Afterword
I had the builders in at home when I wrote this story, and was evicted from my study to a makeshift base in the dining room as the usual banging, drilling, dust and distorted pop tunes from a battered radio filled the house. Still, this turned out to be one of my easiest stories to write. I remember mulling over the idea of something set in a mythic version on an enclosed world around a sun that I had mentioned in another story (“Breathmoss”, which features in Nowhere, Volume I of this collection) then finding that the rest of it fell into place without all the usual revision and back-tracking. Even the name Isabel, which I’d long rather liked and planned on using, seemed to fit perfectly. If I could sit down every day of my life and write something close to this—which I know I can’t, with or without the presence of builders—it’s exactly what I’d do.
SNODGRASS
I’ve got me whole life worked out. Today, give up smoking. Tomorrow, quit drinking. The day after, give up smoking again.
It’s morning. Light me cig. Pick the fluff off me feet. Drag the curtain back, and the night’s left everything in the same mess outside. Bin sacks by the kitchen door that Cal never gets around to taking out front. The garden jungleland gone brown with autumn.
Houses this way and that, terraces queuing for something that’ll never happen.
It’s early. Daren’t look at the clock. The stair carpet works greasegrit between me toes. Downstairs in the freezing kitchen, pull the cupboard where the handle’s dropped off.
“Hey, Mother Hubbard,” I shout up the stairs to Cal. “Why no fucking cornflakes?”
The lav flushes. Cal lumbers down in a grey nightie. “What’s all this about cornflakes? Since when do you have breakfast, John?”
“Since John got a job.”
“You? A job?”
“I wouldn’t piss yer around about this, Cal.”
“You owe me four weeks rent,” she says. “Plus I don’t know how much for bog roll and soap. Then there’s the TV licence.”
“Don’t tell me yer buy a TV licence.”
“I don’t, but I’m the householder. It’s me who’d get sent to gaol.”
“Every Wednesday, I’ll visit yer,” I say, rummaging in the bread bin.
“What’s this job anyway?”
“I told yer on Saturday when you and Kevin came back from the Chinese. Must have been too pissed to notice.” I hold up a stiff green slice of Mighty White. “Think this is edible?”
“Eat it and find out. And stop calling Steve Kevin. He’s upstairs asleep right at this moment.”
“Well there’s a surprise. Rip Van and his tiny Winkle.”
“I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. You know what Steve’s like if you give him an excuse.”
“Yeah, but at least I don’t have to sleep with him.”
Cal sits down to watch me struggle through breakfast. Before Kevin, it was another Kevin, and a million other Kevins before that, all with grazed knuckles from the way they walk. Cal says she needs the protection even if it means the odd bruise.
I paste freckled marge over ye Mighty White. It tastes just like the doormat, and I should know.
“Why don’t yer tell our Kev to stuff it?” I say.
She smiles and leans forward.
“Snuggle up to Doctor Winston here,” I wheedle.
“You’d be too old to look after me with the clients, John,” she says, as though I’m being serious. Which I am.
“For what I’d charge to let them prod yer, Cal, yer wouldn’t have any clients. Onassis couldn’t afford yer.”
“Onassis is dead, unless you mean the woman.” She stands up, turning away, shaking the knots from her hair. She stares out of the window over the mess in the sink. Cal hates to talk about her work. “It’s past eight, John,” she says without looking at any clock. It’s a knack she has. “Hadn’t you better get ready for this job?”
Yeah, ye job. The people at the Jobbie are always on the look out for something fresh for Doctor Winston. They think of him as a challenge. Miss Nikki was behind ye spit-splattered perspex last week. She’s an old hand—been there for at least three months.
“Name’s Doctor Winston O’Boogie,” I drooled, doing me hunchback when I reached the front of ye queue.
“We’ve got something for you, Mister Lennon,” she says. They always call yer Mister or Sir here, just like the fucking police.
“How would you like to work in a Government Department?”
“Well, wow,” I say, letting the hunchback slip. “You mean like a spy?”
That makes her smile. I hate it when they don’t smile.
She passes me ye chit. Name, age, address. Skills, qualifications—none. That bit always kills me. Stapled to it we have details of something clerical.
“It’s a new scheme, Mr Lennon,” Nikki says. “The Government is committed to helping the long-term unemployed. You can start Monday.”
So here’s Doctor Winston O’Boogie at the bus stop in the weird morning light. I’ve got on me best jacket, socks that match, even remembered me glasses so I can see what’s happening. Cars are crawling. Men in suits are tapping fingers on the steering wheel as they groove to Katie Boyle. None of them live around here—they’re all from Solihull—and this is just a place to complain about the traffic.
And Monday’s a drag cos daughter Celia has to back the Mini off the drive and be a darling and shift Mummy’s Citroen too so yer poor hard working Dad can get to the Sierra.
The bus into town lumbers up. The driver looks at me like I’m a freak when I don’t know ye exact fare. Up on the top deck where there’s No standing, No spitting, No ball games, I get me a window seat and light me a ciggy. I love it up here, looking down on the world, into people’s bedroom windows. Always have. Me and me mate Pete used to drive the bus from the top front seat all the way from Menlove Avenue to Quarry Bank School. I remember the rows of semis, trees that used to brush like sea on shingle over the roof of the bus. Everything in Speke was Snodgrass of course, what with valve radios on the sideboard and the Daily Excess, but Snodgrass was different in them days. It was like watching a play, waiting for someone to forget their lines. Mimi used to tell me that anyone who said they were middle class probably wasn’t. You knew just by checking whether they had one of them blocks that look like Kendal Mint Cake hooked around the rim of the loo. It was all tea and biscuits then, and Mind dear, your slip’s showing. You knew where you were, what you were fighting.
The bus crawls. We’re up in the clouds here, the fumes on the pavement like dry ice at a big concert. Oh, yeah. I mean, Doctor Winston may be nifty fifty with his whole death to look forward to but he knows what he’s saying. Cal sometimes works at the NEC when she gets too proud to do the real business. Hands out leaflets and wiggles her ass. She got me a ticket last year to see Simply Red and we went together and she put on her best dress that looked just great and didn’t show too much and I was proud to be with her, even if I did feel like her Dad. Of course, the music was warmed-over shit. It always is. I hate the way that red-haired guy sings. She tried to get me to see Cliff too, but Doctor Winston has his pride.
Everywhere is empty round here, knocked down and boarded up, postered over. There’s a group called SideKick playing at Digbeth. And waddayouknow, the Beatles are playing this very evening at the NEC. The Greatest Hits Tour, it says here on ye corrugated fence. I mean, Fab Gear Man. Give It Bloody Foive. Macca and Stu and George and Ringo, and obviously the solo careers are up the kazoo again. Like, wow.
The bus dumps me in the middle of Brum. The office is just off Cherry Street. I stagger meself by finding it right away, me letter from the Jobbie in me hot little hand. I show it to a geezer in uniform, and he sends me up to the fifth floor. The whole place is new. It smells of formaldehyde—that stuff we used to pickle the spiders in at school. Me share the lift with ye office bimbo. Oh, after, you.
Doctor Winston does his iceberg cruise through the openplan. So this is what Monday morning r
eally looks like.
Into an office at the far end. Smells of coffee. Snodgrass has got a filter machine bubbling away. A teapot ready for the afternoon.
“Mister Lennon.”
We shake hands across the desk. “Mister Snodgrass.”
Snodgrass cracks a smile. “There must have been some mistake down in General Admin. My name’s Fenn. But everyone calls me Allen.”
“Oh yeah. And why’s that?” A voice inside that sounds like Mimi says Stop this behaviour John. She’s right, of course. Doctor Winston needs the job, the money. Snodgrass tells me to sit down. I fumble for a ciggy and try to loosen up.
“No smoking please, Mister...er, John.”
Oh, great.
“You’re a lot, um, older than most of the casual workers we get.”
“Well this is what being on the Giro does for yer. I’m nineteen really.”
Snodgrass looks down at his file. “Born 1940.” He looks up again. “And is that a Liverpool accent I detect?”
I look around me. “Where?”
Snodgrass has got a crazy grin on his face. I think the bastard likes me. “So you’re John Lennon, from Liverpool. I thought the name rang a faint bell.” He leans forward. “I am right, aren’t I?”
Oh fucking Jesus. A faint bell. This happens about once every six months. Why now? “Oh yeah,” I say. “I used to play the squeezebox for Gerry and the Pacemakers. Just session work. And it was a big thrill to work with Shirley Bassey, I can tell yer. She’s the King as far as I’m concerned. Got bigger balls than Elvis.”
“You were the guy who left the Beatles.”
“That was Pete Best, Mister Snodgrass.”
“You and Pete Best. Pete Best was the one who was dumped for Ringo. You walked out on Paul McCartney and Stuart Sutcliffe. I collect records, you see. I’ve read all the books about Merseybeat. And my elder sister was a big fan of those old bands. The Fourmost, Billy J. Kramer, Cilla, The Beatles. Of course, it was all before my time.”
“Dinosaurs ruled the earth.”
“You must have some stories to tell.”
“Oh, yeah.” I lean forward across the desk. “Did yer know that Paul McCartney was really a woman?”
“Well, John, I—”
“It figures if yer think about it, Mister Snodgrass. I mean, have you ever seen his dick?”
“Just call me Allen, please, will you? Now, I’ll show you your desk.”
Snodgrass takes me out into the openplan. Introduces me to a pile of envelopes, a pile of letters. Well, Hi. Seems like Doctor Winston is supposed to put one into the other.
“What do I do when I’ve finished?” I ask.
“We’ll find you some more.”
All the faces in open plan are staring. A phone’s ringing, but no one bothers to answer. “Yeah,” I say, “I can see there’s a big rush on.”
On his way back to his office, Snodgrass takes a detour to have a word with a fat Doris in a floral print sitting over by the filing cabinets. He says something to her that includes the word Beatle. Soon, the whole office knows.
“I bet you could write a book,” fat Doris says, standing over me, smelling of Pot Noodles. “Everyone’s interested in those days now. Of course, the Who and the Stones were the ones for me. Brian Jones. Keith Moon, for some reason. All the ones who died. I was a real rebel. I went to Heathrow airport once, chewed my handbag to shreds.”
“Did yer piss yerself too, Doris? That’s what usually happened.”
Fat Doris twitches a smile. “Never quite made it to the very top, the Beatles, did they? Still, that Paul McCartney wrote some lovely songs. Yesterday, you still hear that one in lifts don’t you? And Stu was so good looking then. Must be a real tragedy in your life that you didn’t stay. How does it feel, carrying that around with you, licking envelopes for a living?”
“Yer know what your trouble is don’t yer, Doris?”
Seems she don’t, so I tell her.
Winston’s got no money for the bus home. His old joints ache—never realised it was this bloody far to walk. The kids are playing in our road like it’s a holiday, which it always is for most of them. A tennis ball hits me hard on the noddle. I pretend it don’t hurt, then I growl at them to fuck off as they follow me down the street. Kevin’s van’s disappeared from outside the house. Musta gone out. Pity, shame.
Cal’s wrapped up in a rug on the sofa, smoking a joint and watching Home And Away. She jumps up when she sees me in the hall like she thought I was dead already.
“Look, Cal,” I say. “I really wanted this job, but yer wouldn’t get Adolf Hitler to do what they asked, God rest his soul. There were all these little puppies in cages and I was supposed to push knitting needles down into their eyes. Jesus, it was—”
“Just shaddup for one minute will you, John!”
“I’ll get the rent somehow, Cal, I—”
“—Paul McCartney was here!”
“Who the hell’s Paul McCartney?”
“Be serious for a minute, John. He was here. There was a car the size of a tank parked outside the house. You should have seen the curtains twitch.”
Cal hands me the joint. I take a pull, but I really need something stronger. And I still don’t believe what she’s saying. “And why the fuck should Macca come here?”
“To see you, John. He said he’d used a private detective to trace you here. Somehow got the address through your wife Cynthia. I didn’t even know you were married, John. And a kid named Julian who’s nearly thirty. He’s married too, he’s—”
“—What else did that bastard tell yer?”
“Look, we just talked. He was very charming.”
Charming. That figures. Now I’m beginning to believe.
“I thought you told me you used to be best mates.”
“Too bloody right. Then he nicked me band. It was John Lennon and the Quarrymen. I should never have let the bastard join. Then Johnny and the Moondogs. Then Long John and the Silver Beatles. It was my name, my idea to shorten it to just The Beatles. They all said it was daft, but they went along with it because it was my fucking band.”
“Look, nobody doubts that, John. But what’s the point in being bitter? Paul just wanted to know how you were.”
“Oh, it’s Paul now is it? Did yer let him shag yer, did yer put out for free, ask him to autograph yer fanny?”
“Come on, John. Climb down off the bloody wall. It didn’t happen, you’re not rich and famous. It’s like not winning the pools, happens to everyone you meet. After all, The Beatles were just another rock band. It’s not like they were The Stones.”
“Oh, no. The Stones weren’t crap for a start. Bang bang Maxwell’s Silver bloody Hammer. Give me Cliff any day.”
“You never want to talk about it, do you? You just let it stay inside you, boiling up. Look, why will you never believe that people care? I care. Will you accept that for a start? Do you think I put up with you here for the sodding rent which incidentally I never get anyway? You’re old enough to be my bloody father, John. So stop acting like a kid.” Her face starts to go wet. I hate these kind of scenes.
“You could be my father John. Seeing as I didn’t have one, you’d do fine. Just believe in yourself for a change.”
“At least yer had a bloody mother,” I growl. But I can’t keep the nasty up. Open me arms and she’s trembling like a rabbit, smelling of salt and grass. All these years, all these bloody years. Why is it you can never leave anything behind?
Cal sniffs and steps back and pulls these bits of paper from her pocket. “He gave me these. Two tickets for tonight’s show, and a pass for the do afterwards.”
I look around at chez nous. The air smells of old stew that I can never remember eating. I mean, who the hell cooks stew? And Macca was here. Did them feet in ancient whathaveyou.
Cal plonks the tickets on the telly and brews some tea. She’s humming in the kitchen, it’s her big day, a famous rock star has come on down. I wonder if I should tear ye tickets up now, but de
cide to leave it for later. Something to look forward to for a change. All these years, all these bloody years. There was a journalist caught up with Doctor Winston a while back. Oh Mister Lennon, I’m doing background. We’ll pay yer of course, and perhaps we could have lunch? Which we did, and I can reveal exclusively for the first time that the Doctor got well and truly rat-arsed. And then the cheque came and the Doctor saw it all in black and white, serialised in the Sunday bloody Excess. A sad and bitter man, it said. So it’s in the papers and I know it’s true.
Cal clears a space for the mugs on the carpet and plonks them down. “I know you don’t mean to go tonight,” she says. “I’m not going to argue about it now.”
She sits down on the sofa and lets me put an arm around her waist. We get warm and cosy. It’s nice sometimes with Cal. You don’t have to argue or explain.
“You know, John,” she murmurs. “The secret of happiness is not trying.”
“And you’re the world expert? Happiness sure ain’t living on the Giro in bloody Birmingham.”
“Birmingham isn’t the end of the world.”
“No, but yer can see it from here.”
Cal smiles. I love it when she smiles. She leans over and lights more blow from somewhere. She puts it to my lips. I breathe it in. The smoke. Tastes like harvest bonfires. We’re snug as two bunnies. “Think of when you were happy,” she whispers. “There must have been a time.”
Oh, yeah. 1966, after I’d recorded the five singles that made up the entire creative output of The Nowhere Men and some git at the record company was given the job of saying, Well, John, we don’t feel when can give yer act the attention it deserves. And let’s be honest the Beatles link isn’t really bankable any more is it? Walking out into the London traffic, it was just a huge load off me back. John, yer don’t have to be rock star after all. No more backs of vans. No more Watford Gap Sizzlers for breakfast. No more chord changes. No more launches and re-launches. No more telling the bloody bass player how to use his instrument. Of course, there was Cyn and little Julian back in Liverpool, but let’s face it I was always a bastard when it came to family. I kidded meself they were better off without me.
Nowhere: Volume II of the Collected Short Stories and Novellas of Ian R. MacLeod Page 12