But would they do that after saving his life?
“Soft lad,” said Priss. “You’re fuckin’ terrified, aren’t you? We’ll be alright.”
“I’m not scared.”
“You’re always scared.”
There didn’t seem much to say to that, so Davey decided to say nothing. Perhaps if he just sat in the sun for a while, this conversation would all have been a figment of his imagination.
“What’s your favourite book, then?” he asked at last.
“The Bible.”
“Really?”
“’Course not.”
“I was only asking.”
“I don’t do personal information.”
“You asked me.”
“So? Life doesn’t work the way it ought to. Where are you going?”
“To the bathroom,” said Davey.
“That’s a dainty way of putting it. You’re not going right back to the house, are you?”
“Well, um - ”
“Unless you’re going for a shit, of course.”
“Priss!”
“Oh, Celia, Celia, Celia shits,” murmured Priss, closing her eyes against the sunshine. “Make sure the rabbits don’t see. They’ll complain to The Times.”
Feeling prudish and paranoid, Davey scrambled down into the shelter of the woods. He glimpsed the half-open bars of the concrete enclosure, and turned away. He didn’t like looking at it. He didn’t want to see anything unpleasant. It looked like a prison. Who, or what, had been confined behind its bars?
As he re-zipped his jeans, a flicker of movement caught his eye. He opened his mouth to call out, then closed it again. The figure moving between the trees was taller than Priss, and the hair was the wrong colour for Kate, was it Tom? No, Tom was heavier and broader.
The man who emerged between two spindly rowan trees was a stranger.
His olive skin, black eyes and dark hair shot with silver made him look Italian, an impression enhanced by his crisp white linen shirt, stylishly half-buttoned over dirty blue jeans and tattered flip-flops. Davey, wondering if this was the owner come to reclaim his property, saw the stranger was carrying a bunch of flowers, seemingly picked from the woods. Davey recognised lilac buddleia cones, white rhododendrons with haloes of glossy leaves, handfuls of campion and forget-me-not, a splash of yellow dandelions. If Davey had picked those flowers, he would simply have a badly-assorted bundle of blooms, but in the hands of the stranger, they were graceful and lovely.
The man knelt beneath a beech tree, sweeping aside the litter of husks to touch the dry soil beneath. What was happening here? The man’s head was bowed. Was he crying? Praying? Davey didn’t dare move.
Then, whatever it was, it was over. The stranger laid the flowers down, stood up, dusted his hands, and saw Davey staring at him.
Davey’s first reaction was profound embarrassment. A hot wave of shame washed over him from head to foot, dyeing him scarlet and stopping his tongue. When he could bear to look again, the man was watching him curiously. Then he put one finger to his lips and winked conspiratorially.
“Okay,” whispered Davey. His throat was dry and the word was nearly silent, but the man must have seen his lips move, because he smiled, acknowledging their agreement, and disappeared into the trees.
Did that just happen? Should he tell Priss he just saw a man leave flowers beneath the beech tree? Should he mention that the man knelt and bowed his head first, tears on his cheeks as if in memory of someone who -
No, he thought. It’s probably nothing, nothing to do with Tom or Kate anyway. They probably don’t even know him, we might never see him again. Maybe he used to work here and he buried his dog there, it doesn’t have to be a person, that’s ridiculous.
Maybe I even dreamed it.
If I don’t think about it, it never happened.
Trying to arrange his face into an expression of innocence, Davey made his way back to the candelabra tree.
“So,” said Priss as soon as he climbed laboriously back onto their chosen branch. “Who beat you up?”
“No-one,” said Davey. “I f-f-fell over in the shower.”
“Don’t ever, ever go to Vegas. Was it someone at school?”
“I’m nineteen, I don’t go to school any more, I’m g-g-g - ”
“Gagging for it? Gangrenous? Gutted? Genghis Khan’s distant relative? Sorry, I know I shouldn’t interrupt but I can’t sit and wait for you to finish, it’s just not in me. My school was full of bastards as well. They never bothered me, but that’s ’cos I’m horrible. They only pick on the nice ones.”
“But they didn’t, it wasn’t - ”
“If you don’t tell me,” Priss told him confidingly, “I’ll just ask you and ask you and ask you until you go nuts. Did you go to boarding school?”
“How did you know?”
“’Cos you’re fucked up and you talk posh.”
“That doesn’t m-m-m-mean anything. I mean I don’t assume you go to some inner-city s-s-sinkhole just because you curse all the time and you’ve got an accent.”
“Well, you should, ’cos I do.” She paused. “Did. Were you buggered by the prefects?”
“No!”
“Just asking. Isn’t it weird everyone’s up in arms about Catholic priests, but when it’s posh kids doing each other, no-one bats an eyelid? D’you reckon that’s ’cos no-one really believes it? Or is it the inherent decadence of the upper classes?”
“Listen, I was not - no-one did that to me, okay?”
“They picked on you, though.”
“You don’t know that, how on earth would you know that?”
“You stammer when you get stressed. Bullies love predictable reactions.”
“Well, you’re wrong.”
“Look me in the eye and tell me that. Come on, right in the eye and say, I was not picked on at school and I’ll believe you.”
“I was not p-p-p-p I wasn’t p-p-p they didn’t p-p-p - ” Priss looked satisfied. “Why didn’t you just twat ’em back? You’re six foot, easy.”
“Six foot one.”
“Mind you, posh boys are always bigger,” she went on thoughtfully. “And triangle-shaped! Have you ever noticed that? It’s, like, this special build you only get if you’ve got rich parents. D’you reckon it’s genetic? Or do you lot do different sports to the rest of us?”
“Erm - ” Memories of muddy fields and vicious kicks to the shins. Fortunately, Priss was still speaking.
“You could have had ’em if you’d tried. You only have to beat someone up really badly once, and they leave you alone for the rest of time. What?”
“You can’t go round hitting people,” said Davey.
“’Course you can, you daft twat. They get away with it. Why can’t you?”
“Look, what’s it got to do with you, anyway?”
“I’m just trying to work out why you’re so scared all the time,” said Priss. “And why you’re so desperate not to think badly of anyone who’s nice to you. It’s funny, really. I’m way too horrible and you’re way too sweet. I suppose if you average us out you get one normal person.”
The silence hummed companionably in their ears. Priss was chewing ferociously on her thumbnail. Black nail polish freckled her teeth. The contrast was surprisingly pleasing, like a Dalmatian dog.
“Actually,” said Priss suddenly, “if I had the choice of living in a deserted country house with a lad who doesn’t take shit off anyone, or living in a deserted country house with a lad who’s probably scared of wasps, I’d pick the one who’s scared of wasps. At least you won’t go bat-shit mental and kill us all ’cos you can’t find a clean towel. Beta males are underrated. Do you want some lunch? I’m starving.”
Why did Priss get to dictate everything, all the time? Davey wondered crossly as he slipped and slithered down the tree and followed her towards the house. And why did he go along with it? She was leading them past the caged enclosure. He didn’t want to go that way.
“Can’
t we go back the way we came?” he asked.
He thought it sounded quite good, a decent approximation of innocence, but Priss was like a shark scenting blood.
“Why?” she demanded.
“Does there have to be a reason?”
“For you to suddenly assert yourself? What don’t you want me to see?”
“I’m n-n - there’s n-n-n - ” Her stare was like being stuck with a giant pin. The beech tree with its bunch of flowers was right behind her.
“D’you know you’re staring at something over my shoulder?” said Priss. “Who the fuck put those there?” She picked up the bunch of flowers and sniffed cautiously.
“I d-d-d - ” This was the worst it had ever been; he had never felt so crippled, so trapped, so inarticulate. “I d-d-d - ” He closed his eyes. “I d - ”
“Why are you so stressed out?” asked Priss, baffled. “It’s a bunch of flowers, mate, that’s all.”
Was he imagining it, or did the ground beneath the beech tree have a gentle swell to it, as if something bulked out the earth from below? He thought of Tom, who had been kind, of Kate, who had saved him. She deserved to be left in peace.
“I did it,” he burst out. “I p-p-p-picked them, I was g-g-g-going to and then I felt stupid and I d-d-d-d - ”
The stammer clamped down tight again, but it was enough. Priss was looking at him in astonishment, but at least she seemed to believe him.
“You’re not right in the head, you’re not,” she told him. “I hope these were for Kate.”
Why would she hope that? Was he such a ridiculous prospect?
“It’s not bad, though,” she said, inspecting the flowers critically. “Hidden depths, mate. You should give them to her.” Hours later, Priss and Davey sat in the warm, drowsy kitchen and watched Kate making spaghetti bolognese. Tom washed cutlery and stacked it with military tidiness into the draining board, then went to stand in the doorway. Davey, idly balancing a teaspoon on the salt cellar, watched Kate chopping courgettes, carrots, onions, mushrooms and garlic, and thought dreamily that Kate and Tom were the most restful people he had ever known. They asked no questions. They had no helpful suggestions about how to spend the day. They seemed to have no expectations of him whatsoever.
Was it possible, he wondered, that he might be able to stay here forever?
“Have you and Tom lived here long?” The question bubbled straight up from his gut, with his brain getting no say in it. Priss jumped, and glared at him.
“Mmm?” Kate looked at him absent-mindedly.
“I just wondered how long you’d lived here,” he repeated.
“So long I can’t even remember,” said Kate, smiling to herself. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, you know, I j-j-just w-w-w - oh, shit! I mean, sorry.”
Standing in the door from the hallway, waiting patiently to be noticed was the man Davey had seen in the woods. Despite his resolve to forget what Priss had said to him, Davey found himself glancing sharply around at his companions, trying to catch them in the unguarded moment of an unexpected meeting.
Tom looked honestly surprised, and also apprehensive, looking at the stranger as if he might be wearing a bomb beneath his shirt. Priss looked as if she was doing long division in her head. Kate’s face was filled with delighted surprise, and she held out her arms in greeting, laughed a name, Isaac, and offered herself for an embrace. But as she turned back for a minute to turn off the gas on the stove, Davey thought he glimpsed another expression, older and sadder, as if she had been expecting and hoping to see somebody else, and was disappointed.
chapter six (then)
Jack suspected he was losing the art of being with other people. Aboard the train to London, he tried not to flinch when a woman in her fifties took the seat next to him and began talking. She was visiting her daughter, who lived in Fulham and had just had a baby. By skilful questioning and a great feigned interest in the baby, he managed to deflect most of her questions; but his seat-companion still compelled him to admit that he’d recently met a girl, yes, a very nice girl, who, yes, he was hoping to marry one day, although no, he hadn’t mentioned this to her yet. As they pulled into Paddington Station, he wondered what kind of Nice Girl the woman was picturing. Someone horsey perhaps, with a carrying voice and a long stride and a way with dogs.
The memory of Mathilda’s tall, spare frame, her wide mouth and her light hair and her grey eyes, was like a talisman in his pocket. He remembered how she’d looked two nights ago, before leaving for London. She’d sat on the floor of the library while he, clutching his guitar and sweating with nerves, sang the tracks from Landmark.
“It’s the Landmark hotel, isn’t it,” she’d said.
“Yes.”
“I bet Alan thinks you meant Milestone In My Career, though, doesn’t he?”
“Yes! How did you know?”
“Maybe I’m a genius too. It’s very personal, you know, this album. Are you sure you want to show the world that much of yourself?”
“Doesn’t it have to be personal to be good?”
“What are you doing in this industry?” she’d asked him then. “Oh, I don’t mean that,” she added, seeing his face. “It’s brilliant, even better than Violet Hour. But you’ll need to do interviews about it, and promote it, and answer questions about what it means and where it came from and that’s not you at all, is it? It’s all about the music. Being rich and famous is just the unintended consequence.”
“How do you know me so well?” he had asked in amazement.
“Because I’m a witch,” she told him. Then she had lain down in the spot where the firelight littered the tiled floor with flickers of light like leaves.
The rumble and whoosh of the approaching tube dragged him back into reality.
An hour later, Jack sat in a smoke-filled office on King’s Road, watching Alan listening to the demo. Alan kept his face a smoothly professional blank, occasionally making opaque and miniscule notes on the blotter. Jack deciphered the words ‘weepie’, ‘stad R???’ and ‘spine’. Was that good, or bad? Was it related to the album at all? Was Alan just planning his next session with his chiropractor?
“Mmmm,” said Alan at last, and pressed the stop button.
Jack braced himself.
“You wouldn’t think anyone’d still want poetry, would you?” he mused. “Didn’t all that shit have its heyday back in the fifteenth century?”
“Pardon?”
“Poetry. Peaked with Shakespeare and Spenser, been declining ever since. I know I act like an ignorant tosser but even I’ve got my moments. Right?”
“So what do you - ”
“Gather you and Evie split up.”
“We were never together,” said Jack in exasperation.
“Yeah, if you say so. Are you and that other bird knocking around together? That bird from the party?”
“Do you mean Mathilda?”
“Do I? Skinny, young, hair in a mess. Got her kit off.”
“Saved someone’s life.”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
“Yes.”
Alan looked at him and grinned. “Got it bad at last, haven’t you? You daft bugger. She here with you?”
“She came up two days ago for an audition. Why?”
“Just you be careful, alright? Not sure I like you being in love, to be honest.”
“It’s none of your fucking business.”
“Simmer down. If it affects your work, it’s my business.” Alan rummaged in his desk drawer. “Want a coffin nail?”
“No thanks.”
“Mind if I do?”
“Course not.”
Jack watched Alan put a long cigarette between his lips, hold up a heavy gold lighter, summon the flame, inhale luxuriously, hold it for a second, breathe out.
“How about a coffee?”
“No.”
Alan twinkled at him. “No what?”
“No! Just no! All I want is for you to tell me what you think of the album!
”
Alan looked at him blankly. “But it’s fucking brilliant, you wanker. We’ll have Landmark and 2:43am for the singles, maybe another couple if it goes well.” Jack’s spine turned elastic with relief. “You weren’t actually worried, were you?”
Jack shrugged.
“You dozy sod. I told you, I’d take it whatever. But as it happens, it’s the best thing you’ve done so far. Straight up vintage Laker, but with a twist.” Jack winced. “Look, we’re not all blessed with your magic way with words.”
“I don’t want to stand still.”
“Nothing wrong with giving the fans what they want.”
“It’s not for the fans, it’s for - ”
“Give over,” said Alan. “Let’s talk about the tour.”
Jack sat up straight in his chair. “No.”
“We need the tour to sell it. You’ll get rave reviews, I’m sure, but you can’t count on airplay.”
“Violet Hour got airplay.”
“Shush. How many dates can you handle?”
‘No’ is a complete sentence, Mathilda whispered in his ear. She’d repeated this mantra to him over and over, in the deep warmth of their bed before she left to drive to London. That night, he’d lain against her pillow and breathed in the smell of her hair.
“No.”
“We can cut them right down if you want. In fact, that might even be a good ploy. Make you rare.”
“No.”
“It’ll sell out, I guarantee it. For a guy who’s been invisible for over a year, you are fucking ludicrously in demand. People call all the time wanting to meet you. Not just ordinary people, either. Real people.”
“What do you mean by a real person?” asked Jack, fascinated enough to deviate from his stonewalling.
“Oh, you know. Agents, actors, musicians, film producers, you know, real. Not just punters.”
Jack nodded thoughtfully. “That’s good to know.”
“Take this seriously, you arsehole.” From outside in her tiny cubbyhole, Alan’s secretary buzzed him. “What?”
“He’s here, boss.”
“Count to twenty-five and send him in.” Alan looked at Jack. “Actually, fifty.”
“Okay.”
“What are you up to?” Jack demanded.
“I’m not giving up on the tour, you know,” said Alan.
The Summer We All Ran Away Page 8
