Broken Birdie Chirpin (2 page)

Becky
was my first girlfriend. She popped up at a half-dozen of my schoolyard shows
with the determination of an insurance salesman and the face of a fallen angel.
I fancied her but always scurried off to avoid making a plonker out of myself.
It made her even more desirous. I finally gave her the eye during a mostly
blistering performance just to let her know that I cared. She cornered me at
the back of the school building after the show. I reckoned that I’d spark out
long before she started tearing me to pieces.

"I
like your songs.”

"Thanks."

"And
you're a right fit bloke, aren't you?"

"Right."

"I
can tell you've never been properly kissed though."

"I've
been snogging since I was nine. Haven't you heard?"

"Oh,
so you're a real slapper, eh? Well, show me what you got, slapper." Her
hands landed on her hips as she challenged my faux credentials with a brazen
disregard for decorum. Legging it for the streets seemed like the best option
but I wouldn’t have had a bloody chance. She was twice my size and three times
faster. “That’s what I figured.” She extended her hand towards me. “I’m Becky.”

Handshakes
were for bankers and barristers so there couldn’t possibly be any danger in it.
Blimey. A wave of electricity spread through me the moment our hands touched. I
was mostly convinced she felt it too on account of the goose pimples running up
her arm. Our friendly handshake simply wouldn’t suffice no matter how nervous I
might’ve been. “I’d like to show you what I’ve got after all.” Bold words from
wounded and cornered prey.

“I
suppose that would be alright, slapper. Just a quick one though.” Her lips
pursed ever so slightly as she pulled me in. It was time to negotiate the terms
of my surrender. I moistened my lips and met her somewhere in the middle.
Bloody hell. If rock n’ roll was the Tanqueray then Becky’s mouth was the tall
glass, tonic, rocks, slice of lime, and stirrer.

"Wow…you
are aces, aren’t you?” I responded with a wink as her compliment awakened the
Sir Walter Raleigh within me. There was no time for chit-chat because my tongue
had already set sail for the new world. We exchanged one frenchy after another
for nearly an hour before she finally pulled away. "I’d better shove off
before mum comes looking for me." She made a pouty face, twirled around,
and strutted forth.

"Wait...are
you my girl now?"

"Of
course. See you tomorrow." She blew one final kiss before disappearing
around the corner.

Thoughts
of Becky's soft lips and nimble tongue consumed me as I floated homeward. It
didn't matter that brother tossed his football directly at my bonce when I
reached the garden or that dad laughed. I barely heard mum inquire about my
day. I darted directly to the solitude of my bedroom and captured the entire
glorious experience in melody. Five songs were born in less than an hour,
including "Boomtown Becky" and "Hello Again, Moggy." I
probably could've knocked off a half-dozen more but mum started shouting about
Yorkshire Pudding.

The
usual torturous scene awaited me at supper. Dad was getting mullered while
brother rambled on about how he had it all sussed out. Mum politely took it all
in. Most nights I felt like an inmate at Brixton, but this particular night was
different. I fantasized about my next encounter with Becky to the exclusion of
their tedious chin wagging. Regrettably, Mum ruined it for me with her motherly
instincts and good intentions.

"You're
looking awfully cheery this evening, me duckie." Blimey. Twas open season
as Mum firmly attached a bulls-eye to my arse. I shrugged my shoulders and
stuffed my face with roast beef. "Come on. You're grinning from ear to ear.”

"Looks
to me like he’s up to something." Dad chimed in before swigging his pint.
The window had been cracked just enough to let brother climb right through.

"He's
probably thinking about some bloke he fancies." Brother was as original as
he was kind. I slammed my napkin on the supper table and shot up. These
meddlesome plonkers weren’t going to ruin the greatest day of my life.
"Nobody excused you from the table. Dad, you’d better do something. He's
off his trolley."

“Let
him be.” Dad’s interest in his Yorkshire Pudding and lager outweighed any
competing desire for confrontation or the domestic discord that might follow
it.

“Can
I have his desert, mum?”

"Please
be kinder to your brother, alright?" Mum's words were the last I heard
before I closed my bedroom door. Her efforts were appreciated but misguided.
Brother possessed the compassion of a shark with its head up a sea lion’s arse.

Literature.
Blah, blah, blah. I never paid Sister Duff any mind. She was carrying on about
the “Duchess and the Jeweller” and some other dim tales that the prats in class
had actually read. It all seemed like such a horrible waste. I’d better things
to do with my time like penning three minute rock n’ roll grenades or
rendezvousing with Becky for a bit of funny business.

My
betrothed would most certainly be awaiting my arrival in the schoolyard after
the bell. I considered ditching my performance so we could snog right off, but
she'd have my plums in a bloody vice if I started making sacrifices
prematurely. I decided to proceed as planned with one notable exception:
"Hello Again, Moggy" would make its schoolyard debut. Becky would
bite my arm off for some hanky panky after all that.

Sister
Duff’s forty-five minute reign of tedium finally ended as the school bell rang.
I determinedly snatched my six-string and shuffled off to the yard. A handful
of birds and other assorted misfits were already waiting by the bench. I
slipped by without saying a word as always. A few more stragglers gathered as I
tuned up. Becky had yet to surface, however, and I began to fear the worst.

I
reluctantly tore through six raucous cuts all the while searching for her face
amongst the revelers. No bloody dice. My impromptu guitar solo during the
bridge of “Hello Again, Moggy” was brilliant, but she’d missed it of course.
Her absence felt like a roundhouse to the konk. I tossed my pick into the horde
of slags to end the show and slipped into the deserted alley as they fought
over it. The walk homeward became a mostly unpleasant affair.

"Hey,
slapper, why so soppy?" An unmistakable voice called out from my rear as I
crossed over Cranley Gardens. Perhaps the afternoon could be salvaged after
all.

"Soppy?
I'm the mutt's nuts, haven’t you heard?" Sarcasm oozed from every
syllable.

"You’re
arse over elbow is what you are."

"Where
have you been?"

"Sister
Pranny locked me up. She thought I was being a rude girl, but I was just being
honest. I'm here now though." She grabbed my hand and led me behind the
soopy. "Prudence told me you were aces in the schoolyard today. Sister
Pranny's going to be sorry." I nodded before stepping on the accelerator.
Boom. We snogged each other’s lips off for the next half hour. It felt even
more intense than the day before because I had the confidence of King Richard
Coeurdelion. Becky finally popped up for some air. Regrettably, the expression
on her cherubic face suggested the conclusion of another glorious rendezvous.

"I’ve
got to ramble, slapper. Dad will bend my ear if I'm late, especially if he's
bladdered."

"I'm
not even knackered yet."

"Keep
your chin up. I'll be a right charmer tomorrow so Sister Pranny can't snaffle
our time. I'll see you in the schoolyard." She slapped me with one last
frenchy and skipped off. I studied her strut until she disappeared from view.
Bloody hell. I missed her already.

The
short trip home was interrupted rather abruptly as the frequency through which
I’d grown accustomed to receiving my musical inspiration suddenly changed. A
tsunami of lyric and melody crashed through me unlike anything I’d conjured up
since “Broken Birdie Chirpin.” There was no cynicism or misogyny, or blistering
rock n’ roll chord progressions. A love song had begun sliding down the
creative birthing canal and I needed to get pen to paper post haste.

Blimey.
A horrible sight greeted me at the home front. Brother and his mate Cicero were
drinking pop in the garden. It took but a moment for these jackals to catch a
whiff of their prey.

 "Well
if it isn't your todger of a brother." Cicero was an abomination who spent
an inordinate amount of time mooching off my parents’ cupboards and good will.
He allegedly had a hammer for a foot, so naturally Dad loved him. "How
many plonkers did you hoover at school today?"

"Horses
for courses. Pip pip." Brother always upped the ante when Cicero was
around so I tried to escape quickly.

"Not
so fast." He couldn’t let an opportunity to humiliate me pass him by.
"Dad told me to tell you that it was your turn to trim the hedges before
Thursday night bangers."

"Sod
off. I trimmed the hedges last Thursday."

"Sod
off? That's no way to talk to the bloke who's nicked your little black notebook
from under your pillow." He held it up to confirm that he wasn’t bluffing.

"Blimey."
Mum would box his ears for diddling one of my song books. Brother knew it and
he was ninety-nine percent fanny. It would’ve been rather daft, however, to
call his bluff whilst he had my prized possession, especially with Cicero
encouraging him.

"Better
get on with it tosser." I briefly envisioned myself pruning Cicero with
the hedger and it eased me into surrender like a morphine drip.

"Right."
I exchanged my guitar for clippers and trimmed hedges until Thursday night
bangers.

Brother
returned my notebook when Cicero left. The entire blooming spectacle had been
for Cicero's benefit after all. Brother was happy as long as his mates were.
Unfortunately, his mates were mostly daft and easily amused. No matter. I’d be
sure to forget all about them during my one-off for her majesty at the Royal
Albert Hall.

Fast
forward. A horrible sensation pierced my guts like a shank after my bonce hit
the pillow that evening. Something of critical importance had been lost. I
wracked my weary brain but couldn’t put a finger on it. Bloody hell. It finally
hit me with the force of a lead pipe. I’d never memorialized the lyric and
melody that’d inspired me earlier. I closed my eyes and summoned it back from
beyond but the effort proved futile. Inspiration was fickle and had slipped
away on account of brother’s chicanery. He wouldn’t soon be forgiven.

Perhaps
someday my wayward love song would return home.

Becky
kept her promise. She was in the schoolyard chatting up some of her mates as I
sneaked about. Word of my spectacular performances must have spread because
plenty of fresh faces were on hand. I blasted through "Boomtown
Becky" to kick things off and even winked at its namesake during the
middle eighth. It didn't go unnoticed. I rollicked through a few more before
closing it out with a fiery rendition of a toe tapper called "Jimmy Jammy
Beggar." The loins of the other slags erupted with jealously when I tossed
Becky my pick at the finale. They tried to nick it, but Becky fought them off
with her elbows. The show had been a blinding success.

"Thanks
for the souvenir."

"Cheers
for not hacking off Sister Pranny."

"I
may be shirty but I'm not dim. I couldn't keep my rock n' roller waiting
again." Becky put her soft mitts on either side of my face and kissed me
softly. Her lips tasted like candy floss. I smiled and went in for a frenchy.
Becky interrupted after only a few glorious swirls. "You know you ought to
take me out for a pop or something."

"All
this snogging made you thirsty?"

"I'm
not fooling around. I don't want to earn a reputation." It hadn't crossed
my mind that Becky might fancy more than just snogging in the schoolyard. I
didn't have the social skills to pull off a genuine outing with her. I'd be
exposed as a twit and a fraud. There wasn't a smacker in my piggy bank to top
it off.

"Right.
Piece of cake. A fizzy or two next week then." Twas a little white lie to
appease the respectable bird inside Becky. Fortunately, it did the trick as
Becky pulled me tight against her and drowned me in candy floss until it was
time to part.

"It's
Friday. I suppose we’re not going to be seeing each other for a couple of
days.” She rubbed my arm. “What will I do without you?"

"Rest
those lips, minxy.” I impressed myself with the witty retort.

"Don't
forget about our date.” Blimey. I already had. “We can meet at the back door
after the bell. How about Monday?"

"Right.
Smashing." I’d have an entire weekend to stew in my psychosis.

Becky
scampered away whistling the melody to "Boomtown Becky." She was
chuffed. She could hardly wait to tell her mates that her squeeze wanted to
drop quid on her. I was horribly uneasy. The rock n' roller with the guitar was
bold and interesting. I only waltzed in his shoes for an hour or two. Becky
didn't know the dodgy bloke who walked in my kickers the rest of the time. I'd
be branded a blighter if someone discovered that I was only mysterious because
no one knew what a horrible blighter I was.

An
empty garden greeted me when I arrived home. I felt convinced that brother was
hiding behind the shrubbery. He’d leapt from behind the black chokeberry with
the garden hose and soaked me to my knickers a few weeks before. Cicero stood
behind the winter honeysuckle cackling. Mum scolded brother but it wouldn't
deter him from doing it again.

"I
know your back there, plonker." I listened for noise from the black
chokeberry. Nothing. "I'm getting some rocks from Winchcombe's garden. I'm
gonna toss them at you, you sodding fanny fart. You too, Cicero." Nothing
still. What if they weren't there? This quickly became demoralizing. I grabbed
the handle of my guitar case tightly and walked deliberately towards the front
door. My face crinkled up in anticipation of brother's sneak attack. I was
seconds away from the shrubbery. I braced myself. Nothing. I reached the front
door. Nothing. I was all alone in the garden.

"Mum?"
Mum was in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on a Lancashire Hotpot.
Dad was likely at the Turf Tavern having a pint with his workmates. But where
was brother? He never missed a meal or an opportunity to welcome me home with
an insult or shove.

"Hello,
darling. I hope you’re hungry cause it'll just be the two of us for
supper."

"Where's
brother?" I required further confirmation before fully embracing the
notion of a quiet meal sans the peanut gallery.

"He's
off at his football retreat, remember? He won't be back til Sunday
afternoon." Brilliant. "Take a load off."

Mum
and I hadn’t been alone together in a millennium. We stuffed our faces with
Lancashire Hotpot, chased it with ice cold pop, and chit-chatted like old
mates. Only after I’d been plied with gooseberry tarts, however, did her modus
operandi reveal itself.

"Is
school going alright?"

"I
haven't seen Headmaster Moobs in a few."

"Headmaster
Moobs, eh? I haven't heard that one before." Mum chuckled. "Have you
learned anything from Sister...oh, what do you call her...Sister Duff?"

"Not
really." It didn’t help that I hadn’t read a lick all semester of course,
but mum needn’t trouble herself with the particulars of my academic prospects
anyway. We sat in silence for a moment before mum finally put her cards on the
table.

"Well,
tell me what you’ve been daydreaming about at supper the last few nights. Have
you met a special girl?" Mum was a perceptive bird. It had to be the
painter in her. I felt mostly at ease and would’ve told her about Becky but for
the fact that she’d married Il Duce. The thought of her telling him made me
feel manky.

"No.
Nothing like that." My deception clearly saddened her as the delight
written all over her gentle face suddenly disappeared. Perhaps mum deserved
better. Hopefully she understood that my cageyness had nothing to do with her
and everything to do with dad being a horrible wanker. Perhaps that only made
it harder for her to bear. Either way, I might’ve been less of a sack artist if
I’d opened up to her that evening.

"I
suppose my womanly intuition isn’t what it once was.” Mum winked knowingly.
“Anyway, you've got a couple of hours until dad comes home. You should rock n'
roll to your heart's delight. Don't fuss about your chores. I'll get the dishes
cleaned up."

"Thanks,
mum. You're mostly alright." I think she knew I meant it.

I
chugged my last ounce of pop, slammed the glass onto the table, and shot off to
my room. Becky had gotten her foot in the door and things were getting heavy.
Difficult decisions would have to be made. Feelings would have to be hurt. But
it was just me and my guitar for the moment and I had mum to thank for the
simple gift.

Two
songs were written that night. One of them turned out to be rubbish. The other,
"Trade her for a Fiver", sported a tight melody and a rather catchy
hook. I didn't intend it at the time, but it had everything to do Becky and the
aggro that followed.