Nocturnes: Five Stories of Music and Nightfall

MALVERN HILLS

I’D SPENT THE SPRING in London, and all in all, even if I hadn’t achieved everything I’d set out to, it had been an exciting interlude. But with the weeks slipping by and summer getting closer, the old restlessness had started to return. For one thing, I was getting vaguely paranoid about running into any more of my former university friends. Wandering around Camden Town, or going through CDs I couldn’t afford in West End megastores, I’d already had too many of them come up to me, asking how I was getting on since leaving the course to “seek fame and fortune.” It’s not that I was embarrassed to tell them what I’d been up to. It was just that-with a very few exceptions-none of them was capable of grasping what was or wasn’t, for me at this particular point, a “successful” few months.

As I’ve said, I hadn’t achieved every goal I’d set my sights on, but then those goals had always been more like long-term targets. And all those auditions, even the really dreary ones, had been an invaluable experience. In almost every case, I’d taken something away with me, something I’d learned about the scene in London, or else about the music business in general.

Some of these auditions had been pretty professional affairs. You’d find yourself in a warehouse, or a converted garage block, and there’d be a manager, or maybe the girlfriend of a band member, taking your name, asking you to wait, offering you tea, while the sounds of the band, stopping and starting, thundered out from the adjoining space. But the majority of auditions happened at a much more shambolic level. In fact, when you saw the way most bands went about things, it was no mystery why the whole scene in London was dying on its feet. Time and again, I’d walk past rows of anonymous suburban terraces on the city outskirts, carry my acoustic guitar up a staircase, and enter a stale-smelling flat with mattresses and sleeping bags all over the floor, and band members who mumbled and barely looked you in the eye. I’d sing and play while they stared emptily at me, till one of them might bring it to an end by saying something like: “Yeah, well. Thanks anyway, but it’s not quite our genre.”

I soon worked out that most of these guys were shy or plain awkward about the audition process, and that if I chatted to them about other things, they’d become a lot more relaxed. That’s when I’d pick up all kinds of useful info: where the interesting clubs were, or the names of other bands in need of a guitarist. Or sometimes it was just a tip about a new act to check out. As I say, I never came away empty-handed.

On the whole, people really liked my guitar-playing, and a lot of them said my vocals would come in handy for harmonies. But it quickly emerged there were two factors going against me. The first was that I didn’t have equipment. A lot of bands were wanting someone with electric guitar, amps, speakers, preferably transport, ready to slot right into their gigging schedule. I was on foot with a fairly crappy acoustic. So no matter how much they liked my rhythm work or my voice, they’d no choice but to turn me away. This was fair enough.

Much harder to accept was the other main obstacle-and I have to say, I was completely surprised by this one. There was actually a problem about me writing my own songs. I couldn’t believe it. There I’d be, in some dingy apartment, playing to a circle of blank faces, then at the end, after a silence that could go on for fifteen, thirty seconds, one of them would ask suspiciously: “So whose number was that?” And when I said it was one of my own, you’d see the shutters coming down. There’d be little shrugs, shakes of the head, sly smiles exchanged, then they’d be giving me their rejection patter.

The umpteenth time this happened, I got so exasperated, I said: “Look, I don’t get this. Are you wanting to be a covers band for ever? And even if that’s what you want to be, where do you think those songs come from in the first place? Yeah, that’s right. Someone writes them!”

But the guy I was talking to stared at me vacantly, then said: “No offence, mate. It’s just that there are so many wankers going around writing songs.”

The stupidity of this position, which seemed to extend right across the London scene, was key to persuading me there was something if not utterly rotten, then at least extremely shallow and inauthentic about what was going down here, right at the grass-roots level, and that this was undoubtedly a reflection of what was happening in the music industry all the way up the ladder.

It was this realisation, and the fact that as the summer came closer I was running out of floors to sleep on, that made me feel for all the fascination of London-my university days looked grey by comparison-it would be good to take a break from the city. So I called up my sister, Maggie, who runs a cafe with her husband up in the Malvern Hills, and that’s how it came to be decided I’d spend the summer with them.

MAGGIE’S FOUR YEARS OLDER and is always worrying about me, so I knew she’d be all for my coming up. In fact, I could tell she was glad to be getting the extra help. When I say her cafe is in the Malvern Hills, I don’t mean it’s in Great Malvern or down on the A road, but literally up there in the hills. It’s an old Victorian house standing by itself facing the west side, so when the weather’s nice, you can have your tea and cake out on the cafe terrace with a sweeping view over Herefordshire. Maggie and Geoff have to close the place in the winter, but in the summer it’s always busy, mainly with the locals-who park their cars in the West of England car park a hundred yards below and come panting up the path in sandals and floral dresses-or else the walking brigade with their maps and serious gear.

Maggie said she and Geoff couldn’t afford to pay me, which suited me just fine because it meant I couldn’t be expected to work too hard for them. All the same, since I was getting bed and board, the understanding seemed to be that I’d be a third member of staff. It was all a bit unclear, and at the start, Geoff, in particular, seemed torn between giving me a kick up the arse for not doing enough, and apologising for asking me to do anything at all, like I was a guest. But things soon settled down to a pattern. The work was easy enough-I was especially good at making sandwiches-and I sometimes had to keep reminding myself of my main objective in coming out to the country in the first place: that’s to say, I was going to write a brand-new batch of songs ready for my return to London in the autumn.

I’m naturally an early riser, but I quickly discovered that breakfast at the cafe was a nightmare, with customers wanting eggs done this way, toast like that, everything getting overcooked. So I made a point of never appearing until around eleven. While all the clatter was going on downstairs, I’d open the big bay window in my room, sit on the broad window sill and play my guitar looking out over miles and miles of countryside. There was a run of really clear mornings just after I arrived, and it was a glorious feeling, like I could see forever, and when I strummed my chords, they were ringing out across the whole nation. Only when I turned and stuck my head right out of the window would I get an aerial view of the cafe terrace below, and become aware of the people coming and going with their dogs and pushchairs.

I wasn’t a stranger to this area. Maggie and I had grown up only a few miles away in Pershore and our parents had often brought us for walks on the hills. But I’d never been much up for it in those days, and as soon as I was old enough, I’d refused to go with them. That summer though, I felt this was the most beautiful place in the world; that in many ways I’d come from and belonged to the hills. Maybe it was something to do with our parents having split up, the fact that for some time now, that little grey house opposite the hairdresser was no longer “our” house. Whatever it was, this time round, instead of the claustrophobia I remembered from my childhood, I felt affection, even nostalgia, about the area.

I found myself wandering in the hills practically every day, sometimes with my guitar if I was sure it wouldn’t rain. I liked in particular Table Hill and End Hill, at the north end of the range, which tend to get neglected by day-trippers. There I’d sometimes be lost in my thoughts for hours at a time without seeing a soul. It was like I was discovering the hills for the first time, and I could almost taste the ideas for new songs welling up in my mind.

Working at the cafe, though, was another matter. I’d catch a voice, or see a face coming up to the counter while I was preparing a salad, that would jerk me back to an earlier part of my life. Old friends of my parents would come up and grill me about what I was up to, and I’d have to bluff until they decided to leave me in peace. Usually they’d sign off with something like: “Well at least you’re keeping busy,” nodding towards the sliced bread and tomatoes, before waddling back to their table with their cup and saucer. Or someone I’d known at school would come in and start talking to me in their new “university” voice, maybe dissecting the latest Batman film in clever-clever language, or else starting on about the real causes of world poverty.

I didn’t really mind any of this. In fact, some of these people I was genuinely quite glad to see. But there was one person who came into the cafe that summer, the instant I saw her, I felt myself freezing up, and by the time it occurred to me to escape into the kitchen, she’d already seen me.

This was Mrs. Fraser-or Hag Fraser, as we used to call her. I recognised her as soon as she came in with a muddy little bulldog. I felt like telling her she couldn’t bring the dog inside, though people always did that when they came to get things. Hag Fraser had been one of my teachers at school in Pershore. Thankfully she retired before I went into the sixth form, but in my memory her shadow falls over my entire school career. Her aside, school hadn’t been that bad, but she’d had it in for me from the start, and when you’re just eleven years old, there’s nothing you can do to defend yourself from someone like her. Her tricks were the usual ones twisted teachers have, like asking me in lessons exactly the questions she sensed I wouldn’t be able to answer, then making me stand up and getting the class to laugh at me. Later, it got more subtle. I remember once, when I was fourteen, a new teacher, a Mr. Travis, had exchanged jokes with me in class. Not jokes against me, but like we were equals, and the class had laughed, and I’d felt good about it. But a couple of days later, I was going down the corridor and Mr. Travis was coming the other way, talking with her, and as I came by she stopped me and gave me a complete bollocking about late homework or something. The point is she’d done this just to let Mr. Travis know I was a “troublemaker;” that if he’d thought for one moment I was one of the boys worthy of his respect, he was making a big mistake. Maybe it was because she was old, I don’t know, but the other teachers never seemed to see through her. They all took whatever she said as gospel.

When Hag Fraser came in that day, it was obvious she remembered me, but she didn’t smile or call me by name. She bought a cup of tea and a packet of Custard Creams, then took them outside to the terrace. I thought that was that. But then a while later, she came in again, put her empty cup and saucer down on the counter and said: “Since you won’t clear the table, I’ve brought these in myself.” She gave me a look that went on a second or two longer than was normal-her old if-only-I-could-swat-you look-then left.

All my hatred for the old dragon came back, and by the time Maggie came down a few minutes later, I was completely fuming. She saw it straight away and asked what was wrong. There were a few customers out on the terrace, but no one inside, so I started shouting, calling Hag Fraser every filthy name she deserved. Maggie got me to calm down, then said:

“Well, she’s not anybody’s teacher any more. She’s just a sad old lady whose husband’s gone and left her.”

“Not surprised.”

“But you have to feel a bit sorry for her. Just when she thought she could enjoy her retirement, she’s left for a younger woman. And now she has to run that bed-and-breakfast by herself and people say the place is falling apart.”

This all cheered me up no end. I forgot about Hag Fraser soon after that, because a group came in and I had to make a lot of tuna salads. But a few days later when I was chatting to Geoff in the kitchen, I got a few more details from him; like how her husband of forty-odd years had gone off with his secretary; and how their hotel had got off to a reasonable start, but now all the gossip was of guests demanding their money back, or checking out within hours of arrival. I saw the place myself once when I was helping Maggie with the cash-and-carry and we drove past. Hag Fraser’s hotel was right there on the Elgar Route, a fairly substantial granite house with an outsize sign saying “Malvern Lodge.”

But I don’t want to go on about Hag Fraser too much. I’m not obsessed with her or with her hotel. I’m only putting this all here now because of what happened later, once Tilo and Sonja came in.

Geoff had gone into Great Malvern that day, so it was just me and Maggie holding the fort. The main lunch rush was over, but at the point when the Krauts came in, we still had plenty going on. I’d clocked them in my mind as “the Krauts” the moment I heard their accents. I wasn’t being racist. If you have to stand behind a counter and remember who didn’t want beetroot, who wanted extra bread, who gets what put on which bill, you’ve no choice but to turn all the customers into characters, give them names, pick out physical peculiarities. Donkey Face had a ploughman’s and two coffees. Tuna mayo baguettes for Winston Churchill and his wife. That’s how I was doing it. So Tilo and Sonja were “the Krauts.”

It was very hot that afternoon, but most of the customers-being English-still wanted to sit outside on the terrace, some of them even avoiding the parasols so they could go bright red in the sun. But the Krauts decided to sit indoors in the shade. They had on loose, camel-coloured trousers, trainers and T-shirts, but somehow looked smart, the way people from the continent often do. I supposed they were in their forties, maybe early fifties-I didn’t pay too much attention at that stage. They ate their lunch talking quietly to each other, and they seemed like any pleasant, middle-aged couple from Europe. Then after a while, the guy got up and started wandering about the room, pausing to study an old faded photo Maggie has on the wall, of the house as it was in 1915. Then he stretched out his arms and said:

“Your countryside here is so wonderful! We have many fine mountains in Switzerland. But what you have here is different. They are hills. You call them hills. They have a charm all their own because they are gentle and friendly.”

“Oh, you’re from Switzerland,” Maggie said in her polite voice. “I’ve always wanted to go there. It sounds so fantastic, the Alps, the cable-cars.”

“Of course, our country has many beautiful features. But here, in this spot, you have a special charm. We have wanted to visit this part of England for so long. We always talked of it, and now finally we are here!” He gave a hearty laugh. “So happy to be here!”

“That’s splendid,” Maggie said. “I do hope you enjoy it. Are you here for long?”

“We have another three days before we must return to our work. We have looked forward to coming here ever since we observed a wonderful documentary film many years ago, concerning Elgar. Evidently Elgar loved these hills and explored them thoroughly on his bicycle. And now we are finally here!”

Maggie chatted with him for a few minutes about places they’d already visited in England, what they should see in the local area, the usual stuff you were supposed to say to tourists. I’d heard it loads of times before, and I could do it myself more or less on automatic, so I started to tune out. I just took in that the Krauts were actually Swiss and that they were travelling around by hired car. He kept saying what a great place England was and how kind everyone had been, and made big laughing noises whenever Maggie said anything halfway jokey. But as I say, I’d tuned out, thinking they were just this fairly boring couple. I only started paying attention again a few moments later, when I noticed the way the guy kept trying to bring his wife into the conversation, and how she kept silent, her eyes fixed on her guidebook and behaving like she wasn’t aware of any conversation at all. That’s when I took a closer look at them.

They both had even, natural suntans, quite unlike the sweaty lobster looks of the locals outside, and despite their age, they were both slim and fit-looking. His hair was grey, but luxuriant, and he’d had it carefully groomed, though in a vaguely seventies style, a bit like the guys in ABBA. Her hair was blonde, almost snowy white, and her face was stern-looking, with little lines etched around the mouth that spoilt what would otherwise have been the beautiful older woman look. So there he was, as I say, trying to bring her into the conversation.

“Of course, my wife enjoys Elgar greatly and so would be most curious to visit the house in which he was born.”

Silence.

Or: “I am not a great fan of Paris, I must confess. I much prefer London. But Sonja here, she loves Paris.”

Nothing.

Each time he said something like this, he’d turn towards his wife in the corner, and Maggie would be obliged to look over to her, but the wife still wouldn’t glance up from her book. The man didn’t seem especially perturbed by this and went on talking cheerfully. Then he stretched out his arms again and said: “If you will excuse me, I think I may for a moment go and admire your splendid scenery!”

He went outside, and we could see him walking around the terrace. Then he disappeared out of our view. The wife was still there in the corner, reading her guidebook, and after a while Maggie went over to her table and began clearing up. The woman ignored her completely until my sister picked up a plate with a tiny bit of roll still left on it. Then suddenly she slammed down her book and said, far more loudly than necessary: “I have not finished yet!”

Maggie apologised and left her with her piece of roll-which I noticed the woman made no move to touch. Maggie looked at me as she came past and I gave her a shrug. Then a few moments later, my sister asked the woman, very nicely, if there was anything else she’d like.

“No. I want nothing else.”

I could tell from her tone she should be left alone, but with Maggie it was a kind of reflex. She asked, like she really wanted to know: “Was everything all right?”

For at least five or six seconds, the woman went on reading, like she hadn’t heard. Then she put down her book again and glared at my sister.

“Since you ask,” she said, “I shall tell you. The food was perfectly okay. Better than in many of the awful places you have around here. However, we waited thirty-five minutes simply to be served a sandwich and a salad. Thirty-five minutes.”

I now realised this woman was livid with anger. Not the sort that suddenly hits you, then drains away. No, this woman, I could tell, had been in a kind of white heat for some time. It’s the sort of anger that arrives and stays put, at a constant level, like a bad headache, never quite peaking and refusing to find a proper outlet. Maggie’s always so even-tempered she couldn’t recognise the symptoms, and probably thought the woman was complaining in a more or less rational way. Because she apologised and started to say: “But you see, when there’s a big rush like we had earlier…”

“Surely you get it every day, no? Is that not so? Every day, in the summer, when the weather is fine, there is just such a big rush? Well? So why can’t you be ready? Something that happens every day and it surprises you. Is that what you are telling me?”

The woman had been glaring at my sister, but as I came out from behind the counter to stand beside Maggie, she transferred her gaze to me. And maybe it was to do with the expression I had on my face, I could see her anger go up a couple more notches. Maggie turned and looked at me, and began gently to push me away, but I resisted, and kept gazing at the woman. I wanted her to know it wasn’t just her and Maggie in this. God knows where this would have got us, but at that moment the husband came back in.

“Such a marvellous view! A marvellous view, a marvellous lunch, a marvellous country!”

I waited for him to sense what he’d walked into, but if he noticed, he showed no sign of taking it into account. He smiled at his wife and said, presumably for our benefit in English:

“Sonja, you really must go and have a look. Just walk to the end of the little path out there!”

She said something in German, then went back to her book. He came further into the room and said to us:

“We had considered driving on to Wales this afternoon. But your Malvern Hills are so wonderful, I really think we might stay here in this district for the remaining three days of our vacation. If Sonja agrees, I will be overjoyed!”

He looked at his wife, who shrugged and said something else in German, to which he laughed his loud, open laugh.

“Good! She agrees! So it is settled. We will no longer drive to Wales. We will hang out here in your district for the next three days!”

He beamed at us, and Maggie said something encouraging. I was relieved to see the wife putting her book away and getting ready to leave. The man, too, went to the table, picked up a small rucksack and put it on his shoulder. Then he said to Maggie:

“I wonder. Is there by any chance a small hotel you can recommend for us nearby? Nothing too expensive, but comfortable and pleasant. And if possible, with something of the English flavour!”

Maggie was a bit stumped by this and delayed her answer by saying something meaningless like: “What sort of place did you want?” But I said quickly:

“The best place around here is Mrs. Fraser’s. It’s just down along the road to Worcester. It’s called Malvern Lodge.”

“The Malvern Lodge! That sounds just the ticket!”

Maggie turned away disapprovingly and pretended to be clearing away more things while I gave them all the details on how to find Hag Fraser’s hotel. Then the couple left, the guy thanking us with big smiles, the woman not giving a backward glance.

My sister gave me a weary look and shook her head. I just laughed and said:

“You’ve got to admit, that woman and Hag Fraser really deserve one another. It was just too good an opportunity to miss.”

“It’s all very well for you to amuse yourself like that,” Maggie said, pushing past me to the kitchen. “I have to live here.”

“So what? Look, you’ll never see those Krauts again. And if Hag Fraser finds out we’ve been recommending her place to passing tourists, she’s hardly going to complain, is she?”

Maggie shook her head, but there was more of a smile about it this time.

THE CAFE GOT QUIETER after that, then Geoff came back, so I went off upstairs, feeling I’d done more than my share for the time being. Up in my room, I sat at the bay window with my guitar and for a while got engrossed in a song I was halfway through writing. But then-and it seemed like no time-I could hear the afternoon tea rush starting downstairs. If it got really mad, like it usually did, Maggie was bound to ask me to come down-which really wouldn’t be fair, given how much I’d done already. So I decided the best thing would be for me to slip out to the hills and continue my work there.

I left the back way without encountering anyone, and immediately felt glad to be out in the open. It was pretty warm though, especially carrying a guitar case, and I was glad of the breeze.

I was heading for a particular spot I’d discovered the previous week. To get there you climbed a steep path behind the house, then walked a few minutes along a more gradual incline till you came to this bench. It’s one I’d chosen carefully, not just because of the fantastic view, but because it wasn’t at one of those junctions in the paths where people with exhausted children come staggering up and sit next to you. On the other hand it wasn’t completely isolated, and every now and then, a walker would pass by, saying “Hi!” in the way they do, maybe adding some quip about my guitar, all without breaking stride. I didn’t mind this at all. It was kind of like having an audience and not having one, and it gave my imagination just that little edge it needed.

I’d been there on my bench for maybe half an hour when I became aware that some walkers, who’d just gone past with the usual short greeting, had now stopped several yards away and were watching me. This did rather annoy me, and I said, a little sarcastically:

“It’s okay. You don’t have to toss me any money.”

This was answered by a big hearty laugh which I recognised, and I looked up to see the Krauts coming back towards the bench.

The possibility flashed through my mind that they’d gone to Hag Fraser’s, realised I’d pulled a fast one on them, and were now coming to get even with me. But then I saw that not only the guy, but the woman too, was smiling cheerfully. They retraced their steps till they were standing in front of me, and since by this time the sun was falling, they appeared for a moment as two silhouettes, the big afternoon sky behind them. Then they came closer and I could see they were both gazing at my guitar-which I’d continued to play-with a look of happy amazement, the way people gaze at a baby. Even more astonishing, the woman was tapping her foot to my beat. I got self-conscious and stopped.

“Hey, carry on!” the woman said. “It’s really good what you play there.”

“Yes,” the husband said, “wonderful! We heard it from a distance.” He pointed. “We were right up there, on that ridge, and I said to Sonja, I can hear music.”

“Singing too,” the woman said. “I said to Tilo, listen, there is singing somewhere. And I was right, yes? You were singing also a moment ago.”

I couldn’t quite accept that this smiling woman was the same one who’d given us such a hard time at lunch, and I looked at them again carefully, in case this was a different couple altogether. But they were in the same clothes, and though the man’s ABBA-style hair had come undone a bit in the wind, there was no mistaking it. In any case, the next moment, he said:

“I believe you are the gentleman who served us lunch in the delightful restaurant.”

I agreed I was. Then the woman said:

“That melody you were singing a moment ago. We heard it up there, just in the wind at first. I loved the way it fell at the end of each line.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s something I’m working on. Not finished yet.”

“Your own composition? Then you must be very gifted! Please do sing your melody again, as you were before.”

“You know,” the guy said, “when you come to record your song, you must tell the producer this is how you want it to sound. Like this!” He gestured behind him at Herefordshire stretched out before us. “You must tell him this is the sound, the aural environment you require. Then the listener will hear your song as we heard it today, caught in the wind as we descend the slope of the hill…”

“But a little more clearly, of course,” the woman said. “Or else the listener will not catch the words. But Tilo is correct. There must be a suggestion of outdoors. Of air, of echo.”

They seemed on the verge of getting carried away, like they’d just come across another Elgar in the hills. Despite my initial suspicions, I couldn’t help but warm to them.

“Well,” I said, “since I wrote most of the song up here, it’s no wonder there’s something of this place in it.”

“Yes, yes,” they both said together, nodding. Then the woman said: “You must not be shy. Please share your music with us. It sounded wonderful.”

“All right,” I said, playing a little doodle. “All right, I’ll sing you a song, if you really want me to. Not the one I haven’t finished. Another one. But look, I can’t do it with you two standing right over me like this.”

“Of course,” Tilo said. “We are being so inconsiderate. Sonja and I have had to perform in so many strange and difficult conditions, we become insensitive to the needs of another musician.”

He looked around and sat down on a patch of stubbly grass near the path, his back to me and facing the view. Sonja gave me an encouraging smile, then sat down beside him. Immediately, he put an arm around her shoulders, she leaned towards him, then it was almost like I wasn’t there any more, and they were having an intimate lovey-dovey moment gazing over the late-afternoon countryside.

“Okay, here goes,” I said, and went into the song I usually open with at auditions. I aimed my voice at the horizon but kept glancing at Tilo and Sonja. Though I couldn’t see their faces, the whole way they remained snuggled up to each other with no hint of restlessness told me they were enjoying what they were hearing. When I finished, they turned to me with big smiles and applauded, sending echoes around the hills.

“Fantastic!” Sonja said. “So talented!”

“Splendid, splendid,” Tilo was saying.

I felt a little embarrassed by this and pretended to be absorbed in some guitar work. When I eventually looked up again, they were still sitting on the ground, but had now shifted their positions so they could see me.

“So you’re musicians?” I asked. “I mean, professional musicians?”

“Yes,” said Tilo, “I suppose you could call us professionals. Sonja and I, we perform as a duo. In hotels, restaurants. At weddings, at parties. All over Europe, though we like best to work in Switzerland and Austria. We make our living this way, so yes, we are professionals.”

“But first and foremost,” Sonja said, “we play because we believe in the music. I can see it is the same for you.”

“If I stopped believing in my music,” I said, “I’d stop, just like that.” Then I added: “I’d really like to do it professionally. It must be a good life.”

“Oh yes, it’s a good life,” said Tilo. “We’re very lucky we are able to do what we do.”

“Look,” I said, maybe a little suddenly. “Did you go to that hotel I told you about?”

“How very rude of us!” Tilo exclaimed. “We were so taken by your music, we forgot completely to thank you. Yes, we went there and it is just the ticket. Fortunately there were still vacancies.”

“It’s just what we wanted,” said Sonja. “Thank you.”

I pretended again to become absorbed in my chords. Then I said as casually as I could: “Come to think of it, there’s this other hotel I know. I think it’s better than Malvern Lodge. I think you should change.”

“Oh, but we’re quite settled now,” said Tilo. “We have unpacked our things, and besides, it’s just what we need.”

“Yeah, but… Well, the thing is, earlier on, when you asked me about a hotel, I didn’t know you were musicians. I thought you were bankers or something.”

They both burst out laughing, like I’d made a fantastic joke. Then Tilo said:

“No, no, we’re not bankers. Though there have been many times we wished we were!”

“What I’m saying,” I said, “is there are other hotels much more geared, you know, to artistic types. It’s hard when strangers ask you to recommend a hotel, before you know what sort of people they are.”

“It’s kind of you to worry,” said Tilo. “But please, don’t do so any longer. What we have is perfect. Besides, people are not so different. Bankers, musicians, we all in the end want the same things from life.”

“You know, I’m not sure that is so true,” Sonja said. “Our young friend here, you see he doesn’t look for a job in a bank. His dreams are different.”

“Perhaps you are right, Sonja. All the same, the present hotel is fine for us.”

I leant over the strings and practised another little phrase to myself, and for a few seconds nobody spoke. Then I asked: “So what sort of music do you guys play?”

Tilo shrugged. “Sonja and I play a number of instruments between us. We both play keyboards. I am fond of the clarinet. Sonja is a very fine violinist, and also a splendid singer. I suppose what we like to do best is to perform our traditional Swiss folk music, but in a contemporary manner. Sometimes even what you might call a radical manner. We take inspiration from great composers who took a similar path. Janáček, for instance. Your own Vaughan Williams.”

“But that kind of music,” Sonja said, “we don’t play so much now.”

They exchanged glances with what I thought was just a hint of tension. Then Tilo’s usual smile was back on his face.

“Yes, as Sonja points out, in this real world, much of the time, we must play what our audience is most likely to appreciate. So we perform many hits. Beatles, the Carpenters. Some more recent songs. This is perfectly satisfying.”

“What about ABBA?” I asked on an impulse, then immediately regretted it. But Tilo didn’t seem to sense any mockery.

“Yes, indeed, we do some ABBA. ‘Dancing Queen.’ That one always goes down well. In fact, it is on ‘Dancing Queen’ I actually do a little singing myself, a little harmony part. Sonja will tell you I have the most terrible voice. So we must make sure to perform this song only when our customers are right in the middle of their meal, when there is for them no chance of escape!”

He did his big laugh, and Sonja laughed too, though not so loudly. A power-cyclist, kitted out in what looked like a black wetsuit, went speeding by us, and for the next few moments, we all watched his frantic, receding shape.

“I went to Switzerland once,” I said eventually. “A couple of summers ago. Interlaken. I stayed at the youth hostel there.”

“Ah yes, Interlaken. A beautiful place. Some Swiss people scoff at it. They say it is just for the tourists. But Sonja and I always love to perform there. In fact, to play in Interlaken on a summer evening, to happy people from all over the world, it is something very wonderful. I hope you enjoyed your visit there.”

“Yeah, it was great.”

“There is a restaurant in Interlaken where we play a few nights every summer. For our performance, we position ourselves under the restaurant’s canopy, so we are facing the dining tables, which of course are outdoors on such an evening. And as we perform, we are able to see all the tourists, eating and talking together under the stars. And behind the tourists, we see the big field, where during the day the paragliders are landing, but which at night is lit up by the lamps along the Höheweg. And if your eye may travel further, there are the Alps overlooking the field. The outlines of the Eiger, the Mönch, the Jungfrau. And the air is pleasantly warm and filled with the music we are making. I always feel when we are there, this is a privilege. I think, yes, it is good to be doing this.”

“That restaurant,” Sonja said. “Last year, the manager made us wear full costumes while we performed, even though it was so hot. It was very uncomfortable, and we said, what difference does it make, why must we have our bulky waistcoats and scarves and hats? In just our blouses, we look neat and still very Swiss. But the restaurant manager tells us, we put on the full costumes or we don’t play. Our choice, he says, and walks away, just like that.”

“But Sonja, that is the same in any job. There is always a uniform, something the employer insists you must wear. It is the same for bankers! And in our case, at least it is something we believe in. Swiss culture. Swiss tradition.”

Once again something vaguely awkward hovered between them, but it was just for a second or two, and then they both smiled as they fixed their gazes back on my guitar. I thought I should say something, so I said:

“I think I’d enjoy that. Being able to play in different countries. It must keep you sharp, really aware of your audiences.”

“Yes,” Tilo said, “it is good that we perform to all kinds of people. And not only in Europe. All in all, we have got to know so many cities so well.”

“Düsseldorf, for instance,” said Sonja. There was something different about her voice now-something harder-and I could see again the person I’d encountered back at the cafe. Tilo, though, didn’t seem to notice anything and said to me, in a carefree sort of way:

“Düsseldorf is where our son is now living. He is your age. Perhaps a little older.”

“Earlier this year,” Sonja said, “we went to Düsseldorf. We have an engagement to play there. Not the usual thing, this is a chance to play our real music. So we call him, our son, our only child, we call to say we are coming to his city. He does not answer his phone, so we leave a message. We leave many messages. No reply. We arrive in Düsseldorf, we leave more messages. We say, here we are, we are in your city. Still nothing. Tilo says don’t worry, perhaps he will come on the night, to our concert. But he does not come. We play, then we go to another city, to our next engagement.”

Tilo made a chuckling noise. “I think perhaps Peter heard enough of our music while he was growing up! The poor boy, you see, he had to listen to us rehearsing, day after day.”

“I suppose it can be a bit tricky,” I said. “Having children and being musicians.”

“We only had the one child,” Tilo said, “so it was not so bad. Of course we were fortunate. When we had to travel, and we couldn’t take him with us, his grandparents were always delighted to help. And when Peter was older, we were able to send him to a good boarding school. Again, his grandparents came to the rescue. We could not afford such school fees otherwise. So we were very fortunate.”

“Yes, we were fortunate,” Sonja said. “Except Peter hated his school.”

The earlier good atmosphere was definitely slipping away. In an effort to cheer things up, I said quickly: “Well, anyway, it looks like you both really enjoy your work.”

“Oh yes, we enjoy our work,” said Tilo. “It’s everything to us. Even so, we very much appreciate a vacation. Do you know, this is our first proper vacation in three years.”

This made me feel really bad all over again, and I thought about having another go at persuading them to change hotels, but I could see how ridiculous this would look. I just had to hope Hag Fraser pulled her finger out. Instead, I said:

“Look, if you like, I’ll play you that song I was working on earlier. I haven’t finished it, and I wouldn’t usually do this. But since you heard some of it anyway, I don’t mind playing you what I’ve got so far.”

The smile returned to Sonja’s face. “Yes,” she said, “please do let us hear. It sounded so beautiful.”

As I got ready to play, they shifted again, so they were facing the view like before, their backs to me. But this time, instead of cuddling, they sat there on the grass with surprisingly upright postures, each with a hand up to the brow to shield away the sun. They stayed like that all the time I played, peculiarly still, and what with the way each of them cast a long afternoon shadow, they looked like matching art exhibits. I brought my incomplete song to a meandering halt, and for a moment they didn’t move. Then their postures relaxed, and they applauded, though perhaps not quite as enthusiastically as the last time. Tilo got to his feet, muttering compliments, then helped Sonja up. It was only when you saw how they did this that you remembered they were really quite middle-aged. Maybe they were just tired. For all I know, they might have done a fair bit of walking before they’d come across me. All the same, it seemed to me they found it quite a struggle to get up.

“You’ve entertained us so marvellously,” Tilo was saying. “Now we are the tourists, and someone else plays for us! It makes a pleasant change.”

“I would love to hear that song when it is finished,” Sonja said, and she seemed really to mean it. “Maybe one day I will hear it on the radio. Who knows?”

“Yes,” Tilo said, “and then Sonja and I will play our cover version to our customers!” His big laugh rang through the air. Then he did a polite little bow and said: “So today we are in your debt three times over. A splendid lunch. A splendid choice of hotel. And a splendid concert here in the hills!”

As we said our goodbyes, I had an urge to tell them the truth. To confess that I’d deliberately sent them to the worst hotel in the area, and warn them to move out while there was still time. But the affectionate way they shook my hand made it all the harder to come out with this. And then they were going down the hill and I was alone on the bench again.

THE CAFE HAD CLOSED by the time I came down from the hills. Maggie and Geoff looked exhausted. Maggie said it had been their busiest day yet and seemed pleased about it. But when Geoff made the same point over supper-which we ate in the cafe from various left-overs-he put it like it was a negative thing, like it was awful they’d been made to work so hard and where had I been to help? Maggie asked how my afternoon had gone, and I didn’t mention Tilo and Sonja-that seemed too complicated-but told her I’d gone up to the Sugarloaf to work on my song. And when she asked if I’d made any progress, and I said yes, I was making real headway now, Geoff got up and marched out moodily, even though there was still food on his plate. Maggie pretended not to notice, and fair enough, he came back a few minutes later with a can of beer, and sat there reading his newspaper and not saying much. I didn’t want to be the cause of a rift between my sister and brother-in-law, so I excused myself soon after that and went upstairs to work some more on the song.

My room, which was such an inspiration in the daytime, wasn’t nearly so appealing after dark. For a start, the curtains didn’t pull all the way across, which meant if I opened a window in the stifling heat, insects from miles around would see my light and come charging in. And the light I had was just this one bare bulb hanging down from the ceiling rose, which cast gloomy shadows all round the room, making it look all the more obviously the spare room it was. That evening, I was wanting light to work by, to jot down lyrics as they occurred to me. But it got far too stuffy, and in the end I switched off the bulb, pulled back the curtains, and opened the windows wide. Then I sat in the bay with my guitar, just the way I did in the day.

I’d been there like that for about an hour, playing through various ideas for the bridge passage, when there was a knock and Maggie stuck her head round the door. Of course everything was in darkness, but outside down on the terrace there was a security light, so I could just about make out her face. She had on this awkward smile, and I thought she was about to ask me to come and help with yet another chore. She came right in, closed the door behind her and said:

“I’m sorry, love. But Geoff’s really tired tonight, he’s been working so hard. And now he says he wants to watch his movie in peace?”

She said it like that, like it was a question, and it took me a moment to realise she was asking me to stop playing my music.

“But I’m working on something important here,” I said.

“I know. But he’s really tired tonight, and he says he can’t relax because of your guitar.”

“What Geoff needs to realise,” I said, “is that just as he’s got his work to do, I’ve got mine.”

My sister seemed to think about this. Then she did a big sigh. “I don’t think I ought to report that back to Geoff.”

“Why not? Why don’t you? It’s time he got the message.”

“Why not? Because I don’t think he’d be very pleased, that’s why not. And I don’t really think he’d accept that his work and your work are quite on the same level.”

I stared at Maggie, for a moment quite speechless. Then I said: “You’re talking such rubbish. Why are you talking such rubbish?”

She shook her head wearily, but didn’t say anything.

“I don’t understand why you’re talking such rubbish,” I said. “And just when things are going so well for me.”

“Things are going well for you, are they, love?” She kept looking at me in the half-light. “Well, all right,” she said in the end. “I won’t argue with you.” She turned away to open the door. “Come down and join us, if you like,” she said as she left.

Rigid with rage, I stared at the door that had closed behind her. I became aware of muffled sounds from the television downstairs, and even in the state I was in, some detached part of my brain was telling me my fury should be directed not at Maggie, but at Geoff, who’d been systematically trying to undermine me ever since I’d got here. Even so, it was my sister I was livid at. In all the time I’d been in her house, she hadn’t once asked to hear a song, the way Tilo and Sonja had done. Surely it wasn’t too much to ask of your own sister, and one who’d been, I happened to remember, a big music fan in her teens? And now here she was, interrupting me when I was trying to work and talking all this rubbish. Every time I thought of the way she’d said: “All right, I won’t argue with you,” I felt fresh fury coursing through me.

I came down off the window sill, put away the guitar, and threw myself down on my mattress. Then for the next little while I stared at the patterns on the ceiling. It seemed clear I’d been invited here on false pretences, that this had all been about getting cheap help for the busy season, a mug they didn’t even have to pay. And my sister didn’t understand what I was trying to achieve any better than did her moron of a husband. It would serve them both right if I left them here in the lurch and went back to London. I kept going round and round with this stuff, until maybe an hour or so later, I calmed down a bit and decided I’d just turn in for the night.

I DIDN’T SPEAK MUCH to either of them when I came down as usual just after the breakfast rush. I made some toast and coffee, helped myself to some left-over scrambled eggs, and settled down in the corner of the cafe. All through my breakfast the thought kept occurring to me I might run into Tilo and Sonja again up in the hills. And though this might mean having to face the music about Hag Fraser’s place, even so, I realised I was hoping it would happen. Besides, even if Hag Fraser’s was truly awful, they’d never suppose I’d recommended it out of malice. There’d be any number of ways for me to get out of it.

Maggie and Geoff were probably expecting me to help again with the lunch rush, but I decided they needed a lesson about taking people for granted. So after breakfast, I went upstairs, got my guitar and slipped out the back way.

It was really hot again and the sweat was running down my cheek as I climbed the path leading up to my bench. Even though I’d been thinking about Tilo and Sonja at breakfast, I’d forgotten them by this point, and so got a surprise when, coming up the final slope, I looked towards the bench and saw Sonja sitting there by herself. She spotted me immediately and waved.

I was still a bit wary of her, and especially without Tilo around, I wasn’t so keen to sit down with her. But she gave me a big smile and did a shifting movement, like she was making room for me, so I didn’t have much choice.

We said our hellos, then for a time we just sat there side by side, not speaking. This didn’t seem so odd at first, partly because I was still getting my breath back, and partly because of the view. There was more haze and cloud than the previous day, but if you concentrated, you could still see beyond the Welsh borders to the Black Mountains. The breeze was quite strong, but not uncomfortable.

“So where’s Tilo?” I asked in the end.

“Tilo? Oh…” She put her hand up to shield her eyes. Then she pointed. “There. You see? Over there. That is Tilo.”

Some way in the distance, I could see a figure, in what might have been a green T-shirt and a white sun cap, moving along the rising path towards Worcestershire Beacon.

“Tilo wished to go for a walk,” she said.

“You didn’t want to go with him?”

“No. I decided to stay here.”

While she wasn’t by any means the irate customer from the cafe, neither was she quite the same person who’d been so warm and encouraging to me the day before. There was definitely something up, and I started preparing my defence about Hag Fraser’s.

“By the way,” I said, “I’ve been working a bit more on that song. You can hear it if you like.”

She gave this consideration, then said: “If you do not mind, perhaps not just at this minute. You see, Tilo and I have just had a talk. You might call it a disagreement.”

“Oh okay. Sorry to hear that.”

“And now he has gone off for his walk.”

Again, we sat there not talking. Then I sighed and said: “I think maybe this is all my fault.”

She turned to look at me. “Your fault? Why do you say that?”

“The reason you’ve quarrelled, the reason your holiday’s all messed up now. It’s my fault. It’s that hotel, isn’t it? It wasn’t very good, right?”

“The hotel?” She seemed puzzled. “That hotel. Well, it has some weak points. But it is a hotel, like many others.”

“But you noticed, right? You noticed all the weak points. You must have done.”

She seemed to think this over, then nodded. “It is true, I noticed the weak points. Tilo, however, did not. Tilo, of course, thought the hotel was splendid. We are so lucky, he kept saying. So lucky to find such a hotel. Then this morning we have our breakfast. For Tilo, this is a fine breakfast, the best breakfast ever. I say, Tilo, don’t be stupid. This is not a good breakfast. This is not a good hotel. He says, no, no, we are so very lucky. So I become angry. I tell the proprietress everything that is wrong. Tilo leads me away. Let’s go for a walk, he says. You will feel better then. So we come out here. And he says, Sonja, look at these hills, aren’t they so beautiful? Aren’t we fortunate to come to such a place as this for our vacation? These hills, he says, are even more wonderful than he imagined them when we listen to Elgar. He asks me, isn’t this so? Perhaps I become angry again. I tell him, these hills are not so wonderful. It is not how I imagine them when I hear Elgar’s music. Elgar’s hills are majestic and mysterious. Here, this is just like a park. This is what I say to him, and then it is his turn to be cross. He says in that case, he will walk by himself. He says we are finished, we never agree on anything now. Yes, he says, Sonja, you and me, we are finished. And off he goes! So there you are. That is why he is up there and I am down here.” She shielded her eyes again and watched Tilo’s progress.

“I’m really sorry,” I said. “If only I hadn’t sent you to that hotel in the first place…”

“Please. The hotel is not important.” She leaned forward to get a better view of Tilo. Then she turned to me and smiled, and I thought maybe there were little tears in her eyes. “Tell me,” she said. “Today, you mean to write more songs?”

“That’s the plan. Or at least, I want to finish the one I’ve been working on. The one you heard yesterday.”

“That was beautiful. And what will you do then, once you have finished writing your songs here? You have a plan?”

“I’ll go back to London and form a band. These songs need just the right band or they won’t work.”

“How exciting. I do wish you luck.”

After a moment, I said, quite quietly: “Then again, I may not bother. It’s not so easy, you know.”

She didn’t reply, and it occurred to me she hadn’t heard, because she’d turned away again, to look towards Tilo.

“You know,” she said eventually, “when I was younger, nothing could make me angry. But now I get angry at many things. I don’t know how I have become this way. It is not good. Well, I do not think Tilo is coming back here. I will return to the hotel and wait for him.” She got to her feet, her gaze still fixed on his distant figure.

“It’s a shame,” I said, also getting up, “you having a row on your holiday. And yesterday, when I was playing to you, you seemed so happy together.”

“Yes, that was a good moment. Thank you for that.” Suddenly, she held out her hand to me, smiling warmly. “It has been so nice to meet you.”

We shook hands, in the slightly limp way you do with women. She started to walk away, then stopped and looked at me.

“If Tilo were here,” she said, “he would say to you, never be discouraged. He would say, of course, you must go to London and try and form your band. Of course you will be successful. That is what Tilo would say to you. Because that is his way.”

“And what would you say?”

“I would like to say the same. Because you are young and talented. But I am not so certain. As it is, life will bring enough disappointments. If on top, you have such dreams as this…” She smiled again and shrugged. “But I should not say these things. I am not a good example to you. Besides, I can see you are much more like Tilo. If disappointments do come, you will carry on still. You will say, just as he does, I am so lucky.” For a few seconds, she went on gazing at me, like she was memorising the way I looked. The breeze was blowing her hair about, making her seem older than she usually did. “I wish you much luck,” she said finally.

“Good luck yourself,” I said. “And I hope you two make it up okay.”

She waved a last time, then went off down the path out of my view.

I took the guitar from its case and sat back on the bench. I didn’t play anything for a while though, because I was looking into the distance, towards Worcestershire Beacon, and Tilo’s tiny figure up on the incline. Maybe it was to do with the way the sun was hitting that part of the hill, but I could see him much more clearly now than before, even though he’d got further away. He’d paused for a moment on the path, and seemed to be looking about him at the surrounding hills, almost like he was trying to reappraise them. Then his figure started to move again.

I worked on my song for a few minutes, but kept losing concentration, mainly because I was thinking about the way Hag Fraser’s face must have looked as Sonja laid into her that morning. Then I gazed at the clouds, and at the sweep of land below me, and I made myself think again about my song, and the bridge passage I still hadn’t got right.