Tribute Act

by Joanna Chambers

  Rosie scowled and turned to Mum. “Can’t you have a word with Jago?”

  “I could try,” Mum said, though her tone was doubtful. She glanced at Mack. “It would be a shame for her to miss out on your last gig.”

  “What?” Rosie had been reaching for another Hobnob, but now she let her arm drop to the table, her gaze on Mack disbelieving. “Are you leaving?”

  So he hadn’t told her.

  “I never intended to stay long-term,” Mack said gently. “You know that, Ro.”

  “But—but I thought you’d changed your mind? You’re working at the café and giving me guitar lessons and playing gigs at the Bell. It’s been great. Why do you want to leave?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Yeah, it is,” she replied angrily. “What else have you got going on anyway? It’s not like you’ve got some fantastic job lined up somewhere else, is it? Or a secret boyfriend stashed away?”

  Mack’s cheeks flushed. Mine probably did too, but she wasn’t looking at me, thankfully.

  “Rosie!” Mum snapped. “Stop it!”

  Rosie ignored her. “And what about Dad?”

  Mack’s jaw ticked. “What about him?” he said tightly.

  “Things need to get fixed between you.”

  He didn’t pretend not to know what she was talking about. “Some things can’t be fixed. That’s how it is between me and Dad.”

  “No,” she said, and it was a demand and a plea at once. “If Dad could say sorry, really apologise properly, this could be fixed.”

  “Rosie!” Mum again.

  Rosie glared at her. “What? Someone’s got to say something! Or are we all just going to pretend this isn’t weird and wrong?”

  I glanced at Mack. His expression was hard, but I could see from the bleakness in his gaze that he was distressed. Flatly he said, “My relationship with Dad’s none of your business.”

  “Of course it is,” Rosie replied angrily. “You’re my brother and he’s my dad, and the whole thing’s so screwed up it’s ridiculous. I know Dad’s sorry, I know he loves you!”

  Mack stood up so suddenly, his chair screeched against the floor tiles. “You have no idea!” he hissed. “When I was your age, my mum died and you know what Dad did when I told him to fuck off? Just once? He did it! He fucked off and he never came back.” Mack raked a hand through his hair. Said more quietly, “You have literally no idea how that feels.”

  “Dylan, love—” Mum started, but Rosie spoke over her.

  “You want to talk about what happened to me at fifteen?” she asked, jerking a thumb at her chest. “A doctor sat me down and told me that if I didn’t get a liver transplant, I was going to die.”

  I sucked in a breath. “Jesus, Rosie, it’s not a competition!”

  She met my gaze, and her eyes were blazing. “I don’t mean it like that! I mean that something’s happened to me that hasn’t happened to any of you. When you think you’re going to die, a lot of stuff looks different. You see how temporary you are. You see you’re not going to get second chances at things.” She turned back to Mack. “If you go now, there might never be another chance to fix this. And I know it’s hurting you. You and Dad.”

  Honestly, I was stunned. I’d assumed she was oblivious to those undercurrents.

  Not so, apparently.

  I glanced at Mack, and he seemed so lost, so fucking alone. I wished I could comfort him. Instead I had to sit here, clenching my fists under the table, watching helplessly as he considered Rosie’s words.

  “Just talk to him, Dylan,” Rosie begged. “Please.”

  “Why should I?” he said bleakly. “He’s the one who fucked up.”

  Rosie said, “I know. I’m not asking you to make the first move, only, not to leave yet. To give him a chance to sort this out.” She paused, then added, “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure you need this as much as he does. But I think you do, Dylan. I think this makes you really sad.”

  Honestly, I didn’t know if I agreed with Rosie or not, but it was impossible to ignore her sheer force of belief. Was she right? Did Mack need to mend things with Derek, if only for his own peace of mind? He’d gone all these years without his dad, and it wasn’t as if over these last few months they’d grown any closer. Did he need Derek in his life at all? Was he just better off without him?

  I watched Mack, trying to read him. He huffed out a long breath and scrubbed his hands over his face. When he finally looked up again, his expression was anguished.

  “I don’t know,” he said at last. “I wouldn’t even know how to start the conversation. I’m no good with words.” He glanced at me, then away quickly, as though he hadn’t intended to do it, and my heart ached for him.

  “Well,” Mum said slowly. “it doesn’t have to be a big, heavy thing. You don’t have to launch straight into talking about the past. Just arrange to spend a little time with him. Find some common ground. You’re both musicians after all—it shouldn’t be that hard.”

  “Invite him to your gig on Saturday!” Rosie said excitedly. “Take Nathan—you can call it a—a boys’ night out.”

  “What about me?” Mum said, indignantly. “I was planning on going.”

  “You talk too much,” Rosie said, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek. “They’ll never end up speaking to each other if you go.”

  I couldn’t help chuckling at Mum’s offended expression. “Oi,” she said. “I’m not that bad.”

  Rosie looked at Mack. “Will you do it?”

  “I don’t know,” Mack said, but I could tell the fight had gone out of him. He was going to agree. And Rosie’s smile told me she knew it too.

  Chorus

  I’ll be hanging up my Christmas stocking

  So, when Santa comes a-knocking

  There will be a place for him

  To put my Christmas presents in

  But I don’t need no fancy parcels

  I don’t want no bows or sparkles

  All I want this Christmas Day

  Is you telling me that you are gonna stay.

  — “Christmas Stocking” by The Sandy Coves, 1989

  December

  Derek’s arrival at the Sea Bell on Saturday night was greeted with a barrage of friendly insults from the locals.

  “What you doing ’ere?” Jago asked when we reached the bar. “You usually drink in the Eagle.”

  “I’ve come to see my lad play, haven’t I?” Derek replied, jerking his head at the table where Mack—who’d come earlier—was already sitting with Don and the others, his usual pissy lager sitting in front of him.

  Jago nodded at that. “Chip off the old block that one, I reckon.”

  Derek visibly brightened. “Yeah?” He glanced at Mack again, plainly curious.

  “Had me nearly bawling my eyes out last time he played,” Jago said, stretching for a glass for Derek’s whisky. A man of few words, Jago, and not many of them compliments, so this was high praise indeed. I glanced at Derek. He was doing that thing he sometimes did where he projected an air of confident bonhomie but was secretly a bit anxious. I could tell from the way he rocked on his heels and kept looking around, from the way his smile kept fading and having to be topped up. I even felt weirdly protective towards him for a moment, which was ridiculous, not to mention misplaced—of the two of them, it was Mack I was more concerned about tonight—yet I couldn’t help but react to Derek’s obvious nervousness.

  Fixer, you see.

  It was funny, really. My own parents were pretty similar types—both solid and dependable—but, for whatever reason, their marriage hadn’t lasted. Derek was a bloody mess, but he was the sun, moon, and stars as far as Mum was concerned. I still remembered the mortifying vows they’d made at their wedding when I was a spotty teenager. Mum going on about Derek being the love of her life. I’d wanted to retch at the time, but it was true. Maybe the reason they’d lasted was because he needed her so much and she had such a lot to give. Both of Derek’s previous marriages had fail
ed because of cheating, but in all the years he’d been with Mum, I’d never so much as seen him glance at another woman, so who knew what he’d been searching for till then.

  Relationships were weird. People were weird.

  I glanced over at the table where Mack sat, and my heart clenched. He seemed nervous too, but there was no bonhomie on his part. He might have been going to his own execution. I wished I could just wave a magic wand and make things right between him and Derek. Or at least, right enough that their relationship didn’t feel completely broken.

  Once we had our drinks, I led Derek over to Mack’s table. Andy was there, and Derek greeted him by name, so plainly knew him, at least a little. Mack introduced him to Don and another guy, dark haired with a greying beard, called Ben. No sign of Tash or Amy tonight.

  Everyone shifted round so we could all sit in the booth. Somehow I ended up between Mack and Derek, which felt all wrong, not to mention being some kind of awkward metaphor. I made a mental note to nip off to the gents in five minutes so they’d have to sit together.

  “Hey, you’re Dex MacKenzie!” Ben said after a minute. “I’d heard you live round here.”

  That pleased Derek. He smiled wide. “Yeah, I run the ice cream place near the Tesco Express.”

  I had to suppress the urge to roll my eyes at that one—it’d been years since Derek had run anything. I glanced at Mack, who offered an understanding quirk of a smile.

  And then Ben started on about—of all bloody things—Derek’s failed solo album.

  “That was a great album, man. Some of songs on there—what was that one, “Just Like Me”? Gorgeous. What was going on with your record company? They didn’t promote it at all.”

  Right then, Derek looked strangely vulnerable. I’d heard him ranting a few times over the years about his treatment at the hands of his record company, but here, now, faced with someone honestly praising his music, he didn’t seem pissed off at all. Just sort of grateful, and maybe sad.

  “That’s a good song,” Mack agreed. “‘Just Like Me,’ I mean.”

  Derek stared at him, looking surprised. “You like it?” he said at last.

  Mack cleared his throat. “Yeah, that little instrumental opening—that’s lovely.”

  “And that first line,” Ben interjected. “God, what a gut punch. The words on that song, man.”

  Mack nodded agreement, and Derek’s throat bobbed with emotion.

  I tried to remember the song they were talking about, but I couldn’t. Derek occasionally played that album when he was a bit drunk and nostalgic, but I couldn’t say I’d paid it much attention.

  I excused myself and went to the gents. When I came back, I slipped into the other side of the booth next to Don, leaving Mack and Derek sitting together. Then I just leaned back and listened. It was all music talk, so I didn’t have anything to add, but I was happy just listening. After a while, I offered to get another round in, and when I got back from the bar, they were onto guitars—first guitars specifically.Derek mentioned that he’d saved up some of the money he earned as a milk boy for his first Fender.

  Mack seemed surprised by this. “I never knew you were a milk boy.”

  “Yeah,” Derek said. “I used to get up at five every morning—well, six days a week. Could hardly keep my eyes open in school.” He laughed, but Mack frowned.

  “How old were you?”

  “Twelve when I started—my mam needed the money. My dad had left and there were five of us. I gave her most of my wages, but I got to keep a bit for myself and there were tips sometimes.” He shrugged, then winked at Andy. “That’s my excuse for doing so shite at school.”

  Funny, Derek talked about himself a lot, but not about his childhood. Not about his days as a milk boy. It was always the glory days he spoke about: touring with the band, going on Top of the Pops, having a single at number two in the charts.

  I glanced at Mack. He appeared thoughtful, unaware of my scrutiny as he watched Derek banter with Andy and Ben.

  When it came time for Mack’s set, he got ready with his usual laid-back ease.

  “He doesn’t seem nervous, does he?” Derek murmured to me.

  “No,” I agreed. “He always looks really relaxed.”

  “He’s like his mother,” Derek said. “I used to get terrible nerves whenever I played, but Tammy was always laid-back.” He watched as Mack plugged in cables, then tuned his guitar. “He’s like her in a lot of ways.”

  “Yeah?” I said, trying not to seem too interested. “What ways?”

  “I was always about ‘making it’ but Tammy wasn’t ambitious—she just loved to play and sing.”

  I smiled. “That sounds like Mack.”

  “Why do you call him that?” Derek asked, and mortifyingly, I felt myself flush.

  “I don’t know,” I mumbled. “He mentioned it was a nickname his friends used—I probably called him it a couple times and the habit stuck.”

  Derek opened his mouth to say more, but I was saved from whatever it was by Mack starting to play. From that moment on, I couldn’t have got Derek’s attention if I’d fired a pistol next to his ear.

  I watched him on and off as Mack played his set. His concentration on Mack was absolute, his pride obvious. And his emotions... Well, you’d never normally catch Derek with tears in his eyes like he was when Mack played “Carrickfergus.”

  I caught Jago out the corner of my eye sniffing at that one too.

  Towards the end of his set, Mack got a strange, thoughtful expression on his face. He’d just finished a song, but instead of launching into the next one straightaway, he played a few experimental chords, mouthed a few words to himself. Then he pulled the microphone close.

  “I know it’s a bit early days for Christmas songs, but would you like to hear one?” he asked the crowd.

  There were a few whoops of encouragement, and Jago shouted, “It’s December, lad, it’s open season now!” Laughter at that.

  Mack grinned. “All right.” He strummed a couple of chords, then stopped and leaned forward again. “I love this song. It’s beautiful.” He played a few more chords, and Derek stiffened in his seat.

  “You’ll know it,” Mack assured the crowd. “But it’ll be my dad’s version you know. This is my version.”

  A few curious faces turned towards our table as Mack began picking out the introductory bars of a tune that was very familiar to me. Derek stared at Mack in astonishment.

  And then Mack began to sing.

  “Do you remember last December?

  “We were so in love last year . . .”

  It was Derek’s big Christmas hit, “Christmas Stocking,” but not like I’d ever heard it before. The version I knew had an obnoxious beat, catchy tune, and silly video. This was entirely different. It was slow and sweet and sad. It was like Mack had found the real, authentic version of the song and polished it up like an uncut gem.

  “But I don’t need no fancy parcels

  “I don’t want no bows or sparkles . . .”

  I’d never even noticed how much longing was in that song, the meaning of the words masked by synthesisers and electronic sleigh bells. Sometimes we watched the old Christmas Top of the Pops episode when the band had performed—or rather mimed—the song on TV like they were at some demented office party, grinning like maniacs with strands of tinsel round their necks and Christmas jumpers on.

  I’d never really listened to it before, but now, in Mack’s hands, it was a different song. A sad song.

  A song about being left behind.

  And yeah. Derek’s eyes were wet.

  We walked home from the pub, leaving Derek at the end of Eldertree Avenue. Mack’s goodbye to his dad was muted but, for once, friendly. It felt like . . . well, an improvement anyway. The start of something, maybe, that might end up with a proper conversation. One day.

  Derek got twenty yards down the street, then he stopped and yelled, “Dylan!”

  We turned back.

  “You were great tonig
ht, son!”

  Dylan lifted an arm in acknowledgement. Father and son looked at each other for a long moment, then Derek turned and started trudging home.

  Mack and I walked back to the flat, side by side, both of us quiet. It was a cold night, and we both had our hands stuffed in our pockets, shoulders hunched. My breath plumed white on the freezing air, and the cobbles under our feet were a little slippy with incipient frost.

  I debated whether to say something about the evening, or just let it lie. In the end, I figured an observation couldn’t hurt.

  “That was generous of you,” I said quietly. “Singing Derek’s song, and saying those nice things about it. I could tell it meant a lot to him.”

  Mack glanced at me. His expression was uncertain. “Do you think?” he said. “I’m not good at stuff like that. Been too long on my own, probably. I’m rubbish at telling people how I feel.”

  I smiled at him, probably a sad sort of smile if how I felt was anything to go by. “You’re not the only one. It’s not easy to open your heart.”

  Mack stopped walking.

  “Nathan,” he said hoarsely. “About what you said. Last week—”

  Oh fuck, no. Not now.

  “It’s fine, Mack,” I said quickly. “I shouldn’t have said—”

  “No, listen, I—”

  I turned to him. “Please don’t.”

  “But— Jesus, Nathan, please listen, I’m so sorry that I hurt you.”

  Humiliation tore at me. “It’s fine, honestly. Can we not do this?”

  “But what if—what if I’ve changed my mind? Maybe it’s time I gave something like this—us—a try.”

  What. The. Fuck?

  I stared at him, unable to parse what he was saying to me. What was he saying? That he was prepared to give me some kind of trial run? Test drive a relationship with me like I was a solid but not very exciting Ford Mondeo?

  The surge of anger that overtook me at that thought surprised me.

  I was fed up being everyone’s rock—dependable old Nathan.

  I was fed up coming at the end of every queue.

  I was fed up being taken for granted.

  I felt so hurt that I couldn’t even speak. I shook my head.