The Summer Island Festival

by Rachel Burton

  ‘Look at them,’ Jenny shouted as she nudged Cathy and looked in the direction of the men. ‘They’re creating a phallus shape to challenge the father figure of the lead singer.’

  Cathy stared at Jenny for a moment before collapsing into giggles. Jenny was studying psychology at University College and had taken her recent Freudian module a little too seriously.

  Halfway through the show the rest of the band took a breather and Storm Tyler took a seat on a high stool to begin his short acoustic set.

  ‘Hello,’ he said to the crowd in general, although Cathy was sure he was looking straight at her. As the crowd erupted into another huge cheer Storm grinned and Cathy could see the glint of his gold tooth. ‘Some of you might know this one,’ Storm continued when the noise had died down.

  Cathy recognised the opening chords as Storm plucked them out on his mandolin. It was an old Ballad Book classic called “Gamble Gold”, but the version that Cathy had heard was upbeat and jaunty and was completely different to the way Storm had arranged it. As Storm played his mandolin, his voice lilted through the verses, making the whole thing feel much sadder, much more haunting. Cathy could feel the energy change as the audience stood in rapt silence.

  She knew, as she stood there with the music washing over her, that tonight was going to be special.

  Tonight could change the whole trajectory of her life if she allowed it to.

  *

  In the end getting backstage wasn’t as difficult as Cathy had thought it would be. It had been a bit of a waiting game and Pip and Jenny, getting bored, had gone off to a nearby pub. Not long after they left a security guy came to find Cathy.

  ‘Brian Cole’s daughter?’ he asked.

  Cathy nodded. She’d asked her dad to tell Storm, if he saw him, that she was coming to see the band tonight and that she’d love a signed T-shirt. She hadn’t known if her dad had got through or not but clearly he had.

  ‘Storm says any daughter of Brian’s is a friend of ours,’ the security guy said, winking at her in a way that made her feel uncomfortable. Cathy stopped for a moment. What was she doing? She didn’t know any of these people. Was she being an idiot? Her dad wasn’t here to keep an eye on her this time. She suddenly felt like a little girl again, the confidence and bravado leaking out of her and leaving her feeling deflated.

  ‘Put this on,’ he said handing her a lanyard with a backstage pass on. She took a deep breath, trying to find that bravado again before it was too late. She put the lanyard around her neck and stood up a little straighter, tossing her hair.

  She was led through what felt like a maze of corridors to a white door that had a handwritten sign on it that read “King Silver”. The security guy knocked on the door and Cathy could feel his eyes travelling up and down her body as they waited. She didn’t want to be here anymore. She almost turned and ran.

  But then the door opened and Storm was standing in front of her. He smiled and Cathy felt safe again.

  Storm looked over Cathy’s shoulder to where the security guy was still lurking around and his face changed.

  ‘I can take it from here, Nigel,’ he said sternly. Cathy heard Nigel’s tongue click in his mouth in an impatient, annoyed way before he walked away.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Storm said. ‘There’s only me here I’m afraid; the rest of the lads have already left. Can I get you a beer?’

  Cathy shook her head. ‘No, thank you,’ she said. She felt strangely out of place in this room that smelled of sweat and beer and men. She looked around her at the discarded beer bottles, the cigarette stubs squashed into plates of sandwiches, a pair of Levi’s slung over the back of a chair, an open pack of guitar strings. Everything seemed to be covered in the remnants of a white powder that Cathy was pretty sure must be cocaine.

  ‘I just wanted to say hello,’ she said, trying not to sound nervous, trying to remember that this could be the night that changed her life. ‘And to tell you that I started playing the mandolin, like you suggested.’

  ‘You did, you did,’ Storm said, gesturing for Cathy to sit down. ‘Brian told me. He also told me you’re very good at it and that you got into the Royal Academy.’

  Cathy blushed and looked away. Getting into the Academy seemed somewhat incongruous in comparison to Storm’s life on the road, the beer and drugs and plates of old sandwiches.

  The women he must meet, she thought and felt very young again.

  ‘The Royal Academy is all well and good,’ Storm said. ‘But where do you see it leading you? What do you want out of life, Cathy Cole?’ He looked straight at her, his green eyes sparkling and Cathy felt as though he could see directly into her soul.

  ‘I want to know what it feels like to be on stage,’ she said. ‘Not the sort of stages we have at the Academy, but a stage like tonight, a stage like the Reading Festival. I want to know what that sea of people looks like from the stage. I want to know what it feels like to know that they’re jumping to the rhythms that I wrote.’

  She stopped suddenly, feeling childish and silly again, unable to look Storm in the eye. She heard the deep rumble of his laugh and thought that he was laughing at her.

  ‘That’s wonderful, Cathy,’ he said and when she looked at him again his green eyes glinted at her. ‘That’s wonderful. And take it from me, it feels amazing to know that all those people are jumping to the tunes that I wrote.’

  ‘I’ve started writing some songs of my own,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Then I should hear them sometime,’ he replied. ‘Maybe next time I see your father.’

  ‘Really?’ Cathy couldn’t believe that he meant it. ‘You still see my father?’

  Storm nodded. ‘He was a good friend to me and the band in the early days. I try not to forget the people who supported us before we were famous. Try to remember that, Cathy, because they’re your real friends.’

  Cathy watched Storm’s face change from smiling to something else. A furrow appeared between his eyebrows and he looked as though all the happiness had been drained from him. Before she could think of anything to say there was a loud knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ Storm called, his face changing once again, the smile back.

  A woman poked her head around the door. ‘That journalist is here, Storm,’ she said.

  ‘Of course,’ Storm replied standing up and offering his hand to Cathy. As he stood, she noticed he was unsteady on his feet, not quite as sober as he appeared.

  ‘It’s been wonderful to see you again, Cathy,’ he said as he held her hand. ‘Really it has.’

  When Storm Tyler looked her up and down, even though he was eleven years older than her, she didn’t feel uncomfortable, she felt on top of the world.

  ‘Storm,’ she said as she started to walk away. ‘Is your real name Neil?’

  ‘Did you father tell you that?’

  ‘No,’ Cathy said shaking he head. ‘It was just something I heard.’ She didn’t tell him that she remembered her father calling Storm by his real name at the Reading Festival. She didn’t tell him that she’d been thinking about it ever since.

  ‘Then I can neither confirm nor deny the rumour,’ Storm said, grinning at Cathy. She saw the glint of the gold in his tooth as she walked away.

  7

  Willow

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me the festival was in trouble?’ Willow asked as she walked through the door of her mother’s house later that afternoon.

  Cathy was in the living room again. Willow moved a big pile of paper to one side so she could sit down on the sofa as Cathy put down her pen and looked away.

  ‘I didn’t want to bother you,’ she said. ‘Did Luc tell you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Willow replied quietly. She tried not to think about Luc leaning against the doorframe of Skye’s shop or the way her heart had felt too big for her ribcage when he’d smiled at her. She tried not to think about whoever it was that called him – the person who definitely wasn’t his agent. The last thing she needed was for all those old feeling
s about Luc Harrison to come flooding back now. It had only been a few days since she walked out on her wedding; she couldn’t let herself feel anything for anyone. She couldn’t let herself get hurt again.

  But when she thought about his lips curling into a smile, something unfamiliar fizzed inside her.

  ‘I told him not to say anything to you,’ Cathy said. ‘What can you do to help?’

  ‘Anything you want me to do.’ Willow didn’t know why, but she felt strongly that the festival needed to go ahead, even though she wouldn’t be here to see it.

  ‘Willow, you haven’t been home for the festival since you graduated from university. It’s changed a lot since then and the council get stricter every year with the permissions.’

  ‘Luc said that was the problem,’ Willow replied, ignoring the jibe about her never coming home. She couldn’t argue it after all. She hadn’t been to the festival for over eight years. ‘That one of the licences or permissions hasn’t been granted.’

  ‘There’s a new councillor this year called Roger Beck. He’s an officious little so-and-so.’ Cathy looked at her. ‘Do you remember him? His sister was in your year at school.’

  Willow did remember Roger Beck. He was a couple of years older than her and he’d always been a bit of a bully. He’d also always hated the festival and nobody had ever really known why. Everyone else in Ryde and Seaview loved it and looked forward to it all summer. Everyone else was always really supportive, but Roger Beck had never liked anyone to have any fun. If Luc, Skye or Willow were ever doing anything they shouldn’t be doing, like skipping school or smoking, Roger had always made it his business to find out and tell the head teacher. He clearly hadn’t changed a bit.

  ‘Who made Roger Beck a councillor?’ Willow asked. ‘Who on earth voted him in?’

  ‘Nobody’s admitting to it,’ Cathy replied. ‘But somebody must have done and now he’s trying to withhold my alcohol licence and get us to keep the noise down after 7pm.’

  ‘After seven? It doesn’t even get going until after seven!’

  ‘I know,’ Cathy said sadly and Willow felt that overwhelming need to help again. She couldn’t bear the thought of the festival not happening, couldn’t bear the thought of the sadness it would bring to her mother.

  ‘Look, Mum, I know I’ve not been here for years but I’m here now so what can I do?’

  ‘Oh, Willow, you’ve got your own life to get back to.’

  Willow took a breath. ‘I’m not sure I have,’ she said quietly, verbalising the creeping realisation that had been coming over her since she saw Skye and Luc earlier.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know if I have a life to go back to.’

  ‘What happened, Willow?’ Cathy asked, putting her paperwork to one side. ‘Why did you walk out of your wedding on Saturday? What’s going on?’

  Something had happened to stop Willow from going through with the wedding. Something had made her get into her mother’s Jeep, still in her wedding dress, and come back to the Island. But she wasn’t sure if she was ready to talk about what that something was.

  ‘Mum, we’ve got this festival to sort out,’ she said, trying to change the subject, trying to escape the feeling of claustrophobia that returned every time she thought about her wedding day or about her life in London. The festival was something to focus on, a constant in her life that had always been there, even if she hadn’t always been on the Island for it. It had to go ahead.

  ‘We can do that later,’ Cathy replied. ‘Nothing is more important than my little girl – you know that.’

  Willow felt tears burning the backs of her eyes and Cathy drew her into a hug. ‘Your dad’s coming back soon so he can help with the bloody festival for once,’ she said. Don came back every summer for the festival even though he and Cathy weren’t together anymore. ‘Now tell me what happened. I’m worried about you.’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ Willow replied. ‘You remember when I was a teenager and I used to feel as though I didn’t fit in?’

  ‘Yes. But your dad and I never really understood why you felt that. You, Skye and Luc were thick as thieves right up until that week you left.’

  ‘I never felt creative enough,’ Willow replied making air quotes around the word “creative”. Willow had grown up in a family of musicians and surrounded by artists and other creative types. Luc had become one of the best guitarists on the Island and had been playing live since he was fifteen and Skye had been offered an unconditional place at art college when they saw her portfolio. Her parents had taught Willow to play guitar and mandolin, but she had never felt as though she had much talent for either. ‘Everyone had so much talent and we were always surrounded by musicians and artists when I was growing up and I wasn’t part of that – I was good at maths.’

  ‘Every artist needs a good accountant,’ Cathy said with a smile.

  Willow leant back against the sofa. ‘I don’t really know what I’m trying to tell you,’ she said. ‘But over the last few months I’ve just had that same sense of not fitting in that I used to have when I lived here, as though I don’t really fit into Charlie’s life anymore and I’m not the person he wants me to be.’

  ‘Surely Charlie just wants you to be yourself,’ Cathy said. ‘Surely he can’t expect you to change who you are for him?’

  ‘He’s helped me change for the better,’ Willow said, not sure if she was trying to convince her mother or herself. ‘But recently I’ve felt as though I’m a constant disappointment to him.’

  ‘And that’s why you couldn’t marry him?’

  Willow paused for a moment, remembering her wedding day, remembering standing at the door of the church with her father.

  ‘All I know is that I looked into that church on Saturday and saw all those people waiting for me with their phones ready to take a picture as I stepped into the church and I felt as though I couldn’t breathe. I felt trapped and claustrophobic, as if the life I’d tried to create for myself had become too tight suddenly.’

  ‘And so you walked away,’ Cathy said.

  ‘I couldn’t go through with it; I couldn’t tie myself to a life I wasn’t sure about.’

  Cathy turned around to look at her daughter, tucking her legs underneath her. ‘Why did you leave the Island in the first place?’ she asked.

  ‘To go to university.’

  ‘I know that, Willow, but why did you leave early? And why were you always so reluctant to come home in the holidays?’ Cathy paused. ‘I know I should have asked this years ago,’ she went on, ‘but why have you not been home for nearly eight years?’

  ‘Why didn’t you ask years ago?’ Willow asked.

  ‘I think that perhaps I didn’t want to hear the answer.’

  Willow didn’t say anything for a moment as she thought about that summer twelve years ago and in particular that night that she and Luc had been alone. The night before he went to America. She turned away from her mother, feeling the heat rising in her cheeks and an unexpected worm of desire unfurling in her stomach. For months afterwards she had thought about that night obsessively, trying to work out what she had done wrong. And for years she had done her best to pretend it had never happened, to pretend that Charlie was the only man she had ever slept with.

  Willow had been in total denial about how she had felt that summer. Luc was leaving, her parents were separating, The Laurels were splitting up for the final time. Deep down Willow had been devastated and had had to deal with more change than her eighteen-year-old self could cope with. She’d smiled and laughed and pretended that everything was fine and she’d coped by drinking too much cider and skinny-dipping in the sea, jumping off the groynes – something she’d always been told not to do.

  ‘Be careful, Willow,’ Luc would say but she just told him that she was fine even though he knew she wasn’t.

  Neither of them had been fine.

  After Skye had left to see her grandparents that night, Willow and Luc had finished off the c
ider together, still not speaking about the next day, still trying not to acknowledge that Luc was leaving. It had been almost dark but still warm when they decided to go swimming one last time before the summer ended. When she’d jumped off the groyne that night Luc had caught her.

  ‘You shouldn’t do that, Willow,’ he’d said softly, his hands around her waist as he’d pulled her towards him. ‘I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.’

  And then he had been kissing her, his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth. He’d tasted of salt and fermented apples and she’d kissed him back, not wanting that moment to end. She’d felt him harden against her belly and he’d pulled away, his green eyes holding her gaze, and an unspoken agreement passed between them as he’d pulled her up on to his hips and she’d wrapped her legs around his waist. There had been something about knowing that everyone was leaving, about knowing that nothing would ever be the same again, that made them both reckless. It had been the first time for both of them and it had come out of nowhere.

  Except it hadn’t really. They’d both known the way they’d felt about each other for a long time.

  Afterwards they’d lain on the beach together, Luc’s jacket covering them, fingers still exploring, not quite ready to let each other go.

  ‘I love you, Willow,’ Luc had said.

  She hadn’t been expecting him to say that. She hadn’t been expecting him to voice the words she’d been feeling for years.

  ‘I love you too,’ she’d said.

  ‘I won’t be in America forever. I promise.’

  He’d walked her home, holding her hand and she’d felt his sadness as strongly as her own.

  ‘We’ve still got tomorrow,’ he’d said when they got to Willow’s house. ‘I’ll meet you at the beach hut after breakfast.’

  She’d nodded and kissed him goodnight.