Chapter 12
Twelve
A lover of Paris café life. Best known for his uninhibited paintings of Tahiti and its people.
(Taken from Calliope Thorne’s teaching notes.)
Agull screeched. Callie opened one eye fractionally, only to shut it again.
The sunlight was harsh and firing daggers.
She smacked her mouth open and shut. Dry and gritty and, ugh, her teeth felt furred and disgusting.
Someone appeared to have taken up residence in her head, and they were playing drums. Timpani drums. And a double bass.
They must have eight arms as they went on to hit a dinner gong. Loudly. Oof.
Through the pain Callie heard a gentle tapping on her bedroom door and Johnny’s voice saying, ‘Pot of tea here if you’re up to it.’
Groaning, Callie threw the duvet off. Hearing his footsteps retreat downstairs and the front door close, she forced herself up.
Opening her bedroom door, through bleary eyes, she spied a tray.
Teapot, mug, milk, a plate of biscuits and a packet of paracetamol.
And a bud vase with a single white rose from the garden.
Even though the peculiar orchestra in her head was revving up for its finale, she mustered a smile.
He was such a nice man. Wincing, she really, really hoped she hadn’t embarrassed him last night.
Thirty minutes later, having scrubbed her teeth, downed the pint of water neglected from last night, then taken an equal amount of tea and two paracetamols, Callie felt slightly more human.
She eyed the biscuits and nibbled one. It was ginger.
Her stomach heaved, thankfully settled and then gave out an enormous rumble.
It seemed a long time since the lobster bao buns.
There was only one cure for a hangover this bad.
Mind made up, she headed for the shower.
An hour later, she sat at an outside table, eating a Sea Spray Café Lullbury Bay full English breakfast. Tracey, having clocked her wan face and dark glasses, had supplied an unfeasibly large pot of scalding tea and added fried bread. It was kill or cure.
As Tracey came to check if she wanted more toast, Austin ambled out from the inside the café.
He was ashen-faced. ‘He was at that fancy party last night, up God Almighty,’ Tracey explained with a wink.
‘Had a right old good time, by the looks of it. Green as a mussel, he was, when he turned up this morning. Nonstop champagne, I heard. You all right, or can you manage a bite more, maid?’
‘No more toast, thanks, Tracey, but I’d love another pot of tea. I was at the party too and I’m as hungover as–’ Callie let the sentence trail. The right idiom escaped her.
‘Rough as a badger’s arse, I’d say, my lovely.’ Tracey chuckled. ‘Thought you looked a bit washed out behind those sunnies. Was it worth the pain though? That’s the question.’
Callie squinted up at her, the sun bouncing off the concrete making her eyes throb. ‘I’ll tell you in a couple of hours but a full English is working its magic already.’
‘Always does, maid, always does.’ Tracey looked up as a customer approached. ‘Hello there, Johnny. What can I get you?’
He looked down at Callie, a smile playing about his lips. ‘If it’s okay with Callie to share her table, I’d love a black coffee.’
‘Not sure she’s up to company,’ Tracey said protectively and rested a hand on her ample hip.
‘I’m fine and recovering by the minute,’ Callie reassured her. ‘Sit down, Johnny, but sit this side next to me, if you don’t mind, then I won’t have to look into the sun.’
‘Righteo then, folks, a pot of tea and a black coffee coming up. Won’t be long.’ Tracey bustled into the café and they were left alone.
The awkward silence was punctuated only by the call of gulls, the shifting of the turquoise sea and the slap of flip-flops on sandy concrete as tourists began to make their way down to the beach.
In the harbour flags fluttered in the gentle breeze and yacht halyards clanked.
Callie found she was coping better with the sensory load so decided her hangover was receding.
‘Feeling more human?’ Johnny asked, after Tracey had delivered a pot of tea and Callie had gulped down yet another cup.
‘Getting there. Bacon and eggs helped. And thank you for the tray of tea, it was very thoughtful.’
‘Not a problem. I always crave tea and ginger biscuits after a drink or two so thought you might appreciate not having to get yourself up and into the kitchen.’
‘I did.’ Another leaden silence descended. ‘You were up bright and early. You obviously have a better head for alcohol than me.’
Johnny snorted. ‘Years of practice, although I try not to indulge too much. My family drives most people to drink. I’ve just been up to see them.
The party finished at four this morning, the neighbours are apoplectic, and Family Starling has some serious appeasement to do.
Mum is still drunk, Dad is flat out on the sofa snoring and there were at least five people who slept in the garden all night, including one on the compost heap. Warmer apparently.’
Callie sniggered inelegantly. ‘I just hope when I’m their age I can still party like that. To be honest, I think last night was the first time I’ve ever partied quite like that. They really are impressive.’
‘It’s one way of describing them.’
‘I hope,’ Callie began, took a deep breath and went on in a rush. ‘I hope I didn’t do anything to annoy or embarrass you?’ She refilled her cup to keep her nervous hands busy. It was something to concentrate on.
‘You?’ Johnny leaned back in surprise. ‘Good lord no. You make a very sweet drunk.’
‘Thank goodness for that. I’d hate to show you up. They’d put a lot of alcohol in that champagne.’
Johnny laughed and then nodded gravely.
Callie relaxed, knowing her behaviour hadn’t been too awful. ‘You mentioned something last night about showbusiness. Tell me about this group your mum and aunts were in.’
Johnny sipped his coffee and then placed the cup on its saucer with deliberate precision.
‘Not much to tell really,’ he shrugged. ‘Mum was very young at the time, not quite seventeen. Becky and Maria are older. They always sang together apparently, modelled themselves on those girl groups who always sang songs about motorbikes and tragic early death.’ He frowned at her questioningly. ‘The Ronettes? The Shangri-Las?’
‘No idea.’
‘Nor me. Before my time. Anyway, the three sisters were up in London seeing a show and hitting Carnaby Street one weekend when a talent scout spotted them. Long story short, they had quite a lot of success for a time, made records, appeared on television, were famous for a while as The Bonner Sisters. The “Bonnie” Bonner Sisters they were known as. Mum’s got a fabulous collection of memorabilia.
Then she met Dad and left the group to start her family. ’
‘She must have loved your dad a lot to give up all that,’ Callie said thoughtfully. ‘Not sure I would have given up fame and fortune.’
Johnny flicked her a glance. ‘Different times I suppose. Even in the late sixties most women weren’t expected to have a career and marriage.’
‘Must have been tough for Becky and Maria.’
He nodded. ‘I think it probably was. I understand there was a rift between them all for some time. Becky and Maria recruited another singer and carried on into the seventies but by then tastes in pop music had shifted. They went on as a duo singing on cruise ships, had quite the life. Had a pretty wild time. Didn’t retire until about ten years ago.
Bought a house together near Mum and Dad in Exeter and rebuilt some relationships.
’ He looked down into his coffee cup. ‘It always puzzles me why, whenever they see me, all they do is harass me about why I’ve done exactly the same.
You know, travelled the world, never settled in one place for long. ’
Callie observed him. There was a deep groove running down his cheek and the lines fanning around his eyes spoke of someone who laughed a lot and often.
At the moment though, a beat pulsed and his skin seemed too thin, as if all his emotions were flayed bare.
Whatever experiences laid into him during his years as a journalist had marked him deeply.
She hoped he was getting the help he so patently needed.
It’s not your job to make him better, she reminded herself.
But she couldn’t help it, she was beginning to care about this man very much.
And that’s going to work out how? she mused.
I don’t even have time to breathe most weeks during term time, let alone foster a relationship.
Between school, choir and Frida I have no time or emotional space left.
Her pastoral instinct, the aspect of her teaching career she enjoyed the most, came to the fore.
In lots of ways Johnny was no different to the many young people she’d counselled over the years.
Maybe, no matter how old you got, you remained the eternal teenager to your parents and older relatives?
‘Well,’ she began tentatively wondering if she was being intrusive, ‘maybe they feel they missed out and don’t want you to do the same? ’
His lips thinned. ‘Possibly. Even Sybil, who renounced any sniff of showbusiness and embraced academia and a resolutely single life, constantly bangs on at me to “settle down”. All Becky and Maria ever talk about is how great life at sea was, how many countries they saw, the partying. So why don’t they accept that’s what I wanted too? ’
‘What people say and the truth is rarely the same,’ she added gently.