‘Both.’ Joe grinned.
‘I saw her heading for her room a few minutes ago,’ Oggie called after him, just as Joe swung around the doorframe into Georgine’s room to discover that fact for himself – or, at least, it looked like her jeans-clad rear end sticking out from under an enormous toppled Christmas tree.
He juddered to a halt. ‘Um … are you OK under there?’ She looked more than OK from his angle but, judging by the tuts and squeaks coming from within the prickly branches, she wasn’t happy.
‘I’m stuck!’ she wailed. ‘This stupid thing’s fallen on me and it’s hooked in my hair and my collar.’ She shook like a dog, presumably trying to dislodge whatever held her fast. Strands of silver foil attached to the tree trailed over her left buttock.
Pretty, Joe thought, though what he said was, ‘Shall I help you out?’ He watched her top edging up as she struggled, the silver strands now trying to find their way into the waistband of her jeans.
‘That would be lovely,’ she said sweetly. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want to just stand there watching me struggle.’
Actually he did, but it’d probably turn out to be against some rule or other. Education was full of them. ‘Keep still,’ he suggested, coming alongside the tree to inspect the problem, training his gaze on the dark green tree limbs rather than the skin showing above her waistband. But then, oops, he looked after all. If her waistband was dragged down any further he’d start to physically sweat.
Training his mind on the job in hand, first he got his shoulder underneath the tree to relieve Georgine of its weight, then he pulled a couple of Christmas tree limbs gently aside. ‘A branch has skewered your ponytail.’ The mass of strawberry blonde hair was half bunched up and half dragged loose. ‘Hang on.’
He pulled locks of her hair free one at a time until it was all out of the elastic band. ‘Don’t wriggle,’ he muttered, distracted. Her top, a cream-coloured sweatshirt, was riding right up to reveal the small knots of her spine that bisected the smoothness of her back.
‘Is something the matter?’ she queried. ‘Why have you stopped?’
‘Just looking for the best approach,’ he fibbed. Switching his gaze to her neck, he followed with one finger the tiny Christmas tree branch that vanished into her collar, concentrating on feeling for what it was hooked around rather than letting his knuckles explore the nape of her neck. ‘It’s caught up around a label. Hold still … there. Sorted.’
He eased the tree upright, a few flakes of glitter floating down around them as Georgine sat back on her heels, shoving back her tangled mass of hair and breathing a big sigh of relief and laughing. ‘Thank you.’ For a few seconds, before she gathered it back up, her hair lay loose around her shoulders, gleaming amber in the overhead light. ‘I must have looked stupid. I don’t know what you must have thought.’
What he’d thought when he’d slipped his fingers into her collar and felt her skin was that he’d never wanted to undress a woman more, but he smiled blandly. ‘I would never say you looked stupid.’
‘Not out loud,’ she agreed, eyes dancing. ‘We should move the tree and this other stuff to the props room. But, first, I need to get along to a rehearsal.’
‘Act one, scene one, full company,’ he agreed, having brought himself up to speed from the notes she’d sent him over the weekend. ‘You’re heading for trouble between Band One and Band Two though.’
Georgine, having climbed to her feet, grabbed her production file. ‘How so?’ Her eyes were bright, looking up at him as if she valued his opinion. A memory hit him like a blow just below his heart of when they’d been fourteen and she’d been about the only person to give him that kind of respect.
His voice emerged more croakily than he’d anticipated. ‘One drum kit, two drummers. You can easily add guitarists and vocalists to the mix because their instruments are portable and every student has their own. But you can’t condemn one of the drummers to standing around like a spare part, bashing a tambourine. You’re going to have to have a double set-up. A single set-up isn’t working well anyway because Wayne, the drummer from Band One, is right handed and Dilip from Band Two is left, which means changing the kit around at scene change.’
She swept out into the corridor, then paused to wait for him to follow. ‘It would mean a double set on the band platform for the whole production.’
He easily kept pace with her to the foyer and into the corridor to the new block. ‘And it’ll look awesome, because the two kits will mirror each other. Working on the stage space dimensions you gave me, we could extend the band platform by a couple of feet, which would help. I’ll take a tape and look at that this afternoon when we go to the Raised Curtain.’ When she shoved at a door he put his hand up above hers to hold it open as they stepped through.
‘OK,’ she said, still sounding doubtful. But when they got to the studio theatre he watched over her shoulder as she made a note under today’s date. Two drum sets??
‘Double drum set-up,’ he corrected her. ‘And it will look awesome.’
As if taking dictation, she wrote It will look awesome, mouthing the words as she wrote, making him chuckle when she added two question marks after that too. Their gentle teasing of each other gave him the sensation of returning to something good.
The rest of the day flashed past. Suddenly it was three thirty, their appointment at the Raised Curtain theatre was scheduled for four. ‘My car?’ Georgine called, dragging on her coat.
‘Have to be,’ Joe replied. He’d supplied himself with a big pad and a few pens. ‘I bought one yesterday in Bettsbrough, but I’m not picking it up till Saturday.’
It was twilight, verging on darkness outside. Joe settled into the passenger seat of Georgine’s little hatchback. The interior was distressed in high-pressure areas like a pair of jeans. His jeans, anyway.
Georgine talked as she drove, her ponytail swinging as she checked for oncoming traffic at junctions. ‘So, what you need to know about the Raised Curtain is …’ And she kept up a steady information stream as they barrelled along the lanes to the outskirts of Bettsbrough where the roads became lined with respectable residences of red brick or the copper-coloured stone common to the area.
They passed the top of a triangular green that marked the entry onto the one-way system. Joe, on familiar turf now, looked left, half-expecting to encounter his younger self scuffing along from the Shetland estate in too-small shoes.
‘Is this the first time you’ve been back to Bettsbrough for a while?’ Georgine asked. Her voice was neutral but the glance she flicked his way was full of compassion.
‘Mum’s here. I visit her.’
‘Of course.’ She nodded, slowing for traffic lights. ‘Whereabouts does she live?’
‘Manor Road. A couple of big houses were gutted and converted. She shares an apartment with her cousin Mari and a yappy dog.’
‘Nice area.’ There was a hint of a question in her tone.
Inbuilt caution made him hesitate, but Georgine knew the worst of him already. There was a certain relief in not having to hide anything. ‘I wanted distance between her and the Shetland estate and her old drinking cronies, but it would have been mean to uproot her from Bettsbrough altogether.’
Georgine drove on, around the one-way system to the other side of town and in through a pair of gates and over a series of speed humps to the Sir John Browne Academy. She parked at the far end of the hardstanding, close to a glass-fronted building with Raised Curtain in black metal lettering bolted into the brickwork. Light beamed out into the car park. Although she switched off the engine, she didn’t immediately leap out. Instead, she swivelled in her seat to face him. ‘My dad lives on the Shetland estate.’
For a moment, he just stared. Randall France of Randall France Construction with his big black cars and fleet of white vans, living in Shitland? ‘Really?’ he managed.
She sighed. ‘It’s not as you knew it. There was a big clean up; the police cracked down on the gangs and a lot of nic
e new houses and flats were built. But, yes, that’s where he lives.’
Then she jumped out of the car and closed the door on the conversation while he was still assimilating her words. Added to the desperate-sounding telephone conversation about money he’d overheard it painted a picture that was hard to believe.
Georgine turned and hurried towards the double doors of the theatre. As he was beginning to grasp that being her assistant meant tracking her shooting star of energy, he followed, Randall France still churning in his mind as they crossed the foyer. Then he was distracted by a frisson of excitement. It was a tiny venue compared to some of those he’d played, but the lighting rigs, the tiers of seats, even the smell from a floor-buffing machine being guided by a cleaner in overalls, they were all familiar.
He half expected to see Billy pacing nervously at the front of the stage, getting irritable with the techs because, having no instrument to set up, he wanted to get on with the sound check. Beyond Billy, the rest of the band materialised in Joe’s imagination, talking too much and laughing too loudly as anticipation built.
He glanced behind him. At the back of the theatre, above the highest tier of seats, was the room from where sound and light would be controlled, always referred to, in his experience, as ‘the box’. Even the sight of that made his heart beat harder.
‘Joe!’
He jumped.
Georgine laughed, eyes dancing. ‘Where were you? Cloud cuckoo land? This is Ian, box office manager. We have to be very nice to him because he tells us what we can and can’t do with the theatre.’
Joe summoned up a smile as he shook hands with a middle-aged man with black-framed glasses and a quiff. ‘Just admiring your set-up.’ He gestured about the theatre’s interior.
Ian looked pleased. ‘Small but beautifully formed. Being a recent build, we’re above average regarding tech. All the lights and sound can be controlled remotely. Shall I give you the tour?’
They began with the props room, where yards of silver tinsel and crates of baubles were everywhere, because the students of Sir John Browne Academy had their own seasonal shows in rehearsal ready for the week before A Very Kerry Christmas, Uncle Jones.
‘Changing rooms: one male, one female, nice big signs on the door in the hopes the little darlings don’t accidentally-on-purpose barge in on each other.’ Ian shoved open doors and let them swing shut, giving Joe a glimpse of benches with hooks above. ‘We usually have our prompt in this area of the wings, tucked behind this curtain. None of the curtains are the expensive kind that actually move, I’m afraid.’
‘Understand,’ Joe said, as some response seemed to be expected.
‘Right. Let’s get you up to the box, then I’ll leave you to it. Just shout if you want anything and I won’t be far away. Have to have you out by five forty-five ’cos a male choir will be in here this evening.’
‘On the phone he said six thirty,’ Georgine muttered, once Ian had departed. Out came her precious storyboards and they worked through them, discussing, redrawing, making notes.
Then they went down onto the stage area, fine tuning and taking it in turns to run up to various points in the seating to view from there. Deploying Joe’s tape measure satisfied Georgine that they could afford a slightly larger dais for the band at the back. ‘The double drum set-up better work,’ she grumbled at Joe as Ian arrived to tell them their time was up.
But she did book the platform with Ian before they left.
Chapter Sixteen
A wintry shower had begun when they stepped outside; stinging sleet flying into their eyes in the wind.
As they drove from the car park, Georgine’s headlights turned the sleet to glitter in the darkness, as if they were driving through a snow globe. They headed back into town where colourful illuminations in the shapes of stars and bells, snowflakes and Christmas trees hung over the shopping area.
They made slow progress through the home-time traffic. Joe didn’t mind. Georgine’s company made him feel buzzy and he could do no more about The Hungry Years until Pete responded. He felt more at peace than he had at any time in the past four weeks.
Impulsively, he turned to Georgine, whose face was changing colour beneath the festive lights as the car inched up Sheep Street. ‘Do you have plans this evening?’
Surprise flickered in her eyes as she glanced his way. ‘Only to go home. I might redo a couple of the messier boards.’
‘How about we find a pub?’ he suggested. ‘When we met in The Three Fishes that night I rudely talked about myself all evening. I’d like to hear your story from 1998 till now.’
Her eyebrows rose as she took the left lane that would eventually lead them out of the one-way system. She shrugged, not replying until they finally left Sheep Street for Silver Street and the Peterborough traffic peeled off. ‘If you like. There’s a chain pub down by the river called the Boatman. That OK?’
‘Sure,’ he returned, half-expecting her to ‘remember’ a pressing engagement before they reached the Boatman.
She drove straight there, however, and pulled up her hood to brave the thickening sleet. ‘It’s nice to eat outside in summer,’ she said as she made a beeline for the well-lit pub decked in lights of the kind of blue usually seen on emergency vehicles, the occasional red star providing the only relief.
‘I think I’ll give the beer garden a miss this evening.’ He lengthened his stride to keep up.
In the bright warmth of the pub he bought her a glass of wine and himself a pint of cranberry juice and soda water while she chose a table. There were plenty vacant. Despite a mouth-watering smell of cooking, a pub on the outskirts of Bettsbrough obviously failed to attract the after-work crowd he was used to in London bars. Over the mantel, a red wire reindeer pulled a green sleigh and nearby a Christmas tree hung, interestingly, upside down from the ceiling. More upside down Christmas trees, small silver ones, hung above the bar.
When he joined her at a table near the fire she took a swig of wine as if needing the bolstering effects of alcohol. ‘So, what do you want to know?’
Joe gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘I’d love to hear about your life since we last met. But we can talk about the show, if you’d be more comfortable with that. Acting Instrumental. The price of eggs.’
A sudden smile. ‘Egg-spensive?’
If puns would relax her, he could provide them all night. ‘Don’t yolk about it.’
‘A-fried I’ll beat you at your own game?’
He pulled a mock-gloomy face. ‘Eggs-actly what it boils down to.’
She laughed, sinking a little more comfortably into her chair. ‘Eggs-traordinary. Your sense of humour hasn’t matured at all.’ Then she sobered. ‘OK. I told you I went to uni for a year. I left because Dad’s business went to the wall.’
‘Shit.’
She nodded. ‘I know. It was …’ She fidgeted with a beer mat. ‘Dad missed out on a contract he’d been counting on to get over a downturn – a downturn he’d kept to himself. To the family, everything had seemed the same. When he didn’t get the contract the bank called time. Don’t you drink alcohol at all?’ she asked, changing the subject, her gaze on his glass.
He shook his head. ‘Not except for a swallow of champagne at celebrations.’
‘Because of your mum and Garrit?’
‘Yeah. And Dad. Would he have drowned, if he’d had one pint instead of ten?’
‘Right.’ She picked up a beermat and contemplated it while he wondered if she’d told him everything she was going to. But then she took up the story again. ‘I think I told you Mum and Dad split up. Mum didn’t want to be poor and made no bones about the situation not being her fault. The house had to be sold and the legal situation was a nightmare – creditors wanting blood and Mum trying to keep hold of equity for herself. But banks are good at securing their borrowing, so Mum got angrier and angrier. Blair was bewildered and cried all the time. Then Dad started having strokes. Blair had to at least get her A Levels so there was only
me who could bring in a wage.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said inadequately.
Georgine paused to watch what looked like a small busload of people come in wearing illuminating antlers or Christmas jumpers. Laughing and chattering, they settled at a long table at the end of the room. The volume of noise increased ten-fold.
Georgine began folding the beermat into quarters. ‘It took a long time for the dust to settle and for us to discover what we had left,’ she went on. ‘And that proved to be not much. A tiny rented house in Middledip because Ratty, the guy at the garage who owns a few properties around the village, felt sorry for us and gave Dad a deal. Dad was no longer medically fit to drive, so Blair and I went to Bettsbrough each day on the bus.’ The beermat broke raggedly and she dropped the bits on the table. ‘Blair went on to uni after sixth form because by then she could get the full loan, as Dad’s circumstances were dire. It was hard to keep her there, because she hadn’t exactly learned economy in her formative years.’
Listening, Joe felt cold. Part of him wanted to tell her not to say any more. But another part was desperate to know. ‘What about your mum? She wasn’t in a position to contribute?’
Georgine laughed, but her eyes were sad. ‘Mum went into survival mode and did whatever the upmarket term is for sofa-surfing, living in a succession of her friends’ guest rooms or holiday homes. Granddad, her father, made her an allowance, I think. He gave Blair pocket money too, which helped a bit. After a couple of years Mum found a new man, one with a few quid. I don’t see much of her, partly because she lives in Northumberland.’
With a blind instinct to comfort, he reached out and took one of her hands. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
She looked at their clasped hands. ‘Shit happens, and it certainly happened to us. Financially, there always seems to be something to drag us down – car repairs or broken boilers. Blair’s had a job since leaving uni, but she’s not good with money. Dad struggles on benefits.’
A Christmas Gift Page 13