Passing through a narrow-cobbled pathway, Elora caught her reflection in one of the quaint shop windows. Her long jet-black hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, but the shock of blonde had somehow worked its way loose and hung beside her face in a single unruly lock. It never did as she wanted, always coming loose and falling beside her face as if not wanting to touch the black strands. People thought it was dyed – maybe some kind of Goth thing – but like her deep violet eyes, she was born with it.
The alley gave way to a small car-park and a neatly-tended green with trees and benches. Ahead of them, the cathedral suddenly filled the skyline. It was a beautiful building, although unsightly scaffolding clung to it in places where the stonework was being cleaned. Thankfully, the cathedral close was quiet with only a few men at work on the scaffolding and an elderly couple eating sandwiches on a bench. Normally for busking, she would have chosen the busiest part of town, but for this performance she preferred it quiet.
Standing with her back against a wall facing the cathedral, Elora re-tuned the guitar then began to play a chord, picking gently at each string. The song was one she had learned from her late mother. She had only ever heard it once, years ago now, when she was back in her old village. She could only have been about two or three at the time, barely able to talk but somehow the song had sunk into her, every word, every syllable of it lodging deep within her memories although she had no idea what any of it meant.
When her village had been wiped out in the war, the local language died with it. Only Nat knew how to speak it and he thought it pointless to teach her. Why learn a language if there was nobody to speak it to? He had a point, but it didn’t stop her asking what the song was about. ‘Nothing she need to worry herself with’, her uncle had explained. She never did find out what it meant but sang it all the same.
The words tumbled from her mouth, matching the pitch of the guitar perfectly. The song had a gentle melody, rising and falling steadily like the rhythmic waves of the sea. The elderly couple sat up, heads turned towards her, half-eaten sandwiches discarded and smiles forming on their faces. The workmen on the scaffold downed-tools and turned to look down at her. One was about to whistle something, but the sound died on his lips as he turned towards her, intent on listening.
Elora felt a tingling sensation rising from her stomach and a ripple through her lungs as she sang. It was the same thrill that she felt the last time she sang the song. It felt like static, like magic.
Another couple emerged from the alley beside her. Two women, their chatter silenced abruptly as they halted. They pulled their pushchairs to the side, so they could listen, conversation forgotten. Within the short time it took her to reach the second verse, people had emerged from the cathedral: a small group of tourists escorted by a cathedral guide. All of them standing still, listening. From the corner of her eyes, Elora noticed Ben sidle around at the back, cap in hand, seeking offerings from the gathering crowd.
The words continued to spill from her, taking on a momentum of their own as she sang the familiar melody. The song was sweetly melancholy, a moody mix of doleful sounds that played on the emotions and danced upon the heart. She would give anything to know what it was about. Probably some sorrowful love song but you didn’t need to understand the words to get the feel of it. Amongst the crowd, several people were dabbing at their eyes and one of the workmen seemed to be affected. Elora held her audience captivated. Nobody spoke or moved. They were transfixed to the spot as if she had somehow hypnotised them. Even the seagulls that were a perpetual nuisance in the city had ceased squawking and remained silent, perched and observant from ledges and rooftops. Maybe there was some truth behind what Nat said about the song. She was glad he couldn’t hear her. Luckily, he would be on the Molly now, a Dutch barge moored up on the canal some five miles away.
Finally, the song came to an end and the last notes on the guitar gently faded away to nothing. A deep silence filled the air for several heartbeats before the sounds of the city returned and the small audience seemed to wake from their trance. People broke from their stares and seemed shocked to find themselves standing where they were, puzzled looks on their faces before they gradually drifted away. On the scaffolding work resumed, albeit in a more subdued manner. The tourists and guide went back inside the cathedral and the elderly couple began to chat once again, their sandwiches abandoned on the grass where they were soon spotted and pounced on by the seagulls.
Ben approached, jingling his cap in his hand. He was beaming now.
“That was brilliant! Thought it was good the last time I heard it but, but that ... that was something else. Made a tidy little sum too. Here,” he said, offering her the cap. He always gave it to her to count out and share the money.
Elora shook her head. “Keep it, Ben,” she smiled as his eyebrows furrowed. “With a baby on the way, you’re going to need more than flowers.”
“You sure? There’s got to be more than a hundred quid here.” He emptied the contents into his hand and stuffed the coins and notes into his pocket.
Elora nodded and handed him the guitar.
“So, what now?” he asked, slinging the guitar over his shoulder.
“You get a job, become a dad and settle down.”
“No, I mean with you. School’s finished, so you got any plans?”
“Got a trip planned. Me and Nat are taking the barge over to France and across Europe. We’re heading back to Croatia. The trip will probably take the best part of a year. The Molly plods along at a snail’s pace.”
“You sure she can take it?” he asked, scratching at his beard.
“She’s a tough old skiff. Nat had the engine serviced in the summer so she’s man enough for the job.”
“Well, good luck with that. Gonna be a bit of an adventure for you.”
“Good luck yourself. Having a baby, eh? Now that really is an adventure.”
Ben leaned forward and surprised her by giving her a rib-crushing hug. “Gonna miss you,” he said when he finally let her go.
“Same,” she replied and realised that she meant it. Although she wouldn’t miss his singing.
They said goodbye and she watched him disappear down the alley, giving her a mischievous wink as he slipped from view. She headed in the opposite direction, towards the docks that led to the canal.
The grey clouds had thinned, allowing the afternoon sun to spill through in patches, casting fractured patterns on the canal. Two swans glided gracefully on the dark water, keeping pace with her as she sauntered along the grassy bank, leaving the city for the quiet meadows and barley fields that surrounded Gloucester, thoughts of the trip at the forefront of her mind.
Elora had been pestering Nat for years about taking her to visit their homeland, even though her village in the foothills of Croatia no longer existed.
She and Nat had arrived in Britain as refugees from the troubles in Bosnia when she was five. Nat, her mother’s brother, had smuggled them across the border on a cargo ship, hidden in a steel container. From Bristol docks they’d headed west for London. They got as far as a service station on the motorway, some thirty miles from Bristol before the authorities picked them up. After three months in a detention centre they were released with legal immigration status. Within a year, she had started school and Nat had found a steady job. A fresh new start, a new life free from the shadow of war and even a new name. After a mix-up filling in the papers, her second name had been replaced with the name of the service station. She was now known as Elora Delamere. It was easier keeping the name than going through the trouble of changing it. Besides, Nat had never told her what her real second name was.
Her mind elsewhere and enjoying the sun on her face, she was startled as a hand came down on her shoulder. Reflexively, she spun, pivoting on her heel and raised a fist.
A tall man staggered back, arms raised in defence and wearing a shocked look upon his face.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, keeping his arms raised in surrender. Dressed in a dark suit and shiny shoes, he looked out of place on the riverbank. Elora guessed him to be in his late twenties, maybe thirty.
“Can I help you?” she replied, still clenching her fist yet letting it drop to her side. She wasn’t really a fighter and had never attended martial arts classes, but she had a fiery temper and once released, somebody was going to get hurt.
“I heard you sing just now. At the cathedral.”
Elora watched as he reached a hand into a pocket and retrieved a business card and handed it to her. She didn’t recall seeing him amongst the crowd, but then again it was quite busy.
“Nice eyes, by the way,” the man remarked.
“Contact lenses,” she said. It was her standard reply. She got comments about her eyes so often that the lie came instinctively.
“The name’s Reuben. I work for a man who would be extremely interested in hearing you sing. He’s got good contacts in the music world.”
Elora eyed the smartly dressed man suspiciously.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Reuben, but I won’t be around for a while.” She glanced at the card. On it was an image of the Earth embossed on a white background with a dark shadow overlapping one half. Underneath was a phone number printed in black alongside the name ‘Silk’.
“That is a real shame. Mr Silk would have been smitten. Are you sure I can’t persuade you ... er?” There was an awkward pause while he waited for her to volunteer her name.
