By Any Other Name (24 page)

It isn’t so bad being here and just listening to them talk. I smile occasionally at someone’s joke and they don’t seem to expect more.

‘So, Joe, where’ve you been the last few weeks?’ one of them asks. ‘You fallen down a hole to Australia or something? Because it’s like you vanished on
us.’

‘Is it now?’ Matt says, grinning hugely. I’ve decided by now that Matt is a wind-up merchant, possibly of the highest order. ‘Why’s that, little bro?’

Joe narrows his eyes at him. ‘Been busy with the cows.’

They all fall about laughing and I wonder if I’ve missed some in-joke. Joe’s flushing a bit and laughing in a self-conscious way.

‘That’ll be the same cows we’ve always had? Those cows?’ Matt says, sniggering at him. ‘Or have we suddenly got five hundred head more that I don’t know
about?’

‘OK, and busy with revision!’ Joe adds, causing more raucous laughter, for some reason. He pulls a face. ‘You’re a comedian. You should be on stage.’

The others shove and jostle him, laughing, and he has to take it.

It’s all a bit testosterone-rich for me and I’m relieved when a bunch of girls come and join us.

‘Come on,’ Joe mutters in my ear and he sneaks out for a cigarette.

‘Who’re the girls?’ We stand in the shadow of the barn as Joe lights up.

‘Couple of people’s sisters or girlfriends, or friends of the family. They left the lads to it for a while so Matt could acclimatise a bit at a time.’

I nod. ‘He looks like he’s enjoying himself.’

‘Yeah. Maybe Mum was right about this taking his mind off what he can’t do, but equally he just likes seeing his old mates again.’

‘You said he was your best friend before he went away. Has he changed much?’

Joe takes a drag on the cigarette and thinks about it. ‘No. He’s just as ready to rip me and all his mates as he always was. And he always was confident and sure of what he wanted.
But there are changes too. He’s more tolerant since he joined up. I noticed it even before he went out on tour. Last time he came back to visit, my granny was here. She drives us all crazy
with her nagging when she comes to stay and he put up with her way better than the rest of us could. And he’s not as quick to be down on people as he was. He told you he hated school and he
gave the teachers a hard time back then, but I don’t think he’d be like that now.’ He pauses and takes another drag. ‘But since he lost his legs? I think he’s trying
really hard to be who he was before it happened and I can’t tell yet whether he is or whether he’s pretending. So much of who he is was wrapped up in being active and able to do
physical things that I can’t see how he can ever be the same. But he’ll fight to be the person he was before – that’s what he’s like.’

The back door opens and Matt shouts out into the yard, ‘Come on, slacker. Dad wants you in the front room now.’

Joe groans.

‘What’s up?’ I ask as I follow him back in.

‘You’ll see. Just don’t laugh too much.’

The front room turns out to be a large rectangular room with sofas and chairs and not much else. I think there’s a TV in the corner, but if there is it’s tiny and my view is blocked
by some men about Joe’s dad’s age who are sitting on wooden chairs. One of them has a violin under his chin and as soon as I see it, I have eyes for nothing else.

He’s tuning it and I watch as he twangs the strings and makes the minute twists to the pegs, then runs the bow across the strings to check the tuning has held. I listen as he warms his
fingers up in a quick scale and feast my eyes on the curves around the chin rest, on the coils of the scroll. I’m dying to touch the sleek wood.

Joe’s dad is organising people into a group near the violinist. I tear my eyes away to see that the man next to him has a flute, and another has a tin whistle. A younger man is strumming a
guitar; Joe’s mum is tuning a mandolin. Another woman is positioning herself as if she’s going to sing. Joe perches on the edge of a wooden kitchen chair with some kind of drum and a
little wooden beater.

The man with the guitar plays a few chords and then nods at the others and they break out into some kind of folk song. I don’t recognise it, but after a few bars it’s surprisingly
infectious. The crowd from the kitchen have come in to listen and I’m drawn to the violinist’s fingers flying on the strings, although I should call him a fiddler really.

Then I hear it . . . a soft drumbeat, like a heartbeat at first. Missing every few beats and picking up on the fourth.

Soft and slow, soft and slow.

Then faster as the tune picks up pace and the drummer hits more of the beats.

When the singer – who actually isn’t at all bad – moves into the main rhythm of the song, the drumbeat speeds up into a pace so fast I can’t believe there’s only
one. I look at Joe, whose hand is flying so fast I can’t see how he’s hitting the drum, except his wrist is flicking the double-ended beater back and forth so quickly that it’s a
blur.

People’s feet are jigging in time now, mine too even though I’m not generally into music like this. But hearing it played live is different and the beat catches at my breath,
especially as the singer pauses and the fiddle plays a solo and Joe backs it up with the little drum. I begin to realise this is really a duet between the fiddle and the drum. And Joe’s
hitting the beater on the skin, on the wooden rim, and a couple of times for comic effect off the chair leg beside him, as the duet turns into a duel of who can play fastest. The fiddle wins in the
end and Joe laughs as the crowd breaks out into applause. Then he goes back to the gentler beat as the vocalist takes up her part again.

The group play another song after that with the tin whistle taking centre stage this time. The fiddler makes that instrument sing and I wish I was him. I realise I miss playing my violin so very
much. And the drumbeat makes me jig my foot and tap my hand against my leg like I’ll never stop. The vibrations hum through the wooden floor and up through my feet, making my heart go,
‘Play, play,
play
.’

When they stop, the fiddler grins at me and holds the fiddle out.

I shake my head and take a step back, surprised.

‘Ah, go on,’ he says. ‘I think you know how to play this thing.’

‘Yeah, go on,’ a voice shouts from behind and I turn to see Matt wink at me. ‘Give it a go. Even if you’re bad, the view’ll be better than watching that old
goat.’

‘Oh, I don’t think I know anything –’

‘You can’t refuse a wounded man now . . .’ He’s grinning like it’s just a scratch again.

But he’s right. I can’t. How do you say no to him when he’s sitting there laughing at himself like that with no legs, and looking so like Joe.

I take the fiddle and think desperately what I can play. Then Joe hums a few bars of something I recognise from a film and raises an eyebrow in question . . .
What about this?
Yes
,
I nod.

He smiles and settles back to his drum. He beats a few soft strokes to lead me in. I tuck the fiddle under my chin and feel it become part of my arm, my shoulder.

It’s been so long.

And then it’s like yesterday.

I find the tune and my fingers know where to go and the bow glides on the strings, and I’m home.

How did I ever give this up? Why did I ever think it was a good idea to let this part of me go? Let it die?

As I get more confident, and I can hear the audience liking what we’re doing, I pick up the tempo. Joe matches me and works up and down the drum. It’s that subtle change in the
drum’s tone that makes what he’s doing special and I begin to appreciate how much skill that takes. He catches the drum on the rim to make a clack that’s perfectly in time with my
up-bow. Matt yells some appreciation, and I get lost in what we’re doing until the last bars of the song.

When I stop and open my eyes, the fiddler is beaming at me. ‘Well, that was worth listening to and then some!’ And he pats my arm as he takes his fiddle back.

Now Joe’s on his feet waving at Matt to come forward. He shakes his head until Joe yells something that makes him laugh then he moves his wheelchair alongside his brother. He grabs the tin
whistle and launches into a fast jig that has Joe biting his lip in concentration to keep up.

I’ve never met a family like this.

I smile to myself, looking at the two of them – so alike and yet so different. This music gets to you in the right atmosphere and I guess this is how it was always intended to be played,
by amateurs in crowded rooms. That’s where it has magic.

At the end of this piece, Joe passes the drum to his dad and beckons me out of the room. He goes to the fridge and hands me a can of Coke, popping the tab on one himself. They’re playing
again in the other room, but we sit on the kitchen table and listen from a distance.

‘I didn’t know you played the drum.’

I don’t quite understand his reply and repeat what I’ve heard.

‘Bough-ran?’

‘That’s what it’s called. Spelt B-O-D-H-R-A-N. My dad taught me. And I didn’t know you played the fiddle.’

I swig some Coke because my mouth’s suddenly dry. ‘I gave up.’

He looks at me, puzzled. ‘Why? You looked like you love it.’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘I can cope with complicated.’

‘I lost my violin.’

He stares at me. ‘Don’t treat me like an idiot.’

‘No, I did lose it. And afterwards I lost myself too so I decided to live without another violin because it was easier not to be me without the music.’

‘But you miss it. I could see that when you were playing.’

‘Yes. I didn’t know how much until I saw that man –’

‘Uncle John.’

‘Oh, until I saw your uncle playing, and . . . yes, I missed it. A lot.’

He frowns at me. ‘Start playing again then.’

‘I don’t know. Maybe after the exams.’
After the trial
. . .

People begin to leave at half nine. Matt’s trying not to yawn. His eyes look heavy, reminding people that he’s not long out of hospital. Joe gets his own way and walks me back home
up the footpath. He doesn’t talk much and there’s a moment when we get to my front door where he pauses and gives me a strange look.

Before I have a chance to wonder what’s up, he mumbles, ‘See you tomorrow then,’ and hurries off.

I feel . . . disappointed?

Do I?

Why?

Maybe I do know the answer . . .

I don’t finish that thought, but I’m surprised by the flutter of
something
inside my stomach.

It takes me a while to drift off to sleep. The ghost of the fiddle haunts my hands – I can still feel it there, the smooth wood and the curves, the rub of the metal
strings on my fingertips, which are slightly tender from playing again after so long.

Yes, maybe after the trial I can get another violin. Start to play again. Because I realise now what it was that stopped me – fear, plain and simple. Not disguising my identity, or making
it easier to be Holly. But stupid, illogical fear. I dropped my violin the night
They
took me and I’ve been too scared to pick one up since. In case somehow it brought them to me.

But after the trial . . . yes, then . . .

L
ucy alerts me to it – she texts me the link to the Facebook page. Maybe she felt guilty or something or maybe she just didn’t like
what Camilla did. Or they all wanted me to know because it was less fun if I didn’t and this was part of Camilla making sure I found out. Yeah, that’s her style – I’ll vote
for that option. All the same, when I open the Facebook page and see what Camilla’s done, I don’t care why. I just want to kill that little
bitch
.

It’s a hate page called ‘Holly Latham is a Ho’. She left it open for anyone to view, answering one question – she wanted me to see it.

I taste acid in my mouth as I read it.

At first there’s only posts from Camilla. Stuff like how I love myself and what a bitch I am. Then other people join in. Gemma’s one of them. Fifty-three people have
‘liked’ it. Fraser’s one of them, Lucy tells me, though he hasn’t posted anything.

I throw the laptop down on the bed and run to the bathroom. Leaning over the sink for support, I splash cold water on my face with shaking hands.

Why?

I mean, I know she hates me, but why do that? I don’t get in her way. I don’t talk to her or her friends. There has to be another reason.

I dry my face and walk back to my room slowly. The page is still open. I don’t look at it, but I sit carefully on the bed first, back against the pillows, and get myself ready. Then I pick
up the laptop again and take a closer look.

As I saw at first, her opening posts are about what a stuckup bitch I am with nothing to be stuck up about, and how weird I am too: how I’ve got no Facebook or Twitter, how none of my old
friends seem to keep in touch with me because I never mention them, so everyone where I used to live must hate me too. And then, like a joke, but I’m not sure she is joking, there’s a
post: ‘Reward for information – can you dish the dirt on Holly? Post what you know. Virtual cookies for the juiciest.’

It’s pathetic. I stop feeling sick and just feel angry. Stupid, pathetic girl. What is her problem?