Angel Touch

by Mike Ripley

  ‘That’s rich, coming from somebody who drives a black cab and smokes Gold Flake and probably still hasn’t worked out how to open a Swiss army penknife.’

  ‘And I refuse to own a Filofax, don’t forget, on religious grounds.’

  ‘What religious grounds?’

  ‘For the love of God, I can’t think what I’d put in one.’

  He narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Shall we resume and get the joint jumping?’

  ‘They won’t appreciate it,’ I said.

  ‘I know, but the sooner we do another set, the sooner we can get down to some serious drinking. This is supposed to be a party.’

  There’s no peace for the wicked.

  I had to scout around for Trippy, and found him in the upstairs bar conversing with an Australian barman. Now there was a deal going down if ever I saw one.

  Dod hadn’t moved from behind his drum kit – he trusted nobody – and Martin was where we’d left him, raring to go for the second set. We put together a fair enough selection, from ‘Indiana’ to ‘St James’s Infirmary’ with ‘Perdido’ and ‘Avalon’ in there somewhere. Werewolf managed his Django impersonation of ‘Moppin’ the Bride’ (a bebop version of the Wedding March), which actually drew a smattering of applause. Then Martin did a solo version of ‘Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me’, which was really very good, and we all clapped even if the revellers ignored it.

  Not to be outdone, Trippy offered to fill in a few numbers, so we let him take over, although Martin looked a bit put out as he was on a roll and could have gone on all night. But he’ll learn.

  I looked around the party. It had thinned out some and the composition had changed. A few of the City slickers had slunk off either to their wives or to Cannon’s health club or similar to work off the tonic water or Perrier they had been punishing their bodies with. The younger, brasher market-maker crowd were sitting tight and knocking back the lager like there was no tomorrow. For them, maybe there wasn’t.

  A posse of Salome’s female friends had arrived to slightly redress the sex ratio but, like most things in the City, it was still weighted heavily towards the male. It was the sort of situation that makes me feel uncomfortable normally and one of the reasons I always avoid pubs that discriminate, however tactfully, against women. (Rule of Life No 13: as women form more than 50 percent of the population, they should be taken into account in all things. Don’t be a General Custer – know when you’re outnumbered.)

  Trippy had started his potted history of jazz, a flexible medley that is really wicked when he remembers it all and could go on all night if you let him. He was somewhere between late cakewalk and early ragtime when I indicated to the rest of the band that we should pack up and, making the international tipping-wrist signal, head for the bar.

  I waited for the crowd to rush us and demand an encore like they do in the Miller and Goodman biopics of the ‘50s, but nobody moved. To be fair, Salome did. She pushed her way through the crowd and put her hands above her head in the sort of clapping motion footballers make to the crowd at the end of a match. She mouthed ‘Thank you’ a couple of times before being dragged away by a new arrival, a stunning young black girl wearing a suede mini that Tina Turner would have turned down as too rude.

  Werewolf made a low growling noise. He’d seen her too.

  ‘Down, boy,’ I said in his ear. ‘Let’s get the instruments away first.’

  ‘Aye, yer right,’ he said, and packed up Tiger Tim’s banjo, giving the case a double pat to show he’d approved.

  As we were dismantling Dod’s drum kit, and Trippy was up to Jelly Roll Morton, one of the suits came up to us. He had one hand in his pocket and one around a glass of champagne and was flashing his striped shirt and red tie at us.

  ‘Jaysus, it’s Robin Redbreast,’ muttered Werewolf.

  ‘Can I help you?’ I asked as the nominal leader, though I’ve always wondered why it’s usually the trumpet-player who gets lumbered with dealing with the hecklers and the request-demanders. I mean, the horn player is the one who can least afford a fat lip if they turn bolshy.

  ‘I was wondering if your chum here on the banjo had ever worked with a band. He’s rather good, I thought,’ said the chinless wonder.

  ‘U2, the Genesis Invisible Touch tour and George Michael’s Faith gig,’ said Werewolf without looking round.

  ‘Oh,’ said CW. ‘So you’re what they call a session musician.’

  ‘No, I make the tea and drive the vans.’

  ‘Ha-ha. Very good.’ CW’s laugh was like a horse that had just misjudged the height of a fence, but he seemed happy enough and wandered off to tell his chums that he’d met a real live roadie.

  Werewolf watched him push through the throng, and shook his head slowly.

  ‘Where do they come from?’ he wondered aloud.

  ‘He probably made telephone numbers of money before you were on your second Weetabix this morning,’ I said, handing Dod his bass pedal.

  ‘Frightening, isn’t it. They’re all so bluddy alike. Just like country and western music, all style no substance.’

  ‘That’s very good, Werewolf. Where did you read it?’

  Werewolf pursed his lips at me.

  ‘Ooh, you bitch. You’re so sharp, you can be in the shower scene.’

  With not a little difficulty, we got the instruments out of the pub and round the corner into Dod’s Transit van. I offered him a tenner for petrol, but he declined, saying it was for a friend and he’d catch me sometime for a drink. As he was in a good mood, I asked him to drop Martin off near the Central Line and to look after the instruments until I could collect them. He grunted a few times, which I took to be a Yes, Okay, Willdo. Dod doesn’t waste words.

  I wandered back into the pub. The plan had been to keep things moving right along there until about 9.30, after which Salome would pass the word to a few select friends to reconvene back at our house in Stuart Street for a final fling. I hoped she’d warned the mysterious Mr Goodson, who lived in the ground-floor flat and was rarely seen after dark. She probably had; she’s very sensible. Unfortunately.

  As I made my way downstairs, I could hear that Trippy was up to Errol Garner, which was never popular unless he was playing to real jazz fans. With a lay audience like this one, he should have quit while he was ahead, say with Teddy Wilson, although he would probably get away with Dave Brubeck. I’m told there are still people alive who can remember when ‘Take Five’ was in the charts, though it’s been used for so many TV signature tunes even some of these wunderkind would recognise it.

  I ran into Salome at the bottom of the stairs. Literally.

  ‘Oooh, sorry, Angel.’

  ‘No problem. You’ve just made an old man very happy.’

  She put her hand up and stroked my cheek.

  ‘Oh, not that old,’ she said coyly.

  ‘Then you’ve just made a young man very randy. What time do we split?’

  She looked at a gold watch so thin it could have been a bracelet for rheumatism.

  ‘We’re okay here for another hour, so I’d like to thin this lot out.’

  So would I, with a Bren gun, but I didn’t say it.

  She gave me a wide-eyed, up-from-under look. It never fails.

  ‘I mean really thin this lot out, Angel. I don’t want more than a handful back at the flat.’

  ‘One handful coming up,’ I quipped, doing a Groucho with my fingertips.

  Salome narrowed her eyes. ‘Don’t ever say I don’t feed you the good lines. I’m serious. I don’t want you inviting all and sundry round to the flat; I couldn’t face it.’

  ‘Bad day at the office?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Fair enough, your wish is my command. Where’s Frank, by the way?’

  ‘He’s chilling the wine and opening the peanuts back at the flat. This isn’
t his scene.’

  ‘I never had him down as a caterer.’

  ‘Lisabeth and Fenella are helping out.’

  ‘My God, we’d better hurry.’

  ‘I think he’s safe enough,’ she observed wryly. Then she looked over my shoulder at something. ‘But you’re not. Meet Beeby.’

  I turned as slowly and coolly as I could manage, and I found myself virtually nose to nose with the stunner in the suede miniskirt.

  ‘Sal says your name is Angel. Is it really?’

  ‘If yours is Beeby, why not?’

  ‘I’ll tell you why I’m called Beeby if you tell me why you’re called Angel.’ She smiled, then sipped some wine.

  ‘Seems reasonable. Shall we adjourn to the bar?’

  ‘Sure.’ Beeby smiled broadly. ‘And don’t worry, I really am a pushover.’

  I smiled back.

  ‘So am I.’

  Beeby and I got on famously after she announced she’d got interested in the great lady blues singers after reading or hearing an interview with Sade in one of the music comics. That singled her out, as most of our audience that night were probably convinced that Whitney Houston invented jazz. I scored a few kudos points by saying I knew Sade (well, I’d stood next to her in a pub once), and offered to I get her a refill.

  The crush at the bar was still bad, but I clawed out a couple of inches with some nifty elbow work and waited to be noticed by a barman. (Rule of Life No 56: never shout at a barman unless you know him or her – in which case you shouldn’t have to – just wave some money casually and look as if you couldn’t care less when you got served.) I got served almost immediately, and while the barman was opening another bottle of wine, I scanned the heads and shoulders and spotted Werewolf at the other end of the pub. He was deep into serious chat with a tall blonde I hadn’t even seen arrive. I somehow doubted he’d need the sleeping-bag that night.

  Our drinks arrived, and as I waited more in hope than expectation for some change, I tuned in to some City chat. Actually, I wasn’t really earwigging at all. It was just that I heard that voice again, the ‘spade bitch’ voice.

  It wasn’t saying that again, it was telling somebody called Nigel to ‘keep it buttoned.’

  I turned my head but, I still could not pin down the voice’s owner. I did spot somebody, though, only a yard (and about six people) away. It was the Chinless Wonder who’d come up to the bandstand, and he was looking into the face of a clean cut, red-spectacled young man.

  ‘Simon, all I told him was to get out of Capricorn Travel before the excrement hits the ventilator tomorrow. He’s not a big holder, Si. It won’t make waves. Dammit, Simon, I was at school with him.’

  I didn’t catch any more, as someone who didn’t work to Rule of Life No 56 yelled for a pint of lager right in my ear, presumably expecting the order to come out the other side of my head nearer the barman.

  Somebody else surged in towards the bar, causing a ripple of bodies, and to keep my drinks intact I had to step away. I took a long look at the one Chinless Wonder had called

  Simon, just to make sure I remembered the face. It’s never a good thing to hate somebody on sight, but it does save time in the long run.

  His eyes caught me clocking him, but he looked straight through me. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t recognise me again unless I drew attention to myself, and I had no intention of starting a fight. (Rule of Life No 44: never start fights. Always aim to take out your opponent before he realises you’ve got it in for him.) Then again, I wasn’t going to stand for any ‘spade bitch’ attitude near young Beeby. So I suggested we moved upstairs.

  We actually managed to get a seat there, and I was able to get most of Beeby’s life-story, particularly how she wanted to get into the music business. Why ask me? But I didn’t say it.

  Werewolf and the tall blonde emerged and left without a word or a nod in our direction. Ah well, he’d turn up somewhere, somehow.

  Then the guy the Chinless Wonder called Simon emerged, buttoning up a camelhair coat. Sure enough, CW tagged along behind. He’d left his jacket somewhere, and I noticed, not that you could miss them, that he was wearing red-striped braces to match the shirt, and the stripes all went in the same direction. How naff.

  ‘Si ...’ said Chinless, offering a glass of champagne.

  Simon turned on him and put his right forefinger up to CW’s lips. Then he shook his head slowly, then he took his finger away, made an open palm with his hand and gently patted CW’s cheek.

  It was a curious little pantomime, which I thought I was the only witness to. As usual, I was wrong.

  ‘What’s so fascinating about the two irons?’ asked Beeby, following my gaze.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think they’re gay,’ I said, thinking she meant ‘iron hooves’ as in rhyming slang.

  ‘No, iron as in iron gates. The new Yuppies living in Docklands, where they have to chain up their windsurfers at night and they keep the real locals out with big iron gates. Those two look the sort. Cash registers for brains and no soul.’

  ‘You could be right.’ Such perception in one so young. ‘But let’s talk about you.’

  And she did.

  I have to admit that her attitude towards me cooled somewhat as she realised that I was far from the music-circle big shot she’d imagined. But then I told her about my friend Lloyd Allen and his recording empire (well, he manages bands and gets record sleeves designed) and she sat up and took notice. Basically, Beeby was mapping out a career as a pop star without the hassle of actually having to sing or play. She was quite open about it. She admitted she didn’t have the boobs to be a page three girl or the class to be a model. Of course, she couldn’t sing and she was pretty sure she was tone deaf too, but she genuinely felt she had something to offer pop culture. Her ambition was to be burnt out by the time she was 22.

  Salome appeared in the nick of time, just as boredom was setting into my left buttock, with about a dozen revellers from downstairs. We followed her entourage out, and near St Paul’s we managed to cram into three taxis. It was a novelty for me to travel in one in the back, and quite an experience to travel with Beeby on my knee. The musher driving complained all the way to Hackney that he shouldn’t have more than four in the back, but for me the journey wasn’t long enough.

  Back at the house on Stuart Street, there were about a dozen people already boogying the night away in Frank’s and Sal’s flat. Well, to be honest, they were all sitting round

  sipping Australian Chardonnay and listening to Luther Vandross and trying to make it look like fun. I decided to liven things up by shouting ‘Pump up the volume, Frank,’

  and slipped a Huey Lewis CD into his twee little Japanese midi system.

  I claimed a bottle of wine and two glasses and looked around for Beeby, but she was busy checking out the guests for record producers. I doubted she’d find any, as most of

  Frank’s friends were legal beagles or proto-fuzz. You know, magistrates’ clerks and the like. So I checked in with Lisabeth and Fenella, who had ventured up from the flat below;

  a social outing for them of the same magnitude as, say, Scott’s crack at the South Pole.

  It was fairly obvious from the way she slumped in the corner of the sofa that Lisabeth was in a Huff, or at least a Mood if not a full scale Huff. I moved a Next Directory and sat down beside her.

  ‘Did you know, Lisabeth old fruit, that the population of Hackney Borough is now greater than that of Iceland?’

  She gave me a look that would have withered a clump of nettles at 50 feet.

  ‘Are you drunk?’ she hissed.

  ‘Have I started juggling oranges?’

  ‘No,’ she said suspiciously.

  ‘Then you’re safe for now.’ I poured a glass of wine for her. ‘But it might be an idea to put the fruit bowl out of temptation’s way. What’s up? You look as if toothache might cheer you
up.’

  Lisabeth sighed deeply, and her bulk sent a ripple effect along the sofa.

  ‘It’s Binky,’ she said. It always was. ‘She’s a constant worry these days.’ She screwed up her face. ‘Ugh! What’s this?’

  ‘It’s wine. Chardonnay, from Down Under. I think it’s rather good,’ I said honestly. ‘I can’t afford it.’

  ‘Whatever happened to white wine that was sweet?’ she puzzled.

  ‘It was called Liebfraumilch, and only the lower classes drink it nowadays. So what’s Binky done now?’

  Fenella, apart from having the dubious honour of being Lisabeth’s live-in lover, as the Trade Descriptions Act puts it these days, was cursed with the surname Binkworthy. Hence, Binky. (She also came from a posh family in Rye, wouldn’t you know it, though I’ve never held that against her.)

  Lisabeth fixed Binky with her best laser-beam stare. Fenella’s a tall girl and was once probably very self-conscious about her height until flat shoes came back, and although I don’t think I’m a foot fetishist, I reckon the Princess of Wales has got a lot to answer for on that score. She still had a pretty eccentric idea of casual clothes, though, and at the moment was wearing a light blue cotton dress and a darker blue blazer. It looked suspiciously like her old school uniform.

  ‘It’s not what she’s done,’ said Lisabeth primly. ‘It’s her … her ... attitude.’

  She made it sound like a disease, and a contagious one.

  ‘One of those men – that one –’ she indicated a perfectly harmless-looking bloke in a snappy suit – ‘asked her if she worked in some restaurant called School Dinners, and she giggled and has been talking to him ever since. Look out, they’re coming over.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered, ‘I’ll get rid of him. Fenella love, where’ve you been hiding all my life?’

  Fenella sat down on the sofa next to me, not Lisabeth, and smiled sweetly over the top of her glass.

  ‘I wasn’t born for most of it, Angel.’

  ‘Very good, Fenella darling; you’ve been keeping up the postal course in witty put-downs, I see.’

  ‘But Angel –’ she blushed – ‘you’re always saying you taught me everything I know.’