Broken Birdie Chirpin (4 page)

It
took six-years to get from the garden gate to the front door. Skeffington’s
digs were enormous. It was well-known that his dad was a gaffer for a
construction outfit in Westminster and a big cheese in the labor union. I
tapped the bell, and seconds later the door swung open. Bloody hell.
Skeffington stood before me in torn up trousers, daisy roots, and a faded
Aladdin Sane t-shirt. His hair was tussled about like he’s just flopped out of
bed.

Kicking
off conversation wasn’t my cup of tea, but this called for extraordinary
measures. “Your dad isn’t home, right?” His dad would’ve kicked ten bells out
of me if he thought I had something to do with this shite. I’d be a right
croaker.

“Are
you mad, mate? He’s on a job in Mayfair.” It felt comforting that Skeffington
understood that I didn’t want to be pummeled on his account. “Well, hurry up
then. We’ve only got a couple of hours.” He was mostly concerned about his own
arse.

Skeffington
led the way to his bedroom. The décor was precisely what I expected. Walls were
splattered with posters of toe heads in beastly poses. Trophies of golden jocks
of all shapes and sizes cluttered the shelves. His curtains and comforter had
footballs sewn into them. It was a bloody shrine to sport. There were no signs
of Skeffington the rock n’ roller save for Skeffington himself.

The
next few moments were awkward. A series of jumbled up words came fumbling out
of Skeffington’s gob. His face appeared crimson. His fists clenched. It looked
as though he might chuck up. Perhaps he was having second thoughts. Maybe the
sight of his bedroom reminded him just how much he’d revealed. There was no
un-ringing the bell. Skeffington was inches away from sacking our
collaboration. I was a handful of chords away from having access to the fittest
crumpets this side of Lisson Grove. Skeffington must’ve been off his trolley if
he thought I’d standby.

“Sporty
room.” The words just flopped out of my brain.

“What?”
Skeffington re-emerged from his own arsehole. “Did you say ‘sporty room’,
mate?” He stared at me for a tick before cracking up over the absurdity. “It is
fucking sporty, innit?”

“You’re
Skeffington.” Neither of us knew precisely what I meant, but the lorry was back
on the motorway heading toward Bristols. Skeffington popped into the cupboard
and emerged with a little green notebook. He fumbled through its pages until he
seemed satisfied. I unsheathed my acoustic and snaffled a pick from my pocket.
The songbird was going to chirp. Skeffington was ready to bare his soul. I shut
my eyes as the top E string dropped into tune.

My
songs are locomotives barreling down a rickety track. Stand clear lest ye be
soddened by the roar of melodies bleached in dirt and swagger.

It’s
a haymaker to the konk and lights out.

But
somewhere there is a garden where flowers burst from every inch of the soil.
Petunias. Snapdragons. Blazing stars. Gentle creatures from the sky vacation on
the limbs of towering willows. There is a pond so still that it reflects
perfectly each passerby. Lovers embrace for keeps on limestone benches. Even
naughty ankle-biters are awestruck angels as they gaze upon fluttering
swallowtails. The aromatic air transports genuine rapture to all those blessed
enough to inhale it. And when you close your eyes you can hear sweet melodies
billowing from every corner. It is these melodies that bind all of the other
elements together. It was in this garden where I spent those two hours with
Skeffington.

Three
songs were nearly finished. Skeffington had been particularly chuffed about a
rollicking number called “Brooklyn from Bawtry.” The lyric and melody were born
of Skeffington, but the middle eighth and riff were mine. We could’ve blistered
through three more, but the football-shaped wall clock reminded us that our
transcendence was mostly meditative. The gaffer would be home in twenty minutes
and Skeffington required at least ten to scrub off the glam.

“Sorry,
mate. You’ve got to disappear.” Skeffington could have been addressing me or
his alter-ego. Either way, the anarchist needed to remain tucked beneath
athletic supporters along with the green notebook.

The
month that followed was exhausting. Dozens of hours were spent breathing life
into Skeffington’s songs. Pop gems were sprouting from nearly every page of his
notebook. The smallest concepts were exploding into full-blown masterpieces. We
even began collaborating on new material. The volatility of the fusion made for
brilliant poetic irony. Petrol chased with Pimm’s. Misogyny mixed with Seville
orange marmalade. Licorice dipped in turpentine. It was time to unload our
three minute lasers on the highest flying birds of St. Thomas’ School for
Blighters. We would turn minds into trifle and set knickers ablaze.

If
only the golden boy’s bullocks didn’t vanish at the whiff of his dad’s bitter
wrath. We were still like lurkers dodging the bobbies. My dad thought of me as
a right twit, but at least he knew who I was. Skeffington’s dad adored a
mirage. Skeffington was a rock n’ roller with strong legs, not an insatiable
jock with a penchant for melody. He was even worse off because his mum seemed
rather cookie-cutter. She was all “Yes, sir. No, sir.” Happiness was a loaded
social calendar and a bottle of Syrah. These issues were indirectly my concern
and the stress made me feel manky.

Becky
suffered horribly for my art. I crammed her into my schedule whenever
Skeffington was too busy with sport. She didn’t deserve such neglect, but
inertia was a locomotive barreling down the track to Hades and my priorities
were non-negotiable. Becky remained sturdy and never whinged. She smiled
through even the most self-indulgent prattle. Her equilibrium seemed unaffected
by the arrangement. It was easy, however, for me to mistake pride for genuine
feelings since I wasn’t really paying attention. No matter. Becky would soon be
a torturous dream and I’d be awash in decadence.

Not
so fast. Vicki Wickham hatched a rumor that Becky sobbed like a sprog during
detention because she’d been robbed of our weekly visit. Wickham might’ve been
dodgy but she wasn’t cruel. Her account was confirmed when Rita called me a
“miserable plonker” as I avoided her in the hall. I brought one of mum’s spiced
currant buns to my next encounter with Becky to make amends. The gesture fell
flat as she led me to Alverston Park in silence. I suddenly became struck by a
barrage of excruciating thoughts. Becky was fixing to terminate our
association. Her precious heart had been pushed to the brink. I doubled-down on
Skeffington without even permitting Becky to sit at the table.

Becky
finally settled under a towering English elm and snapped the silence. “The
spring dance is next month. I don’t suppose you’re going to ask me to it?”
Becky was stout as always, but a vulnerability seeped into her tone. My
response would likely mean the difference between strolling home a bachelor or
maintaining the status quo.

“That’s
not my scene really.” The moment didn’t call for honesty. “But I’ll bring you
if you want anyway.” It called for sacrifice.

“This
is all very difficult for you, isn’t it? That’s very sad.” I wasn’t sure what
to take away from this. “You are too kind for offering, but I wouldn’t dream of
stretching you so thin.” Becky reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded
piece of paper. “Here is something you may be more interested in.” Was it some
sort of separation agreement? Perhaps it was a poem about what a horrible shite
I’d been. I unfolded it reluctantly.

Surprise.
It appeared to be a flyer of some sort. St. Thomas’ School for Blighters was searching
for a band to helm the spring dance. Tryouts were two weeks away. Becky must’ve
been working an angle, but my brain was busy processing the information at
hand. “Headmaster Moobs thinks I’m a miscreant and a twit.”

“Must
I spoon it to you?” The hollow stare that I volleyed back must’ve answered her
query. “Headmaster adores a certain super jock that you spend ninety-nine
percent of your bleeding time with, right? And this super jock just happens to
be your musical soul mate, right?” Becky might’ve been on to something.
Headmaster Moobs would surely give Skeffington the nod, especially since
Skeffington’s dad held dozens of political chips in the pockets of his boiler
suit. “You just need to convince that fanny that it’s time to strip off his
knickers and get on stage.”

There
was one additional obstacle. Skeffington and I weren’t exactly a band. We
lacked an entire rhythm section. It would take a stonking miracle to stitch
something together in two weeks. “It’s a lovely idea really, but we can’t play
a major gig as tweedle dee and tweedle dum.” Becky had already thought of this
of course.

“Cousin
Lincoln from Muswell Hill has played the drums forever. He’ll help on account
of me setting him up with Lucy Belden. He can probably track down a bass player
too. Any more excuses?” I literally trembled with excitement. This was what I’d
been waiting for since I first peaked out of mum’s fanny, and Becky had
delivered it to me on a silver platter. She could’ve sacked me or worse, but
she’d given me a gift instead. I reached out and squeezed her tight. Becky felt
like summer in Blackpool. I slipped her a peck on the cheek as I let go.

“Thank
you.” It was gratitude and apology wrapped up in the sincerest words I’d ever
spoken.

“You’re
a miscreant and a twit, slapper, but you’re so good at snogging that I’ve
decided to give you a second chance.” Becky sounded like herself again. “You’ll
be busy pulling this together, but I won’t be your devoted mistress anymore
when it’s over.”

We
parted ways shortly thereafter. I felt a mostly foreign sense of urgency. There
were many hurdles spattered on the road ahead. My first priority was convincing
Skeffington that this presented a golden opportunity. My second priority was
convincing myself that I wasn’t in over my head. A bloody rhythm section? Two
weeks? Hopefully, Cousin Lincoln and his bassist were more learned than I.

“Right
on, mate. An extraordinary debut indeed.” Skeffington seemed fully committed in
theory. “But there’s no guarantee we’ll land it. It’s all horribly risky.”

“It’s
the life that’s chosen you. You’re a rock n’ roller.”

“What
do you know about these other blokes?” I didn’t know shite about these other
blokes.

“Quality.
Real pros.”

“Alright.
Let’s get together and slog through a few songs with them, mate. I’ll quit
being such a tosser if we hit it off.”

Two
days later we were on a bus to Muswell Hill. Lincoln had apparently offered up
his garage for our rehearsal space. Becky probably slipped him a quid. We were
met at the garage door by an enormous German.

“We’re
Becky’s mates from London.” Fortunately, Skeffington piped up. The German
mumbled something indecipherable and signaled for us to enter. Blimey! The
garage was something of a rock n’ roll nirvana. There were guitars and basses
of all makes and models lined up on stands. There were amplifiers and
keyboards. Dozens of wires snaked their way around every obstacle. Microphones
were stationed strategically throughout. Posters of rock n’ roll legends lined
nearly every square inch of the walls. In the middle of it all was a large drum
kit. Its black-faced bass drum contained bold orange letters stenciled on it:
“The Jack Slaps.”

A
wiry fellow with astonishingly long arms emerged from the shadows. “Which one
of you lads has been fixing to make a fool out of my virtuous Cousin Becky?” I
reluctantly raised my hand in response.

The
enormous German chimed in. “Should we shank him now or after we smash his
guitar into splinters?” This was a bloody ambush! Becky wasn’t really the
forgiving sort but had sent us to Cousin Lincoln’s garage to die. I looked over
at Skeffington. His fists were clenched. He wasn’t going down without a tussle.

“Hold
off, Frisby. Let’s ice his mate first.” One of Lincoln’s long arms disappeared
into the darkness. He was likely reaching for his zip-gun. Skeffington might’ve
been terrified of his dad, but he didn’t flinch here. I was prepared to dive
behind some six-strings when two shots rang out: “Boom! Boom!” Had I taken fire
somewhere on my person? Was Skeffington dead? I’d nearly sparked out when
Lincoln and Frisby broke out in laughter. “We’re just messing with you, man.
It’s just my kick pedal.” He tapped it a couple more times for good measure.
“Let’s start fresh. I’m Lincoln, and the giant Viking is Frisby. We’re your
rhythm section.”

Skeffington
wasn’t amused. “You’re a cheeky lot, but I’ll bet you’re all show. Why don’t we
see if you can’t pass our audition?”

“Audition?”
Lincoln sat down behind his kit and effortlessly twirled a drumstick between
his fingers. Frisby surveyed the collection of bass guitars before settling on
a Rickenbacker. They shot each other a confident affirmation prompting Lincoln
to tap his drumsticks together: “One, two, three, four…”And they were off. It
became evident rather quickly that Skeffington would eat his words. These
blokes were like two Jump Jets burning through complex tactical maneuvers
before unloading hell on unsuspecting plonkers. It was scorched earth in the
garage. I could feel the pounding in my chest even after the bombardment stopped.
“Did we pass your audition, boss?”

“Not
bad…and we are desperate.” This was my introduction to snarky Skeffington. He
acted like an uptight barrister involved in high-stakes negotiations, only we
were desperate and had zero leverage.

“Right.
He’s just being a cheeky bastard. You’re hired.” I chimed in to massage egos
and diffuse tensions. Skeffington constituted just one piece of the puzzle
after all.

“Well,
not so fast. Why don’t you hotshots sing your arses off and we’ll see if you
can pass our audition.” This sure-thing that Becky orchestrated out of sheer
kindness had turned mostly hostile. Our former rhythm section forced us to put
our money where Skeffington’s mouth was. We huddled up for a moment to discuss
strategy.

“You’ve
really gone and made this more difficult now, haven’t you?”

“Sorry,
mate. But we don’t need charity and we’re not pushovers. Let’s thread this
sodding needle.” Underestimate Skeffington at your own peril. Our band was
going to be a mutual respect society or nothing at all.

We
decided to let it ride on a mid-tempo rocker entitled “The Sophisticate’s
Flat.” The song was mine conceptually, but Skeffington smoothed out the edges
with his pop sensibilities. It was raucous enough to make your stomach churn
but melodic enough to keep you humming along. We upped the torque by trading
off on vocals. Skeffington’s velvet tone massaged the verses while my howl
punctuated the chorus. The time had come to let this three-minute opus out of
its sleeve.

We
were celestial bodies laying waste to the brick and mortar of the Muswell Hill
garage with rock n’ roll flamethrowers.

Then
there was a rumble from inside the smoldering dust. It started with a tap here
and a tap there. It grew into a sporadic pulse. Before long it was a steady
beat intertwined with intermittent flourishes of crashing metal. Seconds later
a series of sonic thumps joined the fray. The Jump Jets were flying sorties
behind us in earnest. “The Sophisticate’s Flat” began to burst at the seams.

The
garage fell silent as the final note finally stopped reverberating. Skeffington
broke the silence with seven simple words: “It’s time to tell my dad, mate.”