‘What have you been up to?’ Moan asked suspiciously.
‘Getting ready – for bed,’ I answered.
‘It’s only six thirty!’
I yawned. ‘I feel whacked,’ I explained.
Moan gave me a searching look. ‘You’re up to something, Gene, but mark my words it won’t work.’
I nodded at her as if I was listening. In fact, I was listening carefully to Wesley. He was whistling again and I recognised the tune immediately. ‘April In Paris’, a very beautiful tune too, but what was Wesley trying to tell me? Surely Cherokee didn’t expect me to get to Paris by myself. If he did, then I’d have a go, but since he had my passport and I had only .2.72 in my pocket, it would be a bit tough. And it was only July, April seemed a long way off.
Then I got it! The song goes like this:
April in Paris,
Chestnuts in blossom
Holiday tables under the trees ...
Well, Grimaldi’s has tables outside where people sit and eat fish and chips. These tables are under some chestnut trees. I knew that Grampa Cherokee would be waiting for me there. I leapt up. ‘Thanks, Wes!’ I called as I sped out of the kitchen.
Moan lunged at me, grabbing my T-shirt. ‘Where are you going?’
I pulled free. I didn’t have a second to spare. I rushed towards the door with Moan still shouting, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Ireland!’ I called back over my shoulder, as I ran away down Zig Zag Road.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Getaway
I pounded towards the seafront and Grimaldi’s even faster this time. Sure enough, sitting under a chestnut tree was the unmistakable figure of Cherokee.
I sprinted towards him.
‘Gene!’ he cried. ‘Thank goodness you’re all right! Wesley said it was an emergency.’
‘It is! Quick, Grampa. Moan might be right behind us!’
We ran towards the Ford Transit van that had ‘The Calumet Jazz Band’ written in letters a metre high along its side.
I groaned. ‘It’ll be difficult not to recognise us, won’t it? Moan will spot us immediately!’
‘No time for disguises,’ Grampa said, panting slightly as he started the van. ‘Wesley was lucky to catch me this morning. We only got back from Germany last night. I drove straight here.’
‘Moan’s given us a terrible time!’ I complained.
He looked baffled. ‘Moan? Oh I see – your Auntie Joan. Now listen, Gene, your Aunt Joan is –’
‘Yes, I know,’ I interrupted, ‘my Aunt Joan is a very good woman, but if we don’t get away fast, dear Auntie Joan might descend upon us and tear us limb from limb – for our own good, of course!’ Even though I wanted to get away more than anything, I half expected Cherokee to stop me, or at least to say we’d got to clear it with Moan first. But he didn’t.
We sped away from Clifftown, away from Moan.
‘Where’re the Calumets?’ I asked.
‘They’ve gone to Shrewsbury. We’ll meet them there.’
‘How did the tour go?’
‘Fine! Red’s a bit miserable.’
‘Why?’
‘He met a girl in Mannheim. It’s true love. He’s starting to learn German!’
All across England we chatted about my family, Red, Dave, Paddy and Joe. However tired they were, I knew they’d make a fuss of me when we got to the hotel. And not once did Cherokee ask me why I’d run away.
We were racing along a motorway somewhere in the middle of England in a Ford Transit van, and yet all I could think was, ‘Great! I’m home!’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Journey
Next day, we headed for the ferry at Holyhead, and Ireland. The idea that Moan or Mrs Walmsley might be following had never left me. I wished too that I had snatched up a photograph of my parents before leaving 17 Zig Zag Road, hopefully for the last time.
Paddy drove the Ford Transit van and, as he drove, he sang all the Irish songs he knew. He had a terrible voice as Dave and Joe kept telling him.
‘You’re in the wrong key, you silly idiot!’
‘He’s not in any key! That’s not music – that’s environmental pollution.’
‘Sure all the O’Flahertys are musical,’ he assured us. ‘It comes as easy to us as breathing. Young Seamus has passed his Grade 7 with distinction. And he’s singing at the Galway Festival.’
‘That’s your nephew not you, you eejit!’ laughed Joe. ‘And what d’you mean, “as easy as breathing”? You’re asthmatic!’
But the more he was insulted, the louder Paddy sang and the more cheerful I became. I was used to the Calumets and all the arguments they had – the serious as well as the friendly sort. It all added up to a happier atmosphere than the one I’d left behind at Zig Zag Road. The thought that I might be forced to return there until I was sixteen was a terrible one, and I tried to put it from my mind. I hoped that Zig Zag Road was yesterday’s nightmare.
But I had left Wesley trapped in that nightmare ...
Cherokee leaned over, ‘What are you thinking about, Gene?’
‘I was thinking about Wesley. He’s not such a drip.’
Grampa nodded. ‘Somebody’s growing up,’ he said.
I smiled in agreement and then realised that he’d meant me, not Wes.
I hesitated. The beach hut no longer existed, so I could tell Cherokee about Wesley’s secret.
‘He’s learning to play the clarinet, Grampa.’
‘What! Wesley?’ Grampa looked surprised and pleased.
‘He listens to your music.’
‘At 17 Zig Zag Road? I thought music was banned there?’
‘It is, but he had a secret place – until Moan found it and smashed everything.’
Cherokee looked horrified. I was going to tell him more but he held up his hand.
‘Not another word. This is a problem for Moan, er, I mean, Joan and Wesley. They must sort it out.’
When we arrived at the ferry terminal in Holyhead, there was a long queue of cars and lots of police about. Three plain-clothes detectives were questioning the people in the cars.
‘Special Branch,’ Grampa muttered. Paddy nodded.
The uniformed police watched as each vehicle was checked. ‘That’s the back-up in case anyone gets awkward,’ Dave told me. I was beginning to get nervous. Had Mrs Walmsley contacted the Welsh police to prevent me leaving the country?
I could only remember having trouble at a Customs point once before. It was when we were entering the United States of America. Everyone has to fill in a form. One question on it asked something like, ‘Do you intend to overthrow the Government of the United States of America?’
Red thought that this was such a daft question that he answered, ‘Yes – this is my only reason for visiting your country.’ The next moment he was being led into an interrogation room where he was questioned by the FBI for two hours. His nickname didn’t help. The FBI officers couldn’t believe that George Armstrong had become ‘Red’ because of the colour of his hair, since Red was now totally bald. To them Red was the colour of his politics!
We would have missed the first concert of the American tour if one Customs official hadn’t been a Calumets fan. He recognised Red and persuaded the FBI men that he was famous for his sense of humour. ‘And no one could play double bass as brilliantly as he can and plan a revolution,’ he added and the Calumets hurried away while the FBI were still thinking about that ...
I was wishing that I could hurry away now as the three Special Branch detectives approached the Calumets’ Ford Transit van. One of them peered in. He glanced from Paddy to Grampa, then looked at Joe, Dave, Red and me in the back. He smiled slightly, nodded and turned away.
‘Must be the fall-out from that bombing in London,’ Dave remarked to Joe.
I breathed a sigh of relief. But I was baffled. Surely my oh-so-responsible Aunt Joan would have contacted the authorities as soon as I’d left the house. Why hadn’t she?
CHAPTER NI
NETEEN
Ireland
We drove off the ferry into Dun Laoghaire in a slow-moving column of cars. I stared out of the van window, trying to remember the town.
‘Can we park in Dun Laoghaire Shopping Centre?’ I asked.
‘Why?’
‘I want to buy a book.’
‘What?’ asked Red, brightening up a bit. He was always reading. If I ever complained about having nothing to do, he’d thrust a book into my hands, usually something like War and Peace.
‘Not a book to read,’ I answered, ‘a book to write in.’ I knew I’d have time when we got to the hotel to write my diary.
Red guessed what the book was for. ‘You writing a diary? I tried that once, but I found I ended up writing about the way I wanted the day to have gone, not the way it had. I couldn’t tell the truth ...’
‘We’ve noticed!’ came the chorus from everyone but Cherokee.
He was busy thinking about preparations for the Calumets’ first concert. Cherokee and Paddy never leave any of the arrangements to chance. Everything – the acoustics, the instruments, the stage – is checked and double checked and over the years they’ve taught me to help with all this.
I’ve always been proud of the professional way the Calumets perform. They don’t just shamble onto the stage, start tuning up and eventually begin to play after a long chat about what number to do first. That’s good enough for amateurs, but not for them.
Joe, Dave and Red walk on stage first and then Grampa comes on. There’s a burst of applause, he clicks his fingers in time to their first tune, taps his left foot and they’re playing ‘Cherokee’. It’s as slick a performance as you’re ever likely to see.
We stopped for my diary. Red bought something too – German is Fun!
Then we headed for Ernie’s in Donnybrook. It was Cherokee’s favourite restaurant – and mine too. They have a photo of Cherokee up on the wall. It’s in black and white, taken about forty years ago with ‘All the best! Cherokee Crawford’ scrawled across it in his wild handwriting. It’s next to a photo of Robert Mitchum, taken when he was young too, before he had a face like a tortoise.
Red started leafing through German is Fun! as we waited for the food to arrive. He didn’t seem convinced by the title. ‘Mark Twain said a German sense of humour is no laughing matter,’ he told me.
I guessed the German lessons wouldn’t last long and that I’d never get to meet Red’s fraulein.
Ten minutes after leaving Ernie’s we were at the Shelbourne Hotel in the centre of Dublin. Paddy volunteered to take me on a sightseeing tour of the city while the Calumets were practising that morning. We saw the house of the man who wrote the Dracula stories, and walked down the street where the Duke of Wellington had been born.
‘There’s a statue of Molly Malone at the top of Grafton Street now. You’ve heard of her in the old song, I expect.’
Of course, Paddy couldn’t resist singing it to me.
As she wheeled her wheel-barrow
Through streets broad and narrow
Crying cockles and mussels, alive
alive-o ...
I was just recovering when, walking down Grafton Street, we saw a man made up to look like that famous picture, ‘The Mona Lisa’ (I saw the real painting when we were in Paris). This man was walking along very slowly, holding a frame around his face. When I pointed at him, he suddenly winked at me!
We were laughing about this as we walked back towards the hotel. I rushed round the large revolving doors first, and held them still so that Paddy was stuck inside. He made weird faces at me through the glass while he pushed. I made faces back then let go of the door without warning. As I expected, Paddy shot out at great speed. What I hadn’t planned on was that he would crash into a figure who’d been standing in the shadows of the hotel foyer.
It was like a giraffe charging a rhino. I mean, you wouldn’t worry about the rhino getting hurt, would you? The woman didn’t so much fall over as roll on her side when Paddy was flung against her.
He leapt up muttering apologies. ‘Lord help us! So sorry, missus. My fault, my fault. Are you hurt now?’
She brushed him aside and glared at me. I stared in disbelief.
It was Moan!
CHAPTER TWENTY
Showdown
Moan and I confronted each other.
‘So this is where you’re staying,’ she commented, surveying the grand old hotel without interest.
I just nodded. The sight of Moan in such unfamiliar surroundings was weird. And there was something different about her. Out of her own house, she seemed smaller, more vulnerable.
‘Where’s Wesley?’ I asked.
‘He’s quite all right,’ she answered defensively, as if reading my suspicious thoughts. ‘He’s here with me. He’s been up to your room to find you.’
Good old Wes, I thought, trying to give me advance warning.
I gave Moan a sort of half smile. ‘I’ll go and find him,’ I said, and before she could point out that he was bound to return, I raced away. I couldn’t talk to her yet. I needed to see Wes first.
I found him standing outside my door.
‘Wes!’ I cried, charging along the corridor towards him. I didn’t know which question to ask first: How did you get here? How did you get Moan to come? What happened after I left?
But when I saw my two abandoned diaries in Wesley’s hands, I was silent.
‘Come on in,’ I said, unlocking the door.
He looked around the room, then sank into a chair.
‘Thanks for planning my escape,’ I blurted out. ‘Another week and I would’ve started tunnelling!’
‘That’s okay. That was the fun bit. What followed wasn’t so cosy. We had one hell of an argument after you left.’
I remembered Moan was still down in the foyer. I’d done just what I disliked Cherokee doing – I’d escaped from trouble. ‘Er – shouldn’t we get back to Aunt Joan?’
Wes managed a grin. ‘Don’t worry, she’s not a danger to the public. She’s okay down there for a few minutes.’
That reminded me of my diaries. If he’d read them he knew I’d accused Moan of being a homicidal maniac!
‘Er – I’ll take those,’ I said, reaching out for the books.
‘If you like,’ he said. ‘I’ve read them now.’ My heart sank.
‘I thought you said people shouldn’t read private diaries.’ It was the only defence I could think of.
‘I figured if you hadn’t wanted us to go on reading them you wouldn’t have left them,’ Wes replied.
I was searching for an answer when the phone rang. I picked it up. ‘There’s a lady down at reception asking for us. Come on, you can tell me what happened as we go.’
We went downstairs. ‘So what did you argue about?’ I asked.
‘Everything! Going back ten years to when she wouldn’t let me be in the Nativity Play in school.’
‘Bit late to bring that up now,’ I commented as we reached the bottom of the stairs, but I could tell what had happened – the worm had turned. Wesley had had enough of Moan telling him what to do, he’d done some telling back!
I clapped him on the back. ‘You gave it to her straight. Good for you!’
‘Well ... I made it clear that I wasn’t going to give up music and that I didn’t feel guilty about your getaway.’
We were standing at the bottom of the stairs. I could see Moan seated in a corner staring grimly ahead.
‘Come on. Let’s get it over with.’ I said, heading towards her.
‘Hang on.’ Wes held me by the arm. ‘I’ve made some progress, but ... be tactful.’
‘When,’ I asked, ‘am I ever anything else?’
‘When you’ve been scrubbing pots?’ Wesley suggested under his breath as we sat down.
Moan sat with her handbag parked on her lap, looking vague and ill at ease. She searched for a familiar subject.
‘Nice room?’ she asked.
I nodded.
‘
We’re staying down the road,’ she informed me. She sniffed. ‘Our room’s not been cleaned very thoroughly.’
‘Some hotels are like that,’ I answered, wishing she’d get round to what she really had to say.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
‘Go on, Mum, tell him,’ Wes prompted.
Moan hesitated. ‘I’m sorry about what happened,’ she rushed out.
‘Me too,’ I said.
Then, ‘I did go to the beach hut,’ she admitted. ‘And I did ...’ But her speech came to a halt. Wesley must have already got this confession out of her. And she’d probably promised to admit what she’d done, but now the crunch had come, she couldn’t do it.
‘Go on, Mum,’ Wesley urged. I was finding the silence unbearable and was about to say something, anything, to break it, when Moan began again.
‘I did open up the beach hut,’ she said.
‘Open up!’ She must have wrenched the lock off using a crowbar in those huge hands. It was a bit like Saddam Hussein saying he’d just ‘popped in’ to Kuwait!
Wes shot me a look that warned me not to say anything.
‘I was determined to see what you two had been up to,’ Moan dragged out. ‘At first I was very angry when I saw all those ... musical things. I’d suspected it, but to see it all!’
Since when has it been a crime to like music? I wanted to ask, but I didn’t. I realised that something had changed between Moan and me. Maybe something had changed her; maybe I was the one who’d changed. Anyway, I couldn’t do battle with her any more. It wasn’t fair to Wes. And, for the first time, I was beginning to imagine what the situation was like from her point of view. And I started to mumble words I thought I’d never speak.
‘Well, it’s understandable you not liking music much,’ I said. ‘After all, you’re the one who’s had the boring time – staying at home. While your dad, then my dad, went out, having fun, getting famous!’
‘Hearing about it all,’ Moan added, taking up the thread of what I’d said. ‘First, Mother being so angry, telling us music was bad, musicians were irresponsible. Then Clive’s death! Music always seemed to be the threat, the enemy.’ She turned to me. ‘But I didn’t damage your clarinet, Gene, or Wesley’s records, or whatever they’re called.’
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