The girls arrived to stand before their two idols and they shifted on their feet, twisting their ankles awkwardly, waiting for the opinion that meant everything in their small worlds.
Jemma looked at Sibyl and Sibyl returned her friend’s look. Both were at a loss.
Then Sibyl had an idea, it was a lame idea but it was, at least, an idea.
“I love that song!” she exclaimed. “Who chose that song?”
“It was me!” Flower cried.
Even raised by a hippy, Sibyl felt for the girl who had such a terrible name, a name she knew (because she heard) other children used to make fun of her. Flower’s mother was even flakier than Sibyl and had four children by four different fathers and another one on the way. Flower’s mother was always out partying and never home. The care of the entire family rested on Flower’s ten year old shoulders, evidenced by the fact that her three brothers were, at that very moment, fighting in the back corner of the hall.
“Good call, Flower,” Sibyl enthused, lying through her teeth.
Jemma turned to her friend, her eyes round and her brows raised.
“Though, I hear it all the time on the radio. All the time,” Sibyl continued.
“I know, it’s very popular,” Katie, another of the girls announced, thinking this was a selling point.
Sibyl particularly liked Katie, a bright girl with a head on her shoulders. She had both parents at home, her mother owned a small cleaning business and her father was currently redundant, trying to find a job and was a recovering gambler. Sibyl knew this because Katie’s father ran the local Gambler’s Anonymous meetings on Tuesday nights in the Day Centre (but, of course, Sibyl would never tell a soul this information).
Sibyl went on, but gently, “By the time of the Talent Show, do you think people might have heard it a bit too much? Even you girls might be tired of it by then.”
The girls looked at each other, not at all convinced since it was their most favourite song of all time. How could they ever be tired of it? Not in a million years.
“I know!” Jemma exclaimed as if a thought just occurred to her. “Why don’t you let Sibyl find a song for you? Something American.”
This caught the girls’ attention and four pairs of enthusiastic eyes collectively swung to Sibyl.
It was Sibyl’s turn to stare at her friend, her eyes round, her eyebrows raised.
“And,” Jemma dug Sibyl’s hole deeper, “she’ll help you with outfits and dance steps and everything.”
Sibyl made a choking noise but swiftly hid it and smiled warmly at the girls. She was going to kill Jem, or maim her for life, or, at least, never speak to her again. Jemma was very artistic, knew all the latest songs and was a natural at choreography. Sibyl loved music, loved to dance, but had always done it to the beat of her own drummer and wouldn’t know how to create a choreographed dance if someone was forcing her to do it by shooting at her feet with pistols.
Nevertheless, the girls excitedly agreed to this new development, happy to spend more time with their American Goddess.
“What have you done to me?” Sibyl hissed at her friend as the girls scattered and Jemma motioned for the next act to come to the stage.
“Relax, I’ll pick the song, I’ll choreograph the dance moves, you just have to teach them,” Jem assured her then finished. “I’ll help, of course.”
“You better or I’ll make those girls a laughingstock.”
“I’m already thinking of something.” This, Sibyl could believe. Jemma was sharp as a tack and nothing got by her.
As the next act prepared to begin, Sibyl got up.
“Off for your afternoon chat with Meg?” Jemma enquired, sorting through CDs to put the next act’s in the player.
Sibyl spent Bingo Afternoon’s with her favourite pensioner, Meg. Meg was her most favourite oldie (an affectionate term everyone at the Centre had for the members of the Pensioners Club of the Day Centre).
Meg had paper-thin, soft skin, was diabetic but ate with gusto and was at least five stone overweight. Her eyes, nose and mouth collapsed happily into each other whenever she smiled, which was a lot.
Meg was the first oldie to give Sibyl a welcoming, encouraging smile on her first day on the job. Sibyl hadn’t even known she needed that smile but she’d been so homesick Meg’s smile had touched her heart and Sibyl had never forgotten it. She found herself often ensconced in corners with the old lady after their luncheon was done, shooting the breeze in happy companionship. Even though they’d get together often, Meg and Sibyl always set aside Bingo Afternoon to have a chat before Meg took the minibus’s second trip round the estate to her lonely home at the end of the day.
Bertie’s parents had both died before he left England. Mags’s parents had lived long enough to meet and love their grandchildren but not long enough to see them grow and mature into beautiful, young women. Meg was the closest thing to a grandmother Sibyl had. Every time Meg looked at the younger girl, Sibyl felt awash with her love and this wasn’t surprising. When she was younger, Meg told Sibyl she used to take in orphaned babies and children while they were being placed into other homes, raising them from days to months and, on a few occasions, years, before they found a permanent placement. Sibyl had no problem believing this, Meg had a lot of love to go around.
“I just wish, Sibyl my love, that one of them would come to see me now that I’m in my old age. Just one of them,” Meg had said to Sibyl some days before. “So I’ll know they’re all right.”