AT 29 (57 page)

“She needs a chaperone.” Her eyes twinkled. “Can't be sure what might happen to a nun in a place like this.”

The four musicians were plugged and ready. They signaled Nigel's call to the stage with a drum roll and a few chords on the guitar. Nigel turned away from what appeared to be an earnest conversation with Sister Marie. Then he led her by the hand to a table near the stage. He held her chair and beckoned Les.

“Come join us.” She took Jimmy's hand.

Sister gave him a big smile. “Jim, have you convinced Nigel?” Jimmy sat down opposite Les, content to look at her while Nigel and his fellow musicians performed.

“I'm afraid nothing has changed, Sister,” he answered.

“Well, you must keep at it. He said you'd be singing tonight. Is that true?”

Les gave Jimmy a look of curiosity. “You're going to sing?”

Jimmy addressed them both. “I told him about the songs I wrote. It didn't change his mind, but he wants me to do them on stage along with
Peg
.”

Both women nodded approvingly. Nigel had his violin under his chin with the first notes of his opening instrumental filling the room. All three turned to watch.

The first set went quicker this time. Jimmy thought he noticed fewer songs although he couldn't be sure because most of his concentration was on Les. When it ended Nigel came over and sat down, giving Jimmy a hard glare before turning his attention to the women.

“You're not eating?” he asked.

“We had something on the road,” Les answered. Nigel took this in, looking at her as if wanting to say something else. Then he turned to Sister Marie.

“You like your port.” He lifted his hand and summoned a passing waitress. He ordered port and gestured for Leslie to order what she wanted. She had the same. “So,” Nigel took control, addressing Sister Marie, “you've come to hear me sing or is it because Jim, here, wants me to record for his company?”

“No dear, I've come to see you.” She frowned. “You won't visit me in Melbourne, so I must come to you.” Whitehurst's face colored as she continued. “No worries. If you are sure you won't accept Mr. Buckman's offer, I won't pressure you.”

“Shocking that you forged my signature and made him come all this way for nothing.” He turned his attention to Les.

“It's no trouble,” Jimmy interjected.

Sister Marie spoke up, “Don't blame Leslie. It was my little ruse. You should be sharing your talent with others.”

“I thought you weren't here to pressure me.”

She looked around the room. “I suppose this will have to do.” Jimmy lifted his beer, looking from one to the other beginning to get uncomfortable. He didn't want to get in the middle of whatever personal duel was going on between them.

“I like my life just fine.”

“Jim mentioned the songs he wrote for you?” Les changed the subject. “He played them for me last night.”

“Yeah, Les. I invited him to perform.” He turned to Jimmy, “How about if you open the next set.”

Jimmy nodded. “I can give your guys the tempo, but they won't be able to carry the rest without music sheets. Maybe solo would be better.”

“No,” Les cut in, reaching into her purse, “I have them here.” She came up with a quantity of papers and passed sets to Jimmy and Nigel. Each man perused what appeared to be meticulously scripted song sheets with all the necessary markings, easy to read. There were three sets, stapled together, numbering nine pages in all. Jimmy was flabbergasted as he quickly turned each page, sounding out his melodies.

“These are my songs,” he said, surprised.

“I took a chance and added all the things we changed last night. I tossed in some lyrics to the first two, neither good nor permanent. I just thought they'd fill the space until you have the time to write your own.”

Jimmy lifted his eyes to her. “When did you do this?”

“After you went back to the hotel.”

He thought about his late departure, calculating that she must have spent the rest of the night writing them down. He turned to Nigel who was still engrossed. Then he looked at Sister Marie who was watching him.

“She played them for me this morning. They're wonderful, Jim.” He was speechless. Turning to Nigel, the nun waited for him to look up. “I think you should sing them with Jim.” Nigel's face was blank. Leslie interceded.

“One's meant for the violin, an instrumental.” She seemed excited.

“It won't change anything.” Nigel looked at each of them. “I'm still not leaving Aireys Inlet.”

No one spoke for a long moment. Sister Marie's face curled into a scowl. Jimmy merely looked at Les, still overwhelmed to see his creations preserved by her hand. He returned to the pages, this time reading her lyrics. She called the first song,
Just For You
. The words formed a poem rhyming at the end of every other stanza. It was about being inspired by the talents of someone met for the first time. She called the second song
Paradise
. This was the rocker loaded with a heavy beat and speedy guitar. It called for Nigel's voice, the only voice powerful enough to counter the background instrumentation played at full volume. Its lyrics told of a concert and its hypnotic hold on an audience of thousands.

“How did you do this?” He leaned forward focused on her. He forgot about Sister Marie and Nigel, sitting so close.

“I couldn't let the night end without preserving them.”

“I'm overwhelmed.”

“Do you both have what you need to sing?” Sister Marie looked first at Jimmy and then to Nigel. “The others can follow along?”

“I have more copies.” Les reached into her purse again. “I didn't know how to arrange the notes and chords among the instruments. That's the only thing that might make it hard.”

“Band's seasoned,” Nigel spoke. “No worries.” He was still studying the notes. “We'll give these songs a go, but no more talk about a recording contract. I mean it.” He sifted through the last pages then leaned back in his chair, gesturing to one of the musicians who had just returned to the stage. He took the extra copies of each song and gave them to him as he approached. “We'll start with these, mate. Pass them around and give them a study. Any questions just ask Jim here.” He pointed to Jimmy.

Sister Marie took a sip of her port while Jimmy shifted his attention to the men onstage. Nigel drummed his fingers on the table then picked up the song sheets again. After a while, Jimmy realized that Les was staring at him.

“Tell Nigel what it's like,” she demanded.

“What?” he asked, unsure.

“How it feels.”

Jimmy was confused. “I don't know what you mean.”

“When the magic happens. Paint a picture.”

“I don't understand.”

“Yes, you do,” she insisted. “Outdoors, a thousand people gathered everywhere on a beautiful night. The moon casting a glow as they wait on blankets on the grass.
Children being hushed as the band climbs onto the stage. Boats off in the distance. People standing along the railings of their balconies as the first warm-up notes are played. Tell him about that.” Jimmy couldn't speak as a vestige of recognition entered his mind.

“What are you saying, Leslie?' It was Sister Marie, “What do you want him to tell Nigel?”

“He knows,” Leslie answered with conviction, keeping her eyes on Jimmy. “Making music for people. Men, women, children, young and old, filled with anticipation, already humming the melodies as they watch and wait for the artist to take up his guitar. How it feels when the opening song fills the air and the audience jumps up shouting, applauding and singing along. His creations bringing joy to strangers he's never met. Tell Nigel what it must be like.”

“I can't explain it.”

“No? That's because it's so personal, right? The satisfaction that something you do can mean so much to others. It's not the adulation. It's not about being made into an idol, to be fawned over by hangers on, to have your every move examined under a microscope, to lose your freedom. That's what Nigel is afraid of. That's why he won't record for Blossom Records. But it doesn't have to be that way, does it, Jimmy? It can be about the music. Tell him. Make him understand.” Her voice became intense. “Is it always that way? I can't believe it is, but sometimes it happens, doesn't it? Sometimes you find the Holy Grail. Everything slows down, you forget where you are, lose yourself in the vibrations. A different energy takes hold, not only of you, but the people listening, too. Everyone unites as one, caught up in something bigger and far more beautiful than their separate thoughts and desires. Isn't that why you do it? The ecstasy of everything coming together?”

“Les, I don't know what to say.”

“As you hypnotize the crowd with your voice, does it hypnotize you as well? Do you find yourself being carried off to some other place? Is it heavenly? I can't believe you do it for the money. I know you don't do it for the acclaim. Nobody who's in it for those things could reach the pinnacle.”

“It's not always that way.”

“But when it is the whole world belongs to you. Tell him, Jimmy. Tell him you do it for yourself, but tell him you do it for others, too. It's a constant search for that special moment when you are one with your music and the audience is one with you. Tell him how wonderful it is. He doesn't understand. Tell him that all the while you are giving, you're receiving something better in return. That's what it's all about for the good ones, like you. Tell Nigel, tell me.” Her voice cracked.

“Les, stop.” Sister Marie was alarmed. “He doesn't know.”

“Yes, Sister, he does. You remember now, don't you? And, Nigel,” she fixed a hard stare at Whitehurst, “this world-class artist wants to work with you. You inspired him to write songs for you. Only a fool would say no.”

“You were there?” Jimmy whispered, his mouth agape.

“Yes, on the balcony just outside my room, not twenty feet away from you. I bought your album when it first hit the stores. I couldn't wait for your tour to come to Melbourne so I flew up there.”

“Where?” Nigel showed interest.

Jimmy sputtered, wide eyed. “Surfer's Paradise.”

The set was good, not great. They found it hard to get into a flow. Nigel ended his participation with Jimmy's instrumental on his fiddle. He struggled with some of the riffs and played more slowly than the intended tempo. Most in the audience did not notice, because they were focused on Jim Buckman and the anticipation of hearing
Peg
.

Horace told his staff to sit and shutdown both the kitchen and the bar as the time neared for Jimmy to sing the signature song from
Button's Back and Blue
. He also turned off most of the lights, leaving only those that shone from the ceiling above the stage. Nigel returned to the table with the two women while the other musicians put down their instruments and stepped back.

Jimmy took a stool at center stage. The borrowed guitar felt strange and he strummed a few chords to be sure of its sound. His left hand worked its way upward rather than down because, unlike the Gibson, the strings were reversed, correct, but opposite from his accustomed backward, self-taught play. The first stanza came hesitantly, but by the second he began to flow through the words, gathering confidence with his instrument and feeding off the appreciation of the small audience. He found himself looking at Les as he sang, drawing a thrill from her smile.

When he finished the applause was long and loud, but no more enthusiastic than the applause Nigel received at the conclusion of his songs. Jimmy didn't mind. In fact, he didn't notice because his only interest was Les. The intensity of her description of his performance at Surfer's Paradise had him confused. Why did this woman constantly surprise?

Horace raised the lights and reopened the bar just as Jimmy returned to the table. Nigel stood to return to the stage for the remainder of his set. When they exchanged nods Nigel gave him a curious look wrapped in a tight smile. Once Jimmy was seated, Les leaned across the table and patted his hand before turning back to await the start of Nigel's next song. A few minutes later, Horace came over and tapped Jimmy on the shoulder.

“Come have a look,” he said, gesturing for Jimmy to follow. He led the way through the kitchen and outside to a large shed. He pulled on the door, swinging it wide. Inside, shelves were lined with commercial sized cans of foodstuffs. On the floor beneath the shelves, sacks of rice, potatoes and onions were neatly stacked upon one another. Horace ignored these and walked to the far end where a tarpaulin covered something. He lifted it and cast it to the side. Then he pulled an odd looking contraption back from the wall and stepped away so Jimmy could see.

“Wurlitzer Sideman,” Horace said, proudly. “Antique.”

Jimmy looked at the old fashioned box on the floor. “A radio?” he asked, cautiously, noting Horace's pride.

“Everybody thinks that's what it is, but it's something very different. You are looking at one of the first drum machines ever built for commercial sale. Came out in 1959.” Jimmy stared. He didn't know what to say. It was obvious that Horace wanted him to display some sort of awe. The truth was Jimmy didn't know what to make of the thing. “I like to show it to people who can appreciate it.” Horace went on, “Still works and I turn it on sometimes just to hear what it can do. Of course, nowadays these things are much better, but this is the very first. I bet there's vintage 45s with this rumbling in the background.”

“I've never seen one before.”

“Sure. Not too many of them still in existence. You ever use a machine like this in your music?” Jimmy shook his head. Horace retrieved the tarp and placed it back on the machine before pushing it against the wall. “Well, if you ever need it let me know.”