Gus Daly is a contented and relaxed man.
He does what he likes doing best – musical busking. He lives alone in a two-room walk-up flat in a house in Peckham. He’s not a tramp by any means nor a vagrant. He’s straight and, apart for the occasional splif, legal; he’s on the grid; he’s above ground. He pays his rent regularly to a tiny landlady who calls once a month accompanied by a huge minder. He shops frugally at his local supermarket, looking for bargains of the buy-one-get-one-free variety and cheap vegetables a day after their eat-by-date. He buys his wine in one of those three-liter boxes with a little spigot at the bottom; sometimes he buys eggs, cheese and off-cuts of smoked sausage and then, laden with his bags of groceries, he goes home and cooks a large Spanish Omelet for his evening meal, eating half of it and stowing the other half in the fridge for the next day (cold Spanish Omelet and a glass of red wine – there’s nothing like it).
Gus is neat and meticulous – it was one the things that drove his ex-wife mad – and keeps his simply-furnished little flat tidy and moderately clean. His collection of musical instruments, the two acoustic guitars, the electric guitar (a Les Paul), the violin and a clutch of harmonicas are stored in a corner of his living room. He is slightly overweight and scruffily dressed in the barmy way of someone has no interest in clothes, none whatsoever.
But Gus takes his music seriously: he knows he cannot compete with the frozen figures, jugglers, mime-acts and sword-eaters of Covent Garden – there are about two hundred-odd buskers in central London during the high tourist season – but he realizes the importance of a good pitch. His stamping ground therefore is south of the river, the parks in the summer and shopping malls or the underground stations in winter. Contrary to widely-held belief, buskers, whether young and trendy street-artists hungry of their first break or earnest students from the Royal School of Music playing Schubert quintets or middle-aged guitarists like Gus, are usually proficient musicians – imagine the difficulty of producing raw unvarnished music in the echoing metro tunnels, bereft of the artifice of a studio.
Gus can turn his hand to most things. Like many self-taught musicians he has a trained ear and easily picks up a tune or a chord sequence. He plays all the old standards, (his generation’s contribution to the Rock Culture), old classic Pink Floyd, Neil Young, Eric Clapton, U2 etc. but what he specializes in is his musical hero, Bob Dylan, with his rhythmic laments and his poetic lyrics: Gus subconsciously mimics Dylan’s nasal wailing (blowing in the wind).
It was not always thus. Augustus St. John Spencer-Daly was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. During his comfortable but frigid childhood among the manicured lanes of suburban Surrey, he saw little of his busy parents and was largely brought up by a nanny. From Charterhouse he went up to the London School of Economics, thus entering the high-fueled, pressurized world of business and finance. After leaving the LSE he used family connections to procure for himself a Good-Job-in-the-City. So far so good and if he had any misgivings about life in the fast lane he resolutely suppressed them. He married a colleague, Alexandra and they had one son, Toby. But all the time under the surface Gus was simmering with frustration and discontent. He felt he was being sucked in further and further to a life which was less and less congenial to him. He and Alexandra were slowly drifting apart. She was ambitiously pursuing her career as a top executive in a brokerage consultancy firm and their elegant Georgian house in Regent’s Park was staffed by a housekeeper, a maid, a gardener and the inevitable nanny for little Toby. Gus began to feel more and more like a stranger in his own home and was becoming more dependent on that second pre-prandial whiskey, that third glass of wine with dinner and the brandy after – what started as mere social drinking was becoming mild alcoholism. He then had a brief disastrous affair with his secretary and was found one morning by the housekeeper, sitting on the steps of his house dressed in a suit but without his shoes. The doctors diagnosed a complete nervous breakdown and put him on various tranquilizers and anti-depressants. His company gave him indefinite leave and quietly side-lined him. The whole fabric of his life had collapsed and, after six months, he signed his divorce papers making over to his wife the house and the bulk of his fortune.
All this happened about ten years ago. Gus had demonstrated once again that, as a dry scientist once famously wrote (about spiders) the female of the species is deadlier than the male.
Today is a fine sunny day and Gus takes his guitar and harmonica to his usual park, settles on his usual bench and starts to play: today he’s playing mainly Bob Dylan; he starts with a number from the middle period album Blood on the Tracks:
If you see her, say hello … she might be in Tangier … (Gus does Dylan so well that a cluster of strollers stop to listen) … we had a falling out … Our separation, it pierced me to the heart … Oh, whatever makes her happy, I won’t stand in the way … (so sings Gus); he brings the piece to an end, ignores the smattering of applause and begins retuning his guitar for the next song. Some of the people resume their walk enjoying the sunshine and the drowsy atmosphere of the park. Gus becomes aware of a youth regarding him quizzically; there is something familiar about him – it is his son.
– Hello Tobe old son, what brings you to this neck of the woods? Watching your old dad making a fool of himself? No, but seriously it’s good to see you again, how’s your course going? Let’s go over to that café and catch up with the news.
They sit down at one the wooden tables outside the Park Café. Gus reverts to his former style of speech:
– Well, Toby how do you get on with your new step-father?
– Simon, he’s OK I suppose, I really don’t see much of him since I left home. Dad, why I came to see you is to say that I’m not going back to Cambridge next year. I’ve decided to drop out of the system just like you did! What I really want to do is to go into acting. I know it’s really difficult but I think I’ve a chance of making it … I’m just on my way to an audition at the Drama School down the road.
– No need to guess what your mother thinks of all this. Of course you have your own money from the Trust …
– Wish me luck with the audition, dad, and I’ll drop by at your place later to tell how I got on!
The boy hurries eagerly along the path in the direction of the park’s exit. Gus feels an uplifting of his heart; how good it is to see his son again. He realizes that he can’t stay buried away forever; he will have to take a few tentative steps back into the world. For the first time in years he feels the stirrings of hope for the future.
Gus goes back to his bench and takes up his guitar again. He decides to do his adaptation of U2’s Beautiful Day:
– See the world in green and blue
– See China right in front of you
– See the canyons broken by cloud
– See the tuna fleets clearing the sea out
– See the Bedouin fires at night
– See the bird with a leaf in her mouth
– After the flood all the colours came out
– It’s a beautiful day
(Note: this post is illustrated by my kind sister Frances Milner).