fancy at this festival,’ he said, combing his fringe back with his fingers.
It was not exactly the answer I expected, but I knew what he meant. Maddy had drifted off to buy ice-cream cones from a stall. She sure was trying hard to capture his affection. She was wearing tight washed-out and torn jeans this morning and a festival T-shirt. She looked almost normal.
‘This could be a mutual arrangement,’ I said hurriedly. ‘If you keep an eye on Maddy when I don’t know where she is, then I will keep her occupied other times so that you have the freedom to chase … other jazz enthusiasts.’
‘Sounds good,’ he said, unwrapping a slice of gum. ‘So what’s in it for you?’
‘A set of Chuck Peters CDs.’
Apparently that was the right answer. Chuck was his hero. He would do anything for Chuck as long as he could play in his band. Ross was not ready to start out on his own. One day he would be a top percussion star, but not yet. Maybe even play at the Albert Hall at a promenade concert. It was his dream.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘So this is just for the festival? You keep an eye on Maddy some of the time and keep her out of my way. And I’ll do the same for you if you’ve lost track of her? Sounds fair, even when I can’t prise her off me. She’s like a dying lobster, clinging with all claws. I’ve got scratch marks. Sometimes she smells as bad.’
‘She wears a lot of cloying perfume.’
‘It stinks.’
‘Here comes your ice cream.’
‘I hate ice cream. You have it. Buy me a beer.’
But he did take the stick of chocolate off the top before handing the cone to me. It was synthetic white stuff swirled up to a stiff point. Tasted like cold shaving cream. Perhaps it could be used for both.
A crowd was gathering, sitting on the harbour wall or buyingcoffees at the cafe where they also got a seat for the price. A bit early for lunch from the seafood bistro. It was licensed so I got Ross a can of beer. It was the best I could do to consolidate the arrangement.
‘It’s probably revolting,’ I said, handing it over. Maddy shot me a jealous look. ‘Don’t recognize the brand. Maybe it’s a local brew.’
‘It’ll do,’ he said carelessly, flicking it open.
I sat at a distance from the band, making sure I could watch Maddy. The good humour had returned to her young face now that I had backed off. The harbour seafront had railway lines set in the cobble stones. Once the quarry men had hauled their carts of rough stone along these lines to the waiting ships. They were historic, preserved. People walked on them now, not noticing that they walked on history.
New Orleans jazz is not my favourite. I can only take so much. I prefer big band jazz with all its changes of mood and tempo. The umbrella brigade were still twirling their decorated umbrellas. Their arms must be aching. They’d walked a long way to the harbour in unsuitable shoes. Other parts of their anatomy must be aching too. They were tough ladies.
My ears suddenly registered a difference. There were no clashing cymbals. I ran towards the crowd, jostling through people, but both Ross and Maddy had gone. The gap in the band had closed in. The brass were playing ear-piercingly loudly. It blew through my head.
‘Have you seen Maddy?’ I asked some of the players. They shook their heads, their eyes glued to sheets of music clipped to their instruments. ‘Have you seen Ross anywhere?’
But one of the umbrella ladies had eyes in her head. ‘They went off up the headland,’ she said, nodding towards the rising sweep of hill westwards past the bandstand.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Smashing umbrella,’ I added. It was black and white stripes decorated with red and gold tassels. Her dress and hat matched. It was quite an eye-catching outfit. ‘You look great.’
I raced towards the headland, past the tall Greek columns that had been scavenged from the streets of ancient London, and brought to Swanage as ballast in the quarry boats. It was a
It was not exactly the answer I expected, but I knew what he meant. Maddy had drifted off to buy ice-cream cones from a stall. She sure was trying hard to capture his affection. She was wearing tight washed-out and torn jeans this morning and a festival T-shirt. She looked almost normal.
‘This could be a mutual arrangement,’ I said hurriedly. ‘If you keep an eye on Maddy when I don’t know where she is, then I will keep her occupied other times so that you have the freedom to chase … other jazz enthusiasts.’
‘Sounds good,’ he said, unwrapping a slice of gum. ‘So what’s in it for you?’
‘A set of Chuck Peters CDs.’
Apparently that was the right answer. Chuck was his hero. He would do anything for Chuck as long as he could play in his band. Ross was not ready to start out on his own. One day he would be a top percussion star, but not yet. Maybe even play at the Albert Hall at a promenade concert. It was his dream.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘So this is just for the festival? You keep an eye on Maddy some of the time and keep her out of my way. And I’ll do the same for you if you’ve lost track of her? Sounds fair, even when I can’t prise her off me. She’s like a dying lobster, clinging with all claws. I’ve got scratch marks. Sometimes she smells as bad.’
‘She wears a lot of cloying perfume.’
‘It stinks.’
‘Here comes your ice cream.’
‘I hate ice cream. You have it. Buy me a beer.’
But he did take the stick of chocolate off the top before handing the cone to me. It was synthetic white stuff swirled up to a stiff point. Tasted like cold shaving cream. Perhaps it could be used for both.
A crowd was gathering, sitting on the harbour wall or buyingcoffees at the cafe where they also got a seat for the price. A bit early for lunch from the seafood bistro. It was licensed so I got Ross a can of beer. It was the best I could do to consolidate the arrangement.
‘It’s probably revolting,’ I said, handing it over. Maddy shot me a jealous look. ‘Don’t recognize the brand. Maybe it’s a local brew.’
‘It’ll do,’ he said carelessly, flicking it open.
I sat at a distance from the band, making sure I could watch Maddy. The good humour had returned to her young face now that I had backed off. The harbour seafront had railway lines set in the cobble stones. Once the quarry men had hauled their carts of rough stone along these lines to the waiting ships. They were historic, preserved. People walked on them now, not noticing that they walked on history.
New Orleans jazz is not my favourite. I can only take so much. I prefer big band jazz with all its changes of mood and tempo. The umbrella brigade were still twirling their decorated umbrellas. Their arms must be aching. They’d walked a long way to the harbour in unsuitable shoes. Other parts of their anatomy must be aching too. They were tough ladies.
My ears suddenly registered a difference. There were no clashing cymbals. I ran towards the crowd, jostling through people, but both Ross and Maddy had gone. The gap in the band had closed in. The brass were playing ear-piercingly loudly. It blew through my head.
‘Have you seen Maddy?’ I asked some of the players. They shook their heads, their eyes glued to sheets of music clipped to their instruments. ‘Have you seen Ross anywhere?’
But one of the umbrella ladies had eyes in her head. ‘They went off up the headland,’ she said, nodding towards the rising sweep of hill westwards past the bandstand.
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Smashing umbrella,’ I added. It was black and white stripes decorated with red and gold tassels. Her dress and hat matched. It was quite an eye-catching outfit. ‘You look great.’
I raced towards the headland, past the tall Greek columns that had been scavenged from the streets of ancient London, and brought to Swanage as ballast in the quarry boats. It was a
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