The
Brownies are practising for the carol service. I am
eight and I am in heaven. I LOVE singing. I sing with my granny in the choir. I
sing for anyone who will ask me. I sing to my dolls. When I’m not reading or
writing, I’m singing. I sing confidently and loudly, as I speak. Today it’s the
carol that goes We will rock you, rock
you, rock you… which I consider exquisite. I am giving it everything in the
back row. Little Jesus sweetly…Brown
Owl comes along to listen; I can feel her behind me and I sing even more
strongly. I’m not one of those wimpy
Brownies who mumbles and blushes and has to be told to sing up! Brown Owl
places her hand on my shoulder. ‘Just you stop singing and mouth the words for
now,’ she says.
…sleep
The
words scramble in my throat. Tears well behind my eyes and I tilt my chin up so
they can’t fall. I don’t mouth the words. I keep my lips tight shut.
 |
Oh,
I talk. I’m a leading light of the
school debating society and often told off for chatting in class. But don’t ask
me to sing. Don’t ask me to humiliate myself. In P5, aged nine, in singing
class, we all have to sing a phrase alone. I remember the phrase now: Hop-sa-la-tra-la-la-la-la. Mrs Reid is
very strict. She can’t believe it when I seal my lips and refuse to sing. I
have to write fifty lines: When I am told
to sing, I will sing. But she can’t make me sing.
In
Form One at grammar school, we have choral singing classes. Mrs O’Callaghan is
merry and enthusiastic and there are many of us, so I let myself sing, just
quietly, so she won’t notice me. She goes around the class listening, as Brown
Owl did. She stops behind me. ‘Would you like to join the Junior Choir?’ she
asks.
 |
| chatty but not singy |
I
shudder. She can’t have been listening! She must be so desperate for choir
members that she is prepared to overlook the fact that I can’t sing. I shake my
head. ‘I’m not really interested,’ I say.
This
is a Lie. I would LOVE to be in the choir. But how can I take the risk?
I
am always chosen to read one of the Nine Lessons at the school carol services.
I am proud of this, but jealous of the girls in the choir.
I
go to university. I audition for a part in Oh!
What A Lovely War! The director reassures me I’ll never have to sing alone.
One rehearsal we get to the solo ‘Keep The Home Fires Burning’. I love this
song; I sing it in the bath when I am sure nobody is listening. Nobody at the
rehearsal is quite sure of it. ‘I’ll show you,’ I say. I’m 21 now, and feeling
brave. I open my mouth and sing. All the notes fall into place, even the high
ones. Nobody laughs or winces. ‘Would you mind taking that solo?’ the director
asks. Like this is not a Big Deal.
‘Me?
I can’t really sing!’
 |
| the play that changed it |
‘Um
– Brown Owl? When I was eight?’
‘Well,
you can certainly sing now.’
And
I can. I learn some folk songs. Actually, I don’t need to learn them – I have always loved these songs. But I start to think of
actually singing them. Out loud. In front of people. I go to the folk club. I
sing. People clap. I go to other folk clubs. I learn more songs. People always
clap.
 |
| Performing with Melanie |
I
come home. I enter singing competitions. Sometimes I win. I sing in bands, in
folk clubs and bars. I find a friend, Melanie, whose voice blends well with
mine, and we do a lot of singing together. I sing at weddings and funerals. I
sing the solo in the choir at Midnight Mass. Singing is My Thing. It was always
meant to be.
I
stopped singing for thirteen years, but I’ve been making up for it ever since. And
now, for the first time, I’ve written about singing in my new novel Street Song. It’s dedicated to ‘everyone
I’ve sung and made music with over the years, but especially Melanie Stone, who
still remembers all the harmonies.’
What
did Brown Owl hear, that day in 1976? Was I out of tune? It seems unlikely now.
Maybe I was just a bit loud, a bit over-confident, and she wanted to hear the
quieter girls. I wish she’d said that. As for Little Jesus, sweetly sleep, it’s now my least favourite carol.
