Not Funny Not Clever

by Jo Verity

  When they reached the dunes and the cut-through to the car park, they were flagging a little but nobody complained. During their long walk, they had become a unified group and when Dafydd volunteered to ‘nip up and fetch the car’ they refused, insisting that they’d started together and they’d finish together.

  27

  FRIDAY: 7.05PM

  By the time they’d dawdled back, they were running late and Angel drew up a bathroom rota, allocating five-minute slots, checking everyone in and out with pitiless efficiency.

  After showering, instead of falling into its submissive bob, Elizabeth’s hair insisted on flicking out here and there, giving her a lopsided look, the asymmetry reinforced by patches of fierce sunburn on her arms and neck. The right-hand side of her face had caught it too and, despite liberal applications of foundation, her nose glowed red and shiny.

  ‘I bet that’s sore,’ Diane said. ‘You should have used sun bloc.’

  ‘I did,’ Elizabeth snapped.

  Diane – tanned to an even brown – was already dressed. She wore a lime-green shift and, given her waiflike physique, orange hair and piercings, from a distance she might have been mistaken for the girls’ older sister.

  Elizabeth shook the creases out of yet another linen outfit, resigning herself to scathing comments from Diane. ‘This’ll have to do.’

  But Diane had other ideas. She was already rummaging through the odds-and-ends drawer, pulling things out, holding them up and checking the labels for size. ‘Tonight we’re supposed to be rock chicks not librarians.’

  ‘I can’t wear someone else’s clothes,’ Elizabeth said, ‘not without asking.’

  ‘Don’t be such a goody goody. Angel said they were here for emergencies and this is exactly that.’

  Before Elizabeth had time to protest, she found herself wearing a white voile smock and a wrap-around skirt, the blue cotton patterned with tiny stars.

  Diane took a step back, squinting through half-closed eyes. ‘There’s a stain on the sleeve but – hell – it’s perfect.’

  Elizabeth checked the mirror. Good gracious. A stranger returned her gaze – more child of the universe than memsahib – but she had to admit, the cut of the pliant fabric was flattering.

  ‘It’d look even better without a bra,’ Diane murmured, ‘but I know when I’m beaten.’

  ‘Won’t’ (she was going to say ‘Dafydd’ but thought better of it) ‘the girls think I’ve got a cheek, plundering their mother’s clothes?’

  ‘Are you kidding? They’re too self-absorbed to remember what their mother looks like let alone what she used to wear.’

  ‘Everyone ready?’ Dafydd’s voice came from the hall.

  Diane grinned. ‘Too late now, anyway.’

  He smiled but said nothing when he saw her, and the girls, fussing with hair and phones, showed no interest in what she was wearing. Surprisingly Jordan was the only one to comment, muttering ‘You look … different.’

  They squeezed into Dafydd’s car, Elizabeth in the passenger seat, Diane, Angel and Mimi behind. Jordan sat crosswise behind the back seat, knees drawn up to his chin, head braced against the rear windscreen.

  ‘Will he be alright?’ Elizabeth murmured. ‘What if we’re stopped?’

  Dafydd started the car and patted her knee. ‘Don’t worry. It’s no distance and I’ll drive very carefully.’

  It wasn’t far but the road, barely more than a country lane, wound and dipped alarmingly and she was relieved when they turned in to a farm entrance. Dafydd pulled up alongside three vehicles – two flashy cars and a dilapidated Land Rover – that were standing in what had clearly once been the farmyard. They clambered out and released Jordan from the boot.

  She’d expected something showy but Lenny Butler’s house – two storeyed with slate roof and central porch, its rendered walls painted yellowish-cream – was nothing out of the ordinary. Well-tended flower beds stood at each side of the front door, a rambling rose and a stand of hollyhocks softening the otherwise severe façade. Stone outbuildings ran along two sides of the yard. She recalled Dafydd’s explanation that one of Lenny’s reasons for choosing this place was that the outbuildings made an excellent recording studio.

  Dafydd reached through the open window of the car and jabbed the horn with the heel of his fist. The parp parp ricocheted off the encompassing buildings. Joe emerged, waving, from the rear of the house. He had a tea towel tucked into the waist-band of his jeans and a business-like kitchen knife in his hand.

  ‘Hi, folks.’

  Elizabeth couldn’t swear to it but didn’t he wink at Diane?

  She hadn’t given Joe a second thought since their meeting in the beach café. She’d forgotten – or perhaps not registered – how good looking he was. Baby-faced, twinkly eyes and dishevelled hair, there was more than a touch of the ‘diamond geezer’ about him. It appeared that Joe was a regular visitor here and that Dafydd knew him quite well. However the girls hadn’t met him before and, following Angel’s ‘old, boring Lenny Butler’ rant, it was interesting (and disquieting) to note the way her cheeks flushed when they were introduced. He had a discernable effect on Jordan, too. When Joe took his hand and slapped him on the back, Jordan puffed out his cheeks and jigged from one foot to the other, in the way that an athlete dispels nerves before a race.

  ‘We’re in the kitchen. Lenny’s up to his what’s-its in Delia.’

  They entered through a utility room which housed a bank of white appliances. A range of jackets and waterproofs hung from coat pegs and a neat row of paired boots – wellington, walking and the tan, calf-length variety favoured by Lenny – stood on the spotless flagstones beneath.

  An inner door led to a large kitchen in the centre of which stood a pine, refectory-style table. The doors of the kitchen units were glossy navy blue; the worktops, pale grey marble. A coffee machine, industrial scale and gleaming with chrome, stood alongside an elaborate microwave. The toaster, kettle and sculptural lemon-squeezer were all ‘design icons’. (In Elizabeth’s opinion this meant ‘decorative, but unfit for purpose’.) Something classical was playing from an iPod cradled between Bose speakers. (She knew too much about audio equipment since Laurence’s recent purchase of a new sound system.) Overall, the kitchen and everything in it, although unquestionably top of the range, was understated. (Again, not what she’d expected.)

  Lenny was standing at the kitchen table, consulting an array of cookery books. He still wore the black bandana (his trademark, Elizabeth learned later) but this evening he had forsaken his jobbing-builder get-up in favour of well-washed jeans, black T-shirt and cowboy boots.

  He looked up and smiled, nodding his head in an old-fashioned bow as he spoke each of their names. ‘Elizabeth. Diane. Angel. Mimi.’

  Turning to Dafydd he said. ‘You lucky bastard. Whatever do they see in you?’

  Dafydd shook his hand. ‘Integrity, boyo. And lack of bullshit.’ He beckoned Jordan who was hovering in the doorway. ‘Len, I’d like you to meet my young friend Jay. He plays guitar.’

  Lenny raised index and middle fingers in a peace salute. ‘Jay.’

  Jordan, clearly overwhelmed, seemed prepared to go along with the corny gesture, mirroring it with timidly raised fingers.

  Lenny rubbed his hands together. ‘Okay. White wine for everyone?’

  ‘Can we have some too, Dad? Just a teeny-weeny glass,’ Angel pleaded.

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Don’t be stuffy, Dad,’ Mimi joined in. ‘Mum always lets us have wine when people come round for dinner.’

  ‘Well she shouldn’t.’

  The dispute oscillated between them until they reached a compromise, settling for ‘very weak’ lager shandies. (Elizabeth was greatly relieved when Jordan asked for Coca Cola.)

  Lenny took two film-wrapped trays from the fridge. ‘I thought I’d play safe and get fish. Everyone’s going veggie these days. So,’ he flipped the cookery books shut, ‘does anyone know what to do with salmon?’

 
; Dafydd shook his head. ‘You’ve got a nerve, Butler. First you lure us over here with the promise of a meal, then expect us cook to it.’ He picked up one of the trays, weighing it in his hand. ‘Fish? Think of it as a culinary three chord trick. Season, sprinkle with lemon juice and bang it under the grill.’

  ‘Give it here,’ Diane laughed. ‘I’ll do it. But I’ll need a hand.’

  Elizabeth was on the point of volunteering when Joe piped up, ‘Rarin’ to go, chef.’

  There was no doubt, this time, about the wink.

  Diane began stripping the film off the trays. ‘Half an hour or so?’

  ‘Fantastic,’ Lenny said. ‘I’ll give our guests the quick tour.’

  Lenny led them across the hall to the sitting room. This had a distinctly masculine flavour – two black leather sofas, an outsize flat-screen television, a couple of ‘off the peg’ abstract paintings, and a bank of bookshelves that entirely covered one wall. Orderly. Manly. Everything expensive but soul-less, as if it had all been purchased from www.don’tputafootwrong.com.

  He pointed towards the ceiling. ‘Four bedrooms and two bathrooms. Cloakroom under the stairs. The usual sort of thing.’ Then, herding them towards the door, he said ‘Now come and see where it all happens.’

  They crossed the yard, Lenny and the youngsters leading the way. A swirling breeze had sprung up from nowhere, tossing the heads of the roses and scuffing the surface of the pond near the gate. Clouds, no more than a skim on the southern horizon when they’d walked home along the beach, now decorated the entire sky with rococo squiggles.

  Cool air brushed Elizabeth’s skin, raising the hairs on her sunburnt arms. ‘That’s the end of that then.’

  ‘The end of what?’ Dafydd asked.

  ‘The end of the heatwave.’

  He studied the sky. ‘Cirrus Unicus. Commonly called “mares’ tails”.’

  ‘Do they signify rain?’

  ‘Depends which way the wind’s blowing.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s in the south east, so I’m afraid they do. It’ll be hammering down by the time I’m back at work, and the nation will hold me responsible.’

  As they waited for Lenny to punch the security code into the keypad at the side of the sturdy door, Jordan’s excitement became tangible. Even Mimi who, having engineered the visit seemed to have lost interest in it, perked up when the door swung open.

  On the far side of the room, a keyboard on its spindly stand stood alongside an upright piano. One corner was kitted out as a kitchen with sink, microwave, kettle and toaster (the non-iconic varieties). There was a small television and a PC, racks of LPs and towers of CDs. The walls were adorned with Wolfman posters. Every horizontal surface held a used mug or a brimming ashtray. Ahhh, Elizabeth thought, now it made sense. This was where Lenny Butler’s heart lay, not in the sterile kitchen or the bland sitting room but here, amongst this jumble of guitars, shabby armchairs and musical paraphernalia.

  ‘Excuse the mess.’ There was pride in Lenny’s apology. ‘Mrs Evans – she “does” for me, so to speak – would have a fit if she saw this lot. But she’s banned from setting foot in here. And the studio.’ He nodded towards a door at the far end of the room. ‘That’s where Joe and I produced the last album.’

  Angel was wandering about, weighing the place up, poking around amongst the muddle of CDs and magazines. She flopped down in one of the chairs and patted its broad arm. ‘Why don’t we get some chairs like this, Dad? Get rid of that naff stuff in the dining room – the table and that disgusting sideboard thingy. We never go in there, do we?’

  ‘Cool,’ Mimi said. ‘We could have it as a sort of den. Like they have in American movies?’

  ‘We could get a home cinema.’

  ‘No, no. A juke box. That’d be so—’

  ‘Enough.’ Dafydd held up his hand. ‘Knock it off you two. What’s with all this “we could do this” and “we could do that”? You’ve already got your own room, even though you only come down once in a blue moon. You can’t expect me to fit out the whole bloody house to suit you. Believe it or not, I do exist when you’re not there.’ He paused.

  The girls were scowling and exchanging what’s up with him now? looks, but they knew better than to retaliate. It was uncomfortable for bystanders. Elizabeth edged to the far end of the room where she examined the threadbare rug, and Lenny began gathering mugs and lining them up on the draining board.

  ‘And for your information,’ Dafydd continued, ‘the dining room is in constant use. We,’ he drew a triangle in the air, designating the family group, ‘eat in the kitchen because you can’t be trusted to keep hot mugs away from my decent furniture.’

  Dafydd plonked himself down in an armchair and began leafing through a music magazine. On the face of it, his outburst had been triggered by a request to get rid of a sideboard. She knew it wasn’t that. He loved Gwenno. He missed his family. He hated Sam Dean. Yet he was determined to pretend – for his children’s sake – that everything was hunky-dory. He saw the girls infrequently. It was understandable that he wanted every second he spent with them to be perfect. Fathers and daughters, daughters and fathers – everyone said it was a complex relationship. Being a ‘part-time’ father probably doubled the complexity. No wonder he erupted now and then.

  Suddenly she felt exceedingly blessed. She’d never had to deal with the messiness of a failed marriage. Being a parent was hard enough but coming in ‘cold’ and only once in a while, never being quite up-to-speed on how things were, expected (within minutes of taking over) to dole out correct measures of justice and discipline, and to demonstrate love without resorting to bribery… it was an impossible thing to ask. And as if all that weren’t enough, to have your best efforts undermined by the bandying about of that glib phrase – part-time father. It made what Dafydd did sound no more than voluntary work – something he did to occupy his spare time.

  If Jordan had registered the skirmish, he chose to ignore it, transfixed by the tatty, black guitar that was leaning against the piano. ‘Wow.’

  ‘I bought it off Steve Hackett in nineteen seventysix.’ Lenny passed it to him. ‘It’s a Strat. I’ve made a few modifications. See what you think.’

  Jordan held the instrument reverently, one hand on the neck, the other supporting its scratched body.

  ‘Go on. Try it,’ Lenny said.

  Jordan ducked his head, slipping the woven strap over his skinny shoulder. The strap had been adjusted to fit someone with a bulkier frame and the instrument hung low against his thighs.

  ‘Awesome,’ he said.

  Mimi pointed to an acoustic guitar hanging on the wall. ‘That one’s much prettier.’

  Lenny took it down and began strumming something which Elizabeth vaguely recognised.

  ‘I didn’t know you played this sort of stuff.’ Angel failed to hide her astonishment that anyone as old as Lenny would possibly be familiar with music which had been written in the twenty-first century. ‘Did you catch her Glastonbury gig? Awesome.’

  ‘How do I know this?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘Is it used in an ad?’

  Angel shrugged. ‘It’s Florence and the Machine.’

  The girls joined in with Lenny’s strumming, singing in sweet, clear voices. ‘This is a gift. It comes with a price…’

  It struck Elizabeth that unless someone was in, out or looking for love, pop songs were no more than the sum of their parts – voice, melody, lyrics. This was a good song, but neither Florence nor any of the rising stars who were profiled in the weekend papers, had the power to affect her as Blondie or Carly Simon or Fleetwood Mac had done when she was seventeen. (There would be something wrong if they could.)

  She turned to Lenny. ‘Jay’s mum’s a singer. Did he tell you?’

  Lenny raised his eyebrows. ‘Really? That’s terrific. Pop? Blues? Jazz?’

  Jordan appeared not to have heard as, slouched over the guitar, he fingered silent chords.

  ‘Folk. She’s a folk singer,’ Elizabeth sa
id. ‘She and my son are on tour at the moment. That’s why Jay’s with me this week.’

  Jordan looked up and glared at her. ‘Folk’s crap.’

  Although he’d made it clear that he wasn’t a fan of his mother’s music, she’d assumed that he would want Lenny to know that he had a musical pedigree and was therefore nonplussed by his vehement response.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she laughed. ‘That’s a little harsh. They’ve got quite a following.’

  ‘How would you know?’ he said.

  How would she know? She’d made a point of showing no interest in their music.

  Lenny nodded. ‘Mmmm. Folk can get a little too…’ he pressed a fingertip to his ear, ‘folksy at times.’

  Jordan shot her an I-told-you-so smirk.

  ‘On the other hand,’ Lenny continued, ‘it is an important part of the story – there for us to borrow and learn from.’ He paused, giving his words time to settle. ‘And don’t forget, we can learn as much from the bad as the good. There’s some dire stuff perpetrated in the name rock. I’ve got to admit that Wolfman’s responsible for a fair amount of that. “Wipeout”?’ He held his nose. ‘We can all learn plenty from that stinker.’

  A tinny clatter, muffled but persistent, came from the direction of the house. Lenny opened the door. Joe was standing in the porch, beating a saucepan lid with a wooden spoon.

  ‘Come and get it,’ he shouted

  Lenny draped an arm round Jordan’s shoulder. ‘We’ll pop back over here after we’ve eaten. I’ll show you the inner sanctum.’

  28

  FRIDAY: 8.35PM

  The air was warm, rich with the aroma of fish and garlic. Classical music had been replaced by piano jazz. The kitchen table was set for eight – four facing four – its centre occupied by two outsized wooden bowls, one containing salad and the other, hunks of French bread. The worktops, sterile-looking when they’d arrived, were messy now, strewn with lemon segments, cooking utensils and jars of seasoning. Diane, who was sliding fillets of salmon from a large frying pan onto square, white plates, gestured that they should sit down.