Page 9 of When We Were Young

Liv

I love waking up in my room at Dad’s every other weekend.

The best thing is the display of my favourite vinyl album covers on a narrow shelf running around the room.

I’ve got a turntable here too. There’s nothing like the crackle of the needle hitting the groove, that rich sound filling the room – you can really feel the music.

I’ve got all the records in the world on my phone, but when I love an album, it gets a special place on the shelf. I need to add Will Bailey’s Fragments .

I pad downstairs in my dressing gown. Dad has left a note on the kitchen counter: Gone for a run. I’ll make bacon sandwiches when I get back x.

Dad’s place is all glass and dark leather, no wires or handles showing.

Mum’s house is cosier, homelier, messier.

I’d go mad living here all the time – it’s way too tidy.

Rain hammers on the glass doors, the patio is quickly turning into a swimming pool.

I wonder if Dad has the Will Bailey album.

Mum doesn’t have any records or CDs, she never listens to music.

There’s a radio in the kitchen but she only puts it on when we go out, so burglars think we’re in.

I open the cabinet by the TV and run my finger along the spines.

He doesn’t have a CD player anymore, but he kept limited editions and box sets.

They’re organised in alphabetical order.

One CD has a thinner spine: it must be a single or an EP.

I pull it out – it’s Will Bailey’s Yellow Feathers .

The cover is a photograph of a beautiful sculpture made from yellow and gold objects.

Jewels, beads, flowers, and feathers spiral outwards in a circle. It’s mesmerising.

I turn it over and read the track listing, four songs: ‘Yellow Feathers’, a live version of the same song, ‘Innocent’ and ‘Roo’. The small print at the bottom says: Cover image: Eos by Emily Lawrence .

Oh my God – Mum.

I take pictures of the cover and the small print and send them straight to Chloe. She replies in a second: Whaaat?! Your mum MADE that?

Me: Who knew?

A shout from the front of the house makes me jump.

Slipping the CD into the pocket of my dressing gown, I go to the hall. The front door is wide open, and Dad is soaked to his skin holding a quad stretch under the dripping porch.

‘Oh, you got wet,’ I say sarcastically.

‘Ha, ha. Can you get me a towel, please?’

I run upstairs and come back with a towel.

He pats himself down and kicks off his trainers, then stepping inside, he opens his soggy arms out to me. ‘Come here, give me a hug.’

‘No way.’

‘Don’t make me come and get you.’

‘No Dad, seriously, do not hug me!’

I back away, and when he pounces, I’m ready.

He’s right behind me as I run into the living room, his wet feet squeaking on the hardwood floor.

I put the dining table between us, and he mirrors me as I feint left, then right.

He makes the deciding move, and I try to run, but it’s awkward behind the table and he grabs me with his damp, freezing hands.

He clamps me to his clammy chest and rubs his wet cheek against mine. I squeal, ‘Get off!’

I try to drop out of his grasp, but he follows me down, lowering me to the ground. The CD clunks on the floor as he tickles me until I’m gasping for air. He gives me a moment to catch my breath, then renews the attack. The CD clatters again as I kick him off.

‘What’s that?’ he asks, helping me to my feet.

I pull the CD from my pocket, and he recognises it immediately.

‘I haven’t got a CD player, you know,’ he says, walking away, leaving a trail of damp footprints.

I follow. ‘Did you know Mum did this artwork? Her name’s on the back.’

‘Yeah, she made that at college. It was this big.’ He spreads his arms out. ‘It took ages.’

I knew they studied art together at college, but I assumed she wasn’t any good – Dad runs his own design agency, but Mum works in the office at my old primary school.

I place the CD on the counter. ‘But this is really good.’

‘She was brilliant, so talented, far better than me. She had her own exhibition at a gallery before she’d even finished the course.’

‘Why did she stop doing it then?’

He hesitates. ‘Well, you showed up and after that, she was busy being a mum.’

‘Oh.’ My brain is whirring at a hundred miles an hour. My mum was friends with a rock star, and she was a talented artist – how did I not know this? I don’t know her at all.

He pours a glass of water and drinks it all in one go. ‘Listen Liv, don’t mention this to Mum.’

‘Why not?’

‘This whole thing with Will Bailey…’ He picks up the CD. ‘She’s sensitive about it. Sometimes you never really get over these things. Curb your curiosity – for her, will you? Promise me?’

‘But I just want to know––’

‘You’re lucky, you’ve never lost anyone. You don’t know what it’s like. Grief can be hard, Liv. Don’t ask her about this, okay?’

I want to argue with him but he’s giving me his puppy-dog eyes and they’re his ultimate superpower. ‘Okay…’

‘Thank you.’ He kisses my forehead, takes the CD, and puts it back in the cabinet.