The Outside Of Everything

Chapter 31
The Trumpet Lessons

Message received and understood. An email out of the blue from our Quiet One. Seems he had uncharacteristically ventured out. As far as York. To attend a conference or something. On new departures in graphic design. Or something. But got bored. And had left early. Went for a wander round the city centre. Headed back towards the station. Vaguely. Ended up in a book shop stroke cafe. Refuelled. Nice place. Vegetarian, but nice nonetheless. On the way out he thought maybe he should just check on the best way back to the station. So he asked the lady on the till in the book shop part. And as she turned round she looked exactly and uncannily like a very young Barbara Flynn. Ah, I thought. I can see why our Quiet One would have added all those exclamation marks.

Our Quiet One used to have a terrible crush on the young Barbara Flynn. This was back when The Beiderbecke Affair was first shown on our screens. He had a point. That aside, we absolutely adored that series. It was, for a start, impeccably written. By Alan Plater. One of this country’s great writers. It was also incredibly well acted. By James Bolam. The Likely Lad. Among others. We’d seen James Bolam, in the flesh, before then, playing King Lear, but that’s a different story. The Beiderbecke Affair. The story was very us. Small, albeit odd, guys fighting against the corrupt establishment. With jazz, romance, intrigue, and the philosophising of the immortal Big Al. Plus, of course, Barbara Flynn.

The funny thing about the series, or at least one of them, was that it introduced the name Bix Beiderbecke to a whole new audience. I am quite positive that before the series was shown there were relatively few people of my generation at least who were familiar with the name of the jazz great. We certainly weren’t. And we were getting to that stage where we thought we knew something about jazz. But our jazz. It was very much rooted in the 1950s and 1960s. Blue Note and ESP. We weren’t too aware of roots. We hadn’t even then read the Dorothy Baker book. Young Man With A Horn. That book was destined to become one of our favourites. One of our chosen texts. I’m not sure how relevant it was that it, the Dorothy Baker book, was loosely based on the life on Bix Beiderbecke. Things seemed to fit together though.

And it was around that time that photos of Chet Baker began to register on our consciousness. William Claxton pictures of the young Chet. Chet looking impossibly cool. Before he got lost. Before the pain. With Helima. Or rather Halema. We hardly knew his music then. We hardly knew the myths even. But the look was enough. The young man with a horn. That seemed to sum up jazz. In a way. And it was an incredibly romantic way. We were very susceptible to romance.

So when one of the old boys down on the allotments gave our Quiet One a trumpet, as a gift, one day, well he was smitten. This trumpet. It had been in the family, said the old boy, and nobody had touched it in an age. You’re very welcome to it, he said. I know you like your music. Our Quiet One was incredibly touched. And he held the horn as if it were some priceless religious relic. He polished it until it positively glowed. And raising it to his lips, he held his horn high. We were as jealous as hell, but incredibly pleased for him. He looked the part. I’m going to have to learn to play this thing, said our Quiet One. We nodded, reverentially. It seemed easier said than done.

The answer came, as ever, from an unexpected source. Our Quiet One’s old man was a long-time card carrying member of the Labour Party. Through thick and thin, he had kept up his membership, and there was an old timer who came round collecting his subs every now and then. On one occasion, just after he’d left, our Quiet One’s old man suggested to his son that he should ask the man from The Party to give him some trumpet lessons if he were really serious about that thing. The Quiet One was, like, hang on a minute, what did you just say? Old Bob, the guy who collects my subs, he used to be a music teacher, said our Quiet One’s old man. Was one for years, he added, and I’m sure he did trumpet and other top brass. He might get you started. Well, unbeknown to everyone, the man from The Party had been a strange, secret idol of our Quiet One for quite some time. He loved his faded fastidiousness. The soiled Burberrys mac. The scuffed brogues. The little leather notebook he kept his notes meticulously in. The unkempt white mop of hair. The skew-whiff knitted tie. Sort of somewhere between Colombo and Michael Foot. And he’d had no idea this wonderfully funny little old man was a musician.

So, yes, our Quiet One loved the idea of lessons with the man from The Party, and being too bashful himself he got his old man to pop the question. And Old Bob was delighted with the proposal. A little bit of extra pocket money was always welcome after all. Thus our Quiet One set forth on his musical voyage. It wasn’t a particularly long or successful voyage. But we were pretty proud of the way he mastered the rudiments of the horn, and ‘ere long he could strike a wonderfully Simon Topping type pose. Remember the man from A Certain Ratio? One of our heroes, as well. Or rather one of our saints. Looking back, I think at the time The Quiet One was more taken with his tutor than the actual trumpet lessons. Old Bob’s place was apparently an Aladdin’s Cave, crammed full of old books, sheet music, bric-a-brac, and there was no way of knowing the worth of any of it. But this was the way our Quiet One thought old intellectuals with left leanings should be. He was fascinated. He grew very fond of the old boy, as was his way, so you can imagine it was deeply upsetting to learn Old Bob was being plagued by lowlife, and was tired, very tired.

There was around that time round our way a particular example of lowlife who probably had seen one too many episodes of Minder and the Antiques Roadshow, and fancied himself as a lovable old rogue wheeling and dealing in old ephemera. He was anything but. He was just a nasty old crook, who spent his time preying on the elderly and haunting charity shops, worming his way into the confidences of old dears helping out, to try and pick up the best of the old rubbish that had been collected and donated. He’d then run off like Fagin and try to flog his wares for horribly inflated prices in his grotty little shop which he tried to pass off as a charming emporium filled with antiques and collectibles. His way of worming his way into the confidence of the elderly and vulnerable was stomach churning, and our Quiet One was quite disconcerted to learn he had been plaguing Old Bob simply to get his hands on some of the bric-a-brac that was lying around the place. According to Old Bob the local lowlife seemed particularly keen to get his hands on some costume jewellery he’d heard about. It’s not as though I’ve got anything valuable, said Old Bob. They’re mostly old bits that belonged to my wife, he added, and we couldn’t afford anything too grand. I know I’m a bit short of cash, but I have my pride, and I just don’t trust him, added Old Bob, but he just keeps on at me. It’s wearing me down, he concluded.

We knew about this piece of local lowlife from various sources, not least from our charity shop excursions. We knew his sort. We relished any opportunity to take him down a peg or two, so we patched together a plan. He doesn’t know what you’ve got, we told Old Bob. He just thinks you’re worth a bob or two. And that you’d be a soft touch. Look, we said, we’ve got some old bits and bobs we’ve acquired from various sources. They’re not worth much either, but they look interesting, we added. So, we suggested to Old Bob, why don’t you string him along, and kid him into thinking they’re nice Art Deco pieces of jewellery. He’s a phoney. He’ll not know his Art Deco from his Black and Decker. Sell them to him for next to nothing, and leave the rest to us.

So the sting would begin. We had sat for some considerable time in our favourite cafe plotting this. The plan was that the local lowlife would persist in his hassling of Old Bob. Eventually our man from The Party would give in, and reluctantly agree to sell some of his dear wife’s costume jewellery, including a rather fetching silver Art Deco brooch. The local lowlife will go away thinking he’s been a crafty so-and-so, well pleased with his wicked wheedling and sneaky dealing. He’ll then put his wares out for sale in his seedy shop, where the lovely mum of our friends Taj and Patrick will have her eye caught by a rather attractive silver moonstone brooch. The local lowlife will rub his hands and say that madam has good taste, and that this is an opportunity not to be missed, a beautiful piece of actual Art Deco, and perhaps I may be permitted to pin this on madam’s lapel? And so on, until a sale is made. A tidy profit chalked up too.

The next stage is for Taj and Patrick to burst into the shop some days later and confront the local lowlife in true Roger Cook style fashion. Patrick, fresh from his studies of film making, with a very imposing camera, and the ever resourceful Taj with the scary mike that looks like a dead Persian cat thrust under the nose of the wretched retailer. So tell us about your nefarious practices, says Taj. You what, says the local lowlife? That thing had better not be on, he adds. It is very much on, says Taj, but what is not on is conning elderly ladies and gentlemen. You don’t know what you are talking about, says the lowlife, and proceeds to push Patrick. I wouldn’t do that sir, Taj will say. Not until you’ve told us about this brooch which you’ve passed off as genuine art deco, but which is nothing of the sort. Our viewers will be very interested in this I think, as will trading standards, and the police.

All of a sudden the blowsy belligerence will change into conciliatory concern. Now then lads, the lowlife will say, there seems to have been a bit of a misunderstanding. Perhaps you’d like to turn off those things, and step into the office? I’m sure we can resolve this like sensible adults. Fine, but we will keep the tape running, Taj will say. Our friends in the trading standards are very interested in our investigations, and we’ve promised to get back to them about this interview. Ah, will say the local lowlife, before he capitulates completely and offers a full refund of the monies taken from the boys’ mum, and indeed the bits and bods he took from Old Bob.

And do you know it all worked like a charm. The local lowlife being the charmless coward he was, and Taj being the imperious actor he could have been. So all’s well that ended well. Well, perhaps not as the leopard doesn’t change its spots, and the local lowlife continued to haunt the world of commerce and industry, though thankfully his grotty shop closed before too long leaving him free to branch out into the bright new world of boot sales. But at least he left Old Bob alone.

Our Quiet One returned to his trumpet lessons, albeit briefly. Typically for us, he came to realise that he was perhaps not cut out to be the next Miles, and that his energies were better spent elsewhere. It was a nice idea nevertheless. Still likes his jazz though does our Quiet One. Still likes his Beiderbecke Affair too, it seems.