(Copyright 2001. All rights reserved).
Somerset, England. July 2001.
"I don't think I like the idea of you driving half way across Europe on your own." Jenny Wagstaffe said to her Daughter Natasha as they sat on a blanket on the lawn inside the walled garden of their home in Chipping Marsden, in Somerset. She helped herself to some orange squash from the bottle that stood in a silver ice bucket, pouring it into a plastic cup.
"I'll be alright." Natasha replied, running her fingers through her long, light brown hair.
"I think I'll get this cut." She continued. "It's too heavy for this weather."
It was a hot summer. Something to do with climate change they said.
"Don't you dare." Jenny said quickly. "You know your father likes your hair as it is."
"You always keep yours short."
"Well, it was practical to have it short when I first started teaching young children." Jenny smiled as she remembered her early days in teaching. "Besides, it suits me. You look nice with long hair."
"Why don't you come with me if he won't."
Natasha nodded towards the house beyond the walls of the garden.
"He, has a name." Jenny spoke tartly.
"All right then. Dad."
Jenny tried to remember if she had been like that to her father when she had been Natasha's age. She probably had been, she decided.
It was amazing what would end up in her hair by the end of the day. How her friend, Shirley had managed with her waist long hair she couldn't imagine. Yes she could. She would spend ages running a brush through it for her most evenings when they were at teacher training college together and when they both were working in the same school after qualifying. She'd loved that little house in Bristol. She wondered what state her son, David, had left it in before heading off on the latest tour with his band. She must get Paul to take her up there. She suddenly really missed it.
"What are you thinking about?" Natasha asked, breaking in on her thoughts.
"David and the house in Bristol." She replied.
"He likes to call himself Art, now."
"Well, what's the point of having more than one first name if you don't use them all at some time."
Jenny picked a blade of grass and wrapped it around her finger.
"Well. Why won't you come with me?" Natasha repeated a previous question. "I know he, sorry, Dad doesn't care about Dave."
"We've seen him in concert." Jenny bristled. "And your father does care. He just has difficulty showing it. Shush."
Natasha listened. On the gentle late afternoon breeze she could hear a piano being played. She remembered as a child sitting on her fathers knee as he would pick out Nursery Rhymes for her with one hand whilst holding her with his other. Her brother would sometimes join in on his electric organ when they were both a little older.
The music room. How many hours had she spent in there? Having to be almost physically dragged from the piano when it was time for bed.
Her parents had completely renovated the cottage when they had inherited it from Paul's Grandfather. Adding two wings on the garden side. The ground floor of one was completely given up music and books. The other wing contained a sitting room and study. Each wing provided two extra bedrooms with en-suite bathrooms. Her parents liked bathing.
The music was soothing. She knew each note each change of tone and pace. Which peddle to use, and when and for how long. She played it with him in her mind. She could close her eyes and fall asleep listening to him play. He should never have become an Accountant.
The music had stopped.
She shook herself awake.
"You didn't answer me."
She persisted.
"I can't get between them. They must sort it out themselves."
Yes. Jenny thought. They must sort it out between themselves. Perhaps a drive through Europe to see him was what was needed. She did want to see David again. He didn't visit very often. Not often enough.
Jenny turned her head towards the door to the shed in the corner of the walled garden which hid the flight of steps leading to the underground passage to the cellars beneath the main house as it opened. Her husband came through it brushing cobwebs from his shirtsleeves.
"You must get Mary to dust down there more often." Paul Wagstaffe remarked as he approached, frowning as he noticed the ice bucket. "That's sacrilege!" He exclaimed indicating the squash.
"It's for keeping drinks cool." Jenny replied, innocently.
Paul appeared he was going to debate the subject for a moment then smiled.
Just his smile could turn her on after thirty years of marriage. Jenny looked at him. He was fifty-one now. She still had over six weeks to go before she reached that age. What had that young Michelle called him the year before? Dishy? Something like that anyway. Yes. She supposed he was. He was looking down at her and she knew he was seeing her, as she had been when they had first meet and the thought did things to her insides. It was a shame Natasha was there.
What was she thinking? Natasha was their daughter and this was her home. She had every right to be there. Still, if only she wasn't there at this precise moment.
They hadn't made love on the grass in the walled garden in almost twenty years. Not since Natasha had been one and David four. She looked around remembering the areas where they had made love. A bottle of wine in the ice bucket, two glasses. She missed those days. She found she was missing a lot recently. Everything was changing around her.
Paul's mother was making let me come and live with you noises. But then again so was her own mother. The house was big enough now so they couldn't say they didn't have the room. Neither needed any particular special care both being in their early seventies.
Natasha had finished her music degree and had come back to live with them but she couldn't see her staying for long. She'd already had to fend off a number of amorous young men on the phone and there was also talk of a job in London. It was a good job they had kept the flats. They had cost a small fortune to modernise in the early nineties but they should now be good for another fifty years at least. They knew how to build in the nineteen thirties.
What was Natasha saying?
"So why won't you come, Dad?"
"They're are only playing three dates in Europe." Natasha wasn't going to give in. "I can understand you not wanting to travel to Milan or Munich but Amsterdam. You could drive it in two hours from Calais."
