Arthur stopped his cab at a set of lights, and recollected how his relationship with Taylor had been due, in part, to a chance comment from a stranger who bore a passing resemblance to one of the ladies he now ferried around. He shook his head ruefully. He wasn’t going to let the memory of his first encounter with Taylor be besmirched by any insinuation that his lady passengers were somehow also in the park at that time. His involvement with the women was bad enough without them sneaking into other parts of his life.
The lights changed. Arthur slipped into gear, lifted his handbrake and drove, even as his memory drifted back to that second Sunday afternoon where, once again, he found himself strolling through the park. He’d taken the same route he’d walked dolefully for weeks, but this time his mood was coloured by the prospect of another encounter with Taylor.
He’d found that giddiness had overtaken him since their first meeting. He’d floated through his shifts, his mind filled with visions of her that made his pulse quicken. It was an inexplicable change. They’d only traded a few words but when he closed his eyes his mind was full of her smile, and her voice echoed pleasantly from her imagined lips. It was impossible how, prior to their meeting, the world was awash with misery and bleakness; and equally now, it was impossible to imagine how he’d entertained such remorse. The world was wonderful since he’d discovered her in it.
Was it possible that, when he returned to the buskers, she’d be there as well? Yes. Yes, it was. He thanked the Heavens. She was standing with her daughters in the same spot, swaying and bouncing along to the music. He hesitated, sudden doubt holding him back. His mind gazed two steps into the future, anticipated the consequences of the meeting, and froze with uncertainty. ‘She’s not Thelma.’ He scolded himself, then said, ‘Things don’t have to go the way they did with her.’
An aged, pencil-thin woman in raggedy black clothing, shuffled towards him, muttering to herself. Arthur stepped backwards to let her pass, but as he did, her hand whipped out and clasped his wrist. Her dark eyes drilled into his. ‘You only get one chance in life,’ she warned him with a hiss, her jaw quivering. ‘Take it.’
A crow cried piercingly in the branches of an overhanging tree, opened its wings, and with a downward thrust, pushed itself into the air where it circled before flying off.
The recollection of that bird drew him out of his revere. A crow, he thought. Another crow… Funny how they’d hung around him even then.
The commute was completed on autopilot. Arthur hadn’t driven a hundred yards before he began to dream again. He recalled how he’d tracked the bird’s progress until it was a dot on the horizon. When he returned his gaze earthward the pencil-thin woman had wandered off. Yet the encounter disconcerted him. The lady had been, to Arthur’s way of thinking, living in a universe of her own, talking to ghosts, inventing conversations. Yet her words had resonated. It was time to act.
He straightened his back and walked with purpose towards Taylor. He’d no clue what he was going to say to her, or how he was going to say it, but he needed to start somewhere. A part of him wished Taylor would lead the conversation, would make the chat easy. More than a part of him. He was terrified.
Fortune helped. Francesca spotted him and tugged her mother’s sleeve. Taylor glanced at her daughter and they talked briefly. When she lifted her eyes, they sparkled marvellously, and when she smiled, it was wide and infectious. ‘Hello again,’ she said. ‘Back for more?’
Arthur’s mouth was so dry he was unable to form words, but he managed a squeaky ‘Hi!’ before swallowing. ‘Nothing would have kept me away. I mean, I love a good gig.’
She laughed at that. ‘Me too. But there’s no way I’m singing again this week.’ She paused a little. ‘Besides, I’ve gotta give someone else a chance.’
Arthur laughed, pleased to have a way into conversation. ‘Pity. You have an amazing voice.’
Her cheeks flushed at his flattery. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but it wasn’t that good. Not really. I’ve not sung in such a long time. My voice was barely passable. Do you sing? Play?’
‘I play bagpipes. And the guitar, a little. What you did was incredibly brave. I’m not sure I’d have the guts to sing in public.’
Her laughter was warm, round. ‘Ah… so you’re a real musician.’ She prodded his arm playfully. ‘I play the guitar a little too. But not the bagpipes. They’re Irish, right?’
‘Scottish.’
‘Ah… I’m sure guys play them during Paddy’s Day parades.’
Arthur nodded, ‘The Irish play them too. As do lots of other folks. But I was born in Scotland…’
‘If you play an instrument, you’ll have a voice. Try it. Please sing if they ask.’
The two musicians finished a song and fell silent. In a strange moment Taylor’s words carried across the crowd towards them and everything went still. Arthur wished the world would swallow him up. All those folks’ heads turned towards him and one of the band members called out, ‘Come along, sir, you can do it. Your wife sung last week so there’s no reason you should be shy today. Come along up, won’t ya?’
‘She’s not my…’ Arthur stopped himself.
Taylor ignored the musician’s presumption. ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘what’s the worst that might happen?’
The crowd split in two, carving a channel between Arthur and the stage. He’d little option but to navigate it.
With an uncertain smile at Taylor he made his way towards the front, wishing he’d not even ventured into the park. His feet dragged their way forward. His heartbeat was sickeningly fast. His inner voice screamed at him to back out. Yet he continued, ignoring the prospect of ridicule and derision. He’d never sung in public before, hadn’t consciously played an instrument for anyone but his uncle and aunt. The prospect of conducting his debut in front of this crowd made him dizzy with anxiousness. He should have refused and walked away. He should have. Not one of his acquaintances would have ever found out. Not one would have discovered his cowardice. Except he’d have backed out in front of Taylor. His ears burned. Surely that didn’t matter. Why did her opinion matter?
The crowd’s eyes drilled enthusiasm into the back of his head as he continued his infinite walk to the front and inexplicably his memory flipped back to the procession down the aisle at the crematorium when they’d sent off his aunt. It must have been the contrast between the two events that brought it to the fore. There had been only a handful of people at Sylvia’s service, a sparse few to witness his trailing behind her coffin, each mourner too wrapped up in their own recollections to care about anything Arthur was doing. At the funeral nothing was expected of him. Unlike here. Here, he had to perform.
He faced his audience, a group of strangers excited at the prospect of a new song. He steadied himself, gulped in air. Be brave, he thought. I can do this. I perform in my cab every day. This was true. As he drove each new soul to their destination he entered into conversation, feigned interest in their business, attempted to appear knowledgeable when asked for information. He needed to put on an act now, to conjure up a persona to hide behind so he didn’t get hurt when the audience laughed or hissed. He hoped they didn’t expect his voice to be on a par with Taylor’s. They would be disappointed.
‘What would ya like to sing, bud?’ one of the musicians asked.
The question put Arthur on the spot. He hadn’t listened to the music charts for years and knew he’d struggle with a pop song. He was able to rattle off a few of the traditional folk-tunes his uncle had taught him, but he’d be super impressed if the band knew any of them. Don’t panic, he thought. Don’t panic. Just ask them… He leaned toward the one who’d addressed him. ‘Do you know anything by Robert Burns?’ It had to be one of the more widely known pieces. ‘Something like Auld Lang Syne maybe, or My Love Is Like a Red, Red Rose?’
The musicians conferred. ‘We don’t get asked for stuff like that often.’ To Arthur’s relief they were smiling, ‘But sure, we can play A Red, Red Rose. For your wife, yeah?’
Arthur tried not to blush, to explain that Taylor wasn’t his girlfriend, partner or wife. He wasn’t given the chance. One of the musicians placed a microphone stand before him while the other asked, ‘What’s her name?’
‘Taylor.’
The musician announced to the world, ‘This song goes out to Taylor, the woman with the awesome voice. Hoorah!’ And the crowd cheered along with him.
Arthur sought her out in the crowd, wanting to apologise for the embarrassment he’d caused, as well as for what was about to follow, but her head was bowed as she lent down to talk to her daughters, and she didn’t notice him. Arthur groaned inside, disappointed not to have some reassuring smile from her.
The musician worked the crowd. ‘Seriously folks, you should have been here last weekend when Taylor sang. Man, she has a voice. Hey bud,’ he turned to Arthur. ‘Is your voice as good?’
Arthur shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.’ He didn’t see any sympathy in the grin he got in response.
‘Well, we’ll soon find out,’ the musician said before directing his voice to his microphone. He counted the song in, introduced the melody in small steps and allowed his partner to join in. He leaned over to Arthur. ‘Start at the end of the next verse, right?’
There was nothing else to do; nowhere else to hide. When the tune moved to the start of its verse he breathed deeply and launched into its first line. Close your eyes and think of the words, he told himself. Don’t think of the crowd, or Taylor, or anything else. Just think of the song. He needed that advice, even if it came from himself. If his eyes met Taylor’s, he knew he would falter.
He ploughed on. To his ears his voice was foreign and weak. Its rough quality grated, distracted him, but he persevered. But when it was over, the song’s sentiment and beauty had won over his fear, and his nerves had slipped away as he delivered a passable rendition. He opened his eyes. To his surprise the audience cheered, as did the musicians who sensed the transformation in his confidence. ‘Any time you wanna jam, dude,’ one of them said, ‘just come right along. We’d love you and your wife up here with us. You and Taylor. Say, what’s your name again?’
Arthur blurted a reply in an incoherent rush as adrenaline burst through him and he grinned and blushed at the same time.
The musician returned to the mike: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, please give it up one more time for Arthur, who is a far better singer than he realises!’
Once more the crowd applauded and whooped and cheered. Arthur took this as his signal to leave the stage and rushed back to Taylor, glad to be away from the attention, but exhilarated at the same time.
‘And there was you saying you didn’t have a singing voice,’ Taylor said as he reached her and she kissed him on the cheek. ‘You were fabulous. What a beautiful song. What was it?’
Arthur blushed even more, amazed by her interest in a style of music rarely appreciated outside of the Scottish diaspora. ‘It’s an old ballad,’ he told her.
‘Well, it’s very moving. Quite beautiful. Did you really sing it for me?’ One of her eyebrows arched coyly.
‘Hmm… honestly, no. I panicked. I know it off by heart, and there’s not many songs I can say that about. I had a rather limited list to choose from, really.’
She didn’t seem put out by that, much to Arthur’s relief. Instead, she laughed, rich and full. ‘That’s good. I’d hate to think you serenade every woman you’ve just met… Fancy an ice cream? I’m sure my girls are dying for one right now.’ Her daughters shouted their approval, their delight making Arthur grin. ‘I’d love one,’ he said, and somewhere nearby a crow cawed.
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