Siobhan Curham - Finding Cherokee Brown

I felt sick and scared and excited all at once. Was that my dad I could hear singing? Was that my dad everyone was cheering and clapping along with?

‘London calling,’ his voice rang out again. If it was my dad he was really good. His voice had a huskiness that made it stand out from other singers. It was gentle and rough all at once.

With my whole body buzzing like I’d downed ten of those doll-sized-but-deadly espresso coffees, I followed the girl and started looking at the trays of rings and pendants and brooches on the jewellery stall. Looking at them but not really seeing a thing.

What should I do? Maybe if I edged just a bit closer to the music . . .

I started weaving my way through the crowds of people between the stalls, stopping every now and then to pretend to have a browse of some clothes or books or – OMG! – stuffed animal heads, and gather my thoughts. The singing got louder and louder and finally I caught sight of a crowd gathered at the far end of the market. My first feeling was of relief. There were so many people there was no way whoever was singing would be able to see me. But then I wouldn’t be able to see him either. I flicked through a box of records on a nearby stall while I stared over at the crowd. What if it wasn’t even my dad? How would I get to find out? I swallowed hard and walked over to join the back of the crowd. Everyone was tapping their feet or nodding their heads in time to the song. When it finished they all started whooping and cheering.

‘Cheers. Thanks a lot,’ said the singer, slightly breathless.

My heart sank. His accent was from London. East London. He didn’t sound American at all. Or Native American. It had to be another performer. He had said in the card that he was at Spitalfields ‘most’ lunchtimes. Obviously this wasn’t one of them. I noticed some long tables over to my right and went and sat down at the end of one. I’d come all this way for nothing. Bunked off school, somehow made my way through Whitechapel without getting mugged or abducted or sold to a sex shop, and all for nothing.

‘Oi, Steve, do “Thunder Road”.’

I looked up as one of the record stallholders closest to me yelled over the crowd.

‘What’s that, Tel? “Thunder Road”?’ the singer replied over his microphone.

‘Yeah,’ the stallholder yelled back. ‘I could do with a bit of Springsteen.’

But I wasn’t listening to what he was saying any more. He’d called the singer Steve. How many Steves could there be performing in Spitalfields at lunchtime? A shaft of sunlight spilled through the glass roof of the market and fell hot on my face. From the centre of the crowd I heard the sound of a harmonica and then that husky voice again. This time he was singing a lot more softly, and strumming gently on an acoustic guitar. The whole crowd fell silent and stood motionless as they listened. It was a beautiful song all about a man trying to persuade a woman called Mary to come for a drive with him to this place called Thunder Road. He wanted her to just climb into the car and see where they ended up. It reminded me of the first time I bunked off school and ended up at the Southbank. On the day Tricia had changed the words to a Britney Spears song to be all about me and my limp, and Miss Davis had laughed along with the rest of the class. Just like today, I’d been so desperate to get out of school I’d walked out of the nearest fire exit and gone straight to the tube, not caring where I ended up, just as long as it was miles away from Rayners High.

I stood up, as if I was in a trance; as if the beautiful words of the song were drawing me forwards like a spell. I started edging through the crowd, past the men in their tight jeans and pointy boots and the girls in their summer dresses and flip-flops.

‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ I muttered as I went.

And then there was just one row of people in front of me. I stopped behind a couple of women wearing business suits and trainers and I tried to swallow but my mouth was too dry. Through a gap between the women I could just make out a pair of tanned hands playing a guitar. The singer was wearing a faded black T-shirt and torn jeans but I still couldn’t see his face. All I had to do was move slightly to my left and stand on tiptoe, but I was scared he would see me. Even though he didn’t know me and wouldn’t recognise me I was worried I’d do something to give myself away. My heart was thumping and the palms of my hands were sticky with sweat.

A massive cheer rang out as the man in the song begged Mary again to come with him so they could escape from their town full of losers and go somewhere they’d be able to win. I thought of Rayners High and Magnolia Crescent and my eyes went glassy with tears. Then suddenly the women in front of me turned to leave and one of them swung her huge shoulder bag right into me, catching me in the face. I stumbled sideways and on to the ground.

‘Are you all right, darlin’?’ I heard the singer ask over the mic as I scrambled to my feet.

I had to get out of there. I didn’t want him seeing me like this, like everyone else always saw me: clumsy and awkward and embarrassed. I grabbed my bag from the floor but then, just for a split second, I looked in his direction.

He was staring straight at me, holding his microphone in one hand and his guitar in the other. He was short and thin and had shoulder-length dark brown hair, held back by a red and white bandana. His face was tanned and his eyes dark brown. He looked like a rock star from the eighties. The kind who would have gone out with one of the original supermodels and thrown televisions and toasters and stuff from hotel room windows. And had the vanilla-ice-cream-haired girl for a daughter, instead of me. The tears that had been building in my eyes spilled on to my cheeks. I turned round and started pushing my way back through the crowd. It had all been a massive mistake. I should’ve stayed in school. I should’ve realised it would never work out. My life isn’t worthy of being a stupid novel – not unless they bring out a new genre called Disaster Lit. Nothing ever goes the way I want it to.

I finally made it through the crowd to the edge of the market. I took a deep breath and started marching towards the gate. I didn’t care that this made my limp look even worse – I had to get out of there. I had to get back to my boring, crappy life in Rayners Lane and forget any of this had ever happened.

But then there was a loud squeal of feedback over the speakers. I stood still for a second.

‘Cherokee!’ His voice rang out over the microphone, full of concern. ‘Cherokee, come back.’

‘One of the crassest mistakes a new novelist can make is to waste acres of paper telling their reader all about their characters and their motivations. You must SHOW us this information, dear writer, through the character’s actions, rather than tediously tell.’

Agatha Dashwood,

So You Want to Write a Novel?

‘How did you know it was me?’

Steve – Dad – Steve looked at me. Then down at his pint. Then all around the beer garden.

After he’d called to me on the microphone I’d stood rooted to the spot. Then I’d heard footsteps running up behind me and felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned round and there he was. ‘Cherokee?’ he’d said, as if he was asking a question. I just nodded and stared. What happened next was all a bit of a blur. I followed him back to where he’d been performing, watched him pack up his things and apologise to everybody for finishing so soon. And then we’d come here. To a pub called the Water Poet at the back of the market.

‘Well, there’s the fact that you’re the spit of me,’ he finally replied, looking back at me with a nervous grin.