Jonathan Coe - The Dwarves of Death

What follows is a short burst of hysterical laughter, and then the descent of a strange, immutable calm. It seems deathly quiet after the crowd of people has got on the bus, and there is no longer any traffic of any description on the roads. You look at your watch but it means nothing to you because you have now entered upon a different plane of temporal consciousness in which normal earthly time has no meaning. You feel serene and content. You begin to feel that the arrival of another bus would be unwelcome, because it would break the spell of this new and lovely euphoria. The thought of spending the rest of your life at this bus-stop fills you with benign indifference. Waiting here now seems to have been a rich and fulfilling experience because it has taught you a philosophical detachment which many greater men would envy. You are now master of an heroic fortitude which makes Sir Thomas More on the day of his execution look pathetic and petulant. Your Stoical composure makes Socrates, with the hemlock poised at his lips, look like some neurotic cry-baby. It feels as though nothing on earth has the power to harm you any more.

Just then, something comes around the corner, heading in your direction. It is a taxi, with its yellow light on. Not even bothering to check whether you can afford the fare, you hail it, and jump inside.

*

‘Sorry I’m late,’ I said, nodding apologetically to Chester. ‘I had a bit of trouble catching a bus.’

Harry, Martin, Jake and Chester were all sitting around a small table near the bar. Nobody looked particularly cheerful. Jake had a book open on his lap.

‘That’s all right,’ said Chester. ‘No harm done.’ He smiled at me, straightened his cap, and sipped his beer.

‘I’ll just go and get something to drink,’ I said, ‘since you’ve all got one.’

I was served at the bar by this woman who was fairly new to The White Goat. I’d only seen her two or three times before, and although on one of these occasions we’d had a bit of a chat, I wasn’t sure that she’d remember me. She did, though. She had long, thick auburn hair and a Scottish accent, and her voice was gentle and quiet, like her eyes. I didn’t like to admit it to myself, but I was very attracted to her. I couldn’t work out what she was doing in a place like this, pulling drinks. She seemed abstracted half of the time, her mind on something completely different, and she didn’t talk to most of the customers, which made it twice as odd that she had talked to me. Today I was determined to find out her name.

‘It’s me again,’ I said, unable to think of a witty opening line.

‘Oh, hello. Becks, isn’t it?’

‘That’s right.’ She fetched a bottle from the cold tray. ‘Is there no band today, then?’

‘You missed them. They only played for about forty minutes. They weren’t very good.’

The White Goat had a policy of showcasing new bands on Sunday lunchtimes. The Alaska Factory had played there once, in fact. We had only played for forty minutes and we hadn’t been very good. I was glad that this had been before her time.

‘Are you a friend of Chester’s?’ she asked.

‘That’s right. Do you know him?’

‘I’m getting to know him. He comes in here all the time. Very strange company he keeps, sometimes. All sorts of shady-looking characters.’

‘Chester’s our manager.’

‘Oh? You’re a musician, too?’

‘Yes, I’m a pianist really.’ I jerked my thumb in the direction of the others. ‘We just do this for a laugh.’

‘They don’t seem to be laughing much,’ she said, looking over at them.

‘Well, we’re going through a bit of a crisis right now. You know, stagnating, that sort of thing.’

‘That’s a shame.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s nothing that a few minor personnel changes wouldn’t put right. We need a new guitarist, and a new drummer.’ She handed me my drink. ‘And probably a new singer, too.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Then she said, in an off-hand way, ‘I sing a bit.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, I used to. I still do, now and again.’

‘What sorts of things?’

‘All sorts of things.’

‘I see.’ I watched her, increasingly fascinated, as she counted out my change. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Karla. Karla with a K.’

‘I’m William.’

‘Hello, William.’ She pressed the change into my hand.

‘Are you singing with anyone at the moment? A band or anything?’

‘No, nothing like that.’

I tried to imagine her singing. Perhaps she would have a breathy voice, redolent of smoke-filled cafés and sad, sensual ballads from the thirties and forties. Perhaps her voice would be bright and clear, like a Scottish stream, and she would sing folk songs and good, strong tunes from her native country.

‘Where are you from?’ I asked.

‘I’m from Mull,’ she said. ‘Originally. We moved to the mainland when I was quite small, though. Haven’t been back to the island in years.’

I took a breath and said, ‘Look — maybe we should get together and do some songs some time.’ These words sounded tacky even as I spoke them. ‘I could accompany you.’

‘I think your friends are getting impatient,’ said Karla.

I followed her gaze and saw that they were all staring at us. Harry made a ‘come here’ gesture with his eyes. I went over to join them and Karla started serving another customer.

Chester said, ‘Do you think you can spare us some of your time, or are you too busy chatting up women?’

‘I was only getting myself a drink.’

‘We’ve got some serious talking to do,’ said Martin. He was the only person in the pub that afternoon to be wearing a tie.

‘What about?’

‘The band.’

‘There seems to be a general consensus,’ said Harry, ‘that we’ve got ourselves into a bit of a rut.’

The whole business of sitting around a table and discussing something so trivial seemed suddenly ludicrous. There was an upright piano standing against one of the walls and I was seized by a powerful urge to go over and play something on it, just to get away from them all. But I stayed where I was.

‘Chester’s been saying,’ Harry continued, ‘that we need to do two things. One, we need to break on to vinyl. We’ve got to get a record company interested, so it’s essential that we record a good demo on Tuesday.’

‘Fine,’ I said, yawning. I was thinking of how nice it would be to accompany Karla on a version of ‘My Funny Valentine’, leaving her to take care of the tune while I filled it out with rich harmonies, constantly surprising and pleasing her with unexpected changes and variations.

‘Two,’ said Harry, ‘we’ve got to improve our stage act. The reason the audience was so aggressive last time is that we didn’t have any authority. We didn’t impose ourselves on them.’

‘Come off it,’ I said. ‘The problem with last time was that we were playing to a crowd of psychos and drillerkillers. Hitler would have had trouble establishing authority with that lot.’

‘All Harry’s trying to say,’ said Chester, ‘is that you’ve got to think harder about how you present yourselves.’

There was a pause.

‘And what does that mean, exactly?’ I asked.

‘Harry and I have been thinking,’ said Martin, ‘and we think you ought to stand up on stage.’

‘What?’

‘That stool you sit on when you’re playing the keyboard,’ said Harry. ‘It’s got to go.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ I said. ‘Our audience consists of the London branch of the Myra Hindley fan club and you think they’re going to be stunned into submission by the sight of me getting up from my chair?’

‘We’re not just talking about last time. It’s a question of the whole… concept of the band.’