When I Fall In Love. Miranda Dickinson
hand on her sister’s arm. ‘I think we should hear what Mr Jensen has to say, hun.’
Daisy sank back onto her chair. ‘But he’s …’
Ignoring her sister’s protest, Elsie turned to Woody. ‘Ask away.’
A look of pure reverent awe washed across Woody’s stubble-edged face. ‘A-a-a-a-ngel,’ he breathed, before composing himself. ‘I need your help. You see I’m a man burdened with ambition and creative skill beyond anything what a man should have to carry. But it’s a cross I bear for my creativity, babe. Point is, I’m on the edge of a rebirth – a spiritual readjustment, if you will – and I have a feeling that this new phase of my life will be my strongest yet. If I can only get my project off the ground, that is.’
Daisy was staring at him like he was a three-headed alien. Elsie gave him a patient smile. ‘And what is your question, exactly?’
‘Well, I was up on the prom, considering my next move, when a vision appeared to me – just like in ’84 when I dreamed of a rock band that would take over the known world and Hellfinger was born. And the vision was you – here, on this humble boardwalk – like a musical shaman, charming the Brighton faithful to do your mystical will.’
Elsie laughed. ‘It was “I Will Survive”, not a religious chant.’
‘But that’s the point, girl! You took a humble song and made it magical. That’s what I want to do.’
‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know what you’re asking me to …’
Woody grasped her hand, taking her by surprise. ‘I’m talking about a choir, babe! But not a goody-goody, saccharine sweet choir in a church hall. I’m talking a band of vocal believers, faithfully bringing classic tunes to the masses. Hendrix, Lennon, McCartney, Gaga. But I can’t do this alone: I need a musical director – a collaborator, if you will – to bring my dream to reality. I was asking the universe for a sign – just as you started to sing. It’s fate, babe! So what do you say? Will you jump into the abyss of chance and play destiny’s piano?’
‘With an offer like that, how can you refuse?’ scoffed Daisy.
‘How indeed …?’ Elsie answered, her mind suddenly racing with possibilities.
Daisy gripped her arm. ‘Wait – you’re not seriously considering this, are you?’
Elsie couldn’t lie. Despite all the good reasons there were for her not accepting, she liked this middle-aged rocker with his crazy idea. The hint of something beyond the norm intrigued her intensely. This week’s note had said she was fearless: surely pursuing this was evidence of the fact?
‘I was looking to start something new. This might be it.’
‘No way! I’m sorry, Elsie, I can’t let you do this.’
Woody’s brow lowered. ‘I think you’ll find Elsie can …’
‘Daisy, I think this could work. I wanted to do something musical and this could be fun. Imagine the people who would respond to a non-conventional choir. People I might have something in common with and be able to build something with … Come on, Dais, you said you’d support me in whatever I chose to do. If I’m going to start something new and maybe begin to date again, this could be a perfect opportunity.’
‘Yeah, Daisy, lighten up and catch the vision,’ Woody added, perhaps unwisely given the murderous look in Daisy’s eyes.
‘Nobody has introduced us so you shouldn’t use my name!’ she exclaimed, the utter Britishness of her argument only serving to make Elsie giggle.
‘Daisy Maynard, meet Woody Jensen. Woody, meet Daisy. And I’m Elsie. Now we’re all formally introduced. Happy?’
‘Not particularly.’ Irritated, Daisy wrapped her long pashmina scarf around her shoulders and glared at them both. ‘If you want to do this, fine. But I’m coming too. I’m not letting you go anywhere alone with this – this – person.’
Woody scooped up the Stetson and replaced it on his head. ‘Cool with me, babe. The more the merrier.’
They arranged to meet the following Tuesday evening at Sundae & Cher, Woody clearly relishing the prospect of ‘dreams and ice cream’. Daisy waited until Woody had left to reveal her true feelings to Elsie.
‘I can’t believe you’d even consider doing anything with that man,’ she said, as they picked their way slowly across the pebbled beach. ‘He’s a nutjob!’
Elsie bent down to pick up a smooth, grey pebble. ‘I know he’s a little … eccentric, but isn’t everybody in this town? You have to admit, it sounds like fun.’
‘It sounds like a nightmare,’ Daisy retorted. ‘Els, are you sure this is what you want? Because there are all manner of perfectly decent choirs in Brighton that you could join instead. The DreamTeam are meant to be wonderful – and they perform at the Theatre Royal every year. Imagine singing on that stage! You’d love it, I’m sure …’
Elsie shot her sister a wry look. ‘Be in a choir run by Jeannette Burton? The only choirmistress who grabs more of the spotlight than her choir? No, thank you. I don’t want to be led in musical medleys by a fifty-something woman in skin-tight red leather trousers. It would be most off-putting …’ She smiled, remembering Cher’s damning verdict on the woman: ‘Just like Simon Cowell in red leather’ … ‘Besides,’ she continued, turning the pebble over and over in her hands, ‘the kind of choir Woody and I could create would be fun and definitely not conventional.’
Change was a good thing, Elsie decided, as she mulled over the events of the past week. Deciding to date again – even if right now it was a theory rather than a plan of action – and the possibility of participating in whatever type of mystical musical happening Woody had in mind filled her with a sparkling sense of excitement. On the surface neither decision was particularly world-shaking, but they represented significant steps forward for her.
Later that afternoon, when Daisy had left to meet her friends for lunch, Jim called to ask Elsie to pop into his shop. With nothing else to do, Elsie was glad of the invitation; besides, she always loved visiting her father at work.
Jim Maynard was the proprietor of Brighton Home Stores – Brighton’s premier furniture and home furnishings emporium in the centre of town. He had inherited the business from his father and grandfather before him, and was consequently a well-known figure in Brighton. It amused Elsie to see him in a suit and tie – because she knew the truth about him. Outside work, Jim shunned convention more than any of his children (even New Age vegan and self-confirmed Earth Mother, Guin) and, when at home, he was the embodiment of all things alternative. He had lived in a hippy commune for four years in his teens and never quite lost his love of peace, love and tie-dye. The family home was an explosion of colour, each room swathed in jewel-hued Indian fabrics and bright stencilled painted walls. He ate homemade vegetarian meals from hand-thrown pottery plates (made by Guin), burned incense and joss sticks in the living room and kitchen and possessed a penchant for hypnotic sitar music, which was usually floating through the house from one of his many CD players.
Yet at work, Jim Maynard was the model businessman, the only clue to his closet-hippyness being the small gold ring he wore in one ear – something which his well-heeled (and decidedly conventional) customers hardly even noticed. It had been a conscious decision of his when he first took over the business, a sign of respect for his father who had convention stamped through his core like a stick of Brighton rock. And, while Jim would never express it, this work persona defined another side of his character: the dutiful, committed side, which characterised his all-conquering love for and devotion to his daughters.
Elsie loved the family shop – the smell of polish and new fabric mingling with the scent of fresh coffee, which Jim insisted on having available for his customers all day. As a small child she had spent many happy hours watching her father work, pretending that the entire shop with its elegant room