Heaven's Promise (8 page)

‘If the photos had been in the local rag you wouldn't particularly give a fuck, would you? But if your mummy and daddies are the ones who are caked up to the eyeballs and running the show over at Westminster, it's a different story, innit?

‘Anyway, old Lord Haw Haw has had a few irate pater and maters on the phone and the college head is right on his case. So now he's figuring the best thing to do is get out while the going's good and find something else to get into. I mean the guy maybe slow on the uptake but he knows one thing, money makes money. So while I'm decking him out, he starts picking my brains for some new angle.

‘That night I go out with my kid brother to that club and I'm sitting there amongst all this madness thinking of some way of getting in with the geezer and, suddenly, it hits me. There it is right, in front of me. Get in on this Acid House thing now. So what I need to know is whether you think this scene is going to last. I mean, look at punk. If you had got in there right at the start there's no knowing where you'd be now.'

Throughout this speed spiel Brother P. and I exchanged bewildering glances as we were not too sure where Davey Boy was going but as his verbal jigsaw came together we had to tell truth that we were not particularly sure about this latest development on the teen scene but if we had any thoughts on the matter then Davey Boy would be the first to know.

‘By the way,' I said, ‘have you had any luck with that original Dormeuil tonic material I was after?'

‘Can't say I have as yet,' Davey Boy replied, ‘but I've heard about a little warehouse I'm going to have a snoop around soon, so give me a shout next week. see if we can't come up with something. Here, how's the club doing? I might pass by soon and shake a leg, you never know. Mind you, the reports I've heard about your DJ'ing you'd be better off mixing in the kitchen than on a turntable. See ya next week, boys.'

Making our exit with Davey Boy slapping us on our shoulders, Brother P. and I ventured onto Oxford St., discussing Davey Boy's proposal and trying to figure out whether he was onto something, which, to tell truth, we couldn't really see.

‘Workways is bestways for me,' Brother P. then announced, ‘I've got a few loose things to tie up,' and, agreeing to parlare with each other before the day's sun was down and out, we parted company.

‘Hey,' shouted the man as I walked off, ‘take it easy now.

Things will be cool.'

I couldn't share his optimism but I didn't want him to check that so I signalled back my agreement with a raised hand and made tracks to Tottenham Court Tube leaving him to hustle up work and the old cashola.

I should add here that the Brother P. could not and would not let himself be defined by the nature of his job as most numbers are, if only because his work was so varied that no single title had yet been invented to encompass all his known activities.

The only connecting factor to all his various dealings was, I suppose, the music game. One week would find him running on errands for some record company, placing a tune of theirs with all the right people, whilst the next he would be handing out flyers for a one off club he would be setting up, always observing his golden rule by dropping off free tickets at the model agencies.

‘A club full of women is the only club both men and women want to go to,' the Brother P, explained and, indeed, on the nights I had helped out as a warm up DJ I had seen his theory work beautifully in practice. People were always bugging about when the next event would be but Brother P. knew the value of not overloading and so his sporadic events were always something special.

He was as obsessed with music as I was and through this mutual love we had developed, over the years, our own little code. For the example, certain frames of mind were defined by the overall tone of a particular artist's work.

If you were feeling Stevie (Wonder) then you were happy with the world and your place in it. If a Marvin (Gaye) was approaching then it was odds on that you were moving into a reflective spiritual state usually brought about by a gal, whilst a Nina (Simone) denoted a bad one, a time of darkness that only her pain filled voice could crack open and bring in the light. You certainly needed a Curtis (Mayfield) to help you recuperate or maybe a touch of Sly (Stone) would do the trick.

Such was the tone of our friendship whose roots stretched back to the same part of London that we inhabited although we were never as linked up in those times as we are now.

This was back in the days, when we were both based around Kentish Town and well before my P&M decided to cash in their chips and travel around the world as a lifetime reward for hard work (dad was a printer, mum, a nurse) and raising myself in times both happy and harsh.

Going about our separate runnings, many was the time that Brother P. and I would pass each other on the street, slyly checking out each other's gears but never letting a word pass between us, such is our nature.

It was, of all people, a group of striking miners that brought us together and God bless them for doing so as well as giving Mrs. T. a real run for her money.

Now, in the matter of politics, I have to relate that I was raised on a steady and balanced diet of Socialism and although I am not au fait with all the ins and outs, the names and dates, I must state that when my father, a union rep, no less, parlared with me on the subject, I automatically thought it natural, as I do to this day, that some kind of equality amongst the people was a given necessary if you wanted a society to function in a cool and collected manner.

Furthermore, when you checked it, some of the top guys and gals to have walked amongst us, Jesus, Gandhi, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X., and all the other brave souls who put their lives on the line, were basically of the same opinion, and I am certainly not about to argue with them on the subject.

I realise of course that in this day and age such views are held to be old fashioned, but there are some fundamentals, (and I can hear my father talking now) that you have to defend and live by.

For my parents, Margaret Thatcher was the last straw. ‘Look at her eyes,' my father would exclaim when she came on TV, ‘they're not only evil but they're unbalanced. Mark my words. She'll ransack this country and then walk away leaving us all in the shit.'

This, coupled with the feeling that he and mum could never shake off, namely that this country treated everyone like a child who had to be in bed by ten at the latest, forced their hand, and they fled to more civilised climates, places where you can get a coffee at two in the morning or walk the street late at night without being hassled by the cops.

I fully agreed with my parent's decision to split but I have to say that everytime I pass Big Ben, I have to resist the urge to pop in and harangue the collected MPs for letting people as good as my parents just up and leave, for this country is so much poorer without the likes of them, and I won't hear any different.

It took me a long time to suss out that every political team was simply there to maintain the status quo although I must just add that I would never waste my vote given the people down the ages who have fought for us to have that right. The least we can do is mark a piece of paper every four years, if only in memory of their indomitable spirit, although Brother P. had come to these conclusions a lot earlier than me and had decided to live, as most do now, by his own rules and regulations, come hell or high water.

Which is why, in 1985, we linked up by Kentish Town tube station. The miners' strike was about halfway through and in an effort to keep them going, some miners had travelled south and set up stalls all over town to raise money, food and clothing for the fight.

On a bitterly cold day I had arisen at an early hour to go and lend some of my time to their cause and, on reaching their stall, found that the Brother P. had beaten me by a good five minutes and was busy handing over a bag full of sandwiches, cakes, fruit and plantain.

‘That's really good of you,' the young, fresh faced miner who was manning the stall, was telling him, ‘it's not often you see your kind...'

‘Our kind,' said the Brother P. automatically, ‘our kind.'

The miner looked at the man in front of him and recognised a new breed of Briton, different colour but British all the same. He extended his hand. ‘You're right my friend, our kind it is.'

These were the early days of the strike, a testing lull before battle proper commenced and this country's working class showed, once again, the way forward. The war might have been lost but in battle their sense of unity was a real and true testament to how easily people can come together and if that sounds naive, then so be it. Never let anyone tell you different, for that, such as making the poor feel guilty about having money, is just another ploy by the rich to keep their loot.

At the stall, I had no choice but to break the ice between us and say, ‘Alright, nice pair of strides you got on.'

The man didn't even glance down at his blue and grey Prince of Wales check number, but simply replied, ‘Yeah?' in that familiar questioning tone I have come to know so well. We left it at that.

Over the next few weeks we nodded to each other when we passed until it became crystal clear that the silence would have to be broken, which it was in a record shop where we bumped into each other whilst simultaneously reaching for a copy of The Isley Brothers album, ‘Black Berries.'

Brother P. said, ‘Cool, you take it. I know where I can get another copy.'

‘Where's that?' I enquired and we were off and running, parlaring about this, that and the other. We ended up back at my home as my P&M were both at work. I skinned up a huge joint in celebration of our link, smoked off a bit and then offered it to him.

‘No thanks, I don't. It fuddles the brain too much.' He left me ten minutes later staring up at the ceiling.

I had just started DJ'ing and my financial position was such that I was required to stay at home. This was cool with my folks but as they were itching to go AWOL and put their feet up on some large cruiser and watch the world go by, I was looking to move.

It was the Brother P. who threw me a lifeline by securing me a spot at The Unity and pointing me towards my flat on the Stroud Green, P&M helping out with the deposit and a month's rent, which is where I was now heading for.

It was now 2.30 p.m. and as I hit the Stroud Green concrete, brilliant sunshine poured down onto the street, cutting through the fading crisp air. It was delightfully warm but very unsettling because February had no business being this hot and everyone around you knew it.

It was the most serious sign that seasonal changes, the secure routine of winter, spring, summer and autumn, which as a child you set your watch and life to, was now under threat and when something as fundamental as the world's temperature starts to malfunction, a quiet panic slowly envelopes you. When you consider that the problemo is man-made you get even more panicky. Everyone knows about man's capacity to destroy, but, sad to say, the judges are still out on his ability to see the light and start the healing.

A shrinking, bleeding ozone layer shrank the future and was yet another 20th century concern that made you want to holler at the way they did your life. It detonated inside you the kind of shock feelings you get when someone you know unexpectedly dies and in a terrible flash you clearly felt and saw how fragile life truly is, and what's the point of making plans or dreaming dreams if that's how it is, which, let's face it, is not the most healthy way to conduct your affairs.

That said there was a real rush to be had by the scenery that swarmed around me as Africans strolled the streets in their traditional gears, and then there was the local guys and gals all dressed up as if they had just stepped off the set of the latest Spike Lee flick, old looking Greek guys disappearing into shops where the windows were all blacked out, shopkeepers shooting the breeze with their customers, children chasing each other in and out of the other shoppers who cursed them out, and not to forget the old folk who, like the young, had their own particular dress code.

It was like being in a film with so many characters to grab your attention that my mind was totally elsewhere when my heart dropped a beat and I realised that the very serious gal standing outside my front door was none other than Sandra.

‘Hi,' she said, as I caught up with her. I said nothing, simply nodded at her and opened up the door, leaving it open for her to follow me up.

This she did, locating herself in my front room whilst I made for the bedroom where I keep basic coffee making equipment, utensils, I ruefully noted, that I had used not so long ago as she lay sleeping in my bed.

As I made the coffee I had the notion to try and keep everything formal between us as if we were two people who had just met and were about to have a coffee before we got down to business. I still have no idea where these crazy ideas come from.

‘What have you been up to?' I asked her as I came in with the coffee. Sandra sat on my small sofa amidst the mess of records, sleeves, magazines, cassettes and opened envelopes.

‘Nothing much,' she replied, taking her coffee. ‘Just getting on with things. How about you?'

She nodded to the three record boxes over by the dex. ‘Still DJ'ing I see.'

‘Yeah, normal runnings. Been going out at all?'

‘Nah, I've had other things on my mind.'

We sat in silence, the tension between us as palpable as the hot cups we held for we both had separate programmes to follow and were determined to do so, whatever the cost. It was time to get into one.

‘So what are you going to do about this mess we're in?'

‘Jesus,' she angrily shot back, ‘do you have to be so off all the time? I am pregnant, you know.'

‘Yeah, I heard. Someone told me. Congratulations. I hope you'll both be very happy.'

‘Don't be sarcastic, it doesn't become you.'