John bounds downstairs, hair hanging in eyes, bag over shoulder.
‘Come on we’ll miss it.’
They dive onto the bus as it turns the corner, Lydia hanging by a strap, John gripping the pole while paying the clippie.
It’s dark in Soho’s backstreets and Lydia holds John’s duffle coat for fear of falling.
‘Here it is,’ John says, ‘we’re meeting at ten.’
Dave rolls up with a blonde in tow and knocks on the door.
‘The bouncer’s a bit of a gorilla but useful when the coppers sniff around.’
They follow Dave downstairs. The tiny basement is gloomy save for a spotlight on a makeshift stage. People mill around in fug of smoke, the smell fetid and overpowering.
Drink in hand Lydia sits and waits.
A guy strums a bass guitar another plays harmonica. They’re joined by a girl playing saxophone and another with a tambourine. From the gloom Lydia makes out Dave at the drums then John joins in with his rhythm guitar.
The room quivers with the beat and those not playing fill the small dance floor. The music goes on and on until dawn when they spill excited and exhausted into the morning.
Until the next time.
© Nita Lewsey 2016