Chapter Six

 

Wednesday April 23rd – 9.45pm – The Upstairs Room of the Cat & Whistle’

 

‘Thank you’ I nod and smile as the applause cascades over me like a soothing rain, then place my guitar carefully onto its stand.

‘Restart at ten past, see you soon’ No sign of the cold that has afflicted me recently, my voice standing up well so far.

As the audience start to rise, chairs scraping over muted conversation I move to the table against the back wall and sit down again to watch them file out. This is a regular part of my gig ritual brought about by an ascetic need to temporarily distance myself from the performance area and the more pragmatic need to avoid any audience contact during this fragile hiatus. My fears at this possibility are born out as I notice a woman of about forty who I have not seen before making a beeline for me, her face pinched into the mask of concentration that I have witnessed many times as she struggles to formulate her question or critique into a coherency that might impress me. But her progress is halted by the queue filing out of the door in orderly fashion on the way to replenish their drinks and I see her mouth an urgent ‘excuse me’, which, luckily for me, is directed at one of my regulars, an earnest, tweedy, hopelessly unfashionable lad of about nineteen who was probably bullied at school and as your mum would say ‘is in need of a good meal inside him’. He obviously interprets her intentions and I witness the ensuing whispered exchange with muted thanks, hoping that it will do the trick. I say a silent prayer of thanks as she aims a wistful glance in my direction before joining the queue.

Any seasoned performer will tell you that one of the ‘absolutes’ of performance is control; of yourself, the space you occupy and most of all, the audience. And unless you happen to one of the more acerbic comedians such as Billy Connolly or Robin Williams who can harangue them into submission by sheer force of talent and personality this is usually achieved by the simple mutual acceptance of a few ground rules some of which are tacitly recognised and some of which must be spelled out. My own rules have become established over the past year mostly by the Chinese whisper method whereby I gently inform an individual or small group that I ‘really appreciate a bit of space during the intervals’ or suchlike knowing that they will pass this around the well-established regulars as a piece of personal information that they have gleaned during a private moment thus raising their own stock to that of personal confidante. If I had my way this exclusion zone would also extend to post-gig while enjoying a pint, Sainsbury’s, the Library or the street, all places in which I have been accosted at some time or other. I remember Rhiannon’s meeting with Lydia and add third party encounters to the list. Anyway, Tweedy has rescued me from this latest attempt and it’s a shame that I can’t thank him, but this would only threaten to personalise our relationship inviting a closing of the necessary gap between audience and performer, thus creating another potential problem. It might even turn him into my very own personal minder, not an attractive thought.

I push all this distraction from my mind and just start to leaf through my gig book of songs and poems wondering how much new stuff to include in the second set when the barmaid Annie breezes into the room preceded by the waft of something flowery and plonks a mug of steaming coffee before me.

‘How’s it going ducks? Her standard enquiry.

‘Eating out of my hand Annie’ my standard response. I expect her to take her leave as usual but instead she leans down towards me exposing more cleavage than is necessary for one person, her heavily made up features pinched earnestly.

‘You’re too good for this place ducks’ she nods conspiratorially. For one awful minute I think she’s going to kiss me, now fearfully aware that we are the only people in the room, a fact that three minutes ago I was very grateful for, but to my relief she straightens before up pulling her dress into place and smoothing it down over her thighs. She must be the wrong side of forty five but there is no doubt that she has kept her figure, good legs I think absently. She notices my furtive evaluation and gives me a well-honed smile.

‘Too good ducks’ she repeats before turning and leaving the room with a well-practiced flourish. I am grateful that she did not stay longer as I can feel the colour rising in my cheeks, her perfume lingering round the table. She has never done anything like this before and I mentally add her to the rapidly growing list of people that I must reappraise? Or perhaps I should just accept the fact that I know sod all about anyone, especially women. ‘Too much analysing’ Lydia would say, although according to Rhiannon I have ‘a flair for the emotional schisms that affect us all as some time? I wonder where she is tonight as I glance at my watch to see that it’s just after ten and they’ll all be back soon. I return to the gig book, sipping at my coffee and start to jot down some notes on the large A4 pad on the table. Satisfied I stand and finish the coffee before dropping the pad in easy sight beside my chair before running a pick across the guitar, taking comfort as its familiar ring echoes around the empty room.

I hear footsteps and turn to greet the first arrivals only to see Rhiannon standing just inside the door smiling at me. My irrational guilt immediately wells to the surface as my eyes are drawn to the small scar on her forehead, not quite hidden by the swathe of shining hair. Her slim fingers move to lightly touch it before falling back to her side. She is not quite blocking the door and the rest of the audience are edging past her in single file. Some are carrying replenished glasses and make exaggerated flourishes to avoid her before resuming their seats.

I realise that I am not sure if I have returned her smile and make an effort to do so before becoming uncomfortably aware that our silent ‘stand-off’ has not gone unnoticed. I glance out over the seats taking in at least two furtive grins and one disapproving grimace from Lanky who turns to whisper to her fat friend. The seats are filling up now and Rhiannon joins the queue and files down to the back before vanishing behind a large elderly man who blocks her from my immediate view. I glance at my watch to try and regain some composure, wondering if she has hidden herself deliberately to allow me to do so? If this was her plan then it’s worked and I feel strangely invigorated by the encounter as I pick up my guitar from its stand running the pick down the strings to announce the start of the second set. This always causes a ‘tidying up’ as the audience shuffle into place, straightening chairs, positioning bags and glasses at their feet and placing hands into laps to signal rapt attention. As they settle I catch another brief glimpse of blue/black hair before I hear my coffee soothed voice announce the first song.

 

Wednesday April 23rd – 11.30pm – The Lounge Bar of the Cat & Whistle’

 

I pride myself that I am never consciously rude to anyone who has the decency to listen to what I do, but am aware that some of my responses tonight have come dangerously close. Post gig come down has hit harder than usual and of course I know the reason. The gig was good but I missed her leaving at the end, again strengthening my supposition that she is not real, just a spirit sent to test me. I am hoping that my mood will be interpreted as artistic temperament and wonder how many of tonight’s audience will now be adopting similar affectations as part of their own artistic journey? What a chilling thought, I can hear it now ‘you just don’t understand what I go through…..’ I shudder at the thought that I may be responsible.

Of course, despite my loftier ambitions, I recognise that my own come downs are just part of the readjustment process as I drag myself reluctantly back to reality and not some pathological response to my dissection of the emotional responses of the world and his dog; after all, I just play a few songs and read a few poems, I’m not the Dalai bloody Lama. And most of the people I play them to would comfortably fit into the ‘wouldn’t want to be stuck with at a party’ category so who would I be kidding anyway?

I feel a bit guilty as I think I cut Lanky and her friend a bit short tonight, after the third absolutely? I wonder if they’ll come back again? Probably think I’m even more Byronesque now? I suppress a grin and look around for them, considering an apology but I’m sure I saw them leave a while back. I think of the eighty quid nestling in my back pocket and realise that a fiver of it came from them so pragmatically I hope they do return. So much for artistic integrity, reducing two of my regulars to monetary units.

My guitar case is propped against the bar beside me and I reposition it wedging the bottom against the base of my stool before considering another pint.

‘A penny for them? Says a voice close by. Rhiannon is standing beside me, her lovely face three feet from my own.

I do my Guppy impression.

‘Mind if I join you’ she continues before swinging her long legs onto the stool beside me without waiting for my response.

I manage a smile, losing the Guppy.

‘No, please do’ I reply redundantly.

She stands back up, bends down and loops the strap of her bag through the leg of the stool before resuming her seat as if to give my acceptance some weight, then gracefully shuffles round towards me, our knees almost touching.

‘So, how do you think it went tonight? No preamble, just eyes wide with interest as she sips from a glass of red wine.

I’m not sure what I expected from our first contact, but this was definitely not it and I absently wonder if she’s a reporter from the local rag? To find that all my fantasising could be explained so simply would really take the biscuit.

I frown, look away and puff my cheeks in consideration before replying.

‘Not bad; perhaps the balance was a bit wrong, too many poems? I turn the question.

It’s her turn to frown and look away and I take the opportunity to appraise her. Her hair looks even bluer this close and her eyes are a striking emerald green set above high cheekbones framing a slim small nose. How did Lydia describe her? ‘Sharp faced I think? Not a description I can subscribe to but then we do have rather different perspectives. At this thought I feel the familiar onset of guilt. Her blouse is almost the same colour as her eyes and is of a baggy design that manages to allure rather than conceal, tucked into tight light blue jeans that show off her pert rear and slim legs; no concealing there I think and my gaze follows the long legs down to dark brown ankle boots with heels resting on the bar stool rail. My appraisal has only taken a few seconds but I raise my eyes up quickly anxious to avoid detection. I am successful as her frown is only just decreasing, smoothing out the scar, her tongue lightly moistening her bottom lip causing the dark red lipstick to glisten under the harsh bar lights. Her eyes fix mine again as she replies.

‘It depends how, or if, you make the distinction I suppose? Her eyebrows raise quizzically, wrinkling the scar again.

I am definitely on the back foot again, as usual so I lift my own eyebrows and tilt my head slightly to buy some time. She seems to think my expression is a plea for clarification?

‘You see’ she continues ‘I think that songs are just poems set to music and poems are songs that are not governed by the usual conventions of verse, verse, chorus bridge etc’ She is gazing down into her glass and I know that there is more to come. I’m right.

‘I think’ heavy accent on the I ‘and please tell me if I am wrong’ she looks earnestly at me with genuine concern ‘that your poems all, or mostly, started off as songs? She is scanning my face for possible disapproval, but finding none, continues ‘And, no doubt, you change them for many reasons; perhaps you could not find a suitable tune to fit the words or the words were too constrained by a songs format and you decided that they might work as poetry. I’m not saying that you have never actually written a poem intending it to be just that, but I reckon that’s where your first poems came from?

I hold her gaze and realise that even if she wasn’t right I’d love to agree just to please her. But I also know that she is used to men ‘just trying to please her’ and would see through it in a second. I consider all of the pretentious crap that I have had to listen to from other ‘critics’ and realise that her simple evaluation has cut straight through to the soul of what I do. I love the flow of a song, the mood it can evoke even if you can’t understand a word of the lyric, the subtle change to a minor chord that can bring a well of emotion to the surface, a lump forming in my throat. I also know that a wrong symbiosis of words and music can destroy this potential so sometimes the words must stand alone; but still retain the rhythmic flow. She has hit my own minor chord and I can feel the familiar lump in my throat as I form my reply, realising that there has been a softening in the tension that a first meeting often engenders and want, no need, to prolong the moment for as long as possible.

‘That’s very perceptive of you, what gave me away? I just manage to get the words out.

She replies immediately.

‘Because I can hear the tunes in your poems’ as simple as that I think before she continues.

‘Or rather, my brain must be assigning tunes to them as I listen, I don’t know. Occasionally when one does not quite work, I don’t hear the tune’ She scans my face for any offence taken at this recognition of my fallibility. ‘Not that that is very often’ she assures me. I’m not sure if this was in response to any reaction on my part as I have no idea at all of what expression currently occupies my features; I am totally spellbound. Her gentle laugh breaks my reverie.

‘I haven’t offended you have I? We both know that this is a rhetorical question but convention decrees that I answer.

‘Not in the slightest’ my voice sounds more confident now and I realise that I feel on safer ground and continue.

‘Words are, and always will be the most important thing for me, but I love the flow of a song, the emotion that a good tune can stir up; so I mix and match so to speak’ I realise that I have been gripping my pint glass tightly through this exchange and relax my cramping fingers before taking a swig to relieve the dryness in my throat before continuing.

‘You are, as I say, spot on’

‘You’re not just saying that are you’ We both know that this is yet another rhetorical question and her green eyes twinkle mischievously as she lightly places her hand on mine. Oh, those eyes, I just smile back not risking a reply as a shiver goes through my entire body at this unexpected contact.

But the stretch to reach me has exposed the dainty gold watch on her wrist and I see her take in its face before she says the words that I dread.

‘God, is that the time, I must be going’ the twinkle does not leave her eyes though and I suddenly feel like a teenager on a first date, totally unsure of my ground, hopeless.

I can see that she has recognised my discomfort and nods towards a tall blonde girl standing near us. She holds up five fingers and the blonde smile acknowledging the gesture then finishes her drink placing it on a nearby table. Rhiannon leans in towards me conspiratorially.

‘She’s having hubby trouble so I promised she could bend my ear, again’ eyebrows raise in mock despair ‘the guys an idiot and she should leave him, but we’ll just go round and round in circles as usual and drink too much wine before she decides to give him another chance’

I give her my best ‘what can you do’ look and shrug, before deciding to be uncharacteristically bold.

‘Can I just ask you one question’ She halts the swing of her legs from the stool and looks worried. This is not a girl who likes surprises I think. She glances at her watch then the smile is back.

‘Just one then’ she replies.

‘How did you know the words to my poem ‘Ghost? I am ashamed to realise that I am expecting either a lie or some sort of evasion and wonder if I’ll challenge it? But to my relief her smile returns and she swings back round towards me, our knees now touching.

‘Well, what’s your own explanation Mr. Poet? My unexpected question turned back on me. She places her hand on mine again before laughing at this gentle teasing.

I wish that I could squeeze her hand but I’m pressed to the bar with her in control as she has been right from the start. I try to even things up a bit with some humour.

‘Perhaps we are psychically linked or soul mates in a previous life? My best Vincent Price voice causes another tinkle of laughter a flash of emerald green and shake of her head.

‘A lovely thought Mr. Poet, but I’m afraid…’ She lets the moment linger before putting me out of my misery.

‘Do you remember when you left your book with the songs and poems in upstairs and the barmaid gave it you back later? I nod recalling Annie handing it to me while I was sitting at the bar.

‘You might be needing this ducks’ she had said in the despairing tone she reserves for me. I had assumed that she had found it while clearing up.

Rhiannon lets my silent recall run its course before continuing.

‘Well it was me who found it when I went back for my umbrella; it was just laying on the floor under a chair near the table at the back of the room’ her smile turns coy ‘and I hope you don’t mind but I could not resist a peek and a loose page fell out and it was Ghost, I think you had just finished it?

I nod at this simple explanation as she once more swings her legs round breaking our contact. But as she bends down to retrieve her bag I realise that this does not explain how she knew it word for word? I am about to challenge her when she speaks almost as an afterthought.

‘Oh, and in case you are wondering, I have a near photographic memory’ She straightens up and steps close to me ‘At least for things I want to remember; and Ghost is beautiful’ She leans in and kisses me on the cheek and is gone. Again.