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an excerpt

“Hurry up Martin, you’re going to be late.”
Martin packed the last of his school books into his bag, looked in the mirror, adjusted his tie, and then headed downstairs. His mum stood in the kitchen doorway.
“Later,” he said.
He passed her, stepped out and shut the front door behind him, walking swiftly. One street followed another as he made the familiar trek. Every day for six years he had done the same journey. Just a few more months to go, and it would all be over: mum would be joining dad and his younger brother in Southampton and he would be off to university. He had never really liked the idea of his dad getting a job so far away, but it was that or nothing; and while if he was really honest he missed seeing his dad during the week, it was only temporary, and they could all get together at weekends, and he was very fortunate to be able to stay here until he had finished his A levels.
The streets were empty; it was still quarter to eight. It was a pain having to get to school so early, but with the big concert coming up it was the one chance the group had to get the extra practice they needed. And boy did they need it.
At the end of another line of houses were the trees that cut off the dell, the “scenic detour” he had followed for the last three years. He had just stepped off the pavement and onto the tarmac path that lead through the trees to the sunken park below when he heard it. Somewhere ahead of him, he could hear music.
Martin stopped and stared through the trees. From here, he could just make out a line of bushes. He stepped forwards slowly and peaked around a laurel hedge. Down below him he could see a figure – a girl, a young woman, sitting on the roundabout, playing guitar. And singing.
He stopped. He listened. He caught a few words. “I spill my tea, o silly me.” He thought he recognized the song. He walked a bit closer, past some more shrubs. He was nearly at the bottom of the path now, on the edge of the grass quadrangle. The roundabout was on the other side, about thirty feet away. One more step and he would be visible. He looked around. There was no-one else in the park. He listened. The woman’s voice was deep, soulful. “Would you just politely, turn away,” she sang. He knew the song now. He stood at the edge of the last bush, watching, fascinated. She was older than him, he thought; maybe a student. She was short, stout, with a rounded face and dark brown hair. She had a nice guitar. He watched as she continued to sing, clearly pouring herself into the performance – or rather, he thought, not a performance, as she didn’t know anyone else was watching. But what a waste, such a beautiful voice, and no-one to hear it.
Abruptly, the voice stopped. He realised with a start that she was looking towards him.
“Hello?” she said.
He dithered for a second. Run away? What to do?
He stepped forwards.
“Hi,” he said.
She looked at him, somewhat dismissively. Just some kid.
“You have a wonderful voice,” he blurted out.
Her expression softened.
“Thanks,” she said.
Drawn by he knew not what, Martin approached the roundabout.
“Hazel O’Conor?” he said.
“No, Daisy Davies.”
He looked puzzled. “No, I meant the song.”
She laughed. “Yes. I’m impressed you know it. Bit before your time, I’d have thought?”
She spoke in lilting tones with a strong Welsh accent and a strong voice.
Martin tried to imagine what he must look like. She must know he was still at school. Even without the need to wear uniform in the sixth form, the bag must be a giveaway. As must the school tie.
“I like music,” he said, somewhat pointlessly.
She smiled at him again. She had a lovely smile, he noticed. And lovely, big, brown eyes. He willed her to say something else. That voice …
“I suppose you think it’s a bit odd, me sitting here in the morning, singing to myself?”
“No. I mean, yes. I mean …” he floundered. “I mean, I think it’s … lovely.”
“Only I woke up early, and my flatmates will still be asleep, and I don’t really think they’d like me waking them up like.”
“I can think of worse ways to be woken up,” Martin thought. Or rather, he thought he thought. With a shock he realized he’d actually said the words.
“That’s nice of you to say so,” she said. “But I don’t think they’d see it that way.”
Martin shrugged. She sat there, looking at him. He tried to think of some way to extend the conversation.
“So, do you come here often?” he said, and winced.
“Not when I can help it,” she said. “I’m normally asleep at this time.”
“Of course,” he said. “So, um … you work around here?”
“I’m at the university,” she said.
“What are you studying? Music?” Martin asked.
“No, English.”
“Ah. Not my best subject.”
“What about you?”
“Music. Art. And maths and physics.”
“A levels?”
“I’ve got exams in June.” I’m nearly eighteen, he thought, nearly a student, not much younger than you. He willed her to think that.
“Four. Impressive.”
He shrugged. “Not really.”
“What do you play?”
“What?”
“Music. You play an instrument?”
“Oh, yes. I mean … guitar. And trumpet,” he added. “But mainly guitar.”
“Me too,” she said. “Guitar, I mean.”
He nodded at the instrument still in her hands. “Nice guitar.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. She held it up. “Parents bought it for me as a going away present.”
He looked at her for a moment. She held it up to him.
“You fancy a go?” she said.
“Sure.” He picked up the guitar. No strap – he need somewhere to sit down, but there was no-where else, only the roundabout. He sat down next to her, twisting awkwardly so that he could be facing towards her a little more. He looked down at the guitar and picked a few notes. It had a nice sound.
“Here,” she said, passing him a plectrum. He reached for it and felt his fingers brush hers as he did so. Embarassed, he stared down at the guitar again and played a couple of chords. He looked up at her. She was clearly expecting him to play something. But what? He looked at her for a moment – she was looking back at him. His mind was blank. He looked down again and strummed another couple of chords. One of them reminded him of a song. He picked out the notes, then the next chord, then the next. With some horror he realized what the song was – deeply romantic, deeply sad, full of longing. Far too forward – what would she think? But it was too late now. He reached the end of the intro and started to sing.
“I can tell by your eyes that you’ve almost been crying for ever
And the stars in the sky don’t mean nothing to you, they’re a mirror.”
He looked up. She was staring back at him intently. What was that look? He quickly looked down again and carried on singing through the chorus. Should he stop now? He looked up again. She was smiling. He obviously wasn’t that bad. He carried on playing the link into the next verse.
“If I stand all alone, will a shadow hide the colours of my heart …”
Without warning, she opened her mouth and began to sing along.
“Blue for the tears, black for the night’s fears …”
In perfect harmony.
From close to, her singing voice was even more beautiful.
“And that stars in the skies don’t mean nothing, to you they’re a mirror.”
He looked up. She was looking at him. He was looking at her. Her face was barely two feet away. Less. Her big brown eyes … he noticed she was wearing lipstick …
“I don’t want to talk about it, how you broke my heart …” they sang, together. Her voice overpowered his. He couldn’t stop now. He was playing, and she was singing. He wanted the song to last forever.
“If I stay here will you listen … to my heart … oh my heart …”
He was no longer singing now, just playing the chords and listening to her. She was singing the last couple of lines.
“My poor old heart” - they slowed down together into the last line – “oh, my heart.”
He stopped playing. He was looking at her again. She was looking at him. Was she leaning forwards? Her face was barely a foot away from his. Nothing happened. Neither of them spoke. What should he do? Reach forward? Kiss her? Impossible, with the guitar cradled in his lap, he’d never reach.
After an age, she broke the silence.
“Lovely,” she said.
“Better with you singing it.”
“Rod Stewart?”
“Oh, no. Everything but the girl.”
“I prefer that one too,” she said.
“Me too.”
She looked down at the guitar for a moment. He remembered that it wasn’t his and went to hand it back to her.
“No, no,” she said. “You want to play something else?”
He thought. Maybe something different – less soppy – he didn’t want to push his luck. Maybe … and he remembered something. He looked at his watch. It was ten past eight. He was late.
“Um,” he said. Anguish. “I kind of need to go …” He looked at her, willing her to understand. A pained expression on his face. “I have a band practice at eight. At school.”
She lifted the guitar slowly, and looked down at her watch. “It’s ten past,” she said. “You’re late already.”
He didn’t move. She didn’t move.
What could he say? Would he ever see her again?
She was looking at him expectantly. He had to say something.
“You going to be here tomorrow?” he finally blurted out.
“With any luck, I’ll be asleep,” she said, without thinking. Then she stopped herself. “I mean … I don’t know.”
“Are you playing anywhere?” he asked. “I mean, singing … like …”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Can I have your number?”
It was out before Martin knew what he was saying.
“I mean …” he tried to explain it away, maybe he just wanted to be able to find out if she ever did have a gig somewhere so he could see it … but he gave up trying to formulate the words. Besides, he noticed, she had already reached into her handbag for a pen and was looking for a piece of paper. She couldn’t find one.
“Hang on,” Martin said. He opened his school bag. Cringeworthy physics and maths texts seemed to jump out at him. Paper. He had none. In desperation he tore the corner off an essay he was due to hand in this morning, removing half of a work in the process. She wrote on it and passed it back. “Daisy,” it said, with a number. He tore off another corner – might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. He wrote, “Martin,” and his number.
“Martin,” she read, out loud. The name sounded so embarrassing and stupid next to her lovely, warm voice.
“Can I ring you this evening?” he said.
“You’ve got my number.”
He stood still, looking at her. She looked back at him. It was not a condescending look, as a gorgeous woman like her might look at a small boy.
“You need to get to your practice,” she said.
That broke the spell. He was very late, and they needed the practice. He hated to think what the rest of the band would say.
“Speak to you later,” he said.
She waved him off, still sitting on the roundabout with her guitar. He turned back twice as he crossed the grassy area. Both time she was looking back at him, smiling at him. He headed onto the path that lead up and out of the sunken garden, through the trees. At the top he looked back into the park. She had gone back to focusing on her guitar. He watched for another moment. She was picking over the same chords he had been playing a moment ago. As he watched, she began to sing.
He tore himself away and ran the last three blocks to the school.
“Sorry I’m late,” Martin said, as he burst into the practice room. The rest of the band were already set up, waiting for him. Martin pulled his guitar case out of a cupboard where he had stored it and started to get it out.
“Where the hell have you been?” Jimmy Clark called out from behind his drum kit. Martin thought for a moment.
“I stopped to talk to Huckleberry Finn.”