Nocturnes: Five Stories of Music and Nightfall (9 page)

To my astonishment, she gave the diary no more than a cursory glance before turning back to the pot, saying: “Oh, that’s just a jotter. Nothing private. Don’t you worry about it, Ray.” Then she moved a step closer to the saucepan to study it all the better.

“What do you mean? What do you mean, don’t worry about it? How can you say that?”

“What’s the matter, Raymond? It’s just something to jot down stuff I might forget.”

“But Charlie told me you’d go ballistic!” My sense of outrage was now being added to by the fact that Emily had obviously forgotten what she’d been writing about me.

“Really? Charlie told you I’d be angry?”

“Yes! In fact, he said you’d once told him you’d saw his balls off if he ever peeked inside this little book!”

I wasn’t sure if Emily’s puzzled look was due to what I was saying, or still left over from gazing at the saucepan. She sat down next to me and thought for a moment.

“No,” she said, eventually. “That was about something else. I remember it clearly now. About this time last year, Charlie got despondent about something and asked what I’d do if he committed suicide. He was just testing me, he’s far too chicken to try anything like that. But he asked, so I told him if he did anything like that I’d saw his balls off. That’s the only time I’ve said that to him. I mean, it’s not like a refrain on my part.”

“I don’t get this. If he committed suicide, you’d do that to him? Afterwards?”

“It was just a figure of speech, Raymond. I was just trying to express how much I’d dislike him topping himself. I was making him feel valued.”

“You’re missing my point. If you do it afterwards, it’s not really a disincentive, is it? Or maybe you’re right, it would be …”

“Raymond, let’s forget it. Let’s forget all of this. There’s a lamb casserole from yesterday, there’s over half of it left. It was pretty good last night, and it’ll be even better tonight. And we can open a nice bottle of Bordeaux. It was awfully sweet of you to start preparing something for us. But the casserole’s probably the thing for tonight, don’t you think?”

All attempts to explain now seemed beyond me. “Okay, okay. Lamb casserole. Terrific. Yes, yes.”

“So … we can put
this
away for now?”

“Yes, yes. Please do. Please put it away.”

I got up and went into the living room—which of course was still a mess, but I no longer had the energy to start tidying. Instead, I lay down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling. At one point, I was aware of Emily coming into the room, and I thought she’d gone through to the hall, but then I realised she was crouched in the far corner, fiddling with the hi-fi. The next thing, the room filled with lush strings, bluesy horns, and Sarah Vaughan singing “Lover Man.”

A sense of relief and comfort washed over me. Nodding to the slow beat, I closed my eyes, remembering how all those years ago, in her college room, she and I had argued for over an hour about whether Billie Holiday always sang this song better than Sarah Vaughan.

Emily touched my shoulder and handed me a glass of red wine. She had a frilly apron on over her business suit, and was holding a glass for herself. She sat down at the far end of the sofa, next to my feet, and took a sip. Then she turned down the volume a little with her remote.

“It’s been an awful day,” she said. “I don’t mean just work, which is a total mess. I mean Charlie going, everything. Don’t imagine it doesn’t hurt me, to have him go off abroad like that when we haven’t made up. Then to cap it all, you finally go and tip over the edge.” She gave a long sigh.

“No, really, Emily, it’s not as bad as that. For a start, Charlie thinks the world of you. And as for me, I’m fine. I’m really fine.”

“Bollocks.”

“No, really. I feel fine …”

“I meant about Charlie thinking the world of me.”

“Oh, I see. Well, if you think that’s bollocks, you couldn’t be more wrong. In fact, I know Charlie loves you more than ever.”

“How can you know that, Raymond?”

“I know because … well, for a start he more or less told me so, when we were having lunch. And even if he didn’t spell it out, I can tell. Look, Emily, I know things are a bit tough right now. But you’ve got to hang on to the most important thing. Which is that he still loves you very much.”

She did another sigh. “You know, I haven’t listened to this record for ages. It’s because of Charlie. If I put this sort of music on, he immediately starts groaning.”

We didn’t speak for a few moments, but just listened to Sarah Vaughan. Then as an instrumental break started, Emily said: “I suppose, Raymond, you prefer her other version of this. The one she did with just piano and bass.”

I didn’t reply, but just propped myself up a little more so as to sip my wine better.

“I bet you do,” she said. “You prefer that other version. Don’t you, Raymond?”

“Well,” I said, “I really don’t know. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember the other version.”

I could feel Emily shift at the end of the sofa. “You’re kidding, Raymond.”

“It’s funny, but I don’t listen to this kind of stuff much these days. In fact, I’ve forgotten almost everything about it. I’m not even sure what song this is right now.” I did a little laugh, which perhaps didn’t come out very well.

“What are you talking about?” She sounded suddenly cross. “That’s ridiculous. Short of having had a lobotomy, there’s no way you could have forgotten.”

“Well. A lot of years have gone by. Things change.”

“What are you talking about?” There was now a hint of panic in her voice. “Things can’t change that much.”

I was pretty desperate to get off the subject. So I said: “Pity things are such a mess at your work.”

Emily completely ignored this. “So what are you saying? You’re saying you don’t like
this?
You want me to turn it off, is that it?”

“No, no, Emily, please, it’s lovely. It … it brings back memories. Please, let’s just get back to being quiet and relaxed, the way we were a minute ago.”

She did another sigh, and when she next spoke her voice was gentle again.

“I’m sorry, darling. I’d forgotten. That’s the last thing you need, me yelling at you. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, it’s okay.” I heaved myself up to a sitting position. “You know, Emily, Charlie’s a decent guy. A very decent guy. And he loves you. You won’t do better, you know.”

Emily shrugged and drank some more wine. “You’re probably right. And we’re hardly young any more. We’re as bad as one another. We should count ourselves lucky. But we never seem to be contented. I don’t know why. Because when I stop and think about it, I realise I don’t really want anyone else.”

For the next minute or so, she kept sipping her wine and listening to the music. Then she said: “You know, Raymond, when you’re at a party, at a dance. And it’s maybe a slow dance, and you’re with the person you really want to be with, and the rest of the room’s supposed to vanish. But somehow it doesn’t. It just doesn’t. You know there’s no one half as nice as the guy in your arms. And yet … well, there are all these people everywhere else in the room. They don’t leave you alone. They keep shouting and waving and doing daft things just to attract your attention. ‘Oi! How can you be satisfied with that?! You can do much better! Look over here!’ It’s like they’re shouting things like that all the time. And so it gets hopeless, you can’t just dance quietly with your guy. Do you know what I mean, Raymond?”

I thought about it for a while, then said: “Well, I’m not as lucky as you and Charlie. I don’t have anyone special like you do. But yes, in some ways, I know just what you mean. It’s hard to know where to settle. What to settle to.”

“Bloody right. I wish they’d just lay off, all these gatecrashers. I wish they’d just lay off and let us get on with it.”

“You know, Emily, I wasn’t kidding just now. Charlie thinks the world of you. He’s so upset things haven’t been going well between you.”

Her back was more or less turned to me, and she didn’t say anything for a long time. Then Sarah Vaughan began her beautiful, perhaps excessively slow version of “April in Paris,” and Emily started up like Sarah had called her name. Then she turned to me and shook her head.

“I can’t get over it, Ray. I can’t get over how you don’t listen to this kind of music any more. We used to play all these records back then. On that little record player Mum bought me before I came to university. How could you just forget?”

I got to my feet and walked over to the french doors, still holding my glass. When I looked out to the terrace, I realised my eyes had filled with tears. I opened the door and stepped outside so I could wipe them without Emily noticing, but then she was following right behind me, so maybe she noticed, I don’t know.

The evening was pleasantly warm, and Sarah Vaughan and her band came drifting out onto the terrace. The stars were brighter than before, and the lights of the neighbourhood were still twinkling like an extension of the night sky.

“I love this song,” Emily said. “I suppose you’ve forgotten this one too. But even if you’ve forgotten it, you can dance to it, can’t you?”

“Yes. I suppose I can.”

“We could be like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.”

“Yes, we could.”

We placed our wine glasses on the stone table and began to dance. We didn’t dance especially well—we kept bumping our knees—but I held Emily close to me, and my senses filled with the texture of her clothes, her hair, her skin. Holding her like this, it occurred to me again how much weight she’d put on.

“You’re right, Raymond,” she said, quietly in my ear. “Charlie’s all right. We should sort ourselves out.”

“Yes. You should.”

“You’re a good friend, Raymond. What would we do without you?”

“If I’m a good friend, I’m glad. Because I’m not much good at anything else. In fact, I’m pretty useless, really.”

I felt a sharp tug on my shoulder.

“Don’t say that,” she whispered. “Don’t talk like that.” Then a moment later, she said again: “You’re such a good friend, Raymond.”

This was Sarah Vaughan’s 1954 version of “April in Paris,” with Clifford Brown on trumpet. So I knew it was a long track, at least eight minutes. I felt pleased about that, because I knew after the song ended, we wouldn’t dance any more, but go in and eat the casserole. And for all I knew, Emily would re-consider what I’d done to her diary, and decide this time it wasn’t such a trivial offence. What did I know? But for another few minutes at least, we were safe, and we kept dancing under the starlit sky.

I
’D SPENT THE SPRING
in London, and all in all, even if I hadn’t achieved everything I’d set out to, it had been an exciting interlude. But with the weeks slipping by and summer getting closer, the old restlessness had started to return. For one thing, I was getting vaguely paranoid about running into any more of my former university friends. Wandering around Camden Town, or going through CDs I couldn’t afford in West End megastores, I’d already had too many of them come up to me, asking how I was getting on since leaving the course to “seek fame and fortune.” It’s not that I was embarrassed to tell them what I’d been up to. It was just that—with a very few exceptions—none of them was capable of grasping what was or wasn’t, for me at this particular point, a “successful” few months.

As I’ve said, I hadn’t achieved every goal I’d set my sights on, but then those goals had always been more like long-term targets. And all those auditions, even the really dreary ones, had been an invaluable experience. In almost every case, I’d taken something away with me, something I’d learned about the scene in London, or else about the music business in general.

Some of these auditions had been pretty professional affairs. You’d find yourself in a warehouse, or a converted garage block, and there’d be a manager, or maybe the girlfriend of a band member, taking your name, asking you to wait, offering you tea, while the sounds of the band, stopping and starting, thundered out from the adjoining space. But the majority of auditions happened at a much more shambolic level. In fact, when you saw the way most bands went about things, it was no mystery why the whole scene in London was dying on its feet. Time and again, I’d walk past rows of anonymous suburban terraces on the city outskirts, carry my acoustic guitar up a staircase, and enter a stale-smelling flat with mattresses and sleeping bags all over the floor, and band members who mumbled and barely looked you in the eye. I’d sing and play while they stared emptily at me, till one of them might bring it to an end by saying something like: “Yeah, well. Thanks anyway, but it’s not quite our genre.”

I soon worked out that most of these guys were shy or plain awkward about the audition process, and that if I chatted to them about other things, they’d become a lot more relaxed. That’s when I’d pick up all kinds of useful info: where the interesting clubs were, or the names of other bands in need of a guitarist. Or sometimes it was just a tip about a new act to check out. As I say, I never came away empty-handed.

On the whole, people really liked my guitar-playing, and a lot of them said my vocals would come in handy for harmonies. But it quickly emerged there were two factors going against me. The first was that I didn’t have equipment. A lot of bands were wanting someone with electric guitar, amps, speakers, preferably transport, ready to slot right into their gigging schedule. I was on foot with a fairly crappy acoustic. So no matter how much they liked my rhythm work or my voice, they’d no choice but to turn me away. This was fair enough.

Much harder to accept was the other main obstacle—and I have to say, I was completely surprised by this one. There was actually a problem about me writing my own songs. I couldn’t believe it. There I’d be, in some dingy apartment, playing to a circle of blank faces, then at the end, after a silence that could go on for fifteen, thirty seconds, one of them would ask suspiciously: “So whose number was that?” And when I said it was one of my own, you’d see the shutters coming down. There’d be little shrugs, shakes of the head, sly smiles exchanged, then they’d be giving me their rejection patter.