Fruits from the Ash

Chapter 1 - The Producer

North Wales · 1972

The first thing Phil Jones noticed was not the girl at the microphone, but the space around her voice.

The little television speaker did no favours to anything subtle. It flattened the bass, narrowed the guitars, and turned the applause into a hard wash of noise. Even so, something in the arrangement came through: two guitar lines moving with disciplined purpose, a rhythm section held firmly back, and, at the centre of it all, a voice that did not need to fight for command.

Phil leaned forward.

He had meant only to leave Top of the Pops running while he finished his tea. The house was quiet. His father, Cliff, had gone upstairs early with a book, and Ellie was in the kitchen, moving between the cooker and the sink with the radio turned low. Phil rarely watched the programme all the way through. Most weeks he half-listened, half-judged, waiting for some small technical decision to irritate him.

Then the presenter’s voice cut through the applause.

‘And now,’ he said, ‘at number one this week — What Never Spoke, by The Compass.’

Phil knew The Compass. Anyone who cared about records knew them. Joe MacKail’s band had always been difficult to place: too melodic to be dismissed as progressive self-indulgence, too strange to sit comfortably in ordinary pop, too controlled to pass as fashionable noise. Phil had admired them without quite loving them. There had always been brilliance in the work, but also pressure — as though one mind were holding too much together by force.

Tonight, something had changed.

The camera swept across the studio, the lights rising, the audience already on its feet. The opening guitar lines were unmistakable, clear and declarative even through the small speaker, the sort of phrase a listener remembered after one hearing and musicians spent months pretending not to envy. Phil expected Joe MacKail to take the first line.

He did not.

The young woman at the centre of the frame sang instead.

Her stillness held the room before the camera had properly found her. She was beautiful; even Phil, who distrusted that kind of immediate judgement, could not miss it. But the beauty was not what made him sit forward. It was the control. Her voice was strong, deep for so young a woman, clear without hardness, carrying something older than her face suggested. She sang as though the song had not been handed to her, but had risen from somewhere she had been guarding for years. Joe joined her in the pre-chorus, his baritone set beneath hers. Phil had heard his voice before — rich, exact, unmistakable — but here he was not claiming the centre. He was supporting it.

That interested Phil more than anything.

From the kitchen, Ellie paused.

‘Well,’ she called, ‘this sounds different.’

She came to the doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel, and stood there watching.

‘Oh,’ she said after a moment. ‘She can certainly sing. Beautiful voice.’ Her head tilted slightly. ‘And she’s very pretty. Young too.’

Phil nodded, though he had barely heard the last part. ‘They’ve changed the line-up.’

‘Have they?’

‘I didn’t know.’

The song built. The chorus lifted the studio with it, but not crudely. That was what held him. No one had smothered the vocal. No one had pushed the guitars forward simply because they could. There was space in it — not emptiness, but restraint. Whoever had shaped the record understood that a song like this did not need to be made larger by force. It needed room to stand.

The final line came, held just long enough, then released.

The applause was immediate and rapturous.

The presenter returned, smiling into the noise.

‘That,’ he said, raising his voice, ‘was the new line-up of The Compass. And that was Rosanna MacKail singing lead vocals — Joe MacKail’s sister.’

Ellie frowned. ‘Anna MacKail?’

‘Rosanna, Mum.’

‘Well,’ Ellie said, nodding decisively, ‘she was very good.’

Phil did not answer.

Tony Blackburn came back over the applause, bright-voiced and smiling, trying to make himself heard above the noise in the studio. The closing credits began to roll while the audience kept clapping, the camera catching fragments of faces, raised hands, cables, lights, the edge of a guitar as someone moved out of shot.

Phil watched until the song had gone and only the applause remained. Then he leaned forward and turned the volume down.

‘Don’t you want to hear the end?’ Ellie asked.

‘That was the end.’

Amusement touched her face. ‘That good, was it?’

Phil looked at the flicker of the credits on the screen.

‘Better than good,’ he said. ‘They’ve found something.’

A few days later, Ellie found him at the kitchen table with a music paper spread out in front of him. His tea had gone cold beside his elbow.

‘You’re taking an interest,’ she said mildly.

Phil looked up. ‘They’ve released the album.’

‘The Compass?’

He nodded.

‘And?’

‘And it’s good.’

That afternoon, he bought the record.

He waited until the house was quiet before playing it properly. Not as background. Not for pleasure alone. He sat between the speakers and listened with a notebook on his knee, the pencil turning slowly between his fingers.

The title track came first.

On record, the balance was better than the broadcast had allowed him to hear. Rosanna’s voice sat forward, but not exposed. Joe’s guitar answered her rather than crowded her. The second guitar line moved like a shadow beside the first. The bass was cleaner than he had expected, the drums more disciplined, the harmonies placed with care. The whole thing had the confidence of a band that had stopped trying to prove it was clever and had begun trusting the song.

But he could hear the strain too.

Not in the performance. In the work behind it. In the decisions being made by someone doing too many jobs at once.

Ellie listened from the hallway for a while, then leaned against the doorframe.

‘Is that your friend?’ she asked lightly.

Phil smiled without looking round. ‘No.’

‘The girl from the television, then.’

‘Rosanna MacKail.’

‘That’s the one.’

He adjusted the volume slightly. ‘She’s good.’

‘So you said.’

‘I didn’t, actually.’

‘You didn’t have to.’

Phil kept his eyes on the turntable. Ellie stayed a little longer, listening.

‘It’s a sad sort of song,’ she said at last.

‘Not sad exactly.’

‘What, then?’

Phil thought about that. ‘Unresolved.’

Ellie gave a small laugh. ‘Trust you.’

She went back to the kitchen.

Phil listened again.

Over the next few weeks, he heard the single everywhere: on radios in shops, through open windows, from the corner of a pub where no one was listening closely enough. Each time, he stopped noticing the room for a second and listened instead for the same things: the restraint, the balance, the held-back force of it. He watched when The Compass appeared on television again, though he did not say so. He bought another music paper when he saw Rosanna’s face on the cover, then folded it carefully and told himself he had bought it for the interview with Joe.

That was not wholly untrue.

By the turn of the year, he had made up his mind.

He did not write about Rosanna.

He wrote about sound.

He set out his qualifications plainly: electronics and acoustics, live sound, studio engineering, production work, the kind of sessions where no one had enough money and everyone wanted miracles by Friday. He wrote about what The Compass seemed to be becoming, and about the danger of letting a changing band be trapped by equipment, habit, or one man’s exhaustion.

He did not flatter. He did not claim more than he knew. He did not ask for a job.

He wrote that the sound they had found deserved support — properly, quietly, without ego.

When he finished, he read the letter twice, removed one sentence that sounded too eager, and copied the whole thing out again in his neatest hand.

The next morning, he posted it before he could think better of it.

For now, it was enough to have heard what was there.

* * *

The letter arrived on a Tuesday morning.

Phil recognised the name on the envelope before he opened it.

Marietta MacKail

Manager

The Compass

He read it twice before sitting down.

It was formal, but not distant. Polite without being vague. She thanked him for his letter, acknowledged his qualifications, and said that his experience had been reviewed carefully.

That line alone told him more than anything else.

They had checked.

She went on to say that The Compass were entering a period of transition, both in structure and in the demands being placed on the four current members. Joe MacKail was looking to relieve the growing technical and production load he had been carrying himself before the group made any further decisions about its performing line-up. If Phil were willing, they would like to meet him in Tuscany in July.

Expenses would be covered. Accommodation arranged. No promises made.

Phil folded the letter carefully and placed it back on the table.

Ellie noticed first.

‘That looks serious,’ she said, setting a mug in front of him.

‘It is,’ Phil said.

‘Good serious or worrying serious?’

‘Both.’

Cliff lowered his paper. ‘That band you’ve been on about?’

Phil nodded. ‘They want to talk.’

Ellie smiled, but there was concern behind it. ‘And the girl?’

Phil hesitated, then shook his head. ‘That’s not why.’

It wasn’t a lie. Not quite.

‘She’ll have a boyfriend,’ Ellie said gently. ‘Girls like that always do.’

‘I know,’ Phil said. ‘I’m not going there for that. I’m going for the work.’

Cliff nodded approvingly. ‘That’s the right answer.’

Over the following weeks, Phil prepared carefully.

He gathered notes and references. He reread his own work with a critical eye. He packed lightly. He said nothing publicly.

Before he left, Ellie hugged him for longer than usual.

‘You’ll do fine,’ she said. ‘Just remember who you are.’

‘I will.’

He took the early train east, then south, changing once, arriving at Manchester Airport with time to spare. The terminal was busy, loud, impersonal.

Phil sat with his bag at his feet, the letter folded neatly in his jacket pocket.

He didn’t know yet who he would meet first. Or what would be asked of him.

Only that somewhere south of the hills, in a converted farmhouse in Tuscany, there was work waiting.

And that was enough.

* * *

Phil arrived early.

The bar was quiet at that hour, the late afternoon lull before the evening trade. He was dressed carefully — a dark suit, white shirt, neatly knotted tie, polished shoes — and he looked slightly out of place among the empty stools and low tables. He ordered an orange juice, took a small table near the wall, and waited. He had been told to come here, nothing more. That suited him.

He had just finished his drink when three men entered together.

They were dressed casually — jeans, open shirts, jackets slung over shoulders — at ease in the space in a way Phil was not.

Tony spotted him first and murmured to Sergio, not quite under his breath, ‘Look — all suited and booted.’

Sergio glanced across, amused.

Phil recognised Joe MacKail immediately.

Joe crossed the room without hesitation. ‘Philip Jones?’

‘Yes,’ Phil said, standing.

‘I’m Joe MacKail. This is Tony Ceccoli, and this is Sergio Mossa.’ Joe gestured briefly to each. ‘If you’ll follow us, we’ve got somewhere a bit more private.’

They moved down a corridor to a small meeting room they had booked for the afternoon. Joe closed the door behind them.

‘Take a seat,’ he said.

They did.

Joe began lightly enough.

‘How was the journey?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ Phil said. ‘No trouble finding the place.’

‘Good.’ Joe folded his hands. ‘We’ve spoken to a number of people you’ve worked with. Studio owners. Musicians. Engineers. The reports were glowing.’

Phil inclined his head slightly, saying nothing.

‘But,’ Joe continued, ‘I’d rather hear it from you. So tell me what you’ve been doing.’

Phil took a breath. ‘I started doing live sound while I was still at university. Mostly student bands at first. I studied electronics and acoustics, so I ended up fixing things other people couldn’t. That led to studio work. Assistant engineer at first. Then running sessions. Then, gradually, producing.’

Joe nodded. ‘On what scale?’

‘Small to mid-level acts. Regional. Some who thought they were about to break. Some who weren’t.’

‘And what do you think a producer does, exactly?’

Phil answered without hesitation. ‘Removes obstacles. Technical, emotional, sometimes personal. Keeps the sound honest. Keeps the room calm.’

Tony shifted slightly. Sergio looked amused.

Joe leaned forward. ‘Explain “keeps the sound honest”.’

Phil considered his words. ‘You don’t fix what doesn’t need fixing. You don’t polish the life out of it. And you don’t let equipment dictate decisions.’

Joe nodded once. ‘What’s your approach to room acoustics?’

Phil answered calmly, describing reflection points, dead zones, the way old stone behaved differently to modern materials. He spoke without flourish, correcting himself once, then continuing.

Joe interrupted him with a question that changed direction completely.

‘You’ve got phase cancellation on a vocal track you didn’t record. What do you check first?’

Phil didn’t blink. ‘Mic placement. Then polarity. Then whether anyone’s doubled something without realising.’

Another question. Another.

Tony and Sergio exchanged a look as Joe pressed harder — deliberately mis-stating facts, setting traps. Phil corrected him politely. Once, Joe smiled.

At one point Sergio asked, ‘Analogue or digital?’

Phil answered simply. ‘Whichever serves the music. Preferably analogue.’

Tony nodded.

Joe sat back at last.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’re going to talk for a moment. If you wouldn’t mind waiting in the bar.’

‘Of course,’ Phil said, standing.

When the door closed behind him, Tony exhaled. ‘Joe, you’re impossible.’

Sergio laughed quietly. ‘In my opinion, he really knows his stuff.’

Joe nodded. ‘I agree. Let’s not keep him waiting.’ He stood. ‘Better still — let’s join him.’

They found Phil back at the bar, hands folded again, staring into his empty glass.

Joe smiled. ‘Welcome to The Compass, Mister Jones. What do you want to drink? Don’t say orange juice.’

Phil’s relief was unmistakable. ‘Thank you, Joe. Er — lager, please.’

Joe laughed and signalled the barman.

‘What do I call you?’ Joe asked. ‘Phil or Philip?’

‘All my friends call me Phil.’

‘Phil it is.’

Phil hesitated, then asked, ‘So — how many of you are in the band now?’

‘At the moment there are four performers,’ Joe said. ‘Tony, Sergio, Rosanna and me.’

‘We may expand later, once we know what the live work requires. But that decision has not been made. First I want the production work in the right hands.’

Phil nodded, absorbing the distinction.

‘For now,’ Joe said, ‘welcome.’

Phil raised his glass carefully. ‘Thank you.’

He meant it more than he could say.

* * *

They stayed in the hotel bar longer than any of them had intended.

The formality had gone now. Glasses were refilled, jackets loosened, voices lowered. Phil listened more than he spoke, answering questions when they came, asking a few of his own. Joe watched him carefully, noting not what he said, but when he chose not to.

Eventually Joe checked his watch and stood.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Come on. You’d better see what you’ve actually signed up for.’

They drove out of Florence as the light began to fade, the traffic thinning as the city gave way to hills and trees. Phil sat in the passenger seat, hands folded again, saying little.

By the time they reached San Casciano al Bosco, the road had narrowed, climbing gently through woods.

At the farmhouse, Joe led them straight down into the cellar.

The Studio was cool and still, the air carrying that faint, familiar scent of warm wood and metal. The layout was immediately recognisable to Phil — not just as a recording space, but as a continuation. The equipment was different in detail, but not in philosophy. Much of it had been carried forward from Posillipo: the same trusted tape machines, the same valve amplifiers, the same patched-together mixing desk that had already outlived several predictions of its demise.

Joe stopped in the centre of the room.

‘This is it,’ he said. ‘I’m putting you in charge of the Studio. So — what do you think needs changing and updating?’

Phil didn’t answer straight away.

He walked the room slowly, crouched to examine cabling, ran a hand along the edge of the desk, peered behind a rack. He listened — literally listened — clapping once, softly, then again.

At last he straightened.

‘Well,’ he said carefully, ‘to be honest with you, Joe… pretty much everything.’

Tony winced theatrically. Sergio laughed.

Joe only smiled. ‘Go on then, Phil. Tell me.’

Phil gestured towards the desk. ‘That mixer’s done well for you. Really well. But you’re asking it to do things it was never designed for. You’ll get cleaner separation with a newer board — more headroom. Less fighting the gear.’

He moved to the tape machine. ‘This is solid. But you’re limiting yourselves. Eight-track at least. Sixteen, ideally. Gives you room to breathe. Room to change your mind without losing performances.’

Joe nodded. ‘And the microphones?’

‘Some of these are lovely,’ Phil said. ‘Don’t get rid of them. But you’re missing options. A couple of decent condensers would change your vocal recordings completely — especially harmonies.’

He paused, then added gently, ‘And you’ll want better monitoring. You can’t mix properly if you’re guessing what you’re hearing.’

Joe folded his arms. ‘Anything else?’

Phil hesitated. ‘You’ll need someone whose only job is to worry about all this. Every day. While you worry about the music.’

Then Joe said, ‘All right. Give me makes and models. Prices. Let’s get to it.’

Phil looked up, surprised. ‘You’re serious?’

Joe met his gaze. ‘I wouldn’t have brought you here otherwise.’

They talked for a long time after that. Brands. Reliability. Availability in Italy. What could be sourced locally, what would need to come from further afield. Tony asked practical questions. Sergio asked musical ones.

Phil answered all of them.

By the time they climbed the steps back into the evening air, the Studio already felt different — not because anything had changed yet, but because someone was now responsible for its future.

Joe reached for his car keys.

‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You’re having dinner with us.’

Phil nodded, a little dazed.

He followed Joe out into the gathering dusk, already carrying the weight of decisions he had not expected to be allowed to make so quickly.

Joe parked outside the apartment just as dusk settled into the village.

He had phoned ahead. That much was clear from the way the door opened almost immediately.

Rosanna was in the kitchen.

The smell of garlic and tomatoes carried into the hallway, warm and familiar. A pan hissed softly on the stove. She turned as they came in, wiping her hands on a cloth, and for a brief moment she and Phil simply looked at one another.

Joe noticed.

‘Rosanna,’ he said, with studied normality, ‘this is Phil Jones, our new producer. He’ll take charge of the studio in December.’

Phil smiled, a little unsure of himself. ‘Hello.’

Rosanna returned the smile. ‘Hello.’

Joe continued, ‘Phil — this is Rosanna. One of the other members of The Compass.’

‘I know,’ Phil said quickly, then coloured slightly. ‘I mean — I’ve got the album.’

Rosanna’s expression softened. ‘Right. Well — dinner’s nearly ready.’

She had cooked pasta al forno — rich with tomato, slow-cooked beef, herbs from the market, and far more than anyone strictly needed. When she served Phil, she hesitated for half a second, then gave him the larger portion. He noticed — and accepted it with visible gratitude.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That looks wonderful.’

‘You’re welcome,’ she said, pleased.

They sat with Joe and Marietta at either end of the table, Rick and Angie opposite, already chattering about school and village gossip. Rosanna chose the chair beside Phil without comment.

As they ate, she turned to him. ‘So — where are you from, exactly?’

‘North Wales,’ Phil said. ‘Near the coast.’

‘What’s it like?’ she asked. ‘I’ve never been.’

Phil brightened. ‘Quieter than here. Windier. Very green. Not as sunny, mind.’

She smiled. ‘I don’t mind green.’

He found himself talking more than he usually did — about the sea, about hills, about small towns where everyone knew everyone else. Rosanna listened intently, asking the sort of questions that invited proper answers.

Joe watched, saying little.

At one point he cleared his throat. ‘Phil — just so you know — you passed your interview this afternoon with flying colours. Rosanna’s questions are not an extension of your interview.’

Marietta gave him a knowing look. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time you did something sneaky like that, Joe.’

Joe smiled. ‘That’s perfectly true. But not this time.’

After dinner, they washed up together — plates passed, water running, a quiet rhythm settling in. Rick and Angie were sent to bed with kisses and reminders to brush teeth. Joe picked up his jacket. ‘We’re going out for a bit. Phil — you’re welcome to stay if you want. Or we can drop you back in Florence. Up to you.’

Before Phil could answer, Rosanna said lightly, ‘I’ll make some coffee. Proper coffee. I’m sure we’ve got some biscuits.’

Phil hesitated, then nodded. ‘If that’s all right.’

Joe smiled. ‘We won’t be long.’

The door closed behind them.

Rosanna moved easily in the kitchen, grinding beans, setting the moka pot on the stove. When it began to hiss, she poured the coffee into two cups, added a small plate of biscuits, and carried the tray through to the lounge.

They chose chairs facing one another and settled, cups warming their hands, the quiet of the house closing around them.

For the first time that evening, they were alone.

* * *

For a little while, neither of them spoke.

Phil sat forward slightly, his cup resting between his palms, the same careful politeness he had shown all evening still firmly in place. Rosanna sat opposite him, one leg curled beneath her, comfortable in her own house but not quite casual. Her coffee stood untouched on the table between them.

The silence was not awkward. It was attentive.

Phil broke it first.

‘How long have you actually been with The Compass?’

Rosanna considered. ‘Since last year. Just before What Never Spoke was released.’

‘You wrote it?’

‘The lyrics,’ she said. ‘Joe had a massive input musically. Structurally too. I couldn’t have done it without him.’

Phil nodded. ‘Were you surprised it went to number one?’

She laughed softly. ‘Amazed. I still don’t quite believe it did.’

‘I thought it was a beautiful song.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And the album,’ he added. ‘It’s very balanced.’

Rosanna smiled, pleased that he had noticed. ‘That mattered. The songs are split evenly between Joe and me. We wanted it to feel like both of us, not just Joe making room for me.’

Phil looked down into his coffee, then back at her. ‘It does.’

She reached for a biscuit, took one, then nudged the plate towards him. He accepted, careful at first, then with more enthusiasm when she smiled.

‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘How long have you been producing?’

‘Since I was seventeen. About six years now.’

‘So you’re twenty-three?’

‘Yes.’

She nodded, then seemed to reconsider something. ‘Actually, before I ask anything else — what do you prefer? Phil or Philip?’

He smiled. ‘All my friends call me Phil.’

‘And who calls you Philip?’

‘Family. People closest to me.’

She hesitated only briefly. ‘May I call you Philip?’

The question was simple, but something in the careful way she asked it made him still.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’d like that.’

‘All right then. Philip.’

She said it naturally, as though she had been given permission to use something exact.

‘Everyone calls me Rosanna,’ she went on. ‘My uncle Wes calls me Rose, and I had a very old friend who called me Rosebud. But he died, so now it’s mostly just Rosanna.’

‘It’s a lovely name. I wouldn’t shorten it.’

‘Good. Whatever you do, don’t call me Rosie.’

‘I won’t.’

‘My great-grandmother did. She was very sweet, but very stubborn.’

Phil’s smile deepened. ‘Noted. No Rosie.’

‘She was also the one who called Joe “Joe”. His name isn’t Joseph, you know.’

Phil blinked. ‘It isn’t?’

‘No. Ethan Pádraig MacKail.’

‘That’s a long way from Joe.’

‘It is. He was a very tiny baby, apparently. Great-grandma Bridie called him “Little Joe”, and it stuck.’

Phil absorbed that with genuine interest. ‘I never knew that.’

‘No one outside the family does, mostly.’

The coffee had cooled a little. Phil reached for the pot and refilled their cups without asking, moving quietly, almost naturally now.

‘Philip isn’t my first name either,’ he said.

‘Oh?’

‘Samuel. Samuel Philip Jones.’

Rosanna looked amused. ‘So you could have been Sam.’

‘Worse. Sammy. At my first school I was Sammy Jones, and I hated it. My parents asked if I’d rather use my second name. So I became Philip.’

‘Then I won’t call you Sammy if you don’t call me Rosie.’

‘Deal.’

‘Rosanna and Philip.’

‘Settled.’

The words rested between them, small but definite.

They drank their coffee and talked more easily after that: food, travel, the odd habits of musicians on the road, the difference between Wales and Tuscany, the danger of letting Joe organise anything without supervision.

Minutes passed without either of them appearing to count them.

Then Rosanna said, ‘I’ve just turned seventeen, by the way. In June.’

Phil’s reaction was immediate, though he tried to make it slight. His hand stilled around his cup. He looked away for half a second, not from her exactly, but from whatever possibility had begun to form too quickly. When he looked back, his expression was still kind, but more measured.

‘June?’ he said. ‘Mine’s June sixth.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘No.’

‘I have an aunt born on June sixth. And my great-grandfather too. Bridie’s husband. I’m June eighteenth.’

‘So we’ve both missed each other’s birthdays.’

‘What a shame.’

He smiled, but carefully now, and Rosanna saw the care. She did not resent it. If anything, she respected him more for it.

She set her cup down. ‘I did have a boyfriend.’

Phil looked at her at once, surprised by the directness. He had not asked. He had not quite decided whether he had any right to ask.

‘A while ago,’ she said. ‘More than two years back. His name was Mario. We were very young, and it mattered a great deal at the time, but it ended properly. It’s been finished for a long time.’

Phil listened without interrupting.

‘I haven’t had anyone since,’ she added.

‘I see.’

It was the right answer: not eager, not possessive, not falsely indifferent.

She gave him a small, knowing smile. ‘You were about to wonder.’

He gave a quiet laugh. ‘Was I that obvious?’

‘A little.’

‘Thank you for telling me.’

‘You’re welcome.’

What followed was different. Something had been acknowledged, and then carefully set aside.

Rosanna reached for another biscuit. ‘And you?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not for a long time.’

She accepted that without pressing him.

After a while, she said, ‘Before The Compass, I was at school in Paris. I had a band there — Clair de Seine. We made an album. Les Chambres Hautes.’

‘I’ve heard of it.’

‘Have you?’

‘Yes. Not properly, but I know the name.’

‘Joe produced it,’ she said. ‘Of course.’

‘Of course?’

‘Joe produces everything sooner or later.’

Phil laughed softly. ‘I’m beginning to understand that.’

‘You’ll need to be brave, then.’

‘I thought I had been.’

‘Today? With Joe?’ She gave him a look of mock solemnity. ‘That was only the entrance examination.’

He smiled, more openly now.

She told him a little about the four-person line-up as it stood: Tony and Sergio, steady in different ways; Joe at the centre of everything, whether he meant to be or not; and Rosanna herself, still learning how much space she was allowed to claim.

‘Only four performers?’ Phil asked.

‘For now. Joe thinks the live sound may need more eventually, but he hasn’t said when or who.’

‘And what do you think?’

Rosanna considered it. ‘I think Joe will keep looking until the room sounds the way he hears it in his head.’

Phil laughed softly. ‘I’m beginning to understand that.’

Then Rosanna asked about Wales.

He told her about the coast, the rain, the green hills, the small towns where everyone seemed to know whose curtains had been changed before breakfast. He spoke more than he usually did, because she listened without hurry. She asked questions that expected proper answers.

He told her about his parents, too. About his father’s sports shop in Wrexham going under. About buying the house so they would not have to worry.

‘It felt like the right thing to do,’ he said.

Rosanna did not answer at once. She looked at him steadily, and he seemed almost embarrassed by the attention.

‘That was very good of you,’ she said. ‘Especially so young.’

‘They did a lot for me.’

‘I can tell.’

The warmth of that settled between them.

Rosanna settled back in her chair. ‘So, Philip — when do you actually start with us?’

‘First of December. Joe’s given me time to finish things properly.’

‘Nearly five months.’

‘Yes.’

She looked at him again. ‘Can I write to you?’

The question pleased him so visibly that he had to look down.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’d like that.’

Rosanna reached for the notebook beside her chair, tore out a page, folded it, and divided it neatly in two.

‘Write your address here. I’ll give you mine.’

They exchanged addresses with the care of people pretending the act was ordinary.

‘Is it all right writing to you here?’ Phil asked.

‘Yes. It should be.’ She tucked his address into her pocket, beneath her handkerchief. ‘Safe there.’

‘So long as you don’t lose it.’

‘I won’t. Unless my hay fever comes back and I sneeze it across Tuscany.’

He smiled. ‘I didn’t know you had hay fever.’

‘Only when provoked by ancient dust. You’ve seen the Studio. When we were doing it up, I had to cover my face if I wanted to help.’

‘And did you?’

‘Every day. For weeks. I looked like a bandit. They laughed at first.’

‘And then?’

‘I kept working, so they stopped.’

‘I can picture that.’

The front door opened.

Joe’s voice carried down the hall. ‘We’re back.’

Rosanna glanced at Phil, and both of them seemed to become a little more formal at once.

A few minutes later, coats were gathered, keys found, and Joe stood in the doorway with his jacket over one arm.

‘We’ll run you back to Florence,’ he said.

Rosanna stood. ‘It’s been lovely talking to you, Philip. I’ll write first — all right?’

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ he said. ‘Very much.’

They shook hands, briefly and properly.

Both were aware of how much they were not doing.

For now, that felt exactly right.

Joe returned later than usual.

The village was quiet by then, the lights few. Rosanna was still awake, sitting at the table with her notebook open in front of her, though she was not writing.

Joe poured himself a glass of water and leaned against the counter.

‘So,’ he said lightly, ‘how did it go?’

Rosanna looked up. ‘Joe.’

He straightened. ‘What?’

‘You assured Philip that talking with me wasn’t part of his interview. And now you’re asking me for a debrief?’

Joe held up one hand. ‘I’m not debriefing you. I’m asking how it went.’

‘That sounds very like debriefing.’

‘It isn’t.’

She studied him, then sighed. ‘All right. My professional opinion: I like Philip. We got on well. And I think we can work together.’

Joe nodded once. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

‘Is it?’

He took a sip of water. ‘Mostly.’

‘Joe.’

He smiled faintly. ‘All right. I thought you might like him.’

Rosanna closed the notebook. ‘Good night.’

‘Good night.’

He watched her leave, then turned out the kitchen light.

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