The Dwarves of Death

by Jonathan Coe

  ‘I’ve been having a go at some of the ones you wrote out for me. I was meaning to ask you – I think you made a copying mistake somewhere. Three bars from the end of “All the Things You Are” – you meant B flat minor, didn’t you, not major?’

  ‘That’s right. It’s just a straight two-five-one. Why, did I write major?’

  Madeline got up and said, ‘Will you excuse me a moment? The ladies’ is downstairs, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Tony and I sat in a rather embarrassed silence for a while.

  ‘I think she feels left out, when we start talking about music,’ I explained. ‘Perhaps we should try to keep the conversation more general.’

  ‘Isn’t it a problem?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean going out with someone who isn’t interested in what you do.’

  ‘She’s interested. Madeline enjoys music, all sorts of music. Like, she listens to church music a lot, especially.’

  ‘Well, she would.’ Tony poured me some more wine. ‘So you’re still getting on OK, are you, you two?’

  Perhaps I should explain at this point that I’d known Tony for several years. In fact he was my first ever piano teacher. When I was back up in Leeds, doing the chemistry degree that I dropped out of, he was doing his PhD and earning some extra money by giving jazz piano classes. He had a small family to support even then: his wife, Judith, and their little son Ben, who was only five at the time. I got to meet them both soon enough, because I started going back for private lessons. They had a small terraced house in the Roundhay area, a really nice place with a piano and a garden and even a bit of a view towards the country, so that half the pleasure of going there used to be to see the family and maybe join in with their supper afterwards. Judith seemed to like having me as a guest, I could never quite fathom why. For some reason I never took to student life – all those sad men cooking up Pot Noodles for themselves in shabby communal kitchens, taking them back to their rooms and eating them in front of Dr Who on a portable black and white TV – and I used to relish these quiet family evenings round at Tony’s, with their good food and bottles of red wine, and Monk or Ben Webster or Mingus or someone playing away in the background.

  That only lasted for my first year, anyway. Judith wanted to come to London where there was more chance of getting a full-time job, so the whole family moved down to Shadwell, taking Tony’s unfinished thesis with them. Fortunately, through his involvement with the scene in Leeds, he had got to know some musicians here and soon found himself in demand as a teacher and performer. And it meant that when I (in my wisdom) decided that London was the only place for aspiring musicians to be, and gave up the losing battle with my degree, at least there was someone for me to anchor myself to. They had been very helpful. I owed a lot to them. It turned out that Judith’s sister Tina was looking for someone to share her flat: she had this council flat in Bermondsey, a two-bedroomed place. I moved in there almost at once, and I suppose by and large the arrangement worked out – but I can talk about Tina later, because she was involved with what happened, too.

  Neither Judith nor Tony hated London as much as I hated London, but he still hated it more than she did. Temperamentally he had always been dour and down to earth, with a tendency to look on the dark side and a genuine dislike of pretentiousness and affectation. He had a short well-trimmed black beard and darting intelligent eyes. He enjoyed making fun of people without their noticing, a form of humour I’Ve never understood, and I was always slightly nervous about introducing him to people because the fact that they were friends of mine was no guarantee that he’d be polite to them. I’d begun to suspect that he didn’t like Madeline very much. Not that he would ever have said so – not to me, at any rate – but I could detect this tiny antagonism. They had very little in common, you see, and there was also a certain simplicity about Madeline, a certain naivety, which I think Tony found grating. Perhaps he thought she was putting it on. This was behind his crack about her liking religious music: he was very suspicious about that side of her, he wouldn’t buy it, whereas as far as I was concerned, it was one of the most attractive things about her. It was an unobtrusive, good-natured sort of religion, which showed itself in a general willingness to be kind and to think the best of people (not that much of this ever came my way). I remembered the last time we had come to Samson’s, and Tony was talking about his father who had died a couple of years ago.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Madeline had said. ‘How awful, to lose a parent like that, so early.’

  ‘It doesn’t make much sense, does it? The randomness of it.’

  ‘But you know – ’ and here she had actually touched his hand, while I looked on admiringly ‘ – the important thing is to die with dignity. Death can be gentle, and calm, and even beautiful. And if we leave this life with dignity, what is there to regret?’

  ‘That’s very true,’ said Tony.

  ‘How did your father die?’

  ‘Gangrene of the scrotum.’

  So Tony wasn’t the best person to confide in about my relationship with Madeline, but then who else did I have? When it came to their emotional politics, the other members of the band were – and this is putting it kindly – unsophisticated. And after well over a year in London, I’d made hardly any other friends. Doesn’t that speak volumes about this city? I lived in embarrassing physical proximity to my neighbours on the estate; I could hear them through the walls, throwing crockery around and beating each other up, but I never got to know their names. I could stand with my body pressed up against another man’s on a crowded tube, and our eyes would never meet. I could go into the same grocer’s three times a week and never have a proper conversation with the girl on the till. What a stupid place. But I mustn’t lose the point. The point is that I was glad of Tony’s question, glad of the chance to talk about Madeline while she was away.

  ‘Yes, we’re still getting on OK,’ I said. ‘No worse than usual, anyway.’

  ‘Have you slept with her yet?’

  It was no real business of his, of course, but I didn’t resent the question.

  ‘We think it’s important not to rush things.’

  ‘Well, nobody could accuse you of doing that. I should try and catch her before the menopause, all the same.’

  ‘Anyway, you know, she has this Catholic thing…’

  ‘Don’t you find it frustrating?’

  ‘I try to work it out in other ways. I think I’m using music as a substitute for sex.’

  ‘Really? Well that’s the last time you play my piano without washing your hands. Have you spoken to her about it? Do you talk about these things?’

  ‘I’m waiting for the right moment to come up.’

  ‘But it’s been six months, William. And it can’t be cheap, dating a girl like Madeline. Where did you take her tonight?’

  I told him.

  ‘You did what’

  ‘It was her idea. She’s been wanting to see it for ages.’

  ‘How much did you pay for the tickets?’

  I told him.

  ‘You paid what? William, you can’t afford to do things like that.’

  ‘I’ve been working lots of overtime. I can afford it, just, once in a while. Anyway, I’ve written to some magazines, and I think… I think it’s only a matter of time before one of them gives me some work. I sent some sample reviews, and a CV. I spoke to this guy on the telephone, and he sounded quite encouraging.’

  ‘Journalists are full of shit. How many times do I have to tell you that? I mean, maybe, maybe you’ll be lucky but you can’t rely on any of these people.’

  ‘Well, sooner or later I’ve got to get some kind of career for myself or I think I’m going to go nuts. I can’t work in that shop for much longer.’

  ‘William, you’re young. Relax, carry on as you are, get plenty of practice in. You’re a gifted performer, I’ve told you that, there’s no saying what kind of break may come your way if you just stick at it. The
re’s no reason on earth why you need to think in terms of a career at the moment.’

  ‘Well, supposing I wanted to get married.’

  ‘Married, at your age? You’re kidding. Who would you marry?’

  I raised my eyebrows and poured some more wine. Tony shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, William, I don’t think that would be a good idea.’

  ‘You like being married, don’t you? Having a home, and a kid and all that.’

  ‘Yes, but you have to be ready for it. For God’s sake, you’ve already been engaged once, and what are you – twenty-three? Cool off a bit. Just because you like seeing a woman now and again, it doesn’t mean you have to spend the rest of your life with her. Think casual.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to start playing again, I’ve had my twenty minutes.’

  ‘Fine. We’ll stay around and listen for a while.’

  ‘Look, you’ve reminded me about something – could you do me a favour?’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s about Ben. I was wondering if you were doing anything on the eleventh. A fortnight on Sunday.’

  ‘I doubt it. Why?’

  ‘Judith’s boss has asked her up to some lunch party in Cambridge and she wants me to go along with her, but it’s not really the kind of thing we can take Ben to. I was wondering if you’d mind sitting with him for the day. I’m sure we’ll be back before the evening.’

  ‘Sounds fine.’

  I liked the idea of a day round at Tony’s house: it would give me the chance to use his piano.

  ‘Keep it free, then, will you? I appreciate it.’ Tony stood up and stretched his fingers. ‘Any requests?’

  In the distance on the other side of the room I could see Madeline returning from the ladies’.

  ‘How about “I Got it Bad and That Ain’t Good"?’

  He followed my gaze and smiled.

  ‘Coming up.’

  What did Madeline and I talk about for the rest of that evening? As I look back on the times we spent together, I find it almost impossible to remember the substance of our conversations. The awful suspicion raises itself that we spent most of the time in silence, or in conversation so banal that I have purposely blotted it from my memory. I know we didn’t argue again that night, and I know that we didn’t talk about the show. Perhaps we really didn’t hang around for any longer than it took to finish off the remains of the wine. The next thing I can remember for sure is that we were standing in the depths of Tottenham Court Road tube, at the point where the paths to our different lines diverged, and I was holding her and stretching up to kiss her forehead.

  ‘Well, good night,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks for taking me. I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy it more.’

  I shrugged, and asked, ‘When can I see you again?’ Suddenly the pain of being away from her was imminent, and as raw as it had ever been.

  She shrugged too.

  ‘How about…’ I chose a day at random, at what seemed like a reasonable distance ‘… Tuesday?’

  ‘Fine.’

  (She would have said the same if I had suggested meeting tomorrow or in six months’ time.)

  We fixed up a time and place, and then kissed good night. It wasn’t a bad kiss. It lasted about four or five seconds, and our lips were slightly parted. It surpassed my expectations, in fact.

  I wasn’t exactly elated as I rode home, though. I took a Northern Line train down to Embankment and then joined the Circle Line eastbound to Tower Hill. It was the last train, I think. It was certainly well after midnight as I came out into the open air and began the thirty-minute walk back to the flat. The man on the ticket barrier recognized me and nodded tiredly and didn’t ask to see my ticket. I turned up at this station and at this time so regularly that he probably thought I worked on a late shift somewhere. Tower Hill. It suddenly struck me as an appropriate title for a piano piece I was in the process of writing. It was meant to have a weary and melancholy feel to it – like you feel at the end of a long day, with maybe the vague hope of better to come. The first couple of phrases had emerged quite spontaneously in the course of an improvisation, and I’d been doodling with it for more than a week now, trying to put a structure on it. Perhaps having a title would help.

  When I got back to the flat I went straight into my bedroom, switched on the keyboard and the amp and played what I’d written so far:

  That was as far as I’d got. I’d had some ideas for the middle section but wasn’t in a position to start working on them yet. What should come next? The C seven implied an F minor, that was easy enough; and suddenly, with a stronger idea in my mind of the mood I was striving for, I wrote the next four bars straight off:

  I played all eight bars through, several times, and felt pleased with them; but still I couldn’t think of a way to get the middle eight started. I tried thirteen different chords and none of them sounded right, so I gave up. I went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea instead.

  Theme Two

  loud, loutish lover, treat her kindly (although she needs you more than she loves you)

  MORRISSEY,

  I Know It’s Over

  While I was waiting for the kettle to boil, I looked to see if Tina had written me a note before going out to work. She worked on the night shift in the word-processing department of a big legal firm in the City; her hours were from seven in the evening until two in the morning. This meant that she was never in when I got home at night, and always asleep when I left for work in the mornings. In other words, we never saw each other. I doubt if I had seen Tina for more than two or three hours in total since moving into her flat. Even at weekends she would sleep during the day and stay up all night, and besides, I made a point of trying not to be in the flat at weekends, because I found it too depressing. Just about everything I knew about her, then, I had learnt either from Tony and Judith, or from the notes which she used to leave me before going out to work. I knew, for instance, that she was about five years older than me and that she was dating a Spanish guy called Pedro, who lived in Hackney and worked similar hours to hers, as a mini-cab driver. She’d given him a key to the flat and he used to come in every morning at about three, just to sleep with her. Actually I don’t know why I’d got the impression that he was smarmy. I’d never met him or anything. Until that night, I’d never even heard his voice.

  For the purpose of leaving notes to each other, there was a pad of lined A4 on the kitchen table. It seemed so much more satisfactory than just writing on little scraps of paper. This way we could get a proper dialogue going. I picked up the most recent sheet and read over the whole of the last week’s exchanges. They started fairly modestly, with a message from Tina:

  Dear W, I see you have still not done the washing up. Nearly all the dirty crocks are yours and I’m blowed if I’m going to do it all for you. How do you expect me to cook a nice breakfast for P in the afternoons when I can’t even get at the sink? A man phoned for you this afternoon. Love T.

  T – The simple reason I have not done the washing up is that there is NO LIQUID, and I know for a fact it is your turn to buy it. Have you noticed those damp patches on the bathroom walls and what do you think we should do about it? Telling me ‘a man phoned’ is no use at all if you’re not going to tell me what it was about. Did he have a Welsh accent? W.

  Dear W, Are you blind or something, I put the washing-up liquid in the cupboard, right next to the chocohte biscuits. I’m sorry about the patches on the bathroom walls, it’s nothing serious. P and I had a bath together yesterday afternoon and he got a bit excited, that’s all. He’s such a sweetheart. I’m not very good at accents – it sounded more West Country to me. Somebody else rang today only I’m not sure if it was the same person, they got me out of bed and I wasn’t really with it. Are you going to eat up that cheese or just let it go mouldy? Love, T.

  T – I’ve done most of the washing up, you’ll notice, but didn’t have time to finish it because I overslept. Why did I oversleep? Because
the bloody phone woke me at four in the morning, that’s why! I suppose it was good old Tommy the Toreador again. You didn’t exactly keep your voice down while you were talking to him, either. You must have been nattering away for nearly half an hour. Incidentally could you take proper messages in future because these people ringing up for me might be offering WORK. Yes, I am going to eat the cheese. It looks in perfectly good condition to me. W.

  Dear W, How do you think I felt, having to ANSWER the phone at four in the morning? I was devastated when P rang at that hour. He’s never done anything like this to me before. He didn’t give any proper reason for not coming over but I could hear music playing in the background so he must have been at some club or party or something. We weren’t talking for NEARLY half an hour. In fact he was very short with me. And I had to raise my voice because he could hardly hear me. Anyway, I was damn well going to have my say, if he was going to treat me like that. I’m sorry if I disturbed your sleep but what about MY FEELINGS? I didn’t sleep a WINK that night, as you can imagine.

  I’ve thrown away your cheese. It was starting to pong the place out. Love, T.

  P.S. What with your messages and P phoning up at all hours, what would you say to sharing the cost of an answering machine?

  T – I’m sorry if Pedro upset you and you had a rough night, but I think it’s a bit small-minded to take it out on an inoffensive bit of cheese. The kitchen still smells and if you look in the fridge I think you’ll find that the culprit is your jar of taramasalata which is well past its ‘best before’ date. Yes, getting an answering machine would be an excellent idea and I’d be very happy to pay half. W.

  Dear W, I had another bad night last night and I must say it didn’t help hearing you clattering about this morning like a herd of merording buffaloes. Could you not be a bit quieter when you get your breakfast in the mornings? There have been no more calls for you but I wonder if our phone is out of order or something because I’m sure P would have rung up to apologize for not coming round again. Have you got any intention of giving me any money for the rent? It’s been more than four weeks now and I’m not made of money you know. By the way I saw you out of the window today going off to work and you do look thin. Are you eating enough? There is some cold casserole in the fridge and you are welcome to it. I made enough for two this afternoon but guess who never turned up to have his share.