Broken Birdie Chirpin (14 page)

The
house was completely dark save for a porch light and a soft glow radiating from
a window on the far left side of the first floor. Hopefully Becky intended it
as a signal because I certainly didn’t need a bullet wound to compliment my
bruised and swollen face. I reached up and lightly tapped the window with the
tip of my index finger. Seconds later a silhouette emerged from behind the
sheer curtains. Its shadowy hands lurched forth and slowly spread the curtains
apart. I stood poised to dive headfirst into the shrubbery if necessary. Becky.

Her
eyes widened at the sight of my wounds. She slid open the window with great
care before leaning forward. “What happened?” Her voice might’ve been soft but
her tone was thundering.

“I
don’t want to be shot. Let’s shove off somewhere a bit safer.” Becky motioned
for me to back away so she could shimmy out. This obviously wasn’t her first
rodeo.

“There’s
a small park a few minutes up the street. We’ll be alone save for the tramps.”
She grabbed my hand and led me across the garden. We strolled in silence until
Aunt Kate’s house disappeared around the corner. “Well, who did this to you?”

“Brother.”
I relayed the entire sordid encounter all the while embellishing those
particular parts that portrayed me in a mostly gallant manner. Every word
seemed to ignite a fire in Becky’s guts.

“Your
brother’s probably got a plonker the size of a baby carrot.” I smiled even
though it made my face hurt. “I know boys will be boys and all that, but you
ought to tell your mum and dad so he doesn’t try to snuff you out in your sleep.”

“I’d
only be shooting myself in the foot. Dad would sign my rights over to the
British Army or else ground me until my plums touch the floor.”

“That’s
absurd. Your face tells the entire story.”

“You
really want to know me, Becky?”

“Of
course I do.” She smiled reassuringly. Bloody hell. I’d just stepped over the
edge of a steep cliff in the name of bonding. I told her all about Il Duce,
brother, and their exclusive fraternity. She listened intently as I recounted
tales of exclusion, barbarism, and inequity. I also told her about mum, the
covert support she offered for my rock n’ roll fantasy, and my wish that she’d
someday offer it in the light of day. Blah, blah, blah. Freud would’ve needed a
cold shower on account of this rubbish.

We
talked for hours upon hours as we sat side by side on the grass. Lincoln. Rip
Churchill. God. The Kinks. My buzz was enormous because I’d never felt closer
to anyone before. I finally reached out and put my arm around her shoulders.
She didn’t resist so I pulled tighter. The intoxicating smell of her hair
compelled me to plant a soft smacker on top of her head. Becky gazed up at me,
leaned forward ever so slowly, and affectionately kissed my gob. Candy floss.

There
exists an oasis where inspiration bursts forth like black gold from the fertile
loam and every odd bellbird chirps a melody worth remembering. There’s no
bloody map or nautical chart that can deliver you there, but you know the
instant you’ve arrived because you never ever want to depart.

Regrettably,
time marches forth without regard for personal satisfaction. Our canoodling
eased to an end as dawn began to replace darkness. I assured her that there’d
be letters, phone calls, even flowers. She promised to visit often. These
mutual reassurances didn’t dissolve the lump in my throat as I delivered Becky
safely back to the foot of Aunt Kate’s first floor window.

“See
you around, slapper.” I stared at her arse whilst she climbed back into the
guestroom. She leaned out for one last peck before transforming into a silhouette
once more.

Moments
later I stood alone in the damp morning air nursing a solitary thought: It was
time to write some rock n’ roll.

I
eased out of bed and crept across the bedroom. I grabbed my blue jeans off the
plush carpet and exited into the hallway. Bloody hell. The bedroom door
squeaked rather loudly as I pulled it shut. I paused for a moment before
tiptoeing to my studio. I’d dropped buckets of quid on the finest digital
recorders, microphones, headphones, compressors, etc. Regrettably, those
technological wonders couldn’t write a witty lyric or a catchy melody. They’d
only served as a steady reminder of my ever evaporating musical genius. This
particular morning felt different, however.

I
snatched my rosewood Gibson J-45 from its wall mount and sat down. She quickly
fell into tune before I began fiddling around with different chord
progressions. Suddenly the sounds jumping off the sounding board were fresh
again. Lyrics started to grow out of the music like marigold. Irony. Double
entendres. A feverish bacchanalia of glam and swagger soiled the formerly
sterile walls of my studio.

The
dead end surely lurked around the next corner, waiting to put paid to my
resurgence. Sod off. I emerged two hours later with the material required to
reclaim my band from the clutches of Captain Skeffington and his fluffers.

***

“Rose
Anna Springs” was born as the sun rose above the horizon.

Lincoln’s
specter never descended from the rafters to bellow luvvly-jubbly lyrics at me
from the hereafter. His elongated spectral fingers didn’t supernaturally guide
mine up and down the fret board of my acoustic guitar. Regrettably, Lincoln’s
own song for Rose had been lost the moment his brain died. I’d become
possessed, however, by the same primordial emotion that’d inspired him to
compose it in the first place. In this small way Lincoln sat smiling beside me
the entire time.

I
felt the urge to play it for Rose post haste, before time mercifully ripped
away the vividness of her emotions. She deserved to know that hers wasn’t a
love unrequited, and that all of her sobbing hadn’t been for naught. The
exercise would be mostly cathartic for me as well since it represented the
fulfillment of my fallen comrade’s request. He surely would’ve been chuffed
since “Rose Anna Springs” was the finest song I’d ever written.

I
could’ve comfortably resided inside the afterglow of my creation for days.
Regrettably, Mr. Surtees expected me at work in less than an hour. Mum expected
me at the breakfast table in less than five minutes. Bloody hell. The bruised
face that stared back at me in the mirror as I styled my hair provided a final
reminder that reality always lurked right around the bend.

Ollie
Maserati died one week later. His mum and dad pulled him off the machines and
he simply stopped breathing. The funeral was a private affair attended only by
the closest of family and friends. Frisby. The kidney blow that sent him
stumbling into the ropes had been followed by a vicious haymaker to the jaw
that sent him straight to the canvas. I hoped he might find the strength to jump
back in the ring again someday soon, but I feared the worst.

PART IV

SONNY
BOYD WHEELER

Skeffington
wanted to meet up during my lunch hour to discuss the future of our creative
partnership. He refused to share the particulars during our telephone
conversation despite my urging. I suspected he’d been up to some rather
misguided chicanery on account of his enthusiasm.

“Listen,
mate, it’s time to get the train back on the tracks. I telephoned the manager
over at Frankie Shū’s Ballroom and he’ll book us again as soon as we’re
ready. I also scheduled our audition at The Satin Vault for mid-August. It
gives us something to shoot for again.” These were enormous decisions made by
Skeffington without my input or blessing. I might’ve been able to stomach his
lack of consideration but for the next bit of rubbish that flopped forth from
his gob.

“Donnie
Fitzgibbons said he can join us right off. His drummer from The Tight Fitz,
Mickey Cormac, is also available.” My facial expression must’ve betrayed the
horrible fury bubbling within me. “Relax, mate. They don’t have to be our
permanent fix, but they’re certainly capable of keeping things together for the
next few months.” Bloody hell. Skeffington was fixing to splice Rip Churchill
back together as if it were Frankenstein’s monster.

“I’ve
got a sodding brilliant idea. Let’s become a cover band and rename ourselves
The Tight Fitz. Do you fancy that, mate?”

“I
care just as much about all of this as you do. But I’m going to dust myself off
and get back in the bloody fray as quickly as possible.”

“Well,
you are captain of the jocks, aren’t you?”

“Oh,
I see. So what’s your plan? Mope around like a fanny because the best days of
your life are in the rearview? You think Lincoln would want Rip Churchill to
die? It’s his legacy too.”

“Bugger
off. You don’t get to use Lincoln’s memory like that. You barely wanted him in
the bloody band. No matter. Cletus would never sell out anyway. Although you’d
probably be happy to replace him with Dickey Doolittle from The Tight Fitz,
right?”

“Cletus
is on board. I spoke to him yesterday.” Mutiny.

“Bloody
hell. And I suppose of you’ve spoken to Frisby too. I’m certain he’s chuffed
that you’ve singlehandedly replaced him with a poseur.”

“I
told you this is a short term fix, mate. If Frisby wants back in once his
head’s on straight then so be it. And what do you have against Donnie, anyway?
He’s a decent bloke who happens to love rock n’ roll as much as we do.”

“Blah,
blah, blah. I’m done. You and the other twonks can do whatever. But you’re not
Rip Churchill, so don’t even think about it.”

“I’ll
tell you what. Give me a ring after your head’s been removed from your arse.”

“Aye,
aye, Captain.” 

I
spent the early part of the afternoon fantasizing about starting my own band.
We’d rise to the Top of the Pops like a bloody Skylon while Skeffington and his
Disciples fluffed the headliners at The Thirsty Bard. Perhaps I’d even let
Skeffington and Cletus polish my Ferrari Enzo or re-string my guitar for a tiny
whiff of superstardom. Sod off.

Regrettably,
I spent the latter part of the afternoon wondering if I’d shot myself in the
foot.

Maggie
telephoned to invite me to a soiree hosted by her workmate, Cecilia, from the
beauty salon. It was apparently an annual affair that drew hordes of would-be
partygoers from all corners of London Town. Loud music. Cheap beer. I wasn’t
particularly interested in selling Becky out for another go with Maggie, but
the perfect opportunity to play “Rose Anna Springs” for its namesake had just
flopped into my lap.

My
arrival at the supper table briefly interrupted a cheerful discussion regarding
brother’s new girlfriend. That was the first I’d heard of her of course.
Shirley Weller. They’d met at football camp earlier in the summer and brother
finally gathered up the nerve to ask her to the movies. Bloody hell. Mum and
dad gushed as if he’d just gotten engaged or something. I couldn’t help but
feel terribly sorry for this misguided bird. Fortunately, I ate my beer
battered haddock in relative anonymity as brother reaped the rewards of his
machismo.

I
slipped out of the house about an hour later with guitar in tow. Covert
maneuvers weren’t required because it was Friday night. I tried to focus on the
party, but my squabble with Skeffington kept popping back into my bonce like a
bloody yo-yo. Becky thought I’d done the right thing by standing my ground, but
she didn’t fully understand the creative partnership that Skeffington and I
shared. It wouldn’t be easy starting over and there weren’t any guarantees. The
devil that you know and all that rubbish. The very thought, however, of
replacing Lincoln and Frisby with Donnie and Mickey made me feel manky.
Decisions. Decisions. One thing I knew for certain: Frisby deserved the decency
of a telephone call before being banished into obscurity.

Cecilia’s
dwelling was unmistakable on account of the steady current of merrymakers
stumbling across the garden. The thumping bass shaking its beams provided
another clear indication. I suddenly felt a bit nervous. Finding Rose or Maggie
in that crowd wouldn’t be easy, and to everyone else I’d look like some sort of
sketchy interloper with a guitar strapped to his back. No matter. No sacrifice
was too great for the sake of fulfilling my celestial mission.

I
inelegantly weaved through the beer sweat, perfume clouds, and testosterone in
search of my fair associates. The dim lighting and overall bedlam made it
horribly difficult to identify particular faces in the crowd. I’d slowly made
my way across the living and dining rooms without any luck. Bloody hell. The
kitchen was even worse as the two kegs lured in wasted birds like horseshoe
magnets. I’d managed to squeeze into the den before someone rather forcefully
tapped my shoulder.

“Hey!
I’m
so
glad you made it.” Maggie had obviously tossed back a few. “But
you’re stiff as a board! You need beer
now
.”

“Where’s
Rose?”

“She’s
around here somewhere. Come on.” She grabbed my hand and led me back into the
kitchen. “Stay
right
here.” The mob swallowed up her slender frame until
she materialized moments later with two plastic cups filled with beer. “You’ve
got some catching up to do!”

“Right.
Sure. I’d really like to find Rose.”

“
Relax
.
We’ll catch up with Rose later,
alright
?” Maggie was making this awfully
difficult, especially since she looked so bloody alluring in her white tank top
and denim short-shorts.

Fortunately,
Rose sprung forth from the bowels of party-central before the night turned
counterproductive.