Back in the car, Banks was fuming. “You were way out of line in there,” he said.
“There was no reason to insult Jenny, and there was especially no need to bring me into it the way you did. What the hell were you trying to achieve?”
“Just trying to stir them up a bit, that’s all.”
“So how does making me out to be a bloody lecher stir them up?”
“You’re not thinking clearly, Banks. We make Osmond jealous, maybe he lets his guard down.” Burgess grinned. “Anyway, there’s nothing in it, is there, you and her?”
“Of course there isn’t.”
“Methinks this fellow doth protest too much.”
“Fuck off.”
“Oh, come on,” Burgess said calmly. “Don’t take it so seriously. You use what you need to get results. Christ, I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t mind tumbling her, myself. Lovely pair of tits under that shirt. Did you see?”
Banks took a deep breath and reached for a cigarette. There was no point, he realized, in going on. Burgess was an unstoppable force. However angry and disoriented Banks felt, it would do no good to let more of it show. Instead, he put his emotions in check, something he knew he should have done right from the start. But the feelings still rankled as they knotted up below the surface. He was mad at Burgess, he was mad at Osmond, he was mad at Jenny, and he was mad, most of all, at himself.
Starting the car with a lurch, he shoved the cassette back in and turned up the volume. Billie Holiday sang “God Bless the Child,” and Burgess whistled blithely along as they sped through the bright, blustery March day back to the market square.
72
III
They were all a bit drunk, and that was unusual at Maggie’s Farm. Mara certainly hadn’t been so tipsy for a long time. Rick was sketching them as they sat around the living-room. Paul drank lager from the can, and even Zoe had turned giggly on white wine. But Seth was the worst. His speech was slurred, his eyes were watery, and his co-ordination was askew. He was also getting maudlin about the sixties, something he never did when he was sober. Mara had seen him drunk only once before, the time he had let slip about the death of his wife. Mostly, he was well-guarded and got on with life without moaning.
Things had begun well enough. After the police visit, they had all walked down to the Black Sheep for a drink. Perhaps the feeling of relief, of celebration, had encouraged them to drink more than usual, and they had splurged on a few cans of Carlsberg Special Brew, some white wine and a bottle of Scotch to take home. Most of the afternoon Seth and Mara had lounged about over the papers or dozed by the fire, while Paul messed about in the shed, Rick painted in his studio, and Zoe amused the children. Early in the evening they all got together, and the whisky and wine started making the rounds.
Seth stumbled over to the stereo and sought out a scratchy old Grateful Dead record from his collection. “Those were the days,” he said. “All gone now. All people care about today is money. Bloody yuppies.”
Rick looked up from his sketch-pad and laughed. “When was it ever any different?”
“Isle of Wight, Knebworth…” Seth went on, listing the rock festivals he’d been to. “People really shared back then….”
Mara listened to him ramble. They had been under a lot of stress since the demo, she thought, and this was clearly Seth’s way of getting it out of his system. It was easy to fall under the spell of nostalgia. She remembered the sixties, too-or more accurately the late sixties, when the hippie era had 73
really got going in England. Things had seemed better back then. Simpler. More clear-cut. There was us and them, and you knew them by the shortness of their hair.
“… Santana, Janis, Hendrix, the Doors. Jesus, even the Hare Krishnas were fun back then. Now they all wear bloody business suits and wigs. I remember one time-“
“It’s all crap!” Paul shouted, banging his empty can on the floor. “It was never like that. It’s just a load of cobblers you’re talking, Seth.”
“How would you know?” Seth sat up and balanced unsteadily on his elbow. “You weren’t there, were you? You were nought but a twinkle in your old man’s eye.”
“My mum and dad were hippies,” Paul said scornfully. “Fucking flower children.
She OD’d, and he was too bloody stoned to take care of me, so he gave me away.”
Mara was stunned. Paul had never spoken about his true ‘ parents before, only about the way he had been badly treated in his foster home. If it was true, she thought, did he really see Seth and her in the same light? They were about the right age. Did he hate them, too?
But she couldn’t believe that. There was another side to the coin. Maybe Paul was looking for what he had lost, and he had found at least some of it at Maggie’s Farm. They didn’t take drugs and, while she and Seth might have grown up in the sixties and tried to cling on to some of its ideals, they neither looked nor acted like hippies any longer.
“We’re not like that,” she protested, looking over at Zoe for support. “You know it, Paul. We care about you. We’d never desert you. It was fun back then for a lot of people. Seth’s only reminiscing about his youth.”
“I know,” Paul said grudgingly. “I can’t say I had one worth reminiscing about, myself. Anyway, I’m only saying, Mara, that’s all. It wasn’t all peace and love like Seth tells it. He’s full of shit.”
“You’re right about that, mate,” Rick agreed, putting down his sketch-pad and pouring another shot of Scotch. “I never did have much time for hippies myself.
Nothing but a moaning, whining bunch of little kids, if you ask me. Seth’s 74
just pissed, that’s all. Look at him now, anyway-he’s a bloody landowner, a landlord even. Pretty soon it’ll be baggy tweeds and out shooting pheasant every afternoon. Sir Seth Cotton, Squire of Maggie’s Farm.”
