Frisby increased his efforts to reach our wayward drummer and roadie via their mobile devices. Radio silence. We gathered at center stage as the clock struck 10:15 p.m. Skeffington suggested opening with an acoustic version of “Brooklyn from Bawtry” to buy additional time. Twas a far cry from the bone-crushing “Gutter Minx” but our options were limited. Cletus thought it might be better to hold off for a couple more minutes so as to maintain the integrity of our carefully crafted set list. There were no guarantees it would be enough time, however.
Skeffington put his hand on my shoulder and looked me directly in the eyes. “What do you think, mate?” Boom. Frisby’s cellphone finally rang, saving me from having to prove that leaders lead. It was surely Lincoln or Ollie with an update on their bloody whereabouts.
“Where the hell are you?” Frisby managed those five words before his legs buckled beneath him. He frantically propped himself up on Lincoln’s ride cymbal as the color drained from his face. “Oh, God. Oh, God.” Frisby began sobbing like a child who’d just tumbled off his bicycle. “Oh, God, no. Alright…alright…I’m coming.” I’d never witnessed anything so horrible and I hadn’t even made the connection yet.
“Frisby, what can we do to help, mate?” Fortunately, Skeffington possessed the wherewithal and courage to jump in.
Frisby handed Skeffington his bass guitar. He tried to gather himself for a moment. “That was my father. They crashed near Holloway Road.” The upswell of emotion couldn’t be contained as giant tears rolled from his eyes. “Lincoln’s fucking dead. Oh, God…my brother’s in critical condition. He’s being rushed to St. Luke’s. They’d don’t know if...” Frisby’s legs buckled once again. Skeffington propped him up. “I’ve got to get over there. Please help me.” I’d heard each and every word that Frisby spoke yet I still expected Lincoln to burst through the side door with his bass drum. This couldn’t possibly be real.
“I’ll hail a cab and ride with you to the hospital.” Cletus unstrapped his guitar and laid it onto the stage floor. Frisby mumbled something in response but his words were barely audible. “Stay with me now. I know it’s hard, man, but we need to get ya to your family.”
“Cletus, we’ll stay behind and sort all this out.” Skeffington then turned his attention to Frisby. “Be strong, mate. We’ll be praying for your brother.”
“Be well, Frisby.” My words weren’t exactly profound, but they were the best I could muster. Frisby looked at me with a vacant expression that I shall never forget.
Cletus grabbed Frisby’s arm and led him into the darkest of nights.
Skeffington went searching for Mr. Pleasant.
I gazed out into the mostly dumbstruck crowd. They’d witnessed something profound even if they weren’t exactly sure what it was.
Rose was out there somewhere.
I turned back towards Lincoln’s drum kit. The empty space between the floor tom and snare drum suddenly brought it all home. Bloody hell. Lincoln was dead. My band was dead. I couldn’t stop the tears.
R.I.P. Churchill.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The night took on a frenetic pace. Mr. Pleasant unlocked a storage room so we could stash our equipment. He’d already arranged for a replacement band to satisfy the restless crowd. Skeffington and I hurriedly cleared the stage as the blokes from Westbound Menace claimed their territory. We’d saved Lincoln’s drums for last, but eventually they had to go too.
Rose found us just as Skeffington locked up the storage room. She was panicked but not nearly prepared for the truth. “They wouldn’t let me back here for the longest time. What is going on? Where is everyone? Is Frisby alright?” Skeffington’s constitution made him the better candidate to delicately break the news, but Rose didn’t know him from a bloody hole in the wall. She probably deserved better, and so I bore this burden for my fallen mate.
“Rose, something’s happened and it’s bloody horrible.” My voice cracked but I didn’t waiver. “Ollie Mas…Ollie and Lincoln were in an automobile accident.”
“Oh, no…tell me they’re alright.” I looked towards Skeffington for comfort and perhaps some strength. He nodded reassuringly as he bit his lip to fight back the sorrow.
“Lincoln’s gone, Rose, and I’m so sorry.” Her gorgeous face surrendered to overwhelming grief. I embraced her shaking frame as tightly as possible but it didn’t stop her heaving chest from pounding against me in agony.
Moments later her body seemed to settle. The sobbing subsided and her breathing became less labored. Twas the deep breath before the dive. Boom. Rose pushed back from me with all of the force her skinny frame could muster. “Is this Ollie’s fault? Did he do this?” Fury sprang to the surface as this dick-shaped rollercoaster continued barreling down its rickety track to hades.
The sounds of Westbound Menace suddenly began echoing through Frankie Shū’s Ballroom adding insult to injury.
“I don’t know, but Ollie’s barely hanging on himself.” More perspective.
“What now?” She began to weep once again.
“It’s getting late. You two stay here while I go find Maggie and Bridgette. They’ll get you home, Rose.” Skeffington just wanted to help, but he’d missed the point.
What now? What does the world look like tomorrow when Lincoln’s still dead? Do we pull on clean unders and gobble up our toast and marmalade? Do we weed the garden so that dad doesn’t get his knickers in a twist? Do we grab a Pelham blue Les Paul Humbucker and chase our rock n’ roll fantasy down the bloody crapper? Blah, blah, blah. Her guess was as good as mine.
Rose waited for Skeffington to disappear. “I really think I loved him, you know.” Sunshine briefly burst through the storm clouds as she managed a quick smile. I desperately wanted to tell her that Lincoln loved her too, but I couldn’t. If Lincoln was fixing to communicate from beyond the grave it had to be done right.
“I loved him too. He is…or was…the older brother I never had.” Bloody hell. I didn’t want a bird to see me cry. “Sorry, I’m off to the lavy.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Raindrops splashing against the granite. Fresh forget-me-nots. We two under the shelter of an enormous black umbrella. Ten years gone by.
Life doesn’t sound the same.
Our history is unrecorded. Sometimes I hear it in quieter moments. The Garage. The audition at Frankie Shū’s Ballroom. Regrettably, time washes out all color.
What now? Life goes on. Wiping our arses. Playing guitars. Rose married a banker. You’re still dead.
There is wonder too. Second chances. Third chances. Her first smile as morning tiptoes beneath the pleated roman shades of her Kensington flat.
Razor sharp sun beams split the storm clouds. Two white doves slide down a glorious rainbow onto your gravestone whilst whistling the tune to “Judy’s Jam Jar Jive.” Perhaps not.
But I hope you’re here just the same.
***
Funerals. I hadn’t been to one since granny kicked over ten years earlier. It was a sad affair of course, mostly because I’d never seen mum weep before. But granny had lived, loved, spawned, and pruned up long before her ticker finally stopped. Her funeral was as much a celebration of a life fully written as it was a heartbreaking farewell.
Lincoln met a violent end just short of his eighteenth birthday. He was survived by his parents, three grandparents, and just about everyone else. It would take someone possessed of the utmost faith to find a silver lining in this bloody mess.
Skeffington and I met across the street from the church in order remain inconspicuous. We’d planned on slipping into a remote pew at the last moment so as to avoid uncomfortable encounters with grieving relatives. I’d also decided that it was in everyone’s best interests to avoid Becky. We both had enough on our plates without dredging up ancient history.
11:59 a.m. The last group of mourners had slogged in three or four minutes before. We crossed the street and ascended the stone stairs. Skeffington slowly pulled open the enormous mahogany doors, but there
was no easing into this swimming pool. Traditional organ music filled my ears as the sight of Lincoln’s wooden casket punched the air right out of me. I knew he wasn’t going to be sitting in the front row, but I hadn’t adequately prepared myself for this bloody spectacle.
“This is so surreal isn’t, mate?” I nodded. Just days before we’d been decked out in our rock n’ roll stylee prepared to conquer Camden Town. Somehow we’d ended up in Muswell Hill clad in black spacesuits prepared to bury our drummer.
The first six or seven rows were a sea of black. Skeffington and I slipped in amongst the two dozen or so interlopers who’d scattered themselves across the remaining pews. The robust turnout somewhat comforted me since it bettered our chances of escaping unscathed. Not so fast. A warm smile shattered any sense of security even before our sky-pilot had greeted his flock. Becky had me in her crosshairs from my right diagonal flank. I smirked back like some uptight square just as the service began.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
His face still bore the anguish of having eulogized his only son as he strained to raise the casket atop his left shoulder. I wondered what part my own father might’ve played if I’d kicked over. He’d likely be meeting with his solicitor to contest my last will and testament before rigor mortis even set in. Bloody hell. Mum had better deliver the eulogy lest the mourners shuffle off with the impression I’d been a worthless twit.
Lincoln floated towards the mahogany doors upon the shoulders of his kinsfolk. The sea of black emptied into the aisle behind him as recessional organ music filled the church. Cletus. Bridgette Van Hoorn. Rose. Becky. Familiar faces scattered amidst the grieving strangers. Frisby wasn’t among them.
Skeffington and I joined the back of the queue with the other stragglers. The cemetery was only a block away so the parade continued down the avenue. I’d envisioned dark skies and cold rain, but the sun shone so brightly. I observed Becky through my squinting eyes. Her auburn hair pulled back into a bun. Her soft neck. Her lovely profile mostly obscured as she leaned against the arm of a geezer who I assumed was her father. I fantasized about embracing her and syphoning out the bloody sorrow like rattlesnake venom. She would mostly forget about my imprudence just long enough to return the favor.
Blimey. The wrought iron archway leading into “The Devotional Gardens Cemetery” yanked me back. Neon green grass. Gravestones of all shapes and sizes. Bouquets in all stages of decay. The procession slowly fanned out before encircling Lincoln’s final destination. I felt a sudden urge to sprint for the casket, chuck it open, and see my mate one last time. Skeffington would’ve tackled me before I’d been able to pull it off of course, and remembering Lincoln as he’d been was probably best considering his horrible demise.
The priest had blessed Lincoln’s gravesite and invoked a farewell prayer before I noticed a solitary figure partially concealed by an enormous oak. I could make out the dark grey rings encircling his eyes even from sixty feet away. Frisby. His own brother was a ventilator away from the hereafter yet he’d come to say cheers to his best mate. He’d even managed to toss on a spacesuit. His courage and devotion were extraordinary. Bloody hell. I’d be herding sheep in the North Downs until things blew over if my brother had just offed Skeffington.
Skeffington lowered his sunglasses halfway down the bridge of his nose, leaned in, and spoke softly. “I guess he made it after all. Unbelievable, mate. Should we catch up with him to see if he’s alright?” Skeffington obviously thought Frisby simply wanted to avoid Lincoln’s relations. I figured he was fixing to avoid everyone. No matter. Our besieged bassist had vanished by the time I looked back toward the oak. My intuition told me I wouldn’t be seeing him again for a long while.
Inertia. Momentum. Fate. They fluffed our pillows and wiped our arses. But while we gorged on butter-soaked lobster tails, chateaubriand, and chocolate mousse, they sharpened their knives and plotted our demise. They ambushed Lincoln. They tortured Frisby. The rest of us were spared to serve as a cautionary tale: You haven’t played Frankie Shū’s Ballroom until you’ve played Frankie Shū’s Ballroom.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
I marched forth upon the hallowed ground as if I’d been fired from a Smith & Wesson. She spotted me like an underfed panther spots its supper. We collided somewhere in the middle with the force of a tsunami before unraveling into a Viennese Waltz. Clockwise. Anticlockwise. We weaved around mourners, gravestones, and ghosts upon the fingertips of Schubert. Our sorrow flitted away in triple meter until the glorious pastel landscape began to fray at its seems. “What’s the matter with you?” Skeffington’s voice suddenly spliced into the pianoforte. “If you fancy her…and obviously you do, mate…just go to her.” I’d apparently been eyeing Becky the entire length of my daydream.
“What for? I’ve already screwed it up.” Anxiety. Drama. Pain. Blah, blah, blah. An unobstructed exit to the streets of Muswell Hill provided a much easier out.
Skeffington scowled at me disapprovingly. “Get your head out of your arse. This needn’t be a referendum on your shortcomings. We’re at a bloody funeral after all. Just give her a quick squeeze and some condolences for civility’s sake.” Bloody hell. Captain Skeffington was spot on of course and it made me want to punch him on the konk. I shook my head in disgust before plodding towards her. “There’s the fighting spirit, mate.”
Becky didn’t notice me stealthily approaching from her rear. She was busy chin wagging with a handful of old magpies who were likely present solely for the post-funeral cold cut platter. I inhaled deeply before tapping her twice on the shoulder with my index finger. My heart throbbed as she turned slowly towards me. Her bloodshot eyes provided a stark reminder of the grim circumstances surrounding our encounter.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Blimey. I’d taken impersonal to another bloody dimension.
“And I’m sorry for yours.” We stood in silence for a moment. “I don’t suppose your heading to my grandmother’s house for scotch, cold cuts, and conversation?” I shook my head. “Well, I’ll be around until tomorrow morning so...” More silence. “Alright, well, thanks for…”
“Where can I find you?”
“Slow down, slapper. Why would a ruthless heartbreaker such as yourself want to know the whereabouts of yesterday’s catch?”
“I’ve missed you terribly, Becky.” My candor must’ve impressed her nearly as much as it did me because she reached out and gently ran the back of her fingers down the side of my cheek.
“You’ve been such an arsehole.” Indeed. Fortunately, Becky also thought she recognized something redemptive in me that probably wasn’t there at all. “Last chance, alright?”
“Right. Sure. You’ll have letters coming out your arse.” Becky chuckled before leaning in towards my ear. Her soft breath felt like forgiveness.
“We’re staying right here in Muswell Hill with my Aunt Kate. 1874 Oxfordshire Circle.” I whispered the address back for our mutual benefit. “Oh, and don’t show up before 11:00 p.m. otherwise dad might shoot you.” Becky smiled before spinning back into the gaggle of wrinkled prunes.
Onwards and forwards. Skeffington stood beneath the iron archway monitoring the proceedings through his whetted songwriter’s lenses. “I want to be cremated, mate.”
“Tell it to your solicitor.” I turned to join him for one last survey of the blood-drenched battlefield. Horrible. At least I had something to look forward to.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
10:15 p.m. The time to set the evening’s frivolities into motion was upon me. Il Duce had imposed an 11:00 p.m. curfew for weeknights so discretion was a must. I tiptoed to my bedroom door, leaned my ear up against it, and listened for signs of life. Nothing. My escape hatch beckoned as I expertly ditched the hoosegow for the darkness of our backyard. The cool night air instantly infused adrenaline into every pore.
I’d trotted all the way to the front yard with the nimbleness of a heister before hearing faint chatter from the far side of the garage. I flitted in for a closer look even tho
ugh I knew better. Bloody hell. Brother and Cicero were slurping down cans of Tetley’s and puffing on fags. Game. Set. Match. Dad would tear brother’s bonce right off if he knew. He’d also banish his crestfallen accomplice into exile for all eternity. Regrettably, their rendezvous with destiny would have to wait.
I slowly backed away until they were out of sight. The darkness provided sufficient cover as I sprinted to my first stop: Winchcombe’s garden. Becky deserved the best, and a geezer like Winchcombe would never notice if a fistful of flowers went missing. I plucked pink and white carnations, blue and orange irises, and white and purple chrysanthemums. The bouquet was coming together swimmingly. I glided towards the cockscomb to add one final flourish when my pump booted a metal watering can five feet across the garden. The tinny boom ripped through the silence in every direction.
I froze for a moment in anticipation of the consequences. Fortunately, the silence returned as quickly as it had fled. I hurriedly kneeled before the cockscomb and yanked a couple free. They made a glorious addition to the collection. Twas time to shove off to Muswell Hill to meet my betrothed. I spun around and leapt to my feet all at once. Not so fast. Brother and Cicero were upon me like a pair of bleary-eyed apes.
“What in the hell? You picking some flowers for Skeffington?” It must’ve been the Tetley’s talking. Either way, I couldn’t afford a confrontation with brother right then.
“Let’s just call it even and I’ll be off.” Brother could shove the olive branch up his blooming arse the moment I was fifty feet away.
“Even? I’ve no idea what your blabbing about, but you’re not going anywhere.”
“I know you’ve converted the garage into a bloody speakeasy. But there’s no reason to get nasty. I’ll just be on my way.”
“Do you know what this tosser is talking about, Cicero?”
Broken Birdie Chirpin Page 11
