Nick's Blues Page 8

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.

  And, of course, there were pictures of her with his dad, half a dozen in all, different places, different times.

  “Come in here,” Charlene said. “I want to show you this.”

  Here was her music room, complete with keyboard and miniature mixing desk, speakers, mikes and numerous guitars. One of these she reached down and put into Nick’s hands.

  “I won’t lie to you, this was never your dad’s first choice. Nor second, either. But it was his, he played it. In fact if you look back at his photos next door, the one taken at the Marquee, this is what he’s playing there.”

  Nick looked down at the instrument, the smooth grain of the wood, reddish-blonde, the dust that had collected along one edge and between the strings.

  “I don’t suppose you play?”

  Nick shook his head.

  “Well, take it anyway. A souvenir. Les’d be glad for you to have it, I’m sure. And who knows? One day you might learn. I’ll teach you if you like.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  There were a hundred more questions he was sure he wanted to ask but none would come to mind. When he left Charlene kissed him impulsively on the cheek.

  “Come back and see me. Any time.”

  ***

  When he walked back into the flat, a good hour later, carrying the guitar in its cracked leather case, his mother turned away and hid her face in her hands.

  fifteen

  Monday, Nick went back down Kentish Town with his camera and a new roll of film, but through the viewfinder everything looked dull and uninspiring. The same as before. When he tried to take a picture of a shaggy-haired man squatting on a blanket outside the Halifax, the man swore at him angrily and the dog tried to take a bite out of his leg. So much for becoming the new Dorothea Lange.

  He sort of wished he’d gone back to school, except he wanted to wait until his stitches came out and that would be another four days.

  His mum had left him a few quid to get something for lunch and he pocketed it and had a couple of bowls of cereal instead, corn flakes mixed with Cheerios.

  There was an old film on afternoon TV,
something about a boxer who was supposed to take a fall but changed his mind and knocked his opponent all over the ring. He paid for it in the end.

  Nick looked at his watch and decided to get changed. He had a plan. He’d seen Ellen cutting through the estate from time to time on her way home, and although he couldn’t be certain she’d be there today, he thought he might as well give it a try.

  ***

  Twenty minutes later he was ready. Boots and jeans didn’t give him a lot of choice, but there was a grey t-shirt without too many creases he found near the bottom of the drawer and over that he was wearing a near-black Adidas top with white stripes running parallel along the sleeves. A month or so ago he’d borrowed it from Christopher and forgotten to give it back.

  In the bathroom, he tried gelling his hair and hated the result, but by then it was too late.

  Sod it!

  His timing, though, was spot on. Passing between two sets of garages, he stepped out into a small courtyard between tower blocks and there was Ellen, art folder under one arm, walking briskly towards the far corner. Trainers, black with a red stripe and double velcro straps, long denim skirt; a pink scarf hung loose over her shoulders and her black beret was angled back on her head.

  “Hi!” Nick said, feigning surprise.

  “Hello.” Ellen walked on a few paces and then stopped. “What are you doing here?”

  Nick shrugged. “Nothing special.”

  “Just hanging out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You wouldn’t’ve been waiting here for me, would you?” Ellen said.

  “No way.”

  “You sure?”

  “Course I’m sure.”

  “That’s all right, then.”

  She was looking straight at him, amusement in her eyes. Nick stared at the ground then looked away. He knew what he’d intended to say, but what had sounded fine inside his head now didn’t feel right.

  “How’s the project going?” Ellen said finally. “The photography.”

  “Okay, I suppose. Yeah.”

  Ellen nodded.

  “You?”

  “Oh, you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  A plane went over, lower than usual, banking through cloud.

  “Maybe I could look at it sometime?” Nick said. “Your folder, you know.”

  “It’s in a mess at the moment. I mean, there’s nothing…”

  “No, no, that’s okay. I just…”

  “Yes.” Ellen took a breath. “I’m sorry about what happened, your head and everything. Laura told me you got beaten up pretty bad.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “You’ll have a scar.”

  “Prob’ly.”

  She was looking at him now as though a scar might not be such a bad thing.

  “The other day,” Nick said, “when you came round…”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “You and your girl friend.”

  “Come on, she’s not…”

  “What?”

  “Me and Melanie… You don’t think…”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Gross!”

  “Well, if you don’t fancy her, someone obviously did.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “She’s pregnant, isn’t she?”

  “No, she’s not, she’s just fat.”

  Ellen raised an eyebrow. “Ask her then, why don’t you? Next time she calls round.”

  And with that she walked away, leaving Nick feeling perplexed and not a little stupid. Melanie pregnant, up the stick, in the family way. The thought of it made him slightly sick.

  ***

  A couple of kids Nick vaguely recognised from lower down the school were skulking beneath a walkway, smoking. Four or five skateboarders trying to find new ways of breaking their legs. A boy in an Arsenal shirt, Pires lettered across the back, practising wheelies. When Nick turned the corner, some forty metres from his own block, there was Ross Blevitt, leaning back against the pebbled wall, half a dozen others gathered round him.

  Nick hesitated, then carried on. Blevitt said something to his crew and slowly they moved away. Not far. As Nick drew almost level, Blevitt eased himself from the wall.

  “So, Nicky…”

  “Nick.”

  “Whatever.”

  Blevitt raised a hand towards Nick’s forehead and Nick knocked it away.

  “Ain’t so good at takin’ warnings,” Blevitt said.

  Nick waited.

  “Cosyin’ up to the police. Givin’ ’em names.”

  “Bollocks.”

  “Seen you, man. Down the town. You and that bitch. Detective inspector, i’n’ it?”

  “She’s the one, started talking to me. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Walk away. Keep your mouth closed.”

  Nick said nothing.

  “I’m tellin’ you, man.”

  “Yeah? What’s it gonna be? Another brick when I’m not looking?”

  Blevitt jabbed a finger against Nick’s chest. “Keep talkin’ to the wrong people, you’re gonna find out, right? A few stitches. Couple broken ribs. That’s nothin’.”

  Nick held Blevitt’s stare, then walked round him.

  He carried on walking and at the last moment Blevitt’s crew grudgingly stepped back, allowing him just enough room to get past.

  He heard one of them hawking phlegm into his throat and felt spittle in his hair and on his neck. Nick clenched his fists and kept on going, damned if he was going to give them the satisfaction of watching him wipe it away.

  sixteen

  Steve Rawlings had been watching the encounter between Blevitt and Nick from the eighth floor balcony. Waiting for the moment when Blevitt would take him apart. But instead, Blevitt had simply stood there and let him walk away.

  Rawlings spat at the ground.

  First Harman had dissed him in front of his mates and then, more than likely, grassed him up to the police.

  Next time he wouldn’t get off so easy.

  Next time it’d be more than just a beating.

  “What d’you reckon, Steve?” asked one of the boys alongside him.

  Rawlings spat again. “I reckon someone’s gonna teach Harman a real lesson.”

  “Ross didn’t do nothin’ ’cept mouth off at him.”

  “Ross’s a pussy,” Rawlings said, lowering his voice to ensure Blevitt, still standing below, didn’t hear him.

  “You gonna take him?”

  “Yeah, when I’m ready.”

  For reassurance, Rawlings touched the Stanley knife, hard and cool in the pocket of his Diesel jeans.

  ***

  “Oh, man,” Scott said with a shake of his head, “that’s so not cool.”

  They were in Nick’s room, Scott and Nick on the bed, Christopher sitting on the floor, head resting back against the wall. One of Scott’s old Aphex Twin CDs was on the stereo.

  “You were the one, telling me I should do something,” Nick said. “Make a move.”

  “Yeah, but not like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too obvious, right? There’s Ellen on her way home and you just happen to be there, standing round with a hard-on and your tongue hanging out. Pathetic.”

  “My tongue wasn’t hanging out.”

  “You just had a hard-on.”

  Nick aimed a punch at Scott’s shoulder and, laughing, he sprawled out of reach.

  “You do fancy her, though?” Christopher said. “Can we establish that as a matter of record?”

  “She’s okay, yeah.”

  “You fancy her?”

  “Yeah, if you like.”

  “If I like?”

  “All Chris fancies,” Scott said, “is the baby-sitter.”

  “She’s not the baby-sitter.”

  “Okay, then. Stepmother.”

  “And she’s not my bloody stepmother.”

  “What is she then?”


  “Nothing,” Christopher said, just this side of flustered. “What are we talking about her for anyway?

  It’s Ellen we’re meant to be discussing, Nick and Ellen.”

  “Laura reckons she’s hot,” Scott said.

  “How does she know?”

  “She was going out with this bloke, last term. Black guy. Twenty-three, twenty-four.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Straight up.”

  “Who was he?”

  “DJ.”

  “Where from?”

  “Brixton. Notting Hill. All over.”

  “She’s not seeing him any more?”

  “Laura says no.”

  “There you go, Nick, she’s yours.”

  “Already popped her cork.”

  “Shut it,” Nick said.

  “Bloke like that, only way he’s gonna…”

  “I said shut it, right?”

  “Okay, okay, she’s still a virgin, that’s what you want to believe. Virgo intacta.”

  Nick hit him on the arm, just below the elbow, and the impact jarred back along his own arm and into his chest, making him wince with pain.

  “You okay?” Christopher asked, concerned.