‘She might be al ergic to cats,’ Margaret said. ‘If you make her sneeze, you’l have to be shut in the kitchen.’
Dawson moved slowly across the carpet and sprang on to the bed Margaret had just made up. He sniffed the pil ows. Then he turned and trampled round in a circle for a while and lowered himself into a comfortable heap of cat in the middle of the paisley quilt, closing his eyes and flattening his ears in anticipation of Margaret’s tel ing him that he was to get up and get off that bed at once.
She didn’t. She went across the room and fiddled with some china ornaments on top of the chest of drawers, and then she opened the wardrobe and looked at the padded hangers inside and then she went to the window and looked out at the early-summer sea, which was blue-grey under a grey-blue sky. Dawson opened his eyes cautiously and al owed his ears to rise discreetly again.
‘D’you know,’ Margaret said, and stopped.
She picked up the wooden acorn attached to the window blind, and examined it.
‘D’you know,’ Margaret said again, her back stil to Dawson, ‘I am real y very nervous.’
Scott opened the door of his flat and stood back so that Amy could see right down the room.
She gazed for a while in silence, and then she took a step inside and said softly, ‘Oh wow.’
Scott fol owed her and shut the door. He slid her rucksack off his shoulder and lowered it gently to the floor.
‘This is amazing,’ Amy said.
She began to walk down the length of the room very deliberately, step after step, silent in her canvas basebal boots. Scott stayed where he was, and watched her. She was looking from side to side, at the kitchen area, at the black sofa, at the bare bricks of the wal s, at Scott’s col ection of reproduction Cartier-Bresson photographs. When she got to the piano, she stopped and put her hands on it lightly.
‘This looks so cool here.’
Scott swal owed.
‘D’you real y think so?’
Amy nodded.
‘It used to stand on a carpet. Dad hated it being on a carpet, but Mum said it had to, to insulate the noise, because of the neighbours. It looks much better on a floor.’
Scott began to move towards her.
‘D’you like my view?’
Amy glanced up.
‘Oh my God—’
‘D’you remember asking me about the Tyne Bridge? That’s the Tyne Bridge.’
Amy raised an arm and pointed.
‘And what’s that? The silver thing.’
‘It’s the Sage,’ Scott said.
‘The Sage—’
‘Two concert hal s, a music education centre, a children’s concert hal , the home of the Northern Sinfonia. Peggy Seeger came last year.’
Amy said, ‘It’s like being abroad, it’s so different—’
‘Yes.’
She looked down at the piano.
‘I suppose—’
‘What?’
‘I suppose this has sort of come home?’
‘Except that it was probably made in America.’
She shot him a quick smile.
‘You don’t want me to get sentimental—’
‘No, I don’t.’
She looked back along the flat.
‘This is so great.’
‘I like it,’ Scott said. ‘My mother doesn’t get it. Can’t get it. She thinks it’s barbaric to live in a place like this.’
‘Let’s – not talk about mothers.’
‘Fine.’
‘While I’m here,’ Amy said, ‘I don’t want to wonder if I shouldn’t be here.’
‘I shan’t remind you.’
‘Where’m I sleeping?’
Scott moved behind the piano and opened his bedroom door.
‘Here.’
Amy took in the sparseness, and the size of the window, and the Yamaha keyboard at the end of the bed.
She said, ‘ Wicked—’
‘I’m sleeping on the sofa.’
‘D’you – d’you mind?’
‘I like the sofa. I’ve often slept, unintentional y if you get me, on the sofa.’
Amy sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned backwards, spreading her hands out on the new bedlinen, stil marked by the sharp creases of its packaging.
‘What are we going to do?’
Scott leaned against the door jamb. He folded his arms. He had a sudden, exhilarating sense of freedom, a sense that the next few days were not, actual y, going to be crippled by either the distant past or the recent past, that Amy had come north not so much for family reasons as for reasons of her own, which in turn, and wonderful y, liberated him.
‘Wel , he said, ‘when I’ve shown you around a bit, I’m going to take you to a folk club.’
Amy sat up.
‘A folk club?’
‘You’re in Newcastle. You’re in the birthplace of the living tradition. I’m taking you to hear a girl who plays jazz, who plays folk. On her flute.’
‘Oh!’ Amy said, and then, again, ‘ Wow.’
‘Mr Harrison cal ed,’ Glenda said. She did not say that Mr Harrison’s secretary had cal ed, wanting to speak to Margaret, and when Margaret didn’t ring back Mr Harrison had rung himself, as if his presence on the other end of a telephone line might conjure Margaret up by its very power.
‘Oh yes,’ Margaret said.
‘Would you like to know why?’
‘Not particularly,’ Margaret said.
Glenda went on typing. There was a difference, in her view, between being rather admirably strong-minded and resistant to cajolery and, on the other hand, taking that resistance so far that you looked like a sulky adolescent. She had learned, too, that if she ignored both Margaret and Barry –
two very different personalities who shared a singular capacity for pig-headedness – they would capitulate to being ignored long before she gave in out of pity. She kept an eye on Margaret, using her peripheral vision, but continued to look steadily and straight ahead at her screen.
‘I can’t concentrate today,’ Margaret said abruptly.
Glenda let a beat fal , and then she said, ‘It’s that girl coming.’
‘I haven’t had anyone of eighteen in the house since Scott was that age. Twenty years or more. What do they eat, for heaven’s sake?’
‘What you give them,’ Glenda said.
‘Wel ,’ Margaret said, ‘it’l be Sunday lunch at the Grand Hotel. I’ve fixed that, with Scott. I told him, Sunday lunch and don’t you wear trainers.’
‘I’ve never been to the Grand Hotel—’
‘Haven’t you, dear? I’l take you on your fiftieth.’
‘I had my fiftieth four years ago.’
‘Sixtieth, then.’
‘I may be dead by then—’
Margaret looked up.
‘Don’t talk rubbish.’
‘She’s a lucky girl,’ Glenda said, ‘sleeping in your guestroom, having lunch at the Grand Hotel.’
‘ She’s Richie’s daughter — ’
‘She can’t help that.’
‘Glenda,’ Margaret said, ‘what did Bernie Harrison want?’
Without hurry, Glenda sifted through the papers on her desk to find the note she had made of his message.
‘He said he has two people he’d like you to hear, just for your opinion, one a singer, one a pianist, and he would like to invite you for dinner or cocktails or cocktails and dinner and he’s given you a choice of five dates.’