Humming a Different Tune Read online

  “Told you he was a good bloke,” he commented as we stopped halfway down the upstairs landing to figure out where we could put the sofa. “Can’t accept, though. It’s our wedding. We’ll make do.”

  I’d had time to think about it. “Your friends want to help. This is something tangible they can do.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Just imagine Lucy’s face.”

  He smiled a little. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate the gesture. Just—”

  He hadn’t been there the first time we’d been on the cancer train. He hadn’t learned how important it was to accept help even when it stung your pride. “Lucy wants two things for her wedding. She wants it big, and she wants Dad to be there. This means she can have both.”

  He nodded slowly, still not looking happy about it. “Not taking charity, though. We’ve already got a tentative booking for caterers for next week. We can afford that and rent some outside heaters.”

  “I’ll tell Monty. How many people were you going to invite to the original do?”

  “Hundred or so. I can e-mail you Lucy’s list, but I doubt they can all make it at short notice.”

  “He can seat seventy.”

  He nodded, considering. “I’ll narrow it down and get on the phone. We’ve got a twenty-minute slot with the registrar at half five, Saturday after next. They were full up, but they’re going to stay open late for us. Nice people.”

  “After how much Lucy yelled at them, they must be,” I said. “When are you going to tell her about the plan?”

  He considered it and grinned slowly. “At the last possible moment.”

  “She’ll kill you.”

  “She likes surprises,” he said, with more confidence than I felt. “If she knows, she’ll run herself ragged trying to take over.”

  “Yeah, but she’ll still have your guts,” I told him and eyed the sofa again. “If we tip it on end, do you think we’ll get it into the spare room?”

  My week rolled by, punctuated by excited texts.

  Chairs and tables a-okay!

  Colours? Yellow and silver or blue and bronze? Julie says flowers are likely to be daffodils and tulips.

  Caterers just confirmed they can arrive here to do a meal for six thirty. Salmon or roast pork?

  OMG! CAKE!! Bella90 just offered!!! Three tiers.

  Each one made me smile for a moment. It wasn’t an easy week. Dad was back at home, but he was in pain and frustrated, and we all got yelled at for hovering a few times.

  Katie and Lynn in Swindon just sent a huge box of sugared almonds!

  Just received a cake topper and reel of silver ribbon. No idea who sent it!

  On Saturday, I woke up early but couldn’t find the energy to get out of bed. Mum had told us to back off and let Dad rest. Lucy was teaching all day. Greg was busy trying to find a wedding suit without her knowing.

  I didn’t have anything to do.

  I was still sitting there when my phone rang. It was Monty, and I answered, a little worried. We’d been communicating by text and e-mail until now. Was something wrong? What if the whole thing was off?

  “My dear,” a very loud, very posh voice boomed into my ear, “we have music! The dance will go on!”

  “Music?” I repeated stupidly. Greg’s description had made me imagine Monty as, at the least, more flaming and effeminate than my slightly stodgy soon to be brother-in-law could cope with. I’d been entertaining some mildly inappropriate and more than slightly hopeful speculation along those lines. I hadn’t been expecting heartiness.

  “The very food of love,” Monty reminded me. “We shall dance the night away. You’ve probably not heard of the Al Jeffries Band—”

  “I have,” I said. “Don’t tease. You can’t possibly—”

  “I certainly can.”

  I blinked. They were one of the more successful swing groups in the South East. Lucy had tried to book them for an event in Tilling last year, but they’d been booked up months in advance. “How?”

  “They have an event in Brighton that afternoon and were going to take a rest evening. Luckily, I can be very persuasive. They’ll donate their time and talent if we pay for their petrol and feed them well.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Well, Alistair and I were at school together, and everyone wants to help out your sister. She’s done a lot for the community, you know. I didn’t even have to offer to suck Alistair’s cock this time.” There was a moment of silence before he added, in a slightly lower and conspiratorial tone, “Bugger. Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that in Waitrose.”

  I choked on a laugh. “Not too discreet, no.”

  “Oh, they’ll get over it. Anyhoo, just wanted to let you know. Hope I didn’t wake you. You sounded a little surprised to hear from me.”

  “Been up for hours,” I lied, doing frantic calculations in my head. I’d spent my entire rainy-day fund earlier in the week, but I still had some cash left. “Er, do you want me to cover the transport costs?”

  “Already taken care of. There’re folks on the forum that wanted to help but couldn’t make anything. They’re popping in a tenner each for extra costs, and we’ll spend any excess on more flowers.”

  “Wow. Have I thanked you enough yet?"

  “Think nothing of it. Ah, at the checkout, I’m afraid. Can’t stand people who talk on these infernal devices at the till. Toodlepip.”

  “Toodle… pip,” I repeated weakly, but by then he had hung up.

  He phoned back about ten minutes later, just after I’d managed to get myself out of bed and half-dressed.

  “Me again. Completely forgot to mention the other reason I was calling. It occurred to me that none of you have seen the old place yet. If you have a free moment, you must let me know so I can show you round.”

  “I’m free all weekend,” I said. “Dad’s told us he’s not on his deathbed yet, so we can leave him in peace for a few days.”

  “This afternoon, then. Two o’clock?”

  “Um, yeah, sure.”

  “I’ll text you directions.”

  And he was gone again.

  My poky little bedsit seemed very quiet. I put the radio on hurriedly and made toast. Eating it as I leaned against the kitchen counter, I let my mind wander back to Monty. I could have found pictures if I’d looked. He was friends with Lucy on Facebook and had been to many of the same events. He was probably tagged in at least one of her photos.

  That would have spoiled the fun, though, so I resisted. He would be in his fifties, I decided now I’d heard his voice. Big hair and a bow tie. Probably had at least two dogs and a dapper boyfriend of indeterminate years.

  Okay, so I was right about the hair and the bowtie. Two out of five isn’t that bad.

  When I drew up outside Monty’s “old place” that afternoon, I was convinced I had taken a wrong turning. The gate had said Highdown Cottage, though.

  It was huge. Not stately home huge, but there must have been at least eight bedrooms in there, nestled under the thatched roof with its dormer windows. The gravelled drive was wide, with daffodils edging its sides. Stepped flower beds rose toward the flint walls. At this time of year, they were full of crocuses, with little clumps of snowdrops in the shady corners.

  I’d occasionally stopped to ogle places like this in the windows of the posh estate agents in town. Somewhere like this would set you back well over a million.

  I got out of the car slowly. I’d expected somewhere large, but nothing like this.

  The front door burst open, and an instantly recognizable voice called, “Neil! So good to see you!”

  I stood there like a startled lemon as Monty advanced on me, his hands outstretched.

  He was wearing a bow tie, just as I’d imagined, and an argyle sweater vest. His hair was a mass of blond corkscrew curls sticking out in every direction.

  He wasn’t fifty. In fact, he looked a few years younger than me and was tall, elbowy, and skinny in a way that made him look like he’d
tripped on a trailing shoelace and fallen headfirst out of his TARDIS.

  He seized my hand in both of his, pumping it enthusiastically. “So good to meet you. You must hear this all the time, but you look very like your sister.”

  “We’re not identical,” I said, staring at him. He had a long, narrow face, all chin, cheekbones, and pointy nose, but it fit together to make him look more appealing than odd.

  “Of course not. Now come in out of the wind. Tea? Bicky?”

  “Er, yeah, thanks. Don’t put yourself out.”

  “Popped the kettle on when I heard you driving up the lane.” He ushered me into a wide hallway and toward the back of the house.

  Something about the place struck me as a little off. It was just messy enough that it was clearly lived in, but it felt hollow, with a weight of quiet space. I glanced into the kitchen as we passed and spotted one plate and glass drying in the rack. Was he on his own up here, two miles from the next house, rattling around in this big house?

  “Quiet place,” I said.

  “Oh, terribly so,” he agreed. “But no need to worry about disturbing the neighbours.”

  A sudden warm tangle around my ankles made me pause, and I looked down to see a ginger cat.

  “Oh, that’s Merry. He’s ever such a tart. Pippin’s about somewhere, but he doesn’t like strangers.”

  “What about Sam and Frodo?” I asked, reaching down to rub Merry’s head.

  “Sadly, already departed from the Grey Havens. They were my childhood pets.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Worse things happen at sea,” he said breezily, and I looked up to see he was smiling with less bonhomie and more warmth. “Tolkien fan?”

  “Rabid.”

  “Well, Lucy never told me that,” he said. “Excellent, excellent.”

  I laughed. “The only book Lucy’s read more than once is Ballet Shoes.”

  Monty chuckled. “Dance is a wonderful thing, but it should never be the only thing, not when the world is so full of wonders.”

  In the sitting room, one armchair had a book open over its arm and a coaster on the table beside it. The rest of the room looked unused.

  “Make yourself comfy. I’ll just get the tea. Milk, sugar?”

  “Builder’s tea for me, more sugar the better,” I said, perching on the leather sofa. Immediately, I got a lapful of cat. I looked at the room curiously, noting the bookshelves lining the walls and the plants crowding the windowsill. Looking out, I saw the view and my breath caught. I put Merry aside gently and went to the window.

  Another section of the house stuck out to form an L-shape, sheltering a small garden edged by a planter-filled patio. Beyond that the hillside sloped down sharply, falling in ever steeper lines to the fields below. Another hill curved round, its misty outline filling half the view, but beyond that I could see the sea, shining like dull steel in the near distance.

  I quietly added another million to the probable price of the house and kept looking. It was stunning.

  “You should see it when there’s a storm coming in,” Monty observed. He brought in a tray holding a willow-pattern teapot, cups and saucers, and a plate of biscuits. I went to help him and we sat back down. Merry promptly jumped back up and draped himself over my leg again.

  “You’ve made a friend,” Monty commented, leaning forward to pour the tea. “I’ll show you the morning room in a sec. I was thinking that maybe we should use that for the meal and later for the dancing, and set up the marquee with little tables for people who don’t want to dance. I’ve got a rough schedule drawn up. Let me just grab it, and then—”

  “There’s no rush,” I said. “Aren’t you having tea?”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Quite. Drive up no trouble, I hope?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Nice place you’ve got here. Must have cost a bomb.”

  “Thank you. Yes, er. How’s Lucy holding up?”

  “Well, you know Lucy. Throwing herself into work, really.”

  “Another biscuit?” He was looking a little twitchy, and I wasn’t sure what I’d said to push him back into frantic small talk.

  “Nah, I’m fine. Hey, I was thinking. We’re going to have a mix of dancers and nondancers. Do you think anyone would be willing to do a beginners class before Lucy gets here?”

  He relaxed. “That’s a smashing idea, and it should be no trouble to arrange.”

  “I’m amazed at everything you’ve done already.”

  “Well, you know how it is. Quite fancied a stint as a party planner once. Bought the marquee and everything, but it never worked out.”

  “You should do wedding planning.”

  He brightened up. “It would be tremendous fun, but I thought that about the vintage car rallies and the market garden as well, and neither of those happened in the end.”

  “So what do you do?”

  His shoulders tensed, and his voice started to boom again, his bonhomie a little strained. “Oh, nothing much. I don’t really need to work, and in this economic climate, it seems a little selfish to demand a place in the workforce just to keep myself entertained.”

  I was both jealous and suddenly choking back pity. I wasn’t passionate about my job, but I liked my co-workers and our easy routines, and it seemed far less dreary when I thought about Monty spending his days up here in his lonely palace in the hills.

  “Nothing wrong with a bit of fun.”

  I took another sip of tea and looked around frantically for a safer topic of conversation. I found it on the bookshelves. “Pratchett fan?”

  “Yes!” Monty said, his face lighting up. “You? What’s your favourite?”

  “Good Omens,” I said promptly.

  He beamed at me. “Oh, you are one of us, aren’t you? I once went to a fancy-dress party as Aziraphale. Of course,” he added ponderously, “everyone thought I was trying to be Peter Davison.”

  We talked books until he swept me off to see the morning room, which was another big sitting room with a few chairs, some rough tables full of seed trays, and a beautiful parquet floor. Windows let the light in on all sides, and I could imagine it full of dancers, quick footed and elegant.

  I ended up staying for dinner. The time passed with swift ease. Monty was loud and faintly ridiculous, but he was funny, and his heart was most definitely in the right place. I slowly began to slide from amused to fascinated.

  “I just never seem to find something worth sticking at,” he confessed over dinner. “One ought to have a passion in life.”

  “I haven’t,” I admitted. “I just shared Lucy’s.”

  “So you know what I mean?” He pointed his spoon at me excitedly.

  I did, sort of. I’d never really thought about what I wanted from life. I just sort of drifted along, doing whatever people suggested I do. Embarrassed, I said, “I just never found anything I was that excited about.”

  “Crying shame,” Monty said and peered at me hopefully. “Sherry?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had sherry,” I said, laughing, “and, no, not if I’m going to drive down that lane in one piece.”

  I left soon afterward, inching back down a road that had not seemed anywhere near so steep or narrow on the way up. I had to concentrate enough that I managed to put off thinking about the afternoon until I was home safely.

  I’d had fun, and I felt a little guilty about it. I’d never encountered anyone quite like Monty, who seemed at once boundlessly confident and oddly lonely. It was strange we’d never met. I knew I’d been getting a little set in my ways, but even going to a dance in the next town would have brought me across his path. I hadn’t talked about the books I loved with anyone since uni, and I had never argued their every intricacy so fiercely with anyone. Monty was cleverer than me, no doubt, but he had listened all the same, interpreting my ideas generously, and my brain felt busy for the first time in years.

  Part of me was sorry I’d left so soon. I couldn’t help forming rebuffs and posing questions in my head to throw at h
im next time.

  Next time?

  Next time we met would be Lucy’s wedding. After that, our paths might cross at the odd dancing event. There was no reason to think I would ever spend another evening arguing books with him, listening to his voice boom and squeak with indignation, his hands flailing in inarticulate dismay when he particularly disagreed with one of my opinions.

  Except maybe we would. Maybe I’d made a new friend. I’d never met anyone like Monty, so I couldn’t quite be sure, but I hoped I was right.

  For the first time all week, I fell asleep quickly instead of lying awake struggling with grief and worry.

  Greg and I owned up to my parents on Tuesday. Mum huffed disapproval a little, but Dad thought it was a brilliant scheme. He chuckled away to himself all afternoon.

  “Be like an episode of Don’t Tell the Bride,” he said. “You must be sure she loves you. As for you, Neil, my lad, have you never learnt not to mess with your sister?”

  “I’m doing her a favour,” I protested.

  “How are you going to get her up there?”

  Greg shrugged. “I just need to make sure I’m the one driving after we leave the registry office.”

  “We can do better than that,” Dad said. “Let me see what I can do.”

  He tired soon after that, but Mum gave us a quiet smile as we left. “I’m not saying I approve of what you’re up to, but that’s the happiest I’ve seen him since we left hospital.”

  I was still smiling when I got home, even when I realized I was out of milk and bread. There was a Tesco Express in the centre of town, so I dashed out quickly, whistling as I walked through the gloom. I hadn’t thought there was anything else I could do for Dad, which was stupid. He’d told us off enough the first time round for seeing him as an invalid rather than the person he’d always been. Dying or not, my dad always liked a good scheme, especially one with a bit of mischief involved. He’d organized plenty of surprise parties in his time, and he’d been full of ideas.