by Lesley Jones
I’m turning into such a sad ol’ fucker. I can’t help but grin as I watch the silent exchange between my sister and her husband.
He walks towards her, lifts her from her chair and sits in it himself, placing G on his lap.
“Kitten.” Is all that he whispers into her hair, kissing her head as he does.
“T.” She greets him.
“Love the fuck outta you.”
“You better.”
“Heard we’ve had some tears. Tough day?”
“S’all better now you’re here.”
“I’m always here, Mrs. King, always.”
“T.D.H! How’s it hanging, dude?” My wife greets Cam, ending their moment as she leans in for a kiss to his cheek as she does.
They share a special bond, those three—well, the four of us, I suppose. We were all there to witness Cam and Georgia’s twin girls that Ashley had carried for them, being delivered by caesarean section over eleven years ago.
I can honestly say that it was like watching my own children being born, and equally as stressful. But just like with your own kids, when the drama of the birth was all over and the calm set in, I had the pleasure of witnessing this giant of a man fall apart when first one, then his second daughter, were placed in his arms.
My alarm bleeps again, letting me know that Lennon is approaching with food.
The rest of the evening is spent with the girls being noisy and us blokes just sitting back and enjoying the show.
Nobody made it to bed before three in the morning and the last to leave were Len and Jimmie at around noon on Sunday. Georgia and Cam leaft a little earlier to get back to the kids.
All of this means that I don’t get a chance to read again until Ash has gone to bed on Sunday night.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
1986
The rest of that American tour proceeded a lot quieter. Len made sure that alcohol on the bus was limited and any hotels that we stayed in were made aware that Maca and I are still under twenty-one.
When we arrive back in England in the very early autumn of 1986, we were called into Len’s office for a diary meeting to go over what we have booked for the next six months. Len, being a control freak and megalomaniac that he was, liked to have everything planned well in advance.
When we get there, he was on the phone.
“Why, what does she want? ... A what? ... Why the fuck does she want one of them? ... Well, if you don’t know, I certainly don’t ... When did they stop making them? ... Yeah, well, good luck with that.”
I continued to listen, wondering what the fuck was going on.
“Dad, what makes you think that she’d listen to me? ... Fine, I’ll try, but Jimmie’s got a better chance.”
Len looked up at me.
“Shame things weren’t better between her and Marley. It’s him you need on board for this one.”
I sensed Maca shift slightly in his chair next to me.
“Yeah, I know, Dad, I know. Listen, I’ve got a meeting about to start, so I’ll call her or pop into the shop to see her when I get a chance. And I’ll get Jim to ring her ... Yep. See ya later, Dad.”
“What was that all about?” I asked straight away.
“Hello, Len. How are you today, Len? Yeah, I’m great, Marls, how are you doing, mate?” My brother’s tone dripped with sarcasm.
“Fuck off, Len. I only saw you last night. What’s the ol’ man want?”
He let out a long breath and threw the pen he was fiddling with on his desk. His eyes move from mine to Maca’s.
“Georgia’s being a princess about what car she wants.”
“I thought Jim said he’d bought her a beamer?” I questioned. If my dad wouldn’t buy her the car she wanted, then I would. It was the very least I could do.
“She doesn’t want a beamer, she wants a Triumph Herald,” Maca said from beside me, “with a sunroof.”
Len’s eyebrows shot up. “How the fuck d’ya know that?” He asked. Yeah, how did he know that?
“It’s what she’s always wanted. I always planned on buying it for her.” He looked between the two of us as he talked.
“Burnt orange and black, Triumph Herald with a sunroof and one of those fake walnut interiors.” He informed us.
“Well, where the fuck is the ol’ man gonna pluck one of them from?” I asked.
“He can’t, that’s the problem,” Len states.
“I’ll find one.” Maca interrupts. “Call your dad and tell him I’ll find one, even if I have to get it shipped from another country. I’ll find one in the best nick I can, but check that his boys will be okay spraying it if I can’t get the colour she wants.”
Len and I looked at each other in silence for a few seconds. I was hoping he was thinking the same thing as me. I shrugged my shoulders to let Len know that I wasn’t gonna be the one to tell him.
“Mac, look mate...” Len started and then looked to me for help.
“Don’t tell her. I know she won’t accept it if she knows it’s from me, so just don’t tell her.”
Len and I mirrored each other’s movements as we both sat back in our chairs.
“You sure, mate?” Len asked. “The ol’ man’s had his feelers out for the last month or so, and he’s come up with nothing. You gonna have time to do the same? Sounds like a bit of a mission to me?”
“I’ll find time,” Maca said quietly. “I’d really like to do this for her.”
I spent the next few weeks travelling the country, trying to find that poxy car for my sister. Maca was obsessed with getting one in time for my dad to present to her on her eighteenth birthday.
With four days to spare, we found the perfect car. The colours weren’t right, but the interior was spot on. Maca paid for someone to drive it down from Northampton to one of my dad’s blokes in Bethnal Green the same day. The boys worked on it ‘round the clock and on the 24th of September, my sister got the car of her dreams.
Not invited to the birthday celebrations, Maca and I went to our local pub, got completely smashed and staggered home with just each other, two chicken tikka masala’s, two keema naans, and a large rice for company.
It was after that night that I noticed a bit of a change in Maca. I wouldn’t call it an improvement really, just a change. Instead of seeming as though he was permanently grieving what he’d lost with my sister, for a while he just became angry.
We had some time off until the following spring, in which we took a holiday in Barbados over Christmas, rather than me going home and Maca spending it alone like he had the previous year. We bought ourselves a building in the Docklands area of East London and contracted my dad’s building firm to renovate the old warehouse for us and turn it into nine apartments. The entire top floor was being turned into the penthouse that Maca and I would share. We also started work on songs for our next album.
We were booked in for studio time in early March, but Maca had been writing as far back as the end of the U.S. tour so we rented a hall not far from the studios where we could leave our gear set up and create the music to go with the songs Maca had come up with.
Outside of the band, we rarely saw Billy and Tom. They were both married with babies on the way in the summer. We were all amicable with each other, but apart from the music, we just didn’t have anything in common. Maca and I were both single and out and about at least four nights a week, attending events, parties, the opening of an envelope even. We were there, usually with a few pretty girls on our arms.
There was a never ending supply of women, all nameless and faceless; one blurring much into the other. We still had the occasional three way and the odd all-out orgy, but not at any stage did either of us meet anyone that made us want to go back for seconds. We were kings of the double F... Fuck and Forget ‘em should’ve been tattooed on our foreheads, or our foreskin for that matter, because no matter how many times we told the girls, how clearly we spelled it out, they just wouldn’t listen.
I arrived at rehearsals late one morning and whe
n I walked into the hall, I could hear Tom and Billy in conversation.
“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with the lyrics, although I fail to see how it will ever get airtime on mainstream radio. What I’m saying is that Marley ain’t gonna like it, neither will Len, for that matter.” Tom stated before taking a long draw on his cigarette.
I breathed in deeply through my nose, enjoying the smell. Maca had been ordered to quit after having a chest infection after Christmas, so I’d done the same to try and support him, but it wasn’t easy. That ol’ nicotine shit was addictive. Kids, if you’re listening, take note of what your uncle Marley is saying. That stuff is bad, bad I tell ya. Save your money and invest in property instead. That don’t stain your fingers or make your breath stink.
“What’s Marley not gonna like?” I watched as they both jumped at the sound of my voice.
Feedback screeches through one of the speakers and we all look up to see Maca standing at the mic, his Fender hanging over his back. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, leather trousers, and the scowl that I’ve gotten used to these last few months.
“Rock star much?”
“24/7, baby. 24/7,” he said without cracking a smile. He flipped his guitar over his shoulder and instantly started playing a tune I didn’t immediately recognise until he started to sing, that is.
“The cleaning lady told him he reminded her of David Essex, but with brown eyes. It was this morning. I think it’s gone to his head,” Billy explained as he stood next to me, both of us watching our lead singer perform his own rendition of ‘Rock On,’ which I’ve had to say, wasn’t fucking bad.
“Well, at least he looks a bit chirpier today.” I said with a nod towards the stage where Maca’s husky voice was still belting out a mighty fine rendition of a song I hadn’t heard in years.
A short woman, probably in her sixties, appeared through a side door, pushing a mop bucket by the handle of the mop that was resting in it. A younger woman, about thirty, and not bad looking, appeared beside her and slung the cloth that she was holding over her shoulder.
“Told ya, Kell. David Essex, but with brown eyes and a better voice,” said the older woman.
“Fuck. Me,” the younger woman said.
Maca ended the song and winked at the two women who were now giving him a round of applause.
“Don’t encourage him, ladies. His head’ll be too big to fit through the doors when it’s time for us to pack up later.” I told them.
Maca licks his index finger, pulls up his T-shirt, and circles it around his nipple. What the fuck has gotten into him this morning?
The two women fan themselves as they leave by the same door they came in through.
“You seem happy.” I told him as I walked towards the stage.
He smiled and his eyes shined. “That bird I brought home last night sucked like a Hoover. Three times, and she swallowed every drop. What’s not to be happy about after a night like that?” He stared at me for a few seconds after he finished speaking and I could see that the anger was still there. He couldn’t fool me.
“I’ve got a new song I wanna try.” He said, jumping down from the stage and pulling a sheet of paper from his back pocket. “I’ve got an idea of how I want it to sound, but I wanted your input first.”
“Mac, c’mon man. I really don’t think this song is a good idea.” Billy said.
“Chill the fuck out, dude, it’s just a song.” Maca told him.
“No, it’s not just a song though, is it Mac?” Tommy added his voice into the conversation.
I look between the three of them, my eyebrows pulled into a frown caused by my obvious confusion.
“Yeah, Tom, it is just a song. What the fuck is your problem?”
“You’re my problem, Mac. You’ve spent the last year bouncing between being catatonic with grief, drugs, and booze, and then pinging off the walls and trying to fuck anything with a pulse, all to try and get Georgia out of your system. You’ve changed all of that up the last few weeks and have been miserable as fuck, walking round with a face like a smacked arse and wanting to punch anyone that looks at you the wrong way. Then you turn up here this morning, cracking jokes like a fucking game show host and pull that piece of shit song out, knowing full well that it’s gonna upset people.”
I swear to God, still to this day, that was the most I’d ever heard Tommy say. He was seriously pissed off about the song, and I had no idea why.
“How about you fuck off and mind your own business, Tom? When was the last time you wrote us a song?” Maca asked.
“Never, Mac. I’m not a songwriter and I’ve never claimed to be, but if I was, I wouldn’t pull a stunt like that.” Tommy rubbed his hand over his shaved head and turned his pale blue eyes on me. “I can’t be part of this, Marls. I’m sorry, mate.” He said before turning and walking over to where all of our equipment was set up.
“What the fuck was that all about?”
Billy put his hands up, as if in surrender. Shaking his head, he said, “Nothing to do with me. I understand why he’s pissed, but it’s your shout whether you want us to put some notes down for this.”
“Well, I’ve not even seen the fucking thing yet, so how would I know?” I told Bill as he headed in the same direction as Tom, who was now banging on his drums.
“You gonna show me what’s got him so pissed off?”
He took a draw on the cigarette he’d just lit. “Why the fuck are you smoking? Len’ll go ape shit if he walks in here and catches you.”
“Fuck Len. In fact, fuck the lot of ya.” He threw the sheet of paper with the song written on it at me. “Until you lot can come up with something better, we’ll keep using my lyrics, and if any of you have got a problem with them, then I’ll just stop writing and leave it to you three.”
He could be such a fucking diva sometimes. Between him and George, I couldn’t tell ya who wore the biggest crown.
I bent down and picked up the song sheets and started to read.
You called this on
Now you’ve got your way.
Time for me to move along
Tomorrow’s another day.
Fuck you baby, I did my best
Fuck you baby, now I’ll go fuck the rest.
I tried to reason, to make you see sense
But you walked away... No recompense.
You gave me no chance to talk or say my goodbyes
You ignored my pleas, ignored my cries.
So fuck you baby, now I’ll go fuck the rest
I fucked you baby... You weren’t the best.
When you meet another, which I’m sure you will
Just remember me and the way I can make you feel.
When he slides inside you, and when he holds you tight.
I hope you think and dream of me, all through the night.
When he pushes in deep and looks into your cold hard eyes
When he says and does those things that only I know you like
Don’t you forget that I was your first, the first to hear your moans the first to hear your sighs.
So fuck you baby, my time here is done
I’m through with crying, time for me to have some fun.
Fuck you baby, maybe see you around some time.
Then you can join all the others and wait your turn in line.
“You are fucking kidding me, right?” I looked up at him, then back down at the words.
“Why would I be kidding?” he asked. He was actually being serious. This wasn’t a joke, he really meant for me to write music for this.
“You seriously expect me to write music, then get up on stage and perform a song that talks like that about my sister?”
“You’ve had no problem singing any of the other songs I’ve written about your sister, and you’ve had no problem living off the royalties either.”
I didn’t hesitate for a second. I swung a punch that caught him square on the chin. Luckily, he hit a chair on his way down, preventing his head from cracking
open on the concrete floor.
“Marley!” Jimmie screamed my name from the doorway. She dumped the brown paper bag onto the first table she saw and came rushing towards us. Len followed her through the doors, carrying coffees and a carrier bag.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” She screeched, the sound echoed around the quiet warehouse.
“Me, me?” I actually pointed at myself as I paced in front of where she had Maca’s head in her lap. Now that his eyes were open, any concerns I may have had that I’d actually hurt him were gone.
“Read this before you start accusing me of wrongdoing, and tell me you or Len wouldn’t have done the same.” I shoved the pieces of paper at her and she started to read.
“What the fucks going on ... what’s that? Why’s he on the floor?” Len fires off.
“Marley knocked Maca out.” Jim held the paper up to him before moving and letting Maca’s head hit the concrete. He gave a groan of complaint.
“Now it’s your turn,” she told Len. “And when you’re done, I want first dibs before Bailey finishes him off.”
Len read the words to the song, looking up at me and laughing a couple of times, then down at Maca, who was sitting up on his own.
“Wh-what is this?” Len laughed nervously as he asked.
“That’s this pricks latest offering. He expects me to come up with a tune for this. He expects me to perform and record it. A song about him taking my sisters virginity, about some other bloke fucking her.” Jimmie put her hand on my chest as I stepped toward the fucker again.
“Have you finally lost the plot, Maca? Stand the fuck up.” Len shouted. Maca stood, still rubbing at his jaw. “What the fuck is going on with you, boy?” Apparently, Len turns into my dad when he’s angry.
“It’s just a song.”
“Just a song? And you really expect him to get up on stage and sing a song like that, knowing it’s aimed at his sister? You really think that I want to be the manager of a band who sings a song like that, about my little sister?”
