Homeward Bound, page 8
“I’ve said I’m sorry.”
At last, she looked at him. “You’d better mean it.”
“I mean it.”
After a pause, she broke rank. Talking to Mark was better than bottling it up. “Well, to tell the truth, it was all a bit odd.”
“How odd?”
“Strange. First, my mother phoned.”
“I had that on my first night.”
“Not just once. Loads of times. And texts. To see if I was alright.”
“It’ll be a bit weird for her, with you moved out.”
“She shouldn’t treat me like I’m still a child.”
Thoughts of interfering parents seemed to relieve the tension. “So what happened with you and your granddad?” Mark hunched himself forward, closer to Tara as he spoke.
“Like I said, it was all a bit strange.”
“Odd, you said.”
Tara threw herself back. “Do you want me to tell you or not?”
“Did he moan about what had happened with his records?”
“No. Well, not much.”
“So what did you do?”
She skipped the bit about ground rules or being asked if Mark was ‘the one’. Instead she jumped to what had happened after their pact. “I was going to go to bed. I’d just given him a hug when he started talking about his past. People he said he’d met when he was a musician.”
“Like who?”
“Oh, loads. David Bowie, Fleetwood Mac. Others.”
“The David Bowie?” Mark sat bolt upright, excited at the thought.
“I don’t know. Yes. I suppose so.”
“When did he play with Bowie?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it before he was famous? Ziggy Stardust? Tin Machine? You must have asked.”
“Am I telling you about David Bowie or my evening?” She flashed him a warning look.
“Sorry. Carry on about your evening.”
“After he told me about David Bowie and all the other people I’d never heard of, he started again on the piano.”
“Must have tolerant neighbours.”
Tara nodded in agreement. “But he’s really good, you know. He played some songs he thought I’d know…”
“Did you?”
“Not many. Then he started stuff from old family Christmases. It turned into a bit of a sing-a-long.”
“Blimey. Not just tolerant neighbours. Long-suffering. Or deaf.”
Tara let this interruption pass. “In full voice too. Both of us. Then, nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“He just stopped. Changed completely. Stopped singing, stopped playing, stopped talking. Just went silent.”
“Too many memories? It’s not that long since the funeral.”
“I thought he was going to cry. By now, I really wanted to go to bed but I couldn’t just walk out on him. It was quite awkward.”
“Just being there must have helped. An empty house would’ve been terrible for him.” He reached out to her hand. “It was right you spent the night with him. Without me, I mean.”
“Do you want to hear what happened next or not?”
“I thought you said nothing happened.”
“He didn’t say anything. He started playing again. Something different. Nothing I knew. When he stopped, he said it was new.”
“New?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Thought he’d retired ages ago.”
“So did I. But seems he’s kept writing. And recording. Special stuff, he said. Film music.”
“What, Evita? Frozen? I haven’t heard his name at the Oscars.”
“Will you stop mocking and listen or I won’t carry on.” She waited a few seconds, then assumed it was safe to continue. “He called it production music. Music that gets used in training films. Or sometimes theme tunes on TV – you know, News at Ten, Mastermind, Escape to the Country.”
“He wrote those?”
“Not them exactly. Tunes like them. Every time one of his gets used, he gets paid. He says it’s how he’s stayed independent after he stopped working.”
“Why isn’t he famous, then?”
“How would I know? Perhaps he was happy being undiscovered, working away in the background.”
“He didn’t tell you which tunes he’d written?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“Or where he’d played, or if he recorded with Bowie?”
“I think Hunter needs to go.” She looked down at the dog, his eyes closed, gently resting his head on her toes. “Come on, boy.”
“Sorry. What did he talk about?”
Hunter didn’t stir. Tara exhaled heavily. “He mentioned the odd gig, session work, hotel bars.”
“Sounds pretty dull.”
“But he wouldn’t stop talking. I didn’t think I’d ever get away.” Maybe it was her punishment for not agreeing to spend the evening with Mark. She was thankful Mark didn’t say as much.
“That’s what old people do. I suppose they’ve got so many memories and don’t know when to stop. Did he talk about your gran?”
“A bit. Asked me about helping clear some of her stuff out. Said he couldn’t bear to do it by himself.”
“And will you?”
“I said I would. It won’t be for a while though. I think he needs a bit of time to think about what he wants to get rid of.”
“Then what happened?”
“I was trying to think of a way to get up to bed without upsetting him, when without any warning he asked if I minded if we stopped as he was tired. I certainly was. But while I went to bed, ten minutes later, from that room with all his records, music. Loud. And I mean loud. Was like the house was vibrating.”
“Like what?”
“A mix. Some I knew.”
“Like what? Classical? Depressing stuff?”
“Not like that at all. Most sounded like it was way before my time. And then came the tune from that home insurance advert – you know, the one with the cartoon dog.”
Mark nodded, though Tara couldn’t tell if he did.
“Didn’t know if he was playing to himself or to me. It was ages before it all stopped.”
“I thought you said he was tired.”
Tara nodded. “If hadn’t got up to go to the toilet, I think he’d have carried on all night. You joked about the neighbours. I don’t know if I’m going to be able to stand it.”
“Wonder if he does it every night.”
“Christ, I hope not.” Two feral children ran close to their table, the heel of a size one junior shoe landing on Hunter’s front right paw. He yelped but didn’t bark. “I think we should go.”
“Are we friends again?”
Tara nodded, warily. “If you promise not to push me.”
“I promise.”
“And that you won’t throw coffee over the table.” She leaned forward with a napkin and wiped the coffee dribble from his chin. Mark leaned forward too, and kissed her. She let it linger for a few seconds, then sat back.
Mark sat back, resting his hands behind his head. “You haven’t asked me how my music is going.”
“How’s your music going?”
“Kind of you to ask. As it happens, I finished some new stuff. Last night.”
“At least something good came of it.”
“Do you want to hear it?” He handed her a memory stick. “It’s on there.”
Mark’s music was – how did Tara describe it to her parents? Individual. His uni course encouraged experimentation, and Mark had embraced the concept wholeheartedly. How did he describe it? ‘Old-lampin, ghetto-grittin’, steelo dealo pimped-out mamma-jamma scratch.’ And that was just for starters.
“I’ll listen in the morning.”
“Thanks.” He put the tip of his finger into his mouth and scratched it with his teeth, as if deliberating. “One thing…”
“Uh-oh, what’s coming now?” She wondered if Mark might be asking her to help. She wasn’t going to suggest it but people always said how good a voice she had. Secretly, she liked the idea of being a singer.
“I was wondering. Do you think your grandfather’s got any records in that room of his he’d let me sample?”
“Oh.”
“Will you ask him?”
She hid her disappointment. “After you knocked everything over?”
“Will you at least ask him?”
“You’ve seen how protective he is about them.”
“You can get round him. Spoil him. Do something so he can’t say no.”
“Like what?”
“Buy him something special? Let him tell you about all his favourite music.”
“God, no.”
“Then cook him something he likes. Didn’t you say his big weakness is a fry-up? You could do one and ask him about sampling at the same time.”
Tara leaned back and gritted her teeth. First her grandfather acting like a warden. Now Mark putting more demands on her. “I might. I don’t see why I should.” This isn’t what she thought independent living would be like. Something was going to have to change.
Chapter 9
“Gramps…” Tara delivered this single word in what Evelyn would have called a wheedle. She was standing at George’s shoulder clasping a spoon filled with hot rice pudding, the steam watering his eyes. He’d already gorged on two eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, tomatoes, mushrooms, fried bread, brown sauce and two slices. His favourite breakfast, an irresistible treat, even if it had been served nine hours late, at teatime. A fry-up at any time was not to be sniffed at. It was topped by being able to dip the bread crusts into the egg and mop up the sauce with the fried bread. He had been barred from this pleasure since 1967. Aptly, ‘The Last Time’ by the Rolling Stones had been playing on the radio and Evelyn was eight months pregnant. ‘Must you do that? It’s a disgusting habit,’ she’d complained, and he’d not been able to listen to that song without remembering. He’d been about to relate the story to Tara when she began her appeal. “You know your records…”
He cut her short. “This is the best meal I’ve had in ages. I hope you’re going to make a habit of it.”
“Thanks. But Gramps…”
George sensed a request coming. “Yes, I know my records. Especially now I’m having to put back the ones you and that boy of yours knocked over.”
With rice pudding at risk of escaping from the spoon and descending on to George’s lap, Tara took decisive action. She filled his bowl and went for it.
“Mark wondered if there was anything he could sample.”
“Sample?”
“Use in his music.”
“Music? What does he do?”
“Modern stuff. Different from yours.”
“If it’s different, why’s he interested in mine?”
“To take bits of old tunes and put them into his music.”
“I know what sampling is. I’m not that ancient. Don’t agree with it, mind.”
“Don’t agree?”
“It’s stealing someone else’s creativity.”
“What, like Elvis Presley? Didn’t he steal from black Americans?”
“How do you know about Elvis Presley?”
“GCSE History.”
George remembered his promise not to complain about his life referred to as history. “Different thing altogether.”
“How’s it different? He copied other people’s music.”
George could see himself being outflanked, but was determined to stand his ground. “Elvis didn’t copy. He gave it his own interpretation.”
“That’s what Mark wants to do.”
George recognised imminent defeat. “You’re as bad as your mother. Can’t face losing an argument.”
He expected Tara to say she hadn’t lost, but instead she seized on her advantage. “So can he? Use your records. He’ll say please.”
“What’s wrong with using your voice.”
Tara shrugged, sidestepping the question. “He wants to sample. And he’s very sorry about going into your room without asking.”
George was going to tell her about copyright laws, but the look in her eyes reminded him so much of Evelyn. How he missed her.
Tara went for victory. “Please. Pretty please.”
George sighed. “Maybe.”
Tara jumped up and hugged him round the neck.
“Thanks, Gramps.”
“Careful. You’ll strangle me.” Secretly, her energy and warmth made him feel good. “But I need you to do something for me.” He had to warn Bridget about Robin, and the letter was burning a hole in his pocket. A full stomach was relaxing him, making him feel the late breakfast didn’t herald anything quite as bad as he first imagined.
Tara let him go and went back to serving herself pudding. “How’s the rice?”
“Perfect. Just as I like it.”
“Glad you like it. So, I can tell Mark it’s OK?” She grabbed her bowl. “I’m going back upstairs, if that’s OK.”
George nodded, sensing the moment for the letter was passing. “But I do need to show you something.”
“Of course.” She was already past the kitchen door.
“I’ll bring it to you when I’ve finished this,” he called after her, his voice building to a crescendo as she reached the stairs. “And tell him there are some conditions to sampling.” By the time she was halfway up, he was shouting. Even then he wasn’t at all sure she heard. With a sigh, he returned his attention to the bowl of rice and, once it was gone, scraped the inside of the saucepan.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, George made his way upstairs. For a moment, he lingered outside Tara’s room, listening to her singing along to music. In his day it would have been a transistor radio. He guessed this was from her computer, an invention he’d never owned nor saw any need to know about. He knocked gingerly on the door.
“Come in, Gramps. I hope I wasn’t singing too loudly.”
“Sing as loud as you like. I would never stop anyone singing. It’s a human right. Even if they can’t hold a tune in a bucket. And you can. You’ve got a lovely voice.”
“It’s too soft. And squeaky.”
“It’s not. It’s a wonderful voice. What were you singing?”
“Sean Kingston. Was Number One with it when I was in Year Three or Four.”
“Hold on a minute.”
Tara watched, bemused, as George disappeared from her room. Within a few seconds, music vibrated through the floor. She followed its trail to where George was standing over his record deck. “That’s the same song,” she shouted over the vocals, “but it’s not Sean Kingston.”
“‘Stand By Me’. Ben E King. From the 1960s, then again in the seventies by John Lennon before your bloke sampled it in the eighties. Not a bad version, I agree.” He waved a CD cover to prove to Tara that he owned it.
“Aha – sampling. See? One up to me!” She sounded triumphant.
“OK, Miss Clever Clogs. What about this one?” He ran his fingers along a line of singles, pulled one out, gently slid it from its protective sleeve and, placing it on the turntable, carefully dropped the stylus into the groove.
Tara listened, then nodded. “That sounds like Beyoncé. ‘Hold Up’.”
“Andy Williams. Then The Beat in the eighties. ‘Can’t Get Used to Losing You’ is its real title. Beyoncé just sampled it like you want to do. I’ve got them all if you want to hear.” He lifted the tone arm back off the record. “But that boyfriend of yours…”
“Mark.”
“… Mark needs to get permission to sample. Legally, that is. I hope you haven’t promised too much. He can have the songs I’ve written, if they’re any use. But he can’t just steal someone else’s song without asking. Which usually means paying.”
“Even Beyoncé? ‘Hold Up’?”
“She would have got permission, yes.”
“I didn’t mean that. You’ve got Beyoncé’s album with ‘Hold Up’?”
“Double vinyl.” He reached across to a shelf behind and pulled out the record and held it up.
“Wow! I’m impressed.”
“I know where everything is. Can find it in an instant.”
Tara shook her head. “Not impressed that you can find it. That you’ve got it.”
“Do I have to stop loving music because I’m old and decrepit?”
“I don’t mean that.”
“I didn’t stop loving music when the sixties ended. The decade, or mine. Nothing’s new. Things get changed, sometimes improved.” He paused before adding ruefully, “But not often.” He sighed. “Enough of that. How’s you and Mick?”
“Mark. Why do you ask? Have Mum and Dad been on to you?”
“No. Just wondered. What made you think they had?” He might have added, ‘What have you done that they should be worried about?’
She shook her head. “No reason. Mark and me are fine.”
“What about his musical tastes?”
“How do you know his musical tastes?”
“Is that what I heard from your bedroom? When you came back from walking Hunter.”
“Sorry. He gave me his latest stuff to listen to. He calls it his old-lampin’, ghetto-grittin’, steelo dealo pimped-out mamma-jamma scratch.”
“Heaven forfend!”
“You didn’t like it?”
“Do you?”
“It’s OK. He’s getting better. New ideas. And that’s why he really wants to sample your music.” She waved her finger as inspiration struck. “Tell you what, why don’t you come to one of his gigs at uni? You’ll see what he does and how he uses samples. Maybe you’ll even like what he does.”
“I doubt it.”
“Why do you doubt it? You’ve not heard it.”
“What I heard from your room’s enough.”
“Go on, give it a try.” The wheedle in her voice was back. “What’s there to lose?”
