The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me Read Free Page A

in Harlem and remind me that grief made us behave in very strange ways.
    But back to 1990. Summer. IRA car bombs and scorching weather, bright green ice pops and scabby knees. Little Sally and little Fiona living together for the first time on a small council estate in Stourbridge; the Howlett family learning to breathe again after weeks of press hounding.
    My wardrobe singing had become the highlight of my day. Singing made me feel tingly and alive: feeling the breath rush in through my mouth and expand deep into my belly, and hearing it coming back out in a proper tune – in the right key, and in the right time, and with a richness that amazed me – was better than cheese and pickle cobs or oven chips or Wotsits. It was better even than Arctic Roll.
    Singing insulated me from the hollowness of my family and the tragedy we weren’t meant to discuss. It stopped me worrying obsessively about Fiona, who couldn’t possibly be happy in our house. It lifted me high above everything my little mind worried about and suspended me above my life, as if I was in a hot-air balloon on a summer evening.
    But top-secret opera habits are seldom simple.
    Fiona was my best friend but she was also veryannoying and, somehow, she managed to overhear me one night. The next day she teased me noisily at school, saying that I sounded like a posh old fat woman, and would only stop when I agreed to dump Eddie Spencer on her behalf, then punch him on the arm and tell him he smelt of bad poos. I did it and Fi, mercifully, stopped teasing me.
    Next came the problem of taking opera to the masses. Even though I didn’t want anyone to know that I sang, I did feel quite strongly that the world – or at the very least the town of Stourbridge – needed to know about opera. I began by playing my
Opera Favourites
tape to my first boyfriend, Jim Babcock, who looked bored and farted and said that my music was rubbish. Then at Saturday-morning roller-skating I asked the DJ if he could stop playing ‘Ghostbusters’ and try some Puccini. He announced my request to the leisure centre, the crowd revolted and everyone, including Fiona, told me I was a massive wazzock.
    Fiona bought me a blue Slush Puppy from the café afterwards to say sorry, but my lesson had been learned. Opera and Stourbridge would not be friends.
    Unfortunately, Mrs Badger – a failed concert pianist and the deputy head of my primary school – had other ideas. She had overheard Fiona teasing me and pulled me to one side during lunch hour. She was armed with a big smile and a very persuasive tone. Somehow, she talked me into singing a short solo in the Christmas concert, even though the concert was usually for the top-year juniors. But Fiona, who was already an outstanding little ballet dancer, was going to do a solo too, and Mrs Badger promised me chocolate and I gave in because I found it almost impossible to say no to anyone.
    ‘You’ll be wonderful,’ Mrs Badger assured me. ‘Think how proud your mum’ll be!’ I wasn’t convinced but Mrs Badger’s eyes were flashing emotionally. She told me that it would be one of the most memorable nights of my young life so far.
    Mrs Badger was not wrong.
    By the day of the concert I was ill with nerves. Jim Babcock had hated my opera music. The leisure centre had hated my opera music. And Mum and Dad would … I didn’t know what they’d do, but I knew they would be really upset and possibly angry that I was singing a solo when we were still meant to be in lockdown.
    But an innocent, sweet, stubborn little part of me maintained that if opera singing could make me feel so happy, maybe it would cheer up Mum and Dad. Maybe they wouldn’t be so embarrassed and awkward if they could hear how lovely it was.
    To calm the nerves I had to eat everything in my lunch box, and then everything in Fi’s lunch box. (Fi, aged eight, was already on her first diet.) Nonetheless, by the time I stepped on stage I was shaking visibly and my breath was short