Free Jazz and Die by Stella Whitelaw

The menu boards were enticing. DCI James would be in seventh heaven. He loved fish and chips with a big dollop of tomato sauce. It was always his first choice.
    We sat on the front at a cafe near the new cinema, bathed in sunshine. I had a straightforward latte, no extras. Maddy had something more complicated and a cheese bagel. She had skipped breakfast.
    ‘Would you like to take a look round the charity shops?’ I suggested. ‘We’ve got time before the first gig or are you giving them a miss after this morning?’
    ‘No, I’m going to my dad’s. One o’clock in Marquee Two. But we’ve got time for a quickie shop crawl. I love shopping.’
    The first charity shop was useless. It was a muddle. Too old, too dated, dusty, creased and overpriced. And the assistant was snooty which, as a seasoned shop owner myself, always puts me off.
    ‘Are you looking for anything special?’ she asked, looking down her nose.
    ‘Have you got anything special?’ I asked.
    Maddy giggled. She was already halfway out of the door. She didn’t like it either.
    The next charity shop was a delight. Clothes were hung in sizes, colours and occasion. I went straight to the black rail. Black was right for any party. Maddy started combing the most recent summer gear. I bought a silky black tunic top with simple plaited straps instead of sleeves. Maddy bought two T-shirts, one a bright blue with a polar bear on an ice floe and the other a kaleidoscopeof razzle-dazzle sequins. No missing her on a dark night.
    ‘Come on. Marquee Two. We’ll just make it,’ I said before Maddy started on the rail of swimwear. ‘We ought to hurry.’
    ‘We must come shopping again,’ said Maddy happily. ‘I’m sick of all my clothes. They stink. I’m going to dump them.’
    I wasn’t sick of any of my clothes. I didn’t have enough to feel that any of them deserved such a fate. But I loved the new silky top. I now wanted an occasion to wear it, to show off my tanned shoulders, preferably with James around. The Latching sun had been kind to my skin. Even with my tawny hair, I never got burnt. I didn’t stay out long enough, half dressed, in the sun.
    A few clouds had gathered in the sky, like uncertain mourners wondering if they were at the right funeral. They hovered over the bay, casting shadows where before had been sunlight. I shivered, glad of the waistcoat.
    Maddy darted into the marquee. She had a musician’s pass despite not playing a single note. No one could deny Chuck Peters’ daughter free admission. No one could deny her anything. The public were already filing in, showing the correct colour wristband, armed with cushions and sandwiches. There were plenty of stewards around so there was nothing much for me to do.
    I tried to look inconspicuous, picked up a programme to read, cruising around. Names were beginning to be familiar.
    Maddy was already in her usual place at the side of the stage. She had not offered to help Ross carry in his drum kit. She was giving him the cold shoulder this afternoon.
    ‘Do you know how to draw a pint?’
    A steward I had never seen before, short, dark and wiry, rather harassed, had appeared from nowhere. He was flapping a list.
    ‘I don’t know,’ I said, helpfully.
    ‘The barman hasn’t arrived. We need another hand at the bar. There’s a queue and the customers are getting ratty. These are the prices.’
    ‘I can do prices,’ I said, leaning heavily on my shop experience.
    ‘Then you are the perfect person,’ he said, beaming. Did all jazz stewards have wonderful smiles? It must be the musicinfecting the soul. ‘Someone will show you how to draw a pint.’
    I eased round to the bar at the back of the marquee. I could still see Maddy, sitting cross-legged at the side of the stage. It was a makeshift sort of bar with three barrels at the back and a cool cabinet with bottles of white wine, soft drinks and water. The red wine was already out on the counter. There were different sized plastic glasses