Bert was a drunk. He hadn’t always been a drunk, no, not at all, but now he had fallen into that category of retired people who go to the pub fairly regularly, maybe two three times a week, and drink pretty much every night at home. That hadn’t been possible when he’d worked at D. C. Thomson’s ten years earlier, swopping early shift with back shift and nights, typesetting the Courier, the Evening Telegraph or The Sporting Post. OK, he used to take a few on a Friday night, either in the Duke of Edinburgh with his pal Ian or in between numbers when he played trumpet with The Dudhope Five in the Jazz Club at the top of Parker Street. He was careful of course not to go beyond four or five pints, after which he could easily start to miss his notes, something that didn’t go down well with the crowd who expected him to be Dundee’s Satchmo. Those were good days, with steady wages, extra pocket money with the band and not a care in the world.
But marriage had put an end to most of that as he was bullied by his wife into earning more, staying in, no more trumpet practice, a reduction in his drinking and the constant nagging to keep her in a way only she had been used to. That’s why Bert had held on so desperately to his Friday nights at the Jazz Club despite his wife’s objections. Four hours free to express himself with the band and down a few pints in company he knew and liked helped balance the oppressive atmosphere that had quickly engulfed his life after their shotgun wedding. The resentment Bert felt when he learned it had been a false alarm stayed with him all his days and he never stopped believing his wife had set him up.
Yet it had all totally changed within twelve years. His wife’s sudden demise from an attack of pleurisy was a blessed relief for him, but he was rocked back on his heels by the passing of both his parents within weeks of each other during the Hong Kong ‘flu epidemic of 1968. And suddenly Bert was alone. He moved into his parents’ house on Blackness Road, paid off the small mortgage with some of the insurance money, likewise bought a brand-new Ford Cortina Mk II and went back to his former carefree existence. Now quite comfortably well-off, he decided to retire from D. C. Thomson’s and just enjoy life, including taking up his trumpet again, at least at home.
Enjoying life however also translated into spending a lot of time with old friends, and new friends who had heard of his recent financial good fortune, in the Charleston Bar on the other side of Balgay and Lochee Parks. Admittedly the walk through the parks to and fro several times a week allowed him to keep his legs in good order, not that he’d ever been what might be described as unfit, but he didn’t seem to be aware of the amount of lager and whisky chasers he was now consuming at the pub.
Bert’s route home was always the same, rain or shine. Once he’d been shown the door at the “Charlie Bar” just after 10 p.m. he would walk along Charleston Drive as far as Lochee Park then head south through the park and under the spooky bridge, past the bandstand and down the side of Victoria Hospital to Kelso Street, whose famous steps brought him within 100 yards of his house on Blackness Road. It was a trek of about half-an-hour. The darkness and isolation of the road through the park at such a late hour had never bothered Bert, but, even with a gallon of lager inside him, he kept his eyes peeled and would proceed with caution if he heard anything unusual.
One Friday night, shortly before his sixty-second birthday, Bert reached the high point of the path directly under the bridge on his way home. He stopped and listened. There wasn’t a soul in sight but he could just make out some noise ahead of him down by the bandstand. Kids having a carry-on? He listened again. No, this noise was rhythmic, as if musical, but it kept coming and going, so Bert couldn’t fix on it. He continued down the hill, noting that the noise got slightly louder but then faded altogether when he reached the steps to the hospital path. He made his way back to the house without incident, poured himself a nightcap (two fingers of The Macallan 10-year-old), munched his way through two bags of crisps, and slowly fell asleep in his armchair with some of his favourite tunes wandering around inside his head.
With a change in the Licensing Laws in Scotland recently enacted, Sunday was a new opportunity for Bert to take up his place at a table near the bar and play a few games of dominoes with his pals. Thankfully, having to concentrate just a bit on playing the “bones” in his hand, he drank only about half of his normal quota of lager so he was a good deal more sober than most Friday or Saturday nights. Taking his usual route home, he became aware for a second time of some kind of rhythmic beating sound as he approached the bandstand and indeed paused briefly to check if perhaps speakers had recently been installed high up on the metal pillars. Bert failed to find anything new on the structure so continued on his way and was soon back in his armchair with his Macallan. All was well.
That Monday morning after his bacon and eggs, Bert happened to be looking for a document, his M.O.T. for the Cortina, in the chest of drawers in one of the spare bedrooms when his eye was drawn to a glimpse of sunlight reflecting off something next to the big armchair. When he went over to investigate, he discovered his old trumpet in its open case. That was strange. Why would he have put the instrument back without closing the case? And when had he last had the trumpet out? He’d long since given up on daily or even weekly practice and he struggled to remember the last time he’d played it in the house. God, it was so annoying not being able to remember the most basic of things, like where he’d put his Courier or when his appointment was with the dentist. But he could still play the trumpet as he proved when he took the old instrument from its case, held it lovingly to his lips and blew out the opening bars to “Love Walked In” by Miles Davis. He missed a few notes and gave up at the solo but it brought a smile to his face. He could still get a tune out of the old thing. But that was enough for the moment so he put the instrument back in the green velvet folds of its case and closed it firmly.
When he returned to his living-room, Bert went over to his dad’s old record player, chose an album from the rack below and placed the needle delicately on the vinyl. As always, when he wasn’t quite in the mood for some jazz, Bert put on a Beatles’ album, this time the iconic “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band”. As the title track started to play, Bert couldn’t resist scanning the famous album cover, trying to identify as many of the characters as he could. Yes, he could still spot Tony Curtis, Edgar Allan Poe, Marlon Brando and Lewis Carroll, and of course he was pleased to note that Ringo Starr had a gleaming trumpet held in his right hand. He smiled, but quickly changed his expression to one of surprise when his eyes fell on the stone bust to the right of the bass drum.
Now he’d read years earlier in the New Musical Express that this was a bust of a person unknown and had been brought by John Lennon from his house in Weybridge to be used in the cover photo of the album. But the more Bert stared at the bust, the more he began to see definite traces of someone he knew very well. He checked in the large mirror above the living-room fireplace. Hmmm. The eyes and nose were quite similar to his, although the mouth wasn’t right and the hairstyle couldn’t match Bert’s balding pate. He thought it strange however that he’d never noticed this similarity before and when he put the cover back down, he remained unsettled.
By this time the album had reached the last track on side one, but Bert hurried over to the record player and lifted the needle just as the opening bars of “Being for The Benefit of Mr. Kite” filled the air. No, that was one song he didn’t want to hear, as he had always considered it an aberration among the almost perfect anthology of songs by The Beatles. He had never understood why Lennon and McCartney had included this circus tune on their finest album and he preferred to simply bypass the song and turn the record over. That was better. Time for a dram.
That Friday was to be Bert’s birthday celebration in the Charleston Lounge, the far side of which he’d hired out for his friends and their wives. He was expecting about thirty people to show up and had paid the landlord to lay on sausage rolls, sandwiches, Scotch eggs and even some of that fancy Quiche everyone was talking about. The first round would be on him, but after that he didn’t expect to have to put his hand in his pocket. He checked all was organised when he was in on Wednesday evening and his party was the talk of the pub. He ended up inviting one or two extra people who happened to be in the bar that evening, including a guy called Joe and his rather angry-looking son Kevin, whom his father described as having just left school and wondering about maybe getting a job somewhere. Kevin appeared less than interested.
Bert’s walk home was just as it always was, except for the strange noises he heard again as he approached the bandstand. He thought he could make out a French Horn and maybe even a weird kind of a Trombone beat, but it was very confused and the slight chill of the evening pushed him to get home as quickly as possible and warm his insides with a nice whisky. Back home on Blackness Road, Bert picked up the album cover he’d left out the previous time and had another good look at the characters on the front, but almost immediately his eyes picked out the stone bust. Maybe that mouth wasn’t as different from his as he’d previously thought, and those eyes and nose were definitely similar. He couldn’t quite believe he hadn’t noticed that on an album he’d had for 10 years and more. This time the record was returned to its inner cover and slid back into the album. Bert said goodnight to all the characters and replaced the album in its rack.
Friday began with the postman delivering a dozen or so birthday cards which Bert read almost immediately. All were from friends who couldn’t make the party that evening, but he’d known that in advance and was untroubled by the excuses. Nice of them to remember! After breakfast, he took the 73 bus into town, had a wander around the McManus Galleries and a coffee in the Wellgate Centre while waiting for the highly popular nursery rhyme clock to strike twelve. After the display, he did some shopping in the newly-opened Market Hall and was back home for lunch by one-thirty. A nap followed then it was time to get ready for his party. Boy, he was going to enjoy this!
Dressed in his best trousers and shirt and wearing his D. C. Thomson tie for the first time since his sixtieth, Bert broke the habit of a lifetime and took a taxi over to the Charlie Bar, ensuring he would be in the lounge before any of his guests. That also gave him time to get a couple of single malts down him to calm his unexpected nerves. But once his guests started to arrive bang on 7 p.m. he was able to relax and the evening progressed much as he’d hoped it would. Almost everyone invited turned up, the food was really good and the drink was in plentiful supply. Only one small incident soured the celebrations and that was when he accidently spilled a pint of heavy over Kevin, Joe’s boy. Unfortunately, Kevin reacted badly to his best clothes being soaked, grabbed Bert by the collar and called him a clumsy old prick. As Bert tried to apologise, Joe came over and smacked his son hard on the back of the head, daring him to ever say that again to one of his friends and then sending him home to get changed. Red-faced and seething with anger, Kevin stared menacingly at both his father and Bert, muttered something they couldn’t quite catch then turned and stormed out of the lounge.
The incident was quickly forgotten however as one of the lady guests, no doubt lubricated on one too many vodkas and cokes, grabbed a microphone from behind the bar and burst into song, encouraging the other patrons to join in. Soon the Charleston Lounge was echoing to “The Road and the Miles to Dundee”, “I belong to Glasgow” and “The Northern Lights of old Aberdeen”, none of them anything like the records. Even Bert took his turn with the mic and belted out a passable version of Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World”. It turned out to be quite the show-stopper and reminded Bert of some of the better nights at the Parker Street Jazz Club. He had forgotten how much he loved the applause.
When closing time came, everyone left having had a good evening, and several of the guests offered Bert a lift, but he insisted he would stay to the last then call a taxi as he had a lot of presents (mainly bottles) to carry home. The plan however came unstuck when the barman who was phoning for a taxi told Bert he’d have to wait three-quarters of an hour for one, as the town was very busy after a big concert at the Caird Hall. Despite being slightly the worse for wear, Bert insisted on leaving his presents behind the bar until the next day and doing what he did most normal nights to get home. He would walk through the park.
It wasn’t quite walking however and more of a stagger, but he managed to keep on his feet despite a couple of near disasters and made it into the park where he stumbled up the slight incline to the bridge. The downslope to the bandstand proved equally if not more difficult to negotiate but Bert made it down to the redwood tree which he often liked to punch to remind himself of his youth. After two very enjoyable swings at the soft bark, he decided it was time for a pee. Fumbling at the zip of his trousers, Bert eventually got himself in order and gave a deep sigh of relief as he started to empty his aching bladder. So he never saw his assailant approach nor swing the branch towards his head. Indeed he hardly felt the blow at all. Everything went black and he fell to the ground, cracking his forehead wide open on a rock.
When he next opened his eyes, a familiar figure was bent over him offering a hand to help him get up. Bert was puzzled for a second then realised it was someone dressed in George Harrison’s red uniform from the cover of Sgt. Pepper’s.
-Hello Bert. I’m Brian and I’m the Bandmaster. Now that you’ve passed, I am allowed to offer you the position of third trumpet player in the band. It’s a splendid opportunity, given that our first trumpet player has only just moved up. That leaves a vacancy and we’ve been waiting for you. Would you care to join us?
-Now that I’ve passed? Bert said. Join your band? Is this a joke?
– Sorry to surprise you with all of this, Bert, but that lad Kevin just killed you as we knew he would. Unfortunately, as your record on good works isn’t perfect, you can’t go directly up there, if you catch my drift. Have you heard of Purgatory? No? Well, it’s the state you stay in until you’ve served your time making up for all your peccadilloes. There’s no saying how long it’ll last but promotion comes around eventually and you get to go up. We all do. In the meantime, you can join the band here if you want and play the trumpet for a few nights, or months, or years. We play every night from twelve until six in the morning, here on the Balgay bandstand. Only we, the band members, can hear what we play and it’s a bit repetitive but it’s better than just standing in a queue.
Bert glanced down to see his bloodied and inert body lying on the grass next to the punch tree.
-Do I have any other options? he asked.
– Not really, came the reply from the Bandmaster. I think you should join. You get a nice uniform and I know how much you like playing music.
-OK, count me in. Is it all brass band stuff?
-Oh, not at all. You’re going to be playing The Beatles.
-Great! Which songs do we play?
-It doesn’t work like that, Bert. You only play one song and one song only. And you play it continuously until your time is up. It’s the same for everyone. In my case, I have to conduct “The Day we went to Bangor” for the whole 6 hours every night. Sometimes it’s genuine torture.
-So, do I get to choose what I’ll be playing? Bert enquired.
-Oh no, my friend. You must remember that this is Purgatory, so it’s not meant to be all that pleasant. The suffering is repetitive: that’s the whole point.
-In that case, do you have any idea what I’ll be playing for such a long, long time?
-Yes I do, Bert. It’s The Beatles’ “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite”!
By George Burton