Street Song

by Wilkinson, Sheena;

  Outside, a last-ditch afternoon sun had come out and the twang of a guitar, badly played, drifted from the next street. I walked past the busker, just to give myself a direction to head in. He was an old guy, bashing away on three chords. He was shite but he had a couple of coins in his guitar case.

  This gave me an idea. I didn’t know what the rules were for busking in this city, and I didn’t care. I crossed a main road and found a street that was busy with people but away from traffic noise, set down my backpack, took out my guitar and started playing. I hammered out a few well-known songs. People don’t want to be surprised: they want what they already know. For about twenty minutes nobody took any notice of me, though sometimes their steps bounced in time to the music as they walked past. It’d have been great if they’d paid me for making them feel bouncy but they never bothered. I kept thinking, I’ll just do one more and then I’ll go to the pub.

  I strummed a few chords, not thinking about anything except the next song, looking down at my guitar because I felt weird about being so exposed.

  ‘You’re dead good.’ I looked up to see two girls looking at me. What was it about playing the guitar in public and meeting girls? These were younger, though, and looked like sisters, both skinny and blonde and sort of fragile-looking, the younger-looking one in an untidy school uniform with a very short skirt, the other in jeans.

  ‘My boyfriend plays the guitar,’ the one in uniform said, and gave a little giggle. She had huge eyes, made bigger by false eyelashes, and eyebrows that looked painted on.

  ‘Wise up, Shania, he’s not your boyfriend,’ said her sister. ‘Come on.’ She pulled at her arm.

  Shania sighed. ‘She fancies him herself,’ she said. She scrabbled in the pocket of her jacket, and placed a fifty pence coin in my guitar case.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, and watched them teeter down the street in shoes that were too high for them. At the corner Shania turned round and gave me the thumbs up.

  I smiled at her, and kept on playing.

  11

  Being in a pub on your own was shite. On Friday I took a shine to a couple of girls but their boyfriends turned up. On Saturday I found a bar with music, and it looked like the kind of place Toni might go to – kind of alternative – but it was a tenner to get in, and I didn’t want to waste a tenner.

  I paid for another week at the hostel. I told Beany I loved Belfast and wanted to get to know it properly. ‘Fair play to you,’ he said, leaning on his mop. He said I was no bother and he wished all his guests were as easy. He was cleaning up after a stag party. He put his hand into the small of his back the way Louise used to when she was tired. ‘I’m getting too old for this,’ he said. The stag party had been thrown out, even though they’d booked for another night. Beany’s rules were simple: zero tolerance on drugs or what Beany called unacceptable drunkenness – which basically meant puking, fighting or trashing the place. He seemed to do all the work on his own, and I never saw any other staff the whole time I stayed there.

  There was a so-called TV lounge with a shelf of crappy paperbacks and DVDs and two oversized sofas, but I only managed one evening of the old Who are you? Where are you from? Where are travelling to? Isn’t this a dive? Have you ever been to …? After a day’s busking I never felt like talking. Most of them were in groups anyway, chatting away in their own languages.

  I still didn’t feel that comfortable in the streets around the hostel, but I kept my head down and my wallet in a zipped pocket.

  By Wednesday, I’d stopped feeling like I was on some kind of strange budget holiday. I turned right automatically out of the hostel, whereas on other mornings I’d had to stop and get my bearings. I was wearing my last half-clean T-shirt under a hoody that I’d managed to spill tomato ketchup on, so one of my tasks for the day was to find a laundrette. I’d washed some pants and socks in the bathroom at the hostel, in shower gel, and hung them round my bedroom to dry but they were wrinkly and itchy so I can’t have done a great job. I had my dirty clothes in my backpack, so I was a bit more laden-down than usual, but I no longer even noticed the weight of my guitar case.

  I could busk all morning now without getting tired, though my fingertips were permanently hot and I had to keep drinking water because my throat got rusty. I’d bought a bottle in a supermarket, and stocked up from the tap in the Crossroads kitchen every morning. You didn’t get much money in the mornings, so sometimes I gave up early if I’d earned enough for a coffee, and then went back to catch the lunchtime trade. I made a commitment to myself only to use busking money for day-to-day expenses. It became a kind of pride thing. When I was RyLee, Ricky used to negotiate my contracts and yeah, I earned enough for that Audi. But it felt much more like I’d earned the coins that plinked into my guitar case every day, like I owned them.

  I had about five places I liked, in various parts of the city centre, and so far nobody had come up and told me to piss off. There wasn’t as much going on in the streets as there was in Dublin. Fewer buskers and beggars, hardly anyone selling flowers or tatty tourist souvenirs – in Dublin you couldn’t move for them. And far fewer addicts. I wasn’t naïve enough to think there weren’t drugs around, but the kind of people who roared at each other in the centre of Dublin, all cheekbones and bad teeth and tracksuits – they just weren’t here. Or at least not in the streets where I was. And that was another thing that made me stay. I felt safe.

  It was a good morning. An American tourist gave me a fiver, which had never happened before, and which paid for getting my clothes washed. The laundrette was warm, and someone had left a paper behind which distracted me while my clothes were swirling round. It was last weekend’s, which was bad from a news point of view, but good because there was an Arts section with listings of films and bands and clubs. There looked to be plenty going on, but the names of the pubs and venues meant nothing to me. I didn’t know much about Belfast, but I knew how easy it would be to walk into the wrong pub in the wrong area. There was a pub round the corner from the Crossroads, with wire mesh across the window, and I knew by instinct that it wasn’t somewhere you’d want to open your mouth with a Dublin accent.

  It was the same paper I’d looked at with Toni in Kopi the Sunday before last. When we’d talked about gigs and I’d said she should go to that open mic night – where was it? Something to do with a flower. The Daffodil? No. But suddenly there it was – the same listing as before. The Bluebell. Open mic every Wednesday; all welcome.

  Not on a school night, she’d said, but surely there was a chance she’d go? With the competition so soon?

  It was worth a try.

  It rained all afternoon, that cold, northern rain that lashes sideways and settles in the backs of your knees. My hair dripped down the back of my hoody and made me shiver. The spot in the arcade was already taken by the time I finished at the laundrette, so I put my guitar back in its case and went to sit in a café even though my wet jeans were sticking to my legs. I knew from experience there was no point in going back to the Crossroads a minute before five. Even though Beany liked me, he liked his rules more.

  I had to break my own rules. I’d spent all I’d earned on the laundrette, so I had to dig into my dwindling stash to pay for a cup of tea and some chips. I could skip tea that night since I’d have to spend some money in the Bluebell. But maybe Toni would be there, and her mum would have calmed down, and even though I knew she wouldn’t want me staying there again, it would give me somewhere to go that wasn’t the streets, or a café, or the Crossroads.

  I wasn’t used to this much of my own company and I found me pretty boring. Maybe that’s why things worked out the way they did at the Bluebell. Or maybe I’d just been too good for too long, and I was ready to break out.

  12

  By ten I knew they weren’t coming. But I stayed.

  I stayed because it was more fun than lying on my bed at the Crossroads. I stayed because the Bluebell, grubby round the edges but full of gig posters and cheerful bar staff, and with old 1970s al
bum covers pasted to the ceiling, was my kind of place; and because I liked watching the succession of musicians getting set up and guessing which ones would be good and which would be shit. At the moment, it was about half and half. Nobody was as original as Toni and Marysia, even though some of the musicians were technically better. The four lads on stage now – The Maloners – were enthusiastic and loud, but not overly burdened with talent. They had their fans, though – a gaggle of girls about my age, all taking photos on their phones and cheering when the lead singer introduced a song.

  I leaned over the bar and ordered another beer.

  ‘They’re class, aren’t they?’ said the girl beside me, placing her elbows on the counter. She had red hair like Toni’s but hers was long and dyed; you could see the brown roots. I thought, very briefly, of Louise. She had a strappy top which showed a tattoo on her shoulder, and she was thin and pretty and tall, but when I looked down she was wearing stilettos. The heels reminded me of that kid Shania who’d given me my first Belfast busking money.

  ‘Yeah,’ I lied. She was probably one of their groupies.

  ‘We’re all doing performing arts at college,’ she said, indicating the table full of girls.

  ‘Are you in a band yourself?’ I asked.

  ‘I do musical theatre,’ she said importantly. ‘I sometimes get up and do a song but it’s not really the right crowd for it here. They like you to do your own stuff. But Liam – see Liam, on bass?’ She leaned closer and whispered in my ear, ‘I’m trying to get into his pants. So – have to show him I’m keen.’ She smiled, showing small white teeth.

  ‘Ah, no,’ I said. ‘Act like you’re not keen. That’s the way to get him interested.’ I gave her a RyLee smile and she giggled, but I felt suddenly depressed. A rush of what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here rolled over me. I downed my beer and ordered another one.

  ‘So where d’you come from?’ the girl asked. ‘You look dead familiar.’

  I stiffened. ‘Tipperary,’ I said. I didn’t think I’d ever been to Tipperary. I hoped she hadn’t either.

  ‘And did you ever work in Starbucks on the Lisburn Road?’

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘Because there’s a guy there is the spit of you.’

  I relaxed. She asked me what I was doing in Belfast and I said just passing through. She said she shared a flat with Nicky and Vanessa. Nicky and Vanessa turned round and waved at us. Her name was Olivia and she was from Derry and she was twenty. She’d fancied Liam for ages and she didn’t think he was gay – she had excellent gaydar, because, like, musical theatre? – but he’d never shown the slightest interest. So maybe he just didn’t fancy her?

  ‘Ah, he’d need to be mad if he doesn’t,’ I said. Flirting with her cheered me up. It wasn’t hard. She was pretty and friendly and we were both fairly pissed. I stopped caring about the money I was wasting. I forgot that I’d come here looking for Toni and Marysia. I even stopped listening to the music, though the band on now had a girl with a great bluesy voice. Liam, a short guy with a large head, sat down with Nicky and Vanessa and downed a pint of Guinness that someone had left for him. He didn’t seem gay. But then, I did not have excellent gaydar.

  ‘Is he looking over?’ Olivia asked.

  ‘Who cares?’ I touched her ponytail.

  ‘If you want to kiss me, you can,’ she said. It wasn’t the most romantic offer I’d ever had. But I leaned over and kissed her small mouth. She responded enthusiastically and it was good, because kissing is good, and for nearly a week I’d hardly talked to anyone, let alone kissed someone. Her exploring hands suggested that she was up for more than just kissing. She whispered, ‘D’you want to go outside? There’s a place – round the back. Private.’ She pulled me to my feet. My head swam with beer and surprise, but I lurched after her down the stairs and out through the back door.

  She’d done it before. I don’t mean sex. Obviously she’d done that quite a few times. I mean sex in an alleyway behind a pub, with a stranger. She had a condom ready. It was rushed. She didn’t look at me. She kept hold of her handbag in one hand the whole time. Afterwards I zipped up my jeans. She wrote her number on a scrap of paper. (I can’t believe you haven’t got a phone! That’s so weird!) I shoved it into my pocket and knew I’d never call her, and I knew she wouldn’t care.

  I got lost on the way back to the Crossroads. Maybe just as well, even though I wandered into an area that would have been scary if I hadn’t been so pissed, because by the time I was dragging myself up the front steps I felt very sober. No danger of getting thrown out for unacceptable drunkenness.

  Lying in my bed, with the room spinning if I opened my eyes – maybe not as sober as I thought – I let myself think of Louise. She used to hate me coming home drunk or stoned. Or not coming home at all. She must be worried. I shouldn’t have just disappeared. Maybe I should get in touch. Tell her I was travelling, and I was fine, but I wouldn’t be home for a bit.

  Was I fine? I had somewhere to stay and something to do, and being a free-spirited troubadour had been enough for a while, but now it wasn’t. I thought of the lump of weed stuffed into the bottom of my backpack, and if I’d had matches I’d have skinned up and to hell with Beany finding me and chucking me out.

  The trouble was I was crap at being alone. I didn’t like picking people up in bars and I didn’t seem to know how to make friends in a normal way. Toni and Marysia weren’t just the only people I knew in this city; they were the most interesting girls I’d ever known, and they made me feel I could do something right. When I was with them I didn’t feel like the kind of person who shagged strangers in alleyways and then tore up their phone numbers. RyLee had been that kind of guy. I’d hoped Cal Ryan wasn’t.

  And the music. I could put up with a lot just to be part of the music.

  I thought I could remember Toni’s address. I wouldn’t just turn up because of her fearsome mother, and I couldn’t phone her or email her or look her up on Facebook. But I could write an old-fashioned letter. I could ask if the offer to join the band was still open.

  And if not, maybe it was time to move on.

  13

  Dear Toni and Marysia,

  Hope things are going well. I’m still in Belfast. I’m sorry I didn’t say goodbye properly.

  If you’d still like me to join the band, or help with your guitar playing, or even just listen, then let me know. I don’t have a lot on, and it would be great to see you again. I ended up getting a phone so you can call me on 07987701239.

  Cheers

  Cal

  14

  Marysia’s shed, at the end of a long, slightly overgrown garden behind a small terraced house, was dusty and cold, and full of broken garden furniture, pots of paint and old bikes.

  ‘It’s not brilliant,’ Marysia admitted, ‘but you can’t hear us from the house.’

  ‘I thought we’d be at your house, Toni,’ I said, trying not to sound disappointed. I set my guitar down but didn’t take off my hoody.

  ‘Well – you’re still not my mum’s favourite person.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ I shrugged and opened my guitar case.

  ‘We’ve thought about your role,’ Marysia said. ‘You can do all the lead guitar and help me with backing vocals.’

  ‘Cool. And I get – what – a third of what we make?’

  ‘Um. We’ve never actually made anything yet.’ Marysia looked at Toni a bit helplessly. We were all slightly shy.

  ‘OK. Let’s start,’ Toni said. We tuned up. It was so cold that the best thing to do was to play as hard as possible.

  By the third bar of ‘Plastic Girls’ I relaxed. It was pretty crowded, and hard to play without bumping elbows and tripping over each other, but Toni kept turning and grinning at me, her eyes sparkling. And the music sounded better than ever. Busking had made me sharper, and it was lovely just to play and not worry about singing, except for backing vocals.

  We went through all seven songs, including ‘Secret Self’ (plus chorus), and
then we flopped down on the only furniture in the shed, Marysia and Toni sharing a saggy sunlounger and I on a deckchair.

  Toni high-fived me. ‘Sounding good,’ she said.

  I smiled. ‘It’s nice to have someone to play with. I’ve been busking on my own all week.’

  ‘Is that what you’ve doing? I assumed you’d moved on.’ Did this mean she’d been thinking about me?

  ‘I thought I should see a bit of Belfast. And I started busking and that’s been going really well. So I thought, if I can make enough to keep myself going I might as well. And then – well, it was stupid to be in town and not get in touch with you.’ I made it sound like it wasn’t a big deal. I made it sound like I hadn’t written about ten drafts of the letter I’d sent them.

  ‘You’ve been busking for a living? That’s impressive,’ Marysia said. ‘We should busk some time, Toni.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it a living. But it’s enough to get by. I made enough for a phone yesterday.’ I couldn’t keep the pride out of my voice.

  ‘No way. It took me months to save for my iPhone.’ Toni sounded impressed. ‘Have you been busking for millionaires?’

  I slipped my hand into my back pocket and brought out my phone.

  ‘Oh my God. That’s the most tragic thing I’ve ever seen. That’s even worse than my dad’s.’

  I laughed. ‘Fifteen quid. Fiver for a SIM. Pay as you go.’

  ‘Don’t let anybody see that when you’re with us,’ Toni warned. ‘Though I suppose they might think it is ironic.’

  ‘So where are you staying?’ Marysia asked.

  ‘A hostel.’ I didn’t say exactly where.

  ‘And you’ll definitely stay till Backlash?’ Toni asked. ‘We don’t want to get used to you and then have you walk out on us. Again.’