Gavin hesitated. ‘Nah,’ he finally said. ‘No offence, Eddie, but I feel like I need a bit of time on me own right now. I need to let this all sink in.’
I let him get on with it. I was on fire. I knew what I had to do next.
Back home, I put the picture of Vincent and the mystery woman on my desk, next to the picture of Donna from Time Out. I couldn’t see much of a similarity, but that was probably because I’d never met the woman in the flesh. Lucky, then, that I knew a man who had.
I scanned the picture from the French mag, turned it into a Jpeg.
By then it was ten o’clock. I couldn’t phone Ray at this time of night, so I sent it in an email to his work, hoping he’d open it and get back to me in the morning.
He did. ‘Where did you get that picture?’ was the first thing he said.
I told him. ‘Gavin’s first reaction was to think it was Donna,’ I said, ‘but then he seemed to doubt himself. You probably know what she looks like a lot better than he does, do you make it for her?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do. I never saw her with her hair done like that, but it’s the expression on her face. The classic Donna sulk. Blimey,’ he paused and I imagined him scrutinising the image on his computer the way Gavin had done the magazine page. ‘Yeah. I’d say ninety-five to ninety-nine per cent for sure, that is her. But as to what she was doing there, I couldn’t begin to tell you. This was after Sylvana was dead, yeah?’
‘Yeah, and a month before he disappeared off the face of the earth.’
‘Fucking hell, Eddie,’ Ray’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. ‘Fucking hell. You really could have a story here.’
‘That’s what I was thinking.’
‘You’re gonna have to talk to her now. Or should I say, I am.’
‘What do you mean?’
Ray sighed. ‘If she finds out what you’re really up to, she’ll be after money and that is when she turns into the monster you don’t want to meet and will never be able to get rid of. Let me think. What magazines do you write for, Eddie?’
I reeled off a list. He stopped me at the most likely one, a music, film, and books monthly.
‘Cut-Ups, yeah. You got a good contact there?’
‘Sort of,’ I said, ‘though it’s been a while.’
‘Why don’t you try to pitch them a story, so as you’ve got it as legitimate cover and you make some money out of it at the same time? ‘Cos she might just check up on you. I know: say you want to write about the Lost Faces of Punk, the people behind the scenes that have been forgotten, and you think she’s an interesting character. Even if they say no, it’s better to tell her something along these lines. Because her vanity will get the better of her if she thinks she’s finally going to get some recognition and she’ll be a lot more gracious.’
We thrashed around a few more names we could possibly add to this feature and then he had to go, his boss was breathing down his ear. I was starting to feel lucky, really lucky. So I called the guy I knew on Cut-Ups and sure enough, he seemed to think it was an original enough idea to give a spin. He said he wouldn’t commission it officially until I had made sure I could contact all the people I wanted to and that they would speak. But if I could do that, I could have two thousand words, no problem.
It really couldn’t have worked out better. Now I had my cover, and, if nothing ever came of it, Donna could check up on me all she liked and there’d still be a valid excuse for the feature not running – no one else would talk.
Almost delirious with excitement, I banged out an email to Ray, saying that I had got the story rolling. He replied that he would be in touch as soon as he could. When the phone rang shortly afterwards, I lifted it up with glee, ready to congratulate him on his quick work.
‘Edward!’ It was like a sudden ice bath. Her tone was strident, with a fearful undercurrent of outrage. At once, I knew the game was up.
‘Oh hello, Mother,’ I said.
‘I’ve just seen Louise’s mother in Waitrose,’ she said. ‘She informed me that the two of you have split up. That Louise is no longer living with you and hasn’t been for almost a month.’ The last three words emphasised in a wobbling soprano.
‘Well, er…’
‘I’ve had a terrible shock, Edward. I had to tell her I had no idea about any of this. Why haven’t you told us?’
‘Well, it’s not been easy for me either,’ I tried to protest. ‘I didn’t think it would work out like this. I thought we were just having a trial separation…’
‘A trial separation?’ said Mother. ‘You were never even married in the first place, Edward. What on earth are you talking about? According to Mrs Wilkins, that’s precisely why Louise left you. She didn’t think she had a future with a man who wouldn’t commit himself to her.’
‘But I did ask her…’ I began, screwing up my eyes and praying for the gift of articulate speech. It was impossible. Hell hath no fury like a mother scorned.
‘Oh, and when was that? While she was packing her bags to leave?’
‘Oh bloody hell…’ slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it.
‘Don’t you dare use that language with me! I’m your mother! I know you, Edward, probably better than you know yourself. And I understand perfectly why that poor girl felt she didn’t have any other choice. Now then. I want you to stop skulking round in London and come up here and explain yourself. Your father and I will expect to see you on Friday evening, for the weekend. We won’t be kept in the dark any longer!’
‘But I…’
‘No buts!’ The volume of this last statement was faintly terrifying. ‘It’s months since you’ve shown your face. Are you really too terrified to tell your own mother when something this important happens to you? What do you think I’m going to do to you, eat you? For heaven’s sake…’
Then she did a most uncharacteristic thing. ‘Speak to your father,’ she said. ‘Maybe he can talk some sense into you.’
I think Dad was as startled by this assumption as I was. ‘Hello, Eddie,’ he said, sounding as always, slightly shell shocked. ‘Er, your mother’s not very happy I’m afraid. I think it would be for the best if you’d come and see us this weekend, if that’s not too inconvenient. We don’t want her upset, do we? I mean, any more than she is already. All right, old bean?’
After a whole weekend of that, I understood how Gavin had felt at having his world suddenly turned upside down. As I had suspected, Mother saw my split with Louise as the ideal opportunity to drag me back to ‘the nest’, where she could make sure I was eating properly, writing my future bestseller to deadline and meeting a good selection of horse-faced, thirty-something spinsters whose mothers also frequented the Con Club.
Nothing could have been more terrifying than waking up that Saturday morning, staring at my ancient Thomas the Tank Engine wallpaper while the morning sun crept underneath the navy curtains and Mother crashed about in the kitchen directly below, twittering ‘For the Wings of a Dove’ as she started murdering breakfast.
Nothing could be worse than returning to that.
But strangely, throughout the ordeal of that weekend, I found I had an unexpected ally – Dad. He came into his own on Saturday night, after a day in which Mother had exhausted herself on the subjects of my emotional state, her embarrassment at having to apologise to Mrs Wilkins for Louise’s emotional state and perhaps more pertinently, my finances.
He had tried some mild interjections throughout the day. Along the lines of: ‘Well perhaps that’s up to Eddie, dear, it’s his life after all,’ and, more provocatively, ‘A man’s finances are his own affair, dear, and he is nearly thirty’. She had almost reached for the smelling salts by that stage, and soon after, clasping her handkerchief to her cheek, announced she was going to bed.
As soon as the coast was clear, he began rummaging around in his writing desk and came out with a bottle of single malt. ‘False bottom in there,’ he explained. ‘Old army trick. She doesn’t suspect a thing. Let’s keep it tha
t way, eh?’
He put his finger to his nose as he said it. It made me see him in a completely different light and, over a couple of glasses of the contraband, we had the closest to a heart-to-heart discussion we’d ever known.
‘Shame about Louise, she was a lovely girl,’ was all he had to say on the matter. ‘But I expect you had your reasons and you’ve no need to explain yourself to me. It’s just that your mother, well, she has a hard time coming to terms with the world we live in today. She’s had a sheltered life, in many ways. She’s never really moved with the times. She expected you to be married with children by now, but as I’ve tried to tell her many times, you can’t plan another fellow’s life for him, even if he is your son.’
He raised up his glass then, squinting at the pale liquid inside. ‘Good bottle this,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I agreed, because I was suddenly rather impressed with him despite the fact I would rather have had Bourbon. Dad was revealing his hidden depths. I wondered how many other silent rebellions he had staged over the years.
‘Thanks for understanding, Dad. It really wasn’t easy for me…’
‘Afraid to tell her, I know,’ he nodded. ‘Silly thing is, of course, she’s more afraid than you are, she just doesn’t know how else to react. Always jumps boots first, does Mildred.’ He nodded to himself and I nodded along with him.
‘Dad,’ I said, ‘remember that walk you used to take me on, over the Downs?’
‘Aha,’ he said, eyes brightening. ‘Where I saw the weasels, you mean? My favourite part of England, that will for ever be.’
‘Well, is there a pub near there or something, where I could take you both for Sunday lunch tomorrow? Then maybe we could go for a walk afterwards.’
I had never seen him look so delighted. ‘Do you know, I believe there is. Coach and Horses, I think it’s called, but I can soon look that up in my AA Guide. We went out there once before, with a couple of your mother’s friends. Good Sunday roast they did too, if memory serves. That would be just the ticket, Eddie.’ He nodded emphatically. ‘Good thinking, old chum.’
There was nothing wrong with Dad’s memory at all. The food in the Coach and Horses was a blessed relief, especially considering the alternative. Mother still hadn’t quite calmed down, still had to make loud remarks about the pinkness of my lamb and how could it be safe to eat, although she did deem her own well-roasted beef perfectly satisfactory.
I had to do the driving so I couldn’t partake in anything contraband there, but I noticed that Dad kept mother’s glass of red topped all the way through the meal. As a consequence, she had mellowed enough by the end of it to consent to a short walk and even admit that this had been rather a good idea.
Poor old Dad couldn’t move very far or very fast any more, but he was still as enthusiastic as I remembered from my boyhood, once let loose in his own Jerusalem.
‘Look, Eddie, willow warbler,’ he pointed out. ‘And is that…yes! I thought so. Pied wagtail. Pretty little fellow, what? Look at his tail going.’
Thankfully, it was a beautiful afternoon and the Downs basking in the summer sun, lush with oak and ash, were a symphony in gold and green. All of us, I think, forgot our woes for the time we were out there, just listened instead to the languorous breeze rippling through the leaves, the twittering of the birds all around us and Dad’s occasional Bill Oddie commentary.
When it was finally time for me to leave, the tears in Mother’s eyes were not ones of rage.
On the doorstep she took my hand and leaned over to give me a kiss. She smelt of powder and Tweed. Her hand was thin and frail and her kiss as light as tissue paper. ‘You’ll be all right, won’t you, Edward?’ she almost whispered. ‘Just don’t be a stranger any more.’
‘Of course not,’ I said, finding tears in my own eyes. I looked over at Dad, who smiled and stretched out his hand.
‘Chin up, Eddie. And thanks for a marvellous afternoon.’
I felt a strange kind of melancholy as I rode the train home, staring out of the window at the fields of ripening wheat turning mellow gold as the sun dipped downwards and spread its final, brilliant burnished glow across the land. I didn’t know who I felt the saddest for – Mother for her disillusion, Dad for his stoic acceptance, myself for losing Louise. All of us, I supposed, for our lives turning out so differently from what we had expected.
I no longer felt like the resentful child who had woken up in his old bed on Saturday morning, though. I felt that I had learned something valuable after all, this weekend. Perhaps, for the first time, I actually felt like an adult.
Someone had left a newspaper lying on the seat beside me, a Camden New Journal at that. They must have been making their escape in the opposite direction to me.
The headline was a welcome home all right: Camden Now Officially UK Murder Capital. I picked it up, sighing, wondering what fresh horrors awaited. The first sentence pointed out that the ‘Murder Mile’ began at Camden Town tube, right where I was headed next.
But before I could take in the gory details, my mobile buzzed in my pocket.
It was Ray and he had promising news. Absent-mindedly, I stuffed the newspaper into my bag and forgot all about it.
30
No Fun
February 1981
Lynton put down the battered paperback book on the table in front of him and rubbed his eyes. Outside, Route 78 seemed to stretch forever into the Georgia night. Inside the steel juggernaut that was transporting them from Atlanta to Birmingham, Alabama, the atmosphere was close: sticky with humidity and festering bad vibes. Lynton had a dread feeling that things would be coming to a head soon, that Birmingham would be the place to make it happen.
For the past two weeks, everything had been getting steadily worse. This tour had started under a black cloud; the three of them returning from extended exile in Hull full of apprehension. Vince had turned up for their London rehearsals with a mooneyed Sylvana clamped to his arm and it soon became apparent that she wasn’t going to move very much further.
Lynton had cringed at the sight of her. He couldn’t believe that he had entertained ideas about her himself, that he had actually gone to that party on New Year’s Eve even thinking that he might get lucky. It seemed like it had happened to another person, another lifetime ago. Now she was the last person anyone wanted around.
Even Kevin had been uncommonly hostile towards her. Lynton had expected Steve to blank her; he’d made no secret of what he thought about it all, he was seething with resentment for their sudden state of disarray. But Lynton had never seen Kevin cut another person dead like that before, ever. Kevin, who would sign a hundred autographs after a gig, who would uncomplainingly talk to the most moronic admirer long after everyone else had left and then selflessly clear up everyone else’s mess, seemed to have become the worm that turned.
When Sylvana shyly offered him her hand he’d looked straight through her and walked past, so she was left standing there, red in the face. She stayed out of the rehearsal rooms after that, but Vince wouldn’t take a hint. Or maybe he saw it as a declaration of war. He was determined that as far as the American tour went, she was going with them. A constant reminder of events everyone else would have far rather forgotten.
When Vince left the studios at night, he went back to the posh hotel she was keeping him in. The rest of them either kipped down on mattresses on the floor, or made do with any sofas that were on offer at friends’ houses. Usually that meant Lynton and Kevin reprised their original roles of sleeping guard over the equipment while Steve went off to get bladdered – only in much unhappier circumstances than in their original tour van.
They still didn’t have anywhere proper to live, despite Tony’s incessant promises that they would be sorted soon. His words and his demeanour rang hollower to them by the day. As if they had already tacitly admitted that things were nearing an end, none of them had brought much back from Hull after New Year. Apart from their equipment, they were surviving on the bare essentials.
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Rehearsals had not gone well. They’d all walked around each other like cats with their hackles up, waiting to see who’d make the first move. It was hard enough to go back to the stuff they knew off by heart, let alone revisit the new material they had been working on just before Christmas. The chief mind game was spinning out between Vince and Steve. Both of them kept deliberately fucking things up whenever a song was starting to reach coherence, each of them testing the other out to see how far this piss-takery would go. No one exploded, but the screw was tightened every day, and every night Steve started drinking earlier. The clock was ticking on a walking timebomb.
As they flew out over the Atlantic, a journey that should have been so full of hope and excitement, the three of them sat separate from the lovebirds, under their mutual black cloud. Lynton still could hardly bear to look at Sylvana; nor could he entirely discredit the nagging feeling that somehow he had brought all of this upon them in the first place, by opening his mouth about finding her attractive within Vince’s earshot. Hadn’t he learned a long time since that anything you admitted you wanted Vince would do his utmost to get for himself? Was it too ridiculous to think that he’d only married this woman to piss Lynton off? Had he been imagining the way Vince had slyly winked at him when he’d said: ‘You’ve met my wife before, haven’t you?’
It gave him a headache thinking about it, and that was another thing. Lynton seemed to have had a headache ever since they arrived in America and the stultifying atmosphere on the bus right now wasn’t doing anything to help it. It was the same headache as the one he’d come round with after Donna KO’d him; a dull, throbbing tattoo down the left side of his temple and inside his eye socket. He knew the brain scans he’d had at the hospital had all come back clear, but Lynton was also secretly worried that he’d been done some permanent damage that night, something that the doctors couldn’t see. Because this headache was unlike anything he’d experienced before.
On top of all that, America didn’t seem to be taking kindly to Blood Truth. The best night so far had been the first one in New York, where they’d managed to sell out the legendary CBGBs – something that had lifted their spirits no end. Until they actually got there and realised that CBGBs was about the same size as the Hull Adelphi and hardly much more salubrious than that little pub. Still, all the city’s punks seemed to have turned out for them and, with the charged atmosphere that already existed between the four of them acting like a lightning conductor, their set had been blistering.
The Singer Page 37
