signified by the lavish Christmas tree and a side table with a big, shiny lamp. Joe jumped and swung around when Georgine laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘Sorry.’ She ushered him a few steps away from the three extended rows of seating, where all the students were waiting to get underway. ‘Are you sure you’re OK to work today?’ She even checked that the size of his pupils was normal, as, though it would seem out of character so far as he was concerned, drug use wasn’t unheard of in the music industry.

  He gave what she assumed was meant to be a reassuring smile, though it was a bit … haunted. ‘Something’s happened, but I’ll get over it.’

  ‘Do you need anything?’

  ‘Nope. Ready to roll.’ He frowned down at the paperwork in his hand.

  Georgine could only wonder what was engraving the lines at the bridge of his nose. She turned away to take up station in the middle of the room and fix her mind on the job at hand. ‘OK everybody! Are you ready?’

  She grinned at the cheers and calls of ‘Go for it!’, letting the energy in the room tingle within her.

  ‘As you all know, the aim’s to run straight through, except for an extended lunch interval. Scene one, act one should take around twenty minutes, scene two half an hour, and scene three fifteen minutes. Bear with our lovely Level 2 student scene shifters as this is their first real opportunity to rehearse. Fern –’ she flashed a smile at Fern, who was clutching her script as if frightened it would run off ‘– will be prompting us if we need it. Joe will be supervising light and sound once we move into the Raised Curtain, but today he’s acting as backstage manager, making sure everyone’s where they should be and when. We’re not stopping or doing over, so if something goes awry
just make the best of it. We’ll learn from today, ready for Monday’s dress rehearsal. Any questions? No? Then let’s go!’

  Joe called out, ‘Band One and Band Two, to the music stage, please. Troupe One, off stage left; Troupe Two off stage right, upstage. Kerry Christmas and Uncle Jones off stage left; Auntie Jones, Mum, Dad and Casper Christmas, off stage right, downstage.’

  As one, the students got to their feet, taking up positions, picking up instruments. Then silence. Georgine felt an unexpected lump in her throat at all the pairs of eyes trained intently on her. Swallowing, she lifted her voice. ‘Whenever you’re ready, Musical Director.’

  Errol turned to the band. ‘Ready? Everybody? Yes? Here we go!’ In the air he beat out one-two-three. On four, the upbeat, drumsticks lifted, the drums and bass came in dadda dadda for five-six for the introduction to ‘Everybody Loves Uncle Jones’. Troupe One hip-hopped onto the stage at the beginning of the third bar as they sang: We love you, we love you, Uncle Jones, it’s true. Troupe Two came on high stepping, It’s true, we all do.

  Georgine became instantly absorbed. She didn’t want to miss a moment, but she clutched a pad and pen to record timings and note any issues. A few nerves showed in a shaky step here, a warbled note there. Uncle Jones dropped his plastic beaker, which would be a brandy balloon of cold tea on performance nights, but he finished his solo lines before casually retrieving it. She gave Trent a smile and an approving nod.

  Though her attention was on the stage, a movement caught the corner of her eye. She glanced over to see Joe scowling fiercely at his phone, doing something to it and stuffing it roughly back into his pocket. Then he refocused on the students, his head moving slightly to the beat.

  Scene one, act one whizzed by energetically, full of faces shining at the prospect of an extended family Christmas, and ended with enthusiastic applause from everyone not currently on stage. The scene change took at least twice as long as hoped, but that was OK, they had a spare three quarters of an hour at the end of act one before lunch. In this scene, Kerry Christmas watched through her mock TV as the gangster scene took place stage left. The Christmas tree had to vanish and covering it with a black cloth like a budgie in its cage didn’t work well, so the whole tree had to be carried off, shedding baubles. Check if the Raised Curtain has a screen to lend us, she wrote on her pad. If not, she’d have to find time to adapt something. Much easier just to shove a screen in front of the tree.