The Name I Call Myself (2 page)

“Once moooore – ooooooff. Sing it with meeeeee.”

We sang together, and I allowed into that note about five per cent of the frustration, fear, and helplessness squatting in my stomach. It seemed to be enough. A tiny crease flickered at the corner of her mouth. I guessed it was a smile. I did not smile back.

“Alto. You can sit with them while you wait for the minister to arrive. He'll be here at four.” She gestured towards the women on the right hand side. “You,” – she pointed at Marilyn – “feel free to keep plugging your mouth with those sweets. For now.”

I took a couple of steps towards the alto section, then another one back towards the door. Helmet spoke as she returned to the front. “Take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Notice how light you feel. Has a tiny portion of stress been carried off by that one note? That's just one. Think about what a bar, a line, a verse, a whole cantata will do. The power of music. One glance at those shoulders tells me you are a woman who needs to regain some personal power. That's what we're all about here.”

She was right. I did need to regain some personal power. It had felt good la-ing out some emotion at the strange woman. I wanted to la some more, sing out some of the twisted, scrunched-up feelings so they could stretch and spread their wings. Maybe they would even flap out the door and never come back.

Marilyn sat down again, pulled out an emery board, and started filing her nails as she whispered to the girl beside her. To be fair, it was as good a place as any to wait for the minister to arrive. I stole around to the alto seats, where a black woman who looked to be somewhere in her thirties moved along to make room for me. Helmet turned her attention back to Rowan, the skinny girl with hair like a Disney princess, and this time, instead of arguing, Rowan began to sing.

How someone could flip from a coarse, jagged whinge to the voice of an angel, I had no idea. If I could sing like that, I would never speak. The notes were running water, the sun coming out from behind a cloud, an eagle in flight, a mountaintop. The words
weren't English – I guessed it was Latin – but oh, I understood every single mesmerizing, heart-squeezing, aching syllable. Four lines in, the other members of the group joined her. The water became an ocean, the sun a galaxy, the mountaintop a whole range, stretching out into the distance. At once beautiful, majestic, powerful, and mysterious. They sang of loneliness and betrayal, utter sorrow and bitter loss, the harmonies blending together as they gradually grew stronger, building to a crescendo of triumph.

Talk about goosebumps. Marilyn had been frozen, nail file in hand, since the second note. I wanted to clap, but feared the crudeness of the action shattering the glorious, lingering silence, so heavy I could touch it.

Helmet pursed her lips. “Not bad. You're getting it, soprano twos. Soprano ones – drippy. A cold, wet nose. Alto ones – clompy. A drunk, overweight auntie dancing at a wedding. Alto twos – timorous. A bunch of morose mice. Again.”

They sang again, and again, with little rest between Helmet's metaphors (sloppy rice pudding, faded tea towels, anxious bluebottles). Individuals were asked to repeat phrases, relearn melodies, copy strange mouth positions, and breathe in the right places. They broke up into the four different parts for group work and went over everything again.

An hour later, as the choir closed by performing the whole piece one last time, somebody behind me did start clapping. Turning round, I saw a man, leaning on the wall at the back of the hall. He nodded his approval, a thick mop of dark, unruly curls flopping, shadowy jawline definitely more couldn't-care-less than designer stubble or hipster beard. Dressed in a scruffy jacket, with paint-stained hands and a tool belt strapped to his ripped trousers, I assumed he was the caretaker.

Helmet dismissed the choir, and the group began murmuring as they checked their phones, two of the women opening the serving hatch into a kitchen where refreshments stood waiting.

The man wandered over to where I sat, still slightly spellbound
by the music, and nodded hello. “Are you going to join?” He had a faint Yorkshire accent, the solid vowels complementing his capable appearance.

I shook my head. “I'm not exactly sure. I sort of ended up here.”

He grinned, white teeth gleaming in his swarthy complexion. “I don't think anyone actually chooses to join the choir. More like the choir chooses you.”

“I was hoping to speak to the minister.”

“Oh?” He raised an eyebrow and started walking over towards the serving hatch. “Coffee? It's filter. Or there's tea. But the coffee's better.”

I glanced around the room. With no minister-type person yet appearing, and Marilyn helping herself to a custard cream, I figured I might as well have a drink while we waited. Plus, I was freezing.

“Tea, please.”

He leaned forwards to speak to the person inside the hatch, and I noticed a streak of cobweb tangled in his curls. I thought about the Ghost Web, followed by a ripple of disappointment.

I hovered for a moment while someone topped up the teapot, waiting for the leaves to brew. The caretaker chatted easily with the rest of the women, flashing that brilliant smile, making a joke about the poor quality of the biscuits. When he turned to hand me my drink, one of them reached up and plucked out the cobweb, shaking her head at him before pretending to put it in her pocket like a souvenir. He ignored her gesture, nodding politely as he moved away.

“I'm Dylan.” He handed me my drink.

“Faith.”

“Pleased to meet you, Faith. A perfect name for a choirgirl.” He smiled at me over the top of his mug.

“Maybe. Shame I haven't got the perfect voice.” I looked away, disconcerted by his open gaze. Disconcerted about feeling disconcerted. I had learned the hard way not to let a handsome man's smile get to me.

“Oh, Hester'll find it in there somewhere. She knows what she's doing.”

“Hester? Ah – right. The conductor. Choirmaster. Mistress!” I pretended to concentrate on drinking my tea.

Dylan kindly ignored my flustered demeanour – probably well used to his effect on women, engaged or otherwise. “Yes. She talks tough, but she loves her choir. Refuses to let them settle for anything but the best.”

“The best singing?”

“That too.”

We pondered that thought for a minute. Helmet – Hester – stood on the other side of the room, frowning as she listened to a young Asian woman wearing a headscarf and a long, black cardigan with grey jeans.

“You wanted to see the minister?”

“Yes. I'm looking for a wedding venue.”

I pretended that I imagined the micro-flash of surprise on his face. I tried with reasonable success to believe my new, swanky haircut and expensive clothes hid the underlying truth about my utter lack of respectability, but the rapidly concealed expression was a punch to my guts. First Hester, now this bloke. Was this a magic church that revealed my hidden secrets to all of the staff? Did God tell them?

“This isn't most brides' first choice. Not those that aren't members anyway. They tend to prefer the C of E. It makes better pictures. And fits more people in. Why did you pick Grace Chapel? You don't live in the village, do you?”

“Not currently, no. And I'd rather discuss that with the minister, when he finally turns up.” I heard the snap in my voice, and tried to wind my wedding-plan irritation back in. This was supposed to be a fun day. And it was only my fantasy wedding, after all. “Sorry. I don't mean to be rude. It's just… private. And churches make me nervous. I can't help finding all that holiness a bit creepy.”

He shrugged, smiling to indicate no offence taken. “Why don't I show you the chapel?”

“Thank you. That would be great. I'll grab my friend.”

We spent a few minutes wandering around the hall while the
caretaker pointed out the relevant features: where the bride and groom usually sat, where the register was signed, and so on. The room didn't look ugly as much as boring. Plain white walls and ceiling, with one faded banner hanging in between the two narrow windows on one side. More red-cushioned chairs – ten rows of eight; a parquet floor and another piano. Some shelves at the back stuffed with books and that was about it.

Marilyn prowled up and down the centre aisle. “Okay. We can make this intimate rather than cramped. Put some candles in the windowsills, hang fairy lights in the beams. Tiny bouquets of flowers on the ends of the rows?” She carried on describing her ideas for how we would turn this from “dull to quaint” and from “soulless to romantic sophistication”.

Dylan, now sprawled on a chair with his legs stretched out into the aisle, straightened up. “Excuse me? Soulless? A more sensitive man could get offended by that. This is a church.”

Marilyn flapped her hand at him. “Oh, you know what I mean. Is this minister bloke single? A crusty old bachelor?”

Dylan shook his head. “I'm not sure that's relevant.”

“It's absolutely relevant as to why this place is so… stark.”

“
Stark?
That's a bit harsh.”

“The room's all about functionality. Where's the heart, or the comfort? Anything that would make people other than cyborgs feel at home?”

“
Cyborgs?
”

“Sorry mate, this just isn't the type of place anyone would want to spend time in if they didn't have to. Ask the congregation.”

Dylan frowned and looked about, as though seeing the room for the first time. Marilyn was right, but we were strangers here, and her comments were pretty disrespectful.

“Well, thanks for showing us round. It was very kind, considering you've probably got much better things to do than listen to wedding plans. It doesn't look like the minister's going to show. Perhaps I'll call and make an appointment.”

“Although,” Marilyn added, “if he's always this late, it doesn't bode well for the big day, does it?”

My embarrassment grew. “I'm sure he's not, Marilyn. Ministers must have to deal with important unexpected issues all the time. Maybe somebody died. Or had some terrible news. Or, or… maybe Hester made a mistake.”

Dylan shook his head. “No, Hester doesn't make –”

At that moment the door opened and a man dressed in a dishevelled suit, one trainer, and one house slipper burst into the room, instantly followed by a potent cloud of alcohol fumes. “Dylan!” he slurred. “My car's been stolen again!” He shuddered, violently, and let out an anguished wail. “Why do they do it? Why me?”

Dylan strode over, putting his arm around the man's shoulder. “Hey, now. Steady on. We'll find your car. Sylvie's probably driven it home. Let's call her and find out.”

As he steered the weaving man out of the door, he turned and pulled an apologetic smile at us. “Sorry about this. If you look online you'll find our website. The contact details are all there if you're still interested. Nice to meet you, Faith. And Faith's friend.”

Marilyn watched him leave, then winked at me. “What d'ya reckon?
Interesting?
”

“Behave yourself, married woman with many babies at home. There's only one man I'm interested in, as you know full well.”

“You're not married yet. Haven't even set a date. Still plenty of time to avoid shackling yourself to the Ghost Web, and the Ghost Web's previous owner.”

We began to leave, too. “I can put up with both of those, if it means marrying Perry. No marriage – or man – is perfect.”

“No, but take it from one who knows – no marriages are easy, either. I love you, Faith, and will support you whatever, but this is supposed to be the fun, exciting, head-over-heels bit. If things are tough now… I don't know. My brain is frazzled. I'm probably transferring my own frustrated feelings onto you.”

We reached the car, and my good friend Marilyn looked at me before unlocking the doors. “You should be happy. Despite the family and all that goes with it, being with Perry should make you happy. Just make sure you're happy, Faith. That's all.”

Happy? What the heck did that even feel like?

We finished our fantasy wedding plans with a trip to an Italian restaurant on the banks of the River Trent, just outside a village four miles from Brooksby. Housed in a large Victorian country manor with a conservatory wrapped around three sides looking out onto the water, it boasted a huge riverside garden with chairs, tables, and assorted sofas on a canopied patio. Simple, rustic, relaxed, run by a family who had emigrated from Italy only six years before, it was everything I would have dreamed of in a reception venue, had I ever dared to dream of one. At the end of the garden was a wooden area for dancing. I could picture laughter, and music, twinkling lights strung between the trees, great food, and even better wine. A place to let down your hair, sit back, and watch the moon kiss the water. A place where good friends were reunited and new friends were made.