Chapter 19
SHANE
In his brand-new sleeping bag, bought to demonstrate to Josie how sorted he is these days, Shane didn’t sleep a wink.
Yet weirdly, it didn’t seem to drag on for weeks like the normal kind of sleepless night.
Compare, say, a shop day with virtually zero customers and bugger all happening, with one that’s filled with complicated orders for strings for a ukelele group in Toronto and an orchestra in Belarus and a kid having a blast on every saxophone in the shop and various men of a certain age ambling in to try this guitar and that guitar, with endless permutations of amp and pedal.
Last night was that sort of night. It was hectic, and not with urgent requests from orchestras and string ensembles, but with thoughts bouncing chaotically around in Shane’s head, such as:
My God, I’m lying on a mattress in an ambulance with Josie.
Is this really happening or just a bizarre dream?
So, what happens tomorrow? (He checked the time, taking care not to wake her with the glow of his phone. 4.58 a.m.)
Am I going to be okay to drive this thing tomorrow?
Of course I am. I’m so wired right now I could drive to the moon.
Am I taking over with the driving, though?
Does she think I’m a sexist twerp who doesn’t like being driven by a woman?
Josie said she’s happy to do it. But does that mean she wants to?
Am I acting weird? Was that mad of me, to offer to sleep in the cab? He’d sleep out there on the grass if she wanted him to.
We’re being overly polite and not talking about the stuff that really matters. Do we need to go over it all? Or is it better to pretend that none of it ever happened?
And – while all of that was rolling around in his brain – another more pressing line of enquiry was simmering away underneath.
What was that stuff going on with her boyfriend last night?
While Shane wasn’t eavesdropping, he couldn’t help overhearing certain fragments.
‘I’m a deformed peasant?’ ‘You never mentioned videos.’ ‘Lloyd, I’m not showing anyone my tits!
’ He knows that Josie is currently out of work, and he’s furious on her behalf with that arsehole at the bookshop.
He is also trying not to make any wild assumptions over alternative career plans that her boyfriend might have in mind for her.
However, at precisely 6.04 a.m., Shane decided that he had already taken a strong dislike to this Lloyd person.
Should I ask if she’s okay? his thoughts raced on.
Tell her how sorry I am about what happened between us?
Finally, at around six thirty, he knew there was no point in lying there any longer.
The sun was already squeezing its way through the grubby sack-like curtains at the van’s back windows.
Shane eased his exhausted corpse from his sleeping bag and delved into his neatly packed rucksack for a notebook and pen.
He tore off a sheet and wrote a note.
Going out for a walk, won’t be long, hope you slept well.
He thought about adding ‘Shane’ or even ‘Shane x’. But who else would it be from? Father Christmas? So he left it like that, placed next to the still-sleeping Josie, and as quietly as possible he opened the ambulance’s back door and blinked in the retina-searing morning sun.
He crossed the campsite, breathing in the cool, fresh air and marvelling at the quietness of the place.
Seemingly, not another soul was up and about yet.
In the rumpled T-shirt and joggers he’d slept in – he hadn’t wanted to disturb Josie by faffing about with his clothes – he left the site and walked in the direction of the pub they’d stopped off at last night.
From there he continued into town, where neatly kept terraced cottages soon gave way to small businesses.
A pet shop, a grocer’s and a post office, all closed.
Then finally he spotted a greasy spoon café.
He checked the sign listing its opening hours and decided to wait.
This is where Shane is now, his spirits lifting at the thought of hot coffee and something to eat. Finally, a blonde ponytailed woman appears, smiling at him through the glass door and beckoning him in.
‘Thanks,’ he says, conscious of his dishevelled state. He runs a hand over his unkempt hair and asks for a couple of takeaway coffees and bacon rolls, wrapped in foil to keep them hot.
‘There you go, love,’ the woman says with a cheery smile.
By the time he arrives back at the campsite, Josie is up and showered, judging by her still-wet hair. ‘You needn’t have done that,’ she says, as he hands over her coffee and roll. ‘But thanks.’
‘No problem,’ Shane says. ‘I was awake early and fancied a walk. Also, I realise I don’t know if you eat bacon, or if you’re vegetarian or—’
‘I eat bacon,’ she says with a grin. They perch on the lumpy stone wall and as they devour their breakfasts, Shane glances down at his T-shirt and joggers. ‘I really need a shower,’ he says apologetically.
‘The facilities are fantastic.’ Josie smiles. ‘Five-star.’
He chuckles. ‘Compared to Doris’s, you mean?’
She nods, knocking crumbs from the front of her sweater. ‘There’s hot water at least.’
‘Glad to hear it. So, how did you sleep last night?’
‘Actually, really well!’ she says brightly. ‘How about you?’
‘Out like a light,’ he fibs. Yet he feels surprisingly perky as he showers quickly and carefully manoeuvres Doris out of the campsite. It seems to be a muddle of ring roads and roundabouts until the town finally opens out into its docks.
Through the open driver’s window, Shane catches the sharp, briny, unmistakably fishy smell.
It’s not unpleasant. This is a working town – no longer thriving, as he imagines it was when his dad lived and worked here, but still chugging along.
They pass stout brick warehouses and a sagging terrace of shops, and park up close to the docks.
‘Wow, look at that!’ Josie exclaims as they climb out of the van.
Following her gaze, Shane takes in the sight of the tall, imposing red-brick tower. ‘D’you remember that?’ he asks.
Her clear blue eyes catch the morning sun. ‘No, I don’t. But we didn’t do much sightseeing back then, did we?’
‘Not that I remember.’ He smiles and with no further discussion, they drift towards a little wooden-fronted café with a couple of tables outside, where they have a second coffee. Fat gulls shriek overhead, and boats bob gently on their moorings. ‘So, I guess we’d better find it,’ Josie announces.
‘You mean the venue? The Laughing… Herring, was it?’
‘Haddock.’ She grins and pats the canvas bag slung over her shoulder. ‘Ready for our photo shoot?’
‘Oh God.’ He sniggers. ‘Do we really have to do this?’
‘We do!’ So off they go, with Josie leading the way with her phone map on this cool, breezy morning, and quickening her pace as the illustrious venue comes into view.
Without warning, a memory smacks him squarely in the face. For a second, he’s no longer a middle-aged man with two teenage kids and an ex-wife and a special relationship with the Belarusian String Orchestra. He is twenty years old and has just arrived here in Ravi’s uncle’s massive car.
Ravi isn’t dead. The cancer that cut her big, beautiful life short doesn’t even exist. She is brimming with life, bossing him and Josie about, having booked their gigs and had fliers printed and even T-shirts made, for crying out loud.
T-shirts with their faces on them, from a drawing she did!
She’s made him look like Stig of the Dump, but he doesn’t care and wears it anyway.
He’s not bothered about his ‘image’ (a word frequently bandied about by Ravi) and anyway, he has bigger things to worry about.
Although pretending that everything is in hand, he is worried about setting up his drum kit in an unfamiliar venue, and what the locals will make of their ramshackle brand of indie pop.
Josie is nervous too. She’s admitted it to him, secretly (‘Don’t tell Rav!
’). Shane also knows that she only settled on playing bass because she’d found one languishing among the frilly lampshades and Cliff Richard records in a charity shop.
He was there with her that day. ‘A bass? You sure?’ he’d asked her.
She’d laughingly said that, with four strings rather than a guitar’s standard six, it was bound to be easier.
He flinches now as she touches his arm. ‘Look at this place,’ she murmurs.
‘Jesus,’ he breathes. The pub appears to be leaning tipsily into the street. Its painted sign – a cartoon fish clutching a tankard – is bleached almost to invisibility.
‘Classy,’ she says, turning to him with a smile as she pulls out the Polaroid camera from her bag.
‘You’ve put the film in?’ he asks.
Josie chuckles mockingly. ‘No, I thought I wouldn’t bother,’ she retorts, and he tries to laugh off his embarrassment.
‘She could have left us a digital one,’ he jokes.
‘Yeah. Bit thoughtless,’ Josie adds with a wry smile. A silence hovers and he sees her eyes fill with tears and is overcome by an urge to hug her. ‘Poor Ravi,’ she adds softly.
He nods, not knowing what else to say. Josie examines the chunky device; it seems like an ancient artefact now. ‘C’mon, then,’ she says, brightening. ‘Let’s do it.’
‘Okay!’ Subconsciously, he straightens up and stands tall, ready for the paparazzi. She flops an arm around his shoulders, the simple act causing his heart rate to quicken, like when that kid came into his shop and fiddled with the metronomes, setting them click-clicking a manic beat.
‘It doesn’t have a selfie function,’ Josie announces, holding the camera at arm’s length.
‘So how do we know if we’re in the picture?’
‘We’ll soon find out!’ Her cheek is up against his now, their faces touching as the wind whips at her fine blonde hair.
Shane feels as if his heart could burst. ‘Smile!’ she commands, and he grins like a maniac as she presses the button and the picture slides out of the slot.
Moments later, they are studying the photo as the image appears.
As he looks at it, he can hardly speak.
Him and Josie in the bleached, bluish tinge of the Polaroid print.
The two of them, just as they were. Before everything happened and he never saw her again, until Ravi died. Ravi who’s brought them back to The Laughing Haddock on this blustery afternoon.
Josie smiles, tilting her lovely face towards him. ‘Like it?’
‘I love it!’ The words fell out before he could stop them.
Josie blinks at him and quickly slips the photo into her jacket pocket, and the camera into her bag. ‘Shall we go in then?’
‘You want a drink?’ Shane asks in surprise.
She laughs. ‘It’s a bit early even for me. No, just for a look. I’m curious to see it, aren’t you?’
‘Yeah,’ he says truthfully. So in they go, hesitantly.
Shane looks around the surprisingly cavernous room, taking in the smell of stale beer and an undertone of damp.
The walls are deeply yellowed and strewn with frayed fishing nets, and Madonna’s ‘Like a Prayer’ is playing quietly. There’s not a soul in sight.
‘Look,’ Josie murmurs, indicating the ‘stage’ at the back of the pub.
Barely any bigger than a dining table, it’s wedged between the dartboard and the ladies’ loo.
Shane can see his younger self right there, hunched shyly behind his drum kit.
A barrier between him and the audience that he was always grateful for.
It felt as if he could truly be himself, behind his kit.
No one could get at him there. It was a world that Pete, and his mum, knew nothing about, and whenever he played, his life at home faded away to nothing.
‘God, this place,’ he says softly.
Josie nods. ‘Feels like yesterday, doesn’t it?’
‘It really does.’ He looks at her, wishing he could take her hand and squeeze it. Wishing he could tell her how this feels, being here.
‘Remember the trouser row before this gig?’ she prompts him.
‘Trouser row?’
She smiles. ‘It was Grimsby, wasn’t it? When Ravi bought you those outrageous trousers from a charity shop?’
Now it flashes back to him. ‘Oh God, yeah! Made out of some kind of shiny black plastic?’
‘And you refused to wear them, like a child.’
‘Hey! Understandably, I think!’ he says in mock defensiveness.
‘So Ravi wore them,’ she says, and as their eyes meet briefly, something sparks in him.
‘To make a point, I think,’ he adds.
‘Yeah.’ Josie nods. ‘That was Ravi all over, wasn’t it?’ She pauses and he catches her glancing at the stage. ‘Oh, Shane. I still can’t believe she’s gone.’
‘Yes, I know.’ I’m thinking it too, he wants to tell her. You and me and Ravi with our lives ahead of us.
‘So,’ she says, ‘what d’you want to do now?’
Shane glances towards the pub’s open door. ‘I think we should go.’
She frowns, seeming momentarily confused. ‘Go back to London, you mean?’
‘Oh, no!’ he exclaims. ‘I meant, let’s get on the road, shall we? To the bright lights of Bridlington?’
‘Sounds good,’ she says as they step out into the sharp, salty air. ‘And you know what? I’d like to drive us there.’
‘Really?’ he asks in surprise. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ she insists. ‘Don’t look so terrified.’
‘I’m not!’ he protests. ‘Honestly, I’m not—’
She grins, thrusting her flattened palm at him. ‘C’mon, then. Hand over the keys.’