windows. A man with a clipboard was standing on the steps of the house, giving them some kind of talk. I started walking a little faster. Images of a madman massacring prostitutes were not really what I needed to calm my nerves. At the end of the street a thin white church pointed up into the clear blue sky like a witch’s finger. I drew level with it and stopped and stared. There, straight ahead of me on the other side of a busy main road, was a wrought iron gate and a sign that said WELCOME TO OLD SPITALFIELDS MARKET.
Chapter Four
‘When in doubt, place your character in an unusual setting. Then see your writing come alive!’
Agatha Dashwood,
So You Want to Write a Novel?
For the first time ever I entered a church without being forced there in a nasty dress for somebody’s christening or wedding. That’s how scary the prospect of seeing my real dad was. I sat down on a shiny wooden pew about halfway along the church and took a deep breath. The air was cool and clean and smelt slightly of Christmas. I looked up at the huge wooden cross suspended over the altar and suddenly felt as if I was in a corny movie and this was the part where the heroine prays to God for guidance. Feeling slightly desperate, I whispered, ‘What should I do?’ and looked at the mosaic of coloured light streaming on to the cross through the stained-glass window. But nothing happened. There was no booming God-voice uttering words of wisdom. Not even a thunderbolt. Nothing but the hum of the traffic outside.
I sat there for ages in the end, with all kinds of images flashing through my mind. Rayners High, my mum and Alan, the twins, Magnolia Crescent. They all seemed so far away now. It was like I’d been whisked out of my old life into somebody else’s. Somebody called Cherokee. It was when I had that thought that I finally plucked up the courage to go. Claire Weeks might have stayed hiding in a church all day, but not Cherokee Brown.
Outside, the sunlight was brighter than ever. I squinted as I made my way to the nearest crossing and waited as a stream of buses, cars, bikes and lorries thundered by. Across the road, on either side of the wrought iron gate, was a row of quaint little shops, totally different to the kind on Brick Lane. These were much posher. The clothes shops had dummies reclining on sofas and eating golden grapes and the restaurants were advertising things that sounded more like medical conditions than food.
Finally the lights changed and I crossed over, trying to ignore my bass drum of a heart. I walked through the gates into the market and down a passageway that was lined with other little shops – one selling antique furniture and another selling twenty-seven different varieties of cheese.
The first thing I noticed about the market wasn’t the stalls, it was the people. I’d never seen so many interesting haircuts and amazing clothes. It was even better than the Southbank. I looked down at my school uniform. I’d already taken off my tie and blazer and stuffed them into my bag, but my blue polo shirt and black nylon trousers were hardly what you would call interesting or amazing. In a dreary place like Rayners High, they fit right in, but up in Spitalfields, they looked naff and dull. As I stood there wondering what to do, a girl stopped right in front of me and started texting on her phone. She looked so incredible I couldn’t even pretend not to stare. Her hair, which was dyed the colour of vanilla ice-cream, was shaved on one side and hung down like a curtain on the other. On the shaved side her ear had a row of tiny silver hoops running all the way along the edge. She was wearing a flowery sundress and big biker boots and her smooth, tanned skin was as golden as honey. As she texted, a cluster of silver bangles and charm bracelets jingled on her arm. She looked so cool and confident. So different to me.
My heart sank. All this time I’d been worrying about what to expect from my dad, I’d completely forgotten to think about what he might be expecting from me. He’d addressed the birthday card to Cherokee Brown. He didn’t know I’d actually ended up as Claire Weeks. Someone who had no friends and who couldn’t even walk properly. I was about to turn round and head straight back out when I heard a cheer ring out from the other side of the market. Then there was the strum of a guitar and a man started singing. His voice was deep and gravelly and he was singing the stompy old rock song, ‘London Calling’.
The girl with the ice-cream hair finished her text and moved off to look at some jewellery on a nearby stall.
I felt sick and scared and excited all at once. Was that my dad I could hear singing? Was that my dad everyone was cheering and clapping along with?
‘London calling,’ his voice rang out again. If it was my dad he was really good. His voice had a huskiness that made it stand out from other singers. It was gentle and rough all at once.
With my whole body buzzing like I’d downed ten of those doll-sized-but-deadly espresso coffees, I followed the girl and started looking at the trays of rings and pendants and brooches on the jewellery stall. Looking at them but not really seeing a thing.
What should I do? Maybe if I edged just a bit closer to the music . . .
I started weaving my way through the crowds of people between the stalls, stopping every now and then to pretend to have a browse of some clothes or books or – OMG! – stuffed animal heads, and gather my thoughts. The singing got louder and louder and finally I caught sight of a crowd gathered at the far end of the market. My first feeling was of relief. There were so many people there was no way whoever was singing would be able to see me. But then I wouldn’t be able to see him either. I flicked through a box of records on a nearby stall while I stared over at the crowd. What if it wasn’t even my dad? How would I get to find out? I swallowed hard and walked over to join the back of the crowd. Everyone was tapping their feet or nodding their heads in time to the song. When it finished they all started whooping and cheering.
‘Cheers. Thanks a lot,’ said the singer, slightly breathless.
My heart sank. His accent was from London. East London. He didn’t sound American at all. Or Native American. It had to be another performer. He had said in the card that he was at Spitalfields ‘most’ lunchtimes. Obviously this wasn’t one of them. I noticed some long tables over to my right and went and sat down at the end of one. I’d come all this way for nothing. Bunked off school, somehow made my way through Whitechapel without getting mugged or abducted or sold to a sex shop, and all for nothing.
‘Oi, Steve, do “Thunder Road”.’
I looked up as one of the record stallholders closest to me yelled over the crowd.
‘What’s that, Tel? “Thunder Road”?’ the singer replied over his microphone.
‘Yeah,’ the stallholder yelled back. ‘I could do with a bit of Springsteen.’
But I wasn’t listening to what he was saying any more. He’d called the singer Steve. How many Steves could there be performing in Spitalfields at lunchtime? A shaft of sunlight spilled through the glass roof of the market and fell hot on my face. From the centre of the crowd I heard the sound of a harmonica and then that husky voice again. This time he was singing a lot more softly, and strumming gently on an acoustic guitar. The whole crowd fell silent and stood motionless as they listened. It was a beautiful song all about a man trying to persuade a woman called Mary to come for a drive with him to this place called Thunder Road. He wanted her to just climb into the car and see where they ended up. It reminded me of the first time I bunked off school and ended up at the Southbank. On the day Tricia had changed the words to a Britney Spears song to be all about me and my limp, and Miss Davis had laughed along with the rest of the class. Just like today, I’d been so desperate to get out of school I’d walked out of the nearest fire exit and gone straight to the tube, not
