by Louise Hare
‘Hey! Hey, you there.’
Lawrie turned to see a portly middle-aged man coming their way point a finger at Moses who had just begun to unload his bass. Impatiently, he ran down the steps and hurried over to the van.
‘What are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘You can’t just park here, you know. This is private property. I shall call the police.’
‘Excuse me, sir, but we are the Johnny Sands Band.’ Even after almost two years Lawrie could see Johnny’s chest swell with pride as he introduced them. ‘We have been booked to play this evening.’
‘You’re…’ The man paused, his cheeks reddening. ‘Oh. I mean, perhaps there’s been some mistake. I thought that I had booked a normal dance band. I was very clear with the lady I spoke to that this was a wedding.’
‘You spoke to my wife,’ Johnny explained, rummaging in his jacket pocket. ‘And you have no need to worry, sir. This isn’t our first wedding. Why don’t you have a read over the set list? You let me know if any changes need to be made.’
The man took the paper and, out of his sight, Johnny nodded at Moses who resumed unloading the van. Lawrie watched on, deciding that this was not going to be the easiest of evenings.
‘Damn Ursula and her posh telephone voice,’ Sonny muttered. ‘That man knew before what we looked like, no way we would be standing here right now.’
‘Hush your mouth.’ Johnny overheard him. ‘You rich now? You can afford to turn down a job?’
‘Well, I think this all looks fine.’ The red-faced man came to a decision. ‘Stick to this list, please. And I will need you to move that van round the back. Here, I’ll show you. You’ll feel more comfortable there I’m sure.’
‘Yes, massa,’ Sonny muttered, grunting as Johnny elbowed him in the ribs.
Not for the first time, Lawrie was happy that he played an instrument that could be carried quite easily, Moses struggling along with his bass as they followed the man to a side entrance. Inside was as grand as the exterior, all marbled floors and quiet corridors.
They had been provided with a spot at the front of a large room, a dancefloor right in front. The tables were circular, all of them seating eight people and covered over with white tablecloths. Polished cutlery was laid out along with empty plates and a fleet of waiting staff were lined up at the back of the room, all of them staring as the band walked in. Most of them looked younger than Lawrie, only just out of school if they were at all.
‘All right, boys.’ Johnny grabbed their attention once they were all set up. ‘We stick to the set list else our host is likely to have a heart attack. He wants us to play quiet, until all the guests are seated, then we can take it up a notch for the dancing.’
Sonny sighed loudly, putting his whole body into the effort. ‘Ever feel like we might not be welcome?’
Johnny turned on him. ‘Serious? What you want me to do? They are paying us to play, not the other way round. We mess up and all these person goin’ tell their friends that this band nuh good. You want that?’
‘Let’s play.’ Sonny twirled his drumsticks and threw them down, picking up his brushes. ‘Quietly.’
None of them were looking at each other when they began to play, barely seconds before the first two couples walked in, laughing and joking, staring curiously at the band as they took their seats on the far side of the room. The waiting staff started into motion, their white-gloved hands ferrying water jugs and wine bottles as the seats began to fill and the bride and groom entered to applause and cheering.
Johnny was a huge fan of Gershwin for these formal occasions that they played occasionally, and Lawrie began to relax as they hit the opening bars of ‘Summertime’. The people seemed to be enjoying it too. The sense of foreboding he’d felt from the second they pulled up outside began to fade.
They took a break as the desserts were going out, some sort of treacle pudding covered in thick custard that made Lawrie’s mouth water. He’d grown to like the stodgy suet-based puddings that Mrs Ryan served up with her Sunday dinner, usually fighting Derek for seconds.
‘See?’ Johnny accused Sonny as they sat on the kitchen step. ‘No trouble. Just a bit of refinement is all they wanted. You want to prove them right, that we can’t behave just as well as they can?’
‘When I say different?’ Sonny threw his arm out, Lawrie swerving out of the way to avoid getting smacked in the face.
‘You got attitude,’ Johnny told him. ‘You just got to learn to hush your damn mouth in front of a paying customer.’
‘You know, I don’t have to be here,’ Sonny told him. ‘I already a got a job that pays the rent. I play music ’cause I love it, not so I can bow and scrape to some—’
‘Sonny!’ Moses interrupted. ‘Come on now. Everything here’s just fine.’
‘Thank you, Moses,’ Johnny slapped the younger man’s back. ‘See? Common sense!’
Sonny muttered something under his breath that Lawrie couldn’t catch. Johnny shook his head and walked away a few feet. It was clear from the way he held his back that he was angry and trying not to let it show. Lawrie took the hip flask that Al passed him and took a swig. He wasn’t sure that Sonny needed any rum in his veins but it was easier to keep the flask moving than rile the man up any further. It was a relief when Johnny returned and ordered them back inside.
The second set was for dancing, the music getting louder and faster as the guests, now fairly inebriated, hit the patch of carpet designated as the dancefloor. Sonny took his mood out on his drums and Johnny began to dance a little now, the crowd enjoying his moves.
It all went wrong so fast that there was no way that anyone could have prevented it.
She was a young woman, mid-twenties with dark brown hair that she’d carefully waved before coming out that night, though in the heat of the dancefloor it had gone limp, her face shiny with gin. In slow motion, Lawrie saw her stumble, then trip, her coordination lacking so that she fell to the ground right at Johnny’s feet. Even if Johnny had given it a second thought, any person’s first impulse would have been to reach down and help. So Johnny did just that. He bent down and put out his hands, the woman gratefully accepting his assistance. Maybe it all would have been fine except that her heel had snapped in the fall and, as Johnny had dragged her upright, her weight sent her stumbling once more, this time into Johnny’s arms.
Sonny stopped playing first, then Lawrie as he noticed the missing beat. Johnny was just standing there, the drunk giggling girl with her arms locked around his neck; he couldn’t have shaken her off easily if he’d wanted to. Which was when the husband had come charging over, the mortified guests parting like the Red Sea to let him through.
‘Gerroff my wife!’
‘Ah shit.’ Moses began to back away, moving his precious bass behind him.
‘Sir,’ Johnny said, holding his hands outstretched, his palms like a shield. ‘I think that your wife needs some assistance.’
‘What you sayin’ about my wife, eh?’ The husband pushed his wife aside now, one of her friends darting forward to grab her away as he jabbed a finger at Johnny’s chest. ‘Who the fuckin’ hell d’you think you are?’
‘Come on, Peter.’ The best man, still on duty, walked across as the crowd gathered. ‘No harm done.’
‘No harm? Did you book this… this nig-nog band?’ Lawrie could see the man turning red in the face. ‘Don’t you read the papers? Fuck’s sake, they kill their own kids and we’re supposed to welcome them in with open arms?’
There were gasps from the audience and Lawrie saw their expressions change. The same people who a few moments ago had been whirling around, laughing and singing, a couple of the girls daring to wink up at Lawrie, were now regarding them all with hostile faces. Frowns replaced smiles. A low hum of murmurs started up. Lawrie copied Moses and took a step back.
‘How the hell am I meant to get this drum kit outta here?’ Sonny whispered. ‘They goin’ to kill us.’
‘Sir, I’m sorry, this is just a simple misunderstanding.�
� Johnny addressed the husband, his voice strong but Lawrie could see his hands shake a little. ‘I only meant to help your wife get up off the floor. I’m a married man myself. Two blessed children at home. Honestly, I never meant to cause offence.’
‘There we go, Peter.’ The best man breathed out in relief. ‘All just a mistake.’
Johnny had turned back to look as he heard Sonny, having already decided where the altercation was going, beginning to pack away his kit, and so he didn’t see the punch coming. He hit the floor hard, the air rushing out of him in one short groan. No one else had been involved but then suddenly everyone was, fists flying. Lawrie ducked down to grab his case, crouching over it protectively as he packed away his clarinet, wincing as a kick caught him in the back.
He heard Sonny howl as his cymbals went flying, the women either screaming in fear or egging their men on, the bride in tears, her bridesmaids arranged about her like petals on a flower. Johnny had risen to his hands and knees and Lawrie ducked down to help him up, using the clarinet case as a shield and hoping to God it was strong enough to protect both him and his precious instrument. They ran out through the kitchen, surprising the chef and the few waiting staff who remained and were tucking into the leftovers, slowing down only to give Moses a hand with his bass.
‘Get in the van,’ Johnny ordered them. ‘Keep your heads down, I’ll go fetch the others.’
Lawrie hesitated, not wanting Johnny to think him a coward, but then he heard the sirens out on the street and nodded, crawling into the back of the van with Moses and letting Johnny close them in.
Waiting there in the darkness, time slowed right down. Lawrie could hear the police vehicles draw up close by, the slam of car doors and the distinctive timbre of the local London coppers as they went into the building. It seemed an age before he heard Sonny calling out, begging to be let back in to get his drums, his voice fading away as he was dragged past the van. The first car drove off and Lawrie dared to crack the van door, sticking his head out to see Johnny and Al being shut into the second.
‘You think it’s safe to go out?’ Moses peered round the door. ‘We need to get Sonny’s drums.’
Lawrie watched the second police car drive off before he and Moses sloped back into the building. Staff had already moved the band’s equipment, the drums, blessedly undamaged, Lawrie’s sheet music and stand, all of it cluttered at the end of the corridor. It made a pitiful sight but Lawrie was just glad not to have to step back into that room with the guests. He crouched to gather up the music, kissing his teeth as he saw footprints, several pages ripped almost in half. His recent fear filtered away to be replaced with anger. He itched to push that door open, see if that fella was still there. Guest of honour, probably, for getting rid of the undesirables.
He kept his head and took his fury out on the kerb outside instead, kicking it viciously as they closed the van doors and prepared to head back to Brixton. His entire body was buzzing now with rage at the injustice. That some fella could start a fight and then call the police, knowing that his victim would be the one arrested.
He’d been a fool to think things were looking up. Sonny was right; they weren’t and never would be welcome here. It didn’t matter what his passport said. A man with black skin could never be considered British.
1948
The Armstrongs lived in a prefab house just off Clapham Common, one of a row of identical houses that looked as though they’d come straight off a toy factory conveyor belt. They’d been thrown up in a hurry to house those who’d been bombed out of their homes and had a temporary appearance, lacking in sturdiness; the sort of house the least lucky of the three pigs might have lived in before the wolf came calling. They were far from the usual English terraced homes that Lawrie was having to get used to. Those long rows lacked privacy but their bricks and mortar made him feel safe; they had survived not only the passage of decades, but a long and costly war.
Lawrie double-checked the house number she’d scribbled down for him the day before and knocked on the door, gently, as if he were afraid of putting his fist through the cheap wood. The net curtain at the window twitched as Rose peered out, smiling.
‘Come in!’ She opened the door with a flourish, beckoning for him to come inside quickly.
Perhaps she was worried about what her neighbours would think. He wondered if anyone had seen her let Lawrie in, and if they would say anything to her husband. Did he care if they did? It was amusing to imagine the look on Frank Armstrong’s face upon finding out that his wife had invited a nigger into his own home. For a bath, no less. Frank would have to bathe knowing that the dark skin of a Jamaican man had sat in the same place, his buttocks resting in the precise spot where Lawrie’s own had. He should make sure to wipe his arse along the bottom of that tub.
‘What are you smiling at?’ Rose laughed.
‘Nothing.’ He snapped the grin off his face. ‘Just happy at the thought of being clean.’ He followed her into the kitchen. ‘I suppose there are the public baths but I can’t afford to go down there every day.’
Rose shuddered. ‘I never feel clean, using public facilities. You never know who’s used them before you. I even had a bath after I got home from the lido the other day. Would you like a drink? Tea? Water?’
‘Water, please.’
She took his bag from him and shook out the creased shirt and trousers, draping them over the back of a chair, ready for laundering. He’d called one of Aston’s contacts and fixed an interview for the following morning. Right after that he’d arranged to go round and meet Mrs Ryan, Evie’s next-door neighbour. The room was tiny, Evie had warned, but it would be clean. And close to Evie. They’d gone to the pictures the evening before, just the two of them, and been able to talk freely for the first time. He’d never really talked to a girl like that before. A girl who made him feel at ease whilst simultaneously exciting him more that any person he’d known before. He paid attention to every word she said, storing away fragments of information. Her favourite flavour of ice cream; the way she sat on cinema seat, her body tilted forward so that she didn’t miss a second of the programme; the way she blushed when he complimented her.
‘I bet you haven’t got one of these in that dump of a house of yours.’ Rose interrupted his thoughts to show off her refrigerator, a huge metal contraption that hummed loudly in the corner of the kitchen. She made him watch while she showed off a small box which made ice, fighting to extract cubes from a tray and dropping them into the water before handing him the glass. The water was too cold and set his teeth on edge but he felt he should drink it all.
‘Very – cold.’ He smiled, his lips numb, handing back the empty glass.
‘Come on, then. Let’s get you cleaned up ready for that job interview.’
He let her take him by the hand and drag him upright, leading him back along to the bathroom. It was small but functional, with the luxury of an inside toilet. No outdoor privy for the Armstrongs. The bath was sparkling white. His mother would have been impressed. Rose bent to turn on the taps, her skirt stretching across her backside as she did, and he looked away.
He still wasn’t sure what to make of this attention Rose was showing him. It was motherly for the most part. If she’d been twenty years older then he’d not have thought it strange at all, this attempt to take a young man under wing but Sam had taunted him all night long. She after you, he’d said. She got that look in she eye when she see you, like a dog when its owner drop a piece o’ meat on the floor. She just waiting for the right moment. Then she pounce!
Sam was just being Sam. Rose was a nice woman, it was just a shame about the husband being such a bastard. No wonder she was lonely. His mother had always said that girls like Rose, flirting with the boys and spending all their time on their looks and their clothes, they’d end up with the sort of men who fell for such deceptions – and a foolish man was never a good husband. She’d approve of Evie, though. Evie was a nice girl, innocent-looking but with a slow beauty that struck him
a little more each time he saw her. She was still shy around him but he’d seen her with that blonde friend of hers, laughing and full of life. Once she got to know him maybe he’d be able to make her laugh like that.
‘Bubble bath?’ Rose interrupted.
‘No, thank you.’ He just wanted her to hurry up and leave. He’d wash quickly and then make an excuse to come back round later to collect his clean clothes.
‘I’ll fetch a towel. Soap is there.’ She pointed to the dish on the side, a thick block of carbolic soap sitting on it, barely touched. ‘That’s what Frank uses. Unless you’d prefer a softer fragrance? I do have some nice lavender-scented.’
‘No.’ He smiled. ‘This is fine.’ He could well imagine Sam’s taunts if he arrived home smelling like a woman.
‘Go on, get yourself in there and I’ll pass in a towel.’ She closed the door behind her and he began to unbutton his shirt.
The bath filled up quickly. Lawrie undressed quickly and carefully placed his clothes on the closed lid of the toilet, resting his underwear on top to make a pyramid. He stepped gingerly into the water, hopping a little as the tender soles of his feet protested against the heat. It took him a good minute to adjust to the temperature before he dared to squat, then to sit, water splashing about him as his body displaced it. He sank down and lay back, his knees bent so that his head could rest against the back of the bath. He closed his eyes.
‘Here you are. Oh, you are tidy! Frank always just throws his clothes on the floor.’
Lawrie’s eyes flew open as Rose walked in on him, breezy as you like, as if it were perfectly normal to walk in on a naked man you barely knew. She held two fluffy cream towels in her arms, hugged against her chest as she looked down at him. Thank God his knees had sprung up automatically, concealing the worst.
‘Rose, I…’ He tried to look casual as his hands moved to cover himself.
‘You’re not embarrassed, are you?’ Rose laughed. ‘Oh, you are!’ She pushed his neat pile of clothes to one side and perched on the lid of the loo. ‘I’ve seen it all before, love. I could see almost as much of you at the lido yesterday.’