Chapter 15 Freddie #2
We chat some more about our respective work issues. Rory vexes over the dozens of multi-million-pound transactions he’s juggling at the moment, and I recount all the times I’ve burned my thumb on the milk steamer. It all feels very grown up.
Our conversation shuts down instantly as the food arrives and we chow down like mad men.
I hadn’t realised how hungry I was, but since starting work, my diet has all but reduced to café scraps and what bits I’ve managed to pilfer from Rory’s fridge.
Luckily the battered haddock comes with an absolute mountain of chips which I soon reduce to a molehill, and then a no-hill.
“I don’t know where you put all that,” says Rory with a sigh. He’s always been envious of my fast metabolism. Rory hasn’t touched anything fried in years.
As we polish off our dinner, a ripple of static whines through the pub and I look round to see a balding, middle-aged guy with a guitar setting up a PA system. He approaches the mic, taps it twice and speaks.
“Alright folks, welcome to the open mic night at the Penny Farthing!” Collective groans from the half-dozen patrons scattered around the place.
“For those who don’t know me, my name’s Gary and for the next two hours, anyone is welcome to come up and perform.
Be you singer or poet, actor or rapper, all are welcome.
Just put your name on the sign-up sheet behind the bar.
Joyce?” Gary waves to the hostess who’s busy polishing wine glasses. “Any sign-ups in advance?”
“Nope,” says Joyce, like it’s the thousandth time she’s said it. Gary, however, is unfazed.
“No problemo!” he booms into the mic like he’s addressing Wembley Arena. “Guess I’ll have to kick things off with a few tunes myself, but don’t let me hog the mic all night, people! The sign-up sheet is waiting so don’t be shy. No judgement here, just good times.”
“What a knob,” Rory mutters so only I can hear.
I stifle a laugh. “I dunno, the jury’s still out.”
Gary spends a full minute tuning his guitar before launching into his first song.
Immediately, I recognise the opening chords of Wonderwall and suck my teeth.
To be fair, he isn’t awful, but his guitar is still out of tune and by Gary’s third song it's clear his repertoire is stuck firmly in the jukebox genre.
“I’ll get the bill,” Rory announces as Gary instructs us to join in with the “ba ba bas” of Sweet Caroline.
“Sure,” I smile and lean forward. “Or we could show them how it’s done?”
Rory cocks his head. “What?”
“Here we go!” Gary’s voice crescendos as he reaches the chorus: “Five six seven eight. Sweet Ca-ro-line…!”
Tumbleweeds.
I lean further over the table to whisper in Rory’s ear: “Let’s do it! Play something!”
Rory blanches. “No fucking way.”
I give the table an enthusiastic slap. “Yes fucking way! Come on, one song. Let’s do Amber Lane. I know you know that one. You play, I’ll sing.”
He shakes his head so violently I can hear the vertebrae cracking in his neck. I punch him on the arm.
“Come on, big man. Are you scared of a few old ladies?”
Rory’s clutching the edge of the table so tightly, his knuckles are turning white.
“I can’t, Freddie.” There’s genuine fear in his eyes. I don’t get it. We used to play together all the time, but the look on his face now tells me this isn’t a fight I can win.
“Fine,” I say, getting to my feet. “Guess I’ll have to bring the house down by myself!”
Before Rory can object, I turn heel and stride up to the bar where I politely ask Joyce for the sign-up sheet.
With raised eyebrows, she presents me with a pink piece of paper woefully devoid of any signatures.
I scribble my name at the top of the sheet just as Gary commences a wonky rendition of Wagon Wheel.
I’ve barely made it halfway back to our table when Gary cuts the song short and starts hollering into the mic once more.
“Alright ladies and gentleman, we have our first act of the evening! Please welcome to the stage, Freddie Young!”
I do an about-turn and head up to the mic where Gary’s waiting for me, waving the sign-up sheet like a flag. Joyce wasted no time handing it over, it seems. As I approach, Gary’s face lights up with the rictus grin of a weird uncle at a family wedding. It sets my teeth on edge.
“Here he is! A new face at the Penny Farthing, if I’m not mistaken? Are you from around here, Freddie?”
“Yep,” I say, scuffing my feet. “First time in here, though.”
Gary laughs, peaking the mic and making everyone wince. “Well, don’t be scared, Freddie! We’ve all gotta start somewhere, and lucky for you, this is the best gig in town!”
“Sure thing.” I reach for the guitar.
Gary looks taken aback, then roars with laughter once more. “And he plays guitar too! By all means,” he lifts the guitar over his head and passes it to me. “I think we’re in for a treat here, folks!”
The mic is pointed directly at Gary’s mouth, meaning the audience are being treated to a blisteringly loud, one-sided conversation.
“For god’s sake, let the boy play, Gary!” Joyce yells from behind the bar, fingers in her ears.
Gary reddens, revealing he does in fact have an embarrassment threshold. He shuffles off to a nearby table and plonks himself down on a chair, looking a little put-out. I take his place at the microphone.
“Evening folks!” I fiddle with the tuning pegs as I talk, correcting the pitchiness of Gary’s guitar.
“This is a song about the street I grew up on, me and my big brother over there—say hi, Rory!” Rory buries his face in his hands, folding in on himself like a collapsing star. “Alright then, here we go!”
My fingers pluck the opening notes of the song. It’s been a while since I played this one, but the lyrics, co-written by Rory and I, spring from my memories like long lost friends.
Remember when we carved our names,
On a silver birch on Amber Lane,
We rode our bikes to the woods at night,
And got lost on the way.
Not a penny to our names,
When we lived on Amber Lane,
Wrote our thoughts in pavement chalk,
Til the rain washed it away.
The patrons peer up from their drinks, looks of pleasant surprise on their faces. Joyce is smiling and swaying slightly to the rhythm while Gary’s glaring at me like I’ve just pissed through his letterbox. The only person not watching is Rory.
I edge closer to the mic and lift my voice for the chorus.
If you see me walking like I’m going nowhere,
Or speaking aloud when no one’s there,
I’m not crazy, I’m just in my brain,
Living back on Amber Lane.
Someone starts clapping to the beat and before I’ve finished the four-bar instrumental, the whole pub has joined in. For a split-second, I catch Rory’s eye and smile, but he quickly drops his gaze back to the floor. As I start the second verse, Rory springs to his feet and throws on his jacket.
One day we will move away,
But we’ll remember Amber Lane,
Every cut and fall and scrape,
The bittersweet of pain.
Taking out his wallet, he drops a few notes on the table and makes for the front door. Is he leaving?
Taking pictures on our phones,
No filter for that summer glow,
Memories of you and me,
Alight in shades of gold.
Rory storms out of the pub without looking back.
I carry on playing, but Rory’s sudden departure makes me fluff some of the lyrics on the next chorus.
Thankfully, no one seems to notice; they’re all clapping along quite happily, one old guy at the bar is even waving his lighter back and forth like a glow stick at a festival.
With the amount of spirits he’s been drinking, that’s sure to be a fire hazard.
Amber Lane technically has a bridge and a third chorus but I cut the song short so I can chase after Rory.
There’s a smattering of applause as I say a quick “thank you” into the mic, sling the guitar over my back and dash after my brother, grabbing my coat from our table on the way.
Rory hasn’t gotten far. He’s leaning against the boot of his car, rubbing his hands together for warmth. I approach nervously.
“You should have waited in the car if you were cold.”
He meets my eye. “Another thirty seconds and I would have.”
He’s back to his moody self again. God, what have I done this time?
“You didn’t want to watch me play—?”
“Hey!” The door to the Penny Farthing swings open behind me and a hand taps me on the shoulder. I spin around to see Gary staring up at me, his cheeks bright red.
“I’m sorry son, but you have to give that back!”
“Huh?” Too late, I realise I’ve just performed a guitar-jacking. I hand the instrument back to Gary who snatches it from my grip like he’s expecting me to bolt at any second. The strings twang discordantly as he shoulders it. Poor thing.
“Sorry about that,” I offer an apologetic smile.
Gary gives a single curt nod before disappearing back into the cosy warmth of the pub. I turn back to my brother, whose scowl is even heavier than usual.
“Oh what? I wasn’t trying to steal it. I forgot it was on my back when I was running after you—!”
“Why do you always assume I’m angry at you?” he asks in a dull voice.
My turn to scoff. “Because you are! It’s basically been your default emotion until today.” Rory chews his lip; even he can’t deny that. I lower my voice, gesturing back towards the pub. “So what was all that about?”
Rory makes a defeated sound, somewhere between a groan and a sigh. “Aren’t you tired of playing those same old songs? Amber Lane, Going Numb, they’re just so…” He sucks his teeth. “When was the last time you wrote something new?”
I’d be more offended, only it feels more like a plea than a dig at my songwriting talents. I shrug.
“I dunno. This town’s a little short on inspiration, I guess.” I take a small step towards him, folding my arms across my chest. “What’s this really about?”
Rory shifts his weight from left to right, not meeting my eye. “Since Mum, I can’t play anymore. And you, well, it’s like you said: you do look just like her, Fred. You got her face and her voice, and all those old songs… It makes it hard. To watch you."
Stunned, I blink at him as pieces of the jigsaw puzzle slide into place.
Mum loved to sing. She never performed or anything like that, but she’d sing along to the radio as she made our toast each morning.
Even if she didn’t know the words, she’d do little harmonies and backing vocals, effortless and never a smidge out of tune.
She taught me my first chords on a toy guitar she bought Rory at a car boot sale.
Rory, by that point, had already moved on to the drums. If I didn’t know better, I’d struggle to believe he’s the same boy who ran around whacking every hollow object he could find to test its percussiveness.
I’ve only just recovered from the headaches.
By the time we were teenagers, we had all the makings of a family band, doing covers of Fleetwood Mac songs with cheap crappy instruments in our living room. Those are probably the best memories I have of Mum. Of all three of us.
“Don’t you miss it?” I ask him, after a beat or two. “Playing, I mean.”
Rory doesn’t nod or shake, just stares through me like I’m made of glass.
“I miss her more.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and taps a rhythm on his belt with his thumb. “Isn’t it painful for you?”
I shake my head. “Playing makes me feel closer to her, I guess.”
Rory sniffs and for a horrible moment, I think he’s about to cry. My brother hasn’t shed a tear for as long as I can remember. I don’t know what I'll do if he starts bawling in the street. Hug him? Back away slowly? Throw myself headfirst into oncoming traffic? All equally valid options.
“Rory, are you okay?” I ask.
His eyes snap up and he glares at me like I’ve just insulted the very essence of his character. “Of course I’m bloody okay! Don’t be stupid.”
Phew.
“Right. Well, why didn’t you say something before?” I ask. All the times I played guitar around the house, he never once told me to stop. Why wouldn’t he if it pained him to hear it?
Rory shrugs. “I guess I could see how much playing meant to you. I wasn’t going to stop you. I just couldn’t listen.”
I blink rapidly. “Now you’re gonna make me cry.”
Rory looks mortified. “Don’t you fucking dare.”
I leap forward, a man possessed, and hug my brother, wrapping my arms around his meaty back.
He doesn’t return the embrace, but he doesn’t immediately shove me away either.
After a few seconds, Rory clears his throat, sharply, and pats me once on the shoulder, signalling this has gone as far as he’s willing to take it.
I release him and step back, unable to hide my smile.
Rory pulls out his keys and unlocks the car.
“Let’s go home. We’ve got work tomorrow.”