The Marching Band Emporium: A personal selection

THE MARCHING BAND EMPORIUM

A PERSONAL SELECTION

L.A. DAVENPORT

Copyright © 2012 by L.A. Davenport

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Illustration Copyright © 2012 by L.A. Davenport.

CONTENTS

Preface

Introduction

Note

Excerpts from lost novels

Together

Another living room

Dream

Excerpts from lost novels

Shattered—a mini saga

Drink, drink up, my friends

Dancer

Excerpts from lost novels

An artistic death—a mini saga

The interview

Sometimes

Curled Up

Excerpts from lost novels

Morning

Socrates in the dust

Just a joke

View of Place des Arcades, Antibes, France

Excerpts from lost novels

The rush of life—a mini saga

Test your intelligence!

Excerpts from lost novels

Fort Carre, Antibes, France

The cancer within

After hearing yet another discussion of Dante’s Inferno

Excerpts from lost novels

The box

Marty the dapper wolf

Is this love?

Prisons

Excerpts from lost novels

The other Luther

Shadow of me

Every day—a mini saga

Manhole

The station

Excerpts from lost novels

Watching, waiting

A double romance

The empty attic—a mini saga

The rain

Excerpts from lost novels

Candid Café, Islington, London

The Electric Love story

Excerpts from lost novels

The bridge—a mini saga

Excerpts from lost novels

Living, growing

The bench

I saw your eyes today

About the Author

More Life as a Dog

The Nucleus of Reality

My Life as a Dog

Escape

No Way Home

Dear Lucifer and Other Stories

PREFACE

When I conceived the idea of writing a blog based around short stories, poems, mini sagas and drawings, I was initially stumped. Not only did I have no idea what I would call it, but I wasn’t really sure what I would put on it. After all, it’s all very well thinking a literary blog is good in theory, but it is another to put that theory into practice.

I realised I needed a concept, a sort of fictional framework perhaps, into which all the pieces would fit, so they would make sense as part of a larger whole. And as soon as I realised that, it occurred to me that my blog had to be a shop. Even better, It had to be the sort of magical, Victorian, anything-could-happen shop visited by the characters in the cartoons I avidly watched as a child. And seeing as I had been living in and writing about London for the last 12 years, it only seemed natural that this magical shop would be located there. But whereabouts in London? It is a big place, full of history stretching back centuries, and each area has its own special character that would have a huge impact on the type of shop, and blog, I created.

And then it dawned on me. Of course. The East End. The one place left in London where vast swathes of ancient streets and buildings have been left almost untouched; where a magical shop could be allowed to to decay gently in the age of racing technological advances, to be discovered by pure chance by the writer, and reader, in need of inspiration. And what what would this fictional shop in the East End sell? Easy. Musical instruments.

That left only one decision. What should this magical shop, the one where all of my stories would be composed, be called? Now, that was obvious…

LAD, February 2012.

INTRODUCTION

In a lost corner of London, just outside the East End, lies a faded bow-fronted shop. No-one ever visits, but if you were to push open the creaking door and step over the piles of unwanted mail, you would find, in the dust-laden darkness, row upon row of shelves stuffed with trumpets, tubas, cornets, trombones, clarinets, drums. Each time one of the instruments is played, it tells a story, a different story every time.

This is the Marching Band Emporium.

NOTE

All of the pieces and drawings in this book were created and placed on The Marching Band Emporium blog during 2008 on the dates shown. In compiling this book, I have edited some of the written pieces, either to correct mistakes or to make essential improvements. Otherwise, they remain exactly as they were when I created them.

EXCERPTS FROM LOST NOVELS

[18 MARCH, 2008]

You see, I adore the applause. That’s what keeps me going, really. That and the very experience of being on stage. The lights, the feel of the boards beneath my feet, the smell. You know, theatres have such a distinct smell. Something about the very particular mix of wood, varnish and plaster, I suspect, and the dust rising from the lights…

Of course, these places have lost a lot of their character. In the old days, when Gielguid, Ralph and dear, dear Larry trod the boards, it was all so different. Those were real actors. They made the very room come alive when they took the stage. As they emerged from the wings, you could feel a hush descend and all eyes turned to them. I tell you, it was as if the world didn’t exist, except in them. Sometimes, one can almost feel their ghosts, urging you to give everything you have, to touch the audience with the unique magic of the theatre, as they so often did. It reminds me of when I was playing Horatio to Gielguid’s Hamlet in, where was it? Guildford, I think. ‘55. Must have been. As I listened to him intone those marvellous words – Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy… – I was transported, I tell you. I wasn’t on the stage anymore. I was in a Danish graveyard, and nothing existed but Gielguid, that skull and me. Little me, so young and so naïve, really, rapt and learning at the knee of a master. A fellow of infinite jest. Indeed he was. And of most excellent fancy. Everyone adored him, you know.

Malcolm gazed at the young woman sitting opposite him in his tiny, faded dressing room, the light bulbs reflecting in her glasses. She shifted nervously in her chair and smiled weakly. Oh, look at me, Malcolm said. Here I am whittering on about my marvellous memories of the stage. You don’t want to listen to all that. No, it’s very interesting, the young woman said hurriedly. You are too kind, my dear. Too, too kind. But what have you come to talk to me about, snaring me in my private lair, my refuge? I love these moments, you know, in the hours before the curtain call. Everything seems so quiet, so peaceful in here, while the stagehands and theatre staff flit about outside my door, getting it all ready for my appearance. All that for me. So kind of them. So kind.

Well, Mr Bains. Do call me Malcolm, the old actor said, patting the young woman on the knee. Well, Malcolm, the woman said, smiling nervously. Your agent, David, asked me to come up to Oxford to see you this afternoon. Yes, my dear? He asked me to come up and talk to you about the show. Unfortunately, he, he has been detained in London, so can’t come up himself…

That’s very kind of David to send you…Angela. Yes, Angela, thank you. It is a shame that he couldn’t make it himself, after all the years we have been working together, but I am charmed to have you here, Angela. Malcolm patted Angela on the knee again, smiling indulgently and leaning forward slightly.

The thing is, Malcolm, David is a little worried. About the show. The show, my dear? I must confess that my last couple of performances have perhaps been a little flat. I have been struggling with a slight infection and I know I haven’t been able to give my anecdotes about the marvellous actors I have worked with over the years their normal zest. It may have explained some of the muted responses of the audience, but I shall soon be back to my best, having them rolling in the aisles and wiping tears from their cheeks, as I have done so many times in the past. Malcolm raised his right index finger and smiled triumphantly.

It’s nothing to do with your performances, Malcolm. They have been fine. Great, in fact. Indeed? What is it? Do tell. Well, the thing is… Yes? The things is, sales have been very poor. The theatres we have done so far have been half full at best and we are struggling to sell tickets. We have tried everything. Campaigns in the local press, leaflets, posters, but the response has been…disappointing. Unfortunately, Malcolm…Mr Bains…Sorry, Mr Bains. Unfortunately, we can’t sustain any more losses on the tour, and we are going to have to cancel the remaining dates. Including tonight? Yes.

Malcolm, suddenly crumpled, looked at his wire-frame glasses, folded neatly on the dressing table, and his make-up box. He hadn’t started putting it on yet. No need for that now. He gazed down at his jacket and smoothed out a fold, feeling the rough tweed under his palm. I