The Hummingbird Effect

July 6, 1957. “Lenny” was an angry, wandering lad. He hated his father, who left him when he was five, adored his mother, who had just died tragically young in a traffic accident and tolerated his mother’s sister, who gave up on disciplining the young truant after he discovered Elvis and began playing the Negro music on a secondhand guitar his mother bought for him prior to her death. He really felt this music deep in his bones and knew that it would take him places, anywhere but Mendips. He and his mates are playing a gig this afternoon at an outdoor church social. His aunt doesn’t think much of his errant buddies or the racket they make on their makeshift instruments, but Lenny doesn’t care what she or anyone else thinks about his music. With no interest in schooling or labor Lenny’s desire to draw cartoons and bang out rock and roll is the only thing this desperate teenager sees as his escape and salvation.

On Forthlin Road, just a few miles southwest in the same small-town, Mae Dunbar was carrying an unwieldy load of groceries and singing a jaunty yet stately melody. As she walked by number 20, there in the front yard sitting by the porch young Jim strums on his own used and battered acoustic guitar. As Mae approaches, and Jim catches her tune in his ear he deftly begins echoing the melody on his instrument. Mae is slightly surprised by this and brightens, casting a smile in the young boy’s direction. He returns a boyish grin and offers a friendly nod. He’s seen Mae a few times before in this neighborhood, not accustomed to matronly black women other than domestics and occasionally midwives for backroom midnight abortions.

Mae was neither. She was a classically trained pianist and music teacher back in her home country of Kingston, Jamaica. But since marrying Sam Phipps, an RAF serviceman not afraid of the national scorn of marrying a colored woman, and moving to England after the war, her life took a permanent shift. Unlike the GI brides of Britain who ran off to America for a life of splendor and opportunity, Mae’s hopes and dreams of upward mobility were quickly dashed when Sam developed a dependence to drink that he could not shake, a fondness for the horses, dice and games of chance that always saw him come up short and an addiction to the flesh of any other young West Indian women who Mae foolishly invited to the home for tea, bridge or chit chat to stem the loneliness. Mae saw that she was stuck and ceased loving Sam years ago. She stays out of obligation to his failing health, precipitated by his crippling war wound which caused his alcoholic consumption and, of course, for having no where else to go.

The packages are heavy, and the summer sun beats down hard on her. She was unable to acquire delivery service from the openly racist grocery clerk as was the case every Saturday and so she was burdened with four flimsy brown paper bags, two on each arm full of canned goods that were ripping at the bottom of the parcels and a multitude of fruit that suddenly began tumbling out onto the sidewalk. Young Jim looked up, still tinkering on the song, debating if he should help the black woman or continue trying to crack the tricky bridge. As Mae stopped, letting out an exhausted and suffering sigh, Jim stopped his fingers, set down his guitar and walked from the porch to the front gate.

“Do you need any help?”

“My bag broke. My fruits and food are all over de place. Would you be so kind?”

Jim swung open the old wooden fence that separated them and quickly began gathering up several oranges that had rolled into the gutter.

“Looks like you’ll need another bag,” he said. Just then a second paper bundle ripped and exploded cans of Heinz beans and a loaf of bread out onto the sidewalk. Mae gave an angry and anguished exclamation before setting the remaining packages down at her feet. She leaned on the gatepost, fanning herself with her meaty hand and deflated in defeat.

“Oh, Lord a mercy. Lord a mercy,” she beseeched while Jim did his best gathering armfuls of her foodstuffs.

“These bags weren’t packed too well,” Jim observes.

“Never is,” Mae returns.

“I think we may have some extra inside. You look dead knackered. Wanna come in? Maybe I can get you a glass of water?”

Mae looked suspicious. She was cautious to enter a strange white boy’s house regardless of how courteous he was or how put upon and dehydrated she was. Jim sensed her apprehension and said in quiet tones, “My dad’s not home and even so he would mind too much you coming in just to collect your things properly and be off. My brother’s inside listening to the wireless, he’s no bother. Come on. It’ll be alright.”

“Okay,” Mae says.

Jim carries the undisturbed bags of groceries through his house and sets them on the dining room table. His younger brother Mike peers over from a lounge on the living room floor in front of the radio. On a second trip outdoors Jim calls over, “Couldja help for a moment, Mike? We could use a hand.” Mike starts a slow applause then continues listening to the broadcast.

“Bugger,” Jim spits.

When Mae hesitantly enters the home with armfuls of spilt food and tattered package paper Mike’s eyes widen then shoot a look to Jim, who rushes in behind with the last of the groceries. Jim cuts a glance at Mike, which quiets the younger sibling just as he was about to say something childish and probably hurtful.

“I’m gonna take some of Dad’s paper from under the sink. She needs it. Is that okay with you?” Jim directs to his brother sarcastically.

“I don’t care,” Mike tosses back.

“Good.”

Mae looks around the small but cozy home trying not to let her appraisal appear judgmental or envious, though she surmises that she and Sam would never be able to escape the squalor of their single room basement dwelling for the modest luxury these middle-class kids were living in. As the BBC crackled in the background and Mike snickered at the comedic radio play, Mae slowly but purposefully sits on the nearest comfy chair in the living room.

“I can pack up the bags good and sturdy in a jiff. We’ve got some lemonade left, some Coca-Cola,”

“Bollocks! That Coke is mine!” Mike cries.

 “Or just water if you like?”

“Water’s fine, thanks.”

While Jim busies himself in the kitchen Mae gazes across the living room to the small upright piano sitting in the corner. She can read the titles of several sheet music selections sitting above the keys. ‘Stardust,’ ‘Fascinating Rhythm,’ ‘My Bonnie.’ Mike sneaks a glance as she smiles in acknowledgement of the obvious love of music in this house. He wrinkles his nose, gathers his comic books and taffy and scrambles out of the living room at the conclusion of the program.

Jim returns with a tall glass of cool clear water and a handkerchief for Mae to wipe her brow. She looks kindly at the young boy and accepts his offering graciously.

“You’re a nice young man.”

“Thanks, ma’am.”

“It’s Mae.”

“My name’s Jimmy.”

“Pleasure to meet you.”

“I’ve seen you before, walking with heavy bags. Usually on the weekend. Coming from Worthington’s?”

“Yes. He’s never let his boys go not once to help me wit my load. And packing so much food with one bag…the cheap bags. I always worried de bags would break and now my luck done run out.”

“He’s a right bastard.”

“It’s okay though. The Lord’ll take care o’ him.”

“The Lord’ll have no say where he’s going, Mae.”

“Ha ha! From your mouth to God’s ears, son.”

Mae drinks heartily from the glass then motions to the piano, “You play dat?”

“I fool around on it. Little of this and that. I really dig the guitar, though.”

“You should go get it. Not leave it out on the lawn like dat. Treat your instrument like your friend.”

“Your right. I’ll be right back.”

As Jim runs to retrieve the guitar Mae takes a last gulp of water and then moves to sit on the piano bench. She runs her hands above the keyboard as if a magician about to execute a levitation trick. A solitary finger gently caresses a single note, then two, then a chord, then a progression until a hauntingly beautiful melody dances in between the chatter of the radio broadcast, providing a lilting soundtrack to the late morning news. Jim stands in the eave of the living room, marveling at Mae’s moving improvisation while computing and deconstructing its delicate structure. Feeling his presence on her back Mae slowly ceases her playing, but Jim quickly scoots next to her on the bench. On his guitar he strums the last three chords he heard her play.

“Was that it?”

“Yes. Very good. You’re a quick study. You’ve got a good ear.” She plays the progression again and he follows again on guitar, intoning a bluesy falsetto vamp over her semi-classical gospel moan.

“Hmmm, I like dat, Jim,” she calls out. “Now try a modulation.”

Together they go up a step and Mae hums a pretty melody on top of the music that Jim quickly harmonizes with. She plays harder, excited by the collaboration with the talented student. Jim moves swiftly from chords to riffs, all the while soaring with her in a harmonic dance, up one modulation, then another. They both feel that they can maybe chance one more major lift but sensing a satisfying resolve they both simultaneously choose to close the song with a flourish of piano trills, chord stabs and melismatic embellishments that suggests a unification of the church, the speakeasy and the sock hop. They both erupt into joyous laughter, complementing each other and kidding about missed notes.

“Oh, dat felt good, Jim. Dat felt good. I haven’t played in a donkey’s age.”

“You’d never know it.”

“Well, I know it. I can hear where I’ve fallen away. Back in Kingston I was de Hummingbird. De Kingston Hummingbird. I would come home from work, where I taught, y’know.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, mon. I was the only piano teacher for 50 miles. All the kids dem come to me. They say, ‘Mae, play us da Boogie Woogie. Mae, play us da Swing.’ And I played it, boy! And de classics! And den like I say, I come home from work, and I play for at least four hours before bed.”

“No!”

“Yes, mon! Den get up and do it all over again. Me love to play, Jim. Me born to play. You too!”

“You think so?”

“I know so! How young you are? Twelve?”

“Fifteen.”

“What!? With dat cute baby face you look like you just been born. But still, you so young and play so well. You born to it. Got good ears. Dat not taught easy, y’know? Dat gift from God, Jim. You follow that song, my song, like you wrote it. And once I see you follow so close I start trowing curves, making it harder for you. Tings I do with my most gifted students, most of dem getting lost, losing confidence. But you hang in tight. Almost trump me! Almost,” she says, casting a sly wink. Jim blushes and beams proudly, soaking in this valuable musical tutelage.

“Where’s you’re folks?”

“Uh, my dad’s out at the pub with his mates. He’s the one who taught me most of the music.”

“Dat so?”

“Yeah. Started me out on a coronet, but I didn’t really have the lips for it.”

“Save dose lips for kissing the girls, Jim. Dey’ll be beating down your door soon enough you keep playing like you do.”

“Well, it works for Elvis.”

“Elvis is just a country boy singing colored music.”

“Nah, he’s fab! I’ve got all his music. He’s the coolest.”

“Well, he’s certainly de king right now, Jim. And you can follow him and be a lackey or you can take what he’s doing and do it better.”

“Better than Elvis?! I don’t know about that.”

“Sure. Before Elvis dere was Frank Sinatra. And before him dere was Bing Crosby. And before him dere was Jolson, and Caruso. Once dey put dat crown on your head dats when you start to really feel da weight. And dere will always be someone coming up behind to take your place. Know dat! One ting I always wanted to do was publish my compositions, but as a woman, and a colored woman de white man he always keep me down and discourage and cheat and steal till I finally give up and not play anymore. Not because I can’t but ‘cause I won’t! I won’t allow these bloodsuckers to enslave me, chained to my piano, the only ting dat give me joy, to bleed my heart all over de keyboard and have dem profit off my pain. I wrote hundreds of songs in Kingston, good ones! But dey take every single one and give dem to other female singers, prettier den me, whiter den me, and male singers too! All dem phonies, promising to compensate, promising to not forget me. Promises, promises. Lies, lies.”

Mae and Jim sit quietly for a while. Mae breathing deeply, trying to bridle her rage. Jim sad and embarrassed.

“Where’s your mum?”

“My mum’s dead. Since last year. Cancer.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry for you. You’re such a fine boy. S’shame to lose your mum at such a young age. You must be very lonely.”

“Well, I miss her, but it’s alright. I got Mike. And me music.”

“Dat is all you’ll ever need, Jimmy. Do you write?”

“Yeah. I’ve started a few things.”

“Let me hear.”

“Well, it’s just a sketch but I can play one that I’ve been working on the last few days.”

Jim launches confidently into an original composition that echoes the rockabilly he loves listening to but also features an element of blues and a bridge snatched straight out of the Cole Porter songbook. It is a pastiche of styles and somewhat derivative, but the unfinished song displays an artful determination to be taken seriously, though it is only a silly love song. When Jim trails off, disclaiming that he hasn’t worked up a proper ending, Mae smiles and applauds approvingly. She hears his potential.

“Dat was very good, Jim. Very good. Do you play with other boys?”

“Not really. Well, there’s Harry, who I go to school with. We play rock and roll on the bus ride home. He’s pretty good. Really mad for country and western. Besides him no one else can keep up.”

“You may want to find a partner. It helps you grow. Play with other fellas. Learn from other players. Teach other players what you know. Dat is de beauty of music. De give and take. It took me a long time and a hard road before I found dat out. If you can find dat one partner who you can see eye to eye with, respect dem and have dem respect you, DEN you will really have something! You will be Elvis times two! And da more friends you make and can play well wit de bigger your gang. You can have a group of guys you like and play well wit dat play as tight as a mosquito’s arse! DEN you ready for da big time! DEN you make money and have all de tings you ever want! DEN you grown man, head and shoulders above all de pretenders, great enough to make all de Elvises run back to de hillbilly swamps to drive truck and fuck pigs! You hear me, Jimmy?! Don’t make de same mistakes I make. You a young white Englishman wit talent and ambition, nothing is in your way like for me and de blues and riddim singers you imitate. Dere may be chance dat you no better than Elvis, stealing from de black man again, but take de advice of an old, broken-down colored woman…be original. Always, ALWAYS push your talent so dat you don’t imitate but you innovate. And remember Mae when you reach the Top of the Pops.”

Jim is silent and humbled. He feels at once scolded and coddled, admonished by the motherly Mae and lifted higher than he has ever felt. He feels a bit dizzy and excuses himself to go into the kitchen where he withdraws the cola that Mike had dibs on and drinks it down slow and thoughtfully, pondering every word and nuance that Mae had laid on him.

Returning to the living room he sees Mae has gathered up her double-bagged carefully packed groceries and is preparing to make her way back to her home another fifteen blocks away.

“Oh, you’re leaving? Do you need any help? I’ve got a bicycle.”

“No. Dats okay, son. I can make it from here. As you know I do dis every Saturday, and I’ll do it plenty more to come. I want to tank you for de bagging. Ol’ man Worthington could learn a ting or two from you. And tank you for de water, and de music. It was such a joy playing wit you. A blessing. Keep playing, Jimmy, you’ll get dere.”

“Thank you, Mae. For everything.”

“So, you enjoy de rest of your weekend. Any plans?”

“I dunno, I was planning on taking my guitar with me bike over to Woolton Church later on. They’re having some kind of summer fair get together. I heard there’ll be music bands, maybe some that play rock and roll. Figured I’d check ‘em out. Maybe learn a new song if they’re playing any I don’t know. Might give me something to talk to Harry about on the bus to school on Monday.”  

“Very good. Keep reaching for da stars, Jim, and don’t be afraid of success. I wanted mine and felt I deserved it but de Kingston Hummingbird wound up in a basement flat with a lame alcoholic. You ever dream of changing your name when you get famous?”

“Yeah, actually I did. I know it sounds silly, but I actually was thinking of using my middle name.”

“What is dat?”

“Paul.”

“Oh, dats nice. Well, I’ll be on my way.”

Mae turns and walks out the front door. Jim notices a lawn insect crawling out of Mae’s grocery bag.

“Hold on, Mae. Let me get that.” Young Jim swats at the bug, propelling it off of her and onto the paved walkway toward the street. He’s about to step on the insect when Mae stops him.

“No, don’t kill it. It’s a beetle. It’ll bring you good luck.”