Bold as Love

by Gwyneth Jones

  Hadn’t yet thought of a way to get the punters to take the ATP treatment. And what about the ATP ‘batteries’? Difficult to resist, but they were a trap, just more of the same. Green power that gets made in a factory and you buy it from a shop; or a service provider. The radical change was lost. Ax was having megalomaniac thoughts about suppressing the things (because the market never will).

  But that was stupid.

  There ought to be a saying, to match if you’re in a hole stop digging. If the engine’s turning over, stop pushing. It’s time to jump on board and let yourself be carried, you’re no longer the motive force. Horrible feeling though. That was why he loved the Volvo. It had a stick and gears, and a mechanical engine; and he felt in charge. Ah well. As the music biz teaches us, lack of control is the chief misery of the struggle; loss of control the first price of success.

  Unless your name’s Aoxomoxoa.

  Poor Faz. Something so heartbreaking about the way he’d stood there, crazy drunk, uttering his ridiculous challenge. Yet though the incident seemed nothing now, completely upstaged by the weather, it had been dangerous: the unbridgeable gap between Ax and his friends, and the real Counterculture, suddenly, shockingly visible. Is there a solution? Maybe not. Lucky that Sage and Fiorinda had known how to turn it around. Yeah, there’s such a thing as good violence, exhilerating, face-saving, cathartic: but Ax would never understand that code. He paused in his finicky work with the oilstone, thinking of Sage. So fucking wise, sometimes. Yet still capable of insisting you come and admire the impressively large turd he has just laid. And Fiorinda: stubborn, secretive little cat, with that brain, that voice; that cool, steely integrity.

  It was strange to look back and see how quickly the triple alliance had been formed. Almost from the first meeting of the Counter Cultural Think Tank they’d been together, running rings round Paul Javert, their friends occasionally catching up. Ax Preston and Aoxomoxoa, and that extraordinary little girl, exercising faculties the music biz had left to atrophy. None of them, not even Ax, having any idea where this was heading. Sage at those sessions frequently so hammered you wondered how he could see straight, but it never shut him up: while Fiorinda was quietly stealing Ax’s heart away—

  Like something out of a fairytale. I fucked her when I didn’t know I loved her, and now look at my darling. Her beautiful smile, her graceful body, glimpses of Fiorinda, rising through the frost and snow. He could almost wish to have that time back, only to know how much he was going to love her; though God knows it hadn’t been easy. To touch her hair again, as on that first night. To hold her naked in his arms, and kiss her little breasts, for the first time again.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t be thinking about his girlfriend’s breasts. Even if it was with pure affection and no carnality, much. Theoretically he should be praying.

  Keep me on the straight path.

  But he could not recover the mindset of Ax-in-Yorkshire, struggling towards Islam. Things had happened so thick and fast, tonight accept seemed like just a word. He had never prayed for the success of his enterprise, it didn’t seem right. Insha’llah. In the end he just sat: listening to the Beethoven and wishing he could have his nice life back, a pretty-good guitarist with a pretty-good, non-commercial little band. The cat on his lap curled tight and purring hard. Oh well, he thought. I have two best friends who don’t stand no shit. As long as they’ll put up with me, I’ll know I haven’t turned into a complete monster.

  Later, he went and fetched the Qur’an and began to recite. He didn’t need the printed Arabic, he had it all in memory, but he took comfort in the ritual.

  When he got back to Reading he left the car up the road, to avoid the inevitable personal transport hypocrisy flak. On the south bank, at Caversham Bridge, people were miserably watching fallen trees getting hauled out of the water, that lovely big poplar among them. But the flood had subsided. Every storm is different. This one seemed to have had a short-lived, vindictive interest in one particular reach of the Thames—as if it had been planning revenge, while Ax and his friends were off on the east coast, scoring points against its buddies. He walked into the site through the main entrance, Storm Damage PA coming to meet him across the devastated camping fields: Fiorinda singing, in duet with someone, that they came across a child of god, he was walking along the road… Interupts herself to respond to remarks that can’t be made out; rueful laughter, messages (is Evan Curran of California on site? Evan, if you come over here, someone wants to wish you a happy birthday). Who’s that harmonising with her? Not Sage. Oh, it’s George. Good work getting the PA functional again so quickly. Stardust, golden…

  PLEASE, No more wet gear to the Leisure Centre, FUCK IT.

  We’ve run out of space.

  On the fence at the gates to the arena, someone had created an installation of dead birds: glittering speckled starlings; chaffinches, a blackbird, a pitiful yellow and slate smear that had been a bluetit; and here’s a swan, huge wings outspread, like a murdered angel.

  Lot of damage. Only the Zen Self tent seemed untouched. Red Stage was okay but looking strangely lopsided, oh, one of the towers gone. Near the site of the Blue Lagoon, where Storm Damage PA had its outdoor headquarters, he found Dilip, Chip and Verlaine and the Heads: sitting around a bonfire with some ZenSelfers and others. He arrived just as George and Fiorinda returned from their PA slot; and joined the atmosphere of shocked, bereft and weary people—whose own home has been wrecked this time; who had finally become the victims, not the audience, not the defenders.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Chip. ‘We’ll have to put on the show right here in the barn.’

  ‘Very poor,’ said Verlaine. ‘It’s not funny, Chip. The campground’s gone.’

  Something felt wrong to Ax, besides the obvious. ‘Where’s Sage?’

  Dilip shrugged glumly. Chip and Ver winced. ‘Sage fucked up his hands,’ said Fiorinda, ‘humping things, and punching heads the other night.’

  ‘Fucked up—? Oh yeah, I know.’

  Sage’s ruined hands could give him hell, Ax’d found out about that in Yorkshire. Though you’d never, ever know it from the way he behaved, or from that stage act.

  ‘He’s gone away by himself,’ Fiorinda went on, clipped vowels sharp with rage ‘to think about how stupid he is, not to use normal painkillers.’

  ‘No use getting pissed off with ’im Fio,’ said George. ‘It does no good.’

  ‘Doesn’t he have his NDogs?’

  ‘They were in the van,’ explained Bill.

  Sage’s van had been in a sorry state after the storm. It had escaped the fall of the oak tree, but the Heads had let it to be used as an emergency shelter, and it had taken a battering from unscrupulous campers—

  ‘Peter’s tracked down most of the nicked stuff and got it back.’

  ‘But he won’t have anyone going after him, when he’s like this.’

  Oh, he’s got you well trained, thought Ax. All four of you. The stupid bugger.

  ‘Gimme the gear,’ he said. ‘I’ll find him.’

  A foreign film crew came and filmed the destruction, and wanted to know if this was the end of the staybehind dream. Dogs, usually excluded from the arena, trotted aimlessly. The Few took it in turns to go over and do live spots on the PA, with staybehind talent. A highly articulate naked hippie turned up and ranted. He’d worn nothing but mud since Dissolution Summer, and if others would follow his example, the hole in the ozone layer would heal up. A couple of hours before sunset the Dictator-elect and his Minister appeared, ambling slowly across the littered waste. What had they been talking about? The heat death of the universe. Why worry about a few pretty trees? It’ll all be the same in fifty billion years’ time.

  ‘Was that fifty billion, or five hundred billion?’

  ‘Don’t know as it makes much odds to you an’ me, Ax.’

  As they sat down Fiorinda muttered sorry, from behind a barricade of corkscrew red curls. Sage gently tugged one of them, smiling. ‘Thas’ okay.’

&
nbsp; Some councillors came along to see Ax. ‘You going to yell at us about the fire?’

  Fires, like dogs, were forbidden in the sacred precinct.

  ‘I’m amazed you got it started,’ said one of the tribal elders, looking suspiciously at Aoxomoxoa. ‘With everything fucking totally soaked. You haven’t been using chemicals?’

  ‘Mmm, not for firelighting,’ said Sage, dreamily.

  ‘Oh, that was Fiorinda,’ explained Verlaine, ‘With her brilliant little tinderbox.’

  The councillors reported on the structural damage, and said the things such people have to say in the circumstances: everything’s fixable, we’re not beaten, our game plan allows for disasters. But they were wounded and it showed, and the Few (their own tower of strength lost in spooky, synthetic-neurochemical-induced calm) didn’t have much comfort to offer. Not right now.

  ‘We were plannin’ to start a Nature Studies class,’ said Peter Stannen sadly. ‘We found out, on the Western tour, none of these Counterculture kiddies knows ash from oak. It’s a scandal.’

  ‘Yeah, weird. AM’s kids know absolutely fuck.’

  ‘We’ll have to educate them for a treeless future,’ said Chip. ‘Get used to it. Like Ax says: the natural environment of people, is people.’

  ‘ISpy Rock Festivals,’ murmured Verlaine. ‘Five points for a comatose crusty.’

  ‘Five points for a naked hippy, ten for naked hippy wearing mud.’

  ‘Septic piercing, ten.’

  ‘Alfresco sex, five. Fifteen if involving vegetables, or pets.’

  ‘How many of these kinds of vomit can you spot?’

  ‘Ax Preston committing Personal Transport Hypocrisy, nul points—’

  And so on, as the sky grew dark and the bonfire crackled.

  But the reality of the inauguration loomed close. The publicity was everywhere, especially that Trimurti poster; and everywhere, in every relevant or irrelevant context, the catchphrases lifted from Ax’s speeches: Be good to each other, It’s the ecology, stupid. Positive interference, start from where we are, the natural envirnoment of people is people, if we can just get through this part. Allie had nothing to do with this viral advertising, but Ax began to hate her for it anyway. He wasn’t going to be able to protect his girlfriend from any of the horrors of the civil ceremony (that ride down the Mall, oh God, how she would hate that); and though reports were optimistic, the Reading celebration plans were obviously a mess. Nothing had been done, nothing had been decided.

  Just before the Eid, he called them to the Office and met them armed with a check list, determined to get through some stuff. The day was fine, golden sunlight pouring through the balcony windows, gleaming on all the insufferably gaudy decor. Ax sat with Allie for a change, and powered his agenda along. Trying not to be sidetracked by people making difficulties, about ridiculous distractions. They didn’t like the winelist. Sage, who couldn’t tell Beaune from alcoholic Ribena.

  ‘But Ax, even I know English red wine is junk.’

  ‘Well, obviously it’ll go on being junk if nobody drinks it. This is a flagship occasion, of course we fly the flag. There’s no reason why it shouldn’t be good.’

  ‘Okay,’ says Aoxomoxoa, ‘Fine.’ Exchanging a glance with George Merrick that spelled, Ax knew, an agreement to sabotage.

  ‘This would be the Sage “okay”, meaning, I’m going to do what the fuck I like?’

  ‘Tha’s right.’

  ‘Shit,’ muttered Ax, but took it no further. ‘Now, the concert. Look, I don’t understand why we haven’t agreed on any kind of order in this line-up, except for Sage’s extravaganza being last.’

  ‘We didn’t know if DARK were coming down,’ said Fiorinda.

  ‘Yeah, but you know that now. You’ve known since Monday.’

  ‘And we’ve had trouble getting hold of one other person, who’s supposed to be closely involved.’

  Despite his complaints of noble isolation, Ax had often been drawn into the Islamic community during the fasting month. He hadn’t been available all the time. ‘Oh. Well, okay. I’m here. Tell me what I’ve been missing.’

  ‘Will he be able to handle it?’ Fiorinda asked Sage. ‘He hasn’t rehearsed much.’

  ‘Oh yeah. I’m not asking for any backflips, an’ he’s a lot fitter than he was.’

  ‘That’s good. These wussy, non-camping, indoor-plant types—’

  ‘Think it was the constant humiliation, up in Yorkshire, got him down the gym.’

  The Few, already unhappy about the seating arrangement, the Triumvirate divided, flashed nervous glances. Muscle knotted in Ax’s jaw. ‘Can we move on?’

  ‘Have you decided whether or not you’re going to play “Jerusalem”?’

  ‘No. I mean, no I am not going to play “Jerusalem”. It’s not appropriate. This is an overcrowded liferaft, not the City of God.’

  ‘If Ax isn’t doing “Jerusalem”,’ said Fiorinda. ‘I’m not doing “Sparrow Child”.’

  ‘But Fio, you have to!’ protested Cherry. ‘It’s the Rock The Boat Tour song, we can’t do without it—’

  ‘Yeah, but I hate the fucking thing and I wish I’d never written it—’

  ‘Children, children—’ sighed Roxane.

  Dilip leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

  ‘We’re all feeling the strain,’ said Rob diplomatically. ‘Look, it’s lunchtime, why don’t we leave this, we’ve been working hard, let’s get something to eat.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ snapped Ax. ‘I’ll wait here.’

  ‘Okay. Ax isn’t doing “Jerusalem”, the nation’s sweetheart isn’t doing her loss-of-habitat number. Do we have a supergroup decision on “Oats and Beans”?’

  ‘NO!’ yelled several people. Everyone detested the no-brain Barmy Army marching song.

  ‘That’s unanimous, is it? Well done. Too bad, we’re doing it. Can’t hurt the army’s feelings, we may need them again. This brings us to the “Ode to Joy”.’

  ‘What about the “Ode to Joy”?’ inquired Ax. ‘That’s not a problem on my list.’

  ‘There’s no problem,’ said Fiorinda. ‘We just need to tell you we won’t sing it.’

  ‘What are you talking about? You have to sing the anthem, this is a state occasion, we’ll have EU guests. What’s wrong with the “Ode to Joy”? Good tune.’

  ‘I think what’s wrong,’ said Rob, slowly, ‘is that those dipped-in-shit bastards aspiring to be the European government didn’t do a fucking thing to help us or anyone with the Boat People. They haven’t achieved a fucking thing, on any crisis issue.’

  ‘I can’t sing,’ said Allie, ‘I’m only going on stage to please the rest of you, but I won’t pretend to sing that.’

  There was a general murmur of assent. Ax stared at them, robbed of speech. His friends stared back, obdurate.

  ‘What do you want instead, then?’ he snarled, ‘Fucking “Rule Britannia”?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Sage calmly. ‘The national anthem will be fine.’

  ‘My God. What a bunch of fucking self-centred Little England FASCISTS—’

  Ax slammed his chair back, jumped up and stormed out of the room.

  Silence. ‘Aren’t you going after him?’ asked Allie at last.

  Fiorinda shook her head.

  ‘No. We’re going to let him alone,’ said Sage, skull mask doing between tough love and callous amusement. ‘It may seem cruel, but it’s the best way.’

  They reconvened in the gardens, with food and wine from the canteen: Roxane in a canvas director’s chair that Verlaine had carried out for hir, the rest of them lying about on the grass. Sun burnished the late summer foliage, waterbirds cackled on the lake; the occasional rumble of some passing vehicle reached them from Grosvenor Place. They hadn’t been there long before Ax came up, looking ashamed of himself, and sat down by Sage and Fiorinda. The tale of legendary rock-bad-behaviour that Roxane was telling halted; and went smoothly on. George Merrick, who was rolling fat joints of resin and tobacco f
or the company, glanced at the Triumvirate, and maybe sighed.

  ‘Hey, boss. Remember Near Miss year?’

  ‘The summer we got rich and famous?’ said Bill, ‘’Course ’e does. Some of it, anyhow.’

  ‘We were on the Lizard,’ said George. ‘In Bill’s auntie’s field, hopin’ to get vaporised or some such thrill. Not involved in that Rock Festival. Weren’t you on there, Ax?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the Dictator-elect, ‘It was before the Chosen. I was with Mulan.’

  ‘D’jever get paid?’

  ‘Can’t remember. As I recall, the punters stayed away in droves.’

  ‘Yeah. Anyway, ’course the so-called Near Miss was a wash out. But that night… Sky had cleared, load of stars, comet like a whacking big frame-freezed firework. We were sitting around drinking, me and Bill and Cack and Eval Jackson, this was before Luke’s time. Sage’d wandered off to commune with mother nature.’

  ‘Or anythin’ else female he could lay his hands on.’

  ‘He’d got involved wif one of the Jerseys in the next field,’ Peter recalled.

  ‘Yeah, we was worried for her. But it was just a fling. She came to ’er senses.’

  ‘Realised she was too good for him—’

  ‘So anyway, he’d gone off—’

  ‘What happened to Mulan?’ inquired Sage. Who had spotted where this anecdote was heading, but couldn’t quite believe such utter perfidy—

  ‘I could tell you, but it’s boring,’ said Ax, intrigued by his Minister’s evident unease. ‘Go on, George. What happened then?’

  ‘Boss comes back, all excited. On yer feet, he says, c’mon, you gotta hear this. This guy from Taunton, playing out of the back of a panel van, best guitarist you ever heard in your—’

  ‘YOUR DEAD!’

  Sage erupted, and came flying through the air. Everyone scattered as best they could, laughing and shrieking, grabbing wine bottles, too bad about that hashish, out of the way of the ferocious wrestling match which ensued, the outcome by no means a sure thing. Sage had the advantage in height, and flexibility, and outrage. But George Merrick was a big guy, with a lot of broad, full-grown muscle and two good hands—