Utopia Avenue : A Novel

by Mitchell, David

  ‘Oh, he doesn’t mind, do yer, Jasper?’ says Aunt Marge.

  Jasper appears not to. ‘I’d describe the de Zoets of Zeeland as rich, rather than wealthy.’

  ‘Aren’t rich and wealthy the same thing?’ asks Shirl.

  ‘The rich know how much money they have. The wealthy have so much, they’re never wholly sure.’

  ‘Where was yer mother in all of this?’ asks Aunt Marge.

  ‘My mother died when I was born.’

  The women tut sympathetically. ‘Poor love,’ says Aunt Marge. ‘At least Ray and Dean knew their mum. Having no memories of her at all, that must be tough. Yer should’ve warned us, Dean.’

  ‘I warned yer not to give him the third degree.’

  Nan’s cuckoo clock cuckoos seven times.

  ‘It can’t be seven o’clock already,’ says Elf.

  ‘Funny stuff, is time,’ observes Aunt Dot.

  Dean was fifteen. Cancer and morphine had half erased his mother. He dreaded the visits to her ward and he knew that dreading them made him the worst son in England. Death turned every other topic into a futile evasion, yet how can people who aren’t dying discuss death with people who are? It was a Sunday morning. Ray was in Dagenham. Dean’s dad was doing overtime at the cement depot. Nan Moss and the aunts were at church. Dean never saw the point of church. ‘God works in mysterious ways’ seemed no different from ‘Heads I win, tails you lose’. If prayer worked, Dean’s mum wouldn’t be dying. Dean had come to the hospital with his Futurama. His mother was asleep when he arrived, so Dean practised quietly. He worked through a tricky picked arrangement of ‘The Tennessee Waltz’. When he got to the end, a fragile voice said, ‘That’s nice, love.’

  Dean looked up. ‘I’ve been practising.’

  A ghost of a smile. ‘Good lad.’

  ‘Sorry if I woke yer.’

  ‘There’s no nicer way to be woken.’

  ‘Do yer want to hear another one?’

  ‘“Play it again, Sam”.’

  So Dean stuck with ‘The Tennessee Waltz’. The son focused on the fretboard, and missed the exact moment his mother slipped away …

  Jasper plays a pyrotechnic solo at the end of ‘Smithereens’. Elf lays down glowing slabs of Hammond chords. Griff is drumming thunder and lightning. Dean’s fingers, not Dean, are playing his bass-runs, letting Dean look out over two hundred heads in the annex of the Captain Marlow. He glimpses friends who want to see him succeed; one-time rivals who hope he crashes and burns; older men who see in the band something they once had, or once could have had; young men out on the piss and the pull; girls with Camparis and Babychams and cigarettes; and Dean thinks, Gravesend, yer punched my face, yer kicked my balls, yer told me I was useless, a joke, a tosser, a fairy, but LISTEN to Utopia bloody Avenue. We’re getting bloody good and behind that scowl, that sneer, yer know it. There’ll be a few of Harry Moffat’s cronies out there. You tell him we set this place on fire. Jasper reaches the end of round one. Dean looks over and, as he expected, Jasper keeps his eyes on his Strat’s fretboard to signal that he wants another round. Most people have never heard a wah-wah pedal played live, and Jasper’s mastery of the gadget is stupendous. I’ll take credit for the song, mind, thank yer very much. A couple of practices ago, Elf suggested changing the lyrics from ‘All dreams end as smithereens’ to ‘Smithereens are seeds of dreams’. Dean tried it, and the song’s gone from being a downer to an upper. Jasper suggested Elf sang harmony on that one ‘seeds of dreams’ line: and everyone in the room, Pavel Z included, groaned with pleasure. Towards the end of his time in Battleship Potemkin, Dean gave up sharing his songs: that band always made the songs worse. Utopia Avenue is the opposite. The band is a song-refining machine.

  Jasper’s coming down from his solo; Dean looks at Griff who nods; four bars to go … three bars to go … two … one … and an Okay look from Elf … and Jasper pauses – they all count off a shared clock – one, two, three, four – and smash the ending into drummed, pounded, plucked, twanged molecules …

  Applause is the purest drug, thinks Dean. He wipes his face on a cloth beer mat and slurps his pint of Smithwick’s. ‘Cheers, everyone.’ The applause goes on and on. There’s less velveteen on view than you get at a London gig, more plain shirts, denim and flat caps. The Captain Marlowe is a both-fish-and-fowl pub. It’s just a few doors down from the Gravesend Working Men’s Club and the first good pub the men from Blue Circle Cement reach with their pay-packets. A hipper crowd – by Gravesend standards – is lured in with pinball, a jukebox and a live act twice a month. Off to one side, Levon is standing with a man Dean doesn’t know. If he’s a boyfriend, they’d better be bloody careful. The applause is subsiding, and Dean leans into the mic. ‘Thanks for coming out, and thanks to Dave and Sylv for having us.’ He peers at the bar at the back where Dave Sykes, the teddy-bear-faced landlord, waves back. ‘I’m Dean Moss, I’m Gravesend born ’n’ bred, so if I still owe anyone a fiver from when I skipped town, I’ll pay yer back after the show –’ Dean tightens his G-peg ‘– if yer lend me a tenner first.’

  Griff fires off a comedy Psssh … ta-boom!

  ‘So here’s the band: on keyboards, Miss Elf Holloway!’

  Elf plays the intro to Beethoven’s Fifth on the Hammond. A genius calls out, ‘Yer can play with my organ any time, darlin’!’

  ‘Sorry’ – Elf uses her stock reply – ‘but I don’t play on toy instruments.’ Griff does another Psssh … ta-boom!

  ‘On drums,’ says Dean, ‘from the People’s Republic of Yorkshire: Peter “Griff” Griffin – or, for short, Griff!’

  Applause. Griff performs a drum explosion; stands and bows.

  ‘On guitar,’ says Dean, ‘Mr – Jasper – de Zoet!’ Jasper wah-wahs the final line of ‘God Save The Queen’. Applause.

  Someone calls out, ‘Jasper the fuckin’ Fairy, more like!’

  Jasper steps forwards, shields his eyes and scans the crowd for the heckler. ‘Who’s talking to me?’

  ‘Over ’ere!’ The heckler waves. ‘Get a fackin’ haircut!’

  Shit, thinks Dean, here comes Brighton Poly part two.

  Jasper peers closer. ‘What? And look like you?’ He said the first thing that came into his head, but even the heckler’s laughing. Dean hurries things along while the going’s still good. ‘This next one’s by Jasper. It’s called “Wedding Presence’, and a-one and a-two and a-one two three—’

  Next up is Dean’s old song ‘Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time’, a gutsy, rootsy ‘Mona Lisa Sings The Blues’, Booker T’s ‘Green Onions’, ‘Darkroom’, a ten-minute ‘Abandon Hope’ – by the end the whole room is yelling out, ‘I’ll rip-rip-rip your heart out, just like you ripped mine’ as if they’ve known it for years – ‘A Raft And A River’, an Animals-esque ‘House Of The Rising Sun’, a beefed-up ‘Any Way The Wind Blows’ and The Beatles’ ‘Day Tripper’ sung by Elf with all the ‘she’s’ turned into ‘he’s’. For a second encore they play the Gravediggers’ best song, ‘Six Feet Under’, penned by Dean when he was seventeen. Dean’s two fears – that the trippiness of Jasper’s songs would be lost on the brown ale crowd, or that Gravesend wouldn’t let Elf play without bombarding her with smutty heckles – don’t come to pass, and when Dave Sykes switches on the house-lights Dean is sweaty, his voice is croaky and his fingertips are raw, but he’s high on the gig. Dean, Jasper, Elf, Levon and Griff make an impromptu rugby scrum by the drum-kit.

  ‘Lads, we fookin’ stormed it!’ states Griff.

  ‘You can say that again,’ says Elf.

  ‘Lads, we fookin’ stormed it,’ repeats Griff.

  ‘That is such a corny gag,’ says Elf.

  ‘Sensational,’ says Levon. ‘Something’ll happen soon. Yer can’t play that well and word not get out.’

  I bloody well hope so, thinks Dean.

  ‘Your turn, Jasper,’ says Elf.

  Everyone looks at Jasper. ‘To do what?’

  ‘Say how you fookin’ feel, you nonce,’ sa
ys Griff.

  Jasper considers. ‘I feel … we’re getting better?’

  Their circle of five is entered and dispersed by the world. ‘Yer’ll be paying me back that fiver any day soon,’ says Kenny Yearwood.

  Dean says, ‘Believe me, I cannot wait.’

  ‘If Mum could’ve seen yer,’ says Ray, ‘she’d be so proud.’

  ‘She did see it, love,’ says Aunt Marge, pinching Dean’s cheek.

  More encounters with old classmates, teachers and people from Dean’s old life continue until, after a couple of pints, a girl comes up. ‘You won’t remember me,’ she begins, ‘but—’

  ‘Jude. Brighton Poly. Yer lent Elf a guitar. How are yer?’

  She’s pleased. ‘You need a record deal. Right now.’

  ‘I’ve written to Santa,’ says Dean. ‘Fingers crossed.’

  ‘It’s only July. But have you been naughty or nice?’

  Flirty flirty. ‘How’s Gaz? Was that his name?’

  ‘I do not know and I do not care to know.’

  Praise be the Lord. ‘I’m dead sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Yeah, I bet you are.’

  Dean inhales her perfume. ‘What’re yer doing here?’

  ‘My brother likes his music, and he said a band called Utopia Avenue was playing. My ears pricked up, and hey presto.’

  ‘I’m amazed yer bothered after the last time.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’

  Shanks pops up behind her, signalling that they need to go.

  Dean signals for two more minutes. ‘Me and Jasper are staying over at a friend’s here in town. D’yer want to …?’

  My my, say Jude’s lifted eyebrows. ‘One step at a time, Speedy Gonzales. My brother’s driving me back to Brighton. I’ve got a job at a cosmetics wholesalers. But …’ she waves a folded-up square of paper ‘… if you’re free – as in not seeing anyone else – here’s my work number. You’ll have to pretend to be a customer or my boss’ll get suspicious. Plus, that’s written on Mission Impossible paper that’ll turn to dust in forty-eight hours.’ She reaches inside Dean’s jacket and slips the paper in. She gives him a peck on the cheek. ‘Call me. Or repent at your leisure. Seriously – the band’s great. You’re going to be famous.’

  Shanks puts the nozzle to his mouth and smoke curls down the hookah’s neck – bubble, bubble, toil and trouble – and into his well tanned lungs … and out, in clouds of cauliflower.

  ‘Are these things legal?’ Kenny asks.

  Shanks mimes the scales of justice. ‘The apparatus, yes. The herbal cocktail in the vase might excite the fuzz. I pay insurance.’ A long and living hush unfurls. Jim Morrison sings about The End. ‘Oy, Deano – are we doing okay?’

  ‘Very,’ says Dean. He takes the nozzle’s nipple, squeezes it between his lips, thinks of Jude and … Suck it up, bubbly-bubble, here it comes, now hold it in … And lets it out again. ‘It’s … like …’ Words are failing me tonight. ‘Breastfeeding plus levitation.’

  Brother Ray rocks with laughter. Not a sound comes out.

  ‘You ’n’ Jasper,’ Kenny says, ‘are like a married couple.’

  Jasper’s face reminds Dean of Stan Laurel’s as he thinks this through. ‘Let’s not go there.’ He sucks upon the nozzle. The hookah’s nothing new to him. Jasper lived in Amsterdam.

  Dean asks, ‘Would they dig us over in Amsterdam?’

  Jasper’s words reverberate a bit ahead of time. ‘First we need a record deal. Otherwise, it’s amateur hour.’

  Our end-o’-the-rainbow record deal. Dean feels lost in space and needs to take his bearings. Shanks’s flat above his shop, the fabled Magic Bus. The wee small hours. Who’s who? Yours truly; Shanks the Shanks; his lady friend called Piper; brother Ray; Kenny Yearwood; Jasper and a girl who just appeared, post-gig, with clear designs on Herr de Zoet. She says her name is Ivy. The six of them are motionless. A Rembrandt. See? I know art. Painted by the candle’s brush upon the living dark …

  … till Shanks dispels the Rembrandt spell with a flutter-by of words. ‘You four were something else tonight. Out of this freaking world! One o’ these days soon, I’ll be shooting off my mouth, “Oh, yeah, yeah, me ’n’ Dean Moss go back – we saw Little Richard – I taught him his first chords …” Those songs! “Darkroom”, “Smithereens”, “Mona Lisa” … each one could be a hit. Don’t you reckon, Piper?’

  ‘FM radio in Seattle would eat you with a spoon.’

  ‘I hope it happens soon. I ain’t got a pot to piss in.’

  Jasper isn’t listening. His ear is being whispered in by Ivy, Ivy, Ivy. He looks at Shanks who reads his mind. ‘Spare room’s down the landing, kids. It’s only got a single bed. Dare say that’ll do you.’ Ivy leaves, the way cats do, dissolving into shadow. Dean makes sure Jude’s number’s safe. It’s still here in my jacket.

  Brother Ray warns Jasper, ‘Mate, I’m impressed. My cock’s as stoned as I am.’ Jasper shrugs.

  ‘A word o’ warning,’ pipes up Kenny, ‘a scientific fact. Gravesend girls are eggs on legs – all you do is sneeze on one and suddenly they’re three months late, the family’s banging down yer door, all calling you the daddy. Ray here knows of what I speak.’

  Ray mimes the hangman’s noose. Ray takes the holy nozzle … and expels a genie, limb by smoking limb. ‘Make sure yer wear a thingie. Yer came prepared, I hope?’

  Jasper does a Scout’s salute and follows after Ivy.

  ‘What ’bout you?’ Ray’s asking him. ‘Getting any oats?’

  Piper floats away. ‘Think I’ll retire discreetly, boys, to spare my virgin blushes – see you in the morning.’

  Stoned Dean takes another toke – Suck it in, bubbly-bubbly, hold it and release – and hopes the topic’s gone away.

  ‘What ’bout you?’ Ray’s asking him. ‘Getting any oats?’

  Anything for a quiet life. ‘Not much. There was a girl from St John’s Wood at Elf’s sister’s wedding. We had a weekend at her place. That’s all for June.’

  ‘Yer jammy git,’ says Kenny. ‘All Tracy ever says is, “No engagement ring, no sex – what bit don’t yer understand?” I should just drop her now, but her dad’s my boss. Utter bloody nightmare.’

  It’s Ray’s turn: ‘Some days are good. I like being a dad. Mostly when Wayne’s unconscious. But Shirl’s a moody cow, as often as not. I had more crumpet when I was single. Every day she’s turning more into her mother. Marriage is a prison, funded by the prisoners. What d’yer reckon, Shanks? Yer’ve been through the grinder twice.’

  Shanks puts the Doors back into their sleeve and puts on Velvet Underground. ‘Marriage is an anchor, lads. Stops you drifting onto rocks, but stops you voyaging as well.’

  The first track on side one, ‘Sunday Morning’, pulls Dean up inside it. Nico’s half a note off-key but sounds the better for it.

  Ray sits up and asks, ‘Who’s Elf seeing, then?’ Dean’s too relaxed to answer. Ray gently kicks Dean’s foot. ‘Who’s Elf seeing?’

  Dean lifts his head. ‘Some projectionist, in Leicester Square.’

  Kenny asks, ‘Have you or Griff or Jasper ever had a nibble?’

  ‘Elf? Jesus, Kenny, no. It’d be like shagging yer sister.’

  Now Kenny sits up. ‘Yer what? You’ve been shagging Jackie?’

  The hookah’s spell is fading. Dean lies where he lies on Shanks’s Turkish carpet. He remembers his father telling him, ‘Yer’ve stayed at yer nan’s for long enough. High time yer came back home.’ He told Nan Moss, ‘Thanks for all yer’ve done, but Dean belongs with me. Vi’d agree, God bless her soul.’ Who could object to that? He moved back in on New Year’s Day. His mum had died in September. As winter turned to spring, his list of jobs grew longer. Cooking, shopping, cleaning, laundry, ironing, polishing the shoes. Everything his mum once did. ‘The world don’t owe yer a living,’ his father said, ‘any more’n I do.’ Harry Moffat had always liked his drink, but Dean was shocked to see him drink a bottle of Morning Star a day
– a cheap and nasty vodka. He functioned fine. No one guessed. Not the neighbours, no one at work. His dad was still a charming rogue once he left the house. At Peacock Road, ‘bad’ slid into ‘worse’. He made rules. Impossible rules. Rules that always shifted. If Dean stayed out, he was dossing around. If Dean stayed in, he was sat on his arse. If Dean didn’t speak, he was a stroppy shit. If Dean spoke, he was lippy. ‘Hit me, then, if yer fancy a pop. Go on. Let’s see what happens.’ Dean never dared. Father press-ganged son into his noble-widower act. Dean had to stow the empty bottles in a different bin each day. Answering the phone was Dean’s job too. If his dad was blotto, he’d say, ‘He’s just popped out.’ Dean did what was necessary, exactly like his mother. He lied to Ray. ‘Yeah, can’t complain, how’s Dagenham?’ What was Ray supposed to do? Give up his apprenticeship? Try to reason with the man? If reason worked on alcoholics, there’d be no alcoholics. But when Dean started art school, something had to give …

  Bonfire Night. Dean was sixteen. He came back from a firework party at Ebbsfleet and found his father frowning over the Mirror on the kitchen table. The day’s bottle of Morning Star was empty.

  Dean just said, ‘Evening.’

  ‘Give the boy a prize.’

  Dean drew the kitchen curtains, noticing a small bonfire in the garden incinerator where they burned rubbish, leaves and weeds, usually on a Saturday. That day was a Friday. ‘Had a bonfire, I see.’

  ‘Some old shite needed burning.’

  ‘I’ll say g’night, then.’

  Dean’s father turned the page.

  Dean went upstairs to his room – and noticed the sickening absences, one by one, like punches to his gut. His Futurama guitar. His Dansette. His Teach Yourself Guitar books. His signed photo of Little Richard. Dean heard the bonfire crackle.

  He rushed downstairs, past the man who’d done this, and out into the frosty air to see what could be salvaged …

  The bonfire was burning nicely. Only the Futurama’s fretboard remained, its varnish bubbling. Purple flames licked its neck. The Dansette was a spindle and blackened Bakelite. The books were sheets of ash. The signed photograph of Little Richard was gone. Dean’s dad had added lumps of coal and a few firelighters. The purple flames toasted Dean’s face. The smoke was oily and toxic.