Broken Birdie Chirpin (13 page)

The
night took on a frenetic pace. Mr. Pleasant unlocked a storage room so we could
stash our equipment. He’d already arranged for a replacement band to satisfy
the restless crowd. Skeffington and I hurriedly cleared the stage as the blokes
from Westbound Menace claimed their territory. We’d saved Lincoln’s drums for
last, but eventually they had to go too.

Rose
found us just as Skeffington locked up the storage room. She was panicked but
not nearly prepared for the truth. “They wouldn’t let me back here for the
longest time. What is going on? Where is everyone? Is Frisby alright?”
Skeffington’s constitution made him the better candidate to delicately break the
news, but Rose didn’t know him from a bloody hole in the wall. She probably
deserved better, and so I bore this burden for my fallen mate.

“Rose,
something’s happened and it’s bloody horrible.” My voice cracked but I didn’t
waiver. “Ollie Mas…Ollie and Lincoln were in an automobile accident.”

“Oh,
no…tell me they’re alright.” I looked towards Skeffington for comfort and
perhaps some strength. He nodded reassuringly as he bit his lip to fight back
the sorrow.

“Lincoln’s
gone, Rose, and I’m so sorry.” Her gorgeous face surrendered to overwhelming
grief. I embraced her shaking frame as tightly as possible but it didn’t stop
her heaving chest from pounding against me in agony.

Moments
later her body seemed to settle. The sobbing subsided and her breathing became
less labored. Twas the deep breath before the dive. Boom. Rose pushed back from
me with all of the force her skinny frame could muster. “Is this Ollie’s fault?
Did he do this?” Fury sprang to the surface as this dick-shaped rollercoaster
continued barreling down its rickety track to hades.

The
sounds of Westbound Menace suddenly began echoing through Frankie Shū’s
Ballroom adding insult to injury.

“I
don’t know, but Ollie’s barely hanging on himself.” More perspective.

“What
now?” She began to weep once again.

“It’s
getting late. You two stay here while I go find Maggie and Bridgette. They’ll
get you home, Rose.” Skeffington just wanted to help, but he’d missed the
point.

What
now? What does the world look like tomorrow when Lincoln’s still dead? Do we
pull on clean unders and gobble up our toast and marmalade? Do we weed the
garden so that dad doesn’t get his knickers in a twist? Do we grab a Pelham
blue Les Paul Humbucker and chase our rock n’ roll fantasy down the bloody
crapper? Blah, blah, blah. Her guess was as good as mine.

Rose
waited for Skeffington to disappear. “I really think I loved him, you know.”
Sunshine briefly burst through the storm clouds as she managed a quick smile. I
desperately wanted to tell her that Lincoln loved her too, but I couldn’t. If
Lincoln was fixing to communicate from beyond the grave it had to be done
right.

“I
loved him too. He is…or was…the older brother I never had.” Bloody hell. I
didn’t want a bird to see me cry. “Sorry, I’m off to the lavy.”

Raindrops
splashing against the granite. Fresh forget-me-nots. We two under the shelter
of an enormous black umbrella. Ten years gone by.

Life
doesn’t sound the same.

Our
history is unrecorded. Sometimes I hear it in quieter moments. The Garage. The
audition at Frankie Shū’s Ballroom. Regrettably, time washes out all
color.

What
now? Life goes on. Wiping our arses. Playing guitars. Rose married a banker.
You’re still dead.

There
is wonder too. Second chances. Third chances. Her first smile as morning
tiptoes beneath the pleated roman shades of her Kensington flat.

Razor
sharp sun beams split the storm clouds. Two white doves slide down a glorious
rainbow onto your gravestone whilst whistling the tune to “Judy’s Jam Jar
Jive.” Perhaps not.

But
I hope you’re here just the same.

***

Funerals.
I hadn’t been to one since granny kicked over ten years earlier. It was a sad
affair of course, mostly because I’d never seen mum weep before. But granny had
lived, loved, spawned, and pruned up long before her ticker finally stopped.
Her funeral was as much a celebration of a life fully written as it was a
heartbreaking farewell.

Lincoln
met a violent end just short of his eighteenth birthday. He was survived by his
parents, three grandparents, and just about everyone else. It would take
someone possessed of the utmost faith to find a silver lining in this bloody
mess.

Skeffington
and I met across the street from the church in order remain inconspicuous. We’d
planned on slipping into a remote pew at the last moment so as to avoid
uncomfortable encounters with grieving relatives. I’d also decided that it was
in everyone’s best interests to avoid Becky. We both had enough on our plates
without dredging up ancient history.

11:59
a.m. The last group of mourners had slogged in three or four minutes before. We
crossed the street and ascended the stone stairs. Skeffington slowly pulled
open the enormous mahogany doors, but there was no easing into this swimming
pool. Traditional organ music filled my ears as the sight of Lincoln’s wooden
casket punched the air right out of me. I knew he wasn’t going to be sitting in
the front row, but I hadn’t adequately prepared myself for this bloody
spectacle.

“This
is so surreal isn’t, mate?” I nodded. Just days before we’d been decked out in
our rock n’ roll stylee prepared to conquer Camden Town. Somehow we’d ended up
in Muswell Hill clad in black spacesuits prepared to bury our drummer.

The
first six or seven rows were a sea of black. Skeffington and I slipped in
amongst the two dozen or so interlopers who’d scattered themselves across the
remaining pews. The robust turnout somewhat comforted me since it bettered our
chances of escaping unscathed. Not so fast. A warm smile shattered any sense of
security even before our sky-pilot had greeted his flock. Becky had me in her
crosshairs from my right diagonal flank. I smirked back like some uptight
square just as the service began.

His
face still bore the anguish of having eulogized his only son as he strained to
raise the casket atop his left shoulder. I wondered what part my own father
might’ve played if I’d kicked over. He’d likely be meeting with his solicitor
to contest my last will and testament before rigor mortis even set in. Bloody
hell. Mum had better deliver the eulogy lest the mourners shuffle off with the
impression I’d been a worthless twit.

Lincoln
floated towards the mahogany doors upon the shoulders of his kinsfolk. The sea
of black emptied into the aisle behind him as recessional organ music filled
the church. Cletus. Bridgette Van Hoorn. Rose. Becky. Familiar faces scattered
amidst the grieving strangers. Frisby wasn’t among them.

Skeffington
and I joined the back of the queue with the other stragglers. The cemetery was
only a block away so the parade continued down the avenue. I’d envisioned dark
skies and cold rain, but the sun shone so brightly. I observed Becky through my
squinting eyes. Her auburn hair pulled back into a bun. Her soft neck. Her
lovely profile mostly obscured as she leaned against the arm of a geezer who I
assumed was her father. I fantasized about embracing her and syphoning out the
bloody sorrow like rattlesnake venom. She would mostly forget about my
imprudence just long enough to return the favor.

Blimey.
The wrought iron archway leading into “The Devotional Gardens Cemetery” yanked
me back. Neon green grass. Gravestones of all shapes and sizes. Bouquets in all
stages of decay. The procession slowly fanned out before encircling Lincoln’s
final destination. I felt a sudden urge to sprint for the casket, chuck it
open, and see my mate one last time. Skeffington would’ve tackled me before I’d
been able to pull it off of course, and remembering Lincoln as he’d been was
probably best considering his horrible demise.

The
priest had blessed Lincoln’s gravesite and invoked a farewell prayer before I
noticed a solitary figure partially concealed by an enormous oak. I could make
out the dark grey rings encircling his eyes even from sixty feet away. Frisby.
His own brother was a ventilator away from the hereafter yet he’d come to say
cheers to his best mate. He’d even managed to toss on a spacesuit. His courage
and devotion were extraordinary. Bloody hell. I’d be herding sheep in the North
Downs until things blew over if my brother had just offed Skeffington.

 Skeffington
lowered his sunglasses halfway down the bridge of his nose, leaned in, and
spoke softly. “I guess he made it after all. Unbelievable, mate. Should we
catch up with him to see if he’s alright?” Skeffington obviously thought Frisby
simply wanted to avoid Lincoln’s relations. I figured he was fixing to avoid
everyone. No matter. Our besieged bassist had vanished by the time I looked
back toward the oak. My intuition told me I wouldn’t be seeing him again for a
long while.

Inertia.
Momentum. Fate. They fluffed our pillows and wiped our arses. But while we
gorged on butter-soaked lobster tails, chateaubriand, and chocolate mousse,
they sharpened their knives and plotted our demise. They ambushed Lincoln. They
tortured Frisby. The rest of us were spared to serve as a cautionary tale: You
haven’t played Frankie Shū’s Ballroom until you’ve played Frankie
Shū’s Ballroom.

I
marched forth upon the hallowed ground as if I’d been fired from a Smith &
Wesson. She spotted me like an underfed panther spots its supper. We collided
somewhere in the middle with the force of a tsunami before unraveling into a
Viennese Waltz. Clockwise. Anticlockwise. We weaved around mourners,
gravestones, and ghosts upon the fingertips of Schubert. Our sorrow flitted
away in triple meter until the glorious pastel landscape began to fray at its
seems. “What’s the matter with you?” Skeffington’s voice suddenly spliced into
the pianoforte. “If you fancy her…and obviously you do, mate…just go to her.”
I’d apparently been eyeing Becky the entire length of my daydream.

“What
for? I’ve already screwed it up.” Anxiety. Drama. Pain. Blah, blah, blah. An
unobstructed exit to the streets of Muswell Hill provided a much easier out.

Skeffington
scowled at me disapprovingly. “Get your head out of your arse. This needn’t be
a referendum on your shortcomings. We’re at a bloody funeral after all. Just
give her a quick squeeze and some condolences for civility’s sake.” Bloody
hell. Captain Skeffington was spot on of course and it made me want to punch
him on the konk. I shook my head in disgust before plodding towards her.
“There’s the fighting spirit, mate.”

Becky
didn’t notice me stealthily approaching from her rear. She was busy chin
wagging with a handful of old magpies who were likely present solely for the
post-funeral cold cut platter. I inhaled deeply before tapping her twice on the
shoulder with my index finger. My heart throbbed as she turned slowly towards
me. Her bloodshot eyes provided a stark reminder of the grim circumstances
surrounding our encounter.

“I’m
sorry for your loss.” Blimey. I’d taken impersonal to another bloody dimension.

“And
I’m sorry for yours.” We stood in silence for a moment. “I don’t suppose your
heading to my grandmother’s house for scotch, cold cuts, and conversation?” I
shook my head. “Well, I’ll be around until tomorrow morning so...” More
silence. “Alright, well, thanks for…”

“Where
can I find you?”

“Slow
down, slapper. Why would a ruthless heartbreaker such as yourself want to know
the whereabouts of yesterday’s catch?”

“I’ve
missed you terribly, Becky.” My candor must’ve impressed her nearly as much as
it did me because she reached out and gently ran the back of her fingers down
the side of my cheek.

“You’ve
been such an arsehole.” Indeed. Fortunately, Becky also thought she recognized
something redemptive in me that probably wasn’t there at all. “Last chance,
alright?”

“Right.
Sure. You’ll have letters coming out your arse.” Becky chuckled before leaning
in towards my ear. Her soft breath felt like forgiveness.

“We’re
staying right here in Muswell Hill with my Aunt Kate. 1874 Oxfordshire Circle.”
I whispered the address back for our mutual benefit. “Oh, and don’t show up
before 11:00 p.m. otherwise dad might shoot you.” Becky smiled before spinning
back into the gaggle of wrinkled prunes.

Onwards
and forwards. Skeffington stood beneath the iron archway monitoring the
proceedings through his whetted songwriter’s lenses. “I want to be cremated,
mate.”

“Tell
it to your solicitor.” I turned to join him for one last survey of the
blood-drenched battlefield. Horrible. At least I had something to look forward
to.

10:15
p.m. The time to set the evening’s frivolities into motion was upon me. Il Duce
had imposed an 11:00 p.m. curfew for weeknights so discretion was a must. I
tiptoed to my bedroom door, leaned my ear up against it, and listened for signs
of life. Nothing. My escape hatch beckoned as I expertly ditched the hoosegow
for the darkness of our backyard. The cool night air instantly infused
adrenaline into every pore.

I’d
trotted all the way to the front yard with the nimbleness of a heister before
hearing faint chatter from the far side of the garage. I flitted in for a
closer look even though I knew better. Bloody hell. Brother and Cicero were
slurping down cans of Tetley’s and puffing on fags. Game. Set. Match. Dad would
tear brother’s bonce right off if he knew. He’d also banish his crestfallen
accomplice into exile for all eternity. Regrettably, their rendezvous with
destiny would have to wait.

I
slowly backed away until they were out of sight. The darkness provided
sufficient cover as I sprinted to my first stop: Winchcombe’s garden. Becky
deserved the best, and a geezer like Winchcombe would never notice if a fistful
of flowers went missing. I plucked pink and white carnations, blue and orange
irises, and white and purple chrysanthemums. The bouquet was coming together
swimmingly. I glided towards the cockscomb to add one final flourish when my
pump booted a metal watering can five feet across the garden. The tinny boom ripped
through the silence in every direction.

I
froze for a moment in anticipation of the consequences. Fortunately, the
silence returned as quickly as it had fled. I hurriedly kneeled before the
cockscomb and yanked a couple free. They made a glorious addition to the
collection. Twas time to shove off to Muswell Hill to meet my betrothed. I spun
around and leapt to my feet all at once. Not so fast. Brother and Cicero were
upon me like a pair of bleary-eyed apes.

“What
in the hell? You picking some flowers for Skeffington?” It must’ve been the
Tetley’s talking. Either way, I couldn’t afford a confrontation with brother
right then.

“Let’s
just call it even and I’ll be off.” Brother could shove the olive branch up his
blooming arse the moment I was fifty feet away.

“Even?
I’ve no idea what your blabbing about, but you’re not going anywhere.”

“I
know you’ve converted the garage into a bloody speakeasy. But there’s no reason
to get nasty. I’ll just be on my way.”

“Do
you know what this tosser is talking about, Cicero?”

“Nope.
And I don’t much care for his tone.” Cicero took an aggressive step towards me
and wagged his finger inches away from my mug. “You’ve got no respect for your
elders.”

“Dad
will smell your arse breath from ten feet away. I’m off.” I took two steps
towards the street before brother shoved me back to where I’d started. Rage
began bubbling inside me. I’d buried a friend some hours before and brother
bloody knew it.

“Shut
up. You say a word to dad and I’ll punch you so hard you’ll need falsies.”

“What
is wrong with you? I won’t tell him…just let me be. Please. I’ve had a horrible
day or don’t you bloody remember?”

“Fine.
Go on. Not a word to dad.” I didn’t move on account of extreme skepticism. Even
Cicero appeared stunned. “Seriously, it’s alright. I’m sorry about your
friend.” There existed a genuineness in his tone that I’d not heard before.
Perhaps he actually felt something human for a change.

“Thanks.”
Three steps later I felt an enormous thud on my upper back. My body tumbled to
the ground. Brother and Cicero were cackling behind me. I stood up as quickly
as possible and braced myself for another assault.

“No
worries. I’m all through. We’ve got a couple more pale ales to finish. Oh, and
here’s your lovely bouquet back.” I’d dropped it during my descent. Brother
handed me stems sans blossoms of course. The daft expression on his arse-face
triggered something primal from deep within me. I bristled, leapt towards him,
and swung at his konk with all of my might. Pop. His knees buckled but he didn’t
go down. The blood dripping down his upper lip left me mostly satisfied until
he began pummeling me two seconds later. He stopped only because Winchcombe’s
bedroom light popped on.

Brother
and Cicero fled like cockroaches. I remained motionless with my back against
the soft grass. My face throbbed from the multiple punches that crashed through
my mostly feeble defenses. I wanted to roll into a cocoon and hibernate until
the sorrow and humiliation disappeared. Winchcombe would likely be standing on
his front porch in a matter of seconds, however, so I peeled myself off his
lawn and legged it for the street.

Two
thoughts bounced around my bonce at that moment: First, Nurse Becky would
likely shower me with the sympathy and affection deserving of a wounded pup.
I’d nearly died trying to snaffle some flowers for her after all. Second, the
Count of Monte Cristo would seem like a flapping fanny fart when brother
finally received his comeuppance. Sod off.