by Nigel Bird
Without any first aid knowledge, it seems to Max that the best thing to do is to get a glass of water. He goes into the kitchen. The place is tiny and he stretches out his arms, managing to put a flattened palm onto each wall. It has a Belfast sink and, like the city, it’s clearly been through the wars. The two taps are huge and they’re covered with white scale. When Max turns the cold tap to leave it to run, there’s a judder that runs through the pipes and sounds as if it might wreck the place.
On the shelves there are various pots and pans and crockery. He takes a glass that has lost something of its transparency due to the oily film it’s covered in. Max takes it, gives it a rinse and fills it with water that is so full of bubbles it looks like milk of magnesia.
He takes it in to Mr Evans. The water is clearing from the bottom up.
The old man waves him away sharply and finally manages to get his coughing under control.
“Do you have a cigarette boy?” It’s like the guy has a death wish. “I’m afraid I ran out earlier.”
“You went for a jog?” The old man’s wiry eyebrows knit together. “Just kidding. Hang on a sec.”
He pulls a packet from his inside pocket, pulls back the top and offers one over. Mr Evans takes a cigarette and Max follows suit.
Lighting up is no easy business. As soon as Mr Evans has a lit match, a draft coming from the direction of the window knocks it out.
There’s a Zippo in Max’s pocket and he takes it out. He protects the flame as he holds it over and Mr Evans takes a deep drag, exhaling slowly like he’s a judge at a cigarette tasting event. He sits back in his chair and pulls over the piano stool for Max. “Simple pleasures.”
Max lights up himself. He enjoys the dizzy sensation inside his head, but it’s followed by a churn in his stomach which reminds him of his fragile state. “Would you mind if I put the kettle on? I could do with a cup of tea before we start today.”
“Aren’t we feeling ourselves?” Mr Evans asks, but he doesn’t know the half of it. The fact that he’s prepared to drink anything from the Evans kitchen should show just how badly he needs liquid.
“Nothing a few hours of sleep wouldn’t cure.”
“That’s good, because there is no tea.” Mr Evans flicks his ash in the direction of a full ashtray. Some of it hits the target, some of it doesn’t. “Wait here. I do have something that might help.”
He gets up, does his best to straighten his back and walks through the door to the kitchen. Max looks at the armchair and can’t resist. He’s over in a flash to test it out. It’s super comfy, even though it has the shape of another in its memory. He picks up the book that’s lying face down on its arm, reads a couple of lines of rather dry poems that he doesn’t recognise and returns it to its place. He stands and moves over to a collection of photographs that are on the wall, using his lighter to get a better look.
The photos are old. Black and white in the main, though they’re faded to the point of being more grey and white than anything. There’s a young handsome man in many of the pictures, which has to be Mr Evans. Clear, pale eyes and tidily slicked, dark hair. His suits are all tight fitting and he’s never without a bow-tie. In some he stands in front of theatres or posters for musical performances, in others he’s with a beautiful woman who always looks happy.
When Mr Evans enters the room carrying two glasses of a clear yellow liquid he gives Max a start. Max feels as though he’s been caught snooping and is a little ashamed, but the old man doesn’t bat an eyelid. He passes over one of the tumblers and nods.
As Max takes a sniff his body recoils. It’s like pure alcohol mixed with urea.
“An old family recipe,” Mr Evans tells him, “and believe you me, with a family like mine we needed one.” He gestures for Max to wait, puts his own drink down on the piano and goes over to a box that he unlocks, revealing an old record player. He takes a record from its sleeve, holding it carefully by its edge, blowing it to free it from dust. Its vinyl is thick and there’s no bend in it at all. Putting it on the turntable he lifts the arm of the record player onto it. There are a few seconds of loud crackling and then a piece of classical music cheers up the mood.
Mr Evans returns to his seat and demonstrates the sipping of the drink. Max sips his too, though somewhat apprehensively. He’s pleasantly surprised by the taste, a kind of soft plum. His taste buds actually send happy messages to his brain. As the booze settles in his stomach, there’s another message: Where’s the fire-extinguisher? It burns in there like its making holes and escaping. It kicks like a baby about to be born and then settles again. The whole experience is like a roller coaster ride, a gentle start, an adrenalin rush and an immediate need to do it again. He nods and takes another sip.
The two men sit quietly in appreciation of the music and the drink. Mr Evans taps the rests of his chair as if he’s playing the piece, his fingers slowly keeping time. The atmosphere is mellow. Then the record sticks. Mr Evans jumps up angrily and steps over, then drags the arm across the record. He gulps the remainder of his drink and disappears into the kitchen and the bubble has burst.
On his way he snaps at Max.
“You must leave. That’s it. Come again next Tuesday if you wish.”
Max pauses. Life hasn’t prepared him for such an experience. He just sits and takes a final sip from his glass.
He stands, pockets his cigarettes and stops to look around the room. He takes out his wallet and places a note on top of the piano, putting his glass on top of it in case the draft starts up, then sets off to leave.
“Goodnight Mr Evans.” He was brought up to understand manners if nothing else.
He steps through the curtain to leave the room and hovers around for a moment in case Mr Evans is about to do something silly.
There’s a crack in the curtain that allows him to watch on as Mr Evans returns to sit at the piano stool. He places a glass and a bottle on top of the piano and stretches his fingers. He touches the keys so softly that it’s difficult to believe he could snap like that. He plays the opening bars of the piece he’d just been playing on the gramophone. After a minute, the music peters to a halt and Mr Evans drops his head like he’s a puppet whose strings have just been cut.
He stays like that for a moment then raises his head again to take a swig from his glass. When it’s empty, he pours himself another stiff one and begins to play.
It’s time for Max to leave the old man in peace, so he steps gently out and wonders what it was that made things change like they did.
TWELVE
They’re all in the Dog And Partridge as it bubbles with Friday night expectations even though it’s not half-full yet. The people are all young and have dressed with a lot of effort to look as if they’ve made no effort at all. Max knows he stands out in this respect, his quiff built so that the comb’s teeth-marks can be seen in the gel. He’s sitting at the corner table which is coveted by all, which is why they always arrange to have someone go over an hour before closing to bag it.
Tonight Max is feeling a little less at ease than usual. Jazz has brought along her boyfriend, Alan.
To make things feel easier, Max has put headphones in his ears and he’s pretending to listen to a recording of some music Chris has put together on his computer. He bobs his head up and down and taps his toe, even though he’s really concentrating on the conversation that’s going on around him.
Alan’s looking smooth in his casual Boden jacket and pebble specs, like an intellectual popping out to spend some time mixing with the masses. Jazz looks plain and beautiful, her long, blue corduroy skirt matched by the band that keeps her hair from her face.
Angela’s still got the lovely, red waves in her hair. She’s been trying her best to keep the conversation flowing with her usual enthusiasm, but even she’s run out of fizz and needs a drink to restore some of her energy. When Chris returns to the table, carrying a tray full of drinks, the conversation picks up again.
“How are things at the shop?” Jazz asks.
Chris takes this one, even though he’s yet to sit down. “You know. Same as ever.”
“Is the dragon lady still giving you a hard time?”
“What do you think?” Chris passes out the beers and the ciders without spilling a drop. “She just doesn’t like me. You did the right thing getting out when you did.”
“I miss you all, you know?” They had some good times on the shop floor when they were all younger and a little less serious about life.
“Especially Max.” As usual, Chris and tact are miles apart. Alan ducks down and takes a long sip from his beer. Max keeps the dance-beats turned low and taps his feet some more.
“I get to see enough of him, thank you very much. How is he really?”
“He’s finally cheering up a bit, but there’s been something a bit strange about him recently.”
“With this piano business?”
“A piano and a lady. You know what he’s like.”
“Never does anything by halves. That’s what I like about him.”
“Yeah, except this time he’s well out of his depth. Mind you, I’ve seen her and I’m not sure I blame him.”
There’s a barely noticeable pause as Jazz takes in the information. Max notices but carries on pretending he’s not listening. “Is she nice?”
“Gorgeous.”
“I mean does she look like she’ll be good to him?” Typical of her to think that way, Max thinks.
“Who cares?” It’s not something Chris has thought about, being super-hot trumping all else.
“Have you seen her little girl?” This clangs like a bell in the middle of the conversation. The idea of Max taking on a family seems ridiculous to them all, Max included.
“No. I’ve only caught glimpses of the princess herself. My head’s full of them both, though. It’s practically all he talks about these days.”
The drink’s worked its magic on Angela and she’s back in the game. “Well I think it’s wonderful.”
That seems like a cue for Alan to join in at last. “He must be keen, taking lessons on a Friday.”
Angela steps in, seeming to sense that it’s about time they changed the subject for everyone’s sake. “Did you hear about Jenny?”
“Not for a while,” Jazz says.
“The bloke she moved in with left.”
“No way. She must be devastated.”
“She’d be happier if he hadn’t done a runner with her credit cards, or if he’d paid the rent,” Chris adds.
“She’s in trouble then.”
“Especially with his wife.” Chris’s eyes shine as he passes on the gossip.
“You’re kidding.”
“We tried to warn her, remember, but she didn’t really want to hear.” Angela’s voice is quiet and she looks down as if embarrassed at the thought of failing a mate.
“Sometimes you’ve just got to make your own mistakes.” Alan’s right. Of course he is. But it doesn’t stop Max wanting to argue. He takes out his earphones and prepares to burst in when Chris beats him to it.
“There’s a good side to it all, you know. She’s so skint she’s selling off most of her stuff.”
“That’s really sad,” Jazz says as she slaps Chris’s shoulder with the back of her hand.
“I know, but she’s got some great furniture.”
From his other side, Angela digs her elbow into his ribs. “Sometimes I wonder about you.”
“Bet you’d like those funky candlesticks though.” Below the belt maybe, but bang on.
“I suppose she needs the cash.”
“I’ll call her soon and we’ll get together,” Jazz says. Everyone nods and the idea’s noted. They’re all ready for a change of subject. Max’s life offers the easy choice. “Tell us about your music lessons.”
“There’s nothing to it really.”
“Enough for you to miss the opening round. You got here a lot earlier than we expected. What was that all about?”
He could tell them, but it seems ridiculous and rather dull. “You don’t want to know.”
“You didn’t get to Twinkle Twinkle then.” Chris is playing the joker, but it’s a nice little distraction.
“I’ll just have to look it up in the book.”
“How sweet,” Chris says and bursts into song.
‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star...’
Alan joins in.
‘...How I wonder what you are...’
And Angela.
‘...Up above the world so high...’
Jazz holds up her hand as if she’s the conductor and they all stop singing at once. “That’s very good.”
“And we haven’t even practiced.” Chris is unrepentant.
Max doesn’t want the spotlight. He quickly gets back to safer ground. “I quite fancy Jenny’s floor cushions.” He knows he’ll look an arse, but it’s better than the alternative.
“Max!” Jazz looks shocked.
Max blunders into a change of subject. “So what’s the plan for tonight?”
“We thought you were up for a quiet evening.”
“Not any more. I feel like a session.”
“What about the hangover?”
He drinks what’s left in his glass. “I’ve just found the cure.”
“You feel better then?”
“On the whole I’d rather be in bed, but this’ll do.”
Chris rubs his hands together at the prospect of another session. “We could stay here and get up to The Pits later on.”
“Sounds good.”
“Now you’re talking.”
Jazz turns to Alan and they have a quiet conversation, then she leans into the group as if she’s about to tell a big secret and looks over to Max.
“Some madman called us in the middle of the night.”
“No way!” If Angela’s mouth opens any further, it might easily be mistaken for a tunnel.
Alan leans in now. “Only a madman called Max.”
“I couldn’t exactly make it out,” Jazz goes on, “but it was something about the beauty of the Moon and the joy of howling, then some banging on the piano.”
Chris burst out laughing, a fine spray of beer misting up the air above the table. “That sounds like the evening in a nutshell.”
Max drops his head sheepishly, feels the warmth in his cheeks and the need to pee. Alan and Chris just laugh.
“Don’t worry,” Jazz says, putting her hand on his to give a little squeeze. “It’s no big deal. Just don’t make a habit of it.”
What a dick he is. Phoning up his ex like a saddo. The least he can do is apologise. “I’m sorry,” he says, really meaning it.
Chris doesn’t bother waiting for the response. “Your round Angela.”
“And you’re a bloody square. Same again?”
Everyone nods and Angela goes to the bar.
Chris stands and calls after her. “I’ll give you a hand.”
As he passes Max he gives him a wink, then puts his arm around Angela’s waist as they walk over to bring home the bacon.
THIRTEEN
Alan, Jazz, Chris and Angela are gathered on a pavement outside The Pits. The music is loud with the vibrations of a Violent Femmes bass line dominating all else. The street is busy with people dressed in summer clothes in spite of the chill in the air.
Max is on the other side of the road. He’s been waving his arms at cabs for five minutes, but none of them have stopped.
At last a car pulls over to the kerb. It’s one of the box-shaped cars that should really be a van, but has seats in it.
When Max opens the door and tells the driver where they’re going, his friends pile over in a knot of arms and legs. They’ve obviously been in joke-telling mode as Alan has a go at the punch-line as soon as the door closes.
“Indigo! Indigo! That’s terrible,” Alan says.
“That’s the only one I can remember.” Chris is being defensive, but Max knows that Alan’s right even if he doesn’t want to agree. Angela leans forwar
d and stares at the driver. “God, he looks like Mel Gibson.” The girl has no idea about personal space.
“No way,” Jazz says.
It doesn’t stop Angela’s flow. She leans in even closer to the driver so that she’s practically shouting in his ear. “Do you know you look just like Mel Gibson?
“So I’ve been told,” he says, slipping the car into fourth gear and answering as if he’s got his communication system set on to automatic pilot.
“See?”
“You look more like JFK,” Jazz goes on. She must be having a laugh.
“Yep, him too.”
Max throws in a spanner. “Chaplin?”
“Every once in a while.”
“A big mouse?” Chris asks.
“You takin’ the Mickey? It’s a bit early for that one.”
“I’m always ahead of my time.”
“And always end up with the worm.” Max goads.
“Like attracts like,” Angela slurs.
The talk of worms seems to have reminded Chris of a joke. “What’s worse than biting into an apple and finding a worm?”
Alan and Jazz are onto it like a pack of hounds. “Finding half a worm.”
Even the driver groans.
Jazz’s face straightens and her eyes look into the distance. “Poor Jenny. She ended up with the biggest worm of all.”
“Art historian my arse,” Chris says.
The sight of Jazz looking sad cuts into Max and he leaps in to try and change the tone. “Didn’t you get suspicious when he thought Picasso was a flavour of ice cream?”
“No. I went down to the shops and tried to get some.”
Angela joins in. “Come to think of it, he did get a bit edgy when I started asking him about Constable.”
“If I ever get hold of him,” Alan says, “I’ll Braque his legs.”
Alan’s a pretty funny guy, Max thinks. Sharp and clever and friendly. Perfect for Jazz, he has to admit. The scumbag. Max turns to the driver.
“If you could pull over at the end of the street please.”
