being right next door to Spitalfields.
I started walking a bit faster. Up ahead of me two ladies in black burkhas bustled their little children over a tiny zebra crossing. They reminded me of mother penguins. The road was narrower now and cobbled, the complete opposite of Whitechapel High Street. As I walked I peered down each side road looking for any sign of Spitalfields. The names of the roads were really cool – Threadneedle Street, Fashion Street – there wasn’t a Magnolia Crescent in sight. And then, as I peered down a side road called Fournier Street, I saw a sign with an arrow saying SPITALFIELDS MARKET. I stopped, as still as a statue. Ever since I’d got on the tube I’d been worried I’d never find Spitalfields, but now I had found it I felt a bit sick. I fumbled around in my bag for my mobile to check the time. Nearly half past eleven. I pulled out the birthday card and opened it again, my fingers trembling.
You can find me most lunchtimes performing in Spitalfields Market. By the record stalls. If you want to find me . . .
I took a deep breath. It wasn’t lunchtime yet. I still had time to get to the market and decide what I was going to do. I started walking down Fournier Street. I wondered what my dad looked like. Back when I thought he was all American with commitment issues I pictured him being big and broad and wearing a cowboy hat and boots. And possibly a medallion. But now I knew he had wanted to call his daughter – wanted to call me – Cherokee, I wasn’t sure what to think. Maybe he was a Native American and Steve Brown was just his English name. Maybe he was really called Growling Bear or Big Stream Running Water. I wondered what he did when he ‘performed’. I thought of the men with the long dark plaits who played the pan pipes in Harrow every Saturday. Is that what Steve – my dad – would be doing in Spitalfields? I felt my cheeks start to flush. What would I say to him? How should I act?
‘And this is where Jack the Ripper’s first victim used to lodge . . .’
I glanced across the street and saw a group of people gathered in front of a really old house, gazing up at its grimy windows. A man with a clipboard was standing on the steps of the house, giving them some kind of talk. I started walking a little faster. Images of a madman massacring prostitutes were not really what I needed to calm my nerves. At the end of the street a thin white church pointed up into the clear blue sky like a witch’s finger. I drew level with it and stopped and stared. There, straight ahead of me on the other side of a busy main road, was a wrought iron gate and a sign that said WELCOME TO OLD SPITALFIELDS MARKET.
Chapter Four
‘When in doubt, place your character in an unusual setting. Then see your writing come alive!’
Agatha Dashwood,
So You Want to Write a Novel?
For the first time ever I entered a church without being forced there in a nasty dress for somebody’s christening or wedding. That’s how scary the prospect of seeing my real dad was. I sat down on a shiny wooden pew about halfway along the church and took a deep breath. The air was cool and clean and smelt slightly of Christmas. I looked up at the huge wooden cross suspended over the altar and suddenly felt as if I was in a corny movie and this was the part where the heroine prays to God for guidance. Feeling slightly desperate, I whispered, ‘What should I do?’ and looked at the mosaic of coloured light streaming on to the cross through the stained-glass window. But nothing happened. There was no booming God-voice uttering words of wisdom. Not even a thunderbolt. Nothing but the hum of the traffic outside.
I sat there for ages in the end, with all kinds of images flashing through my mind. Rayners High, my mum and Alan, the twins, Magnolia Crescent. They all seemed so far away now. It was like I’d been whisked out of my old life into somebody else’s. Somebody called Cherokee. It was when I had that thought that I finally plucked up the courage to go. Claire Weeks might have stayed hiding in a church all day, but not Cherokee Brown.
Outside, the sunlight was brighter than ever. I squinted as I made my way to the nearest crossing and waited as a stream of buses, cars, bikes and lorries thundered by. Across the road, on either side of the wrought iron gate, was a row of quaint little shops, totally different to the kind on Brick Lane. These were much posher. The clothes shops had dummies reclining on sofas and eating golden grapes and the restaurants were advertising things that sounded more like medical conditions than food.
Finally the lights changed and I crossed over, trying to ignore my bass drum of a heart. I walked through the gates into the market and down a passageway that was lined with other little shops – one selling antique furniture and another selling twenty-seven different varieties of cheese.
The first thing I noticed about the market wasn’t the stalls, it was the people. I’d never seen so many interesting haircuts and amazing clothes. It was even better than the Southbank. I looked down at my school uniform. I’d already taken off my tie and blazer and stuffed them into my bag, but my blue polo shirt and black nylon trousers were hardly what you would call interesting or amazing. In a dreary place like Rayners High, they fit right in, but up in Spitalfields, they looked naff and dull. As I stood there wondering what to do, a girl stopped right in front of me and started texting on her phone. She looked so incredible I couldn’t even pretend not to stare. Her hair, which was dyed the colour of vanilla ice-cream, was shaved on one side and hung down like a curtain on the other. On the shaved side her ear had a row of tiny silver hoops running all the way along the edge. She was wearing a flowery sundress and big biker boots and her smooth, tanned skin was as golden as honey. As she texted, a cluster of silver bangles and charm bracelets jingled on her arm. She looked so cool and confident. So different to me.
My heart sank. All this time I’d been worrying about what to expect from my dad, I’d completely forgotten to think about what he might be expecting from me. He’d addressed the birthday card to Cherokee Brown. He didn’t know I’d actually ended up as Claire Weeks. Someone who had no friends and who couldn’t even walk properly. I was about to turn round and head straight back out when I heard a cheer ring out from the other side of the market. Then there was the strum of a guitar and a man started singing. His voice was deep and gravelly and he was singing the stompy old rock song, ‘London Calling’.
The girl with the ice-cream hair finished her text and moved off to look at some jewellery on a nearby stall.
I felt sick and scared and excited all at once. Was that my dad I could hear singing? Was that my dad everyone was cheering and clapping along with?
‘London calling,’ his voice rang out again. If it was my dad he was really good. His voice had a huskiness that made it stand out from other singers. It was gentle and rough all at once.
With my whole body buzzing like I’d downed ten of those doll-sized-but-deadly espresso coffees, I followed the girl and started looking at the trays of rings and pendants and brooches on the jewellery stall. Looking at them but not really seeing a thing.
What should I do? Maybe if I edged just a bit closer to the music . . .
I started weaving my way through the crowds of people between the stalls, stopping every now and then to pretend to have a browse of some clothes or books or – OMG! – stuffed animal heads, and gather my thoughts. The singing got louder and louder and finally I caught sight of a crowd gathered at the far end of the market. My first feeling was of relief. There were so many people there was no way whoever was singing would be able to see me. But then I wouldn’t be able to see him either. I flicked through a box of records on a nearby stall while I stared over at the crowd. What if it wasn’t even my dad? How would I get to find out? I swallowed hard and walked over to join the back of the crowd. Everyone was tapping their feet or nodding their heads in time to the song. When it finished they all started whooping and cheering.
‘Cheers. Thanks a lot,’ said the singer, slightly breathless.
My heart sank. His accent was from London. East London. He didn’t sound American at all. Or Native American. It had to be another performer. He had said in the card that he was at Spitalfields ‘most’ lunchtimes. Obviously this wasn’t one of