Page 22 of When We Were Young

Liv

Aidan Bailey has the same blue eyes as his brother, although his have more wrinkles at the edges.

He invites me and Tumi into the house and leads us to the kitchen, where he introduces his mum.

Their mum. In a strong Irish accent, she offers us tea and as she fills the kettle, Aidan takes us through a door off the kitchen.

‘This is the garage where Will used to write,’ says Aidan. ‘We’ve bricked up the garage door, but otherwise it’s exactly as it was when he worked on his music in here.’

A row of guitars perch on stands, and above them is a shelf filled with notebooks. An old leather sofa covered with a throw sits nearby and Persian rugs line the floor. It’s cool in a grungy sort of way.

I get chills. Will Bailey wrote some of my favourite songs in here. I feel his presence.

‘It’s great you’ve kept everything as it was,’ says Tumi.

‘There’s more stuff in there.’ He points at two huge black trunks with metal trimming, the kind bands use on tour.

‘Can we take a look?’ Tumi asks.

‘Sure.’

He opens the latches and lifts the lid of the closest trunk. It’s filled to the top with boxes of all different shapes and sizes. He opens a random shoe box at the top and inside is a pile of letters tied with string.

‘There are letters, notebooks, concert flyers, set lists, lyrics,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry it’s not organised. We’ve all tried to go through it over the years, but… it’s too painful.’

‘It’s not a problem, as long as you don’t mind us looking through it,’ says Tumi.

‘All I ask,’ says Mrs Bailey, carrying in a tray of tea and biscuits, ‘is that you’re careful with it.’

She places the tray on a wooden crate beside the sofa.

‘Of course,’ says Tumi. ‘We understand. It’s very precious.’

‘There’s no point in having all this if no one ever looks at it,’ says Mrs Bailey. ‘You two – you’re going to tell his story. And that’s what we want, for people to remember our Will and his music.’

When Aidan and Mrs Bailey leave the room, I say, ‘Woah. This is cool.’

‘I can’t believe they’re letting us go through all this,’ says Tumi. ‘Let’s start with the notebooks.’

She takes one end of the shelf and I take the other.

I grab a notebook and sit on the floor. Most of the scribbles covering the pages make no sense to me, but I find the odd gem as I flick.

I spot lyrics I recognise, and as I turn the pages, the words evolve as he honed and perfected them.

Some sections are like diary entries, and it feels wrong to read them, but I do.

I flip through the pages, consuming his thoughts and ideas.

‘You could write a book with all this material,’ says Tumi. ‘We should speak to someone who worked with him during the songwriting process. Someone who can explain all this.’

My mum could help us now. I expect she knows all about how he wrote songs. Suddenly I’m sad. Sad I can’t talk to Mum about this. Sad Will Bailey is dead. Sad his mum has preserved this room almost exactly as it was when he was last here.

Tumi senses my mood. ‘It’s emotional, isn’t it?’

Our eyes meet and all I can manage is a nod.

After an hour, Mrs Bailey pops in, asking if we want more tea. I say no but Tumi says yes and asks to use the loo. Alone in the room, all I can think about is the letters in the trunk. What if there’s a mention of my mum in there?

Mrs Bailey is clinking cups in the next room.

The trunk’s still open, with the letters visible.

I pick up the bundle. The surrounding string is loose, and the top envelope slips out easily.

I lift the flap and pull out the contents: two sheets of yellowing paper, every centimetre covered in words and sketches.

A doodle of a jar of Marmite catches my eye.

I scan the page so fast I can’t make sense of the random snippets. But I can tell the letter is intimate. Whoever wrote this knew him well. I turn the pages, rushing to find who has signed it before Tumi gets back.

The letter is so full the last line finishes vertically up the margin:

I miss you so much it hurts. I think about you all the time. I can’t wait till New York. I love you. Yours forever, Milly x.

Milly? Could that be Mum? Come to think of it, that looks a little like her handwriting. I don’t know why but I want it to be her. I hope she meant something to him, that they had this amazing love affair. That she was his muse or something.

I can hear Tumi talking to Mrs Bailey in the kitchen, so I use the last few moments alone to scan the rest of the letters in the stack. They’re addressed to him at various hotels in America, all in the same handwriting. This Milly was important to him. She wrote a lot, and he kept all her letters.

I go to the shelf and pick another notebook. I can’t stop thinking Mum could be Milly and I can’t concentrate on Will’s notes, so it’s a while before I realise Tumi hasn’t come back.

I open the door to the kitchen. Tumi and Mrs Bailey are sitting at the kitchen table, mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits between them, chatting away like old friends.

‘Mrs Bailey was just telling me about “Fever”,’ says Tumi.

‘Call me Mary, please.’

‘Will went travelling when he was twenty-one. He got a mysterious illness while island-hopping in Greece. He almost died!’ Tumi sounds weirdly pleased about it. ‘“Fever” is about the mad hallucinations he had while he was recovering in hospital.’

‘Ah Jaysus, it was awful!’ cries Mrs Bailey. ‘I never could listen to that song.’

She pats the seat beside her, so I pull up a chair.

Aidan Bailey joins us then and fresh tea is made.

We sip the tea and nibble biscuits and listen to a still-grieving mother reminisce about her late son.

Aidan Bailey is quiet, staring down at his hands, but the few times he speaks it’s clear he misses his little brother.

When Tumi is satisfied we have enough for our article, she says it’s time to go and Aidan offers us a lift to the station. But I don’t want to leave. There’s so much more to see. I panic at the thought of never seeing this stuff again.

As we say goodbye to Mrs Bailey, I have a crazy idea. ‘If you like, I can come back and organise the archive for you?’ I blurt at the front door. ‘I could even scan the important stuff so you can put it on the website.’

‘You’d do that?’ asks Mrs Bailey.

‘We’ll need to check with the office on that,’ says Tumi.

‘I’d be happy to do it in my spare time.’

‘We can get back to you on the detail,’ says Tumi. ‘Thanks again for letting us look. This collection is very special.’

Back at the office, as it’s the last day of my work experience, I hand out the Krispy Kremes Dad gave me to say thank you. I’m just biting into one when Paul calls me into the meeting room. Tumi is sitting beside him.

‘We’ve been reading the reviews you’ve written this week and there’s one that stands out.’

My heart pounds. ‘Which one?’

‘The debut album of that four-piece from Wigan. We wanted to tell you we’ve decided to run it.’

‘Run it?’

‘Print it in the magazine,’ he explains.

‘Will it have my name on it?’

‘Of course! You wrote it.’

It’s only 150 words and will sit among hundreds of other album reviews but I’m made up.

‘You’ll be a published writer!’ gushes Tumi. ‘At sixteen.’

‘We’ve been really impressed with your enthusiasm and hard work over the last couple of weeks,’ says Paul. ‘We’ve got a proposition for you. How would you like to come back in the summer for an internship?’

My stomach flips.

Nathan comes over that night to watch a documentary about legendary recording studios.

We sit side by side on the couch, electricity fizzing between us as we watch back-to-back episodes.

For almost three hours, we hardly speak or move and I’m almost relieved when his dad messages to say he’s coming to get him.

I walk Nathan out to the hall.

‘Have you got a ticket for Beatland yet?’ he asks, tying his shoelaces.

‘No, have you?’

‘Yeah, a group of us got some, but Rhianna’s parents won’t let her go now, so there’s a spare ticket if you want it.’

A little buzz of excitement hums through me. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah, talk to Ella. I’ll add you to the group.’

He pulls out his phone and taps away at it. A few seconds later, mine buzzes: Nathan has added you to the group ‘Beatland or die!’

More tapping.

Nathan: Ella – Liv might take the spare ticket. Persuade her!

He stands. ‘Moon Illusion are playing now, too.’

‘Are they?’ It would be an absolute dream come true to see Moon Illusion at Beatland with Nathan Hall.

‘Yeah.’ He’s kind of in my personal space.

‘Great.’ I have to lift my chin to look at him; he’s so close.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and his is buzzing, too.

‘I hope you take that ticket.’

Suddenly, his lips are on mine. I panic – what if Dad comes out here? He pushes his tongue into my mouth. I try to relax and kiss him back while our phones buzz in unison.

His phone buzzes on its own and we break apart, breathless.

He checks the message. ‘My dad’s outside.’

I nod.

‘Oh, I almost forgot. I got you a birthday present.’ He fumbles in his pockets and hands me a little rectangle of folded blue tissue paper. ‘Sorry it’s late.’

‘Thanks.’ I unravel the layers and lift a silver necklace from the wrapping. Two charms dangle at the end of a delicate chain – a tiny ‘L’ and a miniature set of headphones.

I’m so touched, I don’t know what to say.

‘If you don’t like it, I can change it,’ he says.

‘No, I love it. Thank you.’

‘Well, bye.’ He pumps the door handle.

I turn the lock and open the door for him. ‘Bye.’

He jogs down the drive and gives a wave before disappearing behind the tree. The Beatland chat has fourteen unread messages. The first is from the most popular girl in Year 11.

Ella: Liv! You HAVE to come. You can share my tent. We’ll be roomies!

I feel like pinching myself. Today has been the best day of my entire life.

In bed later, I call Chloe. I tell her about working at Amplify over the summer, about visiting Will Bailey’s house, and about the letters from the mysterious Milly.

I don’t mention Nathan; I don’t know why, but the thought of talking to her about him makes me cringe.

At first, it was because I didn’t want to jinx it, but now we’ve been to each other’s houses and kissed, it’s weird not to say anything.

I keep going to tell her, then chickening out.

I don’t bring up Beatland either – it probably won’t happen.

It’s gone midnight when we hang up and I’m drifting off to sleep when my phone buzzes.

Chloe: There’s one way to find out for sure if your mum is Milly.

Me: How?

Chloe: If there are letters to Will from Milly, then there must be letters to Milly from Will. I bet if you look for them at your mum’s, you’ll find them.