FOXAQUE RETUNS

(A Working Scribble By Green and Snow)

Arthur foxaque : singer in an old jazz style not heard since the 30’s and early 40’s. Hangs around in London and old city ports doing his old thirties stuff.

Picks up a band whom are intrigued by his dress sense and old stylee speakee, his liquour drinking and filthy double entendre humour whilst appearing oh so suave and debonair.

Little details intrigued people. For example: a pocket watch engraved with a date in 1930’s; a medal from 1920’s (some campaign in India or other); his insistence on lace-up leather shoes which he obsessively polishes; cigarette cases; short back and sides; tweed jackets in winter; linen suits in summer; an aversion to babbling foreigners; cricket; maps coloured in pink; brandy; an “I say!” and “How do you do?” and “Thanks awfully.”; a distaste for regional accents and a nervous reaction to loud noises or explosions…

Scars denote an old injury.

But nothing explained as to why for all of these little details. People just think he’s an eccentric who is obsessed with looking the part for the music style he sings in.

Anyway, on tour.

In an old retro style boutique hotel. Foxaque tells the band he’s off for a pint.

Jokes are made about him probably having considerably more than just one.

anyway, he will be back within an hour, he tells them. Or there abouts.

3 hours later, the band leave a message for Foxaque at the reception and leave (the receptionist, an old fellow in a 3 piece suit, looks at them and asks if they are Americans). They all laugh and go out to look for Foxaque in some nearby bars. But everything’s changed. Hardly any cars and the ones that are there are of quite a vintage. “must be a film set for some Sci-Fi programme on the BBC or summat” one of them quips.

Town is very poorly lit.

the signs are slightly different and there appears to be a few ships in a harbour that shouldn’t have any at all as it closed down many years ago.

One or two sailors wondering round drunk.

“we’re off to the dancehall, boys” shouts a couple of pretty ladies.

“I’ve never seen them before, they must be American, the way they’re dressed. So casual…” and other comments like that.

The band are getting a bit nervous, but wander round the corner to a passably large Hotel with a solid dance hall to the side.

Stopped by the head usher at the door, they hear Foxaque singing with a dance orchestra, much drinking, dance and laughing.

Soldiers and sailors everywhere. “where you boys from?” asks the attendant.

Jack the finger, being the cheekiest, replies “we’re with Foxaque’s get-up”

“are these your names?” the attendant shows them the book.

“that’s us.”

“so you are, boys! He left this note saying you might drop in. you work with him?”

“he pays us sometimes and all!” came the reply.

“that’s a first! we’ve heard all about him.” Said the usher, “He must like you chaps if he pays you more often than not. In you go…”

they step in to a poorly lit dance hall. It smells odd.

“this must be one of Foxaque’s fancy dress bashes, I bet.” Spake Harry the Horn.

The whole place is heaving with people in military uniforms, old style suits and sumptuous ball gowns. Dancing while foxaque is on stage swinging to a hot version of “Bye Bye Blackbird”. Most of the sailors are extremely drunk and arguing with squaddies. Two squaddies lurch up to Smokey and the band, “you three look like americans. Are you Americans?” he seemed insistent,”you are, ain’t cha, dressed like ‘em an all. No style. And no bleedin use in this war either.”

“Bush started it…” complained Smokey

“who? Bollocks! Bet you haven’t come to sign-up, ‘ave’s yer? We’re on our own, you yank bastards.” Squaddy takes a swing. Smokey, being sober, lays him out, off balancing the other soldier and the three muzos quickly exit.

But in the hall way, they are greeted with another surprise.

No lights.

Walls are bare and crumbling.

Everything is stripped.

Nobody in sight.

And no noise.

A box on the old counter is lying open. Someone must have found it while they were stripping the place out. In it are some old and decayed posters.

One poster catches the eye: “Arthur Foxaque’s Hit Swing Dance Orchestra. 1st November 1941.”

“is he taking the piss?”

The trio look back into the doorway to find the same crumbling unlit dancehall but at the other end they glimpse Foxaque under a spotlight that fades quickly and vanishes. “Foxaque!”, they shout, but he’s gone, nowhere to be seen in the half lit gloom of a wrecked building.

“this is too bloody strange for my liking. I wanna get back to the hotel.” Spake Jack the finger.

The other two agree and they scarper.

There are more lights, normal cars. But they don’t stop to ask.

They get to the hotel and pack their bags.

As he empties one draw, Smokey notices a newspaper cutting from a local rag laid out at the bottom.

“Crooner Killed In Bombing Raid, November 1941. Arthur Foxaque was the only fatality as he was caught in the blasts last week after he went back to rescue his guitar from the local Dance-Hall.

Foxaque was thought to be on the verge of a serious career breakthrough due to his growing popularity as an entertainer with his Hit Swing Dance Orchestra (also known to some as the Top Shelfers).

His body was found after the all clear at 2am 2nd November. He was still gripping his guitar case and an empty pint glass. Flying debris and bricks are thought to have caused a fatal skull injury that killed him instantly. Rumour has it that he had a lover in London: an infamous Showgirl known as Miss Lula Shaker, who unaccountably disappeared after an air raid over London 2 days later. It is believed she had no knowledge of his death at that time.”

Foxaque enters the room. “what’s the hurry?”

“what the fuck have you been up to?” they ask him

“I was looking up an old flame. Why d’you ask?”.