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GUESS THE SONG
GUESS THE SONG
There's a Jimmy Dawkins
in every town. You all know one; he's not bad, not even naughty,
just, well, adventurous. Inquisitive. The type who would see a hole
in a fence and climb through just to see what was on the other side.
And if there was no hole, well, he might just make one if no one was
looking. Jimmy was the boy who always ran everywhere, knocked on
people's doors and promptly disappeared. Scrumped apples in the
summertime.
Which is why the four
of us, Jimmy, Willie Martin, Pete Holdsworth and me were squatting
behind the wall that separated the old man's house from the green area that bounded Hampstead Lane.
Jimmy was a natural
leader; at thirteen he was a year or two older than the rest of us.
We followed him; there was no question.
“He's a vampire,”
Jimmy assured us. “Remember that thunderstorm the other night? That
was him. Flew out into the night and brought the thunder and the
lightning in to cover him.”
“Why?” asked Pete?
Jimmy snorted as if the
question were a stupid one. “So he can find his victims,” he
explained patiently. “Man or woman, he sort of hypnotises them and
he makes them vampires too.
“How does he do
that?” Pete persisted.
“Haven't you seen any
Dracula films?” Willie put in. “Christopher Lee?”
“Yeah. 'Course I
have. But, but they're not real. Are they?”
“Of course they're
not real.” I wasn't the only one who almost jumped out of his skin.
He stood there, leaning
on the low wall, looking over it, a smile on his face. A kindly,
amused, smile that was not threatening in any way. “I've been
waiting for you,” he chuckled.
“F-for us?” I
stammered.
He smiled at me “Well,
not for you specifically. But inquisitive boys like you. It
didn't have to be you especially.” His voice was soft, with an
accent that I couldn't place. But he sounded like the Germans do in
war films when speaking English. “Come in with me boys. You can
tell me what they say about me. And I will tell what is true! Perhaps
I can offer you a sandwich and a glass of fruit juice. Hmm? What do
you say?”
“I have to get back,”
Pete blurted out. “My auntie is coming round and I have to be
there.” We all knew that was a lie; Pete was even more of a wimp
than I was.
“Then go you must,”
the old man said. “Perhaps you may pass on to these young men's
parents that they may be a little late, but will be home soon.”
Pete jumped to his feet
and cried, “Yes, yes I will” before disappearing into the
distance.
“Come, then, my boys,
I'm quite sure you are all capable of climbing over the wall. It will
save you walking around to the gate. Eh?”
I looked at Willie
whose face was as pale as mine must have been. But Jimmy was already
clambering over the rocky ragged edge of the wall. I shrugged and
together me and Willie followed him. The old man was already yards
ahead of us and now we saw the doorway he was heading for.
“Did you see his
eyes?” Jimmy said. “Black as coal, I swear!”
“Never seen no one
with black eyes before,” Willie said.
“And he walks with a
stick,” I pointed to the hobbling figure ahead. “Wouldn't walk
with a stick if he was a vampire, would he?”
“That's where he
keeps his magic,” Jimmy said, re-establishing his authority. You
couldn't argue with Jimmy when he thought he was right.
“Come along boys! I
declare you are slower than I am tonight!”
We hurried along
arriving at the open doorway. Light flooded the narrow hallway.
Electric light. What was I expecting? Candles?
“I have instructed my
butler to fetch you some refreshment. I trust ham and cheese
sandwiches will satisfy your youthful hunger? And washed down with
lemon juice. Come, come, we'll sit in my study.”
We followed to him to
an oak paneled room with an an old desk behind which he sat. He
indicated the sofa – leather and soft, it sunk down when the three
of us sat down almost in unison. The old man seemed to be studying
us, sizing us up. A smile on his face. What was he sizing us up for?
His next meal?
The butler arrived,
suitably dressed. A much younger man than our host, he wordlessly
deposited three plates and glasses on a mahogany side table, bowed to
us and then left as silently as he had arrived. With a gesture of his
hand, the old man bade us eat.
“So what is it that
people say, boys? What calumnies have I been subject to?”
“Calumnies?” I
asked, pushing a stray piece of ham back into my mouth.”
The old man waved a
hand. “A fancy name of for lies. Slanders.”
“They say you're a
vampire,” Jimmy blurted out. “They say you bring thunder out of
the mountains, and lightning into the sky!”
“Like this?” said
the old man and clicked his fingers. We jumped. Nothing happened. And
he laughed. “Anything else?”
Jimmy had composed
himself. The display, or perhaps the lack of one, made him bolder.
“They say that dogs howl whenever you walk past. That you have a
case made from the skin of a snake. That people see you and jump into
the river. That we should always draw the curtains whenever you're
out walking!”
He shook his head. “And
you believe this nonsense?” He wasn't angry, but neither was he
pleased to hear Jimmy's revelations.”
“No, sir,” Jimmy
affirmed.
“You did, though.”
The old man shook his head. “So let me tell you the truth.”
For the next fifteen
minutes or so, he gave us a brief story of his life. Born in Poland,
fought in the resistance during World War II and later became a pilot
for the RAF. Settled in England, collected antiques and became a
dealer. Retired some twenty years ago. And no, he did not sleep in
Highgate Cemetery where there had always been rumours of vampires, he
did not drink blood and he was not the devil either.
“I trust you will
correct any similar stories that you hear about me,” he said after
he had finished. “I would be most grateful. At my age it is most
upsetting to hear these tall tales.”
“How old are you,
sir?” I asked, finding some courage ”Do they not teach you
mathematics at school? Let us assume that I was twenty years of age
when the war broke out. In which year was I born?”
“Nineteen nineteen,”
I gasped back. “That … that makes you one hundred years old!”
“A little shy of that
number, but yes, almost a century.”
Then he sent us home.
Back in the house, the
old man shook his head in bewilderment. The stories people made up!
He rose from his seat and crossed the study to the window, opened it
and looked out. The moon was full and grey wispy clouds crossed its
face. He listened. No dogs barked. A car slowed down as it approached
the narrowing of the road at the Spaniard's Inn and then was gone.
With another sigh and a silent chuckle he called to his butler to
tell him he was retiring for bed.
All was quiet.
Save for the shallow
beating of leathery wings descending the the stone steps to the
cellar.
(Unpublished
– theme based on an idea by Helen Hollick)
DIAMONDS
Just
hearing that Tony Meehan drum intro took me back to a cold February
night in 1963. Back to that Church hall in Friern Barnet, next to the
Orange Tree pub. Back to the youth club where me, Mick, Jimmy and
Paul were playing our first – and only, as it happens – gig
supporting another local group, The Falcons.
And then,
following Mick's drums, I came in. It was our last number and I
wanted to get it just right. Leave an impression. In order to try and
capture the exact sound Jet Harris made with his revolutionary
6-stringed Fender Jaguar Bass, I used a thicker plectrum – it gave
the sound an authentic 'clunk' as I hit the lighter strings of my
Guyatone standard lead and rhythm guitar.
I had my
stance and had been practising my facial expressions in front of a
mirror. I closed my eyes and squeezed the notes out of the strings,
fingers pressed heavily against the fretboard. I raised the neck of
the guitar for the higher notes and dropped it for the lower ones.
Front knee bent slightly; back leg straight, not unlike Gene Vincent.
The notes dripped like melting chocolate. Paul - who never missed a
chord change - kept the rhythm going; Jim plodded out a bass line.
Mick's drums threatened to drown all of us out. Johnny Adams, our
manager, fiddled with my amp to get more volume.
I
ventured a glance at the crowd. Small but growing; they hadn't come
to see us, after all. But they seemed to be enjoying our set of
bog-standard instrumentals. Shadows stuff, mostly. Obscure album
tracks. We'd played Walk, Don't Run by the Ventures and that had been
good, as had Chariot by Rhett Stoller. And an instrumental of 'Where
Have all the Flowers Gone' which Paul's dad had liked. A shame none
of us could sing.
I stepped
back from the mic, played softer and Johnny fiddled with the amps so
that we almost recreated the fade out pretty well.
And it
was over.
I bought
myself a coke from the table selling soft drinks and crisps. I hadn't
realised how hot and thirsty I'd become and I demolished the drink in
two long gulps.
“That
was good,” a voice said. Female.
I turned.
She was blonde, about five foot five and had the most vibrant green
eyes. Like emeralds. Diamonds. She wore a tight white sweater a
flared short skirt and white knee length boots.
“Thank
you,” I said. “Erm - Would you like a drink?”
“Thank
you. Coke. Please.” Then: “ I love that tune.”
“Which
one?”
“Diamonds.
The last one. I like Jet Harris. My favourite Shadow. When he was
with them,” she added needlessly.
“Mine
too.” It wasn't just a line to attract more attention from her; it
was true. The name, the really cool hairstyle. Jet was 'the man' in
my eyes. I offered her a cigarette. Perfectos I smoked in those days.
King size. Impressive. She accepted and I held out my lighter for
her. She bent her head, flicked her hair away from her face and then
blew smoke out. “I'm Stephanie,” she said. “Most people call me
Stevie.”
I told
her my name. She smiled and said, “I know.”
I took
her arm and steered her away from the table, indicating a pair of
lonely chairs on the other side of the hall. The Falcons were setting
up.
“You're
really good,” she said, sipping her coke.
I thanked
her. I knew that I wasn't really that good, but I'd done alright
tonight and was happy. No bum notes and only once did I finish a tune
before the rest of the group.
The
Falcons began their set. Please Please Me. A song by a new group
called the Beatles. Then an obligatory Chuck Berry number.
I sighed.
“None of us can sing,” I said. “we would do that stuff if we
could.”
“You
don't have to be able to sing,” she laughed. “I saw a group last
week. The Rolling Stones. They can't sing!”
“But
it's having the guts to stand on a stage and do it. That's the
problem with us.”
“Never
mind, she said and looped her arm through mine. “It'll come.”
“Do you
live far from here?” I asked tentatively.
Stevie
smiled and confirmed that she was only a few streets away.
“Can I
– can I walk you home?”
“Later,”
she said. “Let's have a dance first.”
We
dropped our cigarettes onto the wooden floor and I ground them both
out with my Cuban heeled Chelsea boots. As we progressed from a
gyrating twist to a slow and smoochy number, I caught Paul's eye over
Stevie's shoulder. He grinned and winked and I gave him two fingers.
But there was a smile on my face as I did so.
Later, in
the chill of a dark February night, I walked Stevie home. Cloudy and
moonless it was and the only stars to be seen were in my eyes. And
hers, I noticed as we shared a first kiss outside her front door.
There
were to be many more times that I walked her home; all carried the
same magic as that first, wondrous night. After two years of
courtship we became engaged and two years after that I made Stevie my
wife. Our first solo dance at our wedding reception was to the tune
of Diamonds.
The oh so
familiar tune came to its fading end, Jet Harris's bass still true
after more than fifty years. I raised my head as an organ began to
play and I stared at the coffin as it rolled away to the furnace.
Stevie's coffin. The purple curtains closed silently and I whispered
a simple 'Goodbye, Stevie. Love you'. Tears blurred my vision and
when I rose I stumbled slightly. Hands supported me and I mumbled my
thanks.
I was led
outside. Another grey February day. Fitting, I suppose.
Someone
somewhere whispered, “Strange choice of music.”
But they didn't know. they didn't know that Diamonds has always been our song.
(First published on Discovering Diamonds Blog Spot on 03/12/2017 under 'Diamond Tales.'
Courtesy of Helen Hollick)
GUESS THE SONG
I dreamed of Bobby
again last night. Roberta Roberta McGee. Late of Macon, Georgia and
now – well, who knows where.
I met her in a bar in
Baton Rouge where she was singing. Her voice was exquisite, but it
was lost on the patrons. You would think that here of all places,
where the Blues were born, she would have afforded some credibility.
But all she got was polite applause and she was close to giving up.
It was then I decided to help her. I remember climbing the stage,
giving her a smile in return for her enquiring frown and slipped the
harp out of my jeans. She understood and nodded. We exchanged a
couple of words about songs and then I gave the standard five note
blues riff. She picked it up on her guitar - I would soon find out
that even that was borrowed for the occasion – and we launched into
a Muddy Water's song. At least the addition of my harp made the
clientèle sit up and listen. Man, we rocked the place that night.
She wasn't stunningly
attractive. Slender with very long legs poured into tight jeans; a
faded black T-shirt with with a bleached head-shot of Jim Morrison.
Her hair was midnight black – I swear it had a blue sheen to it –
that hung straight to just below her shoulders whilst the untidy
fringe flopped over her forehead, obscuring one, light brown, eye.
The decade whispered
away and the year ticked over from sixty nine became seventy, the bar
closed down, owing us both money and we could find no work. Thanks to
an obliging trucker we made it to New Orleans without getting too
wet. But Bobby wasn't comfortable there and she wanted to go north
again. I wanted to go west. We compromised: we went north.
But the coal mining
towns of Kentucky were no more kind to us than those of the Deep
South. Gigs were hard to come by, money even more so. And only then
did Bobby relent and agree to go to California. “If we gotta sleep
out in the open, might as well do it where its warm,” she shrugged.
We hitched, we walked
and, Hell, we even rode a freight train until we were discovered and
got thrown off. “You like the freedom?” I asked her as we slogged
along the highway, sticking our thumbs out at every passing car.
There wasn't many of them by the hour and none of them stopped.
“Freedom? Are you
kidding me? What's freedom anyway? Ain't worth a bent cent. Only
means you ain't got nothing left to lose.”
“I started out with
nothing ... ” I began
“And I still got most
of it left,” Bobby finished off for me.
“At least its free,”
I murmured after a while. She punched me on the arm and pushed on
ahead.
Later, lying in our
only sleeping bag, Bobby turned away from me. “What do you want?”
she asked. I sighed and rolled onto my back, resting my head on my
elbow. This wasn't a simple question with an answer like 'a plate of
rib steak with fries', or 'your body again'. This was a serious one.
A deep question. One that required a lot of thought, mainly because I
had never addressed it before. What did I want? I didn't know. Which
is what I told her.
“You're useless,”
Bobby grunted. “What about love? Have you ever been in love?”
“Once,” I said.
“Well, that's
something”. She turned to face me again. “What was her name?”
“Janey,” I replied
without thinking.
“How did you meet
her?”
“College.”
“Ah, college.
Everybody falls in love at college.”
“I guess.”
“How did it end?”
Nothing if not persistent.
“Usual way. Drifted
apart. She went her way and I went mine. No big deal.” We both knew
I was lying.
“And you've never
been in love since?”
“No,” I blurted out
hastily. Too hastily. “But I ...”
Bobby's cold fist
thumped against my chest. “Don't say it.” It was almost a snarl.
I shrugged. “You
asked.”
Bobby turned away
again.
“What do I want?” I
continued. “I'll tell you. I want the freedom that you seem
despise. I want to walk into a bar and play my songs and walk out
with some money in my pockets. You wanna know why I want that? I'll
tell you anyhow: it makes me feel good, Bobby. Hearing you sing,
feeling good is easy. Best thing in the world. And I want to make
records, maybe films, get my face on the cover of the Rolling
Stone, wear what I want, say what I want.” I took a deep
breath. “I want a good wife, children. My own house and land. I
want people to know my name and speak it as they say 'Howdy'
and shake my hand. And: I want you, Bobby.”
Bobby didn't hear; she
was asleep.
The next morning, I let
her walk on ahead again. I was morose and in bad humour and if she
said something I was liable to snap her head off. She sensed this,
damn it, she knew it. You don't travel with someone for months
without getting to know them. She knew my soul whether or not she
knew all the details of my life.
But there was one thing
she didn't know.
I wasn't good enough
for her.
I knew it but she
didn't. She'd argue, of course, but it was nevertheless true. She
deserved better than me. A man who could give her the things she
needed. The sort of life she wanted. I was not that man. I was a
drifter, never able to settle, always moving on. Running away.
Possible. Always dreaming. Ever hoping. But never achieving.
“Goin' to Selinas, if
you folks need a ride.” The truck driver's voice broke into my
reveries and I rushed to catch up and climb aboard.
Selinas. County seat of
Monterey, California. Scene of Steinbeck's great novel, East of
Eden. Hell, yeah, we'd made it!
And it was here, two
months later, I let her go.
Its been fifty years
since Bobby held my hands, kissed me on the cheek and apologised for
falling in love with another man. I'm over seventy now and she?
Well, not something I wanted to think about, but she may even be
dead. I've been through it all, the booze, the drinks, the wives. The
money. The cancer pains me and I don't know how many days I have left
now, but there won't be many.
But you know what? I'd
swap every one of them for just one night from the past. One night of
holding Bobby's body close to mine.
(First published on Discovering Diamonds Blog Spot on 05/12/2018 under 'Stories Inspired by a Song.'
Courtesy of Helen Hollick)
"Diamonds" got me again!!! x x
ReplyDeleteAww, bless you xx
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