Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

‘How have the gigs gone?’

‘Our debut was abysmal. It ended with Griff getting hit by a bottle. He had to go to hospital. He’s got a Frankenstein scar.’

Bea covers her mouth. ‘Jesus Christ. You never said.’

‘We were this far’ – Elf indicates half an inch – ‘from packing it in. Levon bullied us into going to our second gig, at the Goldhawk club. That went better. Until some Archie Kinnock fans showed up to hurl abuse at Griff and Jasper for “stabbing Archie in the back”. We left round the back. Our third gig was at the White Horse in Tottenham, where ten people showed up. Ten. Then, joy of joys, some folkies arrived at the end to berate me for “taking the thirty pieces of silver”.’

‘That must have been horrible. What did you say?’

‘“What silver?” The landlord refused to pay. Levon preferred to stay on decent terms than get shirty, so my earnings for that night was half a shandy and a packet of nuts.’

‘I only wish you’d told me.’

‘You’ve got exams and auditions to worry about. I chose all this. Mum would call it making my bed and lying in it.’

Bea lights a cigarette. ‘What about the fourth show?’

Elf chews a crispy bacon rind. ‘The Marquee.’

‘ What? You played The Marquee? The Marquee? And you didn’t invite me? The Marquee? On Wardour Street? In Soho?’

Elf nods. ‘Don’t hate me.’

‘Why didn’t you say? I’d have rounded up half of Richmond!’

‘I know. What if we were booed off?’

The crackle and sizzle of deep frying escapes the kitchen.

Bea looks uncertain. ‘ Were you booed off?’

Elf drops a sugar lump into her coffee and stirs …

The Marquee on Wardour Street was an underground tank of a venue, sloshing with a crowd of six or seven hundred. If someone had died, they would have stayed propped upright until after midnight. Elf was close to puking out of sheer fear. Utopia Avenue were second on a five-band bill entitled ‘Anything Can Happen’, arranged in order of fame, set-length and fee. Below Utopia Avenue was a five-piece from Plymouth called Doomed to Obscurity. Above them were three major acts: Traffic, whose single ‘Paper Sun’ was camped in the Top Five; Pink Floyd, London’s underground band heading overground; and Cream, whose LP Fresh Cream was spinning on a million teenagers’ turntables. A rumour was squirrelling about that Jimi Hendrix was in the venue, or had been, or would be. Steve Winwood was in the office, just up those stairs, being interviewed by Amy Boxer for the NME . God knows what strings Levon had pulled to get Utopia Avenue on this bill, but ‘Anything Can Happen’ was their biggest showcase so far. If they fluffed it, the gig could be their last showcase, too.

Elf had watched Doomed to Obscurity from the side, hoping they’d fulfil the promise of their name. None of the Pink Floyd, Traffic or Cream fans called for an encore. ‘Shift over a mo, Elf.’ Levon and a Marquee dogsbody were staggering past with her Hammond. Elf fought an impulse to flee …

… and suddenly it was time. Elf ordered her body onstage. Griff was setting up his kit. Dean and Jasper found the amp-levels they’d marked at the sound-check earlier. Elf’s body didn’t move. Her left hand was trembling, like her gran’s who had died of Parkinson’s. They had a thirty-minute slot. What if she pooched her chords on the ‘Darkroom’ middle-eighth? What if the crowd hated the electric ‘Any Way The Wind Blows’? What if the words flew out of her head on ‘A Raft And A River’, like they had done at the White Horse?

‘You’ll be fine,’ said Sandy Denny.

‘You’re always here when I need you.’

‘Moroccan courage?’ The singer offered her a lit joint.

‘Yes.’ Elf inhaled, held down the peaty smoke, and let it all out again. The buzz was instant. ‘Thanks.’

‘A big crowd,’ said Sandy. ‘I’m mildly jealous.’

‘They’re not here for us.’ Elf’s fingertips buzzed.

‘Oh, don’t talk bollocks, nobody’s—’ Sandy flapped out a hand and splashed a passing roadie’s beer. ‘Oops, sorry, mate. I’ve heard you rehearse. You’ve got something, you four. Just let it out. And if, if , the crowd are too stupid to appreciate it –’ Sandy slapped the Marshall stack ‘– crank these monsters up. Atomise the bastards.’

Dean appeared. ‘Hi, Sandy. Elf. Ready to go?’

Elf noticed her hand was steady again. ‘Do or die.’

‘Later, we shall imbibe spirits,’ promised Sandy.

Elf walked out and took her place at the keyboards. A chubby heckler leaning on the stage yelled out, ‘Strip joint’s over the road, darlin’!’ and his goons laughed. Liberated by the dope from a fear of consequences, Elf made a pistol with her fingers, aimed at the heckler’s eyes, and – her face deadly serious – mimed shooting him, three times, complete with recoil at the elbow. The heckler’s stupid grin faded. Elf blew away imaginary gun smoke, twirled her make-believe pistol around her trigger finger, slipped it into a make-believe holster and leaned into her mic. The Marquee’s impresario was supposed to introduce the band, but Elf waved him away. ‘We are Utopia Avenue,’ she told the Marquee, Soho and all England, ‘and we intend to shoot you down.’ She glanced at Griff, who looked surprised, holding his sticks poised in his ‘Go’ position; at Dean, whose approving nod told her, Ready ; at Jasper, who was waiting for Elf’s ‘A-one, a-two, and a—’

Elf drops a second sugar cube into her coffee. ‘It went pretty well. We started with “Any Way The Wind Blows” . Then one of Dean’s rockier numbers, “Abandon Hope”. Then a new song of Jasper’s, “Darkroom”. Then my new one, “A Raft And A River”.’

‘Lucky Marquee. It’s not fair. When can I hear it?’

‘Soon, sis. Soon.’

‘Did you meet Steve Winwood?’

‘Well … actually, after our encore he came up and said a few kind words about my Hammond playing.’

‘Oh, my God,’ says Bea. ‘What did you say?’

Elf inhales coffee steam. ‘I just squeaked, “Thanks”, blurted out some stream-of-consciousness claptrap, and watched him go.’

‘Nice bum?’

‘I honestly didn’t notice.’ Sandie Shaw’s ‘Puppet On A String’ comes on the café’s radio. ‘If I ever record anything this simpering, give me a stern talking-to about those thirty pieces of silver.’

‘She’s getting more than thirty pieces, I bet. This song’s everywhere.’ They listen to the chorus.

Suddenly Elf can’t stand it any more. ‘We’ve split up. Me and Bruce. The duo’s finished. He’s staying in Paris. He dumped me. In February. It’s over.’ Elf’s heart’s pounding as if it’s happening now. ‘Now you know.’ I’m not going to cry. It’s been three months. She steels herself for Bea’s shock and outrage.

Bea looks unfazed. ‘I guessed.’

‘How?’

‘Every time his name came up, you’d change the subject.’

‘What about Mum and Dad and Immy?’

Bea examines her lilac fingernails. ‘If I’ve worked it out, Mum has. Dad’s clueless. Immy? I’m prrretty sure she’s not relying on Holloway and Fletcher for musical interludes at the wedding. Has she mentioned Bruce or your wedding booking lately?’

Actually, no. ‘ Why didn’t you say anything?’

‘Tact.’ Bea drains her coffee cup. ‘Bruce was charming, but charm in a guy is a warning sign. Like black and yellow stripes in nature mean, “ Watch out, there are stings near this honey ”.’

Elf is trembling and isn’t sure why. Her eyes meet the Mona Lisa ’s above Mrs Biggs’s till. The most famous half-smile tells Elf, Suffering is the promise that life always keeps.