by Maureen Lee
‘I find human behaviour fascinating,’ Elaine said a trifle defensively.
Jeannie wrinkled her nose. ‘I’d find it nauseating myself.’
‘And, in order to be married, it’s necessary to be asked first.’
‘Is that what you’re waiting for, to be asked?’
‘I can’t very well drag some man to the altar and marry him against his will, can I?’ She sounded waspishly annoyed. ‘Anyroad, there aren’t many single, thirtyish men left. I haven’t met one I fancy in years.’
‘You will, one day,’ Jeannie said, more confidently than she felt.
‘Are you sure you don’t mind me going, babe?’ Lachlan enquired worriedly. ‘I’ll be gone three whole weeks.’ It was his first long trip away since Antony was born.
‘Of course I don’t mind. I’d hate it if you didn’t go and let so many people down.’ The tour of Eastern Europe had been arranged since last year and was booked solid. They both knew it couldn’t be cancelled at such short notice and were playing a little game of charades, sitting up in bed on Sunday morning while, beside them, their son slept soundly in his cot. A car was coming to collect him in less than an hour. His bags had been packed the night before and were waiting in the hall with three of his precious guitars.
‘You won’t be lonely on your own?’
‘I won’t be on my own, will I? I’ll have Antony.’ Jeannie chortled. ‘I’ll never be lonely again.’
‘You’re making me feel jealous, babe.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t want to be jealous of our Ace.’
‘Don’t be daft. And don’t call him Ace.’
‘I’ll ring every night, ’case you’re pregnant again.’
‘I won’t be able to tell, will I? I’m still breastfeeding and I haven’t had my periods back.’
‘Women can get pregnant dead easy when they’ve just had a baby.’
‘You’ve already told me that a dozen times, Lachlan,’ Jeannie said patiently. She hoped there was a chance it might happen, but it was a very faint hope. ‘We’ve been trying extremely hard. Let’s pray it works.’
Lachlan slid down the bed and pulled her down with him. ‘Let’s have one more try before I leave. Today I’m feeling lucky. ’Fact, if we have another boy, that’s what we’ll call him – Lucky!’
Antony was gradually being weaned off breastmilk. He half-sat, half-lay in his canvas chair in the kitchen watching his mother prepare his bottle, idly kicking his bare feet. Lachlan had left two hours before.
Now that they’d had one child, he desperately wanted another, far more than he’d wanted the first. She knew he didn’t care if it was a boy or girl, and that he was only joking when he said at least three, but he was anxious they have more children.
She picked up her baby and gave him a hug, then took him on to the patio to give him his bottle. It was going to be another warm day. ‘I’m afraid your dad’s going to be sadly disappointed,’ she told him. ‘He’s not the only one who wants you to have a little sister or brother.’
Later, she carried him with her around the house and decided she was fed up with everywhere being white. It looked too cold and clinical, particularly with wooden floors. She’d prefer warm, bright colours. ‘We’ll have your nursery painted, shall we? A lovely buttercup yellow. And buy a carpet. In fact, we’ll get carpets for all the rooms and curtains too, blinds look too functional.’ If the decor was to be so drastically altered, they’d need new furniture; scrunchy velvet armchairs and settees in dark jewel colours, lots of glowing polished wood.
She told her mother and Alex about her plans when they arrived after lunch with the girls. Amy and Eliza made straight for the pool. Jeannie wondered aloud why she suddenly wanted to completely transform the house.
‘It’s your nesting instinct,’ Alex said. ‘Ask Elaine, she’ll know. You’re like a bird, making the house comfortable for your young.’
‘I didn’t like to say it before, love, but this place always makes me feel as if I’m inside a big refrigerator,’ Rose said. ‘It feels warm enough, but it looks cold. I reckon you’ll be improving it no end.’
‘I’ll ring a decorator tomorrow. Oh, it’s so exciting!’ Jeannie cried. Her entire world had changed with the arrival of Antony. It was a pity she’d had to wait so long for him to come.
The next few months were peaceful and uneventful, apart from the decorators who descended in their droves. Lachlan came home and refused to go on a long tour again. He was rarely away for more than one night at a time. He’d dispensed with the uppers and downers that he’d once found so essential, though Jeannie assumed he still took speed to get through the frenzied gigs that lasted three hours or more.
In September, when Antony was completely weaned, Jeannie went down to London to make an album to be released at Christmas. It would be called A Rainbow of Flowers, each number having a colour in the title, starting and finishing with ‘White Christmas’. Although she badly missed Antony, who was being looked after by Lachlan and her mother, it made a pleasant change to get away and be herself for a few days. She stayed with the McDowds, after making sure Sean wouldn’t be there. When she returned, Antony was able to stand on his own and she could have sworn he’d grown an inch. Not only that, but the living room had been painted burnt orange and the new furniture had arrived. She’d only been back a day when a period started. As expected, she hadn’t conceived, but was still bitterly disappointed.
That year, Christmas in Noah’s Ark was like a fairy tale come true. The imitation tree stayed in the loft and they bought a real one, ten feet tall. Jeannie and Lachlan took the greatest pleasure dressing it with glittering bells and balls, tinsel garlands, and coloured lights. Antony gasped and clapped his hands with delight when the lights were switched on, his own eyes brighter than any on the tree.
‘It’ll be even better next year,’ Lachlan sighed happily. ‘Ace will really appreciate his presents. We can get him a football and his own little guitar.’
‘The poor child must feel very confused,’ Jeannie complained. ‘You call him Ace; I call him Antony. He probably doesn’t know who he is.’
‘It’s you who’s confusing him, babe. Everyone calls him Ace. You’re the only one who calls him Antony.’
‘But that’s his name,’ she wailed.
‘You never know,’ Lachlan went on, ignoring her. ‘By next Christmas, Lucky Bailey might have appeared on the scene. Y’know, babe,’ he said reflectively, ‘I wouldn’t mind easing off even more with the Survivors, just doing the occasional gig, so’s I could spend more time at home. I’d concentrate on composing and arranging instead.’
‘That would be marvellous, Lachlan.’
Nineteen seventy-seven got off to a tragic start when, early in January, Dr Bailey, apparently healthy and only in his mid-sixties, unexpectedly died after catching a particularly virulent strain of flu. He was on the verge of retirement and greatly looking forward to a more leisurely life. His shocked family were heartbroken. He had been a wonderful father, guiding his children gently and wisely through life, rarely raising his voice.
‘He was always fair with us,’ Lachlan said in a raw voice. ‘If Dad passed an opinion, you knew he was right. I can’t imagine the future without him around.’
Jeannie was struck by how unpredictable and cruel life could be. Dr Bailey was the first person close to her to die. It struck her that in the course of time other people would die, herself and Lachlan included. They discussed between them what they would do if the other died first.
‘I hope I’m the first to go,’ Jeannie said, ‘because I don’t think I could live without you.’
‘I couldn’t live without you, babe.’
‘Then let’s hope we go together.’
‘It’d be pretty hard on Ace if we did.’ Jeannie gasped. ‘We couldn’t possibly do that to Ace. Oh, see! Now you’ve got me calling him Ace.’
‘If I were you, babe, I’d give in. Stop confusing the lad and call him Ace like everyone else.’
Janu
ary was slightly redeemed when, on the last day of the month, Rose Flowers married Alex Connors. Rose wore a fitted dress of blue panne velvet and a matching Greta Garbo hat with a giant cabbage rose on the brim. Not to be outdone, Alex wore a matching velvet suit and pink shirt. The bride and groom’s outfits were the only grand things about the simple, registry office ceremony. Afterwards, the entire family flew to the Bahamas for the honeymoon.
The wedding was the first time Jeannie and Lachlan had met Ronnie Connors since he’d left the Merseysiders. It seemed a lifetime ago.
‘Do you ever regret leaving?’ Jeannie asked. ‘I bet you never dreamt they’d do so well.’
‘Perhaps I did,’ Ronnie grinned. ‘Perhaps that’s why I left. If I couldn’t hack it then, I’d never hack it now. I’d need a whole bottle a day of the hard stuff to calm me nerves. Anyroad, I’m dead happy working in me dad’s factory. I’m assistant manager. That responsibility I can handle. Playing the keyboard was something else. Hey! Dad said you had a kid last year, a boy. Congratulations! We’ve got two, a boy and a girl. I’ve some photeys in me wallet.’
Lachlan’s hand immediately went to the inside pocket of his suede jacket. ‘I’ve got some of Ace . . .’
The small plane was being buffeted like a moth as it flew over the Irish Sea, trying to force its feeble way through the ferocious March gale. The pilot had been warned by officials at the airfield in Kent not to take off due to adverse weather conditions in the Fastnet area, but Mr McDowd had instructed him to ignore the warning.
‘I’m in a hurry, Jimmy. There’s this Irish singer, Donny O’Donnell, and I want to sign him up before any other bastard gets to him. The guy was on TV last night,’ he explained when the plane was airborne. The wind then was relatively slight. ‘He sings like Engelbert Humperdinck and Tom Jones rolled into one. The programme came from Dublin, it being St Patrick’s Day, like. I’ve already spoken to him on the phone,’ he continued – Mr McDowd never stopped talking – ‘and he agreed to sign a contract, but I won’t feel safe till I’ve got his signature on the dotted line. Never trust an Irishman, boyo.’ He chuckled. ‘You just got that straight from the horse’s mouth.’
‘Yes, Mr McDowd.’
Mr McDowd rambled on. There’d been a time, he said boastfully, when he couldn’t have raked together the fare to sail from Dún Laoghaire to Fleetwood, let alone gone on a plane. Now he could fly to Dublin after lunch and be back in London in time for tea, and in his own aircraft too. He was a lucky man, that was for sure. Mind you, he’d worked hard. ‘Luck and hard work, Jim, boy. Luck isn’t enough, you need to work hard an’ all. Is everything all right?’ he asked when Jimmy didn’t respond.
‘I’m not sure, Mr McDowd. It’s just that the wind’s getting a bit rough.’ The plane was being blown sharply to the right.
‘Ah, don’t take any notice, boyo. We’ll be fine. The good Lord looks after his own.’
‘I’m wondering if we shouldn’t go back.’
‘Not after coming all this far. We’re nearly there.’ It was probably too late to turn back, otherwise the pilot would have done so of his own accord and to hell with Kevin McDowd. His employer stopped talking, apart from a cracked ‘Jaysus Christ!’ when they were suddenly jerked upwards, as if a giant puppetmaster was pulling invisible strings. Jimmy decided to continue the upward surge. If they rose high enough he could leave the gale behind and fly above it. He pulled back the joystick and the plane reared sharply. Mr McDowd made a choking sound as they continued to climb until they emerged in an entirely different world, where the air was crystal clear, the sky blue, and the sun a glaring golden ball. The pilot breathed a sigh of relief and steadied the small aircraft, but after a period of welcome calm, he noticed ice was beginning to form on the wings.
‘I’ll have to go down again,’ he muttered. Too much ice, and he’d lose lift. They dropped as swiftly as they had risen, only to be grabbed by a particularly vicious thrust of wind that spun the plane out of control. Jimmy screamed with fear as he desperately tried to regain command, but there was nothing he could do to stop it from corkscrewing relentlessly downwards towards the angry, churning waters of the Irish Sea.
Jeannie was in the kitchen when the telephone rang. She wiped her hands and went to answer it, but the ringing stopped. Lachlan must have answered it elsewhere in the house. Minutes later, he appeared at the kitchen door. ‘That was the Cobb,’ he said tightly. ‘Kevin’s missing. He was flying to Dublin yesterday, but the plane never arrived.’
‘But surely there’s a chance they were diverted and he’s OK?’
‘It doesn’t seem likely. They’re out searching for the wreckage. I’ll ring Fly, tell him.’
‘I’ll put the radio on for the latest news.’ News drifted in bit by bit throughout the day. Wreckage of a plane was spotted just off the coast of Anglesey. Hours later, it was confirmed that the wreckage was the remains of a de Havilland Dove and a body had been seen some miles away. By six o’clock, another body had been sighted, and on the news that night, it was announced that Kevin McDowd, millionaire manager of a string of successful musical acts, had died when his plane had been caught in bad weather over the Irish Sea. It went on to say that Mr McDowd was also a renowned composer, having written numerous chart successes, including the classic ‘Moon Under Water’. Almost as an afterthought, it was mentioned that the pilot had also lost his life.
Sadie gave her darling Kevin a magnificent send off. The Requiem Mass was held at Brompton Oratory in Knightsbridge and the church was packed to capacity with celebrities from all walks of life. Kevin had been the most popular and well liked of men. From the altar, Lachlan read from Isaiah 35. ‘Let the desert and the dry lands be glad, let the wasteland rejoice and bloom; like the jonquil, let it burst into flower, let it rejoice and sing for joy.’
Zoe represented the Flower Girls. She was now a famous face on television, and she spoke movingly of the delightful man who had given her her first break. Sean McDowd appeared genuinely upset when he talked about his father. ‘My dad wasn’t perfect, but he made everybody laugh and he was generous to a fault. He taught me there was nothing I couldn’t do. His voice and his laugh will always be with me, even if Dad won’t be there himself.’
Outside the church, Lachlan gave Sean a fierce hug. ‘As you know, my own dad died only two months ago, so I understand how you must feel.’
‘Thanks, mate.’ Sean nodded curtly and turned to Jeannie. ‘How are you?’ he asked politely.
‘Very well, thank you.’ Jeannie deliberately avoided his eyes.
‘I must come and meet your son one of these days.’
‘Come for the weekend,’ Lachlan said eagerly. ‘I’ll ask Fly and we can talk about old times.’
‘Don’t encourage him,’ Jeannie whispered when Sean had gone.
‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised you didn’t like him.’
‘I don’t dislike him. I’d just sooner not have him staying in our house.’
‘On reflection, he’s a miserable son of a bitch. I never liked him much myself either, but he’s a brilliant guitarist, and after all, his dad’s just died. I’m upset enough myself over Kevin.’
Marcia grabbed Jeannie’s arm. She was dressed in a black boucle suit and fur hat, and looked svelte and smart, not at all like the mother of six children. ‘I suppose it’ll be your dad’s funeral soon,’ she said in her piercing voice. ‘He’s by far the oldest father. By rights, he should have gone first.’
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘My mum’s a widow, so is Sadie, so your mum’s bound to be the next.’
‘Your Elaine was right,’ Jeannie said coldly. ‘You should be permanently gagged. Also, I might remind you that my mother isn’t married to my father.’
‘There’s no need to get on your high horse, Jeannie. Death always goes in threes.’
‘I wouldn’t want to see six children deprived of a mother, sis, but . . .’ Lachlan made a face at his sister and left the remainder of the sentence uns
aid. Marcia marched away in a huff.
‘She’s right, though,’ Jeannie said. ‘Death often seems to happen in threes.’
‘That’s just a silly superstition, babe.’
‘Let’s find Sadie and Rita and offer our sympathies, then go home. I’m badly missing Ace. But promise you’ll drive carefully, Lachlan. I don’t want either of us to be number three.’
Rita was nowhere to be found, but a white-faced Sadie, fighting to hold back the tears, told them she was doing her best to keep herself together. ‘I’m setting up a trust in Kevin’s name to fund aspiring musicians. I’m sure it’s what he would have wanted. The Kevin McDowd Trust Fund. Doesn’t that sound grand? It will keep his name alive. An accountant is going through the books at this very moment, sorting everything out.’
Jeannie was getting Ace ready for bed and combing the pale gold hair that had grown in magnificent abundance when he was six months old, when her mother rang.
‘Put the television on. BBC1,’ she said tersely and rang off straight away.
‘Lachlan!’ Jeannie yelled a few minutes later.
‘What’s the matter?’ Lachlan rushed in. He’d just stepped out of the shower, and was clad only in a towel.
‘It’s Kevin McDowd.’ She gestured at the television. ‘His affairs were in a terrible mess. He’s left behind a load of debts. Did he owe you any money?’
‘No, I’ve been paid completely up to date. So have Fly and the Cobb, or they would have mentioned it.’ Lachlan looked stunned. ‘I wonder what will happen to Sadie?’
‘Well, she won’t be setting up the Kevin McDowd Trust Fund, that’s for sure.’
Kevin had borrowed off a French bank to buy the flat in Paris, and was well behind with repayments. The bank had now started proceedings to claim the flat in lieu. The manor house in Ireland had been bought for cash, but it had been seriously run down and there was a long list of tradesmen still waiting for their money. The mews house in Knightsbridge had a mortgage, also in default, though it was in Sadie’s name, something of which she was unaware. Several months’ rent was owed on the Mayfair office. Wine merchants, tailors, florists, jewellers; Kevin McDowd was indebted to them all. He’d paid off a bit here, a bit there, so no one had been particularly worried. Kevin had always been an honourable man and, even now, no one doubted they would eventually have been paid in full.
