by Isla Dewar
It arrived in Martha’s life in 1956 when she was fourteen. Two huge things happened then: her father, Martin, died and she heard Gene Vincent singing ‘Be-Bop-A-Lula’. Everything changed. Martin, a carpenter by trade, had fallen from a roof, broken his spine and neck, and died instantly.
Sophie stopped communicating with everyone she knew. She was bent double with grief and shock. Her eyes sank into her head and dark rings developed round them. Sometimes she’d open her mouth to speak and nothing would come out. She moved slowly, going through her daily routine. Get up, make breakfast, see Martha off to school. And after it all was done, she couldn’t remember doing it. She’d go back to bed and lie looking at the ceiling, empty of thought, empty of feeling. Numb. The truth of her situation was too grim to face. She’d lie until Martha was due home from school, then she’d will herself to get up and clean a little and prepare supper. It was months before she emerged from her grief. By then she was sure her daughter was lost to her. She didn’t recognise Martha’s ordinary teenage behaviour.
Martha was lonely, monosyllabic and angry. Only Gene understood. He was out there in the world, singing songs just for her. She knew this from the way he gazed at her from his picture on her bedroom wall.
‘Where are you going?’ Sophie would ask.
‘Out,’ Martha would reply.
Their conversations rarely amounted to more than this, till the night Martha spotted the guitar hanging in a shop window. After that it was all she could talk about. It was the first object of lust in her life.
At school Martha belonged to a small group of friends – Patricia, Laura and Grace. In fact, Grace was, in Martha’s opinion, a hanger on, always slightly apart, listening to rather than joining the ardent conversations about Gene Vincent and Elvis Presley. They also discussed classmates they hated, boys they fancied, their mutual loathing of physics, films they wanted to see, and Jamie Walters, who had a crush on Martha. Gene was their passion, though. Patricia wanted to meet him and chat about important things like did he believe in God? Laura wanted to be held in his arms and feel the warmth of his lips as he whispered undying love to her. Not Martha. She wanted to be Gene Vincent. She wanted to strut about a stage, a guitar slung round her neck as she sang moody songs about loneliness, love and death.
The night of the red guitar was bitterly cold, early December. Martha and her mother were returning home after visiting Sophie’s sister, Lou. Nine-thirty in the evening, they were at the bus stop in Haymarket waiting for the number twelve bus. The music shop was behind them. Martha turned, saw the beautiful thing – dark red and glistening – hanging in a rack of guitars in the window and was filled with instant longing. It was the answer to her prayers. It could make her life complete. This was exactly the kind of guitar Gene would play.
At the time she was wearing a green tweed coat with a velvet collar, shiny black shoes and white ankle socks. On her head a green pixie hat with a pom-pom – clothes chosen as suitable for a fourteen-year-old by her mother. But in her heart Martha wore blue jeans, white T-shirt and beaten-up leather jacket.
She’d clutched her mother’s arm, pointed at the object of lust in the window and said, ‘That’s what I want for Christmas.’
Sophie laughed. ‘That’s not the sort of thing a girl should have. Guitars are for boys.’
‘Why?’
‘Because they just are.’
The bus arrived. Sophie and Martha climbed aboard, found their seats and travelled in silence. Sophie worried about money. Martha dreamed of the red guitar.
Of course, at the time Martha had no idea of the serious dip in her family’s finances since her father’s death. He’d been a respected craftsman, but not well paid. The family got by. Any spare money they’d had was spent on Martha. It bought her clothes, paid for her trips to the swimming pool and her weekly piano lessons. Martin and Sophie had great plans for their daughter. She was quiet, studious, did well at school. They planned for her to be the first in the family to go to university. She’d be a doctor, a lawyer, a professor. Who knew? But whatever it was, it would be well paid and important. She’d have letters after her name.
Now, there was no money for luxuries, certainly not for a gleamy red guitar. So, not wanting to disappoint her daughter, Sophie bought the ukulele. Well, it was guitar-shaped. It would have to do. Having to do was how things were.
On Christmas morning, Martha hid her feelings. She didn’t cry. She didn’t throw the hideous toy across the room. She smiled at her mother and thanked her. But oh, the disappointment. It swamped her, gripped her throat and the pit of her stomach. She’d hoped, wished and prayed that the red guitar would be waiting for her, glinting in the Christmas tree lights. Well, this was rock’n’roll for you. A lot of woes and tears before you hit the top. How was Sophie to know a plastic ukulele was not the sort of thing an aspirant rocker could be seen carrying around? It did nothing for Martha’s rendition of ‘Be-Bop-A-Lula’.
Still, by the end of Christmas Day, Martha had mastered several chords and could accompany herself as she sang a rather sweet and tinkly version of ‘Heartbreak Hotel’.
Sophie knew that this rock’n’roll thing would not go away. Her daughter was hooked. She cursed the ukulele, wishing she’d bought Martha her first proper lipstick and a copy of Catcher in the Rye. All she’d done was fan the flames of Martha’s longing to play the music she loved. ‘Bloody ukulele,’ Sophie thought.
Martha now knew that she’d have to buy the guitar herself. She supposed Gene and Elvis did the same. She took a paper round. Up at six in the morning, out into the dawn facing biting winds, rain and, from time to time, fresh, glistening air and a watery sun sparkling on the sea. Jaw set, Martha would stride up and down garden paths, ramming papers through letterboxes, thinking red guitar, red guitar.
She’d been a sickly child, prone to colds and flu. As winter deepened and February with its thick sea mists and drenching rain rolled round, Martha was regularly laid low. She ignored her health. Sophie could not. Unable to watch her daughter, sweating, fevered and coughing, go out into the pouring weather, Sophie would say, ‘Go back to bed. I’ll do your round for you.’ She’d stamp the streets, cursing with every step, ‘Bloody ukulele. Bloody ukulele.’
Nine months later, Martha had fifteen pounds, an accumulation of earned money, pocket money, birthday money and money she’d cadged from her mother and various relatives. This was a huge amount, enough, Martha was sure, to buy the red guitar, extra strings and all sorts of guitar accessories. She left her job and took the bus to Haymarket.
In the shop she slapped her savings on the counter, pointed to the guitar and told the man she’d have it. He looked at the small pile of notes and change, then at her, shook his head and told her the object of her desire cost seventy-five pounds. ‘But I have got a beauty, just the thing for you. Fourteen pounds.’ He disappeared into the back shop and returned with an old, battered yellow guitar. ‘I’ll be sorry to see this go. But I know you’ll give it a good home.’
She took the guitar, held it. Glanced up at the beauty she’d fallen in love with, then at the scratched and worn instrument she’d been offered. This was a bitter blow. But holding the guitar, knowing she could have it, take it home, was a little bit thrilling.
‘Been around the block a bit,’ said the salesman, nodding at the guitar, ‘but that’s what you want. It’s been played. Lovely tone to it. And it came all the way from Memphis. Bluesman touring the country brought it in. He needed a bit of cash for whisky. Almost wept when he parted with it. The sound you’ll get from that guitar will lift your heart. You could say it’s run in, playing smoothly.’
Martha said, ‘Gosh.’ This was her first encounter with salesmanship and she was overwhelmed.
‘I’ve been saving it for the right person. That’s you.’
She took it.
Over the next few weeks Martha’s life centred round the guitar. It was her only topic of conversation. She mastered three chords. Flickering her fingers to
her friends, she demonstrated them. Her real talent wasn’t making music; it was talking about making music. She enthused so much it wasn’t long before it became the thing in her small clique to own a guitar. Laura was first to get one for her Christmas. Patricia pleaded with her folks to buy her one. But they refused on account of having bought a drum kit for her brother. He’d bashed at it for several weeks then abandoned it. Patricia’s new passion was, they said, a passing phase. She’d get over it. She didn’t. She took up the drums and spent her evenings battering them in the garage where they’d been put out of the way.
Two guitar players and a drummer – why, it was the beginning of a band. The three practised in Patricia’s parents’ garage on Tuesday, Thursday and Friday nights. They strummed, bickered and made a dreadful noise, but, as Sophie said, they were out of the way, she didn’t have to listen to the din, and the new passion was keeping them away from boys. They called themselves Vinnie (after Gene Vincent) and the Vixens. They were sure they were cool.
Grace had joined the group at school break-times, but never went out with them on their trips to the cinema or the local chip shop. She was the child of affluent parents who kept her busy with after-school activities – riding lessons, swimming lessons, dancing class and classical guitar tutoring.
It was this last that interested Vinnie and the Vixens. They cultivated Grace, offered her swigs of their Vimto and bites of their Mars bars. She was welcomed into their break-time discussions about rock’n’roll, if fat chips were tastier than small crispy ones, and the general loveliness of Gene Vincent. Being in a band, they told her, was the best thing in the world. Vinnie and the Vixens were going to be famous one day. ‘Of course,’ Martha said, ‘we are playing the stuff we want to play. We’d never sell out and become commercial.’
Grace said, ‘Surely if you’re commercial you’ll make money. You’ll be singing songs people like.’
Martha said, ‘Yeah, but you have to be true to yourself.’
Grace shrugged and reluctantly agreed. She joined the band. She turned up to rehearsals in the garage, bringing her brand new guitar. ‘My dad bought it for me. He got it in a shop in Haymarket.’ She opened the case and brought it out.
It was beautiful. Gleamy. Dark red. Martha’s heart skipped a beat. That was her guitar. It wouldn’t have been so heartbreaking if Grace hadn’t been able to play the thing. But she could, very well indeed.
Spotty, dumpy Grace with her thick wiry hair, squint teeth and glasses could riff, improvise and run easily through chords. Her music soared. Martha almost wept. Oh, the jealousy.
9
A Man of Instincts
‘I was followed last night,’ said Martha. ‘That man I saw kicking your door was waiting outside when I left.’
She and Charlie were in the office. It was morning bacon roll time. He’d made the coffee; she’d fetched the rolls. The fire was lit, Miles Davis on the turntable.
Charlie said, ‘Did he bother you?’
‘He shouted at me. You should have a word with him. You can’t have someone standing outside your office doing that. What’s up with him?’
‘He hates me for finding him and telling his wife where he was. He was very happy with his new life. He’s miserable now and he thinks it’s all my fault.’
‘It is your fault.’
‘No, it isn’t. It’s his fault. If he’s miserable he should do something about it, not shout at me or you.’
‘So tell him that.’
‘He won’t listen.’
Martha asked the shouter’s name.
‘Marvin,’ said Charlie. ‘Marvin Hay. I found him five years ago. He’s been furious ever since. Every so often it gets too much for him and he comes here and shouts.’
‘Shout back,’ said Martha.
‘Well, Mrs Florey always sorted him out. She’d shout back sometimes. Then again sometimes she’d bring him in, sit him down and talk to him over a cup of tea.’
‘Why can’t you do that?’
‘I’m useless. I hate confrontation.’
‘I think a little confrontation is necessary.’
‘Well, you do it.’
‘No. I’m paid to type and answer the phone, not to shout at people.’
He sighed, chewed his roll and stared into the fire. ‘Vinnie and the Vixens, eh?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘When you’re uncomfortable with the subject, changing it is what you do. So, Vinnie and the Vixens.’
Martha told him to shut up. ‘People shouldn’t have their adolescent dreams cast up to them and mocked.’
‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I think a little gentle mocking is in order.’
‘We had principles. We weren’t going to taint our artistic integrity by playing commercial rubbish. We wouldn’t be corrupted.’
‘Of course not.’ He smirked.
‘Oh, smirking, how cruel. Didn’t you want to be cool in your youth?’
‘Oh, God, yes.’ He stared into the distance, remembering. ‘However, I have to say, when you think of your youth, there’s a lot to be said for amnesia.’ He slapped his hands on his knees. ‘Enough of this looking back.’
‘You’re changing the subject again. Not fair, you know all about my silliness but you won’t confess yours to me.’
‘It’s a secret.’ He took a pound from his wallet, waved it at her. ‘If you ever get anything about my young days out of me, this is yours.’ He put it on the table.
Martha matched the pound. ‘I bet I get it out of you. I bet you tell me.’
He shook his head, gathered the cups and plates. ‘Never.’
‘You’ve a lot to be ashamed of, then.’
He made his way to the kitchen. ‘I’ll never tell.’
They were both working, heads down. The clatter of Martha’s typing, the burble of the fire, Murphy snoring and Charlie writing a list – the atmosphere was verging on companionable. Someone tapped on the door.
Charlie looked up. ‘Who’s that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Martha. ‘Are you expecting somebody?’
Charlie said he wasn’t.
Mesmerised, they both stared at the door.
‘I think you should answer it,’ said Charlie.
Martha said, ‘Oh, of course. It’s such a surprise. I forgot that people would come and ask us to find someone.’
Charlie said, ‘That’s the way of things. We find people. We get paid.’
The tapping stopped. Charlie and Martha watched as the door opened slowly. A woman peered in. She coughed, raised anxious eyebrows and asked, ‘Is this the Be Kindly Missing Persons Bureau?’
Charlie said, ‘It is.’
She shut the door, walked awkwardly across the room. All the while, moving through that long space between door and desk, she stared fixedly at Charlie. Sizing him up, taking him in.
She stopped. Turned to Martha and said, ‘I came yesterday. But there was a small man in the street outside who said, “Don’t go in there. They’ll ruin your life.”’
‘I don’t think we’d do that,’ said Charlie. He held out his hand. ‘Charlie Gavin.’
‘Bernice,’ said the woman, shaking the proffered hand. ‘Bernice Stokes. Well, Bernice definitely.’ She sat opposite Charlie. ‘I’m looking for my husband. Brendan. I’ve written down my details.’ She handed a sheet of paper to Charlie. ‘I think I’ve noted everything you might need to know. My name, age, address and telephone number along with Brendan’s details.’
Charlie asked how long he’d been missing.
‘I’m not sure,’ Bernice told him. ‘Thing is, I’m beginning to think he doesn’t exist.’
Charlie said, ‘Really?’ Not existing interested him.
Bernice turned to face Martha. A woman would understand. ‘And he was the perfect husband. Hardly ever there. Turned up on Tuesday evenings, left Thursday afternoon. Came back Saturday. Stayed till Sunday evening then he was off again. Never got under my feet.’
Martha was fa
scinated. Here was a woman whose husband had disappeared with no explanation. She, too, would run to the phone each time it rang, thinking, this will be him. She’d wait for the mail to arrive, hoping for a letter. She’d wonder what she’d done wrong. There was a hole in her life, too.
Charlie stood up, walked over to her, leaned on her desk and whispered, ‘You are getting this? You are taking notes, aren’t you?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Martha. But she blushed. She’d been too absorbed to remember to take notes. She opened her notepad. Took up her pencil and started.
‘A lovely man,’ said Bernice. ‘Always had presents. Laughed. Brought me breakfast in bed. Then he’d be off. Couldn’t have had a better arrangement.’
‘What does he do?’ Charlie asked.
‘Travelling salesman. On the road a lot. That’s how I didn’t know he was missing. First he didn’t turn up one Tuesday. Well, I thought he might just have been busy. Then come Saturday and Sunday, still no sign of him. Come the next Tuesday and nothing, so I started to get worried. Then the weekend and he’s still away and I was really worried. The next Tuesday he’s still away, I thought it was time to do something. So I phoned his work. They’d never heard of him. Said no Brendan Stokes ever worked there.’ She pursed her lips, exhaled, story finished.
‘Has this happened before? Him not coming home for a while?’ Charlie asked.
‘Yes. That’s why I wasn’t too worried at first. But he’d usually phone.’
Head down, Martha scribbled. Charlie leaned back, put his hands on his head. ‘How long have you been together?’
Martha wrote, Charlie puts hands on head. Bernice twists the handle of her handbag. She frowns, bites her lower lip. She’s very uncomfortable about this. She is good-looking, though. At first I thought she was mid-forties. But now, with the light from the window behind Charlie hitting her face, I see she’s late fifties.
‘Six years. Seven this September. Anyway, I was shocked. Stunned. Could hardly breathe. He’d said he came from Manchester. So I go to the post office, get phone directory and look up all the Stokeses. That night I sit and phone all the numbers. Nobody’s heard of a Brendan Stokes.’