Gang Of Losers
Chapter Twenty-Four
The work experience at the estate agents came at a good time, Theo reflected. Although he was excited about the prospect of fronting his very own band, he felt that this week-long distraction might afford him some time to unwind and recharge after the traumatic past couple of weeks. He could then attack his new project with renewed vigour.
He was confident that his chosen name of Gang of Losers was a good one. But he started to worry that perhaps it wasn't original. Maybe the phrase resonated with him when Pete said it because it was familiar to his subconscious mind. But how would he find out if there was indeed a band (or a film or a book) already called Gang of Losers?
A good place to start would be to check in record shops to see if anything came up under "G". It was fortuitous that he would be spending the week in Bath, as there were two record shops in the city centre that he could peruse at lunchtimes, as well as a Woolworths, which always had a well-stocked record department. His second option was to casually mention the name in passing to see if any of his friends picked up on it. So he might say something like "Hey did anyone hear that song by Gang of Losers on John Peel's show last night?" And if the question drew blank stares all round, he'd have a good idea that the name was original.
-
When Monday morning came, Theo found that he was able to obey the alarm clock easily enough, and got out of bed to don his estate agent outfit of grey flannel trousers, white shirt, vintage red silk tie and beige sports jacket. On the bus into Bath he thought of various scenarios that might greet him when he arrived at the offices of Cabot Farr: that he had got the wrong week, or turned up at the wrong office, or that he was meant to be there at 8am or 10am, not 9am. On a more positive note, he thought of attractive female co-workers and trips to the pub after work.
The offices of Cabot Farr were situated in the Abbey Churchyard; a five minute walk from the bus station. Theo arrived at five to nine and peered through the office windows. The place was empty, so he walked twice around the churchyard, dodging the tourists already lining up to visit the Roman Baths.
When he checked the office again, it was open and there were staff sat at all of the four desks. His heart started to beat faster as he pushed the door and entered. All four employees looked up, and a man in a dark blue suit with a yellow tie said "Can I help you?"
"Um, I'm here to see Rick Ingham. My name is Theo Hanlon; I'm doing some work experience."
The blue-suited man looked at his co-workers, one of whom, a woman who Theo estimated to be about the same age as his mum, said "Ooh yes! He did mention something about it. Come in, come in." Theo walked up a single step into the office proper and looked around. Aside from the blue-suited man and the middle-aged woman, there were two other men, both older than blue-suit and both on the phone. No chance of an office romance here then.
"Slight problem however," the woman continued, smiling sweetly, "Rick is out showing houses this morning. It must have slipped his mind that you were coming." This, of course, was a scenario he hadn't envisaged. Theo felt disappointed, but then realised that a morning of wandering round the shops and staring at the Italian exchange girls might be an appealing way to pass the time until Rick was back in the office.
"But not to worry," the woman continued, "I'm sure we can find you something to do. Rick won't mind if you sit at his desk until he gets back. But first let me introduce you to everybody." The woman led Theo round the room. He shook hands and forgot names. Then she took him to the back of the shop and opened a door that led into a spacious office with a large mahogany desk at its far end. Filing cabinets stretched along one wall, and potted plants seemed to cover every available horizontal plane. A couple of Michael English paintings hung on the wall behind the desk.
The woman whose name Theo had already forgotten offered him a cup of tea. He responded in the positive and after a couple of minutes she came back with the tea in one hand and an A4 folder in the other. In her absence, Theo had migrated towards the Michael English paintings and was studying the intricate airbrush technique.
"Right" she began, "I'm not sure what Rick has planned for you but for now, why don't you just have a look through our current portfolio just to get a feel for the type of properties we sell." Properties? Is that different to houses, wondered Theo. He sat in the slippery leather chair, impressed with the acres of space in front of him. Save for a telephone and a diary, the gigantic desk was empty and could easily have accommodated a Scalectrix set, should the idea take Rick's fancy. The woman excused herself and said she'd check on him in a while.
Not wanting to damage anything, Theo drank his tea carefully and resisted any temptation to open drawers. He leafed through the single sheets of A4 in the folder, each one advertising a different property. The sheets had the company logo at the top, followed by a large colour photo of the "property" in question, a couple of smaller images beneath it and then a paragraph or so of text below that. These were copies of the flyers in the office window, Theo surmised.
The majority were Georgian townhouses in the prosperous north Bath neighbourhoods of Camden, Sion Hill and Lansdown. Elegant, buildings with sash windows, iron railings, huge rear gardens and Volvos parked on gravel driveways. He looked at the prices: £60,000, £80,000, £100,000. There was even one here for £250,000.
Next he read the text and began to notice the same phrases popping up: "commanding views... spacious interiors... newly installed central heating ...Grade II listed... elevated position... ample off-road parking..."
He reached the end of the pile of sheets and looked at his watch: 9:30am. Now what? Feeling rather out of place in the office of a man he'd never met, he decided he should probably find himself something to do. Maybe he should offer to make a cup of tea? Wasn't that what the most junior member of a team was supposed to do? He made his way to the front of the shop. His four co-workers looked busy but none were on the phone and there were no clients in the shop, so he asked "would anybody like a cup of something?" This drew a positive response all round and he took orders for two teas and two coffees. Thankfully no one wanted sugar so there was one less thing to worry about. Two teas and two coffees. No problem.
He made his way to the kitchen and quickly located the kettle, cups, teabags and milk. Next to the kettle stood a machine that Theo did not recognise. It looked like a goldfish bowl with black plastic casing at the top and bottom. A plug ran from the back to a nearby socket. The words 'Morphy Richards' were printed on the bowl itself. Theo seemed to remember that the iron at home was made by Morphy Richards, so he was confused as to what this machine might be. What would a company that made irons possibly make for the kitchen? He left it well alone and set about filling the kettle with tap water. Next he looked around for the coffee, the only component he had yet to locate. There were no familiar jars of Nescafe on the work surface so he looked in the cupboards but drew a blank. He looked under the sink and along windowsills but to no avail. But then, next to the teabags he saw two silver foil pouches about the same size as packets of rice. One was open, so he picked it up and was greeted by the familiar aroma of coffee. He dipped a teaspoon in the pouch and scooped the coffee into the mugs.
He found a tray and took the drinks to his co-workers. Pleased that he'd used his initiative, he felt bold enough to engage the blue-suited man in conversation as he handed the coffee over:
"So how long have you worked here?"
"Oh about a year", he replied. "I was in the Bristol branch before that."
"Oh right." That was interesting. He was about to ask if he liked working here but the man grimaced and swallowed awkwardly.
"Jeez" he said "This coffee tastes like shit. Did you use the machine?"
"Yes of course," Theo lied, his face starting to redden. So that's what the Morphy Richards goldfish bowl was. Not the start he was hoping for.
The rest of the morning was spent shadowing the middle-aged woman. He learnt that her name was Margaret, which he was able to remember because of
its proximity to Martine. Theo looked at his watch sporadically throughout the morning and occasionally had to check that it was still working. He couldn't believe that time could pass so slowly.
When 1 o'clock came, he asked if it was okay to go to lunch. He was keen to get out into the summer air, and to walk the short distance to Cruisin' Records on John Street to see if there were any bands in their "G" section called Gang of Losers. Margaret said this was fine and that she'd see him in an hour. He donned his beige jacket and walked towards the door. But before he could leave, in walked a tall thin man in a blue pinstripe suit and open-collared white shirt. He had long wavy brown hair and a close-cropped beard. He looked directly at Theo and said "Good God. You don't half look like your dad."
-
Theo didn't make it out of the office for another hour. Rick ushered him into his office and sat him in the chair opposite his. He asked what Theo was studying at school, what he did in his spare time, what he was going to do when he left school, what his older brother was up to, how Roger was, how Sylvie was, what music he liked, what pubs he went to, and finally why he was interested in the wonderful world of estate agenting.
Theo had never been asked so many questions, or enjoyed answering them so much before. Rick seemed a blizzard of activity, constantly moving, smoking cigarettes, making notes in his diary, drumming on the desk (I do that, thought Theo), shifting position, scratching. But he never seemed less than riveted in what Theo was saying.
He told Rick about his art, his drumming, his A-levels, his chat with his careers teacher, and how his interest in architecture had led him to consider a career selling houses.
"Ha!" said Rick. "Well it's a good job, but you don't half get some flack. Do you have a thick skin?"
The one thing that Theo was absolutely one hundred percent sure about was that he did not have a thick skin - he cried readily, he blushed daily, he brooded constantly. "I think so," he lied. He wanted one though. He really did want a thick skin. So maybe this was the right place to pick one up.
After his chat with Rick, Theo finally got his lunch break and headed to Cruisin' Records. He leafed through the "G" section in albums and came up empty. He tried the singles section too: no Gang of Losers there either, but he did come across a misfiled copy of Romeo & Juliet by Dire Straits. He thought of August and the afternoon they spent listening to this song, stoned and laughing, playing their imaginary instruments. It was only 50p so he bought it.
He had plenty of time before he had to be back at the Cabot Farr offices so after grabbing a quick sandwich he walked to Bilbo's Bookshop on Green Street. He found the Film & TV section on the second floor and picked up a copy of Halliwell's Film Guide, but could find no mention of his band name. Maybe it is original after all.
Through force of habit, Theo perused the art section looking for books on Van Gogh. There was nothing he hadn't already seen, but he picked up a glossy coffee table edition featuring the famed oil paintings, and shook his head as he took in the vibrancy of the art world's most famous back-catalogue. Was it really true that Van Gogh didn't sell a single painting during his lifetime? Or was it just the one painting he managed to sell? What was wrong with people? How could you past a painting like 'Wheatfield with Cypresses' and not immediately put your hand in your pocket and pay whatever the artist demanded?
Then he thought of something he should have done when he was in Cruisin' Records. He headed back to John Street and walked up to the counter. The long-haired assistant who served him earlier looked up from his magazine and smiled.
"Hi," said Theo "Do you know when the new Gang of Losers single is going to be released?"
"Gang of Losers?" replied the assistant. "Do you mean The Gang of Four?"
Oh yeah: The Gang of Four. Theo had forgotten about them. But Gang of Losers was significantly different to Gang of Four surely? It's not as if he was calling his band Gang of Five or something. "No, I'm pretty sure they're called Gang of Losers; a friend of mine played me one of their records the other day."
The assistant picked up a heavy looking red book from under the counter and thumbed through it. After a while he shook his head and said "No, sorry, they're not in here. I'll check in Music Week, to see if there's anything there." The assistant then walked to the other end of the counter and started to leaf through a magazine. After a minute or so he came back and told Theo that he had drawn a blank there too. Theo felt slightly guilty for wasting the assistant's time, but thanked him and left the shop.
When he got back to the office, Rick had disappeared "For the rest of the day." Margaret informed him of this in a manner that suggested that this may be a regular occurrence. She had been told to tell Theo that Rick would be taking him with him on showings tomorrow; news that excited Theo no end.
Margaret managed to find jobs for Theo to do in Rick's absence. First he was given a list of properties that had been sold in the past week, for which he had to find the corresponding flyers in the shop window. He then had to remove these flyers and add a folded cardboard banner to the top of the sheets that said 'UNDER OFFER' and put them back in the window. Next he was given some filing to do: folders relating to the same sales had to be moved from one set of filing cabinets to another. Margaret was apologetic as she gave him these tasks, but Theo reveled in their mundanity - he was able to banish all thoughts of August Wells, X-Tradition, or Gang of Losers for that matter.
He left the office at 5pm on the dot and managed to catch the 5:12 to Chippenham. As the bus left the station, he saw a man in his early twenties walking along the street. The man was wearing brown Dr Marten loafers, white socks, drainpipe blue jeans with turn-ups (to reveal the white socks) and a jacket almost exactly like his dream jacket from the World War II book. The only difference was that this jacket was blue. Theo thought momentarily of ringing the bell and getting off to ask the guy where he got it, but this would have meant drawing attention to himself so instead he craned against the window, watching him closely as the bus passed. The man had his hands in his pockets, and he looked down at the pavement as he walked. The jacket was zipped half-way up even thought it was a hot day. He wore a white t-shirt underneath. But for the jeans and the colour of the jacket, this could have been the man from the photograph. So the jacket does exist! He would renew his efforts to find one tomorrow, scouring the clothes shops and flea markets during his lunch hour.
After tea, he went to search for the World War II book, just to check that the jacket was as he remembered it. Yep, same jacket, but in green instead of blue. And now he came to think of it, he really liked those loafers that the guy had been wearing too. Maybe he should get some of those as well.
As he put the book back in its place, he noticed the book next to it: Something Happened by Joseph Heller. Ha! What a good name for a book, Theo thought to himself. What sort of a book would it be if Something didn't Happen? And then it occurred to him that if Something Happened was a good name for a book, then it followed that it was also a good name for a song.
And then something happened: those two words transformed themselves into a chorus, and before Theo knew it he was singing to himself:
Something happened
Something happened
Something happened when I met yoooooouuuuu...
He wasn't entirely sure if he actually liked this melody - it was rather slow and soppy - but it was a melody none-the-less. He quickly ran to his room and scribbled the words into his sketch pad. But he had no way of recording the notes of the melody other than the tape player, so off he ran - down the stairs to the cupboard next to the phone ...something happened...up the stairs to his bedroom again... something happened...unwrap another Maxwell tape, hit Play and Record, and quietly sing into the machine... When I met yooouuuu...
So he had a chorus. He imagined how the rhythm guitar might go beneath the lyrics - a kind of bluesy progression - but had no ideas about how a verse might accompany this. The only thing he could think to do was to write some lyrics quickly and hope he c
ould fit some music around them.
VERSE 1:
Another day without any one to hold
Though it's June outside the weather's feeling cold
I walk these lonely streets like they are my back yard
I only seem to fall and I only seem to fall hard
He read through what he had written and a shudder of embarrassment came over him. What if my brother saw this? He'd never live it down. Still, he could always revise it later; better to just crack on. So he wrote a second verse:
VERSE 2:
Another day but they all just merge into one
I need to take a ride to a place in the sun
I don't think I can take another year like this
Another year without the caress of a lover's kiss
But then...
And then into the chorus. He looked at his words, and couldn't imagine anything further from Don McLean's masterpiece. But he was only sixteen; surely he had plenty of time to mature? He decided not to think about how old Don McLean might have been when he wrote 'Vincent'.
The next thing to do was to figure out the chords for the chorus. So he sat down on his bed with the sky blue Strat in his lap and his scribblings next to him. He sang the chorus to himself and noodled around on the bottom E string until he found a note that he was happy with. He then moved further up the fret board until he found his second note. The third and final note of the chorus - used only on the final line - was another two frets up. So he had notes on the second, fifth and seventh fret. He knew that the fifth fret was the A chord, but didn't know a main chord for either of the other notes. Best to just use bar chords then.
He strummed out the three chords on the guitar and sang along in his head. All seemed fine. Now he just needed a melody for the verse. It seemed to come easily enough. There was no formula, no planning, no technique. He just looked at the words and a kind of corridor opened in his mind. He walked down it, his words forming the ground in front of him. Each line flowed into the next. He kept walking, and the corridor suddenly opened into the great hall of the chorus. Everything seemed to fit; verse had flowed into chorus. He reached for the tape recorder and sang into it. He hit Rewind and listened. Again, all seemed fine. A verse and a chorus. A song.
Not wanting his words or music to get into the wrong hands (or any hands for that matter), he folded the lyric sheet up as small as it would go and placed it in his t-shirt drawer along with the C-30 Maxwell tape. Then he went downstairs to watch telly with his parents.