CHAPTER 79
The dining room in the hotel was pretty shabby, and the choice not the greatest, but they had chilled apple juice on tap and as much tea as I could drink, which helped with the beer-mouth. I loaded up on carbs and grease, before sorting out some odds and sods for a morning of wandering along the front while waiting until it was time to head over to the little hospital for my friend’s return from theatre.

I suppose I should have been there for her departure for surgery, but I was so terrified at the possible dangers I hid in the city instead, and played tourist. There was, after all, plenty to see, even if I didn’t go up on the ‘i360’, a viewing platform on the sea front.

It did make me smile, though. It is a huge tower, a pillar, really, which supports a circular viewing platform that you enter at ground level and which is then raised up the pillar to a height of five hundred and thirty-one feet (I looked it up). Thus, in the gay capital of Britain, the most prominent structure is a rigid shaft being gripped by something moving up and down it.

Ginny told me that one local nickname is ‘The Cock Ring’.

That, of course, set me to thinking about Charlie, so I walked along to the pier and played some stupid arcade games before heading into the maze of little streets called ‘The Lanes’, where I window-shopped until boredom sent me past a series of fast-food establishments and up once more to Queens Road, heading for the station, where I knew there would be a taxi rank. I found a discount outdoor clothing shop, where I wasted some more time working through the sales racks for some ‘mountaineering’ garb for my smaller man, which left me missing them both dreadfully, so I paid for my purchases and went looking for a quiet corner to make a quick call home. Of course, it started drizzling, so I ended up in a little café, drawn by the very odd announcement that they did ‘Toast gourmet’. A pot of tea, a quiet corner, and that call, which left me feeling even worse.

God, I was so worried about the girl!

I sat, drank my tea, picked up a paper lying on the next table for something to read, only to drop it on seeing it was actually the Mail. Now wash my hands…

Fretting, I crossed the road on a whim to a music shop claiming to be ‘traditional’, and to my surprise it really was. There was an older man under an explosion of grey hair behind the counter, and after I had walked around an incredibly varied range of things with strings with the sinking feeling that comes with realisation that you actually know sod-all about instruments, I had another inspiration, or at least an excuse to waste more time. I went back to the till.

“Can I help you?”

2Um, yeah, maybe. Got some friends who play this sort of thing, and my son loves it. I was just wondering what he might try. You know what I mean? Let him get a feel for things?”

“How old, love?”

“Infants’ school at the moment. Coming up to five and a half”

“Thought about a bodhran?”

There was a real gleam in his eye as he said the word, and I realised he was teasing.

“Bodhran?”

“Yeah. Irish sideways drum thing”

I remembered what I had seen young Darren playing, and had an apocalyptic vision or sixteen.

“Let me get this right: you are suggesting I buy a little boy, at his most hyperactive, a DRUM?”

That brought a genuinely warm laugh.

“Caught me out! Where are you from? I’m Nobby, by the way”

“Wales, as I am bloody sure you guessed! Diane. What are my options? The realistic ones, this time?”

“Ah. All depends on a couple of things, price being the obvious one. Usual routes into music are vocal, percussion, wind or strings. Percussion’s out…”

“I have heard my boy sing. Ouch”

“That bad?”

“Even a mother, yeah? So: strings or wind?”

“Indeed. What you need is something with set notes, something that doesn’t rely too much on accuracy, and not too fragile, I would guess”

“Spot on, Nobby! Got a friend who plays fiddle, and he would destroy one in about thirty seconds!”

Then… hang on…”

He walked out from behind the till, towards a corner of the shop that held a range of tubular stuff that included some flutes.

“Recorder? Usual school instrument, and I know you’ll probably remember it, but it is actually a sophisticated thing in its own right. No reed to worry about, no embouchure to practise”

“Embouchure? I remember my friend using that word. Plays a flute”

“Yeah. It’s like the fretless stuff, like a fiddle, compared to frets, like a mando or a guitar, or even a bloody ukulele. Notes are ready-made. Less subtlety, but easier for a novice. We do whistles as well, in all the common keys”

My face must have betrayed me, because he grinned, once more with genuine warmth.

“You really ARE a complete beginner at this, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose I am. Trouble is, when I have friends like Annie and Steph, I feel a bit inadequate!”

His eyes narrowed, head tilting a little to one side.

“Flute and fiddle? Both sheepsha—er, Welsh? Dark hair and long reddish sort of thatch?”

“You know them?”

“Fuck me, how could I not? Pardon my French! They drop in every now and again, but I try and get up to the Summer thing, up in Horley. Besides, we used to have a shop in Crawley, and Annie was a regular there, both as they were and as they are, if you see my point”

I nodded.

“Yes. Known her a very long time, I have. Really good mate. You see my problem now? Don’t want to get the boy all expecting great things, and then disappoint him”

“Tell you what, love. Try some of these first. You coming to the Music Day this year?”

“Hope to. We were there this Christmas, which is what got Rhod so hooked. My son”

Nobby laid a selection of objects on the counter, some of which I recognised.

“What I suggest is some simple percussion, like this shaky egg and other stuff here. I can do you a whistle in D, one tuned piccolo, so the holes are really close together, suitable for small hands. They are really cheap, but they can play a decent tune with practice, while the shaky stuff lets him feel he’s joining in with the music, without being anywhere near as loud as a drum. What do you think?”

I left the shop with a little bundle of items to join the outdoor stuff, and a surprisingly small bill, even without Nobby’s insistence on giving me his “mates’ discount”. Up the last bit of Queens to the station, into a taxi, and off to the clinic.

I was still too early, and wasted even more time sitting in the little café until I finally, finally, saw a nurse approaching my table.

“Mrs Sutton?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you the surgery friend of Ms Charlotte Surtees?”

My stomach dropped about sixteen floors.

“Charlie. Yes. Is she…?”

A smile to match Nobby’s.

“Surgeon is really happy. No complications, nothing to worry about. They’ve taken her to her to her room, now. Would you like to be there for her when she wakes up?”

Silly question, so I just nodded, grabbing my cardboard cup, and followed her to a little room filled with flashing and bleeping things, and a slight figure in a hospital bed, a couple of other nurses with her. My escort was still smiling.

“Just need to make sure she wakes safely, and remove a few bits and pieces of equipment. They’re all normal, just things to protect her while she’s out, to keep her airway open and so on. Once we’re satisfied she’s sleeping more normally, we’ll leave you with her. There’s a buzzer just there, in case you need anything. How about another cuppa? We have some biccies as well. Don’t give Charlotte anything by mouth, though, not till she’s been checked over”

They were as good as their word, removing the cardboard beaker and its now-cold dregs and replacing it with a proper mug and a small plate of digestives. I settled down in the armchair next to the bed, working my way through the Metro’s puzzles, until there was a knock at the door. I looked up to see young Chantelle, in cycling kit.

“My Mums couldn’t get away, so I rode over. Don’t mind, do ya?”

Bloody hell, no! I didn’t mind at all, and I did my best to show my feelings with a smile as she stowed helmet, jacket and gloves in a corner of the room before raising a pannier, saddlebag thing.

“Mum Kate said you don’t give her nothing to eat or drink, but Mum Ginny, she says, ‘Yebbut, take stuff for laters’, and then she says, ‘Flip yeah! And befores!’ so I’ve brung grapes, and satsumas, and mints, and some squash to mix when she can drink, and some juice, and… just a minute…”

She rummaged in the bag, producing a steel thermos flask and a couple of camping mugs, along with a grin.

“Annie says you like hot choccie!”

When Charlie came back to us, Shan and I both had brown moustaches.