Broken Homes

had this theory that alcohol, being a depressant, might counteract all the glamour that was washing around us. And even if it didn’t, it could still get you drunk. Lesley was sceptical, but seemed open to some practical experimentation in that area. When we ducked into the tent we found that it was already half full of punters and totally full of my mother.
    In honour of the fact that my dad was playing she was wearing her upmarket beatnik outfit, all skinny jeans, black roll-neck jumper and silver bling – all now back in fashion amongst the cognoscenti, much like my dear old dad. No beret, I noticed. Some things that happened in the sixties stay in the sixties – even if in my mum’s case most of them happened in the late seventies. When she saw me she bustled over and, after hugging me, greeted Lesley and asked how she was.
    ‘Much better,’ said Lesley.
    Mum gave a dubious look and turned to me for confirmation.
    ‘ How e day do ?’ she asked in Krio.
    ‘ E betta small small ,’ I told her.
    Mum nodded and looked around. ‘ You girlfriend day cam ?’ she asked.
    It took me a moment to realise who she was talking about. Girlfriend? I’d never actually got that far with Beverley Brook before she’d moved upstream as part of a hostage swap. That had been my idea as part of, if I say so myself, a very clever way to stop the two halves of the River Thames going to war with each other. Beverley, for a lot of good reasons, had been an obvious choice for the swap although Lesley said it was down to my unconscious desire to head off a meaningful relationship before it could get started. Lesley says she could write a book about my relationship issues, only it would be long, dull and pretty similar to all the other books on the market.
    ‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ I said, but my mum ignored me.
    ‘ Dis nah fambul business ?’ she asked.
    ‘Sort of the family business,’ I said.
    ‘ Dem people den very strange and differend ,’ she said. Lesley snorted.
    ‘I’ve noticed that,’ I said.
    ‘ But this one notto witch ?’ asked my mum, who incidentally had attacked my last girlfriend for being same. ‘E get fine training .’
    ‘How’s Dad?’ I asked. Always a reliable way to sidetrack my mum.
    ‘ He day do fine. Den day ya he do a lot of wok .’
    So the Irregulars had told me, lots of gigs and rumours of an exclusive vinyl-only release carefully designed to appeal to fans of ‘proper’ jazz – whatever that was these days.
    She glanced back at where my dad, properly turned out in pressed chinos and a green v-neck cashmere jumper over a white cotton shirt with button-down collar, was having a technical discussion with the rest of the band. Lots of hand gestures as he indicated where he wanted the solos to come in during the set because, as my dad always says, while improvisation and spontaneity may be the hallmarks of great jazz, the hallmark of being a great player is ensuring the rest of the band is spontaneously improvising the way you want them to.
    ‘ Are wan talk to you in private ,’ said my mum.
    ‘Now?’
    ‘Now now.’
    I waved off Lesley and followed Mum out into the mist.
    Are know you papa sabie play the piano ,’ she said. ‘ But e good more with dee trumpet. En dee trumpet nah e make am famous .’
    Despite Mum’s best efforts, heroin had done for my dad’s teeth and so he ‘lost his lip’, his embouchure if you’re going to be posh about it, and unless you’re Chet Baker that’s pretty much all she wrote for a man with a horn.
    ‘ If e bin day play the trumpet e bin for sell more records ,’ said my mum in a wheedling tone of voice that suggested something expensive was about to happen to me.
    ‘How much are you looking for?’ I asked, because my mum will circle around a request like this for half an hour if you let her.
    ‘ I don see one dentist way go fix you papa een teeth den ,’ she said. ‘Four thousand pond.’
    ‘I haven’t got that,’ I said.
    ‘Ah feel say you bin day save you money ,’ said Mum.
    I had been but I’d blown it all on an artic full of booze to propitiate a certain Goddess of the River Thames – one who even at that moment was holding court less than ten metres from where we were standing. Mum frowned at me.
    ‘ Watin you spend you money par ?’ she asked.
    ‘You know, Mum,’ I said. ‘Wine, women and song.’
    She looked like she wanted to ask me exactly which women and what songs, but while I was never going to be