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^ The monument described ^

The market cross monument wasn't very big, but Andy could see why people would be tempted to photograph it. On the corner of a pavement which lead to a postbox and two benches, it was built from slate. A circular shaped construction with thick, deep steps, big enough to sit on comfortably. There was a small tower from the center with engravings that were unreadable, and as he passed it, an elderly couple stopped to sit down.

It wasn't a remarkably busy day, but there were people around. Families, couples, tourists, and locals. Andy knew from research and house prices that the town was a major tourist destination in this part of England, knew he was really lucky to have found a house there. It was clear with the types of shops that were jeweling the main street that it made its money from the people who came on holiday there, though eventually he came across a small primary school that was next to the park. He imagined it had no more than one hundred students total, since the entire building was smaller than a supermarket.

On his way back up the steep hill to his new house was a woman sitting on a step with a sketchpad, drawing. "Afternoon," she said, taking Andy by surprise.

"Afternoon," he returned, slowing.

"Not seen you around here before."

Andy stopped walking and leaned against the dry stone wall that lined the rising footpath. "Just moved," he told her. "Last night."

"Oh, nice. From far?"

"Yeah, uh, California, actually."

She was studying his features, her eyebrows furrowing when he said this. "American lad, then. That's nice."

Andy shifted his weight from one foot to another. "Guess so."

"So, which house are you in?"

"Uh... Number One."

"Rich then."

"Sorry?"

"You're rich to afford Number One."

Andy didn't have a response other than to awkwardly laugh it off, taking it as a cue to leave. She didn't stop him.

In the small garden in front of his house, Remington was painting on a small canvas, looking up when he noticed Andy, and smiling. "Afternoon, neighbour," he called.

Andy approached his fence. "Hey."

"Been into town?"

"Yep."

"What did you think?"

"It's gorgeous."

"Isn't it." He dipped his brush into a blob of paint. "Did you get shit from Hanna on the way up?"

"Huh?"

"I saw her going down just now."

"Oh," Andy said. "You mean the woman with the sketchbook?"

Remington nodded.

"Yeah, she spoke to me."

"Did she ask which house you're in?"

"Yep."

Blowing a bug from the canvas, Remington laughed. "She's a bit of a gatekeeper about this estate. Wants all the properties to be kept local, you know? Just ignore her."

"My American self felt offended. I suppose you warned me."

"I did."

"Painting anything good?"

Remington's eyes were focused on the canvas as he answered. "Of course," he said. "I only know how to paint good things."

"I see, I see. Well, I'll stop distracting you."

"I'll let you see once it's finished."

"Looking forward to it."

In his house, Andy begun to properly unpack what little he had brought, then made a list of everything he'd need to buy.

Much later, his doorbell rang and he answered it to a middle aged man and a teenage boy. "Ah, glad we caught you," the man said. "We tried earlier, you must have been out. We're from Number Four. We heard someone had moved in today, you must be him."

"Nice to meet you." He offered his best smile. "I'm Andy."

Shaking his hand, the older man introduced himself as David, and then said, "This is Frankie, my son."

"Hey, Frankie."

"We heard you're from California."

Wow, Andy thought, news spreads fast on this street. "That's right."

"You lived there all your life?"

"Well, I grew up in Cincinnati and moved to California for my career when I was a teenager." He didn't want to explicitly say what that career was, worried there may have been a chance it'd paint him in the wrong light, though with all his visible tattoos, it wasn't the easiest thing to pretend he wasn't something of a 'rebel'.

"Very cool," David said. "And how are you finding it so far?"

"Pretty good. The town's gorgeous."

"Yes. It's quite something. You should get a look at the waterfalls, too."

"The waterfalls?"

"Oh, there's a path just up behind these houses. Takes about fifteen minutes and you get to a waterfall with picnic benches and places to paddle and everything. It's lovely." A hesitation, then daringly, "Maybe Frankie could show you sometime. You like it up there, don't you, Frankie?"

The boy nodded. It didn't seem to Andy like he was putting it on for his father.

"That sounds awesome, thank you."

"And you've met Remington?"

"Uh, yes. Yep."

"What do you make of him?"

Folding his arms, Andy wondered what the nature of that question was. "He seems nice. He dropped round earlier today with food for me. We shared cake in my kitchen."

"He's a pain in the crack."

"Dad," Frankie complained. He looked at Andy and shook his head. A apologetic gesture.

David spoke with humour. "It's fine, I can say that. He used to live with us. Had a difficult childhood so I took him in. You know how it is when parents aren't willing to love their children for being different."

"Yes, of course. I actually used to be in a band and lots of my fans would tell me about stuff like that. Parents kicking them out and stuff because they weren't what their parents wanted their kids to be. Selfish, if you ask me."

"A band?" Sharing an excited glance with his son. "You wouldn't happen to sing, would you? It's just, Frankie's been trying to learn how to sing, you know, properly. It's hard to find any vocal teachers around here and - oh, I'm sorry. We've only just met, this is very rude of me."

"No, not at all," Andy assured. "I actually do sing. Rock, usually. If you're after someone to teach you, I'm sure I could try. But I'm not a teacher and I should warn you, I swear constantly."

Frankie looked at his father hopefully.

"Oh, really? Wow, that would be wonderful," the man gushed. "We've been looking for someone for months, and nothing. They're all classical teachers, you know, for musical theatre or whatever. He's after rock, aren't you?"

The teenager nodded. He was having a hard time containing his grin.

Andy was smiling, too. "Well, that's perfect, then. I'd love to help if I can. I was actually planning on buying myself a piano sometime in the next week, so as soon as that's all sorted?"

"Yes, wonderful. You play?"

"Yeah, quite well if I do say so myself."

Frankie was practically on the floor from excitement.

"This is like Christmas in June," David laughed. "Wow, mate, you're a star. Thank you so much. We'll sort of payments and-"

"No, please. I'll do it free of charge."

"I can't let you do that."

Andy shook his head. "No, really. Like I said, I'm not a teacher so please don't pay me as one. I might turn out to fuck it all up, you don't know yet."

Frankie giggled. He couldn't have been older than sixteen.

"Well, if you insist," David mumbled. "But if we still like you after a month, I'm shoving a cheque through your letterbox whether you like it or not. Alright, we should be going. But how about Frankie shows you the waterfalls next weekend?"

"I'd love that."

"Great. You hear that, Frankie? You've got plans with a rockstar!"

Frankie rolled his eyes but was still grinning.

"Well, see you Saturday," Andy said. "Good to meet you both. And Frankie, your fashion is bangin'."

The teenager could have melted. It was the first time he has spoken to someone who was so much like what he aspired to be, down to the neck tattoos and polite speech. "Oh, thanks."

"See you, mate," David beamed. "Pleasure doing business with you." Then, as the two were beginning down the steps, he said to his son, "I don't care what you do with you life, but for God's sake, take all the advice that man gives you, because I'm telling you, people like him, they don't come around very often."