After that phone call, it still felt like half of me was stuck in a bad dream—like I couldn’t quite seem to wake up.
And it bothered me, that day, how loud the passing trucks sounded, how strong the dinner smells from the kitchen were. I looked down at my hands, and they were shaking. I couldn’t seem to make them stop. I told myself I’d feel better after I’d had some sleep.
In the morning when I woke, the bad feeling was still there, my mind was racing with dread already and, I thought to myself, I’ve got to get out of this city.
The noise, the expense, the smells, this feeling of dread; I wanted it all behind me. I needed to be around trees. I wanted to be somewhere quiet for a while. What about Oxford? I’d always loved the idea of one day visiting Oxford. Why not today? Excited, I pulled out my diary, and got to work planning exactly what I was going to do next.
After a shower, I put my things in my backpack, closed the lid on my guitar case, drank a quick coffee, left a note for Phil thanking him for his hospitality, and went off to the bus station to buy a ticket to Oxford.
On the way there, I saw a butterfly on a statue of an angel, and thought of my mother. I wondered if this might be a sign of good things ahead. I’d been looking for signs ever since I got to London; looking for some idea of what I was supposed to do next. The signs I found seemed as good a flag as any.
Oxford in autumn is breathtakingly beautiful, just like the movies. Blue skies, golden trees, gothic spires overlooking you from every corner. Walking from the bus station with my backpack and guitar, I felt hopeful. Maybe this was just what I needed: a few trees, a little peace and quiet, some old buildings to inspire the imagination. Who knows? I thought. Maybe I’ll end up loving this place so much, I’ll move here.
When I checked into the backpackers—the cheapest I could find mentioned in my Lonely Planet guidebook—the lady behind the counter saw my guitar and asked if I played. A little, I said. She told me that I was in luck; there was an open mic tonight at the local, the Catweazle Club. I felt my heart beat fast in my chest with excitement. This was one of the promises I’d made to myself: that when I was twenty-one, I would start playing my own songs in public. I couldn’t play well—I only knew the names of a few chords—but that was no excuse. You didn’t need to know the names of chords in order to play your own songs. Maybe I’d try the new song, I thought: the ‘Amazing Life’ one. It wasn’t finished, but I guess I could just play the bit that I had? And if it was awful, who cares? No one knew me here anyway.
And so it was that I ended up that night at the Catweazle Club in Oxford, which was really just a cosy room in an old fire-lit Oxford pub, with tattered red velvet curtains covering the windows and a tiny stage in the corner. Inside this room, the world felt exciting and intimate and new. The event organiser, a friendly fellow called Matt, introduced himself and smiled warmly as I wrote my name on the list. He said when it was my turn I’d hear them call out my name. I leaned my guitar against the bar and, even though I had technically ‘given up drinking’, I bought myself a beer. Dutch courage, because … I felt like I’d need it. I could already feel the heat building in my body. My frosted pint of beer trembled in my hands. What even was this feeling? Was it excitement? Or fear? Both, I suppose.
Once I heard them call my name, heard ‘Clare from Australia’, the feeling inside me changed. Before I knew it, I was up there on the stool, shaking still, wanting very much to run, run away! but I stayed put, and once I was past those first few awkward chords, there it was, that feeling of rightness, as though I was telling the truth for the first time in my life. What a relief it was, to sing my truth, and no one else’s. I could do it here in a way that just didn’t feel possible at home, where people knew me, might worry about me. It felt … vulnerable, and brilliant, like I was doing the exact thing I was born to do. As I sang, it was as though—for the length of the song—all the wrong feelings in me, and in the world, were suddenly put right. The audience was so kind, whooping, clapping, encouraging me when I missed a chord. There were only about twenty of them out there, but that was all I needed: just a few kind people who seemed to get me and my song.
And, still, the applause afterwards came as a shock. It was loud and generous, and someone even whistled. Matt, I think.
How did it sound? No idea. Probably terrible, said the voice in my head, but I didn’t care. I felt proud of myself just for getting up there. I’d never played my own song in public before; I had faced a fear. It felt … exhilarating.
I rushed off stage clumsily, and was almost finished packing up my guitar when Matt came over with a beer for me and said something that has stayed with me all of these years. ‘You’ve got something special about you,’ he said. Then he smiled and patted me on the shoulder, as though we were both … soldiers. He told me he hoped I’d be back, because
