With her mum spending nearly every evening with Ben as a cosy twosome, and with no more animals to look after at The Forge, Eleanor ended up having dinner most evenings with the family at Willow Tree Hall.
Now that Rackelle had left, Tom found that he could relax once more.
And the conversation was always interesting, he found.
Especially when Tom told Sam in front of everyone that he wanted to give up touring for a few years. ‘I’m tired,’ he said, when asked for a reason. ‘I got swept up in it all at the beginning but now I just want to write.’ He glanced across at Eleanor. ‘And to have a bit of peace.’
‘Okay,’ said Sam, slowly. ‘So what will you do instead?’
‘I thought I might try out country living for a while,’ said Tom, locking eyes with Eleanor from the other end of the table.
It had recently occurred to him that he didn’t need to leave. Didn’t want to leave. That he had enough money to buy somewhere local and perhaps make Cranley his home. It was good for Dylan, good for his song writing. But most of all, it meant that he wouldn’t have to say goodbye to Eleanor.
She finally looked away, blushing but seeming pleased at what he had said.
Mick leant back in his chair. ‘I hear you,’ he said, nodding in agreement. ‘Do you know what’s the worst part of being me?’
‘I should imagine it’s your liver,’ drawled Alex who had also invited himself to stay on for a few more weeks.
‘Very funny, mate,’ said Mick. ‘Nah, it’s the weight of expectation. You know, the same old records. We created the band because we wanted girls to like us. Then we wrote our music to get laid to.’
‘Well, that worked,’ drawled Alex.
Howard nodded. ‘There are many children that are only in this world because of us.’
‘So what happened?’ asked Tom.
‘We grew up,’ said Mick.
‘Grew old, more like,’ added Howard.
Mick shrugged his shoulders. ‘So I don’t want to miss a decent night’s sleep these days. What’s wrong with that at my age? I’m no longer so stressed and bothered by stuff but it would be nice to have one last great album to look back on and think, yeah, that was good.’
‘So are you getting a good feeling about the next one?’ asked Sam.
Mick shook his head as he reached for another beer. ‘What do you think?’
Sam had the good manners not to reply.
Mick shook his head. ‘I dunno. It’s the same old thing, year in, year out. Cut a record, which, to be honest, are the same old rock songs. Then we hit Christmas with that stupid tune.’
‘You mean the same stupid tune that helps pay the mortgage on your large house and lets you keep a Bentley,’ said Sam.
Mick shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s nothing new. Everything’s the same, over and over.’
Sam looked at him. ‘You’re really upset, aren’t you?’
‘I dunno.’ He broke into a grin. ‘Maybe I just need a shag.’
Everyone around the table knew that he was only half-joking.
To break up the gloom of the band, someone had the idea to bring out Arthur’s beloved record player. It turned out to be a good idea and they all began reminiscing about the first records they had ever bought.
‘What’s next?’ asked Mick who had carried out a pile of the vinyl LPs outside.
So far they had listened, sometimes briefly, to both jazz and classical music. Tom had thought that the band would throw the music out as soon as they heard it, but they turned out to have quite eclectic tastes and all seemed to be actually enjoying the different tunes.
Sam lined up the next album and placed the needle onto the vinyl. After the initial crackle, the horns blasted out the first bars of a song. Then ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’ came on.
‘Ah,’ came the collective sigh of pleasure.
‘Class act, Frank Sinatra,’ said Ron, the guitarist.
They all hummed along. Tom found it slightly surreal that this long-haired band of old rockers would enjoy the Songs for Swinging Lovers album. But they let Sam play it all the way through, happy to relax and listen to Frank’s smooth voice.
There was a long silence when the first side had finished playing, the final bars of ‘Our Love Is Here To Stay’ fading out to be replaced with the late evening birdsong of a blackbird.
‘Now that’s proper music,’ said Mick eventually, as the sun set and the last remaining light began to dwindle.
‘Been years since I listened to that album,’ said Howard, lighting a cigarette on the citronella candle that Annie had placed on the table. ‘The arrangements were so sweet. Absolutely spot on.’
For a while they all sat in quiet contemplation until Sam spoke. ‘Anyone up for a trip to the studio? We can see what today’s songs sound like.’
‘I can tell you what they sound like, if you really want to know,’ said Ron, with a grimace. ‘But we’ve got company, so I’ll keep it polite.’
‘Come on,’ urged Sam. ‘Maybe you’ll feel better after a break.’
Eleanor said goodnight at that point to head home so Tom went along with the band. However, he could feel their brief good mood disappearing as they sauntered along to the studio. Nobody’s heart was really in it.
‘I don’t want to listen to our stuff,’ said Mick, opening the main door. ‘It’ll break my good vibe.’
‘Me neither,’ said Howard, putting out his cigarette before heading indoors.
Whilst Sam ignored them and set up the day’s recording on the computer system, Mick wandered into the main studio.
Jeff the keyboard player was still humming one of the Frank Sinatra songs to himself. He sat down at the piano in the studio and plucked out the song on the keys.
Mick began to softly sing along. Away from the shouting bawl of his usual songs, his voice was quite lyrical.
Howard wandered in, sat down and began to tap out the beat on the drums.
Ron followed him, picked up his guitar which had been abandoned earlier on and started to strum.
They carried on the tune in their amateur fashion until the very end when they came to an abrupt halt and, as one, stared at Sam.
Tom looked at them through the glass, their grins wider than he had seen in a long time.
Then he turned to face Sam. ‘Let’s have a mess around, shall we?’ said their manager.
A few hours later, Tom was seriously impressed.
‘Yeah,’ said Tom, shooting a grin at the band. ‘You lot can actually sing.’
‘Age and experience, mate,’ said Mick, raising a bottle of beer to him.
‘So what are your plans?’ asked Tom. ‘A Christmas album?’
‘Nah, Michael Bublé’s been there, done that.’
‘That’s right,’ said Sam. ‘You guys have got to make it your own. But it’s not a bad idea.’
‘What about your own tunes, mate?’ asked Mick.
Tom nodded. His own album was slowly coming together. He had given it the tentative title of By The River At Dusk. The title track had been penned over the previous few evenings. ‘By the river where we fell in love, under the darkening skies,’ it began.
He knew in his heart that he was writing a love letter to Eleanor.
He just hoped she would want to listen to it.