by Maeve Haran
Yet she’d been frightened as well as excited by all this tearing up of rules. Drug-taking, so much a part of the scene, had made her nervous, as did the outrageous behaviour which it fuelled. She’d had none of the apparent confidence of a Marianne Faithfull or a Linda Eastman, the determined natural beauty everyone hated for marrying Paul. Maybe she’d just been a conventional girl caught up in a heady yet terrifying whirl of rebellion against everything that had gone before. And yet the Sixties had had its own conventions. Like saying yes to sex.
She remembered with sudden clarity that she had been really nervous when she’d first slept with Cameron and how amazed he’d been that she was a virgin and not only that, that she didn’t have the slightest idea what to do in bed. Maybe it had been her inexperience that had made Cameron so obsessed with her? That male delight in teaching and writing their own script on a blank page. And she’d turned out to be a fast learner.
Looking up at the manor house, seeing it as it had been then, damp and dilapidated, yet somehow a symbol of the old order changing, she vividly remembered the day she’d come here to watch Cameron.
Duncan’s question came back to her. ‘Do you wish you’d gone with him? Have you been happy with your life?’
She’d been so sure that she’d had no regrets when he’d asked her that. Had it really been only a few short days ago? But Cameron’s return had stirred things up far more than she had realized. Suddenly Stella wasn’t so sure. Now it seemed that habit was what sustained her marriage rather than choice or satisfaction.
She was lost in reverie when a voice behind her interrupted her thoughts. ‘It’s all changed a bit, hasn’t it?’
She swung round to find Duncan emerging from the bar holding two long-stemmed glasses.
He handed one to her. ‘To thank you for all this hospitality you’ve been giving Cameron.’
Stella smiled, relieved he couldn’t read her mind. ‘I have to admit my hospitality wasn’t entirely voluntary.’
‘He seems to be very happy there.’
‘Yes, he does, doesn’t he?’
Duncan glanced up at the manor. ‘It was quite a moment, wasn’t it?’
Stella laughed and raised her glass. ‘It was quite a decade. I wish we’d known at the time that we were living through a revolution. I was really just a shy girl from the suburbs. I felt out of my depth most of the time.’
It was funny how much more attractive he’d grown with the years. There was no sign now of that awkward youth she’d shared the embarrassing night with.
‘And I was a boring boy from South London.’ He paused, studying her. ‘I did know your name for me, by the way. Dull Duncan.’
Stella felt herself changing colour. How ridiculous at her age. ‘There’s nothing like the young for being cruel.’
‘You and Susannah especially. They say the Afghans used to give prisoners to the women to torture.’ He seemed to lose all his expensively acquired sophistication and sounded like a bitter boy. ‘I can see why. Of course, you were the beautiful Stella Scott.’
She hoped to God he wasn’t going to bring up their disastrous encounter.
‘I’m sorry if I was cruel. I didn’t mean to be. And it was all a very long time ago.’
Duncan seemed to shake himself as if he hadn’t meant to be this personal. ‘Indeed it was.’ He made an effort to retrieve his usual suave persona. ‘You must all come to the Roundhouse and see the tour kick off. I’ll sort out some tickets for you.’
‘That’s very generous of you. We’d love that.’
‘Good PR as well. You can demonstrate to the press that the woman who was Cameron’s inspiration doesn’t really think of him as a boozy old bore.’
Stella felt suddenly nettled, as if what had seemed a kind gesture was simply a tactic in Cameron Keene’s career revival. ‘Is that all you think about? Cameron’s PR and how things look?’
‘Why?’ he challenged. ‘What would you like me to be thinking about?’
Stella drained her glass and put it down. Was he implying that she wanted him to be thinking about her?
‘Friendship perhaps? Shared times?’
‘Of course.’ He raised his glass, watching her as though she’d said something secretly funny. ‘Why not? To auld lang syne.’
Stella had no more time to ponder on the state of her marriage, whether she should have run off with Cameron or what on earth Duncan had been getting at. What with the business plan and making lists of all the tasks involved in saving the high street, assembling names and phone numbers for all the negotiations that still needed to be done, buying paint and decorating supplies, wondering where to get tables for the vintage market and a thousand other things, she was run off her feet. Finding herself at a loose end, since Duncan had already completed the tour plan, Debora had announced she loved a cause and had got stuck in too.
Even Matthew, after taking the third phone message from a pet owner who was hopping mad with Stella for not delivering their dog painting on time, realized how much she’d taken on and decided to get involved after all.
‘Wow,’ whispered Suze, ‘the sheriff’s come to town. Now everything’ll be hunky dory.’
Stella, picking up the irony in her friend’s tone, grinned back. ‘Come on, it’s better than him grumping around. He can deal with the council.’
‘I thought he saw them as the enemy.’
‘He can do a bit of collaboration. If the Vichy government could do it, so can Matthew.’
‘Not a very happy analogy. Look what they got up to.’
‘I’ll persuade him he’s really the Resistance, just pretending to collaborate. At least we don’t have to deal with any private landlords. The council bought the whole row so they could redevelop.’
It was just as well Stella had planned ahead. The response to their call for help was overwhelming. From grannies (hey, Stella reminded herself, you’re a granny) to teenagers, including Jesse and an extremely pretty girl who rejoiced in the name of Isadora. No wonder she liked The Incredible String Band. Jesse had a smile on his face she hadn’t seen for months and Stella had to stop herself embracing the girl who had put it there.
‘Please call me Dora,’ she insisted. ‘I loathe Isadora. My parents were going through a Bohemian phase.’
‘What would you prefer? Prepping or painting?’
‘Painting please,’ they chorused.
‘You’d better do the pet studio, then; that’s already been prepped. Are you wearing old clothes?’ She eyed Dora’s faded print dress. It looked just the sort of thing she hoped they’d soon be selling. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather get involved with the vintage market?’
‘I love retro stuff.’ Dora’s brown eyes kindled with enthusiasm.
‘Could you make a list of local vintage and charity shops who might take a stall and then go and visit them? Explain what a good cause it is and that the stalls will all be free? The council’s agreed to give the land so all we have to do is hire the tables.’
‘Why don’t you use wallpaper-pasting tables?’ Dora asked. ‘They’re really cheap in B&Q.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Actually, my dad’s a head teacher. I wonder if his school would lend theirs to us. They’ve got loads they use for the Christmas bazaar.’
‘I don’t suppose he has a van too?’ Stella sked hopefully.
‘Afraid not.’
‘I know a man who does,’ interrupted Debora, who had just arrived to help. ‘And it’s sitting in your back garden.’
‘Not the Airstream? It’s his pride and joy.’
‘Time it earned its living. Most of the time it’s a glorified bar.’
‘But who would tow it?’
‘I would.’
‘OK,’ Dora smiled her lovely, optimistic smile, ‘I’ll give Dad a ring. As long as I can persuade him it isn’t distracting me from revision! Fortunately, Mum’s away. She’s the tough one. Anything else?’
‘We need lots of people to take stalls – car booters, home bakers, crafty
people.’
‘Right, we’ll get on to it.’
Stella looked around her at the ant-like industry that filled every corner of the parade of shops. Even the sleazy denizens of the betting shop came out to take a look and the landlord of the King’s Arms surpassed himself by appearing with free pints and packets of out-of-date pork scratchings. ‘If you can really get this place going again, it’ll be bloody good for me,’ he announced, rolling up his sleeves to reveal tattoos that owed more to prison DIY than the tattooist’s art.
‘What about those breakfasts, Les?’
Stella was amazed that Debora had become such good friends with the unappealing publican. But then Debora was probably on first-name terms with the entire world, from the Almighty downwards. No doubt she started every day looking up and shouting, ‘Morning, Jehovah!’ And, because she was so amazing, he probably shouted back, ‘Morning, Debora!’
‘You bring the people and I’ll do the breakfasts.’
‘You betcha! I can’t wait to spread the word about your great British bangers!’
Dora trotted up, beaming, to say that her dad had talked to the school caretaker and they could pick up ten trestle tables any time they liked as long as they were back in good time for the bazaar.
‘No time like the present,’ announced the amazing Debora. ‘See you kids later.’ She disappeared into the traffic fumes of the Camley Road with Jesse and Dora in her wake.
An hour and a half later, the entire locality ground to a halt to make way for Debora towing a large aluminium vehicle round the roundabout. It signalled left and drew up in the slip road in front of them, ignoring the double yellow line with stately grandeur. The door opened and like the aliens in E.T., its occupants descended, each carrying a pasting table. The last, to Stella’s utter amazement, was Cameron Keene.
It felt like the curious lull before the tsunami. The tide seemed to go out and stand still for a split second, then came rushing back as a tidal wave.
The youngest volunteers went on working, but gradually the whispering began as more and more people worked out who it was, until the sound became so loud that everyone simply stopped dead.
One of the regulars of the King’s Arms finally broke the awed silence that followed. ‘Fuck me, it’s Cameron Keene!’
And gradually they all began to clap.
Cameron grinned and took a bow. ‘Right,’ he demanded, still grinning, ‘where do you want these bleedin’ tables, then?’
Stella was the first to recover. ‘In the pet studio would be best. At least we can lock that up.’
Half of the crowd stood staring at Cameron, as if he had just descended from the right hand of God the Father, while the rest stared at his extraordinary vehicle.
They stacked the pasting tables in the far corner.
Cameron glanced round at the half-painted studio. ‘Great colour. Acid-puke. It reminds me of the gents’ toilet floor in half the dance halls I played before we had a hit. Here,’ he grabbed a brush from one of the bemused volunteers, ‘I used to be a dab hand at this. My dad was a housepainter.’
Stella had a sudden inspiration. ‘Jesse! Tweet a photo of Cameron with a brush. Put “‘Paint it Green’ – rock legend Cameron Keene helps bring his local high street back to life”.’
‘Gran, “Paint it Black” was the Rolling Stones.’
‘I know that! It’s just a cultural reference.’
Cameron smiled engagingly while the acid-puke paint dripped onto the floor, narrowly missing his expensive yellow Nikes.
Behind Jesse a burly fan appeared carrying a pint from the landlord and requesting that Cameron autograph his Led Zeppelin tee shirt.
‘Sorry, Cam,’ the huge man apologized shyly. ‘I’d have worn plain white if I’d known I was going to bump into you.’
‘No problem.’ Cameron signed his name right across Jimmy Page’s face. ‘I like the Zep myself, but if you want to see a real band, come and see us at the Roundhouse.’
‘Good for Cameron,’ Stella whispered to Debora. ‘He’s putting on quite a show with the public.’
‘It’s not a show. He’s enjoying himself. I can tell when he’s putting it on,’ Debora replied. ‘The trouble with being famous now is that they’re all terrified of being caught out on someone’s phone. Passed out. Or pissed. Or in the act. It’s not like the old days any more, when the only risk to a rock star was kiss ’n’ tell. It’s lonely as hell. They don’t trust anyone and social media has made it ten times worse. I can tell you, Stella, being famous is horrible now.’
As if on cue, one of the teenagers rushed up with his phone on the end of a selfie stick, shoved his arm round Cameron, and snapped away.
Everything went quiet for a moment and Stella thought Cameron might snap the contraption in two. Instead, he turned gleefully to Debora. ‘Here, Deb, have you seen these things? Bloody clever, aren’t they?’
The teenager, who had also sensed incipient trouble, immediately released his phone and handed the selfie stick to Cameron. ‘You have it.’
‘Come on, Cam, let’s get back to the Airstream before you get a genuine British parking ticket. Thanks, everyone.’
Cameron, the man who could have everything, gleefully brandished his cheap plastic selfie stick, reminding Stella of a child at Christmas who prefers the wrapping to the present.
Just as they were leaving, a very old man pushed his way through the crowd, then stopped, looking confused and waving a photograph of a dog. He clearly had no idea who Cameron was.
‘Lost your dog, mate?’ asked Cameron sympathetically. ‘I lost my Persian cat last year. Just wandered off, never to be seen again.’
The old man didn’t look as if he found this very reassuring.
‘Do you want us to stick your photo on the door?’ Cameron enquired, reaching for the photograph.
The old man held it to his chest protectively as if Cameron were trying to steal a precious possession. ‘I was told there was a pet painter opening up here.’
‘Yes,’ Stella stepped forward, ‘that’d be me. We’re hoping to start trading next week.’ The photo he was clutching was crumpled and indistinct and Stella suspected it would be hard to get a good likeness from it. ‘Why don’t you bring the dog in and I’ll take another photograph. Then I can work from that.’
The man looked at Stella as if she were mad. ‘Because he’s bloody dead, that’s why. He died three years ago. The best friend a man could have.’
They all contemplated the blurred photo of an overweight black Labrador. It had the kindest eyes Stella had ever seen on an animal. She almost felt like crying herself.
‘Tell you what,’ Cameron had put a comforting arm round the old boy, ‘what’s your name, by the way?’
‘Desmond,’ he replied, looking momentarily confused.
‘OK, Desmond, why don’t you come with us? We’ll go back to my place and have a toast to absent dogs.’
‘Desmond’s the bloody dog,’ he protested testily. ‘I’m Bernard.’
‘Bernard, then. I’m Cameron.’
They both headed back towards the Airstream.
‘That was kind.’
‘Yes,’ Debora sighed. ‘I’d better get on and drive them. Cameron likes people who’ve got no idea who he is. At least they won’t keep trying to take his photo to post on Instagram.’
‘No,’ Stella grinned, ‘this time it’ll be Cameron. With his new selfie stick!’
When she got home she and Suze were dropping with exhaustion and were stunned to find Matthew greeting them with a happy smile and the offer of a cup of tea.
‘How did it go?’ he enquired, handing out chocolate biscuits.
For once, Stella realized with relief, Matthew seemed reasonably content with the world. He was spending hours on the phone negotiating with his enemies at the council. Stella almost felt sorry for them. Clearly they’d had no idea he was involved when they’d given the go-ahead to the campaign and were probably bitterly regretting agreeing to it all. Matthe
w’s battle style was to barrage them with so many calls and emails that eventually they just lay down and surrendered.
‘Not bad. We’ve almost finished the pet studio and Jesse’s girlfriend came up trumps with ten trestle tables for the vintage market.’ She grinned at Suze conspiratorially. ‘You’ll never guess who delivered them.’
‘Carrier pigeon?’
‘Cameron Keene! In person!’
‘I’m surprised Cameron could recognize a pasting table, let alone deliver one.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong. His father was a housepainter. Cameron used to be allowed to go with him and clean his brushes.’
They didn’t have long to contemplate this affecting scene because the door opened and an excited Cameron, with a smiling Debora in tow, burst into the kitchen.
‘Stella!’ He shook his head in delighted amazement. ‘You’ll never bloody guess. Bernie knew my father! He only owned the company Dad worked for! He says Dad worked for him for thirty years!’
Stella almost giggled that Cameron Keene, such a rebel at nineteen, should treasure the news that his dad had been a steady worker. Just in time she caught the significant look in Debora’s eye that told her this revelation was an important one.
‘He was such a good dad.’ Cameron sat down and poured a cup of tea. ‘OK, he liked a drink or two, but even when he’d done a ten-hour day he’d try and be there for bath time. ’ Cameron paused, as if staring back over the years. ‘If he’d been working outside, his hands would be so chapped that he’d literally wince when he put them in the bathwater.’ He looked down at his own hands. ‘What would he have thought about what I do with mine?’
So intent were they on Cameron that no one had noticed Duncan quietly opening the kitchen door.
‘He’d have been proud as hell if he’d seen this.’ Duncan threw down a copy of the evening paper on the kitchen table. The photograph Jesse had taken on his phone was splashed across the front page under the headline ‘ROCK FOR REGENERATION – legend Cameron Keene returns to help save his roots.’ Underneath was a list of his tour dates.
‘Thanks, mate.’ Cameron got to his feet and put his arms round Duncan.