Ian R. Macleod - Snodgrass

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Snodgrass - a novelette by Ian R MacLeod
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Snodgrass
a novelette by Ian R MacLeod
Foreword
Which is more fascinating, success or failure? You can supply your
own answer, but I think we all have a voyeuristic horror about lives
gone wrong, not least us writers, who probably lie down with failure
as our bedfellows and dream-mates at least as often as do double
glazing salesmen - and rock stars.
Which is where the idea for 'Snodgrass' probably came from. I've
always been fascinated by those characters who leave bands after
some row in the back of the Transit just before the band becomes
famous. And why not John Lennon? Why not, indeed. Like most
great bands, the Beatles were always a hair's breadth away from
imploding.
I've never been a big Lennon fan, although only an idiot would deny
his great talent. In this story, however, he was cypher for all kinds
of music and art and dreamy ambition, and for all kinds of failure.
The music I was listening to as I wrote 'Snodgrass' was actually
mostly Starless and Bible Black by King Crimson, another fine-but-
imploding band, and the most eagle-eyed reader may even detect a
few lost scraps of lyric. But if you're a rock star of any kind, or a
even a double glazing salesman, I hope you find something relevant
and entertaining in what follows.
Snodgrass
I've got me whole life worked out. Today, give up smoking. Tomorrow,
quit drinking. The day after, give up smoking again.
It's morning. Light me cig. Pick the fluff off me feet. Drag the curtain
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Snodgrass - a novelette by Ian R MacLeod
back, and the night's left everything in the same mess outside. Bin sacks
by the kitchen door that Cal never gets around to taking out front. The
garden jungleland gone brown with autumn. Houses this way and that,
terraces queuing for something that'll never happen.
It's early. Daren't look at the clock. The stair carpet works greasegrit
between me toes. Downstairs in the freezing kitchen, pull the cupboard
where the handle's dropped off.
"Hey, Mother Hubbard," I shout up the stairs to Cal. "Why no fucking
cornflakes?"
The lav flushes. Cal lumbers down in a grey nightie. "What's all this about
cornflakes? Since when do you have breakfast, John?"
"Since John got a job."
"You? A job?"
"I wouldn't piss yer around about this, Cal."
"You owe me four weeks rent," she says. "Plus I don't know how much for
bog roll and soap. Then there's the TV licence."
"Don't tell me yer buy a TV licence."
"I don't, but I'm the householder. It's me who'd get sent to gaol."
"Every Wednesday, I'll visit yer," I say, rummaging in the bread bin.
"What's this job anyway?"
"I told yer on Saturday when you and Kevin came back from the chinese.
Must have been too pissed to notice." I hold up a stiff green slice of
Mighty White. "Think this is edible?"
"Eat it and find out. And stop calling Steve Kevin. He's upstairs asleep
right at this moment."
"Well there's a surprise. Rip Van and his tiny Winkle."
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Snodgrass - a novelette by Ian R MacLeod
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that. You know what Steve's like if
you give him an excuse."
"Yeah, but at least I don't have to sleep with him."
Cal sits down to watch me struggle through breakfast. Before Kevin, it
was another Kevin, and a million other Kevins before that, all with grazed
knuckles from the way they walk. Cal says she needs the protection even
if it means the odd bruise.
I paste freckled marge over ye Mighty White. It tastes just like the
doormat, and I should know.
"Why don't yer tell our Kev to stuff it?" I say.
She smiles and leans forward.
"Snuggle up to Doctor Winston here," I wheedle.
"You'd be too old to look after me with the clients, John," she says, as
though I'm being serious. Which I am.
"For what I'd charge to let them prod yer, Cal, yer wouldn't have any
clients. Onassis couldn't afford yer."
"Onassis is dead, unless you mean the woman." She stands up, turning
away, shaking the knots from her hair. She stares out of the window over
the mess in the sink. Cal hates to talk about her work. "It's past eight,
John," she says without looking at any clock. It's a knack she has. "Hadn't
you better get ready for this job?"
Yeah, ye job. The people at the Jobbie are always on the look out for
something fresh for Doctor Winston. They think of him as a challenge.
Miss Nikki was behind ye spit-splattered perspex last week. She's an old
hand -- been there for at least three months.
"Name's Doctor Winston O'Boogie," I drooled, doing me hunchback when
I reached the front of ye queue.
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Snodgrass - a novelette by Ian R MacLeod
"We've got something for you, Mister Lennon," she says. They always call
yer Mister or Sir here, just like the fucking police. "How would you like to
work in a Government Department?"
"Well, wow," I say, letting the hunchback slip. "You mean like a spy?"
That makes her smile. I hate it when they don't smile.
She passes me ye chit. Name, age, address. Skills, qualifications -- none.
That bit always kills me. Stapled to it we have details of something
clerical.
"It's a new scheme, Mr Lennon," Nikki says. "The Government is
committed to helping the long-term unemployed. You can start Monday."
So here's Doctor Winston O'Boogie at the bus stop in the weird morning
light. I've got on me best jacket, socks that match, even remembered me
glasses so I can see what's happening. Cars are crawling. Men in suits are
tapping fingers on the steering wheel as they groove to Katie Boyle. None
of them live around here -- they're all from Solihull -- and this is just a
place to complain about the traffic. And Monday's a drag cos daughter
Celia has to back the Mini off the drive and be a darling and shift
Mummy's Citroen too so yer poor hard working Dad can get to the Sierra.
The bus into town lumbers up. The driver looks at me like I'm a freak
when I don't know ye exact fare. Up on the top deck where there's No
standing, No spitting, No ball games, I get me a window seat and light me
a ciggy. I love it up here, looking down on the world, into people's
bedroom windows. Always have. Me and me mate Pete used to drive the
bus from the top front seat all the way from Menlove Avenue to Quarry
Bank School. I remember the rows of semis, trees that used to brush like
sea on shingle over the roof of the bus. Everything in Speke was
Snodgrass of course, what with valve radios on the sideboard and the
Daily Excess, but Snodgrass was different in them days. It was like
watching a play, waiting for someone to forget their lines. Mimi used to
tell me that anyone who said they were middle class probably wasn't. You
knew just by checking whether they had one of them blocks that look like
Kendal Mint Cake hooked around the rim of the loo. It was all tea and
biscuits then, and Mind dear, your slip's showing. You knew where you
were, what you were fighting.
The bus crawls. We're up in the clouds here, the fumes on the pavement
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Snodgrass - a novelette by Ian R MacLeod
like dry ice at a big concert. Oh, yeah. I mean, Doctor Winston may be
nifty fifty with his whole death to look forward to but he knows what he's
saying. Cal sometimes works at the NEC when she gets too proud to do
the real business. Hands out leaflets and wiggles her ass. She got me a
ticket last year to see Simply Red and we went together and she put on her
best dress that looked just great and didn't show too much and I was proud
to be with her, even if I did feel like her Dad. Of course, the music was
warmed-over shit. It always is. I hate the way that red-haired guy sings.
She tried to get me to see Cliff too, but Doctor Winston has his pride.
Everywhere is empty round here, knocked down and boarded up, postered
over. There's a group called SideKick playing at Digbeth. And
waddayouknow, the Beatles are playing this very evening at the NEC. The
Greatest Hits Tour, it says here on ye corrugated fence. I mean, Fab Gear
Man. Give It Bloody Foive. Macca and Stu and George and Ringo, and
obviously the solo careers are up the kazoo again. Like, wow.
The bus dumps me in the middle of Brum. The office is just off Cherry
Street. I stagger meself by finding it right away, me letter from the Jobbie
in me hot little hand. I show it to a geezer in uniform, and he sends me up
to the fifth floor. The whole place is new. It smells of formaldehyde -- that
stuff we used to pickle the spiders in at school. Me share the lift with ye
office bimbo. Oh, after, you.
Doctor Winston does his iceberg cruise through the openplan. So this is
what Monday morning really looks like.
Into an office at the far end. Smells of coffee. Snodgrass has got a filter
machine bubbling away. A teapot ready for the afternoon.
"Mister Lennon."
We shake hands across the desk. "Mister Snodgrass."
Snodgrass cracks a smile. "There must have been some mistake down in
General Admin. My name's Fenn. But everyone calls me Allen."
"Oh yeah. And why's that?" A voice inside that sounds like Mimi says
Stop this behaviour John. She's right, of course. Doctor Winston needs the
job, the money. Snodgrass tells me to sit down. I fumble for a ciggy and
try to loosen up.
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Snodgrass - a novelette by Ian R MacLeod
"No smoking please, Mister...er, John."
Oh, great.
"You're a lot, um, older than most of the casual workers we get."
"Well this is what being on the Giro does for yer. I'm nineteen really."
Snodgrass looks down at his file. "Born 1940." He looks up again. "And is
that a Liverpool accent I detect?"
I look around me. "Where?"
Snodgrass has got a crazy grin on his face. I think the bastard likes me.
"So you're John Lennon, from Liverpool. I thought the name rang a faint
bell." He leans forward. "I am right, aren't I?"
Oh fucking Jesus. A faint bell. This happens about once every six months.
Why now? "Oh yeah," I say. "I used to play the squeezebox for Gerry and
the Pacemakers. Just session work. And it was a big thrill to work with
Shirley Bassey, I can tell yer. She's the King as far as I'm concerned. Got
bigger balls than Elvis."
"You were the guy who left the Beatles."
"That was Pete Best, Mister Snodgrass."
"You and Pete Best. Pete Best was the one who was dumped for Ringo.
You walked out on Paul McCartney and Stuart Sutcliffe. I collect records,
you see. I've read all the books about Merseybeat. And my elder sister was
a big fan of those old bands. The Fourmost, Billy J. Kramer, Cilla, The
Beatles. Of course, it was all before my time."
"Dinosaurs ruled the earth."
"You must have some stories to tell."
"Oh, yeah." I lean forward across the desk. "Did yer know that Paul
McCartney was really a woman?"
"Well, John, I -- "
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Snodgrass - a novelette by Ian R MacLeod
"It figures if yer think about it, Mister Snodgrass. I mean, have you ever
seen his dick?"
"Just call me Allen, please, will you? Now, I'll show you your desk."
Snodgrass takes me out into the openplan. Introduces me to a pile of
envelopes, a pile of letters. Well, Hi. Seems like Doctor Winston is
supposed to put one into the other.
"What do I do when I've finished?" I ask.
"We'll find you some more."
All the faces in open plan are staring. A phone's ringing, but no one
bothers to answer. "Yeah," I say, "I can see there's a big rush on."
On his way back to his office, Snodgrass takes a detour to have a word
with a fat Doris in a floral print sitting over by the filing cabinets. He says
something to her that includes the word Beatle. Soon, the whole office
knows.
"I bet you could write a book," fat Doris says, standing over me, smelling
of Pot Noodles. "Everyone's interested in those days now. Of course, the
Who and the Stones were the ones for me. Brian Jones. Keith Moon, for
some reason. All the ones who died. I was a real rebel. I went to Heathrow
airport once, chewed my handbag to shreds."
"Did yer piss yerself too, Doris? That's what usually happened."
Fat Doris twitches a smile. "Never quite made it to the very top, the
Beatles, did they? Still, that Paul McCartney wrote some lovely songs.
Yesterday, you still hear that one in lifts don't you? And Stu was so good
looking then. Must be a real tragedy in your life that you didn't stay. How
does it feel, carrying that around with you, licking envelopes for a living?"
"Yer know what your trouble is don't yer, Doris?"
Seems she don't, so I tell her.
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Snodgrass - a novelette by Ian R MacLeod
Winston's got no money for the bus home. His old joints ache -- never
realised it was this bloody far to walk. The kids are playing in our road
like it's a holiday, which it always is for most of them. A tennis ball hits
me hard on the noddle. I pretend it don't hurt, then I growl at them to fuck
off as they follow me down the street. Kevin's van's disappeared from
outside the house. Musta gone out. Pity, shame.
Cal's wrapped up in a rug on the sofa, smoking a joint and watching Home
And Away. She jumps up when she sees me in the hall like she thought I
was dead already.
"Look, Cal," I say. "I really wanted this job, but yer wouldn't get Adolf
Hitler to do what they asked, God rest his soul. There were all these little
puppies in cages and I was supposed to push knitting needles down into
their eyes. Jesus, it was -- "
"Just shaddup for one minute will you, John!"
"I'll get the rent somehow, Cal, I -- "
" -- Paul McCartney was here!"
"Who the hell's Paul McCartney?"
"Be serious for a minute, John. He was here. There was a car the size of a
tank parked outside the house. You should have seen the curtains twitch."
Cal hands me the joint. I take a pull, but I really need something stronger.
And I still don't believe what she's saying. "And why the fuck should
Macca come here?"
"To see you, John. He said he'd used a private detective to trace you here.
Somehow got the address through your wife Cynthia. I didn't even know
you were married, John. And a kid named Julian who's nearly thirty. He's
married too, he's -- "
" -- What else did that bastard tell yer?"
"Look, we just talked. He was very charming."
Charming. That figures. Now I'm beginning to believe.
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Snodgrass - a novelette by Ian R MacLeod
"I thought you told me you used to be best mates."
"Too bloody right. Then he nicked me band. It was John Lennon and the
Quarrymen. I should never have let the bastard join. Then Johnny and the
Moondogs. Then Long John and the Silver Beatles. It was my name, my
idea to shorten it to just The Beatles. They all said it was daft, but they
went along with it because it was my fucking band."
"Look, nobody doubts that, John. But what's the point in being bitter? Paul
just wanted to know how you were."
"Oh, it's Paul now is it? Did yer let him shag yer, did yer put out for free,
ask him to autograph yer fanny?"
"Come on, John. Climb down off the bloody wall. It didn't happen, you're
not rich and famous. It's like not winning the pools, happens to everyone
you meet. After all, The Beatles were just another rock band. It's not like
they were The Stones."
"Oh, no. The Stones weren't crap for a start. Bang bang Maxwell's Silver
bloody Hammer. Give me Cliff any day."
"You never want to talk about it, do you? You just let it stay inside you,
boiling up. Look, why will you never believe that people care? I care. Will
you accept that for a start? Do you think I put up with you here for the
sodding rent which incidentally I never get anyway? You're old enough to
be my bloody father, John. So stop acting like a kid." Her face starts to go
wet. I hate these kind of scenes. "You could be my father John. Seeing as I
didn't have one, you'd do fine. Just believe in yourself for a change."
"At least yer had a bloody mother," I growl. But I can't keep the nasty up.
Open me arms and she's trembling like a rabbit, smelling of salt and grass.
All these years, all these bloody years. Why is it you can never leave
anything behind?
Cal sniffs and steps back and pulls these bits of paper from her pocket.
"He gave me these. Two tickets for tonight's show, and a pass for the do
afterwards."
I look around at chez nous. The air smells of old stew that I can never
remember eating. I mean, who the hell cooks stew? And Macca was here.
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