Lost Time - Chapters One and Two
CHAPTER
ONE
I
was thinking about Tempo Rubato.
It’s
Italian for stolen, or lost, time. Basically, it just means when
you’re
performing a piece of music, you can express your own rhythmic freedom.
You can
escape from a strict tempo by speeding up or slowing down what
you’re playing.
I was thinking about it because,
for the first
time in many years, I was prepping for a tour.
My mum and dad were the founding
members of Figgis
Green, a folky pop group that was huge in the 1960s and
70s and less huge—but still touring regularly and
putting out albums—in the 80s and early 90s. My mum, Mandy Green,
was the main
singer: long haired, long skirted, a beauty with a voice that could
shake the
angels. My dad, Tony Figgis—famous for his shaggy moustache and
his fondness
for brightly coloured silk shirts—shared the vocals and played
lead guitar.
Their best-known song was “Roving Minstrel”, a catchy thing about a
faithless suitor
and his careworn lady, tormented hearts, lessons learned and a really
fortunate
ending. It was the group’s anthem, and they always closed their
shows with it.
A couple of years earlier, one of
the Figs—Mitch
Green, my mum’s
brother, who’d played bass guitar—had floated the idea of a
50th Anniversary
Tour. All the old bands were doing them. They’d have guaranteed
sell-outs and
the merch alone would make it financially worth their while. The
Figs’ fan base
had never really gone away and for years had been vocally
advocating—in online
groups and on message boards—for just this kind of reunion.
For a variety of
reasons—notwithstanding the fact
that my dad had died in 1995—it didn’t
happen. But Mitch was still keen, and he kept at it. He eventually got
my mum
on board, and then my dad’s cousin, Roland
Black—Rolly—who was the drummer.
He had to work hard to convince
Pete Chedwick,
though. Pete, who played the fiddle, had joined the band after the
original
fiddler, Keith Reader, had quit over “philosophical
differences”. Pete wasn’t interested in a reunion. When the
Figs had folded,
he’d gone on to make quite a good living producing records. So
Mitch went
calling on Keith. Which also turned out to be a challenge. While
he’d been with
the band, Keith had constantly been at odds with my dad. A small
disagreement
about musical influences had escalated into an ongoing feud about the
direction
the Figs ought to go in.
Neither side was willing to cave
in. Keith wanted
the band to embrace its folk roots and its dalliances with classical
composers,
believing that the uniqueness of that mix would propel Figgis Green
into the
annals of musical history. Dad didn’t
disagree, but he wasn’t the purist that Keith was. Dad’s
vision was to enhance
the traditional instrumentation with electric everything. Jeff Lynne
and Roy
Wood, who’d infused modern rock and pop with classical violins,
cellos, horns
and woodwinds when they created ELO in 1970, were my dad’s heroes.
By 1989, Keith had finally had
enough. He left,
Pete took his place, and the rest was history.
But with my dad dead, the main
obstacle to Keith’s re-joining the band was
removed. He agreed to the reunion, much to Mitch’s relief.
Besides mum and dad, Mitch, Rolly
and Keith, the
original line-up had included a rhythm guitar player, Rick Redding.
Rick had
always been a problem. And when he’d
made it known that he fancied my mum, things took a definite turn for
the
worst. Since my parents were never actually married, I think he must
have
reckoned that my mum was fair game. He was totally out of order, of
course. But
he still thought he had a chance, and got into an argument with my dad,
which
led to a backstage fight and, after the medics had stitched up my
dad’s chin
and my dad called in the coppers and had him charged with ABH, Rick was
out.
Rick wasn’t
welcome on the Lost Time
Tour and his replacement, Ben Quigley—a lovely guy who’d continued on as a
brilliantly successful solo act for decades after the Figs
folded—flat out
refused. So Mitch recruited Bob Chaplin, a “friend of the
band”, to fill his
spot.
The reunited Figs were almost
complete.
Mitch didn’t
tell Keith that he’d pencilled me in as my dad’s
replacement.
I am actually a musician and I do
actually play
the guitar. Jazz guitar. I have a regular gig at a club in
Soho—the Blue
Devil—with three mates who join me on tenor sax, organ and drums.
I am actually
quite good.
And I was familiar with the Figgis
Green
catalogue—I’d grown up
with it.
Mitch knew Keith would be
sceptical, so he came
down to the Blue Devil and recorded one of my sets on his phone to
convince
him.
A week or so later, he was back at
the club. Mitch
is a really nice guy, younger than my mum by two years, with a shock of
white
hair that always makes me think of Albert Einstein. He’s
recently taken to wearing spectacles to help him read,
and his waistline is somewhat more portly than it was when he was with
the
Figs. But, like everyone in the group, he’s never allowed himself
to appear
unremarkable. Once a showman, always a showman.
“So
that’s everyone,” he said, as we enjoyed a post-show drink
in the upstairs
venue that was my musical playroom. It was just past 3 a.m. on a Friday
night
and the guys in my band had gone home, as had our audience. The
club’s front
doors were locked.
“Even
Keith?” I mused.
“Even
Keith.”
“What
did he say?”
“Not
a lot. I reminded him that in no way are you remotely the same person
as your
dad.”
It was true. Throughout my life I’ve made a point of avoiding
comparisons, as well as the nepotism that invariably follows along with
having
well-known musical parents. My professional name is Jason Davey, not
Jason
Figgis.
“And
anyway,” said Mitch, “we know we’re playing our
history. We’re not presenting
anything new. People will come for the memories. Not for our latest
streaming
offerings on YouTube.”
“I’ll
do it,” I said. “But I will not grow a moustache. And I
absolutely will not
wear that waistcoat.”
The Figs had a colour they used in
all their
marketing—a really distinctive shade of moss green that showed up
on all their
album covers, in their stage lighting and even in some of their clothes
when
they were gigging. My mum had a special floppy velvet Figgis Green hat
she
popped on in the second half of the show. My dad had a Figgis Green
waistcoat.
Both were the height of trendiness
in 1974.
“I
think we can all agree on that,” Mitch said.
#
It had been more than 20 years
since the Figs had
last appeared together. But, to be fair, none of them had ever really
stopped
performing. Mitch ran a well-appointed pub in Hampshire and played in a
band
that offered once-a-week live entertainment to its customers—much
of it
featuring Figgis Green standards. Keith had been making records of his
own,
featuring variations on folk tunes, and he’d been
touring around festivals for decades. Rolly had
moved to the States and had
built his
own studio and filled it with instruments and had made a second career
for
himself scoring music for films and TV. And mum had been offering music
workshops at her house in the Hertfordshire countryside every summer
since
1998.
Mum had
hired a manager—Colin Beresford, the son of the guy who’d
managed the Figs back
in the day—who was well-known in the business and was happy to
take the band
on. Colin came up with a plan for two tours—one in the fall that
would last 35
days and cover 18 stops in southern England and Wales, finishing up in
London,
and a second one in the spring that would cover Ireland and the north
of
England. The venues would be a bit smaller than the ones the Figs had
filled in
their heyday. The average seating was between 700 and 1,500, with one
or two in
the lower capacities, around 300 or 400. But Colin assured mum
we’d have
sell-out performances and, he added, he’d arranged for one of the
early gigs to
be recorded for an album and a DVD, so the band would make extra money
on that
as well.
I was a bit leery about the idea of
recording so
close to the start of the tour. There’s
that old saying about every piece of music having to be learned
twice—once in
rehearsals and then a second time out in front of an audience. And then
once
you’re playing in front of audiences, it takes a while before
you’ve “settled
in” and got to know your voice and your instruments and the band
dynamics as a
whole.
Nevertheless, we were all
professionals—and what
we ourselves might immediately spot as a mistake or something that
still required
work would largely go unnoticed by the audience.
Mum sent around suggestions for set
lists and we
all contributed our thoughts.
I arranged for a leave of absence
from the Blue
Devil and found a temporary stand-in to keep my band employed and my
post-tour
career in safe hands.
And then we all practised hard to
bring ourselves
up to speed. I literally had to start from scratch, committing my
parents’ musical legacy to memory as
I listened once more to their recordings, watched their performances on
YouTube
and played their DVD’s. Aside from my dad’s various guitar
parts and singing, I
was also going to have to become an expert on the mandolin, bouzouki,
banjo,
dulcimer and concertina.
I do love a challenge.
#
I was giving mum a lift to
Stoneford.
I could tell she was excited. She
was waiting for
me outside the house, perched on her suitcases like an impatient
schoolgirl.
Mum is in her late 70s
and her hair is silver-white. I think the specific name of
the colour is Shale and Lace. She has essentially the same cut that she
did
when she was fronting the Figs all those years ago. Except, of course,
that her
hair is thinner now, and her face is fuller. She’s a bit heavier
than she was
back in the day, too, but that’s to be expected as well.
She’s happily embraced
a cushiony comfy grandmotherly look, and it suits her.
“I’m
going to buy you a new car,” she said, as I loaded her stuff into
the back and
she got inside. My dad left my mum fairly well-off and the
music
royalties have never stopped coming in. We had this discussion at least
twice a
year.
“I
love this car,” I replied. It’s an old, beaten-up silver
Volvo V70. It’s fast,
reliable and tough, and it has room for all my gear. I’d bought
it second-hand
from the police after a tip from my sister’s husband, who’s
a retired copper.
“Nevertheless.
It’s embarrassing.”
“I
don’t find it embarrassing,” I said. “If you buy me a
new car, I’ll give it to
Dom.”
Dominic is my son. He’s
at college, studying film.
“You’re
so like your father. He had one of those hippie Volkswagen campervans
he
absolutely refused to part with. I put my foot down after you were
born. I told
him it was unsafe for an infant to ride in. He gave it to Mitch.”
And I knew Mitch still
had it, stashed away in the garden shed at the back of his pub, the rust spots growing more
prominent with
each passing year. But that was the first time I’d
actually been told how it had come into his possession.
Life’s
full of surprises.
#
Stoneford’s a
little village in Hampshire, on the south coast of
England. At its heart is a triangular-shaped green, with an ancient
manor house
perched on a hill overlooking its western edge, a venerable old
coaching inn at
its top end, and a picturesque collection of shops and offices along
its two sides
and bottom.
The sea, with its stony shingle
beach, is a five-minute
walk to the south.
And a ten-minute drive to the north
is
Middlehurst, where our first concert was scheduled for Friday,
September 7th.
Figgis
Green was born in
Stoneford. In the summer of 1965, mum, dad. Mitch, Rolly, Keith and
Rick had
installed themselves in Stoneford Manor while they came up with 12
songs for
their debut album and prepped for their first big tour. After the tour,
mum and
dad had stayed on in the village and had lived there until just before
I was
born, when they’d relocated to
north London. And when Figgis Green went on
subsequent jaunts around England and the rest of the world, Stoneford
was where
my sister and I spent our childhood holidays, lodged in with Auntie
Jo—who was
married to Mitch.
It was now Sunday, August 27th, 53
years later.
And it occurred to me, as I drove
into the parking
lot attached to the inn where we’d
be staying, that we were completely off our rockers. Two weeks in which
to coax
four septuagenarians into shape for 18 concerts in 35 days. Absolute
insanity.
#
Centuries
in the past,
The Dog’s Watch Inn had
serviced carriages, horses, drivers and
passengers. It was situated across from the Village Green, at the top
end of a
triangle where the High Street met Church Road. There was a
single-storied pub
made of red brick that had been stuccoed and painted white, and it was
attached
to a two-storied establishment next door that made up the coaching inn.
The inn
had square sashed windows with working shutters and a six-foot chimney
that was
rumoured to have been struck by lightning three times in four years,
much to
the consternation of those sleeping underneath.
Much to
my consternation,
too—one thing a lot of people don’t know about me is that I have a deep and almost
paralysing fear of lightning.
The Dog’s
Watch was Grade II listed, and it was owned by Arthur Ferryman, a
direct
descendant of the original innkeeper, Lemuel Ferryman, whose portrait
hung on
the wall behind the bar in the pub, just above the rack filled with
packets of
crisps and peanuts.
I love the name Ferryman. It
reminds me of that
song by Chris de Burgh. I’m
tempted not to pay for anything whenever it worms its way into my brain.
Arthur Ferryman was a cousin of
Alfred R.
Ferryman, Esquire, who’d
owned the place in 1965, the last time my mum had a look in.
“He
was a real prat,” mum said, to Arthur. “Tony and I tried to
book a room when we
first arrived and he refused because we weren’t married. He said
he ran a
respectable establishment.”
“I’m
so terribly sorry,” Arthur Ferryman replied, as he took us
upstairs to the
second floor. “Drastically different times.”
We learned that his philosophy was
nothing like
his cousin’s—nor indeed
was it anything like his cousin’s son, Reg Ferryman, who’d
run the
establishment until 2016, when he’d sold up and moved to Spain.
“I
have a background in marketing and hospitality,” Arthur added
helpfully,
showing us to Room 4, which was where mum would be staying. “Our
best Superior
accommodation, as you can see. Very tranquil, with a hint of the
Hampshire
countryside. Dusky woods with suggestions of cream and pale gold.”
I thought he was talking about the
view from the
window but then realized he was actually describing the bedspread.
“And
of course, the large ensuite facilities, including a full-size bath and
shower.”
“Very
nice,” my mum agreed, sitting on the bed to test it.
“I’m sure it looks nothing
like it did in 1965.”
“Nothing
like,” Arthur Ferryman assured her, again, and then he took me
along to Room 6.
It really was lovely—a huge
six-foot bed with a
grey and white cover, two windows with heavy grey brocade curtains,
grey-accented bedside tables and a writing desk with a chair.
“Egyptian
cotton, of course,” Arthur said, adopting a cosier tone with me
as I was 30
years younger than my mum and I hadn’t been turned away by his
morally-minded
cousin in 1965. “Pocket sprung mattress.” He illustrated
this with a push of
his hand. “Extremely nice 32-inch flat-screen TV…”
He nodded at the TV up on
the wall opposite the bed. “With Freeview.”
He took me into the loo.
“Full
bath with overhead shower, very nice high-quality towels, and of
course, a robe
and slippers provided for your ultimate comfort.”
“Tea
and coffee?” I checked, going back out to the bedroom. I’d
be counting on those
to ease the transition from night-club hours to early morning
rehearsals.
“Earl
Grey, Yorkshire and herbal,” Arthur replied. “And of
course, the pods.”
#
Mum and I had dinner in The Dog
Watch’s dining room with Bob, our
rhythm guitar player. Bob was staying in Room 9 (redberry and taupe
accents
against a buttermilk background).
Rolly
and Keith
had also checked in, but they’d
obviously decided to wait to meet up, and Mitch actually only lived
about five
minutes away and was going to drive in every day for rehearsals, so
overnight
accommodations weren’t required.
Arthur Ferryman was anxious for us
to appreciate
the fact that he’d
updated the inn’s menu at the same time as he’d renovated
its rooms. Our first
night’s dinner was therefore on the house: lamb, or sea bass, or
chicken, with
a fabulous dessert concocted of chocolate ice cream and lavender
shortbread and
an unparalleled cheese board that came with chutney and crackers and
three
kinds of jelly.
“Still
apologizing for turning us away in 1965,” my mum said,
humorously, tucking into
the sea bass while I rearranged
my
chicken for social networking purposes.
“Give
his website a ‘like’,” Bob suggested. “See if
he’ll extend his gastronomical
offer to our entire stay.”
“Instagroup?”
Mum inquired, as I took a photo with my phone.
“Instagram,”
I corrected, gently.
I’d
decided to create a trip diary consisting entirely of pictures of what
I had to
eat. Lesser mortals might chat about rehearsal notes, hotel amenities
and sound
checks, appreciative audiences and backstage visitors. Apparently
I’m a bit of
an oddity—I’m reliably informed that most men don’t
bother to document mains
and puddings and coffees and confections. According to Katey, my
independently
faithful girlfriend, and confirmed by Jenn, my grown-up daughter,
it’s
definitely a female thing.
I’d
promised them both I’d be an exception to the rule.
When I
was at sea, back
in 2012, I was obsessed with Twitter. I had a huge online
presence—and a
commensurate number of followers. My handle was Cold_Fingers, as I was
tweeting
anonymously from Somewhere in Alaska, and I didn’t think my employers at StarSea Cruises
would
be impressed with my confectionary-related tweets which were, more
often than
not, tasty invitations to virtual foreplay.
I’m older now and
less like a kid in a candy store. I like to think I’ve matured.
And I now have
Katey in my life, which removes the need for constant flirtatious
reassurances.
I
uploaded the inaugural
entry to my Lost Time Culinary Chronicle, along with an
appropriate
comment:
Pre-rehearsal
dinner
with mum and Bob in Stoneford. Roasted chicken breast with bread sauce,
stuffing, and oven-browned potatoes.
I was
going to add
@TheDogsWatch but thought the better of it. I suspected our audiences
were
mostly going to be made up of senior citizens, but, once a fan, always
a fan,
and it’s
never a good idea to publicise where you’re staying until after
you’ve checked
out.
After dinner I went back to my
room, woke up my
laptop, found the The Dog Watch’s website and
wrote a glowing anonymous review of the chocolate ice
cream and lavender shortbread. I gave it five stars, then sent my
laptop back
to sleep and got ready for bed.
It was 11 p.m.
Unheard of.
CHAPTER
TWO
I
woke up at half past six experiencing mild
panic. It was Monday and our start was scheduled for 9 a.m., which
meant I had
plenty of time to make myself look presentable and have breakfast. And
the
manor, where we were rehearsing, was only a five-minute walk up the
hill from
The Dog’s Watch.
But I hadn’t
toured in nearly ten years. The last time I’d gigged
around England was 2009, the year Em died. I’d been on the road
with my own
band, desperate to “make it” playing concerts in pubs and
clubs and converted
churches and renovated city halls and repurposed corn exchanges. And
staging
late night turns at so many music festivals I’d lost count.
I really wasn’t
sure I was up to this.
I made myself a cup of tea with the
clever
all-in-one device on my writing table and tried to force myself to
think past
it. I wasn’t at all the
same person I was back then. I was ten years older. I’d settled.
I was far more
confident now, and much happier. And “making it”
wasn’t even in my lexicon
anymore. I had “made it”—at the Blue Devil.
This tour was going to be the icing
on the cake.
And the feeling of apprehension was, I assured myself, temporary. I
knew it
would pass.
I had a shower and a shave, and
then I went
downstairs for breakfast.
It was half past seven.
Mum and Bob were already there and
had saved me a
seat at their table in the dining room.
“‘Morning,”
I said, trying to do my best impression of “awake”. It was
a challenge.
“Bucks
Fizz?” Bob inquired, offering me the menu. “To celebrate
our first day on the
job?”
“It’s
a bit early for me,” mum said.
“I
don’t drink,” I said. “But a straight-up orange juice
would go down nicely.”
“Ah,”
said Bob, in that tone of voice that people revert to when they find
they need
to express an understanding of alcoholic recovery.
“By
choice,” I added. “Not any particular adherence to higher
powers or
staircases.”
“Well
done,” said Bob, acknowledging that my willpower had control over
the broken
“off-switch” that many of my friends who actually have
embraced AA
enthusiastically own up to.
The menu offered a fresh fruit
salad with berries,
or yogurt, or porridge, or cereals. And the ever-popular Full English,
which
all three of us decided to order. There’s nothing
like going to work on two free-range eggs,
sausage, mushroom, baked beans and a roasted tomato. Even when
you’re showered
and shaved but your brain’s still upstairs buried under the
pillow.
“I
trust you solved your smoking issue?” mum inquired,
conversationally, as I took
the mandatory photo for Instagram.
“You
know me too well.”
“I
should think so,” she said, pouring out a cup of her favourite
Yorkshire tea.
“A
chuffer?” Bob guessed.
“I’m
trying to quit.”
“He’s
always trying to quit,” mum replied, humorously, stirring in some
milk. “I
don’t know where he got it from. Neither Tony nor I ever
smoked.”
“Cigarettes,
anyway,” I said.
I know it’s
difficult to imagine a Shale and Lace granny regularly
toking up. But when she was younger, she did. And so did my dad. Along
with the
rest of the band. There’s a wonderful ornate hookah from India
somewhere in her
loft and I can attest to the fact that it was exceptionally well-used.
“I
reckon,” I said, “that as long as you keep trying,
you’ve never actually thrown
in the towel.”
Since The Dog’s
Watch was a non-smoking establishment, last night’s
bedtime ciggie had forced me to become inventive: take the battery out
of the
smoke alarm (not an option—it was hard-wired—I checked);
open a window and aim
the smoke outside (a possibility—if I’d been able to figure
out how to unlatch
the bloody thing) or retreat into the loo, shut the door and blow it
down the—
“Sink
drain?” mum guessed.
“I
won’t tell Arthur if you don’t,” I said, embracing my
first coffee of the day.
Very strong. With cream and two sugars.
#
Stoneford Manor has an interesting
history. It was
built in the early 1800s by a widower, Augustus Duran, who’d
arrived in the village
after hurriedly abandoning a very draughty chateau in Amiens in the
midst of
the French Revolution. He’d remarried and set about raising a
second family. But
it turned out his new wife preferred to live in a far less ostentatious
cottage
at the bottom of the hill, and so the manor had been sold to the
Boswell-Thorpes, who owned three other stately country homes and a
townhouse in
Eaton Square in London.
A century or so later, in the
1960s, the house and
its grounds became notorious for the social events thrown by Giles
Jessop,
whose mother was Gwendolyn Boswell-Thorpe and whose father was Gilbert
Jessop,
the 17th Earl of Brighthelmstone. Giles fronted a band called Brighton
Peer,
and he and his twin sister Arabella were part of The Scene. They
attended all
of the trendy night spots and all of the important parties. They threw
important parties of their own. They wore the latest fashions, drove
the
fastest cars, and were on first-name terms with everyone who was
anyone. If you
wanted to meet a pop star, or a photographer, a model, or a gangster,
they
could arrange it.
It was still party-central until
mid-1965, when
Arabella ran into some unfortunate dealings with the police, the west
wing of
the manor caught fire, and Giles, wisely, decamped to the safety of
Swinging
London. His parents also decamped, had the charred remains restored,
and let
the house out to discerning clients, provided they paid a damage
deposit and
promised not to kick holes in the walls or smash the stained-glass
windows or
trash the antique suits of armour in the downstairs gallery.
Figgis
Green had been one of the first bands to rehearse in the manor, and the
tradition of being an accessible and desirable haven for musicians had
continued for some years. But by the time my sister Angie and I were
scrambling
through the wild undergrowth at its rear and exploring the crumbling
ruins of
its derelict stable block, its windows and doors had been boarded up
and there
were rumours the Boswell-Thorpes had plans to turn it into a bed and
breakfast.
Which was what it eventually
became, until 2016,
when it was quietly boarded up again and its premises abandoned. And
then, two
years later—just in time for our Lost Time tour—it was back
in business as a
rehearsal space.
We
were convening in the library, which was on the second floor in the
east wing
and was reached by way of an immense central staircase. One of the
library’s walls was fitted with
exquisitely carved oak panels with mantels and twisted spindles and
archways
and linenfold inserts. In the middle of the wall was a massive
fireplace,
surrounded by blocks of white stone and protected by a filigreed iron
fireguard. The wall opposite the fireplace was decorated with carved
oak
panels. And the wall opposite the doorway contained three bay windows
overlooking the sea.
It was huge but completely
appropriate for our
purposes. Our crew had been busy—they’d
arranged a collection of acoustic screens around the room to baffle the
sound.
They’d also set up our mikes and instruments and amps and music
stands to
replicate what they guessed would be our positions onstage.
I went in with mum and Bob and put
on my best “new boy” face and manners.
Bob was a new boy too, but at least he had a history with the band,
subbing in
on occasions when Rick, and then Ben, were unavailable. I was still in
nappies
when Figgis Green was riding the radio charts. Everyone else—even
Bob—had spent
years together, recording and performing, and they’d built
relationships. My
interaction had always been peripheral. I was Tony and Mandy’s
kid. I showed up
in photos taken for PR pieces in papers and magazines. I attended
Christmas
parties and visited backstage during gigs and I was always around when
there
were band meetings or social events at our house. But I’d never
played with
them—not formally, anyway. And I was feeling incredibly uncertain
as a result.
Mitch and Keith were already there,
tuning up and
testing out, impatient to start. Rolly, who was still recovering from
jet lag
and the eight-hour time change between Los Angeles and England, was
slumped in
an armchair in the corner, quietly snoring.
I’d
brought a jar of Kenco Smooth instant coffee as my
“housewarming” gift to the
group. I’d assumed, a bit naively, that someone else would be
taking care of
mundane things like a kettle. And mugs.
It turned out there was a kettle,
in the kitchen,
which was downstairs, and which looked as if it had last been renovated
around
the same time that Mary Quant had invented the mini-skirt. The kettle
was
electric and it still worked, though I wasn’t at
all confident about the plug. And there wasn’t any
milk.
A blank piece of paper had been
tacked to the wall
beside the kettle, along with a pencil on a string, and a note from
Kato, our
runner, explaining that if we needed anything to add it to the shopping
list,
which he promised he’d
check and act upon every morning at 10 a.m. He’d helpfully
provided his mobile
number at the bottom, along with three smiley faces.
I added “a
new kettle” to the list, and “milk”, and, after
checking the cupboards and
drawers, “jammy dodgers”, “ginger nuts” and
“custard creams”. There were two
boxes of cubed sugar—I had no idea how old they were, though that
sort of thing
doesn’t really go off, does it. There was a container of that
disgusting
powdered stuff that passes as coffee whitener, and there was a jar of
generic instant
coffee to go with it, and a box of teabags.
I
was prepared, on that first day of rehearsals, to run through our two
set
lists, song by song—but it didn’t
happen. What did happen was a long discussion about
the set lists, song by song—including how they would be lit
and what they
ought to sound like, and where and when we were going to
stand—and sit—and what
we were going to say in between the songs, and how long we were going
to take
to say it.
I made notes.
I checked my emails.
I uploaded a picture of my
breakfast to Instagram.
I dashed off texts to Dom and Jenn.
And Katey, who
promised to come and rescue me from the doldrums of celibacy as soon as
she
could manage a day off work.
There was a break at half past ten
(during which I
dashed outside and smoked two hurried ciggies, one after the other, and
made
friends with Tejo, our sound guy, who was also a chuffer and who, as it
turned
out, enjoyed the same brand as me—Benson and Hedges Gold), and
came back to
drink one of the worst cups of tea in the history of tea making. Much
more of
that, I thought, spying a box of chocolate-chip muffins that someone
had
brought up from the village, and I’d
find it necessary to resort to criminal acts.
And Kato still hadn’t
put in an appearance.
By the time lunch rolled around, I
was starving,
in desperate need of another cigarette and craving a decently-brewed
coffee.
“There’s
a place on the other side of the Village Green,” mum said.
“At least there used
to be. It was called The Four Eyes back in the day—they had a
house band called
The Spectacles who shared the pop charts with us for a few weeks.”
“It’s
still there,” Mitch said. “Independently owned and
operated—not your average
Starbucks.”
Indeed, it wasn’t.
Smoking furiously, I trudged down the hill and across
the little green and there it was, in a parade of buildings that was
home to
two firms of solicitors, the Stoneford News, a
hairdresser’s and Oldbutter and Ballcock
Funeral Directors. The Four Eyes.
Its glory days had been roundabout
1965. There
followed a long, slow decline in popularity and function; in the
mid-1970s,
when I was spending those long summer days with Auntie Jo while my
parents
toured, it was sitting empty and forlorn, its place in history on the
verge of
being forgotten.
I was happy to see someone had
decided to rescue
it and restore it to its former glory, albeit with a completely
up-to-date take
on coffee culture. I opened the door and went in.
Inside
there was a huge silver Italian
espresso machine on the counter and an authentic jukebox from the 1960s
in the
corner, though I doubted either of them were actually in working order
and were
largely there for their nostalgic value.
On the walls were photos of the
place in its
heyday. A little room crowded with earnest-looking teenagers. An
exterior shot
featuring a painted sign declaring that this was, indeed, The Four Eyes
Coffee
Bar, its name reinforced with a graphic representation of a pair of
black-framed
Hank Marvin-style eyeglasses. A smaller sign on the pavement
advertising the
house band—The Spectacles—and an amateur night when anyone
could join them
onstage.
Another of the photos showed a view
of the
counter, with that same espresso machine in use, and the jukebox
lighting up
the corner. There was also an orange juice dispenser, and a display
case
containing a few sandwiches and sausage rolls and a large bowl of what
looked
like spaghetti.
I
ordered a
coffee and a baguette with grilled veggies and generous slices of
cheese, along
with a very tasty-looking slice of something smothered in chocolate for
dessert.
I’d
just arranged it all on my table so I could take a picture for my Culinary
Chronicle when I was approached by a guy wearing a hand-knitted
V-neck
sleeveless pullover and a shirt and tie. You don’t
often see that nowadays. A shirt and a tie and a
sleeveless pullover. I’d guess he was probably about my
mum’s age—early 70s
anyway. He had very neat grey hair, combed carefully, and a pink and
white
face. He was carrying an old-fashioned leather school satchel.
“Hello,
Jason,” he said.
I was pretty positive I didn’t know him. But that happens
a lot. I perform. I’m in front of people. I enter their lives,
and because of
that, there’s an assumed familiarity. On their end, anyway.
“Hello,”
I said, doing my best to convey the impression that I was actually
looking
forward to an uninterrupted lunch on my own.
“Duncan
Stopher,” he said, sticking out his hand.
I shook it. “Hello.”
I sat down. He remained standing.
“I
tried to see you this morning at the manor but your security guard
wouldn’t let
me in. I’m a huge fan of Figgis Green.”
Did he want me to sign something?
Was he going to
tell me all about his extensive record collection? His sister’s grandchildren? His dodgy
insides? He looked the sort of person who maintained a journal about
his bowel
movements.
Excellent contribution this
morning...
Nothing today. Requires an
investigation.
“I
wanted to let you know how much I admired you for the way you tracked
down Ben
Quigley when he disappeared. I know you’re good at solving cases
involving
missing people.”
“Ah,”
I said. “Thanks.”
A few years earlier, Ben had
travelled to Peace
River, Alberta—in northern Canada—to take part in a music
festival. He’d never come back and
people—my son, in particular—were understandably concerned
for his welfare. I’d
gone there to look for him. It had taken some work, but I’d found
him…rescued
might be a better word…and brought him home to England. His
story had ended up
in all the papers, and my second-string career as a PI had been
launched.
“I
have something I think you might be interested in. Might I join
you…?”
Without waiting for me to reply, he
appropriated
the chair on the other side of the table.
“It
concerns a missing girl,” he said. “I’ve approached
the police but they simply
aren’t interested.”
“Why
not?” I asked.
“They’re
of the opinion that the young lady in question is dead.”
“Why
would they think that?”
“She
was declared legally dead by her mother a few years after she
disappeared.”
“Well,”
I said. “That more or less closes the book on the case.
Really.”
“However,
they are wrong.”
“You
think they’re wrong or you know they’re wrong?”
“I
know they’re wrong.”
He placed the old leather satchel he’d been carrying onto his
lap, opened it and proceeded to transfer its contents to the tabletop
in neat,
perfectly aligned stacks.
“I
took a lot of photos of Figgis Green when they were at the peak of
their
popularity in the mid-1970s,” he said.
And there they all were. Some were
in colour, some
in black and white. Each had a label affixed to the back, with
meticulous
printing identifying the date and location.
“Fairfield
Halls,” he said, reading them aloud. “Croydon, October 1,
1973. Brangwyn Hall,
Swansea, November 13, 1975. Sheldonian Theatre, Oxford, July 10,
1976—”
“Yes,
I understand,” I said.
“August
1, 1974. The Wiltshire Folk Festival.”
He wanted me to pay special
attention to that one.
Actually, there was more than one. There were five 5x7 colour photos,
taken
from where he must have been standing in the middle of a crowded grassy
field.
A stage at the far end featured Figgis Green. Behind that was a small
forest—useful for damping the sound so the neighbours wouldn’t complain. The Wiltshire
Folk Festival had only lasted a few years but was famous for who it
attracted
and how well it was organized. The Old Grey Whistle Test
had done
a story about it in 1972.
I glanced at all of the pictures. I
didn’t have a lot of
choice—Duncan was sliding them in front of me, one at a time,
helpfully moving
the plate with my baguette off to one side to accommodate them.
“I’d
forgotten about this roll of film,” he said. “I’d put
it away in a drawer and
then, you know, things…”
He gestured in a way that suggested
his unreliable
lower colon or his grandchildren’s
tonsils had interrupted whatever plans he’d had for that
particular summer.
“I
found it last month while I was having a clear-out, and I sent it off
to be
developed. I’d labelled the film canister, of course, so I knew
it was from the
festival. But it’s this which captured my attention.”
He held the picture up for my
benefit.
“Pippa
Gladstone.”
In the foreground of the photograph
were a
teenaged boy and girl. They both had long hair: his was dark brown and
shoulder-length. Hers was dark blonde and wavy and hanging past her
shoulders.
The boy was looking away from the camera, but the girl was staring
straight at
it, and I noted that she had really striking blue-grey eyes. Both the
boy and
the girl were wearing trendy New York Yankees baseball caps. And they
were
dressed, like everyone around them, in rumpled Indian cotton shirts and
grungy-looking bell-bottomed jeans and they both looked as if they
needed a
bath, which wasn’t
surprising as they’d likely been camping in a nearby meadow for
the better part
of a week.
“Who’s
Pippa Gladstone?” The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t
think why.
“The
young lady who disappeared in 1974 and was later declared legally dead
by her
mother.”
“Did
she disappear at the folk festival?”
“No,
she disappeared while she on holiday with her family in Spain. She was
16 years old at the time and the locals claimed she’d
been seen out and about with the son of a local
businessman. But when the police questioned the boy he said he’d
been to a
party with her but he’d given her a lift back to her hotel and
had dropped her
off outside. He said the last he’d seen of her was when
she’d got out of his
car. He didn’t stay to make sure she was safely inside.”
“No
CCTV or anything to confirm his statement, I suppose.”
“That
technology was still evolving at the time. It hadn’t evolved as
far as that
particular hotel in 1974.”
“And
the police investigated…?”
“The
police were unable to unearth any evidence to suggest that the boy had
harmed
or killed her.”
“And
that’s where it ended?”
“That
is indeed where it ended, although there were a number of so-called
sightings
over the years, and a few claims that her body had been found. All
proved to be
false.”
“So
why is this picture relevant?” I asked.
“Because,”
Duncan replied, “the date I took that photo was August 1, 1974.
You can verify
when the Wiltshire Folk Festival ran that year. I have all of the
details—”
He paused again and removed some
more papers from
his satchel and laid them out on the table. A set list.
A very tattered handbill advertising the festival—signed
by my mum and dad.
Some scribbled writing in peacock
blue ink on
lined paper.
“I
made note of which guitars your father chose for the
performance,” Duncan
provided, helpfully. “And where he played misplaced notes in
three of the
songs.”
“And
Pippa…?”
“She
disappeared on March 23, 1974.”
“Five
months before that photo was taken.”
“Yes.
So you can see the problem.”
“Are
you sure it’s her?”
“I’m
absolutely positive.”
“But
you didn’t know it was her when you took the
picture…?”
“I
was taking a picture of Figgis Green and she happened to be in the
frame. I
didn’t actually notice her until I got the film developed and
recognized who it
was.”
There were even more things in the
satchel. Pippa
Gladstone’s last school
photo, a colour headshot. And an 8x10 enlargement of the photo from
Duncan’s
camera. I put them side by side. The girl in Duncan’s photo was
turning to look
at him, so her face was visible full-on. It certainly did look like the
same
person.
“Who’s
the boy she’s with?”
“I
don’t know his name, alas.”
“And
you’ve been to the police with this.”
“I
have. As I told you, they’re not interested. They don’t
consider it worth their
while to re-open her file on the basis of just this one photo. In fact,
they
were quite dismissive of me.”
“And
what’s your interest in all of this?” I asked.
“I’m
a bit of an obsessive,” Duncan replied. “I’ve
followed your parents’ band
faithfully from the beginning. But Figgis Green is not my only passion.
I have
also been intrigued by Pippa Gladstone’s disappearance. There are
some who have
never quite believed that she is dead. I happen to be one of them. And
that
photo has, at long last, proved me right. As I said, I know you have a
certain
amount of notoriety as someone with an ability to track down missing
people. I
would be very honoured if you would take this case on. I will, of
course, make
it financially worth your while.”
The fact that the photo was taken
five months
after Pippa was reported missing did stir up a certain inquisitiveness
in me.
If that really was her.
“Could
I borrow these pictures?”
“Of
course.”
“Can
we meet up here tomorrow? Same time? I’ll let you know what
I’ve decided. And
I’d like to see the negative of the one from the music
festival.”
“I’ll
bring it tomorrow.” Duncan took his phone out. “Would you
mind…?”
A selfie.
Him and me.
I gave him my best smile. He beamed
into the lens
and refrained from draping his arm over my shoulder, which I
appreciated.
“Thank
you, Jason. I’ll see you here tomorrow.”
#
I arrived back at the manor
carrying a plastic bag
with a carton of milk in it that I’d bought from a little grocery
on the High
Street, most of my baguette wrapped in paper napkins and Duncan Stopher’s photos in an envelope
tucked under my arm.
I popped the milk into the fridge
and went
upstairs to find Rolly, our drummer, fuelled by undiluted caffeine,
ranting
about a senatorial candidate from his adopted home in California.
“Todd
Wolfe,” he said. “I don’t wish evil upon
anyone…but in this moron’s case, I’d
make an exception. He’s a Class A arsehole.”
“Does
he stand a chance?” I asked.
“More
than a chance, son. He’s climbed aboard the golden escalator and
he’s riding it
all the way to the top.”
I try not to think a lot about
American politics
these days. It gives me indigestion.
Mum had spent her lunch break with
a mug of
fishbowl tea and an egg salad sandwich someone—not Kato—had
fetched from the
bakery at the bottom of the hill.
“And
how is The Four Eyes after all these years?” she inquired, saving
me from a
further earful about sexual harassment complaints, accusations of tax
evasion
and rumours of unpaid child support from three different relationships.
“Happily
nostalgic,” I replied. “Pictures on the walls from its
glory days. Espresso
machine and jukebox lovingly preserved.”
“I
must go and see for myself,” mum said. “I remember in 1965
the walls were
decorated with discarded eyeglasses. It was all very clever. If you
didn’t know
better, you’d think you’d stepped into an optician’s
shop. Did you go
downstairs?”
“I
didn’t know there was a downstairs.”
“Oh
yes. The cellar. Unfit for human habitation. But that was where it all
happened
back in the day. That’s where the stage was. Where the Spectacles
played. And
anyone else who wanted to take part in Amateur Night, which was every
Friday.
Your dad and I decided we’d do a turn. That’s where I
discovered how much I
loved being in front of an audience.”
The rest of the band was trickling
back in, along
with Tejo and our lighting guy, Dr. Sparks, who also had the advantage
of being
a fully licensed physician (incredibly useful when you’re
travelling with four senior citizens).
We reassembled for the afternoon
like ragtag
schoolkids forced back into their classroom on a gloriously sunny day.
Our
morning had been spent standing around, drinking coffee and tea,
listening to
technical discussions and making notes. I’d felt
useless. And impatient. I wanted to play.
I knew everyone else was feeling
the same way. The
sentiment wasn’t lost
on mum.
“Enough
of this technical stuff,” she said. “Let’s have the
encore. Everyone up front.”
“I
Can’t Stay Mad at You”
was a Gerry Goffin/Carole King country and western/pop crossover that
Skeeter
Davis had made famous in 1963. It had a catchy beat and throwaway
lyrics and it
was a song—mum always maintained—which represented a study
of unhealthy
obsessive love. It was also an inside joke about the starstruck
fangirls who
used to lust after Ben Quigley and, before he was married, Uncle Mitch.
The Figs did the song a capella
at the end
of every concert, and although they’d
never actually made a recording of it, their audiences not only
expected
it—they demanded it.
Back in
the
day, mum handled the lead while the guys abandoned their instruments
and came
down front to gather around a second single mic to do the “shooby dooby doo bops” while
she sang. They had a little choreography to go along with it, too, just
like
the doo-wop bands from the early 1960s. It never failed to break up the
audience, especially when they tackled the high notes that the Anita
Kerr
Singers did on the original Skeeter Davis recording. There was also an
instrumental string section three-quarters of the way through that was
entirely
performed by the guys using just their voices.
I’d spent an entire day
mastering that song at home. I joined the line-up beside mum with
Keith, Mitch,
Rolly and Bob.
Rolly tapped his sticks together to
count us all
in, and we were away.
It’s
a tricky piece to get right but after about six attempts, we nailed it.
Choreography and all. Including the high female chorus parts which were
relegated to me—since I was the youngest and still had the
range—and the bit in
the middle where we all pretended to be the string section.
It was a grand way to finally start
our countdown
to the opening night of Figgis Green’s
Lost Time Tour.
“Henceforth
to be known as the Last Time Tour,” my mum quipped.
We all agreed it was entirely
appropriate.
#
We finished at five.
Dinner at The Dog’s
Watch was on the house again—Arthur Ferryman had
obviously read my thumbs-up on his website and possibly my comments on
Instagram.
I arranged my dishes and drink and
cutlery to its
best advantage and took the mandatory photo: Spinach and ricotta
ravioli
with baby gem lettuce, shallots and pine nuts. Sixteen people loved
it
immediately, two commented on the food, three asked me to pass on their
good
wishes to Mitch, four to Keith and one to Rolly. Another four wanted to
know
what mum had for dinner and one just wanted to reminisce about the time
he’d met my dad after a gig in
Birmingham, where he’d got his program signed and he still had it
and it was
too bad my dad had died as he’d have been fantastic on this tour
and was going
to be sorely missed.
I didn’t
disagree. I missed him too.
Over the next hour another 214
people recorded
their appreciation of my ravioli.
Power to the Figs.
After dinner I went back to my room
and sent the
smoke from my evening ciggie down the bathroom drain while I had
another look
through the photos Duncan Stopher had given me.
My gut instinct told me it was very
likely a case
of mistaken identity. But I had to admit, the girl at the Wiltshire
Folk
Festival did look almost identical to the 16-year-old in the school pic.
What I really wanted to do was go
online and read
everything I could about Pippa Gladstone, her family, and the
circumstances
surrounding her disappearance. But it was getting late and I was tired
and we
had another 9 a.m. start in the morning.
I popped onto Instagram to check my
dinner post.
My “likes” had risen to
over 600 and there were 231 comments.
I couldn’t
possibly read them all in one sitting, let alone react or reply.
I settled on wishing everyone good
night in a single,
very genuine message, and stumbled off to bed.

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Lost
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published by Blue Devil Books on August 31, 2020. |

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Lost Time Genre: Mystery Publisher: Blue Devil Books |
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ISBN 978-1-7773294-1-9 Ebook ISBN 978-1-7773294-0-2 |