silver band representing a colliery or a village somewhere in the North of the country. The musicians travelled a long way by coach to play. All that was required of the
Greencoat was to place deckchairs around the bandstand and then fold them up again after everyone had gone. It was hardly onerous and I said I’d do it.
Tony and Pinky looked at each other. ‘Why can’t they all be like you?’ Pinky said. A ladybird settled on his brow and he seemed not to notice. ‘Where’s that fucking
Nobby?’
I was very glad of the chance to sit still. I hadn’t felt right since I’d almost plunged to my death. The jolt had put the world out of joint. Meanwhile the brass band was a sadly
outmoded feature of the entertainment programme; notionally it was kept on ‘for the oldies’ and in truth that’s who turned up to listen. The white-haired old folk. They bought
with them thin white-bread processed-meat sandwiches and thermos flasks filled with tea.
I helped the brass band set up, too. They were the Brigthorpe Colliery Band in smart sky-blue cotton blazers. They had already appeared earlier in the season. As I was tightening a music stand
the bandmaster said, ‘Are you new? What happened to Nigel?’
Nigel, I gathered, was my predecessor in the job. ‘No idea,’ I said. ‘He cleared off.’
‘Shame. Good lad, Nigel was.’
After everyone was settled I slumped into my own deckchair with a printed repertoire programme and the band struck up. The pure sounds of the brass band went to work on me at once. My breathing
returned to normal. I started to drift into a world where I was half asleep, floating and soaring and falling with the music. These unfashionable musicians carried with them a beautiful sadness
even when they played something jaunty and up-tempo. We had the William Tell Overture. They played the Floral Dance. They were into Largo from the New World Symphony when I felt someone settle
lightly into the deckchair next to me, and I felt sand closing over my head. I lurched awake, opened my eyes and found Terri sitting next to me. She said nothing.
‘I don’t want you to think,’ she whispered, ‘that I’ve come here just because you are here. Because I come here every week.’
Maybe I looked sceptical.
‘It’s the only place he will allow me to come on my own where he knows I’m not going to get chatted up.’ She indicated the snowy-haired audience with a nod of her head.
‘But I like it. And I knew you would be here.’
I waved away one of the ladybirds that were becoming a plague. ‘How?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s all all right. All of it. It’s meant to be. You’ll see. It’s meant to be. But it’s all all right.’
The band stopped for a breather and to swig water. The sunlight winked on their tubas and trombones and cornets. Sweat ran down the faces of the musicians and pooled in the crevices of their
armpits. Then on a command from their leader they picked up their instruments and started up again. I went to speak but she held up a hand to stop me. I looked at my programme: Adagio for Strings.
Terri sat forward in her deckchair, hands clasped under her chin like someone praying. Every now and then, as the movement began to swell, I stole a glance at her. Then I saw that she was indeed
weeping. Not just a pretty tear rolling down her lovely cheek, but bitter, bitter, tears expressed in silence. I felt my own chest constrict. I wanted to do something but I couldn’t. The
music had completely taken her over and it was almost as if she no longer knew I was there.
A ladybird alighted on her face, on the angle of her cheekbone. I do believe it was drinking from her tears. She brushed it away.
The afternoon was evaporating in a shimmering haze. I felt very strange. For a moment I hallucinated that the men and women and boys and girls of the band were all made of glass, and their
instruments, too. They were transparent and fragile, and I feared for the hammer that could
Greencoat was to place deckchairs around the bandstand and then fold them up again after everyone had gone. It was hardly onerous and I said I’d do it.
Tony and Pinky looked at each other. ‘Why can’t they all be like you?’ Pinky said. A ladybird settled on his brow and he seemed not to notice. ‘Where’s that fucking
Nobby?’
I was very glad of the chance to sit still. I hadn’t felt right since I’d almost plunged to my death. The jolt had put the world out of joint. Meanwhile the brass band was a sadly
outmoded feature of the entertainment programme; notionally it was kept on ‘for the oldies’ and in truth that’s who turned up to listen. The white-haired old folk. They bought
with them thin white-bread processed-meat sandwiches and thermos flasks filled with tea.
I helped the brass band set up, too. They were the Brigthorpe Colliery Band in smart sky-blue cotton blazers. They had already appeared earlier in the season. As I was tightening a music stand
the bandmaster said, ‘Are you new? What happened to Nigel?’
Nigel, I gathered, was my predecessor in the job. ‘No idea,’ I said. ‘He cleared off.’
‘Shame. Good lad, Nigel was.’
After everyone was settled I slumped into my own deckchair with a printed repertoire programme and the band struck up. The pure sounds of the brass band went to work on me at once. My breathing
returned to normal. I started to drift into a world where I was half asleep, floating and soaring and falling with the music. These unfashionable musicians carried with them a beautiful sadness
even when they played something jaunty and up-tempo. We had the William Tell Overture. They played the Floral Dance. They were into Largo from the New World Symphony when I felt someone settle
lightly into the deckchair next to me, and I felt sand closing over my head. I lurched awake, opened my eyes and found Terri sitting next to me. She said nothing.
‘I don’t want you to think,’ she whispered, ‘that I’ve come here just because you are here. Because I come here every week.’
Maybe I looked sceptical.
‘It’s the only place he will allow me to come on my own where he knows I’m not going to get chatted up.’ She indicated the snowy-haired audience with a nod of her head.
‘But I like it. And I knew you would be here.’
I waved away one of the ladybirds that were becoming a plague. ‘How?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s all all right. All of it. It’s meant to be. You’ll see. It’s meant to be. But it’s all all right.’
The band stopped for a breather and to swig water. The sunlight winked on their tubas and trombones and cornets. Sweat ran down the faces of the musicians and pooled in the crevices of their
armpits. Then on a command from their leader they picked up their instruments and started up again. I went to speak but she held up a hand to stop me. I looked at my programme: Adagio for Strings.
Terri sat forward in her deckchair, hands clasped under her chin like someone praying. Every now and then, as the movement began to swell, I stole a glance at her. Then I saw that she was indeed
weeping. Not just a pretty tear rolling down her lovely cheek, but bitter, bitter, tears expressed in silence. I felt my own chest constrict. I wanted to do something but I couldn’t. The
music had completely taken her over and it was almost as if she no longer knew I was there.
A ladybird alighted on her face, on the angle of her cheekbone. I do believe it was drinking from her tears. She brushed it away.
The afternoon was evaporating in a shimmering haze. I felt very strange. For a moment I hallucinated that the men and women and boys and girls of the band were all made of glass, and their
instruments, too. They were transparent and fragile, and I feared for the hammer that could
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