Read Online Requiem by Clare Francis - Free Book Online Page B

good.’
    ‘But with new material, new ideas?’
    ‘What new material? There is no new material. I’ve been writing solo stuff, David. Or stuff Mel or Joe wouldn’t want to use.’
    David was curious to know more about this experimental material and what made it so unperformable – was it lyrical, like most of Nick’s solo material, or was the horrid rumour correct and it was opera stuff? And, just as relevant, did it exist on paper or was it still an unrealized idea in Nick’s head?
    Before he could think of a way of framing an appropriate question, Nick stood up abruptly and smiled his gentle sidelong smile. ‘Come on, David, I’ll show you round the estate.’ He said it with such anticipation that David got to his feet and, looking suitably enthusiastic, asked him to lead on.
    It was one by the time they had inspected the forest, the new broadleaf plantation and the farm which Nick had added to the estate three years before. As Nick liked to recount it, he’d had to buy the farm to obtain manure for the vegetable garden. Being a purist, only chemical-free manure would do, so the farm was slowly being turned into an all-organic showpiece.
    It was costing, of course. Though the estate was a limited company which Nick ran more or less independently, David had a pretty good idea of what was being put into it in the way of hard cash. Nick didn’t stint when it came to staff: there was a workforce of three on the farm; four estate workers including the manager; two gardeners, and a couple for the house. But then apart from Caycoo Nick had no other drain on his income. There was no reason why he shouldn’t amuse himself in this or any other way he chose.
    Hopefully the fascination with this place wouldn’t last for ever. Nick might never return to touring – that would be too much to hope for – but the regular albums, recording studios, London, must lure him back eventually. Even as David tried to convince himself of this, he looked across at Nick in the driving seat, his face a picture of contentment, and wasn’t so sure.
    When they returned to the house, a large cold lunch had been laid out in the dining room. David had forgotten what a wonderful housekeeper Alusha was. The food was a mixture of Scottish feudal – cold wild salmon with mayonnaise, tender cold beef with horseradish sauce – and Seychellian exotica – spiced fish, devilled chicken with a variety of sweet spicy sauces. David’s diet suffered another postponement.
    After helping himself from the sideboard he made for the nearest place at the table but Alusha, sweeping up behind him, waved him to the far end, near the window. ‘The sun, we must sit in the sun,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s too good to waste.’ She sat next to him and, though the others had not yet appeared, urged him to start. As they ate, she chattered brightly, breathlessly, charmingly. She was one of those people who had the rare gift of intimacy, the ability to make you feel you were the most important friend in the world. David was flattered to remember that she bestowed this gift with considerable discretion.
    Her looks, both exotic and unusual, had seemed entirely appropriate for Nick when he was at the height of his touring career but here, in the richly panelled dining room, amid the tartans, watercolours and heavy oak furniture, against the soft northern background of trees, mountains and water, she could not have looked more incongruous. David had never enquired about her parentage, but it was said her father was French, her mother Chinese or Indian or, much more likely, a mixture of both. The result was arresting rather than beautiful, but that, to David, was a recommendation rather than a fault.
    ‘Can’t you stay another day, David?’ she asked, widening her eyes at him. ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow.’
    ‘I’ve got a meeting.’
    ‘And if you didn’t have one, you would make one up.’ The reprimand was delivered with such a beautiful smile that it was