The Singalong Society for Singletons

‘Another seven.’ I pull a face, unable to believe I’m already counting down to the holidays. The six-week summer break had worked its usual miracle of helping me forget how exhausting it is working in a primary school and although I’d not exactly been jumping out of bed with delight when the alarm went off at 6.15 on Monday morning, I’d felt a quiet positivity about the year ahead. There’s something special about getting to know a new set of kids, and there had even been rumours of new furniture for the reception classroom. Heaven knows, the tables need replacing. Years of felt-tip pens being carelessly smudged over their surface meant their glory days were well in the past. But just one week in – four days, actually, if you discount the staff training day – and I’m already totally drained of energy, as I always am during term time. People at work say I’m bubbly and bouncy and full of beans, but that’s because I raise my game. How anyone who works with children finds the time for a social life, I’ll never know. When Friday finally rolls around, all I want to do is climb into my onesie and sleep for a week.

‘My class need to be the small fishes again,’ Issy says with a sage nod. ‘It’s always the same with the oldest in the school. They get ahead of themselves. Too big for their ‘let’s-get-one-size-larger-so-you-can-grow-into-them Doc Martens.’ Issy looks so serious, which naturally makes me want to giggle. ‘They’ll be the ones in tears when they start at secondary school next year, just like your little angels in reception have been this time. It’ll knock them down a peg or two.’

‘It’ll get easier, it always does.’

I know Issy thinks I’m being over-optimistic, but I can’t help it. What can I say? I’m one of those people who naturally looks on the bright side of life, except when it comes to Justin. But that’s no surprise, given that he’d gone from ‘we can make long distance work’ in December to ‘perhaps we should take a break – not split up, but accept long distance doesn’t work for us’ in January. I think I’ve every right to feel bitter. I’m living in this weird love-life limbo.

‘You’ll be fine when they get to trust you,’ I assure her. ‘You said exactly the same about your last lot. Remember Billy Rush? You were convinced he’d turn you grey, and look, your hair’s exactly the same murky shade it’s always been,’ I say with nothing but innocence.

‘Hey, watch it you! My hair’s not murky. It’s salted caramel,’ Issy replies, defensively stroking the thick, straight locks that tumble down past her shoulders. How she manages to look glamorous, even in her mint-green fleecy Primark pyjamas, I’ll never know. She’s one of those naturally well-groomed people whose skin always looks fresh and eyes bright, even when she’s tired or has a stinking hangover. It’s infuriating.

‘Yeah, right. Whatever you say. ‘Salted caramel.’ Is that what they call it at the hairdressers?’

I poke my tongue out at her, but she knows it’s all in jest. That’s the great thing about our friendship. We tease each other mercilessly, but we can switch to drying each other’s tears in a matter of seconds if needs be. And Issy, bless her, has done her fair share of being the shoulder to cry on this year, so it’s important to remember to laugh about things as much as possible.

‘They refer to it by number. But it’s the darkest blonde they do,’ Issy replies haughtily, running her hand over her locks once more. ‘You’d see for yourself if we were in the right light. This house has terrible natural light, and you know it. It’s the price we pay for living on the shady side of the street.’

She’s right about that. Even in the height of summer there’s a distinct chill in the lounge of the mid-terraced red-brick house we share. I swear we must’ve been the only people pulling down furry throws from the back of the sofa to keep warm during the one red-hot week that had passed as the British summer. Even long sunny days had done nothing to rid our lounge of its chilly gloom. And now, on an early-September evening, where it’s still light outside, both of us are in pyjamas, dressing gowns and super-thick socks, a necessity if we’re going to meet our annual challenge of making it to the half-term break without caving and putting the heating on.

‘So, are you going to pour me a glass or that Merlot or what? I’m dying of thirst over here.’

‘You’re not exactly encouraging me to share when you’re slagging off my hair and saying my job’s easy. Maybe I’ll keep the whole bottle to myself instead.’

There’s a cheeky glint in Issy’s eyes as she pulls the bottle to her mouth as though to swig from it. I know she’s only messing around, but it’s still enough to make me worry. It’s Friday night. I need that wine.

‘I never said it was easy,’ I correct quickly. ‘Just that you’ve not got the screamers and the over-anxious parents and the snotty noses and the pooey pants to deal with.’ When the negative aspects of the job were all strung out like that, working as a teaching assistant in a reception class sounded bad. Like a cacophony of noise and hassle and bodily fluids.

Issy shoots me a look. ‘You knew what you were getting into, you’ve got a degree in child development. It’s not exactly a state secret that four-year-olds have accidents and don’t know how to use a Kleenex.’

‘I know, I know.’

And I can’t imagine doing anything else. My oldest friend Connie’s stuck in a hell-hole of an office all day and she hates every miserable minute of it. She’s crying out to do something more worthwhile than filing and answering phones. School might be exhausting, but there are plenty of rewards too – some of the things the kids come out with are hilarious and it’s great watching them grow and progress day by day.

‘I do love the kids,’ I add, ‘especially the little ones. They’re continually evolving and that moment when they grasp how to do something new – there’s nothing like it. The pride in their faces…’

I place my hand over my heart, recalling the happiness on one child’s face today as he counted to ten by rote. It had been a touching moment, and one that reminded me how much I love my job.

‘You’re going to set me off crying at this rate.’

Issy rolls her eyes, but the grin that accompanies it is the real giveaway – it shows she understands. I might be more of a people person than Issy, but she cares about the kids much more than she outwardly shows. She just does a good job of hiding her love and loyalty. Issy plays her cards very close to her chest.

‘It’s great being with the little ones. I wish they’d have a bit more independence sometimes, though.’

‘Like you said to me, it’ll get easier. You’ll have them whipped into shape by the summer. They’re used to being mollycoddled at home, that’s all. Come on, you’ll feel better after a glass of wine,’ she chivvies. ‘And at least there’s no alarm going off at some ungodly hour in the morning, so let’s put a film on and forget about work. I’ve got a Toblerone in the cupboard, too, if you fancy a few little triangular pieces of heaven?’

‘Mmmmm.’ My mouth waters at the thought. Toblerone. My favourite. ‘That sounds amazing. What do you want to watch?’

It’s a ridiculous, pointless question. We’ve watched the same film every Friday night for the past three months.

‘Ooh, let me think,’ Issy replies sarcastically, putting the tip of her index finger to the corner of her lips, as though there’s actually a decision to be made here. Her nails are coated in black polish and there’s not a single chip to be seen. Typical: Immaculate Issy. After a brief, yet dramatic, pause, she announces ‘Frozen!’

I pull the shiny rectangular DVD case from the boxy Ikea bookcase as Issy snuggles into the corner of the settee, pulling the chocolate-brown throw over her knees in an attempt to get cosy, because when it comes to frostiness, 24 Cardigan Close can easily rival an icy Arendelle. Brr!

*

By the time Hans and Anna are capturing the brilliant white moon in their hands as they dance beneath the waterfall, Issy and I are both decidedly more relaxed. A second bottle of red wine’s been opened and all that remains of the chocolate is the iconic triangular prism box and a screwed-up ball of silver foil strewn on the table. The cares of the week are slowly slipping away; the weekend has truly arrived.

Until the doorbell rings, rudely interrupting the peace.

Issy groans. ‘Can’t we leave it?’ I know there’s no way on earth she’ll get up from that settee; she’s set up camp for the night. Begrudgingly, I inch myself into a standing position while she chunters on. ‘Who calls unannounced on a Friday night anyway?’

‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘It must be important.’

‘Or one of those door-to-door charity collectors.’

A ferocious banging follows, five loud knocks that it would be impossible to ignore.

‘That’d have to be one desperate charity collector.’

I pull my dressing gown more tightly around my waist as I reach for my key from the small hook on the back of the door. The knocking continues, louder and more frantic than before, followed by a voice.

‘Mon! Mon! It’s me!’

The desperation in the high-pitched cries urge me into action. The voice is instantly identifiable. I fling the door open and my sister stumbles over the threshold, a bulging black sports bag slung over her shoulder and a wheelie suitcase by her side. Her face is deathly pale in stark contrast to her chocolate-brown hair, and her cheeks are stained with the snail-trail tracks of tears.

‘Hope! What’s going on?’

I’m shocked at the state of her. Actually, I’m beyond shocked. I’m not used to seeing my older sister like this. Hope’s always been the stronger of the two of us, the one with the ‘don’t mess with me’ attitude and a permanent look of disdain waiting in the wings to throw at anything or anyone she considers beneath her. But right now she looks fragile and vulnerable, like a frightened kitten in a thunderstorm.

‘I didn’t know where else to go,’ Hope sobs. Her long, dark hair falls in front of her face as she hunches forwards, a protective veil to hide behind. I know the trick; I’ve used it myself.

‘Start at the beginning.’ I try to keep my voice calm, although inside I’m flailing. Placing my hand on my sister’s back, I gently guide her into the living room. Hans and Anna are no longer singing about love being an open door. Issy’s pressed the pause button at an inopportune moment; the close-up shot of the princess showing her eyes closed and her face contorted. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s Amara,’ Hope says finally, before looking up and locking her bleary, bloodshot eyes with mine. ‘She’s thrown me out. She said she’s had enough of me pressurising her into telling her parents the truth.’ She pauses for breath, gulping the air. ‘I’ve been patient, haven’t I, Mon? It’s been four years now, but she still won’t admit to her parents that we’re a couple. Four years! I’m sick of moving my stuff into the spare room every time they come over, pretending we’re just best friends sharing a flat.’ Her shoulders judder as the tears start to fall. ‘All I want is for her to be honest. I don’t want to have to hide any more.’

‘What exactly did she say?’ Issy interjects, moving to the edge of her seat. ‘Do you think she means it? Or is she just angry at the situation and taking it out on you?’

‘Oh, she means it alright,’ Hope answers with a bitter laugh. ‘She’s ashamed to be with me. Her parents are coming up from London tomorrow and when I told her I thought it was time to come clean, she said that’d be ‘impossible’.’ Hope raises her hands, wiggling her fingers to indicate quotation marks. It’s a move full of pain-drenched sarcasm. ‘When I said I was sick of her pulling all the strings in our relationship, fed up of it being fine to hold her hand when we’re clubbing on a Saturday night or walking around Endcliffe Park on a Sunday morning but having to outright lie when it comes to her family… she said she couldn’t lie any longer either. She handed me my bag, told me it was over and ordered I pack and leave.’

Issy raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow and when she speaks her tone is disbelieving. ‘And you did it without a fuss? I’m sorry, Hope, but that doesn’t sound like the feisty girl I know. She wouldn’t give up and walk out on the love of her life.’

‘Can’t you see? It’s because I love her! That’s why I’ve gone. If Amara can’t tell her family that we’ve been in a relationship, then what’s the point in being together anyway? I know I’m lucky. Mum was fine with me being gay, once she got her head around it. Amara’s parents aren’t like that. They’re always on at her to find a nice young man and provide them with grandchildren. If she tells them she’s gay, they’ll probably disown her.’

‘But even if she’s not with you, she’s still going to be gay,’ I reason. I hand her my glass, thinking a sip of alcohol might calm her down. ‘She’s not going to suddenly start lusting over Daniel Craig just because you’ve moved out. So she’ll still be lying to them either way.’

Hope winces as she sips the Merlot and it’s only then I remember she’s never been a fan of red wine, much preferring a crisp glass of refreshing Pinot Grigio. Ah well, beggars can’t be choosers.

‘I know,’ Hope answers resignedly. ‘But it’s easier for her to call an end to it than tell them the truth. If she’s on her own, she can make up excuses and fob off the questions. She’ll say she’s not found the right person yet or that she wants to travel or concentrate on her career. That’ll be more acceptable to her family than the reality.’

‘Concentrating on a career,’ I snort. ‘I’ve heard that one before.’

I grind my teeth, determined not to make this about me, but it’s touched a nerve. I feel brittle, fragile. It comes over me like this every so often, and it makes me mad. These involuntary reactions are all little reminders that however much I profess to have moved on, I still catch my breath at the thought of Justin Crowson. He upped and left and broke my heart, but in just over three months he’ll be back in Sheffield. The ‘break’ will be over; we can get back on track. I’m clutching tightly to that thought. It’s been painfully hard having so little contact with Justin since Christmas, and I hate this feeling of being so distant. Going from inseparable to short, sharp emails and five-minute phone conversations has been like losing a limb.

‘It’s time’s like this I’m actually glad to be eternally single,’ Issy replies. ‘You Brown girls sure know how to get shat on from a great height.’

Issy hasn’t had so much as a one-night fling in the last eighteen months, let alone anything more. Drunken snogs are her speciality, but nothing ever goes further. She’s adamant she’s holding out for Mr Right, the man she’ll marry and ride off into the sunset with.

‘Well,’ I say, cutting Issy off before she says anything that starts Hope off blubbering again, ‘you can stay here for as long as you need to. The futon in the spare room’s not all that comfy, but you’re very welcome to crash on it. And right now I’m going to get you a glass of your own. Have some more wine and watch the end of Frozen with us. That’ll make everything seem a bit brighter.’

That set Hope off crying again. She’s never been an especially girly girl and in her current state, the thought of princessy Disney films was probably enough to push her over the edge.

‘I’ll need more than one glass of wine to get through Frozen, no matter how big it is,’ Hope says.

‘You make it sound like an endurance test rather than an animated film.’ Issy laughs, but not unkindly, as I move into the kitchen to fetch a glass. ‘It’s hardly scaling Everest!’

‘It might as well be. You two are bloody obsessed with that film. Even the kids at school have had enough of it now.’

Hope works with Issy and me at Clarke Road Primary, teaching the Year 4s. She never planned to go into teaching – falling into it out of necessity rather than a vocational calling – but jobs related to her degree in visual arts are few and far between. At least this way she’s able to use her imagination in the classroom now and again, even if there isn’t as much freedom as she’d like. Creativity’s not exactly a priority in the curriculum these days but Hope’s eye-catching display boards are always spectacular, a talking point with staff and pupils alike.

I peep around the doorframe, mock horror on my face at Hope rejecting my favourite film of all time. ‘Frozen’s not a fad, it’s a way of life! It’s a story of sisterhood and love for all ages. And it’s one of the best films to sing along to. There’s nothing like belting out ‘Let It Go’ at the top of your lungs to make everything better.’

‘Excuse me if I’ve not quite got your level of optimism,’ Hope mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.

I can see her shivering from here, and I’ve a sneaky suspicion that it’s not just her body responding to the chilly temperature in the house. Maybe the realisation that she no longer lives with her gorgeous girlfriend in a modern, city-centre apartment but is crashing out with her baby sister in what is little better than student digs is hitting home.

‘Anyway, I’m not sure the neighbours will thank us,’ Hope says wryly. ‘We’re hardly Little Mix, are we?’

‘Ah,’ I reply with a smile, ‘but that’s the best thing about living near the university. Everyone else on the street is a student. Most of them aren’t even back until the end of the month, and the ones that are will either be out in town or having a party involving something far more raucous than the three of us pretending to be Elsa.’

‘I think you secretly love it,’ Issy says breezily, attempting to stop Hope snuffling. She wafts a box of pastel-coloured tissues in Hope’s direction. ‘Even you’ve got to admit that despite being the bad guy, Hans is a hottie.’

Hope pulls a lemon-yellow tissue from the box, a rose-coloured fan appearing as if by magic to take its place.

‘I’m a lesbian,’ she states, in case anyone’s forgotten. ‘And even if I wasn’t, I don’t think I’d be resorting to animated characters.’

She blows her nose noisily into the tissue. It sounds like a steam train heading into a tunnel.

‘I’ve always had a thing for Flynn Rider,’ I admit, handing my sister the full-to-the-brim glass of wine I’d poured her. ‘I think it’s his chiselled jaw. Maybe if I grew my hair a bit longer and threw it out of my bedroom window I’d get someone like that to climb up it. Mind you, it’d take years to grow. It’s the one major downside of curly hair, every centimetre in visible growth is actually three.’ I finger a strand of hair ruefully.

‘I don’t think there are any Flynn Rider lookalikes wandering around South Yorkshire looking for plaits to climb up, so the slow growth of your hair is the least of your worries. Anyway, you’re not looking for a man, are you?’

‘I’m most certainly not,’ I reply brusquely.

Issy’s mentioned on more than one occasion that she thinks getting ‘under a man to get over a man’ might be a step forward, but it hasn’t occurred to me. I’ve not so much as looked at another male that way. I don’t want to, because no one else can possibly compare to Justin. How could they? We’ve got ten years of shared history. He’s my first love. My first everything, in fact. Anyway, we’re on a break, we’re not broken.

‘After what happened with you-know-who, I’m not putting myself out there,’ I say. I’m not sure of my status anyway, there’s no noun to describe someone who’s on a break. ‘I’m not ready to lay my soul bare to any man, not if all they want to do is trample over it.’

I’ve said these lines so many times that it’s a well-rehearsed speech, but the doubtful looks on both Issy and Hope’s faces make me wonder how convincing I actually am. Maybe I should say them with a bit more oomph.

‘Come on, let’s get this film back rolling,’ says Issy. ‘And is this wine mine?’ she asks, gesturing to the full glass sitting on the mantelpiece. ‘Because I can feel myself sobering up by the second, and tonight I plan to get very, very drunk.’

*

We’re all glued to the television screen as the tinkly piano starts up and Elsa sadly climbs the snow-covered mountain, her purple cape trailing through the snow behind her. Even Hope’s transfixed, although she’d never admit it.

‘I love this song,’ Issy says, pulling a cushion closer to her stomach. ‘Even though I must have heard it a million times, it still gets me right here.’ She points to the centre of her chest, pulling an over-exaggerated sad face.

‘That’s why Elsa’s so popular,’ I say. ‘She gives up everything to be true to herself and doesn’t give a damn what everyone else thinks. She’s a much better role model than the sappy princesses of old. She’s spunky.’

‘Did you seriously just use the word spunky?’ Hope shakes her head in disbelief. Her eyes already look hazy; the crying and the wine a lethal combination. ‘That’s cringe-worthy, no one uses that word any more. Plus, it’s one of those icky words that makes my skin crawl. That and ‘moist’.’ She grimaces.

‘But Elsa is spunky. It’s the perfect word to describe her.’

‘Whatever.’

The misfit princess runs through the snow-covered land singing about her new-found freedom and how she can finally be the person she truly is rather than who everyone else expects her to be, and before long all three of us feel every ounce of the ice queen’s angst as we sing along to ‘Let It Go’. Elsa removes her glove and conjures magical wisps of ice from her hands and we shout the rousing chorus at the top of our lungs, well past caring what the neighbours think. We’re out of tune and Hope isn’t entirely sure of the words, but we don’t give a damn. It’s fun.

‘It feels good to sing, doesn’t it?’ Hope says out of the blue. Her cheeks are flushed now, the pinkish hue making her appear much less frail than she’d looked when she arrived. ‘To let rip and shout. Kids do it all the time, but as adults we’re expected to have found other ways to express ourselves. But the truth is, nothing compares to getting everything out of your system by having a good old yell.’

‘Letting go,’ says Issy solemnly, before realising what she’s said and dissolving in a fit of drunken giggles.

‘I read something somewhere about singing being good for the soul,’ I recall. ‘Didn’t it say people who sing live longer? Or were happier? I can’t remember, but it was all positive.’ Funnily enough, I’m feeling better for singing too and my words are spilling out at an incredible pace. ‘We’ve all had a tough year. I’ve been low since Justin went to America, even though the sensible part of me knows that taking a break was the only option. That doesn’t make it any easier though, I’m still wondering if he’s on a date with some American beauty or out on the pull. And Hope, who knows? Maybe Amara will come round and realise you need to be together in time, but right now you need to put yourself first. Don’t look at me like that! I know you think I’m fussing, but I want my only sister to be happy.’

I reach over and squeeze Hope’s hand, one small pulse that carries an infinite amount of love.

‘And Is, I know you’re happy being single, but I saw your face when your sister told you about her latest scan.’

Issy swallows, and part of me wishes I’d kept quiet. This is a sensitive subject. But it’s too late now, it’s already out there, so I carry on regardless. ‘You’re going to be the most amazing mummy one of these days, when the time is right. The best.’ Issy’s lips form an O, and I think she might cry, so I quickly move on. ‘But for now, all three of us need to pick ourselves up and take control of our own happiness. It’s like Elsa says, we’re free! Who knows where we’ll be in a month, let alone a year. We need to increase our happiness, channel the good emotions.’ I’m on a roll, fire in my belly and well-lubricated by the wine. There’s no stopping me now.

‘And how do you suggest we do that, oh wise one?’ asks Hope, her voice acerbic.

‘A club, an informal choir. Make Friday nights a musical spectacular and sing ourselves silly! Think how good it feels to shout and laugh and forget about all the crappy stuff.’ I beam, convinced it’s a winning idea. ‘We should make it a weekly event, a celebration of the weekend and being happy on our own rather than out in the meat market that doubles as town on a Friday night. It’s got to be better than having your bum pinched by some drunken chancer out on the pull, and if it raises our spirits too then it’s a bonus, surely? What do you reckon? Isn’t it the best idea ever?’