Trumpet (17 page)

I can barely believe that Colman would get himself
involved in something like this. He is not a bad boy. He can be difficult; he’s always been immensely capable of being difficult. But not malicious. I would never have associated him with sleaze. Did I give him no sense of morality at all? How is it possible for him to sell and tell the story of our life? Can he not see that lives are not for sale? I could shake him. Every time his face flashes before mine I feel so furious, so violent. It reminds me of how I used to feel when he was a boy, when he would disappear into these moods, these long domineering sulks for days. Those moods affected the atmosphere of the entire house. I remember I wanted to slap him. I itched to draw my hand across his sulky face and shout, ‘Snap out of it!’ Occasionally I actually did hit him. Once I had my hands round his neck and was shaking him uncontrollably. It wasn’t me, the woman who suddenly leapt out of me at those moments. I had never ever hit anyone in my life. I don’t know where it came from. One moment the hatred, the next the love. When the love came it was molten, hot, rushing forth out of all the guilt. I didn’t know I was capable of feeling violence at all before I had Colman; I didn’t know I had it in me.

It is a real plot. I have to keep reading her vile sentences over and over to convince myself it is true. When Joss was alive, life was never like this. It was real. We just got on and lived it. Everything has stopped since he died. Reality has stopped. ‘Will you cooperate?’ This is such a strange notion to me: the idea that I could cooperate with a book about my life, that I could graft myself into this life that they think I had. I am going to
have to contact my lawyer and get some advice. Perhaps I can stop the book. Perhaps I can get an injunction. I can’t just sit here until they turn up. His story is not going to be my story. A story with a price tag is never going to be true. His story will not be true, even to himself. He has always been naive, Colman. I can just see how it will all go. He has never been that articulate. This Sophie Stones will be putting words into his mouth. I could never write my version of our life. I don’t know what I’d say.

I used to find the amount of publicity that Joss created terrifying. I hated the constant interviews, the articles about his life and music in the newspapers and magazines. The description of our house always incensed me. It was their myth of our house. Every word I read about Joss was a myth. It wasn’t him. When they quoted him in articles, he never sounded like himself. I used to ask him, ‘Did you say that?’ and he’d say ‘Yes.’ I’d persist, ‘Were these your exact words?’ They never were. Perhaps Colman doesn’t know that Sophie Stones is sending me these letters. What do they know about his life? What do I know about his life really? What do I know about my own life?

My life is a fiction now, an open book. I am trapped inside the pages of it. Anything is possible. My life is up for grabs. No doubt they will call me a lesbian. They will find words to put on to me. Words that don’t fit me. Words that don’t fit Joss. They will call him names. Terrible vertigo names. I can see myself holding the book out at arm’s length, to see what words they have used,
sinking with them. Down to the bottom, below the green film, to where the thick black mud lies.

I won’t read it. I won’t go near it. It won’t come to that. I will stop it before it happens. No comment. No comment. When he died, I kept repeating that sentence whenever they fired questions at me. I kept saying I don’t have anything to say. I couldn’t understand why they wouldn’t stop. They kept on bombarding me, more new faces every time I went out. In the end, they all looked like the same face. The same white sharp face.

I am here because I became convinced that they were stopping Joss from resting in peace. I had to get away from them so that Joss could get some peace. He didn’t get a proper night’s sleep for days before he died: he was in and out of sleep, fretful, snapping awake and dropping off, like a baby. If I could hide from them for long enough, Joss would be able to find his peace. When you die, you don’t leave straightaway. I know this. I feel it. After they took away his body, I felt Joss desperate for peace. He still hasn’t been given his proper death. The one everyone expects – a good send-off. His funeral won’t have helped; he wouldn’t have been satisfied with that funeral. No, he is still hanging around in limbo. They say that when there is trouble, the dead hang around. I believe it completely. Joss is here in me. I find myself thinking thoughts these days that I know are his thoughts.

I find myself standing over the kitchen sink with the tap running at its full capacity. The dark brown basin in the sink is overflowing. My hands are plunged into the
cold water. I have no idea how long I have been standing like this. I know my hands are cold, freezing cold. I know my mouth is wet. I know that I have been looking for ages in the water to try to see if I reflect. I don’t. The letter keeps chiming through my head. It is like a bell rung in an old town to tell people that somebody is about to be tarred and feathered or publicly whipped or hung. If Joss was here we would at least be in it together. Joss has forsaken me.

I dry my hands and pour the water down the sink. I must remember things. I look out of the kitchen window. It has been raining. Tiny beads of rain have been painted on the window pane when I wasn’t looking. It is a fine Impressionists’ rain. Next door’s rowan tree is quite still, not at all flamboyant; it is not the season for flamboyance. I can see Elsa at her kitchen window peeling potatoes. The intimacy startles me. Seeing me staring, she waves at me. I wave back, suddenly glad of the human contact. If I pin myself down and remember the ordinary things, I will be able to manage. To get up each day and get washed and eat and sleep. To live a life without my companion. To live this life where I am exhausted with my own company, terrible thoughts spinning morning to night inside my head. Maybe this is what people mean when they say they are lonely. Maybe they mean they are exhausted even with their own company. If I could just say I am lonely how lovely and ordinary that sounds.

What a wonderful common sad ring it has to it. Lonely. It is light and graceful the way old women are,
old women who hurry into their small houses at twilight and pull the curtains fiercely. I am just a lonely old woman. I will admit to being old now. I will admit that my body does not behave the way it used to; that my walk is not as fast; that my bones are not as strong; that my breath is shorter; that my energy is sputtering and sparking. I will admit now that I am my age, I am not the girl or the woman that I once was. Old. I have shunned the word and rushed away from it. I have laughed and said smugly to people, ‘You are as old as you feel.’ But today I feel old. It is a comfort to me. Old people should be left alone. They should not be troubled with nasty letters. It is outrageous when you think of it: fancy sending a nasty letter to an old woman! The minute I put it like that you can see how ridiculous it is. How wrong. Fancy hounding an old woman, chasing her with a pack of dogs that have all been given something of hers to sniff. Chasing her right up to the door of her house and howling and barking to get in and have a piece of her. Old women should be left in peace in the gloaming to sit and contemplate and ruminate and go over the bright, sharp details of their memories with their kind old hands, picking and peering and muttering to themselves.

I make myself a list so that they won’t surprise me. A list of potential betrayers. People who will talk for cash. Kiss and tell. There are certain people I know for certain would never divulge a single detail. Maggie wouldn’t ever talk or Ragnail or Big Red or Harry or … But there might be people Joss knew that I don’t. These swines are
capable of digging anybody up. Is it possible that Sophie Stones could discover somebody Joss went to school with? Anything is possible. There is no line I can draw which says: ‘Stop here.’ It will all be over the top, crossing the boundary. All hell let loose. Money talks.

There were people who said he had a baby face. There were people who said he had a high voice. I’d fight anyone who said those things. I never suspected a thing.

Big Red McCall, Joss Moody Trio

I was surprised, but I don’t see what all the fuss is about.

When it all blows over, we’ll be left with his music. That’s what matters.

Soloman Davis, Joss Moody fan

I am writing the authorized biography of the trumpet player, Joss Moody. Please refer all correspondence to me. My book will look into the fascinating details of every aspect of her life. I would like anyone who knew her, who played in a band with her, or who corresponded with her to get in touch with me urgently.

Yours, Sophie Stones

We question this notion that somebody who lives their life as a man and is discovered to be female at the time
of death was really a woman all along. What is ‘really’ in this context? What is the force of that reality?

Transvestites Anonymous Group (TAG)

We are planning to bring out four CDs to mark Moody’s phenomenal impact on jazz music. They will be called
The Best of Moody: The Man and the Woman
, to acknowledge the strange circumstances surrounding the trumpet player’s death. These will be available later this year.

John Anderson, Columbia Records

What I can’t understand is how he managed to go on the road with us. I never noticed anything exceptional. That takes some doing. I mean we shared rooms and shit. I don’t remember him going to the john. I’m trying to remember him going to the john but I can’t. The point is he seemed just like the rest of us. I suppose if I’m looking for something I’d say his features had something about them – I don’t know what, something about the soft face, the lips. Once you know, it’s staring you in the face. And the laugh was way over the top and sounded a bit … girlish. But we loved that laugh. It was crazy sounding.

Sean Lafferty, UK Trumpet Society

Can we please let the dead rest in peace? Has this country forgotten how to do that?

Ann Gray, address provided

If I stop talking you won’t have a book. If I shut my fucking trap, you’re grounded. You can’t just write shit about people if you don’t know the facts. To tell you the truth, right, I’m starting to get a sore throat. It’s like there’s fucking gravel in my throat or something. My father used to make brilliant hot toddies for things like this. Cloves and shit.

But you know I can’t stop, don’t you? I just can’t shut the fuck up. You ask me things and I tell you things. Simple. It’s not the money any more. I don’t know what it is. You’re bad news. I should stay away from you. What the fuck am I doing here with you? I can’t stop telling you things. Fuck me, maybe it’s doing me some good. Maybe it will do someone else good. You know and I know that I don’t believe that. You believe that. Well, you say you do.

I used to enjoy winding my father up. I could see a chance coming and I’d take it and the end result was always the same. He’d go mental. I knew how to do it to him. I could get right inside his head. The best time was when I was a teenager. That was crucial. I was bad then. Really bad. I didn’t want to do any school work. I just
liked hanging out with my mates and having a spliff. I didn’t stand a chance really. There was all this pressure on you not to do anything. Not to do well. Not to work hard. I mean practically every black guy my age that I saw on TV had just been arrested for something. Or was accused of mugging. It’s like we only had the one face to them. The same face. The one that was wanted for something. I can tell when I go out and about, fuckers staring at you as if you’ve done something. I’ve been picked up by the police countless times, man, for doing fuck all. Just for being black and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But my old man, he didn’t take my side about all this. He thought I had it coming to me. He thought I was a waster. He’d try to get me to stay in and concentrate. Concentrate on anything. He got exasperated the way I couldn’t ‘apply’ myself. He was always saying that to me. Why don’t you apply yourself? I remember telling him he was a hypocrite, that all his doped out jazz mates would be shocked at him, treating his son like this. They were all cool. Most of them had kids that were embarrassed about
them;
they were out of it half the time, turning up to collect them at school with strange coats on. Some of those kids have grown up to be business managers. They were the first fucking yuppies on the street. But me and my dad were conventional. He wanted me to get the head down and concentrate. Once he lost his temper and called me a talentless bastard. I was gutted. So I picked up this new album of his that had lots of regigged old tunes on it and I said, ‘New release,
old man?’ Then I said, ‘What do you want me to be? Wynton fucking Marsalis?’

He goes into this long thing about jazz being improvized and being different versions of the same thing. I says, ‘Bollocks, when did you last have a truly original idea?’ Then he looks sad, he says something about people being only talented for one moment in time. Something like that. Some gifted people have a short time of pure talent. Some people longer. The ones that have a short time can’t believe it when their talent runs out, so they scramble to get it back, impersonate themselves. Mimic. Parody. Act themselves. He says jazz can get away with that better than most stuff. He looks sad then. Like he’s a conman or something. I feel bad in the pit of my stomach.

My father couldn’t cope with me becoming a man. Couldn’t handle it. Probably jealous of my cock now I think about it. I’d see him standing around some days, staring at me with this sick look on his face. When I was a wee boy he was a great dad to have, cool, funny, easy. But when I became a teenager, he flipped out. Started all this business of checking up on me. Finding out if I’d done my homework. Clocking the time I came in. It was like living with a fucking dictator. It was at the same time as his career took a bad dip. Maybe he felt his life was over and it was down to me to come up with something. I don’t know. Whatever it was it was pure hell for me.