Broken Birdie Chirpin Page 3

  “Can you help me finish my songs, mate?” There it was.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Becky laughed so hard she nearly snorted. “All of his songs are probably about trainers and carbohydrates.”

  Skeffington’s songs were likely rubbish. It’d be bloody disastrous if I tossed on trainers and pranced around the football field like Ribs McGibbs after all. But I wasn’t in this for the sake of art. It was about the bristols. “Horses for courses. Besides Skeffington’s alright for a high flyer.”

  “Well, it’s awfully nice of you to help him out, slapper. But you’re still a nutter.” Becky and I snogged for a bit. I’d completely lost myself in her gob as always. She remained preoccupied, however, and as perceptive as ever. “I suppose Skeffington is going to have off with some of our afternoons then?”

  “Don’t get your jim-jams in a bunch. There’ll be plenty of time for snogging. Besides, you’re the jacksie that spends your afternoons with Sister Gobshite.” It crossed my mind that I’d embarked on a potentially perilous course even though I was happiest with Becky. The grass was always greener on Skeffington Avenue.

  Dad was under the family jam-jar when I arrived home. He fancied himself an amateur mechanic, but wasn’t good for anything more than a budge job. I’d be stuck fetching him spanners and drain pans until supper if he spotted me creeping across the garden. It also took hours under the tap to get tidy after sorting out the old banger. I shuffled cautiously up the walkway. The door was nearly within reach and dad was focused. I’d become a right skiver because of my lot, but alas the fates were cruel. The front door swung open violently. Brother stood before me with a wide grin on his arse-face. Cicero was in the living room laughing like a plank.

  “Dad, I was just about to see if you needed any help but it looks like baby brother beat me to it.” Brother looked at Cicero and cracked up. “Toodle pip, poofter,” brother whispered to my face before slamming the door. Dad’s grease-covered face peaked out from the belly of the banger and the next two hours of my life were lost.

  It became nearly impossible to sit across from brother at supper. I wanted to reach across the table with my black hands and rip his face off. It wasn’t just his cruelty that cheesed me off. Brother found it necessary to sell me out for Cicero’s benefit even though Cicero couldn’t find his way out of a five-sided box. Brother was an enormous fanny fart. He was thoroughly disappointing. I angrily stuffed fairy cakes down my throat as thoughts of revenge swam through my bonce. To add insult to injury, it was my night to clear the table. Dad and brother slipped into the lounge to catch “Captain Godolphin’s Comedy Hour” on the telly. Their idiotic laughter filled the house for the next hour. Mum stayed behind to wash the dishes. We worked in silence for a moment or two, but Mum sensed my sorrow.

  “Everything alright, me duckie?” Her question alone made me feel better. “You can tell me if something is troubling you. You know that, right?” I sort of knew, but it didn’t matter.

  “Never better.” Mum knew otherwise as she threw a purposeful glance at my hands.

  “I know what’ll make you crease up.” Blimey! Mum was such a clever bird. She uncorked the latest yarn about her Aunt Evie McQuillen. Aunt Evie was a geezer and barmy to boot. Her days were spent seducing the randy dandies in “The Littleborough Home for Duffers.” She was customarily fit as a fiddle for an old heel, but five Sundays before she limped into the infirmary and snaffled a walker. She hobbled around all day like a wounded dinosaur. Perhaps she flopped in the lavy or rolled off her kip. Maybe she’d already telephoned her solicitor to report this alleged incident. White coats from all corners of the home were sweating over the possibilities until Monday morning when Aunt Evie strutted back into the infirmary, dropped off the walker, and strutted right back out. She appeared right as rain.

  The white coats were once again baffled, however, because her routine remained precisely the same for each Sunday that followed. They poured over her charts, but nothing seemed amiss. They poked around, but nobody was snitching. What were they missing amidst all this chaos? One of the staffers, who’d been mostly knowledgeable about all things Aunt Evie, finally solved it as he sorted out the weekly social calendar. It was precisely five Saturdays before that “The Littleborough Home for Duffers” kicked off its “Dinner with Her Majesty's Armed Forces” program. Turns out they sacked it immediately on account of the lechery it inspired.

  Mum and I had a chuckle despite my best efforts, and my thoughts returned to more pleasant pursuits. I was going to knock off a song or two with Skeffington the following day. He’d be mesmerized and outmatched. But I felt determined to drag Skeffington’s tortured soul across the goal line like a rock n’ roll version of Coach Shitehawk.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  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 a
ll 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.

  CHAPTER NINE

  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.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “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 h
is 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.