The Choir on Hope Street: A gorgeously uplifting romantic comedy to make your heart sing!. Annie Lyons

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СКАЧАТЬ get the local media involved, really show the council that the hall is needed. What do we think?’

      ‘Who’s going to run it?’ asked Doly. ‘We need a choirmaster.’

      ‘I think I know just the man for the job. Excuse me for a second,’ said Phil, taking out his phone and leaving the room.

      I was excited at the thought, as if we’d hit upon a really strong idea. ‘So, can I count on everyone to join?’ I asked.

      Pamela, Doly and Jim nodded, with smiling enthusiasm.

      ‘I’ve got nothing else to do,’ sighed Natalie with a ‘woe is me’ look. She took another large gulp of wine. I made a mental note to only hand out the cheap stuff next time.

      I heard my phone buzz from the counter with a call. I picked it up and glanced at the ID, feeling irritated as I recognised the number. They were always phoning me and to be honest, it was getting a bit much. I paid them enough, I didn’t see why I should have to solve whatever problem they were having. They were the professionals and should get on with the job I’d employed them to do. I would be calling them in the morning to tell them exactly that.

      I cast the handset to one side and turned back to the room, noticing with annoyance that Matilda was out of her bed and standing in the middle of the kitchen, grinning at everyone.

      ‘Ahhh, bless her, what a poppet,’ gushed Pamela, reaching out to pet Matilda’s cheek.

      Matilda was in her element. ‘I just saw Mr Metcalfe,’ she observed proudly, ‘and you’re our postman and you’re Sadia’s mum,’ she said to Doly, ‘and you’re Woody’s mum,’ she added to Natalie.

      ‘Matilda, what are you doing out of bed?’ I asked, adopting a stern tone.

      Matilda frowned at me. ‘Couldn’t sleep. You’re too noisy,’ she declared. Everyone laughed and she joined in. She loved an audience. ‘When’s Daddy coming home?’

      This was a good question. I had called him earlier in the hope that he might make it home for bedtime so that I would get a moment to prepare for the meeting. I could tell he was in a bar. I heard someone order a large Sauvignon Blanc.

      ‘Sorry, darling, just had some figures to finish,’ he said.

      ‘I know you’re in the pub,’ I replied. ‘I’m not an idiot, Oliver.’

      He had tried to sweet-talk me then, he could tell I was cross. ‘I just popped in for one, my love. And anyway, I knew you had your thing so I thought it might be best if I stayed out of the way. I’ll be home soon. Love you.’

      I had hung up, swallowing down my fury. My thing? What was my thing these days? Running the PTA, ferrying Matilda to whichever social event was lined up and now this community hall campaign. I used to run a department of over one hundred people, delivering profits in excess of twelve million pounds and now, I was trying to persuade lazy mothers to bake cakes whilst negotiating with my cleaner about the removal of limescale from the shower screen. If I thought about it for too long, I would probably explode so I tried not to think about it. I got on with my life.

      ‘Daddy’s working late,’ I replied, more for the benefit of the assembled company than Matilda. ‘And you need to go back to bed, otherwise you’ll be tired in the morning.’

      Matilda scowled and folded her arms. ‘Don’t want to. I want to see Daddy first.’

      I folded my own arms in reply. She stared back at me in defiance. I get this with Matilda. She’s always been her father’s princess and milks it for all it’s worth. I can’t blame her. I used to do the same with my dad.

      I could remember snuggling on his lap, watching television while my mother was in another room. I can’t ever remember hugging my mother. I must have done but she always seemed so remote and forbidding.

      I do recall one time when a child had been unkind to me at school. I can’t remember exactly what had happened but I remember being very upset. My mother was standing in the playground waiting for me. I approached her in tears but instead of reaching out her arms and pulling me to her as I would do with Matilda now, she had waited until I was by her side and then turned away and walked towards the gate. I had been incensed by her lack of feeling and my crying grew louder. At that moment she had grabbed my arm, ushering me out of the gate, hissing under her breath, ‘Caroline! You’re making a scene. Stop it at once!’ I had stopped out of shock but it had started again when we got home, whereupon my mother had sent me to my room until dinner time. I was still upset by the time my father came home. He had appeared at the door and my tears began afresh.

      ‘Hey, hey, what’s all this then?’ he asked. I told him everything including how my mother had sent me to my room.

      He tried to make excuses for her. ‘Your mother has a lot on her plate at the moment. I’m sure she just didn’t understand.’ He comforted and consoled me and we went downstairs to eat dinner in silence, my mother’s face fixed and severe. Later that evening, I heard them arguing. I crept out of my bedroom and sat at the top of the stairs, trying to pull my nightie around my freezing legs and feet. They were in the dining room with the door closed but I could hear my father’s voice.

      ‘She’s just a child! All she wanted was some sympathy.’

      There was a pause before my mother replied. ‘That’s all anyone wants, Charles.’ Then she opened the dining-room door, picked up her coat and bag and left the house. I sat a little longer, my heart beating in my ears, and then I heard my father crying. I’d never heard a grown-up cry before so it was unsettling. Part of me wanted to go downstairs and comfort him but part of me felt appalled. Parents weren’t supposed to cry. However, I was more furious with my mother. She had made my father cry and left him alone. I crept back to bed and lay awake for hours until I heard my mother return and my parents go up to bed.

      I am very aware of my relationship with Matilda when I think of my own mother and I have tried my hardest to ensure that I’m always available for her. We get along well enough, bake together, read together, all the things a parent is supposed to do with their child, but when her father comes home, it’s as if I fade from her line of vision. I tell myself that it’s because I’m the one who’s here the whole time doing the boring stuff – school runs, homework, cooking and of course dishing out discipline but still, I would like her to look at me as she looks at Oliver sometimes.

      I suppose I should just be happy that she loves her father so much. Fathers are the keepers of their daughter’s hearts and I know mine fractured when my dad died. If I’m honest, it’s never healed.

      ‘How about I tuck you in, poppet?’ asked Pamela, holding out a hand to Matilda. ‘I remember when my daughter was little and she couldn’t sleep, I’d sing her a lullaby. Would you like me to do that?’

      Matilda looked up at her and nodded shyly. ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘If you’re sure, but no more nonsense, young lady.’

      Matilda pursed her lips. ‘Why don’t you give Mummy a kiss before you go up?’ suggested Pamela.

      I held my breath and felt my heart sink as Matilda turned on her heels and headed for the stairs. ‘I’ve already kissed her goodnight,’ she replied without looking back.

      I glanced at the other mothers in the room. ‘Children, eh?’ I cried, laughing off my hurt and embarrassment. My phone rang again. It was the same number as before. СКАЧАТЬ