by Iain Maloney
‘I think so.’
‘Like the brothel.’
‘That’s right, blame me for the Luftwaffe’s work.’
‘So when are we going? Tonight? Tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Joe. ‘I’ve got firewatch tonight.’
The whisky was half-finished. God help us if there was a raid tonight.
‘Get the trumpet out, Jack,’ Joe said. ‘Give us a tune. You know any Louis Armstrong?’
I did.
The next night we set off early. I saw Doug at parade and invited him along. We spent the day studying, testing each other. Joe asked me about the book, I mumbled something non-committal. By dinner we were dying to get going. It was to be a big night: Baths and Brylcreem, uniform perfect, boots mirror-polished, forage caps placed just so. Our last weekend in London, it was going to be special.
We swaggered down the street, lads off out, stopping in random pubs for a quick snifter. Joe with a grin on him like a clown, Terry with nylons in his pockets in case his charm alone wasn’t enough. A bounce in our step. Fags tapped against the packet. ‘This is more like it,’ Joe said. ‘Never could wait for the evening fun tae begin. Alec and me’d get stuck intae a half-bottle before setting out. Some bravery juice for the birds. Swagger down Sauchiehall Street, intae every pub, or over tae the Barrowland for the dancing. I remember this one night. Perfect night it was. Half-bottle on the tram, pints in every bar. We’re in this place near the Barrowland an Alec goes for a piss, when he comes back he lifts his pint and sinks it, then he lifts his whisky and sinks that. Only then we realise that he’d already finished his pint and never ordered a whisky. Turns out he’d pinched this massive fucker’s drinks. Sorry pal, says Alec and headbutts him, Glasgow kiss right on the nose. Fucking blood everywhere and we ran for it, laughing all the way. We’re more than half-cut by this time but Alec’s pally with all the doormen at the Barrowland, Union connection, so we get in no problem. Alec’s straight in about the birds, smooth as fuck that boy, had the looks and the chat. Well, that night he was straight in, nae bother, nae need for me so I wandered over tae the band, knew a few of them. Drummer was a pal and he wanted a crack at this bird he knew that was up from Ayr, so I sat in a few numbers. Then on the way home, what do we find? Mosley’s boys marching along like they own the fucking place. Alec lobbed a pint glass like it was a grenade, straight in the headboy’s face and we piled in.’
‘No fighting tonight, Joe, right?’ I said.
‘How no?’
‘We’re in uniform now, remember?’
‘Hey, it’s never me that starts it.’
And we were there. Stone steps down to the basement, holes where the railings used to be, all gone for Spitfires. Didn’t look much from street level: bins, a fire door, but down we went, past the bouncers in their suits, through into a red velvet lobby. A bored looking girl, our age, maybe less, chewing gum, took our money and waved us through the curtain. Terry pulled it back with a flourish, circus master, and I stepped through.
Deep lighting, lamps with red material draped over, candles in wine bottles, wax magma down the sides. The walls stripped back to the bare stone, modern artworks visible in the gloom. We moved between cabaret tables, swam through clouds of smoke. A woman billowed out of the gloaming and gestured at a table. We sat, ordered drinks, lit fags. Lost in the haze, oblivious to my companions. The stage empty. Sparkling drum kit reflecting candlelight. Upright piano side on, ashtray ready on top. Double bass resting in its stand. A number of other seats. The pictures in the Melody Maker, it was nothing like that. No orchestra set up, everyone in rows. None of that. This was something different. Our drinks arrived, we clinked. Drank deep. ‘So what’s the story?’ said Joe. ‘It’s a house band?’
‘Not too sure,’ said Terry. ‘A bloke I was talking to in another club said this was where musicians came to listen to jazz. It’s unpaid so they can do what they want.’
‘Grand,’ said Joe.
‘I figured if Jack was only going to get one chance, he might want to see something more interesting than Croydon’s best Bing Crosby impersonator or a bunch of session players only in it for the money.’
I looked around the other tables. It was pretty empty but there were a few people, some Yanks in uniform, two couples, and us. ‘It’ll fill up later,’ Doug said to me. ‘No-one wants to be early.’
I was glad we were.
No dimming of the lights. No curtains. With no fanfare or announcement, five men climbed onto the stage. Piano, bass and drums joined by clarinet and tenor sax. Four of the five men were black, and three of that four in American uniforms. The drummer, the only white bloke, was a Royal Engineer and the fifth, the clarinettist, was Merchant Navy. The table of Yanks cheered loudly and we joined in. The drummer waved a bit, tightened his hi-hat. Drinks were placed in convenient places, fags and matches near at hand, seats positioned just right. No trumpeter, but no matter. Ivory tinkles, drum fills, cymbal crash, bars of something, scales, lips wet, fingers cracked. Nods, eye contact. Not a word but the music began in perfect synchronicity.
I was transfixed. The first note and the second note hard behind. No nerves on them, not that I could see. Not even looking at the audience, not even acknowledging us. The room could’ve been empty and they’d have still been doing exactly the same thing. How did they get that concentration, that focus? Blocking the world out and living in the music.
One of the two couples got up and started to dance. The Yanks looked like they wanted to dance too, but there was a distinct lack of women. Feet were going though, moving body and soul. I could feel it too, my heart beating with the soft brush strokes, the thump of the bass. Oaken rhythms, an unflappable foundation for the others to play off. And play they did. This wasn’t Harry Parry or anything on the BBC. This was something different. At times I thought I could recognise a piece but it was never for long. The tempo was consistently high, each man improvising around the music, playing structures I couldn’t quite work out. Oh, but it was good though. Not swing, not big band. I’d no name for it. Maybe it was the drink, crossing that barrier of intoxication, or maybe it was the influence of the music, but I was beginning to lose control of my limbs. My feet were dancing on their own, my shoulders shifting, fingers scatting over imaginary trumpet keys. I looked over at Joe, who was drumming an invisible kit. It was really swinging. Snatches of Rum and Coca Cola, bursts of Body and Soul at twice the speed. Extended jams. More drink arriving. Fags burning down. This was it, this was fucking it. I needed to be up there. Tangerine. They were cooking. The adrenaline, the sweat, the joy in creating and setting free. Each note in the chain something new.
A bang on the table broke my concentration. The club had filled up, the dance floor was full, uniforms everywhere, skirts spinning. The women had arrived. Terry was up dancing, close to a girl in a plain blue dress. Joe was dancing too, though I couldn’t make out who with. His head was down and he reminded me of an Indian war dance from a western, something like that. Doug was watching me, I realised, smiling. ‘I thought we’d lost you,’ he said.
All I could do was nod.
At the back, the curtain shifted and a group of black Yanks came in. It made me notice that the only black faces in the room were on the stage. Odd. It was a jazz club, after all. Black music. The country was full of Americans, black and white. I shrugged, took another drink. There weren’t any black people in Inverayne, but I wasn’t in Inverayne any more. I turned back to the stage, turned my mind to receive. Time ticked, octaves and harmonics, I was out of body, inhabiting the music, ancient rites, shadows dancing, silhouetted by flame, embedded rhythms, rolls and dreams, I left this world drawn in by clarinet, blown out by sax, flying, flying without a kite, without any need for maths and physics, navigation and weather charts, just twelve notes and no frontiers, the need to smash walls, break barriers, move into the new, expand, man. Whatever they call this it was mine now, it was in me.
I was lost, ideas and music, when a white Yank went through a table, Joe over him.
Stunned, I spun, knocked my drink over. Another Yank took a swing at Joe who ducked, stepped, headbutted him clean on the nose then sank him with a knee to the balls. All hell broke loose. Fists and legs, glasses flying. The band cleared out, women screaming. Terry dived in, fists high. I tried to ignore it, stupid fear reaction. Step back? Leave? I saw another GI raise a pint mug, about to bring it down on Terry’s head. I dived him, rugby tackle, and brought him to the ground. The GI swung at me, hit my ear, and I retaliated, catching him in the stomach, winding him. I felt hands on my shoulders and hands pushing me up, out. Dazed and my ear hurt like hell. Out on the street a voice said run and I did, down into the tube station and onto the platform. The voice was Doug’s. ‘What…’ I panted. ‘What’s going on? What happened? Why did we run?’
‘Police,’ said Doug, also out of breath. ‘And MPs. We don’t want to get caught brawling.’
‘Terry and Joe…’
‘They got out with us but they turned left. We turned right.’
The train came and we collapsed into the seats. I noticed blood on my hands. I pulled out my handkerchief and wiped it off. Not mine. Not cut. ‘Christ, my ear hurts,’ I said.
‘No blood,’ said Doug.
And I laughed, loud and hard. Everyone on the train looked at me like I was a lunatic. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘I’ve no idea, I wasn’t paying attention. I suppose we’ll have to ask Joe. I assume he had a good reason.’
Home to our respective digs. Thanked Doug for looking out for me, went inside, washed off any traces of fighting, the blood and spilt beer. Terry still hadn’t returned when I fell asleep, the adrenaline finally leaving my system.
Terry and Joe were there at parade next morning. How they got through without Hawkins or anyone else noticing the stink of alcohol or the uneven look in their eyes was beyond me. Sensibly, Joe kept his mouth shut as we were marched off to church. Back in our room at Abbey Road, Doug and I got the full story. It had started with the arrival of the black GIs.
‘Aye, well they came in, got the drinks in, had a wee swig and then tried tae join in the dancing. Nothing wrong there, is there? Course no. So, one of them tries tae cut in on this Yank and the girl’s fine with it, you know, she’s just dancing, but the Yank clearly has a problem and gives the black Yank a shove and the black Yank tells him tae back off, so the white Yank’s pals come over and give him some lip and so the other black Yank’s come over and that’s that, the first white Yank glasses the first black Yank so I get in there and gave him the Glasgow kiss and that’s that.’
‘I see you got involved as well,’ said Terry, nodding at my ear.
‘He stopped someone from glassing you,’ said Doug, ‘and got that as a souvenir.’
‘Did you? I’ll try and return the favour one day.’
‘Joe,’ said Doug. ‘Do your nights out often end in fights?’
‘Only the good ones.’
‘Where did you lot get to? I thought you’d maybe got arrested or something,’ I said.
‘No, we went out tae celebrate. If you two hadnae legged it the wrong way, we were gonnae take you along,’ said Joe.
‘The place we were looking for last time,’ said Terry. ‘It reopened in new premises. I’d planned a surprise. First gig, first leg over, but this one got you onto the train and that was that.’
‘Aye,’ said Joe. ‘Your girl was very let down. I had tae dae her just to cheer her up. By Christ, you missed out. That was a night all right.’
‘Two fights,’ said Terry.
‘Two?’ I said. ‘You didn’t?’
‘Joe tried to pay the girls with Scottish notes,’ said Terry.
Heads down. Books open. Eyes front. Sunday to Wednesday we studied every moment. Even while marching, I was reciting equations and regulations in time with the crump of boots. We couldn’t have done any more but that didn’t help against the nerves. The pressure building. This was it. Fuck up and you’re gone. No pilot for you, best you can hope for is a seat at the back of a Lancaster, having you arse shot at over Europe. No-one slept much the night before the exams, and I was glad I’d pulled firewatch. Reciting equations and laws to the searchlights and barrage balloons was better than lying staring at the bottom of Terry’s bunk. If I’d been at home, out in the field with my trumpet, just me and the beasts, I’d have been blowing the dust away. Breakfast: Fags, and lots of them.
Differential equations.
Chewed fingernails.
Subsection 1, paragraph 3.
Fags.
Atmospheric pressure decreasing steadily, wind speeds rising. Discussed an answer. Compared. Contrasted. Panicked.
Then it was done. Over the finish line. No celebration, back to bed. Route marches were a piece of piss compared to that. Our three weeks were up. We’d been drilled and marched and tested and lectured and paraded. The four of us passed. We made it. Joe gave me a pat on the back. On the final morning, at roll call, we were told our Initial Training Wing postings. Pilots, navigators or bombers – PNB – were split off from those destined to be air gunners or flight engineers. Joe, Doug, Terry and I were all classified PNB and were to be posted together to No. 1 ITW at Babbacombe near Torquay along with fifty or so others.
We packed, said goodbyes, trooped to the station, Hawkins watching us to the last, any excuse to delay us, repost us, fuck with us. We weren’t stupid. Waited until the train was rolling, his sour face on the platform, and gave him the only salute a Sergeant like him deserved. Trousers down, arses against the glass. It was risky, he could call ahead and have us all on report, but we were done. Fuck you very much. London behind, one step closer to the sky.
‘Holmes,’ said Doug. ‘You can’t begin to compare Poirot with Holmes. Holmes solves real mysteries, overcomes dastardly criminal geniuses. Poirot is who you call in when a butler kills his master. Holmes is who you call in when the world needs saving.’
We were on the train from London to Torquay, lads squashed in every space. The four of us perched on our kit bags by the door, swaying like drunks on a ship, British Rail comfort. ‘It’s not exciting. Holmes is all sitting about fiddling, while Agatha Christie’s books are page-turners. Holmes is an intellectual game, Christie is entertainment,’ I said.
‘What’s wrong with using your intellect?’ said Doug. ‘You can work out Christie’s plots by page ten. Holmes you have to follow and even after the last page you can sometimes only vaguely grasp the leaps of intuition and logic he’s made. How can you not think that’s more satisfying? I’d rather have a meal than a snack.’
‘Using your intellect is fine but when I want to do that I’ll read about navigation or something. When I read a novel I want to be entertained.’
‘Will you two shut the fuck up?’ said Joe.
Terry nodded his agreement. ‘No-one cares.’
‘You started it,’ said Doug.
‘Me? I’ve never even read Sherlock fucking Holmes or Agatha fucking Christie. How could I have started it?’
‘You brought up Murder on the Orient Express.’
‘In passing. I was talking about something totally different. I didnae expect you two tae go off on a fucking what-dae-you-call-it, different path.’
‘Tangent,’ I said.
‘Fucking tangent.’
‘What were you talking about?’ said Terry. ‘Was it more interesting than this?’
‘I was saying that if you were gonnae bump someone off, a train would be the perfect place tae dae it. Out the window or down the gap between the cars, body gone, no trace, by the time someone notices they’re gone or someone finds the body beside the tracks, you’re hundreds of miles away.’
‘Cheery,’ said Terry.
‘Just saying.’
‘I hope you’re not thinking of anyone in particular,’ said Doug.
‘Don’t worry,’ laughed Terry. ‘Joe’s not a murderer.’
‘What’s that mean?’ said Joe.
‘Just that slipping someth
ing into someone’s wine then dumping their body isn’t really your style, is it? You’re much more of a walk up and stick a knife in them kind of chap.’
‘That would be one for Poirot,’ said Doug. ‘Although it would still probably take him all weekend. “Now here’s the corpse and here’s Joe standing over it with the bloody knife in his hand calling the deceased an f-ing c. I wonder what could’ve happened?”’
All laughed, even Joe. After a moment I said, ‘Could you do that, Joe?’
‘Dae what? Stab someone?’
‘Aye. Well, kill someone.’
‘He’d better,’ said Terry. ‘And you too. That’s what we’re on our way to learn.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t mean in a dogfight or dropping a bomb. I mean, you know, in a fight. Hand to hand.’
‘No problem,’ said Joe. ‘Put a Fascist in front of me, I’ll slash the fucker before he can draw breath.’
‘How about you, Terry?’ I asked.
‘If it’s him or me, then yes. I’d rather be the killer than the corpse.’
‘No hesitation?’
‘I’d hope not. I assume he wouldn’t hesitate.’
‘Hesitate and you’re dead,’ said Joe. ‘Why you asking anyway? Of course we’d kill. All of us. That’s why we signed up.’
‘I don’t think that’s why we signed up,’ said Doug.
‘Well, they don’t go for pacifism much in the forces,’ said Terry. ‘Sooner or later we’re going to be responsible for someone’s death.’
‘That’s not what I’m talking about,’ I said. ‘Of course in war you have to kill. And you’re right, if it’s me or a German pilot then he’s going down. I’m talking about murder, not war.’
‘What’s the difference?’ said Joe. ‘If I shoot someone on Sauchiehall Street or in a Normandy village, it’s the same thing. I pull the trigger, the gun goes bang, the other bloke snuffs it.’
‘You mean in cold blood?’ said Doug.
‘War isnae cold blood.’
‘I’m not talking about war,’ I said.
‘It’s all war. Class war. Just because the Prime Minister didnae declare it on the wireless—’