at least I have. I mean, if I don’t do it soon—tick-tick-tick.’ She tipped her head from one side to the other, miming a biological clock.
If only Fiona’s timing had been that accurate during the introduction to the last number, they’d have it done and dusted by now, and they wouldn’t be having this conversation, thought Cass ruefully, trying very hard not to meet Fiona’s eye.
‘It’s all right for you, you’ve already done the whole parenthood thing,’ Fiona said, managing to make having children sound like a package holiday to Greece. ‘How old is Joe now?’
‘Twenty-one.’
‘And Danny?’
‘Twenty.’
Cass could almost see Fiona’s brain doing the maths. ‘I was nineteen when I had Joe.’
Fiona smiled. ‘See, I wish I’d started young, got it all out of the way, but better late than never—how’re they doing?’
‘Fine,’ Cass began, relieved that across the room Alan was busy tapping the music stand to attract their attention. ‘Busy doing all the things kids do at Uni.’
‘Studying hard?’
Cass smiled; she was thinking more along the lines of getting drunk, running up a huge debt and staying out late, but didn’t say so.
‘It must be lovely for you,’ said Fiona. ‘Seeing them grow up—I was saying to Andy I’d like two, although I’d really like one of each.’
‘Anyone here want to sing or shall we just carry on chatting?’ Alan said, his voice cutting through the din like a band saw. ‘I’d like to remind you all that I get paid whether you sing or not and that the meter is running.’
‘So all’s well that ends well,’ said Fiona brightly to Cass, turning her attention back to Alan.
‘Sorry?’ said Cass.
‘Me and Andy. All’s well that ends well. You stopped me from making a total fool of myself.’
‘After four then,’ said Alan, raising his hands to bring them in again.
Cass stared at Fiona; she couldn’t help thinking that maybe she should say something after all. Although Cass had a feeling that, whichever way she played it, this wasn’t going to end well. Which led Cass on to thinking about what it was she did know for certain, which wasn’t much, and from there to Fiona having a baby and from there on to how very complicated life could become without you trying.
‘Are you with us?’
‘What?’ Cass looked up and realised to her horror that the whole choir had stopping singing and turned to look at her. She reddened furiously. ‘Sorry, is there a problem?’ she blustered.
Alan smiled. ‘That rather depends on how you feel about modern jazz,’ he said.
Cass sensed this wasn’t going to end at all well either. ‘I was singing, wasn’t I?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes. You most certainly were,’ said Alan. There was a pantomime pause. ‘Unfortunately you weren’t singing the same song as the rest of us.’
Cass stared at him. ‘Really?’ She said incredulously. ‘Are you sure?’
Beside her, Welsh Alf and the rest of the lads nodded earnestly. Embarrassed didn’t anywhere near cover what she felt.
Cass’s feelings of preoccupation stayed with her all the way home. And her thoughts were certainly not just about Fiona and Andy. The to-do list in her head was steadily growing longer and longer. Usually they went to the pub after rehearsals, so it would be after closing time when she wandered back home and there would be other people around coming back after a night out, but heading straight back after choir the streets seemed almost deserted. It was cold, the wind busily scouring rubbish up out of the gutters for dramatic effect, and under every streetlight lay a pool of film-noir lamplight, not that Cass noticed. The dog and cat were upset she had arrived back early having planned a night of chase, chew and snore, but she didn’t notice that either and headed up to bed for an early night.
Trouble was that the night seemed never-ending and full of dreaming and waking and thinking and dreaming some more. Cass’s dreams were long and complex, full of Fiona and Andy and the girl in the market, and some kind of giant fish—possibly beginning with H—flapping about on a roof terrace, along with angels and singing and unseen tensions and hurrying, and hiding and a sense of impending doom; by the time the morning came, Cass was completely exhausted and relieved to get up.
Rolling out of bed, Cass pulled on jeans and a sweater, deciding what she needed was a walk with Buster to clear her head before opening the shop.
Outside, the new day was grey and heavy as an army blanket, but unseasonably warm, so that as Cass walked down High Lane to the river it felt almost clammy.
It was ten by the time Cass opened the shop up, the new day still so overcast that she needed to put all the lights on to shake off the gloom. It didn’t help her mood at all. In the workshop she pulled the dustsheet off the armchair she’d been working on the day before, and took stock of what still needed doing. Cass bought most of her furniture and bric-a-brac in from car boots and at auction, giving things a new lease of life. Sometimes she painted them, other pieces were re-upholstered or just plain old-fashioned restored, giving chairs and tables, beds and bookcases, sofas and sideboards a quirky, idiosyncratic, more contemporary twist, so that everyone from designers through to arty first-time furniture buyers came along to the shop to see what she currently had in stock.
The armchair Cass was working was stripped back to the frame and looked like something you’d find in a skip, although with a bit of TLC it would be just the kind of thing people would want in their home, a handsome feature in heavy corn-coloured linen that just screamed style and luxury.
While she sorted out her tools, Buster settled himself into his basket under the bench and turned his concentration to sleeping, while Mungo the cat curled up on the discarded dustsheet. Hanging on the wall behind the bench in the workshop was a calendar on which Cass had been marking off the days to the All Stars’ concert and tour with big red crosses.
Cass was really looking forward to a little late season sun. There would be dinner and dancing and warm nights sipping cocktails out on the terrace, and the thought of a week of beach life and sunshine lifted her spirits no end. She picked up a little tacking hammer and surveyed the frame of the chair, mentally busy thumbing her way through her wardrobe while her hands worked.
It didn’t look as if she was going to be rushed off her feet, and so Cass pinned up the set list for the concert and started to work her way down through the songs. Buster and the cat studiously ignored her.
Cass liked to practise a little every day even when they didn’t have a concert. When she was alone she’d put a CD of the choir’s current repertoire into her player—Alan recorded all the parts—so Cass sang along as she tapped away at the chair, sang while she replaced the beading, stained and bees-waxed a little mahogany sideboard in the main shop, and sang while she put the undercoat on a little
