The Time Traveller
6: Wilterwood 19-03-84
It came over the radio as we were making our way to Wilterwood - “The coach carrying the Rock Group Woodrowe crashed on the Motorway last night, tipping the vehicle onto its side. Three more vehicles were involved in the crash.”
As we listened on anxiously, it was revealed that luckily no one was seriously hurt. But it meant the gig was cancelled.
You know, I don't remember this happening? Maybe this is one of those things that Time is messing with to right itself? Or maybe I just don't remember it very well? I was already getting gaps in my long term memory. Maybe it’s one of those cruel side effects of time travel? If it hasn't happened yet, the thread that holds the memory in place is surely weakened by its place in history?
We were committed, however, and we journeyed to the venue to see if anyone else had turned up, hoping.
Many did. It was true that it wasn't just the Woodworms who were dedicated to Woodrowe. There were hundreds more. Made you feel quite small and insignificant, but for the distraction of family.
And that’s what happened. It seemed appropriate for us all to return home, at least for the next few days, until the next gig, and hope that the next one was going ahead. Gorleshill on the twenty second, I believe?
Gorleshill! Now that brings back memories! Somewhere - somewhere in my brain they are - can’t seem to find them -
#
I destroy relationships before they destroy me. A pre-emptive strike. For good or bad, that’s what I do. It’s something I can’t help. It happens. All the time and forever.
#
We were sat in Ippy’s bedroom, listening to ‘Still Live’, the gig in Stonefold, recorded on their promotional tour for their third album, ‘A Still Life’, being their first live album. They’re on their eleventh now. Not a patch on that first one, however. They never are. It’s the nature of live music, to capture a mood, and when that moods been soured for the last twenty years, then, well -
“What did Mom say to you?” asked Ippy, when I returned to the floor next to the bed. This had always been my default position for listening to music at home. Except I wasn't at home. Then why did I sit so?
“Oh, she just told me to call her Jennifer.” I answered, thinking no more about it. One track merged into another, filled by the white noise of a thousand screaming kids.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I think she was getting fed up of me calling her Mrs Ippy.” I shrugged.
“Should be Mrs Mendax - or Stewart. She’s practically married to Tony.”
“It’s fine, Ippy mate. Calm down. Just listen to the music.”
“But I want you to realise about Mom -“
“Look, Ippy, I promise. I promise there’s nothing going on between me and your Mom. She’s a nice enough woman, but -“
“Nice enough woman? So you’ve thought about it?”
“Calm down Ippy. She’s an attractive woman for her age -“
“What you saying about my Mom? She and Tony are happy! I’m fine with Tony! Granted, he gets a bit angry sometimes, but that’s because of his job! What you saying about my family?! I don't know you!” Ippy got up off the bed and went to the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. His Mom shouted up the stairs at the commotion, but I just sat there, knees up under my chin, listening to the fading arpeggio notes of ‘Drop It In’, running over the argument in my mind and trying to find the words I should have said to make it all right. After a few minutes, Ippy came out of the bathroom and sat back on the bed, just as ‘Skinny’ wound up the heavy bass notes, filling the room with palpable tension, until Ippy spoke.
“Sorry. It’s just, after Dad died, and Tony came along, Mom’s been good. I just don't want any of that to mess up.”
“Trust me, Ippy. I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. I promise. You, your Mom, Tony, you’ve all been very good to me, and especially when you didn't have to.”
And we carried on listening to the double album in relative silence, a slither of the tension remained like a thin mist in the atmosphere of that little brown room.
#
The next day, everything seemed to have been forgotten. We had a normal breakfast and everyone was there, with seemingly no tension poisoning the air. We laughed and joked about mundane things, looking at old copies of Raw Voltage that Ippy had saved over the years, in particular the old publicity photographs of Woodrowe from when they started, with the eyeliner, the spiky hair and the abundance of spandex. They, like most other Rockers, quickly realised that it was about substance and not looks that sold their music. When they ditched that crap, they quickly built a groundswell following that has lasted forty years - so far. Will do. Oh, enough of that.
Ippy was out running an errand - getting something from the chemist, I think. Strange thing not to remember. I was left to mope about his room, and I had read the back covers and insert notes on all the Woodrowe albums twenty times. I’d also re-read articles in Raw Voltage so many times I could have written them in my sleep. There were other places in Ippy’s bedroom, but a young man’s places were private. I wasn't going to start snooping around his places. I ventured downstairs.
Tony was at work, but the remnants of breakfast and lunch was still splayed across the kitchen. Beyond the kitchen was the utility room, and from within I could hear a buzzing noise. There was a distinct odour of wet dog coming from the crack in the door, while Ronny Edway’s Radio Show was playing the oldies through the single hissy speaker of the radio hanging from a clip on the wall. I looked through the gap. Jennifer - Mrs Ippy - was in the process of drying off a large poodle, sat in a Belfast sink. The hairdryer hissed and changed pitch as she rapidly ran it back and forth over the white behemoth’s fur. The dog, however, looked largely indifferent to the whole situation.
“Oh, there you are! Is Ippy still out?”
“Yes Mrs - Jennifer.” I replied sheepishly, feeling like some kind of voyeur being found out.
“Oh - he usually helps me with this bit. Could you -“ she left it there, hanging.
Staring blankly for perhaps longer than was comfortable, I suddenly shook myself from the funk, “Oh, right. You want me to lift the dog out?”
“If you don't mind, sweety?”
“Wow, it’s heavier - than it looks!”
“Lots of things are quite deceptive. Like age, and experience - oh put her down there. Have you ever clipped a dog before?”
I gave it some unnecessarily serious thought, “No. Can’t say I have?”
“Want to try? Sally here won’t mind. Will you darling?” said Mrs Ippy, lifting the dog’s snout and making kissy noises at the dog.
“You’ve got a dog?”
“A dog Grooming business. Here, take the clipper in your hand like this.” She stood behind me, very close, so close I could feel the curves of her body, the indentations and valleys of pleasure. She took my hand gently, running hers over the top, guiding my hand to the dog, who simply sat there and waited. Mrs Ippy put her chin on my shoulder, bringing her other hand to my other, guiding my hand gently over the dog’s fur. I could feel her breath close to my ear, juddering ever so slightly as the clippers came into contact with the indifferent dog, Mrs Ippy’s body undulating, gyrating into mine, her warmth on my back, sensual -
The front door slammed and we heard footsteps come into the kitchen. There was a rustle of a plastic bag and the door opened to the utility room, but by then, both myself and Mrs Ippy had separated.
“Ippy, sweetheart! Did you get everything?” But something must have been different. Maybe Mrs Ippy looked flushed from excitement, or I looked flushed from embarrassment? Whatever it was, Ippy simply turned round, put the bag on the breakfast nook and left the kitchen, climbing the stairs. Woodrowe came melodiously from his turntable and stereo speakers shortly after. I coughed and left Mrs Ippy to it. Within the gasp of a second, the clippers were going hammer and tongues from within the utility room. I climbed the stairs to see if Ippy was okay.
He was smiling, laughing at something in a magazine, and when I came in, he smiled at me, seemingly not to have noticed the awkwardness downstairs. For the rest of the day we listened to Woodrowe albums and talked about any old guff. The next day, we were at the Train Station on our way to Gorleshill, to meet up with the Woodworms. I wonder if their break was as odd as mine?
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