Three Letters (31 page)

Steve did not envy
him. ‘It seems to me that we’re both content with our lot. My future was never mapped out. Instead, I was forced to make my own way the best I could. I was left nothing but my father’s flute, and the guitar he bought me.’

‘What were your parents like?’

Steve smiled. ‘Volatile. Forever rowing. Couldn’t live together; couldn’t live apart. They were quick-tempered and passionate. Oh, they loved
each other, and neither of them ever looked at anyone else, but they had different views on everything, and one wrong word was enough to fire up an argument. But there was also laughter and fun, and music. Always the music. Most weekends me, my dad and my brother would go fishing and walking, and sometimes Mother would come with us and we’d take a tent and live like hermits.’

‘It sounds wonderful!’

‘Oh, it was. So many adventures; so many memories to cherish. Whenever we went camping, Dad would always take his flute. I took the guitar, and together we would play music while Mother cooked sausages on an open fire that my brother made. He was not at all musical.’

‘Did your father ever play professionally … like you, I mean? Did he ever tour in a group in his younger days?’

‘Not that he ever
said. He was a grafter, though. His first duty was to work hard and provide for his family. But ever since I can remember, he had the music in him. In the pubs they’d call for him to entertain them. He would sing at the drop of a hat, and played the flute like you would not believe. Oh yes, my dad certainly had the magic.’

‘He sounds like a contented, happy sort of chap.’

‘Yes, he was, and he
gave me an appetite for the music. It was in my soul then, and it still is. I took every opportunity to learn the guitar, and once I’d mastered that, I moved on to other instruments.’ He gave a knowing smile. ‘I could never master the flute, though. I could never make it sing the way he did.’

His gaze wandered to the map, and suddenly his thoughts were sharper. ‘Blackpool, eh? Me and the boys
played here several times and were a great success. I remember a certain girl; dark-eyed she was, with masses of wild hair and a smile to knock you backwards. She was here on holiday, and we kinda clicked …’ he gave a cheeky wink, ‘… if you know what I mean?’

‘I think I do, yes.’ That was one thing Edward missed in his lonely life: an understanding and loving woman.

‘Her name was Ruth. Lovely
name, lovely girl …’ He could see her now in his mind’s eye.

Unsettled by his thoughts, Steve quickly turned his mind to business. ‘Right! So, you think we’ll be able to cover all the sites in one day?’

‘Er, well … yes, I should think so.’ Temporarily caught off guard by the abruptness of his client’s manner, the little man swiftly adapted his mood to suit. ‘My intention was to start with the
nearest one, and work our way round.’

‘So tell me again, what’s the history of these sites?’ He had not forgotten, but he was keen to put from his mind thoughts of Ruth, the girl he had loved and left all those years back. He had wanted to stay with her, but at that particular time in his life, his music and his career were paramount.

When their manager rang to say he’d secured the band a slot
in a London club, there was no time to say goodbye. For a time he regretted that. But then he met his future wife and it was all too late.

Having scrutinised his notes, the agent informed him, ‘As for the sites, the two larger ones are ex-industrial. The smaller of the three was a holiday camp, closed down some three years back.’

‘And the locations … if I remember rightly, you mentioned how
any one of them would suit my purpose?’ Steve desperately wanted to rid his mind of the girl who had haunted his thoughts. He must now concentrate on the matter in hand. If he was to make a success of this project, the past had to be left where it was, and besides, he was a married man. There was no room in his life for regrets.

Edward reminded him, ‘As I said when we spoke on the telephone,
the first two are sites of approximately four acres. They are well-positioned, just outside town, with excellent communication and transport.’

‘And the other?’

‘That one lies about three miles from the centre of Blackpool. It is equally well served, but has only half the land.’

‘OK. And you say the asking prices are all negotiable, is that right?’

‘Yes, but things can change from day to day
in this game. As I’m sure you understand, good sites like these are hard to come by, and much sought after.’

‘Understood. And are all three sites clear?’

‘Absolutely! There is nothing to demolish, no unsafe or derelict buildings, and no piles of rubble to shift.’

Steve was impressed. ‘Sounds like you’ve done your homework.’

‘Of course. That’s what I get paid for.’ Putting away the map and
paperwork, Edward finished, ‘So now, unless you have more questions, I need you to tell me when you’d like to view them and I’ll clear my diary to suit.’

‘Tomorrow.’ Steve was champing at the bit. ‘From what you just said, we’d best not hang about.’

‘Quite! And yes, tomorrow is absolutely fine by me. I can arrange that. We’ll need to make an early start, so as to be sure and cover all eventualities.’

‘Such as what?’

‘Trust me, it’s a distinct possibility that there could be other viewers there. On big, commercial sites like these, the owners often instruct the selling agents to arrange multiple viewings. It’s a clever way of boosting the competition. It can often undermine your offer, or even trigger a bidding war right there on site. Also, it has been known for the owner to be hovering about
somewhere incognito, trying all manner of tricks to push up the price.’

Steve was shocked. ‘It sounds like a real dirty business to me.’

‘I’m not saying these things happen all the time, but yes, it can be a bit dirty.’

‘Well, all I can say is, I’m glad I’m in the music business.’

‘So, an early start is OK with you then?’

‘Absolutely. The sooner I get the site secured, the better. What time
were you thinking?’

‘Eight o’clock OK with you? I’ll pick you up from your hotel.’

‘Fine. I’ll be ready and waiting at the main doors.’

After Steve insisted on paying the bill, the two of them walked to the front door where the agent had a taxi waiting. ‘Hopefully by this time tomorrow, you’ll be set up with a suitable site for your studios.’

‘We’ll see.’ Over the years, Steve had learned
never to count his chickens.

The two men shook hands and the agent climbed into the taxi. ‘Good night then. I’ll see you tomorrow at the King’s, eight a.m.’

Steve nodded. ‘See you then. Good night, and thanks.’

Turning up the collar of his overcoat, he watched the taxi drive off. A few moments later it was out of sight altogether.

For what seemed an age, Steve stood there, his mind filled
with thoughts of long ago, and a girl named Ruth. He could see her so very clearly; the smile that lit up her face. The laughter that made everyone smile, and those amazing, brooding eyes.

He remembered her as being very special. Unlike the woman who later became his wife, she had loved him with a passion. On that all too short and wonderful day and night, she had shown him what true love meant.

He now felt ashamed that even though he had loved her with the same passion, he had turned his back on her; choosing his career instead.

Sadly, while his music had flourished, he had never found the same excitement and passion with any other woman as he had with Ruth.

‘I’m sorry for deserting you,’ he whispered. ‘You might not believe it, but I did love you, Ruth. We might even have made a life
together, but things got in the way. Music was my future, and I had to put it first. I was free of responsibility, and far too selfish to tie myself down.’

Sighing inwardly, he thought of the woman he finally took as his wife. It had been the biggest mistake of his life.

Growing angry with himself, he did not feel much like going back to his hotel.

He felt ashamed, and guilty. And now he was
so cold he began shivering. How long had he been standing there, reliving the past? Why was it haunting him so?

He looked about. The night had grown dark and chilly, and the streets were eerily quiet.

Considering the wrong choices he’d made and the chances he’d missed, his heart grew heavy. No doubt she was also committed to someone now.

Plunging his two hands into the pockets of his coat,
he began walking.

Strolling along aimlessly, he chided himself: you have to leave the past behind, and concentrate on the future. You’re here to find a way of creating the best recording studio this side of London. Back then, you might well have thrown away a good thing. Now, make sure you don’t throw away another.

Deep in thought, Steve had no idea where he was headed. All he knew was that
he needed to walk, to feel the cool night air on his face, while he tried to clear his mind.

He followed the main street to the end, then, lured by haunting music, he turned into a side street. The light emanating from a pub window lit his way, and the music caught at his heartstrings. With his spirits uplifted, he stood outside the pub enjoying the music, and his foot merrily tapping against
the pavement.

‘Hey! Are you staying outside, or are you going in? Because if you’re going in, you need to move yourself. And if you’re staying out, then step aside and let them in as wants to go in.’

From his strong accent, the man was obviously of Scottish origin; in his senior years, and of short, lean build. Two thick, grey tufts of hair protruded from either side of his head, and haphazardly
perched on top was a checked flat cap, the brim drawn low above his strong, dark eyes.

He was also possessed of a deep, chesty cough, which almost shook him off his feet as Steve allowed him to go inside before him.

A few minutes later, as he hung his overcoat on the door peg, Steve saw him approach the bar still coughing badly.

Steve also made his way to the bar. ‘A pint, please, bartender.’

Beside him, the man in the checked cap was frantically digging into his pockets, obviously searching for money, and obviously not finding any. Steve discreetly addressed the bartender. ‘Oh, and whatever our good friend here is drinking.’ Steve smiled at the little fella. ‘That’s if my offer doesn’t offend?’ he asked cautiously.

‘Not at all.’ He nodded at Steve. ‘Mine’s a whisky,’ he told the
bartender, ‘and, seeing as the laddie’s paying, you can make that a double.’

Grinning cheekily, he displayed a set of smoke-stained and gappy teeth. ‘I can’t remember the last time anyone bought me a drink,’ he told Steve. ‘Thank you kindly!’

‘You’re very welcome.’

In truth, Steve had taken a liking to the old Scotsman, and when he saw him lighting a cigarette, he added cautiously, ‘If I were
you, I’d be thinking of packing the cigarettes in. Especially with the cough you’ve got there.’

‘Is that so? Did I ask you to buy me a drink?’ he demanded. ‘No, I did not! And do I want you telling me what to do and what not to do? No, I do not! So bugger off and leave me alone.’

The bartender leaned over. ‘Now then, David, don’t start. Especially when the gent has bought you a drink.’

‘Makes
no difference. I won’t be told what to do. Not by any man.’ He glared at Steve. ‘You’re not from round these parts. It sounds like you’re from London? Well, I warn you now, if you’re looking for trouble, you’ve met your match.’

Turning his flat cap back to front, he bunched his fists and leaned forward. ‘C’mon then, put ’em up! Let’s see what you’re made of!’

‘Not tonight, thanks.’ Steve was
more amused than annoyed, especially as the little man was at least twenty-five years older than he was. ‘I’ve an important business meeting in the morning. It wouldn’t do to turn up with a black eye.’

The bartender couldn’t help but smile. ‘Oh, here we go again!’ Reaching over the bar, he took the old man by the lapels of his jacket. ‘You had a few drinks before you got here, didn’t you?’

‘Who told you that?’ Raising his voice the Scot announced to one and all, ‘I never had a drink before I came in here, and even if I did have a little tipple, it’s nobody’s business but mine.’

The bartender had dealt with him before. ‘No, David! It’s my business when you intend fighting every stranger that walks through that door. Last week you caused a riot over a bag o’ crisps, and the week before
that you caused a row between a man and his woman; with you claiming she was your long-lost wife and kissing her face off.’ He shook his head. ‘The trouble with you is, you can’t handle the booze. One sniff of ale and you’re after fighting the world.’

He glanced at Steve, who was lazily drinking his pint and refusing to get drawn in. ‘This man is a stranger in our midst, and so far as I know,
he’s the only one who’s ever bought you a pint. And here you are, you ungrateful sod, wanting to knock his lights out!’

Letting go of the lapels, he let the old man settle. ‘Are you gonna behave yourself, or what?’

‘I always behave myself.’

‘I mean it, David. You either behave yourself, or you leave now.’

‘I’m not going anywhere, at least not till I’ve finished my drink.’

‘All right then.
Finish your drink, and go home.’

‘I can’t do that!’ Setting his shoulders, he gave Steve a sinister glance. ‘I have properly challenged this man to a fight,’ he declared, ‘and being a man of my word, I have every intention of teaching him a lesson he will not forget.’ Pretending to throw a punch, he lost his balance and fell against the bar, where he remained. ‘I’m not done yet,’ he grumbled.
‘Let me get my breath, then you’ll be sorry. You see if I’m not right!’ He glared at Steve.

Seeing how the argument might be brought to an end, Steve picked up the double whisky. ‘Right then, David! Being as you don’t want the rest of your drink, I might as well enjoy it … cheers!’ He pretended to tip the glass up to his mouth.

‘Gimme my whisky, you thieving Sassenach!’ Stretching his small
frame to full height, he again put up his clenched fists. ‘Taking a man’s drink deserves a smacking!’