Chapter 1 - Leslie
The train was loud. Leslie gripped onto the seat beside her, in which and extremely disgruntled looking elderly woman sat. A middle-aged Indian couple were having a heated argument in another language beside her. It didn’t seem to be getting any better. Leslie shifted her heavy guitar over to her other shoulder, sighing. The train journey back home didn’t seem to be getting any shorter. And the carriage didn’t seem to be getting any quieter. She checked her watch. Still two hours to go. Boredom pulsated in the air. A child was crying behind her. She didn’t bother to turn around and look.
Leslie Hammond was 5”7, black, with amber eyes and black hair that she always wore in little braids that hung down her back. She played the guitar.
She had been visiting her aunt in London over the weekend. It wasn’t really her aunt, but her dad’s godmother. She lived alone, with an illness that refined her to her bedroom and only her bedroom. Leslie went every other weekend when her aunt’s care worker, Nate, was on his days off. She wasn’t a difficult woman to care for. All she needed was three meals a day alongside her pills, and accompaniment to the toilet every so often. She also required that Leslie brought her guitar, to play for her within those long hours in bed. That was all she asked for.
“Excuse me?” Someone tapped her on the back.
“Yeah?” She turned her head to look behind her.
“Uh, do you play guitar?” It was boy. He was a couple of inches taller than her, but he looked about the same age, with unruly light brown hair, and wide chocolate-brown eyes. He wore jeans and a checked shirt. Leslie swept her braids over her shoulder so they fell down her back.
“Yeah,” she said. The boy grinned.
“Would you play it?”
“Huh?” Leslie was confused. The boy’s cheeks flushed slightly, and he scratched the back of his neck.
“Would you play your guitar? I think this carriage needs a bit of brightening up, don’t you?” Leslie shrugged. This boy was obviously new to travelling by train. “I’ll - uh - I’ll play with you, if you like.” He swung his rucksack off his back, answered with an annoyed grunt from the man behind him. “Sorry.” It was less of a bag and more of a case. He unzipped it and showed Leslie his keyboard. It was long and flat, and adorned with Marvel stickers. “The key on the end doesn’t work, but other than that I can play anything.”
The smooth, feminine voice came on over the intercom. “Next station is: London Marylebone.” Great. It had barely been 20 minutes from when she had left at Charing Cross. “Doors opening. Please take all belongings with you. Mind the gap between the train and the platform when leaving the train. Thank you for travelling with Chiltern Railways.” Leslie turned back to the boy. “What do you want to play?”
The boy grinned, big and white. “I don’t mind, I can do anything if you start and I’ll just play along.” Leslie slid her guitar case off her shoulder, standing to the side whilst everyone bustled off the train. The boy spotted a free seat from which the disgruntled old woman had just vacated, and he sat, balancing the keyboard across his knees. Once everyone had settled down, and the train was moving again, Leslie unzipped her guitar case, pulling the instrument out, and ducking under the strap so it hung on her shoulder.
“Ready?” She asked. The boy nodded, and Leslie started to strum the opening chords to Mr Brightside. The entire carriage fell silent, everyone turning to stare at the girl with the guitar. She swallowed, stopping. Everyone stared at her.
“Come on, it’s fine,” the boy said. “They all like it, I’m sure.” Leslie rested her fingers on the strings, but still didn’t play anything. She noticed a little boy sitting on his mother’s knee. He was gazing at her in admiration. His mother had already lost interest, and was bouncing her son on her knee whilst she conversed with the woman sitting opposite her. She held her gaze with him, before she strummed once on her guitar, and then again, until she had restarted the opening of Mr Brightside. The boy smiled, and began to join in, gingerly at first, unsure if he had the right song, but they both began to play louder as they went further into it. “You should sing,” he told her. She shook her head.
“No. I can’t sing.”
“I’m sure you can.” She shook her head again, still strumming her guitar. The little boy was still staring at her. He was clapping, his little lips turned up in a smile. Leslie took a deep breath. She sang quietly, mumbling just below the volume of the music. “C’mon, you’re alright.” the boy murmured. No one else was speaking on the carriage, they were all listening. She cleared her throat and raised her voice, and to her surprise others began to join in. Almost half the carriage were singing with her. She sang louder, more confidently, until the song was over, and the carriage erupted into clapping and cheers.
“Another!” Cried a man with a thick ginger beard and square glasses. Leslie smiled, glancing at the boy, who motioned for her to begin. She rested her fingers on the strings again. And pushed her thumb downwards in a strum, letting the chord flood through the carriage for a moment before she decided to begin. And then she played, and so did the boy.
