Castles Made of Sand (5 page)

Everyone knows Dylan is Shakespeare, but here in England we could have, Thom Yorke for Thomas Hardy, Polly Harvey for Virginia Woolf!

Madonna is the Margaret Thatcher of Rock!

Then Ax came in with the statesman message. If someone doesn’t teach the children of the drop-out hordes
something,
there’s an appalling problem in ten, fifteen years’ time. We can reach them, same means as the Crisis Management Gigs: teach ‘em basic life skills, give them a worldview, through the music. The history of this music, the human rights protests and the Utopian movements that have always been entangled with it. And before you tell me, yes, of course we’re handing this down from on high, not waiting for the lost souls to invent their own culture. It’s the way things work.

‘Will the Counterculture buy it, Ax?’ asked a Radio Three journalist, seriously. ‘Aren’t they going to say Rock it isn’t British music? It isn’t natural, it isn’t folk, it’s from the heart of the evil empire?’

‘For the record, I don’t see the US as an “evil empire”. I hate that line. But no nation has a monopoly, and no mode either. There are folk roots in Rock. The music goes around and around, like all art: high culture into pop culture and back again.’

‘We’re
English
,’ said Felice. ‘Our ancestors are everywhere.’

‘The Utopian thinking too,’ added Roxane Smith. ‘You know, Anil, the original arts colony at Woodstock, where tradition says the “Woodstock”concert was held (of course, that’s not quite the case) was founded by followers of John Ruskin, in imitation of the English Arts and Crafts movement.’

‘A movement which was itself
entangled
with nineteenth century Utopians of India and Pakistan—’ agreed the radio man, helpfully.

The Few had made more friends in radio than in the other broadcast media: not only because of the music, but because radio tends to survive in a meltdown.

‘But won’t people be saying, “how can rockstars, with their culture of excess, “
teach the children well”
? And wasn’t all that sixties idealism naïve and corrupt?’

‘For sure,’ agreed Sage, solemnly. ‘Being naïve and corrupt is a vibrant part of our cultural heritage, which we fully acknowledge.’

‘You guys were
always
into ancient history, weren’t you?’ put in Dian Buckley, tv presenter superstar: making eyes at Aoxomoxoa. ‘Snake Eyes and their “post-Motown” sound. Sage and his Grateful Dead fixation—’

‘A grounding in the classics develops the mind,’ said George Merrick.

‘You
learn
things,’ explained Peter Stannen, ‘that you didn’t know before.’

‘Paul Javert had his own reasons,’ announced Chip, invoking the dead to signal that he’d stopped fooling around, ‘when he picked rock musicians for his Think Tank. But it works. Rock is the art form of our times. It’s folk
and
futuristic. It’s using cutting-edge technology, without harm to the environment, to express universal human emotions. It’s about becoming
more ourselves
—’

The term Celtic wasn’t mentioned. No need to spell it out. These were tame mediafolk, they knew what was going on. The discussion continued, lively and argumentative, while London grew dark outside; and the session ended in music, as Ax’s addresses to the nation generally did.

The Triumvirate lingered until they were alone in the room.

‘Did you talk to Jordan?’ asked Fiorinda. Ax’s band didn’t often come to London, and communication could be difficult. ‘Has the baby got a name yet?’

Milly Kettle, the Chosen’s drummer and Ax’s ex-girlfriend, had been Jordan Preston’s girlfriend since a short while before Ax and Fiorinda met. Her baby had been born in November, but remained nameless.

‘Yeah, I got through eventually. No name. My Dad is still fucking with their heads, and I have once more vetoed Slash. I hope my voice will be heard.’

‘But Ax, you should be pleased, a mighty canonised saint of our religion of excess. What could be better?’

Ax looked a little hunted. ‘Don’t start. The media have left the building.’

‘I’m not going to start. I think the education scheme is a wonderful idea. Kids will ponder on the chord structure of
All Along The Watchtower
the way children of yesteryear studied Ox Bow Lakes, and who is to say which knowledge is more useless? Not me… Why is Marlon called Marlon, Sage?’

Marlon was Sage’s twelve-year-old son. He lived in Wales with his mother: Sage didn’t often see him. Mary Williams had been Sage’s girlfriend when he was a teenage junkie with a taste for domestic violence. She was sparing with visiting rights.

‘No idea, I was not consulted. Could be a Welsh god. Or it might be something to do with the kindness of strangers, I never asked.’

Smalltalk failed. Fiorinda studied the mackerel patterns on her storm-cloud skirts, chills going up her spine. She looked up and they were staring at her, with solemn intensity. Sage had taken off the mask.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ said Ax hurriedly. ‘Nothing at all. We were wondering if you’d like to get down to Cornwall for a few days, for a break.’

Cornwall meant Tyller Pystri, Sage’s cottage on the North Cornish coast.

‘We can take the time off,’ said Sage. ‘And you need some fresh air.’

‘Okay,’ said Fiorinda slowly. ‘Good idea. Count me in.’

The Heads had been in Cornwall doing some filming (for a secret project); and had stayed at the cottage. Everything was clean and tidy, but there was a faint spoor of alien presence: in the stone-flagged kitchen, in the dusky living room where Sage’s big bed stood, in the freezing bathroom with the ancient pebble-patterned linoleum; in the bedroom that Fiorinda and Ax used. Fiorinda walked around, discovering things out of place and setting them back where they should be. On the upstairs landing, with the windowseat overlooking the garden and the bookcase full of childrens’ classics, icy rain spattered the windowpanes, dousing the last of the light. The little river Chy roared in its miniature gorge.

Stupid, like a cat sniffing strangers. Tyller Pystri isn’t home. You’ve only been here twice. She leaned her forehead against the dark glass, almost frightened.

What am I doing here?

In the kitchen Ax was frying eggs, while Sage put together a plate of chicken salad for himself, from the cold food Mrs Maynor, his housekeeper, had left ready. They stopped talking when she came in. ‘Hi Fee,’ said Sage, with false bonhomie. ‘Lemme give you some wine. What d’you want to eat?’ He poured the wine, precariously, with his awkward right hand; she knew better than to take the job away from him.

‘I’m not hungry.’

She lifted a small piece of chicken from his plate, and nibbled it.

‘Hey. Do you have to do that?’

‘She does it to me too,’ said Ax. ‘
I’m not hungry
, then nibble, nibble. Drives me nuts. Say the word, I’ll make you a fried egg sandwich, Fio. All of your own.’

‘Okay, fuck it,’ said Fiorinda. ‘I said I’m not hungry. Keep your sandwich.’

They looked at each other, two men and a girl, an abyss suddenly opening. Are we far too old? Is she far too young? Do we even
like
each other?

Fiorinda went to tend the living-room fire. Sage and Ax followed her, and ate their food, making stilted conversation, while she stared at the flames and drank her wine: wondering what the fuck had gone wrong.

‘Shall I put on some music?’

‘I’ll do it,’ cried Ax, rushing to the dead media wall, which was stacked with a collection handed down by Sage’s parents. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing with this catalogue, it’s before your time and you’ll scratch the vinyl.’

‘Thanks for reminding me how old you both are. Practically thirty, how weird that must feel. Jimi Hendrix was long dead before he got to your age.’

‘I didn’t mean—’

‘Wasn’t he? Not that I’d know, being a girl, a juvenile and totally ignorant.’

Ax spent ten minutes dithering over the antiques, and was impelled by a death wish to put on Ry Cooder, which he knew Fiorinda hated. Sage fetched a jigsaw from the games cupboard. They sat on the floor, sorting straight edges for what seemed like hours, in a painful attempt to recapture the mood. Last year, when Tyller Pystri had been their haven, when this firelit room had been a bittersweet paradise… Fiorinda fetched her book and another glass of wine, and settled on the edge of the fender: ignoring them, which she hoped would improve their tempers.

‘Do you have to sit right there, little cat?’

‘Yeah, brat, do you mind? Could we see some fire?’

‘Ah, let her alone,’ said Ax, ‘she can’t help it. She’s an obligate fire-hogger.’

‘She’s finished the wine too.’

‘She always does that. Let’s make her get another bottle.’

They laughed, exchanging very weird looks of guilty complicity.

Fiorinda stood up. ‘Okay.
Enough
. I don’t know know what the fuck’s got into you two. I don’t know why you’re being so horrible, but I’m going to bed.’

The men jumped to their feet in panic and rushed to block her way.

‘Oh no, Fiorinda! Don’t leave us! Stay just a moment!’

‘Fee, please, please don’t go—’

They led her, unresisting, to the battered sofa. She must sit down, while they knelt, on either side of her, holding her hands.

‘Fiorinda,’ said Ax, ‘please don’t be pissed off. We’re clumsy but we mean well. W-we want to ask you something.’ His voice was shaking.

‘Yeah,’ said Sage: and what’s this? Sage, her best mate, her dearest friend, doubly unmasked, looking at her the way he’s
never
looked at her. She stared back at him, and then at Ax. Ax smiled, and kissed her cheek: and then they were both kissing her—chaste, delicate, thrilling kisses, showering on her eyelids and her brows, her ears, her fingers, the blue veins in her wrists. Her sleeve pushed back so Ax could kiss the inner skin of her elbow. Sage’s soft mouth tracing the neckline of her dress, brushing the hollow at the base of her throat—

She said nothing, and didn’t respond; she remained passive, pliant, staring at them wide-eyed.

‘Fiorinda,’ said Ax, drawing back. ‘We want to ask you if all three of us can be lovers. We wouldn’t ask except we think you want it too.’

‘In spite of us being so old,’ added Sage (that one obviously still smarting).

Silence from Fiorinda.

‘Well, um, what do you say?’ asked her boyfriend at last, looking very worried. Sage’s blue eyes telling her, everything’s going to be all right.

She kept them waiting for so long they’d have been terrified—except that she was still holding their hands, and the charge of their kisses was glowing in her cheeks, in her eyes.

‘Dearest Ax,’ said Fiorinda. She leant and kissed him on the angle of his jaw.

‘Darling Sage.’ She kissed him too, at the corner of his mouth.

She removed her hands from their grasp and folded her arms.

‘Alphabetical order. Well, this is very formal. So this was your big plan, was it? You decide you want some group sex, so you cunningly kidnap me and lock me up, miles from anywhere: sneer at me, ignore me and be totally horrible to me. And then when you think you’ve done a fine job of softening me up—’

‘Sheer nerves,’ said Ax hurriedly.

‘Frightened stupid,’ explained Sage. ‘It just came out that way.’

‘Tell me, does this approach often
succeed
? Is this how you romanced all those sheep?’

‘I knew we’d get the sheep. I’ll be hearing about those sheep to my dying day.’

‘
Sheep?
Huh? What sheep?’

‘All those sheep we met in Yorkshire, Sage. Surely you remember.’

‘Oh.’ Sage’s turn to look worried. ‘Er…well, in that case. Maybe this is the moment when I ask for, um, a few other sheep to be taken into consideration.’

‘I don’t think you’d better tell me how many,’ said Fiorinda. ‘
Not that I care
. My God. If either of you really thought this would work, then I am sorry for you.’

She took Sage by the shoulders, tugged him close and kissed him on the mouth, long and strong, tongue in it, first time ever. Then the same to Ax.

‘That’s reverse alphabetical order. And I’m still going to bed.’

Left alone, they sat on the sofa with their ears ringing, silent for a decent interval to allow tumescence to subside.

‘So much for that,’ said Sage. ‘Shall we go after her?’

‘I don’t think we should, not tonight. But I don’t think it went too badly—’

‘No. Not considering what a fucking mess we made of the intro.’

Sage got up and started to prowl around: so wired, so electric Ax expected sparks to rise from anything he touched. Finally he went and softly closed the door to the stairs, which Fiorinda had left open.

‘Why d’you do that?’

‘Because I’m going to kiss you. I want to find out how it feels without the drug, an’ I don’t want Fiorinda by any chance walking in on us. Could be misunderstood.’

‘Kiss, not fuck.’

‘Absolutely.’

Ax sat waiting for the threat to be made good, thinking he wished to God the three of them had fallen into this arrangement through an act of casual lust, years ago, and had the difficult emotional dynamics sorted by now. But things happen as they must. Sage came and sat down again beside him.

‘Ax—’

They kissed, for a long time: finally tore themselves away from each other. Sage leaned back, staring at the ceiling, making up his mind. ‘Oooh. I think I could live with that.’

‘Good. I suppose we might as well go to bed.’

‘You going to stay down here with me?’

‘If you don’t mind. It seems like the right thing.’

They made the room ready for night: the rituals of Tyller Pystri, where ancient electric lamps must be switched off one by one, black vinyl put away in cardboard sleeves, the fire made up. They stripped, got into Sage’s nice big bed, and lay listening to Fiorinda stomping about overhead. It sounded as if she was moving furniture.

‘Maybe one of us should stay awake.’

‘What for? You think she’ll come down and take an axe to us?’

They nearly choked themselves smothering hysterical giggles, which would not sound good at all upstairs.

‘You can stay awake,’ said Sage. ‘Since you’re going to anyway.’