Chasing Unicorns

by Maggie Kay

  SHAKESPEARE

  Sounds great. You certainly have a way with words. So it looks as though nothing has changed.

  APPLEBY

  What do you mean?

  SHAKESPEARE

  Well, we didn’t call ourselves a Cabinet, but we were certainly the sort of people you describe as Ministers—what was that you said about ‘inane ramblings’? That was certainly us.

  APPLEBY

  I’d rather you didn’t quote me on that. Perhaps I’ve said more than I should. In any event, you have taken those words out of context.

  SHAKESPEARE

  All I’m saying is that you work for a group of people who aren’t up to doing what you do. And we ideas men (if you like) had a guy who did just the same for us. I can’t remember his name and I don’t suppose anyone will remember yours. That’s about it, isn’t it?

  APPLEBY

  I suppose it is.

  SHAKESPEARE

  Anyway, I don’t suppose it matters too much, does it? It’s just a question of words, isn’t it?

  APPLEBY (thoughtfully)

  Words. Yes. The rest is silence.

  SHAKESPEARE

  Now that I do remember! Great line, don’t you think? Nice meeting you. Mind how you go.

  [My piece was created as an exercise in putting two well known characters together and seeing what happens.]

  THE POP STAR AND THE BUSINESS MAN

  Elizabeth Ducie

  Arthur’s heart sank as the train pulled into Reading station. The platform was heaving with festival goers; it was Tuesday, the day after Bank Holiday Monday and even someone who’d been on another planet for the past two weeks and didn’t know anything about the annual music festival would have been able to work out that something had been going on. It wasn’t usual to see this busy commuter station packed with—well, ‘hippies’ wasn’t a word one heard very often, but it was the only one Arthur could bring to mind. Groups of young people were leaning against pillars, sprawling across seats—not that there were many of those in Reading these days—or sitting on the floor. Some were chatting animatedly, and one large group near the platform for the Gatwick Express were singing along to a guitar, but most were dozing where they stood, or staring into space. It looked like most of them hadn’t slept for several days—and even without being close enough to check, Arthur knew they wouldn’t have been too fussed about hygiene at the festival grounds either.

  The train sat at platform 4 for several minutes, while the announcer told ‘customers’ there was a problem with a signal further down the line and they were held up by another train just ahead of them. He apologised for ‘any inconvenience caused’ but it didn’t sound as though he meant it; it was more a case of ‘I’ve got to sit here on this train and put up with it, so everyone else has to as well.’

  One or two of the festival goers got on the train; Arthur left his briefcase and mackintosh on the seat next to him and buried his nose in his newspaper. A couple of people slowed as they approached him and looked pointedly at him—he could see their reflection in the window—but he ignored them and they moved on to other parts of the train, leaving him with his precious double seat to himself. He had been doing this journey for years now and no-one’s stares had any effect on him; it was a point of honour to maintain the empty seat next to him for as many days as possible. Today would make it twenty-five—nearly a month—and a personal record for him. He smiled to himself and made a note in his virtual notebook to brag to Billy Jones when they got to work the next day.

  Just then three things happened at once: the guard blew the whistle, the train gave a lurch as the brakes were released prior to starting off—and the carriage door was yanked open. A tall balding man in jeans and a polo-necked jumper flung himself onto the train and slammed the door shut, just as the train began to move. He walked straight over to Arthur’s seat, picked up the briefcase and mackintosh and dropped them on the table with a “you don’t mind do you, mate?” and subsided into the seat with a massive sigh.

  Arthur stared at him in consternation: it wasn’t the fact that this man had touched his things, although that was sacrilege on a British train; it wasn’t the fact that he’d lost his precious empty seat and with it his chance to snatch the record off Billy Jones; it wasn’t even the fact that this was obviously someone from the festival and was therefore not the freshest-smelling passenger with whom to spend a journey. No, it was the fact that Arthur knew this man; he had spent his teenage years with his picture pinned up on his wall; he had bought all his records and had once saved up his pocket money for three months in order to buy a ticket to a concert in Plymouth. This was Jet Stevens, lead singer of the Granite Elephants, hero of many a 1960s teenager; and therefore always 21 in their eyes. He couldn’t be an ageing festival goer. It wasn’t right—and it was too much of a reminder to Arthur that he was no longer a teenager either.

  “God, that was terrible,” the words ricocheted around the compartment. Arthur looked up from his newspaper—he’d been staring at it unseeingly, trying to decide whether to speak to this living legend or to ignore him. His inclination was leaning towards the latter, but Jet had taken the decision out of his hands.

  “What, the station? Yes, Reading’s always busy at this time of day, but it’s especially bad today—the festival you know.” Arthur groaned inwardly; how could he try to tell Jet Stevens about a music festival?

  “No, not the station, man; I could handle the station. I’m talking about the festival.”

  “Oh, right,” Arthur murmured.

  “It’s all my manager’s fault,” Jet continued. Arthur looked around wildly. Everyone else was studiously avoiding his eyes, but he was fairly sure they were all listening intently. “I told him it was a mistake booking me in to Reading. But would he listen? Would he ever?” Arthur cleared his throat and shook his newspaper irritably. “I told him they wouldn’t have heard of me—and I was right.”

  “But everyone’s heard of you, haven’t they?” The words were out of Arthur’s mouth before he could stop them. “You’re Jet Stevens.” Jet swivelled in his seat and stared at Arthur open-mouthed.

  “Fancy a suit like you knowing who I am.”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve got every one of your albums—even that odd one you did during your punk phase—and I’ve seen you play live many times over the years.” He glanced down at his suit and briefcase and smiled ruefully, “I didn’t always dress like this, you know.”

  “Man, I could have done with you at the festival,” said Jet, “and a few of your friends as well. They put me on during the day—late morning, in fact. Half the kids were still in bed and those that were up and about seemed more interested in finding some breakfast than listening to my music. Someone told me they were ‘like really, really tired’!”

  “Not like the Isle of Wight ’73 then?”

  “You were there?” Arthur nodded and Jet grinned as he went on. “Wow, yeah, that was some gig. I reckon there was so much dope being smoked there, the seagulls must have been stoned for a week after we’d left.”

  “Not to mention the old girls from the sea-front.”

  “Right! The ones that tutted every time we walked past. I don’t think they appreciated our music at all, did they?”

  “And they didn’t like you here, then?”

  “Well, if I’m honest, the reception wasn’t too bad once I’d got started. They clapped politely when I came on, but were cheering by the time I finished. I even heard one or two brave souls singing along with the chorus of Brighton Belle.”

  “Oh, I’ve done that once or twice myself. Brighton Belle, you can go to hell.”

  “I’m off to see the world!” Jet joined in. Arthur looked around, a bit embarrassed at being caught singing on the 5:37 from Paddington to Exeter St David, but noticed that the few people who did meet his eye (it was that sort of train) were actually grinning and one woman at the other end of the compartment was also singing along. Arthur suddenly didn’t feel like a bank
manager for the Kensington branch of a high street bank; he was right back to his student days.

  “I saw you perform that live in Regent’s Park,” he said. Jet looked confused, but Arthur nodded confirmation. “I was at Bedford College, on the Outer Circle. We used to have live bands on stage every Sunday. I saw Elkie Brooks when she was singing with Vinegar Joe; my namesake Arthur Brown with his Crazy World; I even saw Hawkwind one night—no, I tell a lie; that was at one of the University College gigs; I bopped to Tiger Feet when Mud came to play at our Christmas Party; and I was there when you guys did your surprise appearance at the charity gig. I hadn’t wanted to go; I was working for an exam the following week but my flatmates convinced me to pop out for a quick pint—and I was so glad I did.”

  “God yes, I’d forgotten that; someone had to drop out and they asked us at the last minute. I seem to remember we raised a lot of money that evening.”

  “And then, when you did the Brighton Belle tour, I skipped lectures to queue for tickets. They went on sale in the Virgin Store on Oxford Street at four o’clock in the afternoon and we’d been there since six in the morning. Got told off by a policeman for sitting on the pavement; apparently we were making the place look untidy! But it was worth it—and we got ace seats.”

  Jet stood up and gave himself a shake. “I need some coffee, man; can I get you some?” As he headed off towards the buffet car, he seemed unaware of the eyes following him and the smiles lighting up the carriage. ‘Looks like we’ve got a whole bunch of ageing hippies on here,’ thought Arthur.

  When Jet came back with two sealed cups of coffee and a brown paper bag full of nibbles, he seemed to be a bit more relaxed. Arthur told him he hadn’t realised the Granite Elephants were still performing live.

  “We’re not; we’ve not been on stage all together since the big bust-up in 1983, although three of us got together and did a bit of a tribute when Antony died. Joey plays with another band now, and Vinnie’s pretty much retired—his health’s not good, I’m afraid.” He paused and they paid silent tribute to missing band members. “It’s just me that wanted to get back on the road, really. But I’m not sure this new manager of mine is going to work out.”

  “Not getting you enough work?”

  “No, quite the opposite. It was him that got me the Reading gig—but it’s not what I want any more. I don’t want to play big stadia or packed festival grounds. I certainly don’t want to go on tour—and I’m not interested in going down the celebrity reality show route.”

  “So we’re not going to see you on Strictly any time soon then?” Arthur grinned.

  “God forbid! No, I just want to perform to small crowds of fans who like my music—like we did in the early days.” Jet sighed and picked up his coffee. “But I guess it’s not possible to turn back the clock like that, is it?”

  “Well, you could come and play at Barnfest for starters,” Arthur said.

  “Never heard of it! What is it; some sort of farming festival?”

  “Not quite. I live in a little town on the edge of Dartmoor called Barnfield. We have a ten-day festival in May each year; concerts, quizzes, writing competitions for the kids, that sort of thing. But we try to have one live concert during the week. It would be great if you would agree to come and top the bill for us. But I guess that might be too small for you. Forget I mentioned it.”

  But Jet assured Arthur he thought it was a great idea and once he’d run it past his manager, he’d get back to him. Before Jet alighted from the train at Tiverton Parkway, he took a copy of Arthur’s card—he always carried a bunch of Barnfest cards as well as his bank ones, just in case. As the train pulled out of the station, Jet was standing waving goodbye.

  Arthur assumed that was the last he would hear from the ageing pop star, but three days later when he got home, his wife was standing on the doorstep waiting for him, her eyes sparkling and a huge grin on her face.

  “You’ll never guess who I’ve been chatting to this afternoon,” she said as she kissed his cheek and took his briefcase out of his grasp.

  And nine months later, Jet Stevens of the Granite Elephants headlined at the Barnfest opening night concert. Arthur and his wife were sitting in the front row, with a crowd of their friends, all of a similar age. There was a lot of grey hair in the room, both on stage and in the audience. But there were no suits and very few ties in evidence. And when they all joined in the chorus of Brighton Belle at the end of the first set, you could hear them half way across Devon.

  [Katy loved all types of music and we often reminisced about the songs we danced to when growing up. She was an avid fan of BBC Radio 2’s quiz Pop Master. I think she would enjoy the nostalgia in my story.]

  AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR

  Val Williamson

  Bazzer was late. His stomach was telling him it was way past dinner time, and his mouth craved lubrication.

  Having only the haziest recollection of Geordie’s instructions, Bazzer had already completed an unplanned tour of the East coast town. It looked bleak and inhospitable, in itself not worth the long trip even in summer. Souvenir shops were boarded up and amusement arcades unlit, everything shuttered against bitter November winds blustering direct from Scandinavia.

  “But you must remember! You said Thursday the eleventh, at four o’clock.”

  Bazzer swung himself aggressively off the seat, squaring his shoulders as he confronted Geordie. It had been a long hard ride and he was in no mood for arguments. The seaside wasn’t Bazzer’s scene at the best of times, not even for a Bank Holiday get-together, and now it seemed obvious that this trip had been a mistake in more ways than one.

  “No I didn’t!” Geordie insisted, his determined chin jutting his thick beard forward, “I said Friday, Friday the twelfth. Thursdays are dangerous—and it’s hours past four, now.”

  Bazzer couldn’t believe he could have come on the wrong day. And what did Geordie mean by “Thursdays are dangerous”?

  “Well I’ve got to be back by tomorrow night, so it’s now or never.”

  “We’ll just have to make the best of it, then,” Geordie conceded.

  Bazzer’s custom project wasn’t a distance bike, not a traveller. Journeying over fifty miles in winter was not what he’d had in mind when he built it. He’d never have contemplated riding it all this way if Geordie hadn’t promised to introduce him to the best motorbike artist in the world.

  “This bloke, Tor, he not only paints themes to order, he can even help you dream up exactly the right theme for you,” Geordie had promised, during that first drunken encounter. “But he’s busy with the fair in summer. You’ll have to come in a couple of months’ time, when the season’s over.”

  Being not only totally pissed, but also thoroughly pissed off at the time, Bazzer had agreed the arrangements. In the drunken haze of that first meeting with Geordie, Bazzer had been obsessed with the fact that, at the rally earlier that day, his project had once again failed to win any of the prizes he felt it deserved. Not that Bazzer had embarked on the project with prize winning in mind, but his mate Vinny had harboured ambitions, and Bazzer had really wanted to win something for him. The fault, as Geordie had been quick to point out, lay not in the unique design of the machine, but in the amateurish and unimaginative paint job.

  Imagination was no more Bazzer’s strong point than listening attentively. He’d been building and rebuilding this bike for eleven years, but he couldn’t have said what its theme was, only whether he liked the finished effect or not. Vinny had been full of ideas for themes, seeming to come up with a new vision every week, but he never got round to putting anything down on paper.

  With Vinny’s enthusiasm in mind, and the dreary winter months already seeming to drag, Bazzer had made a snap decision to seek out the artist who’d done an award-winning job on Geordie's project. That was a unique design, too, painted mainly in silver and black. “I call it Neptune’s Messenger,” Geordie explained.

  “Silver Fish would be more like it,” Bazzer had ar
gued. A close-up of Neptune, seaweed crown and all, leered out from the fat-bob, but the overall appearance was of a giant fish or dolphin, right down to the split tail points curving either side the rear wheel.

  An investigation of the depths of Bazzer’s pockets had turned up the scrap of paper with Geordie’s address on it. But, on the journey here, it wasn’t only the weather which had induced the depression that had descended. It had suddenly dawned on Bazzer that once Geordie had introduced him to this bloke, Tor, and they’d agreed on the decoration, that would be it. Eleven years of his life would be over.

  They rode the Prom alongside a bottomless pit that spat salt water in their faces. Far in the blackness beyond the reach of the street lighting, surf crashed destructively on the beach. The silver fish led the way, taking the brunt, but the wind-whipped sea spray spattering Bazzer’s jacket and visor made him shudder and wish for the comforts of his own home city. However, his memories of the bright lights and raucous sounds of many a fairground kept him glued to Geordie’s tail as they set off to seek out Tor.

  The fairground was disappointingly dark and broodily silent as they rode the perimeter fence, until they passed between high shabby sagging doors. Not far inside a stooped, gnomish figure waited by a ride shrouded in canvas, the scenario illuminated only by the beams from their headlamps.

  “So, it’s a naming of themes, is it?”

  The wizened and decidedly vertically disadvantaged old fellow didn’t even try to inspect Bazzer's bike. He looked hard at Bazzer, though. Straight into Bazzer's eyes, with Bazzer just sitting there, staring straight back. If he hadn’t been so mesmerised Bazzer might have wondered why the old fellow’s eyes were so startlingly blue, and how he could have noticed the fact without benefit of proper illumination.