The Choir on Hope Street: A gorgeously uplifting romantic comedy to make your heart sing!. Annie Lyons
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she was a bit annoying. Maybe that was a red herring, maybe she was in fact his dream woman and was about to confess to me.
‘Hello?’ I said, keeping my voice guarded. ‘Is Dan not available?’
‘He’s left for the day,’ she explained.
‘Oh. Right.’
‘Yes, sorry. He had another hospital appointment.’
‘Pardon?’ The world seemed to blur in and out of focus.
‘Another hospital appointment?’ said Penny but with less certainty this time. ‘Sorry, Nat, I assumed you knew and had just forgotten.’
‘Erm, yeah, of course, the hospital appointment,’ I stuttered, not wanting to seem like more of a fool than I already felt.
‘It’s at St Peter’s and he only left about ten minutes ago so you can probably catch him up. I’m sure he’ll be glad of the company. He said how boring it was waiting last time.’
‘Yes. Great. Thanks, Penny.’ I handed the receiver back to the receptionist. ‘Thanks. Thank you very much,’ I said, needing to fill the air with words as a rising tide of panic swept over me.
I wasn’t sure who was making my body walk out of the building, onto the street and along the road. All I knew was that I had to get to Dan. I had to be with him because suddenly I realised why he had left me. He was ill and he was going to die and in his ever-reasonable, ever kind and gentle way, he was trying to spare my feelings by facing it on his own. But I wasn’t going to let that happen. I was going to go to him, comfort him and offer him all the support he needed. He wouldn’t have to face it on his own. I would be there with him, right until the end.
CAROLINE
‘Okay, everyone, thank you for coming. Let’s make a start, shall we?’ I gave the group seated in my kitchen a warm encouraging smile. I remembered running meetings from my years at the bank and I’d always loved that dynamic buzz of people coming together, sharing their ideas and making things happen. Admittedly this was small beer compared to the deals I’d been involved with at Sheridan’s but still, it was important.
Life was very different since I’d given up work but I told myself that it was a good different. Oliver went out to work, I stayed home and worked for Matilda – a demanding but nonetheless rewarding employer. Since she’d started school, I’d had time to take on worthwhile projects within the community, whether it be the PTA or this campaign to save Hope Street hall.
I had always thrown myself into life, done my best and aimed for excellence. I know some people feel intimidated by me. I can’t blame them. I try to live up to my old school motto, Ad summa nitamur – ‘Let us strive for perfection’. I know this isn’t for everyone. Perfection is such a final word, but I believe you have to try. Anything else is just giving up.
Besides, I know people value me because I get things done. I’m on first-name terms with Julie in the school office and Mr Metcalfe, the Head, publicly thanked me after the summer fair last year. That’s the thing, you’re either a doer or a moaner. I never moan, I learnt that from my dad. He grabbed life by the throat and got on with it, even when he was ill.
‘I’ll go down fighting, Caroline,’ he’d told me right at the end when he was in that awful place. I’ve never forgiven my mother for letting him die in there, surrounded by strangers. I insisted on staying by his side. I even slept on the floor one night whilst my mother went home to her comfortable bed. Dad had told me not to judge her, that it was hard for her, but I didn’t see it.
My mother and I never talked about it, not even after he died. In fact, we hardly saw each other for a while. It was better that way. My grief was very different to her grief. Sometimes, I wonder if she felt anything at all – I certainly never saw her cry. It might have been different if I’d had a sibling to talk to but it was just her and me. We didn’t have anything to say. I did try on a couple of occasions but she would always change the subject. It was as if Dad hadn’t existed somehow, as if he were gone and that was that.
I took out a folder and handed copies of the agenda I had typed earlier to Phil, Head of Matilda’s school, who was sitting to my left. ‘Please take one and pass them on,’ I beamed. I was pleased with the turn-out. There were six of us and I had received several e-mails offering additional support too. ‘So, shall we go round the group and introduce ourselves?’ There were nervous murmurs of agreement so I decided to take the initiative. ‘I’m Caroline Taylor. I’m chair of the PTA at Felmingham Primary.’ I shot a smile at Phil, who nodded in reply. ‘And I’ve started this campaign because I think we all feel that Hope Street hall is an important part of our community.’
‘Yeah, and we don’t want the bloody Tories selling it off to some property developers to build posh houses that no-one can afford!’ cried a large bald man, who I recognised as our postman. I shot him a look. I noticed that he was still wearing shorts. ‘Sorry, Caroline,’ he added. ‘Didn’t mean to jump in.’
‘No, it’s fine. We were going to go round the room one at a time but I’m glad you feel so strongly. Please, go on.’
He smiled at the group. He reminded me of a bear – he had a huge chest and a broad smiling face. ‘I’m Jim the postie – you all know me. I live on the next street over in my parents’ old house. I’ve lived here all my life and I can remember us celebrating the Silver Jubilee in that hall. My old mum used to tell me about the dances they had there during the war to keep up morale.’
I nodded my encouragement, already thinking about the flyers I could ask him to deliver on his rounds. ‘So the hall has history. Phil, do you want to go next?’
Phil had been sitting back in his chair but he sat bolt upright as I spoke. He had swapped his sharp headmaster’s suit for a casual-smart jumper and jeans. I appreciated Phil’s style. He was well dressed and always professional. I think that’s why we got on so well. ‘Hi, I’m Phil, Head of Felmingham Primary. I agree with Caroline that the hall is an important part of our community. We’ve always had links to St David’s Church, which I believe has used the hall in the past. I had a word with Father George, but sadly they only rent it from the council and they don’t have the money to take it on.’
‘Is that what it’s all about?’ asked a woman who I didn’t know. ‘I’m Pamela Trott, by the way. I run the Brownies and help with the toddler group. It strikes me that all these councils care about these days is money. What about the people? What about the kiddies and the mums and the old folk? Where’s the sense of community?’
There were murmurs of agreement. ‘Well, I see the community coming into my store every day,’ said a school mother, who I recognised from the shop at the end of the road. ‘I’m Doly and I run the shop with my husband Dev. We know most people on these streets and we know they don’t want the hall to close.’
‘But what can we do?’ asked Pamela, looking worried.
‘Shall we finish introducing ourselves and then have a look at the agenda?’ I said, keen to get us back on track. ‘Natalie?’ I noticed her jump as I said her name. I also noticed that she was already on her second glass of wine and had nearly finished working her way through a bowl of root-vegetable crisps. Apart from Doly, she was the only school parent present. I had hoped that my school-mother friends, Zoe and Amanda, might appear but they had sent me texts about half an hour earlier with their excuses. It was fine, I knew I could count on their support when it was needed. I gave Natalie a smile of encouragement. ‘So, Natalie is the children’s book author, Natalie Garfield,’ I said. She looked embarrassed. ‘It’s a shame Ned can’t come and save us from this,’ I joked. Natalie gave a feeble smile. I wasn’t quite sure why she’d come if she wasn’t ready to take part. I ploughed on. ‘So do you have any ideas for the campaign?’
‘Er, fundraising?’ offered Natalie vaguely. I could tell that