A Little Help From My Friends

A community works together in this sparkling short story by Eirin Thompson.

Leona was getting a band together for one night only. But she couldn’t do it alone . . .

LEONA made sure to get to the south end of Cooper’s Entry early. The covered walkway, between the marketplace and the high street, was busy with pedestrians, and it had the best acoustics in town.

“Morning, Julie-Anne,” she greeted the girl in the sleeping bag. “Watch my stuff and I’ll fetch coffee.”

“Sure,” Julie-Anne replied, crawling out of her bedding and starting to roll it up.

Five minutes later, Leona returned with two hot coffees and two bacon rolls.

Julie-Anne smiled gratefully, warming her hands on the cup. The mornings were chilly.

“No room at the inn last night?” Leona enquired. “No. But it didn’t rain.” Leona’s shared flat might not be anything special, but as least it kept the weather out.

She took her guitar out and laid the case on the ground.

“Put some money in and it gives people the right idea,” Julie-Anne advised. “Put a few pound coins in, if you have them.”

Leona smiled. She’d been busking for long enough to know the ropes, but she appreciated Julie-Anne’s attempts to maximise her earnings.

Leona began tuning her guitar.

“Any special requests?” she asked.

“‘Happy Birthday’,” Julie-Anne replied.

“It’s your birthday today? What age are you?” “Twenty-three.” “Wonderful! If I have a good morning, I’ll buy you lunch, since it’s a special occasion.”

“You don’t need to. You can’t afford it.”

“You don’t have faith in me?”

“That’s not what I meant.” “Well, then, the sooner I start, the sooner we eat.”

As the first shoppers began to make their way past, Leona strummed the opening bars of “Here Comes The Sun” – usually a good payer.

Her voice rang out clear and sweet and she was soon nodding in appreciation of the smiles and coins that came her way.

At some point, Julie-Anne had disappeared without saying anything.

Leona hoped she’d return – she’d been serious about lunch.

Leona didn’t just play guitar – she was also an excellent violinist and pianist.

Although her family hadn’t had much money, a musical godmother had insisted on paying for lessons for her when it was obvious that she had talent.

After her degree, her parents were keen that she become a music teacher, and Leona wasn’t against the idea, but first she wanted to see if she could “make it” as a performer.

She and three friends had set themselves up as a string quartet, and picked up a decent amount of work at weddings and other special events – they’d had an excellent month playing carols in December.

“Why do you spend Saturday mornings busking?” Amy, their cellist, often remarked.

Amy gave private tuition in her spare time, which was much better paid.

“I like to bring live music to ordinary people,” Leona would tell her.

Once, after a few glasses of wine, Amy admitted that many of her students were less than inspiring.

“I often get the feeling they don’t like music,” she confided.

“It’s like it’s just something to put on their CV so they get their place at uni doing accountancy, at which point they’ll drop it like a stone.”

Leona found busking exciting. Some people would glow with delighted

recognition as she played a favourite golden oldie; others would stop in amazement when she gave a unique rendition of something up to date.

Occasionally, there would be a perfect meeting of song and passer-by and she’d be thrilled when paper money was pushed under her coins.

Then there was Colin, the manager of the concert hall by the river, who never failed to tuck a £20 note into the band of Leona’s hat if she’d play “Lilac Wine”.

It was nice on those occasions when a crowd of people stopped and clapped, but even on an ordinary day Leona enjoyed being part of the vibrancy of the city streets.

She liked to believe she played her part in making Saturdays as good as they could be.

“Hey, Julie-Anne,” she said at one o’clock, packing her guitar back in its case.

The young homeless woman had returned an hour earlier and sat happily listening to the music.

“Time for that birthday lunch. We have plenty.”

“Are you sure?” JulieAnne asked.

“Yes,” Leona assured her. “Let’s go to the place in the railway station – they’re used to people with baggage.”

Outside the train station, they found Rex, another rough sleeper, sitting by his old coffee cup, in which a few coins had collected.

Leona hesitated, then decided to go for it.

“Hi, Rex. It’s Julie-Anne’s birthday and we’re going inside for lunch. Want to join us?”

Rex looked doubtfully at the coins in his cup.

“It’s on me,” Leona told him. “I’ve had a good run.”

It took a bit more gentle persuasion, but Rex was finally coaxed into coming inside for some food.

Just beyond the doorway, another busker Leona knew was playing saxophone.

The Victorian passageway also had great acoustics.

“Hi, Pete! Sounding good,” Leona greeted him.

He paused for long enough to learn about their lunch plans, said he was ready for a break and asked if he could join them.

Leona turned to JulieAnne.

“Sure,” Julie-Anne said shyly. “The more the merrier.”

Over a lunch of chicken stew and dumplings washed down with milk, the four chatted about mutual friends and acquaintances – the small city’s buskers and homeless people had something of a working knowledge of each other.

“I almost forgot!” Leona broke in suddenly. “I promised to play ‘Happy Birthday’ and I haven’t yet.”

“You don’t have to,” Julie-Anne replied.

“Let’s go to my pitch and I can join in,” Pete suggested.

Leona settled the bill with a contribution from Pete, and they filed out into the wide passageway.

As they played and sang the familiar song, a crowd gathered, and when they came to Julie-Anne’s name, Leona pointed at her and the people gave a cheer.

Julie-Anne looked overwhelmed, then gave Leona a nudge.

“Do you think I could sing something?”

Leona was surprised. Julie-Anne never sang when Leona was busking.

It had taken time even to get her to come out of her shell enough to chat.

But Leona felt sure she should encourage the young woman. If she wanted to sing, then why not?

“Tell me your song and

I’ll play it if I know it,” she offered.

“‘With A Little Help From My Friends’,” Julie-Anne replied.

“No problem. Let’s find your key,” Leona replied.

A moment later she was making wide eyes at Pete as Julie-Anne sang a sweet and vulnerable version of the Beatles classic.

By the end of the number, Julie-Anne was looking unsure how to conclude, and Leona, Pete and Rex joined in, singing enthusiastically for a rousing finish.

The crowd who had stopped for “Happy

Birthday” lingered to listen, then clapped at the end. Someone shouted, “More!”

Julie-Ann was laughing as the buskers dispersed.

Leona returned to her usual spot at Cooper’s

Entry and that was that.

Except it wasn’t. As she strummed and sang that afternoon, an idea started to form in her head.

What if Julie-Anne’s singing talent could be channelled in some way?

What if she wasn’t the only homeless person in the city with musical ability?

What could a collection of rough sleepers do if helped by the various buskers with whom they shared the pavements?

****

“A concert?” Pete asked. “Presented by the City Streets Orchestra and Choir,” Leona explained.

“Not a proper orchestra, but between us we could manage a piano, guitars and violins, an accordion, saxophone, a couple of flutes and a harp.”

“Not forgetting Neville, the one-man-band.”

“Not forgetting Neville. Do you think the other buskers would go for it?”

“I think most would jump at the chance – buskers don’t have much spare cash, but an opportunity to give in kind is something they could sign up to.”

“If I organise it, will you help?”

“Of course I will.”

****

News of the concert idea spread like wildfire.

Not only did the city’s regular buskers agree to take part, but so did other musicians known to them – brothers, sisters and old school buddies.

Soon over 30 musicians had volunteered their services.

Julie-Anne, meanwhile, had summoned a whole new level of confidence to urge everyone she knew from streets and hostels to come and sing.

All money raised from the concert would, she explained, go to the

Bridge, a trusted local charity doing its best both to increase safe and clean hostel provision in the city and secure long-term housing for people in need.

Even before they’d begun thinking about launching publicity, everyone concerned reported a high level of public interest, with people already trying to book tickets.

“But we don’t even have

What could a collection of rough sleepers do if helped?

a venue yet!” Leona wailed when Pete and Julie-Anne asked what they should tell folk.

“Ask Colin,” Julie-Anne suggested. “He’s got a whole concert hall and he has a soft spot for you.”

The concert hall? It seated thousands.

Could they possibly fill it?

****

“I wondered when you’d find your way to me,” Colin said with a smile when Leona landed in his office.

“You mean you’ve heard about our hopes to stage a concert?” Leona enquired. “Who hasn’t?”

“But I guess you’re fully booked for the foreseeable future.”

“We’re busy, certainly. But if someone were willing to settle for a single Tuesday night, for example, we could fit them in next month.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I’m perfectly serious. A small touring company has cancelled.

“And you’ll be needing rehearsal space.

“I can let you have the minor hall for the next three Mondays, from two o’clock until closing, if that’s any use.”

Leona was about to jump for joy when she remembered the second part of her query.

“Er . . . how much will all that cost?”

“To you? Nothing.

When the singing stopped, they applauded themselves and whooped.

Why not, Leona thought. Why jolly well not?

****

For three long, gruelling Mondays, the singers and musicians toiled diligently.

Encouragement was never far away, as reporters turned up to interview and photograph them.

News filtered through from the box office that almost all of the two thousand seats had been sold.

“What are we charging?” Pete enquired.

“Ten pounds a ticket,” Leona replied.

“That’s . . .” Pete closed one eye and concentrated. “Twenty grand! In one night!”

“But it hasn’t been just one night,” Julie-Anne objected. “Leona’s been slogging her guts out for a month for this.”

It was true. Leona had almost exhausted herself, fitting in planning, rehearsals and publicity around her usual commitments.

Just one last push, though – the concert itself – and it would all be over and well worth it.

****

It was the big night. Leona was at the very edge of the stage, peeping out surreptitiously from behind the curtain.

The auditorium was filling up steadily and the babble of voices growing by the minute.

“They’ve just put out the two-minute call in the bar for people to take their seats,” Pete whispered.

“Better come and have a last word with the troops.”

A few moments later, Julie-Anne was leading everyone on to the stage, checking that each person was where they should be.

A signal to the crew, and the curtain went up.

The audience hushed. With no preamble, Leona played the opening bars of “Here Comes The Sun” – just like when she was busking at Cooper’s Entry

– then the “orchestra” struck up and the choir began to sing with gusto.

The audience was captivated.

Leona could only see faces in the front two rows, as the house lights were down, but she could make out wide smiles all round.

That song had never let her down.

The applause was much more than merely polite, and the musicians didn’t hang around – they launched straight into an Elvis number, followed by an Ed Sheeran hit, then “Bring Him Home” from “Les Misérables”.

This was just the sort of pick and mix that the buskers went for on their pitches – songs everybody knew and lots of people loved.

At the interval, Colin sought Leona out.

“I can say this now that it’s all turned out so well,” he began. “I was worried this would be a disaster.

“I mean, a choir of homeless people and a bunch of buskers? It’s not exactly a recipe for success.

“But I thought if anyone could put together a programme to make that crazy idea work, it was you, Leona. And you’ve done it. Congratulations.”

“Thank you . . . I think,” Leona replied, tilting her head to one side.

“And just to let you know, I have the sound guys making a recording of tonight.

“I thought, if it went well, you might make another few quid for the project by selling a CD.”

Before Leona could respond, Colin had melted away and it was time for the second half.

****

A further collection of classic songs followed, and the audience, possibly a little lubricated by their interval libations, began to sing and clap along.

Leona hopped between piano and guitar, focusing on getting through the music well, but not so focused that she didn’t appreciate the shining eyes of everyone on stage.

Even if they hadn’t made a penny from the night’s activities, this would have been worth the effort, she decided.

This was what music was all about – enabling people to express emotion, breaking down barriers and uniting fellow human beings.

The event concluded where it had started, with a moving rendition of “With A Little Help From My Friends”.

Leona had persuaded an extremely nervous yet eager Julie-Anne to sing the first verse and chorus solo, accompanied only by Leona on guitar.

Then all the musicians and the whole choir joined in for a rousing finale.

It brought the house down.

****

Leona was the last of the performers to leave.

“Well?” It was Colin. “Happy with how it went?” “Ecstatic!”

“You should be.”

“It’s not the slickest show you’ll have seen as manager here.”

“You got a full house, an audience ready to dance in the aisles and no hiccup that I could see.”

“And you don’t think it was cheeky of me, billing them as a choir?”

“It was apparent that no-one felt short-changed. They might not cut it at the Eisteddfod, but as a choir of angels, with you at the helm, they were a clear hit.

“And you are an angel, Leona.”

Leona took a step back. “Me?”

“You. I know you’re exhausted now, but when you’re rested, if you’re not too busy, I’d like the chance to talk to you some more – over a drink?”

Colin was shrewd, but Leona knew he was also generous, both personally – all those 20 quids for playing his favourite song – and professionally.

This night wouldn’t have happened without him.

“I’d like that.” She smiled at him.

The End.