What Became of You My Love?

by Maeve Haran

  ‘Yes, and on the other days you could put seats up and have an open-air cinema,’ Suze suggested, her voice heavy with irony.

  ‘Brilliant idea.’

  ‘Actually, I was joking.’

  ‘Come on, Suze, enter into it a bit. Matthew is dead against having a supermarket but I think he’s wrong. It would raise the tone and bring people in. And at least there isn’t a corner shop for them to put out of business.’

  She remembered the photo of the fox she’d brought to show Suze and delved in her bag. As she pulled out the folder, a wild idea occurred to her. ‘You know what, pop-ups are all the rage. I could open a pop-up “Get Your Pet Painted” parlour. See Mr Fox here, how good he looks against that green background? There’s a man who paints cows like that in huge close-up and gets hundreds of quid for them. I could photograph Bonzo or Brandy and do the same. I’m sure lots of nice young men around here would treasure a portrait of their snarling status dog.’

  ‘OK, OK, I give in,’ Suze laughed.

  ‘Why don’t we put in something to the council? Nothing ventured, after all. Maybe do a press release, Photoshopping all our ideas, and take it to the local paper before this meeting. I know it’s a bit mad and presumptuous but these councils need a bomb under them to do anything.’

  ‘We could put it all on Facebook too, that way it’ll have more impact,’ Suze suggested.

  They spent a happy afternoon downloading images from the Internet of book stalls, food stalls, farmers’ markets and bric-a-brac. For the hell of it they even chucked in an outdoor cinema showing a French film. They finished off by interviewing each other about how they would transform the area back into a busy and vibrant high street.

  ‘Optimistic?’ Suze grinned. ‘I mean, it’s all a bit of a long shot. We don’t know the first thing about local regeneration.’

  ‘Well, you have to be optimistic. We could have a fresh eye – after all, we actually use these places, unlike the town planners.’

  ‘Ought we to run it by Matthew?’ Suze suggested. ‘It was his baby after all.’

  Normally Stella would have said yes but today she imagined Matthew’s carping response, that it was all gluten-free pie in the sky, a load of bloody nonsense.

  ‘Let’s just go for it!’

  Suze pushed the send button and Stella felt as if she were at Kennedy Space Center about to launch Apollo 13. It was an amazing feeling. Of course it wouldn’t lead to anything, but at least they were getting involved.

  ‘You did what?’ It had taken Stella several days to work up the courage to tell her husband that she and Suze had submitted their own regeneration plan. Matthew looked as if he might burst like a tomato roasted in a hot oven.

  ‘Suze and I posted a few ideas of our own on how to revive the high street, that’s all.’

  ‘What kind of ideas?’ he asked warily.

  ‘A vintage market on a spare bit of land next to the petrol station; food and second-hand book stalls; a pop-up shop where I’d paint pets; even an open-air cinema.’

  ‘How absolutely bloody ridiculous.’

  ‘Yes, I thought that’s what you’d say. That’s why I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Stella, this was my venture, not yours. I just can’t believe you’ve done this.’

  ‘I didn’t use your name. I called myself Stella Scott. There’s no connection with you, you can simply put in your own thoughts and it’ll look even better, as though more people care. Oh, and we included a supermarket. I know you think they’re the spawn of the Devil, but they are used by local people. In fact, it’s the Metros and the Locals and the Little Waitroses that are putting the retail parks out of business. We’re changing the way we shop, haven’t you heard? Well, maybe not, since you never do the shopping. We’re all French housewives now. Most people don’t know what they’re having for dinner tonight because they haven’t bought it yet.’

  ‘I just don’t know what to say. I feel completely betrayed.’

  Stella couldn’t keep her temper any longer. ‘Oh for God’s sake, Matthew! You take the fun and excitement out of everything! They probably won’t pay the slightest attention anyway. Just put in your submission separately.’

  Stella’s mobile rang on the kitchen table next to where Matthew was standing. He grabbed it as if he were going to throw it out of the window. ‘Yes?’ he barked before she could get to it.

  He listened to the caller, looking more and more like a bomb that was about to explode all over the kitchen units.

  ‘It’s a Stephen Douglas from the Camley Observer. Apparently he’s just seen your Facebook page about the high street and would like to talk to you about it.’

  Stella took the photograph of the fox out of her bag and carried it up to her studio. She had meant to show it to Matthew, because she’d been so proud of it. It was one of the best photographs she’d ever taken. But now she didn’t even want to talk to him, she wanted the peace and quiet of some time on her own. Truth to tell, she did feel a little bit guilty, especially now that this journalist had got in touch, as if she were indeed trying to take over Matthew’s project. Yet she knew that if they’d done it together, he would have pooh-poohed all her ideas as unsuitable or frivolous. And, really, he ought to be pleased that the paper was interested, if what he really cared about was actually saving the high street. If he hadn’t been so high-handed, she might even have apologized and made a real effort to get him on board.

  She took down one of the canvases she’d already stretched and prepared for her animal paintings and laid down the background, playing around with different greens and settling on an almost acid tone which immediately grabbed your attention. She was in such a bad temper that she laid the acrylic paint on thickly, so thickly that the strokes of her painting knife were clearly visible. Holding the canvas at arm’s length Stella decided she really liked the effect. It was almost sculptural, with the light catching and reflecting on the ridges of paint. Now she would leave it to dry. Fortunately, acrylic was much faster than the oil she would use for the fox’s face. And she could always cheat and help it along with her hair dryer just as she did when she’d painted her toenails.

  Then she went back into the house to look for Matthew.

  He was watching golf on the television in the sitting room. ‘Why don’t you meet this journalist with us?’ Stella relented. ‘Then you can put your thoughts across too. Show him your plan. We’re meeting tomorrow at twelve.’

  ‘I’m busy at twelve.’ Matthew didn’t say doing what. ‘Besides, it’s your ideas he wants to discuss.’

  ‘Look, love, I’m sorry if you feel I’ve muscled in on your thing.’

  ‘Now why on earth would I think that?’ His tone was heavy with sarcasm.

  ‘Right.’ If he wouldn’t accept any olive branches, he could just stew. ‘I’m off to photograph a lurcher. I’ll see you later.’

  Matthew didn’t even bother to look up from the screen as she left.

  Once she was in the car and had driven five minutes down the road, she rang Suze. ‘Matthew’s being absolutely bloody about our scheme, especially as I got a call from some local journo who wants to talk to us.’

  ‘Hey, fast work! Not bad for a pair of amateurs.’

  ‘Can you come and meet him tomorrow at twelve?’

  ‘Try and keep me away. Unless Matthew’s going to be there to put a spanner in our little scheme.’

  ‘Oh sod him. He’s going for the full twenty-four-hour sulk.’

  The lurcher was a beautiful animal named Nijinsky, a bit like a large greyhound but with dark grey shaggy fur and soulful eyes, and clearly in the habit of draping itself sensuously along the wine-coloured velvet sofa. ‘He looks so divine,’ pronounced his owner, an equally shaggy-haired gent who appeared to be wearing a dressing gown, ‘that I can’t bear to chuck him off. Aubergine and gunmetal, my favourite colours.’ It took Stella a moment to work out that he was talking about the dog. The bungalow itself was a revelation, perfectly ordinary from the outside, y
et, inside, it reminded Stella of an auction house – every corner crammed with overstuffed sofas, giant chinoiserie vases, French jardinières and the pièce de résistance, a pair of lamps disguised as life-size Nubian slaves on either side of the hearth, which sported not a roaring log fire but a bizarre 1950s electrical contraption with only one bar burning. ‘So, how would you like Nijinsky to be painted?’ Stella wouldn’t have been surprised if the owner had produced an entire wardrobe of Russian ballet outfits.

  ‘Lying on the sofa,’ suggested the owner eventually. ‘Or it could be upstairs on my bed . . .’

  ‘He’s great where he is.’ Stella quickly focussed her camera, hoping that Nijinsky wouldn’t turn out to be as eccentric as his namesake. In fact, the major challenge seemed to be waking him up, so that, finally, Stella had to resort to her secret weapon, a squeaker toy, which gave him such a fright that he jumped into his owner’s arms, but at least this created a photo opportunity that satisfied both of them.

  The house was silent when she got back. On the hall table was a note from Matthew to say that he had gone to the pub.

  She stowed away her precious camera, and made for the kitchen where the thought of an omelette and a glass of wine were beckoning to her seductively. As she passed through the sitting room she had the sudden sense that there was someone else in the room and almost screamed. Her nerves were already on edge from the row with Matthew and so she slammed on the lights to find her grandson, wearing his usual headphones, curled up on a sofa behind her. He must have let himself in with the emergency key they kept hidden under the window box.

  ‘Jesse! You almost gave me a heart attack! What on earth are you doing sitting here in the dark?’

  ‘Sorry, Gran.’ Stella took in how pale and strained he looked and decided not to pursue the reason for his sudden appearance. She had a pretty good idea anyway. If he wanted to, he would bring it up in his own time.

  ‘Have you had any supper?’

  He shook his head.

  Stella remembered the delicious steak pies she had bought for tomorrow. Jesse deserved them more than Matthew anyway.

  ‘How does steak and ale pie strike you?’

  Jesse smiled wanly. ‘Cool. Thanks, Gran.’

  ‘What are you listening to?’

  Jesse looked embarrassed. ‘You wouldn’t know them.’

  This was probably true. It was probably some incomprehensible rapper or the heavy metal so often beloved of teenage boys.

  Jesse relented. ‘They’re called The Incredible String Band.’

  ‘Of course I can remember them,’ Stella answered, startled at Jesse’s choice. ‘They played at Woodstock! I was a child of the Sixties, remember.’ She racked her brains for a moment. ‘Robin Williamson and Mike Heron, right? I can even remember one of their girlfriends who sang with them. Licorice McKechnie. Such a great name. She used to wear long white dresses like Laura Ashley nighties.’

  Jesse looked at her with a dawning respect. ‘Right. It must have been amazing then.’

  Stella smiled. ‘Scary, too. Sometimes I felt a bit out of my depth.’

  ‘But the music was incredible.’

  ‘Indeed it was. I can still listen to it and feel eighteen again. So, are The Incredible String Band making a comeback? Everyone else seems to be.’ Stella was actually rather surprised if they were, since they had been quite eccentric even for the Sixties. ‘What do you like about them?’

  ‘They’re the opposite of commercial,’ Jesse replied, suddenly animated. ‘They’re spiritual and they have this amazing purity and . . . well, there’s a girl in my class who really likes them too.’

  Stella nodded and took the pies out of the freezer.

  Revelations about girlfriends were best left unexamined. All the same, she was happy for him. As long as he didn’t get his heart broken. She could hear Matthew’s dismissive reaction. Everyone gets their heart broken. That’s what growing up means. Had she ever had hers broken? Had she really broken Cameron’s all those years ago? The funny thing was, she hadn’t thought he really cared that much. Yet the song seemed to disprove that. Stella forced herself back to the very different reality of the present. ‘Green beans or salad?’

  ‘Beans please.’

  ‘Do I need to let your mum and dad know where you are?’

  ‘I told them I was coming.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Stella opened the fridge. ‘Coke or beer?’ Was she corrupting her grandson? Oh to hell with it. He looked as if he needed some TLC and one beer wouldn’t hurt anyway, even if it was a weekday.

  ‘Coke, please.’

  Stella handed it to him. There had always been something incredibly touching about Jesse. Izzy had all the chutzpah, but also had all the self-centredness of an eleven-year-old; Jesse was different. He wasn’t an academic boy, more intuitive and creative. She knew that Stuart longed for Jesse to follow him into the law, but Jesse hated exams and argued passionately that they weren’t a true test of a person’s talents. Stuart didn’t lose his temper but you could feel the well of disappointment, and so could Jesse. The curious thing was, though Stuart was celebrated in his professional life for his ability to relate to people, no matter how unconventional, his son seemed to be the one exception.

  The delicious smell of baking pies seeped enticingly from the oven. Stella, on her way to the fridge to retrieve the beans, gave her grandson a wordless hug.

  ‘Why don’t you lay the table?’

  Jesse collected mats, knives and forks. ‘Two or three?’

  ‘Two.’

  Jesse grinned. ‘Partners in crime?’

  ‘Since when has it been a crime to share a pie with your gorgeous grandson? Have you got some of their music on your phone?’

  They sat eating their meal to the strange, haunting sounds she hadn’t heard since she had been a student trying to work out what it meant to be Stella Scott and what on earth she should do about her future.

  Amazing to think that future was now the past.

  How would her life have turned out if she had said yes to Cameron and gone to America with him all those years ago? Stella mentally shook herself. That was a silly fantasy. Her real life was here in Camley.

  The melancholy dirge-like tones of The Incredible String Band reinforced those memories of the Sixties, that mad and amazing era when she had been young, when to be an individual and not to conform to outdated values mattered above all else. She saw herself as she was then, shy and uncertain yet passionate and idealistic, full of hope that life would turn out to be a big adventure. She had been telling the truth when she said she’d sometimes been daunted by all that freedom. Yet she’d seen, too, that it was a unique moment, when respect for authority no longer counted and to be young and free was heady and wonderful. And, although they didn’t know it, one never to be repeated.

  As they cleared up their plates they heard the key turning in the front door.

  Matthew was back.

  ‘I’d better be going.’ Jesse grabbed his coat and headed for the door, throwing a wave at his grandfather as he left.

  ‘What was Jesse doing here?’ Matthew asked as they undressed for bed later. ‘Shouldn’t he be doing homework or something on a school night?’

  ‘I think things must be rough at home. Maybe he just wanted a bit of familiarity. He’s a sensitive kid.’

  ‘Too sensitive. Probably because they called him Jesse. It sounds like a bloody girl’s name.’

  ‘No it doesn’t. What about Jesse James?’

  ‘He was American. What was that godawful racket you were listening to anyway?’

  ‘The Incredible String Band. You must remember them. They played at Woodstock.’

  ‘Not those nutters with the girls in white dresses and flowers round their heads, who stood there wailing like banshees?’

  This was an unkind but not entirely untrue description, Stella had to concede.

  ‘It was the Sixties! Everyone had flowers in their hair, even me.’ Stella grinned, making peace ges
tures with her two fingers. ‘Besides, Jesse’s learning the guitar and admires their purity.’

  ‘Why doesn’t he like normal music? He should be playing “Stairway to Heaven” or “Smoke on the Water” like any other boy his age.’ A thought struck him. ‘You don’t think he’s . . .’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Matthew, listen to yourself for a moment! What if he was?’ Stella answered irritably, guessing his thoughts. ‘Anyway, he isn’t. He was listening to them because a girl in his class is a fan of them too.’

  ‘That’s a relief, I suppose.’ She could tell he was still angry with her about the high street campaign.

  ‘Look, Matthew, if you feel I’ve muscled in on your show, just say so. You talk to the journalist instead. I’ll make an excuse.’

  ‘I don’t care what you bloody do,’ was the muttered response. And then he was asleep.

  Stella sat up in bed, furious. This was so typical of him. Clearly he minded very much but he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of a rational conversation.

  ‘Hello, I’m Stephen Douglas from the Camley Observer.’

  A hip-looking young man dressed in black drainpipe jeans with a surprising red beard was standing outside a boarded-up video store smiling at them. He certainly wasn’t Stella’s idea of a local journalist. ‘Right, fire away. I understand you’ve come up with an alternative plan for this part of the high street to save it from the wicked developers and the unstoppable spread of convenience supermarkets?’

  ‘Not quite. We’ve got nothing against Tesco or Sainsbury’s . . .’

  ‘Or even Waitrose,’ Suze threw in optimistically.

  ‘. . . opening up here. We just want to keep the architecture and get the community here going again. I’m Stella Ains— I mean Stella Scott, by the way.’ She held out her hand to show she didn’t see the press as the enemy. ‘And this is my friend Susannah Welsh. We both live locally and we wanted to show that there are other alternatives to flattening the whole block.’ They all glanced around at the discouraging sight of closed shopfronts, the unprepossessing pub, a betting shop and a pay-day loan venture.