Chapter 10
Summer was always a busy season for Egglethwaite Silver Band, second only to Christmas. Six weeks after Dad’s passing, I finally felt ready to relieve the pensioner who’d been drafted in to cover First Trombone and get back on the concert circuit.
At 11 and 13, me and Tom had both been sent for music lessons with Eric Spiggott, the kindly old gent who’d trained up junior band members back in the nineties. Tom had lasted about a month on the cornet before jacking it in, but I’d found the trombone strangely addictive. It’d seemed like an exciting secret code, learning how those black blobs could be combined with slide movements to make beautiful music – well, ok, tuneless raspberries in the early days, but I’d eventually developed a pretty pure sound. Fifteen years later I was still at it, the only female band member under 50.
‘You did very well today, Lana,’ Roger said, following an afternoon on the park bandstand, my first day back. ‘I’m pleased to see you’ve been practising the Pink Panther solo.’
Wherever there was a village group that needed a leader – or a conductor – there was Roger Collingwood, who loved being in charge almost as much as he loved the sound of his own voice. Not the chairman Egglethwaite needed, but the chairman Egglethwaite deserved. Still, I liked him, pompous and blustering as he was. It was people like Roger who kept the village running.
‘Thanks, Roger.’ I glanced around at the old men who made up the band, decked out in their daft maroon blazers with the gold epaulets on the shoulders. ‘It’s good to be back.’
‘And how is Egglethwaite’s newest committee getting along? Anything to report?’
‘We haven’t had our first proper meeting yet, but possibly.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Look, that old railway viaduct in Thornton – they had it opened up as a right of way, didn’t they?’
‘That’s right. Why do you ask?’
‘I just wondered what was to stop us doing that. It could help woo the Tour people, and be a lasting legacy afterwards.’
‘It’s a nice idea, but… well, that type of thing can cost hundreds of thousands, Lana.’
‘Still, it’s worth looking into. Have you got anyone you can put me in touch with?’
‘I know someone on the town council, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. It’s highly unlikely we’d be able to get it opened in time for the Tour, even if the cash is there.’ He gave my arm a pat. ‘Still, it’s nice to see the young people taking an interest. Us old folk were starting to worry the village would descend into anarchy once we weren’t around.’
I laughed. ‘Well, I’ll try to see it doesn’t go too last days of Rome when you retire.’
‘Ah, yes. Yolanda.’
‘Heh. Mentioning no names, eh? Thanks, Rodge.’
***
The gig had been fun but wearying and I was exhausted by the time I’d walked back up the steep cobbled street to Here Be Flagons in the hot July sun, dangling my trombone case.
Far too exhausted to deal with the good-looking blonde pillock who was standing outside his new shop, giving directions to workmen putting up a huge sign – ‘McLean’s Machines: Cycle Repairs, Hire and Sale’.
‘Afternoon, neighbour,’ he said with a military salute. ‘Who’re you supposed to be, the chocolate soldier?’
Ugh. He would have to see me in my band uniform, the only outfit I owned more embarrassing than my medieval costume. Of all the humiliating…
‘Funny.’ I tried to pass him, but he fell into step beside me.
‘You need a hand with that?’ he said, nodding to the trombone. ‘Looks heavy.’
‘I can cope, thanks. I’ve been managing it 15 years without a big, strong man to help me.’
‘Bloody hell. You must have some right hook on you by now, love.’
‘Keep following me and you’ll find out.’
He frowned. ‘Was that a joke?’
‘Yes, Stewart. It was a joke.’ Gallows humour, but still.
‘Look, you did mean it when you said we were ok, didn’t you?’
I stopped walking to look into those guileless grey eyes. God, blokes could be obtuse sometimes.
‘I’m tired, that’s all,’ I said at last, giving one eye a rub as if to prove it. ‘I’ll see you next week for the cycling group meeting.’
‘Right.’ I was hoping he’d take that as a cue to sod off, but he was still following me, right to the door of the restaurant. ‘Hey, I was thinking we could do with a funky new name. “Egglethwaite Cycling Group” doesn’t pack much punch, does it? How about—’ he waved his arm with a flourish— ‘“The Pedal Pushers”?’
I nodded to his shop. ‘You got a drawing board in there?’
‘Well, have you got anything better?’
‘I’ve been thinking about the actual event, mate. The name of the group hardly seems the key issue.’
He looked a little crestfallen. ‘I’ve been thinking about the event, too. I contacted the organisers today.’
‘What? But we haven’t had our first meeting yet!’
‘Exactly. I thought if I got in touch now I’d have something to report back.’
‘We need a plan first, you div! You can’t just crash in, all guns blazing.’ I thought about the viaduct. ‘We don’t even know what it is we want.’
‘I didn’t mention the village. Just asked what safeguards would be in place to protect local land when it all kicks off, that’s all. And I put feelers out via a friend on Team Sky to find out whether the route’s still being decided.’
‘Hmm.’
‘I haven’t scuppered it, Lana, promise.’ His eyes sought mine. ‘No need to be angry. We’re on the same side, aren’t we?’
‘You need to consult the whole group before you do stuff like that.’
‘And you need to relax,’ he said. ‘You’re pissed off at me, aren’t you? Just these subtle signals I’m picking up on, like calling me a div and threatening to punch me in the face. I mean, call me Mr Oversensitive…’
‘Let’s just say you rub me up the wrong way.’
‘Look, if this is about last year…’
I snorted. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
‘What then?’
I pushed open the door to the restaurant. ‘I don’t like cocky bastards who show up in my village and try to take over, all right? Five minutes you’ve been part of this community. Your business isn’t even open yet and somehow everywhere I go, all I hear about is Stewart bloody McLean. Don’t think whatever celebrity status you’ve got’ll carry any weight with me.’
‘I’m not trying to take over. Or flaunt celebrity, if I’ve got any,’ he said, putting a hand on my arm. ‘Just to help. I want to make a difference, same as you.’
‘Right. Well you go home and do that then. I’ll see you next week.’
‘No hard feelings though?’
‘Oh, hardly any.’
I watched him saunter back to his shop. God, I hated that guy.
***
Inside, I changed out of the despised band uniform and went to veg in front of the telly with Tom and Flash.
‘Good gig?’ asked Tom when I chucked myself down next to him.
‘Well the little old ladies watching the Bowls seemed to appreciate some background music. And I managed to stay in tune for the whole of Dvorak’s New World Symphony, which might be a first.’ I nodded at the TV, which was panning around a sweeping moorland landscape. ‘What’re you watching?’
‘Oh God, it’s hilarious. Profile on Mr Squeezy Sauce for Look North. They’ve got him poncing about on the moors.’
I watched as Harper Brady tramped into view, dressed in a fashionable jacket and trainers that’d fall apart in about five minutes if he was a real walker.
‘As both an actor and a man, I was moulded by this landscape,’ Harper’s voice said over the visual. ‘In many ways the moors were my mother, suckling and nurturing me from the cradle.’
‘Grim,’ I said, curling my lip. ‘Now I can’t even enjoy a walk on the moors without thinking about Harper Brady breastfeeding.’
‘My latest role, as a war-scarred veteran who regenerates himself through the healing power of cycling, was directly inspired by my experience of growing up surrounded by the beauty of moorland like this,’ Harper continued. ‘I owe my home a great debt.’
Tom snorted. ‘You what? His role as a battle-scarred soldier was inspired by growing up round here as a pampered little rich boy?’
‘That must be the part he was shadowing Stewart for.’ I nodded to the remote. ‘Turn it off, Tom. I can’t bear any more.’
Tom pressed the standby button and Harper’s latest ego trip blinked out.
‘He’s not giving his cousin much credit for inspiring him, I notice,’ I said.
‘Did you see Stewart putting his sign up outside?’
‘Yeah. We had some words actually,’ I admitted. ‘About the Tour plan.’
‘Hmm.’ Tom chucked a worried look in my direction. ‘You’re sure you’ll be ok at the meeting next week?’
‘I told you, Tommy, I’m fine. I’m past it. I mean, it was only that one night, it’s not like he’s my ex or anything.’
‘That’s the spirit.’ He gave my knee a slap and stood up. ‘Right. I’m off down the chip shop before we open.’
I shook my head. ‘Honestly, bruv, this is getting daft. You can’t just keep popping in until you’re 20 stone and crying into a fishcake butty. Ask the lad out already.’
‘Not today. Maybe next time.’
‘Right.’ I levered myself off the sofa. ‘You’re staying here. I’m going to the chippy.’
‘Don’t you dare!’
‘You trust me, don’t you?’ I called as I grabbed my coat from the hall.
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Come on, what’s the worst that can happen?’ I came back in and started counting on my fingers. ‘Ok, possibilities. One: he’s not gay.’
‘And I’ll be too humiliated to show my face in there ever again.’
‘Won’t do you any harm after months on the all-chip diet.’ I put up another finger. ‘Two: he is gay and doesn’t fancy you. Short period of moping, knock to your self-confidence, then you move on.’
‘And three?’
‘He is gay, does fancy you, happily ever after ensues. So that’s a one in three chance of happily ever after, right? Pretty good odds.’
Tom shook his head. ‘You’d never make it as a bookie, sis.’
‘Look, I won’t tell him you like him or anything. Just a reccy.’
He squinted suspiciously at me. ‘What sort of reccy?’
‘I’ll just, you know, engage him in conversation. Flirt a bit, see if he responds.’
‘Right. And how will you know if he’s gay or he just doesn’t fancy you?’
‘A girl can always tell.’ I ruffled his hair. ‘Leave it to little sister, ok?’