Page 138 of Escape to the Country

Sam lined up the next album and placed the needle onto the vinyl. After the initial crackle, the horns blasted out the first bars of a song. Then ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’ came on.

‘Ah,’ came the collective sigh of pleasure.

‘Class act, Frank Sinatra,’ said Ron, the guitarist.

They all hummed along. Tom found it slightly surreal that this long-haired band of old rockers would enjoy theSongs for Swinging Loversalbum. But they let Sam play it all the way through, happy to relax and listen to Frank’s smooth voice.

There was a long silence when the first side had finished playing, the final bars of ‘Our Love Is Here To Stay’ fading out to be replaced with the late evening birdsong of a blackbird.

‘Now that’s proper music,’ said Mick eventually, as the sun set and the last remaining light began to dwindle.

‘Been years since I listened to that album,’ said Howard, lighting a cigarette on the citronella candle that Annie had placed on the table. ‘The arrangements were so sweet. Absolutely spot on.’

For a while they all sat in quiet contemplation until Sam spoke. ‘Anyone up for a trip to the studio? We can see what today’s songs sound like.’

‘I can tell you what they sound like, if you really want to know,’ said Ron, with a grimace. ‘But we’ve got company, so I’ll keep it polite.’

‘Come on,’ urged Sam. ‘Maybe you’ll feel better after a break.’

Eleanor said goodnight at that point to head home so Tom went along with the band. However, he could feel their brief good mood disappearing as they sauntered along to the studio. Nobody’s heart was really in it.

‘I don’t want to listen to our stuff,’ said Mick, opening the main door. ‘It’ll break my good vibe.’

‘Me neither,’ said Howard, putting out his cigarette before heading indoors.

Whilst Sam ignored them and set up the day’s recording on the computer system, Mick wandered into the main studio.

Jeff the keyboard player was still humming one of the Frank Sinatra songs to himself. He sat down at the piano in the studio and plucked out the song on the keys.

Mick began to softly sing along. Away from the shouting bawl of his usual songs, his voice was quite lyrical.

Howard wandered in, sat down and began to tap out the beat on the drums.

Ron followed him, picked up his guitar which had been abandoned earlier on and started to strum.

They carried on the tune in their amateur fashion until the very end when they came to an abrupt halt and, as one, stared at Sam.

Tom looked at them through the glass, their grins wider than he had seen in a long time.

Then he turned to face Sam. ‘Let’s have a mess around, shall we?’ said their manager.

A few hours later, Tom was seriously impressed.

‘Yeah,’ said Tom, shooting a grin at the band. ‘You lot can actually sing.’

‘Age and experience, mate,’ said Mick, raising a bottle of beer to him.

‘So what are your plans?’ asked Tom. ‘A Christmas album?’

‘Nah, Michael Bublé’s been there, done that.’

‘That’s right,’ said Sam. ‘You guys have got to make it your own. But it’s not a bad idea.’

‘What about your own tunes, mate?’ asked Mick.

Tom nodded. His own album was slowly coming together. He had given it the tentative title ofBy The River At Dusk. The title track had been penned over the previous few evenings. ‘By the river where we fell in love, under the darkening skies,’ it began.

He knew in his heart that he was writing a love letter to Eleanor.

He just hoped she would want to listen to it.