by Mike Gayle
It’s a relief to be away from the pounding music, if only for a few moments. I stand in front of the urinal and undo the buttons on my jeans and try to conjure up excuses that will allow me to go home early. It’ll have to be a good one though, because Jason doesn’t seem the type to let his plans go awry without a good excuse. It needs to be something involving death: possibly a grandparent or at the very least an uncle. Not even Jason Cleveland would go clubbing if his uncle had died. Just as I’m trying to decide between killing off my Uncle Roy (on the basis that no one in the family has heard from him since he left my auntie and ran off with the barmaid from his local pub) and making up an entirely fictitious uncle in case I’m tempting fate I hear the door to the gents’ open and someone enters.
It’s an unspoken rule at the urinal that you keep your eyes fixed straight ahead, so I’m sure I have probably stood next to someone famous while I’m about my business and been none the wiser, but when the guy next to me says: ‘Having a good night are you, mate?’ I can’t help but turn my head to confirm my suspicions and find myself saying: ‘You’re Gerry Hammond.’
He gives me a quizzical sideways glance.
‘That was a really weird thing to say, wasn’t it?’ I apologise. ‘You say, “All right mate?”, and I tell you who you are. I should just shut up, shouldn’t I?’
He gives me a wink. ‘Nah, it’s cool, mate. Always nice to meet Pinfolds fans.’ Zipping up his flies he turns to wash his hands.
‘Funnily enough,’ I say as I finish at the urinal, and wait behind him at the sink, ‘I’ve actually met you before, quite recently. You work in that charity shop in Moseley don’t you? I came in a while ago when you were playing The House of Love’s first album and we had a chat.’
‘You bought a Thomas Hardy novel and Songs of Love and Hate, didn’t you,?’ he says as he dries his hands under the blower.
I can’t believe it. I actually inhabit space in Gerry-from-The-Pinfolds’ head. The seventeen-year-old me would be over the moon. ‘Yeah that’s me.’
‘How was Hardy?’
‘Depressing.’
‘And Simon and Garfunkel?’
‘Pretty much the same.’ I become conscious of the fact that we are now two men standing in a toilet who no longer need to stand in a toilet. ‘I should stop bothering you. It’s been nice to see you again.’
‘You never said if you were having a good night,’ says Gerry. There’s a mischievous look in his eye as though he’s conjuring up a plan. ‘Because I’ll tell you for nothing, mine’s atrocious.’
‘I wouldn’t really have thought this was your kind of place.’
‘It’s a mate’s birthday and he wanted to come here. But his mates are a right bunch of boring bastards. You’re not a boring bastard are you?’
I think this over carefully. ‘Probably.’
Gerry laughs. I’ve just made a joke that made Gerry-from-The-Pinfolds laugh. If I still kept a diary that would’ve been the entry of a lifetime.
‘Let’s get out of here and find ourselves a proper good time. Decent music, quality booze, and birds that haven’t got it all on show.’
‘Just you and me?’
‘Why, who else do you want to bring?’
‘No one,’ I say quickly, and then I see that mischievous grin of his and realise that he’s joking. ‘I mean . . . you and me, we’re just going to walk out of here and go for a drink just like that?’
‘Well I was planning to levitate but walking will do. So are you in or what?’
‘I’m in,’ I say, still unable to believe my luck. ‘I am absolutely in.’
23
‘So how come you’re hanging out with old schoolmates you can’t stand?’ asks Gerry as we stand drinking at the bar while a gorgeous-looking girl backed by a live band works her way through an amazing-sounding James Brown cover. We’re in the Yardbird, a cool jazz bar, that until a short while ago I hadn’t even known existed.
I take a long sip of my pint and meet Gerry’s gaze. ‘It’s a long story.’
‘I should bloody hope so,’ say Gerry. ‘Life’s way too short to be hanging out with idiots for no reason.’
I tell him my story. About Lauren, the breakdown, and my forced exile to the Midlands but when it comes to the part about Ginny and Gershwin I find myself skating over the story in a bid to save my ego: ‘Anyway,’ I say, ‘to cut a long story very short indeed, in one fell swoop a few weeks ago I pretty much managed to estrange my only two friends up here and I needed a night out and the guys I was with were the best I could come up with.’
‘So what did you do to alienate your proper friends?’ asks Gerry. ‘Sleep with your mate’s wife? I tell you what, that can really ruin a friendship.’
‘Nearly . . . I hooked up with an old ex.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘She failed to inform me that she’d just split up with my best mate.’
Gerry looks suitably scandalised. ‘When did you find out?’
‘When she got back with him after we’d made a whole bunch of plans together.’ I take a long sip from my glass. ‘It was serious, really serious. We were going to go travelling together and do all the stuff that we should’ve done when we were young. Me and this girl, Ginny, we’ve always had this . . . I don’t know what you’d call it. A sort of thing, an attraction . . . a curse if you like. It’s like we’re connected but we keep doing everything we can to deny it and it’s fine if we’re living in different cities but put us in a room together and there’s trouble.’
Gerry nods sagely. ‘I’ve been there for sure. Some women just get under your skin and never leave. No wonder you started thinking about the ex when you split up with your missus! If you come back to Brum and . . . pow! You’re back in the thick of it!’
Gerry gulps his pint. He seems enthralled by my story, which thrills me no end. I’m hanging out with my teenage hero, in a jazz club spilling the beans about my hopeless love life. It’s a dream come true.
‘So does your mate know what happened with . . . Ginny?’
‘Nope.’
‘And does he know that you know they were together?’
‘We had a big face-off over it. Then the next day she turns up on my doorstep asking me to keep schtum about us being together.’
‘And you agreed?’
‘I had no choice. They’re talking about starting a family, I can’t get in the middle of all that. Having kids means everything to her.’
Gerry drains his pint. ‘You’re a better man than me. I would’ve shoved it right in his face.’
‘I can’t do that to her.’
‘No,’ says Gerry, ‘You’re Mr Nice guy, aren’t you?’ He waves a dismissive hand in the air and almost knocks over my pint. I now realise just how much drunker he is than me. ‘You want my advice?’
I nod. Who wouldn’t want life advice from the man who reached number eight in the indie singles charts with ‘Love’s Longest Letter’?
‘You’re better off without them. Screw your best mate, the girl, your ex-wife and those losers you were hanging out with tonight!’ He turns to the barman who’s busy pouring a pint next to us. ‘Two lagers with a bourbon chaser when you’re ready, fella. Me and my friend Matt have got a lot of serious drinking to do.’
Between drinks Gerry tells me all of the stuff I’ve been desperate to know about him but had been too afraid to ask. About how the band split up on the eve of their biggest gig in America (which is pretty much as I’d read in the pages of the NME and Melody Maker at the time). The growing tensions between The Pinfolds’ two creative leads (Gerry on lyrics and Pete McCulloch on music) became so intense that they escalated into a full-blown fist-fight resulting in Gerry getting his nose broken. Vowing never to talk to Pete again Gerry split with the band’s management and found himself new representation. The rest of The Pinfolds tried to carry on under a new name but didn’t get beyond releasing a couple of EPs. Gerry meanwhile took six months off to write and record new materia
l, and a year later his debut solo album, I told You I Was Right, reached number fourteen in the indie charts on the week of its release. The following album however, You Made Me, recorded following his return to Birmingham, was critically revered but commercially reviled and pretty much marked the end of his career as a solo artist.
In the years that followed he added vocals to a number of singles that charted well, produced a couple of debut albums for well-known local bands and for a while even had a stint as an Arts and Culture correspondent for the weekly ‘Birmingham Calling’ strand of Central Tonight but then eventually that work faded away and he was left to pursue ‘other projects’.
He looks like he’s finished talking for a while but I’m too gripped to give up without teasing just a little more of the story out of him. ‘So how did you end up volunteering in a charity shop?’
‘I don’t volunteer. I’m the manager.’
This surprises me and my face shows it. Maybe I’d expected a loaded rock star to give his time for free. ‘So how did that come about then?’
‘I’d made enough money from The Pinfolds and other stuff not have to work again—’
‘What? Ever?’
‘We had good accountants and financial people. I’ve got everything I need: a nice three-bed penthouse over on the old Britannic site in Moseley, my scooter to get around on and enough cash in the bank to last me a lifetime.’
‘So basically,’ I reply, ‘you’re sorted for life?’
He nods thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, basically, I am.’
‘So what are you doing at the shop? Your bit to help humanity?’
Gerry laughs and allows himself to be distracted by a pretty girl approaching the bar. ‘I was bored of the music thing and fancied a change, and the shop opened, I knew a few people helping out there and so I started volunteering. After a while the manager told me he was leaving and suggested that I apply for his job. I ummed and ahhed because it’s not like I need the hassle but in the end I took it because I love music and I love books and well . . . I was doing something good. I upped the turnover thirty per cent in my first six months.’
‘So you do it for the love?’
Gerry looks at me like I’m an idiot. ‘I’m not going to do it for the money, am I? It’s peanuts.’
More beers follow. I accompany Gerry on numerous trips outside for cigarettes and in between he keeps me entertained with a number of long and potentially libellous stories that are as painfully funny as they are outrageous. At the end of the set he suggests we move on and so we head over to Broad Street in search of a cab and when we reach our destination over on Queensway he practically drags me into a tiny bar packed full of youths with daft haircuts and off-putting piercings. All of them seem to know and worship Gerry and the girls especially can’t get enough of him. He introduces me to everyone, but despite their standard-issue ironic geek glasses their lack of interest in me is apparent. But not even that can take the shine off my night because as Gerry nudges me in the ribs and repeats a filthy joke he’s just been told through the fog of an alcohol-induced blur I realise I am having the time of my life.
24
‘You need to get out of bed this instant,’ says Mum, storming into my room and wrenching open the curtains. ‘Anyone would think this place is a dosshouse the way you’ve been carrying on of late!’
As I lie squinting back the daylight from underneath my duvet it occurs to me that Mum might have a point given the time (nearly midday), the state of the room (think church jumble sale) and the smell (think men’s changing room). Nothing has seemed right since my night out with Gerry over a week ago. It’s as if having had a glimpse of how cool my life might have been I’ve faced up to the fact that I have no mates, no job, no wife and therefore no reason to get out of bed.
I turn over and look at the ceiling and in so doing get a whiff of my armpits. How long has it been since I showered? ‘Leave it with me,’ I tell Mum. ‘I’ll get up in a bit, OK?’
‘You’ll get up now!’ she says, and gives me a look that means business. ‘We’ve got guests coming and I need you showered, shaved and downstairs pronto.’
‘Guests? What guests?’
‘Never you mind,’ snaps Mum. ‘Just make sure you’re ready!’
Mum is in the living room needlessly rearranging the decorations on the Christmas tree for what seems like the millionth time since she put it up last week, when the doorbell rings and she calls out: ‘They’re here,’ in her loudest voice.
‘Looks like it’s show time,’ says Dad, heaving himself out of his armchair. ‘Won’t get any rest until they’ve gone.’
‘Until who’s gone?’ I ask Dad, but Mum overhears and scowls in Dad’s direction and he shuts his lips so tight that even under duress I doubt he would’ve even given me his name, rank and number.
Curiosity piqued, I follow Mum into the hallway because I’m half convinced that my parents are about to spring an intervention on me. Mum’s TV viewing habits include the kind of American talk shows where that sort of thing happens and I wouldn’t put it past her to try her hand at creating her own version. But when she opens the door all I can see is a plump-looking woman about Mum’s age and a freakishly tall man in a snow-wash denim jacket, and an Iron Maiden T-shirt.
‘Look who it is,’ says Mum with a flourish, ‘it’s Mrs Baxter and your old friend Mark!’
Judith Baxter was a friend of Mum’s from way back in my nursery schools days. She and Mum had bonded because they were both nurses and had worked at the same hospital at different times and so knew people in common but mostly because her youngest son and I were in the same class. Mark was a bit of an oddball – his favourite trick in nursery used to be pulling down his shorts in the middle of story time and shouting: ‘It’s just like an elephant!’ at the top of his voice. I hadn’t seen Mrs Baxter or her son since the day I left junior school so why they were here in my parents’ house was a mystery to me.
‘Mrs Baxter,’ I say, shaking her hand, ‘lovely to see you.’
‘You too,’ she replies. ‘And my, haven’t you grown? Seems like yesterday you and Mark were playing on the swings together. When I bumped into your mother the other day and she very kindly invited us to tea I just couldn’t resist the opportunity for a catch up.’ Mrs Baxter nudges Mark with her elbow. ‘Isn’t that right, Mark? Say hello to Matthew, why don’t you?’
Mark, reaches up with his left hand, tucks some stray strands of long, greasy shoulder-length hair behind his ear, nods in my direction, and utters a barely audible: ‘All right?’
‘Great, thanks,’ I reply, as my mum smiles expectantly. ‘You?’
Mark shrugs. ‘I’m OK.’
I look at my mother in confusion as she ushers everyone into the living room but she refuses to make eye contact. I know something’s going on but I can’t think for the life of me what it might be.
‘So Matthew,’ says Mrs Baxter, as my mother leaves the room for the kitchen to make everyone’s drink, ‘your mum was telling me that you used to work in computers?’
‘Sort of.’ I notice Mark is reinserting the earphones of his iPod into his ears. Granted, as weird behaviour goes it’s not quite up there with taking out your tackle during story time but all the same it’s a pretty odd thing for a forty-year-old man to do. ‘I was director of software development for a firm in London.’
‘Oooh,’ she says eagerly, ‘that sounds very high flying. Was it?’
‘I suppose so.’
Mrs Baxter spots the earphones and angrily mouths, ‘Take those out now!’ in Mark’s direction before continuing, ‘Our Mark likes computers, don’t you Mark?’
‘They’re all right.’ His voice is completely flat, devoid of emotion, colour or interest, a bit like a robot only without the warmth.
‘You’ve got two of the things!’
‘Yeah, but one’s a laptop.’
‘Don’t laptops count then?’
He looks at her blankly.
Mrs Baxter and Dad make
festive related small talk and when that runs out Mrs Baxter questions me in greater detail about my former career until Mum arrives with the refreshments. As Mum pours the tea and hands out coffees, I notice her hand Mark an empty glass.
Mrs Baxter catches me looking.
‘Mark only drinks energy drinks, don’t you Mark?’ she explains, reaching into her bag to hand Mark a can of Red Bull. In one swift motion, he opens the can, takes a sip, and pours the rest into the glass.
‘The drink of gods,’ he says triumphantly.
I can’t help myself. My curiosity is piqued. ‘You only ever drink energy drinks?’
Mark nods proudly. ‘No other liquid passes my lips.’
Dad and I exchange concerned glances. ‘So . . . you’re telling me you don’t drink any other liquid? Not water, not beer, not even milk?’
‘I did drink the insides of a coconut a couple of years back as an experiment,’ he relents, ‘but it didn’t agree with me.’
I look to Mrs Baxter for further explanation but Mum intercepts her.
‘Oh Judith,’ she says standing up, ‘let me give you that mince pie recipe you asked about the other day.’
Picking up her tea, Mrs Baxter quickly follows my mother out of the room. A moment later Dad stands and says: ‘Oh, I’ve just remembered I’ve got to do that thing,’ and before I can respond he too has left the room. The moment Mark and I are alone all the pieces of the puzzle begin to fit together: my mother’s insistence that I get out of bed, her refusal to tell me who was coming for tea, and her sharp exit from the room with Mrs Baxter followed by my father . . .
I stand up. ‘Back in a sec, Mark, just need to check something with my mum,’ and I practically run to the kitchen where I find Mum, Dad, and Mrs Baxter sitting round the kitchen table whispering with each other conspiratorially.
‘What were you thinking?
‘What do you mean?’ replies Mum, clearly acting the innocent.
I look at Mrs Baxter. Not even her presence can restrain my annoyance. ‘I’ll tell you what I mean! You’ve just set me up on a playdate like I’m a toddler with no social skills.’