My body continued to help mum finalize our supper whilst my brain fumbled with intricate mathematical calculations. We’d be done preparing supper in ten minutes. We’d be sitting at the dining table twenty minutes after that. Another thirty minutes for eating. Ten more for chores. My brain was more abacus than calculator. Poof. Seventy minutes until my hide became fair game.
Regrettably, my entire defense strategy hinged on some rather risky assumptions. Bloody hell. It was time to make a phone call.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
“Did you see Shirley today?” I chortled as mum unknowingly rubbed salt into brother’s gaping heart-wound.
“We’ve decided to take some time off from each other.” Brother looked like he might blubber into his glass of milk. “I’d prefer not…”
“Oh, no. Why? You two seemed like such a wonderful couple.” Mum was making payback everything I’d imagined and more.
“It’s just one of those things.” Brother’s ego wouldn’t allow him tell mum and dad the truth so he beat his chest instead. “I wasn’t really that into her.”
“Is that why you gave her your varsity pin?” Dad jumped into the fray in a most peculiar and satisfying manner. Brother looked dazed. I pounced in order to capitalize on the negative energy.
“I’m really going to miss her. You think she’d go for a loser like me after being with a real winner like you?” Brother would’ve stabbed me in the eyeball with his fork if we’d been alone.
“Alright. Alright. I think we’re making your brother feel uncomfortable. Let’s give him a chance to eat his supper in peace.” Mum shut the door on the conversation as quickly as she’d pushed it open.
We finished supper in relative silence. Mum did, however, share one critical nugget of information: She and dad were riding over to Daniel and Coleen Moriarty’s house to play Parcheesi at 6:30 p.m. They wouldn’t return home until after 10:00 p.m. Bloody hell. The stage had been set for the final showdown.
I finished clearing off the table at 6:25 p.m. Mum waltzed into the kitchen and planted a peck on my cheek. “Call me if you need anything, me duckie.” I nodded in quiet desperation since brother and Cicero were already sitting in the garden waiting for me. My stomach churned as mum and dad finally escaped the house amidst a flurry of midlife paranoia. Car keys. Purse. Make up. Bottle of shiraz. Wallet. Blah, blah, blah. I stealthily peeked out of the blinds and watched the jam jar slowly back down the driveway.
The minutes that followed were a horrible blur. I marched through the front door and stood toe-to-toe with brother and his lackey. They barked at me like rabid hyenas. Spit and insults fired back and forth through the heavy air. My chest heaved. My fists clenched. Brother’s aggression constantly teetered on the brink of turning violent. That I’d be walloped became the conventional wisdom as my defense strategy seemed to fizzle with each passing shout. Fortunately, my pleasure over brother’s pain buoyed me even as my fate grew increasingly grim.
“Shirley knows that I’m the better man, you fucking oaf.” The words came directly from the pit of my gut. Boom. That was that. Brother’s right arm cocked back like the hammer of a pistol. My arms instinctively shot up to protect my konk. I could hear his fist whistling towards me as I braced for impact. A thunderous slapping noise followed directly after. His knuckles had surely landed squarely on my cheekbone or forehead. I felt absolutely nothing, however. I cautiously peeked outward through my feeble defenses. Bloody hell. The reinforcements had arrived.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Skeffington stood before me with brother’s fist buried in his hand. The fearless bugger had caught brother’s punch midstream and held it there. My hero. Brother appeared dazed as he slipped into his choirboy persona to salvage whatever dignity he could.
“Hey, Skeff. This is a wee bit awkward isn’t?”
“It’s fixing to get a lot more awkward if you ever raise a fist to my mate again.”
“Hold on now, Skeff. I don’t know what you’ve been told, but your mate messed around with my girlfriend. She broke up with me today on account of it. I’m his older brother and he owes me more respect than that.”
“I’m not here to chit chat or compare dick sizes, but it’ll be awfully hard to find a new girlfriend with your eyes swollen shut and no bloody teeth.” Skeffington smirked rather roguishly. “Birds don’t really go for benchwarmers either.”
“No worries, Skeff. I’m not going anywhere near him.” Cicero might’ve wet his knickers. He looked at me with all of the sincerity he could muster. “I’m sorry.” His mea culpa felt mostly satisfying even though it had been offered under extraordinary duress. More importantly, Cicero’s retreat left brother on an island.
“I respect you as our captain and as a person, Skeff. I knew you two had become mates and I’m sorry for being such an absentminded plonker. It won’t happen again. Hopefully in time we’ll forget that this ugly incident ever happened at all.”
“Brilliant. Anyway, your brother and I have some business to attend to. So, I’ll see you blokes around.” Skeffington and I strolled inside, commandeered the kitchen table, and sprawled out like we owned the bloody joint.
“Bloody hell. You cut it awfully close. Another second and I would’ve been done for.”
“I figured you ought to sweat a little, mate. You did sabotage your brother’s relationship after all.”
“Shirley Weller nearly chucked up when brother pinned her. I did him a bloody favor, if anything.”
“Oh, right. How very saintly of you.” We both chuckled before Skeffington leaned forward in his chair. His expression suddenly turned solemn as the elephant hiding behind the flowery yellow curtains began to stir. “We’re playing Frankie Shū’s Ballroom at the end of August. It’s part of some end of summer rock n’ roll extravaganza. I don’t want to do it without you, mate.”
“Starting over where it all bloody ended.”
“No better way to exorcise the demons and make peace with yesterday.”
The merry-go-round goes around and around. I didn’t want to rehash our previous debate over the worthiness of Donnie and Mickey. It seemed like an uphill battle that I couldn’t win, especially on account of Frisby losing his marbles and Cletus selling me out. The truth was mostly simple besides: I feared being left behind, even if two-fifths of the band had become shite.
“Will we be even half as good as we were?” Bloody hell. I’d given him a door the size of Avon Gorge to ramble through.
“Better.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Thirty days later Rip Churchill waited in the wings for The Black Larkspurs to finish their set. Skeffington paced to and fro while intermittently performing calisthenics. Cletus sat meditatively in the corner as if the ghosts of yesteryear were running roughshod over his psyche. The same could not be said for our rhythm section, however. Donnie and Mickey busily snapped photographs of one another in a variety of glammed up rock n’ roll poses. Pursed lips. Panther-like growls. They probably couldn’t wait to wallpaper them all over their social media outlet du jour.
I stared at the Humbucker sitting snuggly in its furry case and wondered whether it was cursed. I’d sought Mr. Surtees’ counsel on the subject during work a few days earlier. He put on his bifocals, grabbed my shoulders with each of his hands, and looked me directly in the eyes: “Rock n’ roll is cursed, son. Now, pull off your knickers and strap on your Humbucker.” Bloody hell. I inhaled deeply before wresting it from its cradle.
I’d just begun quietly tuning up when Mr. Pleasant strode into our midst. Not surprisingly, he wanted to make certain that we’d actually make it onto the bloody stage this time around. “I know you boys have been through a lot with the death of your drummer and all. Just do me a favor, alright? Don’t any of you leave the sodding ballroom until after your performance is over. Think you can swing it?”
“Yes, sir. We’ve learned our lesson. The feet are firmly planted.” Skeffington continued to enjoy my support as the band’s official spokesperson
.
Mr. Pleasant popped a fag out of his well-worn pack and flipped it into his gob. “Break a leg, Rip Churchill.” Poof. Moments later he disappeared into an enormous puff of smoke.
We each returned to our idiosyncratic warm up routines until The Black Larkspurs finally announced their final number. They’d chosen an up-tempo rocker with a mostly catchy beat. I tried extraordinarily hard to focus on the sound but it just wasn’t any use. The memories of our unsuccessful bid to take that very stage a few short months before came crashing through their derivative melody. I instinctively looked to Mickey’s drum kit as if somehow I’d be transported back in time and Rip Churchill would be stenciled across the bass drum. Instead my glare landed on Mickey Cormac picking his konk.
The Black Larkspurs swaggered off the stage riding a tidal wave of goodwill. They’d apparently become local darlings on account of some “ferocious” gigs around Camden Town and a well-oiled grassroots marketing operation that delivered hundreds of “rabid” revelers to each of them. Their enormous contingent at Frankie Shū’s Ballroom shouted for an encore even as we prepared to seize the spotlight. Bloody hell. We’d be considered the sodding anticlimax unless we could swiftly win over these bootlickers.
The eyes of a skeptical audience danced upon us as we stepped out onto the stage. My own skepticism over our prospects only amplified the uneasiness. By all accounts our fifteen or so rehearsals had been mediocre. Captain Skeffington remained convinced that Rip Churchill would rise to the occasion and recapture its former glory. I hoped we could get through our first offering without imploding.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
The opening chords of “Gutter Minx” tore through the stagnating landscape like a wakizashi. We sank waste deep into its finely crafted filth a few bars later. I quickly picked up on the imperfections, the bumps and bruises, the missing triplet licks, the simplified bass line, etc. etc. The crowd didn’t seem to mind, however, as they began thrutching about in a mostly rhythmic rock n’ roll frenzy.
We’d suddenly become rock n’ roll missionaries converting the misbegotten followers of The Black Larkspurs into true bloody believers.
A monsoon of emotion began to swell within me as I massaged the fret board of my Humbucker during the middle eighth. I shut my eyes for a moment so as to ram it back down from whence it came. Selling my soul for the adulation of the fickle masses felt awfully cathartic. Not so fast. My eyes shot open on account of the boney arse grinding against my right hip. Bloody hell. Donnie had unspooled his dime-store showmanship like some sort of pansexual gypsy.
“Bugger off.” The microphone partially picked up my rebuke but it was mostly inaudible. Donnie heard it loud and clear, however. He just chuckled, twirled around, and sauntered over to Cletus. The audience’s enthusiastic reaction to the entire blooming spectacle only encouraged Donnie to further explore his onstage libertine persona for shits and giggles.
Brooklyn from Bawtry. Ramses Revenge. Ramses Still Handsome. Puddle Jumper (But She’s Mine). My Little Refugee Girl. A Soul for Wally B. Blah, blah, blah. Rose Anna Springs.
The Black Larkspurs constituted a mere footnote in the evening’s festivities by the time we’d finished our second encore. Skeffington, Cletus, Donnie and Mickey were jubilant. I couldn’t blame them of course because by any objective standard the show had been an enormous success. My bonce was buzzing too after all. One needn’t be a bloody spiritualist to see the writing on the tea leaves, however: Success with tweedle dee and tweedle dum meant that they’d become permanent fixtures in my rock n’ roll fantasy, and that Skeffington would reign supreme as the de facto raja of Rip Churchill for all eternity.
The nail in the coffin came in short order. Mr. Pleasant sent a lackey backstage to escort Skeffington and I to his office. “Sit down. Sit down.” The geezer must’ve been in a rather festive mood because he offered us a snort of single malt scotch from a guitar-shaped crystal decanter. He handed us our drinks and plopped down behind an enormous metal desk.
“You pulled it off. Bravo. Cheers.” He stretched his arm out over the desk and we all clinked glasses. “My associate will be joining us in a moment to discuss your future. Until then just sit back, be quiet, and enjoy your Dalmore.”
Moments later the impeccably dressed Asian from our audition strolled into the silence. Black tailored suit. Starched white shirt. Black silk tie with a wide Windsor knot. The blue glow from a mobile device lighting his chiseled mug. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket, wiped down the seat cushion, and sat in the only other empty chair in Mr. Pleasant’s office.
“Gentlemen, my name is Mitsuo Takahashi. I’ve been managing successful rock bands for fifteen years. Yesterday I fired a four-piece from Merton because they didn’t fully buy into my methods. Real success takes patience and time, gentlemen. Anyway, its left an empty slot in my stable of talent. I’d like to bring Rip Churchill into the fold.”
We chatted for nearly a half-hour as Mr. Takahashi set forth the general terms and conditions of his representation. He seemed like a no-nonsense type of bloke so I trusted him right off. Skeffington had to play the part of the bloody barrister of course. It mostly just amused Mr. Takahashi.
“Thanks for your time, sir. But we’re going to have to talk it over with the entire band before making any decisions.” Bloody hell. I was ready to sign on the dotted line with Mr. Takahashi’s Montblanc. The band needn’t be a bloody democracy after all.
“You have exactly ten minutes. And please, call me Shogun.” Brilliant.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Rip Churchill’s latest magnum opus rejuvenated interest in an otherwise fading brand. Critics praised it. Radio stations fired off the fashionable singles. Our powdered mugs appeared on the covers of all the rock n’ roll rags. Arenas on both sides of the Atlantic sold out months in advance. Bloody hell. Celebrity seemed a thousand times more exhausting without the refuge of a Chivas Regal blackout.
I jetted Becky away to a lakeside villa in Lago di Como for a weeklong respite from the bedlam. We frolicked like sprogs under the cloud-like sheets and gorged on local fare. One particular evening she teased about an extraordinary present she’d procured for yours truly. Another pair of handmade Italian leather rock n’ roll boots. Dave Davies’ Gibson Flying V. A package of brand new unders. Becky assured me that I’d never guess despite by best efforts. Fortunately, she planned on handing it over during our last night together at the lake.
I tiptoed out of the villa early in the morning to scour the Bellagio boutiques in search of something to give her in return. Enormous diamonds. Fancy timepieces. Handmade Italian dresses. Blah, blah, blah. I could’ve found them on any street corner in Mayfair or Los Angeles. Becky deserved something more personal, and each gently sloping alleyway offered renewed hope. Regrettably, nothing really caught my attention.
I finally slipped into a quaint café to order a cappuccino and regroup. Brilliant. My eyes were suddenly struck by a gorgeous oil painting hanging on the wall behind the counter. Our villa as well as its intricately manicured flora had obviously served as the painter’s muse. I playfully haggled with the Lombardo proprietor over the price before exiting the café with Becky’s painting nestled under my arm.
We dined by candlelight and soft orchestral music at our favorite lakeside ristorante. The mood was so perfect that I could’ve easily taken her atop my chianti braised short ribs. One final luvvly-jubbly stroll through the streets and we arrived back home. I playfully tossed her on the plush sofa to embark on the next phase of our evening. Becky wiggled away rather quickly, however. “I’d like to give you your present before things get out of hand.”
“Right. Sure. I’ve got a little something for you too.” We both leapt off the sofa to fetch our respective presents. I’d stashed her painting under some linens in the hall closet. She disappeared into the bedroom. We reconvened in the living room moments later.
“At the count of three then?” I nodded. “One…two…three...” I handed Becky a rather sizeable re
ctangle covered in brown paper. She handed me a tiny gift-wrapped square. I tore through the wrapping to discover a clear plastic case with a CD inside. Becky had written “Play Me” across the top of the disc in permanent black marker.
“I love it!” Becky shouted as the final shred of brown paper landed on the carpet. “Now we’ll always remember our Italian hideaway.” She leaned over and planted a peck on my cheek. “Time to drop your CD in the stereo.”
“Alright. But I’m not convinced these modern stereos actually spin 45s.”
“Hush up. Just make sure it’s loud.” I turned the dial a few extra ticks. Becky jumped off the sofa and hurried over to me. Bloody hell. She’d never been so excited over a gift before.
Inaudible chatter. Clanking glasses. A stray guitar chord. Silence. A moment later my knees buckled and goose pimples sprouted up and down my forearms. I looked at Becky with tears swelling in my eyes. Judy’s Jam Jar Jive. Rip Churchill. Lincoln. Frisby. The Thirsty Bard. The sound was instantly recognizable even after all these sodding years.
“How?”
“Shhh. Just listen. I’ll tell you all about it later.” She took my hand and led me to the sofa. I shut my eyes. The memories became so vivid that I could feel my fingers on the fret board. I could feel Lincoln and Frisby playing behind me like two steam-powered locomotives. Bloody hell. Skeffington and Cletus were just a couple of sprogs.
Our sound was perfect.
“You’re in the front row this time, Becky.” I kissed her forehead just as the walls of our villa began to crumble all around us from the sonic thump of “Carmenita.”
Broken Birdie Chirpin Page 15