“Yes, well,” I say, beginning to get embarrassed, ‘and she was quite a lady.”
“Yes,” says her daughter, ‘she most certainly was.”
I warm to Grace straight away. She’s a nice person: direct and open and honest like her mother, and she shares her same sense of adventure as well. She spent twenty years working as an interpreter in Japan after she left university, and she’s run a small hotel in Cornwall with her husband for the last ten.
“I kept asking her to come down and live with us,” she says, shaking her head and offering me an extra Bourbon, ‘but she wouldn’t hear of it. She was very independent, you know. Couldn’t bear the idea of leaving London. I think she would have found living on the coast awfully dreary.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I say. “Sheila always liked to be at the centre of things.”
Grace thanks me for doing her mother’s shopping and helping out with the garden from time to time and I tell her all about Sheila’s latest obsession with John Woo. It seems to make her happy. I notice that she giggles in much the same
way Sheila used to when I tell her how many videos she used to order from the shop.
“I know,” she says fondly. “Mum was incorrigible. She tried to get me to learn tai chi when we were living in Hong Kong. I wasn’t very good at it, though, I’m afraid. She was very disappointed with me when I gave up.”
“I’m sure she was,” I say. “Mothers can be like that sometimes.”
“Look,” she says, tapping me sharply on the arm, “I’m supposed to tell you about this later but I don’t see why I shouldn’t just give it to you now. Stay where you are, Daniel. I won’t be long.”
Grace disappears to the bedroom and comes back moments later with a small piece of pottery tucked carefully underneath her arm. I immediately recognise what it is.
“Wow,” I say, ‘it’s the vase. From the Mongolian warlord.”
“Yes,” she says, ‘it’s beautiful, isn’t it? Sheila wanted you to have it.”
“I can’t,” I say, turning the delicate porcelain over in my hand. “I think you should hold on to it yourself.”
“No,” she says. “My mother was quite insistent. We spoke about it the last time I came to visit. Give this to Daniel, she said. And make sure he makes proper use of it.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “What did she want me to do?”
“Sell it, of course. It’s worth quite a lot of money. It’s not Ming or anything ridiculous like that, but it’s still a valuable piece. Close to ten thousand pounds, I think. Maybe more.”
I can’t believe what she’s saying. It’s a wonder I don’t drop it on the carpet there and then.
“But I can’t,” I say. “You must be joking. Surely this should go to you or your son?”
“Nonsense,” she says. “Mum wanted you to have it. She’s left plenty of other things to us. She was quite the collector, you know. Her cupboards are full of pieces like this. I think she had rather more suitors than she let on.”
“But I don’t understand,” I say, shaking my head. “Why
didn’t she sell some of it? I’m sure she could have done with the money.”
“I don’t think she wanted to. I think it gave her more pleasure to know she was passing them on. Her needs were quite simple towards the end of her life, Daniel. I don’t think she wanted for anything much.”
I chat to Grace a while longer, spend fifteen minutes luring Kostas away from the finger buffet, and then we get ready to leave. Grace comes over to kiss us goodbye.
“Now,” she says gently, ‘don’t be tempted to hold on to it for years and years or anything like that. My mother left strict instruction that it should be sold. She said life wasn’t to be wasted on looking backwards and that you should use it for something you needed.”
“I don’t know,” I say, suddenly feeling guilty, “I’m not sure I’d ever be able to sell it.”
“Well, it’s up to you, of course, but I’m certain it would have made my mother happy to know she was helping you in some way.”
“She didn’t have much time for nostalgia, did she?” I say, kissing Grace on the cheek and tucking the vase into one of Sheila’s Budgens bags. “I mean, she thought life was for living, didn’t she, not for wrapping up and putting away.”
“Of course she did,” says Grace, opening the door for me. “What else is life for?”
I’m not saying that it was an easy decision to make but Alison came round to my way of thinking in the end. After I’d blackmailed her. For over a week. After I’d told her it was Sheila’s dying wish. After I’d promised to give up watching Columbo, cut down on my drinking, buy myself some new underpants and throw away all my back issues of Q and Sound on Sound.
After I’d told her that I loved her. More than I’ve loved anyone else in my whole life.
Because ten grand is a lot of money, isn’t it? And it would be a shame not to make proper use of it. It means we could support ourselves for a few months. Just while I see if the record deal comes to anything. And Alison could go back to college if she wanted to. She wouldn’t have to worry about giving up her job. She wouldn’t have to worry about paying the rent and sorting out the bills and supporting the two of us any more. Because Sheila was right. If Alison loves me then she’ll forgive me, won’t she? In time. It doesn’t matter where we decide to live.
I put down the phone from Alison and ring Vince up straight away. It takes him a full minute to stop cackling and then he says, “Jesus Christ, Danny. Thank fuck for that. I knew you had to come to your senses sooner or later. I was only joking, you know. I never thought you’d actually go and do it. I always had you down as a bit of a soft bastard, but even you wouldn’t be dumb enough to give up the band over a bird.”
“Alison, stop doing that, it’s really annoying.”
“What? What am I doing?”
“You’re getting the lyrics wrong. “Yesterday” is the most frequently played song of all time. It’s been performed more than any other song in the entire history of popular music. And you’re singing the words wrong. How do you do that? How do you always manage to get the wrong words?”
“OK, calm down. I don’t see what difference it makes.”
“You don’t see what difference it makes? Jesus, are you mad? Of course it makes a difference. How can you not know how it goes? How can you not know the words to “Yesterday”? That’s typical. It’s a woman thing, isn’t it? It’s definitely a woman thing. I knew I should never have let you come.”
“Don’t take any notice,” says Vince sagely. “He’s always like this before he goes on. He’ll be all right once he’s been to the bogs.”
“Yeah,” says Matty, ‘he gets mega-nervous or something. He gets all full of adrenal glands and then he has to dash off to the crapper for a big old poo.”
“Of course, he’s much better than he used to be,” says Vince, lighting himself a fag. “He used to do it every time we went onstage. At least he only does it before we do interviews now. And live radio. And festivals.”
“Is this right, Danny?” she says, nudging me. “Are you really that nervous?”
“No,” I say. “It’s rubbish. I’m completely and utterly fine.”
I am not fine. I am very fucking far from fine. We’re sitting in the greenroom sipping beers and smoking cigarettes and it’s
less than ten minutes before we’re due to go on. It’s the first time we’ve done it. Our first live performance on national television. Our first time on Saturday morning telly. Our first time on CD’UK.
They’ve got it completely wrong, though. I’m not worried about the performance at all. I’m worried about Alison meeting Ant and Dec. I mean, what if one of them fancies her? What if they both want to shag her at the same time? What if they wait until I’m onstage and then one of them walks over to her and says: “Hi, has anyone ever told you, you look a little bit like Cat Deeley?”
Bastards.
“Did you enjoy it?” I say, opening us another bottle of champagne.
“Yeah,” she says. “It was brilliant.”
“They’re definitely gay, though, aren’t they? I mean, you only have to look at that dark one’s hair.”
“Give it a rest,” she says, topping up our glasses. “I had a good time because of you. You were amazing. All three of you were. I thought you sounded great up there today.”
“You don’t think we’ve sold out, then?”
“Don’t be stupid. Of course you haven’t. How do you mean?”
“Well, I don’t know, letting them use our single in that curly fries advert and everything. I mean, that’s the only reason we got so high in the charts in the first place.”
“Danny, I don’t think it matters. It’s not like there’s a nauseating, fat-tongued celebrity chef in it or anything. At least it’s just a picture of some chips.”
“Yeah,” I say, ‘you’re probably right. I just don’t want people getting fed up with us. I don’t want us getting dropped before we’ve had a chance to make our second album. Not like Scarface. Not before Vince gets to record his duet with Kevin Rowland. Not before my mum gets to meet Dale Winton again.”
“They won’t,” she says, sighing at me. “You’ve only just started. You’ve got your whole careers ahead of you yet.”
“You’re right,” I say, knocking back the rest of my wine. “You’re definitely right. Come on, then, let’s go home.”
Alison undresses quickly and gets into bed. She closes away her folders, packs away her revision notes and rolls over to switch out the bedside light. I can hear the soft shoopshoop of her breathing as she starts to drift off to sleep. I wait for her to say it. It’s one of those stupid codes we have: one of those things she does to let me know that she’s not cross with me any more. And then she says it: quietly, sleepily, under her breath.
“Goodnight,” she says. “Goodnight, Steve McQueen.”
For all their skill, advice, support and encouragement a huge thank you to:
Hannah Griffiths, Carolyn Mays, Sheila Crowley, Faye Brewster, Georgina Moore, Tony Fisher, Richard Priest, Sue Margolis, Jason Hyde, Jo
Chappell, Jonathan Stewart, Geoff Wener, Andy Maclure… and my mum, Audrey.