Christmas for Beginners - Carole Matthews Page 0,60
time to text Shelby even though he’ll already be on stage by now and try not to feel that, already, I’m surplus to requirements.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Several more acts strut their poetry stuff, then it’s Lucas’s turn to perform. In fairness, I think the standard has been very high tonight. All the performers seem, to me, to be quite polished.
Lucas takes to the stage and appears tiny, young and vaguely vampiric. In the harsh blue-white spotlight, he looks truly terrified and ready to make a run for it. My heart breaks for him. Surreptitiously, I take out my phone to capture his performance on video.
Lucas pulls the microphone down towards him. ‘“Say Something”.’
There’s an uneasy pause and the crowd fidgets. Aurora pulls a hopeful face at me. Then, clearing his throat, Lucas starts:
Say something to me,
But mean what you say;
Think it through,
Don’t just trot out
A well-thumbed cliché.
Make it count;
Make it worthy
Of your dying breath:
Say your piece
Or forever be silent in death.
Say something about me,
If you feel you must,
Without hyperbole
Or betraying a trust.
It’s easy to snitch
And to add in a touch:
Tell the world what you can,
Though it won’t be that much.
When he’s finished, the room bursts into spontaneous and enthusiastic applause. He was so confident and strong that it takes me by surprise. I wonder what on earth he was worried about. He’s standing there commanding the room, the little lost boy all gone, replaced by a grown man. My eyes well with tears and I brush them away.
The compère announces that there will be an interval and then just six performers will go through to the second round. Everyone makes a dash for the bar.
Lucas comes back to us and his eyes are bright.
‘That was brilliant,’ I say. ‘Were you pleased with how it went?’
‘Yeah.’ He shrugs, feigning nonchalance, but I know that he’s happy.
Aurora throws her arms round him. ‘I’m so proud of you,’ she says and Lucas grows in stature in her embrace.
‘I’ll get us some drinks,’ I say and, after taking their order, slope off to the bar.
While I wait, I watch them together. Aurora is flirty, confident. Lucas looks to be in awe of her, grateful for her attention. My heart squeezes.
I love having this boy in my life and as soon as he’s here, I’ll have to deal with letting him go. It’s wonderful seeing him testing his wings, ready to fly, but part of me wants to hold him at the farm for ever. I don’t know if he’ll resume his studies and in the future, go off to university. Or whether another job will take him away from me. But, for now, I should enjoy what I can of him.
I return with the drinks and Lucas is getting a little more anxious now. The judges take their places and the lights are dimmed once more.
The compère takes the mic. ‘In no particular order, the poets through to the next round are . . .’
He reels off some names and there’s clapping and cheering from the audience. Lucas grows quieter, paler. I dig my fingernails into my palms.
‘ . . . and the final place goes to Lucas Dacre.’
Aurora and I cheer loudly and Lucas grins shyly. The poets are called to the stage one at a time and they’re all good. Each one of them seems to have upped their game and I’m nervous for Lucas. He looks nervous for himself too.
Eventually, it’s his turn. He wipes his palms on his jeans and whispers, ‘Wish me luck,’ as he heads into the spotlight.
Lucas stands at the microphone again and takes a couple of steadying breaths before saying, ‘This one’s for Molly.’ He glances up at me through the heavy curtain of his fringe and my heart tightens. ‘“The Laws of Chaos”.’
Every action I take;
every movement I make,
has a universal consequence
riding in its wake.
Every tree that I shake;
every twig that I break,
puts the intricately interwoven
balance at stake.
Each innocuous flake;
every tremulous quake,
has a repercussion for
the environment’s sake.
So every species we slake,
our existence we forsake;
not to appreciate this law
will be our final mistake.
Again, he seems to have the most enthusiastic applause from the audience, but I may just be biased. Now we have an anxious wait while the judges confer. There’s some heated debate going on. Then, after a few minutes, the compère steps up to the mic and announces, ‘The winner of the King’s Arms Poetry Slam with a slot at the prestigious Green Scene Literary Festival is . . .’ Agonisingly lengthy theatrical pause. ‘Lucas Dacre!’