Chapter 3

I was in the studio, working on the instrumental piece I had played the previous Saturday. Was that only a couple of days ago?

As it had been fresh in my mind, I had used it to warm up for my unexpected performance. It was still work in progress, and I wasn't totally happy with it. It was a bit too short, and also seemed a bit - limp - somehow.

I had played it with more gusto on that farm trailer. I had been standing then, not sitting on the short stool I was perched on now. Perhaps that had something to do with it? But the Martin I was playing had no strap, so I'd either have to find a strap or use another guitar.

That was the sort of state of indecision I was in today. In fact, I quite often found myself that way these days. It was as though I had music inside me, but couldn't get it out the way I wanted. It was frustrating. I knew what I wanted to play, but for some reason what I actually played wasn't what was in my head.

It hadn't been that way on Saturday. Then I'd played as I'd wanted to, and once Georgina had joined me then I'd even worked out the duets as we played.

So what had been different? Was it playing before an audience? It had certainly given me a bit of a buzz, even with so few people watching.

Or had it been Georgina joining me on stage? Did I need company when I played, having been used to being part of a band? Or was it just Georgina? But that didn't make sense as I didn't even know her.

Anyway, I still needed to find a strap for this guitar. Or should I just get another guitar off the rack? But this one was in tune and I'd been playing it for an hour ... The door opened quietly, interrupting my indecision, and Geoff came in. A couple of inches shorter than me, and a few years older, with short hair and a neatly trimmed beard, Geoff was wearing his habitual white shirt and black trousers. To him, that is casually dressed. I'd finally put my foot down a couple of years ago and stopped him wearing a suit all day, but that was as far as I'd been able to force him to go. The suit jacket is still around - it appears as if by magic whenever he answers the door to greet visitors. He then only lacks the tie, and I get the impression that he bitterly resents it.

Geoff is my man, my butler, my general factotum. He runs the house, along with his wife Margaret, and I'd be lost without him. They joined me just before Dark December broke up, about six months after I'd bought this house at auction. And they had been lifesavers.

The house had been empty when I bought it. I'd acquired some furniture, a mixture of new, flat-pack (which I had assembled myself!) and second-hand, and I was existing in the house rather than living. Then, one day, I'd been invited to a function at the local golf club. I still don't know why. I don't play golf, and at the time I was a long haired touring musician so hardly golf club material, but it was a fund raiser for a local family - sending their dying child to Disneyland as I recall - and I can only assume that someone must have thought that I had money and had bought this large house so I should come. As it happened to be between tours, in fact shortly before the last 'farewell' tour, I was at home and bored, so I went.

It had been a successful night. I had made a donation, and given a signed copy of a gold record to the raffle, which they had then auctioned rather than raffled, and the evening had raised more than enough for the needy family so they had some left over for extras.

I had also met some of my neighbours for the first time - the well-heeled ones that is. They aren't exactly next-door neighbours, more like scattered over half the county, but they did open my eyes to a few things.

One of those was the need for staff. I hadn't been brought up that way, I was a musician-made-good after all, so I'd always looked after myself or, earlier in my life, had family about me. But, talking to one old man who had the appearance of being ex-military or Foreign Office or something, made me realise that there was no way I could ever live comfortably in my big house without help. I should either get staff, or sell the house and move to a bungalow.

The old chap brought some of his chums into the conversation so that, by the end of the evening, I was not only convinced of the need to employ staff but I had a recommendation on who to employ. An even-older guy, with a stoop and a cane, was moving to France to be near his granddaughter so he was selling up. But he was worried about what would happen to his butler and cook. I must come and meet them - I simply must - he was sure they would look after me admirably.

And they had. If I harboured reservations about having a butler of all things, what they must have thought of a scruffy rock musician God only knows. But they had moved to the staff quarters at my house - a nice flat at the back with a view over the gardens - and had started to sort me out.

Discovering that my budget wasn't really a problem, the benefit of both a hit single and a global number one album, plans were made and executed with alacrity. Out went the old furniture, the flat pack (Geoff had actually turned pale when he first saw it) and even the new stuff. In came carpets and curtains, more second-hand furniture but of a totally different quality (antique not charity shop) and more staff - a gardener (Jack) and a maid (Gill - yes I know, but those really were their names).

Now, seven years later, we were all used to each other. Geoff ran the house like a well-oiled machine, Margaret cooked amazing meals which always seemed to be ready just when I needed them, and Gill and Jack kept the house and gardens immaculate. Geoff and Jack planned what should happen in the grounds - they had come up with a really neat security barrier, for example, which just about disappeared when it was up. There were strong fences hidden in the bushes so the grounds were safe from ramblers and fans, yet the view wasn't impaired in any way.

Geoff also knew not to disturb me in the studio unless it was important, not that he EVER disturbed me unless it was important, so I looked up as he came through the door.

"Telephone, Sir," he stated. "It's Mister Johnson." I'd tried to get Geoff to stop calling me Sir, and just to call me Pete like everyone else, but I had even less success with that than I had with the tie.

Bruce Johnson was my manager, and had been Dark December's manager before that. In fact, he still was, as there were still royalties coming in which needed protecting and managing.

"Put it through for me, will you please, Geoff?" I replied.

He disappeared as quietly as he'd arrived, shutting the door behind him. I got up and walked over to the corner of the room where a cream-coloured telephone sat on a small round table beside a wing-backed armchair. I'd just settled into the chair when the phone rang.

"Hello Bruce," I said as I answered it.

"WhatTheHellDoYouMeanByGivingAConcertWithoutTellingMeFirst??" came down the phone at great volume. Bruce is a good manager but he can be a bit loud occasionally.

"I'm sorry, Bruce - what was that again?" I just had to ask.

"ISaidWhatTheHellDoYouMeanByGivingAConcertWithoutTellingMeFirst???" was the reply, if anything even louder.

"I didn't, not really," I replied.

"WhatDoYouMeanNotReally?"

"Calm down Bruce and I'll tell you," I began. And then I told him about the food festival, and the young singer, and his Dad's challenge, and me getting up and singing a few songs to a small audience. "How did you hear about it?" I finished.