She closed the door behind her and stepped out into the blinding light. Hastings on a sunny day was dazzling: the sea reflected the sun and lit up the whole place, whitewashing the town. It was the polar opposite of a rainy day, when the ocean swallowed whatever light filtered through the clouds and the whole place was deserted and grey. Despite the new sandals pinching her toes, Jude strode down the promenade as if it was a catwalk, smiling at passers-by as they turned and stared. With her curly brown hair, dark eyes and curvy body, she never failed to make an impression, something she hoped would help her stand out in London, even before she opened her mouth to sing.
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.