And Zillah had said no, which Timmy had seemed relieved about, and he said that she had seemed rather annoyed about Amber and he’d hate for there to be more unpleasantness, so Zillah had assured him that she had no intention of being unpleasant, and Timmy had smiled again.
Then Zillah had bitten the bullet and said as he’d now raised the subject of Fowey … and haltingly she’d attempted to explain how much she liked him, how much she valued his friendship, but –
Timmy had stopped her at that point. ‘Please don’t say the but bit, Zil, love. Let’s leave it for a while, shall we? I don’t want to rush anything. Oh, yes, I know I wanted to rush everything last night, but this morning – well, I’ve had time to think about it … I don’t know why, can’t explain it, but I feel differently this morning. More mellow. Less frantic. Must be the hangover, eh?’
And Zillah hadn’t reminded him that hardly a drop of alcohol had passed his lips until the house red at closing time, but had silently thanked her lucky stars that she’d been spared from breaking his heart for a little while longer. One problem was more than enough to be going on with.
So she’d told him about the fallout with Lewis instead, and Timmy had been kind and gentle, as always, and leaned across the table again and patted her hand in a brotherly manner. And he’d suggested that maybe he should talk to Lewis, man to man, and Zillah had said no, she’d cope with it, but thanks.
And then Dougie and Billy and Goff had stomped into the pub and demanded serving and the village had cascaded in behind them doing the same, and Fern had shrieked for help, so they’d both reluctantly drained their coffee and prepared to go to work.
And that was it.
Now Zillah stared up at the cornflower blue sky, dappled through the willows, and wondered if Cassiopeia was looking down on them, hiding in her daylight haven, laughing at them as she played games with their star wishes.
‘Oh get a grip,’ Zillah muttered to herself. ‘You don’t believe in all that hokum, remember? You’re in danger of becoming as addled as the rest of this star-struck village. If you want to change your life it’s all down to you – not magic, not luck – just you.’
She sighed. It seemed like a very lonely prospect.
Having returned everything to Mitzi’s shed, scribbled a quick note about the HHLL, a warning about the inclusion of too many bodhi leaves in future dishes, and her best wishes on the imminent granny-hood, Amber splashed cold water on the bits of her she could reach, and still laughing intermittently, slid back into the van’s scorching interior again.
Should she go back to Fiddlesticks and change or drive straight to Winterbrook and find Freddo and his Retro Musicians?
Winterbrook won.
Despite being a small country market town, Winterbrook, after Hazy Hassocks, seemed like being in the centre of Manchester again. People teemed and traffic snarled. And as Hazy Hassocks, after Fiddlesticks, had seemed like a cosmopolitan city, Amber was slightly overwhelmed. How quickly she’d forgotten what it was like to be choked by fumes and noise on a scorching summer day. How quickly had the pastoral silence and gentle air of Fiddlesticks become the norm.
She found the constant roar an assault on her senses and wondered how she’d ever been able to cope with this on a daily basis. It was scary how much Fiddlesticks now seemed like home. The occasional letters from Jemma and Emma and Kelly and Bex might as well have been sent from outer space. Their mutual points of contact were growing ever farther apart. Amber realised she was so busy with other stuff that she had no idea about the music charts, or the latest celeb gossip, the must-have fashions, or even which films or books were currently hot.
And, more to the point, she simply didn’t care.
Retro Music and Theatre was, as Freddo had said, next to the bank. The name plate, along with several others, indicated that it was the world’s superior entertainment’s agency.
Although she was a little early, she knocked on the door.
‘Yup?’ A cheery voice echoed from the intercom beside her.
Amber jumped. She hadn’t expected anything quite so advanced.
‘It’s Amber Parslowe. I rang earlier. About soul bands
‘Ah, yes. The chick with the Boddington’s accent. Come on up, chuck.’
Hoping that the last bit of the remark had been jocular rather than mocking, Amber puffed her way up several dark, wooden staircases, past dingy doors announcing that they were fronting the establishments of debt collectors, private investigators, recruitment consultants, and financial advisors.
Retro Music and Theatre was right at the top.
‘Come in, duck,’ Freddo chuckled as she tapped once more on the door – painted badly in silver and covered with stick-on gold stars. ‘’Come straight in, the receptionist is at lunch. Still. Lazy cow.’
Closing the door behind her, Amber blinked. The walls of the small and airless room were covered, floor to ceiling, with ancient posters and faded photos. Thousands and thousands of them. Freddo, it appeared, had contact with Cary Grant, Humphrey Bogart, John Wayne, Elvis, Katherine and Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, The Beatles, Hendrix, Clark Gable.
‘Through here, duck.’ Freddo’s voice echoed from an archway into the next room. ‘Like I said, the receptionist is still at lunch.’
Dazed, Amber crossed the room in three strides into an office decorated in much the same way with posters from cinemas and dance and music halls, the flyers promising a lot of be-bop-a-lula with Bill Haley, Gene Vincent and Little Neddy Small among starry others.
Two massive ceiling fans were working overtime. The crowded room was deliciously cool.
‘By ’eck!’ Freddo broke into theatrical northern once more. ‘You’re a right bobby-dazzler and no mistake!’
Amber laughed.
Freddo, a sort of leathery, tanned, wrinkled 60s throwback with Peter Stringfellow hair and a matching grin, was lolling behind a desk piled high with higgledy-piggledy paperwork, three phones, a fax machine, two computers, an overflowing ashtray and several very dirty mugs.
Her mother, she realised, would have thought he was groovy.
‘Sit down, duck – and I apologise for the piss-taking. The accent – it’s lovely, really – but I used to do a bit of impressionist stuff in my heyday …’
Clearing a lot of ancient NMEs from the chair, Amber sat. ‘It’s fine. I’m reet proud of being from ooop north. And your client list –’ she indicated the reception area and the wall behind her ‘– is very impressive.’
‘Now who’s taking the piss? OK, they’re all for show – but it impresses the hell out of the punters, duck.’ Freddo roared with laughter. ‘Touché!’
They grinned at each other, friends already.
‘Now.’ Freddo rocked dangerously on the two back legs of his chair. ‘You tell me exactly what you’re looking for and when and why, and I’ll come up with the goods. Just like that.’
Amber frowned. ‘Was that an impression? I know – someone really, really ancient? Eric Morecambe?’
‘Tommy Cooper,’ Freddo sighed. ‘Bless you, you’re such a child …’
Amber went through the details again. All of them. And how she’d come by them and why she needed them and Harvest Moon, and Freddo leaned forward and listened, not interrupting.
‘Sounds to me,’ he said, ‘that what you need is a sort of tribute soul band – no, don’t stop me. You’ve probably already been offered dozens of tribute bands asking ludicrous amounts of money. They’re all the rage these days, duck. But what I was thinking of was more along the lines of…’
He steadied the chair and delved into the piles of paper on his desk. Amber knew that he wasn’t going to come up with anything useful at all, but she liked him, and she liked this room, and it was so nice to be sitting down.
‘… this!’ Freddo flourished a dog-eared piece of paper under her nose. ‘These boys have been on my books for a long time. Always in work. Excellent musicians. All the boys played in original UK soul bands years ago whe
n the genre was at its height. All defunct now, of course. Not really your top-notch chart acts, but some of them made records and they all had a massive following on the club and festival circuit. Real stars. They got together about ten years ago and haven’t looked back. Been growing all the time. They do all the stuff you mentioned in their act. Bring the house down every time, they do.’
Amber sat forward, intrigued. ‘And they’re – er – affordable, are they?’ She hadn’t wanted to offend Freddo or his boys by saying cheap. ‘And available for the last weekend in September?’
Freddo scrabbled through the piles of paper again and emerged with a diary. ‘Bloody receptionist,’ he muttered. ‘Never here when you need her. My secretarial stuff needs a good seeing to too.’
‘Maybe when she gets back from lunch?’ Amber ventured, thinking it would take an entire Brook Street army to bring about some semblance of order.
‘She went to lunch in November 98,’ Freddo said mournfully. ‘I haven’t seen her since.’
Amber blinked.
‘Oh, she’s not gone missing, duck. She ran off with a magician who could pull budgies from up his sleeve and rabbits from his hat and – well, you get the picture … Affordable, did you say? Well, I’m sure we can negotiate a mutually agreeable fee if they’re what you’re looking for. Ah, right now, the boys are pretty booked up through the summer, but yes, it looks as if they’ll be OK for your Harvest Moon thing. Shall I pencil it in?’
Amber nodded, deciding not to say that she hadn’t actually mentioned paying for live music to anyone else in Fiddlesticks yet.
‘Yes, please – thanks … er, that is – look, I don’t want to be rude, but they must be pretty old and – well, I mean what guarantee would we have that they can actually stand unaided – let alone sing and play at the same time?’
Freddo chuckled hugely. ‘Clever girl! Always test the merchandise before purchasing! You wouldn’t be looking for a job, would you?’
‘Not at the moment, no. Thanks, all the same. So, do you have a video of – er – the boys or something?’
‘I can do better than that, duck. I can give you a couple of agency passes to their next gig. Then you can go along incognito like, see if you like them and if they’re suitable, and I’ll arrange for you to go backstage and meet them afterwards too if you like, so you can get up close and personal. How’s that sound?’
The up close and personal sounded a bit scary, Amber thought, but the rest was great. ‘Sounds brilliant. Thanks. Is the gig at a big concert hall? Theatre? In London? Soon?’
‘Winterbrook Masonic Hall. Saturday week. Ruby Wedding Anniversary for Joyce and Brian Nixon.’
Amber tried not to let her disappointment show.
‘If they’re that good – er – how come they’re still doing local parties and stuff?’
‘They’re a working band, duck. They’ll do anything, go anywhere – no gig too big or too small. You can’t afford to turn down a booking in this game. Some other bugger’ll be in there like a shot. All good PR. See – Winterbrook Masonic today – and maybe, just maybe, a slot on the nationwide Soul Survivors tour tomorrow.’
‘OK – yes, that makes sense. And – er – what are they called?’
‘The JB Roadshow. They bursts on stage to “Sock It To ‘Em, JB”. Sensational stuff. It makes the hairs on the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and take notice, duck, believe me.’ Freddo had a further rummage on the desk. ‘Here – I’ve got their presenter here somewhere. Photos and all that. Prices. It’s got all my contact details on too. And here’s your passes for the Masonic Hall gig. Being a private party it’s by invite only, of course – but you’ll get in no trouble with these.’
Thanking him, Amber glanced at the glossy presenter with some trepidation. ‘Er – they’ve been airbrushed, haven’t they?’
‘No. God’s truth. These boys have worn really well. No rehab for them. They’ve got high on nothing but their music over the years, duck. The elixir of eternal youth. Not bad, eh?’
Not bad at all, Amber thought. Not that she believed they hadn’t been touched up. For their age they all looked in reasonable shape. ‘Er – there’s an awful lot of them …’
‘The usual soul band line-up,’ Freddo assured her. ‘Singer, two guitarists – lead and bass, couple of saxophonists, trumpeter, drummer, keyboards … Gives the real gutsy big soul band sound.’
Amber nodded. She assumed it might. And the JB Roadshow, photographed on stage, looked very impressive in their tight black flared velvet trousers and rainbow satin frilly shirts. Authentic, she guessed. Retro chic. Lovely.
If they could play as well as they looked, Fiddlesticks would adore them.
Freddo leaned across the messy desk and held out his hand. ‘Nice doing business with you, Amber, duck. Shall we leave it that you’ll contact me to firm up or otherwise after the Winterbrook gig?’
Amber agreed that they would, shook Freddo’s hand again, and reluctantly hauled herself out of the world’s foremost entertainment agency and down the stairs into the frazzling heat of Winterbrook’s town centre.
Pushing the JB Roadshow’s presenter into her bag, she buffeted her way through the crowds towards the car park. It had been a really good day. Cassiopeia might not have had anything to do with it, but then she’d never expected her too. Hell – but it was hot! Hopefully Fern would be Win-free tonight and they could sit in The Weasel and Bucket’s garden and drink long cold glasses of … ‘Oooouf! Sorry!’ Amber cannoned into someone in the crush on the pavement. ‘Oh, bugger …’
‘And great to see you too.’ Lewis glared down at her.
Amber, still on a high from Freddo, laughed. ‘You look really, really hacked off. Had a fallout with Sukie?’
Lewis growled something she didn’t catch.
‘Look – tell me to sod off if you like, but if you’re not in a rush, do you want to talk about it?’
‘Talking won’t help. What I want is something cold,’ Lewis sighed. ‘Very cold.’
‘Like a paddling pool and an ice cream when you were a kid? Ah, yes – bliss. So – why don’t you? There must be a park near here, surely? And an ice cream van. I’m not in a hurry to get back to Fiddlesticks either.’
‘Amber, go away, please.’ Lewis said gently. ‘I just want to be on my own, OK? I’ve got an hour to kill before I collect Jem from the joinery. I’m still a bit hungover from last night. And dog tired. I’ve spent most of this blistering day in the Social Services offices at Reading completing paperwork, sitting in on meetings, listening to more gobbledegook than any sane person needs in a lifetime, and I’ve had a row with my mother for about the first time in my life. What I don’t want is to scamper about in a bloody park with a Mivvi pretending I don’t have a care in the sodding world.’
‘I’ll take that as a no, then.’
‘Yeah, sorry. As I said, it’s not been a good day.’
‘It sounds pants, you poor thing.’ Amber smiled kindly, starting to walk away. ‘I won’t make it worse by going all waggy-tailed on you. Far too irritating. Anyway, if you really don’t want to talk about it, I hope things get better really soon. See ya.’
‘Amber … oh, bugger it. There’s a park across the road. If you really don’t have to dash off, actually I wouldn’t mind unburdening.’
Amber nodded, hoping the unburdening wasn’t going to involve details of bedroom acrobatics with Sukie. The row with Zillah sounded a bit worrying though. Lewis and Zil seemed very close. As someone who could count the number of times she’d fallen out with her own mother on the fingers of one hand and still have some left over, Amber had every sympathy with that one.
The park, municipally cloned, was noisy with children; older people sat on the wrought-iron seats in the shade of municipal limes; lovers lay entwined on the parched cropped grass, blissfully unaware of anything or anyone else.
The paddling pool had standing room only, and was filled with shrieking kiddies in neon bathing costumes, but the ice-cr
eam van was there, and after queuing for ages while Lewis found a reasonably quiet, reasonably shady spot, Amber emerged triumphant with two 99 cones.
She smiled to herself, watching the young mums lusting over Lewis with their doe-eyes. He, bless him, was so lost in introspection that he had no idea at all.
‘Thanks,’ he took the ice cream. ‘And sorry for being a grumpy bastard.’
‘Sounds as if you had every reason.’ Amber sat beside him on the edge of a municipally-cloned rockery and tried to lick the melting ice cream from her fingers without it looking too suggestive. ‘So, go on – I’m all ears.’
She listened. She really listened. She loved his voice, the soft rise and fall was musical. Magical. She wanted to cuddle him, but of course resisted the temptation.
‘OK,’ she said eventually. ‘For what it’s worth, firstly I think you should apologise unreservedly to your ma. No – really. Maybe you think she’s been in the wrong for keeping everything hush-hush for years, but you don’t know anything about the circumstances, do you? She must have had her reasons. Wanted to protect you. You going off all half-cocked and snarling wasn’t very fair on her. She’s done a great job as a single mum – and you said you didn’t want to know about your father anyway—’
‘Of course I bloody do!’ Lewis finished his ice cream, licking away the last melting drops with a very pink tongue. ‘But I’ve always had to go along with the pretence, haven’t I? I’ve always wondered who he was. Why she left him. I’m nearly thirty – and there’s always been this huge gap.’
‘Maybe it wasn’t like that. Maybe it was the other way round? Maybe he left her? Maybe it’s just too painful for her to talk about it?’ Amber sighed, feeling slightly guilty now about asking Cassiopeia to intervene on this particular subject. ‘Once you’ve made up with Zillah, maybe, if you give it a bit of time, she’ll tell you the truth. But I don’t think you should rush things. You’ve waited this long. Give it a bit longer. And be tactful, for God’s sake.’
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