The Broken Keys on the Cobblestone

Philip Baker was an ordinary pianist.  Never had he have to venture too far into the dark nights of the London streets as work was always common in the 30s. But when 1040 came; Laughter and singing was drowned out but calls of war in Europe. No one wanted to sing when others were screaming.

Philip was from Putney. The west London scene mostly devoured his talent like a beast on the weekend. But in 1941’s winter, Philip’s set was interrupted by sirens. On more than one occasion.

“Blasted bombs” he cussed to himself as he packed up his belongings. The panicked audience already half empty. He joined most of the rest as they evacuated either down alleyways back to their houses or into the underground. Luckily, he had been playing in “The Albert” right round the corner from Turnham Green Station. Philip ducked in there as he could. 

Two days later he returned to the The Albert to get his wages.

“But you didn’t play your set”. John the landlord spoke. He stood behind the bar with his arms folded. Looking more like a roman column than a man.

“I was interrupted. By the sirens. You must understand, there is nothing I could have done about not being able to finish my set” Philip widened his eyes and gestured with his long fingers towards the sky.

“No punters means no profit. We had this conversation when I took you on. Look, you get paid in profit from the bar. Cash in hand. If the luftwaf- whatever their name is; want to interrupt the punters drinking then I don’t make money. You job is to keep them drinking”. John barked back.

“How can I keep them drinking if they scramble out the place?” Philip spat back.

“I have no clue. All I know is, this war is making me lose money and you are an expense that I sometimes won’t be able to afford. I’m sorry Philip”. John had finished. Walking back into the kitchen behind the bar.

Philip felt a fire burst into him at this. He didn’t blame John. John wasn’t making much himself in this time. Philip just needed the money. More than anything. Rent is always due and with wartime prices, the cost of living was no joke.

“Send Herr Hitler a letter” Cackled old Dennis from a corner booth near the bar. “Tell him to stop the bombs so you can get paid”. His laughter like lashing into Philip’s back

“Alright Dennis” Philip replied to the drunkard. “Somehow you still got the money for ya stout”. Dennis just laughed, showing his blackened teeth.

Philip started to run errands. Like a delivery boy for street merchants. Buying and picking up. Dropping and receiving. His strong fingers wasting their quick reactions and speed on pastels and pastries, letters and hampers. Back and forth on a bicycle like in one of those comedy films. He felt as much as a joke as he looked. Days frittered away light the wide-set cords that he struck into the keys of his piano. However, Philip still played nights. The dream of a solo career as a musician held on in him. The fiery passion that he felt in The Albert was turned to hope.The Albert, Queen Mary, Red Lion - whatever the name of the pub. It didn’t matter. He worked all day as a mule to come out at night as work as a lion. Beating his passion deep into the ivory keys of house pianos. The same looking people always there. The noises of enjoying ringing in his ears for hours after. Sometimes he was paid - other times not. 

One night in March, Philip was playing “The Druid’s Head” in Kew when the sirens rang out once again. This time, the panic on the audience’s faces didn’t replicate on his. As the people disbanded and ran away like frightened rats, Philip continued to play. Low and somber but on and on. Until he was alone in the room. He heard the sirens. How could you miss them? But they did not hurt his passion or waver his belief. If anything their ringing was used as a steady beat in which Philip could expand. For more than an hour he played to the bombers. Silently, Philip wished he was hit. 

Philip didn’t wait two days. He was back the next morning, while on an errand, to get his pay. 

“I finished my set, you can’t say I didn’t” he explained to the barman.

“At your own risk, I might add. Why didn’t you leave? You could’ve died”. The barman questioned. 

“Last time that happened, the landlord refused to pay because I didn’t finish my set. I finished. Pay me”. Philip hit back with his rude response. 

“Listen, we didn’t make tha-”

Before the barman could finish, Philip had reached across the bar and grabbed the barman by his apron with his left hand. With his right, he grabbed a bottle from under the bar and smashed it on the oak top. Holding it tightly at the barman’s petrified purple face he spoke again.

“PAY ME” Philip chanted with red eyes. 

“Christ” the barman shocked. He went into his pocket and pulled out some notes and slapped them on the bar. Philip released him, dropped the bottle which mashed on the floor and snatched the money like a hungry child. He made for the door soon after. 

“You must have a death wish, Philip” the barman yelled to Philip as he was leaving. The barman’s voice seemed to quiver as if he was starting to cry. “We have to work together in these times. When we fight between us, that’s when we die”. Philip slammed the pub door closed, shattering the glass pains in it’s frame. 

Philip questioned his own behaviour more than anyone. The violence he showed to the barman at the Druid’s Head was most out of character. However, he was just so sick and tired of feeling stretched. The excuses of barmen failing to deliver their side of the bargain had pushed him so far. His fire in him, used for playing, could be used for hate and violence when needed. Philip knew he was talented. Bars stayed full when he was playing and people used to buy him drinks after he had finished dancing his fingers along the keys. We have to work together the barman had yelled. Then pay me Philip replied in his head.

His mind returned to the matter at hand. He had a set lined up in The Albert again with John claiming that he would be paid this time. He wanted more than anything else to show John how good he was. How much his fire could be used for good and not for the evil in which it had. He would use it to put bums on stools and pints in hands.

Hours later, he got off the Durham Green train and up the stairs. A left and a right before the pub. But the destination was not there. Philip stopped in the street and looked at the scene in front of him.

The Albert had received a direct hit. Windows and doors were shattered, the bars were outside in pieces on the street and the chairs and tables were nothing but kindling. It was midday but groups of people came in and out of the space, retrieving and removing items. When Philip walked closer to the ungodly mess, he realised that they weren’t moving items but moving people - corpses.

His eyes began to fill with salty tears as the horror of this time cut into him as sharply as broken glass that scattered the floors would have. He had seen the destruction before but not somewhere he knew, not to people he had spoken to and not to this community. The Albert stood as the lighthouse to many lost boats that wondered these streets. A place of genuine spirit and love. Hope and refuge. Now it was ashes, rubble and debris. Anonymous pieces of wood and glass, similar only in their random placement on the street. 

As Philip stepped ever closer he saw one corpse still in the rubble, waiting to be moved. John’s lifeless expression sat hopeless on his face and his leg-like arms at his sides. A deep cut had opened on his boulder shaped head and his clothes were stained with blood. Philip froze and stood as still as John was lain. Next to John, lay in pieces the piano in which Philip had bashed and struck, hit and smashed him love into. The black top snapped in two and the broken keys littered the cobblestones. 

“I saw it happen, you know” Dennis had come over to Philip. “What a shame. But we must carry on”. Walking away as soon as he had appeared. Philip watched the old man go down the street, the way that Philip had come. 

Philip put his hand in his pocket only to feel the money that he had taken from the barman in The Druid’s Head. The fire in Philip seemed to be gone. The pain of what had happened acted as a snuff to his candle and no more passion to play sat in him. Only guilt of what he had done no longer than two hours before.

Philip took the next train from Turnham Green Station into the centre of the city. Walked to an army recruiting station and enlisted himself that afternoon. With his fire gone and his world in a mess, the shell of Philip decided to fight because all the fight in him had gone. His long pianist fingers would soon help people fight. No longer help people dance. As his passion ebbed away he felt a profound sadness take him. All that he had as a man: his hope, his love, his soul had been bombed in The Albert. He felt he would give his body to those that had taken his spirit. This man’s willingness to sign-up: the desolation of his dreams.