Читать книгу Candy and the Broken Biscuits - Lauren Laverne - Страница 10

It transpires that Clarence B Major is a rock star. Or was. Or should have been, if he wasn’t dead. Which he is. Sort of.

“Very cross-making, you know, dying. Especially if you’re in the middle of something. Now this finger pulls back a fret and there you are…a C chord.”

Four hours after our initial meeting, I’m sitting on the bed, dressed in an outfit he handpicked (I look like Amy Winehouse in her darkest hours) being taught the guitar. Clarence is flitting back and forth checking the position of my hands as we work through chords, all the while filling me in on what it’s like to die and transmogrify into a fairy. Actually, it seems that Clarence can transmogrify into anything he likes – he gives me a demo which involves him turning himself into a kettle, a frog, a ridiculous hat and finally a tiny planet with rings that looks like Saturn. Each change is accompanied by a blinding flash of light which leaves me feeling like a welder who’s forgotten to put his goggles on. I search through the whiteout in front of me and can more or less make out Clarence, who has gone back to his original fairy-shape. “My favourite form,” he says, “is a scaled-down version of the one I inhabited on earth. With a couple of useful additions!” He buzzes his wings, momentarily lifting himself a foot or two into the air.

So my flying friend has thrown himself into the role of mentor and I have found my tongue and then some. I’m still sort of trying to figure out (a) whether this is actually happening and (b) if it is – what the heck is going on. So far, via the medium of relentless badgering, here’s what I’ve figured out:

According to Clarence, since he met his untimely end twenty-three years ago, he has been in a kind of limbo, not-quite-on, not-quite-off earth, waiting for the person to come along whose ‘music’ chimed with his. This person would become his charge and anchor him back to the land of the living. A twin soul who he could watch over, guide and protect. Someone whose successful union with all that is meant for them will override Clarence’s unfinished business and allow him to move on. “But to move on where?” I ask. “To, like, heaven?”

“My dear girl, there is no such place. Or if there is, it is strictly metaphorical. There are only two states. The visible and the invisible. I have, by dint of misfortune and truncation of life, one foot in each realm. When my work here is done I may graduate to the invisible. I spend some of my time there, but you can call me back here by playing my chord – B Major – on this fine instrument.” He pats the guitar on my lap fondly.

What’s weird is how un-weird all this feels. Maybe it’s his natural skills as a conversationalist, but it feels a bit like I’m chatting to my hairdresser. I’m also amazed by how quickly my fingers fall into place against the sparkling strings Clarence created. I barely have to think about it and they find chord after chord as Clarence shouts them out. It’s as if a bigger force than me is in control. I’ve been building up to my next question for a good half an hour. I wince in anticipation but ask it anyway.

“How did you die, Clarence?”

He sighs, but whether from real emotion or to create a bit of dramatic tension, I can’t tell. “There I was, amid the razzle-dazzle and stardust of London (well, my bedsit in Barnet to be precise) about to hit the big-time. It was Sunday night and I was all set to sign my record deal the next morning. I saw it, you know, on the way up.”

He gives me a meaningful look.

“The contract, I mean. Sitting on my A&R man’s desk, open at the page I was due to go in and make my mark on. I was due to start a new life, I just didn’t know it would be this one.” He flexes some mysterious muscle, spreading his wings even wider so that he can examine them which he does, glumly.

“Gentle pressure on the strings, my dear. Don’t grip the neck. You’re playing the guitar, not strangling it. Where was I? Oh yes, dying. So anyway that night I was, quite naturally, celebrating. 150 or so of my closest friends and I were having a costume party in the heart of Soho. Things were about to change so the theme was REVOLUTION! Naturally I had decided to go as Marie Antoinette.”

Now it’s my turn to give him a meaningful look. He ignores me.

“So there I was, face full of makeup, pearls, enormous gown fashioned from an old peach satin bedspread.” He giggles at the memory. “Anyway, I was perfecting my coiffure (that’s French for hairdo) when I fell foul of an appliance. My accommodation in those days being somewhat insalubrious, my measures for bathing were somewhat…primitive.”

He falters. I catch his eye and he looks away shyly. I stop playing for a moment. “What do you mean, primitive? Don’t be embarrassed, Clarence. In case you hadn’t noticed, I hardly live in Buckingham Palace myself.”

“I most certainly am not embarrassed, Candypop, I wouldn’t know the meaning of the word! F minor! Move those ape-like digits of yours down a string. There…Anyway Marie Antionette’s hair was terribly high and I was crafting a spectacular bouffant with the use of my hairdryer. As I mentioned, my conveniences were most inconvenient at the time. Unfortunately, I had to bathe in an…um…well…” A look of disgust clouds his pristine features, “A bucket. In any case my bucket was still sitting there and I had quite forgotten about it. I was doing the tricky part at the crown when I lost my grip and the hairdryer tumbled out of my grasp. I instinctively went to catch it. I succeeded. The very moment it hit the water, that was it,” he sighs, adding in a whisper, “Poof!”

I stop playing. Clarence is sitting on the windowsill now, hugging his knees, wings tucked in behind him, looking defeated like crumpled sellotape.

“I’m sorry.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then shivers throwing off his gloom like a cloak. “Thank you, my dear. In any event it led me here, to this…” he looks about him, aiming for a smile that lands more in the region of grimace,“…delightful seaside hamlet. And to you.”

“So we’re destined to be together, and you were sent here to look after me from a magical invisible world. Does that mean you’re my…” I leave a pause where the word fairy should go “…Godfather?”

“Godfather? I should say not, darling. I was a mere handful of birthdays above you when I met my end. But Godbrother? Perhaps. Now. From a party that never got started to one that is about to begin; I believe you have a soirée to attend?”

“Glad’s birthday! I completely forgot!”

“Luckily, I did not.” He raises an eyebrow and flutters over to my dressing-table, where he extracts from the bric-a-brac a toy tiara Holly bought for me last Christmas and plonks it on top of the already-enormous hairstyle he has created. “The finishing touch to your outfit and, if I do say so myself…fabulous.”

It’s not until our front door bangs shut behind me and the freezing air hits me in the face like a bucket of cold water that I realise Clarence is actually, like, coming with me. He swoops into the air in a reverse swan dive with a “WHO—HOO-HOOO!” shooting so high into the snowy sky he could almost be mistaken for a particularly shiny flake.

I do an immediate 180, simultaneously hissing over my shoulder in a shouty whisper, “Clarence! What do you think you’re—Get back here NOW!”

My Fairy Godbrother, meanwhile, is soaring high above like a demented shooting star. “Clarence! Come down here NOW!”

Nothing.

“CLARENCE!”

A faint giggle.

“CLAREENCE!!”

With a whoosh, he drops like a stone from the sky, a streak of light in his wake. I brace myself for a crash-landing on the roof of next-door’s car but somehow he brakes, stopping a fraction above it, then lowering himself delicately on to the frosty bonnet. He spreads his arms as wide as his Cheshire-cat smile. “Sweet freedom, Candypop! Has there ever been a better day to be practically alive?”

I sigh. “Look, Clarence, I know you’re happy to be out, I mean, back in the world and everything but…”

His grin shrinks a little.

“…but you can’t come to Glad’s party! You can’t just go flying about everywhere! People will see you! This is Bishopspool – there are no fa…I mean…we don’t do magic around here!”

Clarence smiles mischievously. “If we are going to agree on anything, my little Candypop, let us begin with this: we are not ‘around here’, here is ‘around us’ and we do precisely as we please!” And with that he zips off down the street, leaving me to run to catch up.

I wince as we enter the Day Centre. Clarence flits through the door ahead of me and off into the bowels of the building which is pulsating to the sounds of cheesy 70s disco and friendly chatter. I brace myself for a scream but none comes. Unsure of what else to do, I take my coat off and hang it up, then place Glad’s gift atop the growing present pyramid on a nearby table.

Clarence zips out of view momentarily, then returns asking loudly, “What kind of soirée is this exactly? Where are the cocktails?” before settling on my shoulder. I hear a gasp, then turn to come face to face with the gaspee – Calum Stainforth, who dropped Glad off the other day. He is staring at me with his mouth hanging open. Oh God! He can see Clarence!

“Candy!” Calum breathes, “Is that…? Is that a…” it seems like a phenomenal effort for him to get the words out. There’s a second’s silence that feels like an eternity. Clarence’s wings bristle beside my ear. Calum swallows hard. Just then, Glad appears by his side looking similarly shocked.

“Is that a new dress?” Calum manages to ask before Glad bursts into a peal of laughter and I remember that I have accidentally turned up dressed as a Guns ‘n’ Roses groupie from 1987.

“By God, lassie!” she chuckles. “It’s not that kind of party! You look like you’re dressed up for a night out there on the docks! Come inside and defrost!” She leads the way and I’m left with Calum who smiles awkwardly.

“Just trying a new look!” I laugh nervously, tugging down my mini-dress.

“I like it,” he says, almost in a whisper.

At this point, Clarence takes off and performs an elaborate loop-de-loop around Calum’s baseball-capped head, shouting (somewhat unnecessarily, because I’m already starting to figure this out), “Don’t worry about him seeing me, Candypop! In my present state I am quite invisible to anybody other than you. It is only when I make myself into a physical object – a thing – that lumps like this one can spot me. Or hear me.” He zooms round and round Calum’s head, who obviously senses something as he shivers. Clarence laughs wildly. “I am incognito! Imperceptible! Undetectable!”

So, happily, Clarence goes unnoticed. Unhappily this makes me look as nuts as my outfit – try as I might, I just can’t keep my eyes off him. He whizzes around like a gust of wind through the busy Day Centre, delighted to be at an actual live party with real human people (even if the birthday girl is eighty-four). Clarence might be out of sight but he isn’t out of trouble. My gaze flits around the room in search of him. People can’t see him but they flinch as he whooshes by, wondering what just happened (especially Glad’s friend Alf, whose toupee is left spinning round like a record after one of Clarence’s fly-pasts).

I’m keeping one eye out for Clarence among the dancing crowd (who are getting stuck into YMCA) when Mum and Ray arrive.

“Superb event!” Ray says to Glad, shaking her hand.

A dose of dullness is exactly what this party needs. So – strangely – as he and Mum cross the room, I find I’m almost glad to see him. “Where have you two been?”

“Hello darling!” trills Mum a little bit more loudly than necessary. Is she a little bit tipsy? “We’ve been celebrating!” She’s tipsy. “You’ll never guess. Ray has bought me an engagement present. A holiday in the Lake District! Very romantic.”

“Skiddaw,” says Ray, evidently very pleased with himself.

“Come again?”

“Skiddaw, Candy!” choruses Mum. “It’s the fourth highest mountain in England and our hotel is just below it. Did you know some of the greatest literature our country ever produced was inspired by those views?”

Ray nods, “And the bass player from Jethro Tull.”

“Anyway, darling,” Mum continues, breezily, “I told Ray that I couldn’t possibly consider leaving you on your own for seven whole days.”

As she’s already quite clearly had a celebratory glass of something-or-other and has therefore decided she is going, I leave a pause for her to fill.

“Unless…”

Bingo. “Unless what, Mum?”

“I mean I couldn’t. Unless you were happy on your own? I mean, Glad’s right next door and your little friend can come over and keep you company. What’s her name again?”

“Holly, Mum.”

“That’s it! Holly. Such a sweet girl.”

And my only friend in the world for, like, four whole years. Would it kill you to remember her name? I think to myself.

“So it’s decided then? We’re going?” Mum squeaks in excitement, putting her arms round Ray and giving him a squeeze.

“Apparently so,” I shrug. “Have a great time. When are you going?”

“T minus fourteen days!” beams Ray. “We’d better get our crampons ready!”

“Excuse me?”

“I said we’d better get our crampons ready. And other climbing equipment. Your mother and I are going to scale Skiddaw.”

“You. And Mum. You mean my mum? You’re going to climb…” I turn to Mum confused. This is a woman who last wore flat shoes to her first Holy Communion. The most practical item in her wardrobe is made of PVC. I try to picture Mum dressed for a freezing March hike up one of England’s tallest peaks. Can’t. I take a swig of punch (which Glad claims is non-alcoholic, although on a day as mad as this, frankly, how would you know?) Mum’s eyes begin to mist.

“We’re going up the mountain, Candy! So romantic, don’t you think? A metaphor for our new life together! I’ve always loved the great outdoors as you know…”

“HA!” It’s a goose-like honk of a laugh, and it escapes before I can stop it. She looks hurt. “Sorry, Mum.” I put my hand on her arm, fighting to submerge a particularly buoyant smile and not quite managing. “I’m sorry, but when have you always loved the great outdoors?”

“I’ve always loved getting out and about, up and down the coast, breathing the fresh sea air…”

“Yeah. Through the window of a car!”

“That’s as may be. But now I’m ready to get out among it all, and Ray is quite the rambler.”

“He does go on a bit, I’d noticed,” I mutter under my breath. Ray doesn’t hear but she does. There’s a pause, during which Hot Chocolate’s You Sexy Thing starts up. Ray slinks off to dance. I make a conscious effort not to look.

“That’s not what I meant, young lady. You’re impossible! Can’t you just be happy for me about this one thing?”

“I am happy, Mum. You and Scott of the Antarctic go off and enjoy yourselves. Just make sure you take the number of the local Mountain Rescue with you when you go.”

A few hours, eighty-four candles, lots more cups of punch, a very loud chorus of Happy Birthday and one tearful (on the part of Glad) rendition of Clair de Lune later, it’s time to leave. Ray escorted Mum home a while ago. “She’s a bit tired and emotional,” he explained, pulling her arm over his shoulders in a bid to keep her vertical. “It’s been quite a week for both of us. Do you want me to come back for you with the car?”

Awkward – him doing Dad-stuff. I suppose he thinks that’s his job now. For a second I imagined BioDad coming to pick me up and take me home instead. I pictured him driving a monster truck with massive wheels that rolled straight over Ray’s Mondeo until it looked like a tea tray. I twisted my mouth to one side and shrugged. “Nah, I’m walking home with…um, with a friend.” I extricate Clarence from the mobile DJ’s CD collection which he is flipping through making comments of the “Ugh!”, “Pah!” and “Bo-ring!” variety. I wish Glad one last ‘Happy Birthday’ and head out into the night.