First Time Solo

by Iain Maloney

  ‘War is two armies fighting,’ said Doug.

  ‘War is two groups fighting,’ said Joe. ‘Dinnae tell me it’s only armies fighting just now, because you try telling it tae the civilians in Poland, in Holland. Tell it tae people when the Gestapo bang on their door at three in the morning and shoot them against the wall.’

  ‘So you could do that?’ said Doug. ‘You could knock on someone’s door at three, line them up against the wall and shoot them?’

  ‘I could,’ said Joe. ‘I’m no scared tae dae it. But then I’m more likely tae be the one against the wall.’

  ‘How about in Russia?’ said Terry. ‘Stalin also knocks on people’s doors at three and lines them up against the wall. If you were in your Communist Utopia, and Stalin ordered it, would you do it?’

  ‘Stalin doesnae dae that,’ said Joe.

  ‘What about the purges, the trials?’

  ‘They were enemies of the Revolution, enemies of Socialism. Every country executes people for treason. Happens in Britain just as much as in the Soviet Union.’

  ‘So, if a court decided that someone was an enemy of the state and sentenced them to death, you’d carry it out?’

  ‘Cannae make a better world without breaking a few eggs.’

  ‘They’re not eggs,’ said Doug. ‘They’re skulls.’

  ‘So the revolution in Britain,’ I said. ‘If it happens, will be violent?’

  ‘It’s no a revolution if it isnae violent,’ said Joe.

  ‘Like in France?’ said Doug. ‘Guillotines in Trafalgar Square? The Mall stained red with blood? The Thames clogged with body parts?’

  ‘I need to get off this train,’ said Terry.

  Babbacombe, Devon. April – July 1943

  Babbacombe was a beautiful English seaside town overlooking the Channel. A crescent of sandy beach surrounded on three sides by tree-covered cliffs, rows of pastel houses and hotels stretching along the south coast. The English Riviera, but rather than holidaying families, the hotels were full of RAF cadets and officers. Spring was turning into summer, with clear, deep blue skies.

  Stage two. Fifty of us posted to Babbacombe, overlapping with four other groups. In the evenings we were free to lounge on the beach, easing tired bones. The sea was full of men swimming, floating, larking about. It was hard to believe there was a war on, that the Nazis were only a short distance away. I came down by myself, leaving Joe, Terry and Doug at the hotel we were billeted in. The beach was busy, lads I recognised, new faces I’d met as training groups cycled, pairs, threes, PT, Morse code, navigation. Some I knew from London. Clive, Micky, Nev, Paddy. I stripped and dove into the water, stayed down pulling hard against the incoming current, feeling the rage of my lungs, finally surfaced nearer the shore than I’d imagined, gasped in air then set off, arm over arm, out towards France. Since arriving this had become the part of the day I looked forward to, rinsing off the classroom, stretching my muscles. There was a line, a frontier where the sea stopped being costal and became Channel. I could feel myself passing it, some geological border far below, the bottom dropping away and with it the temperature. Far enough. I bobbed for a moment, wondering if I could keep going, make it to France, see Jerry for myself. Contact. Then back, slower this time, breast stroke, inshore warmth, the noises of the lads reaching me, calling me in. Clive was up on Nev’s shoulders, Paddy on Micky’s, wrestling, first couple to fall loses. As I swam past I grabbed Nev’s shorts and yanked them down. He mock screamed, threw Clive back into the waves.

  ‘Good man, Jack, nicely ahhhh!’ called Paddy, as Micky tipped him into the drink as well. A play fight began, five of us splashing, trying to sink the others, more joined in, the sea bubbling and frothing as ‘U-boats’ downed trunks, flicked periscopes, charged depths. Up on the road, locals watched us, some of them women, and that set us off again, headstands, handstands, cartwheels. I waded ashore to my clothes, lit a fag. Joe, Terry and Doug joined me, the four of us on the shoreline, the incoming tide breaking gently.

  ‘Ah, a seaside holiday,’ I said, lying back.

  ‘You call this a holiday?’ said Terry, massaging his aching legs. ‘Half an hour at night to ourselves and the rest of the time square-bashing, running from hut to hut, cramming navigation, law, Morse code into our heads?’

  ‘Mine’s gonnae explode,’ said Joe, flicking his fag end towards France. ‘It cannae take it.’

  ‘Mines are supposed to explode,’ said Terry.

  ‘No, that bit’s not a holiday,’ I said. ‘Obviously. But I’m glad to be out of London.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Doug. ‘The lack of horizon, the pollution, the people, the endless noise of people, the inability to ever be truly alone. It was like a hammer on my skull the whole time.’

  ‘I miss Soho,’ said Joe.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I said to Doug. ‘I felt it on the train coming west, like I was losing weight.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Joe. ‘You reckon any of those animals from London Zoo are out this way? I mean, this is the countryside, isn’t it? Maybe there’s some elephants or something in a field.’

  ‘Still,’ said Terry. ‘If this is a typical holiday in England, I’m not booking again next year.’

  ‘I think they’re trying to kill us,’ said Joe.

  ‘That’s not very sporting,’ said Terry. ‘They should at least let the Germans have a chance.’

  ‘See you, Jack, lads,’ said Paddy, Nev and Micky on their way back. I saluted then gave them two fingers. ‘ENSA show tomorrow night,’ I said. ‘Anyone fancy going?’

  The Entertainments National Service Association sometimes put on a concert in the little theatre.

  ‘Every Night Something Awful?’ said Terry. ‘Not bloody likely.’

  ‘You sure? They’re looking for acts,’ I hinted.

  ‘You should’ve taken your trumpet down to the beach, Jack,’ said Doug.

  ‘The salt plays hell with it, took me ages to get it clean again after last time. The slides were caked in it.’

  ‘Still, it would be nice to have some music.’

  A human pyramid was being attempted. We watched in silence, willing them to succeed, willing them to fall. Down they came, screeches from the men, laughter from the road above.

  ‘Idiots,’ said Joe.

  ‘You’ve always got to find time for a laugh,’ said Terry. ‘That’s what we’re fighting for, after all.’

  ‘We’re fighting so that everyone can fuck about?’

  ‘In a way,’ said Terry. ‘Do you think they’re doing this over there? No fun and games in the Third Reich.’

  ‘So, just by sitting here, smoking and scratching my balls, I’m standing up tae Hitler?’ said Joe.

  ‘Yes,’ said Terry. ‘Symbolically.’

  Joe flicked two fingers at France. ‘I wish we could do something more than symbolic,’ I said.

  ‘Damn right,’ said Joe. ‘I want tae get stuck in.’

  Letters from home asked when we’d be pilots, when we’d be fighting. Luckily censorship saved us from telling the truth. I don’t think my folks would be too pleased to hear I was relaxing on the beach. I wondered where Willie was. Jerry had surrendered in North Africa. I hoped he was celebrating. ‘Did I tell you ENSA are looking for acts?’ I said.

  ‘You did, yes,’ said Terry. ‘Twice in the last five minutes, once at lunch, and roughly five times every day since you found out. I’m wondering. Do you have a point?’

  ‘Just, you know, drums, piano, trumpet. Why not?’

  ‘We don’t have drums, piano and trumpet,’ said Terry. ‘We have a trumpet.’

  ‘He’s got a point,’ said Joe. ‘I’m all for the idea of a band but best I can do is a wooden spoon and a dustbin.’

  ‘So, if I could find drums and a piano, you’d be up for it?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘I’d be up for a session,’ he said. ‘I’m not committing to anything.’

  ‘What’s your problem?’ said Joe.

  ‘Nothing. Just don
’t see much point. We get a band together, play a few songs, do a turn at ENSA and then what? In a few months we’re off somewhere else, maybe the same posting, maybe not. But if we pass here then it’s flight school and the band will be over.’

  ‘Fine, you’re a misery, but if I find instruments you’ll agree to try?’

  ‘If it shuts you up.’

  ‘Great. There’s a piano and a drum kit in the hotel.’

  ‘Our hotel?’ said Joe.

  ‘Yes. Mrs. Sutton told me. Before the war, before the hotel was taken over by the RAF, they had music in the evenings.’

  ‘Well, Taffy?’ said Joe.

  ‘Cunning bastard,’ said Terry. ‘I’m in. But just this once.’

  We set the instruments up in the corner of the dining room, empty after dinner. Joe sat at the kit fiddling with heights, angles. Terry ran up and down the keyboard testing the tuning. It wasn’t perfect but not far off. I took out my trumpet, polished the bell. I blew a scale, ringing out bright. Good acoustics. Doug appeared with a tray of drinks from the bar, handed them round and sat at a table in the middle distance. Terry took a big drink, sat down at the piano and began playing a slow, mournful Moonlight Sonata. He was exceptionally good, eyes closed, fingers moving gracefully over the keys. ‘Aye, all very fine and dandy,’ said Joe. ‘But we cannae jam tae the likes of Beethoven.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ said Terry, emphasising the ‘you’. ‘But maybe you can jam to this?’ Moonlight Serenade. I took up my trumpet. The adrenaline. I remembered my first ceilidh and the thunder roll of the bodhran, the flighty buzz of the fiddle. But this was a real band.

  Terry stopped, took a drink. ‘Well?’ Joe rolled out a rhythm, not too fast, not too slow, a platform to build from. Terry came in with the bass, fleshing out the sound, then the high notes, a melody that danced around the familiar. I found the rhythm, focused on Joe’s bass drum, took his syncopation as the springboard and jumped, tentative bursts at first, then finding my place between Terry’s high and low hands, I began to weave a counter-melody, a counter-rhythm, slowly it turned into Take The ‘A’ Train. As that ended, without stopping, Joe ran a fill round the kit then slowed it right down, four-four slow dance rhythm. ‘Show us what you got, Terry,’ he called out. Terry hit the rhythm, straight into You Go To My Head, his voice clear and light, sitting snugly in the space left for it by his piano and me.

  I stopped playing while Terry sang, coming in between verses. The voice on him. God, but he could sing. I stood back, listened and watched. It was exactly how I’d imagined it. The pieces slotting together, each note, each beat finding its complementary note waiting for it. I took a sip of bitter and dove right back into the music. We took a break when Joe demanded his next pint, and again twenty minutes later. How he could drink so fast while playing the drums was a mystery. He never seemed to miss a beat but the beer still disappeared. Doug sat listening, taking cash orders to the bar, tapping his feet and nodding along. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Terry made a suggestion.

  ‘Shall we try something original? See how that goes?’

  ‘A free jam, you mean?’ I said. The idea. Playing blind.

  ‘Not exactly free. I’ve got a few things I’ve written, we can use them as a base.’ Terry stroked the piano, pulling a sweet soft melody from it. It made me think of green, spring, wind in the trees, a river. After a few bars I knew exactly where I would fit in. The piece was in danger of tipping into melancholy and needed a burst of sunshine. Should I wait? Hesitantly, I blew a G, softly growing, like a dawn flooding the melody. Joe saw what I was doing, his head nodding. That was it. A D, F#, A the counter-melody opened out before me, tunnelling under the melody. Joe tanged the cymbal, brushed the snare like a summer shower, and we were all in it, all living the same scene, the same image in our minds. We were together then, the three of us, a trio in that moment. We made something that afternoon.

  When we came out the hall, a few guys, Nev, Clive, Micky, and Paddy had gathered around the door. ‘Was that you in there?’ asked Paddy.

  ‘Aye,’ said Joe. ‘How?’

  ‘Yer cracking,’ said Micky. ‘You should be on at ENSA.’

  ‘Told you,’ I said to Terry.

  ‘Being good enough for ENSA isn’t a compliment,’ said Terry.

  ‘True,’ said Micky, ‘but play fur dancin, will you? The local girls won’t have anything to do with us.’

  ‘Music’s not going to make them suddenly think you’re anything other than a short arse,’ said Clive.

  We wandered through to the bar, revelling in the attention, rolling with the banter.

  ‘You should play that new Nat King Cole number,’ said Clive.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Nice idea,’ said Micky. ‘Straighten Up and Fly Right. It’d be perfect for a RAF band. Signature tune.’ Terry and I sat down one afternoon and worked it out.

  Music we loved. Study we accepted as a means to an end. PT was a different kettle of monkeys. Running around with twenty-one other young men didn’t in any way improve our chances of flying. It was simply the RAF’s way of keeping us busy. Doug and I had no interest in competition with others. Terry’s joy in sport came from gambling and even on the pitch he would be trying to run a book. Joe loved football, but his idea of tackling was to punch you in the balls. He was made referee: It was safer that way. We’d kicked around ideas for getting out of PT and making some rest and recreation time for ourselves, but none of the ideas were very good. Eventually though, Terry came up with something. We were walking from one hut to another, law class over and navigation about to start.

  ‘Cross-country running? You’ve gone bonkers, mate,’ said Joe.

  ‘No, listen, it’s genius.’

  ‘It doesn’t sound that great so far,’ said Doug. ‘Cross-country strolling, I’d be all for. Running, I’m not so sure about.’

  ‘Daft. Pure daft,’ said Joe.

  ‘Of course we’re not going to do any running, or at least we’re only going to run until we’re out of sight of the camp. The point is we use running as an excuse to get away for a few hours.’

  We were listening. ‘Instead of doing PT with the rest of them, we get permission to head off on a run and once we’re out of sight we can go up into the cliffs where it’s nice and secluded, have a game of cards.’

  ‘Why not have a jam?’ I said.

  ‘Because I can’t pretend to go for a run with a piano concealed about my person. If you want to try it with your trumpet shoved up your arse, I’m sure we can arrange it.’

  ‘No a bad idea,’ said Joe. ‘Cards are much easier tae hide in a pair of shorts.’

  ‘Well, you can take them then,’ said Terry. ‘No room for anything else in my shorts.’

  It was agreed. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Bill told me about this spot up the top of the cliff. Took this local lass up there. Says it’s nice and sheltered, a little dip out of the wind. The game’s poker. We play with matches, sort it out on payday. Right?’

  ‘What about the wild animals?’ said Joe.

  ‘What?’

  ‘From the zoo. We still don’t know if there are any around here.’

  Terry got permission from Evans, the PT instructor, and we found the spot easily enough. It was ideal. The Babbacombe Cross Country Poker School was under way. Every couple of days we set off for the cliffs, Evans encouraging us, calling on others to follow our example. They knew fine what we were up to. Some joined in, but never more than six at time. Terry held a raffle, at a price of course, for places.

  Another day done, I trudged back to our hotel and found Joe sitting in the bar. He was at a table, alone, bent over a thick book. I joined him. ‘Not still studying are you? I couldn’t read another word today.’ He lifted the tome to show me the spine and cover. Karl Marx. Capital. I’d never heard of it, though I recognised the name. The book Joe gave me in London. I hadn’t even opened it.

  ‘Marx again?’ I said. ‘Any good?’

  He lowered the book. ‘Y
ou didn’t read the Manifesto, did you?’

  I thought about lying, but decided it was too risky.

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve high hopes for you, Jack, but if you dinnae apply yourself, you’ll amount tae nothing.’

  ‘You sound like my mother,’ I said.

  ‘I was copying my own.’

  I saw that Joe was still at chapter one. ‘You just started it? Or you rereading it?’

  ‘Oh. Eh. Rereading, aye.’

  ‘Looks like heavy going. Good on you for having the energy after a day like we’ve had.’

  ‘You should read this sometime. All that crap the politicians come out with about trade and democracy and freedom is just bollocks. It’s all in here.’

  The bar was filling up, classes finishing, guard duty shifts ending. ‘So what’s in the Manifesto?’

  ‘It’s what we should do. This is why.’

  ‘Is there a summary? I don’t think I could read something that big, certainly not if there’s no cowboys or Indians in it. Are there?’

  ‘No. No cowboys. No Indians.’

  ‘Ah. That’s more my taste. You ever read The Virginian? Now that’s a book. It’s about—’

  ‘Cowboys, aye, you said. Listen there’s much more tae life than cowboys. That kind of shite is shovelled out by the state tae keep us down, keep us distracted. Same with the cinema. It’s all about distracting you from thinking about what’s actually happening around you. You see it every day. War’s going badly? Dinnae worry, here’s Henry the fucking Fifth.’

  ‘Sounds a bit much.’

  ‘Oh, it does, does it? You know they paid him to make that film? The government. Our taxes tae pay that posh poof tae prance around just tae distract us and tae make us want tae fight. Yet three years before, they were getting the newspapers tae print lies about what was happening in Spain tae stop people fighting.’

  I put my hands up in protest. ‘Sorry,’ he said, taking a drink. ‘Most people cannae even fucking see it. I try tae explain, tae teach people like my brother did, but I cannae dae it. Always get too tongue-tied, too angry. Alec, he always said I was a fighter, no a speaker. Now Alec? You’d have loved tae hear him speak. Must’ve been what hearing Lenin was like during the Revolution. Boy, could he get people moving, get the fire burning.’