Chapter 42 #2
‘I wasn’t sure whether I was going to read this or not, after I wrote it.
It’s very sentimental and it’ll make me look a right wimp.
But anyway, here goes.’ He grinned and cleared his throat again.
‘I was fifteen years old the first time I saw Bee. She was performing “Groovin’ for London” on Top of the Pops.
I have to admit that it was love at first sight.
’ He smiled apologetically at his wife and everyone sniggered a bit.
‘She had so much energy and so much bare-faced confidence in front of the camera. I was a shy kid back then. I didn’t have many friends and Bee just seemed to me to be everything that I wasn’t.
And she was also stunningly beautiful and wearing a very short skirt, which didn’t hurt. ’ He grinned again.
‘I became a huge fan. Used to follow her wherever she went. And then one day she came over to me at a record-shop signing and she said, “You again?”, and I nearly fell over. I started stuttering and shaking and I must have been the colour of a beetroot. “I’m a really big fan,” I said.
And I thought she’d just shrug it off because she was used to that sort of thing, but I remember she looked really pleased.
And then she turned round to her bodyguard’ – he smiled and turned towards Flint – ‘this guy here, in fact. And asked him to take my address so that she could send me some signed photos. So I gave it to him and never thought I’d hear another thing.
Then three days later this huge parcel turns up at my house.
I opened it, and it was just full of stuff.
A T-shirt, picture disc, about twenty signed photos, pens, rubbers, stickers.
Just – everything. And a handwritten note from Bee saying that she’d look out for me in future and that if I ever wanted anything I should just write to her via her management company and she’d see what she could do.
I mean – can you imagine? There’s me, a spotty, unconfident fifteen-year-old, and this beautiful, famous popstar has taken the time and trouble to get in touch.
’ He shook his head, his face displaying his disbelief, fifteen years later.
‘I met Bee quite a few times over the course of that year or so and she was never anything but gracious, charming, warm and generous. And then, of course, her father became ill and she dropped out of the music business. I grew up, too, and my spots went away and I developed other interests. But she was a really important part of my youth. Knowing that I knew her, that I was accepted by her, changed me radically as a person. So when I bought my first PC, a few years ago, I pulled all my old Bee Bearhorn memorabilia from the loft, and for a few weeks I was obsessed again, as I went through all this stuff. And out of all that old paper, all those old memories, came the Bee Bearhorn website. It was really just for me. I didn’t think anyone else would have much interest. But here you all are.
It’s nice to know that I’m not the only sad old loser out there. ’ He smiled and turned the paper over.
‘I hadn’t really thought much about Bee over the past few years.
But when Ana got in touch last week and told me about Bee – I cried.
I can’t believe I’m telling you all that.
But I did. And it was completely unexpected.
And I think it’s because when Bee died, a little part of me went with her.
Because she was the only person who made me feel like anything when I was an awkward adolescent.
And for that, for me, she will for ever be, unforgettable.
May her soul rest in peace.’ He bowed his head and refolded his paper and shuffled back to his wife, who squeezed his hand reassuringly.
Father Anthony looked round for another volunteer, and smiled when he saw Zander wheeling himself towards him.
He eyed the group confidently and began reading. ‘Hi. My name is Zander. And I’m Bee’s secret …’
Ana put her hand to her face in horror and went to step towards Zander, but Flint held her back. ‘It’s fine,’ he whispered, ‘it’s fine.’
‘I’m Bee’s secret friend. My family were killed in a car crash in 1986.
The same car crash which injured me and put me in this chair.
Bee read about my plight in the papers, and for years she followed my progress.
Secretly. When I was ten she started sending me postal orders for large sums of money at Christmas.
And I never knew who they were from. And then, one day, in 1997, this woman turned up at the home where I’ve lived for the last sixteen years.
She was very small and very pretty and she told me she was my aunt.
I knew she wasn’t my aunt, but they’re quite strict at my home about people from the outside having access to us.
So she made up this stupid story. Apparently, she even managed to come up with some kind of paperwork to prove it.
I don’t know to this day how she managed it.
But I did know that I liked her, instantly.
That she was different. That she was refreshing.
That she was on my wavelength. And that was a novelty for me because I’d never met anyone on my wavelength before.
So eventually I got the truth out of her … ’
Ana tensed.
‘ … and it emerged that her life had been very empty since she lost her precious father to AIDS in 1988. She’d never quite found the enthusiasm to resume her career.
She’d taken a lot of knocks and her confidence had been eroded.
She had all this money so she never really needed to test herself, to see what else life could offer her.
So I became Bee’s project. She came to visit every weekend and we’d go out for walks if it was fine or just sit in my room watching telly together if it was raining.
I loved watching telly with Bee. She was such a bitch.
We’d just sit there and pick everyone to pieces, talk about their hair or their accents or how stupid they were.
I know that’s not very Christian,’ he looked at Father Anthony, ‘but it was fun. And I’d never really had fun before.
Not that sort of fun, anyway. And then, after a few months of these visits, Bee did something incredible for me.
She bought us a house. A little house, by the sea.
And every weekend, she would leave London behind her, her friends and her social life, and she’d drive down to the coast and hang out with me.
Me. An annoying little kid in a wheelchair.
And it was great. We’d cook together. And listen to music.
I wasn’t really that into music before I met Bee, but she really turned me around on that one.
She’d bring three videos with her every week – always a comedy, a thriller and an action film.
And we’d chat and laugh. Make up names for all the numbskulls in the village.
Spy on the neighbours with our binoculars and take the piss out of them.
I got her into bird-watching and board games.
She got me into trainers and Teenage Fanclub.
And she treated me like the most normal person in the universe.
That was what was so special about my times with Bee.
I felt normal. And special. Abnormally special.
But especially normal. She gave me the self-confidence I’d been pretending I already had for the thirteen years before I met her.
She broke down all my facades and replaced them with something substantial.
And I know that I’ll never meet anyone like Bee again as long as I live and that makes me feel very, very sad.
I’m just really glad I knew her at all. There was a song on the radio this morning, a Janet Jackson song called “Together Again”.
It was all about someone being dead and how that person lived on through other people’s smiles and in the stars and such.
I just have to say at this point and in order to maintain any semblance of cool, that I really don’t like Janet Jackson.
But to Ms Jackson’s credit, it was a truly joyous song and it was really comforting to me, to think of Bee being everywhere, to think of Bee being a star shining down on me.
Bee was always more of a force than a person anyway.
Thank you.’ He smirked and tucked his paper in his pocket and bowed his head before wheeling himself back to Dr Chan, who smiled at him affectionately.
‘Er – thank you, too, Zander,’ said Father Anthony with a hint of confusion in his voice. ‘So. Anyone else?’ But no one came forward. He caught Ana’s eye and beckoned her. Ana took a deep breath and pulled a tightly folded piece of paper from her bag. She smoothed it out with sweaty fingers.
‘Bee,’ she began, ‘was my sister. But Bee was a stranger. I have only come to know Bee in the past fortnight – through the people here today. Through your stories and your emotions. To me, Bee was a mirage, but to you she was real, and I now know that to all of us she was a mystery. I have experienced every possible emotion getting to know Bee over the past weeks. Joy on finding the same records in her collection as I have in mine. Confusion on finding her life devoid of emotional depth. Deep and instantaneous love on meeting her closest friends. Sadness on learning of the tragedy and pain in her life, which she shared with no one. Pride on encountering the love and loyalty she inspired in others. And shame on finding that she was so much more than I’d allowed myself to imagine her to be.
‘Bee was not a straightforward woman. Bee was not an easy woman.
Bee was a dichotomy. She was sweet and sour.
Happy and sad. Good and bad. High and low.
Nasty and nice. She could bring the best out of people and inspire them.
But she could also intimidate and crush.
She was loyal to her friends but indifferent to her family.
She could take a huge interest in a person and then forget their birthday.
She was private. She was self-sufficient.
She was independent. But she was closed.
And guarded. And dismissive. She made mistakes.
And went far out of her way to pay for them.
She was beautiful. But she depended on more than beauty to make her way through life.
She was unattainable and she was distant, but she was emotional and giving.
She was an inspiration and a disappointment. She was everything and nothing.
‘But Bee,’ she continued, ‘was Bee. And just being Bee was enough, because Bee was special and Bee was unforgettable. Bee was my sister … God bless her soul.’
She cleared her throat, refolded the damp piece of paper and edged her way back to Flint, keeping her eyes to the ground.
Flint immediately put an arm around her shoulder.
She felt another hand squeeze her arm, and when she looked up, she saw Lol, smiling crookedly at her with big tears plopping off the end of her nose.
‘That was beautiful,’ she mouthed, before launching herself at Ana and hugging the life out of her.
Ana hugged her back and then felt tears dampening her own cheeks.
And then she felt Flint stiffen and grab her by the arm. ‘Ana,’ he whispered urgently, ‘look.’
Ana unpeeled herself from Lol and wiped some tears from her cheeks. And as she turned, she jumped. Because, walking towards her, one arm supporting a large bouquet of white longi lilies and the other threaded through the arm of a joyful-looking Mr Redwood, was her mother.