Making Music

by Ling, Maria

  At least she could tidy things up, she thought forlornly. She gathered up the handkerchiefs and walked with them into the bright airy kitchen, where she deposited them in the washing machine. It was probably time to change the towels and bedlinen, so she might as well do a big hot wash.

  She went into the white-tiled bathroom, where the stark effect of spotless whiteness was softened by three strategically placed wicker baskets full of ferns, whose large frothing green fronds erupted into the soap-scented air.

  Ignoring her own reflection, of pale skin vividly contrasting with feverishly reddened lips and cheeks and eyes, she splashed her face with blissfully cold water and then dried it with the fluffy white towel that hung from the chrome rail.

  Refreshed, she threw the towel over her shoulder and proceeded to the small bedroom. The appleblossom-patterned duvet cover and pillow case, matching the pale green linen curtains that covered the window, was quickly and efficiently exchanged for fresh ones, along with the pristine white sheet. Then the whole lot was ferried out to join the handkerchief collection in the washing machine.

  With the machine rumbling into life behind her, Jen went back into the living room where she picked up all the cracked and splintered shards of clear casing and metalled disc, and carried the pathetic remnants out into the kitchen and dropped them unceremoniously into the bin.

  "Goodbye Stuart," she said triumphantly and slammed down the lid.

  Then she remembered the pile of magazines under the sofa, and went off to retrieve it. It took her a good ten minutes to extract them all from their hiding-place, especially the one she had jammed in so violently during her hasty concealment operation. Having succeeded, she once more had the momentary satisfaction of shoving all trace of Stuart into the kitchen bin and slamming the lid on him.

  Quite calm now, she put the kettle on and made herself a comforting mugful of milky tea, which she sipped slowly, curled up on the sofa with a nice old-fashioned folk singer in possession of the CD player.

  Toad! she thought rebelliously to herself. Nasty, ugly, warty, slimy, creepy, poisonous toad!

  It should not have made her feel better, but it did.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Left here," Karen said, frowning over the road atlas, "and then there should be a turning about half a mile along, a right hand turn."

  "Left," Jen repeated, turning the steering wheel and guiding the car into the narrow country lane. On either side lay huge fields fringed with trees, and in the middle of one a tractor crawled laboriously across the rippling golden harvest. "Onwards half a mile, and then right."

  "That's it."

  The car ran as smoothly along the lane as it had on the ‘A' road they had just left, and along the motorway before that. It was a good runner, three years old and with no bad habits, as Dominic described it. A solid, reliable car, with plenty of space in the back: exactly what you needed for carting yourself and your touring partner and your guitars and microphones and various other items of equipment around the country.

  She had been thrilled to be able to afford it at last, and not have to rely on her old dreadful little Polo anymore -- or worse, on Dominic's battered old Escort which looked as if it had been put together from an assortment of nameless wrecks. ‘Nothing wrong with it!' Dominic would exclaim cheerfully, even on the memorable occasion when it broke down in the middle of the M1 on the way to a gig in Nottingham. Thanks to a kind lorry driver, who had taken a fatherly interest in their plight, they had managed to make it in time -- just. After that narrow escape, Jen had insisted on doing the driving in her new car.

  "Right here," Karen reminded her. Jen eased her foot off the accelerator, changed down a gear, and turned cautiously into the narrow track, lined with thick hedges, that snaked its way gradually up a gentle incline towards a tree-covered hill.

  "O-kay. This should be it. We just stay on this road until we get to the top of that hill, and the house should be there, I think. There's the river over on the other side of that field -- " she peered through a brief gap in the hedge wall on their right -- "and it turns and runs along the back of the hill, and there's a small reservoir just behind." She looked at Jen, and nodded significantly. "If we drop into water, we've gone too far."

  "That's reassuring."

  Karen smiled a little.

  "How do you feel?" she asked gently. "It's your last chance to back out now."

  Jen shook her head determinedly.

  "No way. He doesn't scare me. He's a toad, remember?"

  Karen laughed and patted her arm.

  "Good girl."

  The car twisted around a sharp turn, and suddenly a tall wrought-iron gate loomed before them, blocking the track. On either side the hedges rose dark and forbidding, and Jen noticed what she had not seen before, that the closely-planted shrubs were not only thick and impenetrable, but equipped with long ferocious thorns.

  "Welcome to Colditz," Karen murmured. "It's not exactly inviting, is it?"

  "No." Jen looked around her. "How do we get in?"

  "Well -- " Karen smirked teasingly -- "you could try talking into that receiver on the side."

  Jen looked. On the right-hand gatepost, at approximately head-height, sat a small innocuous white box, with a button to press and a grille to speak into.

  "I will," she said equably. "Don't go anywhere without me."

  She slipped the gear lever into neutral, engaged the handbrake, unclipped her seat belt and got out of the car. The air around her was warm and still, the hedges acting as windbreaks against the mild autumn breeze that had rippled the fields on their approach. Through the gate she could glimpse tall trees, and from them came the peaceful sound of birds chirping. Somewhere in the distance, the tractor they had seen from the road was still rumbling along its path across the field.

  She walked decisively over to the box and pressed the button.

  There was an interval of silence, during which she breathed deeply of the clear warm air, steeling herself to hear Stuart's voice, which she fully expected to float out between the bars of the grille at any moment.

  "Hello?" It was not Stuart's voice at all, but a woman's voice, soft and gentle. Jen stared at the innocent box in dismay. "Who is it, please?"

  Jen cleared her throat. There was no reason why Stuart should not have a girlfriend -- none in the world. Only, she had not expected it -- and even if she had, she had not expected to encounter her now, today.

  Unfair, she thought, and then: no, I am just being silly.

  "Hello," she said tentatively, grimacing at the faint nervous sound of her own voice. "Um, it's Jen -- Jennifer Hayton -- and I've got Karen with me -- Karen Thomas. We're invited."

  Was that the correct choice of words? she wondered. Karen was, certainly, and she herself was, technically. The reluctantly given invitation had not been withdrawn, but then perhaps it did not need to be -- perhaps the look of disgust Stuart had given her on his way of her flat ought to be sufficient.

  Oh well, she thought philosophically. He could hardly throw her out.

  "Hi Jen!" the voice exclaimed brightly. "I'll open the gate for you -- just drive right through."

  "Thank you," Jen said, a touch coldly. The Voice had not introduced herself, and so had no business addressing her so familiarly.

  "Everything all right?" Karen asked her as she ducked back into the driver's seat.

  "Just fine," Jen said distantly. The gate swung open slowly in front of them, and she eased the car back into gear and drove through. "No problems at all."

  They now found themselves on a driveway curving through the sheltering trees and finally opening out into a parking area in front of a large sprawling house. Two cars were already parked in it, facing the wide heavy oak door. One was a gleaming black Mazda, which made Jen's heart leap with mingled admiration and envy, and caused her to feel distinctly inferior even in her own nearly-new Saab. The other was a tiny battered blue Polo, its shape instantly recognisable to someone who, like Jen, had spent too many nerve
-racking hours nursing one along the teeming motorways of England, and which made the sleek monster beside it look even more imposing.

  Let me guess, Jen thought acidly. The big one is bound to be Stuart's -- it's just his style -- so the little one must belong to the Voice. Whoever she is, I bet she doesn't mind his money any more than his looks.

  She swung the car into line beside the Polo, and looked at Karen.

  "Well, we're here," she said.

  "Good!" Karen's unsentimental briskness was as refreshing as always. "Then let's get out and face the welcoming committee."

  Jen glanced back at the house, and saw that the huge front door had opened. Stuart emerged from it, looking not at all like the owner of either the mansion or the speed machine in front of it. He had swapped the usual black jeans for a truly ancient and horribly familiar pair of faded blue ones, still with the same fraying tear across one knee, and the black T-shirt for a baggy white one with a once colourful print advertising some long-forgotten beer festival.

  "Hi there," he said cheerfully, and gave Karen a brisk hug and a peck on the cheek. "You found it all right, then?"

  "Of course," Karen said, conveying the hint that in map-reading skills she was second to none.

  "Hello, Jen." A flash of chilly blue that made her stomach tighten. "I'll get your stuff -- you're in the second bedroom on the right at the top of the stairs." He leaned into the boot and hefted their bags out with an expert grip. "Just these and the guitars, yeah?"

  "Yes." Jen tried to keep her face and voice free of emotion.

  "Okay." He turned away from her, and said quietly to Karen: "Can I have word with you? It's about Cathy."

  "Oh." Karen shot him a concerned look, and only then did Jen notice that Stuart himself was looking tired and worried. "Yes, of course."

  "I'll start on the guitars," Jen said, rather more loudly than was necessary, and dived into the back seat of the car. If they were going to exchange confidences -- especially if it had anything to do with the Voice -- she would rather not hear them.

  Cathy? she thought to herself as she manoeuvred the first case out of the door. It seemed strangely familiar, even though she did not know anyone of that name. Cathy?

  Of course! she thought as she edged through the front door of the house, into a big hallway with dark wooden flooring that echoed under her feet and a wide curving staircase to one side. Cathy -- the girl in Peter's band. Karen had mentioned her in passing. Unless it was someone else entirely, of course. The name was not exactly unusual.

  "You must be Jen!"

  It was the Voice -- most definitely the Voice -- horribly soft and pleasant and gentle. Jen consciously ungritted her teeth.

  "I am," she said, forcing a smile with which to match that of the girl who came towards her from a side door. The smell of cheese on toast wafted into the hall with her. "And you would be…?"

  "Oh, sorry." The girl smiled even more. She was pretty, too: a fresh dainty face surrounded by long wheat-blonde hair, huge blue eyes, slim petite figure. She wore a simple little white cotton dress that made her look about eighteen. Jen decided to hate her on the spot. "I'm Cathy. I just feel like I know you already -- Karen and Stuart have both told me so much about you."

  "Really." Jen switched off the smile. She had no wish to know what Stuart might have said about her, although Karen would hopefully have given her a good reference. "Second bedroom on the right at the top of the stairs, I think he said."

  "That's it." A look of hurt surprise appeared in Cathy's eyes at Jen's coldness of tone and manner. Probably she was used to being worshipped left, right and centre. Still, she rallied bravely. "I'll carry that case for you, if you like."

  "No, thank you." Jen knew she was being horrible, and pulled herself together. It was not this ghastly girl's fault that things had happened the way they did, two years ago. She forced another, more muted smile. "There's a knack to it, which I've had to learn. You can get the other one, though, if you want to -- it's in the back of the car. Stuart's bringing the bags."

  "Bless him!" Cathy said with an affectionate smile. "He's such a sweetheart."

  Jen turned away in disgust and began to head up the stairs.

  The second bedroom on the right turned out to be about an acre of soft thick cream-coloured carpet, with two generously-proportioned single beds, a set of white fitted wardrobes along one wall, a dressing table, and a couple of gigantic armchairs. At the far corner was another door, and Jen ventured through it curiously. It led into a bathroom, stylishly fitted in black and white, with a shower cubicle that looked big enough to park Cathy's Polo in.

  No bathtub, Jen thought, putting her nose in the air, and then laughed at herself.

  She wandered back into the bedroom. Karen was walking through the door with the second guitar-case in one hand, and stopped in blank amazement.

  "Good grief!" she said, looking around at the opulent surroundings. "Are we all sleeping in here, or what?"

  "Move yourself, woman," Stuart's voice complained from behind her. Karen walked forward a couple of steps to let him pass. "Don't look at me," he added, swinging the bags containing all their travel gear onto the nearest bed. "I bought the whole lot with the house -- carpets, furniture, you name it. I wasn't going to start on a decorating spree, was I?"

  "No." Karen grinned at him. "You're not exactly the home-making type."

  "Not exactly," he agreed. "But the man I was buying it from didn't want any of it -- his wife did it all up when they moved in, and he was selling because they were getting divorced, so -- " he shrugged. "Basically he was only too pleased to get the place off his hands. Too many memories." He glanced briefly at Jen. "So I said: fine, name your price -- and that was that."

  "Very convenient," Karen said approvingly.

  "Didn't she want any of it?" Jen asked, curious. "The wife, I mean."

  "I don't know. Never asked."

  "That's a bit heartless," Karen protested.

  "None of my business." Stuart's voice hardened a fraction. "Anyway, what I gathered from him was that she'd gone off to live in France with her new man, so I shouldn't think she was too bothered about what happened to the house."

  How sad, Jen thought to herself, looking around at the luxurious furnishings. To spend so much time and effort -- and money -- getting a place just the way you wanted it, and then to leave it behind without even a backward glance.

  Of course, she went on mentally, it could do with a bit more work. Some houseplants, for one thing, and a bit more colour. At present the room looked almost sterile. Maybe a potted palm over by the window, and some wine-red curtains to go with the patterned wallpaper, rather than the drab beige ones that the previous owner's wife had chosen.

  "Make yourselves at home," Stuart said. "Cathy and I were grabbing some lunch -- there's plenty of food in the kitchen, if you're hungry."

  "And where is the kitchen?" Karen asked pointedly. "How many miles, roughly? Are we likely to reach it before dying of hunger?"

  "Follow your nose," Stuart said cheerfully, and disappeared through the door.

  Karen sniffed disparagingly, then moved their bags onto the floor and sat down on the bed, bouncing experimentally.

  "What a place!" she said, stretching out on it in evident satisfaction. "I could live here, no problem. Isn't it gorgeous?"

  "Yes," Jen agreed, looking out of the window onto the swaying trees at the front of the house. The gate was invisible, hidden by the fluttering leaves and the tall hedge on the other side. "A beautiful house." She turned around, and smiled at Karen. "I'm hungry," she said. "Shall we have a go at locating the kitchen?"

  "Why not?"

  They had no difficulty in doing so, as the cheese-on-toast smell led them unerringly to a door on the left-hand side of the hall through which they had entered the house. The kitchen was a long room with windows down the length of one wall, facing out onto the drive. It was divided by a low counter into a breakfast area, with a round birchwood table and café chairs, an
d a proper kitchen area, with white cupboards and yellow/orange tiling, creating a sunshine-bright effect. Jen looked around her appreciatively. The previous owner's wife might have had questionable morals, but her good taste was evident.

  Stuart and Cathy were comfortably ensconced at the breakfast table, with a half-eaten plateful each. They glanced up and smiled as Jen and Karen pushed open the door. Karen went on unconcernedly, but Jen stopped dead in the doorway. It was not only the simultaneous smiles that cut her to the heart, but the beautiful picture the two of them made together. Dark and blonde, with matching pairs of blue eyes; they looked as if they were made for each other. She had half a mind to back away and leave them alone, but Stuart was already getting up, hospitably offering Karen a chair, and heading back into the kitchen to get some more food on the go. It was too late to retreat now, and besides, the sight of the plates reminded her of how hungry she was.

  "Are you having some, Jen?" Stuart turned to her, holding the bag of sliced bread up enquiringly.

  "Please." She could not stand there gawping like an idiot any longer. "I'll make it, though -- yours will go cold."

  "It's stone cold already." He was smiling, probably more for Karen's benefit -- or for Cathy's -- than for hers, but it was still a smile, and there was a gleam of humour in his eyes that made her smile back involuntarily. "You timed your arrival to perfection."

  Jen glanced out of the windows onto the drive, where her car stood perfectly visible next to Cathy's little wreck.

  "Sorry."

  "Don't be. I'll make some more for us as well."

  Standing so close to him, she could see that he really did look tired. That day in her flat, he had been completely himself: forceful, confident, in control. Now he looked very much like someone with a painful secret gnawing at his mind. A sudden wave of concern swept over her.

  "Are you all right, Stuart?"

  He put the bread down, and ran a hand through his hair distractedly, in a strangely boyish gesture that made her heart ache.