Page 62 of Tribute Act

“He’s like his mother,” Derek said. “I used to get terrible nerves whenever I played, but Tammy was always laid-back.” He watched as Mack plugged in cables, then tuned his guitar. “He’s like her in a lot of ways.”

“Yeah?” I said, trying not to seem too interested. “What ways?”

“I was always about ‘making it’ but Tammy wasn’t ambitious—she just loved to play and sing.”

I smiled. “That sounds like Mack.”

“Why do you call him that?” Derek asked, and mortifyingly, I felt myself flush.

“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “He mentioned it was a nickname his friends used—I probably called him it a couple times and the habit stuck.”

Derek opened his mouth to say more, but I was saved from whatever it was by Mack starting to play. From that moment on, I couldn’t have got Derek’s attention if I’d fired a pistol next to his ear.

I watched him on and off as Mack played his set. His concentration on Mack was absolute, his pride obvious. And his emotions... Well, you’d never normally catch Derek with tears in his eyes like he was when Mack played “Carrickfergus.”

I caught Jago out the corner of my eye sniffing at that one too.

Towards the end of his set, Mack got a strange, thoughtful expression on his face. He’d just finished a song, but instead of launching into the next one straightaway, he played a few experimental chords, mouthed a few words to himself. Then he pulled the microphone close.

“I know it’s a bit early days for Christmas songs, but would you like to hear one?” he asked the crowd.

There were a few whoops of encouragement, and Jago shouted, “It’s December, lad, it’s open season now!” Laughter at that.

Mack grinned. “All right.” He strummed a couple of chords, then stopped and leaned forward again. “I love this song. It’s beautiful.” He played a few more chords, and Derek stiffened in his seat.

“You’ll know it,” Mack assured the crowd. “But it’ll be my dad’s version you know. This is my version.”

A few curious faces turned towards our table as Mack began picking out the introductory bars of a tune that was very familiar to me. Derek stared at Mack in astonishment.

And then Mack began to sing.

“Do you remember last December?

“We were so in love last year . . .”

It was Derek’s big Christmas hit, “Christmas Stocking,” but not like I’d ever heard it before. The version I knew had an obnoxious beat, catchy tune, and silly video. This was entirely different. It was slow and sweet and sad. It was like Mack had found the real, authentic version of the song and polished it up like an uncut gem.

“But I don’t need no fancy parcels

“I don’t want no bows or sparkles . . .”

I’d never even noticed how much longing was in that song, the meaning of the words masked by synthesisers and electronic sleigh bells. Sometimes we watched the old Christmas Top of the Pops episode when the band had performed—or rather mimed—the song on TV like they were at some demented office party, grinning like maniacs with strands of tinsel round their necks and Christmas jumpers on.

I’d never really listened to it before, but now, in Mack’s hands, it was a different song. A sad song.

A song about being left behind.

And yeah. Derek’s eyes were wet.

We walked home from the pub, leaving Derek at the end of Eldertree Avenue. Mack’s goodbye to his dad was muted but, for once, friendly. It felt like . . . well, an improvement anyway. The start of something, maybe, that might end up with a proper conversation. One day.

Derek got twenty yards down the street, then he stopped and yelled, “Dylan!”

We turned back.

“You were great tonight, son!”

Dylan lifted an arm in acknowledgement. Father and son looked at each other for a long moment, then Derek turned and started trudging home.