The Doubleman

by Christopher Koch

  It was on one of my nights as Arthur, alone and beginning to be drunk, that I encountered Darcy Burr and Brian Brady again, at the Sir Walter Masterman Hotel in North Hobart.

  It was good to be at the old Sir Walter, a working man’s pub if ever there was one. I’d come away from a rehearsal of The Importance of Being Earnest by the University Players, where the producer, a tall, balding third-year Arts man who wore careful cravats, had kept saying: ‘Yes, but what would Oscar have made of this interpretation?’ I was tired of him, and tired of our village hall standard of acting.

  I sat over my fourth beer at a laminex-topped table in the Sir Walter’s crowded lounge. At the time, pub lounges were for women and couples, while the bar next door was all-male; but I liked to come in here to listen to the music — usually produced by a skinny old lady in a hat, who played the piano. She was here as usual thumping out ‘Just a Little Street Where Old Friends Meet’, while drunken voices raggedly sang.

  As she finished, the frosted-glass doors to the hallway opened and two young men came in, carrying guitar cases. I recognised Brian Brady and Darcy Burr.

  Both were over six feet tall now, with large hands that looked used to physical work. Both wore jeans and turtle-neck sweaters: Brady’s grey, Burr’s dark blue, like a uniform. They set down the cases by the piano where a single microphone stood, sat down on hardbacked chairs there, and began to tune their guitars. They hadn’t seen me, since I was sitting by a back wall.

  Their tuning didn’t take long; they launched fairly quickly into ‘The Blue Velvet Band’, an old Country and Western song about a girl who died after her lover went away, beloved in Tasmania for years. Both accompanied on guitar, but only Brady sang. Despite the bathos of the song, I was impressed; he’d improved even more since I heard him sing ‘Lonesome Whistle’ to Hazel. His deep, resonant voice was a man’s now, produced with ease, thrilling in the low notes, and filling the room. The people here plainly liked it; the women especially, who smiled on him dreamily — even the old ones, their glasses of port and gin suspended in their hands. And the men didn’t resent him, as they might have done; his broken nose made him one of them: a battler.

  In between some of the verses, Burr and Brady played melodic passages of a complexity seldom heard in Country and Western songs, and certainly never heard in places like the Sir Walter Masterman. I was startled at their technical virtuosity; there could be no doubt of Broderick’s skill as a teacher. These were simple people in the lounge of the Sir Walter, and they liked simple music; but soon they began to understand that they were listening to something special. Next to me sat a short, wiry old man with faded eyes and curly grey hair; he suddenly barked with laughter and banged the table with a large, gnarled hand, addressing the air and then me. ‘By Jesus, these fellers can play,’ he shouted. ‘Eh?’ He challenged me to deny it.

  What they played next was daring, especially in a pub like that, where music of any complexity was talked down. The song was a pleasant, somewhat haunting American pop ballad with a Mexican flavour called ‘Johnny Guitar’, which Peggy Lee had put out a few years before. The crowd knew it, and hummed along with it, and some of the drunks tried to sing too, staggering close to Brian to peer closely into his face as he sang, as though they might discover there some vital clue that would release their own talents. But when the song was ended, the guitars didn’t stop: they took up the refrain, developing and then transforming it; the Spanish flavour grew, and now they had climbed without pause into something else: into flamenco.

  They were playing a bulerías, that most virile of flamenco forms, and they changed to a fast, piston-like clip. The power of their attack and the ringing volume of the two guitars became electrifying, and the lounge clapped along in clumsy approval. The sound travelled to the passageway outside and into the bar across the hall; startled faces appeared around the frosted glass doors, which were now pushed open, and a stream of men from the bar lurched into the lounge, in their grey cardigans and checked shirts and worn suits. Some looked delighted, others confused; all were aware that something remarkable was happening, as the clapping increased. I thought they might turn hostile, as they were inclined to do towards anything unusual, but they tapped and clapped, apparently bemused. And Brady and Burr nodded reassuringly, smiling and winking as they played.

  More people came in; they were coming off the street, the lounge was packed, and still the bulerías didn’t stop, but kept on building. One guitar was percussive, while the other traced the melody; then they would reverse positions, always understanding each other perfectly, coming together in one of the long flamenco rolls that blurred their hands. And just at this moment of completion, before another build-up began, they would pause and nod with grave satisfaction, smiling at each other in profile, beaked nose pointing to broken one, in perfect achievement’s thin air.

  I waited for that moment to return, and it did. They looked at each other again, like scientists at the conclusion of an experiment (beak nose, broken nose), and it was then, inside the music’s jubilation, that I first had a fervent wish to join them; to bind my life to theirs. As though through telepathy Burr looked up and recognised me; he smiled and nodded as he played, with a look of complicity. Then he nudged Brady, who grinned across at me too; and when the bulerías was completed, Brian stood the guitar by the chair and gave me his old signal, winking lugubriously with extended index finger and thumb crooked in a circle. All under control.

  There was violent applause, peppered with wondering exclamations; and the crowd began to call out requests, while the two re-tuned their guitars.

  Brady, screwing at his tuning-pegs, suddenly looked up at the audience. ‘I’ll sing you a Tasmanian song,’ he said.

  There were scornful guffaws.

  ‘What Tasmanian song?’

  ‘There bloody aren’t any!’

  But now he began to sing ‘Van Diemen’s Land’.

  The guitar accompaniment was slow and rudimentary, like water falling on stone; and Darcy Burr had taken out a mouth organ, playing it very softly, producing a long, high plaint in the lounge’s stillness. Brian Brady, his tangled brown head thrown back, his eyes closed as he sang, suddenly looked Irish to me, not Australian; he was no longer my cousin but someone else, from a hundred years ago.

  ‘As I lay in my bunk last night,

  A-dreaming all alone,

  I dreamed I was in Liverpool,

  Away in my own home,

  With my own true love beside me

  And a jug of ale in hand;

  I woke quite broken-hearted,

  Lying off Van Diemen’s Land …’

  I had no idea he could sing like this, or knew such songs. I’ve responded often enough to his voice since, urging him on under studio lights, or in front of a concert audience. But it can never be like that first time in the Sir Walter Masterman, with its laminex tables and dowdy window curtains. The half-drunk faces were watching him as though he had woken them from sleep. Some were obtuse; but most of them were good faces and I was fond of them, as one is fond of difficult, incorrigible relatives. They had never heard it before, this Irish ballad from the days of transportation; this song of their own great-grandparents. The folk revival had scarcely begun in that year, and such songs had yet to be heard again. I looked from face to listening face, these faithful images of ancestors, the pickpockets and sheep stealers who had arrived in the estuary of the Derwent not a half mile from here, chained below decks on the stinking brigs of despair. It was all not so long ago; not long enough. Did they remember? Would they turn ugly? The old man with the curly grey hair was listening and watching intently, a look of puzzlement on his face, as though he were trying to work something out. Did he remember his ancestor’s song? Was he growing angry?

  But when it was over he applauded like the rest, clapping with his large, gnarled hands.

  Nothing’s changed, at the rear of the shop; time has been wound backwards here. The bass drum lettered sandy’s banjo band is sitting
in the same position. The other musical instruments lie for ever on their trestle tables, under weak electric light; the depths of the shop are unplumbable. Outside in Harrigan Street, up which Brady and Burr have led me through thick fog, there is the silver stink of gas. The sign above the door, more faded than before, says: Music, Books & Antiques. A. (Sandy) Lovejoy.

  We sprawl in aged armchairs. Old Sandy is also unchanged, carefully pouring beers for us at the sink by his glass office. He wears his brown felt hat, a grey dressing-gown and striped pyjamas; we have got him out of bed, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Sarah the terrier lies at his feet, her nose hopefully directed at the one-bar radiator. Sandy catches my eye and winks, handing round the beers.

  ‘Soon as you want a refill, you’ve only got to say! Thirsty work, playing in a pub. Bloody terrific musos, these two boys. Am I right, Dick? Play “Danny Boy”, fellers!’

  Darcy Burr groans at his uncle. ‘Not that bloody corny thing, Sandy!’

  ‘Danny Boy’ isn’t played; the gleaming guitars stand silent against a wardrobe. Instead we talk; and as we do, I find myself envying Brady and Burr.

  I suspect that the wages Sandy pays them are low; but they have a home here, and they can come and go as they please. Brady goes off for weeks at a time, working on coastal fishing boats; and Darcy divides his days between here and Varley’s Bookshop, working part-time for Broderick, packing books in the basement. And all the while they are practising their music, and playing at night in the pubs. Sandy’s junk shop is their base; the place where they are building their future, which will eventually be realised on the mainland. When they’re ready, they say, they’ll go to Melbourne or Sydney and make a full-time living as a guitar and vocal duo.

  They practise in every spare moment, until their fingers are sore, working on blues, country music and pop. Darcy is even working on rock and roll material, and has bought an electric guitar. He is fascinated by Elvis Presley’s ‘Heartbreak Hotel’.

  ‘That’s a great number, Dick,’ he says to me. ‘Really original. Brian doesn’t want to know about pop, but I do. Elvis shows you just how far you can go; and Elvis started out as a Country and Western singer, remember, just like Brian.’

  Brady grins drunkenly, sprawled in his chair. ‘I don’t need that Yank music any more Darcy,’ he says. ‘I’ve found we’ve got some of our own.’ He looks at me, rolling a cigarette. ‘Did you know most of the old Australian bush songs have Irish melodies, Dick? A song like “Moreton Bay” goes back to the Battle of the Boyne. It’s all the one tradition. I just want to dig those old bush songs up and sing them, and travel the country. That’s all I want out of life. Pop music’s nothing but concocted crap. But Darcy here wants us to be bloody pop stars. The bastard’s ambitious.’ He winks, and licks his cigarette paper.

  Burr smiles; it’s plain he defers to Brady. ‘What this bugger doesn’t realise,’ he says to me, ‘is how good he is. With his singing, and my backing and arrangements, we can’t miss. And what he also doesn’t realise is that you can still succeed by playing the music you care about. That isn’t selling out. That’s just sense.’ He has spoken quietly at first; but as he goes on, his nasal voice takes on intensity. Leaning forward with the beer bottle and refilling my glass, he is looking up at me from under his brows, his amber eyes still resembling a feral cat’s; an effect that’s emphasised by their faint slant. He appears to me nearer thirty than his true age of twenty-one, but his looks have improved. The pimply junk-shop boy is gone, and his mane of black hair, greaseless now, disguises his overlarge ears. Perhaps it’s the white, beaked nose that makes him look cunning; but I don’t hold this against him. Since hearing him play, I’ve decided I approve of Darcy.

  ‘What Brian also doesn’t realise,’ he confides, ‘is that the sort of music he wants to do could get big.’ He gives the word magical importance.

  ‘And when’ll this happen?’ Sandy asks. ‘When are y’se going away?’

  ‘Six months, I reckon,’ Burr says briefly. He doesn’t look at his uncle.

  ‘Six months? You’re going in six months?’ Sandy’s quacking voice rises in alarm. Brian and Darcy ignore him; but he goes on. ‘You young blokes don’t want to be too confident. It’s not easy, breaking into show business.’ He jerks his head at the drum kit, and then addresses me. ‘I should know: I had a band once, y’know. Sandy’s Banjo Band, in Melbourne, before the War. We had a lot of success, but it didn’t come easily.’

  ‘We know,’ Darcy says wearily. ‘You were the Paul Whiteman of Melbourne. Now you’re the biggest antique dealer in the southern hemisphere.’ He gestures at the towers of furniture, the hopeless confusion of small objects on tables, the cartons crammed with historic rubbish, and his upper lip lifts in disgust. ‘Look at it, Sandy. Do you know what’s under all this?’

  Sandy looks offended. ‘There’s nothing y’could really call under,’ he says, and Brian bursts out laughing.

  ‘Oh yes, I’m just a tired old number to them,’ Sandy tells me. His sing-song voice rises. ‘They don’t listen. But I know the score, believe me. They can’t go expecting those doors on the mainland to open just like that. Talent’s not enough — it’s who you know. And it’s hard, on the mainland. They’d be better off here, is what I reckon. They’re always welcome, Dick — both of them. This is their home. I’ve looked after Darcy a long time, since my brother-in-law ran off on him — and I gave Brian a leg up, too. Now I need a bit of help from them; and I’m glad of their company.’

  Brian looks uncomfortable; he and Darcy are both looking into their beers. ‘There’s no bloody future here Sandy, you know that. We can’t hang about in Hobart, for Christ’s sake. We’re going on the road.’

  ‘If you boys go, there’s nothing for me here,’ Sandy says, and his worn eyes are pleading. ‘How do I manage on me own?’ Suddenly Darcy looks up at him, and his face has entirely changed. To my amazement, it’s rigid with fury, the lips a compressed line, the eyes gleaming with the same intensity as his former enthusiasm. ‘Go to bed, Sandy,’ he says. ‘Stop trying to tie us down. We’ve heard it all too often.’

  Sandy begins to speak again, but now Darcy shouts, making me jump. ‘Go to bed, you silly old bastard!’

  His brutality shocks me; I don’t know where to look. But Sandy stands up in dignified silence, setting his hat straight on his head. Finally he speaks, in a small, chastened voice. ‘No heart, these young fellers,’ he says to no one in particular. ‘They come to you when they’re in trouble, and you do what you can — then they leave y’ for dead.’

  He picks up Sarah in his arms. Ancient and threadbare, the dog blinks at us: a little old woman uncertain of her own reality. ‘Thank goodness I still have my little dog,’ Sandy says, in an unctuous chant I feel must often be heard. He hugs the terrier tightly, drawing a miserable growl from it. ‘Yes, I still have you, Sarah darling,’ he says. ‘I suppose that’s something. You’ll always care about your Sandy.’ He smiles piously, while we all sit silent. ‘Well, I’ll say goodnight.’

  He turns and shuffles away, in his brown felt hat and dressing-gown, carrying the sorrowful dog, and vanishes through a dark doorway by his small glass office. I called an embarrassed goodnight.

  ‘Jesus,’ Brian says softly. He grins faintly at Darcy. ‘Now we’re going to have him doing the Prima Donna all day tomorrow.’

  ‘He’ll get over it,’ Burr says. ‘He’s going to have to learn to be on his own for a good long while. I gave him enough years, among this junk.’ His face shows a pitiless coldness.

  We went on drinking for perhaps another half hour after that, sitting in our circle of armchairs. Brian’s eyes were hooded, and so were mine, I suspect; only Burr seemed sober. Affecting to be impressed, they both questioned me about my life at University; and in my tipsiness, I told them how little it meant, and what I truly wanted. When the time was right, I said, I’d drop out of University and try my luck at acting in Sydney.

  ‘And when will that be, Dick?’ Darcy’s voice was pe
rhaps sceptical.

  As soon as I had enough money, I said. There wouldn’t be much work, at first, and I might have to survive for months.

  ‘So what you need is money,’ Burr said. ‘That’s all that’s trapping you here, is it?’

  I said I supposed so.

  ‘I’ve got an idea for you, mate,’ he said, and leaned forward again. His confiding tone and smile were back, and his cruelty to Sandy might never have happened. ‘If you want to save money, I think I can find you a job,’ he said. ‘I reckon Brod would take you on.’

  ‘Broderick?’

  He nodded and smiled. ‘I can talk to him about it,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he’d get you into Varley’s Bookshop. They need a new assistant. An educated bloke like you; well-read: they’d snap you up! And you’d really like working with Brod. There’s your answer.’

  He sat back and grinned. It seemed churlish not to share his triumph, but I stared at him in amazement, trying to look polite.

  The idea was outrageous: to drop out of a Law course and become a counter-hand; but I told him I’d consider it. Privately, I had no real intention of doing so.

  2

  But I did consider it, as the weeks went by. Examining Darcy’s logic, I found that it had force; and I began to think seriously of giving up University. Only the thought of my mother’s laments made me hesitate.