lament. The sound of a lonely flute might wake him next morning, sweet yet sad. Then there were the love songs, plucking at his heartstrings, making him think of Jeannie Flowers. Whenever this happened, his heart would quicken, his pulse would race. One day . . .
Sometimes, Sean himself was the source of the imaginary music. His own hands wielded the sticks over a set of drums much grander than the one in Ailsham Women’s Institute Hall. His fingers plucked the strings of a guitar, a double bass, caressed a piano’s ivory teeth, and his arm wielded the bow on many a violin or cello.
He took after his father. ‘He lived and breathed music, did Kevin McDowd. It was in his blood,’ his mother had said on numerous occasions.
Once he had checked the tone of the drums, Sean began to hum ‘Twelfth Street Rag’. He struck the drums lightly in rhythm with the tune. He did this another half a dozen times, getting the hang of things.
He could do it! Now it was time to play it properly. Pressing his foot on the pedal, he let rip, as he had done so many times before in his imagination. Sean pounded the drums, tapped them politely, coaxed them, whispered encouragement, bent his head and cocked his ear, half expecting the drum he was beating to talk back and tell him what a grand job he was doing. He felt as if his arms had grown and he no longer had merely two as the sticks thrashed wildly, gently, subtly, slyly over the cheap set of drums that had never known anything like it before.
People came, as Sean had expected, though the outraged voices in the hall came as a shock. He dropped the sticks, made for the gents, and was halfway across the field behind the hall by the time the secretary of the Women’s Institute and her husband burst into the room behind the stage, to find the cymbals still trembling, a Union Jack destroyed and, later, a window broken in the gents’ toilet.
‘Guess who I saw in the Cavern last night?’
Jeannie shrugged. ‘I dunno, Max. The Queen? Marilyn Monroe? The Archbishop of Canterbury?’
‘No, idiot. It was Sean McDowd, of all people.’
‘I don’t know why you should sound so surprised. Sean’s just as much right to be there as you.’
Max had no idea why the sight of Sean had made him feel so uneasy. Perhaps it was because Sean, who was there alone, didn’t dance, didn’t talk, didn’t move from the side of the stage, where he stood very still, unsmiling, watching the Acker Bilk Jazz Band, watching every single movement the musicians made, taking everything in. After a while, Max noticed Sean wasn’t still any more. He had closed his eyes and his foot was tapping, his head nodding slightly. Even the thumbs on his long handswere twitching. Sean
was
the music. It had taken him over.
In view of what happened a few weeks later, Max was right to have felt uneasy when he saw Sean McDowd in the Cavern – he’d been there several times since and
he
didn’t have to leave early to catch a train so his father could pick him up from the station.
The Flowers and the Baileys had formed their own group, the Merseysiders, with Lachlan on guitar, Jeannie on piano, Elaine wielding a tambourine, and Max playing the mouth organ. At first, Max had thought this dead pathetic, but having practised every spare minute, he’d become quite capable – and it was only till he got a guitar.
They played in the Baileys’ parlour until the neighbours complained, then in the Flowers’ until
their
neighbours complained, and transferred to the Flowers’ garden shed, where they were surrounded by seed boxes, tins of paint, and garden tools. Tom’s bike had to be removed to make room. Deprived of a piano, Jeannie lost interest in the music side of things, but not the close proximity of Lachlan Bailey, who was growing taller, broader, and more attractive by the minute. She made do with an old toy xylophone and stayed with the group in the hope that Lachlan would continue to throw her the odd smile, though both
Sometimes, Sean himself was the source of the imaginary music. His own hands wielded the sticks over a set of drums much grander than the one in Ailsham Women’s Institute Hall. His fingers plucked the strings of a guitar, a double bass, caressed a piano’s ivory teeth, and his arm wielded the bow on many a violin or cello.
He took after his father. ‘He lived and breathed music, did Kevin McDowd. It was in his blood,’ his mother had said on numerous occasions.
Once he had checked the tone of the drums, Sean began to hum ‘Twelfth Street Rag’. He struck the drums lightly in rhythm with the tune. He did this another half a dozen times, getting the hang of things.
He could do it! Now it was time to play it properly. Pressing his foot on the pedal, he let rip, as he had done so many times before in his imagination. Sean pounded the drums, tapped them politely, coaxed them, whispered encouragement, bent his head and cocked his ear, half expecting the drum he was beating to talk back and tell him what a grand job he was doing. He felt as if his arms had grown and he no longer had merely two as the sticks thrashed wildly, gently, subtly, slyly over the cheap set of drums that had never known anything like it before.
People came, as Sean had expected, though the outraged voices in the hall came as a shock. He dropped the sticks, made for the gents, and was halfway across the field behind the hall by the time the secretary of the Women’s Institute and her husband burst into the room behind the stage, to find the cymbals still trembling, a Union Jack destroyed and, later, a window broken in the gents’ toilet.
‘Guess who I saw in the Cavern last night?’
Jeannie shrugged. ‘I dunno, Max. The Queen? Marilyn Monroe? The Archbishop of Canterbury?’
‘No, idiot. It was Sean McDowd, of all people.’
‘I don’t know why you should sound so surprised. Sean’s just as much right to be there as you.’
Max had no idea why the sight of Sean had made him feel so uneasy. Perhaps it was because Sean, who was there alone, didn’t dance, didn’t talk, didn’t move from the side of the stage, where he stood very still, unsmiling, watching the Acker Bilk Jazz Band, watching every single movement the musicians made, taking everything in. After a while, Max noticed Sean wasn’t still any more. He had closed his eyes and his foot was tapping, his head nodding slightly. Even the thumbs on his long handswere twitching. Sean
was
the music. It had taken him over.
In view of what happened a few weeks later, Max was right to have felt uneasy when he saw Sean McDowd in the Cavern – he’d been there several times since and
he
didn’t have to leave early to catch a train so his father could pick him up from the station.
The Flowers and the Baileys had formed their own group, the Merseysiders, with Lachlan on guitar, Jeannie on piano, Elaine wielding a tambourine, and Max playing the mouth organ. At first, Max had thought this dead pathetic, but having practised every spare minute, he’d become quite capable – and it was only till he got a guitar.
They played in the Baileys’ parlour until the neighbours complained, then in the Flowers’ until
their
neighbours complained, and transferred to the Flowers’ garden shed, where they were surrounded by seed boxes, tins of paint, and garden tools. Tom’s bike had to be removed to make room. Deprived of a piano, Jeannie lost interest in the music side of things, but not the close proximity of Lachlan Bailey, who was growing taller, broader, and more attractive by the minute. She made do with an old toy xylophone and stayed with the group in the hope that Lachlan would continue to throw her the odd smile, though both
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