Pride? What pride? I loved him.
We went to bed at midnight.
At home, since the operation, I’d been sleeping in baggy T-shirts and the big knickers. It was what I’d brought to sleep in here, too. Shivering, teeth chattering, and not just because of the cold, I changed in the bathroom and walked slowly into the bedroom.
Scott, still fully dressed, was sitting on the edge of the bed.
I sat beside him. I didn’t look at him. ‘I can’t sleep with you.’
He stood up, saying nothing, and with his back to me started piling up the small change from his jeans’ pockets on to the tall dressing table thing.
I giggled. ‘Did you used to work in a bank?’
‘What?’
‘You’re piling them all up in order – pennies, threepenny bits, sixpences – all neatly…’
‘So, you can’t sleep with me but you can question my – um – quirks?’
‘Yep.’
‘Do you mean sleeping with me as in making love or as in sharing a bed?’
I shrugged. ‘A bit of both really.’
He stopped piling up the coins and looked at me. ‘You can’t sleep with me because of the moral issue? Or because of Renza? Because you don’t want to? Or because – ?’
Embarrassed, I took a deep breath and stared at the floor. ‘All of those. And because the doctors say I can’t. Because my insides are a mess. And because of this.’ I yanked up the T-shirt and pulled down the top of my baggy pants to my hip bones. ‘Because of this.’
He looked at the scar – still massive, still livid, still scabbed, still with the delightful double row of vivid puncture marks from the clips – and then at me. ‘Christ. You poor thing. I had no idea that it would look like that… I’m so sorry…’
‘Oh, it’s much better than it was,’ I said, hiding it away again. ‘And as I’m medically off-limits and the scar has no doubt revolted you beyond words, I’ll just pack my bags and leave, shall I?’
‘Yes. Clear off.’
We stared at one another, then laughed.
He leaned down and kissed me gently. ‘I didn’t just want you to be here to sleep with you.’
‘Liar,’ I smiled. ‘But no, physically I can’t sleep with you – morally… well, we both know the answer to that one.’ ‘So?’ He looked at me. ‘What are we going to do?’
There was only one thing to do…
‘I don’t know about you,’ I slid to the bottom of the bed and sat with my legs dangling over the footboard, flicking at imaginary reins and clicking my tongue at imaginary horses, ‘but I’m going to drive the wagon train – you can fight off the Indians…’
Only hesitating for a moment, Scott leapt on to the bed, sat cross-legged on the pillows, and started firing an imaginary but very noisy rifle.
We exploded with laughter.
‘What the hell is going on in here?’ The door flew open and Zak stared at us. ‘Jesus! Why can’t you two just have sex and fight like normal couples?’
The door slammed shut again and our laughter rocked that cold, grim house.
Stella’s Diary
January 24th 1969
Today has been just perfect. I woke up at about 10 o’clock, curled in Scott’s arms and it seemed the most natural thing in the world. And I didn’t feel guilty. Should I feel guilty? After all, we’d just fallen asleep together after talking for hours about everything under the sun, laughing some more, followed by a rather chaste goodnight kiss. Nothing else. Yes… ok, I probably should feel guilty – but I honestly didn’t care.
I just stared at him as he slept. Oh God, he was so beautiful and it didn’t seem even the slightest bit wrong to be there with him like this.
I stroked his hair away from his face, smiled to myself and stretched my legs down the bed – then quickly withdrew them. The sheets were icy. And although I was warm and cosy from the neck down, my face felt cold, my breath was hovering in clouds, and my nose was frozen. Just for one treacherous moment I thought about home: snug, cosy, warm from the coke boiler in the kitchen and the coal fires in the grates.
Then, shivering, I pulled the eiderdown up a bit further and squinted at the windows. The dark green curtains seemed to be backlit in an odd sort of way and without disturbing Scott, I slid out of bed and tiptoed towards the window.
Hell! It was cold!
I pulled my coat on over the T-shirt and tried to open the curtains. They were stuck solid. Frozen to the windows. I peeled back a corner – the windows were covered in the most amazing intricate frost patterns. I was amazed that we hadn’t frozen to death overnight. Scraping some of the ice from the window I peered out. Everywhere was covered in a heavy hoar frost. It looked like fairyland.
While he was still sleeping, I nipped to the bathroom, holding my breath and being as quick as possible – it was even more like an ice box – dressed, in my warmest mini frock, a brown and green and cream paisley wool with massively ballooning sleeves, then tiptoed downstairs in search of tea or coffee.
No one else was up. The house was silent and freezing and gloomy. The white light from the frost brightened it a bit though, as barefoot – well, ok, I had tights but they were hardly warm – I mooched around in the kitchen wishing I’d brought a pair of slippers. Well, ok maybe not – slippers weren’t very rock’n’roll after all, but they’d probably be better than frostbitten toes.
I put the kettle on to boil, found two clean mugs, a jar of coffee and a bag of sugar but after a long search – including checking the ice-covered doorstep – no milk. So I made my way back upstairs with black coffee with two sugars for two.
Scott was awake and dressed and sitting on the bed.
‘Good morning. I thought you’d left me,’ he grinned.
‘Then I thought you were in the bathroom – and you weren’t – oh, wow… coffee… ta. Luxury. ‘ He wrapped his hands round the mug and inhaled the steam. ‘Aah, warmth…’
‘Goodness knows how you all survive here in this weather.’ I sat carefully beside him. ‘And sorry it’s black. No milk to be found.’
‘Rich and Mo will go shopping later. Stephan gives us an allowance for food.’ He looked at me. ‘Did you sleep in those sequins?’
‘Not these, no. I put them on just now. I slept in the old ones – which are probably all over the pillows – and kept the eyelashes on, though. In case you woke up and I scared you. I look like a swede on a stick without the eyelashes.’
Scott laughed, hugged me, kissed me, spilled his coffee on the bed.
‘Ooops.’
We attempted to mop it up with a corner of the eiderdown and laughed again.
‘Bloody hell!’ Zak, on his way to the bathroom and looking a bit naked, shoved the door open. ‘Are you still laughing? And fully dressed? You’re weird.’
And slammed the door again. Then he opened it. He was definitely naked. ‘Have you got coffee? Can I have some?’
Embarrassed, I didn’t look at him. ‘If you promise to be downstairs and dressed by the time I’ve made it, yes.’
He was. And so were Rich, Mo and Joss. I made coffee for all of them. Rich and Mo even said thank you and smiled at me.
I’d hoped someone might suggest a late breakfast or dinner or something, but it appeared that Narnia’s Children only ate one meal a day. It seemed Stephan’s food allowance didn’t stretch to any more than that.
After I’d explored the rest of the house and discovered that the room opposite the sitting room was huge, empty of all furniture except a record player, a small sofa and a sideboard, and was used by Narnia’s Children as their practice room when they needed to try out new songs, Scott suggested we went for a walk.
‘Mo and Rich are taking the Transit into town to stock up on food,’ he said, pulling on his black coat. ‘And tonight we’ve got a gig.’
I paused in zipping up my boots. My heart sank. That meant he’d be gone soon, back to being Scott the sex-god guitarist in Narnia’s Children – and no longer Scott, the most b
eautiful boy in the world who made me laugh and who I’d love forever – and I had to go home tomorrow for the next hospital appointment and a return to reality. This visit was going to be over before it had begun… and I didn’t even know if there’d be another one.
‘Don’t look so miserable,’ Scott frowned at me. ‘I thought you’d enjoy it.’
‘The walk? Yes, of course… but…’
‘And the gig. You don’t think I’m leaving you here, do you?’
‘Um – well – yes, actually. No one else has girls with them, do they? I mean – it’s your job. If you worked in an office you wouldn’t take me with you, would you?’
‘Probably not. But I don’t. Now grab your coat – it’s still freezing out there.’
Hand-in-hand, we walked along the quiet, undulating road towards Heath and Reach, talking and laughing. I tried not to skip with happiness.
The early-morning frost had melted away, and the afternoon was grey and bitterly cold. The surrounding hills were the colour of slate, and the skeletal trees were black-outlined against the pewter sky. It was stark and brutally beautiful. I knew it was an image that would stay with me always. Something else to squirrel away in my memory box.
We played I-spy and had kisses as forfeits and somehow never got to Heath and Reach. By the time we returned to the house it was late afternoon and already growing dark, and Mo was unloading the Transit van with shopping while Rich was reloading it with the group’s gear.
The shopping seemed to consist of huge sacks of potatoes, onions and rice; dozens of boxes of Vesta beef curry; and piled-high tins of Fray Bentos steak and kidney pies and Heinz baked beans.
‘This is our basic larder. We live on this stuff all the time.’ Scott grinned. ‘Mo gets it cheap in bulk and works miracles.’
As Scott disappeared inside the house, Rich paused in heaving a speaker into the van and beckoned me over. ‘You’re coming to the gig with us tonight?’
I nodded slowly, waiting for the harsh words.
He smiled. ‘That’s good. No, really. We’ve talked about it, me and Mo, and we’re ok with you. We’re pretty sure you’re not a threat to Renza. Scott loves Renza – not you. In fact,’ he winked, ‘we reckon that while Scott’s hanging with you he won’t be tempted to stray with anyone else, so you’ll be doing Renza a favour.’
It was a bit of a back-handed compliment – but as a peace-offering it was probably as good as it was going to get.
‘Thanks – I think. Er – are we leaving soon?’
Rich laughed. ‘About an hour if they all get ready in time.
They’re worse than you girls – primping and preening. Still, it’s only local tonight, thank goodness – practically the next village along… Milton Keynes. We should be home not long after midnight.’
‘Sounds great… um – are we going to eat before we go? Shall I help Mo with tea or anything?’
‘God, no!’ Rich hefted another speaker. ‘No time for food. We’ll eat when we get home. Oh – it looks like Scott’s trying to attract your attention.’
Scott was standing in the doorway waving my pink boots. ‘Stella – are you wearing these tonight?’
‘No. I’m wearing the pale blue ones with my blue and white dress. Why?’
‘Cool – so can I borrow these for the gig?’
‘What? They’re girls’ boots!’ I laughed. ‘They’ll never fit you! Your feet are much bigger than mine!’
Scott grinned. ‘I reckon if I just shove my toes in and don’t zip them up and don’t put them on until we go on stage they’ll be OK. They’ll look so cool with my black trousers.’
‘Pink? Pink ladies boots? Really? Of course you can borrow them, but I still think they’ll cripple you.’
‘You’re a star, Twinkle,’ Scott laughed, and disappeared back indoors.
***
Milton Keynes looked like a really pretty little place, and the village hall was fabulous. Smaller than St B’s, but with the same dimly-lit, exciting atmosphere. It was packed with teenagers, and I was amused to see that there were plenty of Dolly Rockers already positioned in front of the stage – clearly the groupie scene was universal. The brief journey through the icy darkness had been like a re-run of the last time I was in the Transit, except this time I sat on Scott’s lap and he kissed my neck a lot and it all got a bit steamy. I absolutely loved it.
I left Narnia’s Children and Rich to set-up behind the dark red curtains and found the bar and bought bottles of beer and Coke and as many packets of crisps and peanuts as I could load on to a tray and stuff into my sequinned shoulder bag, then staggered backstage.
‘Oh my God!’ Joss paused in tuning up his bass guitar and relieved me of the tray and the armfuls I’d disgorged from my bag. ‘You’re one cool chick! Scott can sod off with Renza. I’m going to marry you!’
As they all abandoned their gear and the setting-up, and fell on the food and drinks, Scott winked at me.
Then they all said thank you nicely and laughed, and I just stared at them. They’d been transformed. No longer the four bone-thin scruffy boys who lounged around in that cold, bleak house… now dressed in their skin-tight flares and tight short skinny-rib sweaters, with their glossy hair falling to their shoulders, they were Narnia’s Children: super-sexy, super-talented, close-harmony rock band.
I was in heaven.
Narnia’s Children were stupendous. They were so talented. They went down a storm. I sat to one side, halfway down the hall in the darkness, and just soaked up every fab moment. The music was much the same as it had been at St B’s and I re-lived every wonderful minute. Whether they were playing hard, throbbing rock’n’roll, or perfect west coast pop, they were simply fantastic.
Zak growled and posed sexily, striding about with the microphone like Mick Jagger; Mo was a frenzy of drumsticks and wild air; Joss pouted and preened; and Scott just stood there, his guitar slung low, his superb body still and oh-so-wanton, simply oozing sex appeal.
The dance-floor was packed, the Dolly Rockers screamed loudly at the foot of the stage, everyone yelled for more at the end of each set, the hall vibrated.
And I sat there, smiling, because drop-dead-gorgeous Scott was wearing my pink boots – well, almost because he hadn’t quite managed to get his feet into them or zipped up however hard we’d tried – and, amazingly, because I’d woken up with him and would be sleeping with him when we went home after the gig. It was the most addictive feeling in the world.
Scott, I realised, was going to be a very hard habit to break.
Stella’s Diary
February 1st 1969
I read The Ka of Gifford Hillary on the bus all the way to Leighton Buzzard. I’d spoken to Scott on the phone the night before and he was a chapter ahead of me, so I had some catching up to do.
Just before I’d left the Leighton Buzzard house, a week ago, Scott and I had found two battered copies of the Dennis Wheatley book in one of the tall bookcases, and as neither of us had read it, we decided to make it a shared experience. Scott, apparently, was a massive Wheatley fan, and I’d never read any of his books before, so I was really looking forward to it.
It was like nothing I’d ever read and it had me gripped. It was about a man being buried alive by his love rival and how his “ka” or spirit managed to escape from his coffin and pursue justice on the astral plain: weird, terrifying and exciting in equal measure, I knew I’d read more of his books in the future. So, the book, and the mantra of the villages, helped to pass the time as I returned to Leighton Buzzard.
And this time, because I’d had my post-op out-patient’s appointment and didn’t have another one until the end of the month when Narnia’s Children were off to tour Scotland, I was going to stay with Scott for nearly three weeks.
This time the warnings from Mum and Vix were even more loudly voiced, but this time I simply wasn’t listening. I knew that Scott loved Renza and that Renza loved him. I knew he didn’t love me. I knew one day Renza would come home and he’d ma
rry her. I also knew that Rich and Mo were right – I was a stop-gap, and my being around probably did mean he wouldn’t be tempted to cheat on Renza while they were apart, however cock-eyed that reasoning might be. I knew all this.
I also knew I loved him.
The weather was still bitterly cold, with a north-easterly wind and a low, yellow sky. I’d not only got practically my entire wardrobe in my tote bags, but also the first lot of paperwork for Narnia’s Children’s fan club.
My school-friend, Barry, had set up a small printing business in Harbury Green, and was delighted when I told him what I wanted. He’d made an ace job of it. We’d agreed on 100 copies of everything to start with, just to see how it went, and then he’d have the templates to do some more as needed.
I’d given him the Narnia’s Children logo, and he’d used it as a vivid red header on each piece of A4 paperwork: the fan club application forms, the page with my carefully typed potted biogs of each member of the band, and sheets of blank paper, with Stella Deacon: Fan Club Secretary and my address on the top, for me to write answering letters to all the girls who joined the club. It looked so professional, and was all very exciting.
I’d paid Barry and kept his invoice to give to Stephan when
– if – I saw him.
Scott was at the bus stop again. My heart went into overdrive when I saw him under the street lamp, my smile was ear-to-ear. It was a different bus driver and conductor but they too grinned as I hurtled off the bus into Scott’s arms, my tote bags flying everywhere.
‘I’ve missed you,’ I laughed up at him.
‘I’ve missed you, too.’
We walked back to the house in the icy cold darkness, the wind whipping our hair round our faces, and talked about the week we’d been apart as if it had been a year –despite the fact that I’d rung him from the phone box every day and he’d called me back and we’d chatted for hours. I’d wondered who paid the phone bill; maybe it was Stephan, or perhaps there was a box somewhere for the phone call money like Mrs Palmer, our vicar’s wife, had. One thing was for sure – it wasn’t Narnia’s Children. They were constantly broke.
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