Keepers of the Flame
by
Jeannie Wycherley
Copyright © 2018 Jeannie Wycherley
Bark at the Moon Books
All rights reserved
Publishers note: The stories contained herein constitute a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and for effect. Any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of very brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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Cover design by Andrijus at Rocking Book Covers.
This novella is dedicated to two Catherines.
Catherine Riley (1967-2015)
and
Catherine Clark
Thank you for sharing the good times
xxx
Author’s note: Keepers of the Flame is set in the UK and is written in UK English, and therefore uses British spelling throughout.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Acknowledgements
Other Books by Jeannie Wycherley
About The Author
Chapter 1
Five discordant notes. That’s all it took to change Jane’s life forever.
Although in some ways, perhaps her life had always been leading to this specific moment in time. The combination of a motorcycle mad father, and a dippy hippie mother had ensured she’d been brought up on Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, The Who, Captain Beefheart, Yes and Genesis. The constant diet of psychedelia and rock had ruined her for everything else. Not for Jane anything out of the Stock, Aitken and Waterman stable. Hell no! And no diva women warbling away their heartbreak or promising eternal love either. Jane’s world revolved around rock and metal. The heavier the better.
She’d been fifteen when she’d first come across Wild Dogz. Her school friend’s brother Robbie, had acquired a bootleg tape of the band’s first album and from then on insisted on playing it loudly in his bedroom whenever Jane came around to their house. Having been distracted from the homework project she and Marnie were working on, Jane listened to the frantic drumming originating from the bedroom next door with increasing interest. The music, albeit coarse and rough-edged seemed somehow exciting. Jane asked Marnie to persuade Robbie to let her have a copy, and he, flushing with unrequited adolescent ardour, and a year older than Marnie and Jane, had readily agreed.
That album had been Diamond in the Rough, and the cassette quickly became the soundtrack to Jane’s summer. She scoured the music press to find information about Wild Dogz, but the bootleg was a US import and there was little material in the British press. The album had never officially crossed the Atlantic. Her father, Roy, amused by his daughter’s passion for the group contacted an old navy buddy residing in New Jersey and a massive Bon Jovi fan to boot, and asked if he could indulge Jane.
Slowly but surely Jane built up a collection of research into the band. They heralded from Texas, and had been together since High School, hanging out in the drummer’s garage and thrashing out rough covers of classic tunes. Diamond in the Rough contained a number of interesting covers and a few of their own works. It was derivative and yet somehow innovative. Their youth and passion for life covered a multitude of musical sins, poor mixing for starters, repetitive chord patterns for main course, and naïve lyrics for dessert.
For her sixteenth birthday, Roy presented Jane with her own vinyl import of Diamond in the Rough sent from the USA especially for her, and six months after that, he bought her their second album, Feral Green, when it gained a release to an unsuspecting British public. This time, certain sections of the music press began to take notice, and magazines such as Kerrang! carried the odd interview with the group.
Jane saved the magazines. Sometimes she bought more than one copy so she could snip out the images and the interviews and glue them into a scrapbook. She was at ‘that’ age, hormones raging, when hot rock stars fuelled her fantasies. Silas Garfield, the lead singer, had certainly caught her imagination.
She decorated the wall around her desk-come-dressing table with his face. He stared out at her while she studied for her exams. She couldn’t tell what colour his eyes were, so she imagined them as blue. His hair, long and brown and permed and all the rage, flowed over his shoulders in studio shots, or flew in the air, back lit by dramatic stage lighting in the onstage photos. He was shown bending double over his guitar, or howling at the crowd. In groups shots the band rarely appeared serious, gurning at the camera and holding onto each other laughing instead.
A handsome man, with good teeth, a seemingly great sense of humour, and probably way too old for her in reality.
It didn’t matter. That’s what fantasies are for when you’re 17.
***
Jane headed off to Bristol University in the September after her eighteenth birthday. She shared digs with a goth girl named Terri, who liked to drop a lot of acid, and avoided doing much work. Where Jane was easy-going, laissez-faire and grounded most of the time, Terri tended to have too many issues, and turned most situations into a drama. Nonetheless they became the best of friends.
They grew their record collection together over the next few years, experimenting with a variety of artists. Jane introduced Terri to Metallica, Slayer, Megadeth - and Wild Dogz of course - and Terri played her a back catalogue of music she would otherwise probably have never been properly exposed to, including The Cocteau Twins, The Birthday Party and Alien Sex Fiend. They enjoyed a certain amount of overlap in groups such as The Mission and The Cult, and this gave them a little-needed excuse to get out to gigs together. Terri loved to stand at the front and really get involved, however Jane hated the crush. She preferred to stand behind the mosh, slightly to the side if she could. The problem for her was her height. She wasn’t stunted by any stretch of the imagination at 5 foot 8, but preferring to wear Dr Martens rather than anything with a heel, meant that she had an issue seeing over the heads, shoulders and big hair of the men who attended the gigs.
And in the late eighties and early nineties there were a lot of those.
Terri was vibrant, vivacious and extroverted. She drew people to her with her warmth and exuberance, and yet her tendency to over-dramatize often sent them scurrying away as quickly as they came. She had her pick of guys, and went through them like a dose of salts, impatiently searching for the man who would light her world up and never quite finding him.
Jane remained reserved and choosy. She began a relationship with a quiet guy named Tim during the second year of her degree. He had long hair, and like her, was reading English. He professed a fondness for Russian literature and she found him quite romantic in a geeky kind of way. He would read to her, great chunks of literature he’d en
joyed, and she would cook them pasta. Afterwards they would head to bed with a cheap bottle of plonk.
Terri couldn’t get her head around Jane’s relationship at all.
“What do you see in him?” she asked incredulously, one Sunday afternoon after Jane had kissed him farewell and he had headed out into a cool, grey Bristol afternoon clutching several volumes of Dostoyevsky he was in the process of re-reading. Jane had settled herself beside the stereo and was contentedly picking out tracks from her favourite albums. Terri stretched out, hogging most of the sofa and reapplying glittering black nail polish to her toes and finger nails, scowling at her friend.
Jane smiled. It was a conversation they shared frequently. “Leave him be,” she responded.
“Seriously Jane, look at you. With a bit of slap on and a tight top, you would be hot, hot, hot. I’ve seen the way guys look at you when we’re out clubbing. It’s like you don’t notice.”
To be honest, Jane didn’t notice. Primarily because she wasn’t looking. “I’ve got all I need. Tim’s a cool guy.”
“There is nothing cool about Tim. He’s got hair like a haystack and he dresses like a lumberjack.”
“He’s sweet.”
“Sweet? Sweets are for children. You want …” Terri clawed at the air looking for the right word. Black nail polish dropped on to her thigh and she absently smeared it away. “Steamy! Steamy is what you need.”
Jane curled her lip. “Ugh. I’m not sure I do, really. Steamy? What does that even mean?”
“Does Tim make you sweat?”
“Terri!”
“Come on. Does he bring you to the brink of passion before taking his foot off the clutch? Or does he go at it like a steam train and collapse on top of you like a limp rag? He kisses you like you’re his sister, for pity’s sake. Do you burn like a furnace when he kisses you?”
Jane screwed her face up and frowned.
“I’ll take that as a no then, shall I? And that’s my point. He’s a nice lad, but you can do so much better.” Terri returned her attention to a second coat of polish on her toes.
“Like who?” Jane smiled, content to play along with Terri for a while.
“Well you know. Guys. There was that Phil we spoke to in the club last week. He was drooling all over you.”
Jane shook her head. “Who? I don’t remember him.”
“How do you not remember? Phil. Big blonde hair. I mean big. Big! Out here big. Like a great cloud,” Terri gestured dramatically around her head. “Dad’s huge in communications or something, in London.”
“Oh yeah. That’s right.” Jane thought back, remembered him and snorted. “Nah. Pseudo rocker. He was slumming it, Terri. On the pull. Not relationship material.”
“You see, I don’t know what’s wrong with that. Why do you want to settle down with one bloke? Sow some oats. Have some fun.”
“I am having fun.”
“With Tim?” Terri asked, with such disdain that Jane could only burst out laughing.
“Yes.”
“Oh I give up.” Terri sniggered. “There’s no hope for you. In fact,” she pointed at the record player. “I have just the piece of music for you. Take that one off.” Jane did as she’d been bid, lifting the needle from the record and carefully removing Megadeth from the player.
“Right. Wait, wait, wait!” Terri jumped up, hobbling like a duck to the shelves where the young women stored their records. She looked comical, her jet black hair tied in tight little bunches on top of her head, and wads of cotton wool stuffed between her toes, piercings standing out in her make-up-less face. She cocked her head sideways, examining the titles until she found what she was looking for. “Look away,” she ordered as she drew the record from its place and eased the vinyl from the sleeve. “Okay, let me see.” She glanced at the listing, checked which side down the record needed to go and switched the turntable on, before manually hoisting the needle into place. It found its groove. The speakers crackled for a few seconds and then the opening bars sounded.
Jane groaned and covered her ears. “Dear Jesus,” she said. “Save me,” and Terri laughed fit to burst as The Bangles’ Eternal Flame filled the room.
Chapter 2
Two years later
Jane was reminded of that moment as she sat by her father’s bedside two years later. Bowel cancer was robbing her of the most important man in her life. He had a room in the local hospice, and the care he had been receiving was exemplary, however the acid eating away at Jane’s stomach was a constant reminder of her impending loss.
There were no machines in the room, no beeping or suctioning sounds. He was too far advanced for that. They administered morphine to make him comfortable, but otherwise the radio provided the only noise in the room. Roy insisted on the radio as company. Jane and her Mum had brought along mixed cassette tapes of all his favourite tunes, however he still preferred to listen to the radio.
“It’s the surprise of hearing songs I don’t expect, for what will probably be the last time,” he’d said. Not for the first time, silent tears had streamed down Jane’s face and she’d turned away so that he couldn’t see her cry. It wasn’t fair. Roy was still only 48 years old. He deserved so much more than this cruel and ignominious end.
Ella had nipped outside for a break, leaving Jane and Roy alone. Jane had brought along a Classic Rock magazine and was reading articles out of it to him, when he held a hand up. “Turn that up,” he ordered, and Jane had reached for the volume.
Eternal Flame.
“Dad!” Jane groaned and Roy chuckled gently, his eyes crinkled tightly in his pale face. It felt good to see him laugh. He patted her hand as she smiled at him. “You know I loathe this song.”
“There’s no romance in your soul, Jane. That’s your problem,” he teased.
“That’s not true.”
“Well, you’ve never shown much sign of it.”
Jane folded her arms. “I’m a rock chick, I don’t do romance.”
“I’m a rock … what’s the opposite of chick? Cock?”
“Oh my god. Rock cock?” Jane burst out laughing. “You’re such a disgrace.”
“Maybe. My point is though, that you can still have a soft romantic side and do heavy metal. Trust me on this. You can still find love.”
“I love Tim,” Jane responded automatically, and her father squinted up at her.
“Do you?” he asked.
Jane shook her head, amazed at the way history repeated itself. “I had a very similar conversation with Terri once, and she played this blasted song then. I think you two are in cahoots.”
“She’s a good girl, that Terri. She’s got a good head on her shoulders.”
“She does not. She’s a complete menace,” Jane contradicted fondly. Terri had moved to London to work with an investment banking firm, and Jane missed her although she travelled up to see her every now and again. Terri had toned down her goth look by necessity, just keeping her black hair. She was as striking as ever, and no doubt had the West End eating out of the palm of her hand the way the student clubs of Bristol once had. “She sends her love by the way. As does Tim.”
Her father closed his eyes for a while and Jane thought he’d nodded off, as he had a tendency to do. She listened to The Bangles for a while, feeling alone and full of fear, facing a future without her father, until Roy opened his eyes again.
“Don’t settle for second best, Jane,” he said. “Don’t simply make do. You can achieve so much, fly so bright.”
“I won’t make do, Dad. I promise.” She straightened the covers around him. “Do you really think Tim is second best?”
Roy hesitated, understanding that now was not the time to tell half-truths. “I would never interfere if I thought you were deliriously happy with Tim, and you know, sometimes ‘happy enough’ can do. But he doesn’t light you up the way a rich, deep seam of love can do.”
“Does Mum do that for you?”
“You know it. Since the moment I clapped eyes on her in
a muddy field in Somerset all those years ago. Barefoot and hairy armpits and all.” Jane giggled. It was a family joke. “I’d drag myself over hot coals for her, even now, when I can barely sit upright.”
Jane smiled and squeezed her Dad’s cool hand. His bones were delicate. She was frightened she would break his fingers.
“Mum’s your eternal flame?”
“She sure is. She’s always been the only one for me. My soul mate. You’ll find one yourself … one day.”
“Assuming it isn’t Tim, you mean?”
“There’s that,” Roy winked at her.
Jane sighed. “You know, Terri used to joke, ‘so many men, so little time’. But men … they’re all just other people to me. ‘Amorphous souls inhabiting the same planet’.”
“That sounds like a Wild Dogz lyric, if ever I heard one.”
Jane chuckled. “Very good, Dad!”
“I haven’t lost my touch where lyrics are concerned. Besides. That was off their first album, wasn’t it? You regaled the whole neighbourhood with that, several times a day for about 18 months if I recall.”
“I did not.”
“Not far off,” Roy laughed wheezily. “It’s a good lyric nonetheless. You still like them?”
“Of course. They’ve been on a hiatus though. Difficult fourth album or something.”
“They were kids, I suppose. They’re growing up. I guess they have to transition. Either they’ll disintegrate and never come back, or they’ll come back better than ever. I’ve seen it happen over and over with the groups I love.”
“Well, I hope they do get it together. And soon.”
“In the meantime, there’s always The Bangles though, right?”
“Dad.”
“A bit of Whitney, maybe?”
“Dad!”
***
Jane awoke with a start. She’d been having an odd dream where she had been running away from somebody or something, an unknown menace. She’d been trying to get to the river in spite of walls that blocked her way. Walls made of concrete blocks, poorly plastered, scrawled over in colourful graffiti. She would try to haul herself over one wall, and scrape her knees, and the wall would collapse beneath her weight. She’d rise, covered in dust and attempt to run some more, getting nowhere.
Keepers of the Flame: A love story Page 1
