All Together Now

by Gill Hornby

‘And what are we doing for the second half?’

  ‘More of the same, surely.’

  ‘Yes, Tracey, get back there. Let’s finish what we started for once.’

  There are some songs that–by some extraordinary chemical reaction or miracle–work for just everyone. And that night, in the Coronation Hall, Curtis Mayfield’s ‘People Get Ready’ was one of them. With the voices of the Bridgeford Community Choir, under the direction of Tracey Leckford, it turned into something wonderful. Section by section, one by one, different background by different background, they all climbed right on board. I’m ready, sang the pop fans; I’m ready, sang the opera lovers; I’m ready, sang the voices that were trained to praise their Lord. Together they stood, hips slowly rocking, bodies gently swaying, voices aiming up to heaven.

  This time

  It was that gorgeous, rounded, completed sound that only harmony can create.

  This time

  Every gaze was focused on Tracey and still it was not possible to sing that word without a smile.

  This time…

  They sang as one voice, moved as one body.

  … I’m ready.

  The roar of applause could be heard all over Bridgeford.

  ‘There’s our opener for the contest, then.’

  ‘I feel sorry for the opposition.’

  ‘Oh, Tracey, amazing.’

  ‘Night, Trace. And thanks, wow, really thanks so much.’

  ‘Best ever, Tracey. Until next week.’

  ‘I think I’m right in saying,’ said Bennett, wrapping his mac over one arm and tucking a brolly under the other, ‘that what you did in there is commonly referred to in modern parlance as “nailing it”.’

  ‘Hey, Bennett, listen to you. May I be the first to welcome you into the twenty-first century?’ Tracey bobbed her head in deference as she walked backwards away from him. ‘And thank you very much. I really enjoyed it.’

  ‘You should start planning next week and come up with a full set for the Championships. If you want to talk any of it through, do get in touch.’ He held up his hand in farewell and set off towards Priory Lane.

  Tracey turned, gave a little jump, clicked her heels together in mid-air and fairly sprang up the hill towards home.

  If, a year or two previously, you were to cast a dispassionate eye upon the London Road site of the proposed new Bridgeford superstore, you would not have thought it likely to be the focus of any fuss. It was a wide, open space, yes, but nobody could argue it to be a thing of beauty. It had been hanging around aimlessly on the side of the main road for ages, like it had missed the last bus and was too knackered to walk. It had never been developed, but had ceased to be green years ago. When it came on the market, it was of no use or interest as anything to anybody, apart from the odd stray dog or a particularly unambitious bit of tumbleweed.

  But look upon it on the day that the developers were to come face to face with the protesters and you could look dispassionately no more. Sure, it was still a rubbish bit of land, but that was no longer the point. The Gaza Strip is, underneath it all, a rubbish piece of land, but it matters. To the people who are on and around it the Gaza Strip matters enormously. And yes, the wider world cares about it very much too. And OK, no lives were in danger there in Bridgeford, no rockets were being fired or bombs being dropped and the wider world could not have cared less. But still: to the people who lived around it, the London Road site had come to matter enormously, too.

  Nobody was as surprised at the depth of passion of the Anti-Superstore protest as the Anti-Superstore protesters themselves. Who knew they gave a monkey’s what happened to that bit of dirt over there? They certainly didn’t. That little core of eco-warriors, sitting around that fire, giving it the odd poke? They weren’t even eco-warriors before the planning permission went in. That man in waterproofs, who got up to shake Bennett by the hand? That was the assistant manager of the bank in the High Street. He had never been known to opine on the environment, or indeed any other subject, before this blew up, but there he was. He had taken a week of his precious annual leave to be down there for this crucial moment.

  The ever-wise Joni Mitchell once warned us, in exactly this context–paradise, you may remember, and parking lots–that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. Well, it was Bridgeford’s good fortune that, in this instance, they realised just before it was about to go. As soon as the land came under threat, indeed: that was when the concerned citizens realised what it meant to them; that it was the only barrier left between Bridgeford and the rest of the world; that they could stand at the bottom of their own high street and see straight through and over it and beyond it. If they angled themselves one way, they were rewarded with a scene of rolling downs and enclosed fields, a doily of white sheep on the green. And if they swivelled to the other, they got the pylons and developments that were bursting out of the next big town. And if that was filled in, well, then what? What would Bridgeford look out on then? They would see nothing but a structure in the ranch style indigenous to some tranche of Middle America. And a petrol station and, rumour had it–rumour was now well into overdrive–a multi-storey car park. These developers thought they were actually going to pave paradise and put up a parking lot, did they? And meld their town into the next one and take away its very edges? Oh no, they weren’t. Not if Bridgeford could help it.

  There were more people turning out right then today than ever turned out for the Remembrance Day parade or to support the football club. The original little band of protesters had put out its social tentacles and gathered all sorts of different interest groups together: there were members of the church, the running group, the chamber of commerce, the Round Table, the bowls club, the Girl Guides and, of course, the Community Choir. They were all bound together in pursuit of the one cause, and passions were running high.

  ‘Here, Curly, so you definitely reckon there’ll be trouble? We’re not wasting our time here?’ There were some bystanders, it was true. Curly Jenkins, Billy’s friend, had been present throughout the history of the protest, not because he cared one way or the other but because he had to set up a car-washing place somewhere or his mum would be after him, and when he fetched up down here, nobody asked him for rent or threatened to throw him out. Unfortunately, nobody ever asked to have their car washed either. That was often the trouble with eco-warriors, even novices like these: on the whole, they didn’t drive their cars into battle. But Curly hadn’t worked that bit out–and anyway he wasn’t really bothered. As long as he could say to his mum he ran a car-wash service, then she’d get off his back. He had high hopes for today–riot shields, petrol canisters, bit of a laugh–and had imported a few mates for the afternoon to enjoy it with him.

  And Jazzy’s nan, in her wheelchair with a flask and a packet of sandwiches in her lap, was here to make a day of it too. ‘Park me here, Angela. There’s a good view here. That’s it. Hello, love. How can I help you?’

  Chrissie from ‘News from Your Neighbourhood’ was crouching next to her with a mic in her face. ‘And over here is one of the town’s more senior residents. Tell me, what brings you down here to the protest today?’

  ‘Well, love, when you’re my age, it’s just nice to get out, isn’t it? A nice day out. And there’s no steps or anything, perfect disabled access, you’ve got to hand it to them, wheeled in no trouble. Oh, it is nice to see so many people. I don’t get to see so many people any more…’

  ‘And why are you so against the building of the new superstore?’

  She started to fiddle with the greaseproof paper around her sandwich. ‘Oh, I’m not against the superstore, love. Oh no. I’m really looking forward to that. Have you looked at the prices in that place in the High Street? Robbery.’ She bit into her cheese and pickle. ‘Daylight bloody robbery. And they never have my diabetic chocolate or my magazine.’ Chrissie held her mic back from the loud chewing. ‘Be nice to get some proper service, too, for a change. Owph, that woman in there, such a cow. I know you’r
e the radio but I don’t care who hears me.’ She bent towards the microphone. ‘JACKIE CRAIG, YOU’RE A RIGHT—Oh, she’s gone. Hello, Maria love. How are you? You going to sing us all a song, are you? That will be nice.’

  The atmosphere was carnival that afternoon. Katie was running a bake stall and doing a roaring trade; acquaintances were catching up with each other, filling in the gaps of years. Everyone was pleased to be there and when the singers started up their by now well-worn protest programme, those who could joined in, and those who couldn’t clapped and swayed along. They were all deeply engrossed in ‘If I Had a Hammer’–banging out the love between the brothers and the sisters–and had mostly forgotten what on earth had brought them there, when Lewis shouted over the music: ‘OK, EVERBODY. ON YOUR GUARD. THEY’RE HERE.’ The singing stopped. ‘THE ENEMY IS UPON US.’

  ‘Coming up shortly, “News from Your Neighbourhood” and all the latest developments over at Bridgeford’s London Road. It’s been quite busy down there. But first let’s just enjoy a moment of calm…’

  The evenings were lightening and the gunmetal sky above the damp, clogged motorway told Tracey everything she needed to know about the day she had missed. It had been and still was grim out there. But inside, her car was filling up with the gentle beauty of one of the greatest piano intros in music history.

  When you’re weary…

  She pitched her voice at a minor third above Garfunkel’s and indicated to move into the central lane.

  … feeling small

  And then suddenly, just as quickly as she started it, she was losing it. Her own sound caught in her throat, she lost sight of the road for the mist in her eyes.

  Tracey had been doing so very well right up till that moment but just two little words set to three simple notes and she was a goner. What was it with music? What exactly was its power? How come smart-arse scientists were capable of splitting atoms yet were unable to explain how music could conduct electricity through the souls of men? If Art Garfunkel came up to her in the street and suggested she might be feeling small, she wouldn’t put up with it for a second–there would be a bit of ‘Er, excuse me…’ She might possibly bop him one. But since he had just happened to mention it so melodically, and on this night of all nights, Tracey was defenceless. All she could hear was the truth of his words. Small was exactly how she was feeling–very small, totally inconsequential and rather lost.

  It was another good reason why a person should never listen to the radio at all, of course, be it local or national, naff or not. You had no control. It was emotional Russian roulette. You just turned it on, caught a couple of chords and a killer line, and anything–any past love or hate, any ache in your heart that you could kid yourself was healed–could shoot out of there and slay you in an instant.

  I will lay me down.

  This was one of the first songs she ever taught Billy, ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’. When he was an infant–and the two of them together combined to make up one indestructible world–it was the lullaby that she used to get him to sleep. ‘Can I lay me down now, Mamma?’ he would ask when he wanted a nap. There was a tight squeeze in her chest as she thought about it; her breath was short. The rock and metal thing had not started by then, but she still had extremely high musical standards from her very first days as a parent. None of that nursery rhyme rubbish, certainly not. Billy never heard a nursery rhyme until he had been thoroughly indoctrinated against such musical inanities. All that hard work, all that parental dedication, and for what? So that one day he could just pack his bag and walk out of her door.

  She gulped and blinked away the tears. Dave at Drivetime was really rubbing the salt in with this one tonight, and yet still she didn’t turn the radio off. Her CDs were all over the seat, but Tracey hadn’t actually listened to them for a while now. For some reason, hard rock and loud shouting weren’t quite working for her these days; she seemed to be rediscovering the sensual pleasures of harmonic singing. She found the note and wrapped her voice up and around Garfunkel’s once more. It wasn’t quite the same, sharing harmony with a disembodied voice–a bit like telephone sex, she would imagine, getting your rocks off without looking each other in the eye. But for the frustrated and alone, it gave some sort of comfort. They were on to the final verse now, Tracey and Art, and could do with a bit of help to carry them off to the climax. Hey, Paul, fancy a threesome? It’s only pretend, after all…

  Now last week in the Coronation Hall, that was the real thing. When Tracey was conducting ‘People Get Ready’, and all those eyes were gripping hers and those hips were moving in time with hers and those voices were all doing their own thing and yet together making one big beautiful thing, well, that was the beginning of a serious, meaningful relationship. So really–and she must just keep telling herself this until she believed it–she was lucky. Billy may be leaving her, but at least the Choir was there to take his place.

  Tracey looked up to see that she had parked in the High Street outside the supermarket even without even noticing, so often had she made this exact journey over the past years. And now she was here, she realised she didn’t need to be. They would go out tonight, of course they would, their last night together after twenty-two years; it was a huge night for both of them. But her baby bird was flying off at 6 a.m. tomorrow, so she was actually all right for bread and milk for once. She was probably all right for bread and milk for the rest of her life.

  ‘… Over LIVE to London Road, where there has been a lot of action. Chrissie, fill us in.’

  Hello, what was this? Tracey leaned over and turned up the volume.

  ‘Well, Dave, demonstrators end today with the upper hand after the dramatic personal intervention of a Mr Bennett Parker from Priory Lane.’

  No way! Tracey hooted with delight.

  ‘He lay down across the site entrance, while the Bridgeford Community Choir sang “He shall not be moved”. The developers, faced with the sight of Mr Parker in a puddle wearing what looked like a rather expensive suit, didn’t seem to be able to agree on how to proceed. At five p.m., they withdrew. His actions just show quite how high feelings are running over this local issue. Developers are tonight said to be reviewing their tactics.’

  ‘Thanks, Chrissie. It’s all kicking off in Bridgeford, then. Meanwhile, preparations for the St Ambrose Summer Fête hit a snag when—’

  Well, well, well. She turned the radio off and smiled to herself. A straggle of commuters came up the steps from the station and pressed down the High Street to their homes. It isn’t quite kicking off in Bridgeford, Drivetime Dave. Right here it is quiet, even by our dozy standards. Guess you just had to be where Bennett ‘Trouble’ Parker was, eh? Hang out with the rebels. Tracey wished now that she had taken the afternoon off work to go and join in. She turned the key in the ignition and looked over her shoulder before pulling away. If they did go ahead and build that wretched retail park and close down this nice little place, of course, she would probably never come down here again in the week. Instead, she would have to go off and do battle with lots of other people, from lots of other towns, around some ghastly giant superstore in order to buy food just for herself. She drove off, through the fading light, feeling–as Art Garfunkel had so neatly put it–small.

  Tracey moved up the stairs with a heavy heart but a lightness of body. She had no carrier bags this evening, for a change, and her shoulders were not clenched, braced against the violently loud music that assaulted her on a normal night. She opened the door to see Billy, a list between his teeth, tightening the straps on his rucksack.

  ‘Umph.’ He took the paper out of his mouth. ‘Hey, Mum. How was work?’

  ‘Yeah, a blast. We had such a laugh. So quiet in here, I thought you were out.’

  She walked across the cleared floor and put her bag on the table, next to his ticket, passport, wallet.

  ‘I’ve packed the iPod. Here, are you going to be all right without our music? Only just occurred to me…’

  No Bloodshitters? Hey ho, s
he would have to struggle on somehow. ‘I’ll sort myself out. Don’t worry about me. Now I do have to pop down to choir but I’ll make it quick and then we’ll go out, shall we?’ She reached into the fridge and took out an opened bottle of white. ‘Where do you fancy–Indian for old times’ sake?’

  ‘Oh, sorry, can’t. It’s my last night, so I’m out with the lads. Curly and Squat. Off for some beers.’

  Tracey hugged the bottle to her chest and stared, hard, out of the window with her back to her son. By employing the maximum amount of self-control available, she could just about hold herself together. Just give it a moment, for her pounding heart to subside and her throat to reopen; wait for this chill to pass. It could have been worse. Imagine if those words had been sung, not spoken. By Art Garfunkel:

  It’s my last night…

  –and in a minor key–

  … so I’m out with the lads

  Then she would be writhing on the floor, weeping tears of blood, flaying at her own flesh. As they had come out of the mouth of a young man who–face it–still had stuff to learn, then she could afford, or at least try to afford, to ignore them.

  The young man himself certainly displayed no awareness of the impact of his short but devastating speech. He was just settling down in front of the TV, putting his feet up on a kitchen chair, about to enjoy some final quality time with his games console and a post-apocalyptic world.

  ‘Thought you’d be busy with your singing thing anyway.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll probably have quite a bit of stuff to sort out. We get the election results tonight. And I do want to have a proper catch-up with them.’ Her voice brightened automatically as she spoke. ‘Apparently this afternoon my friend Bennett lay down in a puddle and it was on “News from Your Neighbourhood”.’

  ‘Hey. Mum. Enough.’ Billy kept his eyes on the screen as he pulled a virtual hooker out of a car and shot her dead. ‘You’re not going to go like completely lame while I’m away, are you?’