‘See what’s happened to Elim, Howard?’
‘Jesus!’
Elim Welsh Congregationalist Chapel had been replaced by red-brick houses surrounded by manicured gardens and little fences.
‘That must mess with your memory circuits, Howard.’
‘I used to hate the place. I feel worse about the Vic being turned into a house.’
‘C’mon, there must be some good memories. That’s where you first got married, right, in 1967? On a Thursday, wasn’t it?’
That was, indeed, a good memory. Loads of people turned up to witness my marriage to Latvian beauty Ilze Kadegis. It was followed by a hard-core drinking competition in Kenfig Hill’s pubs between the Welsh and visiting Latvians. Both sides definitely lost.
Not only was Elim Chapel where I had lost my bachelorhood, it was also where I had lost my virginity some years earlier. This had happened on a Saturday.
On Friday evenings during the early 1960, the vestry of Elim Welsh Congregationalist Chapel served as the only youth club in the community. This weekly transformation was achieved by pushing the pews and chairs to the side, placing a Dansette record player on a bench, and setting it to continuous full volume. I and other village teenagers brought our 78s, and taught each other to jive before snogging and smoking in the dark rooms and cellars adjoining the vestry. As I was one of the very few kids who was both a member of the youth club and the chapel, I was entrusted with the keys, and it was my duty to go there every Saturday morning to tidy up.
On one particular Friday, a new girl, Susan Malone, whom I had asked for a date a few days before, came to the club. I went up to her and asked her to dance just as the Shirelles were singing those very same words. We jived furiously to Danny and the Juniors’ ‘At the Hop’, then moved into one of the unlit rooms for a frantic snogging session that left us breathless but wanting more, lots more. I asked if I could walk her home, and she agreed with far more enthusiasm than I had expected. Susan lived in a caravan and was the daughter of an Irish construction engineer who had just started a three-month contract at Port Talbot. I secured another date for the next afternoon, but I had no idea where to take her. It was bound to be raining, and we were too young for the pubs. Overnight I had a brainwave. I would leave the club-tidying chore until the afternoon and take Susan with me.
We sneaked into the damp vestry. Cigarette butts and sweet wrappings littered the wet floor, but the chapel was much warmer, ready for Sunday’s services. I switched on the organ and, out of respect, played some classical chords. Then I played ‘The Twist’. We lay down on the front pew. And then I shagged her. We had a few more dates over the next month, after which she left the locality as suddenly as she had arrived.
‘Shall we go to the Oak, Howard? The Masons has just been pulled down.’
Marty and I walked into the public bar of the Royal Oak. We were completely ignored; everyone was transfixed by the rugby match on television. Wales lost; nevertheless, the pub would still stay open continuously for two days and play host to hundreds of tales of successful and heroic Welshmen, past and present. As the drink flowed, the tales got taller.
‘Well, now they finally have the proof,’ said Eddie Evans, the village sage. ‘Elvis was Welsh.’
‘You mean Tom Jones, don’t you, Eddie,’ said Ivor Prior, who loved to catch Eddie out. ‘And you are right, Eddie. Tom was born in Treforest. His real name is Tommy Woodward.’
‘I’m not talking about him. I’m talking about the real original Elvis, Elvis Presley.’
‘How do you mean, Eddie?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? His mother’s name was Gladys, and they’ve now found out that his surname a few generations back was Preseli, same as the mountains in Pembroke where the stones in Stonehenge come from.’
‘But Elvis is hardly a Welsh name, Eddie,’ I protested, a little discomfited to hear that my god’s grandfather might have been a neighbour of my grandfather.
‘Of course it is, Howard. I thought you would have known that, having been to Oxford. Elvis was the name of the bishop who baptised our patron saint, St David. The parish of Elvis still exists. It’s very small, but it’s definitely there. No doubt at all. It’s not far from St David’s itself, which, as you should know, is the smallest city in the world.’
‘How did they move those bloody huge stones from Pembroke to Salisbury then, Eddie? There’s a question for you,’ said Ivor Prior.
‘There’s two theories. One is they were taken by boat; the other is that the great wizard Merlin moved them. Take your choice, Ivor.’
‘How the hell can a boat get to Salisbury? It’s not even on the coast.’
‘Ever heard of rivers, Ivor?’
‘There’s no river from Pembroke to Salisbury, Eddie,’ said Ivor a little uncertainly.
‘Obviously not, but there is a river from Pembroke to the bloody sea, and there is another river from the bloody sea to Salisbury.’
The pub liked this explanation.
‘Merlin was Welsh,’ added Eddie.
‘Doesn’t sound like much of a Welsh name,’ teased Ivor. ‘You’re not getting mixed up with Mervyn, are you?
‘Merlin is what the bloody French call him,’ explained Eddie. ‘His real name was Myrddin, and he was born in Carmarthen, which is shortened from Caer Myrddin. He died near there as well, after ruling the roost for a bit at Stonehenge. Awful boy he was too.’
‘In what way, Eddie?’ I asked.
‘Well, just think a bit about it. Merlin’s father was the Devil. His mother was a virgin. And he ends up telling Arthur, the ruler of the first Christian kingdom, how to run the country. Don’t forget Camelot was very close to here – in Caerleon, just by Newport, in fact.’
‘That’s really interesting, Eddie. I wish I could stay and listen to more, but I’d better go now. I’m doing a show tonight at Porthcawl.’
‘As if we didn’t bloody know that already,’ said Eddie. ‘The whole village has been talking about bugger-all else. Why anyone should pay good money to listen to you chopsing on a stage about smoking weeds is beyond me. What a waste of an Oxford science education. What a bloody waste!’
‘Would you prefer I was a nuclear physicist, Eddie?’ I said walking to the door.
‘You’ve got a point. No, I’m only joking. Good luck tonight, boy bach. Break a leg, as your understudy might say. That’s where the saying came from you know: a Welsh actor was once performing …’
Marty and I left. Eddie’s voice receded as my mobile picked up several voice messages: Martin Baker was waiting in his car in Waunbant Road; Christine from Lloyds asked if she could have twelve tickets to give the bank staff; Polly, the area’s best skunk grower for the last ten years, wondered if she should bring some buds along tonight; Leroy, my Jamaican friend from Terre Haute prison and current security man, had called from Birmingham to say he had got lost driving from London but knew the way now; and Kelly Jones of the Stereophonics asked if I could ring him back.
‘Hi, Kelly. Howard here.’
‘All right, butt? Tell you why I called: I heard you were doing a show tonight.’
‘That’s right. You want to come along?’
‘Aye, but any chance of another ticket as well, like? I can have a lift down then.’
Kelly is one of the country’s highest-paid rock stars and could probably have a fleet of limousines on twenty-four-hour call without noticing the cost, but you can’t take the valleys out of that boy. It was hard enough getting him out of the valleys.
‘No worries, Kelly. You can have more if you want.’
‘No, two is fine, butt. Thanks, How. Good luck for the show.’
‘Hello, Polly. Just got your message. Everything all right?’
‘Oh hello, Howard. Yes, everything is fine, thanks. Do you want me to bring something along tonight?’
‘Of course.’
‘Right, I will. You’ll never ever guess what it is: it’s my first crop of your Mr Nice Seedbank’s Su
per Silver Haze. I haven’t tried it myself yet, but it looks as if it’s going to be the best I’ve ever grown or known.’
Back outside the house, I introduced Marty to Martin.
‘Hello, Marty. I’ve heard a lot about you. Any chance of filming an interview with you later?’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ answered Marty. ‘Last time I answered any questions about his nibs here, I was put in jail for a few years. Sorry. No offence, but I’d better say no right away and be on the safe side. Well, I’ll be off now to pick up my mother from bingo. See you later, How. Best of luck and all that.’
I led Martin Baker into the house.
‘I find that a lot of people I was hoping to interview take the same attitude, Howard. I hope Leroy won’t be the same. Do you think he’ll agree to be interviewed?’
‘If he ever gets here, yes. Just keep off his past.’
‘Shit! There’s nothing else I want to know about him other than his past. I’d better get to the venue; it’s five o’clock. I’m late as it is. Ian’s there already, I suppose?’
‘Yes, of course. He’s been there since two.’
‘I should have guessed. See you later. Good luck.’
Ian Johnstone was my tour manager. His duties, invariably executed with complete professionalism, included setting up the lighting, sound equipment and props, ensuring the dressing room had ample booze, fags and cigarette papers, determining from the venue’s management their attitude to tobacco and dope being smoked on stage, in the dressing room and in the auditorium, and lastly every tour manager’s nightmare – managing the guest list and any after-show activities. The show had been hosted by venues ranging from subterranean ecstasy clubs to pristine theatres staffed by old-aged pensioners wearing evening dress. Rules varied. The Royal Pavilion, Porthcawl was a council-subsidised music and pantomime venue. The management might be difficult. It was time I called Ian.
‘They don’t seem too bad here, Howard. All the props are on stage, the dressing room is equipped as usual; smoking is allowed in the auditorium; but they want you to sign a declaration that you won’t use any illegal substances. Apparently, there’s going to be a demonstration against your appearing here. The management want to cover their backsides.’
This was nothing new. I had done well over 200 shows. At each of them I had smoked either a bong of marijuana or a joint of hashish on stage. Although venue personnel and the odd season ticket holder must have called the authorities dozens of times, local police had not once done anything about it. But it was always possible they might. Accordingly, licence holders and the like often wanted to ensure they weren’t compromised. This was easily achieved by my signing a piece of paper stating that I would behave myself. It never stopped me lighting up, obviously, but it made matters easier for them. And we actively encouraged demonstrations by out-of-touch parents; it was great publicity.
‘No worries, Ian. I’ll sign the paper as usual. There probably won’t be more than a handful of demonstrators. Just give them free tickets; it’ll liven up the show a bit.’
‘Well, I think we are more than sold out, Howard. I trust you don’t have too much of a guest list.’
‘I’ll bring it down with me. There might be a few, I’m afraid.’
‘Fuck! They might have to stand at the back. I’ll send a cab to pick you up?’
Outside the venue, the long queue waiting for the doors to open jeered at the small group of protesters carrying placards decrying the dangers and evils of drugs. A smaller line clutching copies of Mr Nice was outside the stage door. Ian was by an unmarked door, flashing his torch at the cab. He had done his research, as always. The door opened. Then an almost invisible figure jumped out of the shadows.
‘Hello, Taff. How are you? I didn’t expect to see you here.’
Taff was rarely seen working anywhere outside a festival or holidaying anywhere outside a tepee village.
‘Not so bad, How. Remember last Glastonbury you said I could come to one of your shows?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘Well is it all right if me and six of my friends come to the show tonight?’
‘Sure, Taff. Just give the names to Ian here.’
‘But he’s the cunt who just told me to fuck off.’
‘OK, give them to me then. Ian probably didn’t realise you were a friend of mine.’
‘No, I suppose not. But I did tell him, like. Anyway, thanks a lot, How. Good luck for the show.’
I had a look at the stage. Cameras, lights and props were all in place. The microphone worked and was at the right height. The way to and from the dressing room was clearly marked by strips of shiny white tape stuck to the stage floor. I gave the OK for the venue doors to open, put my guest list into Ian’s hands, and walked off the stage as Ian began playing the first track from the walk-in CD, ‘I Just Want to Smoke It’ by the Super Furry Animals.
Leroy greeted me in the dressing room.
‘Hey, mon, di road signs a bullshit. Mi tek more dan six hours fi gu.’
Leroy Bowen is a mustee, fifteen sixteenths black and one sixteenth white. I first met him while serving my prison sentence at the United States Federal Penitentiary, Terre Haute, Indiana. Born in Jamaica, he survived a cut-throat childhood in Kingston’s Spanish Town and rose to become a sergeant major in the army, a special security policeman and finally the governor of Jamaica’s personal bodyguard. While holidaying in the United States Leroy inadvertently overstayed his visa and was sent to Oakdale Aliens’ Detention Center for deportation. He witnessed several incidents of physical and mental abuse of his countrymen by the institution’s staff and began to complain. The complaints turned into an organised prisoners’ protest; the protest turned into a riot. The prison was burned down, and Leroy sentenced to several years’ imprisonment at Terre Haute. We spent most of those years together and were deported the same day from Oakdale in Louisiana, where his problems had begun. It was the most important day in both our lives. I remember so well how we looked at each other and at the prison space we were leaving behind. Then we looked again at each other.
These were no mere glances; they were attempts to understand the intense emotions suddenly swamping our minds, the confusing but comforting knowledge of a common destiny, a shared future. Had I known Leroy in every previous lifetime but only, at that moment of intense farewell, just started looking through his eyes rather than at them? Would we one day work or scam together? We had both been shafted enough by those we had trusted in our respective lives, those for whom we would have gladly risked our lives, done our time inside, not grassed and never cheated. Could we ever trust anyone again, ever correctly predict anyone’s actions or ever even give a fuck? Leroy and I hadn’t dared talk about scamming – too many hacks, too many grasses, too many listening walls and far too many nosy troublemakers. But through those 10,001 games of Scrabble, chess and backgammon, we had learnt each other’s deviousness, ruthlessness and courage. We had always respectfully looked away when the other had tears to be stifled; we had never dared share a bad mood and had always tried to find somewhere else to shit. ‘Su dis a Wales. Yeah, mon. At las. Mi finally dyah.’
Several decades ago Leroy’s family had set out from Jamaica for Britain, and had come to Tiger Bay, Cardiff for fortune and fun. That was the last Leroy had heard of them. Until we became friends Leroy had not even realised his last name was Welsh – Bowen is an abbreviation of ap Owen – or that Tiger Bay, the first-ever British Jamaican community, was in the heart of Wales’s capital city.
‘So dis a yo home town, mon. Yo mus feel irie.’
‘I feel more nervous performing here than anywhere else in the world, Leroy.’
Ian barged in looking hassled. ‘Howard, they’re saying sixty-five is far too big a guest list. There just isn’t room, even if they all stand. And they are absolutely adamant about no more than twelve in the dressing room at any one time.’
‘Don’t worry, Ian. Lots of them won’t turn up. You know what i
t’s like. And Leroy can control the numbers in and out of the dressing room. But can you ask them if they can put aside a special room for an after-show party? That will take the heat off a bit.’
‘Not off me it won’t. But I’ll do what I can. Some local papers want to interview you. I told them to wait until after the show and that I couldn’t promise anything. By the way, there’s someone called Polly outside. She says you know her.’
‘Oh yes. Get her in as soon as possible. She has something I need. Take Leroy with you.’
Soon afterwards, Polly walked in with a few of her friends, closely followed by Taff and his motley gang. Polly handed me a packet of skunk. I asked Taff to skin up while I got my scripts together. Leroy came in with some letters left for me at the stage door. Most were invitations from people to go to their houses after the show for a smoke and a chat; some were requests for autographs and signed photographs; all wished me good luck for the show. But there was one long letter from an ex-workmate of my father’s about how Dad would turn in his grave if he knew the extent of my depravity in encouraging drug use among the youth of today. The twat obviously didn’t know my father very well; nevertheless, the letter made me even more nervous.
‘Twenty minutes before show,’ yelled Ian from the other side of the dressing-room door.
I offered drinks all round and downed a pint of bitter.
‘Here you are, How. You have this one, and I’ll roll one for us lot. It looks excellent stuff, by the way,’ said Taff, handing me an unlit spliff.
Ian yelled again as I sparked it up: ‘Ten minutes. Who the fuck is Psychic Dave?’
‘He’s one of my oldest friends, Ian; you have to let him in. Leroy’s on his way to get him.’
Psychic Dave was Dave Leatham. Back in the late 1960s he and Marty Langford were my first dope-smuggling employees. Unlike Marty, Dave escaped imprisonment and he became a fortune-telling fugitive on the streets of New Orleans. Now he was trying out his mystic skills in Tenerife in the winter and Cardiff in the summer. He had asked if he could come to my dressing room with his tarot cards and tell people’s fortunes and I had agreed.