We sat on the veranda, two old folks enjoying the view of the blue, blue sea, gently rolling onto the pristine near-white sands in little flurries of froth. The sky, endlessly azure, stretching forever, and the palm trees, tinged with the morning sun, swaying in the breeze.

    I turned my head away from the view, and looked across the table, all laid for breakfast - sliced guava, muesli, local yoghurt and pineapple. He, of course, was having cornbread with peanut butter and jello. You could take the man out of Mississippi but you couldn’t take Mississippi out of the man!  He was sitting opposite me, earphones on, muttering to himself. His silver hair was thinner now, but there was still a lot of it, and the sideburns.

                ‘Elvis!’ I shouted, waving my arms around so as he could see I was talking. He moved the earphones down around his neck.

                ‘Yeah, baby.’ he responded, in that famous southern drawl.  I wish he wouldn’t call me “baby”. I hate it, but I’ve got used to it I guess.

          ‘You know,’ I began, ‘your accent gets more southern everyday – must be something to do with reverting to type.’ He grinned at me, his heart-melting, lopsided smile. Even now, in his late eighties, he still had lovely teeth, thanks to the dentist.

          ‘And you baby, are still a prissy-assed Englishwoman.’ He pulled a face and laughed. His laugh was still so infectious, a joyful, boyish sound. Aah, yes! I hadn’t been back home in ooh, 30years – possibly declared missing by now. I’d love a cup of PG tips but nothing can compare to the sun, sea, and sand of this little corner of the world I’d escaped to. 

                 ‘What are we doing today? It’s Sunday.’ I asked, more out of habit than real interest.

                 ‘Hanging round I guess. Where’s Des?’

                 ‘Dunno. Haven’t seen him this morning, yet.

 I thought to myself that he had probably been up all night playing crap or pool in the beach shack down the road. Elvis never did anything without Des. He was an old army buddy but also his “Minder”. I didn’t dislike the guy, but three was usually a crowd. Elvis needed to be surrounded by people though; he loved to perform. That’s how I found him, all those years ago, impersonating himself in Des’s bar, here in Kauai. He’d managed to escape at last, faking his own death and hot footing it to his favourite place. He called himself “Tulsa”.

       He couldn’t fool me though - knew right away it was him. I’d spent years searching. He has always been my obsession – ever since I heard that voice blaring out “Hound Dog” from the old radiogram, the sound reverberating from the loudspeakers. It was electrifying. I couldn’t stand still, had to move, jive and twirl on my toes, skirt flaring out, arms moving to the rhythm. That voice unaffected and fresh with a southern twang, resonated, suggesting urgency, excitment, frustration, longing. It was the sound…no one else had that sound. It moved my very soul and I was lost. I may have been just a kid, but I was hooked. I never wanted anything else -  just him. That’s why I stayed. 

Eventually, Des retired and sold the bar he ran and bought this remote bungalow on the north coast. The main attraction was the sea and the basement music room where Elvis could carry on singing to his heart’s content.  It suited us just fine.                          

            ‘Were you up late again with Des last night?’

                  ‘Yeah, chilling out, jamming some, but the ole fingers don’t work so good these days.’ He mimicked strumming his guitar.       

        ‘Hi there, y’all!’ Des strutted onto the deck and sat down. He was tall and gangly, with a shock of white/blonde hair falling over his forehead. His legs always seemed bent as if he was on a horse on the open range.

         ‘How are we this morning?’ he asked cheerily, thumping Elvis on the back and nearly knocking him off his chair, ‘Still playing that old air - guitar?’  He had an irritating, thin voice and a Texan accent.  He was always on the go - like a cat with an over active thyroid.

                ‘So you had a session last night, Des?’ I said.

                ‘Yeah, I was banging on the pi-an-a and Elvis was strumming and singing. His voice is good and strong y’ know, for an old timer. We been practising that “Hallelujah!” by ole Lenny Cohen. I expect Elvis would have recorded it, back in the day….’

Yes I suppose he would. That reminded me of something I picked up in an article on the great man himself.

                ‘Did you know that Leonard had “Don’t” and “Are You Lonesome Tonight” on his jukebox?  He even sang “Can’t help Falling in Love” on a lesser known album.’ They both looked at me.

                ‘There she goes, showing off her musical knowledge again.’ mumbled Elvis. Des nodded, agreeing with him. Well for heaven’s sake, that was what I did for a living…music  journalism…been everywhere, interviewed all sorts. Then quite by chance, on one of my travels, I found Elvis, and escaped too.

          ‘So, what y’all doing today?’ Des asked, stuffing food in his mouth.

                ‘Elvis says “hanging out”.’ I said wearily.

                ‘OK then, I’ll get some of the boys down from the beach shack and we can have a cookout on the beach.’

We always had BBQ on the beach on a Sunday. Fish, chicken, cornbread and beer, bottles and bottles of the stuff.

                ‘Can’t we do something different?’ I suggested.

                ‘Like what?’ asked Des.

          ‘Oh, I don’t know. Take the dingy out?’

Elvis looked up. ‘Yeah!’ his voice brightened, ‘Sounds good. Can we do that, Des?’ Des shrugged his shoulders before responding.

                ‘Well, I don’t know Elvis. Three old timers in a small boat? I’d need to get Jerry or Billy from the shack to do all the hard work’.

                ‘What hard work can there be in taking out a little boat?’ I asked, ‘I can do the ropes and stuff - I’m just a youngster’ Ok, so I was touching seventy but a youngster compared to these old fogies.

                ‘Weel,’ whined Des, ‘I suppose you could, but you’re a gal.’

                I stared at him open mouthed. He looked at me, wonderingly.

          ‘What?’ he queried, searching my face for a hint as to why I looked furious. Couldn’t he see the steam coming out of my ears?

           Elvis started to laugh out loud, from the belly up. ‘You can’t say that to her! It’s… it’s…sexist…or something like that.’ He threw his head back, chuckling away, ‘Anyway, as long as we have a few beers and you gets me in tha chair, I can steer, jest don’t make me stand up too long when it’s rocking. I can’t stand the rocking.’

There was a pause as we all looked at each other. Then we broke into a chorus of “Good Rocking Tonight”.

Through the singing, I could hear someone calling my name, ‘Alice, Alice dear. Ssh now. You in Hawaii again?’ then whispering of voices... ‘She never

got over his passing you know…’

     But I could see Elvis and Des in their long white coats coming towards me, smiling.  ‘Is it time for the boat?’ I mumbled.

     Elvis took my hand and his fingers fit around it like a glove. ‘C’mon baby…time for your meds.’

He always takes good care of me. That’s the way it is. Elvis and me forever.

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