Good Year for the Roses

J Field Amanda

Description

Derek doesn't have much going for him. He only puts up with the long hours minding his brother's strawberry stall because at night he can become a different person... calling himself 'Hank', donning a Stetson and fronting a country-and-western band. Derek has modelled his voice on that of his idol, Nashville star George Jones, and fantasizes that one day he might fl y to the United States of America to see him sing at the Grand Ole Opry. But with a council house, four kids and no money it seems like an impossible dream. Taking a break one hot summer's day in the forest opposite the strawberry stall, Derek overhears something that will put him in grave danger; something that will bind him to a man he has never even met.

Sujets

• Thriller

Informations

• Publié par: Andrews UK
• Date de parution: 23 septembre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781911105572
• Langue: English

Extrait

A Good Year for the Roses
Amanda J Field




First published in 2020 by
Chaplin Books
5 Carlton Way
Gosport PO12 1LN
www.chaplinbooks.co.uk
Digital edition converted and distributed by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
Copyright © 2020 Amanda J Field
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder for which application should be addressed in the first instance to the publishers. No liability shall be attached to the author, the copyright holder or the publishers for loss or damage of any nature suffered as a result of the reliance on the reproduction of any of the contents of this publication or any errors or omissions in the contents.
This is a work of fiction. Although the novel uses real locations, its characters and events are solely the invention of the author and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental



Chapter One
As the last plaintive notes of the pedal steel guitar died way, Derek lifted the needle off the record and carefully lowered it again at the beginning of the track.
“Not again, Derek!” said Wendy, hands on hips. “How many more times?”
“I’ve got to learn the words by Friday,” he said, reasonably, not looking up from the record player. He fiddled with the volume knob.
“You must surely know them by now. I’m already singing them in my sleep,” said Wendy. “Maybe I should get up there and perform it instead of you. I could be the next Tammy Wynette.”
She went out to the kitchen, pointedly closing the door behind her, and he heard, above the song’s chorus, the sound of the kettle being filled and the wail of the baby. He concentrated on the song, listening to the way the notes were bent, the slight break in the voice at the emotional climax of the chorus.
Immediately the door clicked shut, Bobby – who was wearing only a rather grubby Dallas Cowboys T-shirt and a nappy, lurched over to the door and tried to reach up for the handle. He was scooped up by Sharon and taken back – unprotesting – to the settee, where he resumed repeatedly thumping an Action Man figure against the dralon cushion. It was Georgie’s Action Man, but Georgie didn’t seem to notice, absorbed as he was in trying to rewind a cassette tape spool by sticking a biro into one of the holes at the centre. Sharon distracted Bobby by pressing the eject button of the portable cassette player so that the tape loader sprang open. As Bobby reached for it, she expertly whisked the Action Man away and gave it back to Georgie, who sat on it to prevent further theft. Bobby looked bewildered, conscious that he’d been cheated in some way, but unsure how.
Sharon was going through a Little Mother phase and had appointed herself the minder of her three younger brothers and sisters. Sometimes when Derek saw her going off down the road with her friends from school, each with a wicker basket dangling from their elbow, they looked more like a gaggle of middle-aged gossipy housewives than a bunch of ten-year-old girls. It did take a bit of pressure off Wendy, though as soon as Sharon discovered boys, she would doubtless not want to spend her time looking after the little ones any more.
“I can’t get this to work, Dad,” said Georgie, flicking back the long dark fringe out of his eyes. “The tape’s still all twisted up.”
Derek reluctantly took the record off the turntable, closed the lid of the player and put the record back into its sleeve. The picture on the front showed George Jones (after whom Georgie had been named) against a black background. A spotlight picked out George and shone on the blond surface of his guitar with its ornate fingerplate and inlaid fretboard. He was looking straight at the camera, smiling slightly, and with a sincere expression in his dark brown eyes. The title of the album was written in red lettering against the dark background. Derek ran his fingers along the title, then put the record back on the shelf alongside his other George Jones albums and turned his attention to his son.
“I think all we can do is to throw that cassette in the bin,” he said, looking at the loop of twisted, creased tape.
‘Oh, Dad – no!”
“Why? What was on it?”
“T-Rex. I taped it off the radio. It took me ages.”
“Well, it’s a goner now. What about this one?” He picked up another tape off the table.
“I don’t want that. It’s that woman.”
“Jessie?”
“I don’t like her,” said Georgie. “If that tape had got ruined, I’d have been pleased.”
“She’s got a good voice, you know. People come and see the band because of her.”
“I still don’t like her. Her teeth are too big.”
Derek laughed.
“Don’t laugh at me, Dad. They frighten me, her teeth.”
Derek ruffled Georgie’s hair and headed out to the kitchen.
Georgie inserted the tape marked ‘Jessie’ into the player and pressed the record button, erasing Jessie’s voice and replacing it with the sound of Sharon singing a nursery rhyme to Bobby and of his father whistling as he laid the table for tea.
***
The sun was just breaking through a bank of hazy cloud when Chalky dropped Derek at the strawberry stall. He kept the engine of the Morris Oxford running while they unloaded the crates from the boot, stacking them at the back of the layby by the grass verge. Derek took the buckets of cut flowers from the seat-wells. One bucket of tulips had tipped over, soaking the carpet. He tried to mop up the water with his handkerchief.
“There’s your float money,” said Chalky, handing him a small drawstring bag. “I don’t finish until six today, but I should be here well before half past. Do you need a hand wheeling the stall over, nipper? Only I’m a bit pushed for time and this new foreman at the mill is a stickler.”
“No, it’s fine,” said Derek. “You get off.”
“Has Alan said anything to you yet about this new bass player?” said Chalky, opening the driver’s door.
“Only that he’s coming to rehearsal on Thursday.”
“Well, I just hope he’s better than that nutcase we auditioned last week. A good steady player, that’s what we need, not a heavy metal merchant.”
He got in the car and drove off. Derek sat down on the curb and lit a cigarette, unwilling to get the working day underway just yet. He was amused that his brother even knew what heavy metal was. Ten years older than Derek, Chalky had old-fashioned ideas about how the band should sound and whenever they suggested that he use sticks rather than brushes on the drums, he reminded them that it had only been five years ago that the Grand Ole Opry had permitted a drum-kit on the stage… and what was good enough for the Grand Ole Opry was good enough for him. Rumour had it that bands playing the Ryman before that had to hide their drummer behind a curtain – and anyway, only a snare drum was allowed. Chalky still wore his hair slicked back in 1950s style and on stage he wore a red shirt buttoned to the neck, with one of those black bootlace ties topped by a small horse-head emblem. The movements of his arms when he used the brushes made it look like he was stirring a pudding.
Derek stubbed out his cigarette and looked across the road to the edge of the Bere Forest. Only an occasional car passed by, a flash of colour against the dark green of the trees. Once when he’d been standing here in the early morning, a deer had emerged from the trees and had stood stock-still, gazing across at him.
Up the road, the pub was stacking empty barrels on the forecourt, ready for the brewery truck to collect. Derek got up and went over to the stall, removing the chain that locked it to the fence and taking the chocks out from behind the wheels. He got behind the end of the stall, putting his back to it and walking backwards to push it off the grass. It stuck and he wished he’d asked Chalky to help after all. Then suddenly it shot forward and he had to steady it as it ran onto the tarmac. It only took five minutes for him to position it, open the flap and arrange the strawberries along the counter. The buckets of flowers he placed on the ground at the front. He grabbed the A-frame board and walked with it to the end of the layby, close to the road. The board had a big picture of a strawberry on it – painted by Chalky’s late missus – and some writing underneath. Derek didn’t know what it said, exactly, but it brought the punters in.
He raised a hand in greeting as the pub landlord shouted ‘morning, Derek!’ and went back to the stall, stowing the bag of change under the counter. He felt the monotony of the day sinking into him already. Ten hours to go.
***
Gerry finished his coffee from the machine and threw the plastic cup into the bin, grimacing at the foul after-taste.
“See you later at the burger van!” he said to the room in general. “First one there buys the extra mushrooms.”
The other cabbies looked up, but no-one said anything. They continued to huddle around the ashtray on the table, staring at it despondently as if it were a religious icon that had failed to work the miracle they had been expecting.
‘Miserable buggers,’ thought Gerry as he shrugged on his car-coat – the one with the fake sheepskin lining – and pushed at the swing doors. Outside in the lobby, the air was instantly fresher and Gerry congratulated himself, as he did every day, for never having taken up smoking. His dad had favoured cigars – big fat ones that he thought made him look like a swell, but had actually made him look like he really was: a bit of a wide boy. Perhaps that had been what had put Gerry off in the first place. His dad had wanted him to take over the market stall in Charlotte Street and Gerry ha