Love Song Page 35
He knew that Josh had been after the games room and the adjoining suite for himself for years, and while it was a wrench for his father to make the rooms over to him, it was nothing compared to the smile Jack received from his patient in return.
‘Yes, and you can play endlessly, and pointlessly, with and on anything you wish. You have my full permission, I promise. There is one proviso, though, and it is a very strict one.’
‘Which is?’
‘You get better.’
Following this short exchange Jack felt quite able to leave for Rusty Naylor’s house in Wales the next day, armed with his song, his hopes absurdly, pathetically high.
She lived beside a lovely stretch of water, in a dip of mountains, opposite a beautiful hotel which was both a folly and a tourist attraction, which meant that she could boat across for dinner when she felt like it, or just lie in seclusion overlooking the water when she wanted.
Like so many women who have independent means and have lived for their careers all their lives, her house reflected her interests and her individuality in a way that sprang up and cried This is me! from the moment Jack arrived and parked his car, perilously close to the edge of the water, an inlet from the sea.
‘It means that you never get fed up of looking at it, you know?’ Rusty nodded towards the water. She was slim, trim as a blade and her hair was no longer dark but white, her skin tanned from being out of doors ‘messing about in the garden’ as she put it, but for the first half a day Jack spoke of everything and anything with her, except music.
Finally unable to bear the tension of not talking about their careers, as they sat up into the small hours reminiscing, Jack found that he had to open her up. He could not bear to leave again the following morning and not know if his song had some sort of chance.
‘Rusty—’
‘Mmm?’
‘We haven’t talked music—’
‘No.’
‘Are you still singing?’
‘Sometimes, alone in the boat. Makes the dog howl if I sing in the house!’ She laughed and kissed the top of her bearded collie’s head. ‘He’s a bit of a wusser. Singing frightens him!’
‘Start again. How many song writers have you had after you, these last few years?’
‘Do you want the truth or a lie?’
‘Oh – a lie, please. Preferably a big fat one.’
‘OK so. None.’
‘That’s what I thought. So I’m just one in a long queue to your door, aren’t I?’
‘Not a word of a lie, this time. Yup, Jack, you are.’
‘Don’t you want to sing any more, Rusty?’
‘Not really. I like living too much, you know?’ She wrinkled her nose at the idea of singing again, pausing before elaborating. ‘Here’s how I see singing nowadays, Jack. You sing, and you sing, and you sing. It kills you but you do, and finally the thing’s a hit, you have a hit. And what happens? All your family come after you for your money – and I mean all – and after you have given it to them you have to go out and sing some more. You go on gigs, you get exhausted, the record company’s making millions to your thousands, you get bad press because your secretary says you owe her money, or you’ve trashed an hotel room, or not paid your housekeeper, or something. And your family still comes after you, for more and more and more. Because it’s never enough. And while that is happening, every few months – because the whole world knows you’re rich now – someone tries to sue you, or your lawyer says you should sue someone, because he wants more and more and more, and it’s never enough for him either. And none of them likes you! And so finally you think, who needs it? I mean really. Who does? Life is for living. Let them all go away and earn their own money. So that’s what I’ve done. I’ve let them all go away, leave me alone, and earn their own money. And I stopped singing. It’s as simple as that, you know?
‘Course, there are other things. I mean I actually like being here, on my own. I like watching the water as darkness falls. I like listening to the wild duck, or getting up early to see the dawn and breakfast by the sun rising. I like everything here, but I don’t like singing any more, because singing is people, and people ain’t been kind to me. See? I’m a loner. I always have been. I always will be. I like the feeling that no-one will call, no-one will visit, and no-one is going to. Except, of course, you, Jack! But then you always were different, weren’t you, Jacko? Jacko the maverick they called you, didn’t they, boy?’
There was a short pause while Jack sighed inwardly as he realized his chance of getting Rusty to even look at his song had just vanished down the plughole.
‘Funny you should mention wild duck. Hope’s daughter has just been cast in a film, a remake of Ibsen’s The Wild Duck. She’s been cast in the title role.’
‘Hope being?’
Jack looked at Rusty. She would not do his song, he was sure, so why tell her about Hope? Because the song was not just all about Hope, it was for Hope. Why tell her?
But then he gave in and told her anyway, because, when all was said and done, they went way back, and Rusty Naylor had made his first hit single, and when you have done that together you don’t just go back, you go deep.
And after that he played her his song, not well, because his nerve had well gone after everything she had just said and anyway it was two in the morning and two in the morning was not his time of day any more.
Still, it seemed silly not to play it to her, after coming all that way.
How Rose had been cast in the part of the Wild Duck, an unknown in the title role, albeit for a small-budget film, was one of those stories that even in the telling, however many years pass, never quite lose their wonder. In fact it had all happened so quickly, she had had so little time since it happened – since the professor had put her up for it, and she had been cast – that only her eldest sister Mellie knew the full story.
But being cast in a part, while it brings many things, does not bring in the bacon, so when a girl lodging in the room below her offered her an opportunity to actually earn some cash, Rose jumped at the chance.
The Wild Duck did not start shooting for a month, and although she did not need to eat, and her work at Saintly Road covered her day to day living expenses, she did need some new shoes. About three pairs, actually.
‘It’s just running about on a racecourse wearing a suit that makes you look like a kind of poncey air hostess, smiling, and coming home again, that’s all. Nothing you can’t manage, you know. Oh, and you have to wear a sash that’s got some kind of a sponsor’s promo on it, but that’s not a problem. The real problem is usually avoiding his wandering hands. Old blokes! You just have to shut your ears to anything they say to you. I usually sing the national anthem, that makes them think I’m daft, and they shoot off after someone in the bar.’
All this was being said as Lily, the girl from down under on the floor below, was driving Rose to the racecourse.
‘What a shoot though, yesterday.’
Because Lily’s normal profession was modelling her stories were often hilarious, and she loved to tell them to Rose, seeming to revel in the ridiculous.
‘How’d it go, yesterday?’
As always Lily needed little prompting. ‘Don’t ask! No do. Wait till I tell you. You won’t believe this. One of the male models, from Frisk Models, you know? He choked on his moustache. He was meant to be posing in a bathing suit with a sombrero, and he did it, he sneezed and inhaled his moustache, burst into tears and had to be given first aid. Well, that was just after ten. By midday the die-rector had punched the producer – couple of cokeheads if you like – and so by two we were down to three and shooting with the second assistant and a PA who kept bursting into tears – I ask you! And this is England! Whatever happened to British cool, may I ask?’
‘Mums said it went out with rationing.’
‘My mother sent me to England to get what she calls “polish”. She’s a real Melbourne Lady, if you know what I mean? Well, since I got here all I’ve met is ag
gro and hysteria and—’
‘Australians?’
Lily laughed. ‘You’re one hell of a funny lady, aren’t you?’
They parked, met the promoters, changed and, hoping not to see anyone they knew, crept out of the ladies’ cloakroom and onto the racecourse. Happily they were both tall and so the sashes that said Simply Say Strachan did not look as bad as they might have done, at least Rose thought not, until she saw the winner of the second race and had to walk beside her into the unsaddling enclosure, smiling, just smiling.
‘Please God make sure she does not see me,’ she prayed.
But she did, and she laughed, and laughed. God might not have been smiling on Rose that afternoon, but Muffin Hateful was certainly laughing at Rose in her bright pink suit and her yellow satin sash with Simply Say Strachan on it, and so was Alexander. They doubled up with laughter at the sight of her.
Rose turned away.
‘Who’s that?’ Lily nudged her. ‘Who’s taking the so-and-so out of you, then?’
Rose shook her head.
‘No-one, just no-one,’ she said.
Rusty Naylor had a friend. She said, ‘Well I would, wouldn’t I?’ and laughed when Jack looked quizzical.
Despite her defensive speech, despite everything she had said to Jack, and more than once, she could not resist taking him to her friend’s house, and Jack, now needing no urging, played while Rusty sang his song through for her friend – Mandrake – and they all agreed that it had to be recorded, and of course, just by chance, by sheer coincidence, Mandrake had a private recording studio and so the unimaginable happened and, after a week’s commuting between their two houses, they had recorded Jack’s song.
Just like that, just as if they had all arranged long ago that they would, just as if they had all known they would come together and make a hit.
‘This is a hit all right, Rusty. And let’s face it, the voice is better than ever. The long lay-off, the good Welsh air, Jack’s song, everything has conspired to make the voice deeper, more rounded. You are not only back, Rusty, you are back on top, and if this is not a hit I will eat my socks.’
‘It’s not a hit yet, Mandrake, you hysterical old fool.’
But as he left after his over-long stay Rusty hugged Jack so hard that he suddenly knew just what a comeback would mean to her, just how much, despite everything, she really wanted that hit, even if it did mean that her family would be back with their begging bowls, and her lawyer too. She wanted that hit so much she could taste it already.
‘So. And where for you now, Jack?’
Jack held up the tape which Mandrake had just handed to him. ‘Me? I’m off to play this to the person I wrote it for. It’s to her, and for her.’
Rusty nodded, understanding. ‘Oh, Jack.’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m crossing everything for you.’
Jack smiled. ‘Sure. But first, you know, cross them for her, kid, cross them for her.’
PART FOUR
Even nights when I sleep alone
I set the pillows side by side;
Holding it close, I sleep.
Japanese Folk Song
Chapter Eighteen
Melinda had been Hope’s sole visitor for over ten days now. She did not mind. Calling in at the hospital had become part of her day, and she would no more have missed doing so than she would have missed any other part of her day, grooming Goosey, going for lessons, show jumping, all the bits and parts of her new life spent so much on her own.
‘He’s now been clear three times, Mums – three times in a row,’ Melinda said, flicking through the copies of Horse and Hound she had brought with her. ‘And I mean at Longleat – well, to be honest, everyone thought we were robbed. And I think we were. I do wish you could see this picture of her …’
Melinda folded the magazine in two at the Horse Trials page, where there was a spectacular photograph of ‘The Grey Goose with Melinda Merriott up’ jumping out of the water complex on the fine cross country course set out on the estate surrounding Lord Bath’s historic house.
Having stared at the magazine herself, Melinda went on, ‘They printed a picture of her even though technically we were second. It was ridiculous because we finished faster than the winning horse, but because we were fourteen seconds faster than the optimum time and the other horse was ten seconds slower it won. It’s all these funny rulings in eventing. Anyway, the great thing is she has stopped knocking down her show jumps. That’s four clear rounds now, and it’s all down to old Colonel Stricty-boots. And give him his due, he really has made a difference. Goosey now gets right to the bottom of her jumps, really jumps off her hocks, instead of just racing round trying to hurdle them. So, Mums. So. Chepstow here we come.’
She glanced at her mother and the feeling came to her that Hope really could hear her. Or maybe it was that she really wanted her to hear her?
‘It’s only a novice championship, Mums, but apparently half the course is Intermediate size. But of course the thing is it’s a two day event, it’s the novice two day event, so really, if we get placed, it would be quite something. And the thing is, Mums, I want so-o much to win it, for you, Mums! I want to win it for you.’
Melinda smiled down at her painfully thin mother and squeezed her hand, after which for a single blissful second she too felt what Claire had thought she felt, her mother’s finger imperceptibly moving.
Jack had arrived back from Wales to a message from Marcus. He wanted to come over and discuss recent developments, for not only had both daughters, and Jack, thought they had felt a slight movement from Hope’s finger, but some of the nurses had thought they noted a slight movement in one of the eyes.
‘At first everyone was determined that no-one could recover from the type of stroke which Hope suffered, simply because they know of no cases where this has happened. Certainly not fully. Several cases I know of have made it from her state to the unconscious state, what is cruelly known as the vegetative state, and a small number to full consciousness, but accompanied by total paralysis. Which to my mind is far worse than death. I think we would all hate to deprive Hope of a dignified exit while condemning her to a life in the cabbage patch.’
‘There was one stroke victim I read about who not only recovered, but learned to paint, because he had been using the other side of his brain …’
‘I remember that case, but he was not as bad as Hope, Jack.’
‘The point is he’d had a stroke, and you lot had written him off as scrap!’
‘You know I am as delighted as you that Hope has survived this far.’
‘But.’
‘But. Exactly. But.’
‘Now you must run more sensory tests—’
‘Exactly. But we will then see. And.’
‘And.’
Marcus dropped his gaze, not wishing to see the hope in Jack’s eyes, not wishing to see how much his happiness depended on the outcome.
Jack stared out of the window at the ordinariness of life below. Someone passing a car, someone else stopping for their dog. Two old women greeting each other, just life trickling by, little by little, while inside the hospital room in which he was standing it seemed to him that his own life had momentarily stopped. Yes, they had registered that her eyelids moved; yes, they had registered that she had responded perceptibly to sound, and now Marcus was talking to her, holding the hand that Jack had been holding for what now seemed to him to be years.
‘Squeeze one for yes and two for no.’
The two men’s eyes met again but this time Marcus had no need to avoid looking at Jack.
‘She had no such reflex as this before, Jack.’ Marcus straightened up and looked round at the rest of the medical team as he spoke. ‘We have had no such definite response before.’
‘And now?’
The medical group standing round Hope looked at each other. Understandably, they could not believe what they were hearing.
‘Now she has responded.’
‘Which means?’
‘Which means?’
‘Which means, Jack, that Hope is technically alive.’
‘And?’
‘We can switch off her life support system.’
‘Which means?’
Marcus smiled. ‘That something has happened that we had not thought possible.’
‘She is alive.’
‘She is alive. Technically. But that is all.’
‘All!’
Jack turned away. All.
Perhaps the roses already knew the good news, because they were out on Bryndor when Crawford and Claire climbed out of the helicopter which had ferried them across from the mainland on a cloudless morning. Far below the sea had divided itself into turquoise, midnight blue, deep green and near-black by strange turns, making half moons of the colours so that as Claire stared at them she fell to wondering what it was that so fascinated in the sea, its mystery, its tranquillity, its capacity to subjugate, finally, perhaps, to over-whelm.
This morning there was no feeling of threat to it, and yet its ability to destroy was evident in the marker buoys which noted the wreckage of some ship which had paid the final price of jousting with this other world. Only a light westerly blew as they started to descend to Bryndor, causing the lazy early summer day to allow the tall grasses around the lakes to bend and sway as if in greeting to the visitors.
Outside a freshly painted wooden outbuilding, about the size of a stable, with a glass window at the front, a wooden hut stood proudly welcoming, and boasting a sign which proclaimed the small grassy field to be ‘Bryndor Airport’, and to the side of that stood a minitractor and trailer onto which Crawford hoisted both their suitcases.
‘I would love you to come to Bryndor with me. It’s owned by some friends of mine, lived there since they were married – John and Maisie Fellowes,’ was how Crawford had framed the invitation for a week away with him. ‘Family party, no strings attached,’ he had added, pulling a face so straight that Claire knew that he was teasing her, and had sensed her fear that night at the hotel.