When I Fall In Love

‘But you’re meant to follow the arrows, Els! It’s what you do when you come here. It’s understood.’

Eyes wild with panicked determination, Elsie faced her. ‘I am not bumping into that man again, you hear me? I’m tired, we have an hour’s journey home and I really don’t want another awkward confrontation today.’

Much to the consternation of the shoppers behind them, Elsie and Daisy began to pick their way back, finding the recklessness of the act surprisingly liberating. They had almost reached the stairs to the ground floor when someone stepped into their path from behind a ceiling height advertising hoarding – and Elsie’s heart hit the floor.

‘Funny. I never pictured you as an “against the arrows” kind of girl.’ Torin’s green eyes were sparkling like the crystal lampshade over his head, the same half-amused smile playing on his lips.

Daisy was looking from Torin to Elsie and back like an overexcited Wimbledon spectator.

Elsie closed her eyes. ‘Please go away.’

He laughed – a sound that made all of Elsie’s defences instantly build. ‘Oh come on, you nicked my parking space. At the very least that should win me some gloating rights?’

Daisy nudged her. ‘That seems fair to me, Els.’

Elsie stared at her sister. ‘Thanks for nothing.’

Surprised, Torin held his hand out to Daisy. ‘Thank you. I’m Torin Stewart.’

‘Daisy Maynard. I’m Elsie’s sister.’

They shook hands, Torin holding Daisy’s for a moment longer than she was expecting.

‘Ah, a pleasure to meet another of the Maynard clan,’ he said, glancing sideways at Elsie. ‘Especially a polite one.’

Daisy ignored the muttered remark from Elsie and smiled back at Torin. ‘Oh, Elsie’s usually the picture of politeness. I guess there must be something about you that brings out her bad side.’

‘Oh and I expect you know all about that, being her sister?’

‘You’d be amazed at the stories I could tell you …’

They’re enjoying this, Elsie moaned to herself, they’re both flipping enjoying it. ‘Pleasant though this attack on my character is for both of you, we really should be going.’

Daisy shook her head. ‘No hurry, hun.’ She smiled her famous Daisy Maynard Smile™ at Torin – the one that had set many a man on a course towards heartbreak over the years – and Elsie knew this was far from over. ‘Actually, we were thinking of having a coffee before we head home. Don’t suppose we could tempt you to join us? As our way of apologising for the car park incident?’

Torin looked at Elsie, who averted her eyes. Right now all she wanted was to leave as soon as she could. Her expression must have betrayed her true feelings because, quite unexpectedly, Torin declined.

‘I’d love to, but I’m on a bit of a tight schedule. It was good to meet you, Daisy. Elsie, nice to see you again. I hope you find everything you’re looking for. Good evening.’

Elsie watched him walk away and, for the second time in as many weeks, felt the small pang of conscience in her stomach. Shaking it away, she faced Daisy.

‘Thanks for the help there, sis.’

‘I’m sorry, he just seemed like a really nice guy. I was trying to be polite … Oh, don’t look at me like that. It was an awkward situation and I thought maybe if we all sat down over coffee it might be a little less so.’

‘Believe me, it would have been a hundred times worse. He is the most arrogant, jumped-up individual I’ve ever had the misfortune to run into. Twice now.’

Daisy nudged Elsie’s arm. ‘My mistake, lovely. He did seem to be a little too pleased with himself, now you mention it. Let’s pay for this contraband and get the heck out of here, shall we?’

Two days later, Jim called Elsie at work and asked her to meet him at his house for tea. Always a fan of a Dad-cooked meal, Elsie was happy to oblige, heading straight over when her workday ended.

The most delicious aroma of cinnamon, onions, rosemary and pomegranate filled the kitchen when Elsie entered. In the middle of an industrious cloud of steam, Jim emerged, carrying a huge earthenware tagine.

‘We’re going Moroccan tonight!’ he announced, holding the pot aloft as if it was a sporting trophy. ‘There’s a bowl of couscous on the counter and a nice bottle of Chilean red. Be a dear and bring them over, would you?’

‘It smells amazing, Dad. New recipe?’

Jim set two places at the table and accepted a glass of wine from her. ‘Yep. Excellent Moroccan cookbook I bought from that second-hand bookshop café Olly loves so much. In fact, I was having coffee with him when he spotted it.’ His awful attempt at slipping this into the conversation made Elsie giggle.

‘Dad. That was terrible.’

Jim’s face fell. ‘I thought I was being subtle.’

‘No offence, but perhaps you’d better stick to cooking?’

‘Point taken. Sit, sit! We should have this while it’s hot. Preserved lemon? Found these in a wonderful deli that’s opened near the Theatre Royal.’

‘You’re such a foodie.’

Pleased by this, Jim winked at her. ‘Next stop MasterChef, eh?’ He served the aromatic vegetable stew and handed her a multi-coloured plate. ‘Now, tell me what you think.’

It was wonderful – warm, spicy flavours that made Elsie’s palate tingle and reminded her of a holiday they had taken to Marrakech when she was fourteen, Jim determined that his daughters should have every opportunity to visit new and exciting cultures. She could still remember his brave but ultimately fruitless attempts at bartering over a rug in the souk, as the sights, sounds and smells of the bustling market laid siege to their senses.

She had to hand it to Jim: he was a tremendous cook. But more than the chance to sample his excellent food, Elsie relished the opportunity to spend time with her father. The past two years of her life had often demanded her attention to the point where she had neglected time with her family; only now was she feeling like she was reclaiming some of it. Growing up as one of three siblings, with the added complication of her mother’s absence, time alone with her father had always been invaluable; even now, as each of the Maynard sisters lived out their lives, Jim’s time was divided. A fair man in everything, he tried to give each of them an equal portion of his attention, although Guin’s impending motherhood meant this was likely to change soon.

‘So what was it you wanted to tell me?’ Elsie asked, when the meal was over and they were sitting in the comfortable lounge watching soft candlelight bathe the walls from the collection of oil burners and pillar candles on the coffee table. Patchouli and lavender incense pervaded the air and Jim’s favourite Bollywood chill-out album provided an exotic soundtrack.

‘Ah yes. It’s very exciting. You know that I’m on the Traders’ Association committee for the Brighton Carnival this year?’

Elsie didn’t, but this was nothing new. Jim was nothing if not committed to his town.

‘Well, I am. Never learn, will I? Anyway, the point is, we were discussing community music for the street stage we’re sponsoring and I suggested your choir! I told them how much of a community endeavour it’s going to be, and they thought it was a fantastic idea! What do you think?’

‘I think it’s great, Dad, but don’t you think it might be better to wait and hear the choir we put together before you start booking us?’

‘It’s not till July, so there’s plenty of time to prepare for it.’ Jim hugged her. ‘I have every faith in you.’

Whether or not the choir would be able to take up Jim’s offer, Elsie was encouraged by the vote of confidence. She walked the streets of Brighton delivering choir recruitment posters to local businesses, handed out leaflets to customers at Sundae & Cher and persuaded a journalist at the local free paper to write a story, thus saving her the expense of placing an advert. She and Woody discussed their plans at length, determined to create something that stood out from the other choirs in the area.

‘It’ll be fun and inclusive, more than anything.’

‘Babe – we can’t lose. We’ll be the only choir with destiny on our side.’

‘And we’ll make the songs interesting and different. Try to avoid some of the choir clichés and create a repertoire that they want to sing.’ Elsie hesitated, as a thought occurred. ‘People will come, won’t they?’

Woody’s conviction was Jedi-like. ‘If we ask them, they will come.’

The day of the widely advertised first choir meeting arrived, and Elsie spent most of it wrestling with nerves and trying her best not to dwell on the possible outcomes for the evening. It was as if she was at the edge of a tall precipice, her toes dangling over a two-thousand-foot sheer drop, waiting to take a step of faith: thrilling and utterly terrifying in equal measure.

Daisy arrived a little after seven that evening, with an unapologetic Woody appearing twenty minutes later.

‘I was seeking inspiration,’ he shrugged. ‘You can’t rush that.’

By eight, Elsie was trying not to check her watch, Daisy was pacing the floor and even Woody was beginning to show signs of apprehension.

‘What time was on the posters?’ Cher asked.

‘Seven-thirty,’ Daisy and Woody chorused.

‘Ah.’ She looked uneasy. ‘Perhaps they’re caught in traffic. Wednesday nights, you know …’ Unconvinced by her own argument, she fell silent.

‘Nerves, man. That’s what it is. Deep down the whole town knows this choir is about to shake the establishment.’

‘It’s a choir, Woody, not a political movement.’

Woody regarded Daisy with disdain. ‘So you say.’

Daisy ignored him. ‘This is ridiculous. They’re not coming, Els. Let’s just call it a night.’

Elsie considered the disheartened group. Part of her wanted to pack up and go home, but she had been so sure people would respond – surely that level of certainty counted for something? ‘You can go, if you like. I’m going to wait to see if anyone turns up.’

‘Suit yourself. If you don’t mind, I’ll head off.’ Daisy picked up her coat.

‘Yeah, you go, girl,’ Woody replied. ‘Leave the believers keeping the dream alive.’

Incensed, Daisy pointedly dropped her coat over the back of a chair and sat down again. ‘Then I’m staying, too.’

Elsie groaned and stepped outside, leaving the Mexican standoff in the ice cream café behind her. The early-April evening was clear and a slight breeze sent goosebumps along her arms as she gazed up the quiet street. While she didn’t want to admit it to the group inside, she could feel her optimism fading like the light in the early evening sky above. Maybe the venue was wrong, or the night of the week? She shivered as a gust of wind whipped along Gardner Street. If there was one thing that could be said about her, she reminded herself, it was that Elsie Maynard wasn’t a quitter. This was, she told herself, merely a blip. It may not be the establishment-rocking, quasi-revolutionary idea that Woody seemed to think it was, but starting this choir was something she wanted to do. Therefore, she had to find a way to make it happen …

‘Am I too late?’

Elsie turned her head to see a tall figure approaching. As the light from the café window illuminated his face she felt her heart lift.

‘Olly! I’m so pleased to see you.’

Olly’s smile was easy and completely welcome. ‘That’s the best reception I’ve had all day. So, how’s it going?’

Elsie’s shoulders dropped. ‘It’s not. The only people here are my sister, my boss and Woody.’

‘Ah.’

‘I know. But now you’re here, so that’s a step in the right direction.’

‘Mmm. Only slight problem is that I can’t stay, I’m afraid. I was on my way to a family thing and thought I’d look in.’

The bright glimmer of hope in Elsie’s heart spluttered out. ‘Oh, I see. Thank you, though – for thinking of me.’

His brow furrowed and he held up his hand. ‘Wait there.’

Elsie watched as he raced off, ducking into a doorway about fifty yards down the street. Taken aback, Elsie remained obediently outside the shop, pulling her thin cardigan around her shoulders to ward off the evening chill. For a full five minutes, she waited, peering in the direction Olly had disappeared for any sign of his return. Finally, just as the tips of her fingers were beginning to numb, a shaft of light flooded into the street from the doorway and Olly stepped out, accompanied by five others. Elsie could hear their excited conversation as the group approached.

‘Here you are: choir volunteers!’ he announced happily.

‘But how did you …? Where …?’

Olly dismissed her questions. ‘Doesn’t matter. You can buy me coffee when we meet on Saturday.’

Elsie frowned. ‘Which Saturday?’

‘Whichever Saturday you like. As long as it’s soon. Not saying you owe me or anything but …’ he indicated the small group of people around him. ‘Deal?’

It was impossible not to smile at his brazen cheek. ‘Fine, deal.’

‘Excellent. I’ll call you. Now, don’t you have a rehearsal to run?’ With a grin so wide it would make the Cheshire Cat envious, he left Elsie on the street surrounded by the volunteers. She watched him leave, the surprise of this new development tingling through her, before bringing herself back to the present and ushering the group inside.

Daisy and Woody’s faces were a picture when she appeared with the new choir members and they sprang into action, shaking hands, taking names and contact details and arranging the chairs into a circle in the middle of the room. The first members of the choir were a diverse group of people indeed: nineteen-year-old Danny Alden and his bird-like girlfriend Aoife McVey; self-assured twenty-nine-year-old Sasha Mitchell; fifty-something taxi driver Stan Goodson and quiet pensioner Irene Quinn. It transpired that they had all been drinking in the pub at the end of the street when Olly had burst in and silenced the patrons with an impassioned appeal for choir members. Whether he had offered anything in return was unclear, although Elsie suspected money might have been placed behind the bar to quench the thirst of potential volunteers. But it didn’t matter – whatever his modus operandi, Elsie was immensely thankful for Olly’s assistance and, she had to admit, more than a little thrilled by it.

Once the group had assembled and had been furnished with coffee by Cher, Elsie motioned for the meeting to begin.

‘Thank you all, so much, for being here this evening. I know that none of you were expecting to join a choir today.’

A ripple of laughter passed around the room.

‘But let me explain why I think this project will work. Firstly, there are no auditions, no prerequisites for joining and no charge for being a choir member. We’ll all decide the songs we want to sing and try to include something for everyone. The most important thing for me is to create something we can all be a part of and enjoy. All I need from you, if you’re interested, is enthusiasm. Everything else will come along the way.’

Woody coughed loudly, causing all eyes to turn towards him.

Elsie took the hint. ‘I won’t be doing this alone. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present Woody Jensen …’

The assembled group murmured their hellos as Woody stood, his Matrix-style leather coat and skull T-shirt beneath giving him what he hoped was a suitably imposing appearance. Silver chains jangled at his wrists as he raised both hands in a red carpet greeting. ‘Greetings. You may remember me from the hit Eighties rock band, Hellfinger?’

Daisy stifled a giggle at the uniformly blank looks that met this question.

‘No bother, you can Google me later. I’m proud to say this choir was my idea and the universe itself sent me this wonderful woman to be a minstrel to my musical wizardry. Together, friends, we can shake the very foundations of this town, infuse the collective psyches of the people with mystical tunes and bring power back to the proletariat through the medium of music …’

‘… Or just have a lot of fun making music,’ Elsie added quickly, noting the relief on several of the group’s faces.

Woody nodded. ‘Well, yeah, that too.’

‘Does that sound good?’

Danny raised his hand. ‘Could we do some up-to-date stuff? I was part of The DreamTeam for six months and the most modern thing we did was “Mr Postman” by The Carpenters.’

Sasha sniggered. ‘Talk about lame. I vote we do Gaga.’

‘Gaga is great, man! We can mash her up with Led Zep or Hendrix …’ Woody’s grey eyes were alive as a million musical possibilities flashed before him.

‘We can do whatever you want,’ Elsie said, trying her best to rein Woody in. ‘It’s important that we find music we all like and have fun performing it.’

Stan raised his hand. ‘Well, you can count me in, girl. I love a bit of warbling, me.’ He nudged Irene, who was sitting beside him. ‘What d’ya reckon, Reenie? Up for showing these whippersnappers how it’s done?’

Irene smiled but said nothing, her downy cheeks turning the tiniest bit pink.

‘Don’t let her fool you,’ Stan said. ‘Irene used to be on the stage, back in the day. One of Brighton’s finest, she was. Sang with Vera Lynn on a concert tour for the troops in Canada at the end of the war when she was just seventeen.’ He patted her knee. ‘Bit of a hoofer in your day, weren’t you, girl?’

‘Stop it, Stanley,’ she replied, and Elsie noticed how bright her eyes shone as she smiled. ‘I haven’t sung for years.’

‘It doesn’t matter. It’ll be good to have another Brighton great in our ranks,’ Daisy remarked, pointedly nodding at Woody.

‘So what happens now?’ Aoife asked, the sudden arrival of her voice surprising everyone in the room.

Elsie shrugged. ‘It’s really up to you all. I suppose the first thing is to find an evening to meet that suits everybody and then we start work proper next week.’

After much discussion – and several random veerings off-course with Woody’s Hellfinger references – Wednesday evenings were deemed to be perfect for choir rehearsals, and the inaugural meeting of the choir came to an end.

Elsie thanked them as they began to leave, wondering how many would return the following week.

‘It sounds like a bit of a laugh,’ Sasha said at the door, long false eyelashes fluttering beneath her razor-sharp, bleached-blonde fringe. ‘Will we be able to do solos and stuff? Only people say I have a bit of a solo voice.’

Elsie shrugged. ‘I don’t see why not. This choir can be whatever we want it to be.’

‘Sweet. See you next Wednesday.’

Stan and Irene shook Elsie’s hand. ‘Lovely evening,’ Irene smiled. ‘Most unexpected, but lovely.’

‘I hope you’re ready for our vocal delights, girl,’ chuckled Stan.

‘I’m looking forward to experiencing them.’

Daisy joined Elsie by the door as the last of the choir members filed out into the chilly night. ‘Do you think that went well?’ she asked, clearly not all that convinced that it had.

‘I think so. I suppose we’ll find out next week.’

Walking home, Elsie took a deep breath and looked up at the starlit sky. The night might not have taken the course she was expecting, but it felt good nevertheless. Positivity seemed to sparkle around her as she walked: the lights from the homes she passed were brighter, the night sky was a beautiful midnight blue and her heart felt lighter than it had for years.

‘This choir could well be the making of you, Elsie Maynard,’ she said to herself.

CHAPTER FIVE

Hello again, hello …

It was still dark when Elsie awoke next morning, pools of light from the streetlights outside her windows pooling in through the half-closed curtains in the bedroom of her Victorian terraced house. The dream from which she had stirred was the same that had brought her to daylight many times before: not a nightmare as such, more a captured moment of time playing on a perennial loop in her subconscious. She had dreamed it so often that it was strangely comforting now, almost reassuring in its reliability. There were never any words, only sensations. Oddly enough, the locations regularly changed, but the essence of the dream remained constant: the touch of a hand on hers followed by a tiny squeeze – barely perceptible to the naked eye but as powerful as a one-hundred-thousand-volt shock. And then, nothing but the feeling of being suspended in a pitch-black void, as if hanging above the earth before the lights of morning appeared. At first, Elsie had been unnerved by the dream but now it was an accepted part of her new life: a last vestige of the past to remind her of how far she had come.

Slowly rising from sleep-tossed sheets, she padded down white wood-stained stairs to her kitchen and leant against the beechwood countertop as the kettle bubbled up into life. She rubbed her eyes and caught sight of the list of possible choir songs she had scribbled on the back of an electricity bill by the phone hours before. Instantly, she felt her heart lift as the thrill of potential struck her like it had last night walking home from the choir meeting.

There was a mixture of material – from well-loved musical numbers to a smattering of recent chart songs and a couple of choir classics she remembered singing at school. Woody had, of course, suggested a few that she had so far successfully avoided – including an intriguing medley of Blue Oyster Cult ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper’ and Katy Perry’s ‘I Kissed a Girl’, performed to a stomping glam rock-style beat. Something told Elsie that Brighton, however bohemian it liked to appear, wasn’t quite ready for that musical delight to be unleashed …

She made tea in a mug Guin had made for her and smiled as she read the legend in vivid pink paint-strokes surrounded by blue and orange flowers:

Do it, or Elsie!

It was a bad joke, typical of her sister’s humour – but this morning it assumed a feeling of greater significance. Taking her tea back upstairs, Elsie sat on the side of her high, iron-framed bed and reached over to pick up the silk-covered box from her bedside table. Lying on top of the pile of papers inside it was the next message:

I love you because you love surprises xx

Not all surprises, Elsie thought. Some surprises I could live without. As she sipped her tea, watching the dawn begin to peek over the rooftops of her street, she couldn’t have known how timely her thoughts would prove to be …

As soon as she arrived at Sundae & Cher, Elsie knew that something was up. For a start, Cher was already in, which was most unlike her, and had uncharacteristically restocked the ice cream cabinet – a job normally reserved for Elsie on account of the fact that Cher disliked lifting the bulky tubs from the freezer. This task completed, Cher now appeared to be pacing the kitchen floor.

Elsie smiled as she entered the kitchen. ‘Morning. Is everything OK? Only I didn’t think seven-thirty a.m. existed in your vocabulary.’

‘It doesn’t, usually. But I thought I’d break with tradition today,’ she replied, fiddling with a box of sugar sachets and failing in her attempt at nonchalance. ‘I had that new batch of Kiwi and Gooseberry to mix downstairs and there’s a ton of Cookie Dough waiting for you to work your magic on. Not right now, obviously. Just – um – whenever you’re ready.’

‘Right.’ Frowning slightly, Elsie passed Cher to put her coat and bag in the cupboard by the back door. ‘I’m going to check the freezer stock levels downstairs.’

Cher’s guilty smile did nothing to remove Elsie’s growing suspicion. ‘Absolutely. Yes. Great idea.’ She paused as if to say something else, then clapped her hands. ‘In fact, I’ll come down with you.’

‘Fine.’ Leading the way, Elsie walked to the stairs at the back of the kitchen that led to Sundae & Cher’s ice cream lab in the small basement of the café. The smell of vanilla filled the air as she entered the chill of the basement and Elsie momentarily forgot Cher’s strange behaviour as she revelled in the magic of the room. She loved it here: not just because of the sweet aroma or large industrial mixer (the sight of which always brought out the kid in her, reminding her of standing on a stool next to Jim learning how to use the food processor on one of their many Saturday baking sessions), but because this place signified the heart of Sundae & Cher. This was where the magic happened – taking a basic ice cream mix and adding weird and wonderful ingredients to create brand new taste experiences.