Requiem (8 page)

‘It makes my blood run cold,’ Nick added reflectively, ‘to think of being sprayed into leather jeans and having my hair tangled each morning …’

David said: ‘That’s the biz though, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so,’ he agreed heavily.

‘You’ll have to talk to Mel.’

Nick gave a sigh of resignation or perhaps weariness. David didn’t envy him the chat with Mel. Although Amazon had disbanded amicably, both Mel and Joe had regretted opting out. While Nick’s solo career had rocketed, their attempts to go it alone had been less than successful. Which didn’t come as any surprise to David, who’d never had any doubts as to who was the lynchpin of the group. Without Amazon, Mel and Joe were nothing, because they were nothing without Nick. Everyone knew it. ‘It’s not as if we needed the money,’ Nick said almost to himself. He turned suddenly. ‘We don’t, do we?’

David shrugged. In his book one always needed more money because money was the only reliable measure of success. ‘No one
needs
the bread,’ he conceded. ‘Except perhaps Joe, but then I warned him about getting married in California.’

‘Is it the live gigs then? I mean, is that what Mel’s hankering after?’

David was careful to make a non-committal face, but Nick wasn’t fooled.

‘You know, don’t you?’ he accused gently. Suspicion darted into his face. ‘What is it – a woman?’

David went through a last gesture of reticence, then gave a slow nod. ‘She’s eighteen.’

Nick rolled his eyes. ‘Dear Lord. What
is
he thinking of? No’ – he held up a hand – ‘don’t answer that!’ He pushed his head hard against the back of the chair, his eyes screwed up against some non-existent glare. ‘It’s no good.’

‘But with new material, new ideas?’

‘What new material? There is no new material. I’ve been writing solo stuff, David. Or stuff Mel or Joe wouldn’t want to use.’

David was curious to know more about this experimental material and what made it so unperformable – was it lyrical, like most of Nick’s solo material, or was the horrid rumour correct and it was opera stuff? And, just as relevant, did it exist on paper or was it still an unrealized idea in Nick’s head?

Before he could think of a way of framing an appropriate question, Nick stood up abruptly and smiled his gentle sidelong smile. ‘Come on, David, I’ll show you round the estate.’ He said it with such anticipation that David got to his feet and, looking suitably enthusiastic, asked him to lead on.

It was one by the time they had inspected the forest, the new broadleaf plantation and the farm which Nick had added to the estate three years before. As Nick liked to recount it, he’d had to buy the farm to obtain manure for the vegetable garden. Being a purist, only chemical-free manure would do, so the farm was slowly being turned into an all-organic showpiece.

It was costing, of course. Though the estate was a limited company which Nick ran more or less independently, David had a pretty good idea of what was being put into it in the way of hard cash. Nick didn’t stint when it came to staff: there was a workforce of three on the farm; four estate workers including the manager; two gardeners, and a couple for the house. But then apart from Caycoo Nick had no other drain on his income. There was no reason why he shouldn’t amuse himself in this or any other way he chose.

Hopefully the fascination with this place wouldn’t last for ever. Nick might never return to touring – that would be too much to hope for – but the regular albums, recording studios, London, must lure him back eventually. Even as David tried to convince himself of this, he looked across at Nick in the driving seat, his face a picture of contentment, and wasn’t so sure.

When they returned to the house, a large cold lunch had been laid out in the dining room. David had forgotten what a wonderful housekeeper Alusha was. The food was a mixture of Scottish feudal – cold wild salmon with mayonnaise, tender cold beef with horseradish sauce – and Seychellian exotica – spiced fish, devilled chicken with a variety of sweet spicy sauces. David’s diet suffered another postponement.

After helping himself from the sideboard he made for the nearest place at the table but Alusha, sweeping up behind him, waved him to the far end, near the window. ‘The sun, we must sit in the sun,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s too good to waste.’ She sat next to him and, though the others had not yet appeared, urged him to start. As they ate, she chattered brightly, breathlessly, charmingly. She was one of those people who had the rare gift of intimacy, the ability to make you feel you were the most important friend in the world. David was flattered to remember that she bestowed this gift with considerable discretion.

Her looks, both exotic and unusual, had seemed entirely appropriate for Nick when he was at the height of his touring career but here, in the richly panelled dining room, amid the tartans, watercolours and heavy oak furniture, against the soft northern background of trees, mountains and water, she could not have looked more incongruous. David had never enquired about her parentage, but it was said her father was French, her mother Chinese or Indian or, much more likely, a mixture of both. The result was arresting rather than beautiful, but that, to David, was a recommendation rather than a fault.

‘Can’t you stay another day, David?’ she asked, widening her eyes at him. ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow.’

‘I’ve got a meeting.’

‘And if you didn’t have one, you would make one up.’ The reprimand was delivered with such a beautiful smile that it was impossible to take offence.

‘You know how it is.’

‘Nick would have loved you to stay. So would I. Can’t you really?’ Alusha, for all her gentleness, had a streak of tenacity. But it was just this mixture of charm and quiet determination that seemed to make her relationship with Nick such a success. Not many women would have made the move from New York to the back-of-beyond; fewer still would have stuck a life of organic farming and long country walks.

It was another ten minutes before Nick and Mel joined them. Mel looked stormy, Nick quietly pained: they had obviously had their discussion, complete with predictably unsatisfactory outcome.

Mel’s mood didn’t bother David; he’d been desensitized by eighteen years of Mel-instigated dramas. Alusha was not so hardhearted. She directed all her attention towards Mel, trying to soothe his ruffled feathers. Typically Mel was not to be placated so easily, and after a time even Alusha had to admit temporary defeat.

Nick, a peacemaker by nature, did his best to make conversation. Then, without warning, he said: ‘What about that charity concert Amazon were offered some time ago, David? The one in aid of the rain forests. Are we still considering that?’

David could hardly believe his ears. The concert invitation had actually been for Nick, but that wasn’t the point. Nick was talking about ‘we’, he was talking about Amazon. ‘Well – no. You said … You … I turned it down. They’ve advertised it now.’

‘Is there something else we could do? A one-off charity thing.’ Nick shot a guileless look in Mel’s direction. ‘If it’s all right with everyone else, of course. And if it could be fitted in on our way to Caycoo in the autumn.’

David recovered himself. ‘It could be fixed, sure,’ he said swiftly.

‘Something worthwhile,’ Nick continued. ‘You know, something we all feel strongly about.’ This wasn’t just a small conciliatory gesture on Nick’s part, it was a massive act of generosity, and David was relieved to see from Mel’s expression that he had the grace to realize it.

‘You name the charity, they’ve been asking for you,’ David said. ‘You only have to choose.’ He immediately flicked his memory through the large quantity of requests that regularly flowed into the office and, inventing what he couldn’t remember, listed a few ideas. The discussion roamed from whales to the ozone layer and back again, without decision.

‘What about the clean water campaign?’ Nick suggested. ‘I don’t imagine it gets much attention. Not glamorous enough.’

Mel dug himself out of his mood sufficiently to make a typically unhelpful comment. ‘Clean water – isn’t that the government’s bag? I mean, where would our money be going?’

Not surprisingly, Nick knew something about the subject and patiently took Mel through it. Not for the first time David was struck by the contrast between the two: Nick, articulate, rational, restrained; Mel, thorny, mercurial, forever a victim of his own instincts and therefore life. Nick had had some education – grammar school and a year at Newcastle University – while Mel, like Joe, had left school at fifteen. But the contrast went far beyond that. Sometimes David wondered how Amazon had held together for as long as it did.

Mel announced himself unconvinced on the clean water campaign and, it seemed, on most other ideas as well. ‘Everyone’s on that bandwagon,’ he kept saying. ‘It’d look like we were desperate to cash in or something.’

There was an inconclusive pause. Determined not to let the idea wither, David dredged his memory further. ‘There’s always famine. That’s got a good image. Even better, famine and children. The Save the Children Fund are having a famine-relief drive for the Sudan, I think it is. You can’t go wrong with Save the Children. Worthy. Caring image. One of their fund raisers has been after you for months.’ The fund raiser had actually been after Nick solo, but he didn’t mention that.

No one expressed wild enthusiasm, but then no one looked unhappy about it either. In an effort to leave no stone unturned, David said to Nick: ‘She says she’s an old friend of yours. The fund-raising lady, that is. Wife of an MP. Driscoll, is it?’

Nick gave a shrug. ‘Could be.’ Like everyone in his position, he’d met thousnds of people for a few minutes each. It was impossible to remember them by name.

‘Perhaps you
do
know her,’ teased Alusha, narrowing her eyes. ‘Perhaps she’s an old flame.’ She rolled her tongue round the idiom with obvious pleasure, as if she’d just learnt it.

Nick gave her a broad smile. ‘Before you, my love, it’s all a great big blank.’

Alusha laughed with great delight, as if hearing the remark for the first time, although to David’s certain knowledge Nick had used the same phrase several times before. Perhaps this was the secret of a happy marriage: repetition, ritual and feigned delight at each other’s jokes. He wondered how they were getting on with their attempts to have babies. He would be careful not to ask. The last he’d heard Alusha was about to try yet another fertility treatment.

‘Is it agreed then?’ David pressed. ‘Shall I pursue the Save-the-Children idea?’

Nick gave him an imperceptible wink of encouragement. Mel shrugged in what was not, apparently, disagreement. David breathed a sigh of pleasure and profound relief; against all expectations it seemed that Amazon was back on the road again. And from one charity concert, who knew what might grow?

Duggan felt the sweat dripping down the side of his face. His eyes flicked over the instrument panel: engine temperature normal, no malfunctions. Cockpit heating off; vents discharging cool air. What the hell, he was just hot. Hot and tired. The headache had settled into a sharp stabbing pain behind the eyes. He put the Porter into a steep turn and lined up for the next run. Only three more runs before the end of this job, thank the Lord, then back for a feet-up. He pulled the throttle back, dropping the machine quickly towards spraying height. This was a little game of his, to see how quickly and proficiently he could level out at the magic spraying height after a rapid drop. On a good day he could hit it in one, on a bad day – and there were plenty of those – he levelled out too high and had to ease her down. Now and again he gave himself a fright and dipped a bit too low. One way or the other, it relieved the boredom.

As usual, the job was forest. The terrain was almost flat and the trees of fairly uniform height, a doddle compared to ground crops, which were apt to be surrounded by tall trees, roads, telephone wires and houses with irate people.

He found his height at about fifteen feet over the treetops, throttled down to a steady ninety-five knots, located a visual marker at the far end of the run, and, fifty yards from the edge of the plantation, engaged the atomizers. He glanced briefly back through the scratched Perspex, saw the answering cloud of vapour, and looked ahead to the marker. The marker was less than adequate, but since dear gormless Reggie had somehow managed to cock up the placing of the black boxes and the Hi-Fix wasn’t working, he had no choice but to rely on eyeball fixes, reciprocal bearings and old-fashioned seat-of-the-pants stuff. He had to estimate the spray widths, calculate what he’d already covered and find some landmark to keep him straight on the next run. Inevitably the spraying would overlap a bit. Just as inevitably there would be the occasional gaps. But he’d only get to hear about them when the angry proprietor complained about swathes of rampant bugs.

He completed the run, and the next. He noticed that the wind had got up. That was all he needed. Not only did it make flying more difficult but it caused excessive drift, blowing the spray off-target. His theoretical wind limit was eight knots. It might be close to that now, but since he had almost finished he wasn’t going to let that get in his way. One more run, then it was back to the Portakabin for a couple of well-earned cigarettes, a large cup of coffee and one of Jeannie’s lead-lined ham sandwiches.

He turned and came in for the last time. He switched on the atomizers, automatically glancing at the flow meter as he did so. He did a double-take. No spray. Red light. Cursing, he disengaged and re-engaged the atomizers several times. Still a red. He fiddled the control valve. Nothing. He spun it again, then punched at it viciously. Finally he was rewarded with a feeble green light and the sight of vapour when he glanced back. Too late for most of the run: the end of the plantation was approaching fast. The question now was, would the blasted spray turn off?

Only with great difficulty, he discovered. It took several flicks of the switch and a fast turn of the control valve before the spray trail finally thinned and vanished. Looking down, he saw he was overflying a clearing with a fleeing deer.