Love Song

by Sophia Bennett

  Restless, I moved on through the dining room, past the looming stags’ heads on the walls. Lit only by the cloud-shrouded moon, it looked suitably strange with the wind howling and whistling in the trees outside.

  I wandered into the drawing room to see if there were still any embers alight in the fireplace. The fire was dead for the night, but that’s when I noticed the wooden box containing the old-fashioned record player that Windy had left for the boys. Beside it were the boxes of vinyl records he’d pointed out, in their original album covers. Jamie had practically exploded when he’d mentioned them. What made him so particularly furious, I wondered?

  Idly, I flicked through the selection. Swirly names in psychedelic writing overlaid badly lit photographs of long-haired men. There were some really sexist pictures of nearly-naked women in overdone make-up. Some covers were just symbols against a black background. There were torn and peeling covers. Nothing I would personally choose.

  Then I lifted up the glass lid and looked at the record player itself. Dad had fixed one like this once. I remember his excitement as he got it working, the glow of satisfaction on his face when the last piece of wiring was sorted and he got it to play. He showed me how to set the little dial in the corner to 45 for the little singles, and 33 for the larger albums. He said that once upon a time there was another setting of 78 for the really old stuff, but nobody used that any more.

  Still picturing Dad, I switched this one on, made sure it was set it to 33, picked up the first album that came to hand and dropped it into place. I wasn’t interested in the records so much, but the machine was a beautiful retro piece of engineering. When I lifted the needle arm and moved it across the record, the turntable started to move automatically. I placed the needle carefully on the edge of the black vinyl and waited.

  A crackle. A kind of hiss. A click. A moment later, the air around me filled with the twanging sound of Indian instruments. Actually, I liked it. I turned up the volume. You get a different sound from vinyl records: it’s scratchier, but more alive somehow, as if you’re in the room with the players. And this music was like a river, shimmering and mysterious. Then a rhythmic drumbeat joined in, and the sound of a sitar.

  I checked the album cover, which was a collage of famous faces with the Beatles in shiny satin coats at the front. I’d picked up Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, and this track was ‘Within You Without You’, by George Harrison. Dad had the LP at home, inherited from one of his uncles. He always said it was one of the most iconic records of all time – the one he’d save from a fire if he had to.

  Now that I looked more closely, there were a few other singers and bands I recognized. The collection covered rock and pop, blues and jazz. I pulled out the ones I liked the look of, and all the time the air still vibrated to the gentle sound of George Harrison’s sitar.

  When that track was over, I changed the beat entirely to the insistent bass of Blondie’s ‘Rapture’, and pranced around the room in a bad imitation of Debbie Harry, pretending to be cool. The sublime distorted guitar of a solo by Jimi Hendrix required a mix of headbanging and ballet to do it full justice, I thought.

  Outside, the wind still howled, but I hardly noticed it. I put on track after track, each one totally different from the last. Sometimes I chose them deliberately, and other times I just let the needle land at random. It glided along the grooves in the record, and I danced and spun around the room as the mood took me. Whipping my hair to the Rolling Stones, strutting along to The Cure. For David Bowie, I invented new dance moves incorporating a sort of crawl across the Union Jack sofa – half yoga, half jazz. Thank God no one was watching.

  I changed tracks all the time, admiring my own DJ skills, until I was so tired the storm didn’t matter, and I decided it was maybe time to go back upstairs.

  Just one more song. Maybe two. Something I didn’t know. OK, this one. It had a picture of tall, narrow houses on the front, looking as though they might be New York tenements. No band or album name. It opened up like a book, and I realized it was a double album, so I slid out the first disc from its sleeve and put it on the player. I picked the last track, which was the longest, judging by the amount of space it took up on the vinyl. As I dropped the needle, I was already regretting my decision. Long tracks are usually terrible.

  But as it started, I vaguely recognized the riff. It was heavy guitar: DA-da-da, da-da-da, DA-da-da, da-da-da, gradually climbing in a steady scale. The rhythm of guitar against drums was complicated and I didn’t quite get it. Like the Beatles track, it had some sort of Eastern influence, but this one I couldn’t place. It was magnificent and mysterious – the kind of over-the-top heavy rock that I’d instantly turn off if it came on the radio. But here, in this darkened room, with the wind whirling in the trees outside and one lamp flickering, it grabbed me. I left the needle where it was and sat in the nearest chair, listening.

  This was how I felt when Jamie asked the crowd to sing in New York. The other tracks I liked, but I got this one. I didn’t know why, exactly. I shivered. It was something to do with the unwavering guitar riff, and the lyrics about stars and desert streams … The music moved through me but for once, it didn’t make me want to dance: it made me want to be.

  When it finished, I played it again. It was a yearning song, painting pictures of adventures in distant lands, and making mystical discoveries. The wailing voice was strangely romantic and unafraid. I thought of Aunt Cassie. It was how I wanted to be, but never could be. After the third play, it didn’t even feel like music – it just felt like the longing inside me, swirling around the room.

  There was a noise out in the hallway. I looked up and there was Angus, standing very still at the foot of the stairs, staring at me. I realized that my cheeks were wet with tears. As the track came to an end, and the needle returned to position, I quickly used my dressing-gown sleeve to wipe my face.

  ‘Sorry, did I wake you?’ I mumbled. My voice was unsteady. I was really lost. I was in a desert somewhere, wandering … I must have looked an idiot, but for the moment I didn’t care. The desert felt more real than this room. My mind was unsteady, too.

  ‘Yes, you did,’ Angus said, walking in. ‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’

  I laughed. The Bad Boy of rock, sounding like my dad.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘It’s three forty-five. Why are you down here?’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘I know the feeling. Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I said, sniffing and wiping my nose with my other sleeve. ‘Why?’

  ‘You looked … emotional.’

  ‘Oh, right. Well. That song …’

  He walked over to the record player and picked up the album cover. ‘So you’re a Led Zep fan?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘You like Led Zeppelin? I wouldn’t’ve had you down as the type.’

  ‘Oh. That’s them? I didn’t know.’

  He looked astonished. ‘You were listening to “Kashmir”, with tears streaming down your face, and you didn’t know it was Led Zeppelin?’

  Well, thanks for reminding me about the tears, Angus. But yes. I shrugged.

  ‘You’re creepy, you know that?’ he laughed.

  ‘Great. Thanks a lot.’ I glared at him and got up to go.

  ‘No! Wait!’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just … this is how Jamie and I got together. Liking Led Zeppelin when we were twelve. No one else getting it. Trying to play like Jimmy Page …’ He was still looking at the album cover and smiling.

  ‘So that’s why Windy brought this stuff down here?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘And why Jamie was such a jerk about it. He doesn’t want to be told to be twelve again. But I’d forgotten, until I saw you just now …’

  He trailed off. There was silence.

  ‘Forgotten what?’

  ‘What it felt like. That first time. Wanting to climb inside that record and breathe it out.’

  He
smiled, and for once there wasn’t any trace of irony.

  ‘I should go,’ I said. ‘It’s late. I was getting tired anyway.’

  I wasn’t sure if I wanted to stay or not, but I was pretty certain my face must be red and blotchy after all those tears. I wasn’t dressed or made up for big conversations. Not with Angus. Not now. And he might have seen me dancing. Nobody was supposed to see that.

  I bent my head so my hair fell across my face, and headed for the stairs. He waited until I was nearly there until he spoke again.

  ‘Jamie did that too, you know?’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Cried when he heard “Kashmir”. Went all blotchy, just like you did. Goodnight, Blotchy.’ He turned away from me and back to the album cover, laughing to himself.

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Summoning what dignity I had left, I walked back up the broken stairs to bed. Behind me, Angus put the record on again, and the music swirled around me as I went.

  I woke up late. The skies were still grey and the wind gusted against the window. Raindrops battered the glass. I bet the weather wasn’t like this in Mustique.

  With rock and pop songs ringing in my head, I went back to the tower room and rummaged through the ‘Charity’ and ‘Chuck’ bags again in search of something to keep out the worst of the cold. I picked out a pair of combat trousers and a baggy jumper with a comedy reindeer face on it and danced down the back stairs to my own internal version of ‘Rapture’.

  Downstairs, I could hear Orli singing as she made the mixture for a rich, dark pudding for later on, and the kitchen smelt of orange and chocolate. The sound of the blues was filtering through to the kitchen corridor from the main part of the house. I assumed that someone else had decided to try the record player, but then the tune stopped and started again. There was laughter. When I reached the hall, I realized the music was live. In the music room, Angus was perched on a stool with his guitar slung over his shoulder. Declan was sitting at the drum kit.

  I paused in the doorway to watch. Declan saw me and grinned. Angus looked up from the guitar pedal he was adjusting.

  ‘Hi, Nina. Go away, will you?’ he said casually. ‘This is not for human consumption.’ He frowned, but his voice was friendly.

  I did go, but was back ten minutes later to listen.

  Angus looked up. ‘Shoo! What did I tell you?’

  ‘Sure. I was just … you sound good.’

  ‘No we don’t. I’m rusty. Declan’s in some pact with Satan – he never misses a beat. But I’m a mess here.’

  I shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

  He played a few more chords as I turned to go. I couldn’t help pausing in the doorway still listening. Whatever he said, the music was great.

  ‘This isn’t … anything,’ he insisted. ‘Don’t go imagining anything.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘We’re just having a jam.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Talking of which, we could do with some sandwiches.’

  I groaned. ‘For that, you don’t deserve any.’

  He batted his eyelashes. ‘Pretty please.’

  I promised I’d ask Orli to see what she could do.

  While they played on, I took Twiggy for a long walk in the rain. I was back in the house, up a ladder in the Silk Room working on a sky section of my mural, when Orli popped her head round the door.

  ‘The post van’s come. There’s a parcel for you. He’s really sorry but it got mis-delivered. It’s been in the sorting office for a week.’

  I took the bulky package up to my room, intrigued by its size and squishiness. Inside were clothes: not the selection I’d requested from home, via Windy, but some smart designer numbers, accompanied by a note:

  Apologies for somewhat dumping you in it.

  I’m sure you’ll rise to the challenge.

  Meanwhile, I hope the enclosed goes some way

  towards making your stay at the Hall more bearable.

  Yours, windy

  WITH COMPLIMENTS

  . RW .

  Each item was encased in layers of tissue paper. I took them out and unwrapped them carefully, laying them out on my bed. It was exactly like unpacking for Sigrid, and some of the labels were the same: Isabel Marant, Miu Miu, Chloé … There were little trousers and little tops, a little cardigan and a jacket, two little dresses …

  And that was the thing: they were all little. Somehow Windy had got hold of sample sizes. They would probably have swamped Sigrid, but then, I didn’t live under a peace tent, feasting on green tea and almonds. It was very sweet of him to think that I would ever fit inside these things, but that was never, ever going to happen. I grew out of clothes this size when I was about eleven.

  So I hung them around my room as decoration. When it came to practical, you know, wearing things, I’d stick with Charity and Chuck.

  As I was heading downstairs to see how the jam session was going, I bumped into Jamie on the landing, looking tired.

  ‘Hey! I’m glad I saw you,’ he said. ‘I wanted to apologize for Angus last night.’

  ‘Angus?’

  ‘He must have kept you awake for hours. He was playing Led Zeppelin until God knows what time. He kept us all up. He doesn’t think.’

  My hand flew to my mouth. ‘Oh God, I’m sorry. That was me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Playing “Kashmir”?’

  I nodded. ‘I had no idea it was that loud.’

  Jamie didn’t seem angry – just confused. ‘You like “Kashmir”?’

  ‘I do now. I didn’t think I would, but that voice ...’ I caught Jamie’s eye and flushed. ‘I just … It felt as though he was singing the inside of my head.’

  He stared at me curiously. ‘Yeah. I get that.’

  ‘Angus said it was one of the first songs you two listened to together.’

  Jamie looked nostalgic for a moment. ‘It was. So he was down there? With you?’

  I was about to explain, but there was a flash of something in Jamie’s eyes that stopped me. It almost looked like … jealousy. The idea was so bizarre that I had to laugh. Me and Angus? That was just funny. His last girlfriend was a dancer at the San Francisco Ballet. The one before that was a princess.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, jutting my chin out. ‘We listened to it together. It was beautiful.’

  Jamie stared at me again, hard, taking in my baggy trousers and my reindeer jumper, my hair still damp from walking in the rain.

  ‘Oh. Right. Well, yeah, it is.’ He frowned. ‘Girls don’t usually like that stuff.’

  I shrugged. So this was what it was like not to be a girl girl.

  Liberating, actually.

  That night, Orli cooked a Moroccan tagine for supper. It was something the boys had enjoyed in the old days, she said, as the smell of apricots and spices drifted through the house. This time, as we sat down to eat it, Angus and Declan arrived together, as if they showed up for meals all the time. Without a word, Orli quickly laid two extra places for them. We lit candles and passed around dishes, serving ourselves and each other as the conversation grew louder, punctuated by clinking glasses and clattering knives and forks.

  Orli commented on the songs they’d been playing, saying which ones she’d enjoyed and which she’d heard Angus play much better in the past.

  ‘You know Angus’s playing?’ Declan asked, surprised.

  ‘Of course!’ Orli laughed. ‘I’m an expert. I cooked for everyone when they recorded Oyster. Saw them play at the Viper Lounge and a few other places. Do you remember, Angus, when Dave Grohl dropped by?’ Angus nodded reverentially. ‘You guys jammed for hours. Oh, and the time you met David Bowie …’

  ‘Don’t mention that!’ Angus warned her.

  She grinned. ‘He was so in awe he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.’

  I tried to picture Angus in awe of anyone. Then I remembered the way he’d looked at Nelson Reed in Paris. Next to a music legend, his ego seemed
to reduce to something near normal size.

  ‘I played with Bowie once,’ Declan remarked quietly, helping himself to more tagine. ‘Actually, twice. Awesome both times.’

  He didn’t look up from his food. He was just making conversation, but everyone turned to look at him.

  ‘You played with Bowie?’ I asked, thinking of all the fun I’d had strutting to ‘Fame’ last night, and hoping Angus hadn’t seen that part.

  ‘Um, yeah. You know … some tracks he was working on … It was cool.’

  ‘You should see Nina do her Bowie dance,’ Angus grinned from across the table.

  Oh God, he had seen. My cheeks burned.

  ‘Very … original.’

  I glanced across at him through my fringe, to see how much evil was in his face. But tonight his grin looked innocent. Even so, I was keen to change the subject.

  ‘So,’ I said, turning back to Declan, ‘who else have you played with?’

  ‘Well …’ he mused, thinking for a moment. I could tell he was distracted by the idea of my Bowie dance. But once he got talking, it quickly became clear that he had worked as a session musician with almost everyone, even though he was still only twenty-two. He was in the middle of a story about the time he didn’t get to record with Madonna (she asked; he was busy), when he stopped mid-sentence. He was staring at the doorway. We all stared too, and there was Connor, standing just on the edge of the warm glow cast by the lamps and candles, watching us all.

  Everyone went quiet. Then Orli quickly leapt to her feet and asked if he wanted to join us.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Oh, come and sit down. We’ve hardly started,’ she said brightly, if not entirely truthfully.

  Connor shook his head again. ‘I’ll have soup or something later.’ But he didn’t move.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Orli admonished him. ‘There’s plenty right now, and I promise you it’s good. But it’ll be gone soon. Make space, Sam and Angus. Connor, pull up a chair.’