Sami's Silver Lining

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘Cool,’ Bobbi-Jo says, pink-faced and smiling.

  ‘Go right ahead,’ Bex adds generously. ‘You’re welcome!’

  Bobbi-Jo gets up, wriggles out of the booth and follows T-Dawg and his friends over to a distant table.

  ‘Advice?’ Marley echoes, as they depart.

  ‘On style, maybe?’ Bex quips.

  ‘T-Dawg is so not how I imagined him,’ Lexie says, and we sit in silence for a moment, trying not to laugh.

  ‘He’s only borrowed Bobbi-Jo,’ Bex whispers wickedly. ‘Think we could get him to keep her?

  12

  Today Millford, Tomorrow the World

  ‘Guess what?’ Bobbi-Jo says at practice a few days later. ‘I’ve got the most amazing news! Will you tell them, Marley, or shall I?’

  Marley sighs. ‘Go right ahead.’

  ‘We’re going to be famous!’ she crows. ‘We’re going to be on the radio and win a day’s free recording in a proper studio, find ourselves a manager, maybe even have a number-one hit!’

  We’re all gathered in the old railway carriage ready to practise, but nobody looks especially thrilled at Bobbi-Jo’s news.

  ‘Who told you this?’ Bex asks, tuning her bass guitar. ‘Was it the tooth fairy? Santa Claus? A talking faun with Turkish Delight who came from a land where it’s always winter and never Christmas?’

  ‘Huh?’ Bobbi-Jo huffs. ‘I don’t actually know what you’re talking about, Bex, and I don’t think you do either. Look, I was talking to my dad about the Lost & Found and how few openings there are for new bands these days, and he came up with a brilliant idea to help us. A Battle of the Bands competition! The radio station love the idea – they want to invite local bands to perform live on radio over a period of two weeks … and get listeners ringing in to vote, like Eurovision or something. How cool? And Dad’s called in a favour from a friend who owns a recording studio in Birmingham, and he’s giving a day’s recording time as the prize. I mean, this competition is totally made for us, right?’

  Bex raises an eyebrow. ‘The fact that your dad works for the radio station isn’t going to look just a tiny bit suspicious if we win then?’

  Bobbi-Jo scowls. ‘You’re always so negative!’ she grumbles. ‘The people of Millford will choose the winner. Dad’ll be totally impartial, obviously, but if he really, really likes the sound of the winning band, he might take them on as manager. He misses that side of the music business, I think.’

  Lexie and I exchange glances. ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘You’re saying we might end up recording a single – and getting a manager too?’

  ‘What about Ked Wilder?’ Happi asks. ‘He’s supposed to be our mentor – shouldn’t we run those kind of decisions past him?’

  ‘How do we do that, exactly?’ Marley challenges. ‘Ked’s great, but he’s off the radar right now. We can’t afford to wait around forever, and this competition is exactly what we need to get focused again. We don’t have much competition locally, do we? We’ll smash it!’

  ‘Modesty has always been your most attractive trait, Marley,’ Bex says, and he shrugs.

  ‘Look, this hasn’t been advertised yet,’ he says. ‘Bobbi-Jo and her dad have come up with the idea together, and I for one am grateful. It’s the first time Millford has done anything like this, and I really do think we can win!’

  ‘Of course we can,’ Bobbi-Jo says. ‘There’s practically no opposition!’

  ‘There’s Pretty Street,’ Bex says, grinning. ‘Friends of yours, I believe?’

  Bobbi-Jo shrugs. ‘I’ve known T-Dawg since I was five years old. He wasn’t T-Dawg then, he was Thomas Dawes. He’s had a crush on me since reception class … Are you jealous, Marley?’

  ‘Why would I be?’ Marley asks. ‘You’re with us, not them. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, obviously,’ she says. ‘They were just asking for advice on dance moves yesterday. I’m fully trained, you know – street dance, jazz, tap, ballet …’

  ‘You’re teaching them to pirouette?’ Lee sniggers.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just giving them some tips on how to move and how to stand. Don’t laugh – we could do with thinking about that sort of thing too. You can’t just stand there like a limp dishrag when you’re on stage in front of thousands, you know!’

  ‘We managed OK at the festival,’ Marley points out.

  ‘Yes, but it could have been so much better – Romy and Lexie should be bopping about as they do the backing vocals, and Sasha could do some subtle twerking …’

  ‘Is there such a thing?’ Sasha asks, alarmed. ‘Even if there is – no way!’

  ‘Well, I’m just saying, don’t underestimate Pretty Street,’ Bobbi-Jo says. ‘They’re serious about what they do, and once they find out about the Battle of the Bands they’ll definitely be signing up.’

  ‘They’re a joke,’ Marley says dismissively. ‘No threat to us. Who else might enter?’

  ‘Plenty,’ Jake says. ‘My stepdad plays with a local ceilidh band – they might go for it. There’s a bunch of middle-aged lorry drivers in pork-pie hats who play ska tunes – and don’t forget Zombie Massacre. All kinds of people are making music in Millford.’

  ‘Enough chat,’ he says. ‘We’ve got to up our game – end of story. Right, let’s practise. Let’s start with the summer playlist – and I want it perfect. We’ve got to nail this!’

  Half an hour in, my head is hurting from the noise, and Marley’s not looking impressed either. ‘No, no, keep it simple,’ he yells yet again, waving his arms to halt proceedings. ‘Bobbi-Jo, focus on getting the notes right. You said you’d practise!’

  ‘I have practised!’ she argues. ‘Maybe it’s Sasha’s singing that’s off? Or Lexie’s backing vocals?’

  ‘It’s the keyboards,’ Marley says firmly. ‘I’m sorry, Bobbi-Jo, you’re playing a bunch of notes that shouldn’t be there.’

  ‘I’m just doing what you showed me,’ she says, crestfallen, and I can’t help feeling a bit sorry for her then. ‘Maybe you showed me wrong? Should we have some more one-to-one practices, so I know for sure?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Marley says with a sigh. ‘I’ve already simplified the keyboard parts as much as I can. I’ve pared them right back to a simple two-note beat, but it’s still not working. A few more days’ practice, I guess …’

  ‘Is he kidding?’ Lee says under his breath. ‘Never mind a few days, a few decades wouldn’t be long enough. She can’t play!’

  The practice disintegrates. Lee, George and Jake are playing card games, Bex unplugs her bass and starts reading The Fault in Our Stars, and I abandon the flute to sketch my band mates on the back of some discarded sheet music. Eventually, Marley calls it a day and people start to head off.

  ‘You still haven’t told her you’re gay,’ Lexie says to Marley as we watch Bobbi-Jo walk across the grass, blowing him a kiss over her shoulder. ‘That’s rotten, Marley – we can all see she fancies you.’

  ‘I’ll tell her soon,’ he argues. ‘I just don’t want to hurt her feelings. She really is trying, and her dad’s a great contact – we can win this competition and show him we’re a band worth taking on. Today Millford, tomorrow the world!’

  13

  In the Artist’s Studio

  The first time Lexie comes to tea at our flat, my aunt and uncle practically roll out a red carpet.

  ‘Welcome!’ Aunt Zenna says, beaming at her. ‘Welcome to our home! You are the girl who has made our Sami tidy himself up, comb his hair occasionally! You have put a smile on his face once more!’

  ‘Have I?’ Lexie asks, looking slightly overwhelmed. ‘Well … that’s good! He’s put a smile on my face too!’

  My uncle insists on conducting a guided tour of the workshop, and flicking through a family photo album showing my cousins Taz and Faizah at various ages, in school uniform, graduating from uni, and, in Faizah’s case, getting married. Lexie manages to make all the right noises, and even admires a slightly scary picture of Faizah’s toddler
son with ice cream all over his face.

  Aunt Zenna has produced a Syrian feast, and Lexie tries everything.

  ‘I am getting to love Syrian food!’ she exclaims. ‘Hummus and lebna with za’atar and ful … they’re great! Beats pizza and chips any day!’

  ‘Oh, we love pizza and chips too,’ my aunt confesses. ‘But I thought you’d appreciate something traditional, something special!’

  ‘I do!’ Lexie says, and my aunt and uncle have to visibly restrain themselves from throwing their arms around her. Lexie’s goodness shines out of her, it seems, and I’m not the only one to see it.

  ‘So, where is our nephew taking you tonight?’ my uncle asks Lexie.

  ‘Stargazing,’ she says. ‘That’s all I know, but I bet it’ll be fun!’

  My aunt frowns. ‘Sami, no,’ she protests. ‘Not the fire escape! It’s an eyesore! That’s no kind of a date for a lovely young lady like Lexie!’

  But that’s where we go, all the same, Lexie laughing and Uncle Dara shaking his head in despair and Aunt Zenna offering to make us a flask of her hot sweet coffee.

  ‘Your aunt and uncle are so lovely!’ Lexie tells me as I spread a blanket for us to sit on. ‘They think the world of you!’

  ‘They think I’m mad,’ I say. ‘But I reckon they see you as a good influence. You’d better stick with me!’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ she says, grinning.

  According to the internet, there are supposed to be meteor showers tonight, but all we can see is the fuzzy orange glow from Millford’s street lights. Meteor showers and falling stars might be happening right now above our heads, and we’d never even know it.

  That’s sort of sad, but still, it’s good to have someone to sit with once more beneath the night sky, and a fuzzy orange glow is better than the flash and roar of the bombs that lit up the skies of Syria in those weeks before we left.

  I take Lexie’s hand in the darkness.

  ‘I’m not sure the Lost & Found are actually going to win this competition,’ she muses after a while. ‘Not unless Bobbi-Jo’s playing improves. We’re on very rocky ground!’

  ‘Try telling Marley that,’ I say. ‘He’s so obsessed that he won’t listen to any criticism at all! I don’t think this will end well.’

  ‘Nope,’ Lexie agrees, squinting skyward. ‘Does this date count as stargazing if we don’t see any stars?’

  ‘They’re up there,’ I promise. ‘Somewhere …’

  ‘Bex has a poster on her bedroom wall with an Oscar Wilde quote on it,’ Lexie says. ‘ “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars,” it says. Something like that, anyway.’

  ‘We’re on the fire escape, not in the gutter,’ I say.

  ‘Same thing,’ she says.

  ‘Bike ride tomorrow,’ I remind her. ‘That’s almost the last thing on the dates list – we’ll need to make a new one. Meet at eleven in the park? You can give me a guided tour of Millford on two wheels!’

  ‘You managed to borrow one then?’ Lexie asks.

  ‘From the charity shop next door,’ I admit. ‘They said I could take it for a test ride in exchange for helping them in the shop one morning. It’s years since I’ve ridden a bike!’

  ‘It’s something you don’t forget,’ Lexie points out. ‘It’ll be fun, I promise. Sami, do you want to know something? Something weird, something sad? Something I’ve never told anyone else?’

  I frown. ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘If you want to tell me.’

  She settles into the curve of my arm. ‘You might think I’m stupid …’

  ‘You’re not stupid,’ I tell her. ‘I’d never think that.’

  Lexie sighs. ‘It’s about my mum. I still miss her loads, y’know. For a long time I had stuff I wanted to tell her, stuff I needed to ask her … and she wasn’t here to ask. So after she left, I used to write her letters. At first, I sent them to the flat we used to live in, but the social worker told me to stop. The new people were getting kind of freaked out. I kept writing anyway, but I had nowhere to send the letters, so I’d slip a note into the pages of a library book, fold one into the shape of a paper boat and launch it on the park lake, drop one into the flames of a bonfire. I thought that somehow my mum might get the message.’

  ‘Oh, Lexie …’

  ‘I did it until a few weeks ago,’ she says. ‘Crazy, huh? It’s hard to let go of the past.’

  ‘It’s not crazy,’ I say. ‘It’s human. It’s actually kind of lovely. I’d give anything to be able to say goodbye to my family. I still have my father’s mobile phone – it doesn’t work, of course. The charger is long gone, but what wouldn’t I give to fire it up and call his number, hear his voice one last time …’

  ‘Why don’t you?’ Lexie says. ‘Just get a new charger. You can get all kinds of old kit on the internet. It wouldn’t be hard to find the right one, I bet!’

  I blink. ‘You think it would still work? After all this time?’

  Lexie shrugs. ‘Maybe. Worth a try, surely? You could leave a message. A sort of goodbye voicemail … a mobile-phone version of the letters I used to send.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Maybe I could!’

  ‘It might help,’ she tells me. ‘In some strange way, it might help you let go.’

  The thought of letting go, saying goodbye, is a tangle of love and grief in my soul. It would mean accepting that my family are gone, but maybe I need to do that before I can get on with my own life.

  There are so many things I want to say to them, though. I know that I have to try, even if it’s painful.

  I lean my head back against the rusty fire escape and gaze at the sky, thinking of the roof garden back home in Damascus. I don’t even know if our home is still standing; I think the stars shine above a ruined city now.

  There are no shooting stars here tonight, not for us, but just being with Lexie is pretty much perfect. Besides, I have a contingency plan. I take a Coke-can star from my pocket and hand it to her, and she smiles and snuggles closer.

  The next day, I give Aunt Zenna a swift hug as I head out of the door, coat-tails flapping, to collect the bicycle from next door. It’s a big, old-fashioned thing, and only a little bit rusty in places, which is more than can be said for me. I sit astride it, suddenly uncertain.

  ‘Good luck, Sami!’ says Mr Jones, the manager of the charity shop, and I grin and push off from the kerb, wobbling all the way along the street.

  By the time I get to the park, the bike seems less unwieldy. I am flying along, my coat fluttering in the breeze, an older version of the eight-year-old kid who once spent weekends constructing cross-country bike tracks with his friends in the hills just beyond the city.

  I meet Lexie at the park cafe and the two of us set off on our tour: a circuit of Millford and a detour into the countryside. We stop a couple of hours later to share a sandwich in the park, then wheel our bikes towards Greystones with the plan of calling on Louisa Winter.

  ‘Do I look like I’ve been sleeping under a bridge?’ I ask Lexie, remembering one of Aunt Zenna’s accusation from a couple of months ago.

  ‘No. Why, have you?’ she retorts.

  ‘Not recently,’ I say. ‘My aunt reckons I’m a scruff. She’s determined to get me to ditch the coat and get a haircut.’

  ‘The coat’s seen better days, but so what?’ Lexie says with a shrug. ‘It has character. And the hair … I love it just the way it is!’

  I wonder if Aunt Zenna would like Lexie quite as much if she heard that.

  As we pass the old railway carriage, we can hear the cats-being-strangled racket of Bobbi-Jo having an extra keyboard lesson. ‘She’s improving,’ Lexie says, and I have to laugh, because I don’t think it’s actually possible for Bobbi-Jo to be any worse.

  I rake a hand through my hair in a futile attempt to tidy myself up as we walk up the stone steps to the front door at Greystones, and Lexie rings the bell. There’s a long silence, and then the door creaks open and there is Louisa Winter, red hair tumbling ove
r a paint-stained apron, a paint palette still in her hand.

  ‘Children!’ she says, opening the door wide, as if she was expecting us at exactly this moment. ‘How lovely! Come in! I have chocolate brownies, and pink lemonade in the fridge. Come through to the studio and I’ll fetch them!’

  We walk along an old-fashioned hallway to the back of the house, where we are ushered into the studio, a big room with high ceilings and huge sash windows that flood the space with natural light. Three easels hold paintings at various stages of completion, and dozens more canvases are stacked against the walls. Each painting is breathtaking, depicting stark, stylized figures and animals that seem to hint at a meaning far darker, more magical than the obvious. The images draw you in, make you feel still and silent and awed.

  I could stay here forever, breathing in the smell of oil paint and turps and linseed oil, my eyes skimming the table crowded with half-used tubes of paint, palettes and jars of brushes, taking in the paint-stained sofas, the dressing screens, the giant tribal shield, the hat stand draped with huge swathes of jewel-bright silk and velvet.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, because there are no words to describe this; no words in any language. ‘Just … wow!’

  ‘D’you like it?’ Ms Winter asks, coming in with a pitcher of pink lemonade with ice and strawberry halves, and the promised plate of brownies. I just nod, my eyes burning, because I have never seen anything like this before, never imagined that art could hold so much power.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ I say at last, turning to face her. I know my face must be bright with the thrill of it – childish, joyful – but I don’t care. Something has been switched on inside me, a little flame of hope.

  Lexie slips her hand into mine.

  ‘Sami’s an artist too,’ she says. ‘His drawings are amazing!’