by Ali McNamara
Harry smiles thoughtfully. ‘I’ll remember that. There’s… things that I really want. But I’m not sure how to go about getting them.’
I wonder what he means. ‘If it’s something your heart feels strongly about then you should go for it.’
‘Really?’ Harry says, his voice low.
‘Yes, really. That’s what I did with my business.’
‘Your business?’ Harry replies, his voice swiftly returning to normal. ‘What business is that then?’
‘Oh – nothing. Just a few ideas I have for the future. I don’t want to work as a receptionist for ever, do I?’
‘Obviously not.’ Harry turns his face away and studies the passing traffic. ‘Look, Jo-Jo, don’t worry about me. I sing for my own amusement and write songs for my own pleasure, and I’m happy that way.’
‘But, Harry, if —’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, unless you’re coming down the pub tonight?’ he asks tersely, glancing back at me.
‘I’m not sure what we’re up to yet.’ I’m confused. What did I do wrong?
‘Well, I’ll be there if you feel like coming down.’
‘I’m sure Ellie and I could pop in for a while,’ I say and smile at him.
Harry briefly returns my smile, then I watch as he walks off down the street. How odd. He was fine one moment, and then the next…
I shake my head; and I thought travelling back in time was confusing! But there must be something I can do to help Harry, because he sang so beautifully earlier, and if there was such a thing as the X Factor now, and Harry went to the open auditions, he’d sail though to the live shows with a voice like that.
I stop abruptly on the pavement as an idea begins to form in my head, an idea that could just work… And rather than hurrying away from the EMI building with everyone else, I think I might just work a bit later at the office tonight.
‘It’s very dull down here this evening,’ I pretend to complain later when we’re all sitting around a table drinking beer, and my new favourite tipple, Babycham. ‘We need to liven this place up tonight if there are no bands on.’
‘Ooh, what do you have in mind, Jo-Jo?’ Ellie asks with a giggle. Ellie is now known at work as the cake lady, after her cupcakes went down an absolute storm today. She even promised to bring some more in tomorrow, and we spent nearly all our time before coming out tonight knocking up another few dozen, with Ellie doing much more of the baking this time, under my guidance. I was also insisting Ellie should charge people for the cakes in the future, which she thought I was mad to suggest, but I didn’t think it would take much more persuasion to change her mind, if I kept banging on about it.
‘Karaoke,’ I announce, standing up and heading towards the bar.
‘What the bloomin’ ’eck is karaoke?’ I hear Ellie call to my departing figure. But I don’t answer. I’m now in negotiations with Tony the barman on whether we can use his mic and speakers to create some ‘entertainment’ tonight.
After a bit of persuasion he agrees, and we’re away. However, karaoke isn’t one of my favourite pastimes, I usually avoid it the way I do Jeremy Kyle back in 2013. So I’m in pretty deep water before I even begin trying to ad lib my way through explaining what’s supposed to happen to the regulars of this 1963 pub, along with another slightly more worrying issue – I don’t actually have any backing tracks for anyone to sing to.
Then I spy a jukebox in the corner of the pub.
‘The jukebox,’ I call euphorically across the bar. ‘We can use the jukebox. We can pop some tunes on, turn the sound down a bit, and then whoever is up here can sing along with them so that we hear them more than the record.’
‘You first then, Jo-Jo,’ one of Harry’s mates shouts. ‘You show us how it’s done, then we’ll know when it’s our go!’
I hadn’t banked on actually having to perform myself. Singing really isn’t one of my strong points, and what songs am I going to know the words to now?
‘Yes, yes, you sing, Jo-Jo!’ Ellie calls, rushing to the jukebox. ‘I know just the one!’
Ellie, no, at least let me choose my own song!
The opening bars to the Beatles classic ‘Do You Want to Know a Secret?’ come wafting though the pub. If only Ellie knew how appropriate these lyrics are for me at the moment!
Standing on the stage, wearing a black and white floral print shift dress with leather knee-length boots, I again feel like I’m in that old black and white episode of Top of the Pops as I do my best to keep up with George Harrison’s vocal and sing the Beatles song to the best of my ability. For once I’m grateful to my parents for these familiar lyrics being as much a part of my childhood as nursery rhymes should have been. But I’m stunned, at the end of the song, when I get a round of applause and even a few whoops from the crowd, and even more surprised when some of the others then seem keen to join in and have a go on the little stage.
A number of songs later, with the World’s End hearing some good, bad and truly awful performances within its four walls, the karaoke is turning into a real success, and people are now clambering to get on stage, eager to sing along with the sounds of the sixties. So that’s part one of my plan achieved. Now for part two; I need to get Harry up there. But of course he’s reticent.
‘Nah, not my thing,’ he says, drinking from his pint glass.
Harry has been fine with me tonight in the pub. I still can’t quite work out what the problem was earlier but then I’ve had quite a bit to think about since our conversation on the pavement.
‘But why, when you sing so beautifully,’ I encourage.
‘My songs perhaps, not other peoples’.’
‘So sing one of yours, then.’
‘Are you kidding, Jo-Jo? I’m not standing up there singing one of my songs to this lot.’ He gestures with his glass around the table at his work colleagues. ‘I’d never hear the end of it.’
‘Please, Harry, I’ll do anything you want if you just sing up there tonight.’
Harry almost spits his mouthful of beer back into his glass, but he manages to calm himself, swallow his beer, and respond as casually as he can. ‘You really shouldn’t say things like that you know, Jo-Jo, it could be misconstrued by the wrong ears.’
‘You know what I mean, Harry. Please…’ I plead, smiling at him and virtually fluttering the false eyelashes that Ellie has made me wear tonight.
‘Why, why is this so important to you?’ he asks, resting his beer on the table.
‘Because it is. Just do this one little thing for me, pretty purrlease?’
Harry looks at me as if he’s considering the matter; his deep blue eyes trace their way over my eager face. ‘Oh, all right, if it means that much to you, but I want something in return, mind.’
‘What?’ I clap my hands excitedly. ‘Name it.’
‘One, more fairy cakes. Ellie told me you helped her make them, and the fun the two of you had doing it. Not only are they delicious, Jo-Jo, but you should do more of that kind of thing if you enjoy it.’
‘Absolutely. No problem at all.’ I look excitedly up towards the stage. The latest singer is just finishing his rendition of ‘Devil in Disguise’ with Elvis Presley accompanying him on the jukebox.
‘And two,’ Harry continues, then he hesitates, so I look back across at him.
‘What? What’s two? Just name it.’
Harry looks down into his lap for a moment, then back up at me sitting next to him. ‘If you’re not too busy planning your new business, I’d like to take you out on a proper date some time?’
I sit bolt upright in my seat. I hadn’t been expecting that. ‘Sure, yes of course, that would be lovely. We’ll arrange something.’ I smile shyly at him.
‘For the cakes or the date?’ He grins at me now.
‘Both,’ I assure him. ‘Now go and sing before someone else grabs that microphone!’
Harry jumps up from his seat and hurries on to the stage. ‘Can I use that guitar?’ he asks Tony, pointing to a guitar behind
the bar, which I ‘borrowed’ from work earlier and planted behind the bar in case this all worked out. I just hope no one misses it before tomorrow!
‘Sure,’ Tony says, and the guitar is quickly passed to Harry. He looks at it for a moment, recognising it as the one he was playing earlier today when I caught him singing. He gives me a ‘how on earth is this here?’ look.
I smile sweetly back at him with an innocent expression.
Harry begins to strum his guitar and sing. In the time it’s taken to get him on the stage and his guitar all set up, the noise level in the pub has risen again, so I can barely hear him to begin with, but as more people start to listen to him play, it gets quieter and quieter in the pub until there’s only the sound of Harry and his guitar filling the place. It’s the tune I heard him play earlier today at work, and Harry’s voice seems to have the same hypnotic effect on all these people here tonight as it did on me earlier in the office.
When he comes to the end of his song, there’s just silence for a moment, before a deafening round of applause breaks out, interspersed with a few whistles, cheers and shouts of ‘more!’
Harry smiles, raises his hand, and then begins to play a second song, while I, happy that all is going well now I’ve got him up on the stage, go over to a table in the corner where a tall, slim, smartly dressed man, with dark hair smoothed into shape with Brylcreem, sits, a newspaper in front of him. There’s a photo on the front page of President John F. Kennedy, and something pings in my brain; I can’t put my finger on why right now, because I’m too busy thinking about Harry, but I put that thought aside to deal with later.
The man lowers his newspaper as I approach.
‘What do you think?’ I ask breathlessly, hardly daring to hear his reply.
‘Ah, Jo-Jo,’ he says, smiling at me. ‘He’s not quite Paul or John, but he’s definitely got something there with his song-writing, and his singing is not too shabby either.’
‘So?’ I ask hopefully, ‘Do you think you might be able to work with him?’
George Martin smiles at me. ‘With a little work, yes.’
I nearly punch the air in a “Yes” fashion. But quickly realise that wouldn’t be ladylike behaviour for the sixties. ‘That’s fantastic! Thank you so much for coming along tonight, George, I mean Mr Martin,’ I hastily correct myself.
‘No, thank you, Jo-Jo, for asking me. Well perhaps I should say, twisting my arm to come,’ he winks. ‘There’s not many people who can persuade me to come down the King’s Road on a Thursday evening and sit in a pub listening to, what did you call it?’
‘Karaoke.’
‘Interesting. Tell your friend to call my secretary tomorrow morning, and we’ll try and make an appointment for a demo on Monday.’
‘Wow! I will, I will, and thank you again.’
‘Not a problem,’ he says, standing up now. ‘Just don’t forget those cakes you promised me – I’ll expect them up on my desk first thing tomorrow morning. The ones I had today at the office were delicious. You and your friend should be commended on them.’
‘Don’t you worry, Mr Martin, I won’t forget. It’s Ellie that does most of the baking, I’m just her – publicist, I guess you’d call me.’
George Martin smiles. ‘And a fine job you do of it too. It’s been noted, Jo-Jo. It’s been noted. Have a good rest of your evening. I’ll look forward to the cakes, and thank you once again.’
George Martin stands up to leave. He raises his hand casually to Harry who has just finished his second song, and is insisting to his eager crowd that that is it for him for tonight.
He comes rushing over just as George leaves the pub.
‘Was that George Martin you were talking to then?’ he asks breathlessly.
‘Yep.’
‘What on earth was he doing here tonight?’
‘I asked him to come.’
‘You did? Why?’
‘I asked him to come and listen to you play,’ I say, sitting down in the seat George Martin has just vacated.
Harry’s mouth drops open and he rubs his forehead with his hands. ‘Oh my lord! I just auditioned for George Martin and I didn’t know!’ He stares down at me, sheer panic and trepidation in his eyes. ‘And what did he think? Did he say anything to you?’
‘Relax, Harry, he thinks you’re fab, and he wants you to come and sing for him on Monday.’
Harry just stares at me again. Then he flops down on to the seat next to me. ‘Jo-Jo, you do know George was the one who signed the Beatles to Parlophone at EMI, don’t you?’ He shakes his head in disbelief. ‘Of course you do, sorry; I’m just in a state of shock. George Martin, music producer extraordinaire, has asked to see me!’ And without having time to feel awkward or nervous, he leans across, wraps his arms around me and kisses me on the cheek. ‘You’re bloody fantastic, do you know that!’
‘Yes, I have been told once or twice,’ I say, grinning, as I hug him back. This is starting to be fun, helping people out here in 1963. Maybe it isn’t so bad after all. And as I rest my head on Harry’s shoulder and hold him close to me, I spy the other George sitting across the pub, even more tucked away than George Martin was. He winks at me and mouths the words: ‘Nearly there.’
Nine
‘Welcome,’ Walter Maxwell says, looking out into the foyer of EMI House, where right now as many employees as humanly possible are squeezed in. ‘I hope you can all hear me at the back.’
There are a few murmurs of acknowledgment, and Walter continues.
‘The time has come to announce the winner of the tickets to the gala lunch with the Beatles, and,’ he adds with a flourish, ‘I’m pleased to say that the winner and guest will now have the morning off and receive free transport from their home in a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud, kindly donated by Abbey Car Hire.’
Oohs and aahs fill the room.
I look at Walter Maxwell standing slightly raised up on a little footstool that someone has found for him to balance on. I haven’t had a chance to go back to his office and question him more about his photo, or the reason for him being here, or any of the hundred other questions I have for him, because he’s been out on business all day and has only just come back in time to make the big announcement. I’m determined to try and catch him tonight, though, after everyone leaves, and before he goes home himself.
It’s Friday night and we’re all gathered to find out who will win employee of the month, and, more importantly it would seem to everyone else, also win the ‘golden ticket’ to ride in the Rolls-Royce to the gala lunch and meet the Beatles. I smile at my choice of words. ‘Ticket to Ride’ – another Beatles song, but not quite out yet if my memory serves me correctly. Gosh, I really do know far too much about the Beatles – my parents have a lot to answer for.
‘So without further ado,’ Mr Maxwell says, ‘and in the best award ceremony style, I’m going to read you a shortlist of the top nominees, and we’re honoured that Sir Joseph has joined us to announce the winner.’
A friendly-looking man with thinning wispy hair raises his hand from the chair he waits patiently on. Ah, this must be the famous Sir Joseph Lockwood, MD of EMI. I’ve only heard about him; I’ve never actually seen him around the building.
I look back at Walter Maxwell again. Can’t you get this over with quickly? I implore him silently. I need to ask you some questions.
‘Cynthia Roper, for her sterling work in accounts this month. It’s been a busy month, and there have been many staff shortages with the measles epidemic that we experienced through a few departments, so we think you’ve coped admirably, Cynthia.’
Cynthia smiles and blushes profusely behind her tortoiseshell spectacles.
‘James Pepper in publicity for his latest campaign for Cliff Richard. A fantastic job in conjunction with the Summer Holiday film, I think we’ll all agree.’
‘Bloody great job,’ Harry murmurs, standing next to me. ‘Why would you release a summer movie in February? Jimmy had to sweat blood to counterbalance that.’
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I think about the incredibly detailed thought process that will go into every inch of a publicity campaign in the future. Releasing a summer movie in the winter? It just wouldn’t happen.
‘Ellie Williams for her beautiful and incredibly tasty cakes that she generously baked for us all. A kind gesture, and one I understand you’re going to continue, Ellie, am I correct?’ Mr Maxwell looks around the room for Ellie.
I see a petite hand waving from beneath the sea of people. They part a little so Ellie can be seen.
Ellie, bright red, looks eagerly back at Mr Maxwell. ‘Yes, Mr Maxwell, of course, Mr Maxwell.’
‘But with recompense,’ Sir Joseph murmurs from his seat. ‘I hope you’ll be charging us all a small amount for your cakes in future, Ellie? I certainly won’t mind paying for them.’
‘You tried one, Sir Joseph?’ Ellie asks, stunned.
‘I certainly did and it was delicious.’ He smiles at Ellie. ‘I’ll take two dozen next week if you can manage it, Ellie – it’s my niece’s birthday on Tuesday.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, Sir Joseph. You just let me know when and where.’ She grins at me.
‘Our next nominee is Harry Rigby.’
Harry, usually so relaxed, stands bolt upright, like an iron rod has just been dropped down the back of his suit.
‘You’ve made the shortlist at the insistence of Mr Martin,’ Mr Maxwell says, almost begrudgingly. ‘It isn’t for your work here that you’ve been nominated, Harry, but Mr Martin insists that you have a raw musical talent that we rarely see, and therefore that makes you a unique EMI employee, eligible for this award, and a particularly suitable candidate for the prize.’
‘Wow!’ is all Harry can mutter.
‘And that completes the list of nominees. Now I’d like to hand over to Sir Joseph to announce the winner.’
Sir Joseph Lockwood stands and Mr Maxwell steps down from his stool to make way for him. But Sir Joseph waves a dismissive hand at it.
‘I think you’ll agree, everyone mentioned thus far has contributed to the company in very different and very special ways of late. But our winner has gone above and beyond all of the other nominees’ achievements. Not because they’ve made a significant difference to the company’s profits, nor have they done something out of the ordinary. No, they’ve simply helped and assisted everyone else, quietly and without fuss. It’s those people that we need to recognise more in life, and the sort of person who we at EMI House would like to recognise today.’ He pauses for a moment just to make sure he has everyone’s full attention. ‘So, the winner of employee of the month and the person who will be going to the gala lunch with the Beatles is…’ He looks between all the nominees. Then his glance falls on me. ‘Jo-Jo McKenzie.’
