Keeping Mum. Kate Lawson

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      ‘Right, so has everyone got their starting notes? And is everyone happy with the arrangement for this?’ asked Alan, before rapidly running through the flight plan for a little gospel number the choir were polishing for the All Stars On Tour show. It was also the opening number for the ‘Bon Voyage’ concert they were staging in the Corn Exchange before they left and it really needed to go with a zing.

      Alan tapped his baton on the music stand. ‘Mellow—nice and bluesy. Basses in first, twice through the intro and then altos you come in, along with the tenors and finally sopranos. We do the whole thing through a couple of times and then head on home for a big finish? Okay, just watch where I’m going with this—now relax, breathe—and let’s really go for it. Lots of life, plenty of swing,’ said Alan enthusiastically. Standing out in front of the choir, who were currently arranged in concert formation, he looked around the faces to ensure he had everyone’s attention.

      ‘Right. Here we go. One, two, one two three four…’ and brought the bass section in with a crisp flick of his hands. At least, that was the idea—except that that wasn’t quite what happened. For some reason, things weren’t going well tonight, and the whole number rapidly dissolved into total chaos. The normally crisp dm, dm dm-dm, dm dm—a percussive, plucky snap without a vowel sound, created by the bass section and meant to resemble the sharp rhythmic slap of a well-tuned bass, and a staple part of a lot of ‘a cappella’ choral numbers, which anchored everyone else—sounded like a bag of spanners being dropped down a flight of concrete stairs.

      Welsh Alf’s attempts to recover the timing made the whole thing far worse—a lot worse. Within a few bars, the song sounded like a broken engine, mistimed, misfiring and gradually tearing itself apart, while behind it the dm, dm dm-dm, dm dms slowed, stalled and finally faded.

      ‘Whoa, whoa, there cowboy,’ said Alan, face contorted into a grin as he pulled an imaginary horse to a standstill. ‘Let’s try that again then, shall we folks? Just relax, feel the beat. Let’s be honest, if you don’t know it by now, really there isn’t a lot of hope. Basses, would you like me to run through your part one more time with feeling?’

      There was a faint murmuring, which Alan took for a yes, at which point he began to go over their part line by line. Given that most of it was dms, it wasn’t so much a case of checking the words as the pattern. Cass looked around the rest of her section, wondering what the problem was. Fiona had barely said a word all evening, although everyone looked a bit down in the mouth tonight; surely they weren’t all keeping mum?

      Cass closed her eyes and reminded herself that she wasn’t planning on saying anything about Andy, not one word, and that what happened between Fiona and Andy was none of her business. In fact, she had arrived a few minutes later than normal, and had to squeeze herself into place amongst the rest of the section, just so she couldn’t do any pre-match bonding with Fiona, and she planned to leave before the last note had stopped vibrating round the hall, so she wouldn’t slip up and nothing would slip out.

      ‘Righty-oh,’ said Alan, clapping his hands after they’d dm-ed the song through a few times. ‘I really don’t know what the problem was there, guys, but my advice is, you know it, you just need to relax and go with it. Right, let’s go from the top. And don’t worry, it’s pre-match nerves. Not long now and we’ll be on the road in Cyprus, on stage, on the terrace drinking pina coladas, groupies and sugar daddies hanging around wherever we go, clamouring for our bodies.’

      ‘For god’s sake don’t tell my missus that,’ said Welsh Alf, looking all flummoxed and anxious. ‘I’ve had a hard enough job getting her to let me go as it is.’

      There was a lot of laughter.

      ‘You all set?’ asked Fiona, as everyone settled down.

      Cass nodded. ‘For the trip? Oh yes, really looking forward to it,’ she answered brightly, making sure there was no room for any other questions.

      ‘Me too,’ said Fiona.

      Across the hall, one of the sopranos stuck her hand up and waved it about like a schoolgirl keen to answer a question. ‘Alan? Alan?’ she called in a tinkling voice, trying hard to grab his attention.

      Taking advantage of the hiatus, Fiona said, ‘Actually, Cass, I was hoping to have a word with you. Are you going to the pub afterwards? I wanted to talk to you about the other night.’

      Cass felt her heart sink. After all, she could so easily be wrong about Andy and the girl, which was exactly what Rocco and her mum had said on Saturday evening, while eating a superb supper of halibut and prawns baked under a crust of Gruyère crumble, served with Cass’s homegrown spinach, pan-fried courgettes and sauté potatoes—along with a spare man called Mike who they had invited along to make up the numbers.

      ‘My advice? Snout out,’ Rocco had said, tapping the side of his nose by way of a visual aid. ‘You’re damned if you do and you’ll be buggered if you don’t in a situation like that. God only knows the bucket of worms you’ll be wading through.’ He pulled a face. ‘Blast, I just mixed my metaphors, didn’t I?’

      ‘Well and truly mixed, diced, and deep fried,’ said Nita, tucking a strand of bleached blonde hair back behind her ear. ‘Best to leave that one alone, Cass my darling. I remember what she was like when you were at school. She was always difficult. You did the right thing, told her to talk to him, and now it’s up to them to sort it out for themselves. Do you want some more fish—there’s plenty?’

      ‘So what’s your connection to the woman with the wayward husband?’ asked Mike conversationally, offering up his plate for seconds. ‘Nita said that you were in antiques—do you do counselling on the side?’

      Cass glanced across at him. Mike was around five ten with grey-blonde hair and bright blue eyes with enough wrinkles around them to suggest he probably smiled a lot more than he frowned. Sadly, that was not enough to make him her type or fanciable. And, truth be told, he was probably nice, except that tonight romance wasn’t what was on her mind. So far he’d done little but listen and fiddle with things in his jacket pocket and she was torn between feeling sorry for him and being annoyed. Her mum and Rocco always did this, invite along some poor sucker, hoping to play matchmaker, when really all she wanted was to gossip with the pair of them.

      ‘We sing together,’ she began. ‘And we used to go to school together. She moved back to the area a couple of years ago.’

      ‘Oh right—yes—in the choir, Rocco was telling me about that. Sounds like fun.’

      ‘They sing like angels,’ said Nita.

      ‘You ought to hear them,’ said Rocco. Cass shot him a look. He beamed back at her.

      Mike was an architect, and apparently yes, he was an angel too, because her mother had said so. He’d drawn up the plans for their kitchen and now he’d come up with some sort of fancy notion for the roof, which included taking most of it off and turning part of it into a sun terrace.

      ‘You’re having a terrace?’ asked Cass, as she shovelled more of the baked fish onto her plate.

      Rocco nodded. ‘Uh-huh—your mother reckons if they’re right about global warming that our flat roof is going to be like St Tropez, so while we’ve got the whole thing stripped back to bare bones, why not? Who wants this last bit of fish?’

      Mouth full, Mike waved it onto his plate. ‘Yes please, god, that’s really fabulous…’

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