Children of Albion Rovers Read online

  In love with the romance of the idea as much as anything, Martin and Ray said yeah, they were willing to give it a go.

  And that’s what they did.

  Unfortunately, though, the first occasion proved to be little short of a disaster. True to form, Martin hadn’t brought anything. He said he hadn’t had the money. Ray, meanwhile, had brought damn near everything. He’d even brought along stuff he hadn’t yet played. Hilly was furious with him. After about two-and-a-half seconds of each record, Hilly would go on about how crap it was, slagging it to bits, and slagging Ray for having more money than sense. Hilly himself was the star of the show, playing his records and enthusing about them.

  The next time round was better. Throughout the month Martin had stayed in, listened to all the decent radio programmes, latched onto something that was brilliant and bought it. Ray and Hilly agreed, it was a classic. Ray himself had spent his lunchtimes hanging round the record shops, listening to what the kids were wanting to hear, and buying the best. It was mostly dance but it had a power and urgency that won over the others. Hilly, as was his want, took his cue from what the papers were raving about. Yet even he had to concede that what Martin and Ray were playing was as good in its own way as the stuff he normally listened to.

  And that set the precedent. Martin listening to the radio, Ray hanging round the record shops and Hilly reading his papers. They held their monthly meetings, and they never talked about anything other than records.

  At first they’d been concerned that what they were bringing along was good enough, making sure there wasn’t some little reference that would draw the derision of the others. But, in time, they grew confident. They had a pride in what they were buying. Equally, they were keen to hear what the others were buying.

  Before long, they began to notice changes in each other. Martin had started off by coming along with just a couple of singles, but now he was appearing with a few singles and a couple of LP’s. Not only that but people in the streets had been stopping Ray and Hilly to ask for Martin. Nobody was seeing much of Martin these days. They’d all assumed he’d gone a-wandering again. But no, Martin was around. Martin was doing fine. Simple truth was Martin wasn’t going out because Martin didn’t want to go out. He wanted to stay in and play records. Many’s the time he’d got himself ready to go out but he always had to hear just one more record, then another, then another. It ended up with Martin having to ask himself the question: what did he want to do, did he want to go out, or did he want to stay in and play records? So Martin stopped going out.

  The change in Ray had to do with his appearance. Whereas Hilly had always dressed classically (501’s, white t-shirts) and Martin went in for the latest Next or Top Man high street fashions, Ray always looked as though he was going to a game in the middle of January. Now, following their Tuesday nights, Ray was taking a few chances, and it was paying off. He was looking alright. He was getting his hair cut every six weeks instead of every six months. His flat seemed different as well. It was more untidy, yet it was less filthy. It looked like he was living there rather than just staying there.

  The big change, though, was with Hilly. Martin and Ray were always wary of Hilly, knowing that Hilly was perfectly capable of dismissing their purchases – and, by implication, themselves – with either a subtle shake of the head, or, by going to the other extreme, and bawling and screaming his socks off. But Martin and Ray were so into what they’d bought, so passionate about it, that they did something nobody else could ever be bothered to do: they argued with Hilly. Nobody ever argued with Hilly. Folk usually just ignored him, or laughed at him, nobody ever argued with him. But Martin and Ray did – and they won. They won him over. They got him to listen to what they were playing, and to listen to what they were saying.

  On a couple of occasions they almost broke the rules. There was one time when Hilly was so excited he’d phoned Ray up at his work, telling him how he had to go out and buy something. Ray had said no, it had to keep, there were rules to be obeyed. Another time they’d all turned up with virtually the exact same records. Martin seemed uncomfortable. But he didn’t say anything. Next time round, Martin appeared with the same number of purchases as he’d had the previous month. He said that yes, the notion had entered his head just to turn up with a batch of blank tapes, but that he’d decided the important thing was to own the records. That was what it was like when they were younger, that was the way he wanted it now.

  The three friends still argued, of course; but they only ever argued about records. They argued about what made a good record, whether something ephemeral could ever possibly be as good as something that was seminal. They argued about whether bad bands could make good records. They argued the case for Suspicious Minds being better than Heartbreak Hotel. They argued with passion, with loads of logic, even with blind prejudice – but they never held back, never kept their thoughts to themselves.

  Hilly had long held the belief that the place for dance music was the dancefloor. Not that he was bigoted against it or anything, just that playing records that went beep-beep thwack-thwack in the privacy of your own home was about as pointless as playing 95% of live LP’s. But he came to understand, through force of sheer enjoyment as much as anything, that the records could stand on their own, that they were as valid and wonderful in their own way as the stuff he normally listened to.

  As for Martin; well, it wasn’t so long since Martin had all but stopped buying records. Occasionally, he’d’ve got something from the bargain bins, but he wasn’t involved, he was purchasing out of a sense of obligation rather than want or need. Now he was buying things full price. Not only that but because he was taking his cue from the radio, he was ordering the likes of expensive imports and limited edition mail order. Martin’s disposable income was still short in terms of its lifetime, but now at least there was something worthwhile to show for it.

  Likewise with Ray. Prior to the arrangement, Ray had been the one blanding out. When it came to music, what he’d been buying had been predictable – comfy compilations, bland best sellers. He’d even bought a CD player. But, after a few meetings, he’d gone back to vinyl. Like he said, he’d got the taste again, and owning vinyl was like tasting chocolate.

  It was as if they’d gone back to the old days, back to their youth. But they knew the only way to get the most out of records was to hunt them down, to be obsessive. See that was the great thing about records: you never just went out and bought the best, you had to discover the best. As much as the powers that be had tried to market so-called ‘classics’, records weren’t mere things you owned, like accessories, and said, ‘I’ve got it,’ like you’d say you’d ‘seen’ a film or ‘read’ a book.

  As agreed, the three friends continued to have nothing to do with each other other than the monthly nights round at Ray’s, and then they only ever talked about records – they never talked about themselves, they never gossiped, they never discussed what was happening in the news. Originally, this had meant that they wouldn’t be bringing up their problems, letting their personal lives interfere with their friendship. The strange thing now was that they were all doing fine. But they didn’t tell. Martin had bought a house, Ray was engaged to be married and Hilly had become a father. Most folk thought it was Hilly’s parenthood that had turned him into a more reasonable bloke, but Martin and Ray liked to believe it was the time they spent together, listening to their records and talking about them, that had brought on the change that meant, for the first time, Hilly actually appeared to be interested in folk when he was talking to them.

  Over the festive season there was no exchange of presents or even cards, instead the three friends compiled lists of their records of the year, compared them, and analysed those that were in the papers and those featured on the radio. During the summer they timed their holidays so’s not to coincide with the first Tuesday of every month. There was no illness or problem that kept them from their appointments. They were never late, nobody ever left early.

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sp; The summer was always a lean time for new releases. In view of this, it was agreed to forego the norm and have an evening in which they brought along lists of their all-time favourites. Top two hundred singles, top hundred LP’s. For the whole month they never went out. Wanting to be as sure of their lists as they could, they stayed in and played and played and played.

  It proved to be a great night. Easily the best yet. So many records they’d forgotten about. They’d had near-enough identical top fives but after that it was just classic after classic after classic. The lists were beyond dispute. It was almost scary that there were so many great records that they all knew off by heart, that they all knew so much about. Thinking about it, there had to be thousands. Those they’d listed had only been a fraction. The lists had been too limiting. Next time round – if there was to be a next time round, there was some debate as to that – they’d specialise. Not in terms of genre – that was crass – but in terms of period.

  That night, they opened up, they shared their dreams. In turn, they fantasised about putting their knowledge into words or owning record shops; but, like when they were young, they only ever fantasised about it. Although they now had the talent and the financial clout to make it happen, they didn’t want to be involved. Partly this was because it would break the rules of their friendship, but mostly it was because they realised they were still what they’d always been – they were fans. It was for this reason that none of them – excepting Ray’s brief flirtation – had ever pursued the performing side: they didn’t want to be stars, they wanted to have stars. In the same way that, by and large, folk don’t want to be Gods, folk want to worship Gods.

  And so things continued.

  Until, that was, the evening one month short of the third anniversary of their first meeting.

  Hilly didn’t turn up.

  Hilly was never late. He’d never been late for anything in his life. He just didn’t do things like that.

  Martin and Ray waited. They didn’t start. They wouldn’t start without Hilly.

  After about an hour, the phone rang. It was a guy who introduced himself as being Phil, Hilly’s brother-in-law.

  There’d been an accident, Phil said, Hilly had been involved in an accident up at his work.

  It seemed important for Phil to take his time and explain as best he could everything that had happened.

  It was ten days ago. Hilly had been doing a flitting over the old town. They’d been taking a chest-freezer down a flight of stairs when the guy at the top end had lost his grip. While the guy endeavoured to retrieve his grip, Hilly had tried to wedge the chest-freezer against the bannister. But, somehow, the chest-freezer slipped, pushing Hilly down the stairs.

  Phil said he wasn’t sure what had happened after that, but next thing anybody knew was that Hilly was flat out at the foot of the stairs. He must’ve lost his footing or something because the chest-freezer hadn’t moved. It had stayed put, perfectly wedged between the bannister and the wall.

  Ray asked if Hilly was alright.

  Phil took a deep breath. No, he said, Hilly wasn’t alright. Hilly was in a coma. He’d been unconscious for ten days.

  As much as Ray had been half-expecting something like that, the actual words still managed to shock him in a way that amounted to nothing less than physical pain.

  Ray asked when they could go up and visit. Phil said whenever, they could come up any time they wanted.

  Ray thanked Phil for letting them know, and said they’d probably be up later on.

  Ray told Martin. They talked about what they should do.

  They were both thinking along the same lines, but they didn’t want to do it – they didn’t want to make a tape up for Hilly.

  It seemed corny. It seemed sick. It seemed like interfering.

  But the more they went on about it, the more it made sense. Really, it was the only thing they could do. That was what this night was all about. The records were more important to Hilly than Martin and Ray ever were. Hilly was the one who always said he’d rather be blind than deaf. It was one of those challenges he always set the other two, like a childhood dare – would you rather be blind or deaf?

  The deciding factor was when they got round to thinking about what would’ve happened if the circumstances had been reversed. It’s what Hilly would’ve done. Hilly wouldn’t even have thought about it, he’d just have gone ahead and done it.

  Ray looked out the list of Hilly’s all-time favourite records. They used that as their guide to make the tape up.

  It proved to be a truly horrible experience, listening to all these records, records that would normally have got them so excited, records, as Hilly put it, that made them feel so alive. After a while, they turned the sound as low as they could get away with, and busied themselves doing other things. Martin made a few calls, Ray went for petrol.

  Even so, the process, by its very nature, could not be speeded up, and once they’d filled a side of a C-90, they called it a day, and headed up to the hospital.

  They always said that the thing about folk in these situations was how normal they looked, how peaceful, but Hilly didn’t look normal. He didn’t look pained or distressed or harmed in any way, but in no way could you have said he looked normal.

  There were four visitors already sitting round the bed.

  Other than to say hello, Martin and Ray hadn’t spoken to Hilly’s mum for close on ten years, but she acknowledged them as though she’d only just seen them the day before. The passing of so much time didn’t seem to mean anything.

  A bloke stood up and offered his hand. He introduced himself as being Phil, Hilly’s brother-in-law, the guy that had phoned. Phil introduced the two women sitting by the bedside as being his sisters, Sarah and Julie. A second later he added that Sarah was Hilly’s wife. Martin and Ray hadn’t seen Sarah since the day of the wedding. If they hadn’t been told her name, they wouldn’t’ve recognised her.

  Phil started to apologise for taking so long to let them know, but stopped when Ray shook his head to indicate that it didn’t matter.

  Martin took the tape and the Walkman from his bag. He asked if it was okay to leave them. The folk seemed a bit unsure but nobody objected. Martin explained as how the tape was made up of Hilly’s favourite records. Everybody looked at Martin as though he was talking some kind of foreign language.

  Hilly’s mother told Martin just to go ahead. She put her arm around Sarah’s shoulder and said, ‘You know he loves his music, hen, you know he loves his music.’

  Martin switched the machine on. The tinny beat could be heard coming through the earphones.

  Ray went over and turned the volume up. It wasn’t loud enough. It wouldn’t’ve been loud enough for Hilly.

  To look at it, it was like one of those awkward scenes folk always laugh at when they see it on telly. Hilly wouldn’t’ve laughed, of course. Hilly liked a laugh but Hilly hated comedy. He had never seen the point of jokes and if he’d ever laughed at a film or sit-com then there was nobody present when he’d done so. Knowing, he called it. Knowing meaning smart-arse, knowing meaning ironic. But, in practice, it always turned out to be the exact opposite. Folk that knew nothing about nothing pretending they did.

  Soon, Martin and Ray were beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. Not for themselves but for Hilly’s family. They felt they didn’t belong. They didn’t know these people. The only person they knew was the one on the bed, and, at this precise moment in time, they felt as though they’d never really known him at all. They felt as though they’d only ever met him.

  Martin took the initiative. He suggested that maybe they should come back later. Ray agreed. He took out a business card and handed it to Sarah, telling her that if ever she was needing any help with anything, anything at all, then just to get in touch. He said it again just to make sure she understood that he meant it.

  Martin and Ray left the hospital. Without so much as a word, they drove out to the docks. They didn’t want to be indoors, in any kind of
home.

  It was no wonder that at times like this folk had a habit of turning religious. There were no rules telling them how to behave. No precedent that told them how they should feel. Everything they felt was wrong. Guilt. Regret. Shame. Fear.

  And, most of all, anger.

  They started flinging stones and rocks out into the water, burning off their energy. This was the worst night of their lives, and it was compounded by the near ridiculous image of Hilly’s family sitting round his bed watching him listening to a Walkman.

  These people didn’t understand.

  Or, then again, maybe it was Martin and Ray who didn’t understand.

  See that was the problem. Their Tuesday nights were tantamount to a secret. And folk liked secrets. Its very success had to do not only with the way they avoided bringing up their problems, but the way it all had nothing to do with anybody else.

  That was how no one had got in touch with them. Nobody knew about them. Nobody knew what went on. Hilly would never’ve mentioned these nights to anybody. Sure, okay, he probably said he was going round to see friends and play records, but he’d never’ve told anybody about what went on. Martin and Ray didn’t, and if they didn’t then there was no way Hilly would’ve. You could only talk to folk about such things, your passions, when they would understand, and nobody they knew, nobody Hilly would know, would understand all this.

  For no real reason they could think of other than they wanted to, Martin and Ray decided to head back up to the hospital.

  They’d leave it a while, though. They wanted privacy. They wanted their secrecy.

  They went back to Ray’s and made up more tapes. They taped records from Hilly’s list, records from their own lists that Hilly had regretted not including in his own, and the records they’d intended playing that night. This time, they taped with the sound up. They were positive about what they were doing. They were doing what it made sense for them to do. The only thing they could do. It was what they’d done for the first Tuesday of every month for the past three years and it was what they were going to do now.