The People's Musician

Author's Note: This is the third rewrite of this story, and I may change the approach again. I wrote this for my 3rd year creative writing workshop unit at university, the deadline is 1st May. If you view it, please review it, even if it's to say 'I gave up at this point' so that I know it needs more to hold your interest. Thank you.

The People's Musician

By Louise Broadbent

         Arnold knelt before his trumpet case, lifting the lid with trembling hands. After the agony of a few minutes, he saw her. Miranda. Arnold's trumpet gleamed golden in the sunlight. A smile flushed his face as his mind fluttered, landing on the knowledge that he would play her all afternoon, then on the thought that he would play her for the whole of tomorrow, then on the belief that he would play her for most of his life from that moment on, despite what his parents wanted. Arnold's arm jerked towards her then raised her from her velvet-lined bed. Cradling her in one arm, he closed the case, removed his hat and lay that down for donations, not wanting her bed to be dirtied with people's money.

         Arnold stood and turned to face his audience of Saturday afternoon shoppers. He lifted Miranda to his longing lips, his eyes fixed on her, and paused. Arnold liked to force himself to wait, to make his desire to hear Miranda's song swell to the point of agitation, so that when he played -. Arnold pressed his lips together and blew. His body sighed with relief and bliss. Miranda's song embraced him, seeped into his skin, flowed through his veins and penetrated his soul. Although Arnold couldn't see them, his eyes refusing to wander from Miranda's body, he sensed the shoppers' pause, captivated as he was by her beauty and song. Arnold played whatever felt right; jazz, Handel, the blues, it didn't matter as long as he was playing something. He only stopped when Miranda's image became obscure in the evening darkness. Arnold felt sure that he had only been playing for half an hour. He had started in the early afternoon, so how could it be evening already? Arnold could tell that his disappointment was shared by his audience. They had to rush away to disguise it.

         ‘I'll be back here tomorrow,' Arnold said, to console them and himself. The smile returned to his face as he contemplated the meaning of those words, and how often he'd be able to say them. Playing Miranda was his life now. There would be no more interruptions from his sister, no more chores to do for his mother, and no more being told to get a ‘proper' job, such as the offered place in the family business, Best's Boxes.

         ‘And what, exactly, is wrong with Best's Boxes?' his father's words from that morning surfaced in his mind. Arnold remembered the way his father had huffed the words through his moustache, as he pulled himself a little taller, so that his stomach stuck out.

         ‘Nothing, dad,' Arnold had replied. ‘It's just not what I want to do with my life.' Arnold pushed the memory of his father's response away, the heat already running along the back of his neck.  He noticed that his arm was polishing Miranda with too much vigour, so he stopped, took a breath and placed her back in her case. Arnold did not have to concern himself with their opinion any more, not that they had always slated his passion. His parents had never doubted his ability before, even when he'd been denied an offer for Music at Oxbridge, and even when he'd been denied membership of the English Brass Group. This time, though, they wouldn't even let him try. He'd had to pursue his career without telling them, without saying goodbye. No, not without telling them, Arnold had told them that he was going to be a travelling musician; they just didn't know that he had started already. He didn't need their consent, he was 18. Arnold would have appreciated having their blessing, though. Besides, people used to be travelling musicians as an actual profession, as he had told his sister, Jenny.

         ‘People also used to drive about with a horse and carriage, but can you imagine one on the M25?' Jenny's words sneered at him from the memory inside his head. Arnold slammed the case lid shut, and clipped the clasps click click. He wanted to play his trumpet, not put her away, but even now he couldn't play all the time. So Arnold focused his attention on counting the money he had earned through her song.

         Having counted it twice, Arnold concluded that he had been paid £1.97. This did not seem like much to Arnold, considering he had played for the whole afternoon. But then, he was only a beginner in this profession, and he'd never played in Watford before, so the people there didn't know him yet. Arnold had deduced that he was in Watford from the Harlequin shopping centre, outside which he had played. It was supposed to be the largest in Hertfordshire, but Arnold had never been before. His mother and sister had, but they wouldn't expect to find him there, that was one of the reasons Arnold had stopped there to play that afternoon. Another reason had been the bulbous blister occupying his left heel. Arnold had first become aware of it after walking for a few hours. He'd continued for another hour before sitting on the pavement to inspect his foot. At the time he had decided to buy some moleskin, or plasters at the least, once he had played for the afternoon and earned enough money, but now Arnold was not sure that he had enough for both moleskin and food. He decided to go to a pharmacy to check.

         ‘£1.55!' Arnold said aloud, ‘for plasters!' The till-girl threw a disapproving look at him, which he returned before stomping out of the pharmacy, leaving the box of 10 plasters on the shelf. Arnold hunched on the bench outside, Miranda on his lap, and held his head in his hands, dark blonde hair sliding between his fingers, his body leant forward and his elbows jabbing his knees. ‘I should go home,' he thought, ‘I'm never going to make a living like this. I can't even afford plasters. My family was right.' ‘But what will you do then? Work for Best's Boxes doing admin? Or some other job that you don't want to do?' another thought said in his head. Arnold looked forward, so that his hands dragged on his face, pulling his skin down. He let his hands drop to fall on his trumpet case. If he stayed tonight, he could play his trumpet all day tomorrow. He'd soon save up enough money to buy plasters. He might be able to get them cheaper somewhere else anyway. He didn't really need plasters. For now, he'd just buy some food.

         Minutes later, Arnold stood in a nearby corner shop, the owner of a rather stale looking ham role and an apple. The purchase left Arnold with 61p, not enough to buy a drink. Arnold's mouth felt dry. He had played all afternoon and hadn't drunk anything since breakfast. Arnold had passed a pub on his way to the shop; perhaps they would give him a glass of free tap water. He could pocket the glass and use it to hold tap water from public toilets in the future; they often had taps for drinking water.

         ‘A glass of tap-water, please,' Arnold said to the barmaid, who frowned but filled a glass anyway. ‘Thank you.' Arnold took the glass to the middle of the pub, where he downed it, glanced around, and slipped the glass into his pocket. As Arnold approached the main doors, having used the toilet, heat prickled along his neck and spread to his ears then over his face. He increased his pace, and tightened his grip on his trumpet case. As Arnold pushed the door open, he could feel his heart slamming itself against his ribcage, as eager to escape as he was. The cool air soothed his tongue, tasting as sweet as the water had. Arnold made sure the door shut behind him, so as not to appear to be in a guilty rush, and strode down the street.

         He had made it. Relief trickled through his veins, reminding him of his previous escape. After his family's response to his announcement that he was going to be a travelling musician, Arnold had run upstairs, and there, amidst the humiliation of tears, Arnold had decided to pursue his career despite their opinion. Not long after that, he'd been striding down his road with nothing but the clothes he was wearing, including his hat, and Miranda. What else did he need? Well, in the present moment, Arnold needed somewhere to sleep. A room was out of the question, so Arnold would have to find some shelter where he was. Arnold stopped walking and looked around. He'd been walking towards an underpass, but now that he was thinking about finding somewhere sheltered, the underpass transformed into a bedroom. Arnold hurried towards it, tired from the day's two escapes, and eager to sit down to eat his role and apple.

         The sight of a shape by the left wall made Arnold stop again. Was it a large, discarded coat or -? It moved. Arnold took a step back. He clutched Miranda to his chest. The homeless person sat up and looked towards Arnold. He would want Arnold's change, but Arnold needed the little he had. The man probably hadn't eaten in a long time. The role and apple felt heavy in Arnold's pocket. His stomach growled. Arnold walked towards the man, looking straight ahead, gripping Miranda's case with his right hand arm, his body between her and the homeless man.

         ‘Spare some change, mate?' he asked. Arnold didn't look at him. He kept on walking. Arnold reasoned that you weren't supposed to give money to homeless people, but to charities for the homeless, because homeless people would waste it on drugs or drink. Arnold was doing the right thing. If he ever saved up enough money to spare, he'd give to a charity for homeless people. Maybe he would buy a Big Issue as well. As Arnold strode back into the open, he heard his father's voice inside his head.

         ‘Like some bum.' The last word echoed around Arnold's skull, as Arnold ran up the stairs to his left. He wasn't like that man, he had earned money, enough to buy food, he was working. He was a travelling musician. Arnold noticed that his legs had taken him to the pavement running alongside the ring-road. There didn't seem to be anywhere he could sleep around there, but Arnold wouldn't go back, no matter how much his heel was stinging. Soon, Arnold came across a path leading into a park. Benches were dotted along on either side, some of them under trees with enough foliage to make a roof. Arnold hurried towards one, sat down and removed his roll from his pocket. He unwrapped it, and took a large bite. It was tough and made Arnold want more water, but it also made his stomach demand more. Arnold finished the roll, and munched on the apple. Its juice satisfied his thirst a little, but he was still hungry and thirsty. Arnold lay down on the bench, holding Miranda close to his chest. He shivered, his thought wandering back to the homeless man, and the cosy sleeping bag he'd had. Arnold wished he'd brought his own, or his coat at least. His travel pillow would have been a good idea as well. Arnold cuddled Miranda closer to him. He didn't need those things, not like he needed Miranda. That was what his family didn't understand.

         ‘Where will you sleep? What will you eat?' His dad's voice asked as he had done earlier. Arnold had made enough money to buy some food, and had found somewhere to sleep. He could buy a sleeping bag later on. The homeless man had one, so they couldn't be very expensive. Besides, tomorrow Arnold would play all day. He would play his trumpet for the people, not for some academic doctor or the rich who could afford expensive tickets to go to a professional concert. Arnold had wanted to play for such an audience, until he'd had a rejection letter inspired epiphany. He was glad he hadn't been given an offer from Oxbridge, or a place at the English Brass Ensemble.

         ‘Those stuffy professionals don't appreciate or even recognise your talent, darling' his mum had said, and she had been right. He'd have been playing for the wrong audience if he played with them, because his people did appreciate him. Maybe one day he'd be known as the People's Musician. Arnold allowed his mind to drift amidst hopes for the future, his life playing Miranda, so that the sound of the wind ruffling the leaves, and the occasional car sighing by merged into the sound of Miranda's song, which lulled him to sleep.

*          *          *

         Two weeks later, a tapping sensation on his body awoke Arnold. He shivered, listening to the drumming on the leaves. A drop hit him on his scalp, so that he shuddered. Arnold sat up to watch the patch of ground that had been protected by his body become wet. Arnold stood and stumbled across the field, back to the town. His tired body ached for a warm, soft, and above all dry bed. The best he could do was the pavement under a shop awning. Arnold avoided sleeping in towns, since a man from Shelter had treated him like a homeless person, advising him to sign up for a room, or visit their soup-kitchen, but Arnold's only other option was to stay up, something that the day's hike made unfavourable.

         Arnold was drifting out of consciousness, having found a doorway with no homeless people near, when a bright light in his face wrenched him back to reality.

         ‘Move along, son,' a woman's voice said, ‘you can't sleep here.' Arnold peered up at her, attempting to shield his eyes from the beam with a hand. ‘Hold on a tic, what's your name?' she asked.

         ‘That torch is blinding me,' Arnold said. The light moved away from his face, so that Arnold could make out the woman's uniform. 'I'm sorry, I didn't realise you were a police officer. Am I in the way here?'

         ‘What's your name?'

         ‘Arnold. Arnold Best. I'm a travelling musician.' Arnold petted his trumpet case.

         ‘You are a very lucky lad. You're parents have been worried sick about you.'

         ‘What? No, I called them. They know I'm all right. What do you mean?'

         ‘Come on, then, let's get you to the station.'

         ‘Have I committed a crime?' Arnold asked.

         ‘No, no, it's nothing like that. Nothing to worry yourself about. Come on.' The police-woman offered a hand to help Arnold to his feet. Arnold took it but didn't follow her when she started walking. ‘Come on, then.' Arnold shook his head. ‘Look, I've got to take you to the station, whether you want to come or not, but why you wouldn't, I don't know. If you don't come voluntarily, I'll have to use force. We don't want that, do we?'

         Arnold paused, frowning. ‘I'm not a missing person, you know. I'm a travelling musician.'

         ‘We'll discuss this at the station. I will use force if I have to.' The police woman's handcuffs clinked as she unclipped them from her belt.

*          *          *

         After a month of begging and perfect behaviour, Arnold had persuaded his parents to allow him to spend that Saturday afternoon playing Miranda for the people in the town square, provided his sister escorted him. Arnold lifted Miranda to his longing lips, his eyes fixed on her, and paused. Arnold liked to force himself to wait, to make his desire to hear Miranda's song swell to the point of agitation, so that when he played -. Arnold pressed his lips together and blew. Miranda's song flew free outside as it should be, not caged in his room. As the sound filled his soul, expanding it balloon-like, Arnold's thoughts skipped over his plan. He would persuade his parents to let him play here all day, every day, and save the money he earned. Then, when he'd saved enough for a few months' rent and food, he'd move in with that poet he'd met, the day before his parents imprisoned him at home. This time they wouldn't stop him. This time, he'd make it, as the People's Musician.