Christmas At Leo's - Memoirs Of A Houseboy by Gillibran Brown Read Free Book Online

tree decorating the broad doorstep. It was lit with a multitude of tiny coloured lights. I experienced a pang of festive envy. The quasi mansion was barren of outside ornamentation. I’d put all my efforts into decorating the summerhouse, and look how that had ended. I scowled. It was turning out to be a joyless Christmas on several fronts.
    Opening the door I walked into the scullery leading into the main kitchen, shouting Eileen’s name as I closed the back door behind me. There was no response. She wasn’t in the kitchen. The radio was playing, tuned to BBC Radio Two, the housewife and retiree channel of choice. I put my bag on the table and walked into the hall, calling her name again. She shouted from upstairs, telling me she was making the bed and wouldn’t be long, instructing me to put the kettle on.
    I filled the kettle and switched it on. I know my way around Eileen’s kitchen. I got a couple of china mugs out of the cupboard and spooned in Kenco coffee granules, putting half a spoonful of sugar into Eileen’s mug. I turned up the volume on the radio as the DJ introduced Gene Pitney singing ‘Something’s Gotten Hold of my Heart.’ I like Gene Pitney. He was a great singer. I acquired my taste for his unique vocals from Lee’s dad, who’s a massive fan of American artists of the fifties and Sixties. He used to scour flea markets, junk shops and charity shops, picking up original vinyl recordings for a few quid or less. He had a particular soft spot for Gene Pitney, whom he fancied he looked like a younger version of. We all need a fantasy.
    When I was a kid, Saturday nights were often party nights at Lee’s house, his dad’s work shifts permitting. Current music wasn’t on the play list. There was no Britney or Britpop. His dad would bring out his collection of old vinyl records and rattle the rafters with the likes of Elvis Presley, Gene Pitney, Del Shannon and The Everly Brothers. Fortunately, their neighbours were usually part of the fray.
    Lee’s dad was hilarious when he had a few drinks in him. Using a French booze cruise lager bottle as a mike he’d improvise his own version of karaoke, belting out the lyrics along with his idols, while gyrating his hips in a way that made Cass, Lee’s older sister, squirm with embarrassment.
    On one memorable occasion he was so carried away with singing along to Gene’s ‘Twenty-four Hours From Tulsa’ that he forgot his lager bottle mike was half full. He ended up showering in the contents when he tipped back his head and raised the ‘mike’ to sing the chorus. Lee and I thought it was hysterical. We clutched at each other with tears of laughter just about running down our legs, while his dad stood there coughing and spluttering with a look of astonishment on his face. It was too much for Cass. She fled yelling: ‘aw, mam, can’t you stop our dad. He’s showing us up.’
    Lee’s dad would sometimes drag me into his act: ‘this lad knows a good tune when he hears one, voice like an angel. Howay, Gilli, my son, give us a few bars.’ I’d oblige and sing into the lager bottle mike, enjoying not only the limelight, but also the sense of being part of the warm-hearted chaos of Lee’s family. My mum had to drag me away from those noisy, boozy, smoky party nights. She didn’t like me being exposed to cigarette smoke and alcohol and she also liked me to have a reasonable bedtime. It made me cross. A few times after being taken home and sent up to bed I’d sneak back out and attempt to rejoin the party. I have always been wilful.
    The childhood memory lifted my mood. I sang along with Gene as I mixed milk into the coffee granules, swaying my hips by way of an accolade to Lee’s dad. Bless. He was gutted when the great GP passed away in 2006. Lee claimed he had cried, but of course his dad said he did ‘nowt of the bloody sort, our Lee.’
    His parents still have the odd party night, but nothing like those boisterous, unsophisticated expressions of