Song of the Skylark

by Erica James

  When he didn’t respond, she could see no point in furthering the conversation; plainly they’d run out of things to say. ‘I’d better let you get back to contemplating your supper, then,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks for ringing,’ he said. ‘Say hi to your parents from me.’

  ‘Will do.’

  For some minutes after she’d ended the call she sat motionless, staring at nothing in particular. Her purpose in ringing Simon had been to say sorry and, in the manner of making a confession, she had hoped it would make her feel better about herself. So why, given that he had been so understanding, did she feel a whole lot worse?

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Skylark Radio was situated in Abbey Crescent, a stately semicircle of Georgian terraced buildings a short walk from the Abbey gardens. Having allowed herself plenty of time to find the studio, Lizzie decided to go for a calming stroll in the gardens.

  No sooner had she passed through the gate than she thought of a young Mrs Dallimore coming here with Henry Willet, and then afterwards having a drink in the Angel Hotel on the other side of the road. She pictured Mrs Dallimore dressed in a pretty dress with a hat and gloves, and Henry in a suit, both of them carrying gas mask cases.

  Did Henry Willet figure in Mrs Dallimore’s story any further, Lizzie wondered? Although story wasn’t the right word to use: story implied something made up, and Lizzie didn’t think for a moment that the old lady was spinning her along with a monumental yarn; it was all much too real and detailed to be made up. But what a life story it was and what a shame it would be lost when Mrs Dallimore died. Not for the first time Lizzie felt a wave of sadness at the thought of the old lady not being around any more. She thought also of Mrs Dallimore’s apparent confusion yesterday, when she seemed not to know her surroundings, or Lizzie. It was as if she had been so caught up in reliving the past, she had been momentarily unable to relocate the present.

  Passing a flowerbed bright with summer bedding plants, Lizzie rehearsed her carefully worded interview spiel: she was looking for a change of direction, a smaller provincial radio station might be less constrained than the one she’d been used to, and more personal; it might also give her more of a chance to engage fully with the listening audience. All of which sounded reasonable enough, if a little pat, but from nowhere she heard Curt and his drawling sardonic voice – a voice that she had previously always found so sexy: ‘Yeah, yeah, heard it all before, love, give me something original.’

  At the thought of Curt her confidence, which had been steadily growing, suddenly collapsed and she thought how he would view her stressing over a small-time job for a small-time radio station in a small-time town as utterly pathetic. It would be his idea of hell. He’d said once that he’d sooner rip out his own tongue and stamp on it than fall so low.

  But because of him she had fallen that low! She had lost everything! She had fallen so low she was in danger of suffering the bends if she ever surfaced again, and it was all thanks to Curt and her stupid, stupid—

  She stopped herself short. What had got into her? Why was she thinking of Curt and what he might think? The only thing that counted was what she thought. And come to think of it, what exactly had she lost? Hadn’t she had to remind herself of this before? But so be it if she had to do it again and again to get the message through.

  One: she’d lost a lying, cheating boyfriend who wasn’t even a boyfriend.

  Two: she’d lost a job that she’d loved, which was a shame, but there were other jobs she would perhaps love, maybe a job that would be more fun and give her more of a challenge.

  And three: she’d lost her flat and – no two ways about it – that was a real downer. Would she be able to afford to rent something if she got this job? Because one thing she knew, it wasn’t fair to outstay her welcome with Mum and Dad. Coming home was only ever meant to be a brief stopgap until she was back on her feet. Not that her parents would ever say anything, but she knew their lives had been hugely disrupted this summer. So there was nothing else for it but to find a place of her own. What kind of place did she fancy? Here in Bury St Edmunds? Or perhaps something more rural?

  While living in London she had never once thought she would swap city life for rural life, but she had really enjoyed cycling along the lanes to Woodside, being out and about in genuine fresh air, not that stuff in London that was loaded with toxic fumes and lord knows what else. What was more, she’d noticed this morning when getting dressed that she’d lost weight – the favourite black trousers she’d put on for her interview were definitely looser than when she’d last worn them.

  She sat on a bench and continued to redress the harm caused by thinking of Curt. Something Mrs Dallimore had once said came into her head – For everything you lose, you gain something new.

  Lizzie hoped it was true. There again, maybe she had evidence of that being the case already, for while she had lost all her old friends in London, she had gained a new one in Jed. It just went to show that it was true: when the chips are down, that’s when you know who your true friends are.

  The ringing of her mobile had her reaching into her bag. She hoped it wasn’t somebody from Skylark Radio calling to say the interview was cancelled, that the post had been filled.

  It wasn’t; it was Jed.

  ‘You must be telepathic,’ she said, ‘I was just thinking about you.’

  ‘You were? In a good way, I hope. Anyway, I’m here with Mrs D and she was adamant that we had to get in touch to wish you good luck. Not that you need it, I told her, but she said everybody needs a bit of luck from time to time.’

  ‘Tell her I really appreciate that.’

  ‘You can tell her yourself. Hang on and I’ll put her on for you.’

  ‘Is that you, Lizzie?’ asked Mrs Dallimore a few seconds later.

  ‘Yes, it is, and I’m really touched you should be thinking of me.’

  ‘How could I not when you’re so very much on my mind? Now off you go and knock them for six at the radio station with your sparkling personality. I’m sure I won’t need to, but I shall keep my fingers crossed for you. I’ll say goodbye now, as the last thing you need is to be held up. Oh, wait a moment, Mr Sheridan wants to speak to you.’

  Another fumble accompanied by a rattle of throat-clearing and Mr Sheridan’s voice boomed in Lizzie’s ear. ‘Ditto with the sparkling personality, my dear, and if you’re in need of a good reference, I’m your man.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sheridan,’ she said with an unexpected lump in her throat, ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  After some more fumbling, Jed came back on the line. ‘You did remember to polish up your sparkling personality, didn’t you?’ he said.

  ‘I might be a little lacking in that department.’

  ‘You’ll be fine. And if you feel like a chat afterwards, give me a call. I’m sure Mrs D would like to know how you get on. In fact, the whole of Woodside will probably want to know.’

  ‘Please tell me you’re joking.’

  ‘’Fraid not. As I speak they’re clubbing together to buy you a leaving present. You’re going to be greatly missed.’

  ‘You mean they can’t wait to be rid of me, more like.’

  ‘If I could give you a word of advice before going in for your interview, try not to speak so glowingly of yourself, nobody likes a show-off.’

  ‘Okay, point taken.’

  ‘Good. Now go! Go and impress Ricky.’

  ‘Jed?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you for setting this up for me.’

  ‘Don’t start being nice; you’ll have me welling up. I prefer it when you’re a regular pain in the chuff.’

  She laughed. ‘That works both ways.’

  With the amount of luck she was carrying on board, as dispensed by her parents and brother, and now Jed and Mrs Dallimore and Mr Sheridan, she felt a surge in her spirits. Mor
eover, she felt compelled to do her absolute best. This might not have been the job she wanted a short while ago, but now it was, and not just for herself, but for all those who were cheering her on. At the back of her mind was the vaguely stirring thought that, somehow or other, this was meant to be, as if it was sort of all tied up with her being at Woodside, where she’d met not just Jed who had a friend at Skylark Radio, but Mrs Dallimore who’d lived in a house called Skylark Cottage. Connections. Coincidences. She’d take whatever portents were on offer.

  So with that in mind, and ignoring the possibility that she was clutching desperately at the thinnest of straws, she retraced her steps out of the gardens and walked purposefully in the sunshine towards Abbey Crescent and Skylark Radio. At the entrance, she pressed the buzzer to be admitted and after signing her in, the girl on reception invited her to take a seat.

  Afternoon With Ricky was piped through to the foyer, the walls of which were decorated with framed photographs of the station’s presenters. She located Ricky’s – he looked about thirty-five, thirty-seven, give or take, and instantly likeable. She then gave her concentration to listening to him in case he tested her on anything he’d said. She hadn’t actually had a chance to listen to his show previously as it coincided with her hours at Woodside, but she’d done her research; in particular she’d checked out the listening figures. The station was still in its infancy, but the numbers were definitely moving in the right direction, with the average daily reach having gone up from 13 per cent to 18 per cent in the last year.

  At the moment Ricky was doing a down-the-line interview with a second-generation local thatcher – a Master Thatcher, no less. Whoever had done the research had done it well; Ricky was asking all the right questions, referring to the difference between water reed and straw, also slipping in a question about Hazelwood brotches. Such was Ricky’s seemingly easy-going technique, he allowed the expert to speak with passion about something he patently loved. By the end of the interview Lizzie felt she knew almost enough about thatching to have it as her specialist subject on Mastermind!

  At three o’clock Afternoon With Ricky came to an end for the news, and no sooner had the news finished than the door at the other end of the foyer opened and Ricky appeared. He was taller than she’d expected from looking at his publicity photograph, but seemed friendly enough.

  ‘Hi, Lizzie,’ he greeted her, extending his hand. ‘You found us all right, then?’

  ‘No problem at all,’ she said, ‘you have a great location here.’

  ‘We’re thoroughly spoilt. Come on through to my office, or what I laughingly refer to as my office. We’ll do the grim stuff first, the part when I grill you by asking some excruciatingly impertinent questions, and then I’ll give you a tour round the studio.’

  Swiping his ID card in the security lock to the right of the door he’d just appeared through, he led the way down a narrow corridor passing a glass window beyond which was a studio where a presenter called Sian Stewart was under way with her show. She waved at Ricky as they passed.

  He hadn’t exaggerated when he said his office was small; there was just enough room for a desk and two chairs, a bookcase and a hatstand that, rather curiously, was decorated with a number of hats. Perhaps they were part of the interview process and she’d be asked to choose one to wear and explain why.

  ‘Well then,’ Ricky said once they were both seated. ‘According to your CV you’ve done a variety of jobs over the years, and latterly you were working in London for Starlight Radio. May I ask why you left?’

  Lizzie had prepared herself meticulously for this question and opened her mouth to rattle off the spiel she’d come up with, when she had a complete change of heart. She didn’t want to sit here and lie her way into a job. She wanted to hold her head high, to prove to herself that she could shake off the last vestiges of her shame. Besides, there was something about Ricky that fostered a sense of openness and honesty. There was also that comment she had blurted out on the phone to him about regretting having a drink with her boss. He would be bound to raise that. She could also hear Mrs Dallimore urging her on to be brave and to fear nothing.

  ‘It would be the easiest thing in the world to give you the highly edited version of events as to why I left,’ she said, ‘but since you could easily find out the truth, I don’t want to do that.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said.

  So she told him.

  Clarissa was in the garden watching Jed; once more he was deadheading the roses. He was a competent gardener, but then she suspected he was competent at most things he put his mind to. Such a shame about his mother, but what an admirable thing he was doing, putting his life on hold to take care of her. The woman was fortunate to have a son who was prepared to make that sacrifice.

  A shadowy movement over in the trees caught Clarissa’s eye. Was it Ellis? She put a hand to her brow to shield her eyes from the sun to see better. It was him, all right. Leaning against a tree, he waved and beckoned her over. Silly man, she thought, how do you expect me to walk all the way down there? As if reading her mind, he pointed towards Jed. Of course! Jed could push her wheelchair down to the trees.

  She called over to him. ‘Jed, I know you’re busy with those roses, but could you help me for a moment, please?’

  ‘It’ll be my pleasure, Mrs D,’ he said, pushing his secateurs into the tool holder around his waist. ‘What’s it to be?’

  ‘I’d like to go and sit in the shade of the trees, please.’

  ‘Consider it done.’

  As he wheeled her down the sloping lawn, Clarissa asked if he had heard anything from Lizzie.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I do hope she takes the job if she’s offered it, and isn’t hankering to go back to London. Do you ever hanker to go back to London, Jed?’

  ‘Now and then I miss my old life there, but for now I have no complaints.’

  ‘How is your mother?’

  ‘So, so. Where would you like to sit?’ he asked, when they were on the flat.

  ‘Over there would be perfect.’ She pointed to the tree where Ellis had stood. There was no sign of him now, but there wouldn’t be, not with somebody else around.

  When he had her positioned, Jed said, ‘Give me a wave when you’re ready for me to fetch you back up to the terrace, okay?’

  ‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’

  When she was sure he was far enough away not to hear her, Clarissa looked around her, further into the shadowy darkness of the trees. ‘Ellis,’ she called, ‘I’m here, just as you commanded.’

  She waited for him to show himself.

  ‘Oh, how typical of you,’ she said crossly, ‘I go to the trouble of doing as you say, only for you to disappear. You don’t change, do you?’

  In the absence of a reply, she sighed and closed her eyes. She felt unaccountably weary today; the slightest thing seemed to sap her of energy. At her age it shouldn’t surprise her, yet it did. What she hated most was the sense of losing control, of not being herself. And there was no getting away from the fact that the instances of feeling muddled were definitely gaining momentum. More and more she found herself doing something and not knowing why she was doing it, or staring into the face of somebody and not having a clue who they were. But then, as if somebody had put a shilling in the meter, she would suddenly spring to life and see things perfectly lucidly.

  She caught the sound of a lighter being flicked, followed by the smell of tobacco. She opened her eyes. Sure enough, there was Ellis, just where she’d seen him earlier.

  ‘It’s nearly time, Clarissa,’ he said, blowing smoke into the air.

  ‘Time for what?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘But I’m not ready.’

  ‘Who is? Do you think I was?’

  ‘I still have things to do.’

  ‘Then do them.’

  Chapter Fif
ty-Two

  Lizzie didn’t know who to speak to first. She knew Mum and Dad were waiting anxiously to hear how she got on, but she felt she owed it to Jed to tell him first; after all, he was the one who’d made this opportunity possible.

  However, it was Luke who made the decision for her by ringing to hear how the interview had gone – she had texted him first thing to let him know about it.

  ‘So how did it go?’ her brother asked when she was unlocking Mum’s car, which she’d borrowed for the day.

  ‘Better than I thought it would,’ she said.

  ‘How much better?’

  ‘I got the job! I couldn’t believe it when Ricky just came right out with it, saying he thought I’d fit in perfectly. I still can’t believe it. All I can think is that they must be absolutely desperate with no interns to turn to.’

  ‘Are you going to take the job?’

  ‘I’d be a fool not to.’

  ‘That’s not exactly answering my question, is it? Do you want to work for Skylark Radio?’

  ‘Are you asking that because you think I shouldn’t, that I should wait for something better?’

  ‘I’m not asking anything of the kind. I just want you to be sure this is what you want, that you’re not settling for the first convenient thing that comes along.’

  ‘Actually, I really do fancy working at Skylark Radio. I liked the whole set-up. Everyone I met couldn’t have been nicer and there was a refreshing absence of ego about the place. There’s even a chance I could do some presenting.’

  ‘Then it sounds like it’s a done deal, congratulations.’

  Lizzie couldn’t think why, but there was nothing congratulatory in her brother’s voice. ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing’s up, I’m fine.’

  Now seated in the car, Lizzie caught the unmistakable lie in her brother’s reply. It was the defensiveness in his voice that was the giveaway. ‘You’re so not,’ she said. ‘This is twice now you’ve sounded far from your usual merry self. What’s going on?’