The Banker's Niece 43: Rick's recording

Sweet Jane . . . if I can still call you that . . . and if you still remember the song . . . if you still remember me . . .

Standin’ on the corner

Suitcase in my hand

Jack’s in his corset, Jane is in her vest

And me I’m in a rock ’n’ roll band . . .

Sweet Jane

Sweet Jane

Sweet Jane [1]

. . . except that you never wore a vest, and I’m not in a rock ’n’ roll band any more (long story) . . . But then we never did know what the song was all about . . . Perhaps only Lou Reed knew that . . .

But I’m digressing. Which I had hoped not to do this time as – after three failed attempts – I’ve actually made some notes. And I'm playing music to make up for the inadequacy of my words - other people's music not my own you'll be pleased hear. (For lots of reasons.) 

Sooo, what is this recording all about? Why am I doing it?

The answer is, I suppose, that I don’t know what else to do. I’m sitting here on a derelict farm, in a less than half-built studio, surrounded by packing cases and boxes and things for making music (‘So what’s changed?’ I hear you say) – the detritus of half a century – and I’m slowly climbing the walls. I have to talk to someone and the only person I want to talk to is you.

It’s killing this real-life thing, isn’t it? Or perhaps you don’t have a problem with it. Perhaps by now you’re a fully formed, mature, calm and contented human bean and are about to click on ‘delete’ and consign this drivel to the great recycle bin in the sky – or wherever it is that electronic files go when we don’t want them any more.

But . . . in the hope that you’re still listening, I’ll carry on. So where was I? Yes, real life. Which started for me about a year and a half ago when my father died. D’you remember him? Warra nidiot. Although, much as it pains me to admit it, now that he’s gone I might even be starting to have sympathy for him and recognise him in myself. Bloody hell.

Damn, I’m going off track again, and I know how much it annoys you or did annoy you – you with your clear, concise, well-trained mind. And I mean that as a compliment. One of the many many ways we were different and apparently incompatible and ‘unsuitable’. But we knew better, didn’t we? We knew that we loved and needed each other . . .

My love, she speaks like silence

With no ideals or violence.

She doesn’t have to say she’s faithful

Yet she’s true, like ice, like fire.

People carry roses

Make promises by the hour

My love laughs like the flowers

Valentines can’t buy her. [2]

So anyway, the old bastard died and I decided the time had come for me to leave the band and move back to Devon and support my mother. D’you remember her? She always loved you, you know.

Actually, by then I couldn’t wait to stop all that travelling, all that posturing on stage, have some time for myself, write more music.

But the trouble is, now I’m here all I can think about is what a fuck-up I’ve made of my life . . .

They say I’m crazy but I have a good time

I’m just looking for clues at the scene of the crime

Life’s been good to me so far . . .

I make hit records, my fans they can’t wait

They write me letters, tell me I’m great

So I got me an office, gold records on the wall

Just leave a message, maybe I’ll call. [3]

Yeah, well, apart from all that, my biggest fuck-up was the way I treated you. So I suppose you could say that this recording is my way of saying sorry. (Got there at last.)

             I was feeling insecure

You might not love me anymore

I was shivering inside

I was shivering inside

Oh, I didn’t mean to hurt you

I’m sorry that I made you cry

Oh no, I didn’t want to hurt you

I’m just a jealous guy. [4]

And I suppose if it’s going to be a proper apology, I need to go through every grisly detail . . . which is not a problem for me as I’ve been through them all in my mind many times over the last few months. I just hope it's not a problem for you.

Incidentally, I had a thought the other day. It’s not when you die that your life flashes before you. It’s when a parent dies . . .

And perhaps it all started with that first – and only – visit I paid to your parents. I could have played ball – for your sake – and my mother’s. But I didn’t. I was young and arrogant and I thought I knew best.

The trouble was, I hated everything they stood for. Also, if I’m being honest – which I have to be with you – I was out of my depth. I’d never met anyone like them before. I didn’t understand the rules. I felt as if I was in a Noel Coward play without a script.

I could however have done some homework. I could have listened to Ma. I could have read the book on etiquette she lent me. But would that have made any difference? I got the impression I was damned before I even opened my mouth . . .

But it might have made a difference to me. I mightn’t have been so angry all the time. I might have been able to help you . . . and we might have stayed together . . .

I guess we were both out of our depth.

To tell the truth I didn’t have the nerve

I know I only got what I deserve

So now she’s taken leave of me today
Her father didn’t like me anyway. [5]

How are your parents by the way?

Which brings me to my next cock-up: Chris. My only excuse is that I was desperate. You and I seemed to be getting further and further apart, and she tried to help. And if it’s any comfort to you Chris and I finished not long after you left. (Damn, that sounds conceited, as if you needed comfort, as if I still meant something to you by then, as if I mean anything to you now.)

So I didn’t have you and I didn’t have Chris, and that’s when I left reality behind.

Yes, life on the road is an adolescent boy’s dream (even if I wasn't adolescent in years myself) and, while most of what you might have come across in the low-life media – if you concern yourself with such crap – wasn’t true, some of it was. Fool that I was, I thought it was my cure for a broken heart . . .

And so it came that I stood disillusioned

By everything I’d been told

I just didn’t believe love existed

They were all just digging for gold

Widows and bankers and typists and businessmen

Loved each other they said

But all it was though was just a manoeuvre

The quickest way into bed

And so I followed the others’ example

And jumped into the melée

In the hunting grounds of Earl’s Court and Swiss Cottage

I did my best to get laid . . . [6]

Meanwhile I didn’t go home to see my parents except for brief visits for more than thirty years but then, when my father died, my mother needed me.

           

I stayed with her. We talked. And I realised that we’d stopped talking to each other properly when you left. Perhaps even then – although I didn’t know it – I felt guilty. I helped her move out of the bungalow and into her parents’ cottage in the middle of the village where she’d always wanted to live.

Somehow, what with all that talk, and seeing my grandparents’ cottage again – its long overgrown garden full of places where we used to hide as children, the tiny kitchen where Grandma baked us biscuits – and the past exploded over me like a thunderstorm. I knew I had to come home for good.

So I bought this farm a couple of miles outside Black Dog (Yup, strange name. I remember you laughing at it.) and set about renovating it and converting the barns into recording studios for me and other musicians. At least that was the idea. I haven’t got very far.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, one day last autumn as I sat drinking tea with Ma she suddenly said ‘Did you know that Jane’s back in Devon too?’

    ‘Jane?’ I said, not sure whether I’d heard right. Ma and I had by then talked about lots of things, but we’d never got round to talking about you.

    ‘Yes, Jane. Jane who you once wanted to marry,’ she said. ‘I heard about it from Flo – my old schoolfriend - whose grand-daughter works at the same place as Jane.’

    ‘Oh,’ I said, trying not to react.

    ‘And she’s single,’ said Ma.

    I didn’t say anything at the time – I didn’t want Ma to get ideas - but I couldn’t stop thinking of that news about you.

Which brings me to my latest screw-up which, ironically, is probably the one I feel worst about, and I’m afraid it involves Chris again.

One of my biggest problems since I got here is being alone. The very thing I wanted was the very thing I couldn’t deal with. In particular I’ve missed the band, even though I couldn’t wait to get away from them. But Dougie’s bought an estate in Scotland and moved there with his family, Steve’s still on the road, working with other people, and Johno’s in rehab somewhere.

So, after Christmas, I went back to the uni and trawled the department to see if any of the old lags were still around. (Yeah, I was that bad.) And who should I bump into but Chris. (I know Chris has her suspicions, but I swear I didn’t know beforehand that she would be there.) It turned out that she was back in Devon too, working in the department. What’s more, she’d broken up with her husband and she too was single.

Now I was really confused. Fate had to have a hand in it somewhere. Why else would all three of us be back in Devon at the same time and all three of us free agents? And the reason for the coincidence, or whatever you like to call it, according to my warped logic – skewed no doubt by years of so-called success – was that Chris was there to help me get back in touch with you.

We stopped for a coffee together and while we were talking, catching up on old times, this idea came to me, and when I put it to Chris she agreed, because like before she wanted to help. But as soon as I put it into action I knew it was wrong and wanted to undo it.

And what was this idea you ask (if you’ve listened this far)?

The idea was that Chris and I would pretend to be engaged so that when you heard about it through the media (if you did) you would be reminded of me - and Chris - and the past, and shocked enough to take another look at everything. Or, to put it another way, so that I could approach you without risking myself.

Hideous. Unforgiveable.

And now I don’t what to do, and the only person who can help is you.

I’m sorry. Sorry for everything. I wish I could go back and undo it all. I wish you were here.

To see you

            is all I want

And all I want
is to see you now. [7]

1 From ‘Sweet Jane’ by The Velvet Underground

2 From ‘Love minus zero’ performed by The Walker Brothers (written by Bob Dylan)

3 From ‘Life’s been good’ by Joe Walsh

4 From ‘Jealous guy’ by John Lennon

5 From ‘Her father didn’t like me anyway’ by the Humblebums

6 From ‘Love chronicles’ by Al Stewart

7 From ‘To see you’ by String Driven Thing

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