12. THE REUNION CONCERT

Back at the old castle and a night's sleep followed by....

We arrived back at the old ruined castle in pitch black night. There was a kind of hazy blotch in the sky where the moon might be, though in all honesty it could have been anything, even an alien spaceship.

“You’d best sleep with Jed,” Scabby said to me as he pulled Joanie closer to him.

How in the name of goodness have they kept it going for so long? I found myself wondering. But: “In his van?” I mumbled, knowing the answer. Where else would I be able to sleep? It was far too dark for erecting tents, even little ones like the one Scab had brought with him. Why, I could barely see my hand in front of my face.

“But Crin was in there, leaking his juices...” I protested.

“There are two bunks,” pointed out the logical Joanie. “You have the other one.”

“And Jed would allow that!” I snapped. “He’s done nothing but kick me since we arrived anyway … and at his age too, behaving like a petulant child!”

“Poor Josh,” grinned Scabby. “Take the tent, then.”

So, despite the pitch of night, I did.

In almost total darkness I managed to create something that would keep the rain off me if the weather turned wet again. It didn’t look much like a tent when I surveyed it critically next morning, but it sort of worked.

But I mustn’t get in front of myself. Next morning I was the first to emerge from a night of near-sleep, and I cursed in a way I didn’t very often and wriggled out of what may have been the tent’s entrance, yawning and half-blinded by sunlight.

And I crept out to a round of applause. Polite applause at that.

My immediate reaction was that the others had decided to applaud me for my tent-building, but they weren’t there. Instead there was a small crowd of elderly tourists. Japanese tourists with cameras dangling round their necks and big affectionate grins on their faces.

“What the…?” I stammered, and then I realised why they were applauding.

I was starkers. I usually sleep naked, even, it seems, when I’m in a half-constructed tent, and I was starkers now.

“Get some knickers on!” hissed Scabby as he peered out of the camper-van door to see what all the commotion was about.

“The man’s an exhibitionist,” I heard Joanie murmur loud enough to be heard, “though I don’t see anything special in most men to be an exhibitionist about.”

It took me almost less than no time to pull a pair of boxers on, something I usually struggle with on account of stiff knees and arthritic joints. But the pressure was on and I yanked them up virtually as fast as lightning.

“I don’t know,” I heard Scabby tell Joanie, “I’ve never heard you complain.”

“I said most men, and anyway the good Lord never did make diamonds as big as bricks,” she replied, and even though I couldn’t see her I was well aware of the twinkle in her eyes.

One of the Japanese tourists separated himself from the group and edged towards me, rather nervously I thought.

“’Scuse,” he said, so polite I could have kissed him, “we came once before, 1969, maybe… came back to see. Memories, so sweet. Sparklers sang. Lovely English singing. Just to remind us.”

“Bootiful song,” echoed another, a nervous Japanese woman with the most gorgeous of eyes. “About green and sleeping world.”

Then the most ridiculous thing happened. The first of the tourists produced one of those small tape recorders that sold cheaply back in the sixties before cassettes became all the rage. Reel-to-reel, they were, and hardly ever quite managed to play at the right speed even when the batteries were new.

And he switched it on and pressed a button.

Over the decades it came to us, Joanie’s voice like that of an angel, me with the rhythm and Scabby adding the odd twiddly guitar solo in between verses. There was Crin, too, tapping away on his drums, gently, hardly louder that Joanie’s tambourine, and finally Jed’s recorder adding tears to the lilting melody. Scabby had composed the music and the words were mine. At least, most of them were though I recall I had always been open to suggestions when it came to letting the music flow without lyrics getting in the way.

But the song was all Joanie. She was the angel, and just as the last chorus began on the tinny tape recorder she stepped out of their van in the flesh and half a century older, and sang it again, walking flowingly in her short white nightdress towards her audience. And the words were the same, the voice as wonderful despite the years, and the Japanese crowd stood motionless before bursting out with an explosion of applause that sounded as if it might go on for ever.

“You … Sparklers?” asked the original tourist.

I nodded. “We were going to hold a private reunion and play some of the old stuff while we still can,” I explained, “but our drummer passed away.”

“Sad, so sad,” grunted the Japanese man. “But … can you … will you … play for us? We go soon, but right now we here.”

“Come on then lads,” shouted Scabby as he climbed out of his van, Jed, get your arse out here! We’re in for a ball!”

It didn’t take long. Instruments were just about already tuned, or rather, as tuned as they’d ever been, and we lined up just as we had way back when our beards had been shorter, and Scabby said, “after three...”

“For Crin,” I added under my breath, and Joanie smiled my way.

Then Scabby began, and on cue, Joan with the voice of an angel gave life to the words. Words I’d written years ago, before life had daubed its filth on me.

It was the night we slept, the night we wept,

The night our tears did flow,

The night of hope, the slippery slope

When the southern winds did blow…

And our green and sleeping world,

Yes the green and sleeping world,

It’s fingers forged from golden truth

And the diamond flavour of our youth

On this green and sleeping world…

And in the night, the sleeping night

Dream eagles hoping soar…

Like lovers dreams of crystal streams

Making love for ever more.…

And our green and sleeping world,

Yes the green and sleeping world,

It’s fingers forged from golden truth

And the diamond flavour of our youth

On this green and sleeping world…

And when our fluids like the Druid's

Mingle with the stars

We close our eyes, soar through the skies,

As far as ruby Mars...

And our green and sleeping world,

Yes the green and sleeping world,

It’s fingers forged from golden truth

And the diamond flavour of our youth

On this green and sleeping world…

On this green and sleeping world.

  

 And, you know, the applause, when we stopped and it started, meant more than anything else had ever meant, both to me and to my friends. It was applause for all of us, for our lives, for the years, our loves and losses, for the very essence of living and being...

     And for Crin.

THE END

© Peter Rogerson 28.06.18