I have never been more grateful for a band’s acrimonious split than I am for the poor guys who left Niven’s mate in the lurch and led to us getting this tour. It’s fantastic. The gigs we play most nights are in excellent venues and while each has been small the reaction of the crowds is disproportionately loud. Slowly, we are traversing the country, moving from town to city to rural working-men’s clubs and pubs.
The days become weeks and we slip into our sets easier and faster each time. Our playing becomes tighter, the little bits of jamming we muck about with during sound checks cheekily sneak into the gigs as polished little gems. We’re having fun instead of ploughing through not-yet-familiar songs, and the magic I felt I’d lost returns.
As often happens with tours, the venues don’t follow a lineal geographical pattern, so we’ll play a gig in Bristol then be up in Sunderland next day. Consequently there’s a lot of time spent on the road between gigs. We take it in turns to drive the hire van with the equipment and the hired minibus with the rest of us. When I have to drive, my thoughts increasingly turn to Phoebe. I wish I’d tried to contact her when the dust settled. Moving around has made me remember our year of journeys.
Nobody knows this, but tucked away in the zipped pocket of my violin case I have a stack of the postcards Phoebe sent me. They represent the unfinished business between us. She made mistakes, I made them too, but it should never have ended the way it did. The more I think about that and about what Phoebe meant to me, the more convinced I become that I should seek her out when this tour is over.
I ended up talking to Shona about her last night. I didn’t intend it to happen, but she asked me and I didn’t have a good enough reason not to reply.
‘What happened, Sam? You were so sure of her before.’
‘That kind of ended when she didn’t show.’
Shona nodded, playing with the silver necklaces at her throat. I watched her fingers looping in and out of the delicate links, lifting the chains from the soft skin of her neck. ‘And she never explained why she didn’t meet you?’
‘She tried to. I mean, she called but…’
‘You were hurt.’
‘Yeah.’
‘And angry, too.’
‘I couldn’t see past what she’d done. She had her reasons, but I wasn’t ready to hear them.’
‘I’m not surprised. Leading you on for a year then kicking you in the nuts.’
I wouldn’t have termed it like that, but Shona’s description tempted a naughty smile from my lips. ‘Anyway, it’s ancient history.’
And that’s when she hit me with it.
‘I wouldn’t lead you on, Sam. If you wanted me I’d be there like a shot. And I’d flag down a train to get to you.’
Just like that. She dropped it like a grenade in the middle of our innocent friend-chat and then just walked away.
BOOM.
I still have no idea how it happened. Or what to do next.
I’m thinking about it as I drive the equipment van behind the band minibus on our four-hour journey along the M6. I can see Shona on the back seat, her arms folded behind her head, trusty leather jacket giving her shoulders a familiar silhouette. I used to sit behind her in lectures and I remember thinking how slender her neck was, with its line of tiny curls along the nape beneath the bob of her hastily tied ponytail. Her hair is loose today, but every now and again she scoops it up as if she’s considering tying it.
‘Blink, pal.’
‘What?’
‘You haven’t blinked for a minute. I timed you.’
‘You’re strange, Niv.’
Niven crosses his feet on the dashboard. ‘Aye. But at least I’m not perving over my friend.’
I glance at him. ‘Who’s perving?’
‘Right. Well, either you have a particularly odd fascination with the rear of Volkswagen Transporter minibuses or just the occupant of the back seat of that one.’ He gives a snort and shakes his head. ‘You’re rubbish, Mullins. I see you staring at her.’
‘Would you prefer I didn’t look at the road ahead?’
‘I would prefer you didn’t drive quite so close to the minibus. Stopping distance, Sam. Did you skive your theory test? If they brake, Shona Delaney will be in your lap.’ He folds his arms. ‘Or maybe that’s what you’re after.’
‘Get stuffed.’
‘I saw the two of yous all cosy after the gig last night.’
‘We were just talking.’
‘Oh, talking is it? Hard to do I would think when your tongue’s hanging out.’
‘Niv. Leave it.’
He holds up his hands. ‘None of my business, pal. But if you wanted to move on, that’s your golden opportunity right there.’
‘What? No.’
‘Look, after Ruth I couldn’t imagine being with anyone else, but I knew that if I didn’t get back in the saddle I’d talk myself out of it altogether. So I had a two-week thing with a teaching assistant at school. She’d just split from her fella and wanted a bit of fun. So did I. We’re still mates. But it helped.’
Does he know what Shona said to me last night? I daren’t ask. ‘I couldn’t. She’s a friend. I couldn’t do that to her.’
‘Didn’t look like she was about to complain last night. Shona doesn’t want a big relationship, not yet. The dust is still settling from her last one. Maybe you’d be good for each other.’ He shrugs. ‘None of my business, mind.’
Could I go there? I’m not sure.
Either way, it’s spiced up the four-hour M6 journey nicely.