The Drummer's Tale - A Novel by Chris Whitfield

  I am relieved to see Joan appear. The Mills & Boon fan is wearing a coat, ready to go home, but when she spots Sofia, she takes us into a room at the back of the sweet stall and settles her into a comfortable seat. Joan asks me to go into the adjacent kitchen to put the kettle on and make a cup of tea, that very English remedy and treatment. I return to ask if I can use the phone to call for a taxi.

  ‘Better make it 999 love... she’s bleeding.’

  18. Christmas Day

  It is Christmas morning. Stephen has closed the curtains in the front room so that he can enjoy a floodlit game of Subbuteo between Liverpool and Everton. He is controlling both teams and tells me that the Reds are winning 16-0. My mum is in the kitchen peeling vegetables, while my dad is full of seasonal goodwill, wishing me a ‘Merry Christmas son’ with a half-Mediterranean, stubbly kiss on the cheek. He hands me a small box wrapped in his own inimitable style. I thank him and sit down to unwrap it. His presents are legendary, and so I lower my expectations to the requisite potholing level. Just as well, really... it is a triangle.

  ‘You’ll never guess,’ he says, ‘but I bought it from your shop.'

  I am lost for words... and not with emotion.

  ‘I thought it might come in handy with you and your beat group.’

  I don’t tell him that the band has split. I choose to leave intact his vision of me playing a Led Zeppelin number with a triangle. To be honest, even in the days of Brian Poole & The Tremeloes and Billy J Kramer & The Dakotas, I do not recall anyone in the group playing a small triangular instrument. On the gift front, the others fare no better. Stephen gets a book on fresh water fishing - he doesn’t fish - and Mum gets a knitting basket - she doesn’t knit. Overall, it is another classic year, and with a ting ting from my new Christmas present, I announce that I am off to the pub to see the lads.

  *

  The demise of the band happened very quickly. The catalyst was Brian leaving, but the happenings of the 21st party gig compounded things. Julian’s split from Amanda and the fallout from what happened to Sofia both had their impact, as well as the realisation for me that I don’t want to be a drummer. Singing with the guitar felt right in a way playing the skins never has. Maybe I will take up performing on my own. It is strange, I suppose, that only days ago we were full of energy, hope and ambition for Plain Truth, but it crumbled away in a near instant.

  There is a definite synchronicity about meeting up at the Ship Inn. It is the venue that witnessed the end of the band the first time round and is about to do the same again. Daft as it sounds; Brian really has left to join the circus with Ludmilla. Julian now wants to concentrate on his dissertation in the New Year; with a view to doing a Ph.D. Being in a band like Plain Truth is just not compatible with these goals. As for Ged, he wants to look for another group so he can carry on playing, and that seems right to me. He is the one band member who is a natural musician and has a personality suited to the rigours and routines of life on the road and on stage.

  Entering the Ship, the publican has made a token effort to represent Christmas with a sprig of holly adorned over the blocked up fireplace on the left hand wall and a snatch of mistletoe at the bar. I just hope that Vera the OAP stripper is not hiding behind the corner ready to pounce. There are a few of the old boys supping on pints of mild with dogs at their feet, but in a concession to this special day, they have left their dominoes at home. I spot Ged and Julian sat at the far end of the pub beneath a painting of the New Brighton waterfront, a genuine Constable apparently... though not the classic English landscape artist. This Constable turned out to be PC Bletchley from the local force, a man who turns his hand to the brush and easel after a hard day’s work telling people the time and saying ‘Hello, hello, hello’. Ged has already bought the drinks, so I join the boys at their table.

  ‘Merry Christmas guys.’ I pick up my bitter shandy as a toast.

  ‘Cheers Tom.’ Julian looks immaculate in a smart waistcoat and trousers combo.

  ‘Up yours soft lad,’ says Ged, still hiding his x-rated fringe.

  I take a few sips and wipe my mouth with the back of a hand. 'So what do you think about Brian?'

  Ged gives his verdict. 'He's a nutter.'

  ‘I must admit, it's hard to believe he's given everything up to join a circus... and with a prostitute he only met a week ago. It’s unbelievable really.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong old man,’ says Julian. ‘They go back a long way. He’s known her for years.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘When Brian was a teenager, he was in Billy Fossett’s Circus. He was a human cannonball known as The Big Shot. Every night he was fired out of a canon.’

  ‘Must have been some fucking cannon,’ says Ged.

  ‘And Ludmilla?’ I ask.

  ‘She was the Ringmaster and used to fire the canon’. Julian drinks from his Cinzano glass.

  I am confused. ‘But I thought she was a prozzy?’

  ‘I’m not sure about prozzy.' Julian pronounces the word with a modicum of distaste. 'She was more like a high class escort, with a bit of copulation thrown in. Her clients were all wealthy businessmen visiting Liverpool.’

  Ged adjusts his Father Christmas hat. ‘Fucking hell Jules, you seem to know a bit too much about this, if you ask me.’

  Julian smiles enigmatically but tells us nothing. 'Brian said she'd had enough and wanted to get back to the Big Top.'

  'Talking of big tops Ged, how’s Brenda?'

  The boys laugh.

  'I tell you one thing,' he says, 'thanks to Brenda; yours truly might soon be a member of Jimmy Jet & The Rockets.'

  'Really?'

  'Should be.'

  'But I thought Jimmy had swapped his leather trousers for a chip shop apron.'

  'Ah, you know what it's like. Some people just have to get up on that stage and give the people what they want.'

  'I'm not sure he gave those spinsters what they wanted. Remember, when his pants split.'

  'That's a point... well, I hope it comes off, keep my hand in and all that...'

  'Are you talking about Brenda's big top again?'

  'Fuck off soft lad. Christ you're a bit sharp today.'

  Julian is sitting back in his chair. He has an alertness about him not seen for a while. His eyes are shining, and he is looking his old self. I ask him about the situation with Amanda, and he confirms that it is over. She wants them to get back together, especially now that Danny the drug dealer is tainted goods, but I am glad to see that my friend is adamant there will not be a second chance. It is reassuring to find the old Julian re-emerging, the strong, self-assured, charismatic young man. Something had drained away from his core during his time with the hairdresser, and she was certainly not right for him. It is good to see him as cool as ever.

  Lo and behold, I notice that Vera has turned up after all. She heads straight to the bar and to the mistletoe. The publican indulges her, and for his sins gets a red lipstick smudge to the side of his face. When she chooses a table at the other end of the pub, I am sure Julian is a relieved man.

  'I'm dreadfully sorry old boy, I should have asked,' he says, 'how’s Sofia?'

  I flush a little on hearing her name. I last saw her getting in the ambulance at the ABC, though I did manage to ring around yesterday to discover that she was in Ward 10 of the Highfield Maternity Hospital in Liscard. Pretending to be her brother, I was told she had lost the baby and a lot of blood but was recovering well and should be home on Boxing Day. Poor Sofia would be spending Christmas Day in hospital, bad enough in itself, but when there is also a chance that Ken Dodd or Jimmy Tarbuck might arrive to turn a shit day into an even shittier one, I knew I had to do my bit.

  'Yes, I think she's doing fine. I'm going to Highfield from here. I'm erm... hoping to see her.'

  'Get in their lad, you lucky get,' says Ged.

  I decide not to berate him for his insensitivity.

  We spend the remaining time together reminiscing about the last year, which ind
uces a slight melancholic air to proceedings. We recall the naïve Liverpool Stadium fantasy with the settee, table tennis bat and yard brush, remembering it with fondness and amusement. Ged and Julian laugh about Talent Aplenty, and although I am not quite ready to join in with them yet, I can now see that one day I will. Then there were the nights in this very pub where we played our first proper dates, culminating in the terrible evening with the greasers and our smashed equipment. We recall our rebirth and the momentum of the dates playing at St John's, the mixed fortunes of the Cavern, and the joys and otherwise of our impromptu performance at the ABC cinema for The Poseidon Adventure audience. We do not talk about Danny's party two nights ago, when the dream finally unravelled.

  We exchange glances. There is something unsatisfactory about things fizzling out in this way, and the other guys may well be thinking the same. I see that Ged has a guitar case behind him. He sees me staring at it.

  'It's a Gibson Hummingbird, a fucking beauty.'

  'Why don't we?' I say.

  'What's that soft lad?'

  'Have one last hurrah.'

  'What, here?'

  'Yeah... one song for the road, so to speak.'

  'What do you think Jules lad?'

  'Why not... I am sure the manager won't mind. My only reservation is Vera.' Julian's face betrays any anxiety he may be feeling.

  'Come on Jules,' says Ged. 'You're a bloody single man now. As they say, plenty more fish in the sea'

  'I was thinking more about fresh salmon than geriatric trout.'

  As our laughter dies down, Julian moves to the bar and has a quick word with the publican who is evidently happy with the idea. Vera might be a pensioner, but quick as a whippet, she appears from nowhere to grab the mistletoe and offer her wrinkled, puckered lips to our man. He cringes as though sucking a lemon and offers a cheek to her. She finds his mouth. He heads back to us trying to pull something out of it, in the way you might if you had just feasted on the cuttings from the barber's floor.

  A minute or so later, we are standing near the bar in front of the regulars, of which there is probably only about seven or eight. We gather around one another like Peter, Paul, and Mary. I think I am Mary. Ged kicks things off.

  'Happy Christmas Liverpool Stadium!'

  Some of the drinkers are confused, and a couple of the seriously older boys think they have gone to the wrong pub. Ged starts strumming twelve bar rock and roll, and we launch into an improvised medley, running the gamut of Jerry Lee, Little Richard, Chuck Berry, and The Big Bopper. In one way, this is a step down for me from the original rulers and settee arrangement, in that I do not even have a piece of furniture. Here I am drumming the air. Nonetheless, it is great fun. Ged apart, we are not really imagining the big time again. This is playing for the love of playing and we finish to gentle, yet warm applause.

  I have an idea. 'Hey lads, why don't we lay the ghost of Talent Aplenty as a finale?'

  'Are you going to set your fucking pants on fire again?'

  'No... let's play 'Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep'... just for a laugh.'

  'Alright,' says Ged.

  Julian shrugs his shoulders and off we go. Our final number in public is the same as the first. It is a better version, and not just because the accompaniment is more than a bass riff and a tambourine. We are doing it for fun. There is no rock or pop star pretence. This is Tom, Ged, and Jules. It may be a crap song, but the symmetry in ending this chapter makes it feel right. And with a final strum of his Gibson, the song comes to a close. We symbolically shake one another's hand. It is now official. The Liverpool Stadium dream is over. Caroline had been right all along.

  'Right guys, I'm off to Highfield.' I down the last of my shandy and put on my duffel coat.

  'Happy Christmas soft lad.'

  'Give my regards to Sofia, old man.'

  'Cheers guys, catch you soon.'

  I am walking away when I hear Ged shout.

  'Hey bollocks, you've forgotten your cash.'

  'What cash?'

  'Your share of the appearance money from the gig the other night.'

  'Great.'

  I go back and Ged hands me a £1 note and a 50p coin.

  '£1.50?'

  'Come on soft lad, you paid for all the drinks the other night, don't forget.'

  That phantom winning bet is proving quite costly.

  'Oh yeah...'

  'And you paid for these.' Ged holds up his glass.

  'Bloody hell.'

  I walk out into the fresh Christmas air and turn left up Victoria Road. The roads are quiet with no cars or buses to be seen, the only occupant on the carriageway a teenage girl on a horse, not the normal sight on the streets of New Brighton. I speculate that the animal is a Christmas present from her dad. She gets a stallion. I get a triangle.

  The horse has the largest pair of bollocks I have ever seen in my life, including my own when I had the mumps and needed a wheelbarrow to get from A to B. I watch as Trigger and its rider head off towards a sun-less sunset, though not before the horse deposits on the tarmac a mound of manure the size of an anthill. My first reaction is one of mild disquiet that the girl has not cleaned it up. However, my second thought is born out of one of life's most destructive emotions, revenge. My plan comes together surprisingly quickly.

  Across the road at the side of an advertising hoarding, there is waste ground with some discarded rubbish including an old shovel and a small metal bin. I retrieve the objects and use them to clean up about half the muck, adding a couple of dollops of dog shit for good measure. I throw the shovel back to the trash and walk up the road carrying the bin, careful to keep it away from my clothes. I do not want to see Sofia stinking like an Algerian camel.

  I pass a teenager who shoots a glance at the bin, probably thinking that I am about to give someone the worst Christmas present ever. In a way, he is right. I manoeuvre my way in between a parked Ford Anglia and Austin 1100, across the road and turn right. The first building I come to is 'The Biker's Club'. I am delighted to see a generous sized letterbox and equally delighted to see that all is quiet and that the premises are not over looked. Furthermore, there is a notice on the window promoting a Christmas Day special that is to take place later. Everything is set up for my plan to work very nicely indeed.

  I push open the letterbox and tilt the contents of the bin so that the manure and the shit slides very nicely to hit the floor inside. I visualise Colin the head greaser opening up shortly in his role as caretaker to discover that Santa Claus may have left no presents, but Rudolf the reindeer has deposited a nice bucketful of crap instead. Revenge is a dish best served cold, as the saying goes. Yet I have confounded this viewpoint. My particular dish is warm, steaming and stinks like a toilet, a highly satisfactory retribution for the Ship Inn demolition. My mission accomplished, I leave the bin outside the door and go in search of a taxi to take me to the hospital.

  *

  When I arrive at Highfield, I discover that visiting time has been extended from the normal forty five minutes to two hours, and so I am hopeful that I will get the opportunity to see Sofia and have a bit of a chat. Her family will be visiting first, so I have my fingers crossed that they will not be here for the full duration. I follow the signs, until I reach Ward 10, where I cannot believe my misfortune. The same Matron who treated me like a war criminal at Victoria when I damaged my toe is here to confront me. She is wearing her usual navy blue uniform with what looks like a sanitary towel on her head behind grey, backcombed hair. She has dark rings under her eyes and two hairs on the right side of her upper lip. I do not think laughter is a big part of her life.

  ‘Yes?’ She snaps like a rabid dog.

  I am clearly some form of pond life. No wonder I thought of her as Myra Hindley.

  ‘I’m here to visit Sofia Moretti. I believe she’s on this ward.’

  ‘No, you can’t see her. Miss Moretti is only seeing her immediate family today. No boyfriends or any of that nonsense!’

  ‘But I am he
r brother.’

  She is devastated that I have breached her defences so quickly, but she is not yet defeated. She points to an uncomfortable, wooden seat. ‘You will have to wait there until her other visitors have left. There are too many people in there at the moment.’

  And a Merry Christmas to you as well!

  *

  Half an hour passes, and my frustrations bubble over like a witch’s cauldron. The resident hag has just waved away my latest pleas, and so I have no choice. It is time to take matters into my own hands.

  Myra is guarding the ward like an Alsatian bitch with her newborn pups, so I create a diversion. I pick up a metal clipboard lying on a desk, and throw it to the other end of the corridor. When she rushes off to investigate, I make my move and disappear into Ward 10, which has the same number of beds as its name, five down the left and five down the right, all but one occupied. The beige, highly polished floor has a bucket at its far end catching a slow drip of water from the ceiling. The plastic container is adjacent to the bed where I see Sofia lying down, propped up by a couple of pillows. To compound my frustration, she has no visitors. I have been waiting outside for no good reason.

  'Hello Tom.'

  My annoyance instantly evaporates. Her warm and friendly smile tells me that she is pleased to see me.

  'Hi Sofia, how are you?'

  ‘I’m fine thanks, should be out tomorrow.’

  'That's great.'

  I have not been able to buy any flowers, but I have a second best, an Eduardo sketch of a bunch of red roses... he really should drop the naked women and stick to plant life. Sofia is delighted, a first for the world’s least successful artist.

  I give an awkward glance over my shoulder on the lookout for Myra.

  The patient lowers her eyebrows and frowns. 'What's with the furtive look?'

  'It's the sister or matron or whatever she is.'

  'I think I know who you mean.'

  'She wouldn't let me in, even when I said I was your brother. She reckoned you had too many visitors, yet nobody's here.'