Street Song

by Wilkinson, Sheena;

  ‘You gave us a false name. What are we meant to call you now?’ Toni demanded, her hands on her hips.

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t care.’

  ‘So is that why you let us down? Because you didn’t want to be spotted?’ Marysia asked scornfully. ‘Was it such a comedown, playing with Polly’s Tree?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ I said. ‘It was the best thing I’ve ever done.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Toni said, ‘but this is too much. I have no idea who you even are.’

  And for the second time in two days, she turned to walk away from me. Only this time it wasn’t with my blessing.

  And this time, I couldn’t let her go.

  I reached out and grabbed her wrist. ‘Toni! I …’ She was the one who could always find the words. No secrets! ‘All those things Kryssie said – they’re true. I was stupid. I was so blinded by the promise of being a star. I got lost in that. I forgot who I really was – a boy who just wanted to play his guitar.’ She half-turned, so at least I could see her face. Tears sparked in her eyes too, just like the first time I saw her in the park. ‘And then I met you – both of you – and you helped me get back to myself. Yes, Cal Ryan was a made-up name. But everything about him was real – is real.’ I took my hand away from her wrist. I couldn’t hold her if she didn’t want to stay. ‘Being with you is the realest thing I’ve ever felt,’ I said.

  She was silent for longer than I’d ever seen Toni silent. She sniffed back the tears, and spent a long time playing with a loose thread in her smart black dress. Then she reached out one hand to Marysia, and – so slowly – the other one to me. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Me too.’

  60

  It was Saturday. Toni had gone to Dublin to see Anto – ‘I suppose he’s not the absolute worst,’ she admitted – and Marysia was going Christmas shopping with Katie, so I didn’t expect any visitors. I certainly didn’t expect Queen Jane. But here she was, bringing practical unromantic gifts like toothpaste and deodorant, and a pile of my clothes, freshly washed and ironed but definitely shabby, reminding me that I was being discharged in a day or so. I imagined her clean manicured hands going through my backpack, seeing what I had, the scruffiness and poverty of it all. I kept thinking I’d plumbed the depths of mortification but it seemed that every day there was something new.

  ‘Here’s something else,’ she said, handing me a plastic bag. I looked inside to find a hard-backed black notebook and a couple of pens.

  ‘I noticed you had a notebook with your stuff,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry – I didn’t read it. But it wasn’t in great shape – must have got wet. So I thought you might like this.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I flipped through the clean creamy-white pages. I couldn’t imagine filling them with words. I thought about my guitar and then pushed the thought away.

  Jane sat herself down on the plastic visitor’s chair. ‘Toni’s told me all about it.’

  ‘All about …?’

  ‘Everything. Well, I hope it’s everything. She says you won a TV talent show, made a mess of it all, got into drugs, changed your identity and ended up on the streets.’

  ‘Well …’ It sounded so stupid, put like that. I looked down at my hands, picked a bit of hard skin off one fingertip.

  ‘But what about what I’ve left out?’ Queen Jane went on. God, she was harsher than I expected.

  ‘Please don’t say what else there might be. I know I messed up.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she said more gently. ‘You’ve left out that you managed to live off your talent and hard work for three months. You seem to have dealt with your substance issues, even when you were homeless. You made good friends. You made a big impression on my daughter, which let me tell you isn’t easy. And you helped a girl out of what sounds like a terrible situation.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘So don’t be too hard on yourself.’ She patted my arm.

  I looked down at the bedspread through a sudden blur of tears. God, I was turning into such a wuss these days. I’d been out on the streets for days and I hadn’t cried. I sniffed, and she handed me a tissue. She was the sort of person who always had tissues.

  ‘I think,’ she said, ‘it must have been very hard, having all that money and nonsense so young. Is your mother a sensible sort of person?’

  ‘Well – no. Not like you.’ Louise was the sort of person who never had tissues, or whose tissues were all smeared with lipstick.

  ‘And where is she now? Is she likely to be any help?’

  ‘Spain. And no. I – I think I’m on my own.’ Which was fine. I was nearly nineteen. And Louise had only done the same as me – got as far away as she could.

  ‘And what do you want to do?’

  I’d never really asked myself that. For so long, life had all been about survival, getting through the days and not letting myself think about after Backlash. And before that, it had mostly been about what Ricky wanted.

  I wanted Toni. But I couldn’t say that to Toni’s mother.

  ‘I think – I want to stay in Belfast. Make some kind of life.’

  ‘In music?’

  I shuddered. For some reason, the very thought of music made me feel sick. I hadn’t even asked about my guitar. I knew it was smashed up and useless. You could wash clothes, but you couldn’t mend a wrecked guitar. Sometimes on the edge of sleep I heard again that jangling crash when it broke my fall.

  ‘Toni thought,’ Jane suggested, ‘that you should sell your story. You know – Teen Star Reveals Homeless Hell!’

  My mouth twisted. ‘Honestly – who cares? Everybody’s forgotten RyLee, and I’d like to forget him too.’

  ‘Even if it made you a few quid to get on your feet?’ she said. ‘I know – it does sound a bit crass. But maybe if you used it as a platform to highlight homelessness?’

  I bit my lip. ‘I don’t think so. I mean – what do I really know about being homeless? Nobody threw me out. OK, I slept rough for a few nights. I know what it’s like to be walking the streets all day, waiting for the day to end, and dreading it. I know what it’s like not to know where you’re going to spend the night – but I don’t know about homelessness. Not like someone who’s been dealing with it for years. Though I suppose I’ll learn a bit more, when I go to this hostel.’ I tried to sound casual.

  ‘Hostel?’

  ‘Someone came to see me today. A social worker. He’s got me a place in a hostel.’ It was a place for homeless men, a temporary measure until I got myself sorted out. ‘It’s maybe not the best place for you,’ he had admitted. ‘Most of the men there have complex mental health needs. There are places for young people which might be nicer for you, but all our services are so stretched. And you’re over eighteen.’ To be fair to him, he didn’t say, Get yourself back down south where you belong, instead of coming up here, clogging up our services. And I’d looked down at the grey floor tiles and thought, How did I get here? Relying on strangers and services. And I’d had to say, yes, thanks, that’d be great.

  But it didn’t sound great.

  ‘Well, look,’ said Jane. ‘To be honest, I’m not happy with Toni hanging round some homeless hostel.’

  ‘No.’ I couldn’t see Toni being happy with it either. It was all very well, a few kisses and all that intense feeling between us – when it came down to it, I hadn’t much to offer her.

  ‘I won’t be there for long,’ I said. ‘I’ll get a job. And some qualifications. I know you don’t think I’m good enough for Toni but— ’

  ‘What sort of job?’

  God, this was like the third degree. I might not know what to do with my entire life, but, actually, I’d thought about where I could start. One thing about lying here for days, waiting for this infection to piss off out of my lungs, was that I’d had plenty of time for thinking.

  ‘I’d like to do some kind of youth work.’ It sounded a bit daft. I wasn’t even nineteen until next month. But I thought I might be able to work with kids like Shania. Maybe even kids like R
yLee.

  ‘OK,’ she said as if it wasn’t the stupidest thing she’d ever heard.

  ‘The social worker was getting me information about what courses I could do.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘And you can pop down to my college, get some information there. Look – I have to go now.’ She gathered up her bag. ‘But don’t be worrying about that hostel. When you’re discharged you can come and stay with us.’

  ‘With you?’ My heart leapt. I thought about that comfortable room, being able to leave things down and knowing they’d be OK, being able to stay in during the day in bad weather and, best of all, Toni being around. Even, in a funny way, Queen Jane. I made a vow right there that I’d never have to go into the hostel. I’d get myself together, find a job, get a bedsit. Having Queen Jane on my side might mean I could get a reference, save up a deposit.

  ‘Not for ever,’ she warned. ‘I don’t want to live with two loved-up teenagers having what my daughter calls a blast. I can’t think of anything more revolting. But nor do I want Toni hanging round some hostel. You can stay – well, certainly over Christmas. Say – until the end of January? By which time I’ll expect you to have found a job and somewhere to live. You’re able-bodied and reasonably intelligent. And, as you’ve proved, fairly resourceful. If you mess up, or hurt my daughter, you can look for somewhere else, but I’ll give you reasonable notice. How does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds brilliant. Is that what’s called tough love?’

  She gave a dry laugh. ‘I think it probably is. You might as well get used to it.’

  61

  It wasn’t a blast, staying at Toni’s. A blast was the last thing I wanted. It was quiet and predictable and safe. And warm and clean. Things I’d never take for granted again.

  I hibernated, watching box sets, even reading, which I’d never bothered with much before. The weather was mostly terrible – icy rain and sleety winds, and every afternoon, long before Toni or Jane got home, I’d pull the heavy curtains closed with a shiver of relief that I was in here, and not out on the street. Toni and I were gentle with each other, not pushing anything, affectionate rather than passionate. I’d never before been with a girl I’d got to know as a friend first. She wasn’t as stressed now she’d got her interview out of the way, though she wouldn’t hear the result for another couple of weeks.

  Jane kept asking me when I was going to go down to Dublin and pick up some stuff, and I kept saying when I felt better.

  The truth was, I felt fine. Just not fine enough to face Ricky.

  Toni found Shania on Facebook and sent her a message. ‘Nothing heavy,’ she said, when she told me about it, sitting on her bed one evening. ‘Just that we hoped she was OK and to keep in touch. And I thought she might like to go to the community centre where Katie and Marysia’s LGBT group is.’

  ‘But she’s not gay.’

  ‘They have all sorts of groups, and there’s one for girls that I think would be really good for her. It’s all about assertiveness and stuff.’

  ‘You won’t go on an assertiveness course, will you?’

  ‘Don’t be daft.’ Then she saw I was joking, and gave me a quick kiss on the forehead. I went to kiss her properly, but her phone pinged and she checked the message and smiled before passing it over to me.

  Im ok thnx for gettin in touch yeah wd luv to meet use & my mum wd wet hrslf at the thought of me goin to yuth group but mite b better than sitin round here fightn with my big sis lol. Giv my luv 2 cal xxx

  ‘We’ll keep an eye on her,’ Toni said. ‘Maybe she can pal up with Kryssie.’

  ‘Toni, you can’t just organise everybody like that!’

  ‘I’m joking!’ she said. She reached out and lifted her guitar from its stand beside her desk. The honey glow of the wood, the glint of the strings, gave me such a rush of pain that I had to look away.

  ‘Feel like a jam?’ she said. ‘You can use my guitar. I don’t mind just singing.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘But you …’ I could see her wanting to push it, and changing her mind.

  I hadn’t played a single note since my last day on the streets. I didn’t even ask Toni what she’d done with my guitar. I didn’t want to know.

  ‘You can play my guitar anytime you want,’ she said.

  ‘OK.’ But I didn’t want. I felt panicky when I thought about it.

  Next day, Louise Skyped: she looked thin, and her hair was blonder. She was managing a bar and singing karaoke to encourage the punters to get up and do it. Juan, her boss, said she was his little Irish linnet. She gave a glassy tinkle of laughter. ‘What do you think of that?’

  I didn’t think anything, very much. She said I should come and visit some time, and I said, maybe, but I was pretty busy here in Belfast, and then I said I’d speak to her at Christmas, and ended the call.

  I sat on my bed in the small neat guest room and took down the notebook with my song in it. It had dried out, but the pages had all melded together in a lump. I managed to pick it open and read the words, in smudged and bleeding red ink:

  We said goodbye today.

  I couldn’t let you stay.

  Because you always wanted things

  Your own destructive way.

  I might as well write them out again in my new notebook. I’d never finished the song. I’d thought it had been about Kelly and then I’d thought it had been about Ricky. Over the months I’d added the odd line, messed around with the melody. Now I realised it was about me. It was about letting go of RyLee. Or maybe, of accepting him.

  I tried to shut you up.

  But you wouldn’t let me be.

  Don’t know what you’re about

  But you’re still inside of me.

  I wanted to sing it. Now. I looked for my guitar. Maybe it wasn’t that badly damaged. At least if I knew I could face up to it, find out if it was fixable, and try to save up for it. I looked into all the rooms. It wasn’t a big house and a hard guitar case isn’t an easy thing to conceal, but it was nowhere. I hesitated about taking Toni’s – but she had said I could, and I felt a fizz of wanting to get the song right that I hadn’t felt for ages.

  I sat on the sofa, rested Toni’s lovely Martin on my knees, and strummed a few chords, wincing at how out of tune it was. I tuned, the mechanical task easing me into playing. It was so long since I’d played that my fingertips smarted at first, like a beginner’s. It was hard to believe I’d often played all day, in all weathers. My voice was rusty and breathless, but as I sang through the new version of the song it warmed up.

  The room darkened round me but I was too engrossed to get up and turn on the lights. Outside the wind flapped sheets of rain against the window, but for once I didn’t leap up to shut the curtains and shut it out. I was inside and it was OK.

  I played around with some minor chords, noticing as I sang that I wasn’t getting out of breath.

  With a click, the room lit up. I spun round. ‘Toni?’

  But it was Jane. She stood in the doorway, looking a bit weird. I glanced round, remembering the first time she had come home unexpectedly. But the room was pristine. A capo sat on the coffee table, and the notebook with the scribbled chords and words, but even Queen Jane couldn’t mind that.

  She sat on the sofa opposite me. ‘Don’t let me put you off,’ she said. ‘That’s a lovely melody.’

  I smiled. ‘Toni’s better at words.’ I carried on playing but no way was I going to let Jane hear my lyrics.

  ‘It was like old times, coming in and seeing you like that,’ Jane said. ‘Anto used to play his guitar all day long. Actually,’ she went on, ‘it drove me mad – sometimes I’d come in and he’d be playing, and Toni would be crying, and he wouldn’t even have heard her. And then he’d dash off to some gig or other, leaving me with the baby.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound like you were soulmates,’ I said, embarrassed.

  ‘Oh, we were. That was the easy bit. It was making normal life work together that drove us apart.’ She looked
sad. ‘You remind me of him. Anyway, do you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’ll make it,’ I offered. ‘You’ve been working all day.’

  She laughed. ‘Suddenly you don’t remind me of him any more.’

  I put Toni’s guitar back in the case but when she picked it up later that night, sitting in her bedroom, she knew I’d been at it, because it was in tune.

  ‘You been playing my guitar?’ She was careful not to make it sound like a big deal.

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘New song?’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘You’ve been humming an unfamiliar melody all evening.’

  I hadn’t even realised.

  ‘Play it to me?’

  ‘You’ll hate it. You know I can’t do words. Remember “Jenny”?’ I was going to say it before she did.

  ‘Ah come on, Pop Icon.’

  ‘Don’t!’ I threw a cushion at her. But I didn’t mind, really. She said she was going to call me it ironically until it stopped annoying me. She said I had to own it, and that it had quite a ring. Other than that she still called me Cal. What else?

  I didn’t play the song, but I started playing the intro to ‘Secret Self’, and pretty soon she joined in. We were self-conscious at first, and then we relaxed into it, my fingers finding the familiar chords, Toni’s voice high and clear. After ‘Plastic Girls’ and ‘You Think You Know Me’, I set Toni’s guitar back in the case. When I turned back to Toni, she kissed me, softly at first, then more urgently, pulling me down beside her. And for the first time since the kiss in the hospital, we weren’t hesitant.

  Later she said, ‘We have a gig next week: Katie’s LGBT youth group Christmas party. We were going to do it as a duo because you didn’t seem to want to but …’

  ‘I do want to.’