Never mind. I’m going to be an aunt. In the window of Primo’s, a boy feeds his girlfriend ice cream from a knickerbocker glory. He pulls out his licked-clean spoon. He looks plain. She’s gorgeous, like a she-wolf. I wish I was him. She squashes the thought and crosses Dean Street into Meard Street. It narrows into an alley as dim as dusk where a prostitute pulls a john through a side door, her finger hooked through his belt. The alley ejects Elf onto the sunny side of Wardour Street. Cherries on a greengrocer’s stall gleam. Elf joins the queue. A few yards away there is a telephone box. A pane of glass is missing, and Elf hears the yelling woman inside: “This ain’t no divine conception, Gary! It’s yours! You PROMISED! Gary? GARY!” The woman falls silent. Elf thinks, A classic folk-song narrative. The woman stumbles out of the phone box. Her mascara’s running. She’s pregnant. She plunges into the market crowd, sobbing. The receiver rotates on its cable like a body on its rope.
I’m going to be an aunt. Elf asks for a quarter-pound of cherries. The man weighs them, hands her the brown paper bag, and pockets her coins. “You’re looking pale today, pet. Burn the candle at both ends, and soon you’ve got no candle.” Elf commits the line to memory and walks up Peter Street, squishing a cherry in her mouth. Summer oozes through the torn, sun-warmed skin. She spits out the pip. It plops down a drain.
A funeral cortège is blocking Broadwick Street. Elf steps into the launderette to let the group pass. Chain-smoking Mrs. Hughes, her hair in curlers, appears with a basket of laundry. “Nelly Macroom passed away last week. Her family’s got the chipper on Warwick Street.” Mrs. Hughes taps ash onto the floor. “She went to get her usual at Brenda’s salon last week. Her snooze in the perming helmet turned out to be eternal. Lucky so-and-so.”
“Why lucky?” asks Elf.
“Her last-ever hairdo was on the house.”
The hearse draws level. Elf glimpses the coffin between the bodies of the living.
“At your age,” says Mrs. Hughes, “you think getting old and dying’s what other people do. At my age, you think, Where did it all go? If you want to do something, do it. ’Cause your turn to be in that box, it’s coming. No doctor, no diet, no nothing’ll keep it away. It’ll be here. Quick as”—she snaps her fingers and Elf blinks—“that.”
* * *
—
LIVONIA STREET IS a cobbled cul-de-sac with an alley that cuts through to Portland Mews, used only by Soho locals or lost tourists. Elf slips her key into the door marked 9, between a secretive locksmith on one side and a seamstress’s shop, run by several Russian sisters, on the other. Elf’s flat is upstairs from Mr. Watney, a widower who lives on the first floor with his corgis, minds his own business, and is nearly deaf, a useful quality in a pianist’s neighbor. In the dingy hallway Elf finds three letters and a bill on the doormat, all for Mr. Watney. She props them on the shelf by his door and climbs two flights of scuffed steps to her own front door. Inside, Angus’s shoes are placed side by side and Fats Domino is singing “Blueberry Hill” on the radio. Angus calls from the bathroom, “Miss Holloway, I presume?”
Elf slips off her shoes. “Mr. Kirk, I trust.”
“Be warned, if you’re in company,” Angus has a full-tilt Highlands accent, “I’m in the nip.”
“At ease, soldier, I’m alone.” She hangs her handbag and hat on the coat stand and goes through to the steamy bathroom.
Angus is in the bath, reading Oz. His groin is hidden by a raft of bubble-bath foam. “Your modesty preserver is the same shape as Antarctica.” Elf takes the chair. “You’re boiled pink.”
“How was lunch?”
“I’m going to be an aunt. Imogen’s three months gone.”
“Brilliant news. Right?”
“Definitely.”
“You can show the wee sprog how to roll joints. Then when Imogen finds out, it’ll be ‘But, Mam, Aunty Elf said I could!’ ”
Elf flexes her toes. They’re tired from her heels. “What’s showing at the Palace tonight?”
“In the Heat of the Night on screen one. I’m doing Bonnie and Clyde on screen two. I could smuggle you in, if you fancy it.”
“It’s Basingstoke tonight.”
“Just tell ’em you’d rather be with your Highland hunk.”
“It won’t wash, alas. Six hundred tickets sold so far.”
Angus makes an impressed noise. “When are you leaving?”
“Five. The Beast’s at Jasper’s. Are you starting at six?”
“Aye, but I need to go by my bedsit, drop off my crusty cacks, and pick up some fresh ones, so I should leave here by four.”
Elf looks at her watch. “It’s almost two thirty now, so…we have ninety minutes to ourselves, Mr. Kirk.”
“We could play three games of Scrabble.”
“We could boil twenty eggs, one after the other.”
“Or listen to Sergeant Pepper’s. Twice.”
Elf perches on the bathtub, tilts Angus’s head back, and kisses him. She thinks of the she-wolf in the window of Primo’s. She opens her eyes to see if Angus is watching her. Bruce always does. Did. Angus never has. It makes her feel in charge.
“Deep beneath the frozen wastes of Antarctica,” intones Angus, “an ancient menace awakes…”
* * *
—
ANGUS DOZES OFF. Elf wonders what it’s like to be the guy. Her pillow squishes Angus’s face out of shape. Every lover is a lesson and Angus’s lesson is that kindness is sexy. The Beach Boys are singing “Don’t Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder)” on Radio Bluebeard. It’s a much weirder song than it admits to being, Elf thinks. The wild swans in the mobile over her bed rotate on their endless flight through time. Bea made it for her as a housewarming present. Angus makes a growling noise in his sleep. The gawky, deep-eye-socketed Scot has grown on her. They met in May, he slept over a few nights in June, and now he’s here more nights than not. She introduced him to the band last week. Dean liked him and Jasper liked him, as much as Jasper likes anyone. Griff was a bit off with him. Elf likes the novelty of not going out with a musician. Angus thinks music is magic, which makes Elf a magician. She doesn’t love Angus with that punch-drunk love she loved Bruce with, but liking him is enough. Angus is also proof that she likes men, and that the voice on the number 97 bus was a malicious lie, not a suppressed truth.
Right?
Obviously.
Elf lights a cigarette and shoots out smoke at the swans. Thank God for the Pill, and for the female GPs who’ll prescribe it. The Beach Boys finish their harmonies, and the next song is so familiar it takes Elf a few free-falling seconds to identify it and a few more seconds to believe it…
“Darkroom”—her chords, her Farfisa—is coming from her Hacker radio. In comes Dean’s bass; in comes Griff’s snare drum; and here’s Jasper’s Lennon-esque phrasing: “You took me to your darkroom and you slipped inside my mind…”
Elf’s heart wallops. IT’S US!
“…where negatives turn positive, where IOUs are signed…” Pirate radio audience sizes are anybody’s guess, but surely tens of thousands are hearing Utopia Avenue right now. Fifty thousand? A hundred thousand? What if they hate it? What if they see I’m bluffing it? What if they love it? What if they rush out and buy it? She wants to hide. She wants to savor this once-in-a-lifetime first. She wants to tell everyone she knows. “Angus!”
“Wassityeahwha?”
“Listen! The radio!”
Angus listens. “That’s you.”
Elf can only nod. They listen to the whole song. Bat Segundo only speaks after Elf’s closing refrain. “That slice of pop perfection was ‘Darkroom,’ a brand-new song by Utopia Avenue. They’re English, they’re happening, and they’re this week’s Tip-for-the-Top brought to you in proud association with Rocket Cola, the with-it pop drink for the with-it crowd—and if that didn’t give you goosebumps, please see your
doctor because you may well be dead. Before Utopia Avenue was the Beach Boys, ‘Don’t Talk (Put Your Head on My Shoulder),’ and coming up before we go to the news, we—”
Angus turns off the radio. “You’ll be on Top of the Pops.”
“Only if they send a limo to pick me up,” says Elf. Angus isn’t smiling, so Elf adds, “I’m joking.”
“I’m not,” replies Angus. “This is the start.”
Don’t even dream it, Elf warns herself.
* * *
—
DEAN PICKS UP: “We were just on Bat Segundo.”
“I know. I know! Did Jasper hear it too?”
“Dunno. He’s out. Griff’s not here yet. Should I name my first child ‘Bat’ or ‘Segundo’?”
“Dean Bat Bluebeard Segundo Moss.”
“This is liftoff, Elf. I bloody feel it.”
“So do I. So do I.”
Dean laughs. “I…God…The radio! Us. The Beach Boys!”
“I’ll call Moonwhale. See you later.”
“See yer.”
* * *
—
BETHANY PICKS UP: “Good afternoon—Moonwhale Management?”
“Bethany—‘Darkroom’ was on Bat Segundo.”
Bethany’s tone turns to giddy delight. “Did you catch it?”
Elf laughs. “I caught it.”
“I’ll put you through to Levon.”
Levon is pleased in his urbane Canadian way. “Congratulations. It’s the start of the start. You’re off the blocks.”
“Did you know?”
“For once, no. Funnily enough, though, Victor French called earlier to say John Peel’s playing ‘Darkroom’ on The Perfumed Garden tomorrow, but Bat beat him to the draw. It’s only two plays, but one’s enough to trigger a chain reaction. The Home Office—”
Angus is waving from Elf’s front door. Elf blows him a kiss. Angus pretends to be shot through the heart and staggers off.
“—is closing down the pirate radio ships any day now, so no more Radio Bluebeard or Radio London. But I’m reliably informed John Peel and Bat Segundo are in talks with the BBC to work on Radio One. They’re pals, and a nice lunch with both of them would be a smart investment, if you’re free next week.”
“You bet.”
“I’ll set something up. And…sorry, Elf, Bethany’s saying Ilex is on the other line.”
“Go.”
“I’ll see you at De Zoet Towers later.”
* * *
—
ELF GOES TO the kitchen window to watch Angus exiting her building into Livonia Street below. He disappears into Berwick Street without a backward glance. She goes to the bathroom and asks her reflection if she just dreamed that Utopia Avenue was on the radio.
“It happened,” her reflection tells her.
“Will you still be my face if I’m famous?”
“Kiss me,” replies her reflection.
So Elf does, on the lips.
Jasper’s right…mirrors really are strange.
Her reflection laughs, and Elf goes to straighten up her bed, but Angus has already done it. She goes back to the kitchen and pours herself a glass of milk, just as the key turns in the door. She wonders what Angus forgot. His coat?
“Hiya, Wombat!”
The floor sways like the deck of a ship.
“Hey,” says Bruce, “you’re spilling that milk!”
So I am. She puts down the bottle.
He says, “Take two. ‘Hiya, Wombat!’ ”
Everything is still and very quiet.
“Wh-what-wh—why? How—”
“Overnight ferry.” He dumps his rucksack by the coat stand. “Haven’t eaten since Calais—so there’s very little I wouldn’t do for a cheese ’n’ ham sarnie. So how in hell have you been?” He runs his hands back through his lush golden hair. He’s deeply tanned and a little older. “God, I missed you.”
Elf takes a few steps back, into the kitchen cupboard. “Hang on—wait—I…”
Bruce looks confused, then not. “Ah…You didn’t get my postcard, I guess?”
“No.”
“All praise Royal Mail. Or maybe the French facteur cocked up.” Bruce walks over to the kitchen sink, slaps water over his face, pours himself a mug of water, and drinks. He eyes her up. “New hair, right? Lost a few pounds, too.” He drapes himself along the sofa, showing midriff. “Cheese and pickle’ll do fine, if you’ve got no ham.”
Elf feels as if she’s in the wrong play. “You dumped me. You pissed off to Paris. You do remember that?”
Bruce winces. “ ‘Dumped’? We needed oxygen. We’re artists.”
“No. You don’t,” she steels her voice, “dump me, break my heart, then turn up and act like the last six months never happened.”
His jokey pout says, Am I in the doghouse?
“I’m serious.”
His jokey pout fades. “I thought you’d be pleased. I came straight here from Charing Cross. I…”
“Maybe Vanessa will be pleased. I’ve got very mixed feelings.”
Bruce scrunches up his face as if he can’t quite place the name…“Oh, her? Oh, Wombat. Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”
So she dumped him. “Try Wotsit.”
“Wotsit’s back in Greece. People move on.”
“What if I’ve moved on too?”
Bruce pretends she didn’t just say that. “Hey, I heard about Utopia Avenue. Review in Melody Maker. Nice one. May I?” He takes one of her Camels from the little table and lights up.
Elf fights an impulse to knock it from his hand.
“A long way from Islington Folk Den, eh? I’m proud of you.”
Elf notices she has no desire to tell him about “Darkroom” on The Bat Segundo Show. “Look, I’ve got a gig tonight, so—”
“Cool. I’ll come along and guard your handbag with my life. I could even play, if you’re a guitarist short. Where’s the gig?”
“Basingstoke, but—”
“One of those nowhere places?”
Elf sighs. I have to say it. “You walked out, Bruce. It’s over. We’re over. And I’d like my key back.”
Bruce lifts his eyebrows, like a teacher waiting for the truth to emerge. “And are we ‘seeing’ anyone else?”
“Give me my key. Please.” Elf hates that “please.”
But Bruce’s cockiness ebbs away. The fridge shudders into silence. “What’s good for the gander’s good for the goose, I s’pose.” He puts the key on the arm of the sofa. “Sorry. About February. About everything. The more of a dingo’s arse I am, the more I bluster. I know I can’t wave a magic wand, fix the damage…” His voice wobbles. “Or bring back Fletcher and Holloway.”
Elf’s throat contracts. “True.”
“Thinking that you still hate me, that’s…the worst. Before I throw myself off Waterloo Bridge”—he makes a brave face—“could I…could we…part as mates?”
Careful. Elf folds her arms. “Your apology’s a few months late, but okay. We’re parting as mates. Goodbye.”
Bruce shuts his eyes. To Elf’s surprise, they start to stream. “God, I hate my guts sometimes.”
“I can understand why,” says Elf. “Sometimes.”
He dabs his eyes on his granddad shirt. “Shit, I’m sorry, Elf. But…I’m in a bit of trouble.”
Drugs? Syphilis? Crime? “Tell me.”
“The arse fell out of France. The cops beat me up for busking on the Champs-Élysées. They nicked my guitar. My flatmate did a runner with my savings, clothes, everything. I’m broke. I’ve got two francs, seven centimes, eight shillings, and a threepenny bit. I—I—I came via Toby Green’s office.” Bruce is red and sweaty. “He was out, but his secretary checked our Shepherd’s Crook royalties.”
“It
’s not a lot.”
“It won’t buy a cup of pigeon food. I know I’m a king of the shits for asking you, of all people, but…I honestly, honestly, don’t have anyone else to turn to. So I’m…” he takes a deep breath to compose himself, “…I’m begging. Please. If there’s any way you can help…any way at all…please…help.”
THE PRIZE
“A very very very good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome one and all to this week’s Top of the Pops. I hope you’re feeling fit and well, and if you’re not feeling fit and well, I hope this next half hour cheers you up.” The golden mop-topped Jimmy Savile smiles for the TV camera. “So, how’s about we start off with a nice, brisk number from one of the best new bands of the summer—and, gentlemen, do not adjust your TV set when you cop a load of the scrrrumdiddleyumptious keyboard player! With no further ado—in at number nineteen with their debut song ‘Darkroom’—the one, the only, the weird, the wonderful…Utopia Avenue!”
Electric APPLAUSE signs light up; a cheer goes up; Jasper glances offstage at Levon, Bea, Dean’s girlfriend Jude, and Victor French from Ilex. Here we go. The intro comes over the PA and the thirty or forty hip young things selected for the dance floor sway to Elf’s chords, which she now pretends to play on her unplugged-in Farfisa. Bea and Jude spent three days on Elf’s outfit: an American Indian squaw look with a tasseled suede, embroidered headband and glass beads. Dean is in a dusty-pink frock coat he bought at the Marshmallow Cricket Bat. He does an Elvis lip-curl for the camera. Griff, drumming on a kit with sound-deadening rubber mats and a special plastic cymbal that goes Tssh!, sports a jazzer’s loose shirt and a psychedelic waistcoat. Vocals. Jasper leans into the mic and lip-syncs his vocal track. A second camera moves closer to Elf. A producer told them that Elf’s the first woman ever to “play” an instrument on Top of the Pops. Jasper moves in to the mic:
Utopia Avenue Page 20
