Page 43 of Cream & Sugar
He shakes his head so violently I can hear the vertebrae cracking in his neck. I punch him on the arm.
“Come on, big man. Are you scared of a few old ladies?”
Rory’s clutching the edge of the table so tightly, his knuckles are turning white.
“I can’t, Freddie.” There’s genuine fear in his eyes. I don’t get it. We used to play together all the time, but the look on his face now tells me this isn’t a fight I can win.
“Fine,” I say, getting to my feet. “Guess I’ll have to bring the house down by myself!”
Before Rory can object, I turn heel and stride up to the bar where I politely ask Joyce for the sign-up sheet. With raised eyebrows, she presents me with a pink piece of paper woefully devoid of any signatures. I scribble my name at the top of the sheet just as Gary commences a wonky rendition of Wagon Wheel.
I’ve barely made it halfway back to our table when Gary cuts the song short and starts hollering into the mic once more.
“Alright ladies and gentleman, we have our first act of the evening! Please welcome to the stage, Freddie Young!”
I do an about-turn and head up to the mic where Gary’s waiting for me, waving the sign-up sheet like a flag. Joyce wasted no time handing it over, it seems. As I approach, Gary’s face lights up with the rictus grin of a weird uncle at a family wedding. It sets my teeth on edge.
“Here he is! A new face at the Penny Farthing, if I’m not mistaken? Are you from around here, Freddie?”
“Yep,” I say, scuffing my feet. “First time in here, though.”
Gary laughs, peaking the mic and making everyone wince. “Well, don’t be scared, Freddie! We’ve all gotta start somewhere, and lucky for you, this is the best gig in town!”
“Sure thing.” I reach for the guitar.
Gary looks taken aback, then roars with laughter once more. “And he plays guitar too! By all means,” he lifts the guitar over his head and passes it to me. “I think we’re in for a treat here, folks!”
The mic is pointed directly at Gary’s mouth, meaning the audience are being treated to a blisteringly loud, one-sided conversation.
“For god’s sake, let the boy play, Gary!” Joyce yells from behind the bar, fingers in her ears.
Gary reddens, revealing he does in fact have an embarrassment threshold. He shuffles off to a nearby table and plonks himself down on a chair, looking a little put-out. I take his place at the microphone.
“Evening folks!” I fiddle with the tuning pegs as I talk, correcting the pitchiness of Gary’s guitar. “This is a song about the street I grew up on, me and my big brother over there—say hi, Rory!” Rory buries his face in his hands, folding in on himself like a collapsing star. “Alright then, here we go!”
My fingers pluck the opening notes of the song. It’s been a while since I played this one, but the lyrics, co-written by Rory and I, spring from my memories like long lost friends.
Remember when we carved our names,
On a silver birch on Amber Lane,
We rode our bikes to the woods at night,
And got lost on the way.
Not a penny to our names,
When we lived on Amber Lane,
Wrote our thoughts in pavement chalk,
Til the rain washed it away.
The patrons peer up from their drinks, looks of pleasant surprise on their faces. Joyce is smiling and swaying slightly to the rhythm while Gary’s glaring at me like I’ve just pissed through his letterbox. The only person not watching is Rory.
I edge closer to the mic and lift my voice for the chorus.
If you see me walking like I’m going nowhere,
