They sang and argued their way through Led Zeppelin 1, Houses of the Holy and Physical Graffiti before Emily realised they’d missed the bell for lights out and it was midnight
‘I should go.’
He looked at her. There was silence for a moment as he seemed to contemplate something. Then he smiled.
‘Yes. They get pretty irate if you’re late for rehearsals. I don’t want you getting into trouble.’
He turned to put away the cassettes that were strewn around the room. Emily slipped away. And all night she dreamed of him, accompanied by a Led Zeppelin soundtrack, and she woke the next morning feeling quite exhausted. And longing to see him again.
There he was. At breakfast. Eating fried tomatoes on toast. She decided to play it cool while she queued up for scrambled eggs. She’d sit next to someone else. But he waved his fork at her and nodded to the space next to him. Casually. And she sat next to him and they almost didn’t need to speak, just sat next to each other in companionable silence eating their breakfast. She couldn’t believe how easy it felt, being his friend.
They were inseparable for the rest of the week. After tea she would go to his room and they’d play tapes. There was a whole stack of home-recorded ones that he’d put to one side.
‘What are these?’
‘Oh, my mum records me playing. So I can listen to myself and see where I’ve gone wrong.’
‘Oh.’
He made a face. ‘What you must understand,’ he said in a Joyce Grenfell voice. ‘Is I’m a prodigy. My talent mustn’t be wasted.’
And although he was trying to make a joke of it, Emily didn’t think he thought it was all that funny. There was a tension underlying his jocularity. His mother was very ambitious for him. He’d told her his dad had died a few years ago, so it was just the two of them.
‘Can I have one?’
‘Sure. I’m probably not going to listen to them, to be honest. Help yourself.’
It would be a little bit of him to take home with her. To play in her room. It would be like having him there. She took two. The Liebestraum she’d heard him play on the first night. And Gaspard de la Nuit. Ravel.
A week later he played her ‘Ne Me Quitte Pas’ by Jacques Brel. They sat in silence, taking in the plink of the piano, the heart-rending strings, the mournful lyrics, the emotion in his voice, when Emily saw a tear on Jonathan’s cheek. She froze for a moment. Did the song remind him of a lost love?
Then he sniffed, and another tear followed the first, and he started to cry properly.
‘Sorry,’ he choked. ‘This was my dad’s favourite song.’
‘Hey. It’s OK.’ Emily scooted over and put her arms around him without even thinking about it. For a moment he leaned into her.
‘I’m all right, usually,’ he gulped. ‘I’m used to him not being here any more. But sometimes it hits me. It comes out of nowhere. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry. It must be awful. I’m sorry.’ She hugged him as tightly as she could, and before she could help herself she had kissed him on the side of his head. A consoling, reassuring, kiss-it-better kind of a kiss, but a kiss nevertheless.
He turned and gazed straight into her eyes. He took her face in his hands.
‘This has never happened to me,’ he said. ‘I’ve never felt like this with anyone. As if I can say anything I like. And you’ll get it. And you won’t just agree with me for the sake of it.’
She put her hand up to touch his hair. She’d never touched anyone’s hair. She put her finger inside a curl and twizzled it.
‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘It’s the same for me.’
He shivered slightly at the contact and moved forward until their foreheads were touching.
And then their lips.
What happened next was the easiest, most natural and most wonderful thing to happen to either of them. Neither of them was experienced, but it turned out not to matter one jot. Emily didn’t go back to her room.
They couldn’t stop laughing the next morning. She clambered out of his bed and got dressed to sneak back before anyone saw her.
‘See you at breakfast,’ she whispered, and he waved at her from under the duvet, then did a comedic shrug as if to say, ‘What on earth happened last night?’ He looked sweet without his glasses on, blinking like a little owl. Her heart twisted with adoration, and she fought the urge to rush back over and kiss him again.
She skipped down the stairs and along the corridor to her room on the other side of the building. She looked in the mirror and couldn’t stop laughing at her reflection: her sparkling eyes and the slight rash on her face where his midnight stubble had scraped her tender skin.
She jumped in the shower and changed into fresh clothes. She couldn’t wait for the day ahead. It seemed to have an extra dimension. She seemed to have an extra dimension. She felt at long last as if she meant something. As if she wasn’t just inconsequential funny little Emily Silver, but the living, breathing object of someone’s desire. She felt as if she’d been rolled in glitter. If you touched her, her skin would give off sparks, like an electric fence.
‘Jonathan.’ She spoke his name out loud, then gave it a different intonation. ‘Jonathan. Jonathan and Emily. Emily and Jonathan.’
She couldn’t believe how natural it sounded. How believable.
She laughed again. This was not normal behaviour for her. She was the least romantic person she knew. Although that couldn’t really be true, or why did certain pieces of music move her to tears? Give her Mimi and La Bohème and she’d be on her knees, sobbing. Or Mozart’s Req. Or a soaring bit of Elgar, especially if was played by Jacqueline du Pré. So she knew there was a passionate heart beating inside her somewhere.
It had taken Jonathan to find it.
The month passed in a blissful swirl of discovering each other. Their favourite food, their hopes and dreams, what made them laugh – each other, it turned out. The laughter was joyous and never-ending. They even laughed in bed, wrapped up in each other’s arms. Emily thought it was heaven. She never wanted to leave. The end of summer school was getting nearer and nearer and she dreaded the final day. She didn’t dare ask what was going to happen to them afterwards, for she was afraid of breaking the spell. But something inside her told her they would be together forever.
There was only one bad thing that happened to mar the magic. One evening she was on her way to the dining room when the viola player she’d spotted on the first night fell into step beside her.
‘You’ve been Jonathaned, then?’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Jonathaned.’ She repeated it as if Emily must know what it meant. ‘It happens to the best of us.’
‘What do you mean?’
She gave her a knowing smile. Emily’s stomach clenched.
‘Don’t be taken in by that shambling friendly bear act.’ She suddenly looked very uptight and disapproving. ‘He goes for the innocent ones. The ones who don’t have a bloody clue. Don’t be surprised if he drops you like a stone.’
She swished off down the corridor and Emily stared after her. Whatever she was implying was rubbish. It might have taken her a long time to fall in love, but she knew it was real when she found it.
She mentioned the exchange to Jonathan that evening. She wanted to be open with him.
‘Ruth said that?’ he said, and gave a bark of laughter.
‘She told me not to be fooled by your shambling friendly bear act.’
‘Well, don’t be fooled by her uptight virginal nun act.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘She made a pass at me last year on the last night, when she’d had a few too many ciders, and was livid when I turned her down. Hell hath no fury and all that.’
He took his glasses off and cleaned them, which he did when he was agitated. Emily looked at him, longing for his words to be true.
‘Em,’
he laughed, seeing her look miserable. He put his glasses back on and pulled her to him, kissing her, and she knew he was telling the truth. What a spiteful girl Ruth was.
On the last afternoon there was a concert for all the parents. It was all quite formal. Everyone dressed as if it was a proper affair: bow ties for the boys; black dresses for the girls. Someone had photocopied a programme, and there was wine at the interval. The atmosphere was buzzy and everyone was rushing around, full of adrenalin, like a scene from a film.
Jonathan introduced Emily to his mother. She was a tiny round woman in a shiny red dress and a helmet perm. Emily could see she only had eyes for her son, following him around the room with a loving gaze.
‘Mum, this is Emily.’
‘Oh, hello, love.’ She gave her a tight smile. ‘Oh dear, I get so nervous before he plays.’ Her cheeks were pink with panic. ‘More nervous than if I was going on. More nervous than him! He never gets nervous. Are your parents here?’
‘Not yet.’ Her parents hadn’t said if they were coming. Her dad probably couldn’t get the afternoon off and Mum didn’t want to drive all this way on her own again. She was supposed to be getting a lift back with another pupil of Miss Bembridge.
‘Mum, just sit down and enjoy the concert,’ Jonathan told her. He was obviously used to fielding her anxiety and blocking out her chatter. ‘I’ve got to go and copy some sheet music for the finale. The double bass player’s lost his.’
He steered her towards the chairs and found her a good spot near the front.
‘Honestly,’ he said to Emily. ‘You’d think this was Wigmore Hall.’
‘At least she cares,’ she sighed.
Jonathan frowned, looking at Emily in concern. She was in a black velvet skirt she’d bought in a charity shop the week before she left home, knowing they had to dress up. She’d even put some lipstick on and done her hair in a bun. She felt elegant and sophisticated. Almost – almost! – like a woman rather than a funny little girl who hid herself away.
‘I care. And you look fantastic,’ Jonathan said, and something in his eyes made her ripple and shimmer. All at once she felt taller and stronger.
And then she saw her parents. They’d made it. She couldn’t believe it. She was pleased, because she’d been worried about being the only person there with no one in the audience. They walked straight past her.
‘Mum!’ She said, and her mother turned. And when their eyes met she frowned, not recognising the assured young woman before her at first.
‘Emily?’ Her face lit up. ‘Emily, look at you. You look wonderful.’
Jonathan patted her on the shoulder. ‘You see,’ he whispered. ‘They do care.’
Her heart gave a little flip.
Her mother looked up at him.
‘Mum,’ I said. ‘This is Jonathan.’
She felt so proud of him. Of knowing him.
‘Hello.’ Her mother’s smile was warm, and her father shook his hand. ‘Where should we sit, darling?’
‘My mother’s just over here,’ said Jonathan. ‘I’m sure she won’t mind you sitting next to her.’
Emily watched in a daze as he settled the parents in next to each other and left them to chat. It felt like a big step for her, and she wondered if her parents could see how happy he had made her. It felt like a turning point, as if her life had new meaning and she could see the future. She put her heart and soul into her playing, pouring all the emotion she’d felt over the past few weeks into every note. She felt uplifted as it all came to an end. Slightly euphoric.
And then Jonathan played the Ravel at the end. Gaspard de la Nuit. The piece of music on one of the tapes she had taken. Everyone was spellbound. His mother sat bolt upright; her hands clasped as if she was praying. The applause went on and on.
Emily felt so proud of him as he turned to bow to the audience. He looked for her, and his second bow was just for her, she was sure.
But after the concert, they didn’t get to say goodbye. Emily’s parents were hustling her to leave, worried about the Friday night traffic. They had swapped addresses the night before, promising to write to each other and make arrangements to meet. Emily wanted to say goodbye properly, feel his arms around her one more time, but he was nowhere to be found. She felt panicky, especially when Ruth gave her a knowing look as she walked past as if to say, ‘I told you so.’ Emily had more faith in Jonathan than she did. He wouldn’t just abandon her.
Nevertheless, she got into her parents’ car with the most awful hollow feeling inside.
‘Well, that was very good,’ said her mother. ‘Did you enjoy your month away? We missed you.’
She couldn’t answer. She wanted to cry. Her throat was tight with tears.
‘Emily?’ asked her mother as her father reversed out of the parking space. She caught sight of Jonathan coming out of the entrance, his mother beside him.
‘Stop,’ she said, pulling at her seat belt.
‘Don’t stop.’ Her mother put her hand on her father’s arm. ‘We need to get to the M5 before five o’clock or we’ll be caught up.’
Of course her father obeyed her mother. Of course he did. Emily turned and looked at Jonathan as he ambled over to where his mother had parked, wishing that she knew when she was going to see him again, wondering if he was thinking about her too.
‘The pianist was very good,’ said her father. ‘Very talented.’
‘He’s going to the Royal College,’ she said sadly. ‘Hopefully.’
She wanted to tell them everything about him. She talked about him nearly all the way to the motorway. She was already composing her first letter to him in her head. Eventually, she put her head back and shut her eyes, dreaming all the way back to Worcester.
There were two weeks left of the summer holidays before she had to go back to school. She walked to the train station at Shrub Hill to pick up the timetable and see how long it would take to get to where he lived. It would be impossible to get there and back in one day by train. Maybe they could meet halfway? She wished she could drive, but she hadn’t started lessons yet, even though she’d got her provisional licence. She wondered if her mother would drive her. Probably not.
She decided she would send him a postcard, but she’d put it inside an envelope. She went into Worcester and spent hours choosing the right one. In the end she found one of the Malvern Hills, which were nearby.
Dear J – This is the view that inspired Elgar. Maybe we could go one day? How are you? How is the practising? I can’t believe it’s only a fortnight till school starts again – groan. No more lie-ins. Summer school seems a million years ago, not just yesterday. I thought we could meet halfway one day? I miss you. Emily xx
She couldn’t write what she really wanted to, in case he left it lying around. She couldn’t tell him that she thought about his hands, and how they had touched her as gently as he touched the piano keys. She thought about how he had wrapped himself around her as they slept. She was tiny inside his embrace, tucked up like a koala.
Three days went by and there was no reply. He must have lost her address. She should have put it on the postcard, or on the back of the envelope. She decided to send another one. She sent a Peanuts card this time: Woodstock standing on Snoopy’s tummy, which gave her the same happy feeling she got when she was in Jonathan’s arms. And she put her address on it, and her phone number.
A whole other week went by. She didn’t know where to put herself. She couldn’t eat, sleep, read, speak. Every time she put on Led Zeppelin she fell into a reverie, each beat of the music pounding in time to her heart.
She phoned Directory Enquiries to get his phone number, but there was no Hudson listed at the address he’d given. She started to panic. Had she imagined it all? Was he ill, or worse? Had his mother locked him in his room? She wouldn’t have put it past her. She had a funny look about her.
Or had he jus
t had second thoughts? Was Ruth right after all? Had she been Jonathaned?
No, she told herself. It was real, what they’d had. She hadn’t imagined it. It was impossible to imagine that kind of closeness.
Her mother could sense her misery. When the postman pushed an electricity bill and a copy of the Radio Times through the letter box, Emily sank onto the bottom step of the staircase with a moan of despair.
‘I understand how you feel,’ her mother said, looking at her in sympathy.
Emily picked at the frayed edge of her jumper sleeve. How ludicrous. How could she understand.
Her mum sat on the step next to her.
‘It’s like something eating at your insides, isn’t it?’ She held a fist over her stomach and Emily looked at her, surprised, because that is just what it felt like. ‘And you think you’ll never be happy again. And every now and then you hear something that reminds you, and it’s almost unbearable. Or you smell something …’
She seemed to drift away. Emily suspected she wasn’t talking about her father. She’d never thought of her mother falling in love, or having feelings for someone. Or having sex, which obviously she had.
Her mum put her arm around her.
‘There’ll be other boys. Wait until you get to university. You’ll be spoilt for choice. And they’ll be lucky to have you.’
She was trying to be kind, but she was making her feel worse. She wanted her brain to stop, wanted the constant whirl to end, that toxic mix of panic and longing and something deeper and sweeter that kept curdling. Part of her wanted to believe her mother and be comforted by her, but she knew there was only one person who could stop the torture.
One word from him would have been enough. A funny postcard on the doorstep would have meant the world.
And then the longed-for day arrived. A letter. A brown envelope with black scrawly biro on the front and a stamp that was tilted at thirty degrees, with a York postmark. Emily took it and ran up to her room. A thrill of excitement zipped through her as she tore open the envelope and took out a sheet of A4 lined paper.
A Wedding at the Beach Hut: The escapist and feel-good read of 2020 from the bestselling author of THE BEACH HUT Page 12
