"I know that one, too," Randall declared, and as if his voice was something that had a life of its own and would emerge whenever it liked, he began to sing along. Being trained, he just normally projected and in moments, everyone in the pub was looking at us. I felt like crawling under the table.
But, to my surprise, no one resented his intrusion. More of the customers began to sing along and in moments, the whole place resounded with the tune. When it ended, they all applauded.
"Now there's a voice, Charlie. Keep that one comin'," a plump, jolly-looking woman at the bar declared. There were many seconds to her suggestion.
"Give the lad a bit of brew for that," someone shouted from the corner.
"Yeah, break ya heart, Charlie. Part with some of the precious nectar."
More laughter followed.
"I'll pay for it, Charlie," the slim man with the protruding Adam's apple declared and slapped some money on the bar. "He's got to be eighteen. Look at the size of 'ism."
"Aye," the woman beside him said. "A young man with a voice like that shouldn't go dry, Charlie."
"All right, ya blokes. Shut yer gobs," the bartender said. Moments later he brought a pint of ale to our table. "A gift from yer fans, lad," he said.
Randall's eyes widened with glee when he looked at me. I didn't know what to do or say.
"Thanks," he said and took a sip of the ale.
I tasted it, too, to see what his was like. Randall finished it and mine before we finished our shepherd's pies. When we got up to leave, there was a round of applause and a cheer. We burst out onto the street, laughing. "I'm a professional singer," he announced loudly to the world. "I got paid! Maybe it was just a beer, but I got paid!"
"Right and we could go to jail here for it."
"We better get going then," he said with a laugh, and we hurried away. "That ale was good. I could drink another of those. I guess I could pass for eighteen."
"You don't have long to go, Randall," I reminded him. He laughed.
"That's right."
He looked silly, like his smile was lopsided on his face.
As we walked along, Randall talked more about himself and his family. The ale he had drunk seemed to have opened the dam holding back his personal life even more. From what Randall told me about his parents, despite their emphasis on his talent and their expectations for it, they seemed to dote more on his younger brother, who was an athlete and a more allaround student. I sensed that Randall felt his parents treated him as if he was someone unusual whose eccentricities would be explained by his talent and therefore excused and ignored.
"Dad always says things like 'That's Randall. He's special.' I'm not so special. I don't like being treated as if I was odd, do you?"
I had to laugh at the question.
"Oh," he said, "I'm sorry." He paused. "I really don't think of you as being different, Rain. I know I did a poor job of explaining that before, but I don't. I mean, you're unique, but you're not weird. Oh, just forget about it," he said, frustrated with himself. "I don't know what I'm saying anymore. And," he said looking around, "I don't know why we're walking in this direction."
"We better return to Endfield Place," I said.
"Right."
Randall found a station and we took the tube back to Holland Park. During the ride, he closed his eyes and nearly fell asleep. So much for his ability to hold his ale, I thought with a smile, Once we arrived, however, he snapped lack to life and walked me to my great-aunt and great-uncle's home.
"I hope you had fun," he said.
"Oh, the best:' I said.
"Sure."
"No, really, Randall. Thank you for the day."
He beamed and pulled back his shoulders.
"Yeah, well, I guess a girl could have fun with me.