The Concert by Elizabeth Obadina ... an altered memory dedicated to my brother with love xx

An epidemic of fly posters had pockmarked the leafy streets where he lived. ‘Saturday night’ they proclaimed, ‘Be there!’ 'Meet the Mystery Celebrity!' There was even one on the gate of Sunnyside  Lodge and one in every window of the house.

Indoors, excitement was feverish. The whole household was turning out for the concert; but behind the shed at the bottom of the garden Gregory was trying to ignore the commotion; there was too much to be done, too much digging, lots of watering and pests to be battled with, especially the ginger cat from next door. He had his hands full.

Come Saturday evening, it was his hands that were attracting the most attention from the womenfolk of Sunnyside Lodge; his grimy hands, his dirty nails and a new chequered bow tie. However wonderful he might be, he was, he was told, going to show them all up unless he gave in to female ministrations. He was used to such fussing and pampering although he’d never asked for it.

He allowed himself to be led to the car, it was only a short drive to the concert but no one wanted a mishap whilst walking en route.

They were the last to arrive. Seats had been saved for them at the very front of the cavernous hall. Gregory slumped and dreamed about tomorrow’s labours in the garden, there was still so much reconstruction needing to be done. The music wafted over him. At one point he thought he heard the squeaky highs of Aunt Vera’s voice. He was roused a bit by the thumping base of Robby Robert’s ‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’. He thought Robby Roberts, their next door neighbour’s son was rather splendid and probably a lot of fun, but thought that another version of their song he’d caught snatches of on the radio was a bit better, a bit less loud. His womenfolk on either side of him weren’t Robbie Roberts fans and pressed their lips together in rictus smiles of mock approval. Anything was permitted tonight. All the performances were for a good cause: The 1968 Red Cross Appeal to save the starving babies of Biafra.

The concert was coming to an end. There was just the last performance: a celebrity as promised by all the fliers which had brought in the punters and fueled a storm of rumours. In the darkness that ended Malcolm’s Magical Mystery Show, a buzz of excited whispering skittered down the aisles and strangely Gregory felt himself propelled by anxious hands through the door at the side of the stage door, up some rickety wooden steps until he found himself standing nonplussed behind closed curtains. He’d noticed a piano to his left, a piano he was sure he’d seen somewhere else, somewhere very familiar.

Gregory suddenly remembered everything. Why he was here. Why he’d been hauled from his beloved garden on a glorious sunny evening. Why he’d been reminded day after day to make sure he knew and had practised what he was doing. Why the piano from Miss Duncan’s house was now in this odd room. The hands that had propelled him on stage now hugged him and kisses landed on his cheek. Someone straightened his bow tie and slicked down his hair.

“Good luck Gregory.”

“Good Luck Darling”

And then the curtains swished back.

Gregory peered into the abyss. Some ghostly white faces smiled back at him. And the whispering buzz was replaced by long drawn out sighs,

“Aaaaaahhhh.”

Gregory froze but then the drilling he’d been subjected to for the past fortnight kicked in.

He bowed solemnly and found his hands were holding a sheet of music. He clutched it and announced to the void.

“I am now going to play ‘Monkey Business’.”

With a second professional bow he turned and was lifted to the piano stool by Miss Duncan, his piano teacher who had miraculously materialised by his side. She put his music straight on the stand. He stretched his fingers and

Plonk. Plonk. Plonk.

Plink. Plink. Plink.

Plink. Plonk.

Plink. Plonk.

Plinkity, plonkety, plink, plonk plink.

And the performance was over.

He jumped off the stool and bowed to the void.

His bow tie slipped off.

The applause was thunderous.

There was cheering and thumping of feet.

And alone on the stage Gregory took fright.

He dived behind the piano and nothing, but nothing would prize him out to acknowledge his standing ovation or to take his curtain call.

In all the five years of his life he had never been tricked so cruelly by the women he loved.

The terror of that noise …

He would never trust women again.

As his mother scooped him up, promising him orange squash, jelly and ice-cream for being her little star, friends and neighbours crowded in.

“Good show,” they chuckled, “Thought a real celebrity wouldn’t really come to this neck of the woods.” “Brilliant idea.” Well done Gregory.” “Good Show.” “Good Show.”

It was a concert the village would remember for years to come and Gregory would never forget.