Wild Orchids: Chapter Fourteen
By Denise Main and Ian Chisholm
Previous Episodes
George and Archie had sealed their friendship through unspoken trust, however, neither had given much away about themselves, or the reasons behind their homelessness. George had not revealed to Archie that he’d been a professional musician, a trumpeter and talented pianist, who had played in pit orchestras for major musicals, and knew every key, every chord and some in between. His trusty harmonica and trumpet were now his most valuable possessions, kept safely concealed at the bottom of his battered suitcase.
During the past desperate years, when at a low ebb and missing the sheer pleasure of playing, his sense of longing had now increased to the point when he had to do something about it.
So, here he was, outside the Fingal Sound supermarket, nervous, yet excited that it could be the beginning of a way back into music, despite the burden of being homeless. He had monitored the spot and was satisfied it was an ideal place, right beside the main entrance, well under cover. As a bonus, it faced a small sunny garden plaza.
His first hope was that he would be allowed to play there and secondly, there would be plenty of people coming and going and maybe attracted to his music. Perhaps an audience of one or two, though a far cry from the audiences he had played to in vast theatres in the past.
He pulled a canvas fold-up stool from the shopper, placed his battered cloth cap, on the ground, took his harmonica from his greatcoat pocket, put it to his lips and began to play. He soon lost himself in the endearing strains of ‘Nature Boy’, and Larry Adler’s ‘Genevive’. He loved the harmonica for its rich vibrato sound, a sound that resonated from his head to his toes sending pleasurable feelings flowing through his body. A few people stopped. Some lingered for a chorus or two, others shuffled to toss a coin in the cap and move on while others stayed longer. The tinkle of the coins in his cap was music to his ears. An elegant, elderly lady wearing a beautiful maroon and blue silk scarf requested the Piaff favourite, ‘La Vie en Rose’. When he had played the last note, with tears in her eyes, she thanked him and placed a carefully folded note in the cap. George smiled, bowed his head, delighted that his music had touched her in the same way that it had moved him.
That night, he lay in his sleeping bag, still tingling with sheer pleasure from his first attempt at busking in Fingal Sound, but more importantly, the enthusiastic reception from the locals.
George woke suddenly from his dream, in which he was in an orchestra playing the overture to the ballet, Romeo and Juliet. He took a quick peek at Archie, still wrapped snugly in his sleeping bag. From the gloom of the Bridge, he squinted out to a sky of granite grey. The bushes glistened from overnight rain.
To keep himself warm in his thin, ragged sleeping bag, he wore his clothes with the old army greatcoat on top. The icy winds were straight from the Antarctic and left no doubt that winter was in full mode. The winter sun, battling against the cold, damp sea mists, had lost its bite.
Loud voices echoed across the water. Then the familiar slap of paddles.
‘Why don’t those fitness freaks stay in their beds, until a decent hour.’ he muttered. Archie, beside him, hadn’t stirred.
‘Archie, old mate, are you alright?’ George said with a prod to the mound. The response was a growl, which could have been a ‘yes’. George, unperturbed, unzipped his sleeping bag and with a grunt, groan and a fart, struggled out. He rolled up the sleeping bag and mat and stored them.
After Archie had struggled from his sleeping bag and completed his morning ablutions, they sat warming their numb fingers by the tiny primus stove while they slurped from their bowls of Weetbix, which had soaked up the hot milk like water drops on desert sand. Slices of dry bread and jam followed which had to suffice until later in the day.
It was on icy mornings like this they knew they had to find a more suitable place. As the cold morning began to nip at his face and toes, George thought of Joey’s story about the old, abandoned house.
The two, hunched into their greatcoats, left the Bridge and made their way up to the roadway. George suggested they wander through the indoor market and look out for any bargains. At least on that miserable day, if the heavens opened again, he would remain dry.
George paused at the reject stall and ran his eye over the hundreds of items set out on the counter. In the hardware section he held a small jemmy marked at $2.50 and felt its weight. That might come in handy if ever I get into a fight, he joked to himself. Then he noticed a slightly battered copper kettle. Just the thing to boil water instead of using the saucepan. Behind the counter, the kindly old dear, a bright pink scarf holding her unruly grey hair in place, greeted him cheerily.
‘Morning George, Archie. How goes it?’
‘Morning Vi,’ they chorused. How could anyone feel bad on such a lovely summer day?’ George quipped.
‘Always kidding you rascal. And always like summer in here even come winter. Anything take your fancy?
‘As a matter of fact, yes, Vi. You, but sadly, I know you’re spoken for.’
‘Stick around. He might get taken by a hungry shark.’
‘Seriously, I’ll take this jemmy. Might need it if I ever decide to break into a bank.’
‘And that old kettle over there. Would you throw that in as well?’ Archie added.
‘I’ll give you the lot for $4.50, OK? But only because I like the look of youse.’
‘Flattery will get you somewhere. Give us a kiss and you’ve got a deal,’ George kidded.
He’d become known as a regular at the market, and knew good-natured banter was the currency in such places; of that he had plenty.
George had another reason for being at the market, especially at lunch time. They made their way to the small food court and to Archie’s surprise, George took from the shopper the stool, his old floppy cap, from deep in his pocket, produced his harmonica, ready to entertain the lunchtime crowd.
‘So, this is how you’ve come up with the extra money. I’m impressed,’ Archie commented.
‘Hang about and see how it goes,’ George said with a small smile.’
Few people were at the market on that cold winter’s day, but never-the-less, George played soulful ballads such as ‘Our Love is Here to Stay’, ‘Summertime’, ‘Porgy’, ‘I’ve Got a Crush on You’. His music filled the food court. Favourite Gershwin compositions flowed from his harmonica.
He knew how lucky he was to be able to draw on his musical talent, training and experience. His decision to busk in this new location, was the right one. The coins jangled into the upturned cap; coin music in C (for cap), he thought to himself, smiling.
They left the market with a spring in their step. George dragged the heavy shopper behind him, and they happily made their way to the Bridge, each thinking about the fillets of fish and some coleslaw they bought for their meal that night, thanks to the proceeds of George’s busking.
‘Well done, George. When’s the next gig?’
