CHAPTER ONE

I was thinking about Tempo Rubato.

It’s Italian for stolen, or lost, time. Basically, it just means when you’re performing a piece of music, you can express your own rhythmic freedom. You can escape from a strict tempo by speeding up or slowing down what you’re playing.

I was thinking about it because, for the first time in many years, I was prepping for a tour.

My mum and dad were the founding members of Figgis Green, a folky pop group that was huge in the 1960s and 70s and less huge—but still touring regularly and putting out albums—in the 80s and early 90s. My mum, Mandy Green, was the main singer: long haired, long skirted, a beauty with a voice that could shake the angels. My dad, Tony Figgis—famous for his shaggy moustache and his fondness for brightly coloured silk shirts—shared the vocals and played lead guitar.

Their best-known song was “Roving Minstrel”, a catchy thing about a faithless suitor and his careworn lady, tormented hearts, lessons learned and a really fortunate ending. It was the group’s anthem, and they always closed their shows with it.

A couple of years earlier, one of the Figs—Mitch Green, my mum’s brother, who’d played bass guitar—had floated the idea of a 50th Anniversary Tour. All the old bands were doing them. They’d have guaranteed sell-outs and the merch alone would make it financially worth their while. The Figs’ fan base had never really gone away and for years had been vocally advocating—in online groups and on message boards—for just this kind of reunion.

For a variety of reasons—notwithstanding the fact that my dad had died in 1995—it didn’t happen. But Mitch was still keen, and he kept at it. He eventually got my mum on board, and then my dad’s cousin, Roland Black—Rolly—who was the drummer.

He had to work hard to convince Pete Chedwick, though. Pete, who played the fiddle, had joined the band after the original fiddler, Keith Reader, had quit over “philosophical differences”. Pete wasn’t interested in a reunion. When the Figs had folded, he’d gone on to make quite a good living producing records. So Mitch went calling on Keith. Which also turned out to be a challenge. While he’d been with the band, Keith had constantly been at odds with my dad. A small disagreement about musical influences had escalated into an ongoing feud about the direction the Figs ought to go in.

Neither side was willing to cave in. Keith wanted the band to embrace its folk roots and its dalliances with classical composers, believing that the uniqueness of that mix would propel Figgis Green into the annals of musical history. Dad didn’t disagree, but he wasn’t the purist that Keith was. Dad’s vision was to enhance the traditional instrumentation with electric everything. Jeff Lynne and Roy Wood, who’d infused modern rock and pop with classical violins, cellos, horns and woodwinds when they created ELO in 1970, were my dad’s heroes.

By 1989, Keith had finally had enough. He left, Pete took his place, and the rest was history.

But with my dad dead, the main obstacle to Keith’s re-joining the band was removed. He agreed to the reunion, much to Mitch’s relief.
Besides mum and dad, Mitch, Rolly and Keith, the original line-up had included a rhythm guitar player, Rick Redding. Rick had always been a problem. And when he’d made it known that he fancied my mum, things took a definite turn for the worst. Since my parents were never actually married, I think he must have reckoned that my mum was fair game. He was totally out of order, of course. But he still thought he had a chance, and got into an argument with my dad, which led to a backstage fight and, after the medics had stitched up my dad’s chin and my dad called in the coppers and had him charged with ABH, Rick was out.

Rick wasn’t welcome on the Lost Time Tour and his replacement, Ben Quigley—a lovely guy who’d continued on as a brilliantly successful solo act for decades after the Figs folded—flat out refused. So Mitch recruited Bob Chaplin, a “friend of the band”, to fill his spot.

The reunited Figs were almost complete.

Mitch didn’t tell Keith that he’d pencilled me in as my dad’s replacement.

I am actually a musician and I do actually play the guitar. Jazz guitar. I have a regular gig at a club in Soho—the Blue Devil—with three mates who join me on tenor sax, organ and drums. I am actually quite good.

And I was familiar with the Figgis Green catalogue—I’d grown up with it.

Mitch knew Keith would be sceptical, so he came down to the Blue Devil and recorded one of my sets on his phone to convince him.

A week or so later, he was back at the club. Mitch is a really nice guy, younger than my mum by two years, with a shock of white hair that always makes me think of Albert Einstein. He’s recently taken to wearing spectacles to help him read, and his waistline is somewhat more portly than it was when he was with the Figs. But, like everyone in the group, he’s never allowed himself to appear unremarkable. Once a showman, always a showman.

“So that’s everyone,” he said, as we enjoyed a post-show drink in the upstairs venue that was my musical playroom. It was just past 3 a.m. on a Friday night and the guys in my band had gone home, as had our audience. The club’s front doors were locked.

“Even Keith?” I mused.

“Even Keith.”

“What did he say?”

“Not a lot. I reminded him that in no way are you remotely the same person as your dad.”

It was true. Throughout my life I’ve made a point of avoiding comparisons, as well as the nepotism that invariably follows along with having well-known musical parents. My professional name is Jason Davey, not Jason Figgis.

“And anyway,” said Mitch, “we know we’re playing our history. We’re not presenting anything new. People will come for the memories. Not for our latest streaming offerings on YouTube.”

“I’ll do it,” I said. “But I will not grow a moustache. And I absolutely will not wear that waistcoat.”

The Figs had a colour they used in all their marketing—a really distinctive shade of moss green that showed up on all their album covers, in their stage lighting and even in some of their clothes when they were gigging. My mum had a special floppy velvet Figgis Green hat she popped on in the second half of the show. My dad had a Figgis Green waistcoat.

Both were the height of trendiness in 1974.

“I think we can all agree on that,” Mitch said.

#

It had been more than 20 years since the Figs had last appeared together. But, to be fair, none of them had ever really stopped performing. Mitch ran a well-appointed pub in Hampshire and played in a band that offered once-a-week live entertainment to its customers—much of it featuring Figgis Green standards. Keith had been making records of his own, featuring variations on folk tunes, and he’d been touring around festivals for decades. Rolly had moved to the States and had built his own studio and filled it with instruments and had made a second career for himself scoring music for films and TV. And mum had been offering music workshops at her house in the Hertfordshire countryside every summer since 1998.

Mum had hired a manager—Colin Beresford, the son of the guy who’d managed the Figs back in the day—who was well-known in the business and was happy to take the band on. Colin came up with a plan for two tours—one in the fall that would last 35 days and cover 18 stops in southern England and Wales, finishing up in London, and a second one in the spring that would cover Ireland and the north of England. The venues would be a bit smaller than the ones the Figs had filled in their heyday. The average seating was between 700 and 1,500, with one or two in the lower capacities, around 300 or 400. But Colin assured mum we’d have sell-out performances and, he added, he’d arranged for one of the early gigs to be recorded for an album and a DVD, so the band would make extra money on that as well.

I was a bit leery about the idea of recording so close to the start of the tour. There’s that old saying about every piece of music having to be learned twice—once in rehearsals and then a second time out in front of an audience. And then once you’re playing in front of audiences, it takes a while before you’ve “settled in” and got to know your voice and your instruments and the band dynamics as a whole.
Nevertheless, we were all professionals—and what we ourselves might immediately spot as a mistake or something that still required work would largely go unnoticed by the audience.

Mum sent around suggestions for set lists and we all contributed our thoughts.

I arranged for a leave of absence from the Blue Devil and found a temporary stand-in to keep my band employed and my post-tour career in safe hands.

And then we all practised hard to bring ourselves up to speed. I literally had to start from scratch, committing my parents’ musical legacy to memory as I listened once more to their recordings, watched their performances on YouTube and played their DVD’s. Aside from my dad’s various guitar parts and singing, I was also going to have to become an expert on the mandolin, bouzouki, banjo, dulcimer and concertina.

I do love a challenge.

#

I was giving mum a lift to Stoneford.

I could tell she was excited. She was waiting for me outside the house, perched on her suitcases like an impatient schoolgirl.

Mum is in her late 70s and her hair is silver-white. I think the specific name of the colour is Shale and Lace. She has essentially the same cut that she did when she was fronting the Figs all those years ago. Except, of course, that her hair is thinner now, and her face is fuller. She’s a bit heavier than she was back in the day, too, but that’s to be expected as well. She’s happily embraced a cushiony comfy grandmotherly look, and it suits her.

“I’m going to buy you a new car,” she said, as I loaded her stuff into the back and she got inside. My dad left my mum fairly well-off and the music royalties have never stopped coming in. We had this discussion at least twice a year.

“I love this car,” I replied. It’s an old, beaten-up silver Volvo V70. It’s fast, reliable and tough, and it has room for all my gear. I’d bought it second-hand from the police after a tip from my sister’s husband, who’s a retired copper.

“Nevertheless. It’s embarrassing.”

“I don’t find it embarrassing,” I said. “If you buy me a new car, I’ll give it to Dom.”

Dominic is my son. He’s at college, studying film.

“You’re so like your father. He had one of those hippie Volkswagen campervans he absolutely refused to part with. I put my foot down after you were born. I told him it was unsafe for an infant to ride in. He gave it to Mitch.”

And I knew Mitch still had it, stashed away in the garden shed at the back of his pub, the rust spots growing more prominent with each passing year. But that was the first time I’d actually been told how it had come into his possession.

Life’s full of surprises.

#

Stoneford’s a little village in Hampshire, on the south coast of England. At its heart is a triangular-shaped green, with an ancient manor house perched on a hill overlooking its western edge, a venerable old coaching inn at its top end, and a picturesque collection of shops and offices along its two sides and bottom.

The sea, with its stony shingle beach, is a five-minute walk to the south.

And a ten-minute drive to the north is Middlehurst, where our first concert was scheduled for Friday, September 7th.

Figgis Green was born in Stoneford. In the summer of 1965, mum, dad. Mitch, Rolly, Keith and Rick had installed themselves in Stoneford Manor while they came up with 12 songs for their debut album and prepped for their first big tour. After the tour, mum and dad had stayed on in the village and had lived there until just before I was born, when they’d relocated to north London. And when Figgis Green went on subsequent jaunts around England and the rest of the world, Stoneford was where my sister and I spent our childhood holidays, lodged in with Auntie Jo—who was married to Mitch.

It was now Sunday, August 27th, 53 years later.

And it occurred to me, as I drove into the parking lot attached to the inn where we’d be staying, that we were completely off our rockers. Two weeks in which to coax four septuagenarians into shape for 18 concerts in 35 days. Absolute insanity.

#

Centuries in the past, The Dog’s Watch Inn had serviced carriages, horses, drivers and passengers. It was situated across from the Village Green, at the top end of a triangle where the High Street met Church Road. There was a single-storied pub made of red brick that had been stuccoed and painted white, and it was attached to a two-storied establishment next door that made up the coaching inn. The inn had square sashed windows with working shutters and a six-foot chimney that was rumoured to have been struck by lightning three times in four years, much to the consternation of those sleeping underneath.

Much to my consternation, too—one thing a lot of people don’t know about me is that I have a deep and almost paralysing fear of lightning.

The Dog’s Watch was Grade II listed, and it was owned by Arthur Ferryman, a direct descendant of the original innkeeper, Lemuel Ferryman, whose portrait hung on the wall behind the bar in the pub, just above the rack filled with packets of crisps and peanuts.
I love the name Ferryman. It reminds me of that song by Chris de Burgh. I’m tempted not to pay for anything whenever it worms its way into my brain.

Arthur Ferryman was a cousin of Alfred R. Ferryman, Esquire, who’d owned the place in 1965, the last time my mum had a look in.

“He was a real prat,” mum said, to Arthur. “Tony and I tried to book a room when we first arrived and he refused because we weren’t married. He said he ran a respectable establishment.”

“I’m so terribly sorry,” Arthur Ferryman replied, as he took us upstairs to the second floor. “Drastically different times.”

We learned that his philosophy was nothing like his cousin’s—nor indeed was it anything like his cousin’s son, Reg Ferryman, who’d run the establishment until 2016, when he’d sold up and moved to Spain.

“I have a background in marketing and hospitality,” Arthur added helpfully, showing us to Room 4, which was where mum would be staying. “Our best Superior accommodation, as you can see. Very tranquil, with a hint of the Hampshire countryside. Dusky woods with suggestions of cream and pale gold.”

I thought he was talking about the view from the window but then realized he was actually describing the bedspread.

“And of course, the large ensuite facilities, including a full-size bath and shower.”

“Very nice,” my mum agreed, sitting on the bed to test it. “I’m sure it looks nothing like it did in 1965.”

“Nothing like,” Arthur Ferryman assured her, again, and then he took me along to Room 6.

It really was lovely—a huge six-foot bed with a grey and white cover, two windows with heavy grey brocade curtains, grey-accented bedside tables and a writing desk with a chair.

“Egyptian cotton, of course,” Arthur said, adopting a cosier tone with me as I was 30 years younger than my mum and I hadn’t been turned away by his morally-minded cousin in 1965. “Pocket sprung mattress.” He illustrated this with a push of his hand. “Extremely nice 32-inch flat-screen TV…” He nodded at the TV up on the wall opposite the bed. “With Freeview.”

He took me into the loo.

“Full bath with overhead shower, very nice high-quality towels, and of course, a robe and slippers provided for your ultimate comfort.”

“Tea and coffee?” I checked, going back out to the bedroom. I’d be counting on those to ease the transition from night-club hours to early morning rehearsals.

“Earl Grey, Yorkshire and herbal,” Arthur replied. “And of course, the pods.”

#

Mum and I had dinner in The Dog Watch’s dining room with Bob, our rhythm guitar player. Bob was staying in Room 9 (redberry and taupe accents against a buttermilk background).

Rolly and Keith had also checked in, but they’d obviously decided to wait to meet up, and Mitch actually only lived about five minutes away and was going to drive in every day for rehearsals, so overnight accommodations weren’t required.

Arthur Ferryman was anxious for us to appreciate the fact that he’d updated the inn’s menu at the same time as he’d renovated its rooms. Our first night’s dinner was therefore on the house: lamb, or sea bass, or chicken, with a fabulous dessert concocted of chocolate ice cream and lavender shortbread and an unparalleled cheese board that came with chutney and crackers and three kinds of jelly.

“Still apologizing for turning us away in 1965,” my mum said, humorously, tucking into the sea bass while I rearranged my chicken for social networking purposes.

“Give his website a ‘like’,” Bob suggested. “See if he’ll extend his gastronomical offer to our entire stay.”

“Instagroup?” Mum inquired, as I took a photo with my phone.

“Instagram,” I corrected, gently.

I’d decided to create a trip diary consisting entirely of pictures of what I had to eat. Lesser mortals might chat about rehearsal notes, hotel amenities and sound checks, appreciative audiences and backstage visitors. Apparently I’m a bit of an oddity—I’m reliably informed that most men don’t bother to document mains and puddings and coffees and confections. According to Katey, my independently faithful girlfriend, and confirmed by Jenn, my grown-up daughter, it’s definitely a female thing.

I’d promised them both I’d be an exception to the rule.

When I was at sea, back in 2012, I was obsessed with Twitter. I had a huge online presence—and a commensurate number of followers. My handle was Cold_Fingers, as I was tweeting anonymously from Somewhere in Alaska, and I didn’t think my employers at StarSea Cruises would be impressed with my confectionary-related tweets which were, more often than not, tasty invitations to virtual foreplay.

I’m older now and less like a kid in a candy store. I like to think I’ve matured. And I now have Katey in my life, which removes the need for constant flirtatious reassurances.

I uploaded the inaugural entry to my Lost Time Culinary Chronicle, along with an appropriate comment:

Pre-rehearsal dinner with mum and Bob in Stoneford. Roasted chicken breast with bread sauce, stuffing, and oven-browned potatoes.

I was going to add @TheDogsWatch but thought the better of it. I suspected our audiences were mostly going to be made up of senior citizens, but, once a fan, always a fan, and it’s never a good idea to publicise where you’re staying until after you’ve checked out.

After dinner I went back to my room, woke up my laptop, found the The Dog Watch’s website and wrote a glowing anonymous review of the chocolate ice cream and lavender shortbread. I gave it five stars, then sent my laptop back to sleep and got ready for bed.

It was 11 p.m.

Unheard of.