by Eleanor Ray
They finally pulled in at the station and followed the throngs of people through the town, across the bridge and to the fields, joining the huge queue to get in. ‘Can’t we queue-jump?’ asked Chantel. She didn’t have a backpack and was hauling an out-of-place wheelie suitcase. ‘Cos you guys are in a band.’ She said the second half of her sentence loudly, but no one looked around.
‘We’re hardly The Chemical Brothers,’ said Tim, sounding rather embarrassed. ‘I think we wait like everyone else.’
‘Spoilsport,’ said Chantel. ‘What’s the point of being a rock star if you don’t get special treatment?’
‘The music,’ said Tim.
‘Whatever,’ said Chantel.
‘You girls are festival virgins, right?’ asked Simon. Chantel and Amy glanced at each other and nodded. ‘A few tips from an expert,’ he continued, as they finally went into the fields. ‘One. Travel light. You’ve already failed that one, Chantel, by bringing that ridiculous suitcase.’
‘I need somewhere to keep my hair straighteners,’ she replied.
‘Course you do,’ said Simon, with a laugh. ‘And where are you planning to plug them in, genius?’
‘There must be plug sockets,’ said Chantel. ‘How do you plug your guitars in?’
‘She’s got a point,’ said Tim, laughing. ‘I can just see Chantel at the corner of the stage, straightening her hair while the Red Hot Chilis are playing.’
‘Got to look my best,’ said Chantel, with a smile.
‘Number two,’ continued Simon, ‘provisions. The food on site is overpriced and shit. Once we’ve dumped our stuff we go to the Tesco in town and stock up. Sausage rolls, beer, sausage rolls. No one is eating poncy quiches and hummus near my tent. I’m looking at you, Tim.’
‘One time,’ said Tim. ‘And you’ll never let me forget.’
‘Number three. Where to camp. You think you want near the loos in case of night-time pees, but you don’t. These are festival toilets and they stink. You think you want near the bushes for shelter. You don’t. Bushes are makeshift loos for the lazy. They stink too. You think you want near where the bands are playing. Wrong again. People get drunk while they listen and vomit on their way back. You don’t want to be on the vomit trail. It stinks.’
‘So where do you want to be?’ asked Chantel.
‘High ground,’ said Simon. ‘You want all the crap running somewhere else.’ Both girls pulled a face. ‘Midway, mid-field. Minimise the risk of anyone pissing on your tent.’
‘I can’t believe you talked me into coming to this,’ said Chantel. ‘I wish I was with my mum in Dubai.’
‘Just think of Damon Albarn,’ said Amy. ‘It will all be worth it.’
‘You, me and a druid wedding at Glastonbury next year,’ Spike told Chantel. She giggled. Amy rolled her eyes but Chantel was lapping it up. ‘I’ll be back from Ibiza by then.’
‘I’d love to go to Ibiza,’ said Chantel. The girls were sitting in the chill-out tent a bit the worse for wear, and Spike had zoned in on Chantel. Handsome, probably fifteen years their senior and with dirty blond dreadlocks and a sunburn that had faded to a deep browny-red, he exuded confidence and stank of weed. Chantel was smitten.
‘Tell me your business plan again,’ said Amy.
‘T-shirts,’ replied Spike. ‘With slogans. Clubbers will love them. I’ll make my fortune.’ He paused. ‘But it’s not about the money,’ he added, as quickly as his slow drawl could manage. ‘It’s about the experience.’
‘I think it sounds amazing,’ said Chantel. ‘I’ve never been abroad.’
‘Yes you have,’ said Amy. ‘We went on that school trip to France when we were eleven. We saw the Bayeux Tapestry, remember?’
Spike laughed and Chantel scowled at Amy. ‘I’d love to go to Ibiza,’ said Chantel.
‘Come with me,’ said Spike. Chantel giggled again and Amy saw his hand was wrapped proprietorially around her friend’s thigh.
‘We should find the others,’ said Amy, standing up.
‘I’m happy here,’ said Chantel.
‘It’s getting late,’ argued Amy.
‘You go,’ said Chantel. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I’ll stay,’ said Amy.
‘No, you go,’ said Chantel, her voice insistent. ‘Find Tim.’
‘I’ll take care of your friend,’ said Spike, fishing a silver tin from his pocket.
Chantel grinned. ‘Catch you later, Amy,’ she said. ‘Don’t wait up.’
By the time Chantel got back to their tent the next day, it was gone noon. She grinned at Amy again. ‘You smell weird,’ said Amy. ‘Let’s find the showers.’ But when they saw the showers on offer, they decided they were not that desperate. Then at Tesco, Chantel had a brainwave and now here they were, enacting their plan.
‘You guys are worse than Tim and his quiche,’ complained Simon. Amy poured water over Chantel’s hair from a giant Evian bottle and massaged in shampoo. ‘This is not the festival spirit. You’re meant to be roughing it.’
‘It’s shampoo and conditioner in one,’ replied Chantel. ‘We are roughing it.’
‘You’re meant to have greasy hair and stink,’ insisted Simon.
‘I think it’s hot,’ said Tim. ‘I’ll wash the rest of you, Amy.’
‘We’ve got wet wipes for everywhere else,’ Chantel told him, through a mop of wet hair. ‘Before you get excited.’
‘Mouth closed,’ said Amy, as she dowsed Chantel’s head in water. ‘All done,’ she said. ‘Salon perfect.’
‘Maybe I should have left my hair dirty,’ said Chantel, producing a towel from her suitcase. ‘I could get dreadlocks, like Spike.’
‘And eight piercings, like Spike?’ asked Amy.
‘Nine piercings,’ corrected Chantel. ‘There’s a secret one.’ She grinned.
‘Spike smells funny,’ said Amy.
‘We all smell funny,’ said Chantel. ‘It’s a festival.’
Tim glanced at his phone. ‘The rest of the band are checking out the audio. Come on, Simon.’ They got up to leave. ‘Not sure if we’ll make it back before the gig. Nine p.m., Bacardi tent.’
‘We’ll be there,’ said Amy.
‘With clean hair,’ added Chantel. ‘And straighteners.’
‘And Spike,’ said Amy, rolling her eyes.
Amy stood at the very front. It was a good thing that she and Chantel had got there early. It was packed. She’d barely heard the acts before Tim’s band, she was so nervous on his behalf. She glanced at the sea of people behind her. This was the biggest gig that Tim’s band had ever had.
The boys came on stage to screams from the audience. They’d been unlikely to have heard these guys before, so it must be generous anticipation and festival fever. She saw Tim scan the audience, his eyes wide at the size of it. Then he spotted her and smiled. Chantel squeezed her hand.
When the band started playing, Amy realised something. All these people, but it was her he was singing to. Only her. She felt happiness well up inside her.
They played the upbeat tracks first, then slowed it down with Amy’s favourite song. ‘Already Dark’. She broke Tim’s gaze for a moment to turn around and take in the crowd. The jumping had stopped, and people stood, mesmerised. Then someone got out a lighter and began waving it in the air, in time to the music.
Suddenly little flames appeared everywhere. Amy’s eyes went back to Tim. He’d never looked so happy. For once Amy found herself wishing that she smoked so she could join in.
‘This is worth braving those toilets for,’ said Chantel, who’d got out her own lighter and was waving it. Even Spike was swaying in time to the music, his arm wrapped around Chantel.
Amy nodded, her eyes locked on Tim. ‘It’s perfect,’ she replied.
‘Good morning to you, madam. Fine day we’re enjoying today. Good westerly breeze.’ Amy nodded politely at the elderly man who had swung the door open for her as soon as the buzzer indicated the lock was released. He wore a captain’s hat and navy
blazer. He stood to one side and made an elaborate sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘Ladies first, of course. Enjoy your visit.’ He saluted her, then slipped out of the door as soon as she’d entered. Amy turned to see he’d begun a jaunty trot down the driveway of Lockhart Care Home.
‘Captain’s gone again,’ shrieked an elderly lady sitting in a chair by the door, banging her hand on the armrests excitedly. Amy stepped aside as two women in white uniforms appeared and gave chase to the captain.
Amy looked around. The building was modern, with beige walls and carpets the colour of smoked salmon. It smelled of disinfectant, with a hint of boiled cabbage. The reception area spilled out from what she imagined was the main sitting room, and there were a number of residents sitting in chairs. Some were clearly in their own worlds, a few were asleep, but the rest looked at her curiously. All wore slippers. It made Amy think of her grandma, determined to stay in her own home, surrounded by her memory-infused possessions till the end.
The lady who had raised the alarm waved at her. ‘Not your fault, dear,’ she told Amy. ‘He tries it every time. Regulars are on to him, but you weren’t to know.’
Amy nodded, looking out through the glass door. The captain was returning, with a staff member on each arm, as if they were going for a friendly stroll on the deck of a ship. ‘Sea’s a bit choppy,’ he said, nodding to Amy as he came back inside. ‘Set sail tomorrow.’ He continued on the arm of one of the staff and the other released him and greeted Amy.
‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Someone is meant to be on reception to stop that kind of thing happening, but if residents need us we get called away. We’re short-staffed. He never gets far. Now, how can I help?’
Amy hesitated. ‘I’m here to visit Arnold Putney,’ she said. She put her hand in her pocket and clutched the piece of paper on which his grandson had written the name and address of the care home.
‘Ah yes, his grandson called to tell us you were coming. Lovely old gentleman. He’s just finished lunch, I believe, and will be back in his room.’ Amy glanced at her watch. Noon.
‘We feed them early,’ she told her. ‘Room twenty-four. Along that corridor and up the stairs.’
Amy followed the instructions. She paused outside his door, wondering what she was doing here. There was no way a ninety-five-year-old man would remember selling a ring more than four years ago. And if he did, what did it mean? Tim was still gone. She was clutching a small bag of shopping, and glanced inside it to steady her nerves. She could see a small wine bottle peeking back up at her, as if to ask her what she had to lose. Nothing, she decided, and knocked on the door.
‘Come in, love,’ said a voice. Amy obeyed.
The room was small but bright, with a single bed, a couple of chairs for visitors that had the institutional feel of a headmaster’s office, and a coffee table with a little lamp. One shelf was covered in framed family photographs, including several Amy recognised as the man from the shop as a small boy. A luscious ficus sat in one corner. The pot was a nice rendition of the willow pattern.
Arnold was sitting in a chair that faced the window, but he slowly started to stand up when Amy entered and was twisting around to see her. ‘Oh, don’t go to any trouble,’ she said, visualising a nasty fall and broken hip.
He ignored her, and successfully got to his feet and manoeuvred himself to face her. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Lovely to have such a beautiful visitor. What gorgeous chestnut hair you have. And those eyes.’ He paused, and Amy felt his eyes inspecting her. ‘You look familiar. Have we met before?’
‘Not really,’ said Amy.
‘No matter. Come, pull up a chair next to me.’
Amy carefully put her bag on the bed, then lifted one of the chairs and placed it a healthy distance from Arnold’s. ‘It’s good of you to see me,’ she said. He tottered a little bit, and Amy realised he was reaching out a hand for hers. She hurried to take it, alarmed at his unsteadiness. He grabbed her hand and lifted it to his mouth, placing a long, wet and rather gummy kiss there. Amy did her best not to grimace, then reclaimed her hand and sat down. Arnold began the process of sitting down too, and Amy jumped up to help him.
‘Thank you, darling,’ he said, then looked at her expectantly. She sat down and looked back. ‘Did you bring me a little something?’
‘Of course,’ she said, jumping up again and going to her bag. She removed the half-size bottle of red wine that his grandson had told her to buy. Arnold grinned back. ‘There’s an empty Ribena bottle in the bedside drawer,’ he told her, his voice an exaggerated whisper. ‘Be a love and fill it up, will you?’
Amy obeyed, careful not to spill any on the pink carpet, then gave the Ribena bottle to him. He lifted it to his lips and took a shaky swig. ‘It’s not a bad place this,’ he said, wiping his mouth and breathing out a satisfied sigh. ‘Proper cooked breakfast and hot lunch. Just sandwiches at dinner, mind. But they’ve got a ridiculous no booze policy. Like anyone would notice if us lot were drunk.’ He laughed and offered her the bottle. ‘Half of us are off our rockers anyway.’
Amy shook her head. ‘It’s yours,’ she said.
‘So, what can I do you for?’ Arnold beamed at her, clearly in a good mood. He took another swig of the wine and Amy watched a drip escape from his mouth and make a run for it down his chin. He reached his tongue out and caught it. Frog-like and surprisingly quick. ‘Sure you don’t want any? You look like you could use a drink.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Amy. ‘Thank you for seeing me.’
‘My grandson said you had something you wanted to show me, from the shop?’
Amy removed her necklace, then slid the ring off and held it out to Arnold. He took it, then reached in a pocket and popped on a pair of glasses. He peered at it carefully. She watched him, looking for a sign of recognition on his face.
‘I liked stocking jewellery,’ he told her. ‘I never had much of it and it always took a while to sell, so I remember every piece. It was Dave who stopped it, in the end. My grandson. I think he was worried we’d be robbed. But I liked seeing the expression on people’s faces when they bought something special like this. Some women bought jewellery as a treat for themselves. Sometimes men came in to buy stuff as an apology. God knows what they’d done.’
He looked at Amy, who nodded patiently. ‘Do you remember this ring?’ she asked.
‘I liked to imagine who’d buy which piece, and why. I wasn’t always right, of course. I remember, I picked out a lovely brooch, Art Deco it was, silver filigree in the shape of a dainty little beetle. Citrine for eyes. I was sure that one would be bought by a man who had a wife who loved gardening. But then this woman came in, must have been about your age, and got it for her twelve-year-old son. He liked insects and jewellery. Strange world, eh?’
Amy nodded again. ‘And this ring?’
‘My Dave sounded quite taken with you,’ Arnold said. ‘Said you bought that owl?’
‘It’s lovely,’ said Amy. Her thwarted longing to know about the ring was curdling in her throat.
‘Ah yes, I can tell you have a good eye. Artist, are you?’
‘Yes,’ replied Amy, taken aback. ‘Well, no. Not any more.’
Arnold took another sip, then looked down at the ring again. ‘This ring,’ he said, his voice affectionate, ‘I always knew it would be bought for love.’
‘You remember it?’ she asked, leaning forwards. She could smell wine and blackcurrants on Arnold’s breath. ‘You remember who bought it?’
‘I picked it up at a car-boot sale,’ he continued. ‘Got it as part of a job lot. Some junk, some fun costume stuff, a rather lovely malachite bracelet. But really I bought it all for that ring.’ He frowned at it. ‘Lovely Art Deco piece,’ he said. He handed it back to her. ‘Aquamarines aren’t the priciest of stones, and the diamonds are tiny, but it is very elegant, don’t you think?’
The ring felt warm from Arnold’s grasp, and Amy allowed herself to slip it on to her finger. ‘But you don’t remember who bought
it,’ she said, eventually.
Arnold looked up. ‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘I’d been imagining who’d buy this for years, and the lad fitted the bill perfectly. Tall chap. Dark hair. Handsome. Bit fidgety. Hummed under his breath a lot.’
Amy squeezed the ring. That was Tim.
‘I thought he was sure to propose,’ said Arnold. ‘That the ring was for an engagement. I can tell when someone is in love.’
‘No,’ said Amy. ‘He didn’t.’
‘Shame,’ said Arnold, sadly.
‘I haven’t seen him in over eleven years,’ added Amy.
‘Eleven years,’ said Arnold. ‘That’s about the time I sold the ring, give or take a year or two. Maeve was still alive, because I remember telling her about it. It was the most expensive thing in my shop, at the time. I remember wondering how a lad like that had found the money.’ He grinned. ‘Not crazy money, like some of those rings you’d get on Hatton Gardens, mind, but more expensive than a china bird. Higher margin too.’ He winked at her, and Amy was reminded of his grandson.
‘Thank you,’ she said, wanting to think about the significance of what she’d discovered. Tim had bought the ring around the time he’d disappeared. ‘You’ve been very helpful,’ she said.
‘Not a problem, darling,’ he said. ‘My grandson visits, but it’s good to have the company of a pretty young lady like yourself.’ Amy certainly didn’t think of herself as young any more. Everything was relative, she supposed.
‘Look after that ring,’ he told her. ‘It’s a lovely piece, very much of its time. Understated. But still beautiful.’ He looked up at Amy. ‘Like you.’
The ring couldn’t talk. It could only hint, and Amy could infer. But hearing the words from Arnold. Love. Engagement. Proposal. She had to try again. She had to try to find Tim again.
What if she’d been wrong all these years? What if she hadn’t been betrayed at all?
Amy shivered. If he hadn’t left to be with Chantel, what had happened? And where was Chantel?
Amy’s hands flew over the keyboard on Monday morning. Of course she wouldn’t find him online, she’d tried that many times. But perhaps she could track down his old friends. It had been eleven years. Perhaps someone had heard something.
