respond appropriately. Something, probably the drizzle that had started to fall outside, darkening the tarmac of the car park, had reminded him of coming back from India at the end of the war to be demobbed, after a nine-month tour of duty in a small Air Force band. He has polished the phrasing of the story in the course of many repetitions. ‘We docked at Southampton, and took a train to London. It was raining, but we didn’t mind. It was lovely soft English rain, and the country looked so green! We hadn’t seen any green for months. Only dust. “Dust, spit and spiders, that’s India,” as Arthur Lane used to say. “If the Indians want it back, they’re welcome to it.”The green of the fields and the trees, coming up through Hampshire, was incredible, like water to a man dying of thirst. It was as if we were trying to drink England. We couldn’t get enough of it. We hung out of the windows as the train went along, getting soaked with the rain, not caring. And Arthur Lane - trust Arthur - he opened the door of our carriage - you know, the trains had separate compartments in those days, with doors - he pushed the door wide open and sat on the floor with his feet hanging out over the wheels, just staring at the fields, saying “Unbelievable, un-bloody-believable”.’ Dad chuckled at the memory. Arthur Lane was the drummer in the band Dad had spent most of the war with, and figured in many of his anecdotes, admired for his dry wit and independent spirit. I never met this legendary character in the flesh but have seen a snapshot of him and Dad in baggy khaki shorts, grinning and squinting into the glare of the Indian sun, Dad tall and thin with his hand on the shoulder of the squat and rotund Arthur.
Then the smile faded from Dad’s face and he sighed and shook his head. ‘Poor old Arthur,’ he said. ‘Dead now. Dead years ago. Did I tell you?’
‘No,’ I lied.
‘Yeah. Cancer.’ He lowered his voice as he pronounced the dread word, and mimed drawing on a cigarette.‘Lungs. Always was a heavy smoker, Arthur. Even when he was playing the drums, he’d have a fag on.’
‘Did you keep in touch with him after the war?’ I said, like a comedian’s feed.
‘We used to see each other in Archer Street,’ he said, naming the drab little street behind Piccadilly Circus where dance musicians used to congregate on Monday afternoons to fix up gigs, settle debts and exchange gossip, before discotheques took away their livelihood. ‘But when Archer Street died out, I lost touch with him. I heard he’d packed in the music business and got a day job, like so many. Then one day I thought I’d give him a ring, see how he was getting on. I don’t know why. Thinking of the old days I suppose, I just wanted to hear the sound of his voice again. His wife answered the blower. I never met her, but I recognised her voice. I said, “This is Harry Bates, is Arthur there?” And there was a long silence. I thought at first I’d been cut off. And then she said, “Arthur died eight years ago.” Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. Arthur dead all that time, and I had no idea. He was younger than me, too.’ He pursed his lips and shook his head again. ‘There aren’t many blokes I knew in the business who are still around now.’
‘No. You’re a survivor, Dad.’
‘Well, I looked after myself, see? Gave up fags when I developed that cough - you remember? And I was never a drinker, not what you’d call a drinker. A glass of beer yes, but no spirits.’ He mimed holding a glass of liquor between finger and thumb and raising it to his lips. ‘Spirits was the death of many a good musician. When a customer in a club or the gaffer at a Jewish wedding treated the band to a round of drinks most of the boys would order double whiskies, but I always had just a half of bitter. You can get a taste for whisky.’ He added severely: ‘I hope you don’t drink whisky.’
‘Very rarely,’ I said. ‘Wine is my tipple, as you know.’
‘Yes, well, I don’t mind a glass of sweet white wine now and again, but not that sour red stuff you like.’
‘Don’t worry, Dad,