I turned to see a man who must have been at least six foot five, wearing the kind of paint-splattered cargo trousers andheavy-soled boots that told me he was a tradesman, towering over me.
‘Excuse me?’
‘That one’s mine – Kiki,’ he smiled proudly, revealing a set of gleaming white teeth as he pointed in the direction of the little girl with the flashing trainers.
‘Oh, I don’t have a child.’ The man’s brow furrowed, giving me a quick look up and down as though trying to determine if I were a threat. ‘I’m here with theBrighton Tribune.We’re doing a feature on the community centre,’ I added quickly, keen to reassure him I wasn’t some creep that lingered outside playgrounds or snuck into village halls without being invited. I dug in the back pocket of my jeans, flashing him my work badge as though I were a cop in the NYPD.
‘And I’m Jacob, photographer.’ Jacob raised his trusty Canon EOS R5 with one hand, his own personal form of ID.
‘Terry,’ Kiki’s dad smiled warmly.
‘Do you mind if I—?’ Jacob held up his camera, nodding over at little Kiki.
‘Nah, go for it, mate.’
‘Have you and Kiki been coming here long, Terry?’ I asked as Jacob wandered off, camera glued to his face.
‘Coming up to a year now,’ Terry sighed. ‘We started coming after my wife passed.’
My pen jarred audibly against my notebook, a big, ugly line splitting the page in two.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered, forcing the words out from behind the lump in my throat. Terry smiled kindly, but I could sense the pain he carried, a shadow passing momentarily across his vision like a cloud in front of the sun.
I followed his gaze to where his daughter was smiling shyly down at the broad-shouldered pianist with his back to us. I felt a string tug somewhere deep inside of me as I clocked her pinktutu skirt, her purple- and yellow-striped tights. She was so young. Too young to have suffered a loss so great. But life was cruel. It didn’t care if you were six or sixty, had twenty things still to tick off your bucket list, or planned to marry the love of your life in six months’ time. The string pulled tighter.
‘Luca always says he just teaches music, but he does so much more than that. Honestly, places like this are a lifeline for communities like ours; it’s criminal that the council have pulled their funding. I can’t walk down the street for bumping into a million of those ridiculous eco scooters that people just dump willy-nilly and yet they don’t have enough left to support places like this?’ He sucked air sharply between his teeth, his hands thrust deep into two of the many pockets that adorned his trousers. He let out a deep breath and turned to me, a little abashed. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to go off like that.’
I smiled at him. ‘Please, don’t apologise. You’re absolutely right. That’s why I’m here, after all.’
‘Ah, speak of the devil.’ Terry raised his chin at someone behind me and I turned to see the piano now occupied by a ginger-haired boy with glasses who was carefully pressing each key in turn, delighted with every new note he produced. The stool’s previous occupant was striding towards us. There was something about him that felt familiar: the broad shoulders, the single dark curl falling just so across his brow, the soft crease in the middle of his chin a stark contrast to his sharply chiselled jaw. He was wearing black jeans and a denim shirt, the cuffs of which were rolled up to expose his forearms.
‘Jenny, is it? From theTribune?’ His right hand extended as he approached and I noticed his index finger was stained with black ink, the tips hard and calloused against the back of my hand as he enveloped it between both of his. ‘Thank you so much for coming. I’m Luca. Luca Patel.’
His eyes held mine, a tinyvappearing in the space where hiseyebrows almost joined that made me wonder whether we’d met before.
‘Jenny Thompson.’ I smiled, the intensity of his gaze making the back of my neck prickle with heat. ‘So, you’re in charge round here?’
‘Well, Ivan helps, too.’ Luca pointed over towards the cardigan-wearing man trying to encourage a boy to use his drumstick to hit the drum, not the child sat next to him.
‘Ah, you’re just being modest. Luca runs the show,’ Terry piped up, punching Luca playfully on the shoulder.
‘Yeah, well, I’m not doing that great a job, considering the council just cut our funding,’ Luca sighed, raking his fingers through his hair ‘Something to do with government cutbacks or some bullshit, but that funding was our lifeline. Without it I’m not sure how much longer we can stay open.’ My pen stilled as I watched him looking about the room, his eyes lingering on each child’s face in turn. It was evident how much he cared. He shook his head fiercely, as though eliminating some awful scenario his brain had cooked up from either ear. ‘Anyway, that’s why we’re putting on a fundraiser in a few months. It’s an opportunity for all the kids to perform, but also, hopefully, for us to raise some much-needed funds.’
‘That’s a fantastic idea. Do you have a date? I’ll be sure to mention it in the article.’
‘28thMay. It’s the main reason I called theTribune. Thought an article in the paper might help sell some tickets, raise enough money that we can keep the doors open for another year.’
‘Oh, I think we can do a little more than that,’ I said, feeling a renewed sense of purpose pumping through me for the first time since I could remember, beating its own tiny drum. Determined to be heard.
‘I’ve got the money shot,’ came Jacob’s voice behind me, and I turned to see him jiggling his camera triumphantly in the air. Hedid a double take when his eyes landed on Luca, head dipping to one side and then the other. He clicked his fingers, recognition dawning on his face. ‘Hey, weren’t you the guy playing at the Old Bell last night?’
Aha, so that’s where I recognised him from. The musician.
Luca blinked, clearly thrown by the question. ‘Um, yeah. You were there?’
‘When are wenotthere, more like?’ Jacob scoffed, giving me a nudge-nudge-wink-wink-style hip bump.
‘My mum owns the place,’ I added, keen to clarify that we weren’t raging alcoholics.
