The Drummer's Tale - A Novel by Chris Whitfield

  'Close the curtain.'

  'Sorry?'

  'Close the curtain round the bed. That'll make a great hiding place.'

  I wince at the sound of scratching metal as the curtain rings scrape along the U-shaped rail, but once closed, the mustard cotton twill of the curtain does indeed provide great cover. Sofia pats the front edge of the bed and invites me to sit down. Her chestnut hair is drawn back from her face; she is not wearing a trace of make-up; and she is pale and jaded from the ordeal of the last couple of days. Yet she is undeniably beautiful. I tell her.

  'You look lovely.'

  She laughs. 'Come off it, I look terrible.' She puts a hand on my wrist, her delicate, soft touch a delight.

  We agree to disagree.

  I place my own hand over hers and hesitate for a moment before saying, 'I'm sorry about... you know.'

  She takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. 'It's not something to feel good about... but it does make things a little less complicated.'

  'I guess so...' I apply a gentle reassuring pressure to her hand.

  'Could you pass me that water please?'

  I lean across to the small table next to the bed with its Lucozade, grapes, and Woman magazine. I hand the glass to her. She takes a sip, and a slight pained expression comes to her face.

  'Tom.'

  'Yes?'

  'Erm...' She seems to be struggling to find the right words.

  I think I know why. She is reliving the ABC cinema and the argument in the pouring rain. 'It's alright Sofia...'

  'No it's not alright...'

  'Sofia, listen to me. Nothing matters now except you getting better.'

  'Then get off my arm.'

  'Eh?'

  'You're sitting on my arm.'

  'Oh God.' I shift to the left and apologise.

  She giggles at the mix up and takes a drink from the glass.

  'I think you discovered the other night that I really am half-Italian.' She smiles and hands the glass back to me.

  I return it to the table. 'Only half?'

  'Well a big half.'

  'That's fair enough.'

  She takes my hand. 'Please don't say anything, because I really do want to say something.'

  'Sofia...'

  'No Tom… I am really sorry for having a go at you the other night.'

  'A go at me and the song.'

  'Yes... and the song... which I thought was lovely by the way.'

  I am beginning to understand that girls can say one thing and mean another. 'Well you can love it as much as you like, but that song belongs to my beloved Maria.'

  'Ah, of course, how stupid of me.' Her large, hazel eyes widen as she smiles.

  'Sofia?'

  'Yes?'

  'Will you be my girlfriend please?'

  The approach lacks subtlety, but it works.

  'Only if you'll be my boyfriend.'

  'It's a deal.'

  We are already holding hands but it turns into a kind of handshake. This girl came into my life over nine months ago, since when a torrent of water has flowed under the bridge. I have been witness to my own transformation from emotionally stunted teenager to young adult. For me, I think it was a genuine case of love at first sight. From the moment I set eyes on her, I wanted her to be part of my life. She had stayed in my head even when I made the conscious decision to forget about her and despite the ever-present spectre of Danny looming over me.

  'Can I just ask one thing?'

  'Go on,' she says.

  ‘More than anything, I just don’t know what you ever saw in Danny, well apart from the fact that he makes Omar Sharif look like Hilda Baker.’

  She smiles, ‘He could be very charming, certainly when we first met. He was very good at paying compliments, flattery, and romantic gestures... I suppose I know better now... although...’

  ‘Although what?’ I am a little anxious all of a sudden.

  ‘At least he’s never ran naked along the lower deck of a bus in front of a group of middle aged women, grabbing their boobs.’

  ‘Now listen…’ I am about to protest, when I see her failing to suppress a laugh.

  ‘I’m sorry Tom; I heard the story and thought it was so funny.

  ‘But it’s not true!’

  ‘Of course it’s not true, but it’s still funny.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I reply, too scarred by this enduring allegation to be totally convinced.

  She tilts her head and studies my features. She then cradles the back of my head, stares intently into my eyes, and pulls my face towards hers. We kiss… this time more than two people whose lips barely touch. I move to lie down on the bed next to her, trying to be as gentle as I can. The repressed feelings and unrequited love release themselves like a champagne cork, and I close my eyes to lose myself in the moment. I want this to last forever, but it can’t, and it doesn’t.

  The curtain is being pulled back, and I can hear Myra's voice.

  I am not sure if she has seen me, but I take no chances and turn into James Bond. I roll expertly from the arms of Sofia and under the curtain to take refuge beneath the bed of the next occupant. Unfortunately, that is where the 007 comparisons end. I spear my groin with my new triangle's metal beater that is inexplicably in my trouser pocket and crash into a chamber pot of kinds, which I knock over with a clatter, soaking me with its putrid, amber coloured contents. There is no dignified exit from this predicament. I emerge cradling aching bollocks with my coat dripping wet and smelling like an alley cat, glad to see that the person in the next bed is nowhere to be seen. I have to make myself known to the waiting Myra.

  'You disgust me,’ she snarls. ‘I know your sort, up before the Magistrate on a regular basis. I don’t mind you knowing that I think people like you are repugnant and should be locked away.’

  ‘For the last time, I did not fondle myself and I did not grab anyone’s tit on the bus that day!’

  ‘What are you talking about? What bus?’ Myra spits her response.

  ‘Erm...’

  ‘I’m talking about brother and sister lying on the bed doing... you know.’

  She thinks we were practising incest.

  'I'm not her brother; I'm her boyfriend.'

  My words are a symphony to my own ears. Our faces are deadpan, but I exchange a smile with Sofia through our eyes.

  My confession stops the Matron in her tracks. She changes the point of attack. 'How dare you employ deceit to enter this hospital.'

  'My apologies Myra!'

  'I beg your pardon.'

  I leave ward 10a, waving to Sofia. I want to kiss her, but I would only cover her in piss... hardly the best start to a relationship, unless you are a particularly liberal type. I skip out on to the street, now oblivious to the unpleasant smell coming from my coat and the stabbing pain from one of my testicles. It is a pleasant day and the world feels a great place to be. 1972 has been quite a year.

  I joined a band. I started playing the drums, which arguably should have come first. I left school. I got my first job. I fell in love. I wrote a song. I became an adult. I played the drums some more. I found that the drums were not for me. I discovered that love is sometimes unrequited... but true love never is.

  I have a spring in my step as I walk past the lake in Central Park. I sing to myself a familiar chorus:

  If you know the answers Sofia tell me please

  For I am inexperienced, I have no expertise

  In matters of the heart where I am always ill at ease

  Sofia, let me know if I must let you go.

  I now have the answer.

  2012

  19. The Liverpool Stadium - Part 2

  It is 7.15pm, and we are sitting close to the stage at the Liverpool Echo Arena. The venue is less than a quarter full, the majority only interested in talking amongst themselves or drinking; a cross that every support act has to bear in 2012. My eyes take in the extensive stage, standing area, lower and upper tier seating blocks, and it is hard to be anything oth
er than impressed. It was not until 2008, as part of the city's European Capital of Culture accolade, that Liverpool had a venue befitting of its place within the pantheon of musical history. In the old days, we had the Liverpool Stadium. It was a dive, but a glorious dive, and because of it, all the big rock artists of the day would have a date by the Mersey on their tour itinerary. Last weekend I read that it was exactly twenty-five years since the old Stadium was demolished as part of the early regeneration of the city, leaving behind a huge void until filled by this wonderful arena. The article had taken me back to when I was a teenager, and we had the whole Stadium fantasy thing going on. It never came close to happening, and in hindsight, we were incredibly naïve. Yet given the chance, I would relive every minute.

  ‘You’ve been fucking brilliant Liverpool. Peace, love and goodnight!’

  Ged’s words from the past echo around my head. I reflect on how much has changed in the forty years since those innocent times. The technology and facilities available to present day acts are infinitely better than they were, but the raw energy and excitement generated on those old Liverpool Stadium nights was really something to behold. No doubt, there is a front room in every town and every city, where this very evening, friends are making music and dreaming of playing a venue like this Arena. It suggests that nothing has changed, but this new breed of budding artist will be using Pro Tools software on a laptop. The days of improvising with a table tennis bat, a yard brush and a settee are as long gone as pea burgers, holidays in a leaking, oiled-stained tent, and TV programmes with a drum roll for a signature tune.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Sofia asks the question and shows her agitation by anxiously playing with her left earring.

  ‘Nervous... how about you?’

  ‘The same, though I bet Matt’s OK.’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Due to the complications arising out of Sofia's miscarriage that Christmas in 1972, we had long given up on having a child of our own. Then at the age of thirty-seven, Sofia became pregnant. Twenty-two years later, and our son Matt, a fearless individual fresh out of university, is giving it a go as a singer-songwriter. Success is very hard to come by these days, not least because the Internet has rendered obsolete the old music industry model. The money has gone, and so today's dreamers and fantasists see talent shows as their passport to fame and fortune. However, Matt has a nice balanced attitude. His goal is not to sell a million albums but to build up a good-sized fan base. Support dates like tonight are ideal for adding to his growing number of supporters.

  He picked up a guitar for the first time when he was about fourteen, yet within a matter of weeks, he was already better than me. It did not take long before he was writing his own songs, and it was evident he had talent. It certainly helps that he has a distinctive singing voice and his mother’s good looks, and his mix of self-confidence and diffidence is a winning combination with people. Yes, he is my son and I am biased, but with a share of that most random blessing of all, luck, he has a good chance of making a career out of his gifts.

  A voice from within the PA makes some inaudible announcement about a future event. Sofia has to lean across for me to hear her speak. ‘Do you ever have regrets about your own musical career?’ she says.

  ‘You mean the lack of it?’

  She shrugs her shoulders.

  After the band split, I played for a while as a kind of James Taylor type, though I only got as far as playing local gigs. My timing was bad. The music scene was changing, with Glam rock making the introspective singer-songwriter appear old hat. I eventually lost heart, lost interest, and gave up.

  ‘I don’t really have regrets from a career point of view, because I was never quite good enough. But if I had my time again, I’d have probably carried on playing, just for the fun of it.’

  ‘And what about the band? Do you think you split up too soon?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Let’s face it, I was a crap drummer.’

  Sofia brushes away the hair from her face and looks into the distance, ‘I wonder whatever happened to the other guys.’

  ‘God knows.’

  I glance up to the lighting rigs, as though Ged or Julian might fly down on trapeze wires to join us at any moment. I have long lost touch with the lads, and the older I get, the more of a regret it has become. The last I heard of Julian, he was living in Ireland, presumably the Earl of Wexford or something. I know Ged married Brenda, and that they had a daughter, but they moved out of the area many years ago, out of sight and out of mind. As for Brian, he was eighteen months or so ahead of Lord Lucan in doing a Lord Lucan, disappearing off the face of the Earth. The only logical conclusion we could reach was that his and Ludmilla's circus was one performed behind a curtain... the Iron Curtain.

  ‘Excuse me old man.’

  That voice... I know of only one person with that inflexion. I look up and am truly astonished.

  ‘Bloody hell, Jules! What the hell are you doing here?’

  I shake his hand in the manner of an over confident salesman, squeezing hard enough to affect its circulation, but only because I am so delighted to see my old friend again. He has lost most of his hair, and the face is craggier, but the sense of effortless style and class are still there. He is dressed in a grey linen suit, a small-collared white shirt, and skinny black tie. If I wore the outfit, I would look a dick. Julian looks the business.

  ‘I received a special invitation.' he says.

  'Who from?'

  'Your good wife.' His upturned palm is pointing at Sofia to my right.

  She tries to cover her smiling mouth, my own open like a goldfish.

  'Is this right?' I ask.

  I know the answer. Jules was always straight as a die.

  'Yes.' says Sofia. 'And I am delighted you have made it Mr. Lord.'

  'Likewise, Madame Kellaway.'

  She holds out an outstretched arm for Julian to bow and kiss her hand, which he achieves with the grace of an Italian courtier.

  'May I just say Tom; you have a very attractive daughter.'

  Sofia squeals. From anyone else, it would sound shocking, but Julian's charm carries the day.

  This is quite a moment. I ask, 'How did you find one another?'

  Sofia answers. 'Twitter, Facebook... you know that social networking thing that's passed you by.'

  'Wow, that's fantastic. You look great Jules.'

  'You're wearing pretty well yourself old man. Still got that full head of hair I see.' He ruffles the top of my head. 'And where are the grey bits?'

  'There's a lot of luck involved.'

  We sit down, and he explains that fifteen years ago on the top of Kinder Scout in the Peaks, he met his second wife Katherine. They now have ten-year-old twin girls and live on the Chatsworth House Estate where he is employed in an advisory capacity. It is so fitting that this man of such modest beginnings eventually discovered his niche, living with the aristocracy, or as close as you can get to the aristocracy these days. He informs me that Ged now has six children, apparently to five different mothers, and that he earns his living playing in a band.

  I turn to my wife. 'Don't tell me Ged's about to join us as well.'

  'I'm afraid not. We've only the three seats booked.'

  'Sofia tells me you're an accountant these days Tom.'

  'Yes, about as far removed from rock star as you can get.'

  'Beg to differ old man. Every artist needs a finance man.'

  'Not to play the drums though.'

  'I suppose not.'

  The house lights dim. There is some minor expectant noise, though mostly from the three of us on the balcony.

  'Ladies & Gentlemen, please welcome Matt Kellaway.'

  There is a ripple of applause, and a bit of whooping and hollering from us as Matt walks out on stage. It is just him and a twelve string guitar. The sound system and the acoustics are good, and his first song goes down well. He then speaks to the audience, his voice betraying no nerves.

  'Good evening Liver
pool, it's great to be here.'

  More cheering...

  'That was called 'Brandon Hein', and this next one is 'Learning to Love'. Feel free to clap along.'

  The jaunty rhythm of the song induces the required response from the audience, and as it progresses, more and more people are taking notice, and there is soon a crowd milling around the front of the stage. When this song comes to an end, he again speaks to the audience, which is not an easy thing for many performers, but he takes it in his stride.

  'Now for this next number, I am going to be joined by someone who is a local. He won't mind me saying that he goes back a long way. But he's a great guitarist, so give it up for Jimmy Jet!'

  More applause...

  This is becoming a surreal evening for me. First Julian and now Jimmy Jet. My first thought is amazement that he is still alive. There again, my old mum and dad are still going, so why not? To be fair though, he was a creaking gate back in the old days, and I think he sold his chippy due to ill health. The second thought is the leather trousers and floppy bits dance from Talent Aplenty, which I pray he is not about to reprise. Fortunately, he shuffles on stage in loose fit jeans, a sparkly waistcoat, and granddad shirt. He has ethnic jewellery on his arms and around his neck, and his silver hair is typical of a musician from the 1960s or 1970s, long at the back, long at the sides, though unfortunately the top and the crown have refused to co-operate. He is not as tall as I remember. I know people shrink with age, but this bloke looks like somebody's delicates after a boil wash. I watch as he marches confidently up to the microphone.

  'Evening Echo Arena! This ain't no fucking Liverpool Stadium, but it's a good fucking second best!'

  The language is unmistakeable. The voice is unmistakeable. This is not Jimmy Jet. This is bloody Ged, Gerard Rawbottom himself... though he would sever my genitalia if he heard me air that surname. This is unbelievable. I know he joined Jimmy's band, but he must have eventually taken on the stage persona of its leader. 'Jimmy Jet and The Rockets' has become a brand, though perhaps not quite up there with Nike or Coca Cola. Ged has a white Gibson Flying V, and he starts playing a familiar twelve bar rock and roll intro. Soon, Matt has launched into a Rock and Roll Medley, reminiscent of the Plain Truth version, including some of the old standards from Little Richard and Chuck Berry.

  I tap Sofia on the arm and shout. 'Is this your doing again?'