Authors: Lucy-Anne Holmes
‘Yeah.’
‘I need magic knickers.’
‘Where will I get them?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s desperate.’
‘OK. And Grace?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I think this is bloody brilliant news.’
‘Hey, Mildred.’
I put the key in the lock and slowly push the door open. There’s a light on in the kitchen and I walk towards it.
‘Mum, it’s me,’ I say softly as I enter. A figure is standing by the kettle. The figure is wearing my mum’s pink satin dressing gown. However, the figure is definitely not my mother. This figure is at least a foot taller and at least a foot wider and has never had a lower-leg-waxing session. It looks suspiciously like John St John Smythe Senior.
‘Oh, no,’ I say with feeling.
‘Grace, is that you?’ he says, still with his back to me.
‘Yes.’
‘Now, Grace, your mother is a tiny woman. A tiny woman, Grace. And this dressing gown doesn’t do up at the front on me.’
‘Oh, urgh!’
‘I quite agree. This is most uncomfortable. If I could ask
you to look away while I go up and tell your mother you’re here.’
‘It’s all right, John, I saw her car.’ It’s my mum walking up behind me and into the room. Thankfully, she’s wearing a tracksuit.
‘Good morning, Grace.’
‘Morning.’
‘I don’t want us to row,’ she says calmly. ‘Just let me clear something up. The woman you saw in John’s house was his PA. She starts at seven thirty every morning. She’s been working for him for years and feels very at home there.’
‘Yes, Grace, not a … not a … you know. There wasn’t anything untoward going on.’ John Senior says, with his back still to us.
‘John came round last night. He’s been helping to find the crooks who lent me the money. He even hired a private investigator to see if he could track down the Italian man.’
‘Oh. Did they find anything?’
‘As a matter of fact, they did.’ Mum smiles.
‘We handed it all over to the police and I came round last night to tell Rosemary. Then this morning we had a call to say they’ve caught the syndicate. They arrested them in the early hours.’
‘Oh, wow!’ I say to John’s pink satin back.
‘And I’m so terribly sorry, Grace,’ Mum says softly. ‘About what I said. I’m so terribly sorry.’
‘Me, too.’
‘No, you shouldn’t be sorry.’
‘Well, I am.’
She walks towards me and takes my hand.
‘I …’ she starts, but then she stops and closes her eyes. ‘I didn’t want to hurt you, Grace. I don’t mean to hurt you.’
‘In a strange way, I’m glad you told me all that. I mean, it was horrible, but at least things make sense now.’
‘Can we move on?’
I catch sight of the clock. I haven’t really got time for chitchat.
‘’Course, Mum. One other thing, I’m … um. This is quite weird as things go. I’m entering the
Britain Sings
competition tonight with a chap called Anton who runs the pub over the road and I was wondering if I could borrow a dress.’
There’s a pause.
‘Is that the singing show on the telly?’ pipes up John Senior.
‘Yes, John. Yes, it is,’ my mum says quietly, and as she walks towards me I see tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, Grace, what will you sing?’
‘“Mr Bojangles”.’
She just nods at me, while her chin quivers and tears escape her eyes.
‘Come upstairs,’ she says with a sniff. ‘We’ll make you look beautiful.’
As we leave the room, John Senior calls out, ‘So can I turn round now?’
‘Where is she?’ shrieks Wendy. ‘Magic knickers delivery!’
‘We’re up here,’ Mum and I call out.
‘In my old room,’ I add.
‘Rosemary Flowers, is that your beau who let me in?’ Wendy says, bounding into the room. ‘Oh!’ She stops suddenly. ‘Oh!’ she repeats, dropping her Selfridges bag on the ground and slumping onto the bed. ‘Oh!’ she says again.
She’s struck dumb because I am wearing the Death Dress.
‘Where did the dress come from?’ she whispers.
‘It’s Gracie’s dress,’ my mum says, oblivious. ‘I made it for her years ago. I always thought she should enter
Britain Sings,
and I tried and tried to persuade her, but she always said no. I’d given up hope of ever seeing her in it, to be honest. This dress and I have been waiting for a long time.’
All that paracetamol we chucked away and it was my dress
after all. Perhaps I should have guessed. It’s the same pattern as the one I wore in Rome, but in black velvet. Mum felt the pale blue was too girly and this was more fitting for a young woman.
‘I always thought that dress would be too big on the hips for you, Rosemary.’
‘What do you think?’ asks Mum, cheerfully. ‘Do you think she looks like a beautiful young woman with a huge talent who’s going to knock everyone’s socks off when she gets on that stage tonight.’
‘That’s exactly what she looks like, Rosemary.’
I peer in the mirror. I know one thing, I don’t look like Gracie Flowers. Gracie Flowers wears leggings, dirty ballet pumps and ponytails. The girl in the mirror is squeezed into a fitted black cocktail dress, high black shoes and her hair is swept up in a French pleat.
‘So will you do her make-up, Wendy?’
‘Really, Mrs F, you are the master. You taught me all I know.’
Mum can’t suppress a smile.
‘Well, you start on some smoky eyes and I’ll pop downstairs to see how John’s doing.’
‘Knock knock!’ shouts John from behind the door. ‘Are you ladies decent?’
‘I was just coming down to check on you,’ my mum says, opening the door and beaming.
I don’t beam because standing next to John Senior is his foul offspring, Posh Boy. I scowl at him.
‘Grace,’ John Senior says, walking towards me and taking one of my hands, ‘you look ravishing.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Gracie Flowers, you look hot,’ Posh Boy says.
I silence him with a well-placed middle finger.
‘Grace,’ my mother admonishes.
‘Now, we have a few announcements,’ John Senior says. ‘The first is that I’ve been on the phone all morning and managed to get four tickets for a certain
Britain Sings its Heart Out
live final tonight.’
‘Oh my God, how much did they set you back?’ Wendy asks.
‘Oh my God is quite right, Wendy. But it’s money thoroughly well spent, I feel. Now, John here can’t go, Rosemary and I will obviously take two of the tickets, but we wondered whether you and your helpful lawyer friend would like to join us, Wendy?’
‘YES!’ Wendy jumps up. ‘YES! YES! Thank you, thank you.’ She throws her arms around John Senior, who looks tickled pink if truth be told.
When Wendy lets him go, he takes my mum’s hand tenderly in his own. ‘There’s something else we wanted to say, which is why I asked John here to join us this morning. I proposed to Rosemary last night and she’s made me the happiest man alive by saying yes.’
‘Ah,’ Wendy cries. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Good work,’ says Posh Boy, shaking his dad by the hand and kissing my mum on the cheek.
I walk out of the room and onto the landing. I can’t get my head around all this. Wendy follows me: ‘What’s wrong?’ she whispers.
‘But my mum’s a fruit loop, she can’t get married!’ I hiss.
‘Don’t speak about your mother like that.’ It’s John Senior, my stepfather-to-be, and he’s telling me off already. He walks onto the landing and closes the door behind him.
‘You hardly know her!’ I protest.
‘Grace, I’ve known her for some months now. From the first time I popped round and met her, I have been spending time here and getting to know her. Yes, she’s delicate. I am aware of that. But I for one have seen huge improvements. Huge. I want to help her. Both our eyes are very open, Grace.’
Part of me wants to fight back, but he’s right. Mum has been much better. When she came to the hospital after my miscarriage, she was the strong one, and even though the loan was disastrous, at least she made an active decision, which is something she hasn’t done for years. I nod at him.
‘Sorry.’
‘No need for apologies. It must be quite a shock.’
‘Yes.’
He comes towards me with his arms open – oh dear, I’m not sure I’m ready for this – and gives me a hug. And surprisingly, because I certainly wasn’t expecting it, I like it. It’s not too bearlike or too chummy. It’s careful and kind and it makes me feel protected.
‘Grace,’ he says as he holds me, and there’s something in the soft way he says my name that reminds me that his first wife, Posh Boy’s mum, was called Grace, too. I hope she’s smiling down on us today.
When we release each other, he opens the door to my old room for me enter. Mum looks up expectantly, and I can see how much she wants my approval, how much it means to her. I grin, and it’s not forced. It’s actually rather easy to smile
because I know that this big rich man with the calloused hands will worship my mother, and that’s all I want.
The word champagne is mentioned and we all move downstairs, where Posh Boy sidles up to me.
‘All my life I’ve wanted a brother, and I get you,’ I hiss.
‘I shagged my stepsister.’ He smiles. ‘That is very cool.’
‘Right, Ruthie Roberts singing “Amazing Grace”, ready to go in two minutes,’ the studio manager shouts.
‘Anton, I whisper. We’re sitting side by side in the wings of the huge stage.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, but do you mind if I hold your hand?’
He shakes his head and smiles as he takes my hand. I squeeze it tightly and close my eyes.
On the morning of my Geography GCSE, the morning my dad died, I was sitting at my desk with the lamp on when Dad knocked on my door.
‘How you feeling, Amazing Grace?’
‘I’m going to fail,’ I wailed because I was a dramatic teenager. He just sat on the edge of the bed. He didn’t say anything at first, and neither did I. I was so wrapped up in a world where getting below a C in my geography exam was a national disaster. So we sat in the lamp light, him on the bed,
me at the desk, and he opened his mouth and started to sing. He sang me the whole of ‘Amazing Grace’, softly and beautifully.
Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I’m found,
Was blind, but now I see.
’Twas Grace that taught my heart to fear,
And Grace my fears relieved.
How precious did that Grace appear
The hour I first believed.
At the end I felt so calm. Dad’s voice played in my head as I walked to school that day and it played in my head as I sat in the exam hall and read through the paper. It played in my head when I travelled to the hospital and it played in my head when I didn’t speak for two whole months. I was able to block out the world and listen to him singing me ‘Amazing Grace’.
Then one day I went to a big singing competition in Manchester and Ruth Roberts stood on the stage and was about to sing this song. And I couldn’t let her, or rather I couldn’t let myself hear it. Because then maybe, just maybe, I wouldn’t hear Dad’s voice in my head any more singing ‘Amazing Grace’. I would hear Ruth Roberts instead. Then I would have lost him. So I screamed and screamed and screamed to block it out. That’s why I haven’t listened to the radio for years, just in case there was the slightest chance I’d
hear someone else singing this song. That’s why I once had to run out of a cinema screaming, and it’s why I ran screaming out of the karaoke. It’s why I’ve become so afraid of music.
I’m going to let that go now. I’m going to hear this song and I’m going to sing again, because I know that’s what Dad would want.
‘Are you ready?’ Anton whispers.
‘Yes, are you?’
‘Yes.’ He smiles. Then he looks at his shaking hand. ‘Well. Ish.’
I take the shaking hand and I hold it in my own.
‘And three, two, one,’ the stage manager mouths energetically.
Over the sound system an upbeat male voice announces, ‘And now … Mr Anton James and Miss Gracie Flowers.’
The stage manager puts a hand in the small of each of our backs to launch us onto the stage. The live theatre audience clap and whistle. We have to walk to our two microphones, which are set a few feet apart in the middle of the stage. I look at the floor as I walk. Anton gets to his microphone first and we release hands. I still can’t look up. When I get to my mic, I clutch it for support with both hands and hope no one can see my knees shaking beneath my dress. My hands are trembling,
too, and it’s making the microphone wobble. I put my hands down and hold them against my sides instead. A panel of six judges sit at a long table towards the front of the stage. Rod Stewart is one of them, and the rest are all music bigwigs. I can’t look at them, so I keep my eyes fixed on the floor.