Nick's Blues (9 page)

“Yeah.”

“What? You came off your bike, that's how it happened?”

“If you say so.”

“If I say so?”

“Look,” Nick said, taking a step round her. “I've got to go.”

“You're not in any kind of trouble, Nick, are you?”

“Why should I be in trouble?”

“You tell me.”

An ambulance, siren wailing, was trying to force it's way through the middle of the traffic, cars and lorries pulling over to let it pass. People bunched on the corner where they were standing, scarcely bothering to look.

“That's a nasty cut,” the inspector said.

Nick shrugged, not answering.

“How many stitches, Nick?”

Nick shrugged again.

“You weren't in some kind of a fight, were you?”

“I told you, I came off my bike.”

“Of course.” The inspector smiled. “Do you even have a bike?”

“All kids have bikes, don't they?”

She raised a hand towards his face. “Whoever did that, I don't suppose you'd care to tell me who it was?”

“I've got to go.”

“You don't always have to fight your own battles, Nick, fight your own corner.”

“No?”

The inspector shook her head. “Not on your own. Sometimes it's okay to ask for help.”

“I don't need any help.”

He had half an idea she might try to stop him, but when he glanced back at the next crossing, she was no longer there. As he reached the far side of the road, someone hurrying cannoned into him, and he gasped and caught his breath as the pain fired across his chest, leaning for several moments against a shop window before continuing.

The Grenadier was at the far end of Gaisford Street, a small, low pub he'd never noticed before, squeezed between a builder's yard and a terrace of ageing flat-fronted houses late-flowering with skips and scaffolding.

It took him less than a few minutes to learn this was indeed Dave Brunner's local and that Brunner showed up most nights a little after ten, having switched off his set at the start of the news.

By the time Nick had walked back home, he was aching so much he swallowed two Paracetamol with a glass of water and lay on the bed.

***

The first time Nick had seen Christopher's house he'd been eaten up with envy. All of his life in one cramped flat or another and here was Christopher with more rooms than you could easily count. And stairs. More than anything, Nick was jealous of the stairs. However old he was then — eleven, twelve — the idea of stairs, stairs you could chase up and down, even lay practically full-length along, was somehow thrilling.

And at the top of the stairs, in a loft space let into the attic and going right across the house, was Christopher's room, shelves and cupboards overflowing with books and toys, a remote control train set in one corner, his own stereo, his own computer, his own small TV.

The first time Nick had been allowed to sleep over, he swore he would never go home again.

Of course, after that, as he got older, it became clear that all was not as perfect as it seemed. Voices raised in anger, slamming doors. Sometimes Christopher would sit cross-legged on his bed for hours, still wearing his outdoor clothes, hands clamped over his ears.

When Nick came round one day in the summer holidays, there was a van outside, two men loading boxes and small items of furniture, clothes wrapped in plastic. Christopher's younger sister, Kirsten, sat on the step outside crying. His mother, grim-faced, directed operations, anxious to leave, her new Range Rover parked a short distance up the hill.

They had been in Oxford less than a month, Christopher's mother and sister, when Christopher's old baby sitter, Anna, a Bulgarian blonde with a student visa, moved in. It was longer than that before Christopher would as much as speak to her, never mind use her name. He still referred to her dismissively as ‘the baby-sitter', though that didn't stop him watching hopefully as she padded to the bathroom in the mornings, her dressing gown loose but never quite loose enough.

This particular evening, Christopher's dad was out at the theatre and Anna was stretched out on the settee with a bottle of wine, watching a DVD of
Indecent Proposal
.

“Tell me again why we're going to this pub?” Christopher asked.

Hungry, he was making a search of the fridge, one of those huge American jobs with metallic fronts and half the contents of Waitrose inside.

“See this bloke,” Nick said.

“About this woman, used to sing with your old man.”

“Yeah.”

Christopher finished making a sandwich with ham and cheese, cut it across and offered half to Nick, who shook his head.

“Come on,” Christopher said, “if we're going, let's go. I can eat this on the way.”

***

The interior of the pub was a broad L-shape, with two pool tables at the far end. A few heads turned towards Nick and Christopher as they entered, but mostly they were paid scant attention. The woman behind the bar, middle-aged, served them two bottles of Carlsberg without question. There was a television fixed by an angle bracket to the wall, the sound turned low, and through speakers high on the far side of the room, just audible, slow deep soul.

“James Carr,” said Christopher, who liked to know such things. “‘Dark End of the Street'. My old man's got the album.”

Nick nodded and took a swig at his beer. Christopher's dad had enough old vinyl to start a retro store.

“Excuse me,” he said to the woman behind the bar, “but can you tell us if Dave Brunner's here?”

“Dave? Yes, see that bloke over there, bald, glasses. That's Dave.”

Nick thanked her and nudged Christopher's arm. Together they walked over to where Brunner was talking to a couple who might have been father and son, the conversation, what they picked up, about how Spurs had thrown it away again in the last ten minutes. Nick was surprised they'd held out that long. A quick image of Ellen slipped into his mind and was as quickly gone.

“Mr Brunner,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt you…”

Brunner turned his head. “Good news or bad?”

“Neither really.”

“Then you must be collecting for something.”

Nick shook his head. “I just wanted to ask you…”

“Yes?”

“You used to run that club, right? In the high street?”

“Spit it out, son.”

“Charlene Bell…”

“What about her?”

“I was wondering, if you knew how I could get it touch with her?”

Dave Brunner chuckled. “Bit old for you, son,” he said, winking at the couple across the table.

Tosser, Nick thought. “She was a friend of my dad's.”

“And he's sent you to look for her, has he? What's he think I am, Friends bloody Reunited?”

“My dad's dead,” Nick said.

The grin disappeared from Brunner's face. “I'm sorry,” he said, and then, “What was his name?”

“Les Harman.”

Brunner leaned back and looked at Nick as if for the first time. “Sit down,” he said. “The pair of you. Let me get you another beer.”

Charlene Bell lived in a large four-storey house in Camberwell, south London. Miles. Euston, Kingsway, Waterloo, the Elephant: Nick thought the bus was never going to arrive.

The house was at the middle of a terrace that had formed one side of a Georgian square, now partly demolished, largely in need of repair. Charlene had bought it with the proceeds of a freak hit some dozen years before; a television commercial had used an old recording she'd made of ‘Walking the Dog' and for a couple of weeks it had hovered in the lower reaches of the Top Twenty.

Her record company, having ignored her for years, hastily reissued the album from which the song came and of course nobody bought it. Charlene appeared on daytime TV and Greater London Radio, as it was then, chatting with Robert Elms. Bizarrely, she was added to an Oldies tour which featured the Tremeloes, Billie Davis and the Four Pennies. Aberystwyth, Truro, Derby Assembly Rooms.

Then it was all over. Charlene went back to doing the occasional gig in clubs where sixty people exceeded the fire regulations. Her sudden windfall she invested in the house, which she did up and rented out, room by room, living herself in the raised ground floor flat where Nick found her, Saturday morning, just a few days after Dave Brunner had given him her number and Nick had phoned, asking if it would be all right to come round.

Charlene met him at the front door. She was tall, taller than he'd expected from the photograph, wearing a long, loose dress in shades of green. Her hair was still thick and curly, but some of the curls had turned to grey.

“So you're Les's boy,” she said. “You're Nick.” And embarrassed him with a quick hug. When she released him and stepped back there was a suggestion of tears at the corners of her eyes.

“Come in,” she said. “Come on in. I've been down the baker's. Fresh croissants. Amazing what you can get in Camberwell these days.”

***

The room into which she led him was crowded with furniture — two settees and several chairs — framed photographs, books and magazines. A piano near the window. Faded patterned rugs on polished boards. Flowers in odd-shaped jugs and vases. A small round table with pale blue mugs, white plates, a coffee pot, jam.

“These are just nicely warm,” Charlene said, bringing in the promised croissants. “Take a seat. Dig in.”

Nick looked around: cats lay curled amongst the cushions that were scattered liberally across both settees.

“Just shoo them off, they won't bite. Except Bessie there…” She indicated a chocolate brown Burmese that was staring at Nick with violet eyes. “She'd take a piece out of you without thinking twice. And you look as if you've been in the wars enough already.”

Self-consciously, Nick touched the stitches on his forehead.

While he still hesitated, Charlene picked up a pair of tabbies, one in each hand — “Mamie, Clara, come on now.” — and deposited them, complaining loudly, on the ground.

“There.”

Nick perched on one end of the settee and when Charlene sat opposite, a cat, one he hadn't seen before, immediately jumped into her lap.

The coffee was strong, stronger than he was used to, and the croissant crumbled into fragments in his hand.

“Don't worry,” Charlene said. “The cats will hoover it up later.” She reached down and set her mug on the floor. “So,” she said, smiling, “you want to know about your dad?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“You're not sure?”

“No. I mean, yes. Yes, I am.”

“Your mum — Dawn, isn't it?” Nick nodded. “She doesn't talk about him?”

“Not really, no.”

“She's got her reasons, I dare say.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, doing what he did. Leaving her with you when you were what? Six? Seven?”

“Seven.”

“I doubt he left any money. Debts, more like. It can't have been easy.”

Nick shrugged. He didn't know, though he supposed it was true. He'd never gone hungry, he knew that. He knew his mum worked all the hours going, still did.

“He was a stubborn bugger, Les. Get an idea stuck in his head and that was it. Music especially.” Charlene smiled, remembering. “Sixties, for instance, everyone was going electric. All the blues bands. Guitar solos fit to pierce your ear drums. Saxophones. John Mayall. Fleetwood Mac.” Charlene shook her head. “I was in this pub once with your dad, Bromley of all places. And this producer, promoter, whatever — Mike Vernon, I think it was, could have been — going on and on at your dad, wanting him to put a band together, go out on the road, get into the studio, record. He could've done it, too, Les, he had the talent and, God knows, the charm. When he wanted. Charm the birds down from the proverbial trees when he'd a mind. Audiences liked him. He could've jumped on the bandwagon, changed his style. Grabbed some money while it was there.”

“So why didn't he?”

Charlene reached for her coffee. “Selling out, that's what he called it. He'd had the chance before, when he first started. Talent scouts sniffing round the Two I's, skiffle, rock ‘n' roll. He was nice-looking, too, when he was young, your dad, that would have helped. But no, he wasn't going to be another Cliff Richard, Adam Faith. Not even Lonnie Donegan. What he cared about was the music, keeping it pure.”

“You worked with him, though.”

“'Course I did. He was lovely. A lovely player. You'd sing and he'd listen. Play what was right. Never try and upstage you, like some. And when he sang himself — he never had the strongest voice, he'd've been the first to admit — but the way it came out. Like, you know, he meant every word.”

She drank her coffee till it was gone, reached for the pot and poured some more.

“He was happy enough working with me, at least I think he was. A few others, maybe. But up there by himself with a guitar, singing blues, that's what he liked most. That's when he was really himself. Whereas me…” Charlene laughed. “…I was a real whore where music's concerned, still am if I get the chance. Northern Soul weekends at Pontins, tribute bands, jazz. Rhythm and Blues Revival Festival a couple of months from now. Whitby Pavilion.” She laughed again. “Long as I can get there cheap with my bus pass and a senior railcard, I'll give it a go.”

***

Charlene — “Call me Charlie, for heaven's sake. Everyone else does.” — gave him the grand tour of her museum of photographs, mostly shots of her with musicians or singers Nick failed to recognise and whose names meant little or nothing. Only Eric Clapton, on stage at a benefit concert for somebody or other, gave him pause for thought — Charlene herself centre right, face half obscured by some bloke with long frizzy hair she assured him used to play for Led Zeppelin.