Broken Birdie Chirpin

by Tarsitano, Adam

  Brother returned my notebook when Cicero left. The entire blooming spectacle had been for Cicero's benefit after all. Brother was happy as long as his mates were. Unfortunately, his mates were mostly daft and easily amused. No matter. I’d be sure to forget all about them during my one-off for her majesty at the Royal Albert Hall.

  Fast forward. A horrible sensation pierced my guts like a shank after my bonce hit the pillow that evening. Something of critical importance had been lost. I wracked my weary brain but couldn’t put a finger on it. Bloody hell. It finally hit me with the force of a lead pipe. I’d never memorialized the lyric and melody that’d inspired me earlier. I closed my eyes and summoned it back from beyond but the effort proved futile. Inspiration was fickle and had slipped away on account of brother’s chicanery. He wouldn’t soon be forgiven.

  Perhaps someday my wayward love song would return home.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Becky kept her promise. She was in the schoolyard chatting up some of her mates as I sneaked about. Word of my spectacular performances must have spread because plenty of fresh faces were on hand. I blasted through "Boomtown Becky" to kick things off and even winked at its namesake during the middle eighth. It didn't go unnoticed. I rollicked through a few more before closing it out with a fiery rendition of a toe tapper called "Jimmy Jammy Beggar." The loins of the other slags erupted with jealously when I tossed Becky my pick at the finale. They tried to nick it, but Becky fought them off with her elbows. The show had been a blinding success.

  "Thanks for the souvenir."

  "Cheers for not hacking off Sister Pranny."

  "I may be shirty but I'm not dim. I couldn't keep my rock n' roller waiting again." Becky put her soft mitts on either side of my face and kissed me softly. Her lips tasted like candy floss. I smiled and went in for a frenchy. Becky interrupted after only a few glorious swirls. "You know you ought to take me out for a pop or something."

  "All this snogging made you thirsty?"

  "I'm not fooling around. I don't want to earn a reputation." It hadn't crossed my mind that Becky might fancy more than just snogging in the schoolyard. I didn't have the social skills to pull off a genuine outing with her. I'd be exposed as a twit and a fraud. There wasn't a smacker in my piggy bank to top it off.

  "Right. Piece of cake. A fizzy or two next week then." Twas a little white lie to appease the respectable bird inside Becky. Fortunately, it did the trick as Becky pulled me tight against her and drowned me in candy floss until it was time to part.

  "It's Friday. I suppose we’re not going to be seeing each other for a couple of days.” She rubbed my arm. “What will I do without you?"

  "Rest those lips, minxy.” I impressed myself with the witty retort.

  "Don't forget about our date.” Blimey. I already had. “We can meet at the back door after the bell. How about Monday?"

  "Right. Smashing." I’d have an entire weekend to stew in my psychosis.

  Becky scampered away whistling the melody to "Boomtown Becky." She was chuffed. She could hardly wait to tell her mates that her squeeze wanted to drop quid on her. I was horribly uneasy. The rock n' roller with the guitar was bold and interesting. I only waltzed in his shoes for an hour or two. Becky didn't know the dodgy bloke who walked in my kickers the rest of the time. I'd be branded a blighter if someone discovered that I was only mysterious because no one knew what a horrible blighter I was.

  An empty garden greeted me when I arrived home. I felt convinced that brother was hiding behind the shrubbery. He’d leapt from behind the black chokeberry with the garden hose and soaked me to my knickers a few weeks before. Cicero stood behind the winter honeysuckle cackling. Mum scolded brother but it wouldn't deter him from doing it again.

  "I know your back there, plonker." I listened for noise from the black chokeberry. Nothing. "I'm getting some rocks from Winchcombe's garden. I'm gonna toss them at you, you sodding fanny fart. You too, Cicero." Nothing still. What if they weren't there? This quickly became demoralizing. I grabbed the handle of my guitar case tightly and walked deliberately towards the front door. My face crinkled up in anticipation of brother's sneak attack. I was seconds away from the shrubbery. I braced myself. Nothing. I reached the front door. Nothing. I was all alone in the garden.

  "Mum?" Mum was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on a Lancashire Hotpot. Dad was likely at the Turf Tavern having a pint with his workmates. But where was brother? He never missed a meal or an opportunity to welcome me home with an insult or shove.

  "Hello, darling. I hope you’re hungry cause it'll just be the two of us for supper."

  "Where's brother?" I required further confirmation before fully embracing the notion of a quiet meal sans the peanut gallery.

  "He's off at his football retreat, remember? He won't be back til Sunday afternoon." Brilliant. "Take a load off."

  Mum and I hadn’t been alone together in a millennium. We stuffed our faces with Lancashire Hotpot, chased it with ice cold pop, and chit-chatted like old mates. Only after I’d been plied with gooseberry tarts, however, did her modus operandi reveal itself.

  "Is school going alright?"

  "I haven't seen Headmaster Moobs in a few."

  "Headmaster Moobs, eh? I haven't heard that one before." Mum chuckled. "Have you learned anything from Sister...oh, what do you call her...Sister Duff?"

  "Not really." It didn’t help that I hadn’t read a lick all semester of course, but mum needn’t trouble herself with the particulars of my academic prospects anyway. We sat in silence for a moment before mum finally put her cards on the table.

  "Well, tell me what you’ve been daydreaming about at supper the last few nights. Have you met a special girl?" Mum was a perceptive bird. It had to be the painter in her. I felt mostly at ease and would’ve told her about Becky but for the fact that she’d married Il Duce. The thought of her telling him made me feel manky.

  "No. Nothing like that." My deception clearly saddened her as the delight written all over her gentle face suddenly disappeared. Perhaps mum deserved better. Hopefully she understood that my cageyness had nothing to do with her and everything to do with dad being a horrible wanker. Perhaps that only made it harder for her to bear. Either way, I might’ve been less of a sack artist if I’d opened up to her that evening.

  "I suppose my womanly intuition isn’t what it once was.” Mum winked knowingly. “Anyway, you've got a couple of hours until dad comes home. You should rock n' roll to your heart's delight. Don't fuss about your chores. I'll get the dishes cleaned up."

  "Thanks, mum. You're mostly alright." I think she knew I meant it.

  I chugged my last ounce of pop, slammed the glass onto the table, and shot off to my room. Becky had gotten her foot in the door and things were getting heavy. Difficult decisions would have to be made. Feelings would have to be hurt. But it was just me and my guitar for the moment and I had mum to thank for the simple gift.

  Two songs were written that night. One of them turned out to be rubbish. The other, "Trade her for a Fiver", sported a tight melody and a rather catchy hook. I didn't intend it at the time, but it had everything to do Becky and the aggro that followed.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was a fiery Saturday in hell when I slipped into brother's room to pinch a few bills from his money jar to finance pops with Becky. I’d been nicking him for years. It was the least he could do for turning me into a paranoid gonk. He kept the jar behind two piles of jock magazines on the top shelf of his closet. I clumsily toppled over a stack as I stretched for it. To the devil's delight, they weren't all about footballers winning the big tournament. Brother had an enormous collection of dirty magazines. I’d seen it all before of course, but these lecherous periodicals reaffirmed the worst in me: This is what it was all about. There weren't any pictures of gents drinking fizzies with these scrubbers.

  I smuggled brother's magazines across the hall inside my strides and spent Saturday night pouring over each page. My dreams were like kaleidoscopes fi
lled with images of swirling blouse bunnies and panty hamsters. Church was no better on Sunday as a battle for my soul raged in the pew. Becky was the angel sitting atop my left shoulder. Penelope Paddock, the slag of the month in Naughty Nympho's October edition, was the devil on my right.

  Paddock looked cracking. Platinum blonde hair. Sparkling blue eyes. Two mountain-sized gumdrops for norks, and a smile that said "This fanny's all yours, boss." I had to concentrate on Father Buckminster's sermon to keep from getting a bloody stonker. Advantage to the antichrist.

  The magazines were returned to their secret location just before brother returned from his jock retreat. I’d considered holding them for ransom or else setting them on fire in the bathtub, but brother’s vengeful wrath would’ve been extraordinary. No matter. My thoughts returned exclusively to Becky and our upcoming event. The warm feelings that’d been percolating in my guts were being driven down by anxiety. Regrettably, I knew this had nothing to do with Becky and everything to do with me being a plonker, but I still wanted to sack it.

  Monday morning came too quickly. Sister Stubbles lectured on the Glorious Revolution while I fought to suppress a violent coup d'état led by my social inadequacies. Anxiety had transformed into anger. The anger made me irritable. There was no acceptable release. No respite. The hands of the clock were spinning faster than ever. Countless scenarios played out in my bonce as I thrutched about my seat. Some were much worse than others.

  I could’ve pissed around during afternoon mathematics to get Sister Muggins narked. She'd fancy the chance to send me off to detention for a few hours. But Headmaster Moobs was certain to find out, and he'd telephone mum and dad on account of my notorious past. Dad would be cheesed off and brother would use it as an excuse to hurt me.

  Feigning a seizure during late afternoon literature seemed slightly more desirable. Nurse Wankshaft would have to follow the utmost precautions to ensure my well-being. Sympathy would replace retribution because everyone loved a victim. Unless of course everyone knew it was a scam.

  Standing Becky up seemed like a rather sensible approach. She wasn't nearly as dishy as the tarts in brother's magazines, and it’d probably be decades before she could even attempt some of Paddock's maneuvers. Plus, the other birds would be even more desirous when word of my cruelty spread. Hundreds of similar impulses snapped inside my bonce leaving me constantly on edge. Math passed without incident, however. Literature too. My lower appendages felt completely numb as the final school bell rang. Was I going to be a person for a change or continue being a mysterious fanny fart?

  It was fight or flight as a nearly imperceptible signal shot from brain to limbs. My legs began shuffling ever so deliberately. The faces and scenery in the hall floated by as if they were static. The enormous double-doors seemed to swing open on their own, beckoning me to Hades. I suddenly perceived the crossroads before me in the schoolyard. One path led homeward. The other to Becky. A defining moment stood before me and I didn't break stride. A decision had been made, but I felt disconnected and miles away. My pace quickened. My chest pounded. My palms sweated. The time for reflection had passed. The dice had been rolled.

  Becky's smile was as wide as the chink in my armor.

  "I wasn't convinced you'd show up.” She planted a peck on my cheek. “But I'm glad you did."

  "Right. Of course. Off to Plimmswood's Pops then?" I might’ve stammered on account of being fully committed to my own undoing.

  "Or we could just snog for an hour or two."

  "What?" I returned to the Milky Way with a thud.

  "Snogging. You haven't forgotten how already have you, slapper?"

  "What about all that bleeding codswallop about your reputation?" I felt deceived and relieved all at once. "Buggering hell." The angst that’d been simmering over the previous two days finally surfaced.

  "Don't get shirty. I don't really care much about what others think of me. I just needed to know that you'd go through with it."

  "Sister Duff tests me. Brother tests me. Dad tests me. You're beastly."

  "Belt up. I'm trying to let you off the hook. If you'd rather we go to Plimmswood's and chit-chat for an entire hour, then off we go." I was gobsmacked. It wasn't just what she said, but the way she said it. Becky understood.

  Suddenly, I visualized Penelope Paddock, tart of my dreams, as a school girl. She looked very much like Becky, but she had braces and pimples. Her platinum blonde hair was brown and shabby. She was flat as a board. Her crooked smile said "we've all got to start somewhere, arsehole." Little Paddock snorted once or twice, and poof…she was gone. Her weight had been lifted.

  "Snog. Plimmswood's. Whatever. It's up to you, gorgeous.” Twas a brief moment of clarity.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Skeffington was a jock. He wasn't an oafish jock like brother, but more of a Grecian sort. I knew him only by reputation: Slags adored Skeffington, and Skeffington adored slags.

  I was burning through the outro of a reggae number entitled "Penny Please Budge Up" when I noticed Skeffington toe-tapping at the back of the crowd. He was surrounded by a handful of posh scrubbers the likes of which I had never seen at one of my shows. These bints were there for Skeffington, but why was Skeffington there? It all seemed very odd because I'd rather do porridge than go to a football match.

  A few days later Skeffington and his mates burst into the locker room. I was kicking off my pumps following an awful gym class badminton performance versus Pete Ramsden. Coach Shitehawk accused me of being scared of the shuttlecock and sent me to the showers mid-match. The obligatory "why can't you be more like your brother?" blasted forth as I exited the gymnasium.

  Skeffington and the other toe heads didn't notice me at first. They were arse over tit chin wagging about one big game or another. But there was blood in the water, and one of Skeffington's mates needed to flex his John Thomas. "Hey, wanker, why aren't you playing badminton with all of the other wankers?"

  "I'm scared of the shuttlecock. Haven't you heard?"

  "Oh, you're a cheeky wanker." He took a step towards me, presumably to escalate our little one-sided row.

  "He's alright, Lamport, let him be." Skeffington chimed in.

  "Skeff, let's just dunk his head in the bog and be done with it."

  "No. No. Come on." Skeffington grabbed Lamport's arm and pulled him away. "We've got to get on the field before the bell." They walked off without further fanfare, and their conversation returned immediately to football. I’d been spared considerable humiliation. My bonce swam. Why had Skeffington come to my aid? He hadn’t been within ten meters of me in the past two years and suddenly he was pissing around at my shows and preventing me from getting snookered.

  Becky was supposed to meet me behind the gymnasium that afternoon for small talk and snogging. Disappointment struck, however, when her mate, Rita Brown, informed me that she’d been beastly during geography and had to do porridge with Sister Gobshite instead. Becky must've been really brassed off to act up and blow our session. Rita wouldn’t have been a horrible substitute but for her enormous konk.

  My glorious afternoon had fallen into chaos. It was too early to go home and subject myself to brother. I decided to window gaze over at Tremaine’s Guitar Shop on Highgate Street. Their wares were a bit too posh for my empty trouser pockets, but I could easily murder an hour or two foaming over some cracking electric guitars and amplifiers.

  I hadn’t even reached the end of the schoolyard when a somewhat familiar voice rang out. "Wait up, mate...” Bloody hell. I was being stalked by the golden boy of St. Thomas’ School for Blighters.

  Skeffington stood before me in full football regalia. He appeared nervous, which only added to my own anxiety and confusion. “You got a minute to talk, mate? It’s sort of personal, and I don’t want this getting around just yet.”

  “Right. Sure.” What in the bloody hell was Skeffington doing confiding in me about anything? This felt horribly awkward.

  “So, I’ve got your word then? You won’t say anyth
ing to anyone, not even your brother?” He had no worries there. I wouldn’t initiate conversation with brother if brother’s loaf caught on fire.

  “No worries.” I was about to find out what all this dodgy shite had been about.

  “Listen, I like football just fine. I toe tap the black and white into the net and the birds go arse over elbow. Right fit ones too. Dad gets to chin wag about this match or that at the pub. The Headmaster thinks I’m the dog’s bullocks. I’ve got a ton of mates. But football is just a hobby really. I don’t love it. You follow?”

  “Right.” I was beginning to connect a dot or two. But it still sounded mostly like codswallop.

  “I heard about you and your shows. I asked around a bit. My mates thought you were a poof, but some of the birds thought you were alright. So I swung by one of your shows the other day. I thought you were really good, mate.” It was good to know that my music transcended the ranks of barely-pubescent slags who frequented my performances.

  Skeffington paused for a moment. He looked even more nervous than before as he inched towards the big reveal. “I’ve got a bit of the rock n’ roller in me too, mate.” I could tell from Skeffington’s expression that this wasn’t easy for him to say aloud. It was like he’d let down the side or something. The puzzle continued to come together, but it wasn’t complete. I tried to figure out something topical to say. I hadn’t any idea really.

  “Blimey. There’s plenty of room for rock n’ rollers.” It was gibberish but it seemed to put Skeffington at ease. He told me about the dozens of songs he’d composed over the past year. He didn’t play any instruments, so all the melodies were in his bonce. He scribbled his lyrics in a notebook that he hid under his athletic supporters, and sang them aloud in the loo. Skeffington never told anyone about his passion. He was Skeffington the jock after all. I didn’t say much, but listened closely. I recognized the rock n’ roller in him. He’d been suffering for his art after all. I also began to anticipate a certain question. This was all getting terribly serious, and one thought kept crashing through me like bubble and squeak: Being Skeffington’s mate would have its perks.