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By Dennis Rookard We all have our regular local pubs, Somewhere we're welcome and feel at home in. Mines the Travellers Rest. Now to be fair, for the first timer it's rather hard to find. being off the beaten track in one of the quieter parts of town., being hidden behind the as yet to be fully occupied sixties style shopping mall. But should you venture down New Road, you'll find the Traveler's Rest just tucked in between the United Reform church and the old Court house, just across the road from the Library. True it's not much to look at from the outside, a bit down at heel in fact, and sadly both inside and out, in need of a lick of paint. Finding a spare piano is rather like waiting for a bus down at Brentwood station come five thirty any evening. You know the scene, cold chilly winters evening ,rain lashing down, and your stuck outside the bus shelter because of the crowd inside. Twenty minutes you wait, and then four roll down Warley hill in convoy together. Now, I've always put this natural tendency of local bus divers to drive in convoy down to the threat of being held up by the waving umbrellas of packs of rabid pensioners up Kings Road, all eager to blow their pensions, late night shopping in Sainsburys. But I could be wrong. On the other hand I still maintain, trying to find an unloved piano is rather like waiting for a bus. I know this to my cost, because about a year or so back, all of us who drop into the Traveler's rest got ourselves involved in one of Chucks insane 'artistic happenings' Now Chuck Fielding, I should tell you is a large cigar smoking sixty year old refugee from the sixties.. An American by birth, One colourful rumour, and the one he likes to promote, has it, that he came to the town to escape the draft to Viet Nam, Chuck not wishing to end his days blown to bits in some paddy field saving the world for Uncle Sam. The truth is however, that back in the sixties, little Chucks father got posted from Detroit or where-ever Fords have their worldwide headquarters over to their Warley Office. Along with him for the four-year hitch came Mum, and a tribe of little Fieldings, one of whom was the twenty year old Chuck. It was not long before he fell into bad company, discovering real ale, the CND movement, Modern art, and a bit of a name for himself as an artist of the more way out kind. all good reasons, along with the laudable one of not wanting to visit Viet Nam on a free holiday, for staying on in the UK. Mind you there was another reason. She was a local lass by the name of Glenis who soon led him to the altar and twenty five years or so of happy marriage. Chucks still making money in the art game, only now he's into creating what he laughingly calls happenings, you know the pile of bricks or dead sheep in a jar sort of art. Which is fine by us, the only problem is however, he has this very nasty habit of involving us from time to time in his latest crazy scheme, the most recent being to help him find as many old pianos as possible. "So just why do you need these pianos Chuck," asked Pete when he unveiled his great plan over a pint or three in the Traveler's, "it's very simple," said the great one, pushing his baseball cap back on his balding head, "I'm planning on holding another of my little highly artistic happenings, and for it I need a least ten pianos." Now when Chuck mentions holding a little artistic happening we all know that this means. A weekend long sex and drugs orgy over at his mansion near Navestock, (see, I told you he'd done well at the art game.) and with any luck we would be on the invite list. "The only question" muttered Brian, "is how to find them." Oh cried Fred our tame local journalist from the end of the bar where he'd been nursing his pint, "I'll just bung in a plea for them in the rag," Chuck thought this idea was great, you could almost see the gleam in his eye, "Great idea Fred, but how are you going to write the story up, I know you of old." "Oh I don't know Chuck," said Fred warming to his own idea, "how about Mad Yank in shock plea for unloved pianos. Panic in local music circle, with music lovers up in arms over loss." "I rather thought that's what you were planning of writing" grumbled Chuck pushing a pint in payment towards Fred. By the following week Freds very much watered down story, revealing how a local musician, just moved into the area needed a piano, appeared in the local rag along with Chucks telephone number. You would never believe just how many music lovers their are around Brentwood who wanted to donate, and strangely all had been brought second or third hand by once proud parents of what they'd hoped would be musical gifted children. The said children on the other hand, had then proceeded to prove to family and the few friends left they were not, with the result that the by now well out of tune piano was left to clutter up the living room. Now was the perfect excuse to get shot of the thing. One of Paddys large fleet of rubble removal tracks was pressed into service as the gang, collected the aging instruments. And what a collection they were, Battered Uprights that had seen service in countless homes, and the at least four grands which your years had done sterling service as sideboards and in once case, somewhere to put the tele. All in all we collected twelve of them, which with fond farewells from grateful families, were loaded onto Paddies lorry and carted over to Chucks Navestock mansion. When next we saw them, at Chucks sex and drugs orgy, (and the less said about that crazy weekend, the better,) all twelve of them had been painted in day glow psychedelic colours and were littering the garden under strategically place spotlights hung in the trees, doing service as drinks bar, food trays or for one of the brightly painted grand pianos ending up as a mini stage for the highly artistic lady do strange things with a snake as she striped. And frankly that's the last we saw of them when we left the house a few days latter much the worst for wear. According to Chuck all twelve of them became quite a talking point among the couples friends, the summer they spent in the garden, but with the onset of winter Chuck and the lovely Glenis decided that they should move on the great piano heaven in the sky, and what better way to send them there, then to bury them. Again, under promises of an after burial booze up, the Traveler's Rest gang pitched in to assist. Twelve large holes were dug, and around each hole, with beer cans raised in salute, in we pushed a departing example of the piano contractors art. A few weeks latter, Chuck got fed up, so he said with the mansion, although pub rumour maintains it had more to do with the curse of the tax man, and with the ever lovely Glenis took off to somewhat warmer tropical activities, where he and Glenis again got married. (did I tell you, that was another of their slightly eccentric activities. All very romantic it was, getting re-married all over the world. As for the Navestock mansion, it became an up market nursing home, and I often wonder if it's inmates gazing out of their windows at the garden, and it's well laid out flower beds know what's buried under them. Maybe some five hundred years in the future, some archaeologist will dig up the rotting remains and write some learned paper, revealing that they are nothing more then some strange sacrificial religious objects from some twentieth century temple, which considering that weekend orgy is fairly close to the truth. As for Chuck and Glenis, they very recently arrived back in town. Buying a pad out Blackmore way, so don't say you have not been warned. Particularly as Chuck, when he dropped in for a few jars to get back his taste, reckons there must be a few more old pianos laying around looking for a new home. ENDS |
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