Sixteen
First to wake on Sunday, Nick went to turn over towards Jan before the realisation dawned that he was not in urban Latham Wood but backwoods Penn. Eyes slanting, his hand instinctively elevated to brow height against the laser of golden sun that pierced the curtains and ran width wise through a layer of dry heat. From the adjacent bunk, roommates Matt and Pete snored a tuneless symphony, undisturbed by a 7.30 rise confirmed on the red digits on Matt's alarm clock. Toppling out of bed Nick wrestled on some clothes and headed downstairs, passing the rooms of the other sleepers.
Outside, an early swirl of heat threatened to erupt into a scorching day later on, but for now a benign breeze dictated it was comfortable enough to jog. Under the watchful eye of the stationary squad car, bathed in the shadow of the crumbling church wall, its dusty pointing had eroded to a thin meniscus, a raised hand from inside the vehicle confirmed all was seemingly well.
Penn Hill to the left veered up and into the ghostly clouds of morning, its incline too formidable to contemplate scaling at this time of day. Equally, the undulating road to the right, with a heat haze rippling the surface, offered only grey solitude. Dancing on the spot, Nick headed towards the church, past the police car.
Dodging inside the perimeter wall, a spread of whispering yews cast shadows over randomly scattered flowers, busy with insect life. A grey flint path cut through the centre to the dark triangular entrance of the church. The path was bordered by lichen coated marble slabs that erupted from the surface like the crooked teeth of a dentist's nightmare. Building a steady pace, Nick jogged into a scrub of trees that gave way to more gravestones on the other side.
Neither religious nor irreligious, as he'd grown older inevitably Nick had begun to confront his own mortality. Fast approaching the decade during which his father and mother had both passed away, dying in itself was not his greatest fear. His greatest fear was of disappearing forever without leaving a mark, forgotten a generation down the line. It was made worse by the fact that someone like Richey Osgood would continue to be revered for years to come, leaving behind a permanent record for time immemorial.
Eventually the run conveyed Nick to the outskirts of Richey's sprawling estate. Situated in a bowl between hills, the grandiose manor house at the centre was half visible over the walls. Its gallery of uppermost windows evinced a blinding silvery glare, behind which lay a catalogue of unhappy memories. In many ways, Nick was glad that this latest stay was at the pub instead. Retracing his footsteps took him back to a pub that continued to be still and quiet. Content to sit alone sipping orange juice, the first sign of life arrived with Richey's rising at nine.
An hour later the aroma of fried tomato, bacon, egg and toast was creeping up the stairs and into the nostrils of Pete, Matt and two of the sisters, all of whom rose hungrily. Nursing varying degrees of hangover, Pete's was the most severe, his mane of bleached blond hair in a dishevelled state. Matt's contemplative mood matched the clothes of the girls, uniformly black, the rings around their eyes of a natural hue. Spencer and Lee were next to be enticed, taking seats opposite the girls until Just Kelly and Lindsey remained in bed.
All maintained a dignified silence throughout breakfast, after which Monica enquired what everyone was planning to do. It was Matt that spoke when he addressed Richey: 'Anywhere we can go around here to spend some time?'
Richey vibrated his lips. 'Well there's a picnic area at the top of the hill popular with the tourists. You can hire pushbikes from next door.'
'Pushbikes?' scoffed Pete. 'You can count me out then.'
He looked to the others for validation but was to be disappointed by their apparent enthusiasm.
'I'm game,' offered Nick, anxious not to spend all day in the pub.
Further approval arrived from Spencer and Lee, quickly joined by Matt.
'You sure you don't fancy it, Pete?' asked Nick. 'What about you two?' he enquired of the girls.
Monica took everyone by surprise by assenting both for her and Helen. Away from the influence of their elder sister, they easily lapsed back into the teenaged girl role.
'Oh go on then,' exhaled Pete.
As Richey dragged Spencer and Lee to the outhouse for an hour's rehearsal, Nick divided up the tasks, delegating Matt to sort out the bikes, tackling the washing up himself, whilst Pete and the girls were assigned to toss together a salad and some rolls.
Overlooking the drab car park, Nick listened as old favourite 'Winning Smile' caught the air, drifting through the open window of the kitchen. A passable rendition, current release, 'Single-handed Attack' followed. As he submerged his wrists in suds, Nick listened to the lyrics:
'Work my fingers to the bone, as the tears come rolling down,
You were the best yet, leaves me heavy with regret,
Time to face the fact, sometimes we're better off alone.
(Ah ooh) You stole the sunset, now I'm crying over you,
(Ooh ah) Here comes the best bit, I'm lying all for you,
All the years for Hiroshima's tears,
(Ah ooh) Now I'm dying over you.
It only takes a single-handed attack to make me want my baby back,
Serve me up a tray and I'm weeping all the way,
As I wipe away the tears, cleanse my conscience for the day,
I want my baby back but there is no other way.'
As the same two songs were repeated, Nick's mobile bleeped. Glancing across, the message read: hope ur having fun, love Debs.
The first word from the family so far that weekend, the message was soothing. But soon enough the doubt set in. Debra rarely sent him off-the-cuff texts, so why now? And why was there still no word from his wife?
He sent back a message of thanks, before phoning Jan – with the same result. Stepping outside he hovered at the door of the outhouse, the sparsely carpeted hovel acting as a junk and linen receptacle whilst emitting a marshy stench. A rehearsal area had been hollowed out in the centre, from which sprouted a spaghetti junction of cables, leads and wires. His back turned away from Nick, Richey was helping Lee with the bass whilst Spencer looked on, dwarfed behind the drum kit. A rusty gas stove and a three-bar fire offered a degree of domesticity, though it was as barren-looking a place inside as it was from the outside.
A different tune was attempted, something from the late Eighties, the resultant cacophony dissolving the session in acrimony. Catching sight of the uninvited audience, Richey dismissed the boys and beckoned Nick over. Instinctively Nick lifted the guitar and started to stroke the strings tentatively. He hadn't played a guitar in anger since the days of the band. Scared of what he might unleash, he held back the chords of 'The Outsider' until Richey offered the little laugh as an inducement, the tune falling easily into place. Concerned he might stop, Richey sang along earnestly, whilst willing Nick on. Their eyes met, followed by a sudden crash as reality intervened. 'Sorry Richey, no...'
Richey could barely contain his disappointment.
A head poked around the door to get him off the hook. 'Ready Nick?'
'Yeah, two seconds, Pete.'
Nick issued a thin-lipped expression Richey's way that needed no translation, slipping outside before Richey had an opportunity to retort. The bikes were propped against the wall in readiness. 'What about...?' Nick gestured towards Kelly's room.
'I'll go see...' offered Matt.
Reappearing two minutes later, he advised that she wasn't answering and they left a message with Richey who added a handful of bottles of cider and some mineral water. After choosing their conveyances, the septet freewheeled into the road, passing the ever-present custodian of the law and catching a breath for the trek up Penn Hill.
* * *
Having pretended not to hear the tap on the door, Kelly burrowed in the bed until the knocking went away, still reflecting with anger and hurt on the previous night's events. Then she remembered Lindsey, cringing inwardly. Surely it had been a dream, yet the lotion on the side and the feelings still lingering inside her body provided ample evidence to the contrary. Confused, Kelly didn't think she was a lesbian. In fact, she was sure of it. She liked men too much. Even now, and in spite of the lame array of specimens that surrounded her, she craved the touch only a guy could provide.
Freshened up from a cool shower, the heat of mid morning prompted her to climb into a pair of shorts. Easing on a t-shirt, she agonised what to do. Last night she'd wanted nothing less than to get straight out of Penn and leave this whole bitter experience behind. In the light of morning it wasn't that simple. There were issues that needed to be resolved first.
Tiptoeing past the girls' room, she heard Lindsey inside, speaking on the telephone. Taking swiftly to the stairs, Kelly encountered Richey coming up the other way, both drawing back in uncertainty. 'The others have hired out bikes and gone up Penn Hill. There's a spare one outside for you.'
The idea held little appeal, illustrated in her pout.
Richey smiled. 'Go on, you never know you might even enjoy yourself.'
The opening of Lindsey's door forced the decision. 'We'll talk later, yeah,' Richey promised as she bolted off like a scalded cat.
* * *
Halfway up, Nick stopped to let the youngsters pass, checking his phone – still no messages. By the time he'd pushed the bike to the top, they were slouched on a blanket sipping cider and making small talk. Nick helped himself to a bottle of water but, as fifteen elapsed and the conversation failed to spark his waning enthusiasm, he decided to venture off alone. Still incensed at the rebuff from the record companies and the continuing lack of response from home, he was on a short fuse and likely to snap again. Cast away from the group, he could at least be himself and not the self-conscious old timer.
Coming to rest on his heels beneath a clump of shady trees, Nick checked the phone in vain again before telephoning home. The seventh, perhaps eighth time that weekend, the familiar recorded message cut in. Like a well rehearsed act from a play he tried her mobile again, a different message, albeit imparting the same clinical briskness, as if some conspiracy of silence had sprung up since his departure.
Cycling back onto the road with his head in the clouds, Nick tottered as a car drove past, its horn blazing, swerving to avoid contact. His anger rising, fists tensing, a bawled expletive spat from his lips. Suddenly the car screeched to a dusty halt and Nick felt his heart pump.
Then the car began to reverse back menacingly, its tyres spinning like Catherine wheels. Frozen to the spot, Nick addressed the heavens in silent prayer.
* * *
The saddle of the red-framed bike warmed by the sun, a gasp fell from Kelly's lips as she tottered off shakily from the pub. An incline that would have tested the King of the Mountains, the stubborn pedals forced her to stand and push down like a grape presser.
