Moments later we squeezed through the foyer and into the living room. Rose leaned in towards my ear. “Stay right here. I’ll be back in a flash.” Thirty seconds later the music stopped. Revelers were fixing to snatch pitchforks and hunt down the perpetrator when Rose jumped atop the sofa. “Hey, listen up…there’s something you all have to hear…My friend’s going to be a big time rock n’ roll star someday. You’ll be watching him on the telly and buying his records.”
“Who gives a shite?” A random voice burst forth from the crowd. “Turn the sodding music back on!”
“Shut you’re hole! Let her finish.” Maggie flexed her beer muscles. Rose laughed.
“He wrote a song for me and I really want you all to hear it. Someday when it’s Top of the Pops you can say you heard it way back when.” Sporadic grumbling suggested that not everyone cared to be bothered. I couldn’t blame them really since I might’ve been just another blooming peacock a la Donnie Fitzgibbons. Rose’s glorious introduction, however, made it impossible to surrender. I semi-straddled the cushioned arm of the sofa, negotiated my six string onto my lap, and began to rock n’ roll as if I’d been transported back to the schoolyard at St. Thomas’ School for Blighters.
When it was all over, the carousers demanded more. I obliged with a bone-crushing rendition of “Jimmy Jammy Beggar.” I would’ve played a half-dozen more except I’d popped a guitar string during the final chorus. No matter. The fickle crowd merrily resumed their debauchery moments later when the stereo fired up once again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
I’d successfully bid farewell to Rose and Maggie, despite Maggie’s insistence that we rendezvous upstairs for a chat. Wink. Wink. Only the mullered masses stood between me and Cecilia’s front door. I nearly had them licked when some shaggy-haired bloke with a rather determined look on his tanned mug leapt in my path.
“Do you have a second?”
“Not really.” I edged past him with a decisive leftward slide that would’ve made Skeffington proud. The exit beckoned from only a few feet away.
“It’s about my band.” Intrigue suddenly put paid to my getaway.
“Go on then.”
“Do you want to step outside where we can talk without shouting?” He didn’t look like the type who’d shank me for my kickers, so I followed him onto the front porch. The cool night air felt extraordinarily refreshing compared to the boozy swamp we’d just emerged from.
“That’s much better. Anyhow, my band…maybe you’ve heard of us…Sonny Boyd Wheeler?” I shook my head dismissively. “Alright, well, we’re desperate to find a guitar player. It’s just temporary of course until our customary guitarist mends. The twit broke his blooming wrist trying to slam dunk a volleyball at a party in Gillingham last weekend. He’s out of commission for two months and we’ve got four gigs in the next two weeks. Anyhow, you’ve probably figured where I’m going with all this.”
Just a second before I’d been the lead singer, songwriter, and guitarist of the greatest rock n’ roll outfit since Led Zeppelin. I wasn’t about to turn session man for some upstarts who probably couldn’t shine Rip Churchill’s twenty-carat solid-gold cucumber. “Right. Sure. I don’t think I can help. Sorry.”
“Listen, I know you’ve probably got your own band or whatever, but gigs are gigs. You’re obviously a performer. We’ve been getting decent crowds coming out to the shows. Lots of birds and all that. You could even play a couple of your own songs if you wanted.” Ding. Ding. Ding. Round two went decisively to the shaggy-haired bloke with the starry eyes. Bloody hell. One couldn’t live on crème brûlée alone, and I wasn’t about to sit on the shelf collecting dust while Skeffington and Donnie Fitzgibbons rewrote the history books. Permanently overthrowing gimpy as the alpha guitarist of Sonny Boyd Wheeler also presented an intriguing challenge.
I agreed to attend their next rehearsal and give it a bloody whirl. If both sides felt warm and tingly after jamming together for a bit, then we’d make an honest go of it. If not, then c'est la vie. Boyd and I exchanged contact information, awkwardly shook hands, and parted ways. He charged back into the soiree with pistols blazing whilst I began the lonesome journey homeward.
Sonny Boyd Wheeler: A mere footnote in the annals of rock n’ roll lore; a quaint band fronted by yours truly for two shows before stardom came knocking at the door. Sonny Boyd Wheeler: The catalyst for a cascade of events that would forever shape my rock n’ roll fantasy for better or worse.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Sunday. The breakfast table was dominated by an extraordinarily dull conversation about Shirley Weller. Brother blathered on about their date and all of the horrible shite they shared in common. Root beer. Twizzlers. Honor roll. Blah, blah, blah. Mom insisted that brother invite her over to the house for supper. Bloody hell. Listening to Donnie Fitzgibbons slap his bass for two hours would’ve been more appealing than sitting through that torturous supper.
Monday. The lads from Sonny Boyd Wheeler welcomed me into their ranks with open arms. I’d captivated them with “Penny Please Budge Up” before improvising on a gritty guitar solo during the bridge of one of their original numbers. It was mostly fun farting around with them, but their rather pedestrian songwriting, musicianship, etc. convinced me that commandeering this outfit wouldn’t be any challenge at all. Two weeks. Six rehearsals. Four gigs. Steal the bloody show and good riddance.
Tuesday. Becky confirmed her attendance for Saturday night’s performance at Captain Corver’s Wine & Spirits. Her mum green-lighted a slumber party at Rita’s abode. The truth was much more appealing: Rita and her family were heading to West Wittering Beach for a weeklong holiday. Rita agreed to leave her house key under a rock near the back entrance. I was a bit nervous about the possibilities, but mostly chuffed to spend time with Becky indoors for a change.
Wednesday. Rehearsal went better than expected as we slogged through a mostly straightforward six song set. I’d already learned the guitar parts for their four offerings, and began experimenting with alternate chord progressions, riffs, etc. Sonny looked as if he wanted to saw off his fiberglass cast and beat me to death with it. That “Penny Please Budge Up” and “Hello Again, Moggy” were gangbusters only added to his emerging inferiority complex. No matter. The other lads were eating up the raw energy like crunchy spicy tuna rolls.
Thursday. Thursday night bangers and the revelation that Shirley Weller would be joining us for supper the following Tuesday. Mum snatched granny’s recipe book from the cupboard as she rambled excitedly about preparing something special for the big event. Brother had let me be since our mostly one-sided skirmish. Perhaps he felt guilty. More likely, however, he didn’t want me ratting him out to mum. Either way, he’d decided that a few weeks constituted a long enough reprieve. He dropped his heavy mitt on my shoulder: “Don’t worry little brother, someday you’ll find a nice homely girl who’ll accept you for the lemon that you are. Mum will be sure to whip her up some yummy dog chow. Right mum?” Bloody hell. Mum wasn’t amused.
Friday. They still sounded more like Herman’s Hermits than Led Zeppelin, but I was mostly confident that the patrons of Captain Corver’s Wine & Spirits would be entertained. I’d be the standout of course with my fiery guitar work and duo of rollicking offerings. Becky would have us sprinting to Rita’s sofa like a couple of amorous bonobos after we closed with “Hello Again, Moggy.” Regrettably, my efforts to banish all thoughts of Rip Churchill to a remote stoney lonesome deep within the recesses of my subconscious had failed. These demons needed to be confronted as soon as intermission ended, including a long overdue chat with the surviving member of our beloved rhythm section.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
An 8.0 on the Richter scale devastated the north, cutting off electricity and crippling public transport. UFOs landed in spectacular numbers and formed an impenetrable perimeter around London, completely isolating it from the outside world. Bubonic plague spread like marmalade across the countryside, sparring London by a single sanitized handsha
ke. There wasn’t another excuse worthy of such betrayal.
I displaced Boyd at center stage for our final offering. My eyes rifled back and forth one last time before accepting the horrible truth: Becky hadn’t fucking made it. Bloody hell. I snarled before blasting into “Hello Again, Moggy.” The medium-sized crowd had offered a mostly lukewarm reception during the first five offerings. We were just the opening act after all. But the scene suddenly changed for the better. Birds rose to their daisy roots and began bebopping about. Blokes clapped to the infectious rhythm in between hearty gulps of lager. I’d nearly single-handedly won them over.
I noticed a particularly fit bird during the final chorus. She stared right through me as her hips swiveled hither and thither. The rather short mini she wore exposed her long athletic legs. I was mostly certain she’d shot me her best disappointed expression when the song ended. Bloody hell. My roguish thoughts were all Becky’s doing.
We cleared off the stage for the headliners before joining the general population. My band mates were all at least eighteen years of age so they scurried off to the bar. Boyd approached me moments later with a pint in either mitt. “Listen, we all appreciate you helping us out. You’re a whiz. Drinks are on us tonight.” He chatted me up for a bit, but my attention quickly drifted to flirty-flirty. I caught her staring too many times for it to be some sort of coincidence. All I bloody wanted was to spend quality time with Becky on Rita’s couch. I instead found myself being reeled in by a pair of extraordinary legs.
The devil was obviously hanging out in Shoreditch that evening because the table next to hers opened up just as the headliners kicked off their set. Boyd motioned towards it. “Let’s take a load off. I’ll get the others while you fight off all comers.” I strolled over with my head hanging low and placed my beer down. She and her mates giggled like sprogs. I pretended to be gripped by the headliners so as to avoid any needless discomfort. Moments later Boyd and Co. encircled our table, providing some much needed cover.
A pint or two later the two tables began to blur into one. Boyd had struck up a conversation with a freckle-faced redhead named Shureen. I could barely hear them above the din, but they appeared to be hitting it off. Boyd took it upon himself to introduce the rest of us to our fairer counterparts. Shureen graciously returned the favor. Bird #1. Bird #2. Come again? Surely I must’ve misheard the name of my long-legged admirer. No matter. Bird #3. Bird # 4. Blah, blah, blah.
Intermission. Legs shot up out of her chair, pranced behind me, and leaned her bonce over my shoulder. “It’s too crowded in here. Step outside with me for a tick so we can get to know each other better.” There couldn’t possibly be any harm in that.
My ears were ringing as we stepped into the night. She pulled a fag from her black handbag. “You want one?” I shook my head. “I’m really just a weekend smoker. I shouldn’t even be that. My coach would murder me if he found out.”
“Sure. Right. What sport might you play?” My heart began to pound and my bonce swirled.
“Football. I don’t suppose you…”
“What’s your name again?”
“Oh, I’m sorry…Shirley. Shirley Weller.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Brother’s wife, Ginger, telephoned to invite Becky and I to supper at their Chelsea flat. I hadn’t seen nor heard from either of them since mum’s surprise birthday party six months before. I’d downed one too many Chivas Regals before Mum called me out for my obnoxious behavior. I stormed out of The Ledbury spouting vulgarities at anyone within earshot. That was all before my resurgence, however. Before Becky finally saved me from myself.
Stiff. Torturous. Sterile. Fortunately, Ginger and Becky kept the festivities moving along with inconsequential chatter. Brother’s chef finally served the coq au vin and we dined mostly in silence. The mousse au chocolat provided further shelter until the last spoonful deflated in my gob. Bloody hell. I wanted to murder the bottle of Vinho do Porto, but that would’ve appeared rather desperate.
Boom. Ginger stood up from her chair rather suddenly. “Becky, why don’t we let the boys chat for a bit. We can finish our coffee in the living room.” This was a premeditated act of divide and conquer that made me feel manky. Becky smiled at me knowingly as Ginger ushered her through the glass double doors. We sat in silence for nearly two lifetimes before brother began nervously spouting off painfully inconsequential chatter. I nodded my head frequently in a mostly transparent effort to feign interest. Brother finally took an enormous swig of his port and sat forward in his chair.
“This isn’t easy for me. We’ve never really talked. The point is, well, I know that’s all my fault.” Heavy. Had the humanity trapped deep within the iron juggernaut finally emerged? “I’m…well…I’m…God this is so difficult. I’m sorry. There. I’m sorry.”
“Sure. Right. I’ve hated you forever.” I didn’t know whether to punch him on the konk or give him a bear hug.
“I know. But it’s not too late to start over is it? We’re brothers after all.” Mum had squeezed us both out of her fanny of course, but we’d never been brothers. “Ginger’s three months pregnant. You’re going to be an uncle. We want to be a real family.” It sounded an awful lot like sincerity, but I’d been fooled before.
“I appreciate the gesture. Cheers on the ankle-biter and all that.” I reached across the table and we shook hands. “I’m sorry for my part as well.”
“Water under the bridge. Here’s to new beginnings.” He raised his glass and took another gulp of port. “Can I share something with you?”
“Right. Sure.” Brother disappeared into the library and emerged with a fancy laminated folder. “What’s all this?”
“A golden opportunity and I want to give you a chance to get in on it.” The ink on our accord hadn’t even dried yet as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up like porcupine quills. “We’re opening up a first class steakhouse right here in Chelsea and we’re searching for capital from high profile investors. I want my brother with me.”
“You’re a bloody sociopath.” I shot up and started towards the living room. Brother followed.
“You’ve got it wrong. I’m only offering this to you because we’re family. It’s a peace gesture.” Ginger and Becky looked up from their coffee. I spun around to face him one last time.
“”No. You’ve tried to con me with the subtlety of an insurance salesman. You’re never going to change, man. Come on, Becky. It’s time to split.”
“But I love you, little brother.” His mocking tone confirmed the ruse as Becky and I escaped down the stairwell.
***
I snatched the cigarette from Shirley Weller’s lips, flicked it to the pavement, and snuffed it out with the tip of my boot. I took one step forward before gazing into her hazel eyes like she was the fittest bird to ever set foot inside Captain Corver’s Wine & Spirits. She inhaled deeply as she nervously awaited my next maneuver. I smirked like a rock n’ roller with a supersonic rocketship in my trousers before moving in for a frenchy. Her frame shivered as our gobs collided.
A minute later I backed off, grabbed her by the hand, and led her into the dimly lit alley. She ruffled my hair with both hands and wantonly pulled me towards her. Shirley Weller was awash in a lethal combination of estrogen, lager, and desire. I remained firmly in the moment, however, because my modus operandi was rather simple: Revenge.
We finally stepped back inside to catch the tail end of the second act. Shirley kept giving me the eye, but I wasn’t really interested in brother’s leavings. I’d done just enough to make Tuesday’s dinner with the family a horrible farce. Consequences be damned.
I was busy reveling in the chicanery when Boyd tapped my shoulder. “Some bird dropped this off for you.” He passed me a damp napkin with some scribbling on top: I hope the giraffe was worth it. Becky.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
I frantically flipped through the telephone directory. Bloody hell. There were at least ten million listings for “Brown” in London alon
e. Becky had mentioned the street name before, but I couldn’t remember it. I searched line by line with my index finger hoping something might pop out. I was fixing to toss the directory across the blooming bar when my finger finally located a match: Richard and Rhonda Brown, 28 Dalton Bend, Downtown Hell, London, UK.
I hustled back over to the others. “It’s been a real pleasure. Thanks for the pints and all that. I’ve got to blow.” I winked at Shirley for good measure before disappearing into the night. Brother was going to get his comeuppance even if all else around me turned to shite.
Twenty-five minutes later I leapt out of a gypsy cab in front of Rita’s abode hoping to explain away my indiscretions. Relentless doorbell ringing didn’t work. Thunderous rapping likewise failed. I shouted mea culpas from the rear patio until my jaw hurt. Nothing. Perhaps I’d come calling on an empty house. Becky could’ve easily been halfway to Derby whilst I pissed off Rita’s neighbors for naught. No matter. I flopped into a green metal lawn chair and began blubbering like a sprog. Cheers. I’d presided over the destruction of everything worthwhile in my miserable life.
It was nearly midnight by the time I’d ripped off my frilly knickers. I stood up, grabbed my guitar, and marched towards the street. Becky would surely emerge from the front door with her angel wings and save me one last time, even if I didn’t deserve it. Maybe not.
I spent the remainder of the weekend in a nearly catatonic state. The enormity of the events of the last few month had finally caught up with me. I’d begun the school year a mysterious hermit with nothing but a guitar and an enormous chip on my shoulder. In the blink of an eye my rock n’ roll fantasy came rapping at the door to deliver me from obscurity. Becky. Skeffington. Rip Churchill. Lincoln. Somehow I’d taken each of them for granted. Somehow I’d ended up right back where I’d started.
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