Halfway there they stopped. Barbara stared at the prominent white statue of the Madonna and Child. Esther had brought her here. Neither woman could speak at first. Barbara sensed the significance.
‘He was found up here,’ said Esther. ‘He threw a fishing rope around the top and put the loop around his neck. Perhaps the only honest thing he ever did.’
Barbara reached out, but the former Mrs Angus McNeil pulled away. She sought no condolence. Not for him. Not for herself.
28
November 1976
Jimmy Rowntree loved this van. He had sacrificed a lot for it. He bought it legitimately from an Asian bloke he met at the cash and carry. Two days later, it was suggested to him that the van was not the Asian’s to sell. An argument ensued, and Jimmy Rowntree, believing he had been stitched up, took it too far. Another fight. A rehearsal for the one that sent him down. He was out now. On probation and determined to go straight. He’d rethought the art plan. Glasgow wasn’t ready to be a city of culture. Building a small enterprise selling fish and chips was Jimmy’s new thing.
‘Need tae stay clear ae the gangsters,’ he’d told Archie. ‘Do somethin’ worthwhile with my life, man. Somethin’ for the community!’
It was hard to see Jimmy Rowntree as the Mahatma Gandhi of the batter and the breadcrumbs, but Archie saw purpose where none previously existed.
The van reversed out of the lock-up. The driver’s side scraped along the door jamb. But the new damage couldn’t be seen, such was the proliferation of scars, welts and bumps in the bodywork.
‘Fucken magic, man! Think its fryers are still workin’?’ said an excited Marvin.
‘Holy Christ, its tyres are baldier than McCartney!’ complained Archie.
‘How’s that thing gonnae get us all tae London in one piece?’ Sledge was unconvinced.
‘Jesus, lighten up, eh? Have a bit ae faith,’ said Jimmy. Archie’s dark mood was a worry. Jimmy didn’t yet know the reason for it, but the thought of sharing cab space for the long drive south with him in this form wasn’t an exciting prospect.
Chib’s advance party had landed. With the blackmail plot now in play, the Heady Heights production company had withdrawn their offer to pay The High Five’s travel expenses and accommodation. The Glaswegians couldn’t blame Heady Hendricks for that. They’d anticipated it. The whole scam sailed so close to the wind that board and lodging was an inevitable casualty. But The Wigwam had sorted this out. Archie just had to get them all there.
Archie wandered around the van, inspecting its rusting wheel arches. In its previous lives, the vehicle had been a mobile library, an ice-cream van and – immediately prior to his incarceration – Jimmy Rowntree’s home. Its future activity as a mobile food outlet was betrayed by flaking gold-and-red livery, and the name emblazoned on its side panels: The Codfather.
‘Fuck sake, man … this is total shite!’ They hadn’t reached Bellshill. The mood had changed.
‘Ye might’ve got the bastard window fixed. It’s fucken freezin’ back here!’ shouted Rich.
‘It’s the air-conditionin’. It’s aw the rage.’
‘Fuck off. It’s caulder than yer ma’s fanny!’ Despite the conditions, the teenagers laughed. The word ‘fanny’ always had that effect, no matter the context.
‘Put the oven on, then. That’ll warm ye’se up,’ yelled Jimmy Rowntree from the front. The front dashboard heating fired onto the legs of the two in the front before being sucked out of the open window, bypassing those chittering in the back.
Dobber searched for an oven that wasn’t there.
The radio played. It had been turned up to the maximum to be heard over the whistling November wind.
‘Think that’ll be us soon?’ said Smudge.
‘Naw,’ said Sledge, abruptly.
‘Jesus Christ, wish we had a bus wi’ beds an’ that in it,’ said Rich.
‘Aye. An’ groupies,’ added Dobber.
‘Can we no’ stop an’ get a box ae crisps or somethin’? Tape the fucken cardboard over the window?’
‘Any more moanin’ an’ yer goin’ in the boot,’ said Archie from the heated front. Rich looked around.
‘There’s a boot in this thing? Where?’
‘He’s fucken kiddin’ ye, ya dobber.’
‘Hey … ah’m the Dobber,’ said Dobber. Sledge leaned over and punched Dobber’s thigh.
‘Ah … fuck. Ye gave me a dead leg, man!’
‘Anybody got any ae the Coke left?’ asked Marvin.
‘Hey, lay off that stuff,’ said Archie, angrily. ‘You’ve had enough already.’
‘Christ, what the fuck’s up wi’ you, auld yin? Aw wisnae talkin’ about the powder, man. Ma throat’s as dry as a camel’s arsehole back here!’
Archie passed a half-full bottle into the rear of the van.
Marvin glugged a mouthful. ‘Christ, that ginger’s aw warm, man.’ He replaced the cap, shook the bottle and opened it over Smudge.
‘Fuck off, you, ya cunt!’ In the front, Jimmy laughed.
‘Weans, eh?’ It made Archie smile too. Being miserable wasn’t his default setting. He reminded himself of his own personal motivation and, as well as comforting him, it forced the naturally upbeat demeanour back to the surface. The buoyancy of his fellow travellers was infectious. Despite the antics, these boys seemed far more streetwise than he had been at their age.
The time passed slowly. They were stopping every hour, once specifically to allow Marvin out to procure something that would block up the open window. He had returned with several alternatives. The teenagers couldn’t countenance being trapped in the confines of the van for any length of time. Archie had hoped they would just sleep. But it seemed Manky Marvin never did. They crossed the border into England; a new experience for all of them.
‘We’re blazin’ a trail here, boys,’ said Archie. The others responded to his lightening mood. ‘Nae other Glesga acts have been big in England for years.’
‘No even Lulu?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Ma cousin shagged that Lulu once. She was singin’ at the Springboig Bowlin’ Club,’ said Smudge, impressing everyone.
‘Gen up?’ asked Rich.
‘Aye. It was just last spring … at the openin’ ae the bowls season do.’
‘Last spring? Ya daft prick! Lulu’s had two US number ones by last spring. She’d hardly be doin’ a gig at the bastardin’ Springboig Bowlin’ Club, would she?”
‘Well, she looked like her, an’ sounded like her … so my cousin Tommy said.’ They laughed. ‘Tommy paid her a fiver tae. Fucked her round the side, against a roughcast wall!’
‘Aye he mighta made her shout, but that’d’ve been as close as he’d have got tae pumpin’ the real yin!’ laughed Sledge.
‘Aw, fuck sake, man … who’s farted?’ said Dobber. ‘Was that you, Burkie, ya dirty wee bastard?’
‘Jimmy … stop, mate! Smudge has let off a fucken stink bomb!’
They pulled over. Piss stop number ten. They had reached Cumbria.
‘Fucken hell … must’ve seen about twenty Jesus Is Coming signs on this road in the last ten miles,’ said Dobber.
‘Wish he’d fucken hurry up, then. Ah’m starvin’.’ Rich sniggered at Marvin’s expression. ‘Two melted Mars bars an’ five cream crackers in the back here, an’ that’s about it, man! The cunt could have a field day!”
A brief silence. Archie read the paper. The radio played on, more decipherable now with a stolen bread board placed over the whistling gap: ‘Oh Lori’ by Alessi followed by Bowie’s ‘Young Americans’. Surprisingly, all aboard were in favour. Archie loved that their interest in music was genuine.
‘Archie. It’s about time we were swappin’,’ said Marvin hopefully.
‘Naw,’ replied Archie. ‘Anyway, my turn tae drive soon.’
‘S’awright for you’se, man. You’re up the front wi’ the heatin’. There’s nae fucken room back here.’
‘Well, ye shouldnae have nicked that bloody surf board then
,’ said Archie.
‘It’s for ma Granda,’ said Marvin. ‘For his Christmas.’
‘Yer no’ allowed intae Shettleston Baths wi’ surf boards,’ said Burkie.
‘It’s for the auld bastard tae sleep on. He’s got a bad back. Plus, it’s the only thing there is back here tae sit on.’
They all laughed again. The time was passing, Archie had to concede. Slowly, but at least there was some entertainment.
Ten minutes passed before Marvin said: ‘An’ he fucken loves they Beach Boys!’
29
November 1976
None of them could follow the old map. They got lost. Didn’t make it to the meeting place. Didn’t meet their contact, Eddie Bolton. They slept in the chip van. They turned up late at Teddington Lock, at the Thames Television Studios. They smelt like prop forwards who’d been locked in a week-long rugby scrum. The High Five’s new haircuts – army regulation number-two buzzcuts all round – made them look like they had just been released from Vietnam War internment camps. Despite all this, they were here. Archie Blunt’s heart was vaulting around in his chest cavity. He wished all this had been purely the result of raw talent. But once he’d entered the green room, met the other acts and their various hangers-on, partook of the free food and alcohol on offer, he compartmentalised the opportunistic theft and its role in propelling them here.
That familiar sound: ‘Salute to the Thames’ – a loud eight-note horn fanfare, piped into millions of homes nightly and accompanied by a graphic representation of St Paul’s Cathedral flanked by the Tower Bridge. It sounded like a doorbell … if your house was Buckingham Palace. Archie felt sick. The nerves were crawling all over him, constricting his breathing like a python crushing a monkey. He was stunned that the boys seemed unaffected by what they were about to do.
He stood in the wings, glimpsing the audience through a narrow gap in a velvet curtain. The set had the feel of a theatre. Not quite as archaic as the one on The Good Old Days, but with a fake proscenium, nonetheless. He’d watched earlier as the props were moved around, repositioned, camera angles tested. Rehearsals without the star. Heady Hendricks had turned up with less than an hour until showtime.
The embodiment of family values was in a foul mood. Another Chib Charnley visitation, no doubt. When he went into make-up, they’d locked eyes, Heady and Archie. The Celebrity and The Chauffeur. It could’ve been a ridiculous Alastair Sim film. Disgust poured out of Heady’s eyes, and Archie shrank into his suit. He didn’t have the character to see this scam through. That glare, hurt and hateful all at once, made Archie wanted to confess. To give up his dreams. To forget about stardom and go back to the turbulent but familiar turmoil of Shettleston. But then he remembered why he’d agreed to this madness. For his dear old dad. For one final chance at a comfortable last few years for him.
The acts were congregating. Their sponsors were herded into a pen in a dark corner. The director took charge. Vast cameras were moved around like daleks.
‘Customers, welcome to television’s top talent show, where your votes make the acts. You saw … Tiffany Lambert, The Bucking Broncos, Pammy St John, Lonnie Lo Bianco, and Dippy & The Sticks! Find out which has won this week, on THE … HEADY … HEIGHTTTTTS!’ Heady’s voice boomed around the set.
Archie couldn’t see him. He was behind a curtain, orating like some omnipotent Oz. The familiar theme tune sounded, and an army of runners and stagehands kicked into gear. The sound dipped. And then another voice. Measured. Calm. Reassuring.
‘And here he is … the dream-maker himself … Mister … Heady HENDRICKS!’
The horn fanfare concluded, and Heady peeked out from behind a blue curtain. Cue cards exhorted the audience to applaud. And they did. Heady made a face. An oblique wink to camera. A complete pro. Revelling in the spotlight. He sauntered across a low stage to a set that looked like a doctor’s waiting room. Armchairs, glass table, a small flight of steps in the far corner that rose up to nowhere.
‘Thank you tremendously…’ Archie noted the return of Heady’s mid-Atlantic twang, stronger now that he was back on home ground. ‘I would like to say thank you to all those wunnerful folks that were kind and gracious enough to send all those get-well-soon cards to me. I really, really appreciate those cards, folks … an’ I’d like to quash all those rumours that I’m retiring. I’m not retiring…’ Heady shot a melodramatic sideways look to a close-up camera. ‘I can’t afford to, hmmph!’
There was laughter, but Archie noted it wasn’t as raucous as it was when he watched at home. Archie considered it polite, nothing more.
‘So, friends, let’s find out who you voted for.’ There was a drum roll from a band of musicians over in the far corner. ‘The winner in the studio last week was…’ the drum roll peaked ‘…the wunnerful Lonnie Lo Bianco.’
This time, the studio audience clapped enthusiastically. It was still early in the recording. Their energy and collective will to live would be sapped by endless upfills and retakes. But for now, Lonnie – a dark-skinned Latin crooner, giving lie to Heady’s drive for young boys – was their champion. He bounded out from the side curtain, arms aloft like a middleweight champ. He appeared to be crying. The singer draped his arms around the host’s shoulders. Heady tried to shake him off. Joked about it not being that type of show. Lifted a leg and kicked it back, Larry Grayson-style. The audience lapped it up.
‘So … Lonnie. The folks at home really, really love you.’ Lonnie smiled a goofy grin. He was only twenty-four but looked twenty years older. ‘They’ve brought you back, because they love that velvet voice of yours, lemme tell ya!’
‘Thanks, Heady … ah’m, em, jus’ so grateful to you.’
Heady smiled. Sanctimonious. Insincere, despite everything. ‘Well, Lonnie … tell the folks what you’re gonna be singing for them tonight?’
‘Eh … ah’m em, going to do my new single—’
‘That your Decca Records single, out in time for Christmas?’ Heady interrupted. Screwed Popeye face winking down the lens. Protecting his percentage.
‘Yes, that’s right. My Decca single, ‘I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas’, Heady.’
‘Aren’t we all, Lonnie … aren’t we all! Off you go and get ready.’ Heady patted Lonnie on the backside. ‘Here he is, folks, for the third time … your Heady Heights winner from last week … Lonnie Lo Bianco!’
Lonnie sang beautifully, it had to be admitted. Archie could appreciate a good singer, regardless of their age. It was a safe choice of single, undoubtedly. But The Heady Heights always played it safe. Didn’t rock the boat. Didn’t get too loud, too risqué. Broad appeal. Saturday-night television, fronted by the master showman. He hoped his dad had remembered the time. Archie had left notes all over the house. If he missed it, Archie would be devastated. Their big moment, lost to history forever.
Archie watched three new acts try their hardest. Heady had cloying introductory chats with supporters of each one – a brother, a boss, and an old granny. The acts themselves were, to Archie’s mind, dreadful; a ventriloquist with a puppet emu, two singing nuns, and a weird troupe of Cossack dancers. Archie was convinced that Lonnie Lo Bianco and little Scottish Amy from the Glasgow heats would’ve given The High Five trouble, if the fix hadn’t been in.
Suddenly, it was their turn. Archie was up.
‘C’mon over here, m’friend,’ said Heady. Archie looked him in the eye. There was menace there.
‘Tell me, m’friend … what’s your name and where have you come from?’
‘Em … my name’s Archie Blunt, an’ ah’m from Glasgow.’
‘In Bonnie Scod-land. Archie; what a beautiful part of the world. I have many, many friends in Glasgow. You might even get to meet some of them after this.’ It sounded like a threat. Heady wore a devilish smile.
Archie suppressed the urge to vomit.
‘What a wunnerful, wunnerful place.’ Heady put his arm around Archie’s back. Archie could feel a sharp nip from Heady’s thick fighter’s fingers.
‘Aaah!’
‘You nervous, Archie? No need to be, m’friend. You’re among folks who just want you to do well. Now, tell us, who are you with tonight?’
‘Ah … Ah’m with a young band … The High Five.’
‘And are they all your boys, Archie … a father of five?’ Heady sidewinked again. ‘Mrs Archie having a well-earned lie down, is she?’
‘Naw. No. Ah’m no’ their da, Heady.’
‘They’re just your boys, then … ah right.’ A salacious wink. ‘Yessir, we get you, right folks?’
The studio audience laughed. Archie felt small. He looked at this man. That star quality sprinkled its anaesthetic everywhere, so much so that, despite having seen the photographic evidence of his depravity, Archie almost doubted his own two eyes. That was charisma. It was incredible. Intoxicating.
‘Here they are, folks … it’s The High Five!’
The show’s band struggled with the contemporary groove of ‘Hot Love’. Bogart Bridlington conducted it while wearing glittery, star-shaped glasses. Like this was all just a joke; a comedy act. But The High Five were astounding. Relaxed, cool and effortlessly comfortable with the cameras. It was a revelation.
On the journey down, when Sledge was up front, and the others were asleep, he’d told Archie about his uncle Sammy. He lived with Sammy, who wasn’t that much older than him. Sammy was a bohemian, Sledge had said. He sold imported records at the Barras Market. And imported drugs, under the counter. He played guitar and taught it to Sledge. He tuned him into Hendrix and Arthur Lee’s Love. They smoked weed and scoured the late-night AM airwaves for cool shows. They played Stooges records, MC5 records, The Sonics, The Byrds. All of Sledge’s impressive musical knowledge had been planted by an uncle who cared little for the normal conventions of daily life. And Sledge was keen to follow his lead and absorb his influence. Surprisingly, Sledge Strachan shared Archie’s dreams of escaping the East End through music. He and the rest of The High Five had in fact been a band for three years. Archie hearing them hollering tunefully from a window that day of the Orange Walk had been serendipity, right enough.
Welcome to the Heady Heights Page 18
