-You have to go to London – Peter was leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed in front of him, listening to me playing.

- I know – I said, letting silence take over once more. I was trying to get in as much work done as I could, before my family would come by for Christmas – But I don’t really know what to do. I will need a band and I don’t know anyone…

He lifted his chin slightly, pouting his lower lip – I mean, we could try and get something on tape and send it off to some labels. I can bring in my guitar and we can work something out. Add some drums, some bass lines and it will be brilliant.

Peter had had music lessons with me when he was younger, but the piano had never been his calling and he took up guitar some time after.

- We could rent a studio down in Bristol for an afternoon or two – he shrugged.

- Do you think we could do that?

- Of course, why not?

He knew much more of the world than I did, at seventeen. I figured he knew what he was talking about and he did have the dream of becoming a musician.

- Is it expensive? - I couldn’t dream of asking for money now that I knew how things were.

Peter smiled, cheekily – Ask your father. Say it’s your Christmas present. I bet you he won’t say no.

That did sound like the wisest course of action. But I wouldn’t just outright ask for the money, I would ask for a loan and I would promise to pay him back.

- Can I take a look at the scores? - Peter asked and he sat beside me. We talked about how we could introduce the different elements and my vision for all of it. - This is good. But always remember that this is your music. Make sure you always get to have the last word.

He handed me the pages and he winked. Those words probably stayed with me more than he intended. So much so that the perfectionist in me got the nickname Little Monster, at Firefly.

It’s not as bad as it might sound, for me, at least. I ended up enjoying the idea of being contrary to what was expected of me.

My dad loved the skeletons I had in my binder and immediately said he would loan me whatever I needed, that he would charge no interest. He did ask for an early, dated autograph, though, which may be somewhat exploitative as he said he just knew that first autograph would be worth a fortune someday, far outweighing what he was lending me.

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Money issues aside, we did have a great Christmas, the six of us – three siblings, my dad, Mami and grandma Luísa -, and no one talked of illnesses or loneliness, grieving or loss. We just hung out by the fireplace, stuffing our bellies with cookies, went on scientific expeditions to the attic, ran about on the icy lawn and… then it was all over again. Another wave of goodbyes, another round of farewell kisses, another stream of safe travels.

Peter came by the day after they’d been gone, with his guitar in tow, ready to show me what he had been working on. He was on his school Christmas break and I was floating around in limbo, still not knowing what would happen. We couldn’t afford tutors anymore, but I was not enrolled in a school either, as the move had been so sudden so, what better to do to pass the time than to work on some music?

In the early days of January 1994, Edgar took Peter and me down to Bristol. Collins was not fond of the idea of Peter becoming a musician and he never encouraged him to do so. He had let him come along because I had asked him to and, yet, I could have sworn I saw his nose crinkling just a smidge when I did.

The audio engineer started chatting with Peter as soon as we got there, asking him what he wanted and how he wanted it.

- Oh, this is not for me. I’m not the one paying for it – Peter moved over and the man’s eyes fell on me. I was always short for my age and have always looked younger than I really am. So, when he saw me, wearing an oversized black woollen jumper that made me look even smaller, he let out a belly laugh.

- And what’ll it be today, love? Postman Pat, Postman Pat and his black and white cat? - he sang, childishly.

My initial reaction was to shield myself. I wasn’t expecting mockery. But Peter just shot me a look that screamed stand up for yourself and, for the first time, I channelled my inner Margaret, stood up straight and handed him the scores.

- This is what we have for today.

The man knitted his brows as he skimmed through what I had given him – Isn’t this a little too grown up for you?

- This is what we have for today – I said it again, more assuredly this time. I went on to answer the questions he had asked Peter and we decided what and how we were going to record what we had

As soon as we were actually recording, I managed to narrow my focus enough to let my insecurities disappear for a split second.

We spent the afternoon working on Lost, recording and re-recording, adding dubs and layers of sound. It wasn’t exactly how I had envisioned it, but we didn’t have much time and we had to make do with what we had.

Edgar sat on the couch, all along, just munching on some crisps and bobbing his head along with the rhythm.

We made the trip back at night, eating the pasties Edgar had bought us, happy that it had gone so well. It really seemed that the world was smiling and welcoming us with open arms, such was the thrill.

Mami was also very pleased, maybe not because of what I had done, but because I was happy. We had a late dinner together and she asked me to play Waltz no. 2, by Shostakovich, which had been hers and grandpapa John’s first dance. She let herself close her eyes and travel back, before saying she was tired and wanted to go to sleep.

I walked her to her room and went straight to the music room once again. We had another recording session soon and I wanted to ride that high for as long as I could.