Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

A one-clawed pigeon hops about on the track.

A fat rat a foot away pays it no attention.

There’s a phone box up by the ticket barriers. Elf could call Andy at Les Cousins and plead laryngitis. It won’t be hard to find a replacement for a Sunday-evening slot. Sandy Denny might be in, or Davy Graham, or Roy Harper. Several regulars have an album out – a whole LP, not just an EP. Elf could just go home to her flat, curl up under her blanket and …

What? Sob yourself to sleep? Again? Do nothing until the last of the Wanda Virtue money is gone, then crawl back to Mum and Dad, penniless and career-less, contract-less? If I don’t show up at Les Cousins tonight, Bruce wins . The doubters will win. ‘Without Bruce propping her up, she’s just an amateur who got lucky with one song – like, once.’ Mum will be proven right. ‘If you’d bothered to plan for your future like Immy, you’d have a Lawrence of your own by now, too.’

Bugger that , thinks Elf.

Les Cousins is named after a French film, but everyone Elf knows pronounces it ‘Lez Cuzzins’ or just ‘Cousins’. Under its surreptitious sign, the narrow door is sandwiched between the Italian restaurant at 49 Greek Street and the wireless-repair shop next door. Elf descends the steep steps, glancing at the posters of Bert Jansch and John Renbourn, apostles of the folk revival. The fug of chatter, nicotine and hash gets thicker. Waiting at the bottom is Nobby, an ex-fusilier who collects the entrance fee and assists the occasional drunk back upstairs. He greets Elf with an ‘Evenin’ love. Parky out.’

‘Evening, Nobby.’ Elf resists an urge to blurt out, ‘Is Bruce here?’ As long as she doesn’t ask, it’s possible he’s shown up to apologise and resurrect the duo. Maybe he’s onstage, setting up …

Andy sees her and waves from his corner bar where he serves Coke, tea and coffee. No alcohol licence means no closing time which means all-night shows. Every folk singer of note plays at Cousins, and Andy’s wall of fame boasts Lonnie Donegan from the club’s skiffle days, the Vipers, blues émigré Alexis Korner, Ewan MacColl and Peggy Seeger, Donovan pointing to the This Machine Kills inscription on his guitar, Joan Baez and the dead-too-young Richard Fariña, Paul Simon and Bob Dylan himself. Elf saw him four years ago play a new song called ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ on this very stage, under the cartwheel and fishing nets, where a golden Australian named Bruce Fletcher is not waiting for her …

‘Elf?’ It’s Sandy Denny, another habitué. ‘Are you holding up okay? I heard about Bruce. I’m so, so, so, so sorry.’

Elf tries to act as if she’s fine. ‘It’s …’

‘Old bollocks is what it is,’ declares Sandy Denny. ‘I saw him and his new squeeze in the café at the Victoria and Albert.’

Elf can’t breathe or speak. I must . ‘Oh, right.’ So, it wasn’t girls in general he wanted a break from – it was me.

Sandy covers her mouth. ‘Oh, God … you did know?’

‘Of course. Yeah. Yes. Of course.’

‘Thank Christ! I thought I’d put my foot in it. They were feeding each other cake and I thought it was you two, so over I went saying, “Look at you two lovebirds!” – and then I twigged. It’s not Elf. I just stood there like a lemon, not knowing what to say.’

He took me to that café on our first date, Elf remembers.

‘Bruce was Mr Cool, of course. “Hi, Sandy, this is Vanessa. She’s a model at the Something Something Agency” – as if I’d know or give a shit. So I said, “Hi,” and the model said, “Enchanted,” like she’d just slipped out of some Noël Coward play.’

Vanessa. There was a Vanessa at the party at Wotsit’s house in Cromwell Road, in January. She was a model .

‘Men,’ commiserates Sandy. ‘Sometimes I could just—’ She flings her hand out and biffs a man walking by. ‘Oh, sorry, John.’

John Martyn turns his wild man’s head and sees who it is. ‘Nae bother, Sandy. Breck a leg, Elf.’ He walks by.

‘Beg pardon.’ Andy materialises. ‘Elf, I’ve heard the buzz. If you want to bow out, everyone will understand.’

Elf looks over his shoulder at the exit, and sees further into her future if she leaves now. After staying with her parents for a few weeks, she’ll work the summer at a typing pool, enrol at teacher-training college, get a job as a music teacher at a girls’ school, marry a geography teacher, and look back at this moment, this one, when her future as a musician vanished. Like a sandcastle in a wav e.

‘Elf? What’s the matter?’ It’s Sandy, looking worried.

‘Are you going to vomit?’ Andy’s looking more worried.

Elf tightens the D-string tuning peg. The faces are dark on darker with two dots of white where the eyes are. Cigarette tips glow moody umber. You don’t need to smoke at Cousins: just breathe. Elf’s nervous. It’s been a while since she played solo. Even a duo is a gang. ‘ For those of you here to see –’ say it ‘– Fletcher and Holloway, apologies. Bruce isn’t here …’ her throat contracts ‘… ’cause he dumped me for a flashier model. Literally, a model.’

There’s a collective gasp and several huh s and what s.

Elf nearly giggles. The –’ say it aloud ‘– the duo is over.’

The till goes chinggg ! People look at their neighbours in consternation. Not many knew, she guesses. Well, they do now.

Sandy Denny calls out: ‘It’s his loss, Elf, not ours.’

Before Elf starts crying, she jumps straight into ‘Oak, Ash And Thorn’, her old show-opener and the first song she ever performed in front of strangers at the Kingston Folk Barge. Her voice is stiff and reedy, and wavers on a couple of top Cs. Her slimmed-down, Bruce-less version isn’t terrible, but it isn’t great. Next, Elf strums the chords for ‘King Of Trafalgar’, her best song off the ‘Shepherd’s Crook’ EP … but she chickens out after the third bar of the intro. Without Bruce’s guitar, it’ll be anorexic. What do I play instead? The pause is growing. So she goes back to ‘King Of Trafalgar’, and fluffs the G minor to E7 on the bridge. Only the better guitarists notice, but the song feels skimpy. The applause is polite. Next she plays ‘Dink’s Song’ from the Lomax anthology. Bruce does a great banjo line over it, now missing; missing, too, are his upper octave ‘fare thee well’s. Better versions than Elf’s can be heard at a dozen folk-clubs up and down the country, right now. It occurs to Elf that she’s still doing a Fletcher & Holloway set, but Fletcherlessly. Now what? The new songs? Of the four new songs intended for the Fletcher & Holloway LP, two are love songs for Bruce, the third is a blues-piano ode to Soho that doesn’t have a name yet, and the fourth is a jealousy ballad, entitled ‘Never Enough’. She doubts she’ll be able to get through the Bruce songs without dissolving into a sobbing mess, so she plays ‘Wild Mountain Thyme’. She forgets to change it to a female narrator, so she’s locked into ‘ Will you go, lassie, go? ’ not ‘Will you go, laddie, go?’ At the line, ‘ If you do not go with me, I’ll surely find another ’, she thinks of Bruce and Vanessa undressing each other … while I’m here singing stale old songs …

Only now does Elf notice she’s stopped playing.

There are coughs and shuffling in the audience.

They’re wondering if I’ve forgotten the lines.

Others are wondering, Is she cracking up?

To which Elf would reply, A good question.