Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘But you’re recording artists.’ Lawrence turns to Elf’s mum. ‘What’s it like to have a famous daughter, Miranda?’

Elf’s mum finishes her wine. ‘I do worry where it’ll all lead. Pop singers are here today, gone tomorrow. Especially the women.’

‘Cilla Black’s doing all right,’ says Bea. ‘Dusty Springfield.’

‘Joan Baez in the States,’ adds Imogen. ‘Judy Collins.’

‘Let’s not forget Wanda Virtue,’ says Bea.

‘But what happens to them when all their starry-eyed fans move on to the next fad?’ asks Elf’s mum.

‘Presumably they mend their ways,’ says Elf, ‘marry whoever’s willing to overlook their shady past and settle down to a life of ironing shirts and raising children.’

Bea licks her spoon clean. ‘Bang, crash, wallop.’

‘Sensational trifle, Miranda,’ says Elf’s dad, drolly.

Elf’s mother sighs and looks out at the garden.

The rain whisks the water in the fishpond.

The gnome’s nose drips, drips, drips, drips …

‘I wish I could see a career in singing,’ says Elf’s mum, ‘but I can’t. All I see is Elf missing the bus on other careers.’

I’m angry , thinks Elf, because she articulates my fears.

The clock out in the hall strikes two.

‘Maybe Elf’ll be a pioneer,’ suggests Imogen.

Elf plays her grandmother’s piano while her family plus Lawrence sit and listen. She’s wriggled out of singing by claiming to need to save her voice for later, but she can’t wriggle out of playing without Imogen, Bea and their mother suspecting something’s wrong. The piano is an upright Broadwood with warm lower and bright upper tones. Elf mastered, first, ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ at its keyboard, then scales, arpeggios and a ladder of tuition books. The acoustic guitar may be the portable tool of the folk singer’s trade, but Elf’s first love – before I liked boys, before I liked girls – is the piano. Her grandmother died when Elf was only six, but she has a clear memory of the old woman telling her, ‘A piano is a raft and a river.’ Years later, on a February afternoon, on Day Nine of a broken, bloodied and bruised heart, Elf finds herself improvising a melody around her grandmother’s words: A raft and a river, raft and a river, raft and a river. It’s the first musical idea she’s had since Bruce left. She’s grateful, too, for the minutes she spent without thinking about him … Until now . The song winds down, and Elf’s family and brother-in-law-to-be give her a round of applause. The early daffodils in the vase on the mantelpiece have opened.

‘That’s lovely, dear,’ says Elf’s mum.

‘Ah, just mucking around, really.’

‘What’s it called?’ asks Imogen.

‘It hasn’t got a name.’

Lawrence looks uncertain. ‘You just made that up?’

‘There are tricks,’ says Elf. ‘To do with chords.’

‘That was brilliant. Could you play it in June?’

‘If it turns into a song that’s good for a wedding, then yes.’

‘Midsummer weddings are special,’ Elf’s mum is telling Imogen. ‘Your father and I had a June wedding, didn’t we, Clive?’

Elf’s dad puffs his pipe. ‘And the sun’s never stopped shining.’

‘June works for me, too,’ remarks Bea. ‘I’ll be an ex-schoolgirl by then. Scary thought.’

‘Imogen said you’re auditioning for RADA,’ says Lawrence.

‘My first one’s next month. If I pass that, I’ll have the joy of a recall in May. Slap-bang during my exams.’

‘What are your chances?’ asks Lawrence.

‘A thousand applicants for fourteen places, give or take. Then again, what were Elf’s chances of getting a record contract?’

Steam tumbles upwards from the spout of a coffee pot.

‘Just goes to show,’ says Imogen. ‘Aim for the sky.’

The clock in the hallway gongs three times.

Elf finishes her coffee. ‘I’d better hit the road.’

‘Won’t you cancel your Cousins spot tonight?’ Bea asks. ‘With Bruce being too ill to sing, presumably?’

Elf has been clinging to the hope that by not cancelling the gig Bruce might reappear and the last nine days be erased. Now the bill for her self-delusion is due. ‘I’ll play a solo set.’

‘Surely Bruce won’t let you go traipsing round Soho alone in the middle of the night?’ asks her father.

‘I’ve lived there a year without any trouble, Dad.’

‘Why don’t I go along?’ asks Bea. ‘As Elf’s bodyguard.’

‘Not funny,’ says their mother, to Elf’s relief. ‘Tomorrow’s school. Having one daughter cavorting in Soho is bad enough.’

‘Why don’t we go, darling?’ Lawrence asks Imogen. ‘I’ve heard so much about the Cousins folk-club.’

‘You have a long drive to Malvern tomorrow,’ says Elf. ‘Besides, a Cousins gig is like a home game. My friends’ll be there.’

Three months ago, Elf and Bruce dashed along the platform at Richmond station, her heart pumping, legs aching, breath rasping, beneath platform lamps haloed by mist. ‘JESUS SAVES,’ promised a poster. The scent of chestnuts from an oil-drum roaster infused the twilight. A Salvation Army band was playing ‘While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night’. Bruce’s stride was longer so he reached the last carriage well ahead of Elf and jumped aboard. ‘Stand clear of the doors,’ shouted the station-master. ‘Stand clear – of – the doors!’ Elf was sure she was doomed to miss the train, but Bruce grappled her aboard at the last possible moment and they tumbled onto a seat, joyful and gasping. ‘I thought,’ said Elf, ‘you’d left me behind.’

‘You’re kidding.’ Bruce planted a kiss on her forehead. ‘Career suicide.’ Elf nestled her head under his chin, so her ear was over his heart. She breathed in the scent of his suede jacket and the ghost of his after-shave. He stroked her collarbone with his calloused fingertips. ‘Hello, girlfriend,’ he murmured, and Elf’s nerves went zzzzzzt . Take a photo of this , a line came to Elf, take a photo of this with your Polaroid eyes … and she thought that even if she lived to be a hundred, she would never feel quite as glad to be alive as she was right then. Not quite.

Three months later, Elf stands on the same platform at Richmond station that she and Bruce dashed along. There is no hurry tonight. There are delays on the District Line due to an ‘incident on the track’ at Hammersmith: London Underground’s favoured euphemism for a suicide. Sunday evening pools in London’s gardens, seeps through cracks and darkens streets. Nowhere is dry in West London tonight, and nothing is warm. The poster promising ‘JESUS SAVES’ is peeling and scabby. She’ll have less time than she planned to run through her old solo set list. The Cousins crowd will see an under-rehearsed Elf Holloway play a duff set and conclude that when Bruce Fletcher left he took the magic with him. They’re bound to know by now – I’m the jilted Miss Havisham of the folk scene. Elf looks into the dark window of a closed tea-room. Her reflection scowls back. She has never been the good-looking Holloway sister. Imogen’s pretty in a wholesome, Christian way. Bea’s status as the family beauty has gone unchallenged since infancy. Elf, relatives agree, takes after her father. Meaning I bring to mind a pudgy middle-aged bank manager . Not long ago in a club toilet Elf overheard a woman say, ‘“ Elf Holloway”? “ Goblin Holloway”, more like.’

Elf’s mum told her, ‘Make the most of your hair, darling – it’s your best asset.’ It’s blonde and long. Bruce used to like burying his face in it. He complimented her body parts individually, but never her whole self. Or he’d say, ‘You look nice today,’ as if there were days when I looked like a dog. Elf always told herself that her talent as a folk singer would outweigh the fact she doesn’t look like Joan Baez or Wanda Virtue. Talent, she hoped, would bring forth the swan from the ugly duckling. Bruce’s attentions made her believe that this was happening, but now he’s gone … I look at myself and I think, ‘How forgettable’. Her reflection asks, ‘What if you’re just not as good as you think are?’