London Harmony: Flotilla

By Erik Schubach

Self publishing

P.O. Box 523

Nine Mile Falls, WA 99026

Cover Photo © 2016 Yurka Immortal / Conrado / ShutterStock.com license

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, blog, or broadcast.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Manufactured in the United States of America

FIRST EDITION

ISBN 978-0-9975256-2-5

I had to grin at the woman. That's really all you can do when Paya Doshi is being cute and crossing her arms so resolutely like that. She said with the tone of a mother who expects her children to stop misbehaving, “J-Dub, the two proper answers are 'Yes ma'am' or 'Yes Paya' at this juncture.”

I tried to keep the chuckle out of my voice as I said to her, “Yes Paya.” I envied her gorgeous caramel colored skin that she was blessed with by her Middle Eastern heritage.

It always struck me odd how posh Paya's British accent sounded compared to her best friend, Tabby's. They basically grew up together, yet Tabitha had a harsher accent, bordering on Cockney with that slight overtone of a Russian Slavic accent that snuck into her voice, which she got from being raised by her Ukrainian father.

The woman crinkled her nose at Nessie and me and said, “Grand. We can head off after the stinker is done in there.”

I turned back to my wife who was valiantly fighting off a chuckle at how easily Paya had roped us into having lunch with them after Tabitha finished her recording session. I narrowed my eyes playfully at her, and she did chuckle that time. What? Am I not threatening enough? She'd think differently if I had like an army of mechanical platypus warriors with pikes standing behind me.

With a grin, I turned back to the isolation booth. I closed my eyes to listen to the pure tones and perfect pitch of Tabby Cat's voice as she rocked her new single, ‘Headmistress of My Heart’. There was something about hearing this woman sing that relaxed a part of me that was always so tense. It was the way she could reach for notes that would be vocal torture for anyone else to hit.

She had one of those impossible voices that was a true privilege to listen to. And that she sang such edgy pop and rock, bordering on punk at times with such a polished voice, was the icing on the cake, at least for me. That's why I had to sign the woman to my record label, London Harmony, the moment I laid ears on her.

I exhaled as I opened my eyes to watch her with her hands to the earphones, her copper hair framing her smiling face as she closed her eyes to reach for one of her signature fortissimo notes that held such unwavering power. Then she modulated it down into a pianissimo that was just barely above a whisper, four octaves down and still holding perfect pitch. Her vocal control was astounding to me.

I glanced back at Vanessa, who was just swaying to the music, her fingers tapping out the beat on her hips as she just smiled serenely. Music soothed her and kept her mind from dwelling on her own fears. I hated how afraid she was of her paranoid schizophrenia, even though her meds have been stabilizing her so well the past few years.

It broke my heart whenever she would randomly reach out to touch me to make sure I was really there. But music was the one thing that brought her serenity, which just made her ideally suited to be the lead talent scout for our label.

Like she knew my gaze was on her, mesmerized by how she seemed to melt into the music, she opened her eyes and smiled. Reaching out, she placed a hand gently on my distended belly, feeling our child kicking inside me. She got lost in my eyes with wonder on her face.

I sighed happily. I had finally convinced her to have a child with me instead of adopting. She had such a deep-seated fear that if her eggs were inseminated and placed in me that the child would suffer the same mental illness as her.

After countless consultations and research, showing her that the odds were low. And convincing her that she was not her disease, that she was not defined by it, that we would deal with things if our child did show early signs. I had told her, “We got this shit.” Only then did she grudgingly agree.

But the look of amazement, awe, and love on her face the first day she felt our child kicking inside me, just melted me. It was a rare moment to see Nessie overwhelmed by emotion and brought to tears.

I have to smile at the way she has been treating me like a fragile porcelain doll the past seven and a half months. And she always lays her hand on my belly and speaks to our child as we lay in bed each night.

When the doctors asked if we wanted to know the sex of the baby, she said yes at the same instant I said no. So the little sneak spoke with the doctor on her own and found out. The evil minx knows and gives nothing away to me with her smile.

Now let me tell you one thing, I am so over being pregnant. I want this little symbiote out of me. My feet hurt, my back aches, and there is a serious lack of designer maternity clothing out there. I don't know how mom did this. I have to be sure to do something extra nice for her this coming Mother's Day.

Tabby opened her eyes and kept her hands on the headphones and wiggled her eyebrows at our man at the board, Mickey, as she threatened to take the headphones off. The man snorted and hit the mic button on the console and said to her, “Yes you impatient bird. That was a wrap.”

With a crinkle of her nose at him, she teased, “Wanker.” She removed the headphones and hung them unceremoniously on the mic, causing Micky to cringe. She was such a bad girl at times, and it made me happy to see she got along so well with my staff... my extended family. But then again, it was almost impossible not to like Tabby Cat.

She playfully hopped to the door of the isolation booth and stepped out to look at us, saying, “I seem to have grown an audience.” Then she hugged Paya and asked with a grin, “What are you doing here brat?”

Paya shrugged and explained, “I was here picking up London Harmony's matching contributions for the Flotilla Project for the month.”

The copper haired woman who's eyes oddly matched her hair in an amazing way, rolled her eyes and said, “You and your insistence on picking up cheques, you do know there is this interesting invention out there called the Internet, and people can transfer money electronically.”

The Indian-Brit woman waved her off. “Pish. Then I wouldn't get to visit with everyone. Besides, I heard you were in-studio today so I coerced the ladies into coming to lunch with us before you and Ter head out on tour.”

Then she scowled at Tabby and chastised her, “You look positively starved, when was the last time you ate woman?”

The singer just shook her head as she looked up at the ceiling and complained, “Bloody hell, between you and Teri, I don't know who is worse.” She looked back down with a smile for her friend. “I'm small I don't need to eat much. If it were up to you two, I'd never get out of the kitchen.”

I saw the shadow of concern on Paya's expressive face. I knew she was just remembering when Tabitha Romanov was virtually homeless and living in the floating slums on a barge in the Thames. She was too proud to ask for help, and she sometimes forgot to eat. When we first heard the woman singing, I was shocked at how gaunt she was.

Then Tabby sighed and gave a compassionate look to her friend and changed the subject, “I'll ring up Teri and have her meet us. She needs to surface from the music Conservatoire anyway.” She paused and looked around. “What are we eating?”

I moaned out my craving with a hopeful look on my face, “Sushi?”

This got a chorus of, “No.” from all around me including the intercom as Zil chimed in. Zilrita seemed to always be aware of everything in the studio and was always listening.

Vanessa scolded me, “You know there are some raw fish you can't have while you are pregnant.”

I sighed and said, “Yes mother.”

She shook a finger at me, and I grinned and swung my big belly back and forth innocently as I asked, “Pizza?”

Tabby just beamed at that and said, “Grand, Gertrude's it is.” She called up her wife as I started drooling over the thought of the culinary masterpieces that Gertrude could whip up in her little pizzeria, which was hidden in a quaint alley not far from the studio.

Vannie was grinning like a loon as she looped her arm in mine and I waddled toward the elevator; no stairs for me; it was a teasing look; and I whispered, “I'm eating for two you smug wench.”

This just got chuckles as we picked up some stragglers on our way out, in the forms of Jennifer and Zilrita, who collected her squid hug tolls from each of us when we exited the elevator.

I felt like Robin Hood with my merry men. Except they were women... and... oh shut up.

The shopkeeper chased after me in a token attempt to stop me, yelling, “Stop girl! Get back here you sodding thief!” He stopped after maybe twenty feet, huffing and puffing with his hands on his knees. People moved aside quickly, not wanting to be touched by a raggedy girl with a wild look in her eyes.

I felt bad about it, but it had been so long since I have eaten anything and I swore to myself I'd pay him back after a little panhandling. I slipped into an alley and leaned my back against the brick wall to catch my breath as I unwrapped the sandwich I had nicked from the cart at the entrance to the little grocery. I slid down the wall to sit.

I hesitated only a moment to cringe at the egg salad. Not my favorite, but... I bit into it and barely chewed before swallowing the first bite. I sighed as it went down to my stomach, which had been protesting the past couple days.

Within moments, I had devoured half of it and then just stared at the remainder when I had it half way to my mouth. I bit my inner cheek hard to stop the sudden rush of emotion and to cut back a sob. Had I really been reduced to this? To stealing, just to eat? How had my life gone so bloody sideways?

I stared at the sandwich almost in accusation then closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the wall. I took three deep breaths and pushed everything away as I opened my eyes to carefully rewrap the remainder of the sandwich for later.

I was always so hungry. Different day, same shite. Rinse and repeat.

I just about jumped out of my skin when a woman said from right beside me, “Right then, I could use someone to help to move a resident to her new flat. I pay in cash and pizza.”

I scrambled back as I pushed back up to my feet, jamming the ill-gotten egg salad into my threadbare jacket. “W-what?”

The woman was impeccably dressed, and her shiny black hair was tied back in a ponytail. She had middle eastern features, and her dark eyes were locked on me as she gave an almost impish half smile.

She shrugged and nudged her chin toward my pocket. “I just thought you might be free after you consumed your purloined sarnie.”

I backed away, looking down the alley as I prepared to bolt. “I don't know what you are talking about.”

She just chuckled and said, “Please don't insult my intelligence and I'll return the favor. I stood just there when I saw you do it. It's no matter to me, you look to have two able hands, and I'm in need of them, so what do you say? I pay fifty quid a day plus lunch.”

She wasn't going to turn me in? I blinked at this mad woman, she looked to be a toff to me, the way she dressed and spoke. What would a well-to-do woman need me for? I asked, “Are you right in the head miss?”

She almost giggled in amusement but caught herself and turned it into a chuckle as she responded, “I suppose that depends on who you ask.” Then she straightened and said quickly, “Oh where are my manners? The name's Paya, Paya Doshi, and you are?”

I stared at her offered hand, with its long fingers and impeccable manicure. I took my left hand from my mouth where I had been absently chewing on my nails and looked at mine. I felt embarrassed at the state of them, all chewed to the nubs.

I wiped my other hand on the side of my pants and reached out as I hid my left hand by jamming it into my pocket. I hesitated, then shook the odd woman's hand, mumbling, “Angie, Angie Wells.” I tried to keep the waver out of my voice as I asked, “You're, you're offering to hire me for the day?” Then I narrowed my eyes as I dropped her hand, realizing that she just must feel sorry for a vagrant. “I don't need your charity.”

I started to turn away and stopped as she shrugged and started to turn the other way, “Suit yourself. If I had been offering charity, I would have just slipped you a ten-pound note. I only pay for work, if you're not interested then...”

I couldn't pass up the chance, fifty pounds would let me a room for the night so I could get cleaned up and not have to freeze in the street... and get me a decent meal. My mouth watered at the thought that she had said there was a meal in the deal as well.

I reached out quickly and grabbed her thick blue shirt to stop her from leaving, and then pulled my hand back to my chest for daring to touch her. I said, “I can work,” as she looked back at me.

It was a simple statement and one that sat in the pit of my stomach like a lead weight. After I had lost my job when the corner bookstore went under, I couldn't make rent and wound up on the streets. Nobody would hire me without a permanent street address. I had only been in London a couple months at the time and didn't have any real close friends here to take me in, and I was never going back home to Manchester, I'd sooner starve in the streets.

I was perfectly willing to work if someone would give me a chance, but nobody gave me a second look as the weeks progressed to months with no permanent address, and I realized that this is how people found themselves destitute and at the end of their dignity... and stealing to eat.

She turned back, and I saw something in her expressive brown eyes, something that looked like recognition, like she saw something in me that sparked a memory... some sort of mournful recognition. She smiled and cocked her head at me and said, “Grand. Then let's get a move on.” She paused and grinned to herself as she added, “Literally.”

She just started walking toward the lane as she said, “Come along then Angie, time waits for no woman. I'm parked just there.” She nudged her chin across the lane to a positively huge, black SUV. This small woman drove that beast?

I watched her just march away, and I quickly ran my fingers through my tangled honey blonde hair and dashed out after her. I saw the shop owner speaking with a constable down at the end of the block and lowered my head as I got into the passenger side of the vehicle.

Paya followed my gaze as she started the automobile and just casually turned through the alley, away from the people gathered around outside the little grocery. I looked over at the woman and studied her, she seemed unconcerned and unimpressed by the commotion I had stirred. Didn't this make her, I don't know, some kind of accomplice or something? I almost snorted out loud, yes, an accomplice to grand theft sarnie.

I said more to the ether than to her, “You are one odd woman.”

Her white teeth gleamed as she gave me a thoroughly amused grin, they were a stark contrast to her rich caramel toned skin. She just said through her grin as her eyes twinkled in restrained mirth, “Why thank you.”

I just shook my head and smiled back purely on reflex as I said as I looked away to hide my amusement, “It wasn't a compliment.”

Without missing a beat, she replied nonplussed, “Yet that is how I choose to take it.”

The “so there,” was implied. I looked down at myself and stopped smiling. I was a little grimy, and here I was sitting on what looked like real leather seats. I pulled my hand into my jacket sleeve and buffed off a little egg salad smear I had left on the inside door handle.

I looked at my hand and then wiped off the bits still stuck to the side of my finger. I shuddered, I had shaken her hand like that and didn't know it was there.

She seemed oblivious to my antics as she turned the vehicle onto a lane paralleling the Thames, navigating the streets with confidence. I huffed a breath out my nose. I remember a day that I had confidence like that, I wonder when it had abandoned me. I can't remember now, it had just slipped away by bits until I had none. London had beaten me when it was supposed to be my salvation. It broke me.

I couldn't handle the silence, I felt like her attention was on me even though her eyes were on the road as she drove. I reached for the radio and paused, turning to her and asked, “May I?”

She glanced over and said, “Sure, I love music.”

I turned the radio on and was almost blown into the back seat when I was hit by a wall of thrash metal music and a familiar female voice singing in a growl. Wait, was that... was that Tabby Cat? She didn't sing this did she? I've heard all her stuff, and while she was primarily pop, she dabbled in the harder rock and punk, there were no thrash pieces on any of her albums.

I looked at the radio to see the screen read, Bluetooth Streaming. Then below it scrolling was a date and “Tabs Letting it Rip.” I turned the volume down, just staring at Paya as she whipped her head forward and back to the beat. This posh woman was into metal? Talk about surprising contrasts.

I looked at the radio again, then her. The date on the track was two years before Tabby Cat's first album. Of course, she was obviously well to do and had probably paid a mint to have someone dig up this track for her.

Must be nice to afford anything you want. I reached over to turn off the radio, suddenly not in the mood to listen. But she beat me to it like she knew what I was thinking. She switched it to a popular pop and rock station. I couldn't help but smile, it was an old classic from Amber LaLanie from the Americas. Her stuff was so fun and upbeat.

By the end of the song we were both singing along, I had even cranked the volume to earsplitting again. We laughed as she pulled us into a car park by a small pier I wasn't familiar with. She tilted her head in acknowledgment as she shut off the engine, squinting one eye slightly. “You've got some pipes there Ange.”

I shrugged and sighed. “I used to take lessons before I lost...” Then I opted to say, “Just before.”

She nodded and chirped out as she hopped out of the vehicle, “You should do it more often, you looked happy just then.”

I hesitated then got out to look around. When had I stopped singing? Not a day went by since eighth grade that I wasn't singing. My friends and I had great aspirations to become the next Mandy Fay Harris back then.

I even sang after the troubles at home that made me cut all my ties to my friends and family to come to London to start over again.

I think I lost the music inside when London proved to be no different. That I couldn't seem to run far nor long enough to get away from all of the bad things that seemed to gravitate to me. It was like a personal curse or something that followed me. It lost me the job I loved when the big chain stores shut down the little bookshop I worked at, Volumes of Love. Then it seemed to make sure I couldn't land on my feet again by costing me my little flat above the five and dime.

But this was fun just then, singing in the car with Paya, it made me forget about everything and just let the music in if just for a moment.

I looked around the pretty looking pier with pristine barges that looked to have tiny apartment buildings built on them. And in front of them, there were some beautiful cast iron benches overlooking the water on the boardwalk.

I froze when I saw the banner above them which read, The Flotilla Project, Low and No Income Housing, and a phone number. I hesitated as she just marched down the pier. Had she tricked me? Was this just a ploy to try to get me to accept charity?

She called back in an almost sing-song manner, “Come along Angie, Stephanie's stuff won't move itself.”

I hesitated just a moment longer then started walking quickly to catch up with her. She was a woman on a mission. She just started talking like we were in the middle of a conversation, “Steph's name just hit the top of the Slingshot Program. It is designed to help people get their feet back under them and into their own flat. The program is a fund to help pay first, last and agency fees and provides discount flats across London proper. I'm going to be sad to see them go, they have been staying here for the last three months, and the kids are a joy to have around.”

Then she grinned as we reached a barge emblazoned with the name Persephone on the side. She reached out and fondly ran her fingers along the name then hopped onto a stylish gangplank with brass stanchions and a rope railing.

Wait, the Persephone? Why did that strike a chord with me? Then I remembered the unauthorized biography of Tabitha Romanov, which I read while working in the bookshop. She had been on the street like me, living on a floating slum. The barge was called the Persephone. Bloody hell, this had been where Tabby Cat was discovered by Mandy Fay Harris' daughter, June?

I shook my head, well it certainly wasn't a floating slum anymore. The apartments on the barge looked to be posh condos now. I looked back at the banner and asked, “You just let people stay here? These ships are flop houses?”

She gave me a sour look and countered, “Not at all, we prefer to think of the units here as transitional homes. People pay what they can to stay here, or the rooms are provided for free if they cannot afford it. This gives them a place they can call home while they get themselves sorted out and back into the world.”

Then she shrugged and grinned as we walked along the polished hardwood decking as we passed a couple doors. “Everyone deserves their own dignity and to have a roof over their head. Everyone stumbles and falls in life at some point, there's no shame in that. We just give people the boost they need to stand back up again on their own two feet.”

I narrowed my eyes at her back. Was she baiting me? I didn't need... then I caught myself. I exhaled, what in the hell was wrong with me? Why was I so afraid to ask for help? What was my problem with charity? Bloody pride.

She stopped at the third door and turned back to me and said, “This is it, prepare yourself.” She raised her hand and knocked, squinting an eye.