unable to stutter more than monosyllables.
âWill you play for me, Harry? Iâm frightfully tired. I donât want to sing alone tonight.â
âI would. But â the piano. Sheâs not in tip-top condition. Sheâs had rather a hard war, Iâm afraid.â
Edie laughs. âShe?â
âIâm sorry. I always think of her, it . . .â
Edie reaches out and touches my arm. âItâs terribly sweet of you.â
Iâm nettled. I donât want her to think Iâm sweet. Iâm not a child.
âThe army moved the piano into the mess bar. Goodness knows whatâs been poured over the keys. Not to mention the general damp. When I tried to tune her â it â one of the strings just snapped.â
âPlease play for me, Harry.â
âFine. Butââ I remember she said no requests.
âWhat is it?â
âWill you sing one of your early pieces? âThe Seeds of Loveâ or âThe Apple Treeâ? Not that I donât like the wartime songs, of course.â
This isnât true. I dislike Edie Roseâs wartime hits intensely. Theyâre patriotic guff. Tunes in one shade of pillar-box red. I walked out of a café once when âA Shropshire Thrushâ came on the wireless, even though Iâd already paid.
Edie gives me an odd look. âThey wonât like it.â
She glances at the assembled crowd and Iâm pleased thatsheâs no longer counting me amongst them. Jack bounds over and kisses her on the cheek, tucking a curl behind her ear with easy familiarity.
âItâs time, old thing. Or do you want this first?â
With a flourish he produces from his pocket a disintegrating fish-paste sandwich. Edie shakes her head and I point mournfully at the hog squatting on the table. âWhatâs wrong with my pig? No one seems to want it.â
âItâs splendid, Fox. Just not really Edieâs thing.â
She turns to me. âWell, Harry? Shall we?â
â
Edie doesnât sing my song. I sit at the rickety piano and cajole the keys into some sort of accompaniment, feeling as if Iâm riding shotgun on an unsteady, half-dead nag that might either bolt or flop into the hedgerow at any moment. Edieâs a true professional and doesnât let the screwball sideshow rattle her. She lulls the county set with that honeysuckle voice as she floats through the wartime hits that made her famous but which I cannot abide. Iâm sweating from the effort of forcing the piano to obey and I have a headache. Itâs past midnight and weâve slid into 1947 and I havenât even noticed. I need a drink and a clean shirt. The guests cheer and toast Edie and then me as she hauls me to my feet. They holler and even the General raises a glass.
âShall we get out of here?â she whispers through her teeth, giving them a playful curtsey.
âDear God, yes.â
We race outside before the crowd can smother her with well-lubricated enthusiasm. She lights me a cigarette and I take it, somehow too embarrassed to confess I donât smoke. I canât stop staring at her. She smiles at me, and itâs slightly lopsided as though sheâs thinking of a mischievous and inappropriate joke. Itâs horribly attractive.
âSo how come when all three of you boys are Foxes, you are the only one called âFoxâ?â
I swallow smoke, trying not to cough, grateful that in the dark she canât see my eyes water.
âI was always âLittle Foxâ but somehow now that Iâm eighteen and nearly six foot, it seems, well, silly. So now Iâm just Fox.â
âI see. Fox suits you. Although Iâve always liked the name Harry.â
I wonder whether sheâs flirting with me, but Iâm so unpractised that I canât tell.
âYou need a new piano,â she says.
âAnd a new roof and a hundred other things. But I