‘Not at Malvern. We’re house-hunting in Edgbaston.’
‘Won’t you miss it?’ asks Elf.
‘Life has chapters,’ says Imogen. ‘One ends, another begins.’
Elf’s mum dabs her mouth with her napkin. ‘It’s for the best, darling. One can only juggle so much.’
‘Very sensible,’ agrees Elf’s dad. ‘Being a housewife and mother is a full-time job. At the bank, we don’t employ married women.’
‘I think –’ Bea grinds the pepper mill ‘– that a policy designed to punish women for marrying should shrivel up and die.’
Elf’s dad rises to the bait. ‘Nobody’s punishing anyone. It’s simply a recognition of altered priorities.’
Bea rises to the bait. ‘It still means women end up at the kitchen sink and the ironing board, as far as I can see.’
Elf’s dad rises to the bait. ‘You can’t change biology.’
‘It’s not about biology.’ Elf rises to the bait.
‘Gosh.’ Her dad acts surprised. ‘What’s it about, then?’
‘Attitudes. Not so long ago, women couldn’t vote or divorce or own property or go to university. Now we can. What changed? Not biology – attitudes changed. And attitudes changed the law.’
‘Ah, to be young’ – their dad spears a carrot – ‘and be right about the ways of the world, by default.’
‘I understand you and Bruce are starting work on the new album next week, Elf?’ says Lawrence, as Elf’s mum serves up a ladle’s worth of trifle from the Waterford crystal bowl.
‘That was the plan, but there’s been a – a mix-up at the studio. Unfortunately.’
‘So it’s being postponed?’ Bea’s confused.
‘Only for a week or two.’ Elf hates lying.
‘What sort of “mix-up at the studio”?’ Elf’s dad frowns.
‘There was a double-booking,’ says Elf. ‘Apparently.’
‘Sounds jolly slapdash to me.’ Elf’s mum passes the bowl of trifle to Elf’s dad. ‘Can’t you take your business elsewhere?’
Not only do I hate lying, thinks Elf, I’m crap at it. ‘I suppose so, but we like the engineer at Regent, we know the equipment.’
‘Olympic did do a lovely job with “Shepherd’s Crook”,’ says Imogen.
‘A cracking job,’ echoes Lawrence, as if he knows the first thing about recording. Elf imagines the freshly engaged couple turning into Clive and Miranda Holloway in thirty years. One part of her recoils; another envies Imogen the clarity of her future life.
‘If everyone has trifle,’ Elf’s mum surveys the table, ‘dig in.’
‘How did you and Bruce meet, Elf?’ asks Lawrence.
I’d rather scoop out my kidneys than answer this, thinks Elf, but if I don’t, they’ll guess something’s wrong, Mum’ll winkle the whole sordid tale out of me. ‘Backstage at a folk-club in Islington. The Christmas before last. Australian folk music was a new thing, so everyone was curious to go and hear him. After the show I asked Bruce about his chord tuning and he asked about an Irish ballad I’d sung …’ and then we went back to his borrowed room by Camden Lock and by the New Year I loved him as hopelessly, as helplessly, as a girl in a folk song, and he loved me back as much. So I thought. But maybe he saw me as a way to leave sleeping on mates’ sofas and pulling pints in Earls Court behind. I’ll never know. Nine days ago he discarded me like a crusty tissue … Elf forces a smile. ‘Your and Immy’s story at the Christian camp is much more romantic.’
‘But you’re recording artists.’ Lawrence turns to Elf’s mum. ‘What’s it like to have a famous daughter, Miranda?’
Elf’s mum finishes her wine. ‘I do worry where it’ll all lead. Pop singers are here today, gone tomorrow. Especially the women.’
‘Cilla Black’s doing all right,’ says Bea. ‘Dusty Springfield.’
‘Joan Baez in the States,’ adds Imogen. ‘Judy Collins.’
‘Let’s not forget Wanda Virtue,’ says Bea.
‘But what happens to them when all their starry-eyed fans move on to the next fad?’ asks Elf’s mum.
‘Presumably they mend their ways,’ says Elf, ‘marry whoever’s willing to overlook their shady past and settle down to a life of ironing shirts and raising children.’
Bea licks her spoon clean. ‘Bang, crash, wallop.’
‘Sensational trifle, Miranda,’ says Elf’s dad, drolly.
Elf’s mother sighs and looks out at the garden.
The rain whisks the water in the fishpond.
The gnome’s nose drips, drips, drips, drips …
‘I wish I could see a career in singing,’ says Elf’s mum, ‘but I can’t. All I see is Elf missing the bus on other careers.’
I’m angry, thinks Elf, because she articulates my fears.
The clock out in the hall strikes two.
‘Maybe Elf’ll be a pioneer,’ suggests Imogen.
Elf plays her grandmother’s piano while her family plus Lawrence sit and listen. She’s wriggled out of singing by claiming to need to save her voice for later, but she can’t wriggle out of playing without Imogen, Bea and their mother suspecting something’s wrong. The piano is an upright Broadwood with warm lower and bright upper tones. Elf mastered, first, ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’ at its keyboard, then scales, arpeggios and a ladder of tuition books. The acoustic guitar may be the portable tool of the folk singer’s trade, but Elf’s first love – before I liked boys, before I liked girls – is the piano. Her grandmother died when Elf was only six, but she has a clear memory of the old woman telling her, ‘A piano is a raft and a river.’ Years later, on a February afternoon, on Day Nine of a broken, bloodied and bruised heart, Elf finds herself improvising a melody around her grandmother’s words: A raft and a river, raft and a river, raft and a river. It’s the first musical idea she’s had since Bruce left. She’s grateful, too, for the minutes she spent without thinking about him … Until now. The song winds down, and Elf’s family and brother-in-law-to-be give her a round of applause. The early daffodils in the vase on the mantelpiece have opened.
‘That’s lovely, dear,’ says Elf’s mum.
‘Ah, just mucking around, really.’
‘What’s it called?’ asks Imogen.
‘It hasn’t got a name.’
Lawrence looks uncertain. ‘You just made that up?’
‘There are tricks,’ says Elf. ‘To do with chords.’
‘That was brilliant. Could you play it in June?’
‘If it turns into a song that’s good for a wedding, then yes.’
‘Midsummer weddings are special,’ Elf’s mum is telling Imogen. ‘Your father and I had a June wedding, didn’t we, Clive?’
Elf’s dad puffs his pipe. ‘And the sun’s never stopped shining.’
‘June works for me, too,’ remarks Bea. ‘I’ll be an ex-schoolgirl by then. Scary thought.’
‘Imogen said you’re auditioning for RADA,’ says Lawrence.