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Title: Trumpet
(click title to order online now)
Author: Jackie Kay
Publisher: Random House, Incorporated
Date Published: February 1999
Format: Trade Cloth
Recommended by Thumper!
When jazz musician Billie Tipton died at the age of 72, the world was shocked by the secret he had harbored for all of his adult life: Billie Tipton was actually a woman who had passed as a man for the entirety of her professional career. How did she manage to keep such a secret from her friends and colleagues? How was she able to maintain an apparently traditional marriage and raise a family?
Based loosely on Tipton's real-life charade, TRUMPET is a fictionalized love story set against the backdrop of the jazz scene in Glasgow and London in the 1950s and 1960s. In this refreshingly original novel, writer Jackie Kay examines the complexities of gender, race, and relationships in a bold and inventive voice.
When trumpeter Joss Moody passes away, his widow, Millie, has little time for mourning. Almost immediately, the tabloids reveal a story announcing that Joss was a woman who had lived a lie. In the alternating voices of Millie and the Moody's grown son, Coleman, the story behind the elaborate charade begins to unfold. With the fluid musicality of a jazz composition, Kay's characters improvise with each other in a dance toward the truth. Peeling away each layer of Joss Moody's intricate lie raises traditional questions of identity and appearances, getting to the heart of what is really a story about love and compassion.
For those who are interested in jazz, Trumpet is a well-researched and awesome look at a vanished era. Those who love a good story will be hard-pressed to find a more capable storyteller than Jackie Kay. A prize-winning poet, Kay recently won the Guardian Fiction Prize, Britain's longest-running award, for Trumpet, her first novel.
—Kelle Ruden, Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers
I follow the road down to the sea. This walk is so familiar the memory of it is in my feet. I don't even need to look. So many times with Joss, down the steep hill from Torr, round the corner of the harbour and up the other side towards the cliffs. Arm in the crook of arm down the hill, then when we came to the cliff path we'd separate, single file, Joss always behind me. It is muddy with all the rain. Slippy, dangerous. I keep on, taking one step up the cliff path at a time. The sea is moaning like a sick person. I can't take my eyes off it. No matter how many times I am near it, it never ceases to frighten me. I stand and watch the sea's wild movements, the huge awesome leaps. I can hear Joss saying, 'The great beast.' Down below, the upturned fishing boats look lifeless, lonely. I know which boat belongs to which man. Their oars, like long sad arms waiting to be lifted and brought to life. I am tense; afraid somebody is going to pounce on me. I shouldn't have come out. I'll need to head back. It is even harder coming down. I must be mad. I could tumble and fall into the sea. The idea is strangely attractive to me. There is nothing behind or in front of me: just me and the wind and the sea. Everything is so familiar it is terrifying. I try to hush my breathing. I break into a run. My legs are shorter. Grief is making me shrink.
I unlock my door and rush inside the house. My heart is in my mouth. It feels wrong; there is something the matter with this place. I listen for noises. It is as if somebody else is here or has been here. I go from room to room looking. My own coat hanging on a door hook startles me. The sudden flashlight of a car sweeping past outside. Nothing. This fear is taking me over. If they are not stalking me, I am doing it to myself. I try to make light of my fears. It was our secret. That's all it was. Lots of people have secrets, don't they? The world runs on secrets. What kind of place would the world be without them? Our secret was harmless. It did not hurt anybody.
There must be a mistake we made. A big mistake; hiding somewhere that I somehow missed.
I sit down on Joss's armchair. I am not sure what to do with myself. I find myself getting agitated, now wondering what to do with my hands. I pick up a book and try to read a paragraph but it doesn't go in. The words spill and lurch in front of me making no sense. I close the book and turn on the television. But the sound of the chat-show host's voice, the speed of his talk, distresses me. I turn it off. I put on some music. I can listen to music. I try and breathe with it because my breathing still isn't right. It is still too fast. Joss's breathing became very fast in the end. Fast and shallow. When I think of the breath he used to take in and out to blow that trumpet! When he was dying, I thought if only he could have one big trumpet breath, he'd get some relief.
The summer before I met Joss, I was here at Torr with my brother and his family. I felt restless, discontented with my life. I wanted a passion, somebody to speed up time with a fast ferocious love. We didn't have hot water then. At night, I'd sing in the freezing cold bathroom whilst I washed myself with the pot full of hot water in the old cracked sink, Some day he'll come along, the man I love; And he'll be big and strong, The man I love ... Maybe I shall meet him Sunday, Maybe Monday -- maybe not; Still I'm sure to meet him one day -- Maybe Tuesday will be my good news day. Then I'd lie on my thin hard bed trying to paint him in watercolours. I gave him a strong jaw.
I can still picture him the day we met in that blood donor's hall in Glasgow. How could I have known then? He was well dressed, astonishingly handsome, high cheekbones that gave him a sculpted proud look; his eyes darker than any I'd ever seen. Thick black curly hair, the tightest possible curls, sitting on top of his head, like a bed of springy bracken. Neat nails, beautiful hands. I took him all in as if I had a premonition, as if I knew what would happen. His skin was the colour of Highland toffee. His mouth was a beautiful shape. I had this feeling of being pulled along by a pack of horses. In my mind's eye I could see them, galloping along until they came to the narrow path that led to the big house. The huge dark gates. It was as if I had no say in what was going to happen to me, just this giddy sick excitement, this terrible sense of fate. We both give blood, I thought to myself. I wondered what made him give blood, what family accident, what trauma. We didn't speak that first time, though I could feel him looking at me.
The fire is shrinking too. Collapsing in on itself, turning to ash. I get up and put the guard over the fire and go into the kitchen. I stand next to the kettle for an age, rubbing my hands till the shrill whistle pierces through me as if I wasn't expecting it. I make myself a cup of tea to take to bed. Sleeping in our bed here is so terrible, I considered sleeping in Colman's old room, or sleeping on the couch downstairs, or sleeping on the floor. I felt as if I'd be deserting Joss though. I climb into our old bed and place my cup of tea at my side. The space next to me bristles with silence. The emptiness is palpable. Loss isn't an absence after all. It is a presence. A strong presence here next to me. I sip my tea and look at it. It doesn't look like anything, that's what is so strange. It just fits in. Last night I was certain it was a definite shape. I bashed the sheets about to see if it would declare itself. It won't let me alone and it won't let me sleep. I try to find sleep. Sleep is out there where Joss is, isn't it? That's what the headstones tell you. Who Fell Asleep On. Sleeping. Fell Asleep on Jesus. Joss is out there sleeping behind the sea wall. I can't sleep any more. Not properly. Sleep scratches at me then wakes me up. I dip down for a moment then surface again, my eyes peeling the darkness away. I don't know how many hours I have had of it since he died. It can't be many. It was a form of torture, wasn't it, sleep deprivation?
If I don't try to sleep, it might sneak up on me, capture me. I won't try to sleep. I will try to remember. The next time is six months later. We are back giving blood on the same day, Tuesday. I am brazen, full of knowledge. I approach him and ask him out. It is 1955. Women don't do this sort of thing. I don't care. I am certain this man is going to be my lover. When you are certain of something, you must take your chance; you mustn't miss your opportunity or life is lost. I remember my grandfather telling me that; how he knew with my grandmother, how he courted her until he had her. I tell him I've noticed him here before. We talk about giving blood, how we both hate it, but like clenching our fist and the biscuit afterwards. I ask him if he watches the blood being drained out of himself. He says he looks away at anything else. He says he is quite squeamish. What about you, he asks me, what do you do? I tell him I like to watch the blood filling up, the wonderful rich colour of it. He laughs as if he suddenly likes me. Then we both fall silent and he stares at me awkwardly, puzzled by me just coming up to him like this. But he isn't trying to get rid of me. He is looking me up and down as if appraising me. I am glad that I am wearing my good dress, with the polka dots and the straps. I know I look good.
We go for a drink in Lauder's bar. He tells me his name is Joss Moody and I ask him if that is his real name. He is offended. I see a look cross his face that I haven't seen before. Of course it is his real name, what am I talking about. I tell him it sounds like a stage name, like a name that someone would make up in anticipation of being famous. He laughs at that and tells me he is going to be famous. I laugh too, nervously. I know he's going to be famous also. I could have noticed then, I suppose. The way he was so irritated with me asking him about his name. I say, 'My name is Millie MacFarlane,' as if I'd just heard it for the first time, as if my own name was miles away from who I am. I say, 'Millicent MacFarlane, but my friends call me Millie,' suddenly shy. We talk about anything. He tells me he plays the trumpet. He is so pleased with himself for playing the trumpet, I can see that. He says the word, 'trumpet,' and his eyes shine. 'Would you like one for the road, Millie?' he asks. Him saying my name makes me weak. I hold onto the table and watch him go to the bar for his whisky and my gin.
He walks me to my flat in Rose Street, Number 14. And leaves me. 'I know where you are now,' he says. A little kiss on my cheek. I get in and throw myself on my bed, punch my pillow. Then I stroke the side of my cheek Joss Moody kissed and say, courting to myself, courting, courting, courting until it sounds like a beautiful piece of music.
We court for three months. A kiss on the cheek at the end of the date. Meeting at Boots' Corner, at The Shell in Central Station, or below the Hielan' Man's umbrella under where the trains come out of Central Station on Argyle Street, between Hope Street and Union Street. The times I've waited for Joss sheltered from the rain, under the Hielan' Man's umbrella, imagining the Highland men years ago, fresh down from the Highlands talking excited Gaelic to each other. Either we go drinking or we go dancing. Great dance halls in Glasgow. Dancing at the Playhouse, at Denniston Palais, at the Locarno, the Astoria or the Plaza, it seemed nobody would ever get old. Nobody would ever die. Even the ugly looked beautiful. Joss was a wonderful dancer; he loved to strut his stuff on those dance floors. A hive of jive. He was showbiz itself already. They all were. I remember laughing till I cried, watching one man after another get up at the Locarno and imitate Frank Sinatra singing 'Dancing in the Dark'. The Carswell Clothes Shop competition. I remember loving the names of those bands at the dance halls -- Ray McVey Trio, Doctor Crock and the Crackpots, Joe Loss, Oscar Rabin, Carl Barritean, Harry Parry, Felix Mendelson, and, my favourite, the Hawaiian Serenaders. Dancing makes us both happy. Big steps. Quickstep. Dip. We dance at the Barrowland way into the early hours. The atmosphere, jumping. The dance style, gallus. There is no tomorrow. There is just the minute, the second, the dip. The heat and the sweat. That feeling of being your body. Body and soul.
We come out of the Playhouse full of the night. Joss takes me home and walks off again, hands in pocket. I watch him turn the corner of Rose Street into Sauchiehall Street before going in. He never looks back. Never waves. I begin to think that there is something wrong. Either Joss is terribly proper and old-fashioned or there is something wrong. He never tries to touch me. He holds my hand or we walk with our arms round each other. We kiss, short soft kisses. Three months of kisses on my left cheek, soft timeless kisses that grow into buds and wait. Each night I go home madly in love with Joss and terribly frustrated. I am twenty and he is thirty; perhaps the age difference is making him shy. Still, I am not a schoolgirl any more.
At night, I watch Joss walk up the street, hands in his pockets. He has a slow deliberate walk, like he's practised it. I go into my small bedroom. I have a single bed in the room, a dresser and a small wardrobe. I stare at myself in the mirror. Rub night cream into my cheeks for a long time. Imagine Joss standing behind me. Undress. Drape my bathrobe over my shoulders. Rub more cream into my cheeks. Use a powder puff under my breasts. Joss, behind me. I sigh, put my white nightdress on and climb heavily into my bed. I can hear Helen, my flatmate, up and about. I listen to her noises and fall off asleep where I'll dream of Joss again and again and wake myself up in the middle of the night.
I know I am waiting for something to happen.
