‘So Stormzy or Wiley or Dizzee or any of these artists– how would you describe their music?’
‘Well, they talk about—’
‘No, not their lyrics; we’re not breaking down poetry here– just the music. How would you describe it?’
Scott shifts uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Um. . . fast?’
‘Exactly. It’s usually around 140 beats per minute, giving it that driving bassline you kids love so much.’
Everyone sniggers, including Scott.
‘And what kind of instruments are involved in grime music?’
‘Drums,’ he replies. ‘And, like, computer sounds. Electronic.’
‘Breakbeats, good,’ I reply. ‘Anything else?’
‘Anything, man. You can sample any instrument.’
‘Exactly. While grime is quite percussive with its use of drums, it’s also extremely eclectic, but if you want tomakegrime music, you have to know the basics. In fact, the basics are the same for any genre of music, whether it’s classical, country, pop, death metal or dubstep, whatever. If you want to sing, you need to know pitch and melody. If you want to rap, you need to know tempo, you need to know bars– how many words in a four-count beat. So this “rubbish” is actually the backbone of every song that’s ever made you smile, dance, cry, feel inspired, and whether you choose to continue learning and go on to write, compose, produce, play or just stay at an appreciation level, it’s anything but boring.’
The bell rings, putting an end to my little lecture. They all pile out of class, and I sigh, wondering whether I’m actually making a difference here at all. As I reach for my bag, I hear Scott clearing his throat behind me.
‘Yes, Scott?’
‘Sorry about earlier, Mr Morrison. Your class ain’t boring, I. . . I just don’t get it.’
I lift my bag and turn to face him. I’m surprised by how sincere he looks. ‘OK. Well, I appreciate the apology.’
He nods and starts to leave.
‘Scott. Wait a minute. If you were struggling, why didn’t you come to me?’
He shrugs. God, teenagers are annoying.
‘OK. I’m here every day after school. You let me know when you can stay late and we’ll get some extra tuition in.’
‘Any day,’ he replies. ‘I ain’t got nothing waiting at home.’
In that moment, my heart breaks a little. Not only because of his answer, but because I feel exactly the same.
‘Take a seat,’ I tell him. ‘No time like the present.’
Kate
When I was a kid, Gubba used to always say that I could sleep through an earthquake, admiring my ability to achieve coma-like status while she was lucky to get even five hours a night. Although my sleep schedule has been somewhat haphazard since joining Parish Scott Taylor, I still manage to sleep like the dead, every chance I get. That was until I moved here.
It’s not only that the neighbours are unreasonably loud; it’s that when I lie down at night and close my eyes, my mind instantly wanders to Ed. Wondering what he’s doing, who he’s seeing, what he’s thinking. I have torturous, yet mildly hilarious visions of him and Carly playing their bloody clarinets together in bed, finally free to do weird shit without me getting in the way.
I’ve also taken to running over every stupid thing I’ve ever said and done. And there’s a lot to choose from. As awful as it sounds, I’m hoping that his life is just as empty as mine right now because the thought of him being fine without me is too painful to bear. I’ve been so careless with him and now he’s probably having the time of his life at home, without me, and undoubtedly sleeping like a baby. So tonight, I’m sleeping over at Lauren’s. I’m hoping that a friendly face might ease my mind, or at least provide me with enough booze to knock me out. It’s been a whilesince we properly hung out and I’m really looking forward to it. It’ll also be the first time I’ve been in her new flat since she moved in last month.
It doesn’t take me long to pack a bag, considering I haven’t really unpacked properly since I got here. I just lift some pyjamas and clean underwear from my case and throw them into a backpack and grab a bottle of wine from the fridge– one of the only places in this flat that’s used the way it’s intended.
When I arrive at Lauren’s flat, I double-check the address she’s given me. I’m in Battersea, but this absolutely isn’t the ‘quiet little block of flats’ she described to me. I drive under an arch and into the residents’ parking, finding her two designated parking spots. I recognise her bright yellow Honda electric car and pull up in the spot beside it.
This ‘quiet little block of flats’ is a private, purpose-built residential development right on the riverside. It looks like a holiday complex, with a sandstone court area, displaying lots of real, dust-free plants in oversized pots. I find her doorway and she buzzes me in.
‘Jesus Christ, L,’ I say, as I enter her flat. I look around, open-mouthed, like I’ve just stepped into the Warbucks mansion. ‘What do your clients pay you in? Gold? The way you described it, I thought you’d moved up near Clapham Junction.’
