And then, suddenly, she was through the doors and the glare of lights was hot on her face. She squinted into the brightness, her eyes taking a moment to adjust.
She walked onto the stage, towards the front row of tiered platforms. Behind her five rows of the choir filed in, the stage set up in front of them for a full orchestra but empty of players now save for a pianist, a drummer and a double bassist.
As Audrey looked out into the auditorium, from the tiny figures standing high up in the gallery to those seated in the stalls, she couldn’t believe how different it looked – how different it felt – from when they’d rehearsed there that afternoon. Then it had seemed bare, cavernous, uninviting almost. Now it felt as though half of London must be in attendance.
Her right leg trembled and she tried to restrain it but realised it was operating on a network beyond her control. She instructed herself to ignore it, hoped it wouldn’t be noticeable to any TV viewers watching at home. She felt someone squeeze her shoulder but didn’t dare turn around for fear that if she looked anyone in the eye she might realise the enormity of what she was about to do, and how many people were depending on her to do it well. Then the shuffling of feet behind her stopped and the purest silence fell like a blanket over the auditorium.
And there was Ben, standing in front of them on a small, square podium, grinning and nodding. He gave a thumbs-up that made Audrey want to giggle but she held it tight behind her lips because she knew it was just nerves playing tricks on her, and she feared that if she began to laugh now she might not be able to stop.
Ben caught her eye, raised his eyebrows in a silent question, and she nodded in reply.
She watched as Ben lifted his arms and conducted a single bar of silent time-setting before the pianist placed his fingers on the keys and the drummer poised his brushes in mid-air. Together they began to play the first notes of a sixteen-bar introduction that Audrey knew so well it was as if it had soaked into her skin and now flowed through her veins. Her heart clenched and unclenched like an impatient fist and she tried to swallow but there was nothing there.
It was too late anyway. Ben was looking at her, that broad, encouraging smile reassuring her that he believed in her, that she could do this, that all she had to do was believe in herself and she could pull it off.
Audrey managed to prise her dry lips apart, felt her diaphragm expand, and then she heard the sound of her voice singing into the microphone clipped to her daffodil-yellow blouse. And there was a split second of shock at its volume, how all-encompassing it was, her ears full of the sound of her own voice.
She sang note-perfect, her voice so much more confident than she had ever imagined it could be, and it was as though her sixteen-year-old self were holding her hand, singing alongside her, reminding her of all the things she had once hoped her life might be. There, in her voice, was the optimism she had once felt for the future, the plans she had once dared to make, the courage she had lost sight of for so many years and only now regained. Wrapped inside Audrey’s singing was all the love, the loss, the grief and the guilt that she had been carrying inside her for almost thirty years.
Chapter 39
Jess
Jess leaned forward in her seat, oblivious to the fact that she was blocking the view of the person behind. Her hands gripped the armrests, her knuckles the colour of chalk.
That was her mum. Her mum. And yet it was someone else entirely: someone who was wearing the same black trousers and yellow blouse as the woman who’d left her house earlier today, but who was doing something Jess could never have imagined her doing. This woman was standing on stage and singing a solo in front of five thousand people as though she’d been doing it all her life.
Her mum’s singing was rich and deep and resonant, a sound that awakened in Jess a sequence of memories that had been long forgotten: a sound that had, once upon a time, sent her to sleep every night accompanied by the gentle sweep of fingers through her hair and kisses across her forehead. A sound that had been whispered into Jess’s ear – warm and comforting – as she had lain awake through the night, encased in her mum’s arms, while her twin sister occupied a hospital bed two miles away. A sound that spoke of refuge from bee stings, bullying classmates, grazed knees and bad dreams. It was a sound of love and hope, encouragement and comfort.
As Jess stared unblinking at the stage, listening to her mum sing for the first time in decades, her scalp tightened as a cold, unwanted knowledge crept into her head. It was knowledge Jess had kept locked away – not daring to look at it, not daring to admit its presence – ever since she had been told nine months ago. Now, for the first time, the thought opened up in her mind that her mum would not be around for ever. That there would come a time, very soon, when she would no longer be there to listen to the story of Jess’s terrible day at work or to answer prosaic questions Jess had asked countless times before but always needed to ask again: how long to roast a whole chicken, when best to have her flu jab, which month she should plant her bulbs. There would come a time all too soon when her mum would no longer be there to provide all the support and reassurance Jess had spent a lifetime taking for granted.
It was only now, sitting in the Royal Albert Hall, that Jess realised her mum was the only adult with whom she’d maintained a relationship for the past fifteen years. That in spite of all that remained unsaid between them – all the tales Jess had never dared tell, all the times she had pushed her mum away to protect them both – her mum had always been there, unwavering in her love. And soon she would be gone. And the acknowledgement of it clutched at Jess’s heart as if it might never let her go.
Someone clasped her hand, and she turned to see Mia beaming at her. As their fingers interlocked, Jess realised that she couldn’t remember the last time her daughter had willingly held her hand.
Jess watched her mum sing, knowing that the realisation of how much she would miss her had come almost too late. And it was only when Mia handed her a tissue that Jess understood the reason her face felt hot and damp was because of the tears streaming down her cheeks.
Chapter 40
Lily
Lily had heard her mum sing hundreds of times during her childhood but never quite like this, never with a voice that filled every corner of a concert hall, seeming to burrow under your skin and anchor itself to your heart. Sitting in the ninth row of the stalls, staring up at the choir on stage in their black trousers and rainbow of coloured shirts, she felt as though she were watching her mum transform into someone new, someone different, someone confident, poised, extraordinary.
Glancing sideways along her row of seats, Lily saw the face of every audience member break into a wide, surprised smile. She turned back to the stage, her chest swelling with pride.
Her eyes flicked above her mum’s head to where Phoebe was standing two rows behind, looking down at her grandmother and grinning as though there was not enough room on her face to contain all her admiration.
Lily experienced a flash of anger that Daniel wasn’t there. He should have been sitting beside her, watching his daughter on stage. He should have been there to see his mother-in-law in this moment of unexpected triumph, not just because Lily wanted him there but because her mum deserved everyone to hear for themselves how incredible she was.
As Lily watched and listened, a sense of unreality washed over her: the perverse truth that at this moment her mum could not have seemed more alive, more full of vitality, or have had more reason to want to go on living.
Lily kept her eyes glued to the stage, determined not to miss a single second of her mum’s performance. Because she knew, even without consciously acknowledging it, that in the months and years ahead, this would be a memory to treasure.
Chapter 41
Audrey