Baron's Court, All Change Page 4

  “You do drink, don’t you?” she asked, with the words coming out very slowly.

  This seemed a direct challenge; as if my answer would make a big difference to our friendship. As if suddenly she’d thought, perhaps he’s a square after all, and that my refusing the drink would prove the point.

  “Of course,” I managed to get out. She poured me a large glass and to show her what sort of an alcoholic I was, I drank the lot down in one gulp. It tasted like a mixture of petrol and rubber.

  “I underestimated you. That’s certainly a big swallow you have there,” she said. I grinned like a mature old Daddy of the World. “Have another one,” she said, as though it was an order, and she started to pour some more of the poison into my glass. The second one didn’t taste too bad, and the third was even pleasant.

  Sarah was singing on the radiogram like only she can, Bunty was sprawled on the divan like a film starlet, and I was stoned as hell. As my Uncle Jim would say, I was pissed as a newt.

  “Mrs fat old Diamond should see us now,” I said. “What would she say if she saw us now?”

  “You’re both a disgrace to the cause, she’d say. Don’t ever darken the doors of this society again. Go to the Christian Scientists, or to hell, if you like, but keep away from us, ’cause we don’t want you.”

  “She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t really, would she?”

  “You bet she would.”

  “But that’s not even Christian.”

  “She wouldn’t think twice about it. Out we’d both go. She wants to get rid of me, anyway. Don’t like the way I dress or something. Well, if she thinks I’m going to dress like her, and look as if I’ve come out of the ark, she’s got another think coming.”

  “There’s no harm in people enjoying themselves now and again. It’s not right for people to think religion all of the time. It must do something to their brain. And anyway — I’m enjoying myself.”

  Bunty looked across to me and put on a Joan Crawford face. “I am, too. You’re a real tonic to me, honest you are. I’m glad you came here tonight.”

  A clock outside struck ten, and there was an awkward silence as I was concentrating to count the chimes. I thought of mum doing her nut at home. Perhaps Liz was waiting up with her and helping her out with the worrying. ‘Maybe it’s a double act tonight’, I thought.

  “Don’t worry about the time,” Bunty shouted. “The night is young and so are we.” She took a glance into the mirror. “I mean, so are you.”

  I could see now what she meant by action when describing that painting of hers. When I took another look at it, it seemed to be alive; all the colours going into each other and shooting out again, really enjoying themselves. Then forms came to life in it. First I thought I saw a bloody great lobster, then a naked woman with her arms outstretched, and then of all things, Mr Cage, staring right out at me, and giving me a ‘wait-till-I-get-you-at-work-tomorrow’ look.

  Bunty was helping herself to another drink. “I expect you think I’m a drunkard, don’t you?” she slurred. “I’m not really, but I couldn’t care less if I was. I couldn’t care less about anything. Life’s too darn short.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to Dolly Diamond and her spooks! I wish her luck with her clairvoyance, psychometry, direct voice, levitation, transfiguration, materialisation and all the other ‘ations’ she gets up to. Have another drink.”

  “Thanks. I will. How about your husband? Won’t he be coming in soon?”

  She gave out a girlish giggle. “My husband doesn’t exist any more.”

  “Passed over?”

  “No. He doesn’t exist for me. It’s funny but I can’t even remember what he looks like.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Good riddance to bad rubbish, that’s what I say. He was all right at the time, I suppose. He looked very handsome in his uniform, as far as I can remember. You know, the usual army officer type.” I couldn’t think of anything more unattractive than an army officer type, but I didn’t make any comment. “But all this was a very long time ago.” She must have thought twice about her last sentence, so she added, “I’m making myself sound like an old age pensioner, and I’m not really, believe it or not. Guess how old I am — I mean, how young I am.”

  “I don’t care. A person is as old as he feels. I think all birth certificates should be destroyed at birth.”

  “So do I. Good for you.”

  I managed to stagger out to the carzy, which was the bathroom as well. There were all sorts of perfume and powder boxes on the shelves, and it smelt more like a French brothel than a carzy. Then I found that I was talking to myself. Since then I’ve discovered this is the best way to find out if I’m pissed on the lush or not, because as soon as I am I start to talk to myself, not anywhere, mind you, but only in the carzy. I usually say things like, “I’m having a ball tonight, and so and so is really hip,” and all that sort of thing. Then I want to whistle. I pretend that I’m a famous Jazz musician and that I’m not whistling at all but playing trumpet, and I might add that my whistling improvisation isn’t bad at all. Then I laugh and say to myself, “Man, you’re pissed,” and look around, if it’s a public carzy, to see if anyone’s heard me.

  I looked out of the window, which was behind all those kinky bottles and boxes, and looked down on to the street below. A couple of cats (the ones that mee-owwww) were screaming blue murder at each other, their coats shining like mad, and the Tom saying, “I’m going to have you tonight, pussy gal, if it’s the last thing I do,” and she replying, “No, you’re not, because I don’t fancy you,” and then they ran like mad into some bushes to have their little bit in private. Then, looking across to the shops on the other side of the road, there, with its neon lights reflecting in my face, was the local branch of Down & Co. Fuck, I thought, you can’t get away from the horrors of life even for one solitary evening. I slammed the window together, and went back to Bunty.

  “Come and dance,” she said, holding out her hands to me.

  I’ve never liked dancing, as I could never see the point of it, unless you were trying to make a girl, and then it would be a good excuse to get near her and breathe in her ears and all that nonsense. But dancing for dancing’s sake, I could never understand, especially at Jazz clubs. It’s always been a mystery to me how musicians can blow well when they have a crowd of morons jiving around them, not even listening to the music.

  “I can’t dance,” I said. I wasn’t sure if I could even get up, let alone dance in the state I was in.

  She wouldn’t take no for an answer. “Everyone can dance. Just grab hold of me and walk,” she said, pulling me to my feet. That’s exactly what I did do, to Sarah singing a very slow Loverman. Her voice had some of the feeling of Billie and the ideas of Ella. She sang:

  “I don’t know why, but I’m feeling so sad,

  I long to try something I’ve never had,

  Never had no kissing, oh what I’ve been missing,

  Loverman oh where can you be...”

  Bunty’s very close, I thought. She’s getting carried away.

  “The night is so cold, and I’m so all alone,

  I’d give my soul just to call you my own...”

  Our hands and arms had forgotten where they should be

  for dancing; she had hers around my neck.

  “Got a moon above me, but no one to love me,

  Loverman oh where can you be...”

  Her face was against mine now and she had her eyes closed. I couldn’t make up my mind if this was sobering me up or not.

  “I’ve heard it said that the thrill of romance could be like a heavenly dream,

  I go to bed with the prayer that you make love to me strange as it seems...”

  Then it happened. It was like a bloody great magnet drawing me to her, because before I knew what I was doing, I was kissing her smack on the lips. You silly great cunt, I thought, now you’ve done it! She’ll probably kick you out of her flat and report you to the Chief Spiritualist by retu
rn of post. It wasn’t like that at all. She hung on like mad, and I must admit I wasn’t complaining, either. It’s funny what comes into your head in moments like that. All I could think was, how different it was necking with her, to necking with that ginger-haired chick at the youth club, the one with no tits. Just as I was thinking about that she grabbed my hand and put it on one of hers, and before I could do anything about it we’d lost our balance and went sprawling on to the divan. After about five minutes of trying to carry on where we left off, we came up for air.

  I felt a bit of a schmock because I didn’t know what to say after all this, but Bunty wasn’t lost for words.

  “Do you have to go home tonight, darling?” she said, coming straight to the point.

  “Yes, I do. My mum will be waiting up for me.” I realised that this sounded as if I was a baby just being weaned, but what else could I say? I couldn’t tell her that I was going on a big business meeting, or was escorting a film star out to dinner, or any of that crap. Anyway, the whisky, or whatever I’d had to drink, made me feel as though I couldn’t care less what I told her.

  “Couldn’t you tell her that you were at a friend’s all night?” Bunty said, looking at her scarlet red face in the mirror.

  “She’d have the police, the army and even the fire brigade out searching for me. You don’t know my mother,” said I, putting my jacket on again, which I’d lost in the struggle.

  She looked a little bit annoyed. “Haven’t you ever stayed out the night?”

  “I have once or twice when a friend of mine has a party or something, but I have to give her plenty of warning,” came my reply.

  “Very well, then. On Saturday next your very best friend is having a party, and you won’t be able to get home. Tell your mother that.”

  “Right. I’ll tell her that.”

  There was an awkward silence.

  “I’ll have to be going now, I really must.”

  “Take this card and give me a ring Saturday morning, just to confirm. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, aren’t you going to kiss me good-bye?”

  I kissed her on the lips.

  “You’re only a child, really, aren’t you?”

  “You don’t seem to be complaining.”

  “Stay with me, child, and I’ll make you into a man.”

  I didn’t wait for the lift, but ran like mad down the stairs, praying to God my mother hadn’t had a nervous breakdown.

  “Meet Dusty Miller — it’s his pad,” said Danny, taking his non-imitation suede jacket off and throwing it on to a pile of clothes on the bed. He turned to Dusty. “A nice place you have here, man. Very stoning indeed.”

  “It suits me,” was all our host said. Then he gave me one of those ‘who-are-you?’ looks. Danny noticed it so he pulled him to one side, and in a quiet voice, but not quiet enough for me not to hear, he said, “Don’t worry about our friend — he’s cool enough. Just met him in the Katz Kradle. Crazy sounds they’re dishing out there tonight. Bill Higginwell must have enjoyed my deal. He was blowing that tenor like a madman. Block-up to hell, he was.”

  Dusty Miller looked me straight in the eye from behind a pair of Brubeck spectacles. Just for a second he hesitated, then he offered me his hand. “Welcome,” he said, and by this time his eyes had made a conducted tour all over me. “Haven’t seen you about before.”

  Stupid me felt embarrassed. This cat sounded and looked so sharp it was a shame. “I go to the Katz Kradle every week, but I haven’t been going too long,” I said. “That Bill Higginwell was certainly blowing tonight. He was really great. I still can’t get over it. Really inspired tonight — he was.”

  Dusty’s short little body shook with laughter. “He was inspired all right: Harry was with him strong!”

  I said: “Harry? Who’s he? I don’t think I’ve met up with him.”

  The few people that weren’t actually in our group but were in hearing distance, turned around sharpish when they dug what I’d said, and they and Dusty and Danny laughed like that crazy laughing record my Dad plays at parties. I think it was Dusty that said, “So you haven’t met Harry, eh? Well, you will, man, you will and before very long!”

  I took off my coat and walked it over to the bed to escape from their laughter. I wasn’t sure what the cool thing was to do after that but the radiogram came to my rescue, because by it in a huge red plastic rack was the greatest collection of hip records that I’d seen outside Dobell’s. Everything was there — well, nearly everything, anyway — not only the obvious ones, but the lesser known west coast musicians and the better John Bulls, that most people don’t buy. I started digesting a couple of sleeve notes.

  “I haven’t seen you here before,” I heard a chick’s voice behind me say.

  “I haven’t been here before.”

  “That probably accounts for it. Well then — a newcomer is amongst us. That calls for a drink. What will you have?”

  “A cider will do.”

  “A horrible drink — that. I never indulge in jungle juice unless it’s really necessary, but every man to his own poison.”

  She went to the table that displayed a stone keg of Merrydown, and started to pour a largish one into an earthenware mug. Her pleasantly plump body swayed slightly and she kept raising the mug up and down from the tap, in time to the King Pleasure disc that was playing on the gram. I tried to make out her age; she wasn’t old, I mean she wasn’t thirty, but if she’d told me she was I’d have believed her. She came staggering back to me and her blurred but sparkly eyes (I hope you dig) half-closed, stared at me wisely behind long lashes. Her face was cute — a bit worn — but with character.

  “I thought you never indulged in cider,” I said, pointing to the glass of vintage she held in her hand.

  She gave me a charming smile that developed into a giggle. “Only when it’s necessary,” she said. “And tonight it’s been really necessary up till now.”

  “It’s not necessary any longer?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Danny’s arrived. You know — the cat that came in with you.”

  “Oh, I see. Is he your boyfriend?”

  She must have found this terribly funny because she laughed out aloud. “Good heavens, no. No, no, a thousand times no!”

  “What difference does he make then?”

  She didn’t answer straight away; instead she looked at me for a moment with a puzzled expression. Then, “If you don’t know — we’ll leave it at that.”

  There weren’t too many people about us, but the small room that we were in made them look more. They were mostly just past the teen stage, and definitely a Jazz crowd, but there was something decidedly different about them to the mob that congregate at the Katz Kradle. They were more relaxed and minus the innocent look despite their young age. They didn’t look like villains, mind you, but like my mother says: they were little old men cut down. A young Spade was in the corner, beating time to the disc on a gleaming new pair of bongos; stripped to the waist, his well-developed chest glistening with perspiration like you see in those jungle films, and he was looking at the chicks in a confident Spadish way.

  The chick had refilled her glass and she came back with another one for me. “Cheers,” she said and knocked it back all in one go. She saw me staring at her. “Don’t mind me. I’m a trainee alcoholic. What’s your name?”

  I told her.

  “Mine’s Miss Roach. Don’t think I’m being formal — everyone calls me that — it’s rather fitting. How come you meet up with Danny, anyway?”

  “I got chatting with him in the Katz Kradle Jazz Club. You know it?”

  A wave of her perfume hit me as she said, “Do I know it? I should say I do.”

  “It’s great — yes?”

  “It’s great — no! I’ve nothing against the music — but otherwise — negative. So Danny invited you along here — right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  She seemed inte
rested in me and it wigged me. “And what do you think of the set-up? Approve or not?”

  “Approve, most definitely. I haven’t many friends, what you can call friends, anyway. Where I live everyone seems dull — held back somehow — even the kids. I can’t stand it.”

  She offered me a cigarette. “You’ve only two things to do. Either carry on standing or sit down.”

  “Man, I want to sit down, and I’m going to, don’t you worry. By hook or by crook I’m going to get away from all of it.”

  Her face went slightly serious. “Let’s hope it’s not by crook.”

  A young cat, just a few years older than myself, was sitting away from the rest, looking as remote as anyone could in a crowded room. “What the matter with our friend over there?” I asked, pointing to him.

  “That’s Popper,” she said, still a bit serious. “He’s sick.”

  “What’s he doing here then? Why doesn’t he go home or see a doctor?”

  She stared at me, just for a second, before answering, then she quickly said, “No doctor can help him.”

  Things were getting warmed up by now: the voices were becoming louder, and that thing called atmosphere was poking its head around the corner. A couple were dancing by the gram. Not jiving like they do at the Kradle, but with much less energy and with mechanical-like movements. The chick with her eyes closed seemed more interested in the music than with her dancing, and the cat spinned her around now and again, but he made sure that he didn’t do any of the work himself, although he was right with the sounds, his head nodding in perfect time with the drummer’s cymbal. They danced floppy.

  Miss Roach had refilled my glass again. “Do you smoke?” she asked me.

  “What sort of a question is that?” I said, showing her the fag I had in my hand.

  She gave a girlish giggle. “No, silly, not straight ones. Charge.”

  “Charge?”

  “Yes, Charge — Pot — Shit — Tea — Gunja — Tampi — Reefers — Weed — or if you want me to be really square — Indian Hemp!”

  “No, I don’t. I mean, I’ve never tried. Do you?”

  “Of course, Doll. We all do. That’s what I meant about waiting for your friend Danny to arrive. He’s a dealer.”