She subsided on to the bench. It was wonderful there, so big and so bleak, al that sea and sky, but it was sobering too, laden with al those lives, those past lives, battling and struggling and hating the sea as much as they needed it, relied on it. Amy put her hands into her hoodie pockets and breathed deeply, in and out, in and out. This was the sort of place that last night’s music had come from, it was people who’d lived and laboured here who had instinctively recorded how they were feeling, how they were thinking, in a way that could be easily remembered, could be simply passed on. She sniffed once or twice in the wind. If she shut her eyes, she could conjure up that girl last night, the girl with the flute and the lovely, light, straightforward singing voice. If she kept them shut, she could imagine Scott as a boy down here, as a teenager in his school uniform with his tie bunched up in his blazer pocket, and not just Scott, but her father who might even – even – have sat on this bench, or whatever was here before this bench, and looked at the sky and the sea and the gul s, and thought and thought about music too.
She opened her eyes and tipped her head back, wriggling herself down until her body was in a straight line, shoulder to heel, the back of her head balanced on the back of the bench, and stared up at the sky. She felt taken over, bowled over, blown away by a sudden and extraordinary wave of happiness.
‘Don’t read anything into this,’ Margaret said.
Bernie Harrison was in an armchair in her sitting room, legs crossed, very comfortable. He had a cup of coffee balanced on the arm of the chair and Dawson, stretched in his usual place along the back of the sofa, was keeping a discreet but definite eye on him.
‘What would I read?’ Bernie said.
He was wearing wel -pressed summer trousers and brown-suede loafers, which were entirely appropriate to the dining room of the Grand Hotel at Sunday lunchtime.
‘Wel ,’ Margaret said, trying to sound unconcerned, ‘this might look like a family occasion, but it isn’t. I’m not, as it were, introducing you to the family.’
‘Ah,’ Bernie said. He smiled at her. ‘You manage to put things so graciously.’
‘It’s better if we are al quite clear where we stand.’
‘So,’ Bernie said easily, ‘I have been asked along to leaven an awkward social lump, have I?’
‘You’ve been asked,’ Margaret said, ‘to make a foursome.’
‘Not like you to be nervous, Margaret.’
‘No.’
‘But I’m flattered. Yes, I’m flattered. When did you last ask anyone for help?’
She didn’t look at him, but she smiled.
‘A while back.’
‘What do we know about this child?’
Margaret sighed.
‘She’s eighteen, she’s bright, she’s musical, she’s the youngest of three. She’s talked a bit to Scott on the telephone but she’s never been north and she’s not going to like my guest bedroom.’
‘Why is she in it?’
‘Because,’ Margaret said firmly, ‘she can’t possibly stay with Scott. I promised her mother.’
‘Did you? You spoke to her mother?’
‘I did.’
‘Successful y?’
‘No,’ Margaret said.
Bernie turned his head.
‘There’s a taxi pul ing up outside.’
Margaret gave a little gasp.
‘Oh my God—’
‘Stay there,’ Bernie said.
He stood up and walked to the window, carrying his coffee cup.
‘Deep breaths, Margaret. Yes, it’s them. Scott, I’m sorry to tel you, looks like an off-duty footbal er but the girl looks lovely. Tal and slim. Long, dark hair. A skirt, you’l be pleased to hear. What there is of it. But I can’t see any luggage.’ He turned and glanced at Margaret. ‘I think your guest has come to stay in what she stands up in.’
Amy had never been anywhere like the dining room of the Grand Hotel. It had upholstered chairs, and ornately draped curtains at the huge high windows, and the wal s were decorated with long, narrow panels of stylized fruit and flowers. The carpet was very thick, patterned with medal ions in russet and green, and so were the tablecloths and the napkins, which sat like smal icebergs in a forest of glassware. The tablecloths even had undercloths, which went right down to the floor, which was just as wel since they enabled Scott to stick his feet right out of sight so that they didn’t offend his mother.
Amy wasn’t quite sure what other things might offend his mother. They had, the previous afternoon when she got back from North Shields, gone shopping to buy her a skirt, and it hadn’t struck either of them, til they saw Margaret’s eyes on Amy’s legs, that the length of the skirt might signify as much as its existence in the first place. Margaret looked OK to Amy, because she was as Amy was expecting her to be, but she also looked a bit unpredictable, as if she might suddenly object to something that had never previously occurred to anyone as a potential flashpoint. Amy thought of catching Scott’s eye, and winking, but then she remembered that Margaret was Scott’s mother, and therefore not an appropriate subject for complicity, and refrained.
The other man, the sort of grandfather man, was fine. He’d told Amy he was an agent, that he’d known her father as a boy and as a young man, and he mentioned several names, people he represented, whom Amy had heard of. He seemed very easy and friendly, and Amy wondered if he was a kind of boyfriend, if that was the right word when you got as old as that, and he teased Scott about his appearance and Scott, who looked perfectly normal to Amy, didn’t seem to mind and just said cheerful y, ‘Places like this need a bit of shaking up, Mr Harrison,’ and Mr Harrison said,
‘Oh for God’s sake, lad. Bernie.’ And Scott had laughed and shaken his head and said, ‘Can’t do it, sir. Sorry.’
The menu was enormous. Margaret watched Amy reading it and then she said, in a voice with far more warmth in it than it had had before,
‘Choose whatever you like, pet. You must be hungry. They never give you anything but rubbish on the train.’
Scott shot Amy a warning look.
‘Thank you,’ Amy said politely.
‘Was it a good journey?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘And was Scott on the platform to meet you?’
‘Yes,’ Amy said. ‘Yes, he was.’
‘And what,’ Bernie Harrison said in a jocular voice, ‘do you think of the Frozen North so far?’
Amy put her huge menu down. She turned to look straight at him.
‘I think it’s wonderful.’
He said, laughing, ‘Wel , the station’s wonderful—’
‘ It’s nice of you, dear,’ Margaret said, ‘ but you’ve only seen that and Scott’s flat.’
‘I love Scott’s flat,’ Amy said.
‘Thank you,’ Scott said.
‘And,’ Amy said, deliberately ignoring him, and now looking straight at Margaret, ‘I love North Shields and the river and the metro and the bridges.’
She stopped. There was a brief silence.
‘Excuse me?’ Margaret said.
‘We went to a folk club on Friday,’ Amy said. ‘It was amazing. I – I just loved it. I loved the music. I can’t stop thinking about the music. I think it’s –
it’s so, so great. Up here.’
‘You came up on Friday?’ Margaret said.
‘Yes.’
Margaret looked at Scott.
‘You told me—’
‘Stop it,’ Bernie Harrison said.
‘No,’ Scott said to his mother, ‘you wouldn’t be told.’
‘I promised your mother—’
‘This isn’t about my mother,’ Amy said. ‘It isn’t about any mothers. It’s about us – us children.’
Bernie Harrison reached out and took Margaret’s nearest wrist.
‘There you go—’
Amy said, ‘I’m real y sorry if you thought I was staying with you but I’m not. I’m staying with Scott. I’ve had an amazing time, the best time. I’ve had t
he best time I’ve had since Dad died. I real y have.’
Margaret was looking at the tablecloth. Scott tried to catch Amy’s eye but she was stil looking at Margaret. So was Bernie Harrison.
‘I don’t forget,’ Amy said. ‘I promise I don’t forget that Dad belonged to you too. To you and Scott.’
‘Oh, pet,’ Margaret said in a whisper.
‘But I’m staying with Scott. I’m staying with Scott til I go – south again.’
With his free hand, Bernie Harrison gestured to attract the attention of the wine waiter.
‘Now, young lady. Young lady who knows her own mind. I suggest we now talk about music. Don’t you?’
‘Did he mean that?’ Amy said.
They were sitting on Scott’s black sofa, Amy curled up at one end with her feet under her.
‘What?’
‘Mr Harrison. Did he mean that about a folk-music degree?’
‘Yes.’
She was holding a mug of tea. She looked at him over the rim.
‘Do you know about it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘You have to make up your own mind.’
‘But—’
‘I didn’t know how you’d feel,’ Scott said. ‘I didn’t know how we’d get on. I mean, al I know about being in your teens is what I knew when I was in them, but I might have got that al wrong, mightn’t I, because you’re a girl, not a boy. I might have thought I was helping you, which is what I wanted to do, and got that wrong too. I just had to wait, and give you time to think for yourself a bit. I couldn’t push you, could I?’
‘No,’ Amy said grateful y.
‘I didn’t know what sort of music you liked, even.’
Amy smiled.
‘Nor did I.’
He leaned forward.
‘Want to look?’
‘Look at what—’
‘This music degree.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘ Yes.’
He stood up and went to retrieve his laptop from the kitchen counter. He felt very tired and very, almost unsteadily, happy. It would only be later, when he was alone and stretched out on the sofa, that he could think about the day, unpick it, unravel it, marvel at it. He carried the laptop back to the sofa and sat down close to Amy, so that she could see the screen.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘University of Newcastle. Here we go.’
She watched the screen flicker. ‘You interested in taking this further?’ Bernie Harrison had said at lunchtime. ‘Are you serious about this?’
‘There,’ Scott said.
Amy leaned forward.
‘Read it,’ Scott said. ‘Read it out loud.’
‘“Newcastle University,”’ Amy read, ‘“folk and traditional music. Bmus. Honours UCAS 4 years. Established in 2001, this is the first performance-based degree programme in folk and traditional music to be offered in England and Wales. The course explores folk music in its traditional and revived forms through practical work (composition as wel as performance) and academic work.”’
She stopped.
‘OK?’ Scott said.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Amy said.
‘Look,’ Scott said, ‘look. Teaching’s at the university and at the Sage. Folkworks is at the Sage.’
‘Folkworks?’
‘It’s a charity,’ Scott said. ‘It’s an educational charity for traditional music.’
‘Did – did you know about al this?’
‘Yes.’
‘And were you just waiting?’
‘Hoping,’ Scott said, ‘not waiting. Other people’s expectations give you a headache.’
Amy looked back at the screen.
‘I love this. I love al this. Look at those modules, look at them, songs of struggle, songs from the US Southern states, bal ads – oh boy,’ Amy said, ‘I think I’m going to cry—’
‘Please try not to.’
‘Happy cry—’
‘Not even happy cry.’
She jumped to her feet.
‘This is so brilliant—’
‘You haven’t got in yet.’
‘But I wil . I’l do anything. Anything. You cannot imagine how this makes me feel—’
He grinned at her.
‘I can see it.’
‘Wow,’ Amy said. ‘Wow, wow, mega wow.’
She began to spin down the room, turning like a skater, arms out, hair flying, her canvas boots thudding lightly on the bare boards. He watched her go whirling down the room, behind the piano and back again, until she came to an unsteady halt in front of him.
‘Scott,’ she said. She was panting slightly and her eyes were bright. ‘Scott, I real y, really, don’t want to go home tomorrow.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was the young couple’s third visit to the house. Chrissie had been wary of them at first, convinced that they were part of the deceptive culture of debt-financed outward prosperity, and that they would talk loudly about their enthusiasm and plans for the house, and then suddenly stare at her blankly and say they couldn’t possibly afford such an asking price, as if the fault lay with her.
The asking price had been careful y engineered by Tamsin’s Mr Mundy. He had come to see the house in person, as Tamsin had assured Chrissie he would, and had been very measured and deliberate, and had told Chrissie, over coffee in the kitchen – he had deprecatingly declined the sitting room as if to emphasize that he was merely a man of business – that they would advertise the house at fifty thousand pounds above the price that she should calculate on getting for it, in order to al ow for the bargaining and inevitable reduction that were al part of the current house-buying-and-sel ing market.
Chrissie had not liked Mr Mundy. She did not care for his heaviness, nor his slightly sweaty pal or, nor his patronage, and, most of al , she did not care for the way he was with Tamsin, like a seedily flirtatious uncle. Tamsin, she observed, did not respond to him in kind, but she certainly did nothing to discourage him, to the point where Chrissie made sure that, in going up the stairs to the top floor, it was she who preceded Mr Mundy, and not Tamsin.
When he left, he held her hand fractional y too long in his large, soft grasp, and said that he was very sure he could just about promise her a sale.
‘Good,’ Chrissie said, ‘and soon, please.’
‘As soon,’ Mr Mundy said, stil smiling, ‘as it is humanly possible under current market conditions.’
Chrissie shut the door.
‘What a creep—’
Tamsin remembered catching Mr Mundy with the massage-ads page of the Ham & High newspaper, and thought she wouldn’t mention it. She said instead, ‘Wel , he’s an estate agent, isn’t he? And if anyone can sel this house, he can.’
In the first weeks of the house being on the market, there were nine viewings. One of those viewings was by a young couple with a toddler, and after two days they came again. They stood about in the rooms, behaving, as Chrissie had come to realize, with amazement, in the way that people buying houses commonly behaved, remarking – as if Chrissie had not made this house her home for the past fifteen years – on what was the matter with it, and what needed doing to make it even halfway acceptable. On that second visit, there had been so much to find fault with – outdated decor, neglected garden, absence of garage, pokiness of existing office space, tired bathrooms – that Chrissie had seen them go with a mixture of relief that she need never see them again and regret that whatever had drawn them back was not strong enough to convince them.
‘I don’t get it,’ she said to Sue on the telephone. ‘I don’t want to have to sel this house but stil I’m panicking that nobody wil want to buy it. What’s going on?’
‘You’re getting better.’
‘I can’t be—’
‘You are. And they’l be back.’
‘They won’t. They couldn’t find anything to like today—’
‘They’l be back.’
And they were. They turned up, entirel
y insouciant, as if they had never had any intention of doing anything else.
‘But,’ Chrissie said, ‘I real y thought you didn’t like it, I thought you said—’
The wife stared at her. She was dressed in a grey linen tunic over a discreet pregnant bump, and she had the toddler on her hip, and an immense soft leather bag covered in pockets and buckles slung over her shoulder.
‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘we love it.’ She looked at the toddler. ‘Don’t we, Jamie? We’re going to make a playroom out of that room you said used to have a piano in it. For Jamie. Aren’t we, Jamie?’
They offered Chrissie fifty thousand less than the asking price.
‘Say no,’ Tamsin said.
‘I was going to. Anyway.’
‘I would advise—’ Mr Mundy began.
‘No,’ Chrissie said, ‘I’l take ten off.’
‘Mrs Rossiter—’
‘Ten,’ Chrissie said.
The young couple offered forty thousand less than the asking price.
‘Fifteen,’ Chrissie said.
The young couple said that they were no longer interested at that price.
‘I wil leave in six weeks,’ Chrissie said, ‘and I wil take twenty thousand off the asking price.’
‘Oh God, Mum,’ Dil y said, ‘do you know what you’re doing?’
‘Not real y,’ Chrissie said, ‘but I’m going on instinct. I’m excited.’
‘You’re over excited—’
The young couple said that they would agree to exchange within two weeks and twenty-five thousand off, but that they were of course now looking at other properties.
‘Done,’ Chrissie said, ‘done. And I’ve taken the job at Leverton’s.’
‘You can’t—’
‘I can.’
‘She can!’
‘What do you know,’ Tamsin said to Dil y, ‘you’ve never earned a penny in al your life.’
‘I wil be,’ Dil y said. ‘I’m looking for work now. I will be.’
‘Playing houses,’ Tamsin said scornful y, ‘in that poky flat.’
The Other Family Page 27
