“My long lost…”

We left Paris early, but it turned into one of those terrible loads–of–rides–but–only–short–distances days, instead of reaching Brussells, as planned, we were forced to break our journey in the little town of Bapaume, arriving as late afternoon became early evening. We were almost, but not quite, boracic – just enough bread to cover a night in a cheap hotel. We found one, booked in, then cased the town for places to sing – not that we expected to find much in such a small town and……. we didn’t.
Back at the hotel I checked what was left in the “bank” after we’d paid our bill: enough for a half litre of cheap red wine. “When we go downstairs,” said Shirley, bring the guitar,” knowing it was the last thing I’d want to do. Unlike a lot of our mates, I can’t sit in a corner noodling; I need an audience, even if only a cinema queue, or a crowded terrace. I declined, she was adamant, there might be a few people eating who’d like music, we needed  the money, and…and…
I carted the sodding axe with me, naturally the dining room was deserted. Reluctantly, but urged on by her, I played… unobtrusively…to no-one. The patron brought the carafe of wine we’d ordered, and with him came a little girl about 8 or 9 years old. She sat at a table facing us expectantly. We sang a coupler songs in English, then a childrens’ song in French. With a smile she joined in, performing the actions along with Shirl: 
                    “…..Cerf, cerf, ouvre.moi, Ou le chasseur me tuera…….”

After about half an hour the patron poked his head round the door, called the child. She returned carrying a tray holding a pile of sandwiches and a bottle of wine. I protested we hadn’t ordered anything, but the patron, who’d entered behind the kid, had evidently discerned our lack of funds but was too nice to embarrass us, smiled and said it was on the house, just a tiny “merci” for entertaining his daughter.
Next morning our friendly patron served a splendid breakfast, more opulent than the normal French one, shook our hands, wished us “Bon Voyage ” and he and his bricks-an’–mortar watched us leave. We walked through town, reached the  Brussells road, got our thumbs out, and within minutes picked up a ride which dropped us close to the Franco/Belgian border. As elected Schatzmeister for the nonce, I carried our entire financial wealth consisting of: an English shilling, an Italian100 lire coin, and a jeton for the Bar Monaco telephone in Paris. I’d somehow contrived, between the Champs-Elysees and the cheap hotel in Bapaume, to spend the big “bottle” we’d pulled from singing the “West Side Story” queue the night before leaving. I’ve always had a bad relationship with money, never managing to save, or hang on to it for long– me mum used to say: “You’re not safe to go up “The Lane” with a tanner in your pocket.”  However, on a chain around my neck hung a Five Franc (five new francs) piece, as safeguard against vagrancy accusations. Whether actually true or not, the lore amongst street-singers was that as long as you could produce five mille, the Flic couldn’t bust you for being a down–and–out.
The border guard eyed us suspiciously – having had so much trouble at borders always a trepidatious moment for me – but waved us through; not, however, before we’d asked him to stamp our passports. The entry and exit stamps were, in those days, vital, for if one’s collar got felt by the Flic it showed one had not overstayed the legally allowed three months.

In Brussells, the cabaret owners provided us with a room on the top floor of a building about two hundred metres from the gig. I  found it surprising that on our way up, or down the stairs, we often passed other tenants, generally gathered in the hallways; even more surprising was that the other tenants all seemed to be female, a bit too heavy on the makeup at times for my taste, but otherwise very attractive girls, and extremely friendly. Being by nature a gregarious bloke, I always stopped for a quick rabbit. Having seen the guitar on me back the day we’d arrived, they’d sussed how we earned our bread, and used to ask how it had gone, where we’d played, had we made a lot, did we dig Brussells…..small-talk. Occasionally one or two of their boyfriends (and my goodness, they surely had a big turn over of boyfriends, I rarely  saw the same one twice) joined, albeit rather half-heartedly, in our conversation, some also gave me dirty looks, as if I was trying to come it with the music bit.
After a coupler weeks I mentioned to Shirley, in what I later realized was a decidedly naive manner, how matey the girls were, how they enjoyed chatting to me, and what a pity it was none could seem to keep a steady relationship going.  “Oh Col,” she laughed: “haven’t you noticed. ? We’re living above a brothel.”

We had a paraffin stove on which we used to heat water in a saucepan for tea. One day I lit a match, held it out, and the whole bloody stove plus the surrounding floor burst into flames. I leapt back, jumping up and down to escape the blaze (had Kevin Kostner seen me he’d have made a “Dances with Flames” film).  I knew if a fire broke out, the vitally important thing was to remain absolutely calm and not panic, no matter how fierce the raging inferno. Consequently, I dashed down the stairs, past the startled girls, repeating to myself: keep calm, don’t panic, keep calm, don’t panic, keep calm……. Safely out in the street, my precious guitar clutched to me bosom, I glanced round, noticed something was amiss: Oh no! I thought, Shirl’s still in the blazing building. Heedless of the peril I bounded back up the apples, startling the girls even more this time as my heroic, conflagration–defying figure flashed fearlessly past. Reaching our room I flung wide the door, and, like George preparing to give the dragon a right old going over, sprang from the back of my white Arabian stallion ready to do battle and save my fair damsel in distress.
 Shirley was sitting at the table, reading.
Bewildered, I stared, raised my hands, said: “What happened to the fire ?”
“I put it out.” she answered, ” Do you want a cup of tea ?”


Tom said he was coming up from Paris, so we agreed to meet him where we had our regular gig (during the afternoon it was a normal Brussells Bar, only at night did it shift into a nifty little Cabaret/Restaurant serving excellent food) introduce him to our friends who owned it, have a drink, then show him a bit of the town.
Walking along Chausee de Wavre, he confronted u: “Christ. You might have warned me they were dykes!”
Shirley and I chorused:”What?”
“I said you might have warned me they were dykes.”
“Who?”
“Your friends of course.”
We were taken aback, neither of us had, until that moment, considered their lesbianism, had we done so it would have neither bothered nor interested us. They were our friends, and a very loving couple – which we thought was wonderful – that was all. For a moment we stared incredulously  then both exploded. He rocked back, startled and shaken by our combined anger, began apologising sheepishly, wearing that guilty look those caught making stupidly unthinking remarks tend to wear.
Having expressed our feelings, accepted …for what it was worth…his: “I’m really sorry guys, I just wasn’t thinking,”  we walked on.
 Like most tourists when they see the world famous Manneken Pis for the first time. he was disappointed. Everyone expects a life-size, or over-life-sized statue, not a 61cm high little feller. But the sight of the Broodhuis along with the other architectural beauties of the Grand Place made up for it.
The three of us  sat in the Kiwuu, an unprepossessing eatery situated near the Bar Welkom,  confronted by the enormous helpings of food they always served on equally enormous plates (marginally smaller than a Greyhound Track). Shirl and I ate there occasionally – we were so well fed at our cabaret gig we only scoffed in a restaurant on our free nights – and once were tackling the usual vast portions of grub, when, without warning, there was a thumping crash, and a chunk of ceiling landed on a (fortunately empty) table before bouncing to the floor. The patron, sitting at the bar with a friend, gave a delighted yell, and we saw money exchange hands. We discovered that the previous week there had been a helluver big punch-up, and somehow (gordnose what weapons were used)  a large piece of ceiling had been loosened. When the fighting ceased and calm returned, the patron and his mates had taken bets on when the insecure piece  of ceiling would fall, and we were lucky enough to witness the event.

In one of the backstreets was a bar we didn’t know, I pushed open the door, walked in, and immediately wanted to walk out again, but Tom and Shirley were behind me blocking the way. It was like innocently wandering onto a film set depicting a dangerous Shanghai waterfront dive, a South London louts’ hangout, a Parisian thieves’ hideaway, or a Badlands bat–winged–door saloon; the villainous looking crowd staring malevolently at the strangers through the smokey fug,  were patently from Central Casting; it oozed suspicious hostility, you could hear the ominous silence fall as all eyes turned toward us.  Whoever coined the phrase “den of iniquity” was evidently on speaking terms with this dump.
“Gord, let’s get out of here sharpish.” I muttered.
 One of the men, who had obviously seen us performing somewhere, said loudly:”You’re singers.”
“Yeah” we replied, turning toward the door.
“Sing something then,” said a granite-faced geezer hulking on a bar stool.
“We don’t have our instruments,” I said.
“Doesn’t matter,” he hulked, “you can sing without them.”
“No we can’t” I said, “we need them,” turning again toward the door.
“‘Course you don’t,”  he growled.
“Yes we do,M’sieur,” I replied, firmly polite. Getting into an argument with this aggressive looking, granite-faced geezer was the last thing I wanted. if Helen had a face that launched a thousand ships, this muscley hard-nut had a mug that launched a thousand shivs, but I wanted to get the hell out, and quick!  My hope was we could leave the intimidating joint pretending we’d return to entertain them once we’d collected the axes, ‘twas, ov kosst, a forlorn hope…
 He shifted position on his stool: “One of you can go and  fetch them. The other two wait here.”
“I’ll go,” said Tom eagerly.
That’s the last we’ll see of him, I thought, silently cursing the chicken-livered, cowardly, yellow-bellied Yank as he hastened into the street; though, in honesty, having to acknowledge that had I been closest to the door I would’ve been off and away like the proverbial bat out of hell.
Hesitantly Shirley and I sat at a table, glancing round at the unfriendly company, unable to ascertain what kudos they were acquiring by holding us virtually prisoner. It was beyond my comprehension. Why didn’t the fuckers just get on with getting pissed out of their heads, and leave us alone.
Sitting on a stool next to the muscley hard-nut, one arm draped possessively across his shoulder, was an equally granite-faced, aggressive looking woman. Abruptly she left her bar-stool, lurched across, stood before me and in a voice that sent shivers up me spine cried: “You are my long lost German soldier! “
Alarmed I protested: “Mais non Mam’selle I’m not a German, and I was never a soldier.”
“You are,” she said louder, “my long lost German soldier.”
“Mais non Mam’selle! “
Her voice rose: “Mais oui, you are him! ”
The way the aggressive looking, granite-faced geezer was glowering chilled me red and white corpuscles, ensuring me blood found freezing point.”Non, non!” I wailed, shaking my head vigorously, glad that it was still on my neck to be shaken and not severed by the daggers the aggressive looking, granite-faced geezer was glowering in my direction.
I thought perhaps the assembled might conclude from her pronouncement that I had been a Foreign Legionnaire – though being definitely more “bow-legs” than “Beau Geste”, rapidly dismissed the idea.
“You are,” she bellowed, puffing a cloud of boozy breath in me boat –race,”my long lost German soldier.” Her Belgian French wasn’t the lyrical Belgian French of Liege, it was, like her boyfriend’s, an angular, harsh, prison-tattooed dialect. She reached down, grabbed my coat with both hands, and, fixing me with wide, staring minces, heaved skywards: “My long lost German soldier,”  she bawled emotionally, seemingly close to tears.
I was close to tears meself, so, driven by undiluted dread, desperate to dodge what looked horribly like an approaching kiss of passionate proportions, I shrank downwards and backwards in my seat, causing my head to vanish like someone sinking beneath the waves: virtually drowning in duffle (most appropriate considering the incident was occurring in Belgium).
 Shirley said that had it not been for the frightening atmosphere, the sight of me disappearing into me overcoat as this maniacal harridan hauled it upwards yelling I was  her long lost bloody German soldier, would have been hilarious. As it was, all it did was incense the aggressive looking, granite-faced geezer, who lumbered off his bar–stool, increasing the tension.
Gasping for breath, shaking with fear, I realised my time was up. Between them my
long lost lover and her enraged swain were about to have my guts for garters.
Then, before there was time for the pageant of my life to unfold before me (I was drowning, remember?) with a thunder of hooves, a rattle of sabres, and a blaze of bugles the thrice-blessed eleventh–hour cavalry arrived.
The door flew open, and Tom yelled: “Quick, run for it.”
With considerable difficulty, but spurred on by terror, I extricated myself from the crazy woman’s embrace, and, together with Shirl, dived for the opening.
In the street stood a taxi, engine running, doors open, we flung ourselves onto the back seat, Tom jumped into the front, the previously primed driver put the pedal to the metal, the Sandy roared and, like a Formula One car, we raced down the street into the welcoming refuge of the Brussells night.