Дэвид Митчелл - Utopia Avenue

A motorbike drove by. Elf remembered Dean’s Nan’s house in Gravesend. That was a happier place in happier times.

‘Can we do anything that’d help you back?’ asked Levon.

Griff made no reply.

Elf heard a train in the distance.

‘What would Steve want you to do?’ asked Jasper.

Elf flinched at the rawness of the question.

Griff stared at Jasper, murderously.

Jasper looked back as if they were discussing the weather.

A minute may have passed.

‘Fook off,’ said Griff, and left the room.

They drove back to London in near silence. Elf thought how quickly the Wheel of Fortune spins. The future of Utopia Avenue was suddenly up in the air. Yet a week before Bruce had sold an option on his song ‘Whirlwind in Your Heart’ to Andy Williams’ company for $800. It was only an option, but the money was real.

It was late when Elf finally got home. Bruce poured her a glass of wine, massaged her feet and listened to her sad account of the sad day. Elf had a bath and they went to bed.

Dean’s bass hangs loose while he plays his harmonica thirstily, texturing the notes by flapping his palm over the vents. The sound loops-the-loop in the low cavern of McGoo’s, a winged solo with teeth. and Elf vamps the bass-line on the piano. Griff keeps time with rim-shots and Jasper plays his Stratocaster like a rhythm guitar. The crowd’s gripped. It’s the best feeling – you write a song – you work on it – you polish it – you tweak it – you play it – you watch hundreds, thousands, more thousands inhabit it … Holy Cow, I love what I do. There’ll be adjustments, but Elf knows that ‘Prove It’ will make the next LP. If Ilex want a next LP. Elf doesn’t want to jinx the future by assuming there is one, though this show is giving her hope that Utopia Avenue is properly back – and, somehow, better than before. Word will get back to Victor French. Having Griff back behind the drum-kit gives her hope, too. She looks at the drummer. He’s still not playing Dean’s heavier numbers with quite the thump he used to, but he’s doing well …

Levon tried to speak to Griff in the first week of February. Griff refused to come to the phone. Levon sent a telegram asking him to put a call through to Moonwhale. Griff did not reply. Levon drove back to Hull – again – with Elf. When they arrived, Griff’s Mum was in floods of tears. Griff had slipped out of the house two days previously, leaving only a note in his dyslexic handwriting that might have read, ‘Gone away for a bit don’t worry, Pete’ – but it was hard to be sure. None of his friends or family in Hull knew where he was – in fact, they had hoped he’d gone back to London. Levon left a letter with his dad to give Griff if he came back. It gave Griff a deadline of Friday to tell them if he wanted to carry on in the band or not. If they didn’t hear from him, they would assume it was a no and audition for a replacement. Elf and Levon began the long drive back to London for the second time in ten days.

At lunchtime on Thursday, Elf’s telephone rang as she staggered into her flat with her and Bruce’s laundry. ‘Hello?’

Pips peeped, a coin clunked, and a Yorkshireman said, ‘Eh up.’

‘Griff?’

‘Elf.’

‘Are you leaving the band?’

‘Don’t be soft. Why? Do you want me out?’

‘Don’t you be soft. None of us does. But you vanished.’

‘And now I’ve un-vanished.’

‘Have you told Levon and the others?’

A pause. ‘Could you tell ’em?’

‘Uh – sure. I’ll try. Levon’s been out of town and Jasper and Dean might have left. It’s great news. But …’

‘But what?’

‘We thought we’d lost you. Why did you change your mind?’

A pause. Elf hears the noise of a pub.

‘I … worked out what Steve’d want me to do.’

Elf waited for Griff to tell her, but he didn’t. ‘Okay.’

‘Are you rehearsing at Pavel’s today?’

‘Yes.’ Elf looked at the clock.

‘See you there, then. Usual one o’clock kick-off?’

‘Woah, wait – are you here in London?’

‘Aye. The Duke of Argyll.’

‘Round the corner?’

‘Money’s going.’ The pips peeped.

Dean’s harmonica frays at the end of the solo, McGoo’s roars, and Dean takes up his bass again, pleased as hell with himself because there are few prizes as hard-won and golden as the approval of six hundred Scots, especially if you’re English. He checks with Elf – who nods, Ready – and Dean’s bass-line comes in over her left hand, freeing her up for the next verse. In folk music, there is an element of acting in character: Elf, after a lengthy solo, would need to summon up the song’s character again and switch from soloist to wronged ex-virgin, highwayman, whaler – and the audience would be required to play along with the artifice. If ‘Prove It’ is working, it’s because Elf is singing as herself and from her exposed heart. This is why it’s painful and this is why it’s powerful. She looks at the Pictish Queen and tells her true story of love, betrayal and loss:

One Wednesday morning she ironed his shirts,

When she heard her own song on the radio.

‘How dare you?’ she cried. ‘Calm down,’ he said,

‘I taught you all that you know – and

Prove that it’s yours, if you can, go ahead –

Just prove it – in court – just prove it.’

‘So yer back,’ Dean said to Griff at Pavel Z’s. Elf hadn’t been able to reach him or Jasper that lunchtime and could only leave a message for Levon with Bethany at Moonwhale. Now all three arrived at Pavel’s bar at once.

Pavel Z was drying glasses with a cloth.

Griff was adjusting his drum-stool. ‘Aye.’

Levon shot Elf a glance: Did you know?

Her look told him, Yes, but just go with the flow.

Griff tightened a wingnut.

Elf played a few Bill Evans chords on the Steinway.

‘Are you fit enough to travel?’ asked Levon.

Griff played a quick cascade around his kit, thwacking the cymbal last of all. ‘I’d say I am. Are you?’

Dean and Levon turned to Jasper.

The heroes of Poland watched from the wall.

Light fell in a bright curtain through the skylight.

Griff took out a cigarette and looked for matches.

Jasper walked over and flicked open his Zippo.

‘Obliged.’ Griff leaned forward, Dunhill in his mouth.

‘Any time.’ Jasper put his lighter away and unclipped his guitar case. ‘So we’ve all been working on this new thing of Elf’s …’

A blur of days passed. Elf was doing some ironing to Radio 1. The Hollies’ ‘Jennifer Eccles’ was playing. The song was less trippy than the band’s last single, ‘King Midas in Reverse’. Elf wondered if psychedelia had been a flash in the pan, like Dean had always claimed. Tony Blackburn introduced the next song: ‘Coming up now is the wonderful Shandy Fontayne, a Texan singer who scored a string of hits three or four years ago. I hope you love her lovely new release, “Waltz For My Guy”, as much as I do, because I think it’ll be one of the hits of ’sixty-eight …’

The intro sounded familiar. Elf couldn’t put her finger on why. The C, F, B flat and E sequence gave the song a jazz feel, but a brass section pulled it in a bluesier direction. Shandy Fontayne came in with the vocal melody. Elf found herself predicting its every turn. At the chorus, the sickening truth smacked her in the face: ‘Waltz For My Guy’ was ‘Waltz For Griff’, with a brassy production and lyrics. The tune and chords weren’t merely similar: they were exactly the same. This was theft. She smelt singed cotton. Her new Liberty blouse was burning …

Bruce’s key turned in the lock. ‘God, those lads still can’t play “Greensleeves” without murdering it … What’s up?’