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R ose was dithering outside Rob’s door, cello in hand, wondering whether to ring the bell or not, when it was opened by a vaguely familiar young man with his red hair in a ponytail, stretchers in both ears and on an arm holding a violin, a tattoo of something that looked like a haggis disguised as walking bagpipes.

‘Hello! You must be Rose. Come on in. We’re just getting warmed up. I’m Craig. Beer, cider or water? Or do you not drink?’

‘Er, cider thanks.’

The bungalow ought to have been identical to hers but beyond the hallway and kitchenette which, as far as she could see as she was whisked past, was about ten years out of date rather than thirty-five, nothing was the same at all.

Whereas Rose’s house was drab with magnolia and anonymity, Rob’s house burst with colour.

The sitting room, facing west, was a whirl of primary colours, blue walls, green and gold cushions, vivid abstract art and modern portraits in oils covered the walls.

There was something fecund and female about it, the dark secret warmth of the womb, the clasp to a full breast and a beating heart.

Through patio windows, Rose could see out towards the distant hills and knew beyond them was the sea. For a second, she had the bizarre image of Sky and her pack, suspended in a crate from under a huge plane, swaying all the way from Denmark before being dropped in the forest.

Beyond the colour scheme however, there was no sign of a homemaker. The room had a neglected air about it, like the old sort of parlour people never real sat in.

‘This way,’ said Craig, clasping two bottles of cider in one hand and waving with his violin towards what would be the spare room in Rose and Simon’s place.

The door was shut and Rose felt uncertain.

No sound came from it and she knew from observation that the curtains were always shut.

The only person who knew she was here was Simon and he had stomped off to commune with his creativity up in the woods.

What kind of fool goes into a complete stranger’s house armed with nothing but a cello and the urge to create music?

Craig kicked on the door and it opened to the sound of someone beating some kind of rhythm.

‘Sound-proofed’ he said. ‘Rob had complaints from the people who had the holiday let, your place. People don’t like coming out to the country and hearing sounds of actual country life.

They don’t like to hear tractors and cars and lorries and sheep and people who live here just being normal.

They want to hear silence and look at people being bucolic with snowy white flocks then they shut themselves in with the TV on or their music blasting. ’

‘True enough,’ said Rose.

‘Anyway, Rob’s turned these rooms into a studio. We’re trying to do some serious recording. You might just be what we need. No pressure. Only joking. You can’t be worse than Patrick. But then you know what they say about drummers. Look what I’ve got guys! More strings!’

Rose braced herself for the usual series of questions but all she got asked was whether the chair was in the right place.

‘Join in when you want or don’t if you don’t want,’ said Rob.

He was plucking his guitar in a complex flamenco piece while the older man Rose presumed was Patrick rattled out a completely different rhythm on a bodhran.

Craig took a swig from his cider and then dived into a swoop and swirl of Mozart.

It should have been cacophonous but to Rose it was like a blood transfusion or a swig of coffee early in the morning.

No one was paying her any attention, each musician in his own world, making small talk with his instrument, warming knuckles and wrists, bringing to life wood and sinew and skin.

Rose got out her cello and sat with it, listening to the others, afraid and excited and finally, closing her eyes, Drawing her bow across the strings, tuning and trying again, running through the Ayrshire meadows in her mind, down to the sea, down to the sands, running along the strand, dancing in the froth, daring the waves to try and catch her feet and as she opened her eyes, she knew that somehow everyone’s music had come together in beautiful chaos and she could have laughed out loud.

Without a signal, everyone stopped playing.

‘So,’ said Rob. ‘This is Rose. Rose, you’ve met Craig. who’s waiting for the devil to finish in Georgia so he can challenge him for a golden fiddle, and this is Patrick who is a bit of a purist, but we’ll convert him yet.’

Rose said to Craig. ‘Do you have a sister called Lena?’

‘Aye, how did you know?’

‘There’s a bit of family resemblance.’

‘What a thing to say about poor Lena,’ said Rob. ‘I’ve always thought she was quite a bonny lass, and Craig’s not exactly much of an advert for her salon. I doubt his hair’s seen scissors since he left school.’

‘You’re just jealous of my flaming Celthood.’

‘Oh aye. Anyway, Rose, this band has three aims, one is to play at ceilidhs which is great fun and makes us good money to boot, or sometimes not, depending. I’ve personally never seen a cello at a ceilidh yet but I think it’s been done, so why not here?

The second thing is to create our own sound.

I’ve got some ideas and Patrick needs some convincing but I think we could do it.

Modern folk, rock folk, I don’t care what you want to call it, just something looking forward not back. ’

‘OK’ said Rose. ‘I’m sort of classically trained really but…’

‘You weren’t playing classical last night. You were doing your own thing.’

‘That’s because… anyway, what’s the third aim?’

‘Och to wind up the Guild, but that’s a secret. They think we do it out of ignorance. But we don’t. To Emmeline!’ he said, chinking bottles with Patrick.

Patrick rattled his beater against the bodhran. ‘Come on, we haven’t all evening. Let’s practice the ceiledh stuff first. Rose, just go with the flow, it’ll come to you. We’ve no music for these tunes.’

He set the beat and the others joined in.

The tune was familiar and unknown at the same time.

Working out the beat and the melody, Rose picked up the counterpoint and dived in, wincing when she predicted wrong but growing in confidence phrase by phrase.

Biting her top lip in concentration, she looked up and at the same moment, Rob, whose head had been over his strings, looked up at her.

He gave her a grin and a wink and shut his eyes again. What must I look like, thought Rose.

After an hour, they’d run through the old tunes sufficiently for Rose to feel some level of confidence and start to enjoy herself. Rob called a break and started to fiddle with the recording equipment.

‘So how’s it been so far?’ Patrick asked Rose. ‘How are you finding this place? Nosey I’ll bet.’

Rose pondered. ‘Generally just friendly. ’

‘Well you’ve only been here a week, and even Emmeline will let people settle in before she starts her burrowing. Must have been a bit of a disappointment for her, knowing half your story before you moved in.’

Rose felt her face drain of blood then flush. She was conscious of Rob and Craig talking over the mixing desk a few feet away.

‘Sorry, I didn’t to mean touch a raw nerve,’ Patrick went on.

‘It’s just that it was all in the papers last year and when someone at the estate agents accidentally let slip that it was the same Simon Henderson, there was no real mystery.

I hoped it would mean people would leave you alone, but I gather not.

I mean, I think your brother’s programmes are grand.

I was really looking forward to the one on wolves, I don’t suppose they’ll show it now. ’

‘Oh well actually,’ stammered Rose. ‘they’re planning to put it out for Christmas. Obviously, it doesn’t exactly end. They’ve got a lot of editing to do. It’ll be a sort of tribute to David.’

‘Och of course, the cameraman who was killed.’

Rose nodded and fiddled with her cello, smoothing its warm curves.

‘Patrick…’ Craig was hissing.

‘He was a grand cameraman, wasn’t he? Do you suppose they’ll release a book of his photographs or films or whatever?’

‘Er, I’m working on it,’ Rose muttered. ‘I’m negotiating with the production company. I haven’t really mentioned it to Simon.’

She felt tired. She ran her finger down the resiny bow strings and visualised David behind the camera.

Somewhere there was a photograph he had taken of her, deep in her music, forgetting him, forgetting everything.

He had loved it so much because he said that was who she was to him.

She wished she had a photograph of him taking the photograph, with all his smiling love on his face.

His face was becoming hard to remember, just a composite of all the photographs and memories, no pulse, no greying temples or fading skin.

‘Patrick…’ Craig hissed again. ‘Stop.’

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry lass,’ said Patrick. ‘I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry. There’s only so much gossip I can stand listening to. Not gossip, but…’

Rose forced a smile and shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, people mostly don’t realise or they’ve forgotten.

It’s nice to know someone doesn’t think they know everything about me.

Really, don’t worry. I’m the anonymous one and Simon’s the famous one.

He gets quite enough attention for both of us.

Only… what else does everyone in the town think they know? ’

There was an uneasy silence. Rob was looking up from the equipment with something on his face which Rose couldn’t place. It was not pity, there was compassion but there was also anger.

‘Honestly, I’d rather you told me,’ she persisted.

‘Weeelll,’ said Craig. ‘In a nutshell: Emmeline managed to winkle out of the estate-agent’s girl that THE Simon Henderson was moving here to be nursed by his sister, having had some sort of, sorry, but this is what she said, mental breakdown.

She was disappointed she couldn’t dig up anything about you, other than the fact that you’re the widow of Simon Henderson’s cameraman.

But… the thing is Rose, all we care about is music.

We don’t care if you’re a queen or a bag-lady as long as you can play. ’

There was an awkward pause and Rose suppressed a sigh.

Rob broke the silence. ‘Here are some pieces I’ve been working on. They’re broadly in the genre, but I want to know what you think and how we can develop them.’

He pressed play, and sat back.