Making Hay

by Veronica Henry

  He wasn’t going to dwell on it or he wouldn’t be able to go ahead. Kitty had been so excited, and he didn’t want to dampen her enthusiasm just because of his bad experiences. He cleaned the tape heads carefully with meths and a Q-tip. There was no reason the ancient piece of machinery wouldn’t still work, though it was practically a collector’s item. For the equivalent of what he’d paid for it, you could get an all-singing, all-dancing twenty-four-track computerized recording studio. But although Barney had kept up in theory with new technology by reading music magazines, he knew he’d be lost. Besides, he quite liked the hands-on, old way of doing things. It seemed more real, more pure to him. He miked up the piano with his trusty Shure microphones, replaced some dodgy strings on his bass and plugged it into his amp.

  She arrived, in a pair of army camouflage dungarees over a lacy vest. And sang. She was incredibly unselfconscious. There was no pussyfooting, no beating about the bush. She went for it, while Barney busied himself, testing for levels, pushing buttons, moving microphones, sliding levers, until he thought he’d got the ambience just right.

  Her voice was untrained, but incredibly powerful, and she seemed to have a natural ability to control it. They messed around with some jazzy, bluesy classics, with Barney improvising on the piano. They recorded a version of Nina Simone’s ‘Don’t Smoke in Bed’. And Etta James’s ‘I’d Rather Go Blind’. They sounded great, but Barney hated cover versions. Anyone with half a voice and a few pieces of equipment could do it. There was no real challenge. And now he’d seen what Kitty was capable of, he wanted to push it further.

  ‘Do you want to write a song?’

  ‘I’ve never written one before.’

  ‘I think we should try.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Just… do it. We think of a hook. Some notes or some lyrics to build it round. Some of the best songs are written in two minutes flat.’

  Kitty looked unsure, but seemed happy to give it a go.

  ‘I need a starting point. I can’t just go into it cold.’

  ‘OK. Try this.’

  Barney picked out a clutch of notes on the piano – a haunting, winsome melody that he’d had in the back of his mind.

  ‘Think of something to go round that.’

  Kitty took up the challenge. She sat cross-legged on the windowsill for ten minutes, swigging her San Miguel, scribbling furiously, then crossing out, then sighing. Finally, she was satisfied.

  The lyrics were slightly naive, but with a hint of darkness. Together they sat down and structured the lyrics around Barney’s music. Kitty listened, rapt, as Barney showed her how to turn a basic idea into something special, how what you left out was as important as what you left in, how it should build, and also how to slip in the unexpected so that the song didn’t become a cliché.

  At last they were ready to record. It started gently, her voice skipping sweetly over and under the piano, lulling the listener into a false sense of security until the bass kicked in with no warning, as sudden and unexpected as a spurned lover appearing from nowhere with a knife. The music lurched into a terrifying crescendo, the lyrics dripping the pure vitriol of a woman scorned, spite oozing out of every syllable, while underneath the lower notes of the piano rumbled threateningly. Then almost as soon as it had begun, the maelstrom was over, like a midsummer storm, the notes dwindling, dancing lightly on the edge of consciousness until they faded away.

  If today was yesterday

  Tomorrow would never come

  I would not let them steal

  Another day from me

  Another day

  Day from me…

  It was magical. Barney knew it was good, because when you listened, you felt as if you’d heard it before. It insinuated its way into your soul. And his instinct never failed him.

  ‘Now comes the boring bit, I’m afraid. I’ve got to mix it down.’

  Kitty seemed quite happy to sit and listen while he played around with the sounds. Not many people realized how tedious the recording process could be – hundreds of takes, followed by hours of fiddling about with knobs in an attempt to get exactly the right sound. But Barney loved it. He had an idea in his head of exactly how something should be and was happy to persevere.

  By eight o’clock that night, Barney had opened a bottle of Havana Club and drunk half of it. He remembered now, mixing down was always so much easier when you were pissed. By nine o’clock he’d sent Kitty out for cigarettes and smoked half of them. He hadn’t smoked for five years. But God, it felt good. The whole process felt fantastic. The creative energy flowed through him, resuscitating his soul. Kitty sat patiently, listening, asking questions, never once looking bored.

  In Iris’s flat, Suzanna and her mother had shared a bowl of orecchiette with broccoli and Gorgonzola, and were sitting watching a video of Chocolat.

  Suzanna felt incredibly relaxed. Getting away from the pub made her realize how exhausting and stressful the last few weeks had been. Living in turmoil, having to make decisions, the anticipation, wondering whether it would be a success or not. In the cosy confines of her mother’s flat, she could forget all about it. And she could be herself. She didn’t have to pretend everything was all right, keep control, make sure the smile didn’t slip. She knew that if she wanted to weep, to rage at the unfairness of it all, that her mother wouldn’t mind. And somehow, because she knew that she could, she didn’t need to…

  Iris gently removed the glass of wine from her hand and shook her awake. Suzanna stayed conscious long enough to make it into her old bedroom, where she pulled the covers up under her chin and slid back into sleep.

  Iris looked down at her sleeping daughter. Something wasn’t quite right, she knew it. Suzanna had told her about everything they’d achieved with great excitement; she’d fizzed and bubbled as she described the dress rehearsal that had gone so well the week before. But no matter how animated she was, Iris knew, with a mother’s instinct, that there was something missing.

  There was a deep ache in her heart. She wanted, with the desperate frustration that only a parent can feel, to make it all right again for Suzanna. And Barney – Iris adored Barney. They were so right together. Iris, a confirmed atheist, cursed God for what he’d done to them both. It made her feel better to have someone to blame, even if she didn’t believe in him.

  By two o’clock, Kitty had fallen asleep on an old sofa that Marmite usually used as a bed. Barney slipped upstairs and brought down their duvet to cover her over, and some pillows. He tucked one under her head, but she barely stirred. Then he carried on his work, with his headphones on.

  The whole process brought the old days back to him. In the studio with the band, half pissed, a bit stoned, excited, arguing, buzzing, creating, collaborating, improvising, fighting. It was exhausting; it serrated your nerves; it was living on the edge, but there was nothing – nothing – like the high at the end. The experience had lain dormant in the depths of Barney’s soul for all these years.

  Somehow, naively perhaps, he’d hoped that working on the pub together would be a similar thrill; give him the edge he’d lacked for so long. But he and Suzanna weren’t collaborating. They weren’t really sharing the highs or the lows, the graft, the concept of bouncing off each other. They were working in parallel, very occasionally coming together.

  Eventually, the first fingers of light through the window made him realize dawn was on its way. His eyes felt as if they were full of hot sand, but he was filled with excitement. He wanted to shake Kitty awake and share his excitement with her, but he didn’t think she’d appreciate being woken. And he ought to have some sleep himself. He checked his watch – just after four. He could get in three hours; feel half human the next day.

  He couldn’t go upstairs and leave Kitty on her own. Anyway, the bedroom was filled with paint fumes. So he slipped on to the sofa next to her, pulled the other half of the duvet over him and folded up a spare pillow for his head. Marmite, asleep in the crook of Kitty’s knees, shuffled over to his
lap. Barney shut his eyes. He could see spools spinning in front of him; hear the jumbled notes tumbling through his consciousness.

  In five minutes, he was fast asleep.

  He woke at half seven with a crook in his neck. The duvet had slipped on to the floor and he was freezing cold. He was trying to work out where he was, and why, when Kitty came back into the room with Marmite. She smiled.

  ‘He was desperate for the loo, poor little thing.’

  Barney sat up, confused by the vision of Kitty in front of him, then remembered he’d been slaving over a hot mixing desk till dawn. He groaned, catching sight of the bottle of Havana Club taunting him, half empty.

  ‘I need tea.’

  ‘I’ve put the kettle on.’ Kitty sat on the sofa next to him, tucking the duvet back round him. ‘Did you finish it?’

  Barney nodded.

  ‘Do you want to hear it?’

  ‘When you feel more human. You look like death.’

  ‘Thanks!’ Barney ruffled his hair and grimaced at the unfamiliar taste of stale cigarettes in his mouth. He pushed the duvet off and stood up tentatively. Not too bad, all things considered.

  Half an hour later, when Barney had washed and drunk three cups of tea, he spooled back the tapes from the night before. They sat, almost in reverence, as he pressed play and the room was filled with sound: sound they had created together. It was the first time Barney had heard it at full volume. Listening on headphones had little impact.

  He felt slightly ill. It would have been so much easier if it had been mediocre. But it wasn’t. It was stunning. Breathtaking. Even though it was impossible for him to be objective, he knew instinctively he was on the brink of something big.

  ‘Do you mind if I send this to someone I know? I’ve got a contact – I might be able to track him down.’

  Kitty nodded. ‘Sure.’

  Barney wasn’t sure whether to warn her that this was the final moment when she had complete control. That once Pandora’s box was open, there was no going back. Did she want everything that was to follow? Was she strong enough? Was it a fantastic opportunity or a curse?

  Barney thought about what it had done to him. It had, until he’d met Suzanna, destroyed his faith in human nature. He’d stifled his creativity for nearly twenty years, afraid of the consequences. It had made him bitter and cynical. Not on the surface: on the outside he was genial, affable, open-minded. But deep down inside he had fears and anxieties that he didn’t unleash on anyone else; insecurities that he’d managed to bury.

  Kitty was young and beautiful, and she had the voice of an angel with the devil inside. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to be responsible for creating a monster. But more than anything, Barney couldn’t bear the thought of wasted talent. Couldn’t bear the thought of Kitty going to her grave without the chance to share her gift with the world and reap its rewards.

  He felt a surge of something towards her – it wasn’t sexual, or paternal; he wasn’t sure what it was. It was always weird, collaborating with someone in a creative process. It was so intense, so personal – turning your insides out in front of someone. It was, if anything, more intimate than sex.

  Which was why, before Kitty left, he asked her not to mention it to anybody.

  ‘Suzanna’s not too keen on me doing musical stuff. She thinks it brings out the worst in me.’

  This was a thumping great lie. His musical career had long been dead by the time Suzanna had come along. But Barney was feeling uncomfortable and unsure about what he’d done. Anyway, it didn’t really do for your wife to know that you’d spent the night with a nineteen-year-old girl. People were so cynical these days. No one would believe that you could spend the hours between midnight and dawn alone in a room with someone and not get your leg over.

  Barney put the mix-down carefully in its case and wrote on it ‘Helicopter Launching Pad’. It meant nothing to him or anyone else. Which was why it wasn’t likely to attract any attention.

  After breakfast on Sunday, there was something that Suzanna knew she had to do. She got in the car and drove the three miles to the municipal cemetery where Oliver was buried. On the way she stopped off at a shop for flowers. Deep down, she thought it was a stupid, meaningless gesture, but she couldn’t visit his grave and not leave some token. She chose sunflowers: bright, cheerful, jolly sunflowers that totally belied how she was feeling but that were, she felt, both childlike and masculine. Clutching her bouquet, she walked along the wide, tree-lined path that ran down the middle of the cemetery. As municipal cemeteries went, it was quite attractive. And at least it was a sunny morning. On a grey, cloudy day it would have been insufferable, no matter how many attempts had been made to make it welcoming.

  She came to Oliver’s little stone. They’d agonized long and hard over what to have. There’d been a bewildering choice – stones in the shape of teddies or Thomas the Tank Engine. In the end, they’d settled upon something simple – a white stone with black lettering. ‘In memory of our beloved son…’ Their final choice had seemed almost irrelevant. They didn’t need a gravestone to remember him by. It was a ritual; part of the process they had to go through.

  She put her bunch of flowers down a little self-consciously. She was surprised how many people were there visiting. She supposed it was a Sunday-morning ritual for a lot of them. A visit to a parent or a husband or a wife. She wondered how many people were visiting their children, and how they had coped. How long, she wanted to ask them. How long before it stopped hurting?

  But as she turned back to the grave, she noticed something. This time, it didn’t seem to be hurting so much. She still felt sad – of course she did – but it was just a tight coldness in the bottom of her chest, not the asphyxiating panic usually brought on by seeing his name in black and white, and those pitiful dates, that pitifully short life.

  A sudden thought occurred to her. It was the first time she had visited Oliver’s grave without Barney. Perhaps that was the key? Perhaps it was Barney who reminded her too much of the past, too much of what they had had together; the life they had created. Barney who inadvertently kept opening that huge wound inside her, even though he did so much to try and heal it afterwards.

  Did they realistically have a future together? She loved him, of course she did, but was that love ever going to be strong enough to fight the dark shadow that was always lurking? Perhaps their relationship was always going to be a facade? Was she always going to have to battle with herself to keep afloat, knowing that it was unfair on him to go under? Were they ever going to recapture their love as it had been at the beginning or was it always going to be marred by tragedy, with memories, with what could have been?

  Somehow, coming back to Richmond had thrown everything into perspective. She’d passed so many of their old haunts and it had reminded her of their life together. Strangely, it evoked more happy memories than sad ones. Those mad, heady days when they had first fallen in love and done the ridiculous, soppy, crazy things that new lovers did. A picnic in Richmond Park when they had refused to be put off by the driving rain and had got soaked to the skin, then, because they knew nobody with any sense would be out, had made love under cover of the rhododendrons. The day they’d made fools of themselves ice-skating, doggedly holding hands and making their way tentatively round the edge while teenagers wove expertly in and out. The amazing barbecue they’d had in the tiny back garden of Barney’s house, when they’d introduced their own friends to each other, and the neighbours had complained about the noise and then joined in…

  They’d had a wonderful time. And Suzanna felt frustrated that they couldn’t recapture the spirit of those days.

  They still loved each other.

  But it was different.

  Could it ever be the same again?

  Perhaps she shouldn’t go back to Honeycote? Perhaps she should stay here; live with her mother for a while, then take steps to build a new life on her own. Without Barney, maybe she could be someone else. Not Suzanna Blake, bereaved mother, tr
agic figure, incomplete woman… And he could be free of the ball and chain that she seemed to have become. He’d find himself another girl quickly enough, someone without any emotional baggage, someone that would make him laugh, make his brown eyes twinkle. The twinkle that had drawn her to him in the first place. The twinkle that had gone out on that dreadful day.

  Then she chastised herself. That was the coward’s way out. They had too much together to walk away from each other now. She remembered all the leaflets and the counsellors. They’d all said the same thing. Give it time…

  Eighteen months, two weeks and a day. Wasn’t that long enough?

  17

  The day of the opening, both Barney and Suzanna woke at half past five, to glorious sunshine. Suzanna sat up in a panic and grabbed the list that was by her bed, wondering what she should do first. Barney took the list off her gently and told her to calm down.

  ‘Lie there and do some of those deep breathing things they go on about. I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’

  Suzanna tried some meditation, tried to visualize a tropical beach or a cool green forest, but all she could see was millions of outraged guests wandering about wondering where the food was. Barney came back in with a tray, with tea and a tiny package wrapped in tissue paper. He handed it to her solemnly.

  ‘This is to say good luck. And well done so far.’

  Suzanna opened it. Inside was a tiny enamel box, in the shape of a strawberry; exquisitely detailed.

  She clapped her hands in delight. It was the perfect present. The air around Honeycote was thick with the smell of strawberries from the surrounding fields. She’d spent all day yesterday making tartlet cases to hold the first of the crops. Then she grinned mischievously and put her hand under her pillow, drawing out a little parcel.

  ‘You know what they say. Great minds think alike.’

  Barney opened it, curious. Inside was another enamel box, this time shaped like a minute bundle of asparagus, the crop that had made the Vale of Evesham so famous. They looked at each other in wonderment that their presents were so similar.