Short Story: LAVENDER’S BLUES by Paul D. Brazill

SOMEWHERE IN THE NORTH OF ENGLAND, EARLY ‘70s …

TOM RAVEN’s footsteps echo as he walks across the rusty, metal railway bridge. He is a big man, wearing a black overcoat, black work boots, a red scarf, and a black trilby. A steely fog spreads itself across the town and he can no longer see the trains creeping slowly below him although he can hear them as they rasp and groan.

Tom walks carefully down the steps and pauses at the bottom. A foghorn sounds. Smudges of streetlamps trail off into the distance. He walks down the cobble stoned street, past the rows of partially demolished terraced houses that look like broken teeth in the wan light. In the distance, an old blues song plays and a dog growls.

Tom turns into a darkened alleyway.

BUTCH BENSON, a fat, denim-clad skinhead, steps out of the shadows, pulling up the zip on his jeans.

He laughs.

‘Oh, dear, Oh, dear. What do we have here? Detective Sergeant Raven all on his lonesome. I thought I could smell bacon. What brings you out on a godforsaken night like this?’ says Butch Benson. ‘Cottaging?’

‘Ah, Butch. So delightful to see you again,’ says Tom. ‘It’s always a pleasure, never a chore and all that, though you must be well aware that I’m no longer a policeman. In fact, I’ve just recently retired, as it happens. For medicinal reasons, of course.’

He frowns and pats his stomach.

‘Yeah, I’d heard something about that. You made a bollocks of something and someone croaked, or something. Not that it matters to me, mind you,’ says Butch.

He pulls a knuckle duster from his pocket and winks at Tom.

‘In fact, that just makes kicking the shite out of you even more of an offer I can’t refuse.’

‘Really?’ says Tom.

‘Oh, yeah, really,’ says Butch. ‘You only live once, eh?’

He winks.

‘Apparently, though James Bond has other views on that, it seems,’ says Tom.

‘Ha bloody ha,’ says Butch.

The two men are stood in a fog smothered alleyway, illuminated only by the light from a nearby church.

Tom steps forward and punches Butch in the stomach but the skinhead takes a step back and grins.

‘Is that the best you can do Boris?’ he says. ‘I thought you Ruskies were supposed to be hard?

Tom sighs.

He loosens his scarf and coat.

‘A point of order, please, Butch. To begin with, my name, as you well know, is Tom and not?Boris.’

He swiftly moves forward and punches Butch in the jaw. The skinhead staggers back.

‘Further, I’m not a Russian. I am English although my late father was, indeed, Polish.’

Tom punches the skinhead again. Butch staggers and falls backwards into a puddle of dirty water. He struggles to sit upright and drops the knuckle duster. He raises a hand.

‘Here, steady on, mate, eh?’ says Butch. ‘I was only …’

Tom smiles.

‘And I am, to use your vernacular, in fact, hard. Very hard indeed.’

He karate kicks Butch who falls flat onto his back, out for the count.

Tom bends down and picks up Butch’s knuckleduster. It has a swastika design. He sighs and puts it in his overcoat pocket. He walks toward a blinking, neon sign at the end of the alleyway. He straightens his coat and opens the door to THE SHAGGY DOG pub. He steps in.

The pub is smoky, dark and dingy. Tom takes off his cap and muffler and walks toward the bar.

DOT, the pub’s chubby landlady, is stood behind the bar with her hands on her hips. She has her hair in a pink beehive and wears a glittery pink dress.

Tom smiles at her.

‘Good evening Dot. You look as if you’re heading off to The Mayfair Club again.

‘Aye,’ says Dot. ‘As per usual. I’ve got me dancin’ shoes on, like.’

She lifts a sparkly pink leg to show a sparkly pink shoe.

‘Oh, very glamorous,’ says Tom.

He looks around the pub. A wiry old man nurses a half-pint of bitter. A pair of sleepy, stevedores sit at another table drinking pints of lager.

‘I see that you’re not particularly busy this evening,’ he says.

‘No, but that’s the way it is these days. What with that fog and the power cuts. I think this bloody miners’ strike will never bloody end, I really do.’

Tom shrugs.

‘These are certainly not the swinging sixties of our youth, that’s for sure,’ he says.

He checks out his reflection in the frosted mirror that hangs behind the bar. He smooths his dyed, jet-black hair and straightens his shirt collar and tie.

‘Anyway, the usual, is it?’ says Dot.

‘Indeed, indeed. No change there.’

Dot pours a pint of bitter and Tom licks his lips.

He pays for his beer and takes it into The Snug.

There is an old man sat in the small room. He is smoking a pipe and doing a crossword in The Sunday Times.

ERIC RUBY looks up and nods at Tom. His bushy eyebrows meet in the middle of his forehead and make him look permanently confused.

‘Evenin’ all. How’s tricks?’ says Eric.

‘Not too tricky, thankfully. And you? I haven’t seen you in here for a while.’

‘I’m not too bad, thanks. Mustn’t grumble. I’ve been working down that London for a few weeks, doing a bit of cash in hand, like.’

‘Oh. How lovely. And did you see the queen whilst you were there?’

‘As near, as dammit. You can’t tell the lads from the lasses down there. They say all that glam-rock fashion’s going to catch on up here sooner than later but I bloody hope not! The wife spends enough on mascara as it is without me chipping in!

They both chuckle.

‘Things change, eh?’ says Tom.

Eric smiles

‘Aye, that they do. But I wouldn’t turn the bloody clock back, I can tell you. Those were real hard times I’ve lived through. Two world wars and the depression in between weren’t exactly a barrel of bloody laughs.’

‘Indeed.’

They drink in silence.

‘By the way, I hope you don’t mind me sticking my neb in,’ says Eric. ‘but I saw that ex-wife of yours is back in town.’

‘Really? Lavender?’

‘Is there any other?’

‘Thankfully not. She was living in the South of France, the last that I heard. I wonder what’s brought her back to the frozen wastelands of the north.’

‘Well, apparently her old gran died and she came back for the funeral.

‘Oh, Granny Annie. I thought she was immortal. She certainly was a … formidable woman.’

‘Well, that’s one way to describe her! Anyway, Lavender told me, to tell you, that she’d be calling in to see you. She needs a favour or something.’

Tom frowns.

‘Oh, deep joy. Well, I’d better spend as much time here as possible, then. Just to be on the safe side.’

Eric smiles and gets to his feet.

And then everything goes black.

‘Oh, buggertion,’ he says. ‘That just what I need, another bloody power cut. Oh, well, off I trot to the little boys’ room, then. Hope I don’t get caught short again.’

He chuckles and follows a path of flickering candles that Dot is lighting to lead the way to the pub’s toilets.

Tom closes his eyes and massages his temples. He hears the door to The Snug open. He knows that it’s too quick for Eric to return from the toilet. And anyway, he can smell Lavender’s perfume anyway.

He opens his eyes and LAVENDER is sat in front of him grinning like a Cheshire cat. She is illuminated by a flickering pink candle. She is dressed in black apart from a paisley purple scarf, and she is holding an urn that presumably contains Granny Annie’s ashes.

‘Hello, babe,’ says Lavender.

‘Hello stranger. I was sorry to hear about your Gran.’

‘No you weren’t. Nobody was. She was a horrible woman.’

‘True, true. Were there many at the funeral?’

‘Not a lot, babe, no. Just the usual suspects … well, the ones that hadn’t already kicked the bucket. I suspect a couple of them were there just to make sure she didn’t crawl back from the grave.’

Tom laughs.

‘Well, if anyone could outwit mortality, I suspect Granny Annie could,’ he says. ‘She was sharp enough to slice your throat.’

‘She was at that,’ says Lavender.

Lavender lifts up a small pink case and puts in on the table.

‘What’s this then? Have you been raiding your late gran’s belongings?’ says Tom.

Lavender pats the box.

‘This is my inheritance, babe,’ she says.

She opens up the box and drags out a slide projector.?She puts a small box on the table. She takes off the box top to reveal a collection of slides.

‘What’s going on here then?’ says Eric, as he comes back into The Snug.

Lavender shrugs.

‘I have no idea,’ she says. ‘Maybe it’s Granny Annie’s memoirs.’

Dot comes into The Snug. She is carrying a tin tray. On it are four glasses of rum and a few packets of crisps.

‘Are we having a bit of a film show, then?’ says Dot.

Lavender pats the projector.

‘It would be nice,’ she says. ‘but we’ve no plug even if we had electricity.’

Eric laughs. He lifts up the projector.

‘It’s battery operated, pet,’ says Eric. ‘The wife’s got one at home. She has some pictures from when she was in that big band with Kipper. Her glory days, she calls them.’

Lavender takes a couple of slides from the box and hands them to Eric.

‘Let’s have a gander at a few of these, then,’ says Lavender. ‘If you don’t mind doing the honours, Eric.’

‘My pleasure, pet,’ says Eric.

The others sip their drinks as Eric sets up the projector.

‘Praise silence, please,’ says Eric.

The projector buzzes as Eric turns it to project on a white - plastered wall.

He puts in the first slide. It’s black and white and it shows a woman in a sparkly dress with a beehive hairdo dancing in a crowded nightclub. She is holding a bottle of champagne. A pair of massive identical twins wearing expensive suits stand either side of her, linking their arms and grinning at the camera.

‘Is that who I think it is,’ says Eric.

‘Well, it certainly looks like the Kray Twins …’ says Tom.

He turns to Lavender.

‘London’s most notorious gangsters and your grandmother? A match made in … hell?’

Lavender shrugs.

‘I know nothing. Granny Annie was a woman full of secrets.’

The next slide is in colour and blurred. It shows London’s Piccadilly Circus at night. The next slide show’s Granny Annie stood outside her terraced house in Sandringham Road.?She has her arms folded with a rolling pin in one hand. She is grinning, her hair is peroxide blonde. The front door is crimson.

The next slide shows a young Lavender holding a football trophy.

‘I remember when that was taken,’ says Lavender, grinning.

‘Is that the Jules Rimet World Cup?’ says Tom.

‘It is,’ says Lavender.

‘Is it real or a fake?’ says Tom.

Lavender shrugs.

‘Ours is not to reason why, babe,’ she says.

‘Well, that particular trophy has been nicked more times than the Mona Lisa so you never know,’ says Eric, grinning.

The next slide is a black and white photograph of New York’s Times Square. A small group of people are in fancy dress.

Eric puts in the next slide and the projector jams. He sighs and bangs it. It starts up again reveal a colour photograph of Grannie Annie and a group of hippies dancing naked at Stonehenge.

Everyone groans.

‘It looks quite recent, that,’ says Eric, smirking.

‘Oh … my … God,’ says Lavender, peering through her fingers. ‘I really wish I hadn’t seen that. Change it please.’

‘Your wish is my command,’ says Eric.

A series of travel slides follow. Some are in colour and some are in black and white. One shows Granny Annie sat on the steps outside The British Museum.

There is a cough.

Tom looks up to see MALCOLM BENSON stood in the doorway. He wears a tuxedo and a black fedora. He smokes a French cigarette. The light of the cigarette tip appears and disappears in the darkness.

‘Sorry to intrude upon you stroll down memory lane,’ says Malcolm. ‘But young Lavender and I have a little business to attend to.’

Lavender smiles.

‘Flattery will get you everywhere,’ she says.

She hands Malcolm the crematorium urn. He puts it under an arm and takes a brown envelope from his pocket. He gives it to Lavender.

‘Cheers my dear,’ she says.

‘Can I get you a drink, Malcom,’ says Dot.

‘Ah, would that I could,’ says Malcolm. ‘But I’m afraid I must return home to chastise my idiot nephew Butch. It appears he has been making a bit of a tart of himself again.’

He looks at Tom. They both nod and Malcolm leaves.

Everyone looks at a slide of Granny Annie singing in a beat group who are dressed like the Beatles, complete with red guitars and drum kit.

‘Are you staying around long?’ says Tom.

‘Not for long, babe,’ says Lavender. ‘I’m supposed to be heading off down the big smoke again next.’

She leans close to Tom.

‘You know, you could give me a lift to London if you want? I assume you’ve still got that Mini Cooper of your dad’s.’

‘Assume makes an ass out of u and me. But yes I still have it, though it’s on its last legs.’

‘Or wheels, to be more precise,’ says Lavender.

‘Or wheels,’ says Tom.

‘Well,’ says Lavender. ‘What do you think?’

‘Oh, I usually try to avoid thinking as much possible these days,’ says Tom.

Lavender pats his hand.

‘It’s probably for the best, babe,’ she says.

Eric shrugs and starts packing the slide-projector and its slides away. He stands up and puts his coat on.

‘Ah, well, time for me to hit the sack. I’ve hit the bottle enough for one night. See you later alligators.’

He waves as he leaves.

‘So, where are you staying? At Granny Annie’s place?’

‘Oh, no. The vultures swept down and sold that dump off before I even got back in the country.’

She moves closer.

‘I was hoping that you could put me up for a few days,’ she says.

‘Hope for the best and expect the worst, eh?’ says Tom.

‘Well, can I twist your arm for another drink, then?’ says Lavender.

‘Mrs Robinson are you trying to seduce me?’ says Tom.

‘I’ll take that as a yes?’

‘Oh, why not?’

‘You only live once, eh?’ says Lavender, standing.

‘Yes, so, I keep hearing,’ says Tom.?

He downs his drink and hands the empty glass to Lavender.

‘In for a penny …’ says Lavender, opening The Snug’s door.

‘… and in for a pound of flesh,’ says Tom, grinning. ‘Though I still don’t understand what Malcolm Benson wants with your gran’s ashes.’

Lavender laughs.

‘You daft bugger,’ she says. ‘Granny Annie wasn’t cremated, was buried. She was a bloody Roman Catholic to the end, wasn’t she?’

‘So what was in the urn?’ says Tom.

Lavender taps the side of her nose.

‘Just a little something that I picked up in Marrakesh, babe,’ she says.

‘Express delivery?’ says Tom.

‘You got it, babe,’ says Lavender.

? Paul D. Brazill