Ten Little Words Read online

  It was only ten o’clock, but the warm air caressed her bare skin and she could feel the promise of heat in the sun. The promenade was packed already, and she quickened her pace to reach her favourite spot, far enough from the funfair so it wasn’t too noisy but close to the main sandy beach and restaurants. If she started singing now and carried on as long as her voice could hold out, she could make a considerable haul.

  She took off the straw sunhat she’d bought as a birthday present and placed it in front of her, then backed up a few paces and let loose with one of her favourites, ‘Summertime’. She worshipped Ella Fitzgerald. There was something about the singing which just gripped her heart, kneading it with warm hands, until it felt like the emotion was being pushed up from her very soul, through her throat, and out of her mouth. If Jude could even begin to be as good as her idol, then she’d be happy.

  It only took a phrase or two until punters began to gather, their eyes focused on her. She loved this moment: when people were transfixed, falling under the spell of the song and her voice as everything else faded away. Music had a way of immersing you in it and holding you there until it ended.

  As she sang, her gaze lingered on a man towards the back of the crowd. He held himself away from the rest of the people watching, like he was marking out an invisible boundary. He was fair and slight, wearing trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, as if he was afraid to expose his skin. The way he was standing apart, with his gaze fixed on her, made Jude think he was really listening – that every note was important. He wasn’t there for the sun or to soak up the ambience of the promenade. He was there for her music, and that alone.

  ‘Summertime’ ended, and Jude plunged straight into another song before anyone had a chance to move. She tried not to look, but her eyes kept darting to where the man was standing, her heart jumping each time she spotted him. She wasn’t normally attracted to fair men, but it wasn’t his looks that drew her to him – it was something else. A charge of electricity went through her when their eyes connected, and her cheeks went warm. The crowd grew larger the more songs she sang. People peeled away from the front to put coins in her hat, only to be replaced by the next row of audience, and on and on. The sun grew high and sweat streamed down her back, but she couldn’t stop. She didn’t want to stop. She didn’t want the man to move, and it felt like her music was the only thing anchoring him in place.

  Finally, though, her throat began to feel scratchy and dry, the sun stung her skin, and Jude let the last notes of her final song fade away. She closed her eyes and bowed, the applause rushing over her and into her soul, filling up an empty space she never knew was there until she stopped. She straightened up and looked towards where the man was standing, but he was gone.

  Gone, without even a coin in her hat.

  Oh, well, she thought, sitting down on the bench as disappointment swirled inside. Served her right for thinking there was some sort of mystical connection between them. That kind of thing didn’t happen in real life – not in hers, anyway. Usually, the most connection she had with a bloke was a drunken conversation in a bar before sleeping with them, then sneaking back to Carolyn’s afterwards. Anyway, come September, she’d be out of here, on her way to making it in London.

  The fewer complications in her life, the better.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ELLA

  I stayed late at work that night, waving off the rest of the staff on their way to the pub to continue Siobhan’s birthday celebrations. Jane had asked if I wanted to come along, but she was almost out the door by the time I’d said no. Not that it mattered – she knew my answer, anyway. It was nice of her to keep asking, after years of rejection.

  When my co-workers were safely gone and the archives sank into darkness, I stood and stretched. I hadn’t moved since returning from lunch, burying myself in cataloguing a new batch of sound files. The local radio had sent over live studio recordings from the 1940s and despite the huge pile of work on my desk, I couldn’t have been happier. I loved the thrill of listening to the husk and rasp of voices from the past, of immersing myself in other people’s soundscapes and imagining their lives. They were suspended in that one moment; their present became my present, where neither the past nor the future could touch us. It was how I wanted to live my own life.

  I glanced into the darkened café as I passed by, the advert in the newspaper flashing into my mind. I rolled my eyes at how it had shaken me, even if just for a moment. By tomorrow, the paper would be in the bin, those ten words buried under layers and layers of rubbish – just like they’d been buried within me. They meant nothing now. They’d caught me off guard, and that was all.

  I hurried home along the promenade, glancing up at my aunt Carolyn’s house on the hill. I could just imagine her and my uncle Rob eating supper at the cosy kitchen table with Classic FM playing in the background. Carolyn would be buzzing around the kitchen, glancing out the window to provide a running commentary on the promenade’s action. Rob would be rolling his eyes and telling her to sit down.

  I always walked home as quickly as I could. I could feel her eyes on me, watching me, imploring me to drop by for a quick bite, a quick drink, a quick chat . . . as if using the word ‘quick’ would convince me our encounter didn’t have to mean anything.

  And while for me it wouldn’t, I knew it would for her. Ever since she’d taken me in, I’d felt the weight of her longing . . . longing for me to love her as a mother; longing to unleash on me the love she had been waiting to lavish on her own child, which she’d never been able to have. Carolyn would have built her whole world around me if I’d let her, but how could I? How could I let someone step into my heart when I’d believed my mother would return?

  That first night after my mum left – after she died, although I couldn’t think that then – Carolyn had tucked me into the guest bedroom, smoothing back my hair as she said the same ten words Mum had repeated to me each night. I’d leaped from the bed as if my aunt had slapped me, screaming ‘No!’ so loudly that Rob burst into the room to see what had happened.

  ‘Only Mum can say that,’ I remember crying, my slender body shaking in the thin pyjamas Carolyn had packed for me. They still smelled of home, and I burrowed my nose into them and tried to block out the scratchy, starched sheets, so different from the soft, worn duvet I was used to.

  Everything about Carolyn’s life was different from what I was used to, as if she and Mum lived in two separate worlds instead of just streets apart. Their contrasting worlds reflected their personalities: Carolyn was an ordered, conservative woman with a job as headteacher at a local primary school, while Mum was a bohemian who had shunned uni to busk at the seafront, singing in pubs around the town and hoping to catch a break – before she fell pregnant with me. Carolyn had a respectable husband, while Mum was a single mother with no man in her life. It had been just me and her ever since I’d been born . . . until she’d left me alone.

  By the time I’d stopped hoping Mum would come back, anger made me force my aunt away. And when I’d finally reached an equilibrium – achieved my perfect cocoon – the barriers between me and Carolyn were already too well erected to pull down. I’d spent years building them up, and I wasn’t about to dismantle them. I knew my aunt loved me, but it didn’t filter through my defences. It couldn’t.

  I unlocked the front door of my block and, shunning the lift as usual, trundled up the three flights of stairs. I told myself it was good for my legs, but really, I was avoiding the possibility of any small talk with other residents. I could feel myself relaxing more and more the closer I got to my studio. This was my space – well, mine and Dolby’s – and it was the one place I could let myself unwind. If I wanted to dance, I could dance (not that I ever did; I loved classical music, and it was hard to groove to Bach). If I wanted to turn up the music (not too loud, of course, the walls were about as thick as wallpaper), I would, and if I wanted to just sit and gaze out at the sea while Dolby dozed on my lap, I’d do that, too.

  In fa
ct, that was what I did most often. When I’d first bought this flat right on the promenade, I was a little unnerved by the fact that my huge front window stared straight out at the sea, with nothing between it and me. I’d shied away from staring at it, closing the blinds and turning on music for some background noise. But after a week or so, I realised I was being ridiculous. It was the sea for God’s sake – an inanimate object; not something that could hurt me . . . not something that had hurt me. Only people could do that . . . if you let them.

  I’d opened the blinds and faced the water, forcing myself to stare at it without turning away. The moon was full that night and light danced on the waves – the scene was like something from a postcard. I stood there for what felt like hours until Dolby started meowing. Then, I turned away, and I’ve rarely closed the blinds since.

  The vast, wide expanse of the sea echoed the clean, uncluttered lines of my flat. Despite living here for almost seven years, I had only a pull-out sofa, a lamp and a laptop which I also used as a TV. The walls were bare, the breakfast bar and counter-top free from knick-knacks, and the whole place was painted white. The room’s uncluttered lines made me feel safe, as if there were no hidden secrets to fear.

  Dolby curled around my legs when I let myself inside, and I leaned down to scratch the spot beside her ear. I’d found her as a kitten under the promenade one day when I was walking home. She’d been in a horrendous state: her fur was patchy, she was only skin and bones, and there were so many fleas it was a wonder she wasn’t driven mad. I still don’t know what possessed me to take her home, but several exorbitant vet bills later, she was definitely mine. In fact, I don’t know if I adopted her or she adopted me. She’s my alarm clock, companion and hot-water bottle all rolled into one – the only flatmate I’d ever want.

  I was just about to plop down in my favourite spot on the sofa when the mobile rang. Dolby performed her usual leap of surprise in the air before shooting me an evil look. I cringed when I saw Carolyn’s name pop up on the screen. Had she been watching me from her window, like I always suspected? Was she calling to give me a bollocking over not speaking to her and Rob for so long? Guilt needled me as I tried to recall the last time we’d spoken. It had been a while.

  Sighing, I hit ‘answer’, then scooped up Dolby again and plonked her on my lap. I’d learned it was best to answer Carolyn’s calls, or she’d keep ringing until I picked up.

  ‘Hi, Carolyn.’ I didn’t know when, but somewhere along the way, I’d dropped the ‘Aunt’. She didn’t feel like an aunt – she did everything a mother should, but she didn’t feel like that, either.

  ‘Just calling to check in and see how you’re doing,’ Carolyn said, in that soft, caring voice that was a particular speciality of hers . . . a voice that seemed to work on everyone but me. As the headteacher at my primary school, I’d seen first-hand how all the kids loved her. When I was younger, they used to tell me how lucky I was to be living with her. I’d wanted to scream at them if they thought I was lucky to have my mum disappear, too, but all I did was nod and smile, telling myself over and over that my mum would be back.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, in the same carefully neutral voice I’d been using as long as I could remember. ‘And you?’ I grimaced, thinking how formal my words were. Carolyn deserved more, but I couldn’t give it.

  To my surprise, instead of her usual cheery answer, Carolyn sighed. ‘I’m all right. As well as can be expected today, I guess.’

  My brow furrowed. As well as can be expected today? What was she talking about?

  ‘I miss her, you know,’ Carolyn said, and I squeezed my eyes closed as the realisation filtered in: today was my mother’s birthday. Every year I managed to forget, and every year Carolyn remembered, ringing in the hope that this would be the one year I’d finally open up and tell her how I really felt, not knowing I had nothing to say now. Any words about my mum had long since faded away.

  ‘She would have been very proud of you,’ my aunt continued. ‘A great job in a museum, your own place . . . She would have been so happy to see what you’ve accomplished.’

  I nodded, but I couldn’t help wondering if that was true. What would Mum make of my quiet, controlled life? What would she make of me? I pictured the photo of my mother that used to hang in Carolyn’s lounge – until I’d angrily turned it face down so many times Carolyn had moved it to her room. Mum’s dark, curly hair had been blowing in the wind, she was wearing a yellow T-shirt and skin-tight jeans, and her smile was so bright it seemed life was bursting from her. I was almost her exact opposite: skinny, my dark hair cropped short so it couldn’t get messed up, wearing mostly grey and black.

  What would I have been like if Mum had lived? What would my world have been like?

  I shoved the thought from my mind before any answers could filter in. Mum hadn’t lived. There was no point even contemplating otherwise. I’d managed to make a good life without her.

  ‘Right, well, I’ll let you go,’ Carolyn said, when it became obvious I had nothing to add. ‘We’ll be around all weekend if you feel like coming over. I’m cooking lasagne.’

  I raised an eyebrow at her mention of lasagne. When I first went to live with her and Rob, I couldn’t eat. My stomach was constantly twisted – the pains left me gasping for breath. Multiple visits to GPs uncovered no problems; the doctor told my aunt it was simply the trauma of what had happened. Night after night, Carolyn would serve up perfectly prepared meals she thought I’d like, from fried chicken with ice cream for dessert to spaghetti Bolognese finished off with sticky toffee pudding. And night after night, I’d sit at the table with the feast in front of me, only able to think of my old place with Mum and longing for the baked beans we used to have – not because I loved them, but because that would mean we were together again.

  One night a few weeks after I’d come to stay, Carolyn spent hours assembling a lasagne after my teacher told her I’d eaten some of the lasagne at school. She was sliding it from the oven when it slipped from her hands. I’d heard the glass dish shatter on the floor and come running, only to see Carolyn standing in the middle of a tomato-splattered kitchen, tears streaming from her eyes. I’d backed away slowly, worry and fear surging through me at seeing my capable aunt so sad. I forced down the grilled cheese we had that night for supper in a desperate bid to make her happy again.

  ‘Maybe I’ll swing by,’ I said, both of us knowing I wouldn’t. I said goodbye and put down the phone, then stroked Dolby again as I stared out the window. The blue of the sea stretched out to meet the azure sky, forming an endless space. I let it blur before me, ordering my brain to echo its emptiness.

  The advert flashed into my mind again, and I shook my head. Seeing those words had reminded me how much my mum had hurt me; of how she’d betrayed my absolute trust. She wasn’t with me. She was dead – we weren’t celebrating her life, blowing out candles like my colleagues had with Siobhan. I didn’t want to commemorate my mother, either. She’d forfeited any right to that by choosing to die.

  I padded to the bathroom and hopped into the shower. I turned up the hot water, concentrating on the stinging sensation of my skin as it turned an angry red. I waited for the warmth to filter into me and my body to relax, but somewhere deep inside – a place I tried to identify but couldn’t – something was twisting and turning, its sharp edges niggling like a tiny splinter I could feel yet couldn’t see.

  A good night’s sleep, I thought. That’s all I needed. Come tomorrow, everything would be fine once again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JUDE

  August 1980

  ‘I’ll be back right after the break.’ Jude did a low bow and forced a bright smile at the ten or so people not watching her perform in the pub. Hell, she could probably do a striptease and they’d still stick their noses in their drinks, preferring swilling beer to watching a real, live performer – even one who was taking off their clothes, not that she’d ever resort to that.

  She sighed as she ordered her usual wate
r from the bar and sat down in the corner, telling herself once again that every chance she got to perform was practice for London, where there’d be a million and one girls like her clamouring to perform. Still, singing jazz on a Monday night to punters who looked like they wouldn’t know good music if it hit them upside the head was a tough go.

  One more set, she told herself, and then she’d be out of here. Carolyn would be waiting up for her, like she did every night, even though Jude was twenty now. Sometimes, although her sister was only eight years older, she acted like she was closer to fifty than to thirty. Jude had hoped Carolyn would loosen up once she’d met her now-husband Rob, but he was just as bad as her. The two of them never went out, saving every single penny for the old dump they planned to move into and do up. Jude planned to be in London before that ever happened.

  She was about to put down her drink and head back to the ‘stage’ (the area furthest from the telly, so people could also watch the match – thankfully, there was no competing game on today) when two men came into the bar. Her eyes widened and a thrill went through her. One was the man who’d watched her on the promenade for ages last week, the one where she’d felt that strange little spark of electricity whenever her eyes met his. He was with a younger bloke who looked more like her usual kind: floppy long hair, dark jeans, and a T-shirt showing off his muscles. She couldn’t help smiling when she noticed that the man from the promenade hadn’t exactly dressed for the pub – it was like he hadn’t brought the right wardrobe for a holiday. Despite his stiff white-collared shirt and trousers, she felt that same zing of attraction when she looked at him. Had he felt that, too, or had it all been in her mind?