by Jim Pollard
Then the auditorium is drenched in white light and I am in a pounding drumming of applause, physically struggling against it as I descend the stairs to the front of the auditorium. Ian Martyn Baker has his left arm out stretched towards me. It’s nearly as long as his grin. A seat has been produced and gratefully I fall into it. I know now that I should never have agreed to do this.
‘Thanks for coming, Frankie,’ Ian is saying. ‘It’s a real privilege because you’re so notoriously reluctant to have any truck with us journalists. Why did you agree to do this one.’
I cough. I feel sick. It’s not my heart pounding now it’s my head. I feel the tear in my eye and I find myself talking about my father. I don’t know what I am saying. ‘Tribute’ and ‘died earlier this year’ I am saying. There’s a sea of eyes and an audience of fishes. They’re all so far away. The words ‘great’ and ‘man’ appear adjacent to each other and without a ‘not’ before them. ‘Terrible’ and ‘loss’ and ‘had an honest heart’. Then I’m talking about all the things he didn’t have. Privilege and patronage and choice and the sense to see it. It’s like two loose wires have finally connected and suddenly I’m buzzing. ‘Enlightened self-interest in the market place,’ I snort. ‘What opportunities did he have, my old man? - the free market in fucking driving licences?’ These sound like Cal’s words. Cal’s words but my emotions. I feel my tongue racing like a child’s when his father’s hitting hand is over him. They’re not just words anymore. I feel like Steve Jones when Bill Grundy told him to say something really outrageous. I have moved on to back to back housing and outside toilets and I am standing up now. I am haranguing. Usually I can barely tell one person what I think and here I am telling hundreds. ‘The 1980s, that’s when I became someone,’ I declaim. ‘And what else did that emotionally empty decade give us?’ Privatisation, recession, unemployment, xenophobia, union-bashing, I conjure them all up - a collection of clipped images: the evil a third of our society vested upon another third while the middle third watched television and, four times in the twee English privacy of the ballot box, pretended not to notice. ‘If that’s what they were fighting for in the second world war, Dad, you were better off out of it.’ And then it happens. I go beyond the boundaries of what is publicly acceptable. I mention the C-word. Yes, I’ve definitely done it. I am talking about class. I know this because Ian Martyn Baker is looking at me as if I have just farted. ‘And you?’ I point at the audience and hold my finger there even as my hand begins to shake. ‘You know which third you are. You can break down all the barriers you can find, sup free market poison or carbon-dated culture till you choke, have all the riches you can take or make or fake, be a free spirit and recycle your rubbish as often as your fucking opinions but you can’t change what’s between your ears and you can’t change where you come from. So sit back and be comfortable in your designer labels and designer lifestyles. Cuddle up to your credit cards and feel smug and good about yourself. Be centred. Be shopping centred. Tell yourselves that you’ve made it and pat yourselves on your fat little heads. But don’t tell me class doesn’t matter any more. Don’t tell me this is a classless society because I might. Just. Fucking. Puke.’ I stumble to a stop. That is it.
I note my silence, note Ian’s toy dog nodding head. I can see Wendy and Jon. They turn to each other. I look at them, I watch and it all stops: the rush in my voice, the pound in my head, the clock in my heart. Then they turn back, face the front and smile at me. Wendy and Jon lead a standing ovation which lasts and, as my faculties slowly click back into gear, lasts. I slump back into the chair like a boxer finished. ‘That’s why I wanted to do this,’ I mumble to myself.
When the hullabaloo dies down Ian says: ‘And if that’s not the spirit of 1977 I don’t know what is’. He asks me a couple more questions but I know I could start reciting nursery rhymes and they would clap. I tell him about our collaborative approach to songwriting - Cal’s and mine - and just what an honour it was to work with him. I explain that this is what at first made it so difficult to write alone. Then I tell him about how one day I remembered the first night, the two song night and about the importance of keeping it fun, keeping it young. I smile at Wendy and the kids. I tell Ian how once I had learned that lesson then I knew I could take my time. Pop music doesn’t have to be a race to die before you get old.
‘And now,’ he asks, ‘another album?’
‘No, the book, the autobiography first.’
‘And you’ll come back and see us when you’ve finished that?’ he says like he’s still on telly.
‘Sure will,’ I say. They clap and Ian extends his arm towards me again. I feel calm and I smile and when a tiny tear returns I dab it away with a handkerchief.
The audience slowly begins to leave. I can see Wendy, Jon, Tony and the kids standing at their seats waiting for me. I wait until I have a clear route to my wife then I walk slowly up the stairs and take her in my arms. We kiss passionately enough and long enough for a few passers-by to clap this and for Rebecca to tug at my sleeve and hiss, ‘Dad.’
I can feel my erection like an eighteen year-old’s growing inside my trousers and forcing itself against the fresh cotton of Wendy’s evening dress. As we break she allows her open palm to brush across my fly.
‘Frankie, you were excellent,’ says my manager.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘Jon, can I just have a word with you?’
I sound like a character in a soap-opera. He puts his arm around my shoulder and leads me away.
‘See you all outside,’ I instruct.
The auditorium is nearly empty. Ian Martyn Baker claps me on the back yet again as he leaves, bet I’ll have a bruise in the morning.
‘If you’re getting the flavour for these Frankie, we could do plenty more,’ Jon is saying. ‘There’s dozens of independent film theatres up and down the country. We could do a tour, package it like a rock tour - T-shirts, videos obviously, a single would be nice...’
We’ve climbed the stairs onto the stage now and, black-suited both, we stand stark against the white movie screen as if we’re in the poster for Reservoir Dogs.
‘That reminds me Frank, I did sort of promise Tony a single to coincide with this bash. I didn’t want to mention before because I knew you were nervous about doing it anyway. I was thinking, if you really have nothing at all, a cover in the classic Go-Karts tradition would be more than acceptable. But I’m sure you’re just being modest.’ He pokes me in the stomach. ‘I’m sure there’s another “Rotten In Denmark” hidden in their somewhere.’
‘Jonathan, how long have you been having an affair with my wife.’
He looks at me, activity like a hive behind his eyes. For a second I think he is going to deny it and in that second I hit him as hard as I can in the stomach. As he doubles over I bring my knee up into those big deceitful eyes. When Jon lifts his head his nose is bleeding. I draw my fist back and aim at the softly pumping puddle of red. He falls back like a star, arms wide apart, legs splayed, and collapses straight into the cinema screen. Supporting him for a fraction of a second, it then gives way, splits and tears and swallows him up like a black hole. Drops of crimson scamper across the vast brilliant screen like first blood in a painting by Jackson Pollack. There is the thud below my feet of rapidly moving flesh against dead concrete and all that is left on the stage in front of me is Jonathan’s mobile phone. It rings twice and then his voice-mail answering service clicks in. An American female offers to take a message - she says it like massage.
Outside Tony has bought the drinks. ‘Fucking magic, Frankie sunshine.’
Already Wendy has taken my hand and I feel her heat tight against me. The other hand flashes across my fly again. My erection is back. Or perhaps it never went away. I feel her stare. I feel her squeeze my hand.
‘I think we should skip food,’ says Wendy, ‘I’m bushed and these kids need to get to bed.’
‘Where’s Uncle Jon?’ asks P
hilip.
‘He had to go,’ I say. ‘Someone called on his mobile.’
28
Undulating, ululating fields swoop and soar, bank and arch. A fence, floating, cats-eyes pouncing, a stile swaying like a seesaw, the red hot punch of a postbox. Yes, the countryside is fast but I am faster.
I think Cal is talking in the front but it’s simple chatter. The words go over me like birds. I’m lying across the back seat and the window pane is cool as I press my smouldering nose against it. A road sign looms: a pyramid headed extra-terrestrial. A village sweeps past in a blink - just catch sight of the church spire puncturing the shawl of night. Stars like glitter on a witch. When Cal pulls into a lay-by, the front wheel churning grass as we halt, we take some more. The razor blade catches the tinny glow of the car light and shines like a guillotine. Here’s some we made earlier. Cal tips the powder onto the mirror and forms it into two white stripes like racing trims. He rolls the fiver into a tube, finds a nostril, covers the other and sniffs. I copy and my nostrils roar.
Cal’s old Escort had a top speed of little more than 50 but at times that night I’m sure it felt like we were taking off. After the initial buzz along the A23 I sat up and played acoustic guitar. I seemed to have hours to find the chords yet only seconds to play them. Up the M1 we sang at the tops of our hoarse voices every Go-Kart song and every cover we were going to play, discussing the running order and the exact arrangements, who would do what, even what the between song patter might be. I made notes until I started feeling sick. By the time we reached Darlington and were making jokes about their football team, dawn was peering tentatively over the horizon.
Durham town, then, came like a slap: Cathedral and castle soaring towards the sky, the turrets and towers climbing above the houses and a thick collar of green grass, majestic in the mist-streaked morning light.
‘You really need to see this from the train,’ said Cal.
‘Right,’ I replied.
The road snaked round with the river and we were in the palatinate’s narrow streets. The road led to the cathedral as sure as sanctuary. At the castle we enquired of the gatekeeper which hall was University College and he told us we’d already found it.
‘Isn’t this a castle?’ I asked.
‘Aye, son - a castle and a seat of learning.’
After a brief search we discovered our quarry, knife and fork poised over bacon and egg. Outside the great hall in which the students dined was a notice ‘Open To The Public’.
‘They don’t watch you eat, do they?’ I asked.
‘Sure but they have to stand up there,’ said Jon, pointing up to a gallery running around the room. It reminded me a little of the Horniman Museum but this hall was much bigger, the balcony much higher and it seemed infused, like the rest of the town, with a kind of divinity.
He didn’t quite smile but I think Jon was pleased to see us, putting his arms around our shoulders and leading us off to his room as if we were a playground gang. He was busy for much of the day with lectures, tutorials and, would you believe it, bass guitar lessons so Cal and I passed the morning trying to sleep - taking it in turns to use the bed.
I felt tired but my eyes wouldn’t sit still long enough to close. Jon’s vast chair - a lumpy re-upholstered affair - wasn’t comfortable either. I realised how much my throat hurt from what must have been three or four hours of raucous singing. Tossing, turning, rearranging the blanket’s oppressive checks, I noticed the washbasin in the corner of the room. I had a glass of water but it tasted stale and I could hardly swallow anyway. There were Jon’s familiar posters, strange in these new surroundings, and an old bookcase racked with books I’d never heard of. Some of the titles I didn’t even understand. I thumbed a few but the paragraphs assaulted me like cudgels.
Looking out of Jon’s bedroom window I was dimly aware that my mother’s home village must be near here somewhere but any idea of visiting it soon passed. It seemed irrelevant to me that morning - something that someone else should do. At midday we got up, took some more speed and went to the students’ union. At least, I think it was the students union.
We had a couple of beers, Jonathan declining because he had work to do. We asked where the dart board was. We asked if we could go whippet racing or stick ferrets down our trousers. Cal got talking to a Geordie girl, cracking her alleged northern impenetrability with easy charm. He told her he was in a band. She told him she was coming to London at the end of the academic year. He told her we would be playing the Marquee then.
We spent the afternoon walking around the town. We knocked on the cathedral’s monster of a door knocker. Inside I picked up a leaflet. Apparently, the knocker is a copy but a faithful one right down to the hole made by a Scottish arrow.
We had another line of speed on Palace Green and then we walked along the River Wear engaging with the autumn colours and the tree-framed views, kicking the leaves. Cal talked. He was full of plans. We crossed a bridge at Kingsgate and another at Framwellgate. We walked until the day began to lose its battle with night. Then we took some more speed and returned to find Jonathan.
‘We haven’t eaten much have we?’ I said and Jon took us to a pub called the Dun Cow where we ordered pie and peas. Jon fed the dog with polo mints.
Cal started to outline his plan. There was a time-frame built in. If we hadn’t made it within two years we’d pack up but he was sure this wouldn’t happen. Jonathan didn’t agree. Jon was enjoying his degree course and didn’t flatter himself that he could play the bass. Two years seemed like an eternity to me - surely everybody would have made it by then.
By the time we reached the Queens Head the debate was raging and to my mind Cal’s unfailing powers of persuasion appeared to be failing him. There were dozens of people there, some student faces I thought I recognised from lunchtime but also plenty of what Jon called ‘townies’ too. Some of them looked like they might even have been working in one of those fields Cal and I had surveyed that afternoon. In the corner a dodgy band were chugging away.
‘We must be better than them,’ insisted Cal, resorting to old arguments, his arms waving vaguely.
‘Probably,’ said Jon, ‘but you’re asking me to give up my day job. This lot are prison warders. Plenty of security in that.’
Cal snorted, took another drink. ‘Even her?’ he asked pointing at the mousy female singer bopping acceptably in her leather jacket.
‘Yes, even her. Durham has a heavy duty female nick too, Calum.’
We were leaning on the bar and although behind us I could sense the crowd swelling, our heads were edging closer together in that familiar way. I was enjoying the claustrophobia, the smell of the beer, the chatter around our heads and the rising temperature. All that mattered was that bar towel and the three pints standing on it. I don’t think Cal had expected this. He assumed everyone enjoyed the same confident indifference as he. Then a wave of sweat-shirted, scarf-wielding youths hit the bar. I noticed the Geordie girl just as she peeled away from the group and touched Cal on the shoulder.
‘Hello,’ she said.
Cal turned a fraction, registered and gunned her down with his eyeballs. He carried on talking to Jon, cajoling, animated.
The girl took a step back. ‘We met at dinner time,’ her small voice began.
‘I know full fucking well when we met but right now, I’m busy.’
‘Cal,’ said Jon. He touched the girl on her shoulder.
Cal shook his head. He took Jon by the arm. ‘Come on you. Frankie,’ he instructed, pointing at me. ‘This is Karen.’
Jon hesitated for a moment.
‘This is important,’ said Cal, picking up both pints in his free hand by putting his thumb in the top of one and his fingers in the other. There was some spillage as he ushered Jon away. ‘Universities, prisons,’ I heard him saying. ‘They’re all the same, Jon. Total institutions designed to bleed you of your soul.’ Left at
the bar were me and Karen.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry...’
She shrugged. ‘Do you want to dance?’
I saw Cal just once more that night when he dragged me into the toilets with him to take some more speed. We did it in a cubicle, using the half-broken bog seat as a table for our paraphernalia, trying not to kneel in the piss. ‘He’s cracking,’ said Cal. ‘Here take a third line. By the way, I’ve had to offer him a place in our flat.’
‘What flat?’ I was still kneeling on the floor head over the mirror.
‘Explain later,’ he said and I felt his hand brush the top of my head as he left.
More dancing. More drinks. I can’t remember leaving the pub. Next Karen and I were at some party - the whole corridor seemed to be involved so I guess it must have been another hall of residence. We were in a kitchen I think - there seemed to be about seven toasters and a smell of lentils and dirty socks. Karen pressed a bottle into my hand.
‘Bottle of dog,’ she said.
I suffered a blink of sobriety. ‘Did you say dog?’ I asked, remembering the black-brown mongrel and his polo mints.
She smiled and took my other hand. In the bedroom I opened my bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale with a sharp downward movement against the edge of a desk. Half the contents ejaculated over an essay, the words swimming and drowning in the piss-brown liquid.
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘It’s not my room,’ said Karen. She was on the bed.
I took a deep breath and slugged the rest of the bottle. In the mirror on the wall I could see black rings around my eyes like a panda’s. Karen, sipping from a bottle of Liebfraumilch, moved over. I was still standing when she began unbuttoning her top. It was a violent violet cardigan with wool-covered buttons. My Auntie Anne had something similar but she didn’t have CND earrings and a tight white New York Dolls T-shirt. I realised that Karen was quite sexy.