by Paolo Hewitt
‘Are they alright?’
‘I should say so. P. clobbered quite a few of them before they got Amanda. Ten nil to us, I reckon.’
‘Ten-two,’ Jasmine said, looking at the both of us. ‘I better split. You’ll be okay?’
‘Nothing we can’t handle.’
I belled a cab from the hospital pay phone and as I was waiting for the car, I thought of popping in briefly on Daddy Cecil and embarrassing the hell out of him, but as he and his boys had been right in the thick of it all, I resisted.
He and I would always go our separate ways, that was for sure, but we’d joined up when it mattered and you can’t say better than that. The cab arrived and, checking the time, I decided, on a whim, to go visit Papa’s as a great hunger had now taken the place of the sickness and needed dealing with, fast. Papa was just starting to close when I reached but one sight of the swab I held to my head and he was calling out to Marissa to fetch the first aid box, making me sit still as a statue as he personally attended to the dried up wound placing a huge plaster over its ugly face.
Just as he had finished there was a tap at the window and there stood Brother P. and Amanda, smiling away, motioning Papa to open the door. For the next hour, as Papa and Marissa organised food, we sat around the table, relating the day’s events, with the Brother P. confirming that five of the caveman would be waking up tomorrow with eyes the colour of his skin.
‘Couldn’t do much more because this one started in on that copper we met. You know the young bolshy one? Amanda told him to his face what she thought of him and his parentage.’
‘Yeah, he deserved it,’ she chimed in proudly. ‘So it was all down to the cop shop to bail her out.’
‘And?’
‘No charges, believe it or not,’ she informed us.
‘I’ve got to tell you about Daddy Cecil, P. but you must keep it quiet for the time being.’
After I relayed the fable, Brother P. leant back in his chair.
‘You see,’ he said, ‘John Thomas does have his uses after all. He may well be the best bet ever for race relations in this country.’
Papa entered from the kitchen expertly carrying plates of steaming spaghetti bolognese on both arms, which he placed in front of us, and we dug in like this was the last supper, polishing off everything laid before us in complete silence, except for that delicious sound of food being enjoyed by each and every one.
It was just as the cappuccinos arrived that Paolo turned up, walking in with his ever present football bag slung over his shoulder.
‘I’ll get your dinner,’ Marissa said, departing for the kitchen and leaving the only vacant seat, right next to Papa. The young man sat down and Papa reached over and poured him a glass of wine.
‘You have a game tomorrow?’ he enquired of his son.
‘Yes, Papa,’ Paolo warily replied, taking a sip of wine and not even looking his father in the face.
‘What time?’
‘Two o’clock kick off.’
‘Good. I’ll take you there after mass.’ Paolo went to say something, I know not what, but Papa raised his hand and silenced him.
‘Your friends have been in the wars today,’ he said motioning to us. ‘Perhaps they will tell you all about it.’
Fortified by the food and the company, it was such good fortuna to sit around the table, safe and satisfied as we all put in our pennyworths and filled in Paolo on the incredible roller coaster of events, his eyes growing even larger when some of the incidents were described. I could have sat there all night but a check on the watch told me that it was time to head homeways, pick up my tunes and make it to The Unity for my last session there. As Brother P.’s four wheeler was parked outside, we made with the kisses and the ciao’s ciao’s to the Supinos, for they had treated us like their own, and clambered in and made our way back to my yard.
As I was getting my tunes together, and feeling like I had been up for two days already, Amanda turned on the TV and when the news came on, they flashed up a brief report on Riversdown. It was strange to see the battle from various TV angles and as we looked for each other in the melee of crowd shots and running coppers, I suddenly started thinking, for no apparent reason, of all those numbers, living out in England’s quiet country villages, who right now would be clocking the screen in outrage and wondering out aloud to their families about whatever happened to the good old days. No doubt, they would cluster, that very night, down at the local Tory bar and shout at the top of their voices for national service and flogging to be brought back in, not realising that the good old day, if it ever really existed, was gone and buried, and that, in fact, it was far more dangerous to walk their streets alone than ever it is mine.
Forgive these ponderings for now it was time to split and, ignoring the twenty or so messages on my answer machine requesting that their names be put on the guest list, we lugged my record boxes down the stairs, and made for The Unity. When we reached, a large crush of faces and numbers, bright and youthful, crowded around the door.
Luckily, Rajan spotted us and we squeezed through the space he created and into the club where J.J. had already started spinning. I dumped my tunes by him and went for a little walkabout. The first cat I bumped into was Stinga, sporting a distinct Malcolm X. look and standing solo. I still didn’t know what had gone off between him and Jasmine and so had no inkling to tell him that I was with her and The Sheriff some hours ago.
He couldn’t tell me either as the Malcolm he had chosen to copy was the fiery, white hating Malcolm, the one yet to make the trip to Mecca and change his ways, and so, he half-apologised, for the next month or so, he could not be seen rapping with me. ‘Fair enough Stinga,’ I answered back and then moved off having spotted Davey Boy, drinking on his own at the bar.
‘Davey, how goes your percentage of life?’
‘Up and down, soldier, up and down.’
‘Lord Haw Haw not with you tonight?’
‘He’s inside.’
‘Prison?’
‘Yeah, smuggling E’s the stupid bastard.’ Davey Boy took a huge gulp of his drink, wiped his mouth and said, ‘You would have thought that someone has caked up as him wouldn’t have to do that shit, wouldn’t you?’
‘I know but pater and mater will bail him out surely.’
‘Oh, his uncle will probably be the judge sentencing him.’
‘And the group?’
‘Going strong. If I can get them off the happy pills for five minutes, we might even get a record out one of these days. I don’t know, it’s just stress all the time these days,’ and for the first time ever, I saw something of the real Davey Boy come to light, but it was gone in a flash and the cheeky Cockney mask went back on.
‘Still, I haven’t forgotten your tonik number,’ he happily said. ‘I’m going to see someone next week, reckons they’ve got a warehouse full of the stuff.’
‘Yeah, alright Davey. I’ll pop in at the end of the week, okay?’
‘You do that son,’ he replied, ‘you do that.’
It was time to man the dex one last time although, in the excitement of the past days I had been unable to put any thought towards this last set, and in a way I was glad I hadn’t for sometimes when you plan something too well, it has a tendency to backfire on you. I just opened up my box and pulled out tunes at random, throwing it all in, mixing up rare groove with house, rap with soul, jazz with reggae, and not caring that the tunes followed no party line. The crowd, I’m happy to report, were of the same persuasion, parting only once to allow Sammy The Foot and his crew space to dazzle everyone, a spectacle that I was glad to see his gal, watching from the sidelines, enjoying immensely.
I finished up with a tune that I am convinced was written when God was in the room because how else can you explain the spiritual power and musical grandeur of The Staple Singers’ ‘If You’re Ready (Come Go With Me).’
My fave bit is towards the record’s end when the music goes up a notch and Mavis Staples starts testifying about a land
where there is ‘no economical exploitation, no political domination,’ a place we should all be fighting to live in. When the record ended and the lights came up, Brother P. came up to the booth with Amanda, and put his arm around me.
‘I’ve made a few moves tonight,’ he said in his quiet manner. ‘If we play the cards right, we’ll be sorted. We’ll speak tomorrow?’
‘Of course we will,’ I replied, giving him a little hug, glad that I had kept such an ally by my side throughout the years, knowing that there were still so many more mountains for us to climb.
‘I’ll check you then. Seen?’
Amanda gave me a kiss on the cheek.
‘He won’t say it but you were slammin’ on the dex tonight,’ was her passing comment. I collected up my tunes and then made straight for the cloakroom where I expected to see Jill who I still wanted to parlare badly with.
‘She quit,’ Rajan said as I clocked a brand new face behind the counter, handing out the last of the coats. ‘Flew the nest last night,’ and all things considered that was probably the best thing for both of us.
‘Did Jasmine make it down?’ I enquired of her brother. ‘There were so many people, I didn’t get to see everyone.’
‘Nah, I didn’t see her or the psycho all night.’
‘Where’s Costello?’
‘In his office.’ I went over and pushed the door to. Costello sat at his desk, a huge wad of cashola piled up in front of him.
‘Ah, come in, young man, come in. I have a treat for you.’ He handed over double my usual wages.
‘For services rendered. Keep in touch, I want you for my new club.’
‘Thanks a lot, boss,’ I replied, ‘I’ll certainly do that.’
‘And don’t bring any babies again, promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘Ok, off you go.’
There was a party going on back at someone’s yard that I had been told about but I had a major mission to attend, so grabbing a mini cab from outside, I went back to my yard, kept the car waiting, rushed upstairs, dropped off my tunes and as a beautiful, purple dawn started to break across the sky, I directed the driver to a north address.
It is always funny driving down an empty street that you know in a couple of hours will once again awake to city street drama, a stretch of buildings and concrete that will no doubt be standing after each and every one of us has long since departed this earth, headed hopefully for a better land. Mother and baby were fast asleep when I reached their front door and it took five minutes of gentle knocking and whispering loudly through the letterbox to rouse Sandra.
‘What are you doing here so early?’ she demanded in a sleepy voice, clutching her gown around her.
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t sleep and I wanted to see Kimberley.’
‘I said, this afternoon.’
‘I know Sandra but now that I’m here...’
‘Alright.’ She let me in and closed the door, and I followed her into her room. ‘Don’t make a sound,’ Sandra whispered. ‘I’ve only just got her back to sleep. You wake her and there’ll be hell to pay.’ Sandra climbed back into her bed and I stepped over to gaze on my daughter’s sleeping face, so unworried, so contented and so unbelievably beautiful. I swallowed hard and I felt the tears building up behind my eyes and no matter how much I fought them, it was no use and they began to streak down my face until in the end I had to turn away to go wash myself in the bathroom.
As I washed the tears away and patted my face, Kimberley came to life for I suddenly heard her cry, like an ambulance siren as it goes off for the first time, and when I returned, Sandra was sitting up in bed, breast feeding her. I acted cool but truth be told the scene flustered me, so I went out to the kitchen to prepare some coffee. A minute later Sandra walked in.
‘Here,’ she said, gently placing our daughter in my arms, ‘she needs changing and I’ve run out of nappies. I’m going down the shop. Don’t panic,’ she said, noting my expression, ‘she won’t bite.’
I took Kimberley into my arms and rocked her, not even daring to talk whilst Sandra dressed and then left for her provisions. The minute Sandra left, an impulse, from out of the nowhere blue came into my mind’s solar system, and I quickly made for the phone and with one hand, I dialled a familiar number. Four rings later, a sleepy female voice came onto the line.
‘Hello... who’s this?’
‘Indigo, I’m standing here holding my daughter. I just thought you should know.’
Then I put the phone down and kissed my daughter’s head.
THE END
Chickaboo and chickabee, due to circumstances beyond our control there are certain spelling and typographical errors in this copy of ‘Heaven’s Promise.’ We hope that this has not detracted from your reading pleasure.
About The Author
Paolo Hewitt has been for over thirty years one of the U.K.’s foremost writers on popular music. Cutting his teeth at the NME for seven years in the eighties, he also moonlighted as the ‘Cappuccino Kid’, whose musings and manifesti adorned the covers of Style Council albums.
Paolo has written over twenty books, including Getting High: The Adventures of Oasis, Steve Marriott: All Too Beautiful and the novel Heaven’s Promise (all available as ebooks from the Dean Street Press). Other than music, recurrent themes in his writing include mod culture, football and fashion.
Also by Paolo Hewitt
Steve Marriott: All Too Beautiful
Getting High: The Adventures of Oasis
The Sharper Word: A Mod Anthology (editor)
Published by Dean Street Press 2015
Copyright © 1993 Paolo Hewitt
Cover design by The Cover Factory
www.thecoverfactory.com
All Rights Reserved
The right of Paolo Hewitt to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
First published in 1993 by Heavenly
ISBN 978 1 910570 03 6
www.deanstreetpress.co.uk