Page 2 of When We Were Young

I raise my eyebrows at her.

‘I’ll ask Dad then,’ she says.

‘He doesn’t make the decisions, Liv.Ido.’

Sensibly, she changes the subject. ‘I heard the most amazing song today. I’ll play it for you.’

As I flip the indicator and turn left, the car fills with music. Within the first few notes, I recognise the song and it’s like a punch to the solar plexus. I can’t breathe.

‘Turn it off!’ I croak, but my voice is drowned out as she turns up the volume.

A bird in a cage,

A butterfly on a pin,

It fills me with rage,

It’s such a terrible sin––

‘Liv, turn it off! Now!’

The headlights of the oncoming car dazzle me. Through the glare, I see a silhouette stark against the bright lights of a stage. I blink, and the image disappears. The car veers left, a lamppost looming in my line of vision. I throw my left arm across Liv. Brakes screech. My body strains against the seatbelt. Metal crunches. Airbags burst in my face and throw me back in my seat.

The music stops. The car is silent. I turn to my daughter, wrestle the airbags out of the way, and pray I haven’t killed another person I love.

Chapter 2

April 1994

Sun streamed through the skylights in hazy beams as the first rush-hour train crawled onto the platform, so Will played ‘Here Comes the Sun’. He loved busking in Uxbridge station. The acoustics in the ticket hall were amazing – you didn’t even need an amp – but you had to keep an eye out for the station manager in his orange high-viz vest, otherwise you were out on your ear. Commuters swarmed through the barriers, several making the detour to throw him change, but there was no sign of the girl.

Ali popped out of his barbershop and yelled, ‘Hey boy! Play “Sunny Afternoon”. Then come in here and I’ll give you a haircut!’

‘No chance. I’d lose all my power!’ said Will, but he played it anyway.

The spring sunshine had everyone in good spirits. One or two people even made eye contact, and a guy in a suit walked by but turned back to toss a pound. The station clock said five-fifteen. The next train was due in three minutes, so he played one of his own songs.

For the passengers of the 17:18, he played ‘Summer Breeze’ and got two nods and a smile, but no cash. Will thought he saw a flash of fluorescent orange out of the corner of his eye, but he was probably being paranoid.

Then he saw her.

She was carrying an unwieldy portfolio case and a toolbox. Last week, she’d had a canvas gathered up in a bin liner with a brightly daubed corner poking through. The week before, she’d cradled a bundle of driftwood, smiling as she went by, the turquoise smudge on her cheek only adding to her beauty.

What was in that portfolio case today? He pictured loose charcoal sketches, layered collages, vibrant watercolours bleeding into each other on thick, textured paper.

She struggled at the barriers. The toolbox jammed against the side of the machine as she reached to take her ticket from the slot. The catch caught, and the toolbox erupted. Sticks of charcoal, tubes of paint, brushes and pencils all clattered to the ground while hundreds of wispy yellow feathers danced around her, wafting aimlessly down.

Commuters piled up behind her as she scrabbled on the floor and the barrier closed, trapping her on the wrong side. No one was helping.

Will had an idea. ‘Help!’ he sang. ‘She needs somebody. Help, come on, anybody. He-e-help. You know she needs someone…’

He hijacked the Beatles song, changing the odd word to draw attention to the girl. A gaggle of schoolgirls noticed what he was singing and went to help. One of them pointed him out to her. She stood up and looked over, her frown softening into an embarrassed smile. She was as lovely as he remembered.

He finished on the ‘ooh’ at the end of the song and smiled back, but her expression had changed. She was looking past him, frowning again. Two police officers were striding towards him. Will lifted the strap over his head and dropped the guitar into its case at his feet. He was well-practised at kicking the case shut and scooping it up in one slick move, but he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder before he could do either.

‘You can’t beg here,’ said the more senior officer.

‘I’m not begging, I’mperforming.’ Over his shoulder, the girl was deep in conversation with Mr High-Viz.

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