Humming a Different Tune Read online

  Humming a Different Tune

  Amy Rae Durreson

  Copyright Amy Rae Durreson 2019

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  Table of Contents

  Humming a Different Tune

  About the Author

  Other Books by Amy Rae Durreson

  WE WERE managing to keep our upper lips stiff until Dad looked at Lucy and said wistfully, “Reckon I’ll not be making it to your wedding, eh, love?”

  We all took a breath, so sharp and sudden it felt like someone had taken a knife to the air.

  Lucy shot to her feet, knocking her chair over. “I won’t get married without you!” She swung on the consultant, who was watching with tired, well-practiced compassion, and demanded, “How soon? When should I get married so my dad can be there?”

  “I wouldn’t leave it more than three weeks,” he said, very gently.

  Mum’s shoulders sagged a little more. Dad went slightly greyer. I wanted to throw up, my stomach convulsing.

  But my sister Lucy, who’d been planning her perfect wedding since she was five, lifted her chin and said, “Then I’ll get married on Saturday.”

  It wasn’t quite so simple.

  Mum stayed in the hospital with Dad, but Lucy wouldn’t let me go home alone. She swept me up in her wake, which is pretty much the story of our lives, and installed me in her living room with a cup of tea while she got on the phone.

  I stared at it, watching the steam rise off the surface. The sound of Lucy berating someone down the phone was familiar enough to be almost comforting, but I couldn’t make sense of anything right then.

  The tea went cold in my hands as Lucy paced in the kitchen, the pitch of her voice rising every time someone put her on hold.

  She and Greg had a date set for next year and a deposit down on a posh hotel for the reception. She had recently dragged me around all the wedding-dress shops in Tilling until I lost my temper and informed her loudly that being gay did not automatically make me an expert on women’s fashions.

  While the very lah-di-dah staff looked on with discreet disdain, Lucy had honked with laughter, clasped her hands to her heart, and trilled, “But you’re my favourite brother, Neil!”

  “I’m your only brother, you mare,” I’d reminded her. “I’ll be in the bookshop. Come and find me when you want a lift home.”

  “Nice try,” she’d said and hooked her hand over my arm. “So tell me if you think these shoes are strong enough to dance in.”

  Now, staring at my congealing tea, it seemed a million years ago.

  I heard the sound of a key in the lock and looked up to see Greg, Lucy’s fiancé, come in. He nodded to me. “Neil. How did it go?”

  “The cancer’s back,” I said. Suddenly my hands began to shake, spilling cold tea all over my trousers. “Lucky if he makes it to April, the doctor said.”

  “Oh, shit,” Greg said. He must have rushed out of work to be home this early, and I watched the news hit him. He and Lucy had been together since uni, and he was part of our family already, even without the wedding. He shambled over and squeezed my shoulder awkwardly before removing the tea from my hands and plonking it down on the windowsill. “So sorry, mate.”

  He headed into the kitchen, plucking the phone out of Lucy’s hand as soon as he was in reach. He spoke into it, saying, “Sorry, bad day here,” and hung up. Then he held his arms out.

  I looked away, staring out of the window. When my neck began to ache, I shifted my gaze. Lucy had dance magazines stacked messily in the hollow of her fake fireplace, and pictures filled her mantelpiece. I walked over to look at them, very aware that I could hear Lucy crying and Greg’s anxious murmurs.

  In the centre of the mantelpiece, there was a picture of the two of them dancing at their engagement do, Greg dipping her and both of them smiling. There were holiday snaps and a big family picture from our Grandpa Len’s ninetieth birthday five years ago, showing rows of dark-haired, pink-cheeked Dannatt cousins interspersed with partners and kids. My ex, Kieran, was included, so I looked away quickly to spot a picture of Lucy and me at our first dance competition, aged six and dressed like extras from Bugsy Malone. There was another one beside it, the European Championships when we were seventeen, Lucy’s skirts flaring, my arm outstretched, our bodies perfectly aligned as we swung around the point where our fingers touched, both of us smiling like we were on top of the world.

  “God, we were gorgeous, weren’t we?” Lucy said and elbowed me in the side. “Sit down, you. We won’t embarrass you again.”

  Normally, I would have made a joke. Today I just gave her a wan smile and sank back into her squishy sofa.

  She flopped down next to me and made space for Greg on her other side. He threw his arm over her shoulders.

  I had to swallow back a sharp little knot of jealousy. I hadn’t had anyone since Kieran drifted out of my life, and I desperately wanted someone to give me a hug and tell me everything was going to be okay.

  Even if it wasn’t.

  “I thought he was safe,” Lucy said. Now she’d stopped raging, she looked small and exhausted. “He’s been in remission for years.”

  “I can’t talk about it,” I said before she went any further. “Lu—I—what did the registry office say?”

  She squeezed my leg but followed the change of subject, picking up my cue without hesitating. “Legally, we have to wait sixteen days from our first appointment. What if we don’t have sixteen days?”

  “Gretna?” I suggested. Running off to Scotland seemed a bit dramatic, and come to think of it, I wasn’t sure it would help. “Can you even get away with no notice weddings up there anymore?”

  “If I thought Dad was well enough for the drive, maybe. Hell, if he was well enough to travel, we could fly to Vegas.”

  I thought of Dad, who had been quietly shrivelling inside his own skin for the last few weeks—how shakily he had walked into the hospital that morning, clutching at Mum’s arm for support—and nodded.

  “Sixteen days is less than the three weeks the doctor gave you.”

  She nodded. “Got an appointment with the registrar tomorrow morning.”

  “Reception?”

  She gave a shuddery shake of her head. “Won’t get the deposit back. Without that, we can’t afford…. Even if we could, there’s nowhere available at such short notice. We’ll do a buffet here. Doesn’t have to be fancy. There are more important things.”

  I looked at her, amazed. She’d been planning a big wedding with a swing-era theme and a jazz band for the reception. I knew every detail of her plan, because she hadn’t stopped talking about it for months.

  Carefully, I said, “Look, I’ve got a bit saved up, if you—”

  “Don’t you bloody dare. That’s your wedding fund.”

  Everything Lucy had done, I’d done too, ever since we were four and she refused to let me sit at the back of the hall and do colouring while she had her first dancing class. So, yeah, I had a rainy-day fund (not specifically for weddings, thank you, Lucy), started on the same day she’d put half her pocket money into her piggy bank and chopped a bit out of the lace curtains to make Marjorie Oink-Oink a veil and her brother Marvin a superhero cape (we didn’t get any more pocket money for a month after that stunt). Twenty-odd years later, both our funds were in the bank and Margery and Marvin Oink-Oi
nk, the Piggy box Twins, had entered an honourable retirement in Mum and Dad’s loft. (Why, yes, Lucy and I are twins too. Whatever gave it away? No, we’re not identical. No, not even though we look really alike, apart from, y’know, the fact only one of us has boobs. We’re not psychic. We’ve never fancied the same bloke, unless we’re counting Orlando Bloom. Any other stupid questions?)

  I made my excuses soon after that and trailed home. Luckily, I still had a bottle of whiskey I’d been given for Christmas. I didn’t want to think about anything that had happened that day, and I couldn’t bear putting the telly on, checking Facebook, or anything else meaningless, so I just sat down and systematically drank myself into oblivion.

  I went to work the next day, because I couldn’t really think of a reason not to. I passed some of the more complex accounts across to Jo and Nisha, who made up the rest of my department, and started working my way steadily through our entire backlog of dull and nonurgent stuff.

  At lunchtime, I remembered that Mum was going to e-mail us with an update and logged on to my personal e-mail to check. She had, and I read it quickly. Nothing new. Dad had had a good night but was grumbling about hospital food. They were starting the process of finding a nurse who would help him stay at home as long as possible.

  I had another e-mail, from an address I didn’t recognize, someone called Monty with the address [email protected]. It was titled “About your sister’s wedding. I think I can help!!”

  I almost didn’t read it. I didn’t know anyone called Monty. If it was spam, though, it was weirdly specific, so I opened it.

  From: Monty Charlesworth

  To: Neil Dannatt

  Hi

  We’ve never met, but I’m a friend of your sister’s from the online dance forum. Lucy messaged a few of us last night. Firstly, I’m so sorry to hear about your dad. I lost my own father a few years ago and know how devastating it is.

  Secondly, and this is why I’m emailing, Lucy explained that her big wedding was off. I think I might be able to help with that. I know she can’t afford to throw the party she wanted at such short notice, but her friends on the forum would love to help. We’re all creative people, and some of us are local.

  I didn’t want to contact Lucy directly at this stage. I don’t know if she even wants a big do under the circumstances, so I didn’t want to start the ball rolling until I’d asked someone in the family. I also don’t want to make Lucy promises I can’t keep, and I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to get until I ask. You seemed like the obvious go-to guy.

  Let me know if I’m good to go. I wish I could do more to help, but this is all that’s in my power.

  Yours hopefully

  Monty

  I just stared at it for five minutes. The grey cloud I’d been wrapped in suddenly began to dissipate, until suddenly I could feel everything again, from the slightly stale crust of the bread in my sandwich to the quick beat of my heart. My head was suddenly bursting, with Lucy’s anger and grief, with the kind words of this stranger dancing on the page in front of me, and with the blinding, inescapable truth that my dad was dying.

  I stumbled away from my desk. The next I knew I was sitting on the floor of the loo, my arms wrapped around my knees, sobs tearing out of me.

  I’m not sure how long I stayed there, but when I eventually picked myself up and made it back to my desk, the others were waiting for me, looking worried. I had to reassure them that no, there was nothing wrong with me, family emergency, sorry for worrying them. They eventually let me chase them off, but cups of milky tea kept appearing by my elbow all afternoon, and I caught them both shooting me worried glances over the tops of their monitors.

  I reread Monty’s e-mail. This time I approached it with a little healthy scepticism. There are more than a few nutters in the social dance world, just like there are in any pastime that appealed to obsessive people.

  His e-mail had sounded genuine, though. The mention of the forum rang true. The Let’s Face the Music site was Lucy’s brainchild, and she knew people all over the country because of it.

  Lucy and I had always been dancers. We’d gone to the same Saturday morning dance classes as all her friends, but where the others stumbled and wavered off the beat, Lucy and I found we could simply move with the music. Our parents, who loved anything retro, regardless of period (we spent our childhood summers driving to steam railways in a pea green camper van with big-band music playing on the stereo), found us a swing dance class, and it went from there. We competed throughout our teens, even made it to the European Championships that one time.

  Then Dad got ill for the first time just as we started uni, and we both stopped. Lucy was dancing again within six months, but I fell in love, came out, and let dancing go. Neither of us competed now, though Lucy taught dance. I had a dull but well-paid job doing the accounts for a building supplies company and did a bit of social Lindy Hop whenever Lucy nagged me into it.

  Lucy, on the other hand, still made dance her life. She’d met Greg through the university Lindy Hop society, and they danced socially at least twice a week. She’d made it her mission to bring organization to dancers outside London. Her website provided information about everything from where to find a class or dance to listings of vintage shops and dance suppliers, and had a discussion forum so active and wide-ranging that it needed a newbie’s guide to avoid scaring people off.

  It seemed too surreal to think that someone who was a complete stranger to me could magically fix one of our problems, so I e-mailed Monty back, a little unsure of myself.

  From: Neil Dannatt

  To: Monty Charlesworth

  Hi

  Thanks for the email. It was really kind.

  I’m not going to say no to your offer outright, but I’m not sure what you’ve got in mind. We have to squash the reception into Lucy’s living room, so we’re not really looking at anything too full-on.

  Thanks anyway

  Neil

  I went back to the work I was being paid to do. It was a long afternoon, and before it was over, all my worries were filling up the inside of my head again. I slipped out quickly at the end of the day. Sitting in my car, trying to find the energy to start driving toward the hospital, I suddenly thought to get out my phone and check my e-mails again.

  For a start, Monty had replied, Julie works in a florist and can donate a bouquet of slightly overblown flowers, Lauren thinks her wedding dress would fit Lucy too, and I own a house in the country and a marquee, although we’d have to enquire whether anyone could lend us some heaters at this time of year. That’s just the three of us who are in on the plan right now. Let me reach out to the whole group and see what munificence comes forth.

  Well, fuck me. I hadn’t been expecting that.

  I thought about it as I drove. It was raining, a slow drizzle that made the roads slick and blurred the lights of oncoming drivers. My windscreen wipers swished quietly across the glass and I switched the radio on, poking at it until I found something quiet and bluesy to suit my mood.

  I couldn’t snap my fingers and make Dad well again. I couldn’t take the sadness from Mum’s eyes.

  But maybe, with the help of this stranger, I could give my sister the wedding she wanted.

  I met Greg in the hospital car park, and he waved me over to share his umbrella. “Hey. Lucy’s got a Grade Five Tap class, but she’ll be here in an hour or so. Show me the way.”

  We made our way up through the hospital. As we did, I asked him, “Do you know a bloke called Monty Charlesworth?”

  “Monty? Dancing chap? Yeah. Nice bloke. Lives up toward Marbury somewhere. You never met him?”

  “Not that I’d recall.”

  “Oh, you’d definitely remember Monty,” Greg said, sounding amused. “Actually, he doesn’t tend to come to the dance nights here in town. He’s more active in the Aylminster and Meeching groups. Why?
Has he finally got round to friending you on Facebook?”

  “No,” I said. “Not exactly.”

  “Oh, really?” Greg asked and waggled his eyebrows at me. “Dating site? Wouldn’t have thought he was your type.”

  “What? No, nothing like—he’s gay?”

  “Nah,” Greg said. “You’re gay. Monty’s… well, yeah, gay, but not like you.”

  “Trans? Bi?”

  “No. Nothing wrong with any of that, of course, but he’s not. Look, you’re gay, right? Anyone who knows you knows that, but some random bloke on the other side of the street wouldn’t, would he?”

  “Well, we do have a secret handshake.” He was trying, I’ll give him that, and he got leeway for adoring my sister, but he was irritating me a little.

  “Yeah, well, Monty wouldn’t need a secret handshake. They can probably tell from orbit.”

  I wasn’t much wiser, but we were almost at Dad’s ward so I let him off. “Point is, is he reliable?”

  Greg thought about it. “Yeah, I think so. Never heard anything bad about him, and he’s always good for a lift share or to help out a beginner. Bloody good dancer too.”

  Coming from Greg—who transformed whenever the music started, all his usual clumsiness falling away—that was something.

  It took me until the next morning to decide what to do about Monty’s e-mail.

  I replied, Go for it. Please don’t say anything to Lucy, though, not until it’s all definite. I don’t want to get her hopes up.

  Thank you so much, to all of you. You have no idea how much this means to us.

  I added my phone number at the bottom.

  Later that day he texted me a photo of a huge room with misty countryside outside the windows and a message that said, Been offered a loan of folding tables. Can seat approximately 70 in here. Enough?

  That evening we prepared to get Dad home. We had a special bed to install downstairs and furniture to move out of the way. He was going to have an overnight nurse, and Mum insisted the house had to be spotless before she let a stranger move in. As she and Lucy cleaned and Greg and I heaved furniture around, I filled him in on Monty’s crazy plan.