Girlfriend's No Longer Playing Records

Performed February 2010 for Bard and Roses at The Lukin, Fitzrovia


My cookery class colleagues and I are sitting at a large round table in the pub, peeling away the lids of Tupperware and tins to compare our asparagus and dill tarts, still warm. The fresh-baked smell is appealing, but I find myself distracted. I’m knocking back my pint with tell-tale speed.
Call me conservative, but lately it has come to my attention that certain provisions need to be made concerning my financial future. I’ve seen too many of my colleagues fail to set aside for their future when prospects were good. My girlfriend Abbie and I sometimes plan our future together. ‘A big house in the country,’ she says, ‘with two dogs, some chickens, and’ – I stop her right there,of course. I question her about the big house. ‘I have some... means,’ she says with a modesty quite out of character. ‘Interesting,’ I say, quite sincerely. But I remember to ask her about the dogs and the chickens too, for form’s sake.

To cut a long story, I’ve been expecting a call about this delicate matter, this very evening. But as much as I love a vigil at home by the phone, waiting for my brother Dave to call even though he has no intention of doing so, I thought it healthier to go out and attend my first evening class of Continental Cookery, as planned.

So here I am, in the pub afterwards, ten o’clock now, still waiting for the call, and now nibbling thoughtfully on a Mars bar to slow my drinking. This seems to raise eyebrows among my fellow cookery students. Up to this point, no-one had really registered me.

‘What?’ I say. ‘I like them.’

The Sloaney one next to me is finally shocked into speech. ‘What do you do then? For a living?’ she says. The various heads turn as one towards me. ‘I see it doesn’t involve a lot of cooking.’

‘I'm -’
...and already I’m stuck. ‘Well, I can’t really talk about it. It's... I mean, I’m underground, and -’
‘Underground?’
I clarify. ‘In a basement, I mean.’ But my voice is inaudible, and the trap has been set. What little natural light there is in the room recedes a little further as they lean in on me to hear more. I feel claustrophobic.

‘What does underground mean? Are you a revolutionary? A sleeper? A secret agent?’
‘No. I work in a bank.’

The young one - Claire, I think - is nodding sagely, as if that's exactly the kind of cover she'd expect of a secret agent. Nice boring job in a bank - no-one would suspect a thing. I don't think even one of them believes I’m not hiding something. And indeed, if I were really a banker as I seem to be suggesting, what would I be doing on a cookery course at the community college? Even I’m beginning to suspect myself. So I explain, in painful detail; I admit, that OK, I am a software developer. I work in a basement, writing in C++. The client is a... high street bank, yes. That’s what I meant by working in a bank. The business is cheque clearing. I look after some of the servers. It really is that dull, and not worth talking about.

I’m having curious difficulty trying to convey this fact. I am not interesting.

‘It's very dull,’ I mumble. ‘I can't even surf the web. All that security, you see.’
‘Wow,’ Claire says, eyes wide, as if she’d been asked to imagine the world of iron-age man. Immediately, I can see what she’s thinking.
‘No Facebook!’

But my mobile clatters and rattles before I have respond to her. Finally, my call. I extract it from my pocket, see the name ‘Dave’ displayed, and press the green button.

‘Hi!’
‘She's dead,’ Dave tells me. ‘Abbie’s dead. Your girlfriend’s dead. I'm sorry.’

I pause to take this in.
A long pause, out of respect for Dave’s feelings.

So - as an ending, death has clearly disappointed him. I do understand - the dying thing is unfortunate, and I can see how it might grate after a while. Perhaps my brother was expecting a more original state of animation from my unconventional squeeze. Not alive, not dead, but rather - what? Some euphemism might help him cope. Not dead as such, just - no longer playing records. Or, perhaps my brother was expecting her to have a foot in both camps, so to speak. Don't worry – the coroner would explain - she's not exclusively dead... just a bit bi...

Well. I take another small bite from my chocolate bar and carry on chewing while I wait for my brother to cut to the chase, because this little nugget of information – girlfriend being dead - isn't it. I have to admit, I quite like the milk chocolate exterior of this bar. Like anyone else, I can take or leave the nougat, whatever that is, or the caramel. My tongue has to do the janitorial work, doing a quick circuit over my teeth to clean up the goo. Yes, I can take or leave nougat, but given the choice, I think I'd leave it. I don't like the way it lingers.

Meanwhile, Dave is silent. Listening harder though, I think I can hear sobbing. This won't do at all. I push my chair back and rise to my feet.

‘I'm so sorry,’ I say. My hand is over the mouthpiece of course, while I address my new culinary friends. ‘Something's come up, you see. I'll get the next round though, when I'm back. Promise.’

Hand off mouthpiece. Quick march to the pavement outside.
‘Dave,’ I finally say. ‘Y’know how it works - Socrates is a man - All men are mortal - Therefore Socrates is mortal. Comprenez vous? She had to die. Now what's up?’
‘You what?’ he says. ‘What do you mean, what’s up?’
‘Apart from Abs being dead, I mean, which I’ve kind of established - oh for Christ's sake!’

Some troubadour, you see, has started serenading customers outside the restaurant next door. Cafe culture gone mad, as the Daily Mail would phrase it. I carefully map and memorise the offender's face. I can imagine him in my little moleskin black book, under ‘TO DO’, just next to Fingal "Fingers" Fletcher, and the shopping list, and one or two practical considerations relating to Abbie.

‘Dave, can you hear me? I'm sorry. There's a guy singing, playing guitar, making it kind of difficult. Maybe you should text me, yeah?’

‘Text you,’ he cries. I can hear the exclamation marks in his voice. ‘Your girlfriend’s dead,’ he reminds me, which is beginning to seem rather redundant. My tuning of Abbie’s will was kind of predicated on that concept, after all.

‘Yes, I'd gathered that,’ I say. ‘What of it?’

He hangs up. I return to the pub, thoroughly defeated by my wilfully obtuse brother. I wonder whether he is merely stupid, or worse, ungrateful; after all, this modest endeavour of mine was for his financial future too, not just mine. It's a relief to get back inside and return to the company of some normal people again. They seem happy to see me. I think they know it’s my round.

‘So,’ I say, ‘anyone else work in IT then?’