Love from Lexie

by Cathy Cassidy

  ‘I’m relying on you to help me do this,’ he says. ‘I mean, eleven people … It’s not going to be easy to pull everyone together and get the best from them all. But I totally love that you can see their potential – that you want to include us all!’

  The koala-beard barista is wiping tables and stacking chairs around us, and Marley takes the hint and packs up his guitar.

  ‘You came up with the best ever name for the band,’ he says, as we mooch out of the door. ‘Lost & Found … it’s great. Perfect. We’ve all felt lost at some point, right? Every single teenager in the world can relate. Genius.’

  He looks at me, blue eyes hooked on to mine, that fringe falling messily over his face, and I know I’m hopelessly lost, so lost I may never find myself again.

  I don’t even care.

  10

  Left Behind

  Strong feelings? I could pick anything from the last three years, but why not be brave and go right back to the day Mum left?

  Anger, sadness, shame, fear … It was all there. Anger that Mum had been gone too long; sadness that she’d left me behind; shame that I was so scared, so anxious; and fear, a big black shadow I could see from the corner of my eye wherever I looked, whatever I did.

  I watched Frozen five times that first day. I was afraid to sit alone in the silence, watching the hands on the kitchen clock creep round. I was afraid to believe that Mum had gone.

  I invented stories to explain her absence.

  Maybe she’d been offered a job and told to start immediately. Maybe she’d been spotted by a model agency or a famous photographer and asked to star in a photo shoot. Maybe she’d bumped into my dad again after all these years and the two of them were catching up on old times. Maybe she was just waiting for the right moment to tell him he had a daughter …

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  I switched off the DVD.

  It was past midnight by then, and I knew that, no matter how many maybes I could think up, there was no way on earth Mum would leave me alone all that time. I fetched my duvet from the bedroom and made myself a nest on the sofa.

  I tried to sleep, but the maybes got darker.

  Maybe Mum had been in an accident. Maybe she’d been kidnapped, knocked unconscious, captured by spies. Maybe she was sick, lying in a hospital with broken bones or a fever, unable to remember her name, her home, her life?

  I cried a bit, and then, at last, I slept.

  The next day, I was sure that Mum would come home, with a smile, a hug, an explanation. I made the most of my freedom, eating Coco Pops for breakfast and rereading my library books. Mum didn’t appear. I remembered what she’d said to me about feeling lost. I hadn’t taken it seriously at the time. What had she meant?

  I thought of all the places I could go to look for her. The job centre, the library, the park, the corner shop, the cafe that did milkshakes with ice-cream floats.

  There was a problem, though … I was nine years old and I didn’t have a key for the flat. Mum always met me from school and walked me home. Would it be safe to go out and leave the door ajar? I was pretty sure it wouldn’t. Besides, what if I went out to look for Mum and she came home while I was gone?

  When I was very small and the two of us were in a shopping centre or supermarket or any place that was big and busy, we had a rule. If we got separated, I was to stay calm and stay where I was, and Mum would come to find me.

  This was different, obviously. Mum was the one who was lost, not me, but still it made sense to me that she’d come back here the moment she could. I ate the rest of my chocolate Easter egg that second day, and an apple because Mum always said they were healthy.

  On the third day, I worked my way through the kitchen cupboards. Stale digestives, baked beans, the dregs of a jar of pickled onions. I debated going out to knock on one of the other doors on our floor, but Mum had always told me not to talk to the neighbours. There was a bloke who smoked drugs and played his music too loud, a group of eastern European guys, a wild-eyed woman with Tourette’s who yelled and swore a lot. I didn’t have the courage to go to any of them.

  On the fourth day, I found a packet of powdered mousse that you were supposed to mix with milk … but there was no milk, so I mixed it with water and drank it like a sweet, sickly soup. The Easter holidays were over by then, but I’d lost track of time. I was drifting in a fog of loss and pain, and hunger gnawed at my guts, an ache that wouldn’t go away. I sat beside the window and gazed out of the flat, looked up at the blue sky and the watery sun and then down at the concrete playground and the path that led through the estate, covered in broken glass that sparkled like glitter.

  I thought that if I watched for long enough, my mum might come walking along that path, smiling. She didn’t.

  I remember it all.

  I cried a lot.

  I remember wishing I had a mobile phone, money for the electric meter, food.

  I remember wondering if anyone would ever find me.

  In the end, school told social services that I wasn’t in class and that my mum wasn’t responding to texts and calls.

  I remember waking up from a half-sleep to the sound of someone banging on the door, and for a moment, just one split second, I thought it was Mum, that she was back, had lost her key somehow. I stumbled across the flat, dragging the duvet behind me, but when I opened the door it wasn’t Mum at all. Two police officers, a man in a suit and a tired-looking woman who said her name was Josie were on the doorstep.

  They asked a million questions about Mum, and when I couldn’t answer they told me to pack some clothes and grab a toothbrush. I was being taken into care. I held on to Muttley the knitted dog, packed my library books so they wouldn’t go overdue and held on to Josie’s hand. I walked out of the flat and into a different world.

  I’m writing, pencil scratching across the paper so fast I can’t keep track of what I’m saying. It doesn’t seem to matter about rhymes or patterns or whether the words resemble a song, just that those words are out there. They’re scary words: raw, painful, beautiful. I realize I am crying as I write. I can feel the pain inside me, memories leaking out of my eyes, sliding down my cheeks as fat, salty tears.

  Mary Shelley blinks at me, concerned, but I can’t stop.

  I work on, Marley’s guitar piece playing on repeat in the background. I cross out phrases, lines, paragraphs, move things around. The story changes, simplifies, slides off on a tangent. It becomes bigger, smaller, stronger. It’s still my story, but it feels like everyone’s story at the same time.

  I keep working until the words fit themselves to the music, lodging themselves in place as if they have always been that way. I am whispering, singing softly to myself as I write, scribbling things down, changing things around. I feel shy at first, worried in case Mandy and Jon hear me and wonder what I’m doing, but after a while the stop-start crooning, the singing to myself, becomes second nature. I record myself on my phone, singing along to Marley’s backing piece, then alter two of the verses and tweak the chorus and record it all again with some tambourine backing.

  It’s messy, emotional, rough around the edges, but I love it.

  I keep on working until I have a song.

  11

  Band Practice

  I’m miles away, in a different time, a different place. I’m watching the big library bus draw up in the village square, back when we lived in the cottage in Scotland. I remember running up the steps, racing to the end of the bus where the children’s books were.

  ‘Oh, this one was my favourite too when I was your age,’ Mum had said as she sat down beside me on a beanbag. ‘The Tiger Who Came to Tea …’

  She scooped me up on to her lap and I snuggled close. I could smell her sweet vanilla scent, feel the warmth of her breath on the back of my neck as she read out the story …

  ‘You OK, Lexie?’ Bex asks, and I snap back to the present.

  ‘Yeah … sure!’

  As we head into the library, a motley crew of mismatched kids l
ugging a drum kit, keyboards and assorted other instruments, Miss Walker seems distant, distracted and anxious. Her poodle-print circle skirt and scarlet twinset seem out of place today and, though she raises a half-hearted smile and brings us a tray of hot chocolate and cookies, I can see that something is very wrong.

  ‘What’s up, Miss W?’ Bex asks, direct as always. ‘Has something happened?’

  Miss Walker puts a finger to her lips and gestures across the library to where two men in suits are noting things down on clipboards.

  ‘A visit from the council,’ she whispers. ‘An audit, whatever that is. No warning. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about, but on top of all the talk of cuts and the public consultations … well, those two have got me spooked. Won’t have a cup of tea, won’t chat with the library users, don’t want to see the figures …’

  The men in suits look sulky and sour, but I’m sure Miss Walker is worrying over nothing.

  ‘They can’t do anything,’ I say. ‘Can they? People love this library!’

  ‘Of course they do,’ Bex agrees. ‘Someone even got up a petition when they started up with all that rubbish about cutting hours. Don’t worry – it’ll be OK!’

  But Miss Walker doesn’t seem convinced, and I can tell that Bex is remembering the way Millford Park Academy closed its library over the summer holidays last year, quietly and without discussion. It doesn’t always matter how many people care about something. Sometimes, it just comes down to numbers on a spreadsheet, balancing books, making savings.

  ‘We have the highest footfall of any of the local libraries in Millford; the highest book traffic,’ Miss Walker is saying. ‘That should be in our favour, but these guys won’t talk about that – won’t talk about anything. They’ve been taking photographs of the damp patch on the wall over by the computers and photographs of the window frames – they do need replacing, I suppose, but we manage! This library was built in the 1920s, and it hasn’t fallen down yet …’

  ‘Maybe they’re planning a renovation?’ I suggest. ‘New windows and a damp-proof course?’

  ‘In our dreams,’ Miss Walker says.

  ‘Bex is right – it’ll be OK,’ I insist, looking around the place. ‘I mean … just look!’

  Parents and toddlers are sitting on brightly coloured cushions, reading picture books; schoolkids are browsing the children’s section; adults of all ages and varieties are wandering along the shelves of fiction and non-fiction, and every computer in the place is being used. On a central table, the Thursday Knit & Natter group is in full swing – five elderly ladies drinking tea and knitting rainbow squares to make a quilt for Syrian refugees. And then there’s us, the noisy teenagers, setting up for band practice in the community meeting room.

  It’s pretty much the perfect library, but Miss Walker still looks worried.

  ‘Are we still all right to practise?’ Bex checks. ‘The noise won’t be a problem, will it? With those blokes here?’

  Miss Walker sighs and dredges up a smile. ‘Oh, Bex, Lexie, you kids go ahead,’ she says. ‘That’s what the community meeting room is for. I don’t know what that pair are up to, but they’re not going to stop us from doing what we’re supposed to do. Take no notice of me, pet!’

  ‘We won’t be too noisy,’ I say, although I think perhaps we will. ‘We only have one busking amp between us. We’ll try to keep it down …’

  That promise gets broken straight away.

  It’s absolute, total chaos.

  Eleven musicians and one tech guy squashed into a small room with a drum kit, a keyboard, two guitars, a flute, a trumpet, a cello and assorted other instruments, along with a mic and a busking amp … It was never going to be easy. At least on Monday people took it in turns – this time we’re attempting to play together, and it’s a nightmare. People are tuning up, chatting, breaking into little groups of two or three to play favourite songs.

  At one point, we have Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ going up against ‘Good Riddance’ by Green Day and ‘Jolene’ by Dolly Parton. It’s all kind of traumatic, and I peer through the window of the meeting-room door in case Miss Walker has changed her mind about the noise, but all I can see is her candy-pink beehive nodding slightly in the distance as she talks to the two guys in suits.

  I turn back to the band.

  Marley is exasperated too. Unlike me, he is a natural leader, waving his arms and yelling above the cacophony.

  ‘You’re a shambles,’ he roars, as the racket crashes to a halt. ‘Focus! I need you to listen – and think. Listen to this and get the shape of it in your head … get the story, the feel of it. Think about where your instrument could add to it. OK?’

  Everybody nods.

  He starts to play guitar and Sasha, pink-faced, begins to sing the words I’ve written. I know Marley sent her the rough-cut recording I made of the song, and I cringe thinking of Sasha listening to my imperfect voice mapping out the song. It still feels so personal to me – and now she’s singing out for everyone in the band to hear. I can hear that she’s been practising, though, stepping inside the lyrics and giving them a clear, sweet clarity.

  I feel like someone has peeled my skin back and exposed my insides in all their painful, messy, shameful glory. Whatever made me think I could drag my feelings up and share them with the world?

  Sasha’s voice swoops and soars, playing games with my heart; Marley’s haunting guitar riffs and his brother’s steady drum backing underpin it all. When the sound dies away and I dare to look up I notice Happi has tears in her eyes and Romy has a hand over her mouth and Jake is looking at me as though he has never quite seen me before. The others look transfixed too, silent and respectful.

  ‘Awesome, man,’ says Lee, the trumpet boy.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Soumia agrees. ‘Just tell us what you want us to do!’

  Marley does. He instructs Lee to work up a short, soulful trumpet intro, asks Soumia to create a light, piercing keyboard piece to open each verse and tasks Bex with helping to build up a richer sound with her bass guitar. Happi, Romy and George are charged with ramping up the emotion on each chorus, and Sami has the job of linking the verses and chorus with some flutey stuff.

  ‘You can chuck in some tambourine,’ Marley says to me. ‘Like on the rough cut, OK? And once we’ve got all that in place, I want you and Romy to try some harmonies – you both have decent voices. Right. One more time!’

  We run through the song again, trying to add all that in, but it’s too much to keep on top of and we descend into chaos once more. I’m panicking because the whole thing sounds grim, but Marley just takes it in his stride and decides to break things down a bit. He gets Lee working on the intro and Happi, Romy and George on their section, while Soumia runs through her keyboard piece over and over and Sami sits on the edge of it all, face still and guarded, playing something so beautiful on the flute that I get shivers. Romy and I work out some basic backing harmonies, then Romy switches back to violin, working up her part with Happi and George. Lee’s trumpet intro is sounding almost perfect.

  Slowly it comes together. Marley gets Dylan and Bex to play the song through with him and Sasha, then they run through it again with Lee’s trumpet intro and my tambourine. It takes a few tries to get the timing right, but we’re all grinning at how good it sounds. Next, Soumia adds her keyboard piece at the start of each verse, and we go over that so many times I think I may lose the will to live, but slowly it falls into place and begins to sound like something cool.

  ‘Backing vocals,’ Marley yells, and Romy and I step up to the mic and add our harmonies – and it actually works. Sami comes in with the flute, and finally Marley adds Happi and Romy on violin and George on cello. We plough through it all so many times I start to hate this stupid song, but after a while the whole thing comes together once more, and it sounds glorious.

  In a slightly rough-around-the-edges way.

  As the last chords fade away, Marley rakes a hand through his fringe, grinning. Sasha looks exha
usted but jubilant, and the rest of us are just plain knackered and slightly disbelieving, hardly daring to accept that we’ve gone from chaos to discipline and wonder in just two hours.

  ‘I think we have a band,’ Marley says. ‘And I think we have a sound! You’re amazing, all of you!’

  The practice breaks up, and we pack up and haul away our stuff, and as usual Happi, Bex and I are last, fussing over the chairs, tidying away a stray crisp packet, rinsing the hot chocolate mugs at the sink in Miss Walker’s office. It’s past seven and the main library lights are off; I can just see Miss Walker quietly stacking shelves in the half-light over by the children’s section.

  ‘We’re off now … Thanks, Miss W!’ Bex shouts, and the librarian raises a hand to wave faintly.

  ‘Thank you!’ I call, but as Miss Walker turns towards me I see that her cheeks are wet with tears, and the warm spring evening feels suddenly cold.

  12

  Books and Dreams

  Last night we’d tried to talk to Miss Walker, but she shooed us away, said not to worry, locked the door and turned away in the darkness.

  ‘I’ve written a letter,’ I tell Bex as we walk to school the next day. ‘To the council. I’m just as worried as you are, honest.’

  ‘I’m not worried; I’m furious,’ Bex snaps. ‘Where did those creeps get off, making Miss Walker cry? We have to find out what’s happened, Lexie!’

  Bex turns into a side street, a detour that leads to Bridge Street Library, and although I know the place doesn’t open until nine, I don’t hesitate; I follow. The two of us wait for a while outside the library, sitting on the big sandstone steps.

  Mum always took me to the library wherever we were living; she’d use the computers while I looked at the books, and I always borrowed as many as my ticket would allow. Those books had been pure magic to me, stepping stones to a world where anything was possible.

  ‘They’re not just books; they’re dreams,’ Mum told me once, and I knew exactly what she meant.