by Tim Roux
Cos only time can heal your heart and then
Maybe you can make it on your own.
On and on and on we go
Where we’re heading no-one knows.
It’s just like Sinatra sings,
I guess it’s just one of those things,
You don’t need to know the who, when, where and how.
It’s just like Sinatra sings,
It’s just one of those crazy things,
And there’s nothing you can do about it now.
You’ve been picking at the past again
It’s as if you need your battle scars.
And now you’ll always wander way back when
Out in sunlight searching for the stars.
On and on and on we go
Where we’re heading no-one knows.
It’s just like Sinatra sings,
I guess it’s just one of those things,
You don’t need to know the who, when, where and how.
It’s just like Sinatra sings,
It’s just one of those crazy things,
And there’s nothing you can do about it now.
It’s just like Sinatra sings,
It’s just one of those stupid things,
And there’s nothing you can do about it now.
Chapter 7
If you were born in Hull, as I was, you could be forgiven for believing that it’s as far away from a Mecca of culture as you can get, that Hull is to art what Darfur is to world peace. That’s what I used to believe. Mind you, if you were born in Glasgow, you might well have been surprised when it was named European City of Culture too.
But something’s happened here in the last twenty years and it isn’t just me. Suddenly poets and writers and musicians and painters are all crawling out of every crevice in the city, and there are still a lot of cracks around this place not filled in properly since the second world war. It’s that old thing about what makes a woman sexy? Answer: looking like she has just had sex and is just about to have it again. So what makes Hull look like a wasteland? Answer: looking like it’s just been bombed by the Germans and is just about to be bombed again by someone else, probably the Council.
And there’s certainly nothing special to notice on the streets. Don’t expect to see dandies with fob watches or interesting street fashion. Everybody wears waterproof jackets or scraggy jumpers with t-shirts tucked underneath and tattoos peaking around the edges. Don’t expect to catch any decent street art either - the dozy buggers can’t even be arsed to daub a wall with anything decorative, the most exciting monument is the massive BBC wide screen in Victoria Square and the most prominent building is the Princes Quay shopping centre which looks like the Titanic whilst it was floundering an hour after it crashed into the iceberg.
We can start off with the music because that is my bit, so there is me, then there’s Edwina Hayes, and James Waudby of Salako and the Horse Guards Parade, and The House Martins and The Beautiful South, and Everything But The Girl, and Henry Priestman of The Christians, and Roland Gift of Fine Young Cannibals, and Mick Ronson and several of The Spiders From Mars, and CrackTown, and Abbie Lammas, and Alex Stork, and Glenn Williams the Hullbilly (as he calls himself) and, moving further towards York, Holly Taymar and David Ward MacLean and Claire J. Smith. Then for playwrights you’ve got John Godber of Hull Truck (turning theatre into a contact sport as everybody says around here) and, heading for Scarborough, Alan Ayckbourn and Graham Rhodes. In poetry you have Philip Larkin, Tony Flynn, Ian Parks, Frank Redpath, Daithidh MacEochaidh (now there’s a solid Hull name for you), Pete Morgan, Peter Ardern, Peter Knaggs and T.F. Griffin, not to mention Andrew Motion who became Poet Laureate so doesn’t count as being much of a poet - I hear he is a good novelist, though. Then as writers you have my mate Nick Quantrill, Daphne Glazer, Steven Hall and Valerie Wood (if you want a break from Kevin’s stuff in the Mills & Boon department). We even have a painter, Peter Bell, who has taken up where Beryl Reid and L.S. Lowry left off - fat ladies and men with flat caps.
OK, so you will get a much bigger roll call in London or even Manchester, but it puts us firmly above Grimsby and Stoke-On-Trent, and maybe even Newcastle, Birmingham and Leeds. It makes me feel like I am part of something which is important because my life is in such a mess I no longer feel I am much in myself.
* * *
Harry is back round again, mid-week this time. Now what’s up? Plenty according to him. The weekend in the Lakes was a washout. It rained the whole time, but that’s hardly new. Cathy missed the kids and kept fretting over what we were doing with them - we took them round to my mum and dad, as it happens - the hotel cost them a bomb (not that that mattered) and Harry admitted to Cathy in an unguarded moment that she probably wasn’t good enough for him as far as his family was concerned.
You really have to laugh and I did. What was slightly unnerving was that Harry was laughing too. He has started coming to me big time to complain about all Cathy’s foibles. That woman is following me like a heat-seeking missile. Can’t she just leave me alone?
“It was horrible. My defining memory of the weekend is of standing in the mud on the bank overlooking Ullswater with rain pouring down my neck and Cathy screaming at me.”
“You should have been here, mate,” I crow. “We had a great time.”
I am exaggerating of course but he doesn’t have to know that. In fact, Jade is still neurotic about being pregnant and terrified of letting anything slip to anyone which is becoming harder because either she has been scoffing too many cakes at work or it is beginning to show.
“What do I do?” Harry begs me.
“You’re asking me?”
“Yeah, Jake, you probably know how to handle her better than I do.”
“Er, wait a minute, Harry. I’m here and you are there. I don’t think so.”
“Don’t you believe it. She keeps telling me that you were so good at this and so good at that and you were always making her laugh and taking her out. I’m beginning to feel like the jilted lover.”
“You just hang on in there, Harry. I’m relying on you.”
“I’m not sure how long I can take it, Jake.”
“In that case I’ll definitely help you. You’ve got to take her chocolates and flowers and ask her to marry you.”
“You’re a great help, you are. How do you keep Jade happy?”
“Well, at the moment she is panicking about being pregnant ……” SHIT!!!!!
Harry double-takes. “Is Jade pregnant?” He never gets to see Jake, so he wouldn’t know.
“No, not yet, but she is terrified in case she does. She thinks that she is far too young to have kids and, you know, anything can happen.”
Harry is looking spooked. There are nightmares there somewhere. “Yeah, I know. We thought Cathy was pregnant a fortnight ago. It’s probably why she was so hyper over in the Lake District. If she has a kid and I can’t or won’t marry her, she is truly in the shit, and I can tell you, I have just about had enough. I’d rather live with you.”
I think of Jade’s reaction to that and shudder. “Steady on there, Harry. You’ve got a job to do, to keep Cathy riotously happy and off our backs. Don’t forget the agreement.”
“I don’t remember that one.”
“It’s the one you had to sign when you decided to shack up with my wife.”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Jake, I’m thinking of handing her back to you as not fit for the purpose. You sold me some shoddy goods.”
Cheeky sod. It’s time for some threats. “If you walk out on Cathy, I’m not going to forgive you. I’ll write the best song I have ever written slagging you off to the whole world. They’ll be chanting it at Hull City and Hull FC, it’ll be a chart-topper, you’ll have nowhere to turn. As far as you are concerned, Cathy is until death do you part.”
“I can’t believe this. And to think that I once felt guilty about what I was doing to you.”
“And if you walk out on Cathy, I am going to make you feel g
uilty all over again, I promise you.”
Even I believe what I am saying.
* * *
Harry wanted to bring the kids round for Saturday evening too, but Jade and I were going out to a party at one of Jade’s friend’s houses. Harry asked if he could come which was awkward because I knew that Jade wouldn’t want Harry anywhere near her.
“He can come if he wants,” she said me to my surprise. “I don’t have to go anywhere near him. Invite Cathy too, then we can have the whole family.”
I didn’t think so, but I passed the invitation on anyway.
Cathy came. She had parked the children with Beth and Simon and she was all togged up as if she was ten years younger. I got the fright of my life when she turned up at the door.
“Hello, Cathy,” Jade greeted her. “Glad you could come.” I was amazed how unfazed Jade was, then I thought about how Jade was quite obviously pregnant in her tight dress. I couldn’t tell if Cathy had noticed or not yet but nothing much passes her by.
We got a taxi because the party was in Anlaby. I sat in the front seat with the driver while the other three crunched into the back. I also got the privilege of paying. “I’ll get it on the way home,” Harry offered, slapping me on the back. I don’t like being slapped on the back. I don’t much like being touched by men at all.
The party was dark and heavily populated, a bit like wandering into no man’s land. Bodies were everywhere, some lolling all over each other. The electro-funk music was blaring out. Not my sort of music. I stuck with Jade most of the evening which was lame of me but I have forgotten how to chat up eighteen year olds other than Jade. You laugh a lot and squeal occasionally, at least you do if you are a girl. I never saw Harry again. He disappeared somewhere and never came back. About midnight I noticed Cathy sitting by herself apparently mesmerised by the dancing but actually bored out of her skull. Jade had gone off to the toilet somewhere for about the fourteenth time.
I sat down next to Cathy.
“I’m feeling old,” I admitted.
She smiled. “Me too. Do you remember we used to do this once?”
“We are doing it now.”
“Yeah, but we really used to do it in those days. It’s frightening how kids change you. You have to be so responsible. You’re lucky.”
“I’ll have custody of the kids whenever you like.”
“No you won’t.”
“Don’t complain then.”
Cathy touches my arm. “I’m sorry, Jake. You’re dead right.”
“Where’s Harry?”
“God knows.”
“He seemed very keen on coming.”
“I think he is looking for alternatives.”
“You’re joking.”
“Things have been very tense between us the last couple of weeks.”
“He said. Something about you fearing being pregnant or something.”
“He told you that?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, well that was part of it. The other part of it is that apparently I am a leper.”
“His parents?”
“Oh, he told you that too, did he?”
“Yeah. Talkative chap.”
“More talkative with you than he is with me. He hardly says a word to me at the moment.”
Something about Cathy’s admission pleased me and it was not because it upset her.
“Jade’s putting on a bit of weight,” she commented casually, watching me carefully.
“Yeah, comes from working in a bakery. Too many pies and things lying around.”
“If you say so.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
Better bite this bullet. “Do you think she is pregnant or something?”
“Either that or she is a diabetic.”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“Continuously going off to the loo and drinking only water.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Oh well, if she is she is.”
“Would that make you happy?”
“To be honest, two children are quite enough, but if more come along I’ll just have to give up the song writing and step up the estate agency work.”
“Poor you.”
“You’re not kidding.”
“Will you take me home?”
“You had enough?”
“Yeah, I’ve had quite enough.”
“Hang on. I’ll just see how Jade is fixed.”
Jade was keen to stay on for another hour or so but she wasn’t going to leave Cathy and me alone together so she insisted that we wait twenty minutes for her to say goodbye to her mates. On the way back to Cathy’s place off Pickering Park (Priory Grove, which used to be my place too) Cathy and Jade sat in the back and I sat in the front again. They didn’t say much to each other.
I got out with Cathy. “Night,” I said and hesitated before stepping forward and kissing her on the cheek.
She looked at me rather forlornly. “Night, Jake.”
I got back in the taxi next to Jade.
“You two were looking a bit lovey-dovey this evening, weren’t you?” she said.
“You mean I’m still alive?”
Chapter 8
The Mississippi flows
Just not down the Humber or the Ouse tha knows
Suppose that’s just the way it goes
There’s no good place to start
Nothing in this world shines
Like old New York in the movie minds
Of men like me who learned our lines
But never got the part
But give me a 57 Chevy or a Cadillac
And I could hit those dirt roads just like Kerouac
And old Dean Moriarty
As sad as it seems
I’m an English dreamer
With American dreams
I still bring Broadway down
But it’s in backrooms of pubs in cold, grey northern towns
When I shut my eyes sad as it sounds
I can almost hear the screaming
I’ve had to accept it’s true
That I’ll never be Gram nor you Emmylou
Oh I had wings I just never flew
But it never stopped me dreaming
Give me a 57 Chevy or a Cadillac
And I could hit that dirt road just like Kerouac
And old Dean Moriarty
As dumb as it seems
I’m an English dreamer
With American dreams.
Here I am again at The Black Swan Inn in York. Jerry is headlining tonight. Jade is at home feeling sorry for herself. The pregnancy is knocking her out. Jerry’s attention is straying towards which women here this evening may be loose enough to rattle. Not what I need. Jerry has a knack of getting himself into some fine scrapes and dragging everyone else in there with him. He then gets himself out of them again, which cannot always be said for everyone else who gets caught in the darkened room as the lights go on and the cops sing “Well what have we here then?” I should know. Luckily, Derek Thistlethwaite is with us so I have an alibi in both directions. “Sorry, mate, no time for horseplay this evening. I’ve got to catch up with my pal Derek.” Let’s hope that I can keep old Derek focused on chat and music.
Actually, I’m feeling like throwing caution to the wind this evening and doing cover jobs of all of my favourite songs, currently ‘London Calling’ by The Clash, ‘Grievous Angel’ by Gram Parson, ‘Bringing It All Back Home’ by Bob Dylan, ‘Time (The Revelator)’ by Gillian Welch, ‘Cassadaga’ by Bright Eyes, ‘The Heart Of Saturday Night’ by Tom Waits, ‘If I Should Fall From Grace With God’ by The Pogues, ‘Old No. 1’ by Guy Clark, ‘Blue’ by Joni Mitchell and ‘El Corazon’ by Steve Earle. I might throw in some stuff by Townes Van Zandt too and a couple of Mark Wynn tracks. Do you think that my audience would forgive me?
“Go on, mate,” Derek encourages me. “It can only go horribly wrong. We’re both old enough to retire anyway.”
And he is rig
ht, I am, and I am about ready to do so too except that would only leave me with pimping houses and I can’t face only doing that for the rest of my life.
Heaven feels like white crushed velvet
Heaven looks like skies of endless blue
Heaven tastes like old malt whisky
But heaven sounds like Gram and Emmylou.
Heaven feels like silk or satin
Heaven looks like silver morning dew
Heaven tastes like cold beer sunsets
But heaven sounds like Gram and Emmylou.
I believe a grievous angel sees my suffering
And sends a shiver down my spine
Each time I hear them sing.
Heaven feels like white crushed velvet
Heaven looks like endless skies of blue
Heaven tastes like old malt whisky
But heaven sounds like Gram and Emmylou.
Why isn’t love enough? Most men, at least in the past, were happy enough being with their wives and children, reading the papers, watching TV, and going down to the woodshed for a good whittle, a smoke and to rearrange their tools when they were desperate to be on their own.
Here am I with a girlfriend most blokes would die for (although she is doing most of the dying at the moment, poor chuck), a full-time child coming (unless it’s twins but the scan didn’t think so), a couple of other children I can get hold of at any time on easy rental terms, a good bunch of my mates, a good bunch of Jade’s mates, a decent apartment and my memories. Shouldn’t that be enough?
Well, unfortunately it doesn’t seem to be. I keep getting this stuff flying in and I feel honour-bound to capture it and to tour it around Northern venues. It’s all about something bigger than me who is going to get mighty pissed off and consider me shamefully ungrateful unless I do my bit until I can’t afford the petrol money any more, which may not be far away. Babies don’t come cheap, I remember that, and they get ever more expensive as they grow up, as do their mothers.
On the other hand, it looks like there might be an economic downturn looming - that is what everybody is saying - in which case houses will crash and half the estate agents in England will be laid off, me being one of the first, so I might be left with a howling baby, an angry girlfriend, two resentful children and a miserable wife with only my music to console me. It’ll be like whistling in the stocks for eternity.