Oasis short story inspired by the band ahead of Murrayfield gig

“Have you listened to it yet?”

“I’ve been a bit tied up here, Martin.”

“It’s incredible. You’ll love it.”

I stared at the stack of coins on top of the phone. I still had plenty of people to call after Martin, who was now giving me a track by track review of the album.

“They’re both doing well,” I said, cutting across his description of Cigarettes and Alcohol.

“Who is?”

“Lauren and the baby.”

“Oh right. Great. That’s great.”

“She’s called Erin.”

“Who is?”

“The baby. My daughter. Erin.”

“Cool name.”

“Thanks.”

There was a pause, a moment of silence where it felt our paths were about to diverge. I didn’t think that at the time, though. Only much later.

“We’ll have to wet the baby’s head,” Martin said.

“I’ll need to see how long they’re keeping Lauren in for. It was a C-section she had.”

“I’ve no idea what that means, mate.”

I started to explain but realised it would just be a jumble of words he’d instantly forget.

“I’ll call you later,” I said.

“No problem… and if you get a chance, have a listen to that album.”

“Definitely.”

“Maybe!” he said, gleefully accepting the punchline set-up.

I fed more coins into the phone and dialled the number. I’d already called Lauren’s parents and they were coming up to visit in the afternoon. My mum answered.

“Hi granny,” I said.

“Oh, Kevin,” she said and started crying.

My dad’s voice took over, wavering but still able to form words as I told him the news and he fumbled about in search of the right questions to ask, the ones my mum would have instinctively known.

“They’re still just babies themselves,” she said through her sobs.

We were both just nineteen, Lauren and I, so maybe she was right, but it didn’t matter anyway.

My mum had said she thought students were supposed to be smart when I told her Lauren was pregnant. Lauren was too scared to come with me, which I understood as I had been terrified when we’d told her parents. Her dad glared at me but didn’t say anything before walking outside to pace up and down the garden in the rain. Her mum went into the kitchen to put the kettle on, leaving us with an embarrassed silence we didn’t know how to fill.

Two years later, Oasis were playing at Loch Lomond. Martin was getting tickets for both gigs. I couldn’t go.

“Surely you can make one of the nights?” he said.

“Money’s a bit tight just now with Lauren off work after having Roisin.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll get the tickets. Whatever night suits.”

“And it’s not really fair on Lauren, leaving her on her own with the kids.”

“It’s only one night.”

“I know, but…”

“I’ll speak to her if you want. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

“No.”

It wasn’t just about the money, although there was the ticket and the travel and the booze, and I’d feel guilty about spending it. I wasn’t a charity case either. I knew Lauren wouldn’t mind. If I mentioned it to her, she’d tell me to go. The truth was, I didn’t want to. I wanted to come home from work and hold my baby daughter, still almost fresh out of the wrapper, as Erin clambered up on to the couch, kissing and cuddling her sister while I cautioned her to be gentle. I didn’t know how to explain that to Martin.

“Sorry, mate,” I said.

“You don’t know what you’re missing.”

I finished the song and propped my guitar against the side of the chair.

“Does that sound okay?”

“What’s a wonderwall anyway?” asked Lauren.

I started laughing, and Roisin did, too, just as she copied everything we said or did. I’d already been warned on countless occasions about swearing in front of her. Erin didn’t glance up from the book she was reading.

“What’s so funny?” said Lauren.

“It’s a line from a song. The one that Travis sing.”

“I thought that was about the rain.”

“No, that’s a different song. This one’s called Writing To Reach You and it’s got that line in it about a wonderwall.”

“So what is it then?”

“It’s just a word.”

“Is it a real word?”

“I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t sound real to me.”

“Well, neither does supercalifragilisticexpialidocious but you sing that all the time to the girls.”

Lauren shrugged, her hands caressing the large bump that would soon become another daughter.

“Mummy, sing it. Sing the fragidocious song,” Roisin said, tugging at Lauren’s skirt.

I loved and hated Wonderwall in equal measure. No, that’s not true. It was my favourite Oasis song. When I first heard it on the radio, I couldn’t believe how good it sounded and hoped the DJ felt the same, so much so that he might immediately play it again. He didn’t. It made me want to pick up a guitar. I knew I was too old and too married with children to become a rock star, but learning a few chords meant I could start a singsong at a party.

In this case, it was Martin’s engagement party, and he’d asked me to play a few songs with him. I would be Noel to his Liam, with him taking centre-stage, which was fine by me since it was his night – along with Katie, his fiancée, of course – and Oasis were his band much more than they were mine.

And even though I loved the song, it also reminded me of the Oasis gig that Martin finally managed to drag me along to in December 1997, with the aid of a free ticket and some coaxing from Lauren. It was an early Christmas present slipped into a card that she got Erin to give me, knowing I was less likely to say anything in front of our daughter.

“I don’t want to hear any moaning. You’re going with Martin and that’s it. Merry Christmas.”

It was after they had finished Wonderwall that the band stormed off stage, claiming one of them had been hit with a bottle.

“More like a feather,” I said on the bus home.

Martin wasn’t so bothered. He had a ticket for their second Glasgow gig the following night, but this was my first experience of seeing the band, and it had lasted all of about fifty minutes.

“See after that farce, I’d close the curtains if Oasis were playing in my back garden,” I said.

The house was filled with the noise of teenage girls, speaking in a language I didn’t understand and at a pitch that made me worried my ears might start bleeding.

It was Erin’s birthday. Fifteen years gone in the blink of an eye. There were six of them heading to the local Italian restaurant. I had booked the table and was the taxi service, but we wouldn’t be there. It was a brief taste of independence and impending adulthood for them, although I was picking up the bill as well. Then it was back to our house to disrupt the peace again.

Roisin wasn’t bothered about not being invited – we’d enjoyed a family celebration the night before – but Anna sulked because she was only nine and idolised her oldest sister. She’d already invited herself into Erin’s bedroom when the party girls returned home.

“Did you see they’ve split up,” Lauren said as I waited at the foot of the stairs for the stampede of teenagers.

“So I heard.”

“It’s really sad.”

“I know, but I don’t think they were getting on for a while, so maybe it’s for the best.”

“It’s still sad, though.”

“These things happen… and they’ll probably get back together again at some point anyway.”

“Do you think so? Katie seems pretty adamant.”

“What about?”

“The split.”

“But they’re brothers, so I’m sure they’ll kiss and make up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oasis splitting up. What are you talking about?”

“Katie and Martin.”

“They’re splitting up?”

“Yes!”

“How do you know that?”

“Katie put a post out on Facebook about it.”

I sent Martin a text message. It had been a while since we’d spoken or met up, and it was easier just to type ‘Hope you’re doing okay’ than call him. I hoped his reply might be a song lyric and tried to guess what he’d choose. Would he not be looking back in anger, or was it getting better, man! Maybe I could tell him to stop crying his heart out and he’d tell me he was feeling supersonic. ‘Fine, thanks’, he eventually replied a couple of hours later.

However, the years which had drifted by were instantly forgotten, the distance between us contracting too, as we slipped back into the easy rhythm of friendship as if it had only been the previous week we’d got together.

We sat in my back garden now, jackets on and wearing woolly hats. We were too old for bucket hats, I said. I nursed a half-drunk pint of Guinness while Martin stared at his full glass while taking frequent sips of the water Lauren had brought out for him. She hugged him gently, as if she was worried she might break him.

“I’ll leave you two boys alone,” she said.

“No, grab a seat and sit with us,” Martin said.

She didn’t protest or insist on heading back into the house. The small speaker sat on the table and I linked it to my phone via Bluetooth.

“What do you want to listen to?” I said.

“Let me guess… Oasis!” said Lauren.

“As long as it’s not Live Forever.”

“Oh, Martin,” Lauren said.

She stretched an arm across the table and he held her hand. Her thumb stroked the back of his hand, soothing him, telling him how she felt, how we both felt. It was my favourite touch, if it was possible to have such a thing. Lauren’s hand in mine. Ever since I had held it as we walked through the local park in the midst of our first date. It always just felt right.

“You do realise you two have lasted longer than Oasis,” Martin said. There was no jealousy in his voice, though, not even after two failed marriages and a son who was now an adult he never saw.

No one thought we would last. Not our parents, or our friends. Maybe not even us, although there was never any time to stop and think about it, submerged as we were in nappies and bottles and sleep deprivation. Our babies were all grown up now and having babies of their own. When Erin told us she was pregnant, I joked that I was too young to be a granddad, but our tears, Lauren’s and mine, were joyful ones.

“I’ve got two tickets for Murrayfield,” he said. “I want you to have them.”

“Are they spare ones?”

“No.”

Lauren started crying.

“It’s fine, Lauren. Don’t be sad. Honestly, it’s kept me going this past year, the thrill of getting them and then thinking about the gig and trying to guess the set list. I’m sure it’ll be amazing”

“But you might still make it,” I said.

“I won’t.”

“But how do you know?”

“I just do.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll take the tickets.”

“I told you before, I’d close the curtains if they were playing in my back garden.”

“You can go with Lauren.”

She made a face.

“Take Erin then. It’s near when her birthday is.”

“You remember her birthday?”

“She’s the same age as Definitely Maybe. How could I forget that?”

He closed his eyes as Noel’s voice filled the evening air, singing Half The World Away. I could have done the same and let my thoughts drift to wherever they chose to go, but instead I watched Martin. It wasn’t that I wanted to commit this image to memory – I preferred to remember a younger and happier face – but I knew there wouldn’t be many other chances just to look at him, words of love permanently lodged in my throat because that’s not how we ever spoke to each other.

“Remember that time I snogged Caroline Aherne in a Manchester nightclub,” he said.

We both started laughing. I hadn’t been there, of course, another trip to an Oasis gig I missed.

“How could I forget? You mention it every time you hear that song.”

“It’s a great song.”

“A great TV show.”

“It was a great kiss, too.”

Paul Cuddihy is the editor of Celtic View. His books include ​As Easy As A Nuclear War: short stories inspired by Duran Duran song titles