***Caution this piece contains swearing***
Intro
Dear Mum and Dad,
Sorry I couldn’t make it for Easter, y’know, things got in the way. I hope Gran wasn’t too upset but she might just be excited by my news. She always liked my music (more than you ever did, an unholy row Dad called it).
You remember Dad, when I took you to that free gig at the pub round the corner from college? That was in first year wasn’t it? The leader, who’s a friend of mine, a rather special friend really, has asked me to join them and we’re off on tour next week, Germany first, then, I’m not sure.
I’ve never got on with my tutor, or rather, he’s never got on with me and I shall be glad to see the back of him and his economics, and I can’t face finals so I’m off.
Dear Stepson
Whatever do you mean; you don’t like your tutor: you do know he was best man at your mother’s and my wedding. Damn it, you were there and spread ice cream over his shoes. Just because you were three at the time doesn’t seem an adequate excuse.
What I’d like to know is who is going to pay? You realise that as your step father I’ve done everything for you: your poor mother was left with nothing when her husband died. You never have shown much gratitude. You don’t seem to realise I rescued the two of you from penury and disgrace.
You never knew what happened to your father did you? Well, you’d better now. He was shot dead playing in a jazz dive. If I hadn’t stepped in it could have stigmatised both of you for life.
I have to say, I’m very disappointed in you.
My dearest Grandson
I know you don’t like it but I can’t help thinking of you as my brave little soldier. What a wonderful adventure. It would have made your father proud. You know he played in a band don’t you? It was the death of him in the end, but when your mum brought him home the first time they played and sang together “If you were the only girl in the World.” I knew then they were right for each other.
Your mum told me; poor thing. It’s a wonder that man let her see your letter. When she came round here she couldn’t stop crying. You know she has to wait until he’s away before she can visit me don’t you, and I have to pay for the taxi. She says the housekeeping won’t run to it. She’s always moping, but I don’t think your leaving college has anything to do with it. There’s something you should know but I’m sworn to secrecy. Oops, there I go: I am awful aren’t I?
Darling Boy (This letter has dried out tearstains all over it)
I didn’t see your letter till yesterday. Your stepfather had opened it and I expect he forgot to show it to me. I found it in the study after he’d gone out. I couldn’t reply as I was at mother’s all day and by the time I returned it was too late for the post.
Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? It’s a precarious life out there in music. I should know, your father tried and it was difficult times being left at home with a baby and no money, and then…(this section of the letter is entirely obscured) .
Dear Stepfather
You can fuck off.
Dear Gran
Is it really true that my father was shot whilst playing jazz in a club. That’s marvellous! The other lads in the band are really jealous. They say an old jazzman in the early days was shot dead by a jealous ex-girlfriend. Is that what happened? Go on, you can tell me.
I had a letter from mum yesterday. It was a bit of a mess, she must have got it rained on, little drop marks all over it. She didn’t say anything about a secret. I don’t suppose it’s anything important.
We’re off tonight. I don’t know if I’ll have an address or anything in Hamburg but I’ll go to the Post Office and see if any mail’s arrived next week.
☼
During the next week two letters arrived at Hamburg Central Post Office
☼
Darling Boy
I have some disturbing news for you; I only hope you are able to cope with it on your own out there. I’m going to stay with your grandma until it’s all over. I’m not sure I understand what’s happening… (Most of the rest of the letter is obscured with tears)
So you see I don’t know what to do. Perhaps mother will tell me. Do hurry back.
Dearest Grandson
Your mother has come to live here. Something untoward happened to that man. I knew he was peculiar when she married him but I’m still not sure I know what. He was shot dead in Soho in a club called ‘All Change’. They’ve arrested someone. It was on the news and in the papers. They didn’t say anything about the place but I suppose it must have been a bit theatrical because of what I saw.
It was an accident really. I should have waited to be shown in but I wanted to get it over with. Well, your mother couldn’t face it, so I had to identify the body and I barged in before they were ready. You’ve never seen such a sight, he was wearing tights with a little frilly skirt, and a top with big… It was disgusting. And an armful of bracelets, I’m sure I recognised one that your mother wore on her wedding day. (Do you remember the ice cream? That best man really was an awful toad, and his speech had gone on far too long.)
There must have been blood somewhere but what with all that pink it seemed to blend in. Anyway they covered him up pdq. So there you are, every cloud and all that, but I didn’t expect it to have a pink tulle lining.
☼
As these letters crossed the North Sea a postcard travelled in the opposite direction. It showed a tall figure in a dress and a feather boa. Underneath was written the word ‘Tunte’
☼
Hi Gran
Having a great time! We’re playing in a sort of music hall with other acts in between. There’s a real scream of a guy all dressed up like a woman, but he can jolly well sing. This is a picture of him. We had him do a couple of numbers with the band. Smashing.
We’re off to Amsterdam next; perhaps he’ll come with us. Hope mum is all right.
Melody
Cigarette smoke didn’t suit her old problem and it wasn’t clear to the young man whether the spasm that racked her was laughter or coughing.
“You all right Gran?”
She looked up at him. To her it seemed perfectly normal that a member of the band should come and talk to her but all around there were envious stares. The spasm passed.
“Yes of course you young whippersnapper, you aren’t the only one who can have a good time.”
“Whad’y think of us then?”
“Better than your father’s lot, that’s the truth.”
He looked pleased. “You sure Gran? He must have heard some of the greats before the war.”
“He still played like he was at a tea dance.”
A waiter bustled up with two beers, his once white apron stained brown with slops.
“All right for you Gran?”
She turned toward him. “You’re just like your dad y’know. Oh yes, thanks.”
She took a sip of the pale liquid with its continental froth. “Not quite the same is it? I like a nice drop of mild m’self.”
He pulled out an unfamiliar packet.
“Your dad liked Woodbines,” Gran said.
“Can’t get English ciggies here, they all smoke these?”
With low lights, brown stained walls and a thick fug the place had an enigmatic air. A tall figure, much made up, blond hair down to the shoulders, pushed through the crowd of noisy youngsters.
“Over here.” The younger man waved. He turned to his guest “I want you to meet our singer.”
A strong scent of lilies mingled with the beer and smoke.
“Hani, this is my gran, she loves jazz.”
It looked to Gran as if the new arrival was about to bow. Oh no! She thought, not hand kissing. Instead the wig slipped slightly and bristles peeped through face powder as she was treated to a stiff, angular, curtsy.
“How-do-you-do.” The greeting, in a deep voice, was spoken carefully. “I-am-pleased-to-meet-you.” Hani sat down and pushed swathes of chiffon under the table. A glass of schnapps appeared as if by magic.
Men dressed in women’s clothing weren’t unfamiliar to Gran: she’d seen Danny la Rue at the Palladium once, and taken her grandson to the pantomime often enough. But up on the stage it had seemed like another world. The person sitting next to her, in a shimmering, low cut bodice with lace trimming, and addressing her in stilted English was very much of this one.
“You like my Sister Kate?”
“Your sister?” Gran looked round in panic.
“Yes, I Wish I could Shimmy like my Sister Kate.”
It had been the last number before the interval. She wasn’t prepared for this, even by her brief encounter with son in law number two on a slab in the mortuary, dressed as he had been in pink tulle..
“Oh yes, lovely.”
A few tables away there was a lot of shouting. To start with, Gran welcomed the diversion but as the ruckus came closer, accompanied by the sound of breaking furniture, she wasn’t so sure.
“You bastard, you take my girlfriend.” With his crooked nose and powerful biceps, the man who spoke could have been an ex-boxer.
Afterwards, it wasn’t the shaven head or the heavily muscled torso, or even the weapon itself that she remembered: it was a lurid tattoo of something like a Rhine maiden with a spear held aloft, on the gun wielding arm.
“She’s not yours, she’s mine.”
Hani, who had readjusted the wig, managed a simper, despite the bristles.
“Oh you are big aren’t you?”
The simper faded away as the gun wandered in his direction. Hani with his wig and shimmering bodice joined the tulle under the table.
“You got no right to her. I buy schnapps…” He took a swig from a bottle of Kummel.
“Look, I got whole bottle for her.”
By now the rest of the club’s clientele had taken cover and only two figures remained above table height.
“Now see here young man…” Gran wasn’t to be intimidated, “… putdown that…”
She fell silent as the pistol described an unsteady arc towards her.
“You shut up, dumme alte Frau.” The pistol changed direction. “It him, he buy drink for my woman, and take her away.”
The man staggered, then straightened up for a moment and a shot rang out.
☼
As the laden stretcher and its shroud was manoeuvred around the debris, Gran couldn’t escape the thought: like father like son.
Chorus
“Not very comfortable is it” A new arrival was testing the hard bench. Its occupants seemed to extend to infinity. A transcendental glow could be seen up ahead but back here, at the end of the line, it was difficult to make each other out.
“You been here long?” asked the newcomer.
“A while. I was getting on quite well but they had an inspection.”
“You mean they sent you back”
“Said they wouldn’t consider a man in a skirt.”
“What about Scotsmen in kilts?’
“Oh, they let them through.”
“Perhaps it’s the knitted socks with a skean dhu.”
“They said it was the colour; tartans are really quite dour.”
“What about all those Cardinals and Archbishops?”
“Ah well, they have a different queue, fast tracked you might say. They said you’re not allowed pink tulle in this line. And so, what happened to you, young man?” The earlier arrival had questions of his own.
“Got shot by a drunk with a pistol.”
“You must have provoked him.”
“He thought I’d bought his girl a drink.”
“Had you?”
“Hmm; yes and no.”
“Come along Boy, either you did or you didn’t.”
It was beginning to feel like an interview he’d had with the headmaster over that packet of Woodbines that fell out of his pocket in class.
“Did you buy these?” It had been yes and no that time. Gran had sent him out for them before school and he hadn’t had time to take them to her before the bell.
“I bought a drink for someone in a dress, but he was a man. The drunk couldn’t quite work it out.”
“Did you know he was a man?”
“Of course, it was the singer in our band. He was in drag.”
“You played in a band!” The disapproval shone out like a beacon. “You mean a jazz band. All that thumpy thump and blaring trumpets and…”
“S’right Oldie, it’s all the rage.”
“That sort of a thing always ends badly, I heard about a jazz musician who got killed for much the same reason before the war.”
A shadowy figure approached unnoticed in the gloom.
“You two having an argument?”
“Not yet mister, but give us a minute.” It was Boy who spoke.
“Shove up, I might as well stop and listen to this.” The shadowy figure eased himself down onto the bench. “There’s not much else going on here.”
“It’s as quiet as an empty church,” said Oldie. He shook his head. “I don’t understand, a queue as long as this. There’s usually a disagreement or two.”
“Ah well y’see, there’s only two sorts of people lined up here: the Believers don’t want to blot their copybook. They think there’s still a chance of making it to paradise, or the 94 virgins or whatever. Then there’s the Unbelievers: they feel silly because they think they got it wrong that they don’t want anyone asking questions and they keep a low profile too.”
“I suppose they all go to hades, the Unbelievers.” Oldie persisted.
With an exasperated laugh Shadow said “You haven’t got it have you. This isn’t the route to Judgement Day: you didn’t really believe all that guff did you? It’s a regional office of the Inland Revenue. They’re sorting out Probate at the head of the line. We have to get all the paperwork straight whilst we can.”
“But what about my pink tutu and fast tracking the prelates?” Oldie sounded indignant.
“Oh dear.” Shadow sounded contrite. “I was a bit naughty there I’m afraid. We needed the tutu so I made that bit up about the dress code.”
“And the Cardinals and Archbishops and so on?”
“That’s true as far as it goes. We fast track anyone with a lot of money: bankers, black marketeers, Presidents, you know the sort of thing; anyone who’s had their hands in other people’s pockets. The worst of the lot are big charity donors. You’ve no idea the trouble they had with that Carnegie. Mind you, I wasn’t here then.”
“Why aren’t there any women?” Boy was wondering about his Gran.
“Oh that! They’re in a different queue. Not many of them have enough money to bother about.”
“I see what you mean.” Oldie was thinking about the penniless wife he’d left behind. “They’re just an on cost really.” He perked up. “Can we set them off as expenses when we get there?” Nodding toward the front of the queue.
“Now now, we wouldn’t want to get found with our fingers in the till, would we? Shadow’s tone was avuncular. “Come on now you promised me an argument. What’s it about?”
“He started it;’ Boy protested. ‘He was rubbishing the only original art form to come out of Ameri…”
“Original my foot, it’s just a load of syncopated twaddle, they couldn’t play a piece of proper music to save their lives: ignorant savages most of them.”
“You sound just like my stepfather; he was a pompous prick like you.”
“And you sound like the spoilt brat my wife brought with her from her first marriage.” Oldie turned to the other man. “You know my wife’s first husband was shot dead in a night club.”
“Oh yes, I know,” said Shadow as he started to fade into the gloom.
“Oi, come back you, what about my tutu?”
The haze reformed into a figure.
“I suppose I’d better get it back for you.”
“What did you want with it in the first place?” Oldie peered into the murk. “It doesn’t look like the kind of thing you’d wear.”
“We thought we’d need it for a new arrival. In the end he turned up with is own.”
Oldie brightened. “You mean I’m not the only cross dresser here. We could have a little get together whilst were waiting.”
“’Fraid not, this one was fast tracked officially. Can’t have you queue jumping on a whim. Anyway, you wouldn’t like him, he’s a jazz singer. Got shot by a disappointed admirer.”
“Why’s he so important?”
“He’s joining the Stompers. It’s our Band, the Probate Stompers. We need a vocalist.”
“Stompers! You and your vultures are up there stomping” Oldie made sound like they were crapping in their pants. “Stomping whilst I’m wasting all this time back here.”
“You still don’t get it. There is no time here. You’ve had the past, the future is oblivion and we’re just tidying up the paperwork in between the two.”
“There doesn’t seem to be much difference between ‘no time’ and ‘long time’ from where I’m sitting.”
“Oldie’s right there.” Boy agreed. “First sensible thing he’s said.”
“It’s only your perceptions. It doesn’t make any difference once you get to oblivion. I agree the system needs an update though. They based it on the Ellis Island model. It worked well enough for all those poor immigrants, but they only had to answer 29 questions and they were in. The Revenue wants a lot more answers than that.”
“You got any other vacancies? Y’know, in the Stompers - a trombonist p’rhaps?” Boy sounded hopeful.
“You know, it might just be. We’ve got that Glenn Miller but he’s not up to much - spent too long leading a swing band. Likes strutting about waving the thing instead of playing it. I’ll see what I can do.”
Boy brightened.
“Mind you we’ve been hoping for Kid Ory, but we might fit you in until he arrives.”
“You mean you’re going to fast track this obnoxious brat because of his ghastly music and leave me here? Boy was getting to his feet. “He can’t play, none of you lot can play properly, not difficult stuff like classical music anyway.”
“Now look, if I get your tutu back for you will you do something for me?
“S’pose so: as long as you bring the tights as well – and a razor, my legs need a shave.” There was a pause, “Hang on, tell me this, if there isn’t any time here why are the hairs on my legs still growing? I’d shaved them the day I arrived here.”
An embarrassed silence was broken by the boy. “Hey mister, I ain’t got my bone, d’ye think the band has a spare?”
The two jazzmen dissolved into the loom leaving Oldie’s question unanswered.
Reprise
When Shadow returned he was on his own. “They’re auditioning Boy now.”
“Watch out you’ll tear it.” Oldie could see his tutu was wrapped round something hard with sharp corners. Inside the pink confection was an oblong box covered in black leatherette and carried with some care by Shadow.
“Now - you said you’d do me a favour.” With the tutu, looking as if it had been used as a duster, back in the hands of its owner Shadow wanted his side of the transaction. “Tell me what you think of this.”
He was winding a crank he’d inserted into the side of the box. By now it was sitting safely on the bench with its lid open.
“Don’t tell me you still use those old wind up gramophones, HMV and all that?
“We can’t get a mains supply here. They say the cable would be so long we’d lose most of the power on the way. Anyway, it’d cost too much: mean buggers the Revenue.”
“What about that light up there?” Oldie pointed to the glow at the head of the line. “That looks like electricity to me.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong.” It was payback time for hairy legs. “It’s an incinerator. They’re burning the paperwork the mega rich bring with them. You’ve no idea the amount of rubbish that tax lawyers give their clients.”
Oldie was outraged. “How dare you, it was all perfectly legal, just tax efficient, I should know I…”
“You were one of them.” Shadow was triumphant. “You were a tax lawyer.”
“I was; and I had some very wealthy clients I’ll have you know.”
“And you’d work for anyone as long as they had the wherewithal?”
Shadow was taking a black disc out of its card envelope. “See what you think of this.” He placed the pickup arm and its needle on the spinning record. The deficiencies of pre electric sound reproduction couldn’t diminish the intricate beauty of Mozart. The two of them sat side by side engrossed in the music.
“What a wonderful performance.” Oldie enthused. “Who was the soloist?”
By now a different record was on the turntable, and the intro to Sing Sing Sing filled their ears. Oldie spluttered indignantly. “This is part of the deal.” Shadow willed the other man to silence.
“Now look at these.” The two records were handed to Oldie. “See, Benny Goodman and his Orchestra there, and the same man featured on the Mozart Clarinet Quintet.”
After a while sitting in silence, Shadow spoke. “I could move you up the queue but it might stretch your loyalties a bit.”
“How do you mean?”
“I could get you a position with the Revenue, poacher turned gamekeeper, that sort of thing.”
“They’d never pay what I charge my clients.”
“Suit yourself, but we don’t only have the Stompers, there’s a very good string quartet as well. They’re playing Death and the Maiden after work. What would you do with the money if we did match your usual fees? Nothing to spend it on here and you can’t take it with you, it’s oblivion when Probate’s sorted.”
“I’ve been wondering about that. How is it you’ve got people hanging about long enough to join a band? That Glen Miller died in 1944, quite a fuss about in the press at the time.”
“We just lose the paperwork; you must have done that often enough for your clients.”
The two of them set off together, Shadow carrying the gramophone, the records safely tucked inside. With the light from the incinerator almost blinding them as they approached it from the darkness, a public announcement boomed out.
“Due to a change in Government Policy announced in the recent Budget this Regional Office of the Inland Revenue has become surplus to operational needs and will…”
Finale
“You coming to the Bring and Buy at St Stephen’s this afternoon Mother?” A voice floats down a flight of stairs, muffled by its journey across an over full box room, a tortuous passageway and a heavily carpeted landing.
“What are you doing up there?”
“Looking for something to take. They sent a flyer asking for contributions.”
“There’s an old radio somewhere. We had it during the war. Do you remember; we used to listen to the news and wonder where your Dad was and then I’d let you stay up and listen to ITMA.”
“I’ve found that, it’s too big to carry, even between us. I thought I might manage that old wind up gramophone but I can’t find it.”
The two women, widowed three times between them, are in the kitchen now, drinking tea and grieving. The two distant widowings are well parked in a safe place and the elder of the two is happy to see the back of her daughter’s second husband: so is she, though the younger finds it difficult to admit it so soon after his death, even to herself.
“I’ll go and look if you wash these things.” Tea is over now and there are footsteps on the path outside. The click of the letterbox is followed by the flop of newsprint on doormat.
“He’s late today.” The older woman picks up her copy of the Express. The headline doesn’t promise much of interest,
Chancellor Confirms Changes to Tax Law
If she had read further she would have seen that Inheritance Tax had been abolished, but, intent on her errand, she puts the paper down and creaking knees notwithstanding, climbs the stairs.
“You are a silly billy.” Mother’s voice, clearer than her daughter’s earlier, reaches the kitchen. “It’s just by the door. You never were any good at finding things when you were a child. You must have walked right past it”
There is a slow descent, the old gramophone impeding progress, until finally the black leatherette box is on the kitchen table.
“I haven’t seen this for years but look at it, not a speck of dust anywhere.” The lid is open now. “Even inside.”
“Look there are some records in here.” The younger woman lifts them out of the storage space in the lid, puts one on the turntable and starts winding.”
“This one’s Benny Goodman. What’s the one you’ve got mother?”
Mozart’s ravishing music fills the room and two women shed tears over the lost boy.
Intro
Dear Mum and Dad,
Sorry I couldn’t make it for Easter, y’know, things got in the way. I hope Gran wasn’t too upset but she might just be excited by my news. She always liked my music (more than you ever did, an unholy row Dad called it).
You remember Dad, when I took you to that free gig at the pub round the corner from college? That was in first year wasn’t it? The leader, who’s a friend of mine, a rather special friend really, has asked me to join them and we’re off on tour next week, Germany first, then, I’m not sure.
I’ve never got on with my tutor, or rather, he’s never got on with me and I shall be glad to see the back of him and his economics, and I can’t face finals so I’m off.
Dear Stepson
Whatever do you mean; you don’t like your tutor: you do know he was best man at your mother’s and my wedding. Damn it, you were there and spread ice cream over his shoes. Just because you were three at the time doesn’t seem an adequate excuse.
What I’d like to know is who is going to pay? You realise that as your step father I’ve done everything for you: your poor mother was left with nothing when her husband died. You never have shown much gratitude. You don’t seem to realise I rescued the two of you from penury and disgrace.
You never knew what happened to your father did you? Well, you’d better now. He was shot dead playing in a jazz dive. If I hadn’t stepped in it could have stigmatised both of you for life.
I have to say, I’m very disappointed in you.
My dearest Grandson
I know you don’t like it but I can’t help thinking of you as my brave little soldier. What a wonderful adventure. It would have made your father proud. You know he played in a band don’t you? It was the death of him in the end, but when your mum brought him home the first time they played and sang together “If you were the only girl in the World.” I knew then they were right for each other.
Your mum told me; poor thing. It’s a wonder that man let her see your letter. When she came round here she couldn’t stop crying. You know she has to wait until he’s away before she can visit me don’t you, and I have to pay for the taxi. She says the housekeeping won’t run to it. She’s always moping, but I don’t think your leaving college has anything to do with it. There’s something you should know but I’m sworn to secrecy. Oops, there I go: I am awful aren’t I?
Darling Boy (This letter has dried out tearstains all over it)
I didn’t see your letter till yesterday. Your stepfather had opened it and I expect he forgot to show it to me. I found it in the study after he’d gone out. I couldn’t reply as I was at mother’s all day and by the time I returned it was too late for the post.
Are you sure you’re doing the right thing? It’s a precarious life out there in music. I should know, your father tried and it was difficult times being left at home with a baby and no money, and then…(this section of the letter is entirely obscured) .
Dear Stepfather
You can fuck off.
Dear Gran
Is it really true that my father was shot whilst playing jazz in a club. That’s marvellous! The other lads in the band are really jealous. They say an old jazzman in the early days was shot dead by a jealous ex-girlfriend. Is that what happened? Go on, you can tell me.
I had a letter from mum yesterday. It was a bit of a mess, she must have got it rained on, little drop marks all over it. She didn’t say anything about a secret. I don’t suppose it’s anything important.
We’re off tonight. I don’t know if I’ll have an address or anything in Hamburg but I’ll go to the Post Office and see if any mail’s arrived next week.
☼
During the next week two letters arrived at Hamburg Central Post Office
☼
Darling Boy
I have some disturbing news for you; I only hope you are able to cope with it on your own out there. I’m going to stay with your grandma until it’s all over. I’m not sure I understand what’s happening… (Most of the rest of the letter is obscured with tears)
So you see I don’t know what to do. Perhaps mother will tell me. Do hurry back.
Dearest Grandson
Your mother has come to live here. Something untoward happened to that man. I knew he was peculiar when she married him but I’m still not sure I know what. He was shot dead in Soho in a club called ‘All Change’. They’ve arrested someone. It was on the news and in the papers. They didn’t say anything about the place but I suppose it must have been a bit theatrical because of what I saw.
It was an accident really. I should have waited to be shown in but I wanted to get it over with. Well, your mother couldn’t face it, so I had to identify the body and I barged in before they were ready. You’ve never seen such a sight, he was wearing tights with a little frilly skirt, and a top with big… It was disgusting. And an armful of bracelets, I’m sure I recognised one that your mother wore on her wedding day. (Do you remember the ice cream? That best man really was an awful toad, and his speech had gone on far too long.)
There must have been blood somewhere but what with all that pink it seemed to blend in. Anyway they covered him up pdq. So there you are, every cloud and all that, but I didn’t expect it to have a pink tulle lining.
☼
As these letters crossed the North Sea a postcard travelled in the opposite direction. It showed a tall figure in a dress and a feather boa. Underneath was written the word ‘Tunte’
☼
Hi Gran
Having a great time! We’re playing in a sort of music hall with other acts in between. There’s a real scream of a guy all dressed up like a woman, but he can jolly well sing. This is a picture of him. We had him do a couple of numbers with the band. Smashing.
We’re off to Amsterdam next; perhaps he’ll come with us. Hope mum is all right.
Melody
Cigarette smoke didn’t suit her old problem and it wasn’t clear to the young man whether the spasm that racked her was laughter or coughing.
“You all right Gran?”
She looked up at him. To her it seemed perfectly normal that a member of the band should come and talk to her but all around there were envious stares. The spasm passed.
“Yes of course you young whippersnapper, you aren’t the only one who can have a good time.”
“Whad’y think of us then?”
“Better than your father’s lot, that’s the truth.”
He looked pleased. “You sure Gran? He must have heard some of the greats before the war.”
“He still played like he was at a tea dance.”
A waiter bustled up with two beers, his once white apron stained brown with slops.
“All right for you Gran?”
She turned toward him. “You’re just like your dad y’know. Oh yes, thanks.”
She took a sip of the pale liquid with its continental froth. “Not quite the same is it? I like a nice drop of mild m’self.”
He pulled out an unfamiliar packet.
“Your dad liked Woodbines,” Gran said.
“Can’t get English ciggies here, they all smoke these?”
With low lights, brown stained walls and a thick fug the place had an enigmatic air. A tall figure, much made up, blond hair down to the shoulders, pushed through the crowd of noisy youngsters.
“Over here.” The younger man waved. He turned to his guest “I want you to meet our singer.”
A strong scent of lilies mingled with the beer and smoke.
“Hani, this is my gran, she loves jazz.”
It looked to Gran as if the new arrival was about to bow. Oh no! She thought, not hand kissing. Instead the wig slipped slightly and bristles peeped through face powder as she was treated to a stiff, angular, curtsy.
“How-do-you-do.” The greeting, in a deep voice, was spoken carefully. “I-am-pleased-to-meet-you.” Hani sat down and pushed swathes of chiffon under the table. A glass of schnapps appeared as if by magic.
Men dressed in women’s clothing weren’t unfamiliar to Gran: she’d seen Danny la Rue at the Palladium once, and taken her grandson to the pantomime often enough. But up on the stage it had seemed like another world. The person sitting next to her, in a shimmering, low cut bodice with lace trimming, and addressing her in stilted English was very much of this one.
“You like my Sister Kate?”
“Your sister?” Gran looked round in panic.
“Yes, I Wish I could Shimmy like my Sister Kate.”
It had been the last number before the interval. She wasn’t prepared for this, even by her brief encounter with son in law number two on a slab in the mortuary, dressed as he had been in pink tulle..
“Oh yes, lovely.”
A few tables away there was a lot of shouting. To start with, Gran welcomed the diversion but as the ruckus came closer, accompanied by the sound of breaking furniture, she wasn’t so sure.
“You bastard, you take my girlfriend.” With his crooked nose and powerful biceps, the man who spoke could have been an ex-boxer.
Afterwards, it wasn’t the shaven head or the heavily muscled torso, or even the weapon itself that she remembered: it was a lurid tattoo of something like a Rhine maiden with a spear held aloft, on the gun wielding arm.
“She’s not yours, she’s mine.”
Hani, who had readjusted the wig, managed a simper, despite the bristles.
“Oh you are big aren’t you?”
The simper faded away as the gun wandered in his direction. Hani with his wig and shimmering bodice joined the tulle under the table.
“You got no right to her. I buy schnapps…” He took a swig from a bottle of Kummel.
“Look, I got whole bottle for her.”
By now the rest of the club’s clientele had taken cover and only two figures remained above table height.
“Now see here young man…” Gran wasn’t to be intimidated, “… putdown that…”
She fell silent as the pistol described an unsteady arc towards her.
“You shut up, dumme alte Frau.” The pistol changed direction. “It him, he buy drink for my woman, and take her away.”
The man staggered, then straightened up for a moment and a shot rang out.
☼
As the laden stretcher and its shroud was manoeuvred around the debris, Gran couldn’t escape the thought: like father like son.
Chorus
“Not very comfortable is it” A new arrival was testing the hard bench. Its occupants seemed to extend to infinity. A transcendental glow could be seen up ahead but back here, at the end of the line, it was difficult to make each other out.
“You been here long?” asked the newcomer.
“A while. I was getting on quite well but they had an inspection.”
“You mean they sent you back”
“Said they wouldn’t consider a man in a skirt.”
“What about Scotsmen in kilts?’
“Oh, they let them through.”
“Perhaps it’s the knitted socks with a skean dhu.”
“They said it was the colour; tartans are really quite dour.”
“What about all those Cardinals and Archbishops?”
“Ah well, they have a different queue, fast tracked you might say. They said you’re not allowed pink tulle in this line. And so, what happened to you, young man?” The earlier arrival had questions of his own.
“Got shot by a drunk with a pistol.”
“You must have provoked him.”
“He thought I’d bought his girl a drink.”
“Had you?”
“Hmm; yes and no.”
“Come along Boy, either you did or you didn’t.”
It was beginning to feel like an interview he’d had with the headmaster over that packet of Woodbines that fell out of his pocket in class.
“Did you buy these?” It had been yes and no that time. Gran had sent him out for them before school and he hadn’t had time to take them to her before the bell.
“I bought a drink for someone in a dress, but he was a man. The drunk couldn’t quite work it out.”
“Did you know he was a man?”
“Of course, it was the singer in our band. He was in drag.”
“You played in a band!” The disapproval shone out like a beacon. “You mean a jazz band. All that thumpy thump and blaring trumpets and…”
“S’right Oldie, it’s all the rage.”
“That sort of a thing always ends badly, I heard about a jazz musician who got killed for much the same reason before the war.”
A shadowy figure approached unnoticed in the gloom.
“You two having an argument?”
“Not yet mister, but give us a minute.” It was Boy who spoke.
“Shove up, I might as well stop and listen to this.” The shadowy figure eased himself down onto the bench. “There’s not much else going on here.”
“It’s as quiet as an empty church,” said Oldie. He shook his head. “I don’t understand, a queue as long as this. There’s usually a disagreement or two.”
“Ah well y’see, there’s only two sorts of people lined up here: the Believers don’t want to blot their copybook. They think there’s still a chance of making it to paradise, or the 94 virgins or whatever. Then there’s the Unbelievers: they feel silly because they think they got it wrong that they don’t want anyone asking questions and they keep a low profile too.”
“I suppose they all go to hades, the Unbelievers.” Oldie persisted.
With an exasperated laugh Shadow said “You haven’t got it have you. This isn’t the route to Judgement Day: you didn’t really believe all that guff did you? It’s a regional office of the Inland Revenue. They’re sorting out Probate at the head of the line. We have to get all the paperwork straight whilst we can.”
“But what about my pink tutu and fast tracking the prelates?” Oldie sounded indignant.
“Oh dear.” Shadow sounded contrite. “I was a bit naughty there I’m afraid. We needed the tutu so I made that bit up about the dress code.”
“And the Cardinals and Archbishops and so on?”
“That’s true as far as it goes. We fast track anyone with a lot of money: bankers, black marketeers, Presidents, you know the sort of thing; anyone who’s had their hands in other people’s pockets. The worst of the lot are big charity donors. You’ve no idea the trouble they had with that Carnegie. Mind you, I wasn’t here then.”
“Why aren’t there any women?” Boy was wondering about his Gran.
“Oh that! They’re in a different queue. Not many of them have enough money to bother about.”
“I see what you mean.” Oldie was thinking about the penniless wife he’d left behind. “They’re just an on cost really.” He perked up. “Can we set them off as expenses when we get there?” Nodding toward the front of the queue.
“Now now, we wouldn’t want to get found with our fingers in the till, would we? Shadow’s tone was avuncular. “Come on now you promised me an argument. What’s it about?”
“He started it;’ Boy protested. ‘He was rubbishing the only original art form to come out of Ameri…”
“Original my foot, it’s just a load of syncopated twaddle, they couldn’t play a piece of proper music to save their lives: ignorant savages most of them.”
“You sound just like my stepfather; he was a pompous prick like you.”
“And you sound like the spoilt brat my wife brought with her from her first marriage.” Oldie turned to the other man. “You know my wife’s first husband was shot dead in a night club.”
“Oh yes, I know,” said Shadow as he started to fade into the gloom.
“Oi, come back you, what about my tutu?”
The haze reformed into a figure.
“I suppose I’d better get it back for you.”
“What did you want with it in the first place?” Oldie peered into the murk. “It doesn’t look like the kind of thing you’d wear.”
“We thought we’d need it for a new arrival. In the end he turned up with is own.”
Oldie brightened. “You mean I’m not the only cross dresser here. We could have a little get together whilst were waiting.”
“’Fraid not, this one was fast tracked officially. Can’t have you queue jumping on a whim. Anyway, you wouldn’t like him, he’s a jazz singer. Got shot by a disappointed admirer.”
“Why’s he so important?”
“He’s joining the Stompers. It’s our Band, the Probate Stompers. We need a vocalist.”
“Stompers! You and your vultures are up there stomping” Oldie made sound like they were crapping in their pants. “Stomping whilst I’m wasting all this time back here.”
“You still don’t get it. There is no time here. You’ve had the past, the future is oblivion and we’re just tidying up the paperwork in between the two.”
“There doesn’t seem to be much difference between ‘no time’ and ‘long time’ from where I’m sitting.”
“Oldie’s right there.” Boy agreed. “First sensible thing he’s said.”
“It’s only your perceptions. It doesn’t make any difference once you get to oblivion. I agree the system needs an update though. They based it on the Ellis Island model. It worked well enough for all those poor immigrants, but they only had to answer 29 questions and they were in. The Revenue wants a lot more answers than that.”
“You got any other vacancies? Y’know, in the Stompers - a trombonist p’rhaps?” Boy sounded hopeful.
“You know, it might just be. We’ve got that Glenn Miller but he’s not up to much - spent too long leading a swing band. Likes strutting about waving the thing instead of playing it. I’ll see what I can do.”
Boy brightened.
“Mind you we’ve been hoping for Kid Ory, but we might fit you in until he arrives.”
“You mean you’re going to fast track this obnoxious brat because of his ghastly music and leave me here? Boy was getting to his feet. “He can’t play, none of you lot can play properly, not difficult stuff like classical music anyway.”
“Now look, if I get your tutu back for you will you do something for me?
“S’pose so: as long as you bring the tights as well – and a razor, my legs need a shave.” There was a pause, “Hang on, tell me this, if there isn’t any time here why are the hairs on my legs still growing? I’d shaved them the day I arrived here.”
An embarrassed silence was broken by the boy. “Hey mister, I ain’t got my bone, d’ye think the band has a spare?”
The two jazzmen dissolved into the loom leaving Oldie’s question unanswered.
Reprise
When Shadow returned he was on his own. “They’re auditioning Boy now.”
“Watch out you’ll tear it.” Oldie could see his tutu was wrapped round something hard with sharp corners. Inside the pink confection was an oblong box covered in black leatherette and carried with some care by Shadow.
“Now - you said you’d do me a favour.” With the tutu, looking as if it had been used as a duster, back in the hands of its owner Shadow wanted his side of the transaction. “Tell me what you think of this.”
He was winding a crank he’d inserted into the side of the box. By now it was sitting safely on the bench with its lid open.
“Don’t tell me you still use those old wind up gramophones, HMV and all that?
“We can’t get a mains supply here. They say the cable would be so long we’d lose most of the power on the way. Anyway, it’d cost too much: mean buggers the Revenue.”
“What about that light up there?” Oldie pointed to the glow at the head of the line. “That looks like electricity to me.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong.” It was payback time for hairy legs. “It’s an incinerator. They’re burning the paperwork the mega rich bring with them. You’ve no idea the amount of rubbish that tax lawyers give their clients.”
Oldie was outraged. “How dare you, it was all perfectly legal, just tax efficient, I should know I…”
“You were one of them.” Shadow was triumphant. “You were a tax lawyer.”
“I was; and I had some very wealthy clients I’ll have you know.”
“And you’d work for anyone as long as they had the wherewithal?”
Shadow was taking a black disc out of its card envelope. “See what you think of this.” He placed the pickup arm and its needle on the spinning record. The deficiencies of pre electric sound reproduction couldn’t diminish the intricate beauty of Mozart. The two of them sat side by side engrossed in the music.
“What a wonderful performance.” Oldie enthused. “Who was the soloist?”
By now a different record was on the turntable, and the intro to Sing Sing Sing filled their ears. Oldie spluttered indignantly. “This is part of the deal.” Shadow willed the other man to silence.
“Now look at these.” The two records were handed to Oldie. “See, Benny Goodman and his Orchestra there, and the same man featured on the Mozart Clarinet Quintet.”
After a while sitting in silence, Shadow spoke. “I could move you up the queue but it might stretch your loyalties a bit.”
“How do you mean?”
“I could get you a position with the Revenue, poacher turned gamekeeper, that sort of thing.”
“They’d never pay what I charge my clients.”
“Suit yourself, but we don’t only have the Stompers, there’s a very good string quartet as well. They’re playing Death and the Maiden after work. What would you do with the money if we did match your usual fees? Nothing to spend it on here and you can’t take it with you, it’s oblivion when Probate’s sorted.”
“I’ve been wondering about that. How is it you’ve got people hanging about long enough to join a band? That Glen Miller died in 1944, quite a fuss about in the press at the time.”
“We just lose the paperwork; you must have done that often enough for your clients.”
The two of them set off together, Shadow carrying the gramophone, the records safely tucked inside. With the light from the incinerator almost blinding them as they approached it from the darkness, a public announcement boomed out.
“Due to a change in Government Policy announced in the recent Budget this Regional Office of the Inland Revenue has become surplus to operational needs and will…”
Finale
“You coming to the Bring and Buy at St Stephen’s this afternoon Mother?” A voice floats down a flight of stairs, muffled by its journey across an over full box room, a tortuous passageway and a heavily carpeted landing.
“What are you doing up there?”
“Looking for something to take. They sent a flyer asking for contributions.”
“There’s an old radio somewhere. We had it during the war. Do you remember; we used to listen to the news and wonder where your Dad was and then I’d let you stay up and listen to ITMA.”
“I’ve found that, it’s too big to carry, even between us. I thought I might manage that old wind up gramophone but I can’t find it.”
The two women, widowed three times between them, are in the kitchen now, drinking tea and grieving. The two distant widowings are well parked in a safe place and the elder of the two is happy to see the back of her daughter’s second husband: so is she, though the younger finds it difficult to admit it so soon after his death, even to herself.
“I’ll go and look if you wash these things.” Tea is over now and there are footsteps on the path outside. The click of the letterbox is followed by the flop of newsprint on doormat.
“He’s late today.” The older woman picks up her copy of the Express. The headline doesn’t promise much of interest,
Chancellor Confirms Changes to Tax Law
If she had read further she would have seen that Inheritance Tax had been abolished, but, intent on her errand, she puts the paper down and creaking knees notwithstanding, climbs the stairs.
“You are a silly billy.” Mother’s voice, clearer than her daughter’s earlier, reaches the kitchen. “It’s just by the door. You never were any good at finding things when you were a child. You must have walked right past it”
There is a slow descent, the old gramophone impeding progress, until finally the black leatherette box is on the kitchen table.
“I haven’t seen this for years but look at it, not a speck of dust anywhere.” The lid is open now. “Even inside.”
“Look there are some records in here.” The younger woman lifts them out of the storage space in the lid, puts one on the turntable and starts winding.”
“This one’s Benny Goodman. What’s the one you’ve got mother?”
Mozart’s ravishing music fills the room and two women shed tears over the lost boy.