The Beacon Singer

Part 1:

Chapter 1

‘Oh, it’s you! I didn’t realise when we spoke on the phone. Please come in.’ The woman stood back and held the front door wide open for Philip Savage to enter. The false smile she wore was that of an overeager B&B lady. More disturbing was the spectre of the toddler she was holding on her left arm. He wasn’t really a baby (though he wore a nappy and a sky-blue vest) but neither, thankfully, was he old enough to remember this incident or identify the parties present.

Once Philip had been admitted, the woman continued in tones archly hushed. ‘I’m sorry about him. I’ll just nip and put him down.’ The youngster, sucking on a dummy, reached his hand up to Philip’s blonde-grey hair. ‘He’s taken a shine to you already,’ she said lightly, before registering that her client’s reaction to the boy was less than enthusiastic. ‘If you take a seat through there,’ she suggested, ushering Philip into the living room, there are a few magazines that might interest you. I’ll be back in two ticks.’

She ascended the stairs with the baby. Philip went into the lounge and sat down on the chocolate-brown plastic sofa. The magazines she’d mentioned were ranged on the coffee table in front of him. Through its dark-tinted glass top, Philip could see the synthetic shag-pile rug below. What he felt was beyond discomfort – but what had he expected?

Philip had left work at twelve, claiming he had a dental appointment so might well be late back to the office after lunch. As it was a fine day and he’d thought the car would be conspicuous, he’d walked up the hill from the town centre onto the estate. He’d had to walk pretty much to the top of the estate to reach her house (but at least up here there was no through traffic). Approaching the house, knackered as it was actually quite warm and he had on his suit and tie, he had fixed his sights on the beacon, projecting vertically from the hills that rose up behind the estate. How ironic its phallic symbolism seemed, given his total anxiety over the encounter he was about to have.

He’d rung the bell and she’d kept him waiting for what had seemed an eternity. He’d been about to leave but the door had opened just as he was turning to go. He’d recognised her too – did she come into the office sometimes? Not necessarily – in this place you could know a face from the odd encounter on the high street, particularly if you were looking into people’s eyes to gauge whether they were up for this kind of thing. Was it written all over his face? It must be.

He’d got her name from a friend of an acquaintance, over a chance conversation during a works’ lunch in a pub. Her existence had been conveyed to him as though she were a myth – hard to believe such things went on in the town. ‘What does her husband think?’ he’d asked. Philip’s informer had been uncertain whether the husband knew or cared. ‘I mean you couldn’t say she’s really –you know– because she only does it for a bit of extra cash. She must just like sex. They’ve got five of their own…’

This was the greatest shock: Philip had been expecting a woman who looked like she enjoyed sex; not one who appeared to have been grossly inconvenienced between two loads of washing. The woman returned. ‘He’s down now,’ she said to Philip, as though addressing her mother-in-law. ‘If you hear him cry, just ignore it; he’ll be asleep in a few minutes. Have you had a chance to look through the magazines?’

‘Sorry, no,’ Philip said.

‘That’s alright,’ she replied rather anxiously. ‘It’s just, some of my gentlemen find them useful – to help explain to me what they’re looking for.’

‘I see.’ He felt she expected him to say more.

‘I have quite a few things I wear. I could just go for something that most men like.’ She paused. ‘Lots of men –the first time– like me to wear something that makes me look young – innocent like, so they can imagine I’m a virgin–’

‘Look, Sharon’ –he hoped he’d got her name right– ‘I’m really sorry but I don’t think I can do this. I thought I could, it’s just, now it comes to it, I don’t think I can. I’m really sorry to have wasted your time–’

‘That’s alright,’ she said blankly.

‘It’s not you, you’re lovely–’ Was that the right word? She wasn’t; she was older than he’d expected and altogether bigger-built. Although she was undoubtedly a handsome woman, she wasn’t one you’d want to get into a fight with. ‘I’ve never done this sort of thing before, that’s all.’

‘I understand,’ she said, rather coolly.

He stood up to go. ‘I’m really sorry about it. If I have any friends who need these kinds of services, obviously I’ll recommend you–’

‘Thanks.’

Philip had taken out his wallet and was fumbling in it. He offered her forty pounds, uncertain as to whether this was enough or too much, under the circumstances. ‘Please, buy something for your baby.’

‘That’s nice of you,’ she said.

He stepped out into the hall. ‘I’d be really appreciative if you didn’t mention this to anyone–’

‘Discretion is my watchword,’ she said, as if reciting a tenet of some YTS training she’d received in her trade long ago.

‘And I, of course, would never–’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Unless I knew someone would be interested–’

She smiled sadly and nodded and held open the door for him again.

‘Bye then,’ Philip said feebly.

The door closed.

* * *

Jane Lake sat at a table to the right of the small stage of a London club. The show, she believed, was going well (although she was on her third G&T on an empty stomach; this was possibly another case of self-deception). But even Steven looked happy tonight so (unless he too were half-cut) there was a good chance the music was sounding alright.

He’d gone to the toilet ten minutes ago and hadn’t come back – probably shagging somebody in there. Had Jane not been steeled by her juniper veneer she’d have felt vulnerable, sitting alone as she did, because a middle-aged man who sat by himself on a high chair at the bar, with a tall vase of beer in his hand and his legs open wide in her direction, had been watching her intently for the entire duration of Steven’s absence. She’d been hoping vainly that somebody would come to talk to her.

Within moments, Jane’s worst fears were realised. The man slithered off his bar stool and came across to her table. ‘Can I get you a drink, Miss Lake?’ he asked, with what seemed to Jane a Germanic accent – or was it Russian?

‘That’s alright, thanks awfully, I already have one and I’ll be back on stage any second.’

He’d taken a seat beside her without being invited. ‘Do you have plans for after the show?’

She wanted to laugh; this was fresh. ‘Oh, you know, just the usual,’ she said evasively.

‘If you have nothing else on, I would very much like to take you out.’

She looked at him incredulously. Though well-dressed and obviously moneyed, he was fundamentally overweight and past it.

‘Of course, I would be willing to reimburse you for your time.’

Jane was speechless.

‘I have a suite in a very nice hotel–’

‘I think you misunderstand the nature of the business I’m in,’ Jane said with repressed fury.

‘Oh no,’ the Russian replied, with the suggestion of a laugh, ‘I know you all too well, Miss Jane; your reputation goes before you.’

What the hell did that mean? ‘Listen, I choose my boyfriends, and I’ll have you know I’m very picky–’ She saw Steven come out of the toilet. He returned to the grand piano and stood over it, shuffling manuscript papers meaninglessly. Moments later a young and rather beautiful boy emerged from the gents looking perversely pleased with himself. How fucking predictable was he becoming in his old age?

The Russian said nothing but sat calmly, sipping his beer, with a self-satisfied smile on his face. ‘I think your partner is ready to recommence,’ he observed.

Steven looked up and over at Jane. She caught his eye then watched it wander to the back of the room, where the boy had been engulfed in darkness already. The most pitiful thing was that he probably believed these encounters to be, at some level, romantic.

‘The offer still stands,’ said the Russian.

Steven approached them.

‘I shall remain for second set and a little beyond. You give me the signal if you’d like to take me up on my offer,’ he concluded.

Steven loomed before them. ‘Ready then?’ he said, addressing Jane but looking at her companion.

‘Please allow me to introduce myself, Sir,’ the Russian began, extending his arm up to Steven. ‘I am a great fan of your work. Every trip to London I try to hear you. Your style reminds me very much of our own finest jazz pianist of Czech Republic. Your playing flows, might I say, Sir, like a river…like the Danube, shall we say!’

‘You’re very kind,’ Steven said, genuinely flattered. He seldom encountered anybody of any musical sensitivity on his outings with Jane. Her face was contorted in spasms of envy, which made the compliment all the sweeter. ‘I’d love to stay and learn more of the Prague scene,’ Steven said indulgently, ‘but I sense the management’s getting twitchy. Nice to meet you,’ he concluded, shaking the Russian’s hand again. ‘Come on Jane,’ he urged.

She looked up at him resentfully and for a moment he thought she wasn’t going to comply.

‘Yep, bye,’ Jane said to the Russian, getting up without giving him so much as a glance.

At the piano Steven was eager to make a start. ‘What shall we open with?’ he asked. ‘Something Porteresque, perhaps; Porter himself?’

‘Did he write anything about rain?’ she replied.

Steven had to think. ‘‘I Love Paris’? I’m not sure there’s anything more specific. I was thinking ‘You Do Something to Me’–’

‘I was thinking ‘Stormy Weather’–’

‘How about ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’?’ he suggested playfully.

‘How about you go fuck yourself?’

But he had already started to play what were by now the familiar opening bars to ‘I Concentrate on You’ and it was with great annoyance that Jane had to admit it was probably the best choice.

* * *

The phrase hot under the collar could have a literal meaning. Two days after his humiliation, Philip Savage stood at the front of the high school hall, to the left of the stage. This was the first time he’d set foot in the building though he’d anticipated the outdated wooden panelling that surrounded the vast room from what Sarah had told him. Why had she been talking about that? When had that topic arisen in their conversation? He had no idea whether that had been a recent or an ancient discussion. They paid so little real attention to one another’s words now, he marvelled he recalled anything she’d ever said.

He felt conspicuous and sweaty, primarily because the hall was full of seated parents, all of whom had taken a good look at him, standing awkwardly in his suit, in the harsh and unnecessary electric light, whilst the Deputy Head had made reference to his firm’s sponsorship of the school trip. He had a lingering irrational fear that there might be one in the audience who knew of the fiasco of his ‘dental appointment’ on Tuesday afternoon. He blushed to recall the sordid scene.

The event had left him in no doubt that the undertaking of such an offence was impossible in the town. If he was going to pursue that avenue, he’d have to travel further afield. But he still felt dubious about actually paying for sex. Or rather, it still depressed him to think he might have to revert to such extremes in order to get some.

There was always internet dating. He was aware of it from the girls in the office, who’d been spending recent lunchtimes surfing the sites and sizing up the available males. But they did it in a spirit of voyeurism, confident they would never actually have to resort to using it as a means of finding love. Anyway, it left an electronic trail of his desperation, which was a scary thought as he didn’t understand how –or indeed whether– such records could be erased.

There were the girls in the office. Once again, this seemed unviable as the potential embarrassment and rejection would take place far too close to home. They were far too young. Obviously he found them desirable but they would just laugh at him.

Philip checked himself. The Deputy (Stephanie, he thought had been her name) had assured him he wouldn’t be required to speak but he still thought he should pay attention to what she was saying – at least stop thinking about sex.

She was handing over to her colleague. She actually used that phrase – Philip wondered if all school teachers were communists. Ruth Whitsun certainly had those leanings. She, at least, was not here tonight to witness his fat, sweaty embarrassment.

The colleague took to the stage. He thanked Mrs Winters and continued more charismatically than his senior. He was going to show them a series of slides but the skiing trip was to achieve more than would a mere jaunt to an Alpine resort. The skiing trip was intended to broaden the horizons of all pupils – yes, even you, Miss Muldoon, may be in need of broader horizons.

Philip had a momentary notion that Miss Muldoon was a colleague but the geography teacher flashed a smile in her direction that seemed most unbefitting between comrades. Parents laughed but Stephanie Winters, Philip noticed, looked uneasy at her colleague’s familiar tone. She pursed her lips.

Philip looked in the direction of the geography teacher’s stare and immediately perceived the source of Mrs Winters’ concern. Miss Muldoon stood at the front of a gaggle of unseated sixth-formers, pressed up against the panelling at the opposite side of the front of the hall from him. Her identity could be in no doubt as she was looking at the geography teacher (Mr Lee, Philip thought he was called) with an intent smile that seemed to be willing him to take her to bed.

Philip had a vision of the blonde, rather dumpy girl (though she wasn’t fat) standing in a pair of taupe, suede, fur-lined boots on the slopes of an Alpine resort. She was possessed of the paraphernalia of skiing, though she wasn’t in motion and she was surrounded by woodland too dense to ski through safely. She looked rather more like a decorative figure on a Christmas cake and also (yes, this was quite important) she was entirely –and, admittedly, rather impractically– naked apart from the boots.

‘Take me to your bed in your Alpine lodge,’ Miss Muldoon’s eyes seemed to say to Mr Lee. Philip suddenly appreciated the enormity of the mistake he’d made in immediately dismissing his mother’s suggestion that he might have a vocation for teaching. He should never have gone into insurance. Although the truth behind the problem with his career was that he’d been born too late: the door-to-door visits of an old-style insurance man would have afforded him ample opportunity for countless ‘dental’ antics without fear of detection. Yes, the electronic age had its advantages but it had, undeniably, brought with it disappointments too.

As he continued gazing at the skiing cake girl, Philip feared he was getting an erection. He’d buttoned his jacket, which would provide some protection if it were the case. But he must be careful.

He felt a tap on his arm.

‘Hi,’ whispered a familiar voice.

‘Oh, Ruth,’ he whispered in reply. ‘I didn’t think you were here.’

‘No, I stayed on late. I looked in and spotted you. Thought I’d come and offer moral support. Sarah said your company was sponsoring the trip.’

‘Yes,’ said Philip, ‘but I don’t have to speak or anything.’

‘Good.’

They stood in silence, listening to the geography teacher and watching his PowerPoint presentation.

‘He’s very impressive, isn’t he,’ Philip suggested, thinking it was the sort of thing Ruth would like to hear said about her colleague.

In response, Ruth looked about them and then mouthed, ‘He’s a wanker,’ to Philip.

‘Is he really?’ Philip whispered, with tremendous satisfaction upon hearing her verdict.

‘A mature entrant to the profession,’ Ruth whispered, ‘thinks he’s saving the bloody planet.’

Philip laughed.

‘The kids love him,’ she added ruefully.

Mr Lee rambled on effusively and Philip’s eye wandered back to the blonde girl across the hall. What she needed was a real man. A man of action, rather than mere words – a man like him.

Ruth Whitsun followed Philip’s line of sight. ‘You’ve seen Stella, then,’ she said, nodding in the direction of the blonde girl.

The blonde girl looked over and smiled at Miss Whitsun, almost as compliantly as she’d smiled at Mr Lee. Miss Whitsun smiled back.

Philip felt the tingling in his trousers subside. How could he have failed to realise who she was? They’d even said her name, for god’s sake!

‘Sometimes when I see her about school now, I think she’s the spitting image of Michael and then other times she seems to be all Margaret. I don’t know – it’s so long since I’ve seen either of them,’ Ruth observed.

‘Yes,’ he murmured, still watching Stella. ‘But she’s not at all tall.’

‘No,’ Ruth agreed. ‘Pretty though,’ she suggested.

‘Lovely,’ he replied, instantly regretting the comment and colouring at the admission.

‘She’s all grown up,’ Ruth said wistfully.

Philip felt, with a sensation of alarm and excitement commingled, the stirring in his loins recommence. In his craving eyes, Stella was absolutely ravishing.

‘Anyway, I have to go, Philip, I’m starving. Say hello to Sarah from me. Tell her we must go out sometime –soon– it’s ages since we’ve really talked.’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell her to let me know if there’s anything on at the arts centre that she thinks I’d like. I’m happy to go along with her – to anything, really.’

‘I’ll tell her,’ he said.

‘See you then,’ said Ruth.

‘Bye,’ said Philip.

Ruth slipped behind a curtain and out of the hall via the glass doors, through which she’d entered.

Mr Lee’s illustrated talk was finally drawing to a conclusion. Philip looked across at Stella, who was transfixed by the speaker. She suddenly turned her head and stared straight at Philip but she didn’t offer him a smile and her message was not so much, ‘Take me to bed,’ as ‘Fuck off.’

Chapter 2

At the end of the meeting about the skiing trip, Philip Savage saw Stella Muldoon walking alone up the lane from school. Stealthily, he pulled the silver BMW up alongside her and retracted its passenger window. Leaning over to see her, he asked, ‘Can I give you a lift home?’

‘Em…’

‘I’m not a stranger; I know your mother, Margaret.’

‘I know,’ Stella said.

‘Can I give you a lift then?’ Philip repeated.

‘Alright.’ Stella got into the front passenger seat of the car and shut the door.

‘Put your seatbelt on,’ Philip instructed.

She did so and he pulled away.

‘So you’re going on this skiing trip, then,’ he began, trying to suppress the vision of her on the Alpine slopes, which had, rather inconveniently, resurfaced.

‘No,’ Stella replied.

‘Why not?’

‘Mam can’t afford it,’ she stated plainly.

‘That’s no good,’ he said. ‘I could pay for it.’

‘Why would you do that?’ Stella asked instinctively.

Philip thought. ‘I’d see it as a long-term investment in your future,’ he said. ‘It’ll develop your outlook to go on the trip.’ He was careful not to use the phrase ‘broaden your horizons.’ ‘If you feel uncomfortable about accepting the money, you can pay me back when you’re older – when you’re earning.’

‘Thanks,’ Stella said, making no commitment to pay Philip back. ‘Can I put the radio on?’

Philip dropped Stella at the end of her road. ‘Say hello to your mum from me,’ he said, as she opened the car door.

‘Yeah,’ Stella replied, knowing very well she wouldn’t. ‘Thanks,’ she said again as she got out.

‘You’re welcome.’

Stella was about to shut the door but before she did she said, ‘It’s a nice car – big.’

Philip smiled at her and she smiled back.

At home, Stella communicated her good fortune to her mother, claiming she’d arranged to earn the money delivering leaflets for the insurance company (she knew Margaret wouldn’t question the story). She was careful not to mention Philip; her mother hated him because he was selfish.

After their encounter, Stella thought about Philip a lot – not in an amorous way; but there was something romantic about old men who gave you lifts and offered you money. And she really did like the car. He wasn’t good-looking. He was definitely fat. But he had a happy face and most of his hair.

Stella was in an awkward position as she needed a deposit for the skiing trip and he hadn’t said when he would give her the money.

* * *

David Lake had been allowed to escape from school for a couple of hours, in view of the evening concert over which he was due to preside. It was one of those rare instances of consideration on the part of Bishop, the Principal.

He entered the hallway of Bay View with a sense of indulgence. His father would be out playing golf and his mother should be in Colton (the village he had just returned home from), lunching with friends. The opportunity to have the house to himself for an hour or so was rare.

He fixed himself a ham and pickle sandwich, contemplated –but immediately thought better of– having a chilled beer from the fridge, ran himself a glass of water, picked up his father’s newspaper from the kitchen table and repaired to his room upstairs.

Nearing the top of the flight of stairs, David’s attention was drawn to the end of the landing. The door to his room stood wide open. Sunlight streamed out through it. He stopped short. An apparition stood, illuminated, in the window.

David resumed climbing the stairs.

The figure turned to acknowledge him. ‘Hello little brother,’ she said rather melancholically.

David entered the room. ‘Were we expecting you?’ he asked, smiling as he spoke, in a vain effort to mask his resentment.

‘Not happy to see me?’

‘Of course not,’ he said, unable to bring himself to qualify the response.

‘Made me a sandwich?’ she asked hopefully.

‘I didn’t know you were here. Why didn’t you come down?’

‘I thought you were the old people. I didn’t want to alarm them.’

He wondered when she’d been planning to make her presence known. ‘Do you mind if I eat this?’ he asked. ‘I have to be back at school soon.’

‘Take a pew,’ and she retreated from the window, back into the room, allowing her brother to sit in the wicker chair stationed beside the long glass panes of the windows to the balcony. ‘It’s fucking hot in here,’ she observed, ‘stifling.’

‘Yes,’ David agreed as he sat down, ‘it’s an Indian summer alright.’ He noticed an open bottle on the small, low table beside the chair. ‘You’re starting early,’ he said involuntarily, unable to make the comment sound anything other than disapproving. The wine bottle was already half-empty.

‘I left Euston at six,’ she replied. ‘Body clock’s all out. It’s pinot grigio – very well chilled. Do you want some?’

‘I’m going back to school,’ he reminded her.

‘Oh yes,’ she replied absently.

It was impossible not to remark on her attire: a white caftan – linen. ‘Isn’t that Mum’s?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied with a muted shriek. ‘From the Seventies. I had a shower and I wanted something fresh to put on.’

‘It suits you,’ he said.

‘It fits me, weirdly enough,’ Jane commented.

‘Have you been smoking in my room?’ David asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

‘Absolutely not – I don’t smoke; you know that.’

‘I can smell it,’ he said.

‘Oh, it’ll be this thing,’ Jane said, sniffing the long, flared sleeve of her robe. ‘It’s probably been in mothballs.’

David raised his eyebrows incredulously.

‘How is Mummy, anyway?’ Jane asked pointedly.

He hesitated before replying, ‘She’d be a whole lot better if she hadn’t had to read all that stuff about you in the papers.’

‘I wasn’t named,’ Jane pointed out, disappointedly.

‘But she knew it was you and half her circle of friends did too.’

‘David, it’s just nonsense.’

‘Are you still seeing him?’

‘No! Not for ages. He went back to his wife, remember?’

‘After that very public admission of the error of his ways–’

‘With his tail between his legs. I don’t think he dare come within a fifty-mile radius of me these days. Coward.’

‘Well, I’m glad it’s over. There could never have been anything in it for you.’

‘You sound like him–’

‘It’s only because we care–’

‘You sound like her.’

‘I could never see you shacked up with a politician.’

‘No, neither could I, really,’ Jane admitted sadly. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, brightening, ‘that was an aeons ago. Loads has happened since.’

David frowned into his lunch and considered they should just be thankful none of it had appeared in the press.

‘Oh god, I’m famished,’ Jane said, drooling over her brother’s sandwich. ‘Is there any ham left?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll get myself a bite then,’ she said, flying downstairs.

Left alone, David continued to eat whilst watching the estuary, wide enough at this point to appear to be the sea. It was another glorious day; the bay glistened exotically. But it was mid-September already – the summer couldn’t go on indefinitely.

David contemplated his sister. He’d always envied her position as a professional singer of a minor musical genre: to be known and respected by those who cared about what you did but to retain anonymity in the world at large; this seemed, to David, the perfect scenario.

She considered it a predicament. She was a good singer without appearing intent upon that goal; it was the by-product of a bid for something far less worthy.

Jane returned, with a sandwich on a plate. She poured herself another glass of wine and stood opposite her seated brother. Holding half the sandwich in one hand and the glass in the other, Jane gazed at the bay, swaying rhythmically, whilst alternately devouring the sandwich and glugging the wine.

She must by now have drunk nearly the whole bottle. David began to suspect she’d come home to escape something. He got the feeling she’d forgotten he was there but she suddenly announced, ‘I love this room. I love this view.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed.

‘Of course this was meant to be my room really – Juliet balcony and all.’

‘Was it?’

‘Yes, Mummy’s always said so. It was only because of all your instruments that she put you here – in the extremity of the house. That bloody drum kit...fucking cello…’

He made no comment and Jane went quiet, concentrating on eating. Moments later David asked her, ‘Why have you come back?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Why now? What’s brought it on?’

She turned to face him but immediately turned away again and looked out to the water. ‘I was missing the rain.’

He frowned.

‘It hardly ever rains in London and I realised I miss it. So I thought I’d come up here for a bit and –wouldn’t you know– I get here and it’s like the bloody Costa del Sol.’

‘I’m not complaining,’ he said. It was evident she wasn’t going to give him a straight answer. ‘I have to get going,’ he told her, rising from the chair and kissing her cheek. ‘Welcome home, big sister,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you later.’ He left the room, taking the cleaned plates and empty bottle with him.

After David had gone, Jane leant against the window frame and closed her eyes. She felt the sun burning her scalp and brow but what she saw was Frith Street at the witching hour: the cold, heavy rain pouring down; a taxi cab she’d tried to hail with no success driving past and soaking her with gutter spray as it went. She remembered incomprehensibly bursting into tears and slumping down in a doorway and contemplating making it her bed for the night. Thinking what an idiot she’d been to forego the cash on offer from the Russian because she could have done with it and because going to a hotel with a fat, boring, rich, foreign bastard couldn’t be any worse than going home alone. Feeling thoroughly sorry for herself.

And then, worst of all, fucking Steven coming along and saying, ‘Oh Jane, you’re just a bit pissed. Come home with me – sleep it off,’ and only yards later, upon spying a dark Soho side alley, suggesting, ‘I don’t suppose you fancy a knee tremble?’ in a tone that was only half-comical. And her replying, ‘Like I fancy a fucking hole in the head,’ and actually meaning it.

Unhinged was the word that best described how she felt. The change seemed to have come almost overnight.

Chapter 3

On the morning of the last Monday in September, Robert Anthen went to the arts centre to make arrangements for the concert. It was his concern now, being rather grandly named the Anthen School of Music. This made more of it than it was. He knew his talents were slight but in a place like this one could be a big fish on the strength of a minor ability.

He walked briskly. The morning was fresh and fine and the Rowans that lined the street leading into the town centre were loaded with bright red berries. But Robert was feeling his age today. It seemed cruel that age brought so much possibility –so much acceptance and therefore so much more realistic ambition than youth– but the body wasn’t quite up to it. This concert for instance –a minor undertaking really– but he could see already it would be tiring; his overall enjoyment would be lessened by his being knackered by it all.

Robert knocked on the door of Sarah Gray’s office.

Opening it, she said, ‘Hi, I’m Sarah.’ She smiled and held out her hand to shake his.

‘Robert,’ he said, taking her hand and smiling back.

‘I recognise you,’ Sarah said, nodding.

‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘I remember you from when you were a girl.’

‘Really? Please come in and take a seat.’

‘You were friendly with the brilliant Lake boy–’

‘David, yes – well, it was his sister really–’

‘Do you keep in touch with him now?’ Robert asked, sitting down in the chair opposite her desk.

‘I bump into him now and then,’ Sarah said. ‘He’s head of music at Colton, of course–’

‘I read about their undertakings in the paper–’

‘He’s very dedicated. Would you like a coffee?’

‘Yes please.’

‘I’ll just nip out and fetch us some.’

Sarah had grown into a rather striking woman. Her colour was now less obvious – but it was probably society that had changed. Robert remembered feeling sorry for her as a child because people treated her as a novelty. She must have been the only coloured child in the town, and the people were so backward they didn’t consider it offensive to draw attention to it.

Resting his legs, Robert began to feel better. He sensed this capable young woman would ease the burden of the whole rigmarole that lay ahead.

Upon Sarah’s return, he asked, ‘How long have you been managing the arts centre?’

‘Four years now. But I’ve worked here since I left university.’

‘It’s a gem, isn’t it – in a little town like this,’ Robert suggested.

‘Yes.’

‘Although I must admit, living out of town as I do, I don’t come here as often as I ought.’

After Robert Anthen had gone Sarah sat at her desk for some time, thinking ostensibly about the concert but really about him. He was handsome in a way that made him relevant. Some of his ways seemed a bit old-fashioned and he claimed fear of modern technology, but surely he related to the modern world.

He couldn’t be so old. He’d been fairly young when she’d been a girl. He was quite tall. What weight he carried he carried well because of his height. He dressed well – not trying to look young but achieving this simply by being well-dressed. He was married, of course. She was an estate agent.

* * *

Philip had been thinking about Stella. The memory of driving up behind her on that unseasonably balmy night, when she’d been wearing her t-shirt and jeans and carrying a cardigan on her arm, led him to reflect upon the breadth of her backside. The recollection of his vision of her on the Alpine slopes led him to consider more generally her breasts and other forbidden regions… And then he would stop himself – it was disgusting. How inconceivable it seemed that Sarah should have a daughter of Stella’s age; that he should be the father of a girl of Stella’s age. But of course he could be (just about), which made his other reflections even more reprehensible.

He didn’t regret his rash offer. He didn’t really question his motive, although it did occur to him that giving significant amounts of money to a schoolgirl might appear dubious. But it had seemed the right thing to do at the time.

Philip hadn’t mentioned the matter to Sarah. And he felt instinctively that he and Stella could keep their arrangement under wraps, although they hadn’t discussed the need to.

No matter how Philip checked his daydreams, he was not puritanical enough to refrain for too long from thinking of his protégée in a carnal light. She wasn’t beautiful, he understood, and nothing in her manner had been flirtatious but it gave him pleasure to think he was doing something to help her – that they’d made their arrangement. And this pleasure was itself deliciously improper.

He was sending her a cheque for the full amount owing on her holiday. He was struggling with a note to accompany it, wanting to tell her that her bottom was lovely in her jeans… He wrote:

Stella,

Enclosed is a cheque for £500 (what you need and a bit extra for spending). I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time. I have never been skiing but I’m sure it’s fun. You must let me know what it’s like!

Kind regards,

Philip.

Philip smiled impishly at Sarah as he passed her in the hall on his way out to post the letter. She was just coming in from work but he’d been back an hour or so, having left the office early. ‘I’m just nipping out to get some milk,’ he told Sarah. After all, in what he’d actually done there was no harm, no perversion. The offence, surely, was only in his expectation.

Chapter 4

‘Can I have a word, Miss Whitsun?’ Stephanie Winters asked, beckoning Ruth off the corridor and into an empty classroom. Closing the door behind them, she began, ‘I just wanted to have a talk with you about Simon Lee – geography. I’m concerned that, despite his outward enthusiasm, he’s finding things rather hard-going at the moment.’

Ruth remained