Chapter 13 Fish and Chips #3
He makes a noncommittal sound. Ellenor eyes us suspiciously.
She knows I’m bullshitting, but she wants it to be true.
“Better go,” I say sweetly. “Talk soon, okay?”
“Fine. I’ll tell Mum you said hi. Enjoy your fish and chips date, traitor.”
“It’s not a date,” Brandon and I say together, but she’s already ended the call with a villainous cackle.
An awkward silence stretches. I brush salt from my fingers, pretending to study the crumpled paper before us.
I know we both said it wasn’t a date. And it’s not.
Brandon knows. I know. But…
Would it be such a bad thing if it were?
The moment drifts, empty.
The sun slips behind a cloud, the breeze off the water suddenly cool as it lifts goose bumps along my calves.
I scroll absently through the group chat, pretending to read the texts I’ve sent Mum and Ellenor since leaving Australia.
With a guilty start, I realise there are more messages than the past three years combined.
Brandon’s voice draws me back. “I see Ellenor still has her sense of humour.”
“Yep.”
Abrasive AF, but I love it.
“She seemed tired.”
I frown, pocketing my phone. “Well, it’s quite late there.”
“I meant tired in a different way. Weary.”
“Oh?”
“Maybe it’s nothing. I don’t know her that well.” He gathers the empty wrappers and carries them to a nearby bin.
I watch him go, his comment lingering. Brandon hasn’t seen my sister in years. Has he picked up on something I’ve missed?
Ellenor’s always been driven, so exhaustion doesn’t surprise me.
But she wasn’t always a workaholic. Ambitious, yes, but the way she’s buried herself in her career this past decade only started after everything fell apart.
After she lost something she never thought she wanted until it was too late.
It makes my struggles pale in comparison.
I shake the gloom off. If only for tonight, I want to enjoy myself without any feelings of regret.
Brandon returns to sit beside me on the rug. “I hope you don’t mind, but I brought you a small gift.”
“From the bin?” I tease.
“No. I got it for you last week from the music shop.”
I cross my legs and sit straighter, watching curiously as he pulls a small paper bag from his pocket.
It’s printed with the words ‘Whitstable Music Shop.’
He continues. “It’s something I used to do for my artists when they were struggling with their music. And after hearing you sing last night…”
I open the bag to find a hollow green tube made of plastic. Lightweight and bizarre, with a circular window on the side containing a thin membrane.
I stare in puzzlement at what has to be the world’s silliest instrument.
“A kazoo?”
“Have you ever played one before?” he prompts.
“Nope.” And I’m not sure I want to.
“It’s easy. All you have to do is hold it to your lips, but instead of blowing air, you simply buzz like a bee.”
I frown. “You want me to buzz like a bee?”
“Would that be so terrible?”
“It’s just so…unserious.”
“Exactly.”
I narrow my eyes. “And this is part of your method, is it?”
“Wax on, wax off.”
I nearly choke on a laugh.
“I want you to get out of your head for a while. Focus on a feeling rather than technical skills.”
I see his point, but when I raise the instrument to my mouth, I hesitate. “What if I screw this up?”
“Anyone can play a kazoo,” he says gently. “Children, for instance.”
“So I’ve heard.” I let out a long breath. “That just makes it worse.”
“Never fear. Anyone who can sing like you did last night…” He gives me a smile that makes my heart do a somersault. “Will have no trouble with a kazoo.”
“It was just a song about a nameless horse,” I mutter.
He leans back on an elbow, the wind ruffling his shirt. “It’s not really about a horse, you know.”
“It isn’t?”
He shakes his head, a secretive smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
I resist the urge to look up the song’s meaning on my phone.
Instead, I gaze down at the plastic instrument in my hand.
It isn’t the prospect of playing a kazoo that feels strange—it’s the fact I’ll be doing it in front of Brandon, who, despite the occasional streak of humour, carries a kind of quiet gravitas.
He may not be Toby-level harsh in his critiques, but he’s still a former manager who’s worked with some of the best artists in the world.
And I’m supposed to buzz like a bee?
“Like this,” he says, producing a blue kazoo from his pocket.
I gape at him, unable to picture Brandon Ward of all people playing a kazoo—or reconcile the fact that he has one of his own.
He catches my stare and says solemnly, “I carry it with me always.”
If it weren’t for the twinkle in his eye, I’d have thought he was making a hand-over-heart declaration.
“Prepare yourself.” He lifts the instrument and, without further warning, plays the Happy Birthday tune.
I burst out laughing, unprepared for the ridiculous buzz filling the air—nor the dead-serious way he commits.
“Don’t tell me it’s your birthday!” I exclaim when he finishes, clutching my side where a stitch has formed.
“Not until November. But surely it’s someone’s birthday today. So, what do you say? Up for a duet? Or did Rupert oversell my abilities?”
With a nervous smile, I nod. “Sure. Why not?”
“Here we go—watch me for the changes,” he teases.
And so, we do a second round of Happy Birthday on the beach. It shouldn’t work, but somehow, it does. Once I get past my giggles, I actually get into it.
It’s like singing, but without words, only a happy, bizarre sound filling the air.
I’m soon grinning like an idiot as we buzz our way through Mary Had a Little Lamb, Piano Man, Concerning Hobbits, Blue Da Ba Dee, Bad Romance and—God help me—a train-wreck attempt at Bohemian Rhapsody.
It’s silly, terrible, and wildly, spectacularly fun, filling me with more joy than any concert or eisteddfod prize.
I like this side of Brandon—the one who can make a joke to help me lower my guard.
Not that there’s been much to dislike about the rest of him.
It’s just that, apart from the time he played He’s a Pirate on the beach, he’s felt reserved, untouchable, like some distant professional I’m lucky to have in my corner.
In this moment, however…it almost feels like we’re friends.
“Okay, guess this one,” I say, leaning into the kazoo with the seriousness of a concert flautist, and draw out a stream of eerie, wistful, and—courtesy of the instrument—unintentionally comical notes.
Brandon listens politely, then he gives his head a small shake.
“Hedwig’s Theme!” I cry. “By John Williams. From Harry Potter?”
“Ah.”
“You’ve never seen it?”
“I’ve seen John Williams.”
“That’s not what I…Wait. You have?”
“At a concert in London.”
“Oh, wow. Ellenor would die of envy if she knew.” Me too, now that I think about it. I ask, “But you haven’t seen the Harry Potter films?”
“I’m afraid not.”
I press my lips together, trying to hide my smile. No wonder he and Ellenor never hit it off—she’d have written him off on the spot.
Time slips by. We eventually set the kazoos aside for easy conversation. Neither of us is in a hurry. The sunset paints the sea molten gold as the horizon melts into evening.
Brandon picks something up from among the pebbles and hands it to me. “Here—another one for your collection. Something to remind you of Whitstable—and of mushy peas.”
My lips tug upward as I behold the mint-coloured sea glass, an almost perfect shade match for the peas. “Thank you. I’ll treasure it,” I say, sliding it into my pocket. “I might have to collect enough to actually make something while I’m here. A wind chime? Or maybe jewellery?”
“Could be the start of a bracelet,” Brandon suggests.
A light drizzle mists the air, but we still don’t budge, our legs stretched out side by side, a safe distance between us as we watch the dying light. Finally, I give in and take out my phone.
“I’m looking the song up,” I announce. Then, purely to be difficult, I add, “I’m sure it’s about a horse in a desert. What else could it possibly be?”
“Let’s find out,” Brandon says, feigning an air of curiosity even though he clearly already knows the answer.
I wipe my screen of the tiny droplets speckling it and silently scan the article:
The desert is a place of clarity, far from society’s noise, whilst the nameless horse is a metaphor for freedom and identity…
“Well?” Brandon prompts.
I lower my phone, offering him a saccharine smile. “I’m afraid the internet agrees with me. It really is just about a horse.”
His lip quirks. “And here I thought the song might have a deeper significance for your journey.”
“Nope.” I take a long sip of my drink, the straw dragging at the last drops noisily.
“Pity. Well, my mistake.”
We stare at the sea, both smiling, mine a little bashful, his edged with amusement.
A large raindrop splats against my temple. I flinch, glancing skyward just as another lands on my wrist.
“Uh-oh.”
“Yep, that’s a storm,” he says as cold, fat droplets start pelting us.
We’re on our feet in an instant, Brandon grabbing the kazoos and shaking our clothes free of grit.
“Come on.” He holds out his hand, and I take it unquestioningly.
“Back to the cottage?” I ask.
“Too far. Let’s get into town.”
We break into a mad dash, the clean, earthy smell of rain rising as it pours down heavily. Within minutes, my hair’s clinging damp against my cheeks, my sneakers squeaking with water.
It’s dusk now, golden lamplight spilling across the wet streets as we search for shelter.
“In here—there’s a tearoom,” Brandon mutters, and we duck into the mouth of a narrow alleyway lit by the glow of a window of what looks like a cosy place—only for the sign to flip ‘CLOSED’ in our faces.
“Oh no,” I say, laughing shakily.
We retreat beneath the awning opposite, pressing our backs against the wall to avoid the thick sheet of rain falling inches from our faces.
Our chests rise and fall as we gasp for air, clothes damp and skin slick, and it’s only then I realise…he’s still holding my hand.