RomperSuit | Allen Jarvis
The Three Musketeers
Later, like past 2am later, James, Tony and I are doing boys’ stuff in James’ study / home office / hidey hole, soaking up the cool, the welcoming familiarity. The conversation has been at a reassuring shush for maybe twenty minutes, us content just wallowing with one another, all-knowing, relaxed.
James, Tony and I, share and share alike.
James is messing around on one of his laptops, Tony is reclining on the chaise longue. I’m perusing James’ absorbing collection of bric-a-brac and trinkets, mementoes and souvenirs, racked neatly along the walls: stacks of vinyl (Ska, Acid House, some Punk, bits of 2-Tone), concert posters, football programmes (mainly West Ham), Scalextric cars and Hornby trains, all manner of Airfix models, school photos from our time at Birch Grove Secondary, odds and sods from holidays abroad, face-masks, statuettes, what-have-you. I could lose myself for hours in James’ collection, this museum cataloguing his entire life, cataloguing parts of mine too. Tony and I left all this behind when we moved to London, started careers in the City, but James never really went that far, not geographically at least, he climbed the property ladder via various gaffs in the Colchester area before settling in this huge house, out here in Weeley Heath, quiet and rural but still only ten miles from where we were all raised.
James, Tony and I, thick as thieves once. They called us the Three Musketeers.
The soundtrack for this scene is some Acid House compilation, on vinyl of course, gurgling on some even older stereo, ‘Can You Feel It’ by Fingers Inc the current number taking us back to a prior era, a guiltless time before the rot set into our existences.
“Fuck me,” James murmurs, rumples our tranquillity. “Remember when we used to go to all those warehouse parties and dance our bollocks off to this drivel?”
“Oi! I still get goosebumps when I hear a Roland 303, Jimmy-Boy!” Tony admonishes him. “Remember that joint Genesis and Sunrise do in Hackney, one New Year? Us giving it the ‘Acieeed’ chant, dressed in bandanas and dungarees and you in that bloody poncho?”
“Oh, yeah. There was that mob of black Gooners in straw hats and we were hugging them, being all smiley-friendly,” James recounts, seems more agreeable. “When a year before we’d have been kicking off with them on the terraces.”
I’m staring up at this print of Bobby Moore OBE, being held shoulder high by team-mates on his greatest day of glory – July 30th 1966, when he captained England to World Cup triumph over Germany, 4-2 at Wembley – all smiles, red-shirted, Jules Rimet held aloft, Caesar for a day.
“Dunno how you still manage all that clubbing nowadays,” James directs at Tony. “I’m well past all that nonsense now.”
“It’s the drugs that keep Tony going,” I enlighten Bobby Moore.
“You’re only as young as the women you feel,” Tony returns, a riposte he’s trotted out on too many occasions in his suspect past.
“And just how old is Verona?” I’m asking Tony, him slung indiscriminately across the chaise longue to the right of James’ mahogany partners desk, James slouched behind said sprawling desk, master over all he sees.
Tony stretches his frame. “Not sure, bruv? Twenty, maybe? Old enough to munch me off in the Spyder coming up the A12 this evening.”
“Ah, Tony, too much information,” I return, throwing my arms up, snorting like I’m offended.
“Oof, TMI indeed,” James agrees, sits back, ponders this. “Not too much room in one of those things, you should get yourself an X6 like mine, or an ML63 like Charlie’s, more spacious.” He then thinks, bolts upright again. “How long have you known Verona anyway?”
“Not long,” Tony yawns. “Only actually met her last night!”
“You only met the girl last night?” James begins, seems somehow dissatisfied. He sighs, “And you bring her to my house to a dinner party which you didn’t even tell me you were going to be attending so Jenni invited the gay couple she works for as last minute guests and then you turn up anyway and we’ve only got food enough for six and then only room enough for you and Verona to stop-over if you use my daughter’s bedroom and –”
“Jimmy-Boy, do shut up,” Tony manages to squeeze in, raises a hand to halt James’ bellyache. “It’s not like we ate much food, we’ve been taking way too many drugs so didn’t have much of an appetite.”
“Where’d you meet Verona then?” I’m asking.
“Out with some boys from work,” Tony starts. “Few lads you’d know, bruv - Pierce Mitchell, Dean McGowan, Steve Shanahan -”
I don’t acknowledge these names.
Tony continues, “There we were propping up the bar at the Ministry, there Verona is, tits, arse, face you want to fuck, skirt so short you could see what she had for breakfast, so I bought her a Ribena and the rest is history.”
James just hangs his head in faux-disgust.
I raise my eyebrows. “Do you think Verona’s telling the girls the same story?”
“Whether she does or she doesn’t,” Tony starts, giggles, “Jenni will be telling her I’m a scumbag anyway.”
“Hey!” James announces, clicks his fingers towards me, then Tony. “Lane probably thinks you’re a scumbag too!”
“Yeah, but Lane’s too nice to actually tell Verona I’m a scumbag,” Tony pronounces.
“Ah, thanks mate,” I return, all chummy.
“No worries, bruv,” Tony responds, raises his hand to acknowledge my words.
“Just cos you wanna fuck Lane,” James blusters.
“Course I do, Jimmy-Boy,” Tony chuckles, “After all, I’ve already had your wife.”
Perfecto timing. Of course, it’s then that Jenni barges in on us.
Tony cranes his neck to catch James’ gaze, snorts, breaks into a snigger, James catches my eye, chuckles, detonates a chain reaction - we all fall about laughing, boys together, comrades in arms.
James, Tony, and I, the Three Musketeers.
“Something you’d all like to share?” Jenni advises us, strolls into the room, assured, unconcerned, doesn’t really look for a response, just adds, “We’re all having coffee in the conservatory, would any of you boys care to join us?”
“In a minute, love, in a minute,” James answers for us between chortles.
Jenni regards us all like silly schoolchildren, swivels, sashays towards the door, slight kitty-heels somehow supporting her generous form, her big hips flouncing, provoking, then she spins again, asks, “And what was it you were laughing at when I walked in?” demands this in such a manner that James quickly responds, as if panicking at missing his cue, “Tony was just boasting about shagging you,” and then me and Tony fall about laughing again.
“I’m sorry, Tony,” Jenni verbalises, poised and in control, waggles her little finger. “But I really do think I might’ve remembered that teeny encounter.”
In the space-time gamut that it takes for Jenni to leave us be and for Solomon to nip in to bid us au revoir (he really says this) having to shoot off (he really says this too) because David is getting (begin hushed tones) tired and emotional (close hushed tones) James asks Tony if he really would shag Jenni, and Tony says course not, cos James would be too hard an act to follow and James accepts this and then Tony fills the conversational void by saying he would genuinely shag Lane though and James says he would too as it would be a blessed relief for Lane after bedding that idiot husband of hers, and they both massage one another’s egos, and I tell them both nicely just to fuck off, and then the banter falls dead again.
Musically, Fingers Inc’s ‘Can You Feel It’ has since turned into Phuture’s ‘Slam’ which was then replaced by Joe Smooth’s ‘Promised Land’ which brings our Acid House reminiscing to a close, halcyon days stamped on vinyl, forever etched in memory.
“Hey, it’s Bobby Moore,” Tony suddenly broadcasts, a further five minutes down the line, catching sight of the print at the far end of the room.
“Bobby Moore, OBE,” James corrects him. “Taken the day the West Ham United Football Academy won the World Cup.”
Sir Robert Moore captained England that day, and England’s goalscorers Martin Peters and hat-trick hero Geoff Hurst were Hammers too.
“I’m forever blowing bubbles,” Tony sing-songs.
There’s a pause then I add, with verve, “Pretty bubbles in the air!”
James: “They fly so high!”
Tony: “Nearly reach the sky!”
All of us: “Then like my dreams they fade and die!”
There’s a pause.
“I’m gonna have that played at my funeral,” Tony announces. “Cockney Rejects version, of course.”
“I was at Upton Park last Saturday,” James imparts to us. “Man United game, good result, two late goals for us to win it.”
James, Tony and I, we grew up going to football together, singing ‘Bubbles’ on the terraces, following West Ham.
“Lot of trouble afterwards too, apparently,” James adds, suddenly animated. “One of the lads in my Rainham warehouse filled me in on the details.”
Tony and I don’t react, stay silent, don’t wish for James to continue.
But continue James does, rather stupidly, given his current company. “West Ham met up in Green Street five minutes before the game ended – about two hundred there, all Inter-City Firm, a good number of older ICF faces, some blokes much older than us -”
Tony and I catch one another’s gazes, both look away sharply, turn a blind eye.
“- maybe three hundred Mancs broke their escort outside the ground but Old Bill kept the two sides apart - West Ham had a go but were forced back inside a pub by Robocops, only to break out the back door to have another pop -”
We’re both ignoring James.
“- the Mancs regrouped in the Vibe Bar at Aldgate East - not really West Ham territory but twenty or so ICF went over on a kamikaze mission only to get run all over the shop, outnumbered ten to one, the Mancs coming at them with bottles, chairs, the lot.”
The room falls deathly silent, detached, dormant.
“Bit like the old days,” James confers, struggles to draw us.
The room remains uncommunicative.
“With the ICF?” James seeks to rouse us. “Bit like the old days, eh?”
A church bell tolls somewhere and an owl sounds in response.
“Anyone fancy doing some cocaine?” Tony then announces, upbeat. “Jimmy-Boy, fancy a line?”
“Ooh, I’d love one, thanks.”
“Eh?” Tony falters, derailed. “But you’ve not done drugs in years, Jimmy-Boy.”
“Well, I just fancy a line,” James complains, shrugs.
“Well, I’ve only got enough for me and Charlie,” Tony smarts back, voice resolute.
James sulks. “I’ll best go see the girls then.”
“I’d really best go see Lane too,” I add.
“No,” Tony tells me, quite sternly. “Please, stay for a line, bruv – we’ve got business to discuss. You know, European Equities stuff.”
“Er, o-okay,” I respond, discern a need for us to communicate.
Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.
“Well, then, er –” James knows he’s out of his depth here, unwanted, deported. “I’ll go see the girls then, whilst you boys talk business, eh?”
“You do that, Jimmy-Boy,” Tony smiles through his teeth, avoids eye contact with our host.
We hear James clump down the hallway.
“Since when has he started taking drugs again?” Tony asks in disbelief. “He hasn’t touched anything since we were teenagers.”
I pause. “Look Tony, I’m strictly off the coke for now. Don’t touch the stuff.”
“Detox?”
“No, promised Lane.”
“Why’s that?”
“Long story.”
“Suit yourself.”
A pause, then I break our peace with, “Well, what business do we need to discuss?”
“What on earth is up with Jimmy-Boy?” Tony sighs. “Just listen to him, he thinks he’s in the know now.”
“It’s nothing, he’s okay,” I’m quick to return, actually expecting this. “We just need one of our infamous bingeing sessions in Colchester some Saturday soon, talk some sense into him. He’s harmless, James doesn’t understand what he’s saying.”
“He hasn’t moved on,” Tony sighs, speaks in tongues. “Lives in the past, still thinks he’s Jack-the-lad.”
“Don’t be harsh on him,” I’m trying to reason.
Tony snorts, “Bollocks,” stands, his eyes roaming the room. “He’s in danger of becoming some stupid muggy bonehead.”
He then sits back down, quite abruptly, without reason.
Our eyes link.
“He’s not some muggy bonehead,” I try to advise him, speak like I think he’s only joking anyway. “He’s a good lad.”
“You’re either football -” Tony starts.
“- or you’re muggy bonehead,” I cut in, now sounding irritated. “I know the quote too, Tony - the Knockers’ Tale documentary. A few original ICF lads got filmed by Channel 4 and said there’s two types of people in this world – football or muggy bonehead.”
“Well, James is verging on the latter,” Tony smarts back. “He’s got into his head that all this violence is somehow cool.”
I pause then impart, once I’m sure I’ve cornered his attention. “This football lark, it’s really not so different to what we do.”
Tony has to deliberate hard on this, try and see sense, grasp the clarity.
“What we do is strictly business,” he’s slow to return, restrained, says this with considered thought, an admission of guilt.
I can only shrug my shoulders, throw him a dippy look that says, ‘hey, whatever, chill out, man,’ defuse the situation.
“Funny how you and I have remained such good mates, eh?” Tony mentions, throws a poker face that gives nothing away.
“Like you said,” I return, stonewall him too. “What we do is strictly business.”
“Nothing personal,” Tony counters.
“Strictly business,” I return unsmiling, let the conversation fizzle out.
We both then stand, make to leave the room.
“You not doing your coke?” I suddenly remember.
“Finished it hours ago,” Tony returns nonchalantly. “What do you think Verona was munching off my cock on the way up the A12?”
I slap him on the back. “Dirty scummer.”
“No, you’re the scummer,” Tony responds.
“No, you’re the scummer,” I repeat childishly.
“Oh, and I was telling a little fib before,” Tony mentions as we make our way down Jenni and James’ hallway, bound for the kitchen, the dining room beyond that, the conservatory beyond that again. “Didn’t actually meet Verona last night.”
“You only met her this morning?” I’m guessing.
“Yeah, around 5am,” he chuckles. “I was thinking of making a move home and there she was, I couldn’t resist!”
“Long term relationship for you then?” I aside as we finally land in the airy extension.
Jenni and James are rowing about coffee beans.
Lane looks quite relieved to see me.
Verona gives Tony an uncertain gaze and an anxious giggle, perhaps suggests that Jenni really has been dishing the dirt on our Tony, his secret history, warts and all, during the interlude of us boys’ enforced absence.
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