Making Music

by Ling, Maria

  "Just asking," Peter said peacefully.

  "Go on, Jen," Sue said, clearing her throat. "Play ‘Imagination'."

  Jen shifted the guitar into a more comfortable position and started strumming gently. Then she sang, in the simple lilting style that came naturally to her, and which suited the way she played. Sue picked up her drum and joined her with a quiet, even rhythm, and sang along softly.

  "That was beautiful," Rhoda said as they finished.

  "You sing something, Rhoda," Jen said, pleased and relieved that the tension of their recent conversation had disappeared. As Sue had so aptly described it, Rhoda did not know what holding a grudge meant.

  Stuart had got the fire going to his satisfaction, and returned to his armchair. Jen caught a faint delicious smell of fresh wood and smoke as he passed, and unconsciously leaned back to breathe it in. She wondered for a moment what it would be like to live here in this house with him. Music and open fires in the evening, friends staying, a recording studio on hand whenever it was needed. And children, maybe.

  She looked across at Cathy, who had recovered her composure and was listening with wide-eyed delight to Rhoda's interpretation of a good old-fashioned Patsy Cline number, backed up by Peter on guitar. The girl was pretty, and talented, and she had been through her share of trouble. Maybe she deserved Stuart. And maybe he could be faithful to her, even if it took an effort -- although it had not seemed much like it earlier this evening.

  A slow sorrowful single guitar line grew through the music, and Jen looked at Stuart in mingled admiration and surprise. He had got his slide out, and was improvising a lead to Peter's chords. The sound was very different to that of an ordinary wooden acoustic, a ringing bell-like tone, rising and falling with the wailing effect created by the smooth movement of the slide.

  She remembered the sound from his records, but here it was different: richer, more tangible, more real; and more melancholy too, as if all the defences were down, as if the guitar were finally speaking out from the heart about the sadness it felt.

  Music in the raw, she thought, and then remembered a phrase of Stuart's from long ago: blues is meant to be played live. Recorded blues, he had told her, is dead blues.

  No, she thought, not dead, but like a photograph -- flat. It could be powerful, dramatic, beautiful, and heart-wrenchingly sad, but it was still two-dimensional, still flat. This was the full three-dimensional reality.

  He looked at her suddenly, with the intensity she remembered from when they were together, and her breath caught in her throat. Slowly he moved his hands across the strings, coaxing them, caressing them, his eyes steadily in hers. She felt herself being captured by the music, held by it and pulled in by it, and she looked into his eyes that were like an endless ocean, and she knew that she loved him, and that she had never stopped loving him.

  She let her hands move, felt the music well up inside her, and let her guitar speak to his, the way she had on that magical first night, so impossibly long ago. They played together, asking and answering, taking and surrendering the lead, responding to each other with the instinctive understanding of perfect intimacy, responding to each other as naturally and unthinkingly as lovers do.

  The music ebbed and flowed between them, and when at last it ceased, they sat looking at each other for a long time, intent only on themselves, smiling softly without realising.

  "You two," Karen said, unusually gently for her. "Honestly."

  Jen reluctantly tore her eyes away from Stuart, and saw that Karen was watching them both with a kind of indulgent affection.

  "Well," she went on, with a touch of her normal crispness, "I suppose that makes it my turn now."

  "Oh yes," Cathy said eagerly, "let's do that song we did at the Festival together. You know, the one about the hunter and the hawk."

  Jen looked at her with admiration. Cathy was clearly determined not to let her grief spoil things for anyone else, even to the extent of joining in with the music-making. It was very brave of her.

  It was a quirky little West Country song, a kind of tongue-in-cheek debate between the man and the bird as to which was the more skilled at hunting. Karen did it full justice, and the combination of Peter's guitar and Cathy's flute was irresistible. On stage at Cambridge, with a violinist as well, they must have been marvellous.

  Sue was joining them with a simple steady rhythm on the bodhran. Rhoda was sitting back in her corner of the sofa, her long legs stretched out comfortably in front of the fire, her elegant black ankle boots resting carelessly on the expensive-looking table. Jen put her guitar down and reached for the remainder of her coffee. She kicked off the dark green shoes she was wearing, and tucked her feet up under her in the armchair. Then she glanced surreptitiously at Stuart, only to find him still watching her.

  His unwavering gaze made her uncomfortable. She had made it clear that she was not interested in resuming any kind of relationship with him -- and she wasn't -- but he did not seem prepared to take no for an answer. And Stuart had a strong determined will under his easy-going exterior. She knew that better than anyone. What he wanted, he would get. And she was becoming increasingly aware that he wanted her.

  The song ended, and there was a pause. The fire crackled and snapped, and the heat from it made the atmosphere in the room pleasantly sleepy. They sat for a while in friendly silence, under no pressure to talk or sing or play.

  Then softly, a long ringing note, gently rising with a melancholy sound, and ending in a silvery echo. Jen looked at Stuart. He had made himself more comfortable, too: one knee was drawn up to rest against the arm of his chair, the foot tucked in against the opposite knee, and the guitar was leaning on his shoulder, balanced against his leg, looking as if it remained there by choice. The slide moved gently along the strings. He was playing not so much a tune, as a sequence of slow, clear, bell-like notes, each long and drawn-out and thoughtful. They rang in the silence and reverberated through the room.

  Jen had the strange feeling that she sometimes used to get as a little child, when she could sit for hours looking out of the window at the falling rain. It was a feeling of tranquillity, as if the world itself was resting, as if nothing moved except the tiny drops of water free-falling towards the earth.

  They all sat silent and peaceful, listening to the soothing sounds, at ease with each other and with themselves.

  Rhoda yawned.

  "Don't stop," she said as Stuart silenced the guitar by laying his hand over the strings. "I was enjoying that. But tell me if I start snoring."

  Peter gathered up the coffee mugs and put them on their tray.

  "Have you got any beer, Stuart?" he asked.

  "Loads," Stuart said, starting to play again. "Bring a pack. And something for the girls."

  "A bottle of red wine?"

  Stuart nodded.

  "In the corner cabinet. There's glasses and stuff in the cupboard over the sink. And there's a bottle of soda water in the fridge, and -- just bring the kitchen, will you, Pete?"

  "I'll help you," Sue said.

  Jen knew she ought to offer, but she sat entranced by Stuart's playing, and could not bring herself to move or speak. She secretly resolved to get up early the next morning and organise everyone's breakfast.

  Between them, Sue and Peter managed to provide drinks for the whole company with quiet efficiency. Once they had all been supplied, silence fell again, and the slow pensive notes of Stuart's guitar settled over the room.

  CHAPTER SIX

  True to her resolution, Jen rose early the next morning. Karen was still fast asleep in the other bed, her long hair snaking over the pillow, her face buried in a corner of the duvet. Jen tiptoed into the bathroom, anxious not to disturb her.

  She had intended to take only a brief shower, but could not help lingering under the drenching warmth. At last she reluctantly decided she had had enough. She stepped out of the cubicle, swathed herself in the big fluffy white bath-towel she had brought with her from home, and proceeded to brush her teet
h.

  When she emerged into the bedroom again, Karen was awake.

  "It can't possibly be morning yet," she grumbled. "I haven't finished sleeping."

  "You're allowed to carry on, you know," Jen said. "No one's stopping you."

  "No." Karen yawned. "What's the shower like?"

  "Wonderful."

  "I'll give it a go, then."

  She seemed in no hurry to get up, however, and Jen left her still wrapped up in the duvet, protesting drowsily that she would be downstairs in a minute or two, honestly.

  "Whenever," Jen said, smiling. "We won't start without you."

  She walked quietly along the corridor and down the staircase. The house was completely silent: no one else seemed to be up yet. At the living room door she paused, trying to remember if they had cleared away everything the previous night. She thought so, but was not altogether certain. She opened the door and peeked in. Yes, all was neat and tidy. Only the musical instruments still leaning against the various items of furniture, and the grey ashes on the hearth, remained.

  The kitchen was surprisingly tidy, too, she found as she entered it. There were two empty wine bottles beside the sink, and the bin lid was jammed open by beer cans, but other than that there were few traces of the previous evening.

  She opened the dishwasher cautiously, having little experience of such modern technological wonders, but it yielded nothing except a gleaming collection of clean dishes. Still moving with the wariness of a hunter in the forest, she began to pick out one item after another and putting them on the worktop.

  She soon found that water had collected here and there, tipping out inopportunely over her feet. Luckily she was simply dressed, having reverted to the white cotton blouse and blue jeans that she always thought of as her "work clothes" these days, and black cotton socks which could easily be hung on a radiator to dry later on.

  There was a tea towel on a hook near the sink, and she seized it gratefully and began to wipe the dishes. Some kitchen roll took care of the wet floor. Then she systematically worked her way through the cupboards until all the dishes had been put away in what she deduced must be the correct places.

  Right. Bowls, glasses, mugs, and cutlery. Seven sets of everything were soon on the table. Cereal. Bread. Orange juice. Butter. Marmalade. Milk.

  She was impressed. Stuart -- or Cathy, perhaps? -- had supplied enough of every staple breakfast fare to feed a small army. And everything was so clean. Back when she had known him, Stuart had been no worse than any other man, but that was not saying much. She had expected jam on the floor, fingerprints on the fridge, marmite on the worktops. This place was spotless. Either Cathy worked a lot harder than it seemed, or Stuart had changed beyond recognition. Or maybe he was hardly ever here.

  She was almost relieved to find a generous scattering of crumbs all around the toaster. That, at least, was a familiar sight.

  There were steps on the floor above her, and the sounds of doors opening and closing. She stood looking at the coffee machine for a while, her lips moving silently as she tried to remember the drill from the previous day. Coffee. Yes, that was the coffee jar, and this time she managed to get the lid off first go. Great. Filters. No problem -- they were right next to the machine. Put the one in the other. Marvellous. Now then…

  Jug. Water. Switch. She went through each step, holding her breath, and then watched fearfully as the machine started making scary volcanic noises. If it blew up, then of course she would buy Stuart another one, but even that would not be enough to reconcile him to having to go without his morning coffee. She had visions of herself being flung bodily over the gate. Provided she could keep away from the inch-long thorns of the hedge, she thought, it would probably be all right -- a few broken bones, maybe, but she could simply chalk that up to experience.

  Then the tar-black liquid started to drizzle through into the jug, and she breathed again.

  The door opened, and Stuart walked in, stopping dead at the sight of her and the coffee and the breakfast table.

  "Bloody hell," he said blankly.

  "I did it all myself," Jen said, beaming with pride.

  He looked at her for a while, and then leaned against the wall, shaking with silent laughter.

  "What?" Jen demanded, justly annoyed. "What's the matter with you?"

  "Nothing, nothing." He put a hand over his eyes for a moment, and then turned to her, still grinning. "It was just the look on your face -- like a little kid who's managed burnt toast and raw bacon for breakfast, and expects you to be thrilled. You do realise, don't you Jen, that none of us are going to dare to eat anything now?"

  "The toast isn't burnt," Jen said with dignity. "I haven't made it yet." She thought for a moment. That remark could be misconstrued, and she could tell by the way Stuart suddenly turned away and coughed that he was misconstruing it right now. "And when I do, it won't be burnt. I happen to make toast every morning, you know. And there isn't any bacon."

  "Yes, there is," Stuart said, choking slightly. "It's in the fridge. No, don't touch it!" He stepped briskly in front of the fridge door, cutting her off. "I'm not letting you loose on it. Go and sit down, and don't cause any more trouble."

  Jen drew herself up to her full height, but on finding that this only brought her eyes level with his well-developed shoulders, decided on a different tactic, and walked haughtily over to the table.

  "That's better," Stuart said in mock approval. "Now stay there."

  Jen resisted the temptation to pull a face at him, and busied herself with the milk and cereal instead.

  The last of the coffee settled into the jug, and silence descended on the kitchen, broken only by the rustle as Stuart got some sliced bread out of the bag and the metallic slam as he put it into the toaster. Then he turned and looked suspiciously at the coffee machine.

  "You could at least try it," Jen said frostily.

  "I'm not sure," he said, the corner of his mouth twisting upwards, despite his best efforts. "It could be the last thing I do."

  "I made some yesterday, and that was fine," Jen pointed out.

  "Correction: you and Karen made some. That makes all the difference. I don't know what you might have come up with unsupervised. Still -- " he breathed in the aroma, and his mouth firmed in sudden decision -- "I guess I'll have to risk it. Tell you what: you drink some first. Then I'll know what to expect."

  Jen simply looked at him, mortally offended. He looked back at her teasingly.

  "Are you scared to try it?"

  "No, I certainly am not."

  "Good. Then pass me that mug, and we'll see if you've broken all your records."

  Jen sniffed, but passed the mug over amiably. She was rather curious herself to see whether the experiment had succeeded, although she had no intention of admitting as much to him.

  "It smells okay," Stuart said critically, giving back her mug and filling one for himself. "And it looks okay. Go on, Jen, drink it."

  Treating him with sublime indifference, Jen poured a lavish amount of milk into her own mug, stirred it carefully, put the spoon down, and took a sip.

  Then she coughed violently.

  Stuart grinned at her.

  "Poison?" he asked. "What did you put into it -- arsenic? Go on, Jen, tell me."

  "It's fine," Jen said, dabbing her eyes and trying to salvage what dignity she could. "It's just a little strong, that's all. I don't usually drink my coffee as strong as you do."

  Stuart tasted his cautiously. He stood for a moment gazing into space, while Jen watched him anxiously. Then, to her immense relief, he nodded slowly.

  "Strong," he said in a measured tone, "is definitely the right word. Yes. ‘Scorching' would do as well. I'll have to ask Peter what he would call it. Jen, beloved of my heart, how much coffee did you put into that filter?"

  "I don't know," Jen said, grimacing at the sarcasm. "I couldn't remember how many spoonfuls we put in yesterday, so I just poured it from the jar."

  "Right," Stuart said, in the level
tone of someone who is determined to be fair, no matter what. "Fine. In the future, Jen dear, please restrict yourself to two spoonfuls per cup, if you're making it for me, and one if you're making it for anyone else."

  "I'm not likely to make it for you," Jen said shortly, goaded into a response despite her better judgement.

  "Don't start that again," Stuart said, serious now, and sitting down at the table with her. "Don't start -- please, Jen."

  "All right." She could not bring herself to look at him, but she acknowledged that she did not really want to provoke an argument either. "But don't you pick on me either."

  "I won't," he said -- contritely, she thought, until she noticed that he had started shaking again.

  "Stuart," she said angrily, "you're such a -- "

  "Yes, I know. I know. Karen gave me the list yesterday."

  "And I agree with her."

  "I'm sure you do." He drank some more of the coffee, and stifled a cough. "What this needs," he said thoughtfully, "is some hot water."

  He rose accordingly to put the kettle on. The bread popped out of the toaster, and he passed it over to Jen, who fell on it hungrily. She had finished her cornflakes, which she did not like much anyway, and was just about ready for her toast and marmalade.

  The door opened again, and Sue came in.

  "You are organised, Stuart," she said, taking in the cosy domestic scene. "And I'm just in time for tea, as well." She grabbed the kettle, which boiled as she spoke, and proceeded to make herself a mugful. "Are you having one, Jen?"

  "No," Stuart said drily, "she's having coffee. Aren't you, Jen?"

  "Tea, please, Sue," Jen said with cool aplomb. "I've been having some of Stuart's coffee, but he makes it much too strong for me. So I'll have tea as usual."

  She turned an innocent face towards Stuart.

  "In the future," she said sweetly, "it would be much better if you restricted yourself to one spoonful of coffee per cup, or two at most. You can't just pour it out of the jar."

  He watched her with an indulgent smile, and gave her a thumbs-up sign -- which, considering the circumstances, she thought very magnanimous of him