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Troubador Publishing Ltd - Richard Smith

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169 pages

English

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George is a recently widowed seventy-nine-year-old. He nearly made it as a rock star in the 1960s and he's not happy. Tara is his teenage granddaughter and she's taken refuge from her bickering parents by living with George. Toby is George's son-in-law and he wants George in a care home. George has two secrets. 1) He's never revealed why his music career stalled. And 2) No-one knows just how much thedisappointment of opportunities missed still gnaw at him. He craves one last chance, even at his age. When it presents itself,through the appearance of a long-lost distant relative - whose chequered past should set alarm bells ringing - he can't resist.For Tara, living with her grandfather is a way to find her own path and develop her own musical ambitions. She isn't prepared forthe clash between different generations and living in a strange house full of her grandfather's memories - and vinyl records.They get off to a shaky start. George takes an instant dislike to the sounds from her bedroom that seem more suited toGuantanamo Bay than anything he would call musical. But as time plays out, they find there are more similarities - neither knowhow to operate a dishwasher - than differences, and parallels across the generations slowly bring them to recognise their sharedstrengths. But when Toby inadvertently sets in motion a chain of events, it leaves Tara with the same dilemma her grandfatherfaced five decades before with the same life-changing choice to make.

Informations

Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	28 janvier 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781838598068
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Copyright © 2020 Richard Smith

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Matador
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Harrison Road, Market Harborough
Leicestershire, LE16 7UL
Tel: 0116 279 2299
Email: books@troubador.co.uk
Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador
Twitter: @matadorbooks

ISBN 978 1838598 068

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Matador® is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

To everyone who gave me time, space,
inspiration and encouragement to write, especially
Arthur Packer, Derek O’Reilly and Douglas Hill,
who sadly will never know how important they were.

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38

The songs referred to in this book can be heard on a Spotify playlist on richardsmithwrites.com

Chapter 1
There were two things George Turnbull treasured above all else. One, his piano – upright, of no particular repute, King’s Head not Royal Albert Hall, but much played and well loved.
“This is our luxury accommodation. The Churchill Suite.”
“Lovely and roomy.” Toby nodded, turning to his wife for affirmation.
“We allow our residents to keep their most precious mementos,” the sales pitch continued. “Picture of a loved one to put on the dressing table, favourite clock. So long as it’s not too large.”
The second was his record collection, several thousand vinyl LPs, EPs and singles, and almost as many CDs.
“We find these suites are very popular, especially with our well-to-do guests.”
“Ah. That’s something that might be a problem. You see, George isn’t really that ‘well-to-do’. That’s true, isn’t it, darling?” Toby paused, turning to Bridget. She frowned, narrowed her eyes and glowered. “My wife and I will be selling his house in London. Even so, I’m afraid we may not be quite in the right – how should I say – ballpark? For the Churchill Suite.”
“No matter.” Mrs Williams carefully straightened a badge on her lapel. Worn like an ornamental brooch, it sported a designer logo, her name and the words, ‘Proprietor, Lastdays Rest Home’. “Perhaps Mr Turnbull would like to see one of our Mornington Rooms.” She barely glanced at George as she spoke. “Follow me. They’re just down the corridor. An acceptably affordable option, we like to think.”
There was a third thing, George now realised. To piano and records, add his cuttings. He’d kept every review, from his first performance pictured in the Swindon Advertiser , complete with ration-book outfit and National Service cropped hair, to his last at the Pavilion Ballroom, Strathpeffer, where his hair had been shorn not by clippers but by time. Except they weren’t really cuttings. He’d kept the whole newspaper. The front-page banner headlines weren’t international issues, more ‘Council Debates Road Closure’, ‘Stray Dog Causes Travel Chaos’, ‘Garden Blaze Destroys Shed’. And they weren’t so much reviews as gig listings and ‘Also Playing’. Yet he had them all. This monument to the past was in the same room as his music, a wall of yellowing paper, stacked in date order. ‘A fire waiting to happen,’ Toby called them.
Bridget put her hand gently on George’s arm. “Let’s move on to the Mornington Rooms. Don’t you think so, Dad?”
“If you want to, Bridget.”
It was the first time anyone had addressed George directly for some while, though in truth, he’d hardly been listening. For he’d suddenly realised there was a fourth treasure. Hunter. How could he have left him out? An ageing Labradoodle, struggling with a failed pancreas and the effects of a drug overdose, it was a miracle he was still alive. He’d been Evelyn’s dog, but Hunter surely had to fit into the rankings. Was he less important than the cuttings? And was the piano really more important than the records?
“Are you feeling alright, Dad?”
“Just thinking.”
“What about?”
“Come on, let’s get moving or we’ll run out of time to sort anything out.” Toby swayed impatiently as he spoke.
“I was thinking about my music. Actually.” George ignored his son-in-law.
“Lovely.” Mrs Williams strode off down the corridor like a tour guide on speed. “Was Mr Turnbull a musician? Left here for the Mornington Rooms.”
Without looking back to check if anyone was following, she made a sharp turn, narrowly avoiding a parked commode. The others duly followed in silent procession: first Toby, mid-fifties, short, greying, appearance by-passed by fashion; then Bridget, younger in age, dress and manner, hair coloured red – too red according to Tara, her teenage daughter. George followed, tall, pale and reluctant, sporting a new knitted jumper, half of an outfit Bridget had bought specially to help ‘bring him out of himself’, the other half having been rejected in favour of decades-old slacks. All that was missing was a band playing ‘The Conga’ and any sense of celebration.
Mrs Williams stopped at a sign overhead. ‘Mornington Wing’. “We have thirty-two Mornington Rooms, and as luck would have it, since yesterday, one vacancy. Once the room’s been cleared.”
Toby nodded. “Naturally.”
“Yes, very sad. But not really a surprise. Dear Ruby.” Mrs Williams paused for a moment, shaking her head. “Anyway, this wing is named after Gladys Mornington, one of our first guests. Ninety-three when she passed away. She loved music. And you say Mr Turnbull is musical? He’ll be very welcome at Christmas. We have a sing-a-long in the communal room.”
“He used to be a musician, yes,” Toby emphasised.
“You never lose it,” George murmured to himself but audibly enough for everyone to hear.
“He played in bands, supported some of the biggest acts from the sixties until he retired. Didn’t you, Dad?” Bridget’s tone was part proud, part defensive. George looked away, letting pass his daughter’s announcement that he’d retired. She carried on. “You should see his record collection!”
“Wonderful. We love people with such rich histories.”
George could sense a ‘but’ approaching. He wasn’t normally wrong when it came to anticipating what people were about to say. Seventy-nine years on this planet taught you most things you needed to know about people.
“I love music myself.” Mrs Williams’ smile didn’t falter. “But of course, we can’t accept personal collections here. We have to consider all our residents.”
Toby nodded vehemently, stern-faced. “Absolutely. Wouldn’t expect it. We can probably help him download some tunes to an iPod.”
“iPod? I haven’t got a bloody iPod.”
“Language, please, George.” Mrs Williams spoke as if addressing a class of under fives.
“And don’t bloody ‘George’ me, Mrs Williams . ”
Toby stepped between them. “Dad, please!”
“And I’m not your dad. Bridget, get me out of here. Please. Now.”
“If your father-in-law continues to behave in this manner, I regret we won’t be able to welcome him into our family. We are a respectable establishment with a reputation to uphold.” Mrs Williams’ back stiffened as she spoke.
“Bugger your reputation.”
“Well, really! I think you should leave.”
George didn’t need a second invitation. “Good! I didn’t want to bloody be here in the first place.”
“Dad!” Bridget hesitated, watching her father march off before giving chase, leaving Toby making apologetic noises in their wake.
For a man his age, who’d spent the last few months on a succession of repeat prescriptions, George was remarkably nimble. A burst of acceleration took him past a nurse escorting two inmates on Zimmers, then around a corner and into a low, dimly lit corridor. Plastered walls, fading magnolia paint discoloured by shaky hands and scarred by daily collisions with trolleys of meals and medication, were broken up only by anonymous, closed doors. Without looking back, George took two abrupt right turns, then a left, each manoeuvre luring him further into the maze and leaving him breathless. But at least it succeeded in shaking off his daughter. Not that he really wanted to, just he needed a few seconds to himself before she found him and the inevitability of confrontation and climb-down.
He reached a crossroads with three more identikit corridors, the corners of each chipped by wheelchair rims George guessed had been made by residents whose departure to the Garden of Remembrance had long since been forgotten.
A single photograph broke the monotony of magnolia. Beaming at him in faded colour was the cast of a pantomi