Trumpet: A Novel (Vintage Contemporaries) Read online

  But you know I can’t stop, don’t you? I just can’t shut the fuck up. You ask me things and I tell you things. Simple. It’s not the money any more. I don’t know what it is. You’re bad news. I should stay away from you. What the fuck am I doing here with you? I can’t stop telling you things. Fuck me, maybe it’s doing me some good. Maybe it will do someone else good. You know and I know that I don’t believe that. You believe that. Well, you say you do.

  I used to enjoy winding my father up. I could see a chance coming and I’d take it and the end result was always the same. He’d go mental. I knew how to do it to him. I could get right inside his head. The best time was when I was a teenager. That was crucial. I was bad then. Really bad. I didn’t want to do any school work. I just liked hanging out with my mates and having a spliff. I didn’t stand a chance really. There was all this pressure on you not to do anything. Not to do well. Not to work hard. I mean practically every black guy my age that I saw on TV had just been arrested for something. Or was accused of mugging. It’s like we only had the one face to them. The same face. The one that was wanted for something. I can tell when I go out and about, fuckers staring at you as if you’ve done something. I’ve been picked up by the police countless times, man, for doing fuck all. Just for being black and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But my old man, he didn’t take my side about all this. He thought I had it coming to me. He thought I was a waster. He’d try to get me to stay in and concentrate. Concentrate on anything. He got exasperated the way I couldn’t ‘apply’ myself. He was always saying that to me. Why don’t you apply yourself? I remember telling him he was a hypocrite, that all his doped out jazz mates would be shocked at him, treating his son like this. They were all cool. Most of them had kids that were embarrassed about them; they were out of it half the time, turning up to collect them at school with strange coats on. Some of those kids have grown up to be business managers. They were the first fucking yuppies on the street. But me and my dad were conventional. He wanted me to get the head down and concentrate. Once he lost his temper and called me a talentless bastard. I was gutted. So I picked up this new album of his that had lots of regigged old tunes on it and I said, ‘New release, old man?’ Then I said, ‘What do you want me to be? Wynton fucking Marsalis?’

  He goes into this long thing about jazz being improvized and being different versions of the same thing. I says, ‘Bollocks, when did you last have a truly original idea?’ Then he looks sad, he says something about people being only talented for one moment in time. Something like that. Some gifted people have a short time of pure talent. Some people longer. The ones that have a short time can’t believe it when their talent runs out, so they scramble to get it back, impersonate themselves. Mimic. Parody. Act themselves. He says jazz can get away with that better than most stuff. He looks sad then. Like he’s a conman or something. I feel bad in the pit of my stomach.

  My father couldn’t cope with me becoming a man. Couldn’t handle it. Probably jealous of my cock now I think about it. I’d see him standing around some days, staring at me with this sick look on his face. When I was a wee boy he was a great dad to have, cool, funny, easy. But when I became a teenager, he flipped out. Started all this business of checking up on me. Finding out if I’d done my homework. Clocking the time I came in. It was like living with a fucking dictator. It was at the same time as his career took a bad dip. Maybe he felt his life was over and it was down to me to come up with something. I don’t know. Whatever it was it was pure hell for me.

  Once, he comes out with, ‘I can make people listen to me from London to Japan, but I can’t get my own son to hear a single word I’m saying.’ Not when you talk pish like that, I said. I mean, man. That’s heavy stuff. Doesn’t do to take yourself too seriously, Joss Moody, I said to him. He didn’t like it when I said his name like that. Joss Moody will know, I’d laugh. Joss Moody always knows. Then I said, in my gimmicky jazz voice, ‘Let’s call the whole thing off.’ I slammed the door for special effect and went out. I wasn’t exactly a pleasant boy. But I mean everyone goes through it, don’t they? Everyone needs space at that age. I was raging all the time. Don’t ask me about what. I was just furious from winter to spring. Generally obnoxious. I can see that now. Doors in our house were always being pulled off their fucking hinges. They got Bob, the big handy man, to fix the doors frequently. Bob would look at me and say, ‘What are you doing – swinging on them?’ I’d just stare coldly back and say, ‘Yeah, that’s right. I think I’m Tarzan.’ Bob laughed one of those knowing adult laughs and exchanged a look with my mother. She looked away then, disgusted and sometimes she’d raise her hands as if to say, ‘I can’t do anything with him.’ I’m not proud of all that now.

  I used to use half a bottle of shampoo every time I washed my hair. I ate a packet of cornflakes a day. I had a slab of meat every evening. Steak and chips. I had long sessions in the bath and always left the ring around it for my mother. I left all my dirty clothes all over the house. My room was a dustbin. I smoked out the window in the bathroom. I didn’t want them knowing I smoked. I didn’t talk to them about anything. Once I was held up at the police station till four in the morning. I hadn’t done anything. I didn’t call them. I don’t think they know half what I went through. I made a lot of noise eating. Especially cornflakes. I went about, according to my mother, with a huge chip on my shoulder. Not just a chip, my father would say, a whole fish supper. I was surly, sullen, selfish, shameless. It’s true. I was a total animal.

  Another time I remember was when I wanted to go to this party and my father wouldn’t let me. Said I had too much school work to do. I said, ‘Since when have you bothered about my school work. It’s fucked anyway. That’s down to you, dotting about the world playing your horn, man.’ He grabbed hold of me. Fuming. Smoke coming out of his nostrils. He shouted, ‘Show some respect.’ And I pulled his hands off me and said, ‘Get real.’ It’s funny that, when I think about it. Me telling him to get real.

  When I left home, I got on better with the old man. Just before he died, I’d say we had a pretty good relationship. We liked each other. He was always disappointed and guilty that I hadn’t done more with my life. But who could do something with a father like that? I mean I was never going to be as good as him; so forget it. You only need one in a family, that’s what I reckoned. It was difficult having a famous father like that. He never understood that. But plenty people in the world have been screwed up by their famous parents. I’d have needed to have more talent than him to do anything with myself. And he was talented. I’ve got to say that for him. All this doesn’t change the way he played that trumpet. I mean I’ve got to hand it to him, he was a talented bastard. Even when I wasn’t into jazz all that much, I still liked the way he played the trumpet. The minute I’d hear him start I could see myself as a wee boy again. It was like getting back something I’d lost. Have you ever listened to any jazz at all?

  When I was a little boy I liked being Joss Moody’s son. I even liked the hat he wore, the cream fedora. The way he wore it on his head, slightly tilted to the one side. I liked going to gigs with him and overhearing people say, ‘That’s his son.’ I liked the looks they gave me, those fans of my father’s. It was quite something being his son. Everybody knew about it. In school I’d always have to talk about it, my father the jazz musician. It came under, ‘Parents who do something unusual.’ I wrote a story about it. My mother kept that story.

  But he wanted me to be talented. He’d have liked me to play something. Not the trumpet; something else. The piano. He always said I had nice hands for the piano. The galloping piano. Flexible fingers. Then he’d say he didn’t mind whether it was music, sport, science, whatever. As long as I had an occupation, an obsession with something, it would be good for me. He wanted me to be cleverer than him. But I reckon each generation is now turning backwards. People are more stupid now than they used to be. That’s why you keep hearing people say things like, ‘They don’t make them like they used to.’
About all sorts, good shoes, clothes, you name it. What’s happened to the cobbler? Mass production has done away with talent, that’s what I reckon. All the talent is sliding away back towards the sea. This is the anti-fucking-evolution age. There’s not as many clever bastards out there as there used to be. Even the jazz musicians nowadays have got nothing on my father’s generation of jazzmen. Where are all the dukes and the counts now? Where’s the big guys?

  I was born the same year that Captain Scarlet first appeared on the box. One thing we had in common, my father and me, was that we both liked Star Trek and all that kind of stuff. My father liked Captain Kirk and I liked Spock. I sympathized with Spock and his big mental ears and what happened to his mother. Sometimes all the guys in the current Moody band would come round to our place and we’d watch it together, munching on a big bag of potato sticks. Then they’d have their jam at the end of it. To boldly go. And the jazz would shake the whole house like a train.

  Later on my father was obsessed with the sixties. Every person has their favourite decade. He said it was the decade for everything that mattered. An enthusiastic decade was what he called it. Jazz, politics, sex, science fiction, peace. He’d sit up late at nights ranting to anyone who would listen, about how a bad decade always follows a good one. (He got that right. Didn’t he? He got that right.) I’d say something reactionary to please him and get him to spout off more. Bring back capital punishment. Never failed.

  I decided to do the son thing one day and ask my dad about sex. I thought it would please him. I started by saying something like: there’s a few things I need to know, Dad, seeing as we’re living in a permissive society. He had a drink in him. It was late and he’d just come back from somewhere. My mother was asleep.

  He sits down on his chair, lights a fag and doesn’t offer me one. I sit watching him, dying for a fag. Then he says, ‘Fire away.’ He’s got a drunk smile on his face that is also a bit sexual. I say, off the top of my head, have you ever had an affair? He says, No. He says, No, with complete sincerity, no effort involved at all. Do you want to know why, he says. Because I am not interested in anyone besides your mother. Only she can turn me on. I’m shocked at this, this expression. He sees that and repeats it drunkenly, relishing it. Only she can turn me on. Then he smiles, a slow smile, pleased with himself and exhales a ball of smoke. I breathe in, trying to get a hit from it.

  So, I say, is sex good with Mum? And he says, Aren’t you getting out of your depth here, son? I pour him another glass of whisky. Oh no, he says. You don’t get me that way. Yes, it’s good. It’s really good. Of course. Of course it’s good. How often do you do it? I say, appalled. Oh come on, he says, still enjoying the conversation, lighting a new cigarette. Fathers should tell their sons stuff like this, I say, it’s educational. Three times a week, he says. You’re exaggerating, I say. You asked. I don’t care whether you believe me or not, he says. And I believe him because he says that and because of the look on his face. Do you always do it in bed? I ask, knowing that at any minute I will be stopped and cursed. He laughs, throwing back his head. Come off it, he says. Your mother and I like variety. The spice of life. Any old place will do. A dressing room … A dressing room, I shriek. Why not? What else are dressing rooms for?

  My father never got a leg over. Had a hard-on. My father was never tossed off. He never stuck it up, or rammed it in, never spilt his seed, never had a blow job. What did he have down his pants? A cunt – is that it? Or did he wear a dildo? Shit. If he did, he would have rammed it in, I promise you.

  He leans forward drunkenly towards me. ‘Your eyes,’ he says, ‘your eyes are the same colour as my Jack Daniels.’ He is holding the glass up to my face, ridiculously close. He looks pleased with himself, as if he’s discovered something really crucial about me. This is more like it. I make a mental note always to give Colman a good few drinks when I’m interviewing him. Since we talked about going to Scotland, Colman has started dishing the dirt. This is exactly the kind of stuff that will sell the book. The nineties are obsessed with sex, infidelity, scandal, sleaze, perverts. The nineties love the private life. The private life that turns suddenly and horrifically public. The sly life that hides pure filth and sin. The life of respectability that shakes with hypocrisy. The government minister who wanks himself to death with a rope around his neck to achieve the ultimate orgasm. Love it. The priest who has been screwing half of his worshippers. Love it. The upper-class English movie star who has been caught having his cock sucked by a Hollywood prostitute. Love it. The respectable ‘family values’ MP who sucked on the toe of a bimbo. Love it. All of it. The dirtier the better. The more famous, the better. The brother of the princess who cheated on his wife twelve times. The higher they are the lower they fall. Lesbian stories are in. Everyone loves a good story about a famous dyke tennis star or actress or singer. And this one is the pick of the bunch. The best yet. Lesbians who adopted a son; one playing mummy, one playing daddy. The big butch frauds. Couldn’t be better.

  I can’t wait to get this book out. It is my book really. Joss Moody will have been dead for at least a year by the time the book comes out. Colman Moody and his ghost writer, Sophie Stones, will be so close we’ll be interesting. Even my sister Sarah will be riveted. I am Colman Moody’s ghost writer. His psyche. I like the idea of finding his voice. His subconscious. If I use my nut, my loaf, I’ll be rolling in it before the millennium. I need to get right under Colman Moody’s skin. It will not be the first time. Why should I have scruples when men have been using me for years? As long as it takes to make good copy. He’s playing the same game, isn’t he?

  I feel like his shrink when I say, ‘How do you feel now all that is said?’ I know he is lying when he says, ‘Cool.’

  PEOPLE:

  The Cleaner

  The first time Maggie arrived at Mr and Mrs Moody’s house, Mrs Moody took her aside, and in a strange voice, one that was a mixture of whispers and pride, said to her, ‘Do you know who my husband is?’ Maggie didn’t. Mrs Moody said, ‘My husband is Joss Moody.’ She said the name ‘Joss Moody’ as if she expected the whole world to know who Joss Moody was. Maggie reckoned he must be famous, so she said, ‘Oh, really, how amazing!’ quickly trying to rack her brains to see if the name rang a bell. Wasn’t that the name of that new Games man on the TV? Mrs Moody went on to say, ‘If my husband is at home, he practises from eleven in the morning till around about two. So it’s important that you always do the hoovering first.’ Maggie knew better than to ask what it was that Mr Moody practised.

  A beautiful family house. Nice smells. Always smelt of fresh coffee. They were good to her. If she had any problems with her young son, with her mother, with her bills, they listened to her and they helped her. Mrs Moody always gave her a cup of tea the minute she arrived at ten o’clock. (Most people liked to see you sweat before they offered you a cup.) Cup of tea two hours later. Mr Moody was a bit of a special man. The first time Maggie met him, she knew straightaway. She could tell things about people. Mr Moody was at the top of the stairs that day. Maggie watched him coming down. The man had style. He wore unusual shirts that had five cufflinks, specially ordered. Beautifully stitched. He never looked like he’d just got out of bed. His trousers always creased. She never saw him wear anything casual, although plenty of his music friends turned up at the door in jeans and T-shirts. A few of them looked in need of a bath.

  The other thing Maggie noticed about Mr Moody was how gentle he was. Once, Maggie had arrived at the Moody house upset. She couldn’t help herself; she cried. Mr Moody made her a pot of tea. She’d never seen him make the tea before. Then he sat down with her at the kitchen table and listened. He never spoke all that much, but he was polite. After a good half an hour Maggie got to her feet and apologized profusely. ‘I shouldn’t be taking up your time like this.’ ‘It’s no bother,’ he said and went off to his room. Mrs Moody was good-looking as well. She had a good head of hair. You could tell them two loved each other. They were always giving each other looks
about the house. You know the kind, little special looks.

  It was on the third visit to the house that Maggie heard it. At first she wondered what on earth it was. She was in the kitchen, bleaching the sink and emptying the dishwasher. It was the first dishwasher she had ever seen. Not many people had them then. She heard this unbelievable sound coming from Mr Moody’s room. It was low at first, almost a growl. Then it started to become quite frantic. It agitated Maggie. It put her on edge. If only they let her listen to Radio One like the rest of her houses.

  Mrs Moody was a bit fussy as to where everything should go. But then everybody was a bit fussy. Some people were a headache. Telling you to put this there and that here when you were already in the middle of something. There was nothing you could do about it. You had to do what they wanted and you had to do it ‘now’. Well, she wasn’t all that bad. The thing she was fussy about was all her ornaments. Ornaments from all around the world in that house. Huge Russian dolls, those ones that hide inside each other. Mrs Moody showed her one one day. It took up ten minutes to get to the baby hiding in there. The smaller they got the less details on their faces. Mrs Moody said to her, ‘We’re all like that, aren’t we? We’ve all got lots of little people inside us.’ Maggie said, ‘When you think about it. It’s true, you know.’

  Mr Moody gave her some of his records. She still has them. Two CDs, two tapes. It’s not her kind of music, but it’s not every day you know somebody who does something. Sometimes, she sat down with a cup of coffee and a cigarette and played Mr Moody’s music. ‘I know him,’ she said to herself. ‘I’ve worked for him.’ After four years cleaning the Moodys’ house, Maggie had felt something for them that was akin to love.