Chapter Two
Greg
The musician dipped his head in acknowledgement of the crowd’s applause before putting aside his mandolin and reaching to pick up the water glass that Maurie, the local publican had kindly placed beside him. He took a long drink, easing his parched throat. It was dry work, singing and playing for an hour and a half at a stretch and he was overdue a break, but the crowd had been enthusiastic in their response to his music and he hadn’t liked to stop.
He set the glass down on the tiny stage, “Last one before the break,” he warned, to a chorus of disappointed catcalls. He settled himself on a stool before a mid-sized harp and did a few experimental glissandos as he announced, “this is a number you may have heard played by Alan Stivell, the Breton master of the Celtic harp and a profound influence on my music.” There were nods from a few heads at the mention of the name so Greg surmised he had a knowledgeable audience. He continued the introduction, “It’s a bit of a musical journey across the Gaelic lands of Ireland, Scotland and the Isle of Man and I first heard it in a pub on the Isle of Skye so it seems entirely appropriate to play it here for you in this auspicious establishment this evening. I hope you’ll like it.” He positioned his hands either side of the harps’ strings, plucking the first notes.
Some of the pub’s patrons must have been familiar with the music; -at the opening bars there was a considerable smattering of applause and the whoops and catcalls returned to a more enthusiastic level. Smiling briefly, Greg concentrated on the fingering, knowing that the Celtic harp was a tricky beast to play and required all his attention.
The piece was long and he was into the final bars when the inner door to the pub opened to admit a face he recognised. It was Sara, dressed this evening in considerably more items of clothing than on their first encounter. Greg tried not to feel too disappointed; jogging attire was hardly suitable for a night out at the local watering hole but a man couldn’t be chastised for wishing otherwise, he thought. Not that she had exactly glammed-up for a Friday night at the pub –she was wearing black skinny jeans, a hoodie and bright pink Doc Martens. With her spikey blond, lime-green tipped hair she could have been mistaken for a teenager on a night out. The look suited her, he decided, as his eyes followed her lissom form.
Sara hadn’t turned her head in his direction and appeared not to have noticed who it was that was providing the music. He watched as she wended her way carefully and with studied concentration through the crowded room to a table in the far corner, where a group of people stood and greeted her with hugs and kisses before shuffling chairs this way and that to make room for her. She sat with her back half-turned away from him but it looked as if she had been expected; a large glass of orange juice was already sitting on the table and after a moment she lifted the full glass to her lips.
The music ended just as she replaced her glass on the tabletop. Claps, whoops and stomping feet erupted from the other patrons in appreciation. On hand steadying the harp, Greg stood and sketched a quick bow, as Sara turned her head to see who all the fuss was about. He noted the moue of surprise on her elfin features as she recognised him and the widening of those bright lavender-blue eyes. Belatedly, she raised her hands and clapped along with the rest of the audience. Greg shot her a smile, quirking an eyebrow and she responded with a guilty grin, raising her hands to clap louder and add her whoops to the rest. He laughed and stretched out his hands to give another bow, before taking a step backwards and retreating towards the bar. To the chorus of disgruntled sounds, he called cheerily, “the muso needs a beer! I’ll be back in twenty minutes if you stay around that long!” The crowd yahooed their approval and returned to their own drinks and conversations.
After a bit of back-slapping and polite conversation from an appreciative fan who insisted on buying him a drink, Greg turned to survey the pub clientele. It had been a while since he’d played a pub but he liked doing these gigs- it kept the music real.
Inevitably, his gaze was drawn to the corner table. Sara was staring in his direction and as their eyes made contact she waved a hand to indicate that he should come on over.
Protecting his drink from stray elbows with his free hand, Greg arrowed his way through the press of patrons closest to the bar then did a sort of slow slalom through the press of those seated at tables ‘til he arrived in the far corner.
“Hello again,” he greeted Sara.
“Hi,” she replied. “My friends would like to meet you.”
‘My friends’, he noticed, not ‘me’. He couldn’t help the twinge of disappointment at the words -he’d thought he had made a little progress with her at their first meeting but now was not so sure.
Greg glanced around the crowded table. A startlingly beautiful red-haired woman who was the goddess to Sara’s pixie sat on the banquette seat holding a pretty dark-haired infant on her lap. Beside her, with one arm stretched along the backrest in a manner that suggested both love and protection was a man who had to be the child’s father, the resemblance was so strong. Next to him sat a white-haired elderly gentleman. Greg noted gnarled old hands, blue veined and sun-spotted, with enlarged knuckles that suggested osteoarthritis resting on his knees; but the eyes that surveyed him from under shocking white brows were piercing and evaluating, giving him a studied once-over. Not sure why, Greg smiled back before continuing his perusal of the table’s occupants. Another couple with two children: a girl of about nine or ten and a boy who might have been somewhere between five and seven, also cuddling on his mother’s lap; made up the remainder of the group.
Sara began introducing him, “Greg, this is Liana and Betony,” the goddess spoke a greeting in a beautiful lilting voice and little girl smiled shyly, gazing up at Greg with gorgeous lavender-blue eyes that were, he thought, interestingly, the exact shade of Sara’s. When she grew up this child was going to be a looker like her mother, Greg predicted. “And Liana’s husband, Hamish; good friends of mine.” Hamish smiled and nodded hello but didn’t rise. And that’s my Dad next to Hamish,”
“Arffur Blaine,” the old man held old a gnarled paw. Greg shook it, wincing slightly at the firm handshake. “Damn fine music you were playin’ there son.”
“Thank you Arthur. Glad you liked it.” Greg hoped his hand would recover before he played the next set.
Sara cleared her throat and continued with the introductions. “Oh and here’s couple of your fellow countrymen, countrywomen, …ah, whatever …this is Steve and Linda, and their children Alison and Jamie.
“Gidday mate,” Steve rose to shake Greg’s hand across the table while Linda stayed sitting and gave a small wave across the glass-strewn table.
“Uh, hi,” Greg replied. He was never quite comfortable meeting other Australians –people tended to act as if they should know one another, not comprehending just how expansive the country was.
“So, where’re you from?” Steve queried.
“Perth originally but pretty much all over the place for the last ten years or so,” he replied noncommittally.
“It’s like another country over there,” commented Steve, echoing his own thoughts. Greg smiled, hopeful he wouldn’t have to go through the old ‘who do you know that I might know?’ routine. “We’re from Sydney but we live in London now.”
“Ali and me’re English, not Australian. You don’t sound very Australian,” quipped Jamie chirpily. Greg thought it amusing that the little ‘Englishman’ pronounced ‘Australian’ as ‘Austrine’, proving his roots were still firmly in the southern hemisphere.
“James Patrick!” his mother reprimanded.
“It’s okay, he’s not the first to have said that to me,” Greg smiled, looking down at Sara’s amused expression. “Anyway, it’s nice to have met you all. I’ll leave to enjoy your drinks in peace.” He made to retreat back to the bar.
“Nah.” This from Sara’s father, “sit yerself down sonny an’ take a load off.” A stool had materialised, passed overhand from patron to patron ‘til it appeared next to him. O
nce again, everyone in the group shuffled chairs and tables to make a seat-sized space for the new addition. Bemused, Greg could do little more than sit, finding himself thigh to thigh with Sara. If he’d looked up at that moment, he might have seen several self-satisfied smiles from faces among the assembly, but he was busy keeping his drink from being jostled and not aware of the speculative glances.
Twenty minutes turned into thirty as the group, in particular, Liana and Steve questioned him at length about his music. Steve, it transpired, had a rather catholic interest in diverse genres and was well-informed about Celtic, folk and world music but it was Liana who was truly conversant. It seemed to Greg that she had the kind of deep understanding of the rhythms and history of folk music that few others possessed. When he asked how she had acquired the knowledge, he husband broke in and adroitly changed the subject, which Greg found a little odd.
“So how did you meet our Sara?” Hamish interjected. Like the others, he enjoyed the music but he was also curious about this stranger in their midst.
Greg caught more than a hint of a ‘big brother’ vibe and answered. “I’m camping up by the woods and she came running past. Well, maybe not running so much as wheezing,” he turned his head to grin at Sara at the memory.
Responding, Sara gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “It was at the top of the bends and I haven’t run for ages. I was just a little out of breath,” she spoke defensively.
“Ah, yes, Sara loves to run,” Hamish chortled, “The first time I met her she was running as well. Took weeks for the bruises to fade…”
“I sense a ballad there,” Greg raised an eyebrow.
“Why don’t you come round for dinner tomorrow and we can tell you the full story” this time Liana interjected, “and Sara, you come too, in case we miss any salient details,” the invitation was accompanied by a beatific smile. “Bring Matthew.”
Greg wondered who ‘Matthew’ was but didn’t like to ask. Perhaps Sara had a husband or partner who wasn’t here tonight? “I’d love to, but I can’t do tomorrow, I have a gig I’m playing at that will go ‘til fairly late. How about the night after? Would that be alright?”
Sara shrugged, “Sunday, yeah, I can do Sunday, long as we’re not too late. It’s a school night.”
Greg wondered why that was an issue. Perhaps Sara really was as young as she looked? No, she’d said she had to get back to work that day they’d met, so she had to be older. It was so difficult to tell, just by looking at her. Her skin and eyes looked teenage-fresh and the short-cropped hairstyle wouldn’t have been out of place on a schoolgirl but he’d thought the slightly cynical world-worn attitude that she displayed suggested someone who’d lived more than a little. It was so difficult to tell. The way his thoughts had been leading him, he certainly hoped she out of her teens.
“Sunday then,” Liana looked towards Sara, “and perhaps you would be so kind as to collect Greg and bring him to the cottage?”
“He could walk through the woods, it’s not far,” Sara objected. “Or ride his horse.”
“But he doesn’t know the way,” this from Hamish, who had more than an inkling that his wife was playing match-maker. The least he could do was assist her endeavours.
“I guess I could then, okay,” Sara had a strong sense she was being manipulated by these two and did not like it. To Greg, she sounded even more like a displeased teen.
“Lovely. Sunday it is, then. We’ll see you at seven, no need to bring anything.”
“Especially not flowers,” Sara couldn’t help but say this, her tone still a little surly. Her remark got more than a few concerned glances from those around the table but no one commented further.
Before Greg could say more the publican tapped him on his shoulder. “You rested enough? We’re gonna have a riot here if you don’t play some more,” he turned around to see raised glasses and a roomful of expectant faces.
He rose from the stool, “No rest for the wicked, I’d better get back to work,” he grinned down at Sara’s slightly petulant child-like face. “Thanks so much for the offer to pick me up. I’ll see you Sunday evening then, if not before.” As he followed the publican back to his instruments he imagined he could feel Sara’s pretty lavender eyes boring irritated holes in his back.
He played and sang the rest of the set with a lightness and sense of expectation in his heart that he hadn’t felt for some time.