Michael Leo Parker

                                                 1

Anne knew death was beginning before her eyes opened to take on the opinions of the new day. Uncomplicated as a new quilt, ankle soft, she felt a hip and a rib without the finger-fat padding middle aged people slowly acquire. Layered sounds of early urban day gave her familiarity but without the urgency to move. Water moving through the bedroom radiator in the first winter week, the doft of a car door over the distant sound-wash hum of early traffic, house creaks, safe morning ones.

       The car door was wet. Drops held in place against metal and plastic, reflected both the street trees and her lemon coat like a tiny impressionist painting. The mustard fabric of Ellen’s glove turned darker at the fingertips as it cleaned the handle becoming two-tone wash on the passenger seat where she threw it, next to her breakfast. They package stuff so well, nothing chancy, that’s why she bought the biscuits yesterday without even considering the price. Long brown paper bag with a small cellophane window, brown is good, she thought, natural, earthy, rice, bread, paper, recyclable. The big biscuits were uneven, computer programmed by a machine to look hand-made. Macadamia Breton white chocolate chip cookies, who wouldn’t want to eat them? she asked herself nibbling at one before starting the engine. 

So a big one and a half chomped one left. Throwing the other glove on the foot mat she rustles again through the bag while waiting to be let out of the junction. People are eating on the move, mainly men with breakfast baps as  women won’t risk a clothes stain on the way to work. As good a reason as any why Ellen chose the cookies, she could control the chocolate, white chocolate, she could watch were it goes, and it doesn’t look quite so much like shit if it smears. Not entirely risk free though, her left hand index finger has a sweet yellow-white glisten on it, she licks it off. Her hands without the gloves look as synthetic as the cookies. As full as the rest of her and just as unlovely, acrylic nails, perfect, iron-blood red, but all wrong, like an alopecian wig. Take them off they look as if they belong to a pantomime dame, or like old Elizabeth the First at night, just enough blood flow to stop them being wet pork, with sea salt and Cyprus flakes.

       Although she hasn’t been for a while, her  yoga teacher said hand scanning the prone body to gets a feel for who you really are. She is a rolling landscape, big, but not out of place any more, normal you might say, no second glances. Her unhealthy hands made superficially attractive with beautiful nails and expensive gloves, the hair, makeup and clothes follow the same story, a narrative that people readily understand. She is 37, Ellen Alty, Junior Executive Project Manager: Human Resources and Counseling Services, NHS Windsberry Park. Wouldn’t leave the house on a workday without the lanyard telling her who she is.

                                                        2

Isle of Man : June 1969.

You forget how smokey it was. In the pub where the lads had a few last night, in the car to the airport, everywhere, shops, buses, living rooms, even in the plane on the flight over. Raymond emptied the overflowing ashtray in the back of the car before they set off, he mumbled to himself that it should be called a stump tray as that’s all there is in it. He pulled the tray out of its holder, spilling ash onto the carpet, and emptied it under the car. Desmond, coughing exaggeratedly, wound the car window down to get rid of a bit of the smoke when they finally got under way, but wound it back up again quickly, swearing when the breeze blew his hair out of place. 

       They agreed the flight was alright, their original plan was to take the ferry from somewhere near Liverpool, but money from bookings started to pay better so all four of them decided to get there quicker. 7 days, 5 shows, many piss ups, a good lark about, then back. Then start again, wherever it took them. Christopher was worried about flying, he moaned about that, but he was more worried about not taking his kit. The others had guitars, Desmond and Raymond had microphones as well as guitars, but he had nothing, apart from two sets of sticks, and he moaned about that. 

       When they landed in Douglas they were tired, hungry and unsure where they were or where to find their digs accommodation. Christopher convinced them to go to the pub where they were playing that night, he said it would be good to get the lie of the land – and good to get a couple of pints in too – but it was mainly to put his own mind at rest about the kit, the others knew this and agreed. It wasn’t there. Neither were the amplifiers the band needed. Tiredness made Christopher flap around, but the others quickly and calmly established the misunderstanding. The venue they were due to perform at was half a mile down the road, this one, the landlord informed them, was the one they they were staying at, and he would have no swearing while they were here. Christopher calmed down after a pint and a couple of cigarettes. 

     They were pleasantly surprised at how well the first show went, much the same as the ones they did around their home town in the Midlands, a large hall full with mainly young people, they even performed an encore. Just after one in the morning they were all tucked up in bed and they slept like kittens.

     Pubs are among the best places in the world the bands two songwriters thought, even in a strange town at twenty past nine on an overcast morning.

          “Got it, bloody got it, telling you straight, listen to this.”

  “Hang on do you want a brew and a banjo?” 

Raymond could just about see Desmond through the serving hatch connecting the canteen to the lounge bar. He watched him pick the fluff off the stylus, examine it for a few seconds before placing it in his palm and blowing it into the room. Maybe there are things going on in his head that are better left there, Raymond wondered. The record player made static noises and he guessed Desmond was touching the de-fluffed needle before playing the first track.

  “Hang on, do you want a brew then or what?” 

     Raymond semi-shouted through to room, there was no one else staying in the pub other than the four of them, two of which were still in bed, so he felt relaxed, happy even.

  “Not bothered, are you having one?”

  “Yeh, and an egg butty.”

  “No just a brew, come on, feed your face when we’ve done, we’ll easy get one off this if we’re careful.”

The LP spun round, orange-brown with an EMI middle circling inside the needle. It was all good, obviously, but it wasn’t until Sun King faded that both young men started to listen with extra interest. They sparked up cigarettes at the same time, usually they offered one to each other, etiquette rather than an indication of close friendship. Without a word they placed their cigarettes side by side in the yellow unbreakable Senior Service ashtray. They picked up their guitars, tuned up without amplification and got to work. Desmond made the first comment.

 “The key is it’s not flat, they never are the brilliant ones, they always come across as simple but they aren’t, it’s all up and down, listen, it’s easy, we just have to alter a couple of peaks and troughs, add a few stupid lyrics, catchy title, decent guitar intro and it’s ours, just a matter of altering the way its heard.”

 “Can we just work it out properly first, then we can tweak it bit by bit later, you need to weigh the job up first, know it inside out.”

 “Yeah, course we have to, that’s what we do anyway, those two will pick it up perfect in two seconds flat, listen, I’ve got a few ideas for the lyrics what about…uhm…right I know that’s just the same, bloody hell those tunes just stick and the words stick with ‘em, it’s really tricky.”

Desmond took a deep draw on his cigarette and took a swig from Raymond’s cup.

“I thought you didn’t want one.” 

     Raymond made a mental note not to use the cup again as Desmond had an unpleasant habit of licking the side after he took a drink, he continued without showing his disgust.

 “And that’s why we’ve got to work it out properly, play it as a cover, over and over till it’s nearly dead, then we nick it, it’ll be us then anyway, and if anyone suspects it sounds similar to something then we act as if it just happened, you know, by repetition or something.”

 “By what, what do you mean?” 

Desmond sounded genuinely confused.

 “By repetition, keep playing it – the cover – over and over, then we pretend to write our own as if it’s an original, but we had it all along.” 

Raymond was pleased at his ingenuity, and the fact that Desmond didn’t seem to follow the logic.

 “Yeah, but why play both together, I don’t get it.”

 “No, not together, fucks sake, play the original over the next few nights, or even weeks, I don’t know, then we spring our song as if it came from nowhere, but we say – if we need to – that it’s from repetition.”

 “Repetition of what?”

 He wondered how long it would be until Raymond realised he was taking the piss.

“Repetition!, repetition, we keep repeating it till we…” 

Desmond hit an E major chord at the root to confirm that he was playing with him. Raymond knew then that any hope he might have had of writing songs with Desmond, even stealing them in plain sight if need be, was a forlorn one. He laughed nevertheless.

                                                       3

Nobody smokes like this now. When they had finished the song the ashtray was full, twenty fags each, some half-smoked, others left to burn through, perfect grey-blue plume smoke turning to umber as it smelted with the patina on the pub ceiling. The two songwriters returned the guitars to their cases and wondered what to do next. Raymond suggested a walk, maybe to get a paper, Desmond said he might as well join him as he didn’t see what else there was to do. The pub they were in was up the hill from the harbour and on the way down they passed Christopher and Stephen in a cafe and nipped in to say hello. The rhythm section were talking to a local bloke about something Desmond and Raymond knew would be of no interest to them so they didn’t linger, indicating before they left that they would meet the other two when they got back. Only a short distance further on Desmond said he had changed his mind and that the food in the cafe had made him hungry, so he was going back for a brew and something to eat. Raymond shrugged and carried on walking. 

     Walking, thinking, smoking and weighing stuff up. Raymond would never be known by anyone outside of himself, not truly known, eye to eye stuff, either in love or hated. He was insular and was comfortable being so. Talking things through with himself and giving people back the basics was his mode, not as a schemer would, just what he needed to do to be pragmatic. It was nice walking here, he felt, good to live in a place like this, it might get boring but it’s clean, clean and fresh, the sounds are clean too. 

     They will pick it up in half an hour easy, he thought, just an odd bit of timing here and there, play it a couple of times, first time tonight, no one will remember us doing it, not even us, probably. Desmond has no nerves, enjoys doing what he does, everything at his fingertips, never overthinks a situation, he does his business by instinct, whereas ours are trained down. Good mix that.

Well they didn’t quite come from thin air did they, everybody else’s songs that is. Mornings, when they were quiet, allowed Raymond to work his thoughts around. He was hungry and thirsty, a drink from a fountain near a tram stop quelled the thirst and another cigarette did for the hunger. No need for a conscience about stealing he song because it makes no sense, it’s like primitive sex, just get on with it, enjoy it or leave it alone, but don’t train everything down like a dog does, after a shag, grovelling dog conscience. It would say sorry if it could, ‘sorry’, ‘can I go now’, ‘please stop looking at me’ it would bite you too, if you touched it. This from a thing that lets itself be led around on a rope, fouling the streets, sniffing piss, happy as a sandpiper. 

     That was all the thinking of that kind he wanted to do for a while. He wasn’t Hamlet, conscience wouldn’t creep back at him, he had thought about it and resolved the minor problem. It was the beginning of the holiday season and Douglas in the Isle of Man was a popular destination, a Blackpool for those who thought themselves a little better. Not the Norfolk Broads and not Spain just yet, but decent nevertheless, and people were there in numbers. Raymond forgot about his newspaper and got on a horse driven tram. The horse reminded him of the one in Animal Farm, the book they made them read in school, massive animal but beautiful, head down, resigned to doing what it did, bred for it probably. Good that people are able to breed an animal to do a job to serve humans, crafty is what that is, in a good way too, not sneaky. The design of the tram doesn’t just spring from nothing either, or the buses or, come to that, anything made by man for man. 

Part of the way Raymond understood the world was that it was designed and built by workers, people who learn their skill bit by bit then turning their hands to doing new things. That’s why there are so many designs, so many new products. Satisfied with this insight he blew smoke over the side of the open topped tram. It’s a quirk of application, varieties of expression through making, personalisation, and that’s why – once something is learnt properly – it’s your hands and brains that do it, not everybody that’s done it before. Just like the song they had plagiarised. Grinning to himself he quashed again the slight tinge of conscience that had bothered him before he got on the tram.

The new number went down a storm. In the afternoon before the concert, the tempo got faster as they rehearsed it which they liked. The large empty room above the Manx Cat Ballroom was perfect for rehearsing and a few young people who were attracted by the sound of good pop music, peered through windows. One or two of the braver ones, boys at first, ventured into the room and sat at the back. The crowd in the evening, which was surprisingly large and of the right age group, took the song as one of the bands own, or as a cover of a newish song by someone else, it sounded good to them so they bopped away with glee. Halfway through the fourth or fifth rehearsal earlier in the day Desmond, who had assimilated the original song, dropped in a fill almost identical to one on anther track and they kept it in. Christopher and Stephen loved it, becoming more colourful in their playing straight away but Raymond, his conscience not quite left for dead, questioned the singer as to whether it was just too much of a risk, rubbing peoples noses in it. Desmond asked him if he liked the sound, he replied that he did, well then Desmond said, there we are, all happy and snappy. He offered all the lads a Players No 6 and suggested they went for something to eat.

They played well again the next night, young people seem to came from nowhere, some lived on the island in farming or fishing families and were used to travelling to Douglas to be entertained. From the mainland people came in family groups, mostly from the industrial heart of the north and the midlands, the factories were in staggered holiday mode making the height of summer a busy time on the island. In the evening the kids would naturally go to wherever their parents didn’t go, which was mutually beneficial as the older ones were not inclined to listen to a loud pop band with a beat. When they had finished the warm up set, Raymond told the others he wanted some fresh air, it was too raucous for him, fags, pints,, girls, young lads, all the shouting and showing off. They didn’t hear him when he said he was going outside or realise he was gone, Desmond thought he might have gone upstairs to change clothes. Raymond, even though his chest felt tight from the atmosphere of the ballroom, tapped the pocket of his denim jacket to make sure his cigarettes and lighter were in place, everything felt sticky.

 Early evening seemed cool outside yet warm enough at the same time. The two lads watching the doors were scallop fishermen during the day in a village further down the coast, they were comfortable without jackets on and joked to Raymond asking him if he was going for the ferry home, he said he was, the beer was better. He walked over the tram tracks as far as the breakwater, the tide washing against its high concrete sides. Men were fishing along it and Raymond watched them from a distance while he smoked a cigarette. Earlier in the day Christopher told them the island was good for sea angling and, at certain times, it was very good for conger, especially when the tide was in. Nobody asked Christopher what a conger was, Desmond wasn’t interested and Stephen knew already, so that left him and he just didn’t ask. It didn’t seem much fun what they were doing, the fishermen, just standing and waiting, but it was pleasant here by the sea at this time of the evening, nice and clean.

                                                       4

          “Okay ladies gather round and I’ll tell you about the Belgian.” 

Desmond had developed an idiosyncrasy of talking to some people in discernible riddles, it was, he thought, an integrating skill, a good indication of a particular type of intelligence and he considered it to be engaging. It was a two way process, he reasoned, by avoiding a simple statement or a boring instruction the listener was assimilated, whether they liked it or not, into a linguistic family. It didn’t come naturally either, never ‘off the cuff’, far from it, not until much later in his life when the phrases became glib and tedious. Desmond worked on a sentence for hours, sometimes days, and like any good frontman he concealed the effort that goes into making things appear easy. Most of the time his expertise fell upon stoney ground, like now…

“What are you rabbiting on about, just tell us what the crack is so I can phone mum and sort next week out.” 

     Stephen didn’t even bother to look up from the tiny black and white tv, he nudged the wire coat-hanger aerial in the hope that Z Cars would appear a little crisper, although when he did the volume stopped working. Raymond, who was much more attuned to Desmond’s wavelength, explained it to Stephen and Christopher without enthusiasm, Belgian, Tintin, itinerary, he had heard Desmond practicing it. It was an hour before they were due to perform for the third night. The shows were going very well, they were well received by the audience, not taken advantage of by the management, and they had just been paid. It was what they did so they were content to carry on doing it. 

          “Cheers, bit disappointed I couldn’t work that one out for myself.” 

     Stephen was secretly beginning to like Desmond’s cryptic nuances, he knew what they meant most of the time but threw the sarcasm around anyway. Christopher, pointing a lit Benson and Hedges at a Daily Mirror crossword puzzle, was less magnanimous.

“Talk fucking straight, fucks sake, I’ve got enough brainiac stuff going on with this.” 

     Desmond could talk straight when he wanted too. His style of conversation was keenly thought through and very useful. The essence of it was that he made participants feel like friends, no need even to get to know them, just make them listen and look. He kept it turned on almost all of the time but could stop it like popping a balloon. Engaging doesn’t mean liking, he reasoned.

“So, next week, Monday, ferry home. Rayboy and me will drive, if either of you want to fly it’s out of your own stump. Sue says there might be an interview lined up for Wednesday afternoon, just the local rag, either me or him or both of us will do that, not sure about Tuesday but I’m not planning to do anything, Friday, Saturday and Sunday two of a kind as per with a rehearsal in between, Saturday afternoon probably.”

          “Anything Thursday?” somebody chirped in. 

     Desmond checked his diary, which was a serviette from the cafe they had breakfast in.

“Thursday, mmm…nothing down here apart from a bit of dried egg, I’ll ring her back in the morning and get the tally for the week and we’ll fork it out over some snap…oh tonight do an extra 10 minutes intro I want to build it up a bit, don’t just pad it out.’

     Warm ups were the most enjoyable part of the show, they never said so to each other, it would be like saying you liked work. By now some of the crowd knew one or two of their tunes and the cover versions never failed to hit the mark so, if it felt right then proceedings moved in the correct direction. If for some reason it didn’t feel right then the band just kept going till it did, and the warm up normally sorted things out. Stephen and Christopher got the pace rolling and, like tulips in a spring breeze, the youngsters started to move and bop about a bit. Beat and tune does it everytime, mainly the beat, the show follows from that, easy, don’t complicate it was the message ingrained in the four musicians, ‘common time for common people’ was a saying they had learned young and it stuck. If the warm up was going decently they sometimes stopped dead on a beat and the crowd carried on the tune, a bit muffled at first, but sometimes they were singing and moving when Desmond joined the other three on stage.

Christopher stopped drumming without the high-hat tell. The other two thought it was because of the extra ten minutes Desmond had asked for, or maybe the quicker tempo was becoming too loose, but it wasn’t. Raymond and Stephen finished mid bar and glanced round at Christopher who was looking stage left with one arm still raised. The crowd carried on wordlessly dancing to the tune. 

“Fuck off…no…honestly?…fuck off.”

 Christopher’s voice was not amplified. Even if it was the words were whispered so quietly to himself no one would have heard them. Surprise was the message the words carried, unmistakable. There are different forms of surprise and many responses to the variations. In this context, with three hardish-working young musicians doing a job they were adept at, the employed term was the right tool for the situation. It contained no fear, which allied it to an absence of danger, good, but there was also shock in the inflection suggesting unease. The shock was un-humourous so it couldn’t be taken as a joke, Christophers face confirmed this. The interlinking expletives indicated a radical change which was, in fact, the impetus to the surprise.

What was once just something the band messed about practising with –  a powder-blue Fender Duo-Sonic guitar – now grabbed the attention on stage,  deposing Raymond, Stephen and Christopher to a support group for Desmond Jencks. Obviously Desmond thought for a fair while beforehand about the overall image, he assumed the initial shock value would recede, but what should remain, as he explained the next day, would be a useful image. It was a front, something the band needed, memorable, easily reproduced, fun but not a joke, a message Desmond repeated to the others without them ever offering a great deal of enthusiasm in return.

“What’s your name?”

Someone in the crowd shouted over the roar after the third or fourth song finished.

“Desmond.” 

                                     5

Windsberry Park Hospital, March 2010. 

Ellen felt like she was in a piece of marble trying to move. Like the push-me-pull-you animal in the Disney film, coaxing, forcing it to get going, every day. Bed she loved, couldn’t wait to get in and hated leaving it, even more so now she was on her own. Eating too, pleasurable and satisfying, always wanting more and always more available. Getting up every morning saw her silently plead with the world not to make her do it. Unfortunately the world was always a bit too busy to take any notice. 

So the habit kicked in and she got the marble moving, push-me-pull-you, no fun and no smiling. Getting in the car was the next best thing to bed, it was personal and warm, no effort needed and it kept the world at bay, just like a nice  bed does. Everything close to hand, no need to move, big passenger mirror for full face appraisal (one of the reasons she bought the car). Two faces, one for herself and one for them. Yoga teacher said you should connect body to mind, regurgitated Sunday supplement speak, no one ever does, she thought, and who says they are disconnected in the first place. If they were fully connected though she might not spend as much on wine, tobacco and weed, the thought made her smile. How can you do anything properly when you are ripped apart every day, doing almost nothing you really want to, in a clown mask and uniform with a badge. The car is the body, it doesn’t hurt for one thing, doesn’t disgust either. 

Ellen waited as another Sigourney weaved her way into a parking place. If it was a water park, with lifeguards perched on big sturdy ladder things with lockable wheels, the vastness of the place would make it like a lake. She imagined lifeguards in full bathing costumes like the ones from old cigarette cards, red and white stripes with handle bar moustaches, hair oil parted. They might even wonder who to save, if push came to shove, or whether the game itself was worth the candle.

Cornering the car park were silvered black half bowls placed high like more little lifeguards on posts. A big, black bulbous one in the middle, an ominous disco ball of a thing, stood guard over nothing much. Ellen knew these devices well as she employed the sub-contractors to design and install them. The idea was to record and log everything, all nicely controlled for the benefit of everyone, ticking over nicely. There was an occasional bump and bang, always someone else’s fault, bound to be, people understood that, accepted it. But on the occasions when a car collided into a human being the event never failed to impress the circle of gawkers surrounding it. Ellen didn’t bother about anything like that, not her department anymore, she was human resources now, different remit entirely.

“Yes, I’m literally blinking as we speak…I know, yes…of course, well it won’t get better in the next 10 minutes will it, god’s sake!…I’m not being glib, yes I know it’s important, it’s just I can’t do anything from here…no…no, not really, it would be much better if you spoke to him, really, just do it, and I’m not doing it from here anyway… I just told you where I am, 10 minutes.”

Where are you? She asked herself that good question as she slid the phone back into her bag. On a bus, near to the front on the cleanest seat she could find. A shuttle from the state-of the-art car park where she shuffled her shell back into the world of not being inside a car, a world best avoided, it had puddles and cold breezes. Ellen started at 8:30, and a little laugh escaped as she tried to think what starting was, that’s what they all say, ‘what time do you start?’ Flexi-time it used to be called but as far as she could see the only ‘flex’ that really counted was starting earlier than you should and finishing later than you want. She grinned at the irony of being caught in a situation that she – a resources manager – actively helped to create and was now incapacitated by, too scared to buck the trend that, bit by bit, cast itself into stone. So, 8:30 it is then, and it’s now 8:07 and she feels late, well, she felt late all the time, no difference Where was she? Great question.

The shuttle bus operated for hospital staff and during every visiting period, 24 hours throughout the year. The logistics were based on a model system used at the Abuja games, a transport infrastructure produced from a blank slate in order to capacitate a rapid influx of people. The name of the hospital shuttle system Ellen claimed as her own… ‘Blink, gets you there before you can’. Although she was pleased with it, and that her name was on page three of the  town paper, her conscience panged from time to time given that she overheard someone else mutter it, or thought she did. Not to worry, she convinced herself it might have been her original idea anyway, like a quiz answer you can’t get out quick enough, it was always there, just waiting. It didn’t work anyway – the system as well as the name. When it was being initially lauded, with her name attached, she daydreamed about it becoming a brand, like KFC for town transport, but it didn’t turn out like that, it was just there, morphed into everything else, local and shit, like independent fast food shops.

It’s never the same drivers either. Ellen argued that the hospital should employ their own staff to operate the shuttles, but it was contracted out to the council, so they did what was best for them. The uniforms change when the name of the company changes, but no-one notices. Ellen did notice some things though. For instance, the same activity every day, twice a day for her, never failing. The drivers acknowledge one another as they pass, working friendships, you could tell. Sometimes just a blink, a raised hand, often not even that, four fingers of the right hand – the palm not even leaving the console (probably they were instructed not to) – not even the necessity of eye contact. But they knew each other, they were connected, not only as colleagues but as part of other people too. The four fingers fanned a wave which was returned by the other driver, in an instant it changed to give the finger – the finger that can be taken either way – not malicious, careful, knowing, connecting. The driver muttered “cheeky bugger” under her breath with a giggle.

                                               6

Like Ellen’s, most outdoor identities come ready made. A school uniform, for example, is a give and go, not much choice, no opinions proffered either way, children are told to wear them and they do. Sometimes it looks fine, sometimes (rarely) it looks like it might even have been made for the individual. Mostly it suffices. Sometimes it doesn’t do at all. 

Christopher and Stephen only gave their new school gear one passing thought. Within seconds of putting the last piece of clothing on – a peachy new sectioned grey cap for Stephen, and a silver buckled burgundy sandal for Christopher – they intended to mess the shiny new package right royally up, between leaving the front doors of their houses and walking, two-by two, up the new school steps. And they did.

Synthetic clothing, mass produced without a trace of wool, shouldn’t itch. It should also make movement easier so that the clothing moves with the body and the other way round. That’s what the giant backlit posters at the sides of the escalator promised as Auntie Jen took Ellen to collect her first crispy primary school uniform. Thoughtful about the little things in life, Auntie Jen wiped all four of their hands, two big ones and two not so big, with the half dozen KFC damp wipes she always had in her handbag. Satisfied, she tipped the McDonalds breakfast remnants neatly into the flippy bin. At Ellen’s age, and at just the right height, she was perfectly placed to see the stuff adults have thrown away. The inside of a swing bin, with the top half open inwards, made it very hard not to look inside and little Ellen had not yet been taught not to. She did look inside and no-one took any notice of her doing so, certainly not Auntie Jen who was preoccupied with making sure the brown liquid from the tray did not splash onto her new green jeans. The tray held the flap open for just long enough. Food, toys still in plastic, all thrown in, all thrown away, like a big free Santa bag. The girl reached in to take a hash brown and a Spiderman toy, both at the same time if she could, or anything else that came to hand. The force that yanked her backwards allowed her to grab the big swirly straw sticking out of the discarded banana milkshake carton. If Ellen had been a four year old Jackson Pollock the goo splash on Auntie Jen’s green jean canvas may have been of future note. Ellen’s creative instincts were not, however, nurtured during this little life event. Nevertheless, a new identity of sorts was being forged for her at this moment. She was called a ‘dirty little bastard’ – at appreciable volumes – by her father’s sister, which was hammered into her many times during the rage march to the school uniform shop.

                                                       7

It wasn’t that hard to get up, the therapist told her it might become more difficult eventually but the alternative, remaining inactive for immediate comfort, was not on the cards. Anne could be ruthlessly objective at times, seeing herself as if in a mirror and tutting at what she saw. The pains became an unwelcome familiarity and she tried to think through the different types which, as the saying goes, was easier said than done. Her biggest one was pressure on the left side, like twenty bullies prodding the same place at different times, not the searing shock stop that a knife makes, tip touching bone, like the one in her leg after the accident, but difficult to cope with nonetheless. 

     The nightie is too pale. Considering herself in the mirrored wardrobe she remembered it was too pale before she took it out of the Marks and Spencer bag when Raymond brought it to her in hospital after the second fall. Pastel pink, a colour she would never have chosen, it made her legs look like fish sticks which, with prominent knees and Frankenstein scars, now made her smile at how much she bothered about them in the past. Car colours were more his thing she thought as she sat back on the bed, or t-shirts. The fake ocelot dressing gown didn’t look right either, it used to, over tight jeans and a black bra – sexy even in her fifties but now, well, not now, not really. She was disappointed, not just with her body or the discomfort, but with the lack of desire and effort. No need for that was her concluding argument.

Something to get up for inspires the need to put the grist in the mill and the other way round. Always organised, Anne wanted to make sure that everything was right for the weekend, Raymond would be home and they had a lot of catching up to do. It was comforting to hear him complain about the world, one of her little pleasures, though it would spoil it if he knew. 9.45-11.00 time slot booked the previous evening, shopping coming, so up, coffee, pills, dog, shopping in, put the shopping away, then rest.

The phone rang as Anne was letting Max in from the side garden. She saw a little turd, still steaming, on the far path near the outdoor wood burner and she made a mental note that this was her next job, after answering the phone. The ring tone was an old television sitcom that some people still remembered.

“Hello there’ said Raymond.”

He was in a good mood, she sensed it even before picking the phone up. Whether put on for her benefit or not was irrelevant, she had stopped caring about things like that, it was enough. 

“Hi, yes, how are you, how did last night…”

     A clanking together of the front gates followed by Max barking his meant the supermarket delivery was here. 

 “Ray, can I ring you straight back the shopping’s just arrived.” 

  “What shopping, I’m home tonight, and how can you manage anyway?”

  “Straight back, five minutes, last night was it okay?”

 “Yes, brilliant, couldn’t be better.” Ray replied without enthusiasm. “Just send it away.”

“It’s fine, stay put, two mins honest.”

A life well organised, the two halves of her personality in accord, was now reduced to bafflement. Three plastic crates without much in them, toothpaste, cereal, something else wrapped up in a plastic bag. Two more coming, the dog still barking like mad, the crates looking impossibly heavy. The young man with the beard and shaved head walked backwards through the gates with the three crates, he held them close to his body, tins she thought, heavy. The big bag of dog food isn’t off yet either, she could see it on the side of the van and thought back to when she passed out in the road, the second time, dead weights, her on the pavement and that. 

It wasn’t just exhaustion or frustration from the effort it took to get the shopping from the front hall to the kitchen. Nor was it the phone ringing again, she knew it was Raymond and didn’t answer. She sent him a shaky text saying she was fine, it was taking a little longer than she thought, it always does, their neighbour had helped, everything was okay, they were having a coffee. It was the dog food that broke Anne’s spirit.

She read once that when H.G.Wells was a boy he was bedridden with a serious illness. His family lived in the country and it was summer, so during recuperating his bed was placed near a window for him to obtain some light and fresh air. She thought that the young Wells, being who he was, must have been bored to death. She thought about the Brontes too, living in the middle of nowhere, in a barren wilderness . Day after day the young Wells watched the sun rise east, stand proud at midday and set slowly west, his time punctuated by the unfailing arc of light. Sometimes, the sun was a crisp pale ball lurking behind the clouds, like an eclipse. Many times it was discernible only by looking long enough at the black-grey canvas, urging it to break and beam, as it often did, at some point. Speeded up in his mind, the sun accelerating left-to-right, plants shooting up, tree blossom-fruit-drop-leafmould, spring-snow, fast, faster, like in the film. Anne couldn’t remember if the scene was in the book or the film, it didn’t matter, because it was the experience that enabled Wells to feel the idea. 

Now, enclosed in a conservatory chair, shoulders heaving up and down, emotionally and physically spent, wailing mute, she saw the remains of her own life, speeding up and fizzling out. 25kg of dried dog food with turkey and carrots, for small to medium dogs. She knew how long it would last down to the portion of the final week, and her mind imagined it being emptied and replaced, over and again. She became irritated at how easy Raymond opened the stiff card-paper by tugging the tiny string along the top edge, quick and with purpose, never spilling any of the contents, like a magician with a tablecloth, bag after bag, quicker and quicker, till there wasn’t anymore.

“You sound out of breath, what did you do that for?” 

Raymond was annoyed when he finally got through although she was relieved that normality filled the vacuum again.

“She’s just gone, I asked her to help last night so it was all organised, nothing for you to worry about.” 

Anne made another mental note to mention this to her neighbour, the mental notes were stacking up.

“Well, how are you anyway?” Raymond asked.

“Fine, you know, bit stiff first thing, but okay when I get going, how did it go?”

“I don’t know why I’m doing this, it’s bizarre, you know there’s no need for it, we both do. Anyway I’ve got a few things to talk to you about when I get back, will you be up?”

“Oh we’ve talked about this till we’re both blue in the face, you know why you’re doing it it’s the same reason I got the shopping delivered when I didn’t have to, who knows, not everything people do makes sense.”

“I know, I know, sorry, really sorry, you’re right, who knows anyway, will you be up when I get back, oh and do we need anything?”

‘I’ve got to go for my blood then I’m having a nap so, yes, after that I’ll be up, but I don’t want to talk about the whys and wherefores, if that’s okay, going round in circles, did you get out yesterday?”

“They did, I didn’t, the weather was a bit ropey so I just had a saunter up and down the prom.”

“What prom?”

“You know, the promenade and the jetty, along the front, bit run down nowadays truth be known, but we brought a few codgers in so there were a few of them milling about. Listen I better go, I’ll tell you more about it later, it was okay really, there’s not much to tell.”

“Can you get some ground almonds I forgot to put them on the order.”

“I’ll try.”

Max didn’t follow Anne upstairs as he sometimes did. After being fed and a good sniff around in the garden, a piss, a shit and a final bark at the delivery man, the dog couldn’t see the point. His immediate need was sleeping and that was coming right up. She remembered that some of the inmates of Auschwitz still had strong sexual urges even when all other physical impulses had ceased to matter. Her hand was warm against the inside of her thigh and she was pleased with her dampness. 

                                                       8

Desert Island Discs ; Studio 70B. Broadcasting House. August 2014.

           “It’s like getting an OBE…only better.”

Intimacy never bothered Desmond. Some people, he was told, got a bit flustered by the lack of entourage, all the personal belongings left outside of the studio. Tiny studio though, just the two of them and a big clock, eye to eye. Phones in a rucksack on a coat hanger near the coffee machine, opposite the assistants desk, again outside.

Presenter: “My castaway this week is television and radio personality, would be pop-singer from the seventies and, of late, writer and presenter of the popular television series History Travels with Desmond Jencks. Coming, by his own admission, from a non-aspirational working class culture, in an even less inspiring educational environment, he has carved out a respectable and varied career for himself by, in his own words a, “cheeky application of knowing how stuff is done”. His rock/pop character Desmond, formed in the late 1960’s, is now seen by some as paving the way for other more successful popular music caricatures that followed in the early seventies especially, as he reveals in his autobiography, the late singer/songwriter and showman, The Artist. After a short spell as an actor in television productions such as In a Couple of Years and New Clothes, which he co-wrote, he founded the independent record label, Imp Records, in 1974. His recollection of that period he recalls was like, “digging through the side of a hill with a pen-knife, knowing there is an opal in there the size of an egg, it keeps you going and stops you at the same time” Desmond Jencks, welcome to your desert island, do you expect to find any opals again, or have you finished digging?”

Desmond: “Haha, good question, I’ll need a pen-knife first though but isn’t that supposed to come at the end of the show, after the records?”

 “Yes it is but you know what I mean.”

      Desmond: “Yeh, mmm, yeh, well, I suppose you never stop digging do you, metaphorically, looking for the next thing, as it were. But what I really meant was that it’s hard work doing it, creating a record I mean, I mean a really good one, and even then you never really know if it’s that good till it comes out. But it’s a craftsman’s job, like professional sport, portraiture, that sort of thing, it becomes less anxious the more you work at it, easier that is, second nature. But you can’t make gold, you’ve got to find it.”

      Presenter: “There has been controversy surrounding some of your song-writing credits and, even, the writing credits for your television work, obviously we can’t talk about the legal aspects of that but how does it affect you personally, and how do you see yourself now as a writer and a producer?”

      Desmond: “It always makes me laugh when young songwriters come up to me or send me stuff – and they still do from time to time – they’ll come up to me in the street, poke a phone in my ear or something, and say, “here listen to this Dessy mate it’s amazing” thinking that all they need are the keys to the door, well, let me tell you this, it never worked like that and it still doesn’t, never will.”

“Tell me about your first choice.”

“Polythene Pam, by The Beatles. We were in the Isle of Man, young lads, playing 5 or 6 shows, I had just got the LP and we were playing it non-stop, me and the guitarist, and this track just sprang out of nowhere – obviously Lennon, a simple, effortless song, right back to when both of them, all four of them really, were just writing and playing. What a feeling that must have been, to be way beyond the best and then [clicks fingers] just forget it all and be lads again. Yeah, thinking back, wow, this show does it to you doesn’t it, credit you that, uhmm (cough) yeah, mmm, I remember the bit, you know, “killer-diller in her jack-boots and kilt” and I just thought why not.” 

  [Song plays}

      Presenter: “That’s The Beatles and Polythene Pam, gulp! How do I get away with saying I’ve never heard that before?”

      Desmond: “Haha! You can get away with Bassets if you try hard enough ha! No, but the day after we played that I just went out and bought a load of random stuff, no actually not random at all, it was stuff that fitted the mental image of what I wanted.”

        Presenter: “And was the music there to fit the image or the other way around?”

      Desmond: “That’s the tricky aspect, some people just don’t seem to get it, it’s all interlayered, all understandable, if it works that is, but its not ABC. I mean listen to that track, you say you haven’t heard it and a lot of people haven’t because there is always a fixed way of doing, seeing and thinking. But its laminated, like carrot and coriander soup…”

“Like what?”

      Desmond: “No not laminated, you know, it’s the seasoning that you just can’t do without but that you don’t recognise. What I mean is that it’s not just carrot and coriander is it? Do you know The Scaffold?”

      Presenter: “Scaffold, scaffold…mmm…structure for repairing houses, painting, rhyming – truth be told?  maybe, I’m trying to work it out.”

      Desmond: “Oh sorry no I’m not playing games, no literally the group, The Scaffold, same time as The Beatles, you must know, they had a few hits, Lily The Pink, McCartney’s brother was in it…”

      Presenter: “I know, sorry just couldn’t resist, yes, of course I know them Roger McGough was a guest recently.”

       Desmond: “Was he? I would have liked to meet him but, well, that’s it you see, I’ve never even thought of this till now but they were a band too but nobody, well I suppose one or two might, knows any of the members, probably never did. But what I was trying to explain was that they did semi-joke stuff, deeply entrenched to their Liverpool roots like The Beatles – they were contemporaneous – joke stuff though. But Polythene Pam wasn’t a joke because – even though it might have been meant as one – The Beatles were super serious, even when they were actually joking, Yellow Submarine, they do PhD’s about that.” 

     Presenter: “Mmm so, If I’m right, what you’re saying is that how things are perceived changes the meaning, maybe even is the meaning, and that this meaning can be deliberately manipulated by the artist/performer in order to make things work – as art.”

          Desmond:  “Yeh, it happens all the time.”

          Presenter: “Is that what you did?”

Desmond: “You’ve got to remember it wasn’t just me..haha…that’s the whole point really, we only ever had a couple of songs, and without those little three minute opals the rest of it is just bumfluffery.”

                                                       9

Aspirations.

Dublin had the characteristic bent of feeling cold when it was warm. Not an unusual feature of daily life, it could be said, for those living across the 53 degree northern line. The west of England and Wales, including the islands of Anglesey and Man, have a good deal of topographical and meteorological similarities, obvious to some but often overlooked. Nip inland anywhere along the lovely north western coastal regions and perceptions subtly change, partly because the distances are tiny and well travelled, but also because the infrastructures there are built on coal. 

Imagine a fat piece of charcoal, or a red bingo pen, drawing a straight line across a map – west to east – from 9 o’clock Dublin, Ireland, to 3 o’clock Stockport, England. The sea in between doesn’t matter because the line is the connection. This line is coal and coal is hard, black and cold. Out of it and on it come buildings and cultures. Until the mid 1970’s, when people along the northern line seemed to forget about being cold, it was the same for everybody. Coal, when it was in plenty, didn’t warm the middle classes up any more than it did the very wealthy or the hard pressed poor. It was an egalitarian cold for most of the time, people were thinner too, so they felt the cold more. When the Second World War started coal became one of the most important commodities to communities along the line, Dublin being one of them. The product then began to establish it’s class distinctions.

Maurice, Connor and Gerald took a while to consider their ship in the harbour, it’s smoke blowing south westerly from the single turret. Maurice’s was a scientific mind, not trained in method but methodical nevertheless. He noticed, for instance, the difference in angle of the bluey grey-black steam being returned to nature from the two funnels of the respective ships, the one they were waiting for and the one on the dock quay close to being emptied. He was leaning comfortably against the rounded top stones of the chest high wall, imagining the final efforts of the lads already at work as they, with varying degrees of effort, moved the sacks of produce from the hold of the ship to the rail-warehouse with its closed back end and cavernous mouth. He couldn’t see them but he knew them all, liked most of them well, and with winks, nods and coughs, knew what they had unloaded, where it was going, and who was in charge of the surplus.

Next to Maurice, to his left, was a fellow he had seen just once before. He wasn’t uncomfortable in the newcomers presence, he knew he was alright because he talked incessantly. Anyone not alright couldn’t talk for half an hour or so without receiving a single reciprocal bit of information back, Maurice knew this as a fact, so he let his own mind relax, he entertained himself. The chap leaned an arm on the wall towards Maurice and, with instinctive consideration, blew his cigarette smoke away from Maurice’s face. It didn’t do much good as the warmish breeze blew it straight back against Maurice’s left ear, over his cap and away over towards the Liffey. South west again Maurice thought as he lifted his chin from the back of his palms, but this time the smoke is horizontal. The lad was glad to be glanced at and he responded to it with vigour, like the wink he was given by his hurling captain at half time on Saturday, it perked him up. Maurice, however, was really checking if Connor and Gerald were getting ready for a move, they were not. Gerald was sat on the wall two yards away with Connor to his left, both men closer to each other than Maurice was to his new friend. All four were smoking now and the third turret – this time from Connor’s pipe – gave the brown-white smoke back to nature straight upwards and then across. Pleasant mixture of tobaccos Maurice thought as he processed all of this information. 

He was worn out, physically, they all were at his age. Still able to do what he had to sinewy, plenty of stamina, but with no inclination to set the process of grafting in motion. It got harder each day, just a bit easier in summer. Leaning against the wall, watching, listening, thinking, talking quietly, was what they all liked to do before they became beasts of burden. Maurice practised these activities with conscientious application, the others punctuated them with smoking and spitting, if ambiance accorded with the inclination. But they were worn out as well, or becoming so, and they all knew it.

      Maurice’s new friend played hurling, tough game he said (as if Maurice didn’t know) which he practised Thursday, played Saturday for Stoneybatter, and had to do this donkey work for the rest of the week. In a couple of years or so, Maurice thought, the lad’s body would need persuading to get going, unavoidable with this as a living, no half time or seasons end here. Every missed practice would be welcomed and he would come to rely on guile and physicality to make the younger lads think he was as quick or as fit as he once was. Then he would become one of the watchers, like Maurice, who he had got to know well in the half an hour waiting for their ship to dock, good listener the young hurler thought, didn’t say much but smart obviously. And he liked the way the older man blew all the smoke from his cigar out of the side of his mouth, like Popeye would.

The smoke from the funnels in the bay blew parallel to the horizon, curling at the start like the rise of the coast in the near distance, thinning and wavering as it drifted. SS Coppsteer, the Cameron class steamer being unloaded alongside the train/dock shed had started its engines ready for moving away, its funnels exhaled like the curve of the building roof, bending 45 degrees up and away. Connor’s pipe smoke did the same although his head out of sight behind the Station Dock sign. The hurlers smoke blew out of his mouth nearly parallel, and Maurice felt it straight against the side of his head, like an unexpected spiders web in his early morning shed. Oh well, kills the time, Maurice thought, glad that his mind wasn’t wearing to a nub like his body was.

     His observation of the smoke lines set his mind on the problem. Not a hard one today he informed his body as he inhaled two-thirds of a lungful, not a hard one today, thank fuck. The young lad couldn’t possibly know it yet, Maurice thought as their eyes met, but there is a lot to be said for the warm gratification that the dispelling of expected hardship brings. Looking back to the water he compared the draft of the two ships in the bay, it was easier for Maurice to work out than the constantly shifting plumes of smoke from the tobacco he had already assessed. How he had missed it all the time he couldn’t say, at first he was disappointed with his slowness then, with the realisation of the implications, his wits sharpened as if anticipating a blow. Gerald and Connor were out of view and wouldn’t look properly at the ship till it was nearly in. Maurices’ new friend didn’t know how to look yet so he was alright.

“There is no coal.” Maurice mumbled to himself, turning away from the sea. 

                                              10

People can be as predictable as smoke blowing in the breeze, if you know which way it is going to blow. When they do the unexpected they stand out, like a porpoise bip-tailing away from the rest of its school. The man didn’t look as young as he was, he had affected, through practice, a purposeful gait with eyes down, as if he just about belonged in a place. Whether it was assisted by natural confidence was difficult to discern, but Maurice got to the nub of it quite sharpish. Here was an organism, he felt, that was acting with an assurity tuned by rawness and fear.

A dozen things at least clued up the rest of the dockers that this was another Brit deserter. Mainly he sidled his high-noon path too quickly through the group of smokers, some stripped to the waist like a posse of middle-weights after the seventh round. Maurice’s young sporty friend knew what the man was when he got close, everyone did, the information was clear by then, no need to say anything. The water beneath the dock planks wish-washed as if it had been left out of something worth hearing. The two groups of workers came together not bothering to mention the deserter that had just passed by them. The talk, done matter of fact, concerned what was worth liberating from the last ship’s cargo and what might be interesting in the hold of the next one. Their labour had packed high to the sides the raised platform of the warehouse shelter in readiness for the next stage of the operation. Most of the men from the shift would take a ride on the transporter from the cargo shed into town, the produce already loaded would be distributed, within a day or two, through the various stores and wholesalers. The excess, crumbs to the owners of the cargo, hid in plain sight in a small lock up on the dock, this would also be distributed within days, unevenly yet fairly, according to hierarchies. No-one mentioned the fellow from off the ship although he was recognised again by the half dozen entering the vault of the Dame Lane Head public house.

The second pint of guinness, ten minutes after the first, was a golden time for the ensemble of dock-men after a decent shift. Relaxation around the camp fire after the hunt, talking about the prize of the day, the off-loading of up-market decorating supplies. To a man the mood was raised further by congratulating themselves for their combined cleverness in not saving any surplus, not thinking that some of it could spruce up their own homes and make them nicer places to live. It had all been offloaded for real cash, a double – if not a multiple – whammy and a solid basis, if it were needed, for another pint to be rendered. 

A decent thinker, if they had one in their ranks, or if Maurice had joined them before the trade agreement was ratified, may have pointed out to the acting head of the chamber that the women associates not present – of which sisters and mothers were equal to wives – would find all the details out with inconceivable rapidity. All the talk of extra money would not begin to compensate for the interior drabness of all the domestic halls, lounges and bedrooms. “We’ll never know, will we?” would be the universally withering assault dished out to the men, until the next round of trade talks proved outright that they never learned from their mistakes.  

The third pint failed to do what it was meant to. Maurice walked through the door of the Dame behind Gerald, three more lads followed him, and then some other men from the shift. Everyone knew the situation had changed without the need for talk. Gerald’s simultaneous shake of the head and lob-sided smile as he sat down was meant to lift the mood although it served, however, to deflate the atmosphere further, as if he had confirmed a losing score for the local team. 

“There is no coal.”

 Maurice said this as he sat down in the space made for him, he took a sip and wiped his mouth, his hands were clean. What followed was anxious agreement, confirmation that they had heard right but were not completely sure. All for one the guinnessers placed the decorating money – every penny of it – onto the table which Maurice then picked up. 

“We waited for a bit, but we didn’t know what to do, then the Jack told us to go.” 

     He said this as he stood to get drinks for the new arrivals. The dockworkers had neither lavender colour paint, fancy wallpaper or any extra cash to produce as evidence for the travails of the day, but they still had each other for the joyous, short-lived, time until the third or fourth guinness got to work. Here they were world-weary yet safe, temporary isolation from woes later in the day that would see them all proffering excuses to working women who didn’t miss a trick.  

What is the world then other than a consequential collection of all the little things? At the end of it some of these little things, material or not, are left to be sorted out by others. Our lives are this collection. So, to say that the little things in life are all that matter is positively unfalsifiable. It may be a stretch to say that the women in this story knew this and the men didn’t, because that advantage is not logically provable. No, these were skills likely learnt by them as a language is, on all the sides, unravelable, osmotic, difficult to pin down, but devilish all the same. The truth is that a couple of tins of lavender paint and a few rolls of fancy wallpaper meant movement to the women in the docker homes, away by an inch from the soft social gravity that rounded the back till your eyes looked down, cobble watching, seeing her people’s shoes, and dog-shit. A new room, coloured, you look up at it and around, this is us this is, they imagined. Yes, in this case the women knew what to do and the men didn’t. Maurice didn’t, he had just admitted it. 

The Brit deserter declined to join the group, politely nodding his refusal from the far end of the pub near to the toilet door and the unused dart board.  The general opinion was that he could suit himself, probably had a lot on his mind, but the snub, which it wasn’t, wound up a tick-tock in the minds of some of the younger drinkers. They shot each other looks but were eased down by the older men before they could fizzle. He was just a lad on his own when all was said and done, they said, a long way from wherever it was he thought of as home, and why would the Brits spy on anyway, “we’ll tell them all they need to know for the right money!” one said to himself as much as to anyone else, “no skin of our nose, fuck all to know anyway”. 

Maurices’ new friend from the docks, on the premise of going for a quick piss, hit the Brit deserter on the top side of his head as hard as he could. Out of control he followed this by pulling the table away from in front of him and kicking the Brit with the force, but not quite the concentration, he gave to his Saturday football. The barman nearly took action, reluctantly, when the swearing and the spitting started, but by that time, just a few mad ruckus seconds in all, the other fellows in the group had pulled the young sportsman off.

The Brit was expecting something like this to happen, he understood bullying temperament and when the attention drew to him he anticipated the violence, hoping it would be just fists. The look the Irish lad gave him just before the punch was bravado, wholly dependant on context, motivated by a desire to elevate his status in the clannish ensemble and not to inflict real hurt. In another situation they might have been good friends, teammates, or even brothers. The look was the reason the recipient turned his head just at the right moment and why, during the melle, he was thinking that this might get him a bed for the night.

                                                        11

Christina heard the sound of hooves and guessed the direction they were travelling before the animal rounded the gable of the end terrace of cottage houses. She was almost certain this was the coal-cart although, week-by-week, horses as transport were returning to the streets of North Strand, Dublin.

     Thomas never saw the need to buy a lorry, that’s what he liked to tell people, and he was pleased that his central argument was now gaining credibility. At forty one he was too long in the tooth for change, no need for it, not in his business. Even if there was a plus side, and he could not deny the many advantages of petrol vehicles, he could never knacker his horses out, this was the story he liked to tell people on his rounds as he fed them peanuts, the horses not the people. Increasingly however, the tangible warmth and shelter of a van cab became a compelling attraction for Thomas, a kind of mocking irritant that constant scratching failed to abate. He did protest too much. He saw other delivery fellows being as dry as bone on purpose, eating unsoggy sandwiches without even coughing, all a direct affront to his discomfort, thoughtlessly thriving right in front of his face. He could see the benefits of a day’s work done in half the time without the necessity to work just to prepare for the next one. Park the bastard up and straight to the pub for a half was what he wanted to do, but he carried on not doing it because his idea was fixed. His mind-set soon transferred to physical stupidity, harder work to change than it needed to be. An easy laziness of negative habits was now who he was.  “I can’t bother with that” he said to a friend who offered to teach him to drive for three sacks of coal, he was told that he could go and suit himself.

“The horse looks well Thomas.” commented Christina. 

She had noticed in the last week that the neck of the horse was more erect than usual, perkier, giving its head and shoulders less of a downward gait. In turn this made the blinkers it wore look less like a contraption designed to lock out the world and more of a thing the horse may choose itself, if it were stuck at the front of a coal-cart all day. 

“It’s the warm weather see, we all perk when it’s like this, puts a spring in your step. eh.” 

The coalman detached himself from the reins in the front trap while making the observation. 

“Where you off girl, working today? I’ve just seen your dad.”

“Bit of a spring in your step too Thomas, might crack you into a smile soon if you don’t watch it.”

“Hey away rascal, I’ll have at you in a minute you watch me.”

Thomas parried an imaginary swashbuckling opponent with his whip, enacting a useful riposte worthy of Errol Flynn.

“You’ll not do anything at that speed Thomas, my grandma could beat you with a knitting needle you daft old trump, where is it all anyway, did you set off early this morning?” 

“Oh come on you know what’s coming like we all do, nothing to do with me.”

Thomas replaced the whip and pulled down the side of the cart. 

“There’s plenty of it is what we all know, don’t try to do us Thomas it’s not the way and you know that.”

He replied that a girl of seventeen shouldn’t be talking to him in this way, that it was disrespectful, and that she didn’t know what she was talking about anyway, too young, too daft and too female to understand situations like this. He didn’t believe any of what he was saying even as the words were forming. They both knew that his tone and manner were a screen to the truth, he talked with a sharpness now as if she were a hindrance stopping him from working. Christina allowed this, she knew from her father that Thomas had spent the previous week bagging and hiding the coal. It was common knowledge too that the petrol was all but gone, meaning the lorries that delivered what was left could not, so he had the thing sewn up. There was no point being angry with the man, she thought, he was doing what he believed was best for himself, looking to his own corner, as everyone did. The community – if that was what it was – would steal the coal anyway as soon as necessary, although not perhaps before Thomas had made his money by delivering most of it up the hill. Christina thought this was no good, not just the unfairness or selfishness of Thomas – who cared about that? – but just by the pointlessness of it. What was he doing it for? She could see no end reason for his undignified striving, no clear aspiration. His son looked a good boy, she watched him play on Saturdays and, if her friends felt like it, they would walk to the Croke on Thursday evenings to watch them kick about and be shouted at by the trainers. But he had no aspiration either. Maybe  acquiring money is aspiration itself, there would be plenty of fulfilment there for Thomas, a grim satisfaction that he was keeping the wolf from the family door. Well then, she grinned to herself, the worn out wife that Thomas sidled next to every night, with his black fingernails, should be very happy. 

“Maurice.”

     Thomas greeted Christina’s father as he walked past the cart, pausing to smile and wink at his daughter before kissing her cheek. His hands were covered in coal dust, so when he cupped her face he deliberately avoided touch, as if he were holding a tiny mouse. He was careful too not to let their clothes brush against his as she had her shop dress on.

“Horse looks well.” 

Maurice replied to no-one in particular. 

Christina said goodbye to her dad, turned the corner, waved backwards, and set off, at a good pace, on the twenty minute walk to the shoe shop where she worked. Her shins always began to ache as she was near, something they had started to do recently which made walking less clipped than it naturally was. She had hardly started when she remembered something. As she stopped and turned, her plimsolls tripped over a mongrel dog who, as it was interrupted  processing information from piss, snapped its discontent. 

“Get lost you dirty little bastard!” 

     Bothered that the time it would take her to get back to the corner had set the day off wrong, her mood flustered into anger.

“Dad!…DAD!…”

Thomas turned from the entrance of the ginnel and gave a quizzical look, opening his palms as if ask if there was anything he could do. She shook her head without even looking in his direction. Very pretty girl he thought, but not in that way.

“DAD…mum said no baths till later.”

Maurice turned, acknowledging his daughter by raising the daily paper and waving it in triumph. He laughed out loud, again to no-one, as he thought how much like Neville Chamberlain he must have looked. Bits of paper, he thought, bits of paper.

Apart from the last part of the journey when the bottom part of her legs ached so much she had to make them move deliberately, she enjoyed the walk. It was good thinking time. Not planning or scheming as such, but sorting things out generally, rights from wrongs. One wrong, the main one, was that she was never allowed to be herself, that was why talking was hard. You had to snatch at who you were in gulps, a turtle coming up for air, and the effort set her on edge. You couldn’t pin the problem down to just people either, she knew that, where would that leave you. Walk down a street and you get ten thousand judgements, in shops, same thing. Talk to a boy and he stops behaving naturally like he did when you watched him, he turns into cardboard-cut-out-boy and you become giggly-girl. Working in a nice shop isn’t what people think, not a step up just because it’s clean, you still have to hide like all servants do. Don’t get noticed is the best option, but don’t disappear either, not easy to do. Learn to be someone else and throw your best bits into the mix, someone they like, someone the women and children from up the hill will take to.

                                                       12

From 8:30 till just before 11 the shop was tolerable. The women did not behave as though the atmosphere was fully relaxed because, of course, customers could enter. Tolerable was what it was though, chit-chat over tea and toast before opening, as long as one of them kept watch for the Knox clan. The habits of the owners were predictable but subject to sporadic change, an awkward trait meaning the women never quite knew. 11 o’clock was the latest they usually came in and 10.35 generally the earliest. Mr Knox first, bounding in with all his false jollity, whistling or humming a tune off the radio, never reaching the upstairs office before the sound of the heavy car heralded Regina Vagina, the nickname for Mrs Knox. Little porky Mrs Knox, always spending half a minute pretending to collect items from the car but really watching the rest of the street, finding out what she didn’t like. The brothers Richard and Roger hardly came in at all these days, too busy with irons in other fires, but it didn’t stop them being all-knowing when they did. So from around 11 o’clock in the morning, with the exception of a midday lunch break, the shop-working women belonged to Ken Knox Shoes, High Street, Dublin. They put all of their personal belongings, together with their walking shoes, into a large cupboard in the stock room. Christina put her plimsolls into an Addison and Dabbler size 9 oxblood brogue box and left them there till six.

“He isn’t even a Brit, I’ll tell you that, he looks like one and that’s why Michael cracked him, but he isn’t, he’s from the circus.” 

Margaret checked the toast as she spoke, careful not to get marks on her linen apron. 

“He is a deserter though.”

“I wish I could desert this place, be worth getting shot for.” 

Christina sent a plimsoll flying over Anna’s shoulder as she said this, it hit the cupboard which a minute or so before contained her elegant patent leather shift-shoes.

“Shot!” said Anna with a whistle

“Yes I know, no complaints though, what’s the point of waiting in a trench for a whistle, might as well jump ship and swim for shore, at least you’d have a minute to call your own then, pop, all over.” 

“No, shot, S.H.O.T, good shot.” 

Anna realised Christina had got the wrong end of the stick.

“Straight in everytime, tell you what girl they would have you in a trench shooting deserters full time, just imagine that though, having to shoot your own side.”

“Wrong war girls…” Margaret informed them… “They don’t shoot deserters now, I don’t think so anyway, just put them in jail, anyway do you want to know what he deserted from or not?”

“Still worth it.” said Christina ready for her nice tea and toast.

“Keep your ears open for the Knox’s, it’s nearly time.” said Margaret. 

“He is from further across, he’s an American.” she added.

“Oh worth it for sure then.” Christina whistled back.

“I’d let him shag me.”

 Anna pretended to be carefully balancing all the options as she said this.

“Why! oh come on! just because he’s a Yank, give me peace.” The elder woman replied.

“Ah well now”, she continued. “American, Canadien or Australian maybe even Dutch, who knows what two-and-twos they made up, they were all so drunk they probably didn’t know their left from their right, and there isn’t any coal coming in did you know that too?”

“I did” said Christina. “The coalman’s cart had next to nothing on it when I passed him this morning, although he is selling it up the hill for good money, dad told us, and he knows the slimy old bastard has plenty more hidden away.”

“Hear that Annie, a coalman with nothing on, would you pass a chance like that by?”

“I might not.” 

Anna pointed a triangle of toast at the questioner. 

“A girl has got to keep warm, and all the boys here are scared of me… I need a real man, someone with a bit of zapoo!”  

“A bit of what?” Margaret and Christina exclaimed simultaneously.

“No you don’t want to zapoo with the coalman, I’ll tell you that for nothing.” Christina stated.

 “He’s over 40 and stinks, a dirty old bastard, I mean dirty, coal dirty, you know.”

 Anna murmured and nibbled her toast as if she was still weighing up all the options 

“I’m going for a smoke to help me decide, anyone coming?”

“Lord help us Anna, where will you end up?” 

Margaret shook her head as she said this, wiping her hands on the apron and placing it on the draining board. 

“Don’t let the smoke blow in love, you know none of them like it.”

“End up doing this and knackered after the eight babies you’re supposed to have, how many you having Tina?” 

Anna was half inside the kitchen and half in the delivery yard. Margaret waved them down, they all knew the time for breathing out easily was nearing a close.

“Sschh, is that them?” 

Margaret made her way to the main shop door, realising that the sound was only the post.

“Somebody waiting girls, we’d better open up, no point getting caught out.”

     They all entered the shop and pretended to be arranging stock or cleaning. Margaret left a customer, a well dressed woman with two young boys, waiting until exactly half-past nine.

“His dad or his uncle was a bandmaster and went round with the circus,” she continued while inspecting the mail, “America so they said, not sure how much you can read into that, but he was in the British Army, that’s for sure.”

“So how did he end up over here?” Christina asked while moving a box about aimlessly.

“Why did he end up here is a better question.” said Anna

“Don’t know, but he was supposed to have been fighting in Africa or Italy or something, and he just walked away.”

“Nobody is fighting in Italy Margaret, do you not read the papers.”  

Anna was a little too sharp but the older women didn’t mind. 

“And nobody just walks away from anything, how would you do that? it’s the British Army, they’d catch him straight away, and anyway how did he end up here?”

 “Don’t know about that either, but he did” was Margaret’s final answer. 

“Morning!” 

They all said, in unison.

                                                       13

The coal was virtually gone after a couple of weeks of the last shipment. Turf was used instead – peat as it is generally known elsewhere – piled up like pagan burial mounds on Phoenix Park. Gerald and Connor obtained an old cart from the docks during one of the few days when there was any work, but neither were much bothered by the unreliability of a wage as they were capable of keeping busy in other ways. Making do held no trepidation for the resourceful working people of Dublin during The Emergency, as it became known, although there was no relenting from the everyday anxieties that making do entails. 

     Gerald and Connor had a real source of worry – one that could not be lightly dismissed – and it was a donkey. The four legged coconut was the affectionate name given to the animal by Connor when they first got it, and by the end of that day this was dropped thereafter referred to, with no affection at all, as just ‘donkey’ or ‘it’. Both were even-tempered men, who by the thoughtful application of minimal amounts of hard work, had niched out a degree of satisfaction with life that The Emergency, with all its material demands, enticed towards alternate avenues of opportunity. Gerald and Connor, skilled, experienced and personable, just got on with it. However, whatever it was on any given day, usually had to be moved from one part of Dublin to another, on the cart, which, when the world was the right way up, had to be pulled by the donkey, who never seemed tuned to the task or as satisfied with life as Gerald and Connor were, mostly.

Every job was coloured in by them the same way. The outline details were worked out the day before, trades were done, weather was ignored, and the business took its own due measure of time for completion. Merchandise had to be moved and there was no other way to move it that they could think of, the donkey pulled the cart and that was that, except it didn’t want to. The thought of it often kept both men awake till after half past ten on weeknights which, in turn, worried their wives, who thought the weight of world events, the war and such-like, was pressing on them, which in a way it was. The last thing either man would resort to was violence. Not that it didn’t accord with their (usually) even-tempered natures, but because they found over-firmish handling rendered the donkey intractable extremis. What worked best were open displays of love and affection. It is remarkable how the human mind works, just the idea that the donkey responded ever so slightly better to kind words or gentle strokes, made their mood lighter. It turned a pair of stout, stoical hearts, into two twinkling St Francises, all the way to the allotment stable.

     It was only early afternoon yet Connor and Gerald would not have said no to a Guinness, in fact they would have acquiesced without complaint to two or three. It would have lightened up their core mood or, better still, drowned it. The inclination to drink was a solid response to a practical problem – which was that they were convinced the donkey could see through a false mood put on especially for her – so, they thought, a drink or two would liquidise any lingering insincerity. Thomas the coalman didn’t help matters either. Just by passing them, and without the two parties speaking, he was perceived, unfairly, to be bothering the two go-getters during a period of difficult taught emotional effort. His own transport, recently chirpier than cart horses usually are, actually looked like it was laughing at them, which was taken as a synchronised affront conducted by both coalman and beast. It will come to bite him on the arse quicker than he knows it Gerald and Connor both thought, then let’s see what the state of affairs is.

 By the time they got to the shed the greyer of the clouds had lifted and their mood was half-way up, what’s not to like anyway? was the overall principle of philosophy agreed by both men. Half an hour of nice talking, complimented with careful cajoling and coaxing, saw the donkey attached to the cart and thinking about pulling it, in which direction it had not yet agreed on but the principle was firmly in place. Two deliveries to be done. The first to fill up the street shelters with turf and the second to deliver more of the product to the Dame so the weekend drinkers could be kept warm. Connor and Gerald refused outright to deliver turf up the hill on the grounds that the demarcation between turf and coal fires represented a class divide. Also they had never been asked to which, if they were, they would reluctantly decline by saying the donkey would not be inclined to the effort. 

The shelters were in places that people could get to quickly if the German bombers decided to live up to their name, which seemed very unlikely. By the look of the bodged-up fabrications it did not take people long to realise that safety from bombs would be better implemented elsewhere. Other uses for them, however, were quickly found. Children couldn’t wait for school to finish so they could play in them, dens of perfect possibilities. Drunks thought them a room of their own, until they got cold, hungry or randy. Two or three of the bigger huts were liberated for the storing and drying out of the turf, in order for the fires and cookers of North Strand to burn on through hard times. 

Gerald and Connor had accomplished the twice-weekly replenishment of the bunkers, and were returning to the Park when they noticed Christina walking, with a bit of a limp, along the road in the direction they were about to head. The girl had finished her Saturday morning shift at the shop which, as usual, was a busy one. Mr and Mrs Knox were content with the takings, returning themselves up the hill on the horse and trap to do whatever they did until Monday morning arrived again just before 11am. Christina encouraged her aching legs home so she could get washed, get changed, meet Anna, watch the boys play the match, go home again for tea and then to the Dame with mum and dad for a Saturday night of music and fun. She heard the cart before she turned round. When she did what she saw was the donkey staging an impromptu coup against intolerable injustice. A few things whizzed through her mind at the same time.

Her shins were are aching so much it felt like walking on stilts, if they don’t loosen up they would make her late. It was as if her lower legs were hurting just to annoy the rest of her body. Devil and the deep blue sea. Connor and Gerald, if she chose the cart how do you talk to them, she wondered, what about, they had nothing in common except birthplace and community, coal maybe, how bad things are, dad, the shoe shop, and then you had to thank them for the lift, smiling. A donkey cart too, she would be a laughing stock even if nobody saw her. Thinking of how much it would stink of peat and animal shit didn’t help. Just as she was working through how to say no, she turned and saw Connor brushing straw and other brown bits off the plank seat while Gerald held onto the donkey, which wanted to be anywhere else but there. Fifty or so yards between herself and the decision. All things weighed up, taking into account that refusing the ride meant walking alongside them for a good distance, she smiled, waved back, and made her way to the cart. She was a young, proud, self conscious, angry woman dressed in her Saturday work clothes. I’m too good for this was what the thought in her mind, too good for riding on a donkey cart, too good to be seen with people like this, too good to even talk to them. Her shins had stopped hurting though, all of a sudden.

                                                      14

Maurice entered the pub examining his hands. He had inherited a few choice splinters from Thomas’ coal cart which stood, horseless, round the back of The Dame ready for the nights bonfire. A lot heavier than they thought it would be, the old wooden cart took all five of them some shifting to steal and push it the half mile to the pub, but it was done and they were all ready for the first pint of the early evening. Come the revolution Maurice would have been alright, his hands were calloused, fingernails split and dirty. He felt sorry for them believing that they were good hands and should not have been abused in such a way. It wasn’t as if the splinters didn’t hurt either, everything that went in caused little pains like they always had done, no change with the feeling, you just stopped showing it, that’s all. The hands are what they are he nearly mumbled as he pulled out a black splinter, paid what they are worth until worn out, or not used at all and bound to a begging bowl or a prayer.

The relationship between work, pay and hands he could tally, but never once did he get to grips with how the mind produced tangibility in the same way. His mind polished up well, a Wedgwood tea service in a teak display cabinet, there if needed, set for impression rather than use. Maurice never read books or anything like that. The papers – twice a week – were not for learning, they were for racing or football, although since the war started he began to wonder whether this was even worth the bother, habit mainly. History, no, although there was a lot of it about. Making things might have been Maurices’ forte, he looked like he could, but no. Banter, craik, divulgences – not really – when the crowd got lively and the drinking was good brilliance is everywhere, he liked to drink but cared little for the confusion it brought. Maths was Maurices’ sport, but even that only goes part of the way. Specifically, he was an instinctive geometrist, able to comprehend the natural relationship between cause and effect and, if he were ever given the chance, able to explain it rationally to a trained mind. 

With this ability he could predict possibilities, envisage physical outcomes instinctively and put them into practice, all like a good jungle hunter would. To get on in the world with this type of mind requires rigid training, so others can recognise what is being stated and put it to some use. So, in different circumstances, Maurice might have made a better fist of it, and a better living too for himself and his family. He knew though that for every talent paid to play thousands were not, with even more, like him, harbouring grudges that they were good enough. As usual he dislodged any lingering if’s, but’s or maybe’s by settling for what was around him. His daughter Christina would never be able to accomplish such a simple task as shrugging frustration off.  She cried regularly, in private. Maurice knew this, in a small terraced family house everyone of an age knows what’s going on. Deep, human, soul-sobbing weeps. She finished with a growl. 

                                                      15

Anna sang. In a family house singing songs – full songs not just snippets of tunes with made up words – is rare and unpopular. And it takes practice. For the unskilled, the lazy or the ill-disinclined, singing falls short of the tune in the mind, like trying to draw an apple from an idea. So people in the vicinity of a good singer, especially under the same roof day after day, don’t like them doing it, either because it is hardly ever perfect, or to try to stop them before they become better at it. What an achievement then to persevere against this and to practise your instrument when nobody wants you too, “who told you you could sing” (a useful, general purpose put down) “he’s a natural he is” (following years of effort and discouragement) “she comes from a singing family, no wonder she’s good” (following years of effort and discouragement). Anna thought nothing of discouragement, hers was a harmonious mind and what splattered out of peoples mouths, to her, were dog yaps. There are few blockages in this type of mind, a wonderful gift in itself. For a natural singer unencumbered thought allows the body to be in the right position, enabling breath to release properly from the lungs and the diaphragm, loose and free-flowing, like a good skier. Tightness never got chance to gain hold, not with Anna, and it never would, even when people were banging on doors.

The first bomb didn’t explode when it hit the ground but it did do a great deal of damage, killing five people outright – two young boys, eight and ten, two babies, and the young girl who was sitting for them. When it did explode it killed and injured more people, including the ones who came to help. The air raid warning was ignored like all the other ones, Ireland was a long way from Europe and the Germans didn’t bomb neutral countries, so people thought that this form of attack would never happen. The shelters, they all knew, would have proved useless even if half of them weren’t full of turf. The Dornier DO 215’s were way off course, which was not an uncommon occurrence at that time, especially when the pilots were tired or the crews inexperienced. Even with confident navigators miscalculations often happened, especially at night. The crew in both aircraft saw the city and the dock-harbour clearly and knew that this was not a strategic target. They also understood that they could not return with the bomb weight they were carrying. They saw a fire towards the north centre of the city and took this as a good a place as any to release their respective loads, heavy bombs, but no incendiaries, one, two three, four.

Years of accumulated coal dust had permeated the wood-grain of Thomas’s cart and it went up a treat. It was a big one, well made at that, making it an attraction not only for those in the pub but for lots of people from around and about, young and old. The Brit started playing the button accordion with skill, he had been doing this most nights since he arrived in Ireland, it was what he was good at and he was glad he didn’t have to do much else. Music, together with a bit of help with the heavy barrels, washing a few glasses and general tidying up, it all paid for his bed, food and arse-pocket money, plenty enough for him to build a future with. Christina watched without much interest in the man or what he was doing. She asked herself questions leading only to more knots in her mind. Where it was going, all this, why did nothing improve, where was the development, the progress, where did she fit into this, how could it get better for her? Something made her glance behind her left shoulder allowing her to see the backs of both planes as they banked right. Her thoughts when she was doing this were on the houses up the hill, so much better than all this, so much nicer, cleaner.

Ken Knox and his wife lived in a house up the hill and he was looking at the bonfire thinking what a waste it all was. He loved to dance, to move about to a bit of good music, he knew a few steps and he knew where to put his feet, deftly, even without accompaniment. Singers can be crushed but dancers never. He Astaired into the shop every morning but, apart from an odd two-step when he was in the the stockroom on his own, that was him putting on the Ritz for the day. Now he just wanted to be down there, rekindling Saturday nights from when he was a young lad.  

He was one of the first there. They both were. He had seen the planes coming directly towards him before they pulled sharply away, then he heard the sounds. Initially a thud turning to a tremor, like the ground giving way. To him the gradual build up to the deep roaring moan of exploding bombs brought back other memories of when he was a young man. Mrs Knox held rank in Queen Alexandra’s Imperial Military Nursing Service and her recollection of these sounds were the same as his. No need for speaking, they loaded what they could, blankets, brandy, pillows and set off, fast. 

Margaret died in hospital a week after the bombing of North Strand. She was walking towards The Dame along a side street when the buildings adjacent to her crumbled. Her last moment of knowing and understanding was the colour of the dust, a background dry-fluid of red, orange and grey against the black patent of her shoe, shiny, but much too far away for her to touch.

Christina took her job. Grief eased eventually, children had to go back to school, teachers had to be there before them to arrange the days lessons, shops reopened and life went on. The school desks that could not be used would be left empty for many years, but the the sound of screaming at play time became annoying again quite soon. Ken and Mrs Knox were lauded as champions for what they did that night, the selfless help given by them would not be forgotten. With the right amount of brusqueness though they re-established their identities as Mr and Mrs Knox – not Ken and Emily – the owners of the shoe store which, over the forthcoming years, became a department of stores, the first floor selling home decor. 

Occasionally on Saturday evenings Mrs Knox would procure extra chocolates or some other treats and have an evening to herself listening to the radio, smiling or shaking her head with a light-heartedness others never saw. She made sure she found one or two aspects she didn’t like about Mr Knox’s appearance before he was allowed out, and he liked that. When he joined the others they made room for him, separate but still one of them, very much one of them. The music got good in The Dame during the war years, a couple of local lads became proficient on their instruments due to serious sergeant-major style encouragement from the Brit. At times Mr Knox took the dancing so seriously that his hair become un-brylcreemed, giving his eyes a wildness that made him look like Hitler minus the tache. He didn’t even mind when people pulled his leg about it either. He put himself back together again at the end of the night, with the willing help of some of the young ladies, he really that too, but not in that way. 

                                                       16

Little Stephen ran like the clappers along Holyhead breakwater. He imagined it as a long dragons back with its armoured head underwater, in his mind it seemed to stretch forever. After waking up in a ferry cabin there was no contest, when faced with such openness, between bombing off or staying put, even if it was not yet 6 o’clock in the morning. He jumped and stamped with all his might, trying to wake the dragon up, then he ran again, like one in a shoal of tiny fishes everything about his little dashes flowed. The air in his lungs fed the oxygen through the blood, the rubber soles of his sandals smeared the ground as he turned, no fatigue, no effort. Little Stephen Moss, three and a half, was wick. He held no thought of where he was running to, only that the dragon’s head must be somewhere, although the seagulls who lifted grumpily to flight when he passed wished he would do it somewhere else. 

Neither of them, Anna or the Brit, regarded the outside of where they had previously lived as being anything other than somewhere they were meant to be. Leaving Ireland didn’t feel to them like leaving a special place, it was just an alteration to their lives, another opportunity, which they intended to consider in all its consequences. They were a smashing couple these two, unaware that they were unusual as individuals, solid but with clear, brave aspirations, no armchair pipe-dreams of never-to-be-undertaken wild adventures into the void, just real achievables. Their boy was as fit as a fiddle, tear-arsing away down the home straight like there was no tomorrow, yet they gained no pleasure from this simple miracle. They were not Hollywood happy or Russian novel sad, but they were a tired and hungry which needed to be attended to before the next stage of their journey. When they had done that they would get to where they were going and set about earning a living. 

        Stephen fell over, slapping the palms of his hands against the cold concrete of the harbour. After a second or two he started to cry but they didn’t drop the cases to run to him, coddling and cooing till he was alright. They knew he was fine and that when they got to him he wrestle to be off again. If they thought he was really hurt, of course, they would have left the cases without a thought, not the instruments though, the clarinet and the bodhran, these would never leave their sight until they were under a new roof. With regret Arthur had sold the accordion before they left, it was heavy and they knew that another could be picked up easily enough, someone on the circuit was sure to be liquidating their assets. Before they even got to the little lad he was up and away again. 

                                               17

10 o’clock in the morning and the weight pierced the air like a ships anchor fired from a cannon, straight into the eastern sun. A lot of things can go wrong with a fishing cast although this one seemed alright. Christopher knew about the potential snags of casting sea tackle so he delayed his to see how Stephen’s cast fared. If either had gone badly wrong it would entail fifteen more minutes tackling up, meaning that the other would probably get the first bite, fishing is competitive and hardly ever tranquil.

     One of the things that could go wrong was a line snap at a weak point in the line, at a point of pressure, and usually following a jerky exertion. This meant that the cast looked great, a perfect arc and longer distance than expected, until the angler realised that the rig was flying on its own, estranged from its controller. Another irritant was that the line in the multiplier reel became a horrible mess, called a birds nest and, again, usually the result of clumsy operator error, fixable but frustrating, although still with a chance of catching a fish during the time it took to sort it out. There were other minor botherations waiting for fisherman although Stephen and Christopher, being sound in body and mind, tended to shrug them off. They were attentive to the task in hand, calm and reassured in each others company, useful tools against troublesome thoughts.

     Stephens parents, Anna and Arthur (the Brit), from the middle of 1943 onwards became professional performers. Performers are distinct from the general class of musicians who make a living on stage, they have distinct qualities allowing them to approach the role with a little more vim.  

The general class are proficient at providing rhythm, melody and harmony but not quite able, in a manner of speaking, to ring any bells. The performer, however, considers reproductive musicianship basic training, a boot camp to sift degrees of talent but not, by any means, a talent in itself. 

     Anna and Arthur were never dazzling performers. They did, on rare occasions experience what they thought were seams of originality, but, like Cornish gold, it was hardly there. Their forte was being almost always above average to good, they understood this and did not fail to recognise it as a valuable gift. 

     Anna began public singing at The Dame, a few weeks after the tragedy. She performed a song she had developed from a well known Irish folk ballad called What Brought The Blood, keeping the structure and melody of the original but adding her own lyrics, just her accompanied by Arthur on the accordion. They practised this song, among others, in between bouts of daytime shagging, when her mum and dad were at work and the kids were at school. The nervous tightness in her shoulders, keeping her voice from becoming what it was meant to be, disappeared during the months of regular public singing, never to return. She still worked in the shop until it finally became intolerable, her regular Monday and Friday excuses were a joke for the other staff but not for Christina, as general manager she did not find them in the least amusing. Anna left before being fired.

Professional performers draw people in. In a variety of ways they attract, organise and produce in order to make things entertaining. For Anna and Arthur management of their professional and personal lives was all one, seamless, conducted along a single path, together. Arthur stressed that situations are seldom unpredictable in any walk of life and, in the business they were in, patterns tended to repeat with advantageous regularity. Unforeseen problems, therefore, have origins or precedents allowing them to be dealt with calmly or neatly shrugged off. So, when the first non-paying manager tested Arthur, the method was available for him to deal with it in the right way. 

During their last year in Ireland Anna and Arthur extended the band’s performance circuit to include larger variety venues. And while all of these establishments were within an area Arthur had come to know well they did change proprietors with a frequency he was unaccustomed to. The new owner of the Crowning Glory – a confident young man in his mid thirties – thought it not worth the effort to soft soap Arthur with one of the stock-in-trade excuses for not paying the performers…“could you come back Monday Arthur, great show, get you lots of bookings this, you watch, good of you that”… “The bankings have all been done for the night, I’ll have to see you some time in the morning”… “no, no we agreed less than that, we’ll have to talk about it later I’m busy now”. The manager sent his doorman, who Arthur had got to know quite well through regular contact, to inform the band leader that he would have to wait for payment until the following weekend, no apologies, like it or lump it. Arthur agreed to do just that, no problem at all, no need to fall out or shoot the messenger Arthur said, it will all come clean in the wash. The doorman was pleased the potential difficulty passed without confrontation. His job – which he was good at – became difficult when it involved people he knew, and even more difficult with people he liked, Arthur being both. It was such a relief to the big man that he felt comfortable enough to ask the band leader if he could take a look at his young cousin who was keen on the folk fiddle, Arthur said yes, for sure, tell him to come to the next show, glad to. 

The following day Arthur made some phone calls. All but one were to the other acts booked to play at The Crowning Glory on the forthcoming weekends. He knew them all well and most agreed that the course of action Arthur suggested would not only prove effective in this instance but, more importantly, would also be advantageous to themselves in future negotiations. The other call was to the non-paying owner telling him that calling in for the money at the venue as arranged was not convenient but, politely, asking him to bring the money in person to the rehearsal room on the Promenade Road on Wednesday at 6.45pm. Also, Arthur added, it would be a courtesy if he could see his way clear to putting an extra five pounds in the envelope as a gesture of goodwill for late payment. The owner laughed out loud and told him to fuck off. 

As the tuning up started on Wednesday at 6.30pm, the decently suited young owner of the Crowning Glory beckoned Arthur over from the far doorway with a cigarette and a welcoming smile. The band leader stood up from the piano and thanked the man in person, by name and loud enough for everyone to understand clearly that balance had been restored. He then asked the man to leave the envelope in a hat next to the fire extinguisher, he thanked the young man again, said that he trusted it would be amount agreed but he would check it when the rehearsals were over. He turned his attention back to the band, lit a cigarette, and, nodding twice, started up a song.

On Monday mornings – or in her lunch break when she was still working at the shop – they deposited the balance of the weekends takings at the Munster and Leinster bank. They enjoyed the feeling it gave them, a joint goodness, everything right about it, wind in their sails, trade winds. They had earned the money – and got it – out of which they paid the band members the equivalent of two days work for a few hours playing, and although the recipients never fully understood the significance, it gave those that played with Anna and Arthur a similar feeling of liberty. 

 Falconers in Shakespeare’s time called it ‘manning’. A process of methodical conditioning through hardship and deprivation, resulting in man and bird operating within honed skill parameters to get the job done. The (mainly) young musicians that Arthur and Anna brought on were raw, feisty, prone to ill-discipline, lippy, life-loving and talented. This was their nature, albeit in different degrees. Put them in a band, teach them the songs and, occasionally, a good performance forthcame, depending on what they felt like on the day or the night in question. ‘Occasionally’ implies ‘seldom’, which can also mean ‘hardly ever’ or ‘rarely’, ‘once in a while’, ‘sometimes’, all variables on a theme. Anna and Arthur, particularly Arthur, saw this as a bothersome way to carry on, the cart leading the horse, a hard way to do things with a headache thrown in for a bonus. So they developed a plan.

Firstly praise. When the lad (no female players came to them to play in the band in Ireland) passed muster he was made to feel special, a solid cut above his peers. This always encouraged him to practice more, a very good start. Passing muster, however, could germinate within the player ideas above his station, something to be gently extinguished. Past experience in the army and prison made Arthur aware that this could be intimidated out of a person without too much bother and, in other professions – like organised crime – often worked well. But in the business of musical performance freely flowing confidence is important and smashing it to pieces would be no good at all. Also, intimidation breeds resentment causing hostile thoughts to increase like bad yeast. Hearts and minds, Anne and Arthur astutely judged, were they key. 

What always kept the good players in check though was the money. A small bonus for turning up on time to rehearsals and concerts and never berating the individual for non-attendance. Never money withheld either, not that kind of a stick, no good. The result was the same but with the crucial difference that it became the players choice, don’t turn up, that’s fine, up to you, no matter. Except it did matter, it played on their conscience. As an incentive an extra cash amount was paid for a very good performance on the night. This was arbitrarily decided by the falconers, Anna and Arthur, with the extra distribution – or not – paid out at rehearsal. Seemingly, at times, to be touching on the capricious, the bonus was highly dependant on attitude, meaning voluntarily controlled obedience. Each member of the ensemble desired the collective job to be done, with consciences appeased and titbits distributed, self regulating, the best of all possibles. When everything came together in performance egos were lost and the feeling was better than anything else in the players lives. They loved it like a drug and did not – for anything – want to lose their position in the band. 

A double entry notebook, which Anna had liberated from Mrs Knox’s stationery drawer, kept clear accounts of all aspects of the bands dealings, including the small amount the younger musicians reluctantly agreed to save every week. This nurtured in them a professional attitude that Anna and Arthur wanted to see develop, temporing, as it did, the natural gratification that talented young men, with status and spare cash, tended to pursue. The rest of the money, a fair bit, was Anna and Arthur’s to use in whatever manner they saw fit. They had a general ethic rather than a distinct plan, the core of which being never to go back to wage working, a comfortable philosophy, especially for Arthur, as he hadn’t done much of it in the first place. They always had good shoes too.

                                                      18

“What do you reckon?” said Stephen.

With one hand acting as a visor from the morning sun, he looked at the top of the beachcaster rod till the cast arced the lead into the water, waiting until it hit the sea bed before clicking the well-maintained red multiplier reel to ratchet.

“Yes, very good that you should get something there, well you would do if you were in the channel where the fish are, but you’ve overcast it by a mile.” replied Christopher. 

They were having fun. Stephen had deliberately overcast knowing that the action of the tide would bring the rig around and back towards them, where the water was flowing slightly faster and was of darker tone, blue-black with beige foam edges swirling the sludge.

“Nope, sorry to disappoint you Brainiac, seems to be holding alright, so what do you think?” Stephen repeated.

“Not sure really, can we not just fish and talk about some other stuff?”

 Christopher knew Stephen wanted to talk about the previous nights performance, he was interested in it to an extent, they both were, but not at this moment. Stephen sensed this.

“I thought it was something to talk about while I got a bite, what do you reckon, what is there in here anyway, apart from flatties, do you want a smoke?”

“Cheers, yeah sure I’ll get the flask… bollocks, I forgot my lighter it’s on the bedside cabinet, I remember leaving it, did you not see it? Allsorts I reckon, mackerel, coalies, massive conger so the bloke in the cafe said, wrasse definitely, ballan and cuckoo, cheers big ears.”

 Christopher leant towards Stephen with cupped hands before lifting his head to exhale the grey cigarette smoke. He didn’t thank Stephen for the light.

“I’ve got an idea, what’s yours?”

Christopher flicked his ash into the clean, crisp summer morning air before replying.

  “Nope boyo you first, spill.”

“Well, simple really, you know dad is always going on about doing something different, although they never it do themselves do they? well, I reckon that’s what that tosspot is doing, is it not obvious.” 

Christopher placed a bite indicator on to the top of his beachcaster rod, it was homemade, a white plastic clothes peg with a bell soldered to the end. Their lines were now parallel and holding the bottom well.

“I suppose so, but it worked alright didn’t it, what did you think when he came on? I was stunned, I’ll say that.”

“Honestly, I thought he might have been on the whiskey or was messing about, but that’s just not him is it? So I knew he was serious straight away, and I knew that was that, things were about to change, did you hear ‘em though after the first couple?”

“Well yeh, I was sort of there you know, and we were shit as well, out of time, all over the place.”

“It didn’t matter though, did you hear them?”

“Course I did, it was like they were hearing something else, like they’d been plugged in.” said Christopher. 

“Raymond thought exactly the same thing, he thinks it’s just a one-off.”

“Is it balls a one off, that’s it from now on, get used to it I say, should I ring dad and see what he suggests?” 

“Don’t know, he’s a bit old in the tooth for this kind of stuff now, and we saw it with our own eyes, if it happens again tonight then we’ll have to sort something out won’t we.”

They agreed that they would and it did happen again, every night until they finished the tour of the Isle of Man. Desmond was an unusual looking individual, like a young boxer, eyebrows and ears a bit bashed, but without the preceding pugnacity. His face was engaging and off-putting at the same time. His demeanor led other youthful men to think he was soft, while at the same time knowing he would not be the one you could push too far. The boys in the audience liked him. Some girls found him difficult to look at because they were unsure whether he was too criminally attractive. Some male crab-eating macaques of Southeast asia have a similar problem. Female interest, projected onto a particular male in the group increases through cultural auto-suggestion in that, the more they like you the more likeable you become. In Desmond’s case this exponential increase began properly from the moment he decided to use lots of mascara and eyeliner on stage. 

One idea he suggested following the success in the Isle of Man was that Raymond, Stephen and Christopher wore heavy eye make-up too, as well as medieval breastplates, chain-mail and boots made from shiny pressed tinplate. Desmond, with some force, made it clear that all matters concerning image were his decision and that they should be thankful for his expertise in this area. He also reminded Sue (the bands part-time manager/secretary and a good friend of Anna’s) that no bookings were to be taken for a fortnight and that they would not be playing the kind of venues they used to.  The next two weeks would be rehearsal only, and a new practice room should be found as quickly as possible. During these rehearsals, Desmond suggested for no apparent reason, it might be an idea to get a doorman. 

                                                       19

Deciding to leave the van in Ireland played out well for young Christopher Roseby, for weeks beforehand, however, they were unsure whether to take it over or not. Anna said no Arthur said yes. The next day, having seen the others point of view, they reversed the polarity. Three days before the exodus they finally agreed, balanced though it was, to take it and Anna went to the shipping travel office to book it on. Overall they felt it would make things easier. They could take more stuff too, although they didn’t seem convinced about why they should. On the day of departure and on a whim, they sold the van to Thomas, the coalman’s son, the second vehicle of his burgeoning fleet. 

     Their house was in a place called Burslem, in an area known as the Potteries, in the middle of England. They chose it for no better reason than their percussion player had family connections in the area, he lived there for a while and said it was alright. This was as good a time as any, they thought, so why not? Decisions made on the spur, big ones, often favour the brave, and Burslem became their lasting place of residence, not because they fell in love with it but because that was where they both were, and they had a percussion player they could count on. 

Other band members had been sounded out before they left Dublin. Their circuit was one with members vying for change and this, in addition to a good contact book, proved very useful. Anna had written several songs which they thought about introducing into the set when they eventually started playing in England. But there were a raft of practicalities to sort out before then, they knew this of course, and they set about sorting them straight away so work could continue just as they liked it. 

In that period dogs roamed the streets, not in packs, just dogs let out for the day, commonplace, like cats are now. People turfed them out in the morning before they went to work, and when they returned the dogs would come in. They sometimes left a bowl of water on the step but, other than that, it was expected to fend for itself. A bit more care, at least regarding food, clothing and toilet requirements, was given to working class children, but not much more. They were expected to amuse themselves anywhere else than indoors, which was agreeable to all parties because there was nothing inside worth doing.  Playing out was what kids itched for, and they ran home after school in order to be out again as quickly as possible. Inside was the place for them to bolt if they were wet or hungry or being chased by the bigger kids. 

When they were not at school one instruction was quite clear – do not leave the street – and, surprisingly, they hardly ever did. It was a right of passage for the older children that they were allowed to play in another street as long as they did not leave that one either, and again they were almost always compliant. So the kids played out, made games up, became heroes, villains, footballers or hopscotchers. In late 1953, a motor vehicle travelling the street was a novelty which ment it was safe. Mums popped their heads out of the front or back doors now and again to make sure the numbers seemed about right and, on the whole, things tickled over nicely. 

Young Christopher’s mum was not good at looking after him. Neither was the grandma who was there while his mother was working in one of the pottery factories during the day. He wasn’t looked after in the evening either, sat at home while mother and grandmother nipped out to one of the pubs nearby, for a smoke and a drink. Sunday evenings were bath nights followed by a game of cards and a tinned salmon on white bread. The older children in the house thought it a treat when mum and gran came home on Saturday night at half past ten with pie and peas or chips and scraps. They always waited up for that but sometimes they were disappointed and made butties with treacle or syrup. Christopher, being under four, was in bed by that time, neither woman thought to check on him when they got back.

Attitudes change over time, an up to date morality might accuse the matriarchy for the neglect of young Christopher. They never cleaned the young boys teeth, for instance, causing him pain and self consciousness both of which took a long time to ebb. They never hit him, or terrorised him verbally, or implanted in him any divine thou shalts or shalt nots. If confronted the mother and grandmother would be deeply upset at the accusation that they were bad at what they were doing. Thoughtless, lacking compassion for others, motivated by self need, intolerant, humourlessly ignorant and, worst of all, devoid of sober warmth or love. Compounding these unfavourable traits was the poor lads inner belief that this was his special family, just like the ones his friends had, and that they were all on his side. Whatever it was that was special within him failed to germinate under these conditions. He entered adulthood full of doubt, believing that the third division was about right in the great meritocracy.

 Not having immediate use of a van was an urgent priority for Anna and Arthur, and it gave young Christopher Rosebury the break he needed in life. They got to the house easily enough, just a train journey with changes, but once there they knew that they needed flexible transport to visit venues in order for them to organise a playing circuit. Visiting, showing your faces regularly, talking to people, finding out who was who, the lie of the land, all this was essential even before a rehearsal could be thought about. In Ireland Arthur had done all the driving himself – when the fuel flowed again – but, in truth, he didn’t like to do it, it shook his nerves, which had a direct influence on the distances the band travelled to play. This was not a disadvantage in Dublin as the music circuit in close proximity was rich, varied and in demand, enabling all the band members to get about within a few miles of their homes. He understood it wouldn’t be so easy in England, which was the reason they deliberated on taking the van with them. Arthur still didn’t want to do any driving, the thought of it made him smoke even more than usual and, given a glimmer of a chance, he would never move a gear stick again.

     Like Arthur, the drummer who left Ireland before them was also a deserter from the British army during the Second World War. His story revealed disenchantment with the proceedings of conflict caused through the contradictions of constant stress and extreme boredom, unbearable loss of friends and, the breaker of the camel’s back, the destruction of Brest in Brittany during its liberation in September 1944. His nerves were so shot by all of this that it was a wonder he could drum at all. 

     His family lived in Burslem and they had a spare room, the only reason he could muster the effort to move to this area rather than somewhere else. Christopher’s mum was his sister so that made the little lad his nephew. When they met for the first time Uncle Drummer gave the boy a used bullet casing which became a highly prized object for a few days. The man found that repetitive activities, like smoking and drumming, eased the cold grating of his nerves. Driving he welcomed as a distraction from thinking, so he took to the wheel keenly when Arthur made the suggestion. There was extra revenue in it for him too, in addition to drumming money and the deliveries he made in the van during the day. The war was not spoken of much in England at this time, it was over and people had lives to be getting on with. 

In Ireland either a friend or a family member minded the infant Stephen whenever Anna and Arthur played. It was worth doing too, not a run of the mill babysitting job, well paid and with extra perks at the end of the night. Meghan became a close friend of the family and after a short while the position became virtually her own. When she couldn’t do it she always had a suitable replacement lined up, so Anna didn’t even have to think about that aspect of her life at all. Meghan was adored by Arthur and Anna, and as such they looked after her interests when she needed them. She never dated boys, a privacy respected, her time taken by a poorly mother whose ailments people believed were more in the mind than the body. The girl was glad to stay at Anna and Arthur’s house whenever she was needed, it was a welcome change of atmosphere, and because of this mutual benefits accrued. When they decided to move to England it affected the little boy like a physical pain, he could not understand he might never see his Auntie Meghan again, she used to brush his hair even before putting him to bed, who would do that for him he asked? Children, however, are not deep thinkers, and shiny new toys are marvellous at draining tears away. If there was any lasting effect that Stephen might reflect on from his infant Ireland years, it may have been how easy he found smiling to be.

Stephen Moss and Christopher Rosebury grew up as brothers in an environment of rhythm and timing. The world moves in patterns that our brains understand, instinctual and open to growth. The boys, through saturation, became masters of musical timing and could reproduce this through instruments. Song and dance performers glide about, tip-taping up and down steps and stairs, moving honeyed knees, one, two, one two, one, two, three, four. Stephen and Christopher could do the same, they knew the timing of the world like their own blood, clocks moved for them not the other way round, and they waltzed through their early school days. All the other newly uniformed children, even the bullies, were primed and ready to succumb to the exquisite hypocrisy that the first school steps represented. Up, in, behave and lost forever. The children were there to learn alright and the teachers would make sure they did. Stephen and Christopher, thank you very much, were doing their learning elsewhere, so, no thought to it, six beats to the bar, up the steps, through the doors, doing what they were told to do by the teachers – like the good lads they were – all to their own timing, four beats to the bar.

By this time – September 1955 – young Christopher Moss had started to call Arthur dad. It seemed strange at first, not to the two boys or to their play friends, or even, come to that, to Arthur himself, but it grated on Anna. Stephen would be her only child, unconventional given the period and her Irish culture but that was it, and it was what she wanted so she was careful about accidents. To have another child around calling Arthur dad irritated her to the point of putting a stop to it but, like many of life’s little irritations, it became internalised, confronted only through muffled tuts and ungraciousness. It would not have been so bad, she felt, if the lad had referred to her maternally but that would have been unthinkable to him, how could he, he already had a mother and you can’t have two. 

That he was neglected in his own house did not embitter Christopher to his mother, grandmother and his sisters. His uncle took Christopher around with him like a Jack Russell dog, letting him skip onto the front seat of the van or hop in the back at a whistle or a click of his fingers. Eventually Christopher stayed more often at Anna and Arthur’s house than his own but he was never missed in his own house. Anna and Arthur’s was a house of practitioners, people coming and going – like Christoper’s uncle – who could, with skill and efficiency, produce music that other people paid to hear.  Whether Christopher had a natural talent for this or whether the exposure stimulated an ability to learn and replicate is difficult to discern. Anna, however, was the one with real talent for music, showing through rare moments of sublimity that practice on its own can never germinate. The rest of the musicians were people who could do the job, no mean achievement, but different nevertheless. The ability to learn, to be receptive to induction from childhood, is not the same as talent to create newness. Anna had a touch of the latter and some of her tunes were catchy.

                                               20

Port Vale Football Ground : July 1969

Given the football season hadn’t started it was not surprising no one else was around when Stephen and Christopher arrived for rehearsals at Vale Park, on a warm, overcast midweek morning. They parked the van on the large cinder coach park and looked for a way in.

“Oy!, over here, you two, are you with the band? Oy!” 

     The voice had a local accent but neither Stephen or Christopher could guess where it was coming from. They looked around, eventually shrugging shoulders in agreement that it was coming from nowhere, the empty space carrying the words like a ventriloquist’s dummy. Both were familiar enough with the ground to know that the away supporters turnstile was out of view from where they were, and as they walked towards it they understood that this was where the sound was coming from. When they saw three young men at the gate smoking and being furtive they knew this was the way in. The taller one standing nearest the entrance whistled and waved. Christopher returned to the van and started the engine while Stephen walked over in the direction of the lads. 

“Mossy, what you doing here?” said the whistler when Stephen got closer.

“Bonhoff, bloody hell, long time no see what you up to?” replied Stephen. 

They recognised each from school, not friends as such, just pals who knocked about with a bunch of lads during the last two years of comprehensive education. Even though Stephen never got to know him properly he remembered he was alright. His school cohort rightly judged him to be a pleasant lad, sometimes saying or doing something that got a laugh, and he always seemed to be smiling. He had a slight lisp but, for some reason, never got the piss taken for it, he never got physically bullied either. He was bigger now and had filled out around the shoulders, still lithe but looking fitter, unlike his clothes. Stephen noticed Bonhoff’s parallel two-tone trousers were well worn and out of fashion, with shiny marks from over ironing. The light brown leather of his loafer shoes was scuffed, maybe they kicked a ball about before we arrived, Stephen thought, he was a good player at school, one of the first picked.

“Yeh I’m alright Mossy, sorry, forgot you were with the band, read about you in the locals, well not you as such but, you know, must be up to something eh, what’s the story with that Desmond bloke?”

      Bonhoff lit a cigarette stump he pulled from a packet, there were two full ones left in which he declined to offer to Stephen.

 “Alright Bonhoff me old tube of shit what you up to?”

Christopher spoke through his own fag smoke, having just reversed the van to the entrance where the others were standing.

 “Security’ Bonhoff replied.

  “Oh piss off, honestly, tell me another one.” 

“Yeah, no, straight up, I’m doing the doors now anyway, going to Karate as well, it’s alright, I’m doing okay, going out with Sandra Daly.”

Christopher and Stephen gave each other a look and shrugged shoulders.

“Anyway how long you back for lads, sounds like you’re heading for the big time, off to London are you?” 

“Can’t say really, not sure ourselves, that’s what we’re here for, all a bit hush-hush.” said Christopher.

“We reckon it’s brewing though, especially if they’ve forked out for a Kray, anyroad its bollocks all to do with music.”

     Christopher had a nervous edge to his voice, looking over his shoulder at the same time as if he was expecting doom. Bonhoff looked puzzled, he was becoming apprehensive but wanted more information.

“What do you mean it’s got nothing to do with the music, I thought you were on the way up, you’re doing alright round here.”

“We need to get sorted.” 

Stephen pointed to the flights of stairs ahead of them and then to the heavy equipment in the back of the van.

Christopher drew close to Bonhoff and whispered in his ear.

“The music is a front, but keep it under your hat Bonhoff, and tell your lads too, serious fucking stuff this is and we don’t want any of it getting out, all that shit there in the back is from Ireland.” 

He moved away, lit up another cigarette, and pointed the ember ominously at the gear.

“No” Bonhoff said with a tremor. “What…Ireland…really…nope, I don’t want anything to do with any of this, straight up, way out of my league that, no sorry Chris, Stevie, no, sorry lads, honest to god,  no can do, I just can’t do it, oh! Who the fucking hell is that now, fucks sake!” 

     Bonhoff had seen a red Ford Capri 3000e pull slowly into the football ground from the far entrance, the cinder gravel crunch made the heavy newness of the car sound ominous. 

“It’s the shitting IRA.” Bonhoff whispered as loud as he could.

      He looked around for a place to run. It had been a while since the school cross country but he knew he could still do it and when he got away he wouldn’t stop until he got home, his friends could take their own chances. He was on his marks when he remembered that the only direction available to him would lead straight around the football ground to the entrance where the Capri had now stopped.

“Come on lads let us go, please, we don’t want any of this, and we haven’t been paid yet so it’s okay, will you tell them Chris? Stevie?”

     The bass player and the drummer had their backs to Bonhoff and were leaning in the van suspiciously as if fumbling around for something. Nobody spoke. Bonhoff’s friends backed into the entrance of the football ground trying not to be seen. Stephen turned and sat on the footstep of the van, head between his knees, the back of his green and yellow leather jacket rising visibly between deep rasping breaths. Christopher turned from him and began banging on the open door of the van as if he was in pain. He managed a high pitched wheeze between breaths.

“I am going to piss myself.”

“Ahhh,” Stephen let out between gasps, ‘Ahh…Ah…Ahhh…fuck me I’m dying.”

Bonhoff seemed to have shrunk into his clothes, he felt sick, weak, yet increasingly aware of things that were happening to him, and he was still ready to run. Two weeks worth of door experience at the Elite Billiards and Snooker club in Stoke had not prepared him for this, he knew he couldn’t tough his way through it either physically or with front, so running was definitely the best option, given a chance. He was about to make a sprint when he saw that Stephen and Christopher were in fits of hysterical laughter.

Half a minute had passed before the musicians regained enough composure to inform Bonhoff that it was all a gag, as if he now didn’t know. They hadn’t worked it out beforehand but it was helped no end by Desmond, Raymond and someone else arriving at just the right moment in the Capri. When they were explaining all this they saw Bonhoff’s face, together with the faces of his friends who were gingerly exiting from the door entrance. The two musicians broke down laughing again, uncontrollable, painful, belly ache laughter lasting for minutes. Bonhoff didn’t share the funny side, nobody ever does, and asked them if they practised being twats or if it came naturally, Christopher and Stephen, not being able to speak, nodded at this in agreement. The other two lads looked relieved and were drawing on their cigarette butts like lost souls.

“No hard feelings Bonhoff, it just fell into place, you’d have done the same, we used to do stuff like that all the time at school didn’t we?” 

Stephen wondered if they had been just a bit cruel.

‘Yeah, I suppose so, yeah why not, got to have a laugh haven’t you.”

     Christopher ruffled Bonhoff’s hair and called him a good lad for taking it so well. Stephen, however, felt that the joke had been pushed to far. When they looked at each other Stephen and Christopher saw the distance between themselves and the other three young men. Only a few years had passed since they were at school with Bonhoff but the two musicians were now elevated to a different social standing. They young musicians, for one thing, were now attractive to women. Not just any women either. Working class shit-kickers like Bonhoff could only daydream about the women Christopher and Stephen could now attract. It was a massive status breach, unlikely to be crossed, they all knew it but it had taken the wind-up to make it obvious. Stephen and Christopher felt embarrassed by the sudden openness of this realisation and tried to change the subject. Stephen offered an apology but this made it worse, as if he had been a bully to someone who couldn’t fight back and was now trying to ease his conscience.

“Tell you what boys, give us a hand with the gear up these stairs and there is a quid in it each for you.”

As he said it Christopher knew it was a poor suggestion, Stephen grimaced. Better in these situations, he thought, to say nothing and hope the flow returns to some kind of ambience.

“No sorry I can’t I’m on security, got to stop on the door, these two can help if they want, but I can’t.” 

     Bonhoff was ashamed and upset. Not because he was the object of a joke – which was a good one and not at all malicious – but because of the differences apparent, the change in status, between himself and his old school knock abouts, and it made him feel like a clown. He looked at the musicians as they took the personal items out of the van. A bit of him now wished it was the IRA, at least they would all have been in the same boat.  

     Both Vox AC60 amps, together with Raymond’s Fender and the guitar Desmond had started to use, were already set up when Bonhoff’s friends came in with the last of the drum kit. New amplification and microphones for the vocals had been given the once over by the rhythm section prior to the kettle and cups being located. They didn’t think to offer the lads a brew but they did give them a quid each, as promised, and Christopher told them to keep the seven or eight cigarettes that were left in the Players No6 packet, they seemed chuffed with that as they went back downstairs.  

With nothing else to do a brew and a couple of cigarettes was in order. Stephen read his paper while Christopher looked around the rooms. On the five minute journey to get to the ground they had asked each other why they had never thought of rehearsing at Vale Park before. Christopher wondered what the point of all the effort was as he peered into the glass cabinets containing the football  trophies. Champions, third division: 1929-30, Central League: runners up 1911-12, Birmingham Seniors Cup, Winners 1913, and a few more. Is it all a push onwards and upwards, like snakes and ladders with a few falls thrown in, he decided it probably was. Then, when you’ve reached your level, you step off and carry on doing whatever it was you were doing, a couple of rungs up, a couple of rungs down, but never really flying, or properly plummeting.

Stephen was chatting with Raymond when Christopher walked back into the main room. Desmond stood next to them writing in a notebook, sunlight streaking from the south facing windows as the cigarette smoke tried to make its way out. Without looking up from what he was doing Desmond closed the windows and pulled the blinds down just enough to make the room seasonless.

“Sorry to hear about your granny Chris, how’s your mum bearing up, alright I hope.” 

Not looking up his attention was still clearly fixed on what he was writing.

“Oh yeah, sorry about that, condolences, when’s the funeral?”

     Raymond peeled the foil of a sliver of Wrigley’s chewing gum and offered half to Stephen, who nodded a decline without looking from his paper.

“She’s alright I think, no big deal, good innings and all that, life moves on, Friday as it stands at the minute.” 

     Christopher had no interest in the conversation and was glad it was over. Lighting another cigarette he recalled the sadness and deep anger he felt when his first dog, Zeb, was run over in its prime.

  “Right, moving on then.”

“Shit, sorry Chris, didn’t mean it to come out like that.” 

Christopher smirked, giving an open-palm gesture to Desmond suggesting it was alright and inviting him to carry on.

“Right, yes well, brass tacks and all that, things have changed a bit and you both need to be filled in. First, we are due in the studio in a fortnight for two full days to record four tracks, one of which will be chosen as a single.” 

Desmond spoke directly to Stephen and Christopher, like a coach giving out tactics and a teamsheet. It didn’t go down well with either of them.

             “Out of fucking what exactly?” Stephen asked.

“We have a recording contract, well sort of, it’s not been fully signed and sealed yet but it’s in the process of, so to speak.” 

Raymond felt like he had to support Desmond but was uncomfortable with the manner in which the information was imparted, he waited. 

  “Oh yeah, recording contract, brilliant that is, like the last one eh? Jackanory records, absolute bollocks, how far is that going to get us exactly.” Stephen added.

Desmond lit up a cigarette and blew the end of it till it glowed like a mini furnace, as if to emphasise the point he was about to make. 

“Well now we’ve got another one now haven’t we.”

The hesitation from Stephen or Christopher was instinctive. This was news to them, they needed more information about what had been organised, done behind their backs. One piece of information was not in doubt, just a little word but packed with implications. The ‘we’ Desmond referred to meant Desmond and Raymond, not just a band.

“Yeah, well, umh, like it or lump it, all the balaclava since the I of M spells bunce and we’ve cashed it, not for cash as such, well not much anyway. As you know, what we had in place previously was a right pile going nowhere which was just about finished anyway, so me and Raymond sorted it out with the minimum of effort and, well, as you know, it’s not all that simple…” 

For the first time since being with them Desmond’s train of thought – his means of control over others – deserted him. Reflecting on this over a few drinks after the rehearsal he wasn’t sure himself if it was entirely unintentional. Did he lose it to make himself appear less arrogant? He would think about this one, it could be a useful trick in the future.

“We have some new songs and, maybe, an image to go with it which could be alright.” Raymond added tentatively. “Also we have a manager, or manageress to be more exact, whom we are meeting after this rehearsal.”

     The tension of the meeting nearly broke through Raymond’s pompous use of ‘whom’. He wanted to appear business-like and on the same side as Desmond, but he came across as a tit.

“Whom is we exactly, if you don’t mind one asking?” Stephen said.

“What are you on about? all of us are…”

     A combination of factors caused Raymond to visibly redden, his hands were clenching into fists and he just about managed not to call Stephen a stupid bastard. The potential for humour, which might have helped proceedings no end, had passed. Christopher’s anger was rising too, built on a tangible fear of losing a future and returning to a foreboding past.

“Not what it seems like to us, not by a fucking long chalk boyo, seems like things have been nicely sorted out alright without us, got it well sorted haven’t you. Do me and him have a say in any of this or not?” 

      All four of the young men sensed it was a question that could answer itself.

Raymond’s demeanor pricked. The tide was making, celsius readings were going up, gently bubbling. He pointed at Stephen.

“Right, fucking listen…”

Desmond thought it was time to chirp in, he was enjoying the rise in pressure, always interesting when people were starting to have a go at each other, just the right time to fan proceedings into a flame.

“Does anyone fancy another brew and a garibaldi while we’re chewing the fat, I’ll get ‘em.” 

“…that’s bloody rich that is coming from you two…” 

Raymond ignored Desmond’s polite offer. 

“…both of you have done jack shit in eighteen months other than turn up, plug in, play at the back, shag about, take half the money and then piss fart about with model trains or whatever it is you do’

“Fuck off, cheeky bastard! We got you into this game you ungrateful       wanker!” 

     Christopher looked at Desmond as he responded to Raymond’s accusation, he could see where the situation was leading. Stephen too could see this, he looked at his friend, shrugged his shoulders, lit up a couple of ciggies and passed one to him, filter end first, which Christopher took. It was the first time any of the four could remember not offering each other one of their cigarettes.

“Who’s done all the organising, eh answer me that, all the phoning round and the admin…”

      Raymond was reminded that they had a part-time secretary, that they sometimes even paid her, that she looked after all of the bookings and enquiries which must take her all of two hours a week. But in the state he was getting himself in he wasn’t thinking straight.

 “…me and him that’s who, mostly bloody muggins here in truth, it’s always the same, ungrateful bastards.” 

He pointed towards Desmond who was in the boardroom section making tea and admiring the trophies. 

“Who’s done all the songs eh?, me and him that’s who, well I’ll tell you something else big bollocks, yeah, we’ve not asked you about any of the new stuff we’ve been doing because, well what for eh, go on then, what would you have said?… ‘it’s okay’…’nothing special’…’it’s alright’. Tell you what though, I bet your arses prick up when we tell you how much you’re going to get just to rehearse and record. Yeh, that’s right, different kettle of fish now eh? not so much how much it costs but how much you’re getting, how does that one weigh up Ringo?”

Stephen stood up to counter Raymond who had risen from his chair and  flicked his lit cigarette at Christopher. This was an act of aggression, no mistake, one step before a crack on the nose. From the distance between the two  – no more than a few feet – the ciggy would have been easy to miss its target, but it didn’t. The cigarette hit Christopher on the face before he had the chance to react. It wasn’t that dangerous but, done in temper, it looked bad, it sparked and left a smear of ash on Christopher’s cheek. 

“Fucking hell have you gone starkers?” 

     Stephen glanced at Christopher’s face. Although the act was nasty it was insufficient to initiate a proper fight. Christopher’s smirk at Raymond told everyone what he thought of him. He was also well aware, as Stephen was, that if the row escalated further Desmond and Raymond would be looking for a new rhythm section, if they hadn’t already got one.

Raymond returned to his chair, placing his head in his hands with his elbows on his knees. The sleeve of his denim jack had hunched up revealing a silver and gold watch, a new one. Stephen and Christopher saw it and put two and two together. 

“Okay, fair enough.” Christopher broke the silence. “We get the picture, clear as a bell, best to get things sorted out so everyone knows where they’re at. So then, what we talking about, money wise?”

Desmond walked back into the main room with four mugs of tea held carefully between the fingers of two hands, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He placed each mug on a small table next to the three young men and went back for the sugar. Passing the bowl and spoon to Raymond with a gesture that he should do the honours for the other two, he sat down and had a sip of his own sugarless, strong tea, before answering the question.

“Mmm, nice cup of Mick and Tich that, first proper one of the day, needs drinking doesn’t it. Yeah, money wise you ask , well it could be alright, should be actually, oh and something else, I’ve signed us up to do Eurovision.” 

                                                       21

Windsberry Park Hospital.

Pellets, or whatever they were, tablets, capsules, the name was irrelevant and it did not deter Ellen from convincing herself that this was the solution to the problem. For a person not confident in life her approach to problem solving remained unabashed. Why does nobody think of these things, she thought, everything else under the sun is imagined, made, sold, re-packaged, sold again, on and on and on till the cows come home. She became so set on this question that she pushed her left foot against the underside of her desk causing the castors of the budget leather chair to glide backwards. Bending forward the extra few feet she shuffled about in the small side cupboard of her desk before finding what she was looking for. The shape of the container, distinct from the others, Oceans Harvest omega 3 complex fish oil tablets 120, with a little shake and a squeeze she opened it up. Between her fingers, held towards the glimmer of the office window light, was a glistening bronze/gold capsule, two halves joined with exquisite precision and inside it the oil. Outside nothing. No residue, no stain, no fish smell, no anything. No need for a teaspoon either, she recalled how her Auntie forced her to swallow cod liver oil out of a bottle, then throwing the spoon in the sink, pinching nostrils and tilting the head till it was down. These little beauties were just popped in the mouth like a tic-tac, straight to the guts, melting, job done, perfect. Ellen’s mind worked well when focused, it was imaginative yet grounded, unhesitant yet self-critical, she took a minute. Why not just eat fish? How does the plastic get digested? Strong bones, clear skin and the like – inside of you – does it just melt? And then what? Who eats plastic for Christs sake? two or three of tablets a day, she mused, it must be like eating a Bic pen once a fortnight.

She knew how this train of thought ended up, her inner voice told her it was right to do it, to delve, but it wasn’t a practical way to start a run-of-the-mill working day. Neither was sweetening her liquorice and peppermint tea with honey. The top of the jar was sticky, the spoon handle was sticky, the tray on which the utensils were on was sticky, so was the handle of her cup and, worst of all, somehow, was the inside of her suit jacket sleeve, right side, all the way up. Wiping it made the residue spread further up. Wet kitchen roll gliding over the honey smear leaving her arm honey-damp right to her armpit. She would have to forget about it, put her mind into another place, concentrate on something else, work, for instance. When she tried concentrating on the morning emails her mind drifted to a better method of getting honey into a cup of tea. Sugar cubes work for sugar, they stay lumped, melt in the cup, and don’t go up your sleeve. The practicalities worked fine, pick up a cube, drop it in, walk away, no mess, no stickiness. A honey cube, she thought, would be the perfect answer, or a honey capsule, yes. People would bother about the plastic in the cup though, she knew they would, when they saw it in the bottom of the cup. Did it matter if it dissolved in the body like a fish oil capsule or an antibiotic? People assumed pills were safe, nutrition pills for wellbeing, taken to improve health. Anyway, inside the body is out of sight out of mind, the eye can’t see itself. She wished the same principle would apply to the inside of her sleeve.

The day didn’t get any better, just ticking away uneventfully as days do. In a mind like Ellen’s tedious or trivial matters tried to bother her, to put her off, they usually succeded. If only she could not connect the numberless hugeness of everything into something she saw the point of, maybe then time wouldn’t seem so much like a confinement sentence. A sticky-honey-jacket might even have a funny side too, instead of being a scapegoat for the world being a bastard. 

The key to the outer front door lock would not turn. At 7.40pm, with three shopping bags (two with food, one with a new suit from Debenhams) hair disheveled and greasy, angry-hungry innards, aching feet and a sticky armpit, she was up against material events and they were all winning comfortably. It was not the lock or the key it was her. The mysterious interconnection between muscle, nerve and mind was out of kilter, so she took a deep breath, like the yoga teacher said, and took her suit jacket off. Three glasses of wine would level things up nicely, she thought, when she got in. She tried again. “Fuck this” she said, louder than intended, she wanted to break the key in the lock, or stab it into the wood, but settled for kicking the bottom of the door three times. She picked the bags up and made her way round the back.

The jacket was thrown angrily against the red leather sofa, then picked up again and dispatched to an armchair, because she wanted to put her feet up where she threw it. Ellen deflated on the sofa, anger turning to lassitude, she saw the dry-clean only label on the silky-purple inside lining of the jacket. What the hell am I, she asked herself, same again tomorrow is it, no, now, right this minute, who, what, at this precise moment? The image was in her mind as she was asking, she couldn’t remember who the artist was but it was of a fat woman, naked, asleep on a couch. 

                                                      22

Stephen and Christopher’s old school acquaintance, Bonhoff, together with his pals on the door, thought that the bass player and drummer were embodiments of their aspirations. Women (not true), money, clothes, proper cigarettes, transport, it all went without saying. But what did go with saying – and they said it to each other when Stephen and Christopher were upstairs tuning up – was that the lucky bastards didn’t have to get up every weekday morning and do a days work. This was the real win, the light at the end of the tunnel, the impossible dream, the wall between the lucky bastards and the forever poor. To get up and not have to do anything, dolce vita. An easy Sunday morning, every morning come to that, a great reason for being alive when they didn’t really have one, the reason that they did the football pools. Heaven, that’s what it was, simple as that.

     Stephen and Christopher, however, didn’t feel like that one little bit, what they actually felt like, which wasn’t much different from how they felt most days, was a bit chesty from all the fags and looking forward to some time off. They had noticed that their status had been recently enhanced, a new feeling for both of them, and not altogether a pleasant one either, certainly not for Stephen. To him being perceived as distinct from ordinary people felt like being a bully or a boss. Even after the shows in the Isle of Man, when the girls and boys cheered and hung around, Stephen felt that they had simply done a nights work, just a job, it was what he had been brought up to do. Christopher, on the other hand, wondered if not feeling superior to people like Bonhoff might actually hold him back, give him a false sense of modesty. 

“What do you mean, the actual real Eurovision Song Contest?” 

Stephen asked the question after the lengthy pause that allowed the four young men to weigh up the atmosphere in the room.

“No” replied Desmond.” 

He waited to see what the reaction to this would be, it was a joke, aimed at confusing matters further, and he found it hard not to break out laughing. Turning away from the other three he faked a sneeze to avoid them seeing him grin.

“What do you mean no?”

 Stephen asked sheepishly. Raymond answered.

“‘Course it’s the bloody song contest, fucks sake Mossy do you not know when he’s winding you up, Jesus, what do you think it is, how many are there anyway?” 

Like many things said in anxiety this was one that wanted to taken straight back. It made Stephen, and Christopher by default, feel like kids at the back of the class, they wanted to be petulant, or just walk out, but they sat rooted.

“Look, how’s about we play a few numbers.” Desmond suggested.

 “Might even loosen us all up a bit, float downstream as the gentleman quite rightly put it, flotsam and jetsam, what do we all say?” 

Desmond knew very well they wouldn’t agree to this, it was intended to shake them up even more, to give him even more control over the situation. And he enjoyed rippling the water, gets the fish moving, he thought.

“Er, don’t think so Dr Strangelove, how’s about we straighten all this up properly, then we can all play out.” 

Christopher was trying to be bold, the others knew it, Desmond knew it especially, and he was ready, with words, to knock the boy out. Christopher’s voice and body emitted fear, he was under threat and would have grasped at the meanest of compromises, toughing it out was a weak move. He met Stephen’s gaze, they were both worried.

Raymond wanted to ask a question. When he first entered the room he felt in collusion with Desmond, like they had a game plan, now he didn’t know where he was. He put his hand up like a teachers pet. Desmond nodded.

“Just want to ask what it involves, the Eurovision thing, I thought we had a bit of a tour lined up and the records and such like, how does all that fit in?”

“Let me explain” Desmond said.

                                                       23

Anna and Arthur’s House, Autumn 1965.

Football clubs, like all integrated organisations of humans gather information, a complex process governed by advantage. The primary advantage is the status of the club and the position in its league. A team like Port Vale, for instance, claims loyalty from local schools and amateur teams, netting enough viables of a certain stamp to keep it ticking over. From time to time it will produce notables, and even on rare occasions a specimen, although these are quickly sold, usually to a bigger club in the locale like, for example, Stoke. If, for instance, the family influence behind the young prospect (more often than not  mothers and sisters) hate Stoke, then the prospect is less likely to sign, which is the second factor. The manager then enters negotiations, and the more experienced the man the wider the net. With managerial gravitas behind them the scouts could bypass local allegiances or even parochial passions, creating new boundaries in the young minds, new dreams. Finally, the bigger the club the broader the net, and the broader the net the bigger the mesh. No good messing about with kids that couldn’t play, much fairer in the long run to let them drop through and get caught underneath. A harsh filtering service yet brutally fair, meritocratic.

In early 1954, when Anna and Arthur started the band in England, they played what they knew, a genuine Irish stew of ballad, dance and folk music that filled the rafters on Friday or Saturday nights in Dublin. Trouble was they were now in Stoke, England. Working people in close cultural communities assimilate differences slowly. Food and humour are conduits for such adaptation as, of course, is music, the most effective invigorant to the fluid plasticity of cultural identity. No doubt though that the coming together made some cultures clash, like metal against bone, snarling dogs in scrap yards. England, however, rarely snarls, it yaps and yelps at the foam of every new alluvial wash but it lets it flow steadily in. A pure Irish band in Stoke in 1954, however, was not what the potters or pottesses wanted, so the band needed to change.

They changed quickly. First the name, Clonmacnoise became Wychbury Ring which made a lot of difference. Straight away, when the music did not change that much, the perception of the band altered just with the idea that they might be English. And they changed their clothes too, consolidating the perception that they might be, more or less, native. Then the net widened which set the changes further. In less than a year, from a respected traditional Irish band in the culture that formed them, they transformed to an interesting English folk band with a bit of a beat, and that brought people in.

Anna and Arthur were professional musicians, not custodians of jiggy Irish folk songs, although they did still play the old ones at home because they liked them and for practise. The bodhran stayed as part of their new musical style, the accordion was ditched eventually, causing upset and arguments. It had seemed such a mainstay of what they did, integral, so much so that its initial loss was heartfelt. Arthur – who raised up and cast out musicians as if they were houseplants – cried, and at first Anna agreed to let the accordion remain onstage without being played which did not help. But Arthur was bandleader, an adaptable chap who dusted down and harboured few grudges. He played guitar and banjo well – as Anna did, she wrote all her songs on them – so this became the format of the new band, two guitars, standing snare drum, bodhran and a bass player, pared down and much better. 

In Ireland the band never had to venture far to find a good audience, they were in demand and could have played weeknights in addition to weekends, but neither Anna or Arthur could see the point in doing so. Life ticked over sweetly then and looking back they would have agreed that the times were often very good indeed, golden perhaps. Stoke had different demands – they did not for a minute think it would be otherwise – and one of the differences was the spread of the net. Arthur was acquainted with a few people in England before arriving from Ireland, musicians are wandering troubadours and good communicators, but apart from proving useful for some of the practicalities of daily life, the contacts he had were a hindrance more than a help. At the start the music they played attracted some Irish musicians from around and about. Stoke, however, did not possess a gaelic infrastructure meaning that the music was not only unpopular it was also under-par. Changing their musical style and changing it quickly attracted a larger, younger audience which upped the stakes no end. Bigger audiences meant bigger clubs, more established venues further afield, lucrative in more ways than one. 

And the net started to catch again. It was true that they saw it as utilising an advantage in their professional lives, and they enjoyed the process. Like fish in a big, wild lake, they used to say to each other, you never knew what you might pull out. The musicians in the band developed, some got better, some worse, they had families, got kicked out of families, hung about or just left. Audiences were different on Fridays than on Saturdays, they were also different in one part of Birmingham than another. Sometimes audiences were so capricious they loved the band one minute and ignored them the next. So many changes were happening that it was impossible to keep adrift of it all, so Anna and Arthur, like good performers they were, stuck with what they proved popular while being open to the new. The net caught Desmond first and then it caught Raymond.

Norwegian children grow up skiing. Put one on a pair of ice skates in Central Park at sixty years old and she will fleet foot around as easy as putting on a hat. This is what playing music was like for Stephen and Christopher, hard sometimes when they were growing up, but by the time they were ready to perform they were very ready. Raymond’s musical capacity, however, was eeked out rather than bred in. He came to it late at a time when pubescent boys began to see the guitar as a useful object to strum. From late 1963 onwards, boys, guitars and bedrooms made noises, and when they thought they had reached a certain level of proficiency –  usually E major at the root followed by A, C, G and D – they wanted to form a band. Raymond was a little bit better than most and he felt confident when he watched Wychbury Ring play support at Wolverhampton’s Club Lafayette in 1964. By then, both just turned fifteen, Stephen and Christopher were regulars in the band and they enjoyed all of it, the money, the respect, watching the other bands (like everyone on the circuit they knew the ones who would make it) but most of all they thrived on the bone-deep confidence that never let them down. Raymond approached them as the main act was performing.

“Hiya, alright, I’ve seen you a few times now, really good you are, the band I mean, well you two as well, really good, I mean how long have you been playing?”

“We’re just going into one of the little dressing rooms” Stephen replied, “Do you want to come with us, we can’t linger about here being under age and all that, you might get away with it but everyone knows us here so it’s frowned on, they can’t ignore it.”

“Yeah brilliant I’ll follow you then.”

“What name do you go by Gringo?” 

Christopher asked this as he patted Raymond on the back directing him in the right direction.

Whereas their mates at school were busy deciding – or avoiding – what to do once the remaining months of school finally fizzled out, Stephen and Christopher had known for years that they were professional performers in apprenticeship. Neither gave a look back when the demob bell rang in the main corridor at 3.25pm on the last day, why would they? Their skills were ingrained as second nature, lucrative skills, and they were not yet sixteen. A few more lessons in their musical education needed to be coached in, so Arthur thought,  but when these were in, like the rest, they stayed learnt, becoming elements of the boys character. One of these lessons was demeanor and attitude on stage. 

Anna and Arthur were naturally suited to television in the 1960’s. The producer of the Julius Camino Show on ABC Midlands and North, where they performed twice in 1966, told them so. This area of expertise, however, required some essential aspects of presentation that needed to be worked on. Anna’s teeth, for example, were wonky and uneven in colour, not a great look even on a tiny black and white screen, especially for a soulful singer in close up. And Arthur had a mole at the top of his cheek underneath his right eye. These aside, as well as the fact that television was only a sketchy showcase for music, Anna and Arthur had many attributes for doing well in the tele-visual business, if they had genuinely wanted to that is. One of the weapons in their armoury, often overlooked by more naturally talented performers, was knowing the real meaning of ‘turning up’ to perform. By mid 1965 Anna, Arthur, Stephen and Christopher had interacted with hundreds of professional performers – not just musicians – some becoming well known on the circuit, even nationally famous, and at that level of fame corresponding patterns of behaviour seemed to accrue, not an iron law of course, but certainly a pattern. 

The really good performers, where raw talent met work ethic and a thirst to perfect their craft, learn that ‘all fellows well met’ is a default position best set to yes. You never know who got the brunt of a pissed off mood if the car door was slammed at a venue, so just the act of arriving was the start of being on stage, so fucking sharpen up. After midnight, plied with drinks, brain still swimming through a hundred hoops, you get back into the car and close the door, performance over. Stage one. 

Public recognition following television allowed a more relaxed pre-performance. Preconceptions meant that a default position normally over-rode a particular mood. If, for instance, a ballad singer interspersed the act with gentle stories, or jokes your nan could giggle at, then this performer was nice, unequivocally, case closed. So it would have taken a hell of a something to stop this persona following the performer everytime the face showed itself. Good performers looked great too, even the odd ones, effortlessly confident, interesting, people listened to them when they talked, and as long as they didn’t hit someone or spit in their face all that was needed was to walk and smile, not easy at times and hard to mess up but, even so, still within the boundaries of possibility. 

Comedians are essentially classroom clowns, none being able to stand the strain of being funny all of the time. Sometimes the public saw the joker’s mask lift, then bells stopped jingling and perception reversed polarity. Excessive drink and drugs became as essential to some of them as an audience, and many of the biggest comedy acts in the 1960’s – names gilded bright – had dark chapters in their encyclopaedia of dreams. Grumpy comedians had it the easiest. They could get out of the car, light a fag, sign an autograph, and then tell people to piss off out of the way. Laughter all round. Good bloke that, down to earth.

Years of varying success and the pattern started again at another level. TV studios, film sets, London parties, all requiring manipulative behavior to facilitate the opening of the next door of opportunity. Or, just as importantly, not to have one shut in your face. The really great performers didn’t need a cautious coat, although some still wore one to protect against the cold. Their main error was to trust talent too much while being led like a bull with a ring through its nose. 

Sometimes good performers got relegated, returning to the middle circuits, to the ones worked by Anna and Arthur. On the one hand this was a relief for the former high fliers, there was, for instance, no need to do anything other than turn up, perform, and then do whatever came next, no preamble required or given. Managers or agencies got them work and it was steady and easy, lucrative for everyone, ticking over as long as the artist continued to turn up. But nobody mistook it to be anything other than a fall. Anna and Arthur considered what they did, at the level that they did it, to be a proud profession. They always ‘turned up’ in the right way, no pratting about, and they demanded that Stephen and Christopher do the same.

“Yes alright I know, I know, but it was funny wasn’t it, you’ve got to admit, come on.”

Christopher was speaking quietly to Stephen in the decent sized kitchen of the house in Burslem, near the cemetery. Arthur had bought the house in cash from a gambler who, in turn, had bought it five years previously when the going was better. Anna loved it, plenty enough space, a reception room for living in, three bedrooms, big garage (that got bigger over the years) light streaming into the kitchen area, an outhouse and, the key to it all, a big room at the back overlooking fields that could never be built on because of the cemetery. This was the music room, and it was where Arthur played the piano while Anna sang and the boys were in the kitchen waiting.

 “Lads can you come in for a moment, Stevie, on second thoughts could you make dad and me a cuppa darling, that would be lovely, thank you.” 

Anna had stopped singing though her speaking voice was still lovely, emulsive yet crisp and naturally melodic. 

“Don’t wait for him Chrissy, he’s a big boy, doesn’t need your help.”

She added this even though she couldn’t see through walls. Christopher looked at Stephen who shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you want any biscuits mum”

 Stephen showed the packet of garibaldis to the wall as if his mum could see through it, half taking the piss, only half though.

“No thank you.”

        When playing in the band the two under drinking age lads had to stay away from the main concert lounge between acts, especially on busy weekend nights, although they were, of course, allowed to perform music on stage. So the boys found places where they could pass the time without being noticed, enjoying sly smokes, packets of crisps and a half of shandy courtesy of obliging patrons. Christopher was drunk on the occasion in question, not falling down drunk but bad enough for consequences, made much worse when he took the mickey out of an elderly serviceman who was attending to the cloakroom of the Empire Club in Stoke. 

     He was sick in the van on the way home, which his uncle made him clean up first thing the following day. That afternoon he returned to Anna and Arthur’s for the usual appraisal of the weekends work, not quite sure what was waiting for him. He expected to suffer a cold shoulder, then a roasting, and then to check which songs to practice before Thursday evenings rehearsal. He knew his behaviour would not be tolerated but how much so could only be guessed at. Arthur turned from the piano and smiled at the young man as he entered the room, it was a smile that wasn’t expecting to be reciprocated, he beckoned Christopher inside.

“Where did you get the drink from?”

Anna asked this while looking through her notebook.

“Some older lads.”

“Stevie didn’t drink it why did you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Go home.” 

Anna looked at the boy then returned to her notebook. Arthur turned and closed the lid on the piano. Christopher walked out of the room, into the kitchen, and straight past Stephen without a word or a glance. He was angrily emotional, confused and very scared. The tears came when the front garden gate had been slammed shut. He heard Stephen shout for him to wait but he told him to piss off, careful not to turn around and let the other see his tears. He cried like a lost child. The house he slept in, where his mother and sisters lived, wasn’t his home, he never called it that. 

After a few days the band rehearsed and played as normal. The week following the occurrence Christopher and Stephen visited the Empire Club to help out with a few odd jobs, cleaning gutters, weeding the car park, washing the doors and windows. They put a fair shift in too, they were told it would do them both good, hard physical work never killed anyone Arthur said, yes it did they said to each other when he was out of range, fucking millions. Stephen understood he had to do the recompense with Christopher, they both knew why, they were the rhythm of the band and if one was out of synch then the timing of the whole was off, no good. Christopher got something else out of the situation too, he now understood that there was a value in teamwork, a pragmatism resulting in incremental payback from effort put in, much better this way than struggling on your own, scratching at fag and beer money jobs when school spewed you out. In the profession or not, that was the question. He needed Anna and Arthur, not the other way round, they held the cards – and this was the real lesson that stayed taught – he saw them from then on as dangerous bastards rather than family.   

Anne and Raymond Ellison married in 1976, they had a son, Guy, who attended the University of East Anglia before deciding in the summer of his second year, to travel around South America, starting in Argentina. Not seeing much of each other after that, his only return to England would be for the funeral.

She had an agreeable face. Delicate features but not soft. Not vulnerable either, it gave the impression she was inaccessible, a bit distant, like a Virginia Woolf which, when connected to her explicit character, hindered the formation of friendships. It put boyfriends off. But then again she established early on that most of them were wankers. It was as if two sides of her were wrestling each other, attracting and cancelling each other, like a river where its flow meets the tide.

English Natives from anywhere other than the South East would have taken her for posh. At points in their lives Anne and Raymond met Americans who were perplexed why someone like her who, in their mental picture, should be in green wellington boots clutching a dead pheasant over an arm – was with someone like him. It didn’t fit the picture at all. People like Anne, who are sometimes taken for posh without being so, are rarely bothered by the perceptions of others because, like real posh people (usually the older ones), they just get on with it, as Anne did.

The tension in her personality played out in some interesting ways. On her wedding night (and on several nights prior) Anne was ravenous. If there were more men than Raymond in the room she would have had sex them for as long as they could last. Unsatiated urges, however, did not frustrate Anne, she would act if the situation arose, but she would never have sought the means. Furtive sex, like drinking, drugs or getting fat, was a potential rather than a probable, so she endorsed the idea but placed it away safely. ‘Don’t be daft’ became one of her phrases of choice.

The seaward flow of the river, when it meets the incoming tide, is a place of collision, a bashing place. The body has similar points of contact which the mind regulates, issuing faster-than-light resolutions which are acted on instinctively, effortlessly, allowing life to carry on as normal, all hunky dory. Sometimes resolutions are evasive, then battles commence, till an accord is found and resolutions are reached again, or not. Annes’s body was between poles of anarchy and convention, yet not even in her depths did she feel an imbalance, other than that she knew the chaos was under control. It made no sense to loosen the reins, to fire all of her gus at once, this she also knew, anarchists want milk in the fridge and traffic lights that work. On the surface then all was calm, maybe sometimes an expression in her face revealed the tiniest of whirlpools, evidence perhaps that there was an underneath. 

There was something underneath. Her body was fighting itself, not to achieve equilibrium but just to fight. And her mind, steady under fire with the drama of life, was quickly depleting its ability to resolve. At 57 years old she fell heavily near their home in Wenger Crescent, Trentham. She was walking their dog, Max, who had just finished one of it’s pisses against one of the many trees lining the road. The dog pulled her, she lost balance, tripped over a root, then fell down into the road, where a police dog-handling van – of all things – ran over her left leg.

                                                       24

Melee ensued. No punches thrown or cups smashed, no more cigarettes flicked, no glaring of teeth or threats alluding to any of the aforementioned. Plenty of shouting though, with an arsenal of name calling and no listening of course, apart from Desmond, who was a picture to watch. When people are tearing around like chimps, usually over minor outrage, it can be entertaining to stand clear, all calm like, and watch the total loss of composure. Desmond did just that, wallowing in the woeful ruction, but he didn’t stand clear, he participated. Some would say he started it and, if pressed, he wouldn’t deny it. 

     Just enough to protect his interests and to give him a private giggle, which is all he wanted, like his nonsense talk, especially when people tried to understand it. Stephen, Raymond and Christopher got it, sometimes, making his words listened to, deciphered, elevated importance through levity. Even when his face became well-known he saw no reason whatsoever to shelve the tradition. 

Causing a right royal ruckus was a tactic Desmond employed sparingly, not evil like Iago but not nice either. It had to bring about a change in the way people thought, a re-jig of their ideas to a direction more conducive to his own, fun was a by-product. 

The humour of the process, watching folk going all mad and confused, sometimes even ending up in tears, he found entertaining Nothing physical though, thuggish monkey business was for nursery schools, or what serious bully boys did before going to prison. This one was touch-and-go, it seemed to be going well but Desmond knew there was an unpredictable element present, you never knew for certain, all sorts of emotion spurting out uncontrolled with the danger of overheating. Raymond made his argument passionately, point-by-point, with the help of an index finger and the middle of his own forehead. Desmond struggled to avoid laughing at this, managing to avert by considering the change this might bring to the ensemble performance. He disguised the laugh as a grunt of frustration, turning away when he saw the Hindu caste mark Raymond had made smack bang in the centre of his head. Turning back he stoked the embers with some well-timed incendiary phrases … ‘It’s my band now and I’ll do what I like’ … ‘Who the bollocks are you lot without me anyway?’. It went down a treat.

The first to crack was Raymond. Like the death of Hector hostilities temporarily ceased, in this case because he started to cry. The fuse had blown and, shaking his head out of his hands, he picked up his wallet, cigarettes, lighter and notebooks calling Desmond a very bad name as he barged out, eyes wet with anger. Stephen would have left the room at the same time, but as there was only one exit to the stairs, he would have had to do so with Raymond and that just didn’t seem right. So he drew back the blinds, opened the window, and let out a blast, like an urban Tarzan would have done. Down below in the coach park Bonhoff’s pals, who were just there to get rid of a day, thought that there might be trouble coming, so they went home. Bonhoff weighed up the pros and cons of going with them but decided to stay.

Inside the rehearsal room the infusion of sunlight brought the guitars, microphones and drum kit into colour again. What the hell was going on Christopher thought. Desmond, who with brilliant spontaneity collapsed wearily into a chair, shoulders sagged and head down, made it appear that he was shook up too. He lit a cigarette, pleased as punch that Stephen turned from the window just at the right time to notice that his hands were fake-shaking with nerves. Nice touch that one, Desmond noted to himself.

                                               26

June 1969. 

“What’s that?”

 Christopher pointed a lazy finger in front of his friends face. Stephen brushed the hand away, suggesting as he did so that this was not a clever thing to do when someone driving on a motorway at nearly sixty miles an hour.

“What’s what anyway?” Stephen replied. 

     His right hand tip-tapped on the steering wheel to a tinny radio tune as his left flicked ciggy ash onto the floor. Glancing through the half opened window of the Taurus Transit van he looked towards a hill in the near distance to a green-domed building that looked like it belonged in Florence. About an hour earlier, as the ferry docked, the two friends watched as the sun pushed the eastern fells of the Lake District aside. They liked the Isle of Man. Nothing much going on there in terms of hustle and bustle, the sea fishing was good, and all in all, without talking about it in any depth, they agreed that the place was alright. When they approached the mainland it looked similar but bigger and grander, drawing you inland whereas the Isle of Man drew you out, to the sea. The sun washed over the Cumbrian fells with orange and pink new-day light, onto the life water of the bay. There can’t be too many bad days round here if you got yourself sorted, Stephen and Christopher said to each other as the ferry grumbled its way gently in.

“Lancaster Cathedral.”

      A voice mumbled from the back seats. They thought Raymond and Desmond were asleep. They should have been after the bottle of rum they downed between them following seven or eight pints of mild they had each drunk. Stephen didn’t drink that much and he had been known (and seen) to get rid of the odd unwanted pint in any pragmatic way that came to hand. Christopher never drank spirits. He had seen what it did to people, how it made them act. Learning music on the circuit with Anna and Arthur whisky violence was not uncommon and it scared him.. He liked beer though, and he heeded Arthurs advice, whisky won’t let you walk home. The frontmen in the back were still pissed as newts but they were coming round.

“Can we stop off somewhere please?”

 Said a voice green with travel sickness from the behind the driver. Stephen and Christopher looked at each other and laughed out loud at the politeness of the request. Stephen wobbled the van deliberately drawing groans from both sufferers, then braked gently to make them feel even worse. Less politely than before the back seat asked him to stop doing that. 

“Alright we’ll turn off at the next junction but I don’t know if anything will be open at half-seven on a Monday morning.” 

Christopher thought this would be a good move, even though they had been driving for less than an hour, they could all do with a brew and something to eat.

“Doesn’t matter if there isn’t, just need to get out for some fresh air.”

The stop did them good. They got out of the van as glum as trench war but after a few magical pots of strong tea, accompanied by an egg banjo each, the young fit lads in the prime of their lives returned to what they should be.

“It’s not Lancaster Cathedral.”

Chirped Raymond finishing off his tea, he was now a different organism to the one exiting the van twenty minutes previously. Desmond was having none of it. 

“‘Course it bloody well is, that’s why it’s a city, capital city of Lancashire, everyone knows that, that’s why you can’t be a capital without being a city, or vica versa, plain as sunrise, the nose on your face, talk shite most days you do.” 

Boozing mixed him up a bit inspiring crystal-clear argumentation without the necessity to draw too heavily on his working knowledge of Socratic method. 

“Well if it’s not, which it bastard well is, what is it then when it’s at home watching Coronation Street and having it’s tea?”

“Twat.”

 Everyone laughed, even Raymond, the girl serving the teas behind the counter nodded at the depth of insight, Desmond was not the quietest of talkers even in private company.

“It is, in fact, the Ashton Memorial.”

 Raymond, with a small clearing of the throat and some affected sagacity, was proud of this elucidation. The tea-girl, who was doing a summer job before enrolling at the University of Lancaster to take a degree in psychology, nodded her head once more. Christopher offered a tentative contribution to the seminar.

“Bollocks”

“Agreed, in principle, with both sides of the argument…” Desmond added… “How do you know that anyway, cheese-for-brains, was geography the other one of your CSE’s. How did we get on to this anyway, does it have a bloody cathedral or not? You don’t get this problem with Coventry.” 

Some of the other diners mumbled to themselves that it does and with that Desmond shrugged, lit up another ciggy from one already in the ashtray, and considered the matter closed.

“How do you know that?”

 Stephen asked Raymond with genuine interest. Raymond took the lit cigarette from Desmond and lit another one of his own which he pointed towards the girl behind the counter.

“I asked her.”

Back in the van Christopher moved to a rear seat as the van motored past Chorley, drumming a rhythm with his sticks on a guitar case. 

“I reckon we’ve got something there with these new songs, especially that one you’ve nicked off The Beatles.’ 

“We’ve not nicked shaft, windolene that should be, so don’t start saying it.” Insisted Desmond… “And anyway it’s not about the songs it’s about the image and it’s my image, I came up with that’

“It’s always about the songs.”

Stephen reminded them all about this without looking away from the road. It was not yet 10 o’clock in the morning, they were heading home, money in the bank, enough cigarettes for the rest of the trip and sunshine jutting through the windows. He was very happy.

“I don’t know anyone who walks into Woolworths and buys an image, well, yeah, posters obviously, it’s all connected, songs, image, performing, but songs come first, I know that.”

The other three had to agree that songs did come first, that’s why they didn’t say anything.

“That new song,” Stephen continued, “it’s good – really good – but it’s too full, we do that every time, trying too hard to fill every gap, and we all want to fill our own little bit with our own stuff, but it doesn’t work for the best like that, I’ve got an idea how it could be better.”

They were all ears.

“Either open it with a guitar riff or drums or even a bass line and carry it through, I’m just thinking out loud, but the song works, it could just be something really special, I mean a hit or something, do you know what I mean?”

“Go on.” said Desmond

“The pace is right, nice tempo no need to mess with that, but cut the jumble and spare the guitars, like the blues blokes do, simple, like throwing paint. And why do we have to have verse/chorus verse/chorus middle eight, it works if it’s a great tune but it doesn’t have to be that predictable. Mum listens to some African stuff and it just jigs about, honest, like it could go on all day, the singing is right in the background if there is any at all, what I’m saying is keep the tune you pinched at the back trying to get in.”

“Straight up Mossy, don’t fucking keep saying we pinched anything, I hear what your saying and we’ll try it, but you’ve got to stop speaking like that, we’ve got an interview this week and if one of you blurts, even in jest, then we’re up the swanny, right down the Khyber.”

     Desmond was as serious saying this as he ever got. Although his practice was often to instigate discord in others it was always directed towards a specific end, his own welfare. In this sense he was instinctively cautious of potential banana skins. Christopher decided to offer his own opinion on the song, not that he particularly wanted too, he would have been content to smoke and daydream all the way back to Stoke, but it seemed not quite right if he didn’t, so he did.

“Oh yeah, I bet you two are shitting it in case McCartney and Lennon get the Stoke Sentinel by special delivery to London first thing Friday morning, oooh watch it lads! Get their legal blokes straight on to you two won’t they eh! It could happen easily that, nobody would even know about it, except us that is, then, all over before it began. What they would probably do, McCartney and Lennon that is, is listen to it and have a right good fucking laugh, then spend the royalties on a new coat or something, they could both write a better song than that in the time it takes them to have their morning shit.” 

Christopher laughed at his own humour, no one would have denied it came out well although no-one else laughed, Stephen grinned out of loyalty and Desmond caught him doing it in the rear view mirror, he stopped grinning. All sarcasm reveals something about the sayer. Whatever slice of pie was coming to him if the band achieved success meant nothing to Christopher. He was deeply bothered that a change was coming and he did not want it too. If the others lost out by remaining the same well so be it, they were alright weren’t they, what was wrong with doing what they were doing, they were getting bigger in their own pond, who gives that up, why risk it? 

“Well it’s up to you Ringo, say what you want but you’ll be pissing on your own chips.”

     Raymond’s reply was a slap in Christopher’s face. Stephen threw a fag packet over his left shoulder which hit Christopher in the eye, that did it, everything back on track. Desmond looked out of the window and chuckled.

“Have you got a name then?”

Christopher offered the question as a peace gesture, passing the fags round out of Stephen’s packet. It worked.

“A name for what?” Raymond asked.

“The song.”

Desmond passed him the lyric sheet he had been working on.

“Familiarise yourself with that blue eyes, that, I kid you not, is a top ten Eartha Kitt.”

With a short term memory second only to a fairground goldfish Christopher thought of something funny to say again. So he said it.

“The title is crap, what do you mean Something Slips Away it’s a crooner title, I thought we were going to try something different, a bit more rock, especially if he is going about on stage dressed up as Supergoose.” 

This time Christopher’s crack hit the mark and the belly laughter didn’t stop until Stephen pulled over onto the hard shoulder when he said he couldn’t drive safely anymore for laughing. Even Desmond, who generally only saw the funnier slant of life when pointed out by him, giggled away with the others.

In between sleeping and sharing the driving for the last 80 miles of the trip, the lads decided that the title of the song was maybe a bit soft. Christopher thought about suggesting they shorten it to Something so that George Harrison didn’t feel left out but, for once, he decided against saying this, which was a pity. For no obvious reason they decided to change the song title to Slippa, the spelling being Stephen’s idea.

                                               27

Anna and Arthur’s House, Autumn 1965.

Football clubs, being integrated organisations of humans, work to gather information. Even in the billionaire era, the gathering is crucial and still the same, a complex system governed by advantage. First advantage, the status of the club and the position in its league. A team like Port Vale, for instance, claims loyalty from local schools and amateur teams, netting enough fish of a stamp to keep it ticking over. From time to time it will produce notables, and even on rare occasions a specimen, although these go quickly, to a bigger club in the locale like, for example, Stoke. If the family influence behind the young prospect (often mothers and sisters) hate Stoke, then the prospect is less likely to sign – the second factor. The manager then enters negotiations, and the more experienced the man the wider his net would catch them from. With this gravitas behind them the scouts could bypass local allegiances or parochial passions, creating new dreams. Finally, the bigger the club the broader the net, and the broader the net the bigger the mesh. No good messing about with kids that couldn’t play, much fairer in the long run to let them drop through and get caught underneath. A harsh filtering service yet brutally fair, meritocratic. Even the giant clubs, however, with the largest nets and broadest cast, had checks and balances based on other systematic human factors than raw talent.

In early 1954, when Anne and Arthur started the band in England, they played what they knew, a genuine Irish stew of ballad, dance and folk music that filled the rafters on Friday or Saturday nights in Dublin, Ireland. Trouble was they were now in Stoke, England. Working people in close cultural communities assimilate differences slowly. Food and humour are conduits for such adaptation as, of course, is music, the most effective invigorant to the fluid plasticity of cultural identity. No doubt though that coming together some cultures clash, like metal against bone, snarling dogs in scrap yards. England rarely snarls. It yaps and yelps at the foam of every new alluvial wash but it lets it flow. A pure Irish band in Stoke in 1954, however, was not what the potters or pottesses wanted, so the band needed to change.

They changed quickly. First the name, Clonmacnoise became Wychbury Ring which made a lot of difference. Straight away, when the music did not change that much, the perception of the band altered just with the idea that they might be English. And they changed their clothes too consolidating the perception that they might be, more or less, native. Then the net widened which set the changes. In less than a year, from a respected traditional Irish band in the culture that formed them, they transformed to an interesting English folk band with a bit of a beat, and that brought people in.

Anna and Arthur were professional musicians, not custodians of jiggy Irish folk songs, although they did still play the old ones at home because they liked them and for practise. The bodhran stayed as part of their new musical style, the accordion was ditched eventually, causing upset and arguments. It had seemed such a mainstay of what they did, integral, so much so that its initial loss was heartfelt. Arthur – who raised up and cast out musicians as if they were houseplants – cried, and at first Anna agreed to let the accordion remain onstage without being played which did not help. But Arthur was bandleader, an adaptable chap who dusted down and harboured few grudges. He played guitar and banjo well – as Anna did, she wrote all her songs on them – so this became the format of the new band, two guitars, standing snare drum, bodhran and a bass player, pared down and much better. 

In Ireland the band never had to venture far to find a good audience, they were in demand and could have played weeknights in addition to weekends, but neither Anna or Arthur could see the point in doing so. Life ticked over sweetly and looking back they would have agreed that the times then were often very good indeed, golden perhaps. Stoke had different demands – they did not for a minute think it would be otherwise – and one of the differences was the spread of the net. Arthur was acquainted a few people in England before arriving from Ireland, many musicians are wandering troubadours and good communicators, but apart from proving useful for some of the practicalities of daily life, the contacts he had were a hindrance more than a help. At the start the Irish music they played attracted some Irish musicians from around and about. Stoke, however, did not possess a gaelic infrastructure meaning that the music they played was not only unpopular it was also under-par. Changing their musical style and changing it quickly attracted a larger, younger audience which upped the stakes no end. Bigger audiences meant bigger clubs, more established venues further afield, lucrative in more ways than one. 

And the net started to catch again. It was true in that they saw it as utilising an advantage in their professional lives, and they enjoyed the process. Like fish in a big, wild lake, they used to say to each other, you never knew what you might pull out. The musicians in the band developed, some got better, some worse, they got families, got kicked out of families, hung about or just left. Audiences were different on Fridays than on Saturdays, they were also different in one part of Birmingham than another. Sometimes audiences were so capricious they loved the band one minute and ignored them the next. So many changes were happening in popular music that it was impossible to keep adrift of it all, so Anna and Arthur, like good performers they were, stuck with what they understood while being open to the new. The net caught Desmond first and then it caught Raymond.

Norwegian children grow up skiing; put one on a pair of ice skates in Central Park at sixty years old and she will fleet foot around like a winter Bambi, as easy as putting on a hat. This is what playing music was like for Stephen and Christopher, hard sometimes when they were growing up, but by the time they were ready to perform they were very ready. 

Raymond’s musical capacity was eeked out rather than bred in. He came to it late at a time when pubescent boys began to see the guitar as a useful object to strum. From late 1963 onwards, boys, guitars and bedrooms made noises. When they thought they had reached a certain level of proficiency –  usually E major at the root followed by A, C, G and D – they wanted to form a band. Raymond was a little bit better than most and he felt confident when he watched Wychbury Ring play support at Wolverhampton’s Club Lafayette in 1964. By then, both just turned fifteen, Stephen and Christopher were regulars in the band and they enjoyed all of it, the money, the respect, watching the other bands (like everyone on the circuit they knew the ones who would make it) but most of all they thrived on the bone-deep confidence that never let them down. Raymond approached them as the main act was performing.

“Hiya, alright, I’ve seen you a few times now, really good you are, the band I mean, well you two as well, really good, I mean how long have you been playing?”

“We’re just going into one of the little dressing rooms” Stephen replied, “Do you want to come with us, we can’t linger about here being under age and all that, you might get away with it but everyone knows us here so it’s frowned on, they can’t ignore it.”

“Yeah brilliant I’ll follow you then.”

“What name do you go by Gringo?” 

Christopher asked this as he patted Raymond on the back directing him in the right direction.

Whereas their mates at school were busy deciding – or avoiding – what to do once the remaining months of school finally fizzled out, Stephen and Christopher had known for years that they were professional performers in an apprenticeship. Neither gave a look back when the demob bell rang in the main corridor at 3.25pm on the last day, why would they? Their skills were ingrained as second nature, lucrative skills, and they were not yet sixteen. A few more lessons in their musical education needed to be coached in, so Arthur thought,  but when these were in, like the rest, they stayed learnt, becoming elements in the boys character. One of these lessons was demeanor and attitude on stage. 

Anna and Arthur were naturally suited to television in the 1960’s. The producer of the Julius Camino Show on ABC Midlands and North, where they performed twice in 1966, told them so. This area of expertise, however, required some essential aspects of presentation that needed to be in place from the start. Anna’s teeth, for example, were wonky and uneven in colour, not a great look even on a tiny black and white screen, especially for a soulful singer in close up. And Arthur had a mole at the top of his cheek underneath his right eye. These aside, as well as the fact that television was only a sketchy showcase for music, Anna and Arthur had many attributes for doing well in the tele-visual business, if they had genuinely wanted to that is.

 One of the weapons in their armoury, often overlooked by more naturally talented performers, was knowing the real meaning of ‘turning up’ to perform. By mid 1965 Anna, Arthur, Stephen and Christopher had interacted with hundreds of professional performers – not just musicians – some becoming well known on the circuit, even nationally famous, and at that level of fame corresponding patterns of behaviour seemed to accrue, not an iron law of course, but certainly a pattern. 

The really good ones, where raw talent met work ethic and a thirst to perfect their craft, learn that ‘all fellows well met’ is a default best set to yes. You never know who got the brunt of a pissed off mood if the car door was slammed on arriving at a venue, so prior to getting out was the start of being on stage, so fucking sharpen up. After midnight, plied with drinks, brain still swimming through a hundred hoops, you get back into the car and close the door, performance over. Stage one. 

Public recognition following television allowed a more relaxed pre-performance. Preconceptions meant that a default position normally over-rode a particular mood. If, for instance, a ballad singer interspersed the act with gentle stories, or jokes your nan could giggle at, then this performer was nice, unequivocally, case closed. So it would have taken a hell of a something stop this persona following the performer everytime the face showed itself. Good performers looked great too, even the odd ones, effortlessly confident, interesting, people listened when you talked. So as long as you didn’t hit someone or spit in their face all you needed to do was to walk and smile, not easy at times and hard to seriously mess up but, even so, still within the boundaries of possibility. 

Comedians are essentially classroom clowns, none of who can stand the strain of being funny all of the time. Sometimes the public saw the joker’s mask lifted, then the bells stopped jingling and perception reversed polarity. Excessive drink and drugs became as essential as an audience, and many of the biggest comedy acts in the 1960’s – names gilded bright – had dark chapters in their encyclopaedia of dreams. Grumpy comedians it the easiest. They could get out of the car, light a fag, sign an autograph, and then tell people to piss off out of the way. Laughter all round. Good bloke that, down to earth.

Years of varying success and the pattern started again at another level. TV studios, film sets, London parties, all requiring a degree of manipulative behavior to facilitate the next avenue of opportunity. Or, just as importantly, not to have one shut in your face. The really great performers didn’t need a cautious coat, although some still wore one to protect against the cold. Their error was to trust talent too much while being led like a bull with a ring through its nose. 

Sometimes performers got relegated, returning to the middle circuits, to the ones worked by Anna and Arthur. On the one hand this was a relief for the former high fliers, there was, for instance, no need to do anything other than turn up, perform, and then do whatever came next, no preamble required or given. Managers or agencies got them work and it was steady and easy, lucrative for everyone, ticking over as long as the artist continued to turn up. But nobody mistook it to be anything other than a fall. 

Anna and Arthur considered what they did, at the level that they did it, a proud profession. They always ‘turned up’ in the right way, no pratting about, and they demanded that Stephen and Christopher do the same.

“Yes alright I know, I know, but it was funny wasn’t it, you’ve got to admit, come on.”

Christopher was whispering to Stephen in the decent sized kitchen of the house in Burslem, near the cemetery. Arthur had bought the house in cash from a gambler who, in turn, had bought it five years previously when the going was better. Anna loved it, plenty enough space, a reception room for living in, three bedrooms, big garage (that got bigger over the years) light streaming into the kitchen area, an outhouse and, the key to it all, a big room at the back overlooking fields that could never be built on because of the cemetery. This was the music room, and it was where Arthur played the piano while Anna sang and the boys were in the kitchen waiting.

 “Lads can you come in for a moment, Stevie, on second thoughts could you make dad and me a cuppa darling, that would be lovely, thank you.” 

Anna had stopped singing though her speaking voice was still lovely, emulsive yet crisp and naturally melodic. 

“Don’t wait for him Chrissy, he’s a big boy, doesn’t need your help.”

She added this even though she couldn’t see through walls. Christopher looked at Stephen who shrugged his shoulders.

“Do you want any biscuits mum”

 Stephen showed the packet of garibaldis to the wall as if his mum could see through it, half taking the piss, only half though.

“No thank you.”

        When playing the two under drinking age lads had to stay away from the main concert lounge between acts, especially on the busy weekend nights, although they could perform music on stage. So the boys found places where they could pass the time without being noticed, enjoying sly smokes, packets of crisps and a half of shandy courtesy of obliging patrons. Christopher was drunk on the occasion in question, not falling down drunk but bad enough for consequences, made much worse when he took the mickey out of the elderly serviceman who was attending the cloakroom of the Empire Club in Stoke. 

     He was sick in the van on the way home, which his uncle made him clean up first thing the following day. That afternoon he returned to Anna and Arthur’s for the usual appraisal of the weekends work, not quite sure what was waiting for him. He expected to suffer a cold shoulder, then a roasting, and then to check which songs to practice before Thursday evenings rehearsal. He knew his behaviour would not be tolerated but how much so could only be guessed at. Arthur turned from the piano and smiled at the young man as he entered the room, it was a smile that wasn’t expecting to be reciprocated, he beckoned Christopher inside.

“Where did you get the drink from?”

Anna asked this while looking through her notebook.

“Some older lads.”

“Stevie didn’t drink it why did you?”

“Don’t know.”

“Go home.” 

Anna looked at the boy then returned to her notebook. Arthur turned and closed the lid on the piano.

Christopher walked out of the room, into the kitchen, and straight past Stephen without a word or a glance. He was angrily emotional, confused and very scared. The tears came when the front garden gate had been slammed shut. He heard Stephen shout for him to wait but he told him to piss off, careful not to turn around and let the other see his tears. He cried like a lost child. The house he slept in, where his mother and sisters lived, wasn’t his home, he never called it that. 

In a few days the band rehearsed and played as normal. The week after the occurrence Christopher and Stephen visited the Empire Club to help out with a few odd jobs, cleaning gutters, weeding the car park, washing the doors and windows. They put a fair shift in too, they were told it would do them both good, hard physical work never killed anyone Arthur said, yes it did they said to each other when he was out of range, fucking millions. Stephen understood he had to do the recompense with Christopher, they both knew why, they were the rhythm of the band and if one was out of synch then the timing of the whole was off, no good. Christopher got something else out of the situation too, he now understood that there was a value in teamwork, a pragmatism resulting in incremental payback from effort put in, much better this way than struggling on your own, scratching at fag and beer money jobs when school spewed you out. In the profession or not, that was the question. He needed Anna and Arthur, not the other way round, they held the cards – and this was the real lesson that stayed taught – he saw them from then on as dangerous bastards rather than family.   

                                               28

“Name’s Raymond, but people shorten it and all sorts of things, but I       

            like Raymond better.”

“Stephen, Christopher, Christopher, Stephen.”

Two years was a large gap at that period of young men’s lives, still it was plain who were the organisms fitted to the environment called The Lafayette Club in Wolverhampton, and it wasn’t Raymond. Some young bulls, smelling superior status, would try to brag the arse out of it. The lessons of the profession learned by Christopher and Stephen, however, required a more cautious information auction, gently does it was their approach, you never know. Who was this lad they wondered? on his own on a Friday night, not with a group of boozed up shavers looking for girls, or a fight, or both. Might be something in it, they thought, always worth a shot, always worth listening to someone until the rubbish starts spouting.

“Yeah you were good, great really, bloody brilliant, how long have you been playing, what’s that big tambourine you play? everyone loved that, it’s loud isn’t it, have you got it mic’d up?”

“Do you smoke Raymond, fancy one?”

“No, have one of mine, please.”

Raymond shook a ten pack of Players No6 at them.

“Oh cheers” Stephen said as he took one. “We’ve known each other from school, primary school, me and him, and we’ve been playing forever, that’s my mum and dad on stage, mum writes her own songs, people like them but mainly because of the beat, which is us.”

Christopher took a long drag, flicked the ash on the floor spitting fictitious tobacco from his lip into nowhere, purely for effect.

“It’s called a Bodhran, it’s an Irish drum but we don’t call it Irish, the ones I use are double size with thinner skins and tighter, you play them softer but with the tips to get a louder sound, I’ve been playing ‘em for years. Dad, his dad, made the ones I play.”

‘Who was that young lad singing on stage just then?” Raymond asked.

“Not sure, we’ve heard him a couple of times but we’ve never spoke to him.” Stephen replied “He’s good though, going to make it no trouble at all.”

“Robert something or other.” Christopher added “Looks good as well.”

“So how do I get into playing in a band?”

     The younger men were genuinely nonplussed by this question, not surprised or taken aback by it, just stuck for an answer. They had done what they did for as long as they had worn shoes, but they didn’t know how it was all put together.

“Do you play?” 

They asked this at the same time. Raymond replied that he did, but only for about a year, in his bedroom. Stephen and Christopher knew that this was the equivalent to a kick about after school and pretending it was the FA cup final, but you never know, don’t assume.

“We’re on again for half an hour or so in about fifteen minutes why don’t you hang around and we could play a song or something in the back.”

“Brilliant, I’d love that, thanks lads, thanks very much, I’ll go back and watch you then.”

Wychbury Ring finished their set just after 10pm to decent applause. The audience and band knew though that the group playing after them – last on for their second set of the night – was the one everybody was waiting for. The sound hum doubled as the young singer took the stage, two smartly dressed people at the back of the room were taking notice of everything. Stephen and Christopher found Raymond waiting and smoking in a large back room of the Lafayette, blues rock and roll still muffling through the walls and corridors. They told Anna and Arthur that they would be about twenty minutes and were told in turn that this was fine as long as they kept their noses clean.

The room was lit well enough for the three young men to find stools and boxes to sit on and Stephen passed Raymond a guitar case which, when opened, revealed a well used Gibson Folk Singer acoustic guitar. To experienced players like Stephen and Christopher an unfamiliar instrument gets picked up and played. To a beginner who had played less than a dozen chords in front of another person before tonight (Laurie Evens, last Tuesday afternoon in her bedroom) it gave Raymond bad nerves. The two younger men had seen this many times before, usually when dad was auditioning musicians for the band, which he thought indicated a lack of playing hours. Nervousness that made the fingers think was bad for a player although sometimes allowances could be made, in this case they were.

“Just play anything you know, Raymond, keep it simple, something you’ve learnt or just a few chords, we’ll pick it up and play along.”

Stephen said this reassuringly, fag in mouth, while tuning his own guitar up. Raymond nodded in reply. He played an E major and slid it up the fretboard without barre in its original fingering to fifth fret, then seventh, then from fifth, single frets down to its original position. He followed this with a crude A7, followed by a clumsy B7 – both at root – then E again, this time with a nifty pinky flick of the bottom E string. It was enough for them all to play along in an upbeat bluesy style for a few minutes. Then Raymond started singing, nothing recognisable, just made up bluesy phrases. Something from nowhere, unexpected, different, a high pitched whelp almost ridiculous over the top of the guitars, but it wasn’t. The beat or the backing music didn’t count anymore because it was the voice that was being listened to. Christopher’s uncle heard it from outside while he was loading the van and whistled at Arthur to listen to the music coming from the window close by. Within a minute Anna and Arthur had quietly entered the room, unnoticed, and were listening to the playing with attention. They approached the three boys when the music had reached an obvious end, Arthur offering them a cigarette each, the new lad first.

“Good sound that boys well done.” He held a hand out to Raymond. “My name’s Arthur, this is Anna, who do you play with son?”

He lit his own cigarette then Raymond’s.

“These two.” 

Raymond said this with no attempt at humour though everybody laughed.

“Okay, that’s good enough for me son, listen do you know Burslem at all?”

He said he didn’t know it that well but that his parents had friends there that they visited from time to time. And he passed through it on the bus twice a week on his way to technical college.

“Well listen now, Stephen will give you our address, we rehearse Thursday nights from about six o’clock, if you decide to come you can sit in and watch or have a play if you fancy that, no big deal, you’re very welcome.” 

     Raymond thought to himself that this was a big deal. Life seemed about to change, he could feel it in his body, excitement, like he had been shot from a cannon and landed safely in the net after turning somersaults in the air.

“Thanks Mr Arthur, thank you Anna.”

“Very welcome indeed” said Anna. 

                                                      29

There were ructions when Arthur made the decision to include Stephen and Christopher in the band and understandably so, three good members, who did not want to leave, were expelled without preamble. In truth they should have seen it coming and, again in truth, they probably did, but it was a hard jolt nonetheless, minstrels do not take out pension plans. It was like shooting sheepdogs, they had lost their usefulness to the farmer and, in consequence, their reason for being fed. 

     Immediate money matters worried the three ex-players. They relied on the back-pocket bundles that provided the ever so important little extra sweeteners to life. The real anxiety following the cull, however, were weekends without structure, a pleasure at first, but quickly turning to a dangerous void that drew them inexorably to the siren-like call of the bookies or the pub. They were good musicians though, solid players, and the hiatus did not last. They found places in other bands better which, of course, were in every way better than Wychbury Ring. They reminded Arthur of this whenever they bumped into him on the circuit, it was a wonder why they ever stuck it so long. 

     There was some heckling when the young members played their first professional set as front performers, until the beat started, then it became apparent that the music had blood in it, blood, fire and skill. They had been immersed in this life before any other memories they could recall and now they were first team. School was always distant second, that’s why they did alright at it, because it didn’t matter, they couldn’t care less. Beach football make Brazilians good.

     Raymond was old enough but before he was good enough he had a lot of catching up to do. Professionally, the bones and gristle of performing at the level Anne and Arthur had done since Ireland – steadily increasing the quality and status of the band – meant not just an ability to play, but the experience necessary to do it well, game time. The ousted members were rankled more by this than the age difference, they didn’t get where the work miles had come from, and they mistook Stephen and Christopher’s inclusion for nepotism. Raymond though did not have the miles, not even the yards or feet or inches, so the fact that he got to play with the band – after less than a month of rehearsal – meant that he brought something into the mix, and that was his singing.

     He learned two songs, one a ballad written by Anna and the other a folk song by Ralph Vaughan Williams which Anna and Raymond extemporaneously changed during practice. The songs were genuinely good, moving for anyone who had a heart or the right kind of emotional switches. During the period it took Raymond to become an fully integrated member of the band the songs rarely failed to bring genuine spontaneous applause from audiences, loud applause and often moving. On one occasion, the fourth or fifth time the songs were played, Arthur motioned Stephen to stop playing guitar, at which point the voices – Anna and Raymond’s – were the only sounds, and they were heard clearly because even the drunks were listening.

“Do you never write your own songs Raymond?” 

     Tuesday mornings became as regular for Anna and Raymond as Thursday evening rehearsals were for the rest of the band. Arthur knew the vocal relationship between the two was unique and had to be given time to foster, so he stayed out of the way. During this time, often spreading out into the afternoon, they worked together on arrangements of other songs, including Anna’s own compositions. Raymond sipped his coffee and thought about his reply.

“I can’t do it, everytime I try it’s just useless, nothing there, just nothing, if I try to force something out it just sounds like a warble, pathetic, no structure or meaning, like a Goon show tune, do you know what I mean, a joke. But what can I do, no point digging for coal if there is none is there? I really enjoy writing songs other people have written though.”

Anna laughed, she rarely laughed out loud and it sounded like a melodic exclamation mark, a phut of sweet smoke, Raymond liked that.

“What! Mmm, I don’t know what that really means, don’t much like the sound of it either.”

“No, well yes, no that’s not fair, you know, the one we did last week, yours, Not Yet Autumn, it is a good song – everybody knows that – but it wasn’t as good as it could be, you knew that didn’t you?”

 Anna shrugged, she shook or nodded her head at the observation, one of the two, Raymond couldn’t figure out which. 

“No if’s or maybe’s, it wasn’t and I’ll tell you that for nothing, you know that now anyway, clear as a bell. The point is though is that it gives me a start, well more than that really it gives me a start, a middle and an end. And I know when I hear it it can be changed, almost to the point of being another song entirely, I do it all the time.”

     People ate well during the Second World War, not in all of occupied Europe maybe, but in Britain and Ireland certainly. Learning to grow your own produce was not just a necessity it became almost immune to social difference, the way hospitals or swimming pools can sometimes be. Having a strip of council owned land, allotted, was a simple, decent, healthy way to carry on. Meat was eaten in small amounts, variable fare rationed out from the weekly butcher, or whatever flesh that could be caught or had died already. Rabbits, hares, squirrels, and horses were all on the menu. If it flew, scurried or swam then it could be plucked, skinned or scaled. To those not inclined by nature to eat meat, who found chewing and swallowing antithetic, the lumps of grey, sinewy bone-bit matter tended to repulse the appetite. Anna often spent several minutes trying to chew a piece of meat in the broth her mother had made, while everyone else round the table yalped it down. She managed to swallow it, eventually, with an ease equivalent to eating half a toe. Ireland was the last time she ever ate meat. 

     Raymond’s diet wasn’t good – young men get away with it – he smoked steadily through the day, got drunk once a week but never now at weekends. He had a bath on Sunday and didn’t need to shave more than once a week, but he always looked clean and fresh. His ears, Anna thought, as she watched him play rudimentary piano next to her, are so well-formed you could put one in your mouth till he made you stop and turned you over. She didn’t need to move the wisp of hair away before kissing the lobe, although it did bring them even closer. A woman in her mid-forties is old to a seventeen year old boy but Anna did not look or feel it as Raymond turned to her and was willingly kissed open mouthed. Singing since she could speak had lifted Anna’s face, feathering the corners of her eyes, allowing them to be bluer. Her breath was fresh from the doubt-free vitality of living well, she was interesting, like a distant queen. Raymond’s arm went around her shoulder and she could feel the young man pressing solidly into her.

“Let’s slow down a little should we, that was nice though.” 

She kissed him again, affectionately, but this time with closed lips, she replaced his arm back onto the piano keys.

“You have to know how to control that tiger in your tank, make it work for you.”

Her hand cupped his crotch, the tips of her fingers and thumb making an outline of his cock through his jeans. He tried to place a hand on her breast but she stopped him.

“Play” 

                                                       30

Those not raised in a yurt on a windswept Central Asian plain may recognise the varying decibels of a rock and roll band rehearsing from somewhere nearby. Closer proximity to what is usually a right cacophony differentiates what are, in fact, separate instruments. Drums above the rest, an electric bass played loudly, the rhythm guitar played even louder. ‘One, two, one two’ from a finger-tapped microphone trying vainly to be heard over the rest. Four drum clicks starts the ensemble on a song they should know well but never sounds like they think it should. The band from nowhere sometimes stop mid-song for an autopsy,  squabbling they usually turn their own amplifiers up. The all-electric rock band is a band of brothers with ego, with a drummer trying to break concrete, guitars exploding and a singer shouting melody through a microphone like a crazy person. 

     Bonhoff looked up at the window two floors above then glanced around the coach park to see if anyone else was hearing what they were, there was nobody else around so they weren’t, shame, he thought. He had never experienced anything good in his twenty young years, implausible yet true, nothing at all. Food, with the exception of fish, chips and peas, was bad, either processed with sugar, salt and fat or just bland. Football – Port Vale. Clothes – ill-fitting, worn out of fashion till shiny, shoes scuffed and leaky. Houses – dank, un-private, uniform. Countryside – windy, wet and slaggy. Sex – none, or at best snatched then bragged about. Friends – said they did stuff but never did. Music – good, very good, but never real, not up front, not a proper experience, always records or radio, like the telly. With surprise resulting in a smirk of pure joy Bonhoff was now hearing something good right where he was, he knew it instinctively and he really liked it. 

     The music was from a professional band whose members did what they were doing for a living. And being professional at performance meant that you don’t get paid decent, regular money for being shit. Bonhoff would remember this experience. The song was good too. Seldom is electric guitar music worth hearing on its own, even less so drums. No, what people listen to by the billions, what they pay to listen to by the billions, are good songs sung well with the instrumentation as backing, and to achieve this you have to sing and be heard. The song Desmond and Raymond chose as a warm up number, always the first one to be played at rehearsals, was Carrie Anne by The Hollies, not because any of the band liked the song, or even the original band who made it a hit, but because it was melodic with harmony. The girl in the office that Stephen had been talking to earlier told him later that evening that it was the best thing she had ever heard, better than anything on the radio, she meant it too. He talked to his parents about the rehearsal when he visited them, on his own, the day after.

     Arthur thought this may happen with Stephen’s band, it was not uncommon in the business for a group of decent players to come together and click. It was unusual, however, for the running of a band – especially a young one – to proceed smoothly for a decent period of time without the guidance of a senior member. When Raymond started to play with Arthur and Anna the music changed, the dynamic of Wychbury Ring changed, positions on stage, playlists, lighting, to the point where it was unavoidable to acknowledge that a younger audience were paying to watch the boys and not to listen to Anna or Arthur. Even with all the respect the older band leader warranted – which was a fair bit – the managers of the venues began to hint to Arthur that they would like to book Stephen, Christopher and Raymond as a separate group and preferably with a different name. With ego put to one side they scaled down Wychbury Ring, playing as a twosome in smaller, more intimate acoustic venues around and about. Anna was pleased with this.

It came as a surprise to them that Stephen and the other two took this development quite hard. Christopher and Stephen were sixteen years old, Raymond eighteen, they thought they were tough, like Che Guevara, but they were conservative, as young people often are, tolerating sea changes like another fall of Adam. After the tears, sulks and cigarettes, they all shook things about and carried on in the new way. The first few performances as a rock/pop group, which they called Sylstar, were mixed but encouraging, as expected. Raymond convinced himself that being a lead vocalist had to be worked at, like a mini apprenticeship. He would gain experience as he played, working the crowd, honing a few moves, and he would attain the extra tonsil stamina he needed to get through a set. He would become match-fit he said to himself many times during the process. 

Raymond was a young man with self appraisal. He knew in his heart-soul what he was or was not good at, but he had to try hard first before decision day. The re-working of songs he was a craftsman at, able to change other people’s efforts into something different, occasionally turning a song into what might tentatively be considered as a new original. As a frontman he simply tried too hard. Not that trying any less hard would have helped, but trying too hard was worse. It became obvious after half a dozen shows that the band were terminally flat. With Raymond’s magnanimous agreement Arthur trawled the net for a new frontman and, after a few auditions, a tall eighteen year old who had come along with his mate and was casually grooving and singing at the side of Christopher’s drum kit, was picked. Why don’t you have a go was Anna’s non-verbal question to him after a few eye contacts. Alright then was Desmond’s non-verbal answer, I will.

“We’ve got good dad, something happened, I don’t know if it is just a one off or if the room was good, acoustics, you know how it changes the feel, but it’s different, me and Christopher couldn’t put our finger on it and we’re not sure where we stand, it’s good though, and all that, but we just don’t know where we stand, with the whole thing.”

     Stephen was smoking as he spoke, they both were, the grey plumes adding to the coffee coloured discoloration of the wallpaper in the front lounge. Arthur was drinking whisky. He had been dead set against the stuff for as long as people had known him, his son, being his son, had followed suit, so drinking it was unusual. Anna was out so that was one reason for partaking, another was that he no longer led a band. Now that the boys had set up their own trio becoming (in Arthur’s opinion) a proper four piece group, he considered himself retired him from the daily ins and outs of bandleading. These days, as a guitarist to Anna’s act, he could relax a bit and he took gentle advantage of the new situation.

“What happened again on the first night in the Isle of Man?” He asked his son.

“When Desmond did the dressing up thing you mean?”

“Yes, I’d just like to know how everyone reacted.”

“More like on the third night really.”

“Okay, what was that like?”

“With us or the audience?”

“Oh sorry son no, you told me about that, no, I mean the managers, the owners of the clubs, what were they like when they saw all the kids queuing up?”

“No idea, I don’t know about any of that, neither of us do, those two took care of all that.”

                                             31

Ellen woke at 6.45, roughly the same time she had woken up everyday since Christian left. This time she was neither on the side of the bed she normally slept in, or even in it, but still downstairs, led half-on the sofa covered with a yellow and orange knitted throw from John Lewis. With weed and wine still working she was not uncomfortable or depressed. Her head rested sideways on a grey velour cushion, the fat on its left cheek pushing against her nose, puckering a lip like Elvis. Her right eye was free enough to open and it was this that collected the necessary information for her conscious mind to reluctantly sort itself out. But first things first, she thought, as her fingers found their way between her legs.

     6.53. Right. She needed a piss but laziness convinced her it was not that urgent. On the smaller settee, to the left of the room, was the large burgundy Debenhams carrier bag with sturdy black plastic handles, how do they make things like this she wondered for half a minute. In the bag was the new suit purchased on her way home the previous evening, despised and unchecked. It would stay that way for days until Ellen remembered the receipt was still inside and thought she might as well get a refund. First decision made then, never put that suit on. Next one, or any suit like it unless obligation forced the wearing – weddings, funerals – nothing else. Next to her phone and the TV remote, half an empty bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape and three smoked joints, the last one still between tweezers. The neat little box she kept her aromatic marijuana in was closed, the faint outline of the rizla papers and the clear purple lighter showing through the plastic lid. The other bottle of wine, empty, was on the floor.

     Being careful can be hazardous. Ellen had immediate issues to contend with, see-saw problems requiring a jump off point, but she didn’t know where, or how, whether to jump at the top or the bottom or somewhere in between. Fortune favours the brave she had heard, but what about the bills, sitting on a street with a paper cup wrapped in a piss-stained sleeping bag doesn’t sound like a win, what are you going to do then, she thought. Well, even though it was not quite seven in the morning she had decided she was not going into work today, and probably – things change, everybody knows that – never would again. Something else entered her mind, a change of thought really, a pleasant one too, thanks Anne, clever woman, she scribbled a reminder on the back of her hand to ring her later.

     Some find it sinister that algorithms run the daily digital world. It seems intrusive, like an intricately planned conspiracy. Ellen did what most people do when the television screen prompted something she may like based on what she had previously viewed, she ignored it and switched channels, something, however, made her recall that the recommendation was for a programme about sculpture. Naresha, who recently worked as Ellen’s assistant used her account, so it must have been her, but the password changed when Naresha was dismissed so Ellen rejected this as unlikely. She turned the television back on, took a sip of coffee and had another look. She clicked resume on the programme she was watching before falling asleep the previous night, a biography of Barbara Hepworth. 

     She pressed pause almost immediately. Her phone was ringing in the kitchen, whirring away on the worktop, she left it there deliberately after making a coffee. She knew she would answer it so asking herself whether she could be bothered was futile, she needed the toilet anyway so two birds with one stone eh, fucking thing. Green phone symbol shaking, WORK icon above it, and above that the time, 7.52. Not even up for an hour, not due in for another one. 

     Weighing up the consequences of throwing it against the wall, her instinct decided that the chunk it would take out of the plaster would make it difficult to get her deposit back when she moved. And it would also smash the phone to pieces, all over the kitchen, meaning she would have to clean it up which she did not feel like doing. Red phone symbol now, much simpler to deal with, fuck off. Ellen laughed and felt less heavy, like the last hours of a bad school term. Who do I phone back she wondered. Her own programme of sickness and leave regulation required all employees up to grade 8 management level (non-medical) to inform, within one hour of non-participation all personal incapacitation. But who does she phone? Till this moment Ellen had never considered any of this applied to her, she was on the inside, the person who put things in place, not the one who was done to. It made her laugh out loud and it was a good feeling, she left a message with reception. 

     The documentary had old footage. In the first scene the sculptor-artist was making an artefact from wood in a workshop. The film followed her as she patrolled the elevated garden with the sea in the background. This was the creators own realm, no influence other than her own brought into dimension. The woman touched the sculptures she had made with affectionate connection given normally to progeny, or dogs. It seemed to Ellen they were randomly installed, melted around trees, in corners, or where people could bump into them. Sometimes Hepworth slapped one, or put her hand inside it if it had a hole, then her arms went in, one by one, like a vet with a labouring ewe. She sat on one, kicked another, patted the space normally taken up by a head. Ellen noticed the clothes Hepworth was wearing, comfy clothes, clothes for the purpose of the day, Hepworth’s day, her choice, her workshop, her sculptures, her garden, her headscarf, hers, one hand bare, one with a fingerless mitten. 

“Hello…”

“Anne, how are you? I just thought I would…oh shit!”

“…sorry I can’t answer your call at the moment, please leave a message after the tone.”

“Hi Anne it’s Ellen, hope you’re feeling a bit better, listen, I’ll try to ring you later on, I’m not going into work today because… because, well I’m just not. Please don’t mention it to anyone, nurses especially, if you can help it that is, sorry, no one will ask I’m sure, anyway, if you are up to it give me a ring back when you get chance, I’m not doing anything today, Oh Anne, thanks, thanks a lot, I mean it, you know what I mean, hope you’re feeling better, give me a ring, bye.”

     Ellen didn’t finish the documentary, it was unnecessary as she knew exactly what the rest of her day was for. Her phone rang again, unknown caller.

“Hello I just missed a call can I help you?”

“Oh hello, is that Raymond, Ray it’s Ellen, Ellen Alty, Christopher’s daughter, I just called to see how Anne was, I work at the hospital and we talked before you got there, how is she?”

“Hello Ellen, yes Anne said you were with her, she’s black and blue and a bit sore but they’ve put her leg in plaster so not too bad really, just a bit of a shock, as you’d expect with one thing and another.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No, not really, thanks love, no it’s okay, she’s quite comfortable just a bit sore like I said but they’ve done all the scans and they are all clear, some blood tests to sort out and they reckon that’s it, physically.”

“What about the accident, are they investigating?”

“Ellen, sorry, I can’t speak for long I’m just about to go home and get freshened up, she said she would love to see you again if you’re at work, but don’t go to any trouble, but she would like it, if you can.”

“Oh Raymond, can you tell her I’m so sorry I can’t, I’m off work, I’m just not going in. Anne said something to me yesterday that hit like a ton of bricks, she will understand, can you tell her thanks, it means so much. I feel like a new person, got a few decisions made already, she’ll know, could you tell her thanks. Raymond before you go can I come see you both when you get sorted, are you still near the golf course?”

“Yes of course you can Anne would love that, we both would, I’ll hold you to that, fantastic, right love I’ve got to shoot, I’ll text you the address in case you can’t remember it, thanks, see you soon.”

“Yes thanks Raymond, see you soon, tell Anne thanks.”

“Will do.”

                                             32

As pure entertainment wrestling relies on the visual for its impact. Theatrics, melodrama and muscle are its stock in trade, people understand the idea of it, some assure it to be a genuine sport which, predetermined results aside, it is. But beyond doubt it is show business. 

     In 1960’s northern England, when professional wrestling was a popular Saturday afternoon pastime, it was an interactive event, like Punch and Judy for grown ups, violent, serious and a lot of fun. On black and white televisions ITV’s World of Sport showed women in the crowd, spiting, swearing, scratching and screaming at the bulging, oiled wrestlers. Bad boy Mick McManus, slick blacked hair, black trunks, sardonic. They fawned like the mothers of East End gangsters over golden locked Jackie Pallo, wetting their knickers when he performed his cross shoulder backbreaker. Throughout the midlands and the north, in emptied public swimming baths, market halls, or anywhere big enough to accommodate the gladiators, crowds streamed in to vent fury at the bulked up men who, like the women in the crowd on the monochrome telly, appeared older than they actually were. 

     At one of these shows in Selly Oak, Birmingham, during the early summer of 1964, Desmond Jencks and his some of his chums from grammar school went to see one of the wrestling shows everyone was talking about. This was an early evening show, on Friday, after cricket practice. They had lots of fun that night and talked about it to all of their friends during the following week. They even tried some of the moves during indoor games, although they were discouraged from this by Mr Kendricks, the geography and games master. Desmond was seriously struck during the Friday night performance by a figure introduced ominously, by the master of ceremonies, as Kendo Nagasaki. The crowd hushed, then stirred, then roared, then swore, then did other things that got lost in the tumult. All over an overweight wrestler of indeterminate age, in a leotard and a red leather gimp mask.

Christine was unsure about the stage image that Desmond had formulated in the Isle of Man. In fact, after the night out in Manchester, Desmond showed Christine the outfit – with him in it – and she laughed out loud. He didn’t mind this so much as when she stopped, paused, then carried on laughing again. Desmond’s pride was self-referential, he could see his behaviour as others saw it because, in essence, it was almost always controlled, like an actors. This didn’t prevent the occasional irk at bad reviews – this was one – but it was never taken to heart, and there was always time for revenge. The ridiculous element of the stage persona created a stir which was what he wanted and it worked, for a while. The unforeseen aspect was it’s blandness, all surface with no drama, no real impact indicating that the group, or the frontman, or the wrestler, had something special, a story to share with the audience. 

She decided to do something with the band that evening. Sylstar had been booked to play as support on a bill with Marco and The Caledonians at the Fakir Club on Oxford Road, Manchester. The booking came when they were still in the Isle of Man, it was a big step up for them so they said yes please. The four travelled up to Manchester the day before with the intention of seeing some night life in an unfamiliar city, which they did.

 The performance itself went well in front of a good sized, appreciative crowd. Desmond’s duck suit – now with the addition heavy facial make up – wasn’t as outrageous as they all expected it would be, although it did cause a bit of a stir. The band played up to the image but the feeling in the crowd, which was noticed by the band, was that it was a jokey gimmick, good for the first two or three numbers but with nowhere else to go. They talked about this on the drive back to the midlands on Sunday evening. Either it was the lack of material, lack of inexperience in showmanship (Desmond didn’t think this was fair) or maybe even they were just not as good as they thought they were. The initial press coverage following the Isle of Man was hardly front page, but anything in the papers, especially the music press, feels like the big time. They had one, maybe two, good songs, if they could scrape a few more together then this could propel them to the next level, as it stood though it seemed a long way off.

Raymond and Desmond tried to repeat the formulae that produced Slippa during the run up to the television audition. What they believed were solid songs during the writing fell flat fairly quickly, Stephen and Christopher couldn’t contain their indifference. On one occasion a number they thought to be a strong effort was played acoustically to Christine and her brother Rod. Afterwards, when Stephen and Christopher had sauntered off to talk about something they were really interested in, the siblings beckoned the songsmiths to inform them that, in the pond they were now in, stealing songs was a highly skilled or an utterly brazen practice and that, as yet, they were neither. This didn’t bode well. There were many bands on the near-to-top circuit who played efficient pop/rock and looked good, some even had a dedicated fan base, especially in London, which Sylstar didn’t quite achieve even in Stoke. All of these groups had a few good original songs in their repertoire but, like Sylstar, this left a mighty hole in the set that had to be filled, and filler was always what it would be, stodge. The worse thing, as the boys now realised, was that they had nothing to sell. Raymond had this feeling a few weeks previously when they were appropriating a Beatles song, in a sticky pub lounge on the Isle of Man, at 10 o’clock in the morning.

For a good reason Slippa got away with it. It was not suspected as being a direct rip off of Mean Mr Mustard, even when George Harrison saw it being performed on Una Garron’s TV show, on a warm Saturday evening in August 1969. Not for a moment did he think someone had deliberately sat down with one of their records and set about plagiarising a track. The Beatles were the everyday sound of popular music, and like Shakespeare with language, it was difficult to distinguish influence from something less innocent. McCartney and Lennon, Paul especially, wrote so much for other people that this one could have been one of theirs anyway, who knows and who cares, George thought. It was a well crafted song with a good beat, sparse lyrics and restrained backing vocals, good effort he thought, and a funny frontman. He mentioned to his wife and friends who were watching the show with him that it might even win. He even suggested they phone up and vote for the band, just for a laugh.

Desmond was decently pissed off. He had a great face, longish without the daft chin that often comes with the length, skin that looked as if he had been in the Mediterranean for a couple of weeks, dark brown eyes awned with thunderbird brows, flicked with girl-bait lashes. He looked great, he knew it, the rest of the band knew it, the TV producers and cameramen knew it. Christine Robinson knew it, although because of it, and regardless of the fact that she had slept with him, she didn’t find him attractive, not vulnerable enough. When the country saw him on television that Saturday night the audience of just over nine million people knew straight away he was a looker, natural in front of the camera, not an easy feat to achieve without practice, even with a great face.. He had a good voice too, nasally, but good. By this time Raymond, Stephen and Christopher had taken to referring to themselves as a backing band and – on stage and on television that night – they acted this down to a tee, so much so that nobody noticed them. 

Desmond, however, never stopped smirking and the camera liked him doing this. In a way he never started smirking, it was always there, in the pram, before the pram, on his grannies knee, at school, playing with his friends, and now on telly. Dependant on context this smirking could be perceived as either good or bad, a marmite mannerism. National service, which Desmond and his  peers had fortunately missed, would have placed smirking solidly in the bad bracket. Being half a foot taller than most of the lads of his age would not have done him any good to start with, neither would his good looks or his perma-tan. What would have done him even less good was that all NCO’s took a smirk as a gloat. This would have attracted their attention yet, as reasonable people, they would have asked the tall young man with eyelashes and a tan to please wipe the grin off his face. Not possible he would have told them, he just couldn’t, and he didn’t want to even if he could, because he was not, by any means, unhappy. Fair enough the NCO’s would have thought, fair enough. On television though, on that night, he should have worn a nice suit. Christine told him to, many times, as did a few other people, and he should have listened to their advice because the image he projected, on the most important night of his life so far, was that of a right fucking clown.

Of course he wasn’t to know this when the live television performance of their Eurovision song had finished. All the band could hear was the directed applause of the studio audience followed by a few muted instructions to the band, the backing band not Desmond, to slowly walk off towards the rear of the set. When the cameras were off, Desmond was instructed by the stage production team to stay put, place his guitar on the stand and compose himself, because Una would be over in a few seconds for a live chat.

Una : “Hey, Hey, Hey, Walla, Walloo! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls at home what did you think of that?” (applause direction) “Sylstar everybody and the lead singer is…” (microphone pointing at Desmond)

Desmond : “Desmond Una.”

Una : “Ladies and jelly babies I give you…Desmond Una!” (genuine audience laughter)

Desmond : “No,no, just Desmond, Una.”

Una : “I know kid that’s what I said isn’t it?’ (mock surprise straight to the camera, audience laughter a decibel higher, producer rolling his hands mouthing her to keep going don’t stop) “Oh sorry, what was I thinking, start again, daisies and laundrymen… can I introduce to you… Just Desmond!” (roars of laughter).

At exactly the right moment, just when Una sensed the laughter from the studio audience was dissipating, she glanced at a monitor and saw Desmond’s face on screen; perfect, smirk turned to a lovely genuine grin, dimples, eyes glinting, hint of white teeth, worth a shot then, she thought, why not?

Una :  “Desmond, great song is that one of your own?”

Desmond : “Yes, I wrote it on the way here.” (unsolicited laughter and applause from the audience)

Una : “Oy, Oy, Oy, since when did this become a double act, I get the laughs round here son!” (looks to camera and feigns a karate chop at Desmond’s neck, loud laughter) 

“Here, how about introducing the next act, just look straight into that camera and read the card.” (Una walks away, looks at camera again and shrugs as if to say “why do I bother” (loud applause).

Desmond : (waits a few seconds for applause to lesson slightly) “Ladies and gentlemen, our next act is a young girl from Wales with a beautiful song called Child of the Mountains, please give a big hand for Jeanette Hornby.”

Like a professional presenter Desmond moved his body towards the singer entering stage left to where he was standing. He clapped with the audience as if he was enjoying being there and the cameraman stayed with him for a second or two longer than he was instructed to do. 

Christine did not waste much time. The day after was a Sunday so the afternoon was filled with an assessment meeting of the performance. The position of the song in the final public vote, a mix of phone-in and postal entries, would have to tally broadly with the pre-arranged outcome, so that needed to be carefully considered too. This was a highly secretive process that sometimes produced an outcome inconsistent with what had been organised. Everyone involved in the scam agreed that some surprises did no harm, a little adaptability heightened public anticipation towards the ultimate end, which was, as everyone agreed, the selling of records. The finalists though were rarely changed, and the song chosen to win never, even if this resulted in the public being nonplussed as to what the other public, the one ‘up north’ or ‘down south’, thought a good song was. 

     It was agreed that Sylstar should finish a close second behind Mina, an established performer with several hits already to her name. She would represent the United Kingdom in the finals held in Tallinn, Estonia, during the summer of 1970. The song – Whistle Like a Blackbird – written by the well established songwriters Mellor and Davison became a huge hit throughout Europe. Mina, however, grew to hate the song like a curse, and in later years tried desperately to shake off her popularity by acting in a series of self-financed theatre productions, directed by the renowned Ethanial Balla. The plays were not hits.

Christine was more interested in knocking on doors at Television Central than she was on the possibility of a one-off hit record. She didn’t need to knock too hard, irons were struck when hot and she knew Desmond was going to get some type of offer very quickly. This was confirmed when Una Garron gave Christine’s brother Rod telephone numbers of people worth contacting, Una couldn’t guarantee anything, of course, but a presentation screen test would be the least they might expect. Una was a sensible individual who saw no reason for leaving the wheels of talented people who want to get a move on, ungreased.  By early afternoon of the first day of the push Christine had appointments stretching over two weeks, which meant the bands engagements would require tweaking and a few sharpish car journeys up and down the motorways, Bonhoff would be driving so everyone could rest. What might be problematic, she thought – looking down from cloud nine following a very productive day – would be getting Desmond to understand that this career path was a better one than music, unless she could find a way of adapting the two. Surprisingly, he was not as pucker as he normal was when she left him that morning, it didn’t stop him though. All that business would soon finish she reminded herself, with a resolute nod in the passenger mirror of her car.

                                                        34

The young boy held his gift in both hands like a world within a world. His mother tried gently to dissuade him from showing everyone he could the magic he had under his control. An elderly couple who were throwing the crusts of their sandwiches to gulls pretended to be transfixed – as nice people do – and the little boy walked away thinking he was the smartest little cube in the sugar bowl. On the walk back along the front his mum bought him an ice cream in a double cone and it was big. He was only four yet he had an awkward decision to make, get rid of his magic magnetic spider, or eat the huge ice cream with chocolate poking out like an upside down nose. 

     His mum beckoned him to give up the spider. It was in a plastic half-globe without the snow, he held it tighter and turned away from her. “NO”… “Give it me or you won’t get this”… “NO”. She pretended to lick her own ice cream and then his, that did it. He forgot about his magic trick all the way down the promenade. His ice cream became sticky and mum made him sit down on a bench to finish it. He liked the men and women in fancy red clothes making bang-bang music with drums and shiny instruments, like toy soldiers. When the ice cream was gone he remembered his spider. Before tugging his mums dress for her to return it he remembered what he had in his pocket. The tiny fingers of his right hand rummaged around amongst the fluff and he thought it wasn’t there, he nearly started to cry but, eventually, he felt something cold and hard, like the tip of a shoelace. The little magnet that controlled the spider was back in his hand. 

     Over the evening meal in the guest house he went from table to table showing everyone the trick. If this had been anything but fine with the other people then his mother would have stopped him. There were no other children in the establishment and after eating the meal he became restless and bored, he wanted to play out but, of course, he wasn’t allowed to. In later years he would remember looking at the pictures in the comics his mum gave him before she got changed and left him alone in the bedroom… “I won’t be long now you be a good boy”. When the room went dark he got into bed with his shorts and cardigan still on. In his hand was the magic spider globe and, safely in his pocket, was the little magnet that controlled it, he had a smirk on his face knowing he had something he was in charge of. 

Life is magical. It can be a Disney colour spectacular with bluebirds kissing cheeks, or a Dante and Virgil guided tour. For most the experience is a pick and mix, changeable, like the British weather, good times, bad times, ups and downs, but generally steady, and often dull. Which way the bias swings depends on outlook, a subatomic mind-game changing with perception. Disney one day, Russian novel the next. Neat trick.

Bonhoff saw his life in Burslem, Stoke-on-Trent as it was going to be. His experiences made it difficult for him to see it otherwise, he was without alternative, a mindset made very real. He lived with his mum and younger sister in a terraced house with a small back garden. It was near to Port Vale FC, the the smaller of the two football grounds in the Six Towns of the Potteries, in the midlands of England. 

     Even without a dad Bonhoff would not have considered his upbringing as disadvantaged, if pushed to describe what it was he might have said it was a bit shit. But then it was the same shit for everyone like him, there or thereabouts, so that was a kind of solace. He never felt bullied or abused because he never thought about that much either, being black, white or whatever mix he was, it never seemed of any interest to his mates, he was just Kenny or Bonhoff. 

     There was one time, in the third year at comprehensive school when a new lad from Liverpool, Anthony something or other, tried to establish his credentials by kicking Kenny in the balls and following it with a few fists to the face. It took place on the school tennis courts at lunch time when everyone was outside. Russell Gardner, the undisputed ‘cock’ of the school was close by (as he always seemed to be on these occasions) and intervened on the principle that this was not how you should make friendly introductions at a new school. Black eyes and swollen lips are a rarity in these non-combative times but they weren’t then, and when Miss Hunter broke through the circle of active spectators, she was surprised to see that Kenny had been in a fight and even more surprised to find that he had left the much bigger boy on the ground crying. Russell Gardner, a future light heavyweight county boxer, had scurried off laughing with his Myrmidons knowing full well that no one would point the finger to the latest of his unsolicited amateur bouts. Before the new lad and Bonhoff were caned by Mr Eccles, they had to wait outside his office for thirty five minutes while the headmaster finished his dinner. A bit shit would be a decent summing up of the way he saw his life panning out.

It didn’t because sometimes life and fate turns on the toss of a sixpence. Stephen and Christopher were hardly ever apart from the first day of school until the last. The institution they and Bonhoff attended expected pupils to turn up on the majority of days, it also prefered the least amount of physical harm to happen to others within the classroom environment, and it expected it’s leavers to go to work in places that made things. Given the part of the world they were born into, the things made were made out of clay or steel. Stephen and Christopher took metalwork lessons from choice because they were far too good to attend music lessons with Mr Charnley, who knew the boys were accomplished because he knew Stephen’s dad. 

As far as the other lads in their spectrum were concerned Stephen and Christopher were nothing special, which meant that they were all right, which in turn meant that when they finished school they remained, for a while, a part of the local set up. Many lads and lasses grew up in the area, survived the schooling system, and made decent fists of it without ever broaching the possibility that life could be lived differently elsewhere. Probably it is the same in most places, certainly it was in this part of Stoke, limited, but not necessarily in a negative way. Stephen and Christopher would have been very content to ply their trade in a band up and down the circuit, much like they had been doing during the last year of school, and much like they expected to do for most of their lives.

Near to Port Vale football ground, on that lovely day in July 1969, was a sight that caused in Bonhoff a change of perspective caused, primarily, by Stephen and Christopher. They had filled out a little, in a good way, around the shoulders and thighs, making them look like young army lads back from training, he thought. When they got to him they talked differently too, without looking down, they smoked their cigarettes halfway and then flicked them away. That was hard to take. When the gear from the van was being taken upstairs Bonhoff picked up two long cigarette stumps from the cinder gravel of the football ground coach park and put them into his packet. His two friends, who had come with him for something to do, noticed the stumps were gone when they came back for a second load of gear but didn’t say anything, they would have done the same without hesitation, when nobody was around.

Things were becoming clearer to Bonhoff. This was him now, picking stumps up. Stephen and Christopher were bigger than him, and they would continue to get bigger as time passed. In the half an hour or so since they arrived he saw life carrying him on a slow tide, head above water but only just. Neither Bonhoff nor his pals were born dumb, but they had acquired the feeling they might be from a very young age, so it was easy to for them to fit into the mould. From first appearance, how they looked, their mannerisms, what they said, they came across as blockheads, docile, without even the natural chirpy character of other species of guttersnipes. So people treated them as such, better people, dentists, teachers, police, shop managers, tradesmen, a self fulfilling process that hardened the system in a bad way.  

But they weren’t fully dumb, not yet, certainly not Bonhoff. For one, they knew that posh accents on television were not a normal way of speaking, none of them had ever met anyone who talked like that. A couple of supply teachers at the comprehensive – young and female – spoke in a way that was more cockney than posh, but they never lasted  long so nobody took notice of them, other than what they looked like, of course.

It was a double whammy. Being unconsciously put down by lads he once thought of as near equals, then, seeing flash cars arrive that dropped him back further. A young woman in a sky blue Austin Maxi 5 door, a new model as unlikely to be seen on the coach park of Port Vale football ground, out of season, as the bright red Ford Capri 1600 that Desmond and Raymond had arrived in about fifteen minutes previously. Bonhoff thought this was getting a bit much, but he was intrigued nevertheless. The young woman came across to him and started talking in a posh accent but not queens posh. He had to start thinking straight, he knew that much.

“Hello, my name’s Christine I’m with the band, I can see the vehicles are are all here, could you tell me where I can find them please? I’m really sorry I didn’t know we had security, did Raymond employ you or was it Desmond?”

Bonhoff felt upside down and at this moment he didn’t know what thinking straight was. All this was alien to a casual security guard killing time for a few quid outside a little football ground in Stoke in 1969, and Bonhoff didn’t react  for a few seconds, nothing, lips tight, unblinking. Christine Robinson, who was used to creating a bit of a stir, gained from this the entirely incorrect impression that before her was a quick thinking person who was playing it cool, some interesting boys round here she thought.

What the shook-up lad did know was that the concept of politeness to ladies, antithetical to keeping strangers at arms length, played in his mind until he was faced with a choice between rigored dumbness or saying something.

“Who’s asking?…can I please ask…miss.”

“Christine, I just said.”

“Oh yeah…If you don’t mind I’ll just need to check with the lads, but I can’t leave the doors in case of something…hold on, how do I know you’re not the press?”

“Look, sorry what’s your name?”

“Kenny, but my nickname’s Bonhoff, don’t know why, it just is.”

“What would you prefer?”

“Bonhoff, if that’s alright.”

“Yes of course it is, Bonhoff, I’m the bands manager, well sort of, did they not say I was coming?”

“No one said anything, I know Mossy and Chris from school we’ve just been talking about old times and the IRA and whatnot, then the other fellas arrived.”

“The IRA?”

“No, no, just talking about them, nothing in it.”

“I should hope not, I would have buggered off back to London. Listen, Bonny, could you help me upstairs with the crates of beer out of my car, I struggled like hell to get them in and I’m sure I can’t even lift them out, oh and I’m definitely not the press, by the way.”

“I know, why would the press come here anyway?”

Bonhoff whistled for his two friends to stop admiring the cars, clicking his fingers in a manner that impressed Christine. He knew what he was doing and so did his friends which just about prevented them from giving him a two fingered salute. That they didn’t was a relief, even more so when they started ambling over like young cattle. All three of them thought there might be something in this so they went with the flow.

“Hey Bonny, this might seem a bit odd, and please don’t take it the wrong way but what are you doing next week?” 

     Christine asked the question as Bonhoff struggled to get the beer crates out of the car. He wanted to do it by himself and motioned his compadres to hold the entrance door open as he struggled towards them, nodding a smile at Christine as he passed. This was the kind of question he was hoping for and its answer, he was certain, held consequence.

“Not much.”

     The words exploded his old set of expectations and re-set his attitude to life. Bonhoff thought about his mum and his sister. He had a strong pull to remain in familiar orbit, the one that prevents everyone from flying off into Christ knows where. Emotional blackmail chained him to look after them. He broke the chains. At the same moment he glimpsed an old black car, an ancient Ford Popular, at the top of a side street across the road from the football ground. He knew who this belonged to and he knew it was matt black because he had helped to paint it, by hand, with an old brush extracted from a can of turps. They did the job down the ginnell of the terraced house that he lived in, with the rubbish bins and dog turds. Whatever he did round here would always be like this, grubbing about low. The funny side of it – another way of seeing – gave him a twinge he would reminisce about in years to come, like looking at old photographs without the cold or the rain or the heat. But in this moment the sight repulsed him, sent a shock through his body, a future panning out clearly before him. Not much of an alternative then.

“Why what have you got in mind?”

                                                       35

There is a sublimity to the English suburban landscape seldom fully appreciated. On a still, warm, overcast morning in mid-May sheer commonplaceness seemed to affront its chaffinch-like beauty. Chance, if there is such a thing, plays its part in how people come to be in pleasant environments, such as tree lined avenues in the better parts of Stoke. Nice gardens fronting nice houses in nice areas, with nicer gardens behind, however, are usually occupied by people who have aspired to them, they deserve them too, in most cases.

 Ellen thought Raymond and Anne’s house was bigger than she remembered as she opened the chest-high iron gates to the front garden, not really her cup of tea though, but decent nevertheless. The car was an old one from the 1970’s or 80’s, Raymond’s car, or one of them she thought looking at the double garage to her left. Even though the make and model was on the vehicle she had no recollection of seeing one before, to her it was a thing that footballers with perms used to own. Nevertheless, the car looked like it could be worked every day and she liked the idea of that, not one of the little red ones with shiny spoke wheels and no roof that old dentists drive. Raymond had moved the car from the port at the side of the house in case the gardeners, who were due any time, touched it as they moved past with their tools. Crap number plate, Ellen mumbled to herself, as she took another look at the car before ringing the bell, Sylver something or other, the name of the band they used to be in, she couldn’t remember.

“Max, get down how many times do I have to tell you?” 

Raymond’s instructions were as effective as a weak parent to a naughty child, it carried on yapping, drooling and jumping up.

“It’s okay, fine, honest, don’t worry.” 

Ellen was polite, as people tend do be when faced with annoying little moving things, she wanted to push it away or, better still, not be near it in the first place.

“Raymond, don’t let him jump up, not everyone likes dogs.” 

Anne was shouting from somewhere upstairs. Ellen shouted back.

“It’s fine, honestly Anne, don’t worry, he’s lovely.” 

“Raymond, put him in the front room till I get down, I won’t be a minute.”

“It’s okay Anne, honestly.” 

     Ellen smiled at Raymond. She meant it was okay too, not just about the dog, which had scurried off into the kitchen, but generally. A week had passed since the fall and Ellen had made some decisions which showed in the way she smiled. Her previous encounters with dogs were conditioned by clothing and appearance. Dogs jumped up, laddered tights, scratched shoes, and dribbled on  work suits leaving stains. Hair, mud, bits of food, and shit hanging around exposed arseholes, were just some of the hazards that owners thought normal, some even expecting the piss-mouthed slobberers to be kissed as if you were running for public office. Now though, in old clothes pulled from a suitcase, she couldn’t care less. It was a only a small liberation but she couldn’t wait to tell Anne how it felt as she bent down and gave Max a hug.

“Like hell she won’t, only a minute, load of bollocks, more like half an hour, she’s determined to do everything herself, won’t let me do hardly anything without commenting, and she’s getting worse, not better. Would you mind going up to her instead, I’ll fetch you both a drink, just go straight up it’ll be alright, if we make a fuss she will want to come down and it’s too much effort for her, tea or coffee?”

“Oh tea with a bit of honey if you’ve got some, do you want me to wait and I’ll take Anne one up?”

“No, it’s alright just go on up love, tap on the door to make sure she’s decent, second on the left, I’ll bring it when it’s made.”

Ellen made her way upstairs. The stair carpet was new, modern and expensive, good taste she thought. On the walls were music sheets inside teak frames, professionally mounted. These were the theme tunes from the television shows in the 1980’s that Raymond had written and that Stephen and her dad had played on. Some of these were still well known and one of them played away in her head as she tapped on the bedroom door.

“Anne, it’s me, Raymond said I could come up, is it alright if I come in?”

“Oh, I was just about to get up, yes, of course it is, don’t stand outside come in, come in.”

     The room was bigger than it looked from the landing, bright, spotlessly clean and recently decorated, tasteful again. Got to give them credit Ellen thought. She was drawn to the window overlooking the garden. The grass paths led through a naturalised terrace to a walled area with a pond and a water feature.

‘‘Oh now that is really lovely, did Raymond do all that, its beautiful?” 

As she was saying this a gardener fired up a machine that sounded like a throttled moped, it spoiled the effect.

“Oh close the window Ellen for god’s sake, I forgot it’s Wednesday, they’ll only be half an hour, every week though from now till October, keeps it nice so he says, which it does I suppose, but the machines stink of petrol. And no he didn’t do it, what makes you think that, just because he’s a man and can lift a spade? no I designed it, thank you very much, and I did most of the planting, even the trees I’ll have you know, although they were small when I put them in. Do you not remember? sometimes you used to watch me when you were little.”

     Ellen was embarrassed. She had enough experience of life to realise that there was virtually nothing that could be done by one sex and not the other, mentally or physically. She could have kicked herself, tingles of nervous agitation self-confirmed the mistake would not be made again. Anne told her to pull up a chair.

     Raymond decided it was warm enough to go outside and get a bit of fresh air. The dog had already been out, the gardeners were busy doing whatever they did at top speed, Anne had company, so he thought having a look at his motor while it was on the front would do no harm, a bit of polishing maybe, or just even sit in it. It was even warm enough for him not to put on another layer of clothes. This made him feel springy, which was not a feeling he was accustomed to recently, even on stage, and he was glad that the plum coloured fleece – which made him older than he was – stayed hung up. He was in good shape, no paunch or tits, which was more than could be said for other blokes his age, especially as he never exercised or watched his diet much. The t-shirt hanging over his ten year old Levi 501’s made him look and feel younger than he was, and not having the fleece on helped. He looked at himself in the hallway mirror again, it was a good feeling. Right, let’s have a look at this car then, he said to the dog.

“Raymond love, can you bring some biscuits up with the tea if you can manage it, oh and some warm milk to help me swallow my pills, thanks love.”

     Raymond was about to open the front door when he realised he had forgotten about the tea. Anne said quietly to Ellen that she knew he had, they both chuckled. He brought the drink and biscuits to them on a tray ten minutes later. The tea was orange pekoe brewed for 5-7 minutes in a warm pot. Ellen would have seen this once as middle class pretension, aimed to impress, points gained, glossy renaissance art books on a table never looked at. Something was different about these two though, she tried to make it all fit her preconceptions but it didn’t, it didn’t make her itch, and the tea was delicious. 

     She was around Anne and Raymond as a kid, when her dad was still playing and recording. Her memories were of music being played, over and over again, the same tunes, then laughter, and then adults saying things she didn’t understand. Occasionally someone, it was usually Anne, would bring her a soft drink and something to eat, it was never her dad though. At some point later in the day the doorbell would ring, she remembered trying to guess when it would happen by looking at the clock on the tiled fireplace and counting down the seconds, then starting again. The musicians never heard it, either because they were talking or playing or because the room they were in was further away from the front door than the one she was in. It was always Auntie Jen who rang and Ellen was glad because it meant an end to the boredom. Before going to the front door she did as she was told and went to the room the musicians were in, to tell them her auntie was here. The only one to acknowledge her was Anne who would go with her to the door, saying how smokey it was in the room and how she was glad of some fresh air. By the time the front door opened Auntie Jen was already in the car, smoking. When the little girl got in the back seat she threw the cigarette onto the pavement, wound the window back up and drove off.

“Who was my mum Anne?”

     During the interval between Raymond being reminded about the tea and its arrival, pleasantries had been exchanged. Ellen had asked Anne how she was feeling, they talked about the accident, the tests, the medication, the discomfort. Ellen was about to tell her she had not been back to work when the childhood memories began to trickle in.

“The only ones I can remember properly are Jen and dad, and all he ever says about my mum is that she buggered off before I was born, same joke over and over, not funny either, but how can a mother just go, it doesn’t stack up does it, do you think so?”

“Honestly Ellen, how do you expect me to know that, it’s so long ago, and they were away a lot, things happen you know, they were young lads.”

“It must have been something to do with the band, when Desmond had left I mean, that would have been about the time anyway, wouldn’t it?”

  “Ellen, I don’t know, nobody does, sometimes there aren’t any answers, all we do know is what you know already, there was a girl in Coventry called Rebecca.”

“Oh I’m really sorry Anne, honestly I don’t even know what I was expecting you to say, like you’ve got some dark secret hidden or something. It’s not as though I haven’t tried to find her, I have, dad knows I have, he told me I would be wasting my time and he was right, what’s the point anyway, what chance is there, and then what do you do? I’m not that bothered if truth be known, well I am, anyone would be, but it’s more annoying than anything, knowing your mother is out there somewhere, probably with another family – brothers and sisters – and I’m stuck with sod all, I just want to blame something.”

They smiled. Fresh grass smell found its way into the bedroom on the sunlight, it suggested different possibilities, good ones. 

“We’re all stuck with sod all love, that’s the state of the nation. Now then how about we try to get a few things sorted, firstly what about this stupid job of yours the one that’s driving you daft.”

“It’s not driving me daft…actually yes it is. I’ve not been back in since you were admitted, I’ve pulled the old stress test, you wouldn’t believe it, as soon as I get up in a morning and then, eight o’clock at night, phone this, text that, all about bloody useless shite, pardon my French, but it is. Anyway, It was me who put the rules in place and nobody knows what to do, so I’m just doing what I feel like, and letting them know what the problem is, and when I will be back. Turns out I haven’t got a proper boss either so no one seems bothered much.”

          “So what does that tell you?”

           “About what?’

           “About who you are.”

“Oh thanks, no really, what you did for me hit home like a hammer, I was ready for it I can tell you that now, but I don’t know if all this ‘who am I,  what are you going to do with the rest of your life’ stuff does any good, it’s all the same. Anyway I came here to see you.”

“Nevermind me, I’ll explain all that properly later. I’ve had it anyway, dying, they don’t know yet, neither does he.”

 Anne snapped a white chocolate and ginger biscuit in half, the kind bought from smart gift shops in Oxford or Ambleside, she nibbled it and sipped her tea.

“You’re not dying don’t talk like that, you’ve been bashed about a bit but there’s just no need to talk like that, it’s not fair.”

“Ellen, the accident was a symptom of what I’ve got, what I’ve always had, but now it’s coming to an end, three months, bang, enough’s enough, lights out.”

She didn’t want to eat the other half of the biscuit. Downstairs, in the kitchen or  the conservatory, she would have broken it in two again and given one piece then another to Max, making him paw each time. Now she couldn’t sit up to put it onto the saucer next to her tea cup. Frustration though, found plenty enough energy to throw it against the wall to her right. It broke into fragments leaving a tiny white chocolate stain on the wisteria lilac wallpaper.

“FUCKING BASTARD!”

Raymond heard it even over the noise of the gardners and he stopped wiping the near side chrome wing mirror of his car. Calmly but quickly he came back into the house and made his way upstairs. Ellen was clearing up the mess. Anne had dropped the cup and saucer as she was throwing the biscuit against the wall.

“Everything alright?”

“What a palaver, sorry love, panic over, dropped my cup and twisted my bad leg trying to catch it, ooh, that hurt a bit, but it’ll be alright”

“Are you sure, here you are, Ellen give me the tray and I’ll take it down, does anyone want a coffee, I’m making one, proper job, not that crap in a fancy jar that looks like coffee…oh sweetheart, should I bring yours up in a plastic beaker with a straw and a baby bib, just in case?”

“Piss off you cheeky bastard! I’d like to see you in this state, see how you shape up.” 

     Anne said this with a smile on her face. Raymond gave her a kiss on the cheek and she turned her head away in mock disgust. They both laughed. Ellen began to cry so she turned to look out of the window and down at the garden so they wouldn’t see. She watched two of the gardeners finish the edges of the lawn. The older man, mid-term Ellen guessed from his thinning hair and paunch, leaned against the far terraced wall smoking and texting. She was jealous that they were doing a job that fits. She imagined a time a hundred years ago, two hundred, or even somewhere in the future, where a snapshot of people would all be doing jobs that fitted. She wanted to capture the essence of those moments, reduce the anxiety to a nub leaving just the essence. She wiped her eyes on the arm of her fleece top and went downstairs.

“They think it’s a form of Tourettes, do you know what that is?” 

Raymond ground the Kenyan Peaberry coffee beans into an espresso powder, the noise of the machine making him talk loudly.

“Of course I do, everyone does, but what does it mean to Anne, and you?”

“She’s had it forever, she’ll tell you herself when you go back up…hang on.”

      With the sixth sense that people have when they have lived together in the same house for a long period of time, Raymond thought he could hear movement from upstairs, which meant Anne was getting up. He went into the hallway to confirm.

“Are you getting up Anne?” 

“I need the loo so I’m getting dressed as well, I can’t stay in bed all day anyway I’ve got things to do.”

“You haven’t got anything to do, how many times do I have to say it, I’ll do the jobs, just give me a list.”

“No I’m getting up and that’s that, what have I got to stay in bed for anyway I’m bored reading, I’ve got things to talk about with Ellen, is she still there?”

“Yeah of course she is, do you want a lift getting dressed?”

“No, I’m alright, don’t let her run off, she must be confused…ELLEN can you hear me don’t run off I’ve got things that I need to talk to you about, do you want something to eat?”

Ellen came out from the kitchen into the hallway. She looked up towards Anne who was leaning over the balcony, she smiled and Anne gave the thumbs up.

“I’m not sure what’s going on but I’m not going anywhere…wouldn’t mind a sandwich or something if there’s one going.”

“Good idea, I’ll have one too, be down in 10 minutes.”

Ellen was confused and excited in equal measure. In the hospital every hour was predictable, over and over, nothing new, all set out rigid, sterile, split from what felt right, from nature. The air did not flow and the light did not stimulate. For the only time other than when she was stoned or drunk, she now felt that her words were beginning to carry what she was feeling, whatever that was, and the conditions were right. She laughed out loud.

“What’s tickled you then?”

Raymond was unravelling the black plastic tie from the seeded multigrain batch loaf.

“Ham and cheese okay or are you vegetarian, this cheese is nice, not rubbery stuff pretending to be something it’s not.’

“What is it with you and packaging?” 

“It tells lies…nothing really wrong, you can’t get away from it but there isn’t any point…what I mean is, if you can get real stuff, without being told what it’s like by what it’s packed in, if that makes sense, why wouldn’t you? I don’t know if it’s better for the body or not but it probably is, tastes better too, and I know it’s better.”

“I’ve started to think that way about clothes, well not really but, oh, yeah, cheese, thank you.”

“Like I said you can think too much into these things, not cheese obviously, I mean packaging, or as you say clothes, or even how people look, but you shouldn’t miss the obvious when it smacks you on the nose, I reckon.”

                                                       36

If ever there was a face concealing torrid waters it was the one belonging to Desmond Jencks. Indifferent is what nature is, not cruel or magnanimous, just disinterested, it couldn’t care less. It gave him this face, he grew up with it and now, embarking into the calmer lake of middle age, it made his face look even better. The smirk, which his mothers midwife did not fail to notice, had served him well, an ever-prest phantom-mask, finely soft, manly, mainly. Not just because he was well known women were attracted to him, even the ones he was rude to. He knew this, people are better than mirrors, and he was correctly convinced that with very little effort, he could have amassed a catalogue of serious affairs, but he couldn’t see the point. His liaisons flitted and piffed.

He signed the presenter’s personal guest book and passed pleasantries with the woman about how lovely Wales was at this time of year. They talked about their respective agendas over the forthcoming weeks, she said she was non stop, writing, presenting, researching, recording, and he told her the two hectic weeks of filming for his morning quiz show were completed. That was him done for a bit, he said. Bad move, she thought, if you stop and get off, even to stretch your legs, the train leaves. You’ll kill yourself before you get to sixty was what Desmond thought about her. 

As the receptionist passed him his mobile phone he felt the cool skin of her hand touch the inside of his wrist, unmistakable. They returned smiles with each other knowing they would never get the chance to fuck. He would have liked to, she would too. Dark haired and dark eyed, her thirty odd year attractiveness compensated for her overweight, but not forever, she knew that. She would have enjoyed the experience for what it was, nothing more, one afternoon maybe, even just an hour. Desmond thought through the range of possibilities, eventually consigning the potential moment to another pointlessness. She sensed he had lost the zap of the moment.

“Great show Desmond, don’t tell anyone…” She whispered to him… “but I can just about hear what is being said, I really like the music too, I don’t much care when they choose all that classical stuff, some of it is alright but, on the whole, not for me, thanks.” 

Her beautiful Welsh accent made Desmond wonder if there was a connection between her and the presenter, maybe she was a friend, or a relative.

“Oh hang on a minute, you have a couple of messages, can you ring your office asap and, oh my living aunts, where is the other one, I had it here a minute ago, honest I did.”

Desmond looked at his mobile phone. He liked the idea of them, everyone in the media had one and he could see how they would soon catch on.

“Can I ring from here, is that okay? Sorry I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Aylwen, it means ‘fair brow’, yes, give me a second I’ll get you an outside line.”

The second message was another from his shared management office telling him that someone claiming to know him had called and could he call the number they left as soon as he could. The number was not one he recognised, in Desmond’s professional capacity he was always being give slips of paper containing information, numbers, addresses, names, ideas, so he thought little of it. However, receiving a message that got through the office filtering service was unusual but not out of the ordinary. Almost without exception the numbers were in the city state of London, this one had the area code 0121, Birmingham, where he grew up, he rang it straight away.

“Hello this is Desmond Jencks, I have missed a call from you, who are you please and how can I help you?”

“Desmond, is that you? thanks for calling back, you won’t remember us, it’s going back a long time, we didn’t even meet when your mum died but nevermind that. Listen, Desmond…

“Are you on speakerphone?”

“Yes, my brother is listening in on the call.”

“Could you turn it off please, no offence, it’s just harder to hear what you’re saying, with the echo…better, yes, thank you.”

“It’s Deborah and Andy Lee, Tak’s dad, he died suddenly on Tuesday, we thought you needed to know, there won’t be much of a funeral but, if you want to come I will send you an invitation.”

“Hmm, actually I am filming on that day which would be impossible to get out of, I would have liked to, but really sorry.”

“I haven’t told you what day the funeral will be.”

“Tuesday, I thought you said Tuesday.”

“He died on Tuesday, we haven’t arranged a definite date yet, Desmond let me get to the point, we are clearing the house out and there are some personal items of your mother’s that we thought you might like, quite a few of them actually.”

“Oh, okay…”

“And there is a large case we found in the attic with your name on, it has a security lock so we had to contact you.”

“Had to contact me? I’m not quite following this, wasn’t the place cleared out when Sylvia died, didn’t I make it clear that the house and everything in it was of no interest to me.”

“Yes, we know that, thank you, and yes we had to contact you, legally that is, dad had a will saying the trunk should be passed on to you, or that contact should be made for you to give us instructions as to what to do with it.”

“Right, right…okay, thanks, cheers Deborah, mmm, how are you both keeping, long time ago eh! water under the Kwai and all that.”

“I’ll leave it with you then Desmond, thanks for returning the call and we would appreciate a timely resolution to this so we can move on, thanks again for ringing, we both know how busy you are.”

Desmond slowly replaced the handset. He looked at the receptionist and asked whether his car had turned up, she confirmed it had. She smiled to let him know that although she didn’t understand what the problem was, or how to assuage it, she knew it was there, not even cleverly hidden behind his handsome, winning smile, not when you get close up.

“Nothing in it”, he asked on a whim, “are you free tonight for a meal or a drink or something?”

“I would love to” she replied as if anticipating the question, “but I’m married with two little ones, sorry.”

                                                       37

From that strange half an hour when life’s spin dryer shook Bonhoff around and spat him out, the young man decided it would be a better all round if he went to London. The system – if there is one – had accomplished the task of teaching him his place well, but it had blinked. Kenny was a good lad, he never kicked against it, preferring the easier option of letting the bastards grind you down. Eventually – through prison, religion, psychiatry, drugs and alcohol – the ones who kick the hardest soon get the drift of how level the playing field is. Bonhoff, at the instant his chance appeared, knew that you could win by not doing the wrong thing at the right place and time. Don’t look for a key where you didn’t drop it was one of his sayings in later life. He didn’t even work that hard either. Does a multi-millionaire work a multi-million times harder than a hospital porter was another of his future stock in trade pearls. He couldn’t recall making a fortune ripping his hands to shreds opening sacks of onions at Stoke fruit and veg market when he was 15.

      Up to the Eurovision television show the band were very busy, which meant so was he, but the work never seemed that difficult, it was predictable and he felt a part of it, wanted and needed, which always lightens the load. Christine gave him the agenda, dates, venues, times and pick up points, a few days or even a full week prior, and his job was to get the gear from the rehearsal rooms in west London to wherever they were playing. Performances were rarely more than twice a week and in between Bonhoff did other jobs, portering people and gear around according to how the wind blew. He never tired of this and preferred it to the time that wasn’t filled with doing stuff on the move.

What he was expecting on the day he was told to take the band’s to Parkland Grove studios, St Luke’s Place, Soho, did not match what he encountered. Naturally good at directions, flapping about was rare for Bonhoff, but this time he was convinced he had got it wrong and he got the prickly panics. Preconception threw him off course. He assumed, because of the address, that the studio was in a leafy suburban environment, Parkland Grove, in St Luke’s place, it should be, he thought. 

Through the wound down window of the van, A-Z on his lap, he shouted across the road to a couple of people who looked like they might know the area, but they didn’t. Eventually, realising that the last part of the address was Soho, he grew confident that the two ten foot grey steel shutters down the side of the dim narrow alley could be the right place, the problem was how to get the van close to it . A couple of cigarettes and a brew from a nearby cafe settled his nerves, and during the second fag a young engineer showed up, confirming he had found the right place. Later in the morning he wished he hadn’t passed on the fried egg sandwich when he was ordering his cup of tea.

The group were recording two songs over the three days, Slippa, which would become the single and another song, with a good melody, based on one written by Anna and Raymond. They were due to start their first session in the early afternoon although, a short while after entering the studio, Bonhoff got the idea this wouldn’t be happening. The playing area, separate and down a level from the cockpit-like recording room, was dominated by an expensive grand piano, like the one Liberace plays, Bonhoff thought. On this were strewn papers, magazines and various other bits and pieces, songs probably, in the process of completion.

“About two hours, three max, then you can move your boys gear in, alright by you?” 

     The cockney Jehovah voice from the upper level made Bonhoff jink around. He nodded confirmation and gave the thumbs up. Since coming to London he had been less loquacious than he normally was due entirely to his accent, which made him self-conscious, over the months, however, the accent didn’t change as much as his confidence did. Bonhoff couldn’t do anything until Christine arrived, which she did about an hour after him, she was his boss and his work ethic so he was glad to see her. Entering through a different part of the studio she asked him why the van was parked in the main road and not on the car park further up the street adjacent to the building. Any parking tickets, she told him, would be taken from his wages.

     He sat out of the way, down the lower level in a side room, next to the one with the piano and the unfinished songs. The microphone was still picking up voices in the tiny office next to the mixing room and he heard something being talked about. Christine was told that a young singer-songwriter had been re-recording tracks from his debut long-player and had over run his allocation. The recording engineer stated with calm authority that he had priority on studio time. Even when the microphone did not pick up clearly, Bonhoff sensed feelings were running high and that there was another story hanging in the air. It was going to be a long day, but he didn’t mind, plenty going on. The conversation stopped when Christine exited the upstairs room and clear instructions issued from that level, the same voice Bonhoff heard speaking to him earlier but this time with clearer intonation.

“Can everybody remove themselves from the recording areas immediately please, the musicians have arrived, and can e-v-e-rything be left exactly as it was found…thank you.”

     Bonhoff only saw one way to go, up the few stairs towards the mixing room, along the corridor and then outside. He was doing this when an arm appeared from a side room and pulled him inside. Christine told him what the situation was and he feigned surprise at the news. She also informed him that Desmond, Raymond, Stephen and Christopher would not be coming to the studio until later in the day, the session being rescheduled to start in the early evening and continuing through the night. As she had nothing else to do she was staying around and he could join her if he wanted to, unless he chose to go home and get some rest. He said he would stay, if that was alright.  

An hour passed. When the piano started playing from the main recording area everyone got up from their seats and looked through the glass towards the chords. Bar after bar, over and over again, a warm up, not to be missed and not to be talked over, even in soundproofed rooms. The artist started singing at the same time as the bass played from an adjoining booth. Christine and Bonhoff, thinking the same, understood the difference between this music and the sound their own band made, divisions never to be scaled. And what a song too. 

There was a lot of talking between the overdubbed takes and a great deal of care was taken in the manner that words were presented to the young performer. Occasionally he looked up towards Christine and Bonhoff making them feel that they were part of an audience, smiles were exchanged. Then, like an accident, the atmosphere changed. No shouting or dramatics or a discernible catalyst, the artist just stubbed out a cigarette, raised his hands and casually grabbed his jacket. He then walked upstairs and into the mixing room. The soundmen assumed correctly that something had been done or said that had been taken badly by the artist, voices became raised.  Like a spent firework the fizz died down and the artist withdrew his services with the simplest of instructions… “right then I’m fucking off, see you”. From the recording area below the invisible bass player contributed to the debate in with a catchy little response… 

“good riddance you rancid little ponce”.

A man in a suit who had previously introduced himself to Christine as the manager of the artist, grabbed the microphone off the main engineer…

“Okay, I think we’ve had enough of this all round, don’t care who you are, not interested, get your gear and piss off, you’re done.”

     Time and place. Then the right decision, it could have been telepathy. The eye contact, together with the shared little nods, synchronised Christine and Bohnhof like a charge of electricity. She fumbled in her handbag for her car keys while Bonhoff held out an impatient hand, fingers snapping, come on. Bonhoff followed the artist in the direction he thought he was heading, instinct suggested it was back up the alley and along the main street, after that was anyone’s guess. Bonhoff hoped for a glimpse, the artist must be moving quicker than it looked because of the emotion, he thought. Christine had issued a simple instruction, find him and stick with him, even if he doesn’t want you to, just do not let him go. Bonhoff would find him, he knew he would, the rest would be easy. 

     The bass player emerged from his musical foxhole and packed his instrument away carefully in a velvet lined case. He stroked the top as he might have done  a coffin containing a loved one.

“You proud of yourself are ya, after what we agreed, I’ll tell you for nothing pal it’s end of days for you son, siyo-fucking- nara.” 

     The reverb from the control booth exaggerated the managers voice and it was trembling with anger and fright. The bass player clicked the chrome clips of the case shut, left the instrument where it was, and bounced up the stairs to the mixing area like a fifth-year going upstairs on a school bus. He brushed passed Christine too firmly for her liking, which he rectified by mouthing an apology. Entering the main recording studio he grabbed the lapels of the managers jacket  and delivered a head butt so quickly and aggressively that no one else moved. He then held the body, again by the lapels, placing the head in a suitable position and did it again. This time the butt was aimed deliberately at the mouth not the bridge of the nose. This butt knocked the bigger, older man unconscious, the bass player allowing him to drop to the floor carefully, on one side, so the man would not choke on blood or broken teeth. Christine and the other people in the recording studio stood still, watched, then moved out of his way as the bass player returned to collect his instrument before leaving the building. Bonhoff peered right and left along the main road looking for his man before the artist’s manager was put to the ground.

Nothing, he couldn’t see a thing. Hoping the artist’s bright red leather jacket would act like a beacon in fog he concentrated but no, nothing. Which way then? If he had stopped to think for just a few more seconds, spending the time carefully balancing probabilities it would have been no more use to him than what he actually did. He turned right into the steady flow of human traffic and walked briskly, looking down side streets as he passed them. He pranced to a near run when something made him stop. Placing both hands on his knees he shook his head and smiled. The artist, who Bonhoff had just walked straight past, was looking in a shop window at clothes, smoking a cigarette and humming a tune. He thought about trying to modify his accent before he spoke but he didn’t.

“I saw you storm out of the studio, I’ve come to help if I can.”

“Beg pardon, do I know you?”

“No, my name is Kenny, I was in the studio when all the arguing started, we thought we might be able to help in some way.”

“Well you’ve got that wrong there moondust.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf?”

“No I’m Kenny, I saw you in the studio… just now, when you stormed out…shit, I need a smoke,’ He fumbled in his jacket pockets… “bollocks I’ve left them back there.”

“Here have one of mine, and calm down, you look all hot and bothered.” 

The artist lit two cigarettes and passed one to the young man who was going all out of his way to help him. He put an arm around Bonhoff’s shoulder and suggested they walk on a bit.

“Well I don’t know who you are, obviously, but how can I sit at a piano looking up at people watching me and not recognise them, I‘ve got polaroid eyes and a memory to match, what do you want an autograph or something?”

“No we want to try to help you.” 

Bonhoff felt out of his depth, stupid ridiculous words, especially when it was obvious the artist was perfectly composed. 

“You keep saying that, why do you want to help me, and who’s this we conglomerate when its at home having a wank”

“Me and Christine, she’s the band’s manager and I look after some other stuff for them, we just saw the situation get a bit tense, was there some funny business with that bloke who plays bass for you?”

“Why what happened? do you fancy a drink? I fancy a drink, how about a nice brandy and coke, yeah go down nicely that, two would be better, your treat I believe. What happened by the way, no tell you what, hold that story till we get our drinks and a nice smoke…what did you say your name was?”

“Kenny, but Bonhoff really, people seem to call me that for some reason, even my sister, and I don’t know what happened by the way, apart from you storming out that is.”

“I like that…Bonhoff…got a ring to it that has, well as you promised.”

     The artist guided his new friend into a pub which, having only half an hour or so left before the three o’clock closing time, was bustling at the bar with drinkers getting a couple in before returning to the world outside. Bonhoff balanced two pints and two brandies as he joined the artist at a table near to the door. While he was waiting to be served he casually glanced over to the artist making sure a change of mind didn’t initiate another walkabout. The artist told him, after the first quaff of beer, that in this part of London, people that were known were not that uncommon and, at this moment in time, he was a long way from being famous. Give it another year though, he added, without hubris or a smile.

“Yeah we know that, we knew it as soon as we heard you play. Your song is bloody brilliant, but you never know until you see somebody, and you’re the only one I’ve ever seen, being brilliant I mean, Christine said the same, brilliant she said, except she didn’t need to say it, we both thought it at the same time.”

“Very kind of you to say so, heartfelt too, which makes a change from some of the shite you hear from people, and I know by the way, about the success on its way, you sort of know instinctively it after a while. Listen what exactly happened back in the studio with my brother and my step-dad?”

Bonhoff was taken aback. He lit up a cigarette and offered it to the artist who took it, he lit another one and spent what felt like too long just looking at the artist.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“No, yes, I didn’t expect you to say that, I didn’t know you were all related, and I don’t know what happened, if anything, as I said.”

“It fucking will have.”

     The artist started to explain the situation before he sent Bonhoff back to the bar. He gave him a fiver, telling him to get two packets of cigarettes as well as the drinks and said he needed to make a few phone calls to try to sort things out. Last orders were called and Bonhoff wondered what to do next. 

Standing at the bar he could see the artist at the public phone near the toilets, fumbling for change while dialing a number at the same time, the phone held between his shoulder and ear. He had listened to his brief tale of woe and couldn’t have cared less. Bonhoff would have liked to say that lots of people think they have it rough, and that it was not out of the ordinary where he was brought up. What neither of them knew was the seriousness of the injuries sustained by the artists step-father/manager or the fact that his bass playing brother was now in police custody.

“Listen we’d better get back I need to sort things out face-to-face, this is becoming a right pain in the fucking arse.” 

The artist took a good swig of both of his drinks and Bonhoff stood up ready to go.

“Look, I’m coming with you so why don’t you at least have a quick word with Christine before you do anything, it can’t do any harm, do you want to get roped into all this just as its about to happen for you, imagine how it’s going to pan out. And, and it’s a big one this one is, maybe we can help, maybe lighten the load a bit…”

“Where do you come from Bonhoff, your accent is crazy, I love it man…Birmingham?”

“Not quite, Stoke…different really, if you know the difference that is.” 

Bonhoff felt a chink of light. It was like a stuck key had turned.

“Yours isn’t London is it. I mean cockney London, too posh, more like Oxford or Cambridge or something.”

“Fuck off, cheeky bastard.” 

     The artist joked his reply but he also intended it to be much too loud. Bonhoff would have heard it if he was sitting at the other end of the room. A few heads turned, instructions were issued for them to watch their language, ladies present. The landlord looked across while pulling the last pint of the afternoon session. Bunch of cunts all of them the artist thought. As he held a hand up in a collective apology, he leaned exaggeratedly towards Bonhoff’s ear. 

“Margate…just outside. I had piano lessons with a queer old bloke in the main town, never touched me though, before my dad died that was, then, like I said, that bloke arrived on the scene and my brother just started getting worse and worse. The stupid bastard thinks he’s good at managing things when he’s not, especially people, they run rings around him and my brother just wants to fight the world till it’s the right way round. Better get back then eh? then I’ll phone mum.”

The police car and ambulance had gone when they returned to Portland Grove. Bonhoff tried to introduce Christine but seeing the surprise on the artists face at how events had escalated, she motioned to Bonhoff that this would be better done later. The artist said he needed a drink and one of the engineers brought a bottle and some glasses from a downstairs room, Bonhoff made sure at least one of the glasses was clean which he gave to the artist, filling it with brandy then pulling a chair up next to him. A smoke and a headshake later and the artist stood up.

“Fuck it, the show must go on as they say, so we might as well say it then eh…what does everyone reckon?”

     He told the main engineer he would finish the last overdubs if everyone was okay with staying late to do them. Everyone agreed but without a bass rhythm player, the engineer said, the piano would sound wrong, the acoustics needed them to be played together. Defeat was about to be conceded when Christine suggested her band had a bass player, it might work, she argued, he was a good player and already on his way so what harm could it do to try. The artist agreed to half an hour playing through to see how the sound developed before any recording decisions were made.

     During the wait Christine, Bonhoff and the artist took three large glasses of booze into the office of the recording studio. There were areas of immediate concern that needed to be dealt with, if they were up for it, the artist stated. First, make sure, under no circumstances, that his brother got bail. Second, when his step-father recuperated tell him he was not required to operate as a manager any longer, that would be harder than it sounds, the artist added with a grin. Third, make his mother happy and make her stay in Margate. If they could work through this little triad then the artist could see no reason why a longer term working relationship should not be on the cards. Christine had a question. Why was he so calm about everything, unemotional? Bound to happen sooner or later was his answer, he was expecting it and, if truth be known, he had lit the touch paper earlier in the day. Right place and time. 

                                                       38

Tele-visual productions work because they do the job of thinking for us, without perplexing, personal participation. People without distraction tend to stare into space, letting thoughts trickle in. On buses or trains or just waiting for them, at the cinema before the adverts, at the dentist without a magazine, all gazing inwards, never, for the fleetest of seconds, vacant. Always information, always the processing of thoughts, industrial minds, hard at work. What to do, how to do it, who to do it with, who to do it to, how much do we need, need more (hardly ever less), he did that, she said that, this happened, that happened, touch the left knee, touch the right, then left again, going forward. Never does the saga cease, it maybe put aside for a while, for instance by a good night out with friends, a few drinks and a laugh. 

Desmond didn’t have any real friends. His was a personality that people liked so much they paid to watch him on daytime television, not ticket money payment but ratings revenue nonetheless. They listened to him on radio programmes because his voice was engaging, like he knew you. He never had a wife, not even close, which added further to his odd allure, particularly with the kind of woman who prefers the idea of a man to the close up version. Certainly he had liaisons, lots of them, everyone needs to fuck, but that’s what it always was, never the words that cemented the stages together. He preceded himself so that the women who knew him knew what to expect, and the ones who didn’t soon did. A few misunderstandings occured along the way. In the early days when he started to appear on television, there were minor newspaper stories relating to this or that carry on, sometimes with photographs, but he never minded because he thought of himself as if he were someone else, and he found it all amusing. When he started to talk openly about the petit scandals, embellishing the humour for further laughs, the newspaper gossip editors became irritated to the point that they began to ignore him. Then he got older, became a bad catch, difficult to befriend, just the way he wanted it. 

Not that he was without company, how could he be, but most days though he was glad to get back to his impressive house in Islington, relax with a beer and a smoke, sometimes a pill, and get the curtains closed. There was never any need for him to learn to drive, Bonhoff and Christine’s firm did all of that in the early years, and for a long time since then it was taxi contracts – like everyone else in his line of work – or first-class trains, business class planes, or lifts. If he had to walk short distances he never slowed down and he never made eye contact. Desmond had long since forgotten a time when money was even a minor concern. So on the day after recording Desert Island Discs he arranged a personal courier to collect the trunk from the address in Birmingham and bring it to his home, half-day guaranteed.

It was a solid piece of work, not old but not brand new either, with metal clasps and thick moulded corner protectors. Its combination lock was closed and the latch behind it showed no sign of being tampered with, Desmond knew what the sequence of numbers was before he tried to open it. Then he had a rethink. Not being of a literary bent he nevertheless soaked up information on a wide range of subjects. He never read a book all the way through but he had watched a lot of documentaries which he believed, scholarly provenance aside, is not a bad way of getting stuff in. A bit of a move around is needed here, he thought, a little bit of a rejig. So he pulled the trunk in front of his Toledo leather recliner, brushed the carpet pile back in place, stood back, reached for the remote control on his television and turned it on while still eyeing the trunk.

He knew what was in it so why open it, he asked himself. And if he wasn’t going to open it why had he gone to the trouble of getting it from Birmingham in the first place, waste of time. A quandary, for sure, but then he remembered the Gordian knot, classical knowledge, Greek or Roman, could even have been Norse, who cares? He went into the kitchen and threw the large empty bottle of beer into the recycling and patted his waist, bad moon rising he hummed with a smile. Ice first, then a small section of dried lemon, tiniest bit of buckwheat honey, then the warm water – pre boiled is as good as distilled, freeze it and let it thaw, then 10 seconds in the microwave. Small sip, clear the palette. From the cabinet in the corner of the room he took out a new bottle of pure pot Irish whiskey, special occasion he thought, so why not. He felt blessed that special occasions seemed to happen to him at least once a week, the thought made him smile again, he saw his face in the mirrored back of the cabinet and he liked what he saw. If he had bought it himself the whiskey he was about to open would have cost a thousand pounds, there or thereabouts, he knew this and admired the way money reflected quality and age. He placed the bottle next to the honey-lemon water on the antique balsa occasional table to his right. He examined the colours of the whiskey against the background light of the television, took a sip, put one foot and then the other on the trunk, took another sip and said to himself that everything was alright. 

                                               39

It was not disrespectful, unromantic or indicative of love lost that Anna thought of songs when Arthur was ploughing her. Where the idea came from that sex should be partaken by human lovebirds on a fluffy cloud overlooking a meadow on a summers day is anyone’s guess, and Anna and Arthur were intuitively honest enough with each other to enjoy a roll in the hay without hangups. They hardly ever had sex with other people either, in over fifty years of marriage only a few, here and there, mostly her. 

     She liked the way Arthur did it as well, just enough preamble to get the pool to ripple and then straight at it, no fucking about. Being young, unmarried and in Ireland, at that time, it was dumb to get caught having sex, it needed to be done in secret, although everybody except Anna’s dad knew they were at it. Arthur’s room at the Dame Lane Head pub was out of the question, it would be like doing it in the road, so it had to be at her house, in a bed. They tried it at the rehearsal room but it just didn’t work, too uncomfortable, too many distant doors opening and closing, which, even for a randy young couple, can be distracting, it proved better than nothing but only just. Time, however, was on their side. Making good money in the band meant that Anna didn’t need to work at the shoe shop anymore, which served more than one purpose. Arthur still helped out casually in the pub, it was a good place for information exchange relating to music, and the basic lodging was all he needed. 

So if they were careful Anna could sneak Arthur in around the back of the house and they could spend their time shagging, drinking tea, smoking and making plans, while her parents were out and her siblings were all at school. They were never completely relaxed, someone could come home unexpectedly, so their ears were tuned to keys in latches, the creaking of the back kitchen door, or hobnails on cobbles in the street. When they were at it though all thoughts were on other things and Anna’s were on songs. She remembered the instant that Stephen was conceived throughout her life, not just because of the seminal importance that the beginning of a life naturally has, but because she had the capacity to recall specific moments as if they had just happened. Her memory was visual, auditory and tactile, she believed she could identify people she knew just by running her fingers through their hair, and she understood smell like a language. Everything about the morning was in focus. The muffled sound of the pillow between the bedframe and the wall, the heavy rain racketing from the loose drainpipe into a bucket in the yard, Arthurs sideburns, black, and the song – she could never forget the song. 

     Their sex tended to symbiotic cadence, rhythmically relaxed yet gently thrilling at the same time. They had nothing else they wanted to do – on that morning – but to have sex, so there was no need think about anything else. Anna had a fragment of a song revolving in her head in sequence to the pleasant pushing sensation of the sex. She felt points in nature that she knew as junctions between people and not-people, that was how she understood nature, as people and not-people. The melody was there, harmony too, looping on two lines…

“In summer as the moonlight meets the day

Working with the tide to wash away.”  

Twenty years on, in the music room of her house in Burslem, the young song crafter Raymond Ellison developed those two lines, and the melody it came with, into a decent little song. Anna was not disappointed that it did not become as poignant as she always felt it might, but at least now it was fully formed, after twenty years she thought it deserved that. She made the young man a sandwich with three slices of bread, cheese, tomatoes and cucumber, he was always hungry afterwards.

Arthur thought he heard the latch at the same instant their mutual attunement realised it was next door. Not enough to stop them carrying on. Arthur got bigger inside her and she could feel herself becoming hypersensitive to touch. When he leaned down to kiss her nipple she orgasmed. In the seconds after Arthur ejaculated and before withdrawing from her, she understood the potential characters of the son she would give birth to. You choose though, she told him.

     The ideas were milling around thick and fast when the full ensemble gathered back at Portland Grove. The main engineer, who was also the joint owner of the studio, was not put out by the fracas, he was one of life’s arseholes, seeing opportunity wherever it sprang and usually at the point of other peoples imminent downfall. Already he had spoken to a friend of a friend who could sell the story for a few quid to a journalist from one of the popular daily newspapers. The engineer would cash this favour in all in good time, with something else he wanted. He knew the story would probably be held back until the artist was a household name then, with a few embellishments, the full Sunday treatment. And here we all are, the engineer thought, back in the mix ready to go. Hope this lad can actually play bass.

     Stephen was introduced to the artist – all the band were – and everyone was  polite concerning the affray. The atmosphere became loose in a good way, the flow of alcohol smoothing away any hard edges. As if they were about to play a snooker match, Stephen and the artist shook hands as they walked down to the lower recording studio. The slightly younger man, more thrilled than nervous, looked up to the cockpit and was given a thumbs up from the engineer who then rolled his fingers to get going. The artist played a warm up number which Stephen was unfamiliar with but he picked the key instantly and predicted the chord changes as he was preparing his own equipment. At this stage he was thinking practically, any nerves were transferred into extra concentration, and he was beginning to picture, in colours, the notes he would play that would fit into this piece. He was also thinking that the fee for recording was a big step up from anything else he was expecting, providing they liked the sound he could give them, of course. The amplification was Vox so that was okay.

From the cubicle he could only see the artist, side on, and as he played the first notes he was given a nod. This small confirmation held a world of possibility for Stephen, a change. For the first time he was playing personal music with someone other than his father, mother, or his informally adopted brother and it was like flying. Journeyman players are taught their lot early on, and Stephen was a member of that clan, it didn’t jar with his character or ability, so the fit was not ill. But there was always the lingering thought, the idea of the next stage. Left alone he would never produce anything special, he possessed no dust to sprinkle. Now, in this situation, he was unsure what he was, playing and thinking at the same time, no blockages, following a creative artist, being part of the process. Usually he just played, like a job or smoking a cigarette, not thinking about anything, just painting by numbers. This was different, unusual, charged.

Park footballers look at their feet, real footballers look up. Desmond told him that one once and he remembered it. This was how he felt about the music he was now playing, he had received the nod from the artist, so it was real. There was no anxiety, wrong notes were out of the question, part of a different possibility as likely to happen as not breathing. His fingers changed pressure on the fretboard as he played, less effort, assured yet gentle, honey glide from position to position creating a sound he had never achieved before, vibrato. He began to wonder if it was the environmental acoustics, the proximity to the piano, the mix of the notes together. Or even the soundproofing of the walls. He remembered from a music magazine about advances in recording techniques, this must be part of it, he thought. He looked at the amplification, same set up as he always used. Bass, straight in, no pedals, same tone setting, same volume. The artist turned his head towards Stephen again, this time he frowned, then he nodded and smiled even more broadly than before. Stephen knew that a good sound was coming from their fingers, two artists were playing in the room and he was one. This music is better than anything I have ever heard, was the thought as he talked to the artist after the warm up. It was agreed that the quality was sufficient to overdub the two remaining tracks. Waiting upstairs Desmond, Raymond and Christopher thought exactly the same.

                                                        40

Putting the plate with the sandwiches down on the glass top of the wicker table in the conservatory Raymond made a suggestion, half-shouted as he was the only one in the room. 

“Why don’t you two have a bite to eat in here and I’ll nip Max round the block so we can both stretch our legs?”

     Ellen was helping Anne down the stairs, both of them heard what he was saying, muffling confirmation while giving full attention to what they were doing. As they were turning the corner into the hallway Raymond was searching for the dog lead.

“Just saying, while you’re having a bite to eat I’ll take Max out, where’s the lead love it’s not where it should be, it should be with the dog food and the bags, it’s no good having a system if you don’t keep to it, I keep telling you.” 

     Raymond winked at Ellen to confirm his irritation was lighthearted. Ellen smiled back without effort while trying to remember the last time she smiled without sarcasm, failure or schadenfreude. She caught a glimpse of herself in the hallway mirror. Maybe this is it, she thought, ordinary life. Anne broke her thoughts.

“You cheeky little bastard Raymond, complain when you actually do something then I might listen.” 

     She didn’t look up from where her feet were shuffling. She asked Ellen to look in the middle drawer of an inlaid ebony-black cabinet standing in the corner to the left of the inside front door. 

“Ten to one it’s in there with one of his pairs of gloves and a scarf.” 

       Raymond held Anne’s arm as Ellen looked, she found the lead in the third drawer down dangling it as if to say ‘is this it by any chance?’

On one of the conservatory windows there was a bird feeder. It was held in place by two green rubber suckers, one of which had slid down lower than the other causing the feeder to dip on one side. It was also very grubby, like a once used glass in a busy garage. Ellen was surprised by this as the windows were so clean they might well not have been there, and with the garden so neatly manicured the dirtiness of the feeder seemed even more out of place. Congealed to a mouldy lump in the perspex bottom of the feeder was the bird food, underneath a fresh handful on top. A bird landed, then another, then, like harpies, others began pushing for places, one in – one out. As a little girl Ellen remembered seeing an odd flash of colour in gardens, a robin maybe or the yellow beak of a blackbird, but to her uncaged birds were small, brown and flitting. Anne knew the younger woman was taken by the sight of garden birds close up – blue tits, chaffinches, greenfinches, nuthatches, great tits, coal tits, goldfinches – she had seen the same thing happen before, recently to the Sri Lankan doctor who seemed more interested in them than in her smashed leg. Ellen poured them both a coffee.

“Why are they not scared?” 

“Not sure, I think it’s because they can’t see inside, maybe it feels safe because there’s nothing above or below them, nothing to pounce on them, so to speak. But don’t be fooled though, if you watch carefully they are anxious all the time, never relaxed, not like you see with a pet cat or a dog.” 

Anne laughed at something that came into her head.

 “Imagine that, pigeons sprawled out on the grass all nicely relaxed on a summer’s day like teenagers in a park after college.” 

     Ellen grinned, she was looking again at the songbirds, this time appreciating their movements as if they were taking place in stop/slow motion. Colours started to blend, red caps, ink black beaks, a streak of radiant green under a flash of wing. A starling came and held the balance of power for long enough for Ellen to appreciate its beauty. This cannot be the same bird, she thought, not when it is this close. She imagined reproducing it as a mosaic tile, all the colours differentiated yet still one, at the same time. Is it here for me, she asked herself, almost out loud and open, how else could it be this intense. She wondered where to get clay or whatever it was that people used to make a tile. Birds feet are claws make no mistake about that she thought, from the arse down they are all little eagles. 

“What are you thinking about sweetheart?” Anne asked.

“Nothing, just daydreaming, I’ve been weighing up what to do, I can’t just carry on like this, I’ve got to sort myself out.”

 She shuddered as if she had suddenly become very cold.

“What the hell is going on here Anne? jumping from one thing to another, looking for dog leads and talking about fucking cheese, and you’ve just told me you’re dying for Christ’s sake. I mean what is going on? if you don’t mind me saying I find it all a bit weird, and what am I doing here anyway, it’s not a social call is it?”

“I am dying, but it’s a bit different from what you might be thinking, I’ve taken a risk telling you because you’re the only one that will ever know. I don’t know why I did it really, it wasn’t planned, how could it be, you just turned up again out of nowhere, but then I thought, mmm, here we go again, how much of a chance is it really and how much is us being played along. I took a risk, a risk for you not for me, weighed it up there and then and went for it. You were bloody miserable Ellen.”

  “Still am truth be known.”

“No you’re not, not now, what you are now is worried, anxious about practicalities. Like you just said, worried about what you are going to do with the rest of your life, who you are and stuff like that, but you’re not wandering around in a cage scratching at your skin anymore.”

“There you go again, swinging it round to me, when it should be about you and your illness.” 

     Anne considered her response. She took her time as if contemplating the right words, spending a few seconds or so brushing fictitious crumbs off her arm and lap.

“People take the piss out of a nice life, young people mainly, but it’s hard won, and sometimes it’s worth taking the piss out of, especially if it crushes you or makes you want to crush others – and people do get crushed, make no mistake – but if it doesn’t, crush you that is, if it becomes a base for trying to be who you are or what you think you could be, it’s worth sticking hold of, nurturing, does that make any sense?”

 “Not really” replied Ellen taking another sip of artisan coffee.

“Okay then I’ll be more to the point, and if you get angry try to keep   your hair on, don’t storm off, yes.”

“Well it depends what you are going to say.”

“I suppose it does if you put it like that, and if you do storm out in a strop you’ll either come back straight away or phone me up later to apologise so it’s all the same, do what you want.” 

     Anne waited again. The two women looked at each other, they were on the same side but, like hedgehogs in winter, the warmth balanced out the prickles.

‘My god you were miserable at that hospital weren’t you? Not just a bad day that one, it was as if your clothes were burning you, I half expected that you’d rip them off and walk away just in your knickers and bra. Well done for concentrating on a job that made you want to scream like a hurt child, by the way.”

  “It’s the same for everyone though isn’t it?” 

     Ellen felt like the life she knew was being torn from her, leaving her in a dream where she couldn’t run. Storming out was the last thing she wanted to do.

“I don’t know if it is, is it? Probably not, I don’t know or care about everybody, it’s up to them, at this minute, here and now, it’s just you, and me, and Raymond.” 

Anne remembered she was a mother too and it give her conscience a twang. 

“Look at those little birds, they’ve got one coat to wear, one set of clothes, and that is who they are. Not us, no-sir-ee-Jim-bob. Disguises are how we operate and we think it a choice, free will, or something like that. Did you feel free willed every time you got up and went to that place, eh?”

“Not really no. I cried inside most mornings, out loud sometimes when I was still pissed from the night before. What can you do, everyone can’t just be who they are or go off and do what they want, where would we be then, eh?”

Anne looked at her. The answer was coming, it was always near the surface but it is better, Anne thought, for it to come from her. Much better.

“I said, where would we be then, eh?” 

Ellen wanted to break the coffee mug with her fist. The front door opened and a skid of scurrying paws announced the arrival of Max and his walker.

“Can’t believe it can you, I’ve forgotten the blasted shit bags and he’s done one just round the corner – on fucking purpose – I’ll have to go back and get it because someone saw me walk off, they didn’t say anything but you could tell, bet they took a photo, your dog this is Anne not mine. Jesus H Christ no one gives you a bit of bloody peace in a day.”

The door closed again louder than when it opened. Anne and Ellen were laughing so much they didn’t hear it.

                                                        41

Of all those seeking the cherished lifestyle of a rock and roller during the twentieth century very few could match the masters of the idiom, Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy. Outcasts and drifters, never belonging, seeking a place in society even for an hour or two in a day, yearning to leave hardship and the pain behind. Rock and roll is not a rebellion, it is an unrelenting drive to fit in, to be a part of something, to work hard and to succeed, to hone skills, achieve respectability and, above all else, to settle down in a nice house in a nice area, with a nice wife, like Elvis did or David Bowie or Aerosmith. That was all the two men in the bowler hats really wanted. 

     Access, of course, is not open to all, neither is the dream a blank slate to be written on. Many who aspire to the goal are shaken by the catastrophe of failure. Oliver Hardy looks through the camera when his world gets ripped from under him, again and again, by Stan. Look where I am, he says, but I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, not really. Now he dusts himself off, or wipes a dinner plate, or places a flower back into a broken vase in order start the game again. Stan is an anti-glue, made so that things fall apart. His actions are child-like, unsocialised, chimpanzee destructiveness with a desire to help, to be a part of the progress, but destroying with every touch. Laughing into the next one.

     Talent, given by the gods and transmutable to cash value in life, is the fundamental of a true rock and roller. Stan and Ollie possessed the stuff in bucket loads, but the four members of Sylstar, even after their first single had reached number fifteen in the British popular music charts, never had much more than a few grammes. Following Stephen’s bass playing with the artist the band spent the rest of the evening setting up to everyone’s liking, the artist staying for an enjoyable hour during which he played piano boogie woogie to one of the groups songs. He apologised that he couldn’t meet them later for drinks but, with one thing and another, he hoped they would understand and bade them goodnight. Later that evening, when Sylstar had finished and the studio lights were turned off, Bonhoff drove the half a mile or so to the artist’s flat where he spent the night.

The run up to the Eurovision performance was a mixture of excitement and boredom with time between rehearsals taken up with the mundane. Bonhoff always made sure the heavy equipment and drums were at the performances, two or three times during the week in the capital with occasional forays further afield, all of which were arranged well in advance by Christine. They got to meet some of the people in the music business who they thought were eight feet tall, only to find that they looked just like ordinary mortals. They played support to some of the more well known bands which, because the audiences were not paying to see Sylstar, turned out to be just as flat as everything else was turning out to be. They started to reminisce about the Isle of Man. The money wasn’t what they expected either, no more than just a good wage, and they never got invited to any of the really good parties they kept hearing about, so they spent a lot of free afternoons and evenings in pubs. Christopher and Stephen played snooker which filled their time, a lot to learn in that game they both thought, and some interesting characters knocking about. Desmond and Raymond went with them once but on the second invite Desmond said he would rather stay in and cut his toenails. The pair tried to write some more songs but nothing decent came-a-calling. The others tried to convince Desmond that the alter-ego front man act, great at first, was not really working and he began to believe them, he was neither stubborn or an idiot. If it wasn’t for the Eurovision television commitment, of which the outfit was part of the package, it would have been dropped by universal consent. The single was still mid-table in the charts though. 

As well as the one hit wonders there is also a genre of lesser known songs destined to knock about in the collective tune memory. Either the listeners were around at the time the songs were current, or they hooked into them up at a later date, second or third time around, on a jingle or on the screen. Sometimes the name of the band is remembered above the minor hit, but rarely, and occasionally some of the middle of the road songsters possessed real talent, like good footballers lost through the net. The individuals owning this talent often had a decent enough catalogue of work to keep the record producers sniffing around, always promising the nugget and always coming short of popping out a big one.

 But their songs stayed remembered. And where there is memory there is nostalgia and that, in collaboration with spending money, means audiences willing to see performers dredge through a turgid back catalogue until the demi-hits were played and encored, always at the end… “thank you, it’s been wonderful, we hope the evening has brought back as many great memories for you as it has for us, good night, and a safe journey home”. 

On their own second league song bands fail to corral sufficient backsides to make the relentless quest for cash pay. So some chose to get together (through management agencies) to put on collective shows – often at holiday resorts or on cruise ships – comprising half hour slots intermixed with anecdotes, jokes about times past and getting old. This worked well as hardly any of the audience could recall what most of the songs being played were and when they did remember one it brought the house down. Understandably, they would also fail to identify what the members of the original band looked like, even if they were sitting next to them. Advertisements in the bulky back pages of popular weekend papers present ‘forgotten stars’ in a ‘once in a lifetime extravaganza at the Anglesey Queen Mary Hotel or the Bournemouth Sands Residential Park featuring the ‘one and only’ Reggie Fan and the Blinds without, due to ill health, the original Reggie Fan. It never seemed to matter though, a show is a show and people like a show. Whoever or wherever it was the tickets always sold well.

     It may be thought that the shows were like the old music hall acts, sentimentally crying through makeup trying to capture golden moments, tears of a clown, but they weren’t, and the feeling at the end of these nights was upbeat. The audiences had a good time and the band members made a nice few quid from doing what they wanted to do years ago, playing music and being payed enough for it. Like old photographs, however, recollection often mellows the harshness of memories taking a good deal of the pain away. At the time – the golden decade from the mid sixties – workmanlike survival was an ever present necessity for second division popsters; the will not to die, not to be culled from the circuit, not to return to the semi-skilled grind of day-working. To survive you had to serve a purpose, be of use, provide sufficiently good reason not to be dropped. And the holy grail of all of these reasons was the hit record.  

Even Elvis Presley, to the end of his days, felt unrelenting pressure to hit the bullseye just one more time, then another. It is a hard pain being the king of Ephyra. Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy had only one song, one super-stellar sockeye salmon smash-hit that stayed hit, flaming away like a masterwork, dancing through life, creating new bullseyes as it traveled. They never went French or Russian, never tried anything different, nothing nouveau, why would they when the hearts and minds of the people were theirs. On September 9, 1953, at the time Anna, Arthur and little Stephen were preparing to leave Ireland for a musical life over the water, the boat Laurel and Hardy were on was arriving in Cobh, in the Republic, for a farewell tour. Hundreds of boats guided them in, thousands cheered them ashore and every church bell that could  move rang loud with their theme tune, Dance of the Cuckoos.

When sales of Slippa dried up that was that. Desmond honoured his informal contract with the band shortly after the Eurovision performance, playing a dozen shows to dwindling, luke warm audiences. He paid Bonhoff – who was creating a nifty business moving performers and their gear around London – to take his guitars and stage costumes to his mother and step-father’s house in Birmingham, all the amplification that he owned he sold to Raymond for next to nothing. 

Raymond knew that without a new song they were dead in the water. Like everyone else, when he heard the artist during the recording session he understood the effortless ability to project songs, good songs, that inspired people (himself included) to pay money to hear them and to see them being played. You lost yourself listening to him was Raymond’s judgement and he was not wrong. Being of a pragmatic bent he turned his attention to other things. Although he appreciated the sparse beauty of the overdubbed piano and bass, together with the quality of the songs being worked on, Raymond was also impressed with the production. He had never heard anything like it, changes being made, tweaks, overdubs, echo, reverb. He understood too that the song, the performer, the musicians and the production must all work together in order for a recording to stand out. The large room in the upstairs section of the recording studio, next to the main mixing area, had state-of-the-art speaker installation which, when the tracks were played back, had clarity and precision better than anything he thought possible. Stephen was down below with the artist engrossed in his playing, Christopher was listening to the drums, and Desmond, his mind tuned to only one thing, was thinking that all of it was very good but neither he nor his band were. Raymond knew this as well but his mind had switched to a different way of thinking, he was listening to the whole song, the full production, wondering how it was all being put together. 

It became a matter of serious interest for Raymond, changing his focus almost instantly. He needed to know how to do it, all the nuts and bolts of the process, and he decided to apply full effort in order to shake a little bit of luck his way. First he required someone to explain, quickly and for free, how to organise a recording studio. Where the gear came from, how much it cost and how it fitted together. From this he could begin to produce sounds that might be professionally viable. He thought the best way to get started in the quest would be to ask. Communication between the artist and the recording engineer was going well, there was laughter which was good, but mainly it was the way they smoked cigarettes. The ability to read emotions through cigarette smoking in daily life is a lost art, probably never to be rekindled, but it was a tangible one then and Raymond went with the signal. When Bonhoff was helping the artist collect the equipment belonging to the incarcerated brother, he poked his head into the engine room to introduce himself. It was a rude awakening.

Names were not mutually exchanged. Raymond was asked to get his gear sorted out downstairs as quickly as possible, he was also blocked from entering the room. Glimpsing inside he thought it looked like they could send a rocket to the sunny side of Mars and it didn’t appear that they needed any help doing it. There were several layers to this cake, Raymond felt, more than just ‘us and them’. One was the gaping canyon between performers like the artist and the many groups like his, he knew it now and the engineers knew it before they even heard Sylstar play. Another, which Raymond would never forget, was that musicians like him were considered by the recording professionals as two-a-penny drones, given grudging politeness only because they were paying cash for a session. What they were not welcome to, Raymond had just found out, was an nice informal little chit-chat in the main box. As he was walking down the small staircase to the recording floor to get his gear sorted, the artist bounded passed, patting him on the shoulder, wishing him all the best. Turning round to offer thanks he saw the artist enter the mixing room to be greeted with friendly handshakes and matey slaps on the back. Cigarettes were passed round before the door was closed again.  

                                                       42

That evening in the Red Rat night club off New Compton street Stephen, normally a phlegmatic lad, was enthusing with gusto to the others about the musical epiphany he had experienced that afternoon. Like a first shag he went on about it a bit too much, explaining as clearly as he could that none of them would probably ever know what it felt like. A few drinks, good music and an eclectic mix of people meant that, for one night at least, the niggling worries about how good they thought they were as a band, or where the new songs were coming from, was put to one side. This was London, there were girls and, when all was said and done, they were a pop band with a single in the offing and a television performance lined up. Good times. 

Strict licencing laws enforced by invisible gangland criminals meant that the drinking and carousing stopped before midnight and, for the unsatiated, carried on in lockouts or at private parties. Contrary to Soho mythology this did not occur with the regularity that might be expected. Whatever business you were in the realities of the day meant that you got up and worked, and turning up pissed, stoned or fucked from a night without sleep did not cut the mustard. What sometimes happened was that people, young ones normally, went round to a flat or house of a friend, had a few more drinks, put on a record, then called it a night or went into a room with somebody they fancied for a fumble.

Raymond was fondling and fiddling down the front of the girls dress, his hard-on pressing through his jeans against the side of her leg when she gave him the ‘easy tiger’ message. Confident young men may sometimes give it another quick ‘are you sure’ in case amber changes to green, although a second removal of the hand from the tit generally makes the point crystal. Disappointed (as girls always expect) a bout of passionate kissing usually follows with a promise to ring each other during the next week or so. This pattern stuck by the rule book with Raymond shuffling off the lovely, well-spoken girl. They had a smoke, promised to phone each other during the next week or so, and started to chat about who they were and what they did for a living. The girl liked Raymond, she could sense in him a strange solidity that was absent from the young men she had previously met. She might have called it manliness – not that he could fight a bear – but because he talked as if his words were only just ahead of his actions. She felt he wanted to do something, that he had a drive to find something worth having a go at. She told him what she did for a living, that she had just started doing it and that she found it very interesting. He said he found it interesting too and they arranged to meet the next evening for a drink.  

The girl asked Raymond if he would walk her and her friend home. They only lived a short distance away and would feel better, she said, if he walked with them as far as he could. Raymond said he would. The party was breaking up anyway and the only ones who seemed unready to call it a night were Stephen, Christopher and a few other people talking, listening to records, smoking fags or half-asleep. Desmond reminded the other half of their group that they were all up sharpish in the morning which they acknowledged with a half-hearted thumbs up. He wasn’t too concerned as he had seen them worse for wear and still be up the day after, not bright as buttons but dependable. They’re alright those two, he thought, as he gave them an affectionate two fingered salute in reply. He agreed to head back with Raymond and saw no reason why they shouldn’t walk the girls back to their place, if it wasn’t far out of their way.

Raymond gave the girl a long kiss in the street as her friend opened the front door leading to their flat above a branch of Barclays Bank a few hundred yards from where the party was. Desmond had a smoke a short distance away and tried to get his bearings. Intuitively good with directions it had been a long day and he didn’t know where he was. He never drank more than a couple of pints and a nice whisky or brandy, too much made him feel thick headed, not sick and aching, just dull and tetchy. He needed sleep too, a nice cold glass of milk and some sleep, that’s what he needed. Raymond didn’t hang about and they set off along the street in the general direction Desmond felt was right. Raymond was glad of Desmond’s lead because he didn’t know where he was either, he would have got there eventually even if Desmond wasn’t with him, he would have asked the girl. 

They didn’t talk much on the way back. The run of the game had not gone the way they thought since the heightened expectation following the Isle of Man. If they had talked in any depth they might have agreed it was all a bit blown up. A couple of song ideas were mentioned but they knew there was no point kidding each other. Raymond offered his friend one of his cigarettes which was taken and lit up. Both young men had smoked too many during the long day, nearly two packets each, and their chests were tight with this and the poor London air. Even now, tired, tipsy and a bit lost, they should have been tripping along the street, strutting, blowing grey/blue cigarette smoke sky-high straight up into the night. It was the artist that had done them in, no getting away from that, fucked them both right up. Desmond shook his head as his mind silently acknowledged that the artist was who they all wanted to be. Something was slipping away from Desmond, he felt like a bull running up a muddy hillside, it was becoming too much effort, he wanted to be easy, in control of his days, and to laugh about it.

                                               43

London was smoggy in 1970. Combustion engines had yet to be manipulated to disguise the airborne poison into something that people couldn’t see. Homes and offices still burned coal and the factories were industrial, all of which made the air feel thicker than it did elsewhere. On a warm sunny morning in early August, however, people in the capital milled about in shirt sleeves like none of this mattered to them, which it didn’t. The girl chose a bright yellow cardigan to wear over her short purple skirt and lilac top but decided against it on her friends advice, it was going to be a hot day. Although the office was usually cold, the fifteen minute walk to Denmark Street warmed her up even on the chilliest of mornings, shouldn’t be too bad today though, she thought. She put the cardigan in her bag anyway, neatly folded and not next to her mascara.  

Most days she had to make herself consciously move, willing her body to get going as if she were a steam engine. In the privacy of her room limbs would be free, connected to each other as a unit, muscles and nerves working like a body should do, dancing in front of a mirror. But in public, walking to work on a busy morning in a seeing city, she felt like a puppet, arms and legs loosely strung onto sockets, moving jerkily, graceless, gangly, the opposite of a lynx. It was tiring not moving freely. Aware of every step or swing of the arm, like a lightning quick cartoonist drawing the movement just before it was done, it was all sweaty work. She caught glimpses of herself in the plate glass windows of the stores and wished she was the reflection instead of the real thing. 

Everyone walking towards her was a hazard that had to be thought about quickly and decisively, her body placed in the right position in order for the next person to be avoided, and then the next. It was exhausting. Her anxiety increased when she recognised someone she knew, not that she wasn’t sociable, she was, and popular, but she was in the middle of a self-constructed obstacle race where she was both puppet and puppeteer and her concentration level soared. Not easy to make small talk today, Mrs whoever you are. She became hyper-aware of facial recognition, anticipating in order to avoid the chance of interaction, looking downwards or crossing the street at any hint of familiarity.

Today was different though. It was one of the welcome energy days which – if her 22 years had included the experience, which it did not – she would have compared to a bang of cocaine. Nothing seemed out of sorts. She looked at strangers and smiled, they smiled back. Inside her head the theme tune from a western film, bouncy horses with great looking men. She wanted to play cowboys and indians right there on the street with whoever was willing, like she was eight, kerpow! She lit up a cigarette and blew the blue smoke skywards. As she looked up she realised how beautiful the buildings were, above the ugly shop fronts and littered pavements, Victorian, lots of detail. Did her own flat look this pretty from the outside, without the bank? She turned, spun around to take a look, back but it was too far away. 

Not being a player of music the instruments in the store windows of the Denmark Street shops held no allure for her. The young people who flitted about from office to recording studio to cafes and back again were as interesting to her as the bongos and the richly polished violas. She didn’t need to be told most of the individuals were very talented, they wouldn’t be here if they couldn’t shit cash, Mr Samuels pointed out charmingly, when they had dequented his smarmy, gratuitous meetings. 

Today her job was to spy which interested her greatly. She would watch everyone that went into the office like a test, as if in the evening she would go back to her room, sit on the bed, and radio the information back to control. Always second in, her first job was to make Mr Samuels an instant coffee – busy busy busy – her second job was to empty the waste baskets. As always she was careful not to let the cigarette ash blow onto her clothes as she emptied them into the backyard dustbins. Pieces of paper, lots of them, which she shook clean to see the information on them. The door to the kitchen was closed, she usually left it open so she could walk back threw with the bins but this time, as it was the only place from which she could be seen, she kicked it shut. 

She had to call them Mr this and Mrs that, and when their children came in after school, in their purple blazers with yellow and red coats of arms, it was always young master this or that. So finding out their doings and carryings on felt like a fight back, not a Cuban revolution but definitely opposition with intent. “You wouldn’t understand these things Anne, but what a night last night, what a night”… “Deals in the making Anne, looking pretty at the front my love, and sounding pretty on the phone, all part of it Anne, all part of it”… “Big fish eat little fish, it’s how we made an empire” She smiled to herself that having a good memory is pretty useful too, Mr Samuels, sir.

Raymond phoned her during a break in recording, he said he enjoyed the previous night and she reciprocated the same. They arranged to meet later that evening, depending on what time his session ended, it was going well so he saw no reason why they couldn’t arrange a time. He would give her another call before she left work to make sure this was still okay. Anne spent the rest of the afternoon contented and focused, although there was nothing for her to pay attention to other than normal office duties. Mr Donald crept in after lunch as was his habit, looking every inch the typical city gentleman banker that he certainly was not. He gave Anne a questioning look, arching his eyes to the door behind her and to her left, hoping for the affirmative smile and nod that meant Mr Samuels was in a bright mood. The day was good, sunny and warm, all things bright and beautiful, why would anyone not be in a chirpy mood on a day like this, Mr Donald wondered. Anne shrugged her shoulders shaking her head slowly. “Ah bollocks” he said in the broadest of cockney accents.

Mr Samuels heard Mr Donald enter reception and waited a short time before inviting him into his office for a chat, he did this both to calm himself and to increase anxiety in the other man. Donald Diamond, surprisingly his real name, was an employee of Mitre Music Publishing of which John Samuels was the employer and the two men, they would both agree, were not at all alike.  Donald, for one, appreciated that a working day could be flexed to his personal predilections, meetings with Mr Samuels, for instance, were not seen as pressing engagements. The chastisement Donald received when the meetings did take place was as predictable as his tardiness, it grew in explosiveness exponentially, to the point where Donald could barely disguise laughing out loud at the barking madness directed his way. 

The suit didn’t help either. During his first week he was asked to smarten himself up, so he did. Individuals in his employ should appreciate and reflect the traditions and stature of the office, Samuels stated to Donald on his third day of employment, and on the fourth Donald came in, very late, still happy from the night before, and dressed like a Chicago gangster. Samuels ordered him to attire with a correct suit of clothes and from that point he adopted the demeanor of the chairman of the board, bowler hat and attache case integral, which both pleased and infuriated Samuels simultaneously.

Donald Diamond was the transposer and developer of music, the pianist, talent-spotter and general advisor for Mitre Music Publishing Ltd. Why he took the job in the first place became clear to him when he came within a hair’s breadth of losing his real reason for living, which was playing piano and drinking the night away in the bars of soho of the West End of London. The activities illuminated Donald Diamond and they commenced with conscientious regularity. Such effort, however, became, over time, increasingly hard for the body and mind to take, even for one with a soldiers constitution. It blunted his performance making him, at times, a bit of a tired bore or even, as one or two noted, a right fucking arsehole, which for a rambling nightcat is a heinous accusation. Drunk and rambunctious at a time of day when most people are leaving work for home is not an endearing fit in society, and in ensembles valuing wit and capability it quickly got him avoided. Donald had to sharpen up if his career as a fox in his beloved bars of London was to last a while longer. He needed to fill the terrible waking hours before the first drink with something other than the void, but not real work, of course, and nothing physical. The money side of things needed to be looked at too, therefore, he started work as an employee to Mr Samuels.

Donald worked him out straight away, as easy to suss as a rutting pigeon he informed his drinking ensemble. Samuels was what Donald called a ‘stretched-Earl’. He didn’t fully know what he meant by the term when he coined it in the bar of Olivetti’s on the evening following the interview, but he liked the phrase. His friends did too and they made a theme of it for the rest of the night, trying to spot likely ones as they entered the establishment, or if they walked past with a mistresses or a boyfriend. “Streeettch” they would call out, with added doppler effect, to a bemused specimen. Donald and Glen made up an extemporary and surprisingly catchy song about them on the piano in The Beano Bar to gratifying encouragement from the rest of the clientele. The following day – the first in his new position – he could not resist using the term ‘at a stretch’ with more regularity than he had ever thought of doing before. He told Anne about it and, although she had no sense of humour, she still congratulated him on an excellent assessment of character. Over the first few working weeks it became clear that Donald had called it well. He had seen Samuels as a man with hooks in his flesh, pinched into him with pain when he was a boy and grinded into his bones as he grew into a young man. The hooks pulled him this way and that, never the way he wanted to go or the way he would have chosen, and they hurt him, stretching him to the limit. And the limit was where he was virtually all of the time. 

Samuels was often pulled in several directions at once. One way by his parents, never enough for them, never as good as his sister, not a self-made man like his cousin, never anything done right. Then there was his wife, never enough again, everyone else doing better, never standing up to his parents, she liked watching motor racing. What she especially didn’t like was him touching her, which suited him fine, she called him a flabby mess which was unjust, but he still tried to play it fair and she never did. All this gave Samuels some unhealthy mental wounds that all the psychotherapists on Harley Street put together would struggle to triage. To assuage the pain he medicated with good quality opium, and paid vulnerable young men to be dominated sexually. Donald knew all about his habits, keeping the information to one side in order to pop another hook in, if needed. He understood that Samuels had employed him partly to boss around and he allowed the game to be played until it failed to suit. 

But there were other reasons why Donald was taken on. An in-house transposer and pianist was essential in this kind of music business, as was someone who could talk with knowledge about different styles of music, something Samuels could not do. Above all of this, however, was the ever-present cold fear that ran through the veins of music publishers in the heart of London at this time, that they would miss the next big one. Brian Epstein walked into the office of Dick James one day and gave him the music of The Beatles. Others had decided not to accept the gift and manna like that should never be allowed to be passed. Similar occurrences had happened with other new groups and performers. Dick James was lucky but he also sniffed it out right. But what if the truffle went unsniffed? Samuels could never let this possibility arise, unthinkable yet an ever-present thought, if it happened to him the hooks would rip him to shreds. 

It wasn’t that he needed a find, just that he could not be seen to have missed it, if it came his way. Samuels knew well enough that it would not be easy to spot, that it would not sound or smell like any gone before, so he needed a good sniffer. Donald Diamond quickly convinced him that he had seen a miracle perform as support down Wardour Street, or another, just one song – “a sure-fire hit” – played in a semi-deserted bar in Camden Town. Samuels was sucked in every time, giving extra payments for expenses incurred and excusing his lateness on the necessary extra-curriculars. “It can’t go on like this” Donald would say with the theatrics of a Guilgud, “you work me day and night like a clockwork toy under your control” (Samuels liked that one) “I didn’t think it would be like this when I joined”, “everything I do is for you and the business, I feel like an empty shell”. He would finish on a phrase like this with head in hands and close to tears. Anne would knock quietly on the office door and ask gently if another coffee would be needed. Samuels would apologise to Donald, leaving his desk to place an arm around a hunched shoulder and offering to light him a cigarette He waited a short while before politely asking the distraught employee if, when he felt a little better, he might look over some sheet music for a television production needed for tomorrow morning. Desmond would answer that he would, when he had finished his coffee and cigarette, and after lunch of course.

                                               44

Raymond was glad that the pubs in London were like the pubs he knew. He had been in some of the new wine bars without appreciating what the appeal was. People in life did things for reasons but he could not see what the reason was for preferring such places to pubs. Anne took him to the Lord Nelson Arms, he got a babycham for her and a half of mild for himself. They sat in a corner seat nice and snug smoking cigarettes while Anne told him about her day, including the saga of Donald Diamond and Mr Samuels. Raymond was a pragmatist by character, intuitively following his nose without thinking about the pros and cons too much, it was a method that did him all right for the most part. When it didn’t feel right he often acquiesced to decisions because he could not think of a better course. When the chips were down, however, when push came to shove, his character could not allow a specific direction to be gone down, or a word spoken towards an end, that was not consistent with what he thought useful or ultimately right. Sometimes though, more than he would have been comfortable to recall, he lost his cool. 

In matters concerning love pragmatism is a glass eyed boss, dictating what will happen and with who. That one will do, the one with the glint, she has nice hair, small, too tall, too cocky, wealthy, good status, dirty fingernails, he makes me laugh, he’s steady, she’s strong. Pragmatism though, wins hands down every time because the operating system it uses matches a thousand factors to another thousand factors in no time at all. If it can’t do it, and if all else fails, then pragmatism never lets one pair spoil another. All of this is done for us by self-interest and, given the number of people in the world, it seems to be working very well. Raymond Ellison’s decision to meet Anne Pennington on the evening of the 14th of August 1970 was one such example, it happened because she worked for a music publisher.

No other reason entered Raymond’s mind before asking Anne on a proper date. He would have agreed she was a pleasant looking girl, skinny, but what did that matter? He classed her as posh because, like many regional accents that travel south, he had a chip on his shoulder hewn out of complex inferiority. Her lack of humour he took as a good thing in that it gave her sentences seriousness, nothing worse, he thought, than someone making light of finely balanced considerations. Desmond made light of everything, all the time, and Raymond began to dislike him for it, he had known for a while that, because of this, Desmond could never be considered a real friend. 

They chatted away without the awkwardness or tentative steps that creating a new friendship sometimes brings. Alcohol did its trick, oiling words into the right order and cigarettes gave something for the hands to do. Raymond found her anecdotes about Diamond and Samuels less interesting than her surprisingly detailed knowledge of the nuts and bolts of music publishing. Where did the work come from, how did it fit together, who got paid, when, how much, how did the studios work, managers, performances, sheet music, radio, who told who to do what? His mind was calm, receptive, eager to get the knowledge so he could do it for himself, to make music for money. 

He talked about his childhood in the Midlands. She found its top-end working class normality fascinating, how he was training to be a maintenance engineer with Copeland and Sons pottery manufacturer who, he suggested, she might know as Spode Ware. He explained that during the first few weeks he could see clearly how the production process operated, and how it could be made more efficient with a few simple changes. After a few weeks he got the chance to mention this, both to the production manager in the middle offices and to the fag-in-mouth operatives in the works canteen. As he was telling this story to Anne he remembered how his frustration turned to anger at the stupidity of their responses, “don’t walk before you can run sunny Jim” “things are done this way for a reason”. Sometimes they even ruffled his hair while they were saying it, or pinched his cheek. Anne told him he reminded her of Alec Guiness in The Man in the White Suit , he smiled and said he didn’t know what she meant.

When they kissed in her bedroom it was still light. The summer evening went on and on and, like a child after a day at the fair, it didn’t want to stop. A record was playing recent top-ten hits but not by the original artists. Raymond felt warm and clean and relaxed. As his lips moved to her cheek his eyes were drawn to the record sleeve placed neatly on the sill of the window.. He drew her closer in order to feel the softness of her body press against him. It was nearly ten o’clock yet noise still permeated from outside, warm sounds of summer drifting through closed curtains, orange voices, a motor bike engine in tune, oiled up, ready to run slowly into the night. He traced the outline of her breast through the thin cotton of her camisole dress, kissing her neck then her lips, ears and cheek. The cigarette shared seconds ago was still lit in the ashtray on the bedside cabinet. He glanced at it as he was turning Anne over to unbutton the dress, she took a drag and passed it to him and he sucked the cigarette through her fingers. He wasn’t sure how far this would go. If they got into the bed now it was by no means certain they would have sex, even with her down to bra and knickers and him torso naked with his Farah trousers still on, dick bulging at the left-side frogmouth pocket. If it went no further he didn’t care. He kissed her when he rolled her back over, and their gazes met at the same instant. For the first time it was not his mind controlling his body or even the other way around, it was an out of control sensation, dream-like, a feeling set apart from acting or reacting, beyond what he could have described in language. This person next to him was with him. She would be with him, on his side, normal, abnormal, never against each other in heart or soul (only when they were playing) and he would be with her in just the same way, he knew it. Her fingertips traced the outline of his cock and searched for the beginning of the zip.

When the blood was ripping through the vessels of her body, when she wanted him deeper inside, in her mouth or any where else he wanted to be, she imagined animal woman rubbing her face into the semen on his chest and stomach. Or even having no rational thoughts at all, when she could not understand what words were for or how to use them. She felt she was going mad on the days she caught a glimpse of herself in the shop windows, disconnected from who she was, who she should be, or who others expected her to be. Should she stop at moments like that? Just wait for some sense to come into the world and explain it to her, then carry on and be normal, never thinking like that again. 

He made her a cup of tea. Her friend was out so he went downstairs in his underpants and when he came back into the bedroom he put her cup down on the bedside cabinet so it wouldn’t be too hot for her to hold. He fluffed her pillow up as she sat up to take a sip. The night had slipped in unnoticed and the room was darker but his eyes gradually adjusted to the fade. He put the needle back onto the record after he turned it over and sat on the edge of the bed with the album sleeve in one hand. He placed the cup down on the other bedside cabinet and took the cigarette Anne was offering from over his shoulder. He held it and pulled her hand back as she withdrew it, kissing her fingers instead of saying thanks.

“What is this shit?”

“That’s the record giving Samuels sleepless nights, he missed it and he blames Donald for not telling him about it, I mentioned it to you in the pub, do you not remember?”

“Yeah I do, I remember, Samuels and all that, but what is it, who is it? It’s shite, not even properly in tune, the singer hasn’t rehearsed her lines, you can tell straight off, it’s only just in time, how have you got this anyway?” 

     His tone was direct but she had quickly learned that this was just the way he said things, a bluntness of manner that he relaxed into with people he trusted, eventually, over the years, it turned him into an outwardly polite man.

“I just got it, well someone left a few of them hanging about, a rep or something, or Samuels brought them in I don’t know, there are records hanging about all over the office, I could save a fortune if I liked the music you like. I get some for Julia but she laughs because they aren’t fashionable or what she wants, and we don’t have any really good records anyway, so she says, because our office is out of touch.”

     He sparked up a second cigarette and passed it to her after taking a drag. Holding the LP in both hands he spun it around to look at the back, disdaining the plain, tissue thin, inner sleeve. 

“These are all good songs as well, how did they get to record them, did the record company not stop them? well obviously not I can see that, but how come, especially when it’s this bad, bloody hell.”

     She knelt behind him and kissed his neck, reaching over she took the record sleeve gently out of his hands and flipped it to the other side of the bedroom. On its path to oblivion it collided with its innards which was playing a version of Love Grows. The screech that stopped it’s progress was harmonised by the laughter coming from the bed as Anne and Raymond began again.

“I’ll find out for you.” Anne promised.

“Find out for us.” Raymond responded. 

                                                        45

The sunshine gently poked them both awake through a gap in the curtains. Julia, Annes flatmate, was downstairs humming the same song Anne had flung the record sleeve at. On the radio, with Julia’s help, it sounded to the young lovers like the best song in the world on one of its best mornings. They hummed it too, on and off, for the rest of the day, playfully trying to stop each other from doing so. Raymond said he fancied a cup of tea and asked her if she wanted one. She said she would make it but Julia was funny about boys staying over, not that it had happened before, she quickly added. When she had gone to the kitchen he opened the curtains moving the nets to one side and shielding his brow with his hand. It was Sunday morning but people were milling about like they had been up all night, just getting on with things. Lots of colour here in London, people move differently, they walk with their heads up, he thought that everything was more confident, less likely to fail, or maybe he was just in a better mood. Whatever the reason his mind was clearer, he took a cigarette out of the packet but put it back, he wanted a smoke but his mouth was dry and the taste would be unpleasant, so he decided to wait for his cup of tea. Anyway he liked sharing ciggies with Anne. He wanted to get on with things just like everyone else outside seemed to be doing, and he fancied the recording lark as one option worthy of a decent stab. But it was Sunday today, sunny day, not right for working out plans, getting some fresh air would be a better idea, something to eat too. He would ask Anne what she feels like doing when she comes back, that’s not a bad idea either, he thought.

He wasn’t sure about the pretzel or the coffee. Anne took him to a cafe down a back street, there were already people sitting outside smoking, drinking out of thimbles, talking, reading, eating pastries. It felt strange to him, nothing happened on Sunday mornings where he lived. There breakfast was cornflakes or buttered toast dunked into sugary tea that left an oil slick on top. His upbringing had taught him that morning eating was a procedure done quickly before the main event of the day, which was wage working. In his world breakfast was not something to enjoy, certainly not a pleasurable way to spend time with other people. It would take him decades to understand that it could be, so deeply ingrained was the monopoly of British wage-working culture, get up, get out, get money, get back in. He ate both pretzels in seconds, downed the espresso in a gulp, and then wondered what to do. Anne had hardly sat down and she could see he was fidgeting to go.

“What?” 

He flicked the crumbs of the bread onto the pavement allowing a loitering sparrow to nip in and liberate them. 

“We have got all day you know, take your time, what’s the rush.” 

     She couldn’t have understood that it wasn’t impatience that made Raymond bolt his food, it was training. She was, however, beginning to realise the differences between them in terms of cultural habits. Just a question of getting used to each others ways and adapting to them, she thought, quite exciting.

“It’s a lovely day, how about walking to Hyde Park, or one of the others, and having a look round, do you want another coffee?” 

She passed him the cigarette before taking a nibble out of her pretzel.

“Do you think he would do me a tea? will it be alright do you think, the tea I mean, not the asking, oh sod it I’ll have another coffee, it’s like treacle though don’t you think, its not for quenching is it?”

She laughed as he pulled his face like he was chewing tin foil. 

“Ask for a glass of water with it, or get a milky coffee, they have different types, it’s up to you, just ask. Will you get me another as well, have you got enough money…ta ducks!”

“Ta ducks! Where did you get that from?” 

They both laughed out loud and the people seated near smiled with them, it was a good start to the day.

“I thought that was something you might say, I think I heard someone say it on a Play For Today, you know, as they were heading off ‘tat’ mill.”

“You’ve changed your tack, I thought you weren’t funny.” 

He checked his change as he walked back into the cafe. It comes and goes she nearly said to him before he went in, trouble was it doesn’t come enough.

It was after midday when they entered Hyde Park and it was getting hot. On the way he told her he hadn’t got all of the day to spend with her as the band were supporting another group that evening. He had forgotten about this till now mainly because of her but also, he now realised, because he had lost interest in playing with his band. He would have guessed the others might be feeling the same to different degrees. It was no fun now, beyond even boring, it was now a hassle and an anxiety. Like the opposite of a working man’s Friday night, it was now the trepidation of a Monday morning, and he didn’t like the feeling at all. 

He didn’t like walking about in the park either, buying ice cream, being a couple, getting red in the sun. Aimless, all without structure, no solid foundation to any of it that he could see. He nearly said it out loud, that everything had to be worked on, needed to be made first, fabricated and then enjoyed, no work no play. Touching her hand they glanced at each other and grinned, no, he might have been wrong about being a couple, early days though. His inclination was that work came first and perhaps it was all there ever was, how could it be anything else? He looked around and saw happy people, the weather was good and it was a Sunday morning, but how solid were they in this transient mood, really? What if they had just met, would they be bonded at the hip then, acting out the role of loves true gift, no, wafer thin that, just veneer. Then he realised someone could be looking at him in the same manner, and he acknowledged they might have been spot on, except what he felt about Anne was not a generalisation, it was specific to him and as real as it gets. Anchored to her the veneer of feeling had begun to set. It was the making of a love.

Arrangements still needed to be made for the evening show, and on the way to the park he told Anne he needed to phone Desmond to tell him he would be back at the guest house around six. Someone picked up at the other end once  they found a phone box. Raymond held his hand over the receiver and said to Anne – who was scrunched up next to him in the cubicle – that he thought it was the owners son who was a bit dim. After a minute or so of looking he told Raymond there was no one in any of the rooms, and asked if he should write down a message. Raymond asked him to tell any of the the others, if he saw them, that he would be back at six o’clock. Before they left the phone box Raymond decided to phone Anna and Arthur. Anna picked up the phone almost straight away seeming instinctively to know it was Raymond on the other end. The intonation of their brief conversation had the gentle affection that might have made Anne believe it was his own mother and not the mother of another member of his group. She sensed that there was another story lurking there, who knows, she asked herself. 

Anna informed Raymond that she had spoken to Stephen less than half an hour previously and he told her that that everything was fine. She asked Raymond how he was and, in a way befitting a confidante, he told her that he would talk to her in more detail when he saw her, which shouldn’t be too long. He asked Anna if Stephen had indicated what they – him and Christopher – were up to as he thought it might be a good idea if they met up for a drink before tonight’s show. She told him that they were off to a football game, playing one not watching.

                                                      46

Ellen had burned the fingers of her left hand experimenting with different mixes for plaster. Although more scorch than burn, like from a dinner plate in the oven, it still hurt, leaving her fingertips looking like little sunburnt faces. Because of her impatience she ignored the instruction to wear rubber gloves, she also messed up the mixing of the plaster, over-concentrating on the ratio of plaster, water and silica flour and missing the importance of not over-stirring the ingredients, and definitely not with bare hands. This was a three months ago following her visit to Anne and Raymond’s house and the strange yet interesting conversations she had with them. 

She found out that they were quite well off. She knew that Desmond Jencks was the lead singer in the original 70’s group that her dad, Stephen and Raymond were in and that he became a TV and radio presenter. Raymond surprised her by saying that they all kept in contact and occasionally they met up for a get-together, usually in Birmingham. He was alright was Desmond, Raymond told her, not what you might expect. He told her that disbanding the group was a hard decision and not a foregone conclusion by any means, they might have steered it on a number of different courses, but it wasn’t to be. Anne and Raymond remembered the day it happened and the game of football that put an end to it.

Raymond made another coffee while Anne started telling Ellen what happened. He came back in shortly after she had started and said he wanted to hear the story as well.

“Honestly, why do you want to wait for a story that you’re in, you know it better than I do, do you think that I’ll make it up or something?” 

     Anne looked mischievously at Ellen while addressing Raymond. She pulled a fleece over her legs and chest and smiled warmly, tangibly remembering the events of the day.

“Or is it that you don’t want to miss a bit?” 

“Are you warm enough?” 

     Anne pointed towards another throw, a patchwork one, to the side of Ellen, explaining to the younger woman that she felt cold all the time since coming out of hospital, even though the house was summer warm. Raymond took the hint, smiling to himself on his way back to the kitchen.

“We’d best wait, it is a good story though, you’ll enjoy it. We were both there, of course, in the park I mean, lord god I remember it like it just happened. It was hot, July or August I think, no it was definitely August, nothing chilly about that I can tell you, you can remember warmth. I took Raymond to his first coffee shop, American-Turkish fellow owned it, I used to go in all the time, he hated it, well no, not really, not hated as such, but he was very confused by it all, even sitting outside to eat, the look on his face, ha! I remember when we were walking towards the park…”

     Raymond shouted his thanks to her from the kitchen for waiting till he got back in before starting the tale.

“Oh sorry love, I’m not really saying anything, It just came flooding…he can’t hear me anyway, no point trying to shout, I’ll wait.”

 Ellen nodded, she was enjoying this.

     He sat next to Ellen and waited a minute for the coffee to brew before pressing the cafetiere and pouring them each a cup. Ellen thought it genuinely delicious. He explained the difference between the various beans, praising the qualities of peaberry and why Africa is the next big thing in coffee, he would invest some money in it, he said, but it didn’t seem right.

“My God love, it never quite goes away does it.” 

Sighing in agreement he placed his cup down onto the table next to him.

“Oh I’m not too bad now, I think it’s the morphine lingering about in the system, not sure, but I wouldn’t say no though, especially with what’s happened. Trouble is you’ve got to go through it all again haven’t you, then you wonder what the point is, all the sacrifice, should you do what you feel like, live and be done with it, who knows.”

     Ellen pretended to follow what they were saying. They seemed to be talking to her and having a private conversation at the same time, strange to observe but she didn’t feel uncomfortable. Pretending to know what was going on wouldn’t do though, she better ask.

“What are you talking about now, I’m not quite following the drift.”

“Ciggies” Anne said, “It’s the fags, He has been on and off them for goodness knows how many years and he misses them like crazy. I keep telling him that he might as well smoke, but if he is going to why not smoke good ones, top quality tobacco and all that, like his coffee. But what does he do when the craving gets on top of him, straight out to the newsagent for twenty of the cheapest fags they sell, then he comes back stinking and coughing his guts up, trying to hide it, what’s the point?”

“It is true, can’t deny it, I was reminiscing when I heard you talking about the day on the park.”

“When you were in dad’s band?” said Ellen.

“It wasn’t your dad’s band, not by a long chalk”

“Sorry, just a turn of phrase”

“We smoked like chimneys then, everybody did, blokes with nicotine stained fingers pretending to be tough or working class or something else. Strange when you think back though, you forget how tense things were, maybe they weren’t, I don’t know. What I do know is that after that day we knew, me and Anne that is, and probably the others as well, that what we were doing was not going to come to anything, us being a famous band that is. It was explained to us you see.”

“I have some roll-ups if you want one Raymond, they’re made from the best New England tobacco, virgin crop, with subtle hibiscus flower undertones.” 

It was a pouch of cheap rolling tobacco that she used for spliffs but he fell for it.

“I will actually, do you mind love?”

     He asked Anne at the same time as motioning to Ellen, with an eager waft of his hand, to go outdoors. They lit up as soon as the doors slid together and walked slowly along the vergreened stone path that twisted towards the pond at the bottom of the garden. The weather was pleasant, warming the day up just enough. Raymond looked back to the conservatory to check on Anne even though they had been out of each others sight for only a few seconds. He could only see his own and Ellen’s reflection in the glass. 

     He looked trim, he was trim, in better nick than Ellen, he thought, but that would soon change when she got her act together. Her body was a reflection of her approach to life at this moment, sloppy, but with a different mind-set came a different body. He lifted his hand to wave to Anne but realised he had a roll up between his fingers so he took another drag and, blowing the smoke skywards, saluted his love with fingers and fag, eyes squinting into the bright light, like an American marine in a war film. Anne could see them both from inside, he was the same boy that she took to the park that day, the same boy who once hated real coffee and was now a snob about the stuff. It would not be long before she would have to leave him and she worried if he was going to be alright. He would not be good here on his own, she knew that, he needed something to do, something to get his teeth into. 

     When they returned to the conservatory Anne and Raymond continued their story of the football match in a London park. Not able to agree whether it took place in Hyde or one of the other royal parks close by, they decided it didn’t matter, but they were fairly sure it was Hyde. Thinking that Stephen, Christopher and, probably, Desmond had bought a football and were having a kick around somewhere – most likely involving girls – they decided after their Turkish breakfast that they would try to find them. Ellen noticed the narrative had become, as all good stories should be, about the inner life of the tellers. Raymond prompted Anne with “do you remember” and Anne chided Raymond with”no, no, no not like that at all”, but best of all was when they they synchronised a memory, taking a moment and gently smiling to each other.

The park was scattered with young children whizzing about in all directions looking for sticks or someone to tag. Older people, who acted and looked differently to old people now, were dressed in hats and coats regardless of the August warmth, shuffling around or sitting on benches. The pigeons were the same as they are today. At first the two young lovers thought the jeering from the crowd was some kind of protest. Raymond thought it was Speakers Corner, he knew about that and told Anne it was where people with ideas stood on boxes and spoke. Anne couldn’t think of a reply that was sarcastic enough, and she didn’t want to upset him, so she told him it might well be.

  Moving through the crowd they saw a football match of sorts taking place. It took a short while for them to understand quite what type of match it was, Raymond looked at Anne as if to ask if she knew, but her smile and a shrug of shoulders suggested that his guess was as good as hers. Raymond spotted Desmond on the other side of the pitch pretending to be a linesman, barefoot, trousers rolled up to his knees, and with his yellow stage poncho draped like Batman’s cape over his shoulders. He shouted over, but the combination of jeering and laughter meant he couldn’t be heard. 

Some of the players looked like they were taking the match seriously. All of the participants were in some kind of kit – shorts, tops, socks and boots, and a few were running around like it was an FA cup semi-final. A winger playing for the side kicking left to right (from where Anne and Raymond were standing) tackled the opposition inside forward and dribbled past another player before leaving the ball where it was and running in the opposite direction, pursued by a girl whose name was shouted by the spectators who recognised her from television. The referee blew his whistle madly and began to run in all directions around the pitch. Dressed like a real official but with dark black glasses and brandishing a blind person’s white stick he swiped at imaginary foes, as if he was being attacked by wasps, and proceeded to send off everyone he bumped into, including himself. Everyone was having a great time. Raymond noticed Bonhoff further up the sideline waving a rattle, he was only a few yards to the right and he shouted towards him, this time he was heard and they made their way towards each other. Above the noise Bonhoff explained to Anne and Raymond, that it was a charity event with a group of musicians and some other well-known people messing about and having a daft laugh. 

      Ellen was picturing her father. Just a young man at the time and somewhere in the story, laughing, like a character in a film, not real until the camera pans to him. Raymond asked her if she wanted to carry on listening, she told him she did, very much. He tried to remember the name of the referee, it was there somewhere at the back of his mind, he even recalled that he struggled to put a name to the face even at the time, strange he could remember that. Anne said the actor was in some black and white films in the 40’s or 50’s and that he had made a comeback in a popular TV series around that time, a situation comedy that she couldn’t remember the name of. Mad looking individual, she told Ellen, who shrugged, bug eyes and scarecrow hair. Raymond said that they were getting sidetracked and that they needed to get back to the main tale. Anne agreed.

Bonhoff pointed to the nets at the far end of the pitch, he indicated that Christopher was playing in goal and that someone had scored. Like Stephen they were good at school football, good at sports generally, but Bonhoff was the best at running, nobody could catch him on the cross-country. Anne and Raymond noticed Stephen, in some kind of cobbled together football kit, running after the ball, laughing and easy in a way that made him look like a different version of himself. The winger, who had run past them just a few seconds before, got the ball again and booted it up field in the direction of six players who went for it simultaneously. He raised both arms in the air like a hero would if he had scored a winning goal, the crowd nearest to him shared his celebrations. Bonhoff called out his name and the winger looked over to give a little wave and a thumbs up. Raymond cupped Anne’s ear to tell her it was the artist.

When three players from Chelsea FC came onto the pitch the crowd became gently partisan, singing the praises of their favourite teams. Nobody mistook who the professionals were. Real football is homogenous – the players all look about the same as each other, uniform in kit, running roughly at the same pace, no fat tums, no matchstick legs, or headless chickens, nobody that is obviously not a player. The three professional footballers, in this context, looked like Greek gods. The kit itself, all blue with white neck and arm bands, seemed newly made, the wearer of the number 9 had worn this shirt a few weeks earlier when the team had won the FA cup. They were tanned too, light brown racehorses in a field of nags, and though they never broke sweat, they moved like thoroughbreds too.

A few goals were scored at either end, the girl players being allowed to score to the loudest cheers. One of the Chelsea players got tackled by one of them and went down as if poleaxed, at which point the blind referee blew his mad whistle, ran over to the fouled player, pretended to kick him, tripped over the FA cup winner, and then sent him off. More cheers and laughter. His Chelsea teammates carried the star player as if he had fallen on the fields of Troy, and when they were near the far goal all three turned around and waved to the crowd who applauded back with vigour. A few minutes later the players circuited the pitch with the real FA cup, together with collection boxes for charity donations. They were genuinely gracious and looked like they had enjoyed themselves. When they were close to Anne and Raymond someone asked them what they were doing next to which they replied, in unison, “win or lose, on the booze”.

Carpets of early afternoon sunlight raised the warmth of the conservatory and Anne decided she would like to change out of her bedclothes. Ellen offered to help after she had smoked another cigarette. They all agreed there was no point Anne climbing back upstairs so Raymond suggested he brought the clothes downstairs so she could dress in the front lounge. When Ellen had finished her cigarette she entered the room first. It was light, well decorated like the rest of the house, not over-modern, but tasteful and well done. The simple marble fireplace contained a log burner of the kind that Ellen had always admired, she would have liked to see it burning on a winter evening when it was miserable outside, seeing it warm and glowing. She noticed that the fire seemed unused, clean, as if it had just been fitted, the logs neatly arranged but untouched. To the side of the fireplace, on a shelf, was a photograph of a young boy. Ellen picked up the picture and looked closely at it. She knew it was Guy, Anne and Raymond’s son, he was younger than Ellen but she remembered him from when they were both children. They would often be around each other and sometimes they waited together in the same room, but Ellen could never recall speaking to him and they never played. She placed the photo back onto the shelf aligning it to the thin dust where she had picked it up. Looking at the frame again she saw her finger marks on the glass and thought about wiping them off, she decided not to as she heard Anne shuffling along the hallway outside.

“They were all so normal you see.” 

“On the park, on that day, all so normal. We’ve mentioned it a lot over the years how much that day meant to us, in more ways than one, I might add.” 

     She flicked the light switch on, it didn’t make any difference so she flicked it back off again, remarking to herself what a stupid habit that was. Raymond shouted downstairs asking why she had asked for a pair of jeans if she knew they wouldn’t fit over the cast. Anne and Ellen smiled and nodded to each other, Anne asked him to bring them anyway.

Raymond made another drink as Ellen helped Anne into some casual clothes. He decided on blackcurrant mint infusion made in a specialist herbal tea pot served in white Wedgewood cups and saucers. He liked the way the emerald magenta of the tea ghosted through the thin china. As he was bringing the beverage in to the front room a painful memory came into his mind, he shook it off before it firmed into focus.

“Thanks for waiting again love, before you got to the bit we both enjoy sharing that is, but then again what have I ever done for you eh?”

It was 50-50 sarcasm, borderline at best, especially given the circumstances of the previous week. Ellen was unsure how to take it. Smiling tentatively she thanked Raymond for the tea commenting that she liked the log burner. There was an odd jitteriness in this house, she thought, compelling yet not the kind that makes you think about getting out.

“Don’t be an arsehole Raymond I wasn’t saying anything, you just don’t like being left out, he’s always been like that as long as I’ve known him, bloody drama queen, frightened of missing out on his own story.”

“It’s not just my fucking story it’s everyone’s, including his.” 

Raymond didn’t need to point at the photograph, they all knew who he was talking about.

“Raymond, I wasn’t saying anything, please, I don’t want to get into this, Ellen isn’t interested.” 

          “Get into what exactly?” 

Raymond had seated himself on the small sofa next to Ellen. 

“What is there to get into?”

His matter of fact faux nonchalance heightened the tension in the room. Ellen sensed that Anne was about to burst into tears, the older woman’s right hand was placed on her forehead and her body was slumped, slightly, as if in discomfort or anguish. Being acquainted with someone is not equivalent to knowing them. Ellen was beginning to know Anne, the character in the failing body, and she changed her mind about thinking she was about to burst into tears. Anne spoke. 

“Okay we don’t really know what we’re doing with all this, we think we do, I mean we’ve mentioned it to each other, since the collision – that’s what the police call it, a collision, not an accident – and me being not exactly as right as rain. Oh where am I going with this, would you help me Raymond.”

Ellen spoke. 

“I thought I was just here for a social call, to say thanks for shaking me up a bit, but it looks like you two have got a few things you need to sort out, another story or something, I don’t know I suppose we all have, so do I fit into this somewhere?”

          “Yes.”    

                                                       47

Christopher was the only one of the group who could not accept the change. His temper inflamed as the vision of a future other than being in a solid working band shaped itself into a likelihood. The artist was different from them, the others knew it, but it would never be accepted by the drummer. They were making records, the facts didn’t stack up, playing all the time to good audiences, making money, they were not first division but neither were Port Vale, and what about the hit record, how many bands have one of those? He slammed his fists one after the other onto the table in frustrated defiance, the other drinkers thought it was a primitive drum beat. Someone hummed what sounded like a Zulu war chant over the top as a joke, but, given Chris’s emotional state, they soon stopped.

A cohort of about twenty had gone to the Cricketers Cavern pub after the game on the park. Raymond, Desmond, Steven, Christopher, Anne, Bonhoff and the artist commandeered two tables and everyone continued the good time outdoors with a good time in. Cigarettes were sparked, drinks were balanced five-in-hand from the bar, conversations from each packed table piled on each other like burning books. Everyone talked about the match, how much fun it was, when the next one was going to be, the incidents, who was who, what a great laugh it was, and all for a good cause that nobody cared about or could remember. 

The artist talked about the fracas at the studio. He said things were fine, that Christine and Bonhoff were helping him out with practicalities, very useful indeed he said, nodding thanks in their direction, it allowed him to concentrate on the music. Stephen had wondered privately about the chances of an opening for him as bassist, given the epiphanous experience (for him) of the two tracks in the studio. The previous evening he phoned his dad to talk about his hopes and maybe going in a different direction, still with music of course, but not with the group. His dad told him to see how things transpired. They transpired earlier in the day, before the match, when Bonhoff told him that the charges against the artist’s brother had been dropped and, well, that was that.

Being the right person in the right place at the right time, Bonhoff had greatly elevated his immediate duties and with it his expectations for the future. With that thought in his mind he downed his second pint of shandy and bade farewell to the increasing number of afternoon revellers in the pub. The artist told him to hang on for a minute and, after lighting up a tab, walked with him to the main doors where they spent a few minutes talking in private. Before leaving Bonhoff reminded Desmond of the performance that evening and not to expect to see him there as he had something else to arrange. The gear would be set up regardless, it would be collected and moved on the day after, but again not by him. Desmond caught Raymond’s gaze and they both knew that something was not right, like it was Bonhoff who had suddenly become the ringmaster. Raymond noticed the change with a mixture of disappointment and a relief. 

When the artist returned to the throng he was in fine spirits. He told the assembly that he was, in fact, in very fine spirits indeed and that, in the interests of consistency he would be pleased if someone present would be so kind as to purchase him a double brandy and coke, very fine spirits indeed he was in. Someone asked him when he was playing next and he replied that he didn’t know or fucking care. Well, he added, he did know where he wasn’t playing, this was true, and that wouldn’t be in the UK, not for the foreseeable future, certainly not until he came back from America. The record was coming out just before Christmas, maybe even late November, and a single would be chosen off it, probably the one that Stephen overdubbed on, and then off to the US of A.

It was the stuff of dreams making it in America, the drinkers congratulated him, star status very nearly there. The seating arrangement changed, people moved closer to him so that they could hear what he was saying. He waved things down explaining that no-one knew him in America, that it would be harder work than anyone could appreciate, and that there would be a fair slice of luck involved. Don’t ever forget, he told them, he would always be an English boy at heart.

Desmond looked at Raymond again but said nothing. Raymond asked the artist what he meant by a fair slice of luck, how could it fail with all the promotion and money he had behind him. Anne squeezed Raymond’s thigh then passed him another cigarette. The artist asked him if that was what he really thought, that all he needed to do was get on a jet plane, wait for a motorcade to take him to the Carnegie Hall, rehearse for a couple of hours, bang out some tunes on the piano, sing, dance, and then fuck off to Florida counting the cash on the way. It wasn’t said as a joke and nobody took it as one. Raymond was flat and embarrassed, his words were being taken in a way that he hadn’t intended, he was on the losing side and nothing he might say now could ebb the flow. His feeling that success in the music business could be bought was unwavering and would become granite solid throughout his life. He understood that hard graft was a factor of success, his own band had worked as hard as anyone, he thought, but they just hadn’t had the breaks. This was the next statement he made to the artist. Raymond knew it felt wrong when he was saying it, like eating bad food. The artist took a few seconds to frame his response. Fully aware that calling the run-of the mill nonentity opposite him – he couldn’t recall Raymond’s name – a useless misguided cunt may change the genial mood of proceedings, he called him it anyway which made people go quiet. He unravelled the statement. 

                                                       48

The telephone rang from somewhere inside the house. Raymond looked glum as if the movement required to get up and answer it was not worth the candle. Eventually he placed his teacup and saucer, still half full with blackcurrant tea, onto a side table next to Ellen, then he left the room. When a mood changes from convivial to sombre it is difficult to get it back. Individuals are aware of the wrongness, that there is blame to be shifted, they are attentive to the fact that speaking first is awkward, often leaving body language to talk for them. 

     Anne and Ellen were getting on nicely – all three of them were – but Ellen could sense an undercurrent of another story, an unspoken half-truth pervading the conversations. She put her cup down and gestured to Anne, palms open and shoulders shrugged. Anne shook her head. Raymond came back into room.

“It was no one, just those stupid telesales I told them to get lost and they asked me if they could phone back when it was more convenient, I said how about twenty past three last Tuesday, they hung up.” 

It was the right shift of mood. Anne said they were becoming a problem  since the accident, she couldn’t get to the phone at all yet found it difficult to ignore. It’s the time you see, she told Ellen, after the call, ringing round to ask if anyone has phoned, in case it’s important. Ellen asked why she didn’t use the ringback service, or why they even used a landline now that mobiles were the thing. When that topic of conversation ended Raymond asked if the story was worth continuing with.

“Yes”

Ellen said it with genuine enthusiasm, it perked Anne up to hear it as if it were a demand for an encore. 

“But I am going to ask again, what are you trying to tell me, what are you telling each other, with this story I mean, why is it so important and what is it you’re trying to do because, I’ll tell you what, and please don’t take this the wrong way, it isn’t a social chit-chat is it?”

“Well it is in a way”, Anne replied, “But I – we – don’t know how to explain it all properly, maybe it’s better off not being done, but that would be missing the whole point really.”

        Raymond interrupted with an attempt to explain but it muddied the water even more. Anne, politely, asked if she could carry on, and he said of course she could. Before she started to speak again he got up and kissed her lips, messing her hair up very gently and sitting back down quickly, before her playful swipe caught his retreating backside.

“There was a lad who your dad and Stephen grew up with, his name was  Kenny, but everyone knew him as Bonhoff.” 

He looked out of the large front bay windows as he returned to the story. The day was shaping up pleasantly. There was no breeze, he didn’t much care for windy weather. His car looked good, an extension of his own neatness and style. 

“This lad sort of tagged along with us when we went to London, helping us out with the gear, from gig to gig and such like, really nice lad, everyone liked him, he spoke with a kind of lisp, but, you know, nothing about him, just seemed to get on with life, in the background, moving stuff. Then, all of a sudden, he just disappeared.”

“No, sorry Ray, I’m not sure that’s right”, Anne corrected him. “He didn’t just disappear at all, he just stopped working for Sylstar and Christine. Don’t forget she went under the radar as well, about the same time too, left you all in the lurch, they both did.”

“Well, that’s true enough, he didn’t exactly disappear, but he didn’t leave us in the lurch either I won’t have that, she might have done but we were in the lurch anyway, whatever that means. What he did do, Bonhoff that is, is start working for the artist in some or other capacity and he did very well for himself.”

Anne interrupted again. 

“No, no, you’ve got it wrong, don’t get mad love please, but that’s missing the point too, the lad didn’t work for the artist at all, well he did, I mean he did some work for him – a lot of it actually – he was an absolute master at organising, did it all effortlessly. People talked about him, Bonhoff, while I was still working for Samuels, do you remember, they all thought I was invisible, they used to say all sorts in front of me, I could tell you a few stories about all that Ellen, honestly I could, write a book probably.”

“I can’t remember seeing him at all after the park’, Raymond said, ‘he just seemed to go, we all knew he went to America either with the artist or roughly at the same time, but as for London or round here, nothing at all, zilch.” 

Raymond wanted another cigarette. The stimulus was a kind of physical remembering that had never gone way. He resisted the urge.

“What the point though is that, somehow, he found his niche in life, he was given an opening and he squeezed himself through it, he did alright, better than any of us probably, except Desmond of course”

“What happened to Bonhoff then?” Ellen asked “My dad never mentioned him, I’ve never heard of him, he seems an interesting bloke, it would be good to hear what became of him, what he’s doing now.”

“All I know”, Raymond replied, “is that he went to America at the same time as the artist and stayed. They were both part of the scene, the gay scene that is, in the 70’s and 80’s, the artist is dead now, obviously, and I have no idea what became of Bonhoff, nobody kept in touch, his family was from round here but I don’t know any of them, never did. The point is that he left, not that there is anything wrong with being round here, but he isn’t and I am, we all are, that’s all.”

Ellen began to understand they were trying to resolve something about life that was important to them and may have some relevance to her. It was all vague and she was still not sure where it was heading, if anywhere at all.

“The artist was blazing angry at me in the pub, it was embarrassing, I still get cold shivers when I think about it now. I hated him for years afterwards, still do, can’t stand to listen to his music, felt like hurling the radio whenever he was on and, if truth be known, I felt glad when I heard he was dead.”

“Oh Raymond, that’s terrible, imagine thinking like that, he’s not like that really Ellen, honestly.” 

     Anne knew about Raymond’s hatred of the artist nevertheless she was embarrassed experiencing it in another persons company.

“It’s okay Anne, why would it not be alright, there are loads of people I can’t stand, and I couldn’t care less if half of them were rubbed out tomorrow, now I’m properly intrigued, what went on, in the pub I mean?” 

Ellen motioned to Raymond to ask if he wanted another cigarette outside, he shook his head.

                                                        49

Two bar staff came over with another tray of drinks and the artist gave each a pound note and told them to keep the change.. Even though it was eighty degrees there were many people outside, with young men sauntering about bare chested, inside the pub it was much cooler as the doors at the front, side and back were wide open. Just visible from the artist’s table young people were enjoying the afternoon, some sat on patches of grass or just stood around, drinks in hand, smoking, having a good time. The artist offered Raymond a cigarette from a brand new packet of John Player Special extra lengths, in a black and gold packet with a flip top. He refused the offer because he had just put one out, his mouth was dry and he didn’t want another. He knew straight away that the artist took this as a snub, made worse when less than a minute later, he light one of his own, a small Players Number 6. The artist offered Anne the same packet at the same time as Raymond and she refused as well. Her reason was not that she didn’t want one but that she detested the artist instinctively and wanted him to know it. She caught his eye and they both understood. His burgeoning fame was a mystery to her, he might as well be singing London Bridge is Falling Down over again for all his music meant to her. She did not fail to perceive, however, that he caused the mice to stir in the tummys of lots of girls and boys throughout the land. Desmond was more handsome but nothing there to ripple the pond, especially when he dressed as a duck. Even though she disliked intensly the person shaking a cigarette packet at her, she would have let him fuck her if they were in the right situation, if he asked in the right way, even though he was homosexual, perhaps especially because he was, who cares, she thought.

“So what do you think I am then Mark?” 

The artist placed his pint glass two thirds full back on the table and flicked a fag out from the full pack of twenty, he was looking straight at Raymond.

“Who’s Mark when he’s at home having a piss, you’ve got all your dentures the wrong way round Yuri.” 

Desmond, sensing the change in mood, chirped in from the next table along. He wanted to diffuse the tension and help Raymond gain the upper hand at the same time. 

“And who rattled your cage Birdboy, prancing round the stage like a fucking giant canary, singing shit, fucking Tweety Pie cunt.” 

In the context of public house ensemble drinking it was clear when darkness was descending. The character of the artist had neither checks or balances to prevent this from happening, he would, in a scientific sense, be termed a reagent of disorder. Although well acquainted with it, he was not inclined to physical violence, even gentle play fighting as a child he considered too rough, disabling insects was more his thing, the smaller the better. If the whole pub were to become a wild west saloon he could not have cared less, blame would shift away rom him, he had a price which was untouchable, an inviolable asset.

“We don’t sing shit, and my name’s Raymond.”

“Oh well, sorry about that…Raymond.” 

     The artist’s faux apology made Anne think that the personality split she held under control was similar but not quite the same as his, fear with release were  two halves of the egg, living doom. He continued without interruption.

“My mistake, not that good with names, and what about Tweety here, didn’t quite get your monicker the other day.”

“Desmond’s the name my friend, lovely to be in your company again, has our friend Bonhoff nipped out to get you some pretty flowers?”

“Well he may have done just that, party after this see, up the road off Mayfair, just a select few, one or two close friends, musicians mostly, some new talent there as well. He’s gone to get me a change of clothes actually, sort me out so I can go straight there, oh and something nice for us to make the evening flow. And what are you boys doing tonight?, oh wait, let me guess…”

     He spoke over the top of the young people on the velour cushioned bench, and directed his invective towards Stephen and Christopher, who were listening as everybody else was by now.

“… playing backup while these two sing shit all night. Might be bad with me names but I knows me music alright.” 

     He mimicked a bad northern accent making everyone laugh with the exception of four young men from the midlands and Anne. Christopher started to bang the table and Stephen shook his head.

The artist continued riding the crest of laughter with a few more cruel little shock prods, he was enjoying this like bullies do when they are on top. The advice says stand up to them, they are soft underneath, really you’ll see, they don’t like their own medicine, knock them on the nose and watch them cry like babies. They don’t.

“It’s okay for you…” 

     Raymond wanted to run away, from the band, from this situation and from Anne, but he was rooted to the spot, hopelessly trying to land a punch back.

“… you’ve got the whole set up just how you want it, people running after you left right and centre, money, connections, it’s fucking easy, we’ve had to work our way up from nowhere, yeah I know we’re not about to be shipped off to America and wheeled about like a golden goose, but at least we’re honest.”

His heart wasn’t in it. The words came out but his heart just wasn’t in it. It was the last few words that convinced the least so, of course, he tried harder.

“Yeah honest we are, stick together we do, grew up together, all mates. What have you got eh?, nothing, sweet fuck all, cronies and yes men. Well I’ll tell you something for nothing, it’s you who sing shit not us, but no one will tell you because everyone is too busy blowing smoke up your arse that’s what.”

     Raymond was in a bad dream, treaclefooted, his words were as wrong as he could have made them, from the outside he would have challenged himself on any point, if he could. He was the wrong kind of slightly drunk, saying things to protect himself and the band, and everyone else knew it too. Anne didn’t say or do anything to help him and he never forgot that. Worse still he could see that the artist hadn’t finished with his fun, taking Raymond’s weakness as opportunity.

“Nothing to do now except get pissed and shag about…” 

The artist reached for  his pint glass, downed most of it and raised it in the air,

“… the next one’s on me, again.” 

     He sang this to the whole pub in the melody from his last single, it caught like a peatland fire. In a few seconds even the people outside were singing, it didn’t matter about the words just that everyone knew the tune and were joining in. The artist stood up and danced about, everyone else stood up and danced about, except Raymond and Anne. Desmond wanted to join in but didn’t, it was fun, nobody noticed Stephen get up and go to the lavatory. The people around him thought Christopher was banging a beat out on the table as an accompaniment. As Raymond and Anne got off their stools to leave, the artist danced over to them, Raymond was going to hit him but Anne held his right arm as tightly as she could. The artist leaned and pretended to whisper in his ear, but shouted the words instead… “You haven’t got any songs have ya?”

                                                       50

Desmond attended, as, of course, did Stephen and Christopher. Arthur was 73 when he eventually died, his last year was difficult but they were well off enough for him to be as comfortable as he could expect to be, whatever that means. Desmond didn’t go to his funeral, it was fifteen years ago and the television career was full on, he never knew the man that well anyway. Anna outlasted her husband and had now turned ninety, her health was poor but she was adamant about attending, Stephen collected her with the help of his daughters, Clair and Nadia, who she loved dearly but kept mixing up their names. Donald Diamond attended from London and everybody who knew him was pleased he made it, a genuinely amiable character that people remembered. It was a long time since the band recorded together, mainly advertising jingles with the occasional television programme theme tune that Desmond gave Raymond the heads up about. Nevertheless, they thought of themselves as a proper group and Donald was as proud to be a part of that as any of them. He wasn’t well enough to play keyboards on the nostalgia tours, or at least he said he wasn’t, not really his thing that.

Anne’s family made the trip up for the day from various little places around Chelmsford. They ignored one of only two requests she wrote down before taking her own life on November 6, 2012. People, she asked, should just wear the clothes they were comfortable in if they came to a funeral, normal clothes, like you would go to the shops in, and nothing too dark or sombre. They rarely had contact, polite cards for birthdays or the occasional phone call, and she hoped they would have respected such a simple thing as that, but she knew otherwise. She would have sworn behind their backs if she could, or spat in their faces and ripped the newly bought hats from their heads, with their black feathers.

England is a green country, pleasant overall, it’s towns and cities possessing lost of public parks. How they came to be there is a wonder, an affirmation that everything will eventually turn out alright. Even on a soggy, blustery, cold day in November, in a district in the middle of England called the Black Country, they are many places of real beauty. In Sandwell Valley Park, just on the outskirts of West Bromwich, there is a long walking path lined with well maintained box hedging. In front of the hedging, at an equal distance from each other, seventeen original Victorian park benches, newly refurbished, sit confident and proud with all the time in the world. The avenue slowed down those who walked along it too quickly, care, money and thought had been applied to it very recently, Raymond paid for it and Ellen organised it. The silver birch trees, trained to arches by generations of park gardners, like whale bones in winter, had been spruced up nicely. People parked their cars as close as they could to Anne’s avenue, walking the short distance to it past the plaque commemorating her life. The Chelmsford contingent mumbled and moaned all the way along, unaware that no one was interested in what they were saying, or that their expensive new clothes and shoes might get muddy. Other people started to arrive, people that Anne had got to know over the years, not friends, just people she had got to know, the kind of people that turn up. 

The ensemble of grumbling gloves, hats and scarves stoped at a water fountain at the side of which was a sculpture. Both installations, together with the landscaping, were also paid for by Raymond and organised by Ellen. He helped her with the practical aspects and found it almost a pleasure to do so, for instance, searching for the right kind of Victorian feature for what Ellen had in mind. He drove as far as Millom in Cumbria, sending pictures to Ellen only to be told that the one he thought would do wouldn’t. He found the perfect water fountain (he thought it was far too big) by chance right under his nose. When it was delivered to Ellen’s workshop he did most of the preparatory work himself, whittling away more hours, trying not to think. The re-galvanising was done by a couple of young artisan lads in Dudley. It was an impressive sight, especially in the rain, the water fountain that is, not Dudley. A contract was arranged with a local garden centre to ensure the area was maintained for ten years after the memorial service. Her son Guy did not see any of this, they spoke a short time before her suicide and the outcome of the conversation made his attendance unlikely. Ellen’s hands were red and rough and her nails looked as if they had never walked through a department store, just like a sculpturer’s nails should look. Chelmsford wasn’t listening when Raymond introduced her, they thought she was a representative from the council, probably from the parks department. 

                                                       51

Guy remembered his time growing up in Burslem with mixed feelings. An adept conversationalist he could recall, with a few extra baubles thrown in, the flavour of the place and the characters that flitted, a bit like Dickens might have done. One story he told, for instance, was how watching the television show Magnum in the mid-eighties, on a television screen smaller than a Rice Krispie packet, inspired him to grow tea in the Hawai’i Rainforest. The eight gentlemen of the Australian combined special forces regiment were staying in the accommodation adjacent to Guy and Miriam’s luxurious farmhouse residence, and although they were there to learn from Guy how to catch jungle pigs, they thoroughly enjoyed the tale of how he got there. All of the soldiers had interesting tales to tell of their own paths in life, but they were better listeners than talkers. They genuinely enjoyed Guy’s story.

After the evening meal, the quality of which did not go without comment, Guy and Miriam gave a talk about the Pua’a – scientific name Sus scrofa – the Hawaiian native feral pig. The couple arrived from central Kansas in 2009 expecting a great deal of work with only a couple of extra hands to help them. They were not desperate financially but they did need to work out ways to make their new venture pay, sooner rather than later. Both were committed to the idea of growing tea in Hawaii and could see no reason why the picture in their minds should not become reality. The biggest obstacle to that vision, however, were the pigs, and these animals had destroyed the dreams of previous farmers. 

Brought to the Hawaian islands by the Polynesians the little native pigs fitted in well with their new environment as it was similar to the habitat they had come from. When Captain Cook brought big European pigs with him on his travels, interspecies breeding commenced that resulted in an animal perfectly suited to environment domination. They foraged and predated without fear and bred accordingly. The soldiers took everything in. Guy liked to give mini lectures to military and sports professionals, preferring them to business clients not because they paid any better – it was all lucrative  – but because they paid attention. It mattered more to them what was being said, they related to the knowledge being imparted, it was a two way thing.

When they bought the farm the pigs had recently destroyed a nine acre crop of Kilnoe green tea on the Hilo side of the Big Island, regardless of significant effort and much deterrent investment. Guy knew this, farming for him came first and business second, but not by much. He did the necessary research, comprehensively studying the problem from all angles before he set one foot down on Hawaii. The conditions were perfect for growing the crop, climate and soil, no point going further if these two were not right but they were perfect so the green light was on. The place was a paradise, different in every way from the Great Plains they were used to which, although magnificent in its own way, was devoid of the natural diversity they both craved. Finally, the seller couldn’t control the pigs. Guy could, he didn’t know how yet but he knew he could.

Towards the end of the second day both troops of four soldiers had shot a pig. The requirement was that they complete that task, take it back to the main farm building skinned and gutted (leaving no evidence of the kill) and present it quartered to the charcuterie, where Mirriam and Guy would instruct them on basic butchery and preservation. The ham products made from the animals, all of which were legally licensed to be culled in the forest, added further revenue to the tea products and the instructional activities. The method was always the same; newly selected members of the regiment, on one of their first training exercises in the field, three days, staying in what for them was luxury accommodation, no harshings, just basic information assessment and routine survival and hunting skills. Although they would never have said so, especially to each other, it seemed to them like boy scout stuff, too easy to be true.

At the end of the first day both sets of troops were mentally frustrated. The previous evening was an informal but important briefing regarding the nature of the terrain, what type of sign to look for, when to hold position and, above all else, to be as quiet as they needed to be. All of them were thinking the same thing, he knows what he is talking about but how does he manage to skulk about quietly in rainforest terrain, at a bulky six foot three. The inquest into the first days failure was done with the specific intention to compound the confusion, each time it worked the same way and it always had the same effect. Guy thought that by the third year word would have got out and the new troops would know what to expect, but this didn’t happen, just as the regiment staff informed him it wouldn’t. 

The mood among the group was one of frustrated puzzlement, it had never happened before Guy said at the end of the first days briefing, he was very apologetic, as if it were his fault. Questions were asked by the staff as to what the troops were doing wrong, Guy said he couldn’t properly understand the problem as, he repeated dejectedly, it had never happened before. It was such a straightforward task, fundamental. He told the soldiers and staff he would have to think about the problem overnight and respond in the morning, also, he asked with equal politeness, if it was possible if everyone could get together an hour earlier than planned, the situation needed to be addressed and the extra hour might help. Fucking right it was possible was the pre-arranged response from the directing staff. 

Before turning in for the night the soldiers were informed by the staff that failure to complete this exercise was unheard of and that they did not know yet what the consequences would be but, they assured them, it would not be good. An easy day had ended badly for the confident young soldiers, they were having their bubbles burst in a way they didn’t expect, and the worst thing about it all was that they did not have a clue what to do. 

Mirriam walked passed the the soldiers as they were returning to their accommodation for the night. She knew what they were thinking, how confused they had become, how they needed to get their brains in gear and be sharpish about it. They knew the problem required a different approach and that this must result in an achieved goal, but they didn’t know how to accomplish the task, it was even suggested by one lad from Melbourne that they blow the pigs up with grenades. The culling of at least one feral pig in a small area of rainforest was not difficult, they were told, but they were the best soldiers in the world and they had neither achieved it or been close to doing it. They had seen carcasses of the pigs in the butchery on arrival and were informed that the numbers of animals in the wild were increasing, licenses were in place so, if it transpired, they should not hesitate to cull in numbers, but no more than a dozen. Not coming close to killing one was a sickener.

Surprisingly none of the soldiers had previously hunted an animal in the wild so they approached the task as their preconceptions and army training dictated. On the first day they split into pairs and disguised themselves in position near to tracks and scat made by the pig groups, and they waited. They could hear the pigs throughout the day, it was as if the animals knew the soldiers were there but couldn’t care less. One or two of the bigger animals (the size of which surprised the soldiers) even showed themselves, but only for an instant before darting back into the forest. Guy might have told them that what they were doing was sensible, well thought out, exactly what the predictable idea of a hunter would do. 

But they had shot fuck all and they didn’t need to be told that. What he would actually have told them, if any of them had asked, is that their approach was formulated to hunt a human not a wild pig. People are different from jungle animals, he would have explained; they are tall, they stick out, they smell soapy, they fidget in the wrong way and they talk even when they are not talking, all because they do not live in that environment. Forest animals know you are there, they can see you, smell you, hear you and, above all, sense the way everything changes just by you being there, like a pebble thrown in a pond. Doing the same thing day after day makes the pigs confident and then they start attacking you, and you wouldn’t want that he would have pointed out. The brand of individual able to successfully resolve such a situation would do so by a change of thought process, and the particular strain the soldiers were under now should have initiated such a change. The upstairs liked this exercise as its completion required collective intelligence. It was along these lines, therefore, that Miriam gave a hint to stimulate the next days planning. It always worked very well… “force the bastards out lads, don’t wait for them to come to you”… was all she needed to say. 

They worked the plan out within an hour of returning to the accommodation. No extra information needed as everything was now in place. During breakfast the confidence of the troop members was palpable. They were asked by the directing staff if they could rectify the previous day’s failure, they thought so, yes, was the reply. Were they confident about completing the task and not showing themselves up or letting the regiment down, they thought so, yes, was the reply. Well fuck off and do it then was the last instruction.

The debriefing that evening felt strange to the soldiers. Both troops were satisfied that the exercise was completed yet, when all was said and done, they had only shot one pig between them and butchered it for eating or storing. Hardly the stuff of legend, they all thought. Best to go along with it though they agreed, don’t overthink it, you never know what the staff were up to or what they were seeing. 

Guy and Miriam were setting up the room adjacent to the accommodation block, making it ready for appraisal of the exercise. As they were doing so the staff sergeant entered the room to thank them for their help and to gently remind them of the necessary confidentiality requirements. It was his first time in Hawaii and he was curious to know to how a big bloke from the Midlands of England and an attractive, smart, American woman ended up running a tea plantation in the rainforest. So he asked.

It was an interesting tale. Guy told the man he never found the right fit when he was growing up, square peg and all that, something wrong with his surroundings that made him restless, frustrated and angry. Burslem, close to Stoke in the middle of England, nearer to Birmingham than Manchester, was were he was raised, neither of them had much more to say about that. And hitting sixteen Guy elaborated how off the rails he went, how he couldn’t see the point in anything. He tried music – again – drums this time, but he just didn’t want to do it, it was there, available to have a go at, but no good. The worst of all was that he knew what he wanted to do, what type of somebody he wanted to be, to fit somewhere and give it every single drip of energy he had, but whatever that something was, it wasn’t giving itself up easily. His parents found it for him eventually and he told the soldier he was very thankful that they did. They did it well too, put him on the right track one hundred per cent, and that was all it took, just finding the track, nothing over complex, just following the right compass bearing. The listener was intrigued. What makes people tick was his profession, not just firing bullets on a battlefield or blowing bridges up. He was curious to know what it was that got the big man sorted. They left me well alone, Guy told him.

Not quite as simple as that Guy went on to explain, but not much different. They were well off, his parents, made decent money in the music business and bought some houses in the Midlands when they moved back from London in the 1980’s. They didn’t flout it though, not their style at all, neither did they try to buy him a future they thought would be best for him. They hoped that something in the music business would have worked, his dad especially, they had enough connections to get the ball rolling and opportunities were not lacking, but none of it sparked the young man’s enthusiasm. When he found the thing that engaged him though they financed it to the hilt. 

The soldier noticed a selection of framed pictures on glass shelves to the left of the room. He asked what they were and if he could take a closer look. There were nine of them and they were not photographs or pictures but awards of various kinds. All the degrees were from Cornell University; Undergraduate (first class), Masters in Agriculture and Business, and a PhD in Agriscience. Next to these were national and state awards for farming, the solider was impressed. Guy came over to the man and explained that this is what he had found to do in life, and that all he had done since then was to carry on trying to do it better. The soldier told him that he was leaving the army in a few months, after 24 years. He had two broken marriages, a rented flat in Bristol, and hardly saw or heard from his three children. He explained that it was the only time in his life he could remember being apprehensive about the future, his childhood and adolescence was tough but secure and then, from sixteen, the army became his life. He was among a group of men who were the best at what they did, respected, fulfilled and with an identity. He had an idea what to do next, high level security or celebrity protection was the obvious option, but that was just to get money, he couldn’t see the point of doing it other than for that and it being something he was trained for.  He asked Guy how difficult it was to get a degree. It all depended, Guy explained, on whether the heart was in it, if it was engaged then a way will always be found. At the end of the glass shelf was an item that looked out of place, a small, clear plastic dome, like a christmas toy without the snowman or the snowflakes. In it was a rubber spider that would have looked very real to a seven year old boy.

The talking took an hour. The troopers were asked what they had learned from the exercise and the atmosphere in the room was crisp but friendly. Guy remained quiet but his presence was important. The youngest of the directing staff gave a brief talk on the future role of the regiment, a mission statement issued from upstairs that needed to be read out and fully understood. Soldiering in the traditional sense, he explained, with the regiment at the pinnacle of the profession in its present capacity was probably over. The method and function of what they did, for now, remained the same as ever, infiltration, information gathering and direct completion of the task, but with ever-changing areas of interaction. You are more likely, he went on, to be working undercover in Silicon Valley than watching a drug cartel in the Columbian jungle. This exercise has been to alter your preconceptions. The first day was a failure, it was set up to be, and it affected morale. The worst possible outcome – in whatever environment that happens to be in –  is that, as an individual or group, you fail to process and act on the information at hand, this is what happened, as expected. These two people, he said turning to Guy and Mirriam, came to this island to grow tea, simple enough, it’s perfect for it, everything right, except for the pigs. Previous attempts before them by experienced farming professionals, all failed, the others tried everything, fences, hunting, traps, poisoning, the last bloke even covered himself with pig shit to try to understand them better, none of it worked and they gave all up. The older staff sergeant, the one who had been talking about his future with Guy, asked the young soldiers to go and take a look at the qualifications on the far wall. When they had done so they returned to their seats and he explained how Guy and Mirriam had solved the problem, not by trial and error, that method had resulted in nothing for the farmers before them, but by thinking first. He asked Guy to explain how he and Mirriam had solved the problem.

“Thanks staff, and well done lads. I know you thought it might be a stroll in the park, piece of piss and all that, well that’s usually when things don’t quite work out so well, as you probably know. We bought this place knowing that it wouldn’t work without us sorting the pig problem out sharpish, and they are fucking rife, let me tell you that, vicious bastards too. If you had stayed put another day or two they would have sorted you all out, no problem. Well one thing we decided not to do when we got here was to explode into space, we had a good think about it beforehand, put our noggings together and came up with what seemed like a daft plan. But it had a logic to it, which made more sense the longer we planned it. Then we went for it, head on. It was a tricky I’ll give you that but it worked, sorted, didn’t have to do much in the end, just bought some dogs and trained them to live in the forest where we want to grow the tea, pigs hate them, keep well away they do, like I say, sorted.”

                                                        52

As usual Max yapped like a banshee when the phone rang. Anne thought it might be Raymond ringing up to have a moan about how miserable he was on the Isle of Man. She knew he was at his happiest when he was having a good moan, but it was the wrong time of day, he never rang in the early evening as he would either be playing or watching another band, it was always after the show ended.

“Hello”

“Hi mum it’s Guy.”

“Oh hello stranger what brings your lovely voice to these shores.” 

“Just thought I’d give you all a ring, see how you are doing, how’s the leg, rugby tackled anymore police cars have we?”

“Are you putting that American accent on on purpose or is it finally beginning to stick, either way it sounds phoney. Just give me a minute love I’m  going into the lounge and locking the dog out, I can hardly hear you with all the barking, just a minute.”

“It’s okay.”

“Oh that’s better, are you still there, good.”

“You’ve got room to talk with accents and the like, my friends used to think you were posh, from Buckinghamshire or something, listen to you now you sound like a right Midlands oink.”

“Cheeky little bastard, I was never posh, it just seemed it because I didn’t have black fingernails or dog shit on my shoes, and anyway it was Chelmsford as you well know.” 

     Anne loved to banter with her son like this, he rarely rang but when he did they talked comfortably. It was a gentle, easy pleasure built on an insecure foundation of fraught years struggled through when he was growing up. Even when the college place in Geneva, New York, came good, the relationship between them was still strained. Occasionally the teasing over tensioned and, like hedgehogs in winter, the warmth they got from each other was not enough to justify the prickles. They learnt from this, knowing each others mood, backing off or building up, whichever served the better. 

“Buckinghamshire, Chelmsford, what’s the big difference it’s still green wellies and labradors, ten steps removed from the Duchess of whatever her name is, the one that’s in the news, just had another baby. Don’t underestimate it mum, over here… I mean over here on the islands not just on the mainland… they go crazy for it, mad, completely bonkers. If I – we – wanted to we could be the best confidence tricksters ever to hit the road, hey, do you know what, that’s not a bad idea, I’ll weigh it up.”

“Over my dead body you will, honestly, where do you get this stuff from, no idea I really haven’t. What’s Sophie up to, can you send me some pictures, the last ones were really good, and it works the way you do it too, marvellous this new technology.”

‘Do you want to try a videolink, I can talk you through it, it is a piece of piss mum, honestly, you’ve got to try these things out, easy as anything. Tell you what, when Sophie gets back in about a week, no hang on, maybe ten days not sure, I’ll have to ask, anyway, when she gets back you can talk to her, face to face, that would be alright wouldn’t it.”

“Yes it would, and I will have a look at how you do it, I can’t be bothered just at the moment, my concentration isn’t up to it, I’m still on strong painkillers and they make me a bit drowsy, but I will do it I promise, anyway Raymond has taken the tablet with him to the Isle of Man.”

“How is he?”

“Yes alright, I think, he’s a good man, maybe a bit more to him than you think, people have hidden depths you know.”

“Yes I might just know that, the midweekers have finished by the way, in and out, job done, no messing as usual.”

“The what?” 

Anne thought she had acquired the skill of interpreting Guys enterprising wordplay. She found it difficult and annoying when he first started doing it as an adolescent but, like a new language, she found she gradually picked it up, through osmosis more than anything else. The Americans thought it was quaint, for about two minutes, then they made it clear that it was not welcome, so he stopped doing it.

“Midweekers, Saturdays and Sundays, SAS, they come on a Tuesday or Wednesday and piss off on Friday, twice a year, it was good this time, Australians, it usually is though, something new all the time, pays well too, bloody well actually.”  

“How is Sophie, you never said?”

“Oh yeah she’s okay, doing well, I suppose.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I say, doing well, Miriam could tell you better than me, are you talking about school and grades? yeah she’s doing okay, not smashing any  records but she doesn’t seem out of sorts with anything, and she’s hardly a million miles away from us is she. Like I say she’s back in a few days so I will get her to call you, you know what they’re like at that age, it’s all boys and friends in their own little world.”

“That’s true.” Anne mumbled to herself.

“Sorry mum, did you say something?”

“No, I just said that’s true, we’re all in our own little worlds aren’t we.”

“Yep, suppose so, just doing what we can, tell you what though, I’ve decided to do something else, in my little world that is, as you put it.”

He had. It was the staff sergeant that did it. Guy pondered how he could help the man but he came up with nothing, which was exactly the right approach to take. How did he know what the other man wanted to do. The soldier had asked about education but who knows, it could have been a pipe dream, the antithesis to a life of action. He could have offered him a job but he didn’t need the offer, a man with his skills. Money, what use is it without direction. And then it struck him. Miriam knew already, Anne did too as soon as she heard the step in Guys’s voice.

“What’s that then, my love?”

“Not sure.”