Free Star Crazy Me by Jean Ure Page B

it. Not just for earning money; I’d still have done it even if I hadn’t earned a penny, thoughit is good to feel that you are appreciated. It wasn’t like I’d asked people to put anything in my doggy bowl. Nobody could accuse me of begging. They’d only done it because they thought I was worth it. I’d kept them entertained, and this was their way of thanking me, showing that they had enjoyed my performance. I think that is as much as anyone can ask.
    Marigold would probably have turned up her nose and said they were all old, like being old meant they didn’t count. It was true that if I’d done rock songs instead of show tunes they’d probably have clapped their hands over their ears and complained about the noise, and the lyrics, and said how it wasn’t proper music, but I still had this great surging buzz of satisfaction when I saw their faces break into big beams, and they all fell silent, just sitting there listening. To me ! I didn’t even mind – well, I did a little bit. But not too much – when they opened their mouths and started trying to sing along, in their quavery voices all out of tune. I didn’t care that they were old and that Iwasn’t singing my sort of song. I had them hooked, and that was all that mattered. They were under my spell!
    It may seem a funny thing to say, but I can’t ever imagine wanting to do drugs, or even drink alcohol. Why would I want to, when I can just get up and sing ? I thought at first, when I left home that morning, that I wouldn’t go back to Sheepscombe, I’d take a different bus and go a bit further afield. After all, I didn’t want to be singing the same songs all over again to the same people; I needed a change of audience. But then a number twenty came along, and that is the bus for Sheepscombe, and before I knew what I was doing I had jumped on it and stayed on it, and once I got there I couldn’t really think of any place to stand except the paved area opposite M&S, where I’d stood before. I mean, there just isn’t anywhere else that’s suitable. With any luck, the old lady – Mrs P, as she’d said to call her – would stay indoors, snoozing in one of her pale green chairs on her dark green carpet, which was what an old lady should do. She’d been outyesterday, she didn’t need to come out again. I didn’t want her to come, bullying and bossing me and going on about straining my voice. All the same, I kept a sharp lookout, just in case.
    By midday, when she hadn’t put in an appearance, I told myself that I could relax; she obviously wasn’t coming. That was good. That was what I wanted. I didn’t need any bossy old person nagging at me. At the same time I had this curious feeling of having been let down, which didn’t make any sense at all.
    I was just deciding that I might as well pack up and go home when I saw her, tottering across from the bus station. Immediately I began on another song, one of Nan’s favourites from My Fair Lady , but instead of belting it out, full throttle, like I normally would, I made this determined effort to hold myself back. I swooned it, and crooned it, making my voice drip like honey. Rather revolting, to my way of thinking. But I did it just to show her! I didn’t have to be Judy Garland; I could be slow and slurpy, if that was what she wanted.
    She stood listening, with her head to one side, her beady eyes fixed on my face. When I’d finished, she came up to me and said, “Dear me! What was that all about?”
    I said somewhat rebelliously that I was resting my voice. “Like you told me to!”
    She smiled at that, and shook her head. “How long have you been here this morning?”
    â€œNot long.” It was true, I hadn’t arrived till nearly eleven.
    â€œQuite long enough,” she said, “I am sure – especially after yesterday’s marathon. How would it