It Was Only Ever You (31 page)

‘Patrick, this is Malcolm,’ she said. ‘He’s one of Britain’s best songwriters and I got him to write you a song. Hopefully, a hit song.’

‘Cool,’ said Patrick. He tried to look pleased. He was trying to look pleased for everyone these days: Ava, Sheila, Rose. God! Rose! What the hell was he going to do about Rose? That thought had been occupying his every waking moment and Patrick was finding the strain of living a lie terrible. Things were becoming unbearable with Ava. He felt guilty and trapped all the time. He hated Rose for doing this to him. Worst of all, Sheila was not happy with him. Their last session had not gone well, and he was beginning to believe she might get rid of him. He could not blame her if she did. She wanted him to sing with passion but Patrick felt all stodgy inside. Singing had always made him feel free, as if it was a release. But since Rose had come back into his life everything inside had become clogged up with all the lies and guilt and confusion. Sheila had commissioned a song for him but all he could feel was this fear he would not be able to sing it.

She handed him the sheet. He glanced at it briefly and said apologetically, ‘I can’t read music.’

‘Listen to Malcolm sing it, and look at the notes while he does – you’ll pick it up.’

Malcolm played a brief intro and as he began to sing, the words
It Was Only Ever You
burned up at Patrick from the sheet. What was this? His poem to Rose?

‘Where did you get this?’ he wailed at Sheila.

‘I found it on the floor after you had a row with your girlfriend,’ she said dismissively.

Malcolm looked over, worried.

‘Carry on playing,’ she said, nodding at him.

‘I won’t sing it!’ shouted Patrick. He felt on the verge of tears. Was this some kind of a terrible joke? ‘You have no right...’

Sheila’s lips tightened and she held out her hand, signalling Malcolm to stop playing.

‘I have every right,’ she said. ‘I am your manager. You entered into a contract with me to sing any song that I gave you and do whatever I thought was necessary to get you on the ladder to being a star. So far all you have given me is Irish schmaltz. We had an agreement, Patrick – I do the thinking and you do the singing. I don’t care how embarrassed you are right now, how humiliated you feel. I do not care how much of a mess your love life is in. All I care about is what you sing and how you sing it. So either you sing me this song the very best you can or you walk out that door, right now, and I will find me another Patrick Murphy.’

Patrick’s face was burning. He felt like walking out, he really did. But he also knew he had come this far and if he turned back there would be nothing waiting for him. This was the end of the line. Pleasing Sheila was his only hope.

And so, after Malcolm had sung through ‘It Was Only Ever You’ and begun playing the intro again, Patrick opened his mouth and he sang. He was so embarrassed, the first line came out in a whisper.

‘Louder,’ Sheila said.

He pushed the sound out from his chest.

‘Louder, I said!’

He threw his voice into the words. Had he really written them? O God, on the plane. Rose had thrown them back at him...

‘Louder! LOUDER! Jesus, Patrick, where is your voice? GIVE ME YOUR VOICE!’

Patrick felt like punching her for all this badgering. This was just the worst thing that had ever happened to him. He hated her more than anything in the whole world. As Patrick was singing the words he thought how much he hated her, so he sang as loud and as hard as he possibly could. Then, when the song hit its towering crescendo, he missed the note, and it came out in an angry squawk. He sounded terrible.

When the song was finished, Sheila stopped pacing, looked up at him and smiled.

‘That was good,’ she said.

‘It sounded terrible,’ Patrick said. Had she lost her mind?

‘Of course it sounded terrible. But the performance had emotion, and that’s all I care about. Now we’ve just got to teach you to sing it as well.’

Despite his anger and humiliation, Patrick felt something fall into place. He did not know what that something was, only that he had something to reach for.

And reach he did.

For the next three hours solid he sang the song over and over and over again.

Sheila roared at him: ‘Higher!’ ‘Lower!’ ‘Faster!’ ‘Slower!’ ‘More feeling!’ ‘Put your heart into it!’ ‘Rubbish!’ ‘Start again!’

She interrupted and criticized and pleaded with him until he felt his throat dry up and Malcolm over on the piano thought his hands would drop off. The composer was now so sick of the song it made him regret ever having written it.

And still Sheila shouted, ‘Again! Not there yet.’

Then, as the afternoon wore on and the band were given their sheet music and began to join them, her tone softened. ‘Nearly there.’ ‘One more time.’ ‘Good performance’ and ‘We’re close to it now.’

Finally, at six thirty, Patrick gave her what she had been waiting for.

Each note was perfect but it was the passionate innocence in his delivery that gave the song its uniqueness. The thing that would make the song a hit, its singer a star, and its manager, finally, a success. As Patrick reached for the high notes in the penultimate stanza, the final ‘you’ of ‘It Was Only Ever You’, the one that all those hours ago he had thought was impossible, Sheila closed her eyes and felt the notes reverberate through her entire body. This was music. This was what it could do to you. She opened her eyes and looked at him, her young star, and noticed that the passion that had been lacking even just a few hours ago was miraculously returned, and in greater measure than she could possibly have imagined. Marvelling at how he was able to drum up such emotion looking out into an empty room, she followed his eyes.

There, standing in the direct line of his gaze, was the pretty young blonde girl, Rose.

He was singing to her, and she was sobbing her heart out.

*

The club was virtually empty, apart from a half-dozen regulars who had come in for the early bird cocktails, and the luxury of practising their dance moves on an empty dance floor as the band rehearsed. Such a small crowd was all but invisible to the performers and staff who were used to seeing large crowds. To them, with only a half dozen regulars scattered across the vast room, the room was more or less empty. A smattering of committed dancers would hardly notice the young singer kissing the bargirl.

Unfortunately, one of those regulars was paying them a good deal of attention. Myrtle had come early on a promise to perfect her jitterbug with a hopeful young man she had been dancing with the past three Thursdays in a row. Quite used to seeing her friend’s husband Patrick on stage, she was stopped in her tracks by the beautiful song he was singing.

‘It was only ever you...’ he crooned across the room, gazing off behind her to some imagined true love. Even though he was her friend’s husband, not for the first time Myrtle felt herself go weak at the knees. When Patrick sang, he really was an absolute dreamboat. Although, offstage, she found him to be a bit of a sap, this was the dreamiest dreamboat song she had ever heard him singing. She was quite carried away with herself and when he had finished she waved across at him. As he climbed down from the stage Myrtle was fully expecting him to come across to her and exchange a few pleasantries. Instead, he walked, as if in a trance, straight past her to the spot where he had been looking as he sang. Myrtle turned around and saw that blonde hussy, Rose. She had always suspected the tart had designs on her friend’s husband. If Myrtle was married to a man like Patrick she certainly wouldn’t be encouraging him to have pretty, female ‘friends from home’. Ava would never suspect such a thing could happen, of course. She was too good. Everyone thought Ava was terrible leaving Dermot and going off with Patrick and getting pregnant, but Myrtle had known Ava all her life and understood that she wouldn’t have done something like that unless she was truly, madly in love. Patrick had seduced her into getting carried away with herself. It had been out of character, and she probably would have been better off marrying Dermot. They were certainly more suited. But then, Myrtle reasoned, what girl doesn’t want a love so romantic, so powerful that she gets carried away? That was what happened to her friend and now she was being punished; her worse nightmares were coming to pass. Sweet, stupid Ava had entertained that girl Rose, becoming friends with her, and now she was kissing her husband. Kissing him! As if it were the most natural, beautiful thing in the world. The same way, no doubt, he had kissed her. Myrtle was boiling. She lit a cigarette and stood, glaring at them, willing them to turn around and see her. What a fright they would get.

Except they did not turn around. They were too lost in their kiss. Lost to the world. Myrtle could not have been more hurt and angry for her friend, but seeing them, standing there, locked in each other’s arms, Rose’s delicate blonde face leaning up towards Patrick’s willing mouth, her small hands desperately clutching his shoulders, his long arms wrapped around her body at the waist, recklessly, openly kissing in front of everyone, Myrtle had to admit it: they did look terribly in love.

A
VA
HAD
not been feeling well all morning. She had been sick after her breakfast, and when the nausea had abated it was replaced with a nasty cramp that came and went.

Knowing that if she went to the doctor he would tell her she should probably go to the hospital and get checked out, Ava reassured herself that this was simply a return of her earlier sickness and decided to go ahead with her plans anyway.

This was a very big day for Ava. Father Moran had sent out a circular with the previous week’s church news sheet asking all of the ladies of the parish to bring in clothes for the Parcels to Ireland project, along with names and addresses of people in their parishes back home for them to apply to have the clothes sent to.

This was the first time that Ava would be meeting many of the ladies from the parish. She knew from experience with her mother that the older more established ladies of the parish did not always welcome new faces. Especially not a younger one who might be seen to be taking over their territory. Ava didn’t mind this. She rather enjoyed the idea of buttering up and charming the old guard. Ava got on with most women. This was, she knew, because she was not pretty enough for the younger women to feel threatened and she also had a sensible way about her that the older women liked. However, by now, everybody in the Irish Catholic community would know about her shotgun marriage. Ava felt nervous about facing them, in spite of telling herself she was married now and so had nothing to be ashamed off. Giving a good first impression was important if she wanted to overcome their prejudice.

Deciding what to wear was the big thing. Ava had quickly sewn herself up a smock dress the night before, from some expensive cream wool she had bought on sale. It was a simple, unfussy garment, but it sat neatly over her small, but growing bump. If only she had something nicer than a plain cardigan to cover her arms. Looking in her closet for inspiration, Ava saw the rose suit. It was out of the question, of course, but the pink weave was a perfect match for the cream dress. She tentatively reached for the jacket, then, taking a deep breath, tried to fit one of her arms through the sleeves. It was a tight squeeze. She could barely bend her arms at the elbow, and, of course, there was not a hope of closing it, but even left open, it set off the cream dress and made it look special. It transformed her from a dumpy pregnant woman into an important, dynamic church lady.

The suit had transformed her life once before, and now it was doing it again. Ava smiled as she ran out the door and headed for the church.

*

The church ladies loved her straight away. They all knew Tom and Nessa Brogan, by reputation at least, and the fact that this respectable couple’s daughter had fallen somewhat, before redeeming herself through a speedy marriage and a desire to do good works, made her all the more adorable to them. Ava was under the impression that Father Moran had given one or two of them a firm talking-to beforehand, but if it made her job easier, so much the better.

Ava’s job was to gather and coordinate all of the clothes and put them into piles that were of equal value. There were, as she knew there would be, objections.

‘I would like to make sure that that yellow jacket reaches my cousin in Kilkelly.’

‘This bag here simply must reach Cork in the next month. It contains a dress for my grandniece’s first Holy Communion.’

‘My brother is a farmer and if we don’t make sure he wears a respectable suit for market day, he’ll never get a wife.’

‘Ladies, ladies,’ Ava commanded them. ‘Can I just remind you all that these clothes are intended for the most needy? And while I understand that we all want to look after our families back home, we really must be mindful of spreading our privilege equally.’

They nodded at her wisdom, as she assured them that the programme would give them the opportunity to do their own personal packages as well as charity ones. She remembered her mother once telling her: ‘Half the time they just want to get together with other women, show off the clothes they can afford to give away and talk about their families back home. It’s as much of a charity to the women giving the parcels as those receiving them.’

By late afternoon there were thirty parcels ready for dispatch. Ava had eaten nothing all day, despite there being a table laid out with a tea urn and an impressive array of sandwiches and cakes. She had taken a mouthful of tea earlier but was unable to keep it down. The cramps had been coming and going, but Ava found when she was busy and distracted she could ignore them better than if she was at home.

However, around five o’clock she got a wave of pain that forced her to sit down. The ladies immediately gathered around her in a concerned group but she pleaded with them to leave her alone for a few minutes to gather herself. Pregnancy was a funny business, so they left her alone.

She held her head down for a few minutes and breathed into the pain. It was so intense she felt like crying out but she did not want to make a fuss that would draw attention to herself. So she kept her eyes closed and breathed until the pain subsided. When she looked up again she saw Myrtle walking across the room towards her. What a wonderful surprise! Had she come to join the parish? Ava didn’t care. She had come at just the right moment when she was feeling vulnerable in front of a group of strangers she was anxious to impress. If she was sick her old friend would find a way to get her out of there while maintaining her dignity. Myrtle looked determined, sweeping through the other women, as they wondered who this assertive gatecrasher was, assuming she must be something to do with their charismatic new leader. For a moment Ava wondered herself how Myrtle, with her rescuing demeanour, had known she was sick.