For the first time in his adult life, Tom Flowers wept.
There was something Lachlan wanted to tell her. Every now and again he would open his mouth to say something, then change his mind. As their lives appeared to be proceeding smoothly, without a cloud in sight, Jeannie reckoned it couldn’t be all that important and he’d tell her in his own good time.
She swam two lengths of the pool to cool herself down, then climbed back on to the side and dangled her feet in the sparkling blue water. It was mid-June and debilitatingly hot. The sun blazed down on her back and she half expected her wet skin to sizzle. She’d had enough. It was better to be sickly pale than have a tan if it meant suffering such torture.
Indoors was much cooler, with the windows open and a fan whirring on the living room ceiling. She went into the bedroom, changed out of her wet bikini into a loose cotton shift, and returned to the lounge. The sound of the fan, its faint, never-ending hum, got on her nerves. Before flinging her listless body full length on the settee, she switched on the record player to drown the noise. There was already a record without a label on the turntable, the Merseysiders’ latest, shortly to be released.
Apart from Lachlan in the basement studio, the house was empty for a change. The lack of human life, like the
fan, also got on her nerves. It must be the oppressive heat that was making her feel so irritable.
The Merseysiders and the Flower Girls – except for Rita who lived with her parents – had bought properties close to each other on the strip of coast that stretched from Crosby to Southport. Jeannie and Lachlan’s five-bedroom bungalow, with two acres of grounds and its own pool, was situated between Formby and Ainsdale and was only two hundred yards from the shore. Built ten years ago for an American businessman to his own design, for a reason unknown to the new owners, it had been christened Noah’s Ark. All the rooms were large, at least twenty feet square, with floor to ceiling windows. The walls were white, which Jeannie and Lachlan had seen no reason to change. They bought white furniture to match and white rugs to scatter over the polished wooden floors.
Noah’s Ark would have been quite unremarkable had it not been for the long, wide hall – the estate agent had described it as a reception area – which had a domed glass ceiling, tinted green, soaring like a blister above the red tiled roof. The established gardens – trees at the front, lawns, flower beds and a pool at the back – were surrounded by a thick, impenetrable hawthorn hedge. A winding drive led to the front door, making the property invisible from the road.
Jeannie thought it the sort of house that needed lots of people in it and would be perfect for when she and Lachlan had a family. Lachlan was impressed with the large basement and its potential as a studio.
The studio had been fitted out and was used by both groups. Fly Fleming usually brought his wife when the Merseysiders rehearsed or made a record, a salt of the earth Liverpool girl called Stella, who’d become a good
friend. Jeannie wished she could say the same for Max’s wife, Monica. Monica, who would have been pretty if her expression hadn’t been so mean, had been a groupie, hanging round after the gigs were over in the hope of being picked up. Max had succumbed, not for the first time, but Monica had turned up two months later and announced tearfully that she was pregnant and the father could only be Max.
Jeannie wasn’t sure whether her brother was admirable or an idiot for marrying her. Monica had obviously set out to trap him. Everyone had tried to persuade him to pay the girl off, but Max had seemed quite resigned to becoming a husband and father. Their little boy, Gareth, was a charmer. Jeannie felt quite misty-eyed with longing for a baby of her own whenever she held him in her arms.
The new record drifted to its subdued end. It was very different to anything the Merseysiders had done before. Sean played the flute, Fly’s drums sounded as if they’d been covered in thick velvet, bells tinkled in the background, and the accompanying guitars were merely a dull throbbing blur. It was called ‘Marzipan Dream’, and Lachlan’s voice was just a haunting whisper.
The music scene was changing. Rock ’n’ roll would never go away, but some groups were producing gentler music for a gentler decade. In America, people sang of wearing flowers in their hair and talked of peace. Record sleeves were covered with psychedelic whirls and chubby angels. Male groups wore loose, flowing clothes, grew their hair long, and had started to sport earrings and rows of beads. Bands called Perfumed Garden, Nazareth, Marble Orchard, and South California Purple played at the Cavern.
The Flower Girls had no need to alter their image.
They’d never played solely rock ’n’ roll and moved seamlessly in and out of the new scene.
As soon as ‘Marzipan Dream’ finished, the fan began to hum. Jeannie went down to the basement to unearth Lachlan from the studio. She was only recently back from a month long tour of Australia and before that he’d spent a fortnight in America. They’d hardly seen each other for ages, yet here he was, burying himself beneath the ground for hours on end.
He was sitting in front of a vast desk of switches and knobs, wearing headphones, and didn’t hear her come in. She watched him for a moment. He was twenty-five, and the long, wavy hair, tied back with cord, the cream cheesecloth shirt, loose-sleeved and collarless, didn’t disguise his broad, muscled masculinity. She slid her arms around his neck and he immediately removed the headphones.
‘I’m feeling neglected,’ she complained.
‘Darling!’ He pulled her on to his knee. ‘I’m dead busy, but I don’t mind being interrupted by a beautiful woman.’ He kissed her chin.
‘I’m bored,’ she told him. ‘I’d like to do something.’
‘Well, I can think of something straight away. Lie down on the carpet, it’s nice and thick.’
She grinned. ‘OK, but after that what shall we do?’
‘Eat, swim, paint a wall?’ They both found it relaxing to repaint the walls when they began to lose their dazzling whiteness.
‘I’m not hungry, it’s too hot to paint, and believe it or not, it’s too hot to swim. We need an indoor swimming pool, Lachlan,’ she added in a whining voice.
They both laughed at her perfect imitation of Monica, who was constantly demanding things. ‘Poor Max,
though,’ Lachlan said soberly. ‘He’ll end up in the poorhouse if he’s not careful.’
‘I know, but you can’t speak to Max. He takes umbrage.’ Max and Fly weren’t as wealthy as the others. Sean and Lachlan wrote their own songs and quite a few had been used by other artists, resulting in big royalty cheques arriving twice a year. Fly and Stella didn’t mind, they were already rich beyond their wildest dreams, but it was a sore point with Monica that their smart house in Birkdale was smaller than the Baileys’ and they didn’t have a pool or their own studio or a garage that held three expensive cars, one of which, the Land Rover, Lachlan had bought in a weak moment, but could never find a use for, preferring his Ferrari. Jeannie disliked driving. She never went long distances if she could avoid it, and had a Mini for shopping.
‘Why are you still on my knee?’ He pretended to look cross.
‘Where else am I supposed to be?’
‘On the floor, with no clothes on, I might remind you.’
‘Oh, all
right
.’ She rolled her eyes and gave an extravagant sigh, then yelped when he tickled her waist.
The basement door opened and a voice shouted, ‘Is someone being murdered down there?’
Jeannie made a face and got to her feet.
‘Who is it?’ Lachlan called.
‘Fly. I’ve brought the missus. She came in her cozzie and made straight for the pool. I hope you don’t mind.’ He came clattering down the stairs, smiling genially, as always. ‘When we’re away, I’m always dying to get home, but as soon as I’m there, I get bored shitless. Stella swears the Merseysiders are joined at the hip. We can’t live without each other and move in a pack. Hi, Jeannie.
Was it you who screamed? Jaysus!’ He winked lewdly. ‘I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.’
‘Nothing that can’t wait, Fly.’ Lachlan beckoned him over. ‘Listen to this. It’s “Marzipan Dream”. Those bells are a bit too intrusive. I think we should make them softer.’ They both put on earphones and Lachlan flicked a switch. Seconds later, they were totally absorbed in their latest record.
‘They’ve already forgotten they’ve got wives,’ Jeannie said when Stella climbed out of the pool to say hello. She was a lovely, curvaceous young woman, with wide apart grey eyes and beautiful skin. Her black hair was plastered to her scalp like a mermaid’s.
‘Fly would sooner make love to his drums than me.’ She had a loud, deep-throated laugh that made people want to join in.
‘I’m sure Lachlan would prefer to be married to a guitar.’
They sat companionably together on the edge of the pool. Despite their complaints, they were both perfectly happy with their music-obsessed husbands.
‘The Flower Girls don’t get all preoccupied with music, not like the men,’ Stella remarked. ‘It’s life or death with them lot.’
‘Women have more things to think about, that’s why,’ Jeannie explained. ‘Lachlan wouldn’t eat if he wasn’t reminded. He doesn’t have to worry about the house being cleaned or the washing done. And he hasn’t a clue what’s happening in the rest of the world. He doesn’t know there’s been a six-day war in the Middle East or that China exploded an H-bomb the other day. He only knows the Americans are fighting a war in Vietnam because someone wrote a song about it. Us girls are happy to leave the music side of things to Kevin
McDowd. He writes the songs, arranges the music, does the recording, organises the publicity, whereas Lachlan and the others have to have their fingers in every pie. Gosh, it’s hot! Do you mind if I go inside? You stay if you like.’
‘I’ll come with you. I’ll have another dip later. I need a drink, me throat’s as dry as a bone. By the way, we brought some wine, but I bet Fly didn’t put it in the fridge like I told him.’
The wine was on top of the fridge, not in, but there were already enough bottles chilled. They were sitting in the lounge beneath the fan, sipping the wine, when Max arrived with Gareth toddling at his side. Monica had gone to Southport to buy another outfit for Marcia’s wedding on Saturday, he said. ‘She’d bought a costume, but it’ll be far too warm if the weather stays like this.’
‘That doesn’t sound a bad idea,’ Stella mused. ‘I’ve got a costume too, lilac grosgrain. The jacket’s lined and it’s got long sleeves. I’ll melt away to nothing on a day like today.’
Jeannie said she also had a costume, pale lemon linen, but instead of a skirt, it had a sleeveless dress, which she could wear without the jacket. ‘It’s Mary Quant,’ she said. ‘Incredibly short.’
Max went down to the basement, leaving the adorable Gareth with his only too willing aunt. Not long afterwards, Sean McDowd arrived, having been summoned on the downstairs phone to give his opinion on the bells in ‘Marzipan Dream’, followed half an hour later by the rest of the McDowds, who’d been out to lunch. ‘I’ve written a new song,’ Kevin said excitedly – he was always excited about something. He’d like Jeannie to play it later, see what she thought. Rita liked it. ‘Don’t you, luv?’
Rita shrugged, which could have meant yes or no, and didn’t speak.
The house suited being full. Zoe wasn’t coming. She was in London with her boyfriend, an actor, who had a small part in a West End play being premiered that night. Marcia, of course, was involved in preparations for her wedding.
Marcia was marrying the son of a lord, the patient Graham having been dispensed with long ago. There’d been dozens of other boyfriends in between.
Dr and Mrs Bailey didn’t mind that their daughter’s wedding was being held in the wilds of Wiltshire, not far from Salisbury Plain, rather than in Walton Vale. It meant they wouldn’t have the burden of the arrangements. Someone else would be ordering the flowers, the cars, the photographer, organising the reception, and doing the myriad other things necessary for a wedding.
The Elroy-Smythes had lived in the village of Harwood for more than four centuries. Their manor house had been added to several times over the years and now had thirty-eight rooms.
Philip Elroy-Smythe, Marcia’s husband-to-be, was better known to the outside world as Phil Smythe, a guitarist with the Awkward Crew, a moderately successful beat group. Six months ago, the Awkward Crew had supported the Flower Girls in a whirlwind tour of the British Isles. Phil would have preferred a quiet wedding in a register office, but Marcia liked the idea of a grand affair and the entire village of Harwood was coming to a dance being held after the reception.
The Flower Girls and the Merseysiders had been invited, along with their various husbands, wives, and boyfriends, and, of course, Kevin and Sadie McDowd.
They would stay two nights and travel down the day before.
Jeannie and Lachlan set off on Friday morning, another oppressively hot day, in the two-seater, milky-white Ferrari with matching leather seats. Lachlan loved driving. He said little over the first thirty or forty miles, though once or twice he opened his mouth to speak, but must have thought better of it. Perhaps he was worried about the group. Normally easygoing to a fault, fulsomely good-natured, generous, and exquisitely polite, these attributes could vanish in a flash where the Merseysiders were concerned. He would become a tyrant, as protective as a mother with her new-born child, worrying over the slightest, most insignificant details, such as the volume of the bells in ‘Marzipan Dream’.
They left Shropshire and entered Worcester, roughly halfway there. Jeannie asked if they could please stop at the next pub for a drink and something to eat. Lachlan would have driven the entire length of the country and back again without a single break.
‘This one looks quite nice,’ she said when they were approaching a long, low, thatched building with a hanging sign outside and Lachlan was about to roar right past. The brakes screeched, and, with an air of reluctance, he slowed to turn into the car park.
The garden was full of customers, drinking and baking in the sun. They went inside where it would be cooler and they hoped they could tuck themselves in a quiet corner, out of the way of any eager autograph hunters.