Cherokee

by Creina Mansfield

  ‘So who did?’

  ‘It was young Mickey,’ Wes explained. ‘Remember him? Bit slow, hands like an orang-utang. He’d seen us going into the beach hut a few times. When he found it open, he looked in out of curiosity – started fiddling with the tapes. Then he panicked. He’s been in trouble with the Law already. He smashed everything he could lay his hands on.’

  Even though the damage was the same, I was relieved it was some screwed-up kid who’d done it, not Moan.

  ‘Right,’ I said slowly, after a long pause. Moan wasn’t guilty, but she wasn’t exactly innocent either. She had broken in and left it unlocked. She’d been sneaky and she knew it. More than that, she knew we knew it. Perhaps that was what made her seem different. She’d had to face the fact that we knew she’d done something wrong.

  I’d always hated the way Moan went on and on about something even after you’d apologised, so now I was making a huge effort to be more generous than she’d ever been.

  I managed, ‘Well, if you’re sorry ...’

  Clearly Wesley had rehearsed this bit with Moan. He prompted her. ‘Yes. Mum is sorry for what happened. Mum?’

  ‘I’m sorry, very sorry,’ said Moan, with a sort of gulp, but at least she’d said it.

  This is revenge! I thought. But why didn’t it feel better?

  Then it was my turn.

  ‘And if,’ I said, ‘if I’ve done anything, well, to apologise for ... I ... apologise.’

  ‘Accepted,’ said Wes immediately.

  ‘Accepted,’ agreed Moan. The Shelbourne sofa gave a soft sigh of relief as she lifted her weight off it. I pretended I hadn’t noticed.

  ‘There’s a lot of shops back there,’ Moan said, pointing towards Grafton Street. I nodded.

  ‘Would any of them sell records?’

  Wes and I grinned at each other. Here was Moan wondering whether records had reached Ireland yet. Who was going to explain cassettes and CDs to her?

  ‘Yes,’ said Wes, ‘only they make little ones now, called CDs.’ He wasn’t called ‘Professor’ for nothing!

  ‘Well, let’s go and see if we can find some seedies to replace the music you lost,’ offered Moan.

  Wes and Moan left through the revolving doors, leaving me trying to picture my aunt entering the alien world of HMV!

  I felt I needed to think things out, so I went to my room and got out my new diary.

  DIARY B

  July 17th, Saturday

  (boiling)

  It was weird seeing Moan here in Dublin. I’d expected her to follow me to the ferry, but I never thought she’d come all this way. And then apologise!

  Now I know why she didn’t contact the authorities when I left. She had a guilty conscience about the beach hut and probably thought they’d ask questions if she told them I’d run away from Zig Zag Road. But she’s changed and she did say sorry!

  And Wes? He’s definitely no pushover any more.

  I stopped. My relationship with Moan had moved on and somehow that had altered my view of Cherokee.

  I started writing again.

  Cherokee’s full of stories about musicians, like Fats Waller and Benny Goodman. He can take hours telling the story of how Clarence ‘Pinetop’ Smith was shot dead during a fight in a dance hall in Chicago when he was playing the piano. Johnny Hodges, the saxophonist, died at the dentist. You should hear Cherokee tell that story! And how about Charlie Green who died of cold because he couldn’t get into his own house! But he’d never told me how he’d treated his own family.

  I stopped writing and started to think. Whose fault was it that his daughter had a compulsion about cleaning? Who’d made her life so shambolic that she’d had to spend all her time tidying everything?

  And what about helping me run away from Zig Zag Road? No wonder he’d never said an unkind word to anyone – he’d never stayed around long enough!

  I pictured that world-famous smile. Hell, if he was sincere he’d stop grinning sometimes.

  I threw down my pen. I’d given up arguments with Moan – now I was going to have one with Cherokee!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Fall of a Hero

  I made my way to the mirrored ballroom where the band was due to play that night. Paddy was already there, having slunk away when Moan appeared.

  ‘Trouble?’ he asked.

  I couldn’t answer him. I asked, ‘Where’s Cherokee?’

  ‘Not here yet,’ said Paddy.

  I hung about on the stage. Red’s double bass was already propped up there and so were Cherokee’s saxophones. I picked up the alto sax. Paddy looked surprised but said nothing. A saxophone is a lovely object. The shape is beautiful and this one was worth thousands of euro. A picture of my mangled clarinet came into my mind and I gripped the saxophone tightly as I thought about Cherokee.

  I put the saxophone mouthpiece to my lips and began playing a number that I’d played hundreds of times on the clarinet. It was called ‘Stealing Apples’. As I played, my confusion and anger left me and I became absorbed in what I was doing. I knew that I had played well, better than on the clarinet. When I’d finished I held the saxophone gratefully for a moment before replacing it carefully on its stand.

  From the far side of the ballroom came the sound of someone clapping. It was Cherokee. He came towards me.

  ‘That was excellent. You should keep on with the saxophone, Gene. One day you’ll be very good. Very good.’

  That was praise indeed from him. He’d never say anything about music just to be nice. But that irritated me now.

  ‘I don’t know whether I’ll bother,’ I said sulkily.

  ‘Oh, why not?’

  ‘Well, it’s not that important is it? Music, I mean.’ I looked at him hard. ‘There are more important things, like families, for example.’

  He didn’t seem surprised. ‘Yes, Gene, you’re right,’ he said sadly. ‘Look, this is hard to explain. Pick up the saxophone again for a minute.’

  ‘I don’t want to play now,’ I said firmly.

  ‘I know you don’t.’ But he took up his saxophone and handed it to me. ‘Just play “Edelweiss” will you?’

  The temptation to play again was just too great. I took it and began to play.

  When I’d finished, Cherokee didn’t offer any praise, instead he said, ‘Remember when I taught you about “occasional notes”?’

  I nodded. ‘A piece of music in C can use notes which are not in the scale of C. They’re called passing notes.’

  ‘Exactly. They’re temporary and don’t affect the overall key. On the other hand ...’ He took his saxophone and played for about thirty seconds. It was awful! He was in no key at all, just playing random notes.

  He put down the saxophone. ‘It’s the same with a family,’ he said. ‘Everyone has “occasional notes” – an argument or disagreement here and there, but it doesn’t stop them being a family. With your grandmother and me, there weren’t just “occasional notes”. There was no tune at all. So – it seemed better to part.’

  ‘You abandoned my father!’

  ‘“Abandoned” makes it sound pretty rotten, Gene. I left Clive with his mother who was a very careful and efficient housewife. I sent her money, but I thought it was better not to visit.’

  ‘So when did you see my father again?’

  ‘I thought it was a miracle at the time, but I suppose it would be more accurate to say it was heredity at work. Clive grew up loving music, despite his mother’s discouragement. When he was fifteen, he searched me out, travelled all the way to Manchester, where I was playing, to find me ...’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘He’d never had an opportunity before to try playing the drums. But when he began, it was obvious that he had real talent and he just refused to return home. From then on he stayed with me. Your grandmother never forgave me and your aunt thought I’d robbed her of a brother.’

  ‘So that’s why she’s always insisted that I visit her. I’ve been a substitute.’
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  ‘And a good one, Gene. Don’t underestimate how much pleasure your visits have given your aunt.’

  I blushed with shame.

  ‘I think we’d all have been friends again if Clive had lived,’ Cherokee continued. ‘Joan and her mother would eventually have realised that music made him happy.’

  I didn’t know what to say. I’d hate to have a son and see him die before me. That’s worse than being an orphan, as I am. I stared at Cherokee, not knowing how to break the silence. But then Paddy did it for me.

  ‘Look who’s blown in!’ he called out. It was my good friend Seamus!

  Cherokee and I were both glad to give our attention to someone else.

  ‘Seamus!’ I said. ‘How did you get here?’ I hadn’t expected to see him until we reached Kerry.

  ‘My dad was going to Limerick, and I hitched a lift the rest of the way,’ he explained.

  ‘Glad to see you, lad,’ Cherokee added warmly. Of course Seamus was a favourite – wasn’t he good at music? My unresolved argument with Cherokee hung in the air.

  ‘P’raps we’ll go out for a bit,’ I said, not looking directly at him.

  Cherokee understood. ‘Of course, of course.’

  Seamus was standing with his rucksack hanging by his side. He looked hot, just like someone who’d hitched half-way across Ireland on a warm summer’s afternoon.

  ‘Thirsty?’ I asked.

  Seamus started panting as an answer. ‘Come on, let’s find somewhere to have a cool drink,’ I said, edging him away.

  ‘Need any money?’ asked Cherokee, automatically putting his hand in his pocket.

  ‘We’ll manage,’ I answered and half pushed Seamus towards the ballroom exit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  But on the Third Day...

  ‘What’s up?’ Seamus asked as soon as we were outside in the crowds around St Stephen’s Green.

  That’s the great thing about our friendship. We don’t see each other for months, years even, but we don’t go through a polite distant phase. No chat about the fine weather we’re having from Seamus!

  So I answered just as directly. ‘Cherokee never told me the truth about the way he treated his family,’ I said, as we joined a queue at an ice-cream kiosk.

  ‘You mean he lied?’

  ‘No. Er – do you want vanilla? Two vanilla ice-creams please – big.’

  I was beginning to feel that the drama of the situation was ebbing away. As Seamus and I ambled into St Stephen’s Green I tried to recall my strong sense of betrayal at learning – what? That Cherokee hadn’t been a perfect father to Moan? I’d already guessed that from her attitude towards him. That Cherokee hadn’t stayed home and looked after a little child? I’d always known he hadn’t done that – even for me!

  ‘I suppose,’ I explained slowly, ‘I’ve just realised that Cherokee isn’t perfect.’

  Seamus stopped still, his mouth open and his tongue white from the ice-cream.

  Then he said, ‘Jesus, Gene, aren’t you learning that all the time?’

  I laughed, some of the tension evaporating. Seamus started to elaborate. He had a long list of people he’d realised weren’t perfect. ‘Sure, if I thought anyone was perfect it would be Cherokee,’ he went on. ‘Uncle Paddy being his road manager makes him near perfect in Kerry – specially since he did that ad. They play that on RTE nearly every night – but nobody’s perfect.’

  ‘I suppose so but if ...’ I was trying to think of a way of explaining how my perspective on the world had changed. ‘If Cherokee isn’t perfect, then Aunt Joan isn’t as bad as I thought.’

  Seamus knew all about my Aunt Joan. I’d told his entire family about her. His mum had even considered sending me food parcels when she knew I was staying at Zig Zag Road. I’d milked them all for sympathy. Perhaps what I was feeling was guilt for the way I’d behaved. That made me realise how self-centred I was being now.

  ‘How’s your mum and dad?’ I asked.

  ‘Grand!’

  ‘And your singing?’

  ‘Want to hear?’

  ‘Okay!’

  We raced back to the hotel, dodging between people and cars and swung into the Shelbourne again. Paddy was in the foyer. ‘Herself’s come back,’ he announced.

  ‘And Wesley?’ I asked.

  He nodded ‘Your man’s here.’

  ‘Good. He’ll stick up for me.’

  Somewhere in the hotel, Cherokee and Moan were discussing my future. Paddy had told me that back in 1922 the country’s new Constitution had been planned in one of the rooms of the Shelbourne Hotel. I bet that occasion was a party compared with these negotiations. Cherokee was doing what I knew was the most difficult thing for him. He was facing a confrontation.

  Then an awful idea struck me. I’d made Cherokee feel pretty guilty about the way he’d behaved towards his family. Supposing he’d lost his confidence and decided he wasn’t doing a good job of bringing me up? Supposing he thought I’d prefer Zig Zag Road!

  I panicked. ‘Paddy! Where are Cherokee and the others?’

  Paddy hesitated. ‘He said they had something to discuss without you.’ To Paddy what Cherokee said was the Law.

  ‘Please, Paddy,’ I urged, ‘tell me where they are.’

  ‘I’ll tell you which room they’re using if you promise not to go in.’

  ‘What’s the good of that? I’ve got to tell Cherokee I want him to remain my guardian. Please, Paddy, this is life or death!’

  Paddy shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Gene, your grandfather said you mustn’t go in.’

  I tried one last time. ‘Is that exactly what he said – that I “mustn’t go in”?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well then, tell me which room they’re all in and I promise not to go in.’

  Paddy nodded. ‘Okay – Remember now, you’ve promised. Room 201.’

  ‘Thanks, Paddy! Wait here.’ I added to Seamus. Then I grabbed Cherokee’s saxophone and headed towards the stairs. I couldn’t wait for the lift, but leapt up the stairs three at a time. Carrying the saxophone made it difficult to move fast, but I raced towards Room 201.

  I put an ear to the door. Moan’s voice. I dreaded to think what she was telling Cherokee about me. I was hoping she wouldn’t want him to know about her five minutes of fame on ‘Life’s a Laf’.

  I put the saxophone to my lips and played. I played an old tune called ‘I Believe In You’ which Cherokee had taught me years before. I hoped he could hear and that he remembered the words.

  I believe in you. I believe in you –

  I hear the sound of good solid judgment

  Whenever you talk ...

  I finished. There was silence on the other side of the door. Then it opened.

  ‘Wesley!’

  ‘Gene, you’re playing the saxophone!’

  I nodded. ‘This is the instrument for me,’ I said, and I meant it too. Wesley smiled.

  ‘Cherokee’s going to buy me a clarinet,’ he said. ‘He said he’s got to buy you a new one too. We’ll all go together.’

  ‘Great!’ I looked past him to where Moan was sitting. She wasn’t smiling, but at least she wasn’t scowling either.

  ‘Come on in, Gene.’ It was Moan’s voice. I edged in. There was a silence that nobody seemed keen to break. Then Wesley asked, ‘Will you still give me lessons when you come to stay?’

  ‘When I stay ...?’ I trailed off, hardly daring to ask whether I was to be at Zig Zag Road permanently.

  ‘On your holidays,’ he added.

  ‘So I’ll be staying with Cherokee!’ I couldn’t keep the relief out of my voice.

  Wesley nodded. He had certainly changed. He was not going to be pushed around any longer. There’d be music at 17 Zig Zag Road in the future.

  ‘Seamus is downstairs,’ I told Wesley.

  He hesitated. ‘Come on,’ I said encouragingly. ‘He’s dying to meet you. I’ve told him all about you.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A to Z


  Seamus, Wesley and I set up in the ballroom and started to practise. Seamus played the piano as well as he sang, so the three of us made an okay sound. By five o’clock we were discussing what we should name ourselves.

  ‘Something Indian,’ suggested Seamus. ‘You know, to show we’re an off-shoot of the Calumets?’ He’d soon got over his reserve with Wes. I hoped he’d forgotten some of the stories I’d told him about my cousin in the past!

  We never did resolve the question of a name because Cherokee came in and asked to hear a number. We stopped larking about. In front of Cherokee we were going to play as well as we could. We played ‘I Know Why’, a number we’d practised that afternoon. Half-way through, when I was waiting to come in on the saxophone, I looked down at Cherokee. He seemed tinier than ever, perhaps I’d grown while I’d been at Moan’s. He looked older too. My grandfather, my famous fabulous – but not perfect – grandfather.

  ‘Excellent,’ he said quietly when we’d finished. For a moment I thought he was upset about something. There seemed to be tears in his eyes. Then I understood. He came up on stage and put an arm around Wes and me.

  ‘My two grandsons – playing together,’ he said. ‘Whoever would have thought it! And with an O’Flaherty too,’ he added, smiling at Seamus.

  ‘I’ve got it!’ I cried. ‘Our new name – it’s got to be Professor O’Flaherty’s Trio!’

  ‘I like the O’Flaherty, but where does the “Professor” bit come in?’ asked Seamus.

  ‘That’s Wes’s nickname,’ I explained. ‘Because he’s brilliant at school.’

  Wesley hung his shoulders and head in embarrassment.

  ‘Don’t be modest,’ said Cherokee. ‘Performers can’t afford too much modesty! Now if you three whizz-kids would kindly leave, we old Calumets need to tune up.’