Sing the Blues, Janey
Chapter 2
'What's this supposed to be?' A teacher's question. They both knew what it was.
'Er, my homework, Mr. Parker.'
Janey stared at the crumpled sheet of paper in her French teacher's hand. She had done it last night in the Tasty Diner, a lorry drivers' pull up on the A2, where the boys had stopped to get a meal, and chat up a group of fans who were following them home after the gig.
'And how am I supposed to read it? It looks as though a drunken snake has written it. What did you do, Janey, have your fish and chips off it?'
'Yes,' said Janey, unthinkingly.
'What?'
'I mean, I'm sorry, it got a bit screwed up in my bag...'
'A bit screwed up! Now look here, this stuff is really disgraceful. It would be bad for a twelve year old, but you're sixteen. You're supposed to be taking your exams in a few months. Unless you get down to some proper work, you can forget it. You don't stand a chance. I'm not happy with your French Oral, either. I'm taking some of the students at lunchtime for extra coaching. You'd better come on Wednesdays.'
'I can't, Mr. Parker. I mean, I've got piano practice with Miss Lesley.'
'Tuesday then.'
'That's singing practice, because I go to Madame Vasari in the afternoon and...'
'Thursday.'
'I've got a guitar lesson...'
'Are you, perhaps, free any lunch times, Miss Adams?' He was sarcastic now and hostile. 'I know this subject is an also-ran for you - but believe me, if you're going to do music, you'll need it. Now, are you free Monday?'
She usually did her weekend homework then, but she couldn't very well admit that.
'All right,' she said, reluctantly. She really did need French-speaking practice, but it would mean more homework as well.
'All right? Now look here, Janey, you're not doing me a favour. I'm doing you one. I'm giving up my lunch hours to help get you ungrateful, lazy slobs, through the exam, because, believe me, you are nowhere near the standard required yet. There's a lot of work to be done. And that reminds me. Here's your homework back. Copy it out again, and do page ninety-eight as well. And don't give me that sort of stuff again, or you'll get three times the amount.'
Near to tears, Janey took the paper. Mr. Parker was one of her favourite teachers. But he looked so fed up and angry.
Her form tutor caught her on the way out of school.
'I want a word with you, young lady.'
Janey's heart sank. What was the matter now? She followed her reluctantly back to the form room.
'Now then, I've had three - no less than three - complaints about you. Mr. Grundig, Mrs. Banks and Mr. Parker.'
'I've seen him,' muttered Janey.
'Poor work. Lack of concentration and missing homework. You are wandering about school like a zombie.What's the matter with you? What exams are you taking?'
'Maths, English, German, French and Office Studies. A level Music.'
'In fact, the only one who hasn't complained is your Office Studies teacher.' She smiled grimly. 'Which is just as well, because it looks as though you're going to be working in one very soon.'
'But I don't want to work in...I don't understand.'
'Work it out, Janey. Think about it hard. Good afternoon.'
'Again!' said Madame Vasari, crossly.
'And again!'
'And again.'
Wearily, Janey sang the same complicated phrase from Aida for the seventh time. It was worse than the first time. The tone was thin, and her breath control ragged and uncertain.
Madame's bosom expanded vengefully. 'You have not practised.'
Janey had practiced - but not as much as usual. She had had to do her German homework at lunchtime, not having had time the night before, which had cut down on her practice time.
'I have practised, Madame, but I'm sorry, I'm just so tired, I can't seem to...'
To her horror, she felt the tears brim over and run down her cheeks, unstoppable. What was the matter with her lately? She cried at the simplest things!
She excused herself, hastily, and went to the bathroom. Madame's bathroom was an enormous dressing room furnished with a deep white carpet, and a bath and dressing table heavily draped in flower-embroidered muslin.
She sat miserably on the lavatory and even the beautiful bathroom failed to stop the crying. She seemed entirely turned to a river of tears. She didn't even know quite why she was crying, except everything seemed so hopeless and she couldn't stop anyway.
After a while the flow lessened, and she washed her face in cold water. She looked terrible, and she had come without any make-up too. She would have to go home on the underground like this...The tears ran again, and she had to mop up for a second time, angry with herself now. She wished she was at home and could go to bed and finish her cry, and go to sleep. But there was a bag of post waiting in the Cellar, which simply must be opened in case there was anything urgent.
Madame was sitting on her soft, chintzy sofa. She had drawn up a small table, on which sat a magnificent silver tray, teapot and milk jug, hand-painted porcelain cups and saucers with a plate of thin, buttered toast. She patted the sofa next to her.
'Come and sit down, Janetta. Have some tea and toast.'
For one awful moment Janey thought she was going to cry again. She swallowed furiously.
'Madame, I'm sorry. I don't know what...'
'Don't talk. Drink and eat. You will feel better.'
Janey took the delicate cup, hoping she would not drop it, and drank the tea gratefully.
Madame smiled her rare, charming smile. 'You have not collapsed under my bullying before.'
'It wasn't that exactly. I mean, I know I sounded terrible. I don't know what happened. I think I'm just worried about things. There's so much to do and I'm worried about my exams.' She stopped. No use talking to Madame about GCSEs. She didn't understand how important they were.
'You look tired. That's bad. A singer must be careful of her health. Good food and much sleep. Are you eating properly?'
Janey thought of the packet of crisps and an apple she had eaten at lunchtime. She had had no time for breakfast. 'Er...sometimes.'
'What time did you go to bed last night?'
The van had broken down at Reigate when they were driving back from their gig at Sussex University last night. Steve and Dave had spent the time arguing, Steve alleging that Dave had deliberately ruined one of his best songs by playing too fast. They had got back at half-past two.
'Eleven,' said Janey.
'Much too late. No wonder you are tired. Promise me you'll go to bed early tonight.'
'Yes, I intend to,' said Janey, grimly.
'Now, Janetta, I wish to speak with you about something very important. In June, in London, will be my old friend and teacher, Signor Roberto Rossi. He is one of the world's foremost authorities on voice production and breath control. He will be in London for two months only. I am making arrangements for you to have some lessons with him. It is an opportunity we cannot afford to miss.'
'But Madame...' Janey was worried.
Madame held up her hand. 'There will be nothing to pay. I have arranged it all.'
Janey flushed. 'But I can't let you pay.'
'There will be no payment. I have explained your circumstances, your remarkable abilities, and for the sake of our old friendship he will give you lessons.'
'If you're sure it's all right. But I can maybe pay something...'
Madame shook her head decisively. 'It is arranged.'
Janey hesitated, still worried.
'Madame, can you tell me which days I'll have the lessons? Things are difficult. There's so much I have to do.'
Madame looked at her haughtily. 'Signor Rossi is an extremely busy man. You will naturally fit in with his programme. I expect he will wish to see you twice or three times a week. You are very lucky to get such an opportunity.'
Janey said, hastily, 'Oh yes, I know that. I'm very grateful, Madame.' But where was she going to find the extra time? Three evenings! She would just have to skip some gigs.Or something else. This was really important. Perhaps Madame would let her off lessons for that time...
'You will, of course, continue your lessons with me at the same time.'
Janey nearly groaned aloud.
'Shall we make a last attempt on the Aida? You must get used to working long hours when you are already tired.'
Her mother said, 'Janey, give the bathroom an extra clean this weekend. Your father said he might be home.'
'If I've got time.'
'Find the time. You know what he's like. We won't hear the last of it if he finds a tidemark round the bath. The bedrooms ought to be done too.'
Janey hunched a shoulder and turned away.
'Did you hear what I said? It's not much to ask.'
'I heard. The bedrooms are all right, and the bathroom is clean enough. If you all tried not to splash it would stay clean.'
'The least you can do is help out a bit. I can't do any more, with two jobs on the go.'
Janey was suddenly furious. 'Who keeps the place clean? I do. Who vacuums and dusts and polishes? Who does all the shopping? Who takes in the laundry? And you say I don't help out!'
'I didn't...'
'If they're that important - do the bedrooms yourself. I've got too much to do!' Janey stormed out and slammed the door.
Her mother stared after her, surprised. As a rule Janey didn't go in for teenage tantrums.
Copyright Liz Berry 2002. All rights reserved.
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