Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
ASH
After all this time, that weird excitement still pumped through my veins when I caught sight of Calla yesterday. I hope the time I spent with her will pay off.
Thank God she didn't have a concussion and they let her go after a diagnosis of nothing more than a nasty bruise to the head.
At school, she always came across as fearless.
I’m not wrong in saying Scott was a dick towards her, but fuck me, if she didn’t give him what for.
Yesterday was different. She seemed frightened, especially when they took her through to the cubicle.
The nurse checking her over must have noticed because she looked back at me while she helped Cal, then asked if she’d like her boyfriend to hold her hand.
We looked at each other, trying so hard not to laugh as Cal said, “Do you mind? I am a little nervous.”
I didn’t mind at all. I sat on the gurney by Cal’s side and held her warm, soft hand in mine the whole time we were there.
I also took on the responsibility of her aftercare because there were certain conditions to Calla leaving the hospital so soon.
The most important thing was having someone to keep an eye on her for 24 hours in case she threw up, got a headache, suffered any dizziness, that sort of thing.
I told the nurse who discharged her, I’d be there.
Isn’t that what a responsible boyfriend would do?
Calla didn’t object, which I took as a green light, even getting us fish and chips for dinner on the way home.
The fact she wolfed them down showed, she was feeling better.
The first thing I noticed about her grandparents’ house was how cold it was, not in temperature, but home comforts.
The furniture was draped in white blankets and it took us a little time to unveil what we needed.
It was best Calla didn’t do too much, so I went to the local shop and got her milk, bread, tea and a few essentials.
When I got back, there was more of a warm glow to the place.
Cal had been busy, despite being told to rest, and the front room now seemed cosy.
The old turntable in the sideboard cabinet played Rod Stewart.
Whoever it belonged to, I'm guessing it was her grandad, had a massive vinyl record collection.
We spent the evening listening to music, drinking tea, and talking about old times until eventually, she fell asleep on the sofa in the early hours.
I managed to get a few hours in the chair beside her but woke with one hell of a crick in my neck the next morning. It was so worth it.
It’s gone lunchtime when I finally reach the small, terraced house I rent with one other lad, but I’m kicking myself.
Calla was meeting her friend Angie for the first time in months, and because she slept longer than planned, she rushed to leave.
I was so worried I'd come on strong if I asked, so I didn’t get her number.
At least now, I know where she lives, which is positive, I guess.
The house is quiet when I get inside; my car keys hitting the tray in the hallway is the only sound. Tommy could still be in bed, but chances are, he didn't come home last night.
I lean my guitar against the wall. On any other day, I’d just be coming home from busking.
The early morning is the best part of the day when it comes to this gig.
It's not just a way to earn some extra cash, there's real science involved. Take your average punter, for instance. If you catch them first thing, they haven’t had time for anything to fuck up their day. Add to the mix the warmest summer on record, which is always a celebration in England, and you become part of their good start. It’s why I’m never out there during rush hour.
Catching a punter on his way home, when it’s pouring with rain or just cold and windy, is a no-no.
They could have had a shit day at work or a row with the boss.
They might have to make a trip to the food market to grab dinner.
Whichever it is, ultimately, you've got yourself a punter who wants to get home as quickly as possible.
You're a distraction they choose to ignore.
I take my side job seriously, believe me, I know how my punters work.
I’m craving toast, but when I enter the kitchen, something is wrong.
The pots from yesterday are no longer in the sink where I left them.
It’s doubtful Tommy cleared them away. If he washed up, the draining board would be covered with stuff.
We’re not good at putting things in cupboards.
Then I notice the empty beer bottles stacked at the back door, the washing machine is on, and a half-eaten can of baked beans—which I planned to eat for dinner later—is gone from the counter of our 1970s kitchen.
The antiseptic smell in the air only confirms my suspicions.
The landlord could be on his way around. We're already on a warning for the state of the place, but I’m sure Tommy would have called if we had a planned inspection today.
As soon as it's ready, I butter my toast, leaving the dirty knife in the sink.
For only a second, I contemplate grabbing a clean plate from the shiny, sparkly stack in the cupboard, but then decide not to create more washing-up.
Whoever did this, went to a lot of trouble, although, this is just weird.
The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced my housemate wouldn't be this thorough.
I grab my guitar by the neck, then taking the stairs two at a time, I bound to the top with one piece of toast in my mouth.
When I open the door to my room, I’m floored at the sight of my made bed and content free carpet.
It must mean my clothes are in the washing machine as well.
Confirmation of my suspicions appears when—a very pleased with herself—Mum turns with open arms after putting my newly laundered underwear in the draw.
“My boy.” With open arms, she hugs my middle, while I hold up my guitar in one hand and toast with the other.
She’s pleased to see me one minute, then having a go the next.
“Jesus Ashton, do you never clean this place?
It's a pigsty!” Her predictable telling off makes my chest ache because her cleaning binge usually means one thing. She needs some space.
My parents live just a few roads from here, which in my world, is a necessity.
Initially, I wanted to go to university up north, but the dream was short-lived when I realised being so far away was a wrong move.
Luckily, my hometown of Braebeach offered the business course I wanted, so I decided to stay right here.
The compromise was, I moved out of our family home because I just don’t get on with my dad, although I'm close enough if Mum needs to escape.
My parents don't exactly live in harmony nowadays—something which has become more evident as I've got older. When things are bad, she turns up at the house in search of peace. It usually results in a mad cleaning frenzy, which worries me but pleases my housemate no end.
I carefully place the guitar—my pride and joy—against the wall at the end of the bed, finish my last mouthful of toast, then gather Mum up for a proper hug.
“Thanks for helping out,” I tell her. How could I answer back when she's obviously upset? I'd prefer if she didn't re-organise my stuff as I won't find half of it for days now, but who am I to complain when she's getting enough negativity at home. “It looks great in here. Thanks, Mum.”
I feel her rigid body relax, confirming she must have been in a state when she arrived.
“You’re welcome, Ash, I was happy to do it, even if it was a challenge.”
I get why she feels the need for space. My dad can be a difficult, unemotional man who is set in his ways—something I found out for myself.
I'm just a constant disappointment to him, no matter what I do.
There's no rhyme or reason to his opinions, but I'm seldom ever right in his eyes.
My dad is a fucking island when it comes to family.
“Can I get you a tea?” I ask, still hugging her close.
“That would be nice, Son.” Giving her a final squeeze, I let go of my tiny mum, who only just reaches my shoulders.
It's probably why I feel protective towards her and so angry towards Dad.
He's no bigger than me at six foot two, but considering Mum is only five foot three at best, it's obvious he uses his broad shoulders and stature to intimidate her.
He only does it when they're alone, but I am aware of it.
I saw him in action once, when he didn't realise I was watching.
I head downstairs to the kitchen, put the kettle on and make her a strong cup of sweet tea. I really don’t want to leave her too long on her own, but just as I finish, there’s a knock at the front door.
“Who the fuck is that?” I think I've muttered to myself, but Mum shouts down the stairs, “Watch your language, Ashton Chambers! You were brought up, not dragged up.” She always did have radar hearing.
I laugh to myself while opening the door, tea in hand. The last person I expect to see is Dani Hill leaning against the frame, picking her nails and waiting for answers. Shit.
A few weeks ago, Dani saw our band play at The Gig House—one of our town’s best-known spots for new talent.
We didn’t know who she was at the time, but we knew her dad.
Bernie Hill is a local legend and owns Election Records.
Dani is her father’s PA and also works in the A she requested we made a demo of our music for her dad to listen to, which led to a meeting, then a contract offer. She’s been on our tail ever since.