SOUND OF DRUMS
A NDY C OOMBS S ARAH S CHO
ISBN 978-91-47-15594-1
© 2024 Coombs Andy, Scho Sarah och Liber AB
Title of the original Work
Sound of Drums © Andrew Coombs & Sarah Scho, 2021
REDAKTION Anna Karlberg
FORMGIVARE Ingela Jönsson
ILLUSTRATION OCH OMSLAG Sarah Scho
PROJEKTLEDARE Emilie Szakàl
Första upplagan
1
REPRO Repro 8 AB, Stockholm
TRYCK People Printing, Kina 2024
KOPIERINGSFÖRBUD
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1A city boy
So, I was sitting on the train bored out of my skull, when in walks this girl. She sits opposite me and gets out a book. I mean a real book with paper and a cover picture. The book had two people kissing on the cover – so she wasn’t someone I’d normally talk to. But Mom and Dad had taken my phone, so I had nothing to do.
“All right?” I said.
“Yeah,” she said and went back to reading.
“Good book?” I said.
“Mmm,” she said, not looking up.
Rude, I thought and carried on looking out of the window. Good-looking girls often think they’re too good to talk to you. I drummed with my hands on my legs. Pat-tat-tat-tat-pa-tattat-tat.
It had been three hours since I’d left London. And for the last two hours all I’d seen were fields and boring little villages.
“Nice isn’t it?” she said. She was looking at me. Her eyes were a yellowy brown.
“What?” I said. “The book?”
“No, the view. The countryside. I love it.”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “It’s great.”
“You don’t sound like you mean it,” she said. She was smiling like she knew a good joke.
“Well, it’s all right, I guess. But people must go nuts living out here. I mean, what is there to do?”
“So, I’m thinking you’re a city boy.”
“Good guess.”
“Me too. I’m out here visiting friends. I come every year. What’s your excuse?”
“It was my parent’s idea. They thought that me spending three weeks with my weird gran in the countryside would be good for me. You know, help me focus or whatever.”
She smiled again. “They may be right.”
I snorted. “Yeah, right. Three weeks of cows and sheep. Three weeks of no computer and no movies. Three weeks talking about jam and biscuits! I’m going to go crazy!”
“Where does she live?”
“Who?”
“The jam and biscuits woman. Your gran.”
“Out in the middle of nowhere. Somewhere on Exmoor.”
She laughed. She had a nice laugh.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“You’re right. That is the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing there. Just miles of countryside. No shops. Nothing.”
“Great,” I said. “Thanks for cheering me up.”
“You might like it. It’s really quiet.”
“Quiet? I hate quiet! I like music. I’m a musician.”
“Oh yeah? What sort?”
Well, I couldn’t tell her that I didn’t actually play music. Not yet anyway. I’m going to be a drummer in a band when I’m older. But now, the closest I’ve ever come is asking Mom and Dad for a drum kit on my next birthday. But I wasn’t going to tell her that.
“Oh, you know. All sorts. Rock, punk, indie… I’m not defined by genre. I drum.”
“Cool,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said and looked out the window again with an expression on my face that said, dangerous drummer – totally cool. I drummed out another rhythm on my legs. Pat-tat-tat-tatpa-tat-tat-tat. Tat Tat!
“You sound good,” she said.
“Yeah, well, I practice a lot.”
Now that was true. Not on drums of course – I don’t have any
– but anything else I can get my hands on. In fact, that’s what got me on this train to nowhere in the first place. The problem is that everything else is completely boring. Except drumming. I’ll be sitting in class listening to the teacher drone on about how much rain there is in Norway or what fish do in their spare time and my hands will start wanting to drum. Pat-tat-tat-tatpa-tat-tat-tat. On my desk. On my school books. Even on the back of the kid sitting in front of me. Of course, teachers don’t see the creative side of it. They don’t see the world’s next greatest drummer. They just see me not listening. And when teachers see that, they want to talk to my parents. And when my parents hear the negative stuff teachers say about me not concentrating, they think it’s a good idea to completely ruin my summer holidays by sending me somewhere peaceful!
The girl was still looking at me. “I’d love to hear you play sometime. Here’s my contact.”
She tore off a bit of page from her book. She scribbled on it. She leant over – holding it out to me. I took it. My hand touched hers. Her face went red.
“This is my stop,” she said. “I’m Mei.”
The train was slowing down. The girl stood up and started to walk away.
“Hey! My gran might not be online!” I called after her.
“When you get back to London then. Maybe we can meet up,” she called back and got off the train.
She smiled and waved as the train pulled away.
I waved back and tried not to smile too much. Dangerous drummers don’t smile.