Jack Dunleavy lives in London. In his spare time, he likes going to the cinema and thinking about oil paintings. 

Contact: jackthomasdunleavy@gmail.com 

 

Why I Quit The Band 

20/12/09 

Had a very odd interaction with Nastya this afternoon. It was the end of the day, and I wanted to get home from college as soon as possible because Ben is home from Leeds and I wanted to see him. As I was walking through the foyer, I saw Nastya. She was standing by the desk which is always covered in flyers for university open days and scholarships. She was wearing a big coat with a fake fur collar and clunky sort of Elton John glasses. Her long brown hair was swept over one shoulder and her hands were thrust into her pockets, not like she was cold but, combined with her pursed lips and wide eyes, as if she were thinking hard about something. She was alone. I had never really seen her alone before. I assumed that Lottie was in the toilet, and Nastya was waiting for her. When Nastya saw me, her face changed completely. Her cheeks flushed and she bared her teeth. For the first time I noticed that, like me, she had a birthmark above her lip. In fact it was in exactly the same place as mine. I didn’t want to stop, so I wished her Happy Holidays and kept walking. As I got to the front door, she said my name. 

Yeah? I said, turning round. 

Is the hot water in your house working? she said.  

She was smiling at me with her head tilted downward, like the soldier in Full Metal Jacket just before he kills the training sergeant. 

I think so? I said, confused. 

Okay, said Nastya. It’s not working at my house. 

Oh, I said. 

There was a weird little pause. Nastya shook her head a little and stuck her lip out, as if to say ‘What am I to do?’ 

You live in Holloway, right? she said. 

Yeah, I said. 

She narrowed her eyes. 

That’s what I thought, she said. My Mum’s house is in Highbury, and I’ve got to go there tonight, and the hot water isn’t working.  

Oh. 

But it’s working at your house? 

I think so. 

Then there was another weird pause.  

Well, Merry Christmas, said Nastya.  

Yeah, I said. Merry Christmas. 

Then I left. 

Not quite sure what to make of this interaction, but it’s been on my mind so I thought I’d write it down. Annoyed that I just said ‘Yeah’ and ‘Oh’ and nothing more clever.  

Is nice to have Ben back, he seems to be having a good time in Leeds. 

 

06/06/10 

Told Nastya that I am in love with her. She said she is not in love with me. We have decided to stay friends. 

 

31/12/10 

New Year’s Resolutions: 

• keep diary 
• new friends 
• Forget Nastya. 

 

01/01/11 

(Diary starting midnight last night, which is to say this morning.) 

Managed to kiss Nastya at midnight, sort of. I didn’t give her much choice. I spent the countdown navigating my way towards her and when the chimes sounded I reached for her and turned her towards me. My lips brushed her cheek and hers sort of brushed mine, which is fine, I think, because no one else at the party kissed properly. 

I left at about 1 to go to Molly’s. Nastya was annoyed at me for going, and she wouldn’t hug me goodbye or wish me happy new year. I quite liked pissing her off. On the way to Molly’s I realised I’d left my camera at Nastya’s. I was momentarily annoyed, then I realised it would give me a reason to talk to Nastya next week. 

Molly’s party was in deep Hackney. There were drugs, I think, but no one offered me any. Noemi Ahmadi, who, based on her Facebook, I consider to be the most beautiful girl in London, was there. She spent the whole time talking to Úna English (who I also only know from Facebook and looks very cool), who I think is her best friend. Had a long chat about music with Barney, which was nice. He has a very wide and eclectic taste. When he left I walked to the door with him. He became transfixed with the beeping of the door buzzer, so much so that I basically had to push him out so I could get back to the warmth. Barney has round bulgy eyes and a big mouth, sort of like Crazy Frog, but he’s very handsome in his own way. I don’t think he was on drugs even, he’s just naturally very energetic. ADHD probably. When I went back in to the party, Noemi had left. I ended up speaking to Úna. She was wearing a t-shirt with a Mexican flag drawn on it in green paint and red boot polish. Over this she wore a leather jacket, from the shoulder of which six staples stuck outward. I asked her about it. 

It’s my weapon, she said in a monotone. She was drinking a weird looking drink called soju, which she let me try. It was disgusting. We talked for a long time. She is very into poetry, which I was excited to hear someone say out loud, especially a girl with a septum piercing. For some reason she says poem as ‘pome’. Perhaps she is Irish, even though her name is English. I am proud not to have feelings for her other than friendship. We are going to start the band. 

 

10/02/11 

(Writing this a few days after, based on notes I made on the bus home.) 

 

First band practice at Úna’s house. I could have walked up the hill, but I would have got sweaty (even though it is cold). I got off the bus just after the pub/toll gate, at the top end of a long dark avenue that ran through the woods. As instructed, I turned right after the third patch of street light onto a dim road. On one side was a row of large houses mostly with their lights off, on the other trees loomed out of the woods. It was very exciting. I wished Nastya could have been there. As I walked, I smoked a Chesterfield with my gloves on and felt drained.  

 

Úna’s house was at the bottom of the slope, the path lead right up to the front. It is a large modernist house, the real deal, from the fifties at least. It had a large porch supported on either side by thick concrete pillars, behind which was a long glass window with a wooden door in the middle. I drop-called Úna, and a light came on inside. Through the glass above the door, I glimpsed the top of Úna’s head as she came down the staircase. It looked like she had shaved her hair off. When she opened the door, I saw she had only shaved most of her hair off. She had left the fringe, which swayed in front of her face like a pony’s mane. I asked her why she had done it. 

She shrugged. 

I wanted to look more like you, she said. 

But I don’t have a fringe like that, I said. Or a shaved head. 

I wanted to look more like you, not exactly like you, she said. The question must have exasperated her, to make her modulate her voice. I was a little taken aback by her bluntness, but I guessed that was how cool people spoke to each other, so I said nothing. 

It’s true we do look alike, but only up to a point. Like me, Úna has red hair, but hers is (or was) dark and rich, like wine, and wavy, whereas my hair is curly, or would be curly if I didn’t try and straighten it. Úna’s skin is pale like mine, though it is a more consistent colour, and she does not seem to come out in blotches even in this cold weather. After that, the similarities stop. Her face is angular and my face is flabby. Her body is like a stick, how I’d like mine to be, while mine is round like a girl’s. The only way in which I am superior is in my freckles, which are fat and dark like sultanas. When she said she wanted to look like me, I was surprised and touched.  

 Úna took me through to the kitchen, which was at the back of the house. I sat at the table, Úna made tea at the counter. On the table was a big cardboard box. Inside were some black carrots, some shrivelled potatoes, a head of broccoli (grey and fuzzy between the buds and at the stem where it had been cut), and a collapsed tomato, from the side of which burst a fringe of blue fur. 

Úna must have sensed me looking, because she said: 

I’m getting really into mould. 

The whole arrangement was weird, artistic and very beautiful. I’d never thought this kind of thing was beautiful before. 

When the tea was made, Úna took me into the rehearsal room. It was at the front of the house, right by the door. Úna could only get the sliding door open with some effort, as something seemed to be pushing into it from the other side. Eventually she managed to drag it far enough for us to slip in, and we went inside. In the middle of the room was a pile of junk, under which a grand piano could just about be discerned. At the far end, a red velvet curtain had been suspended ad hoc by some furniture, revealing a triangle of window and white frosted lawn. There were cardboard boxes everywhere, there was barely any room to move. Úna navigated her way to the middle of the room and cleared the top of the piano, dropping things randomly on the floor, then she opened the lid, cleared some more boxes off the stool and sat down. She took her iPad from her bag and searched for the sheet music she’d notated last week. Without looking up, Úna nodded towards a chaise-longue which was by the door.  

You can sit there if you move that, she said. 

I walked over and pulled the chaise-longue forward and the door groaned and settled into its runner. I cleared a small space at the end of the chair and perched on it uneasily, my feet tucked under the curled velvet, my bag against my shins. While Úna searched for the sheet music I looked at the boxes. All of them were wrapped multiple times in packing tape and labelled in the same angry looking red pen. Near my foot was one labelled YOUR FUCKING RECORDS. Nudging it with my foot revealed another box labelled MORE OF YOUR FUCKING RECORDS, and then, behind that, DISHCLOTHES.  

Here it is, said Úna.  

I jumped, but Úna hadn’t noticed me snooping. She laid the iPad gently on the piano keys, and then from her bag produced a special iPad music stand, which she clipped to the front of the piano and placed the iPad on.  

We are a punk band, I thought. What’s all this with grand pianos and iPads?  

I took my zither from my bag. Under the strings I slid the triangular piece of card on which, last night, I had carefully notated the song. The notes didn’t align with the strings perfectly, but it was good enough for a first go. Hesitantly, we started to play. I sang the lyrics we’d come up with on Tuesday. We didn’t have enough lyrics to fill the whole song, so we played through what we had twice and then fumbled toward an ending. Afterwards neither of us said anything for a moment. Úna isn’t the kind of person to break a silence, so I spoke first. 

What do you reckon?  

Úna bobbed her head back and forth a bit. 

Yeah. It’s okay, she said.  

She looked up at me. Her face is always blank, but I think she looked surprised. 

I didn’t expect you to sing like that, she said. 

At first I was trying to sing like Shirley Bassey, I said. But I couldn’t keep it up, so by the end I was just singing in my own voice. 

You should do the Bassey voice. It’s awful. I mean in a good way.  

Úna ran her fingers over the piano keys without pressing them. 

I was trying to play like Thelonious Monk, she said. That’s probably why we kept going out of sync. 

I like it, it makes me feel better about my singing. 

I couldn’t really hear the zither. 

No, me neither. What can I do? 

Twang it louder I guess. 

We played through the song again. This time I twanged the zither so hard the card fell out. Then we played again. By the fifth play through we’d ironed out the ending and Úna was joining me on the chorus. We recorded the sixth take on the iPad. Before we listened back to the recording, Úna fetched a bottle of vodka and a carton of orange juice and mixed us both a drink. I took some more boxes off the chaise-tongue and stretched out on it. I was beginning to feel quite cool. Úna pressed play.  

The recording wasn’t bad. It definitely wasn’t good, the zither still wasn’t loud enough for one thing. I could stand to listen to it though. So could Úna. And it felt good. Doing it. Singing it. I imagined myself on the stage in the sixth form hall, in a suit, zither in one hand, mic in the other, singing to the girls in the lower school. They screamed like we were The Beatles. Maybe some of them would start to fancy me, even though it was Nastya I loved.  

Úna poured us both another vodka and juice and we headed outside to smoke a Chesterfield. We leant against the rehearsal room window. The light inside made the lawn glow yellow and the frost crunched under our feet. We talked about what we would call the band. 

Ezra & the Pound Coins, said Úna. Or else Ezra Pound & The Sterlings. 

Maybe, I said because I didn’t like either. How about Croque Monsieur? 

Not punk enough, said Úna.  

Neither is Ezra Pound & The Sterlings, I said. It’s too literary. 

But no one knows who he is. 

I know who he is and so do you…if we both know, it isn’t obscure enough to be punk. Plus he was a fascist. 

So was Ian Curtis. 

Was he? 

I think so. 

Damn. 

I lit another Chesterfield. 

How about just The Sterlings? I said. I didn’t think The Sterlings was any good either, but I wanted to be constructive.  

Úna raised her nostril.  

It sounds like the kind of place my Mum would stay at a wedding, she said. 

We both thought for a moment. 

Let’s just not have a name for now, said Úna. We can see what other people think when they join. 

I agreed. We had another vodka and juice listening to the recording again. We got so enthusiastic we started singing along. I went home quite drunk and very excited, I barely thought about Nastya all evening. 

 

14/02/11 

Nastya has been scouted. She is going to be a model. Apparently a scout came up to her in the library. What kind of scumbag approaches a girl who is only just not seventeen in the library? Maybe the scout was a woman, but still.  

Band practice tonight. Noemi and Barney have joined the band! 

 

15/02/11 

Never drinking gin again. Texted Mum and told her that I’d spilt some carrot soup on the landing and then I’d tried to clean it with bleach, and somehow it had made it smell like sick. Think she bought it. 

 

 

22/02/11 

Very very cold. Giant spot on my forehead today. I’m blessed not to have acne, but every six months or so like a comet a huge spot appears on my forehead. 

Nastya sat next to Adam in History, not next to me. Felt terrible. I was, quite literally, on the wrong side of History. Heard them laughing together, horrible. 

At the end of the day I needed to cry like needing the toilet. As I was walking toward the gate, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around. It was Nastya. She looked so beautiful. Her hair was parted in the middle. It stuck to her temples then arched outward and then fell inwards, almost meeting at her collarbone, framing her face in a diamond. My left arm was holding my coat, so I put out only my right arm to hug her. She didn’t remove her hands from her pockets, but she did lean towards me, her chin turned upwards over my shoulder, and allowed herself to be embraced. Her body was both stiff and limp. 

I’ve got something for you, she said, after I released her.  

The way she said it was like a depressed parent putting on a brave face for their child’s birthday. 

Nastya put her hand in her bag and pulled out a parcel, which she held out to me.  

The parcel was squarish and wrapped neatly in red tissue paper. On the widest side she had written my name in gold ink. 

She sat alone one evening and wrapped this for me, I thought. 

No card? I said. 

It’s not a present, young man, said Nastya.  

I was joking. 

I pulled the parcel open. 

It was my camera. 

I’d completely forgotten. 

Thanks, I said to Nastya. This is like getting it new again. 

I hugged her with both arms, pressing my coat against her back. 

Did you take any pictures? I asked. 

No, she said.  

I held up the camera to my eye and pointed it at her. 

Say cheese, I said. 

With a thin smile, she tolerated her picture being taken. She did not say cheese. I put the camera in my bag. 

What are you doing now? she asked. 

I’ve got band practice, I said. 

Nastya looked surprised. 

Since when are you in a band?  

Since you broke my heart, I nearly answered. 

Since the beginning of the year, I said.  

Who’s in the band?  

No one you know. 

How do you know? 

Remember when I left yours to go to another party on New Year’s Eve and you were annoyed at me? 

Nastya said nothing. 

Some people I met at that party, and Billy Stringham. 

From the year below? 

Yeah. 

Nastya laughed.  

My sister fancies him, she said. Don’t tell him that. 

There was absolutely no way I was going to tell Billy that. 

Well, have fun, Nastya said. 

What are you doing? I asked. 

History revision. I was going to ask if you wanted to come over and do it together, but if you’ve got band practice don’t worry about it. 

 

Nastya’s Dad lives in a big house on Warwick Avenue. I sat on a stool in the swank kitchen regretting that I smelt like cigarettes, even though I’d only smoked one so that I would. Nastya put some toast in the shiny chrome toaster. I looked out the window at a slice of a seemingly enormous garden. 

It’s ‘communal’, said Nastya with air quotes. By which they mean ‘private’. If you look at an aerial photo of this part of London, it’s actually mainly green space, only it’s all locked up in these private gardens, so people don’t even know it’s there. It’s shocking really.  

On the table was a box full of fresh, organic looking vegetables. I thought about the mouldy ones I’d seen the first time I went to Úna’s house. Momentarily, I regretted bailing on band practice. 

The toaster made a noise. Nastya lifted a lever and took out the toast with her fingers. It must have been hot, because she put her finger in her mouth afterwards. 

I wish that was my mouth, I thought. Or my finger. 

The butter was vegan and it was rock hard. 

We should put it in the microwave, I told Nastya. 

Isn’t that dangerous? she said 

Not if we only do it for a second, I said. I saw my brother do it when I visited him at uni, if you only do it for a second it comes out perfect. 

Okay, said Nastya, though she looked unconvinced. 

I stood up and went over to her, standing as close to her as I dared. I took the butter dish and put it in the microwave and set the dial for ten seconds. Immediately, the microwave flashed and banged. I yanked it open and a puff of smoke came out. 

Fuck, I said. We didn’t take the foil off. 

I took the butter out. Nastya didn’t say anything, but she was understandably annoyed. I didn’t mind breaking Nastya’s Dad’s microwave – he could clearly afford it – but I didn’t want his daughter to think I was an idiot.  

It’s fine, I lied. After a while it will cool down and work again. 

We took the (now cold) toast and scraped butter over it, it was still rock hard. 

 

I followed Nastya up the staircase. There was a hole in her tights at the back of her knee, I watched as the hole went white and then black and then white again as the fabric touched her skin. 

In her room, Nastya sat by the desk and tidied her notes. I sat on the end of her bed. 

Nastya swivelled her chair to face me. 

So what should we do first? Nastya said. 

I can think of a couple of things, I thought. 

How about planning? Nastya continued. I always struggle to get it down to five minutes.  

Ms. Rawlinson told the other class that we should aim for three minutes, I said. 

Even more reason then. 

From the top of her newly organised pile, Nastya took the sheet of practice questions we’d been given at the end of class. 

Can you lend me a piece of paper? I said. I left my bag in the kitchen. 

Nastya handed me a piece of paper, and then a pen. 

Pick a number between one and ten, she said. 

Ten, I said. 

Nastya read out question ten. It was about The Terror (not a terrible band name). I copied it down. Nastya put on a timer for five minutes. Then we sat in silence.  

I looked around. At the far end of the room was a large window with the blind up. On the adjacent wall was a door, and next to that was a chest of drawers piled with books, above which was a large framed print of a woman in a headscarf with a kalashnikov slung across her back. The bed I was sitting on was made of metal. I imagined it squeaking and then, ashamed, looked at the floor. Flat on the floor by Nastya’s feet was a small mirror.  

Had she been taking drugs? 

Nastya didn’t take drugs, who had she taken drugs with?  

She is a model now, who knows what she gets up to? Who else had sat on that bed? 

When the five minutes were up, Nastya shared her essay plan with me. I was panicking, I barely listened. 

What do you reckon? she asked. 

Sounds like a model answer, I said. 

Nastya didn’t laugh, she didn’t look annoyed either (which was what I wanted), she didn’t look anything at first. 

It’s just a job, you know that right? She said eventually. 

Okay, I said. 

Okay. 

Nastya turned back to the desk, but then she turned and looked at me again. 

There’s lots of sitting around, so I can do revision, she said. I don’t enjoy it. I hate having my photo taken. 

I remembered how she’d winced when I took her photo earlier. Nastya continued. 

I can pay my university fees like this, I won’t need a loan. So that’s why I’m doing it. There’s nothing more to it. 

Nothing at all, I said. 

It’s not funny. 

I gave her a sceptical look. 

I mean it is a funny job though, isn’t it? I said. I’m not saying you’re wrong to do it or anything, but you have to admit it’s funny. 

Do you have a job? 

I’m in a band. 

Well I don’t laugh at you, do I? 

Neither of us said anything, downstairs I could hear a banging and a beeping sound. It must have been Nastya’s sister’s au pair trying to use the microwave. Both of us ignored it. Eventually, Nastya rolled her shoulders and gave me a steady look. 

So tell me about the band, she said. 

There’s not much to say. 

What’re you called? 

Croque Monsieur. 

She laughed. 

I thought you didn’t laugh at me, I said. 

Like the shoe? 

No, like the sandwich.  

Oh. Croc Monsieur like the shoe would be a better name. 

She was right. I was annoyed. 

Well that’s not our name, I said. 

What do you play?  

I sing, I said quietly. 

I didn’t know you could sing. 

I can’t. 

What kind of music do you play? 

I was nearly crying, but I looked her right in the eye and with dead sincerity said: 

We’re a punk band. 

She laughed again. 

Cool, my Dad was a punk. 

We’re not a Dad band, I said. We’re a new kind of punk. 

What does that mean? 

We’re still figuring it out.  

I was glad not to have mentioned the zither. I looked deliberately at the mirror on the floor.  

Do you take drugs? I asked. 

No? Nastya frowned. 

So why do you have a mirror on the floor? 

I don’t know, I haven’t been here for like a week. 

She looked at me quizzically. 

Do you take drugs? 

With the band, I lied. I rolled up my sleeves, leaned back on the bed and recrossed my legs. For a second I felt like Lou Reed or someone. Then Nastya said: 

‘What’s that on your jeans?’  

I looked down at my jeans. I hadn’t worn them since band practice last week. There was a lump of something stuck to the hem. 

It looks like a bit of carrot, said Nastya. 

I stood up carefully, making sure not to touch the bedsheets with my leg. 

It must have been on the Tube seat or something, I said. I’ll wash it off in your toilet, where is it? 

There’s an en suite through there, said Nastya, pointing to the door by the Kalashnikov print. 

Nastya looked at the door. 

Actually, maybe go to the one downstairs, she said. 

Okay, I said. 

Like a kicked dog I left the room. I scrubbed my leg as best I could and flushed the toilet paper. When I came back on the landing, I could hear that Nastya was on the phone. My bag was propped against one of the legs of the kitchen table, the au pair was gone. I picked up my bag and quietly left the house. 

 So this was the reality of being a punk, I thought. Or an English one at least. Less leather jackets and sunglasses, more vomit and pimples. On the bus I realised I still had Nastya’s pen in my pocket. I started to cry.