by Tot Taylor
There was the boss’s watch, a Rolex Antibes, one of the very few possessions he’d kept from the old days, the strap entwined with the piece of braided string that the Master wore around his wrist. A leftover from the heady days of gurus and philosophers. Days of belief. In the old days the string would have been a fine orange braid; maybe it glistened with gold thread or flax. Now it was just twine, a length of gardening or tying string that John would fiddle with when daydreaming, or while taking his coffee and biscuits, shooting the breeze for a while at Endy’s impressive kitchen table.
More thoughts came, and suddenly events seemed to be gathering… rushing, swirling. He and the house itself seemed in a rush, in a spin, as if, well… As if he’d done something wrong in some way. A rush of guilt, maybe, although he definitely hadn’t, wasn’t, did not… RCN was absolutely certain he had not transgressed in any way whatsoever. Had he? Certainly not in terms of anything to do with the boss. Only right things. Only right things for John Nightly. All the way along. All the way down. All his bloody life. RCN was positive he’d seen right by his friend, his good and brilliant friend. Done his very best in every mechanical, managerial, facilitatingly practical, and yes, ‘emotional’ way possible.
Arranging things only for the good of Nightly. Not anyone else. And certainly not for himself. That had most definitely always been the case. So… no guilt then, and therefore, suddenly… once again, all was calm.
RCN was certain and could take comfort in the fact that he had done his duty, what he’d been paid to do, both on and off the pitch; and, to be honest, he had made a very good living and gotten a great deal of satisfaction from the job entrusted to him.
The nurse quickly snapped himself out of it, rubbed his forehead hard, looked around, and made to go and tell… well, who exactly was there to tell… when you came to think about it… first?
Endy? Robert? Mawg? None were really close, were they? Not now. When it boiled down to it. Or really… well, ‘connected’ to either himself or the Master, in any way at all.
The fact was that the two Johns, old anorak guys, as they existed up to then, hadn’t… didn’t actually have… any friends. If we were being honest. And we might as well all be honest now.
The fact that this huge, this whole huge, messy whole, huge old thing, Trewin Farm, Trewin Exotics, whatever the hell you wanted to call it, this whole caboodle of make-believe, with its cavalcade of freaks and flora, this ludicrous, ridiculous assembly, was nothing more than… well… a fake. In so many ways. Business arrangement, really. A very formal, very professional, very profitable and now increasingly efficient – even a little too slick at times, he thought – business arrangement. A damned good business arrangement as it turned out. As of course the assembled cast must all recognise.
Sounded a little bleak maybe… putting it like that. Bleaker than usual, anyway. But the fact of the matter was that RCN definitely must look on the bleak side now. Being the only person in charge, only decision-maker, after all.
Then, as he heard Alexandre loping along the corridor, and Endy’s clock radio come on in the kitchen, it suddenly dawned on him… what, with John Nightly gone, these people had no connection at all with either himself or each other anymore. When it boiled down to it. They were all workers. Employees. Service-people. That’s what RCN thought, and that’s why he had something of a mild turn himself, and became confused, coming over slightly dizzy all of a sudden. Most likely a bit of delayed shock; that’s all it was. Though he was pleased to sit down and rest for a moment on the corner of the bed beside his old friend.
Both John Daly and the residents of the white farm would have to rethink everything now. That was certain. Things would change. No doubt about it. They’d change immediately. For as soon as he turned and walked out of the room there would be no ‘day to day’, no ‘regularity’ anymore. No one in the background to kow-tow to. No Mr Dick to foil Betsey Trotwood. No one at all to, in a way – in a weird way – keep the thing together – the whole thing – rocking and rolling along the bumpy coastal plains.
John just hoped it wouldn’t be chaos. Didn’t think it would. But you never know with unexpected and unplanned situations, do you? Then it suddenly occurred to him… Iona… Oh, Christ! He would have to tell Iona right away. She was the connected one. One hell of a phone call to have to make. A call he had hoped would never have to be made. And, of course, well… it would immediately give her the excuse, the one she’d waited so long for, to actually step inside the compound. Trespass. Check out the crazies. See where and how her husband had lived, and now died, and ask herself why he never wanted his wife anywhere near him, his fellow travellers, or his place of residence.
Because now, with John gone, there was no longer any excuse, no reason whatsoever why this beautiful woman – the only real, ‘legitimate’ member of the family, at the end of the day – shouldn’t visit. The wife… surely the wife had a claim? A right to at least put in an appearance?
RCN began to think through the true practicals. Horrible ones at that. The death notice, music-magazine announcements, the dreaded funeral and the arrangements associated with it. Sandwiches and stuff. The ‘going back’ after. Burial/cremation, what was it they’d decided on? He thought he remembered cremation being talked about. Couldn’t be sure of anything at the moment. And the obituaries, of course. There would be some – sympathetic he hoped; and accurate in terms of the Master’s contribution. But, whether good or bad, obituaries tended to seal you up, fix you, before being filed away for future reference by rock’n’roll history men. The very last ‘last word’, as it were.
The true practicals were certainly hard to bear. The residents would no doubt find it hard. It wouldn’t be just, well… that the Master was dead, or even that someone, an individual, had passed on. But that the ‘weirdo’ had died, to the outside world, at least: to the fish man, bread man, the fresh-fruit people, vitamin man, people up in London, the undertaker, and his apprentice. And to the inside world… as if… some kind of neat way of living – paradise, in a way – was coming, had come, to an end.
Abruptly. Demi-paradise at least. Still a pretty good sort of paradise he reasoned, as he wiped away a last tear and looked around for a piece of toilet roll to blew his nose on.
A final arrangement slipped in. The funeral. Now he remembered. RCN had decided long ago that when the time came it really must be as simple as possible. As unfussy and quiet as such an occasion could be. Invisible… if it could be so. Thing was, when he thought about it, although RCN had known the day would arrive, he’d never considered that things might be the other way around; and, although he had tried to get on to the topic several times over the years, his old friend had always headed him off. They were both of them experts at heading off.
‘I don’t want anything… “death-wise”,’ the master had said. ‘Nothing special! Well, nothing at all really. Don’t actually want a funeral… It’s not necessary anyway, legally, I don’t think – that you have to have it, do it. So… you just take me somewhere, with a priest or whatever… Whichever way you want to do it, and… get rid of me.’ The Master looked at RCN and smiled. ‘You remember the story about Gram Parsons? His manager…’ RCN smiled back. ‘You can decide it, anyway,’ the Master continued, ‘but no “publicity” funeral, whatever happens. And no funeral with people you or I haven’t seen for thirty years, and definitely no band or anything. God!’ John Nightly clasped his hands together. ‘Or… local tradesmen… business people. No publishers or copyright people either… nothing like that. No representatives. And definitely no bloodsucking flower-importers. They’ll come anyway… if there’s a buck to be had. Christ… makes you think how bad it really could turn out…’
John Nightly had never asked RCN to actually promise anything before now. Never any need to ‘promise you’ll do this or that’. Whatever his old friend considered necessary… well, that’s what RCN was going to do. No need to discuss it any further. RCN would take care of the Master’s needs in
death as he had done in life, and that was all there was to it.
The nurse sighed and got up from the bed.
But there was a will. Both Johns had seen to that. Done them together, at Johnston & Reed in Penzance. Each witnessing the other’s hand. So… things were more or less sorted, in terms of actual ‘law of the land’ practicals. Even charitable donations had been fixed and allocated. RCN would receive John’s shares in the business; Endy, Robert and Mawg would all be okay. John Nightly had seen to that. Seen them right. Well right; of course he had. As of course they knew he would.
RCN would have to turn his attention to what might happen next. Long-term next. The fact that none of them had anywhere to go to, for a start; apart from Mawg. Then with the record about to come out… Bad timing, you might say. Sad that the author, the auteur, wouldn’t see the final result after all this work. Sad for the outside world anyway; but then, maybe the author himself wouldn’t actually give a damn. John Nightly knew full well that Mawg had done a great job. A wonderful job. Things sounded the way they should. Much better than they ought. However much money they were paying him, it wasn’t enough. As the Boss had often told the kid himself.
But there was a lot to do. And so, RCN thought he better go… and bloody well do it. Walk out of that room and get time started again. Press PLAY again. Forward-wind somehow. Move it.
He took a last look back at the boss, still thinking about the apprentice and the apprentice’s girlfriend and the stuff going on in his head, then leaned over the magicien, brushing the master’s hair slightly to the left, roughing it up a little before smoothing it back over to cover his visible bald patch. RCN picked up John Nightly’s hands, hands that had created magic and chaos in equal measure, arthritic and yellowy now. He straightened them out and placed them together, fixed them, the left over the right, arranged very naturally, too naturally maybe, as he moved back, careful not to trip over zygocacti and spider plants and bird feed and upset the Master’s universe. John Nightly was starting to look like a… Well… a ‘horizontal angel’… one of those you see in Westminster Abbey on top of a tomb. RCN couldn’t remember the word for it, ‘medieval stone knights’ or something, with ridiculously detailed carved swords and chains. Anyway, the boss looked a lot better now than he had done a few moments before or for a good thirty years and so RCN drew the curtain closed and walked back down the leafy corridor into the white kitchen in order to relay the news.
The birds were expressive. As much as a squawk or a croak can be. RCN was used to an early-morning outburst somewhere above the house. A high-pitched shriek – literally Sreeeep! Sreeeep! – that seemed to go on forever. The nurse listened intently, distracted by the glissando of the wing-ed messenger. Was there a pattern to it? A message? Or was it a warning, a panic call?
The noise waned as the caller lost interest or achieved his aim, noted that his warning had been heeded. Beware! Beware! Sparrowhawks are coming. Maybe already here. Beware! Beware! The bird crowed to his brothers and sisters… Sreeeep! Sreeeep!
‘Don’t feed the sparrowhawks, whatever you do. You’ll never get rid of them!’ cried Endy. But RCN was more philosophical.
‘They hide up there and wait for the smaller birds to fly in. It all goes quiet… There’s no breeze; it’s as if the wind stops for them. We used to sit and watch it happen. The wind accommodates those birds… not the other way round. No bleating or shrieks anymore… no bird or tree noise at all. Those sparrowhawks are concentrated. Then a pause… literally no sound… nothing. Me and John look at each other. What’s going on? All is silent. All is just expectation.’ RCN put his hands around his cup to warm them. ‘Like the intro to ‘Gimme Shelter’: forty-one seconds of the most… the greatest seduction – as he would’ve put it – on record.’
The anorak man, pleased with his comparison and his posh words, took a sip from his cup and became even more excited about telling his story. ‘All that incredible view. We’re looking out beyond the bay. The sun beats down so strong you can hardly look up…’
RCN shook his head and brushed a heap of dandruff from his jacket. ‘Then nothing… nothing at all. Everything still as a post. The world – or our little bit of it – stops. You forget about everything. Forget that you’re waiting even. Then
BANG!
There’s a sound… high up… very high. Slash… like a… a kamikaze cut. Slash through thick air…’ He laughed. ‘All hell breaks loose… a mass of birds, clouds of ’em… Crow flies out of one of the cypresses… you wait another second… or two… and a very beautiful, very dead, sparrowhawk falls to the ground.’
‘It is bliss consciousness that makes a man rise to Universal Love. Life is all bliss.’
Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, 14 October 1969.
BBC Radio 4. Talking to Leslie Smith
Trewin House, Porthcreek, Cornwall. Thursday, 12 July 2007.
‘Did you say Tregidden? There used to be a little Christian Bible Chapel up there.’
The housekeeper finished rinsing the last breakfast plate.
‘There was one at Zoar too. They had the John Wesley school rooms at Zoar.’ Endy glanced at Mawgan as he idled in the entrance to the larder while flipping through a magazine.
‘What I’m talking about is what you would call a… “pop singer”, Endy.’
‘I gathered that, Mawgan. You’re always talking about a pop singer. Pop-yowlers, they used call them in my day.’ The housekeeper wiped the sink enthusiastically.
‘When exactly was “your day”, though? If you don’t mind me asking.’ Endy looked a little taken aback at her friend’s uncalled-for cheek.
‘I had my day, Mawgan, I can tell you. I had a lot of days… Not just one.’ The boy half-smiled back.
‘This particular… “pop singer”, though… He was a special one.’ Mawg closed his copy of MOJO. ‘Gram Parsons, Gram – probably Graham – was his name, a sort of… country singer, Country & Western, I mean. You like a bit of country music?’ The housekeeper carried on with her tasks. ‘And Tregidden was the place he stayed when he came to England.’
‘Not a Cornish name, that,’ said Endy, dismissive as ever. ‘And Tregidden? Whatever did he want to go up there for? There’s nothing up there… except for this chapel and…’
‘He was in… eh… a bit of a state. That’s why.’ Mawg stepped back into the kitchen. ‘Maybe… a hell of a bit of a state…’
Julian stood in front of the kitchen window admiring himself while finger-combing his hair.
‘As if I couldn’t guess what sort of “bit of state” that man was in…’ Endy wrung out her cloth and turned to the two boys, ready to be of service – put the kettle on, pour some juice or make a cheese sandwich. Anything to please him and them. Keep the boys happy and content, and of course healthy, while keeping her own mind occupied.
‘He’d been… well… he was friendly with… the Rolling Stones…’
‘Rolling Stones? Don’t mention them to me, Mawgan… I’d get them to roll… If I ever came across them I would. Why, they’ve never—’ ‘Never done a day’s work in their lives!’ chorused both boys before collapsing in laughter. A momentary break of cloud in an otherwise overcast day. The housekeeper remained in cantankerous mode as she finished up.
‘Here we go…’ murmured Julian, to the duded-up kid, maintaining respect for the pensioner while at the same time motioning behind her back as if to go, get outta there and get on with it; as Mawgan tucked in his shirt, combed his hair with his fingers, tightened his new black tie and investigated Endy’s shoe-polishing box.’
Four days later…
Mawg threw the pieces up in the air. He did so rather over-enthusiastically and the paper landed mainly in Endy’s washing-up, bringing mock huffs and puffs from the housekeeper as Julian picked out a square of foolscap lodged in her hairnet.
‘There you go, Endy… might be an important word, that…’
‘I don’t know what you two are up to, but I know I don’t want it in my washing-up!�
��
The words floated through the kitchen, coming to rest in plant pots, the dog’s bowl, on top of the breadbin and inside the toaster. Any promising conjunctions or patterns? Any wisdom? Any hymn?
Mawgan stared down at the floor, presiding over a promising clump, while Jules laughed his head off at Endy’s apparent disgust. In the living room, RCN and Robert no doubt wondered what all the fuss was about. It was good to hear laughter, that much laughter, just days after the funeral.
The kid turned to the dude. ‘Got one!’ he cried, as he fixed on a group of five or six squares. ‘Got anything?’
Julian angled his head this way and that, accommodating upside-down glyphs and torn syllables to see if anything might actually fit. Mawg went first.
‘Lemon… Scarecrow… Approximately…’
‘Lemon scarecrow… Okay, staggering! Staggering, man!’ Jules was not impressed. ‘I can definitely better you there, Mawg.’ Jules turned his head back. ‘So…
Hazard… Mongoose… Mongoose… Bis… uh… cuit…’
‘Mongoose, mongoose, biscuit?’ Mawg moved over to his friend’s side of the kitchen. ‘How come there’s two mongooses? Only supposed to be one of each word?’
But Jules was resigned. ‘That’s right,’ he said, nodding his head in agreement with himself. Thing is, it doesn’t really work. Not really. ’Cause the way things are now, in the world today, everything sounds, sort of… alright somehow anyway; everythin’s sweet.’ The dude moved to another patch. ‘There ain’t no “random” anymore, man…’ He bent down.
‘Heaven… Bent… Sideways… See! Everything – just about everything – makes sense.’
‘Don’t be daft, Jules.’ Mawg took another bite of toast, crunching into the peanut butter as Jules picked up his sweater, willing to give the game one final shot before heading to the beach.