Free Star Crazy Me by Jean Ure

to go and blow it.
    â€œWhat you may not realise, however…” She wagged an old, gnarled finger at me. On the finger was a massive ring with a gleaming green stone. Emerald, I guess. “What you may not realise is that an instrument such as yours needs nurturing. You should treat it with respect. A voice is like a delicate bloom – like the finest crystal. You misuse it at your peril!”
    She seemed to expect me to say something, but I didn’t know what to say cos I hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about. Just that she seemed to be having a go at me.
    â€œYou cannot simply blast out at full volume for hours on end as if you’re some market trader selling cabbages!”
    I resented that. What’s wrong with market traders? I didn’t see she had any call to get all snobby.
    â€œSurely, my dear, you can understand my concern?” She peered at me out of strangely bright, birdlike eyes. “You’re putting your voice under tremendous pressure!”
    Somewhat annoyed, I said, “I’m not putting it under pressure. It’s just the way I sing.”
    â€œWell, it shouldn’t be! You’ll do permanent damage if you carry on like that.”
    Now she was really starting to annoy me. It was my voice; I knew what was right for it. I said, “I’ve been singing that way ever since I can remember. It hasn’t done it any harm.”
    â€œNot yet, maybe. But if you continue singing full out, without any kind of training—”
    â€œJudy Garland sang flat out!” It was one of the things I knew about her. I knew quite a lot, as a matter of fact; I’d once watched a programme with Nan: Judy Garland the Legend . “She was famous for always giving her best.”
    â€œYes, and she had great problems with her voice as she grew older. Take it from me! I know what I’m talking about. You can still give of your best without straining your vocal chords. It’s a question of technique… I could teach you, if you wanted.”
    I knew I ought to be gracious, and thank her very kindly, but sometimes I get embarrassed when people offer to do things for me – specially when I’m not quite sure what it is they’re offering. I mean… Mum couldn’t afford for me to have singing lessons!
    I mumbled that that was all right; I wasn’t aiming to be an opera singer. Maybe – through embarrassment – I said opera in a sneery kind of way, cos she raised both her pencilled eyebrows into her wrinkly old forehead and said, “So for any other kind of singer it doesn’t matter if they ruin their voice? Is that what you’re telling me? But surely a singer is a singer no matter what! Or maybe you consider your sort of singing to be in some way inferior? In other words, as far as you’re concerned, the voice is of no importance?”
    That wasn’t what I was saying! How dare she put words in my mouth? I gulped down the rest of my minty tea and shoved the cup back on the tray. Then I stood up and grabbed my guitar.
    â€œOh,” she said, “are you leaving now?”
    â€œGotta get back,” I said. “Gotta get Mum’s dinner.”
    â€œWell, think about what I said.”
    As I made for the door I stopped and looked again at one of the photos. “Is that you?” I said. “Are you Liliana…” I hesitated.
    â€œPruszynski.” Pru-shinsky . “Born plain Lilian Banks, in Manchester. Pruszynski is my married name. You can call me Mrs P.”
    Why should she think I wanted to call her anything? It wasn’t likely I’d be seeing her again.
    â€œThank you for the tea,” I said.
    â€œThank you ,” she said. “Hearing you sing was a pleasure.”
    It’s funny, cos she was just an ancient old woman, but when she said that it gave me a real buzz. She’d obviously been someone, in her time; she knew what she was talking about.