Page 39 of Summer at Harbour View House
‘Look love, we’re all for women’s empowerment and all that, but you need a bit of muscle to hold this thing steady while someone puts in the screws,’ Ben said. ‘Me and Davey used to do this kind of thing for locals during the off season. I know you’re trying, but—’
‘Please don’t patronise me.’
‘You’ve left it with a bit of a slant. It’s going to scrape on the step unless you adjust it, and over time that’ll put strain on the hinges and warp the frame.’
‘I don’t care,’ Natasha said, helplessly aware that she was starting an argument not out of her dislike for them, but because a lot of things had got to her over the last couple of weeks, and she needed something to blow the steam off, something to hit.
‘You should—’
‘What would you know? You’re just a dumb surfer.’
Ben lifted hands the size of bear paws and shrugged. ‘Guilty.’
‘He’s not just a surfer,’ Davey said. ‘He’s a big wave surfer. He towed in at fifty feet off Nazare last winter.’
‘Fifty-four,’ Ben said with smug grin that made him look like his cheeks were stuffed with marshmallows. ‘You know, just to be exact.’
‘Davey lent me one of Ben’s DVDs,’ Hannah said. ‘It’s so cool. You should come and watch—’
‘I don’t want to!’ Natasha shouted, petulantly stamping her foot. ‘I—’
Whatever she might have said next—and she wasn’t really sure what it was going to be, except that it would certainly have been rude and unpleasant—was cut off by a sudden volley of hard rock music coming from over the hedge.
‘Here we go again,’ Hannah said, putting her hands over her ears. ‘Every day.’
‘Do you want me to go and have a word?’ Ben said.
‘What? Are you going to thump him?’ Natasha asked.
Ben frowned. ‘No, I was going to apologise if our hammering disturbed him and just ask him to turn it down.’
Natasha scowled. ‘I can do it,’ she said, grateful for an excuse to leave the situation, then turned and marched back down the path.
Davey—who seemed nice enough—and Ben—whom she hadn’t really known long enough to really judge—didn’t deserve her anger, and Natasha knew it. She just needed an outlet, and now she had found one. Gritting her teeth and clenching her fists, she ran down their steps, along the road and up the steps to 14A. She opened the gate at the top and marched into the garden.
The man was standing on a little platform right at the front of the garden, a microphone held in his hands, back arched as he wailed, Freddie Mercury-like, along to the music.
Natasha took a deep breath and was just steeling herself to shout at him when a hand fell on her shoulder.
‘Cowslip,’ Hannah said, making Natasha jump. ‘Oh my god. I thought it was. I didn’t realise it at first.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Cowslip. They were big in the mid-Eighties. My dad loves them. He has both of their albums.’
‘All two of them? Wow. I’ve never heard of them.’
‘They only had one really big hit. I think it got to number three or something. Then they broke up or whatever. I couldn’t really hear it that well from over the hedge, not with him singing over the top, but now I can hear it clearly, I’m sure it’s Cowslip.’
‘So we know that our abrasive next door neighbour is a fan of an obscure Eighties hair metal band. Perhaps we should ask him to try something else for a bit of Karaoke. Something we can all enjoy. Maybe some Queen, or a bit of Guns n’ Roses—’
‘You don’t understand,’ Hannah said. ‘That’shim.’
‘Who?’
‘Eddie John Willard. The lead singer.’
‘That guy can’t have been in a band. I mean, look at him.’
