When the phone rang later that morning Georgia stiffened. Jokes about the boys getting arrested were one thing, but she knew when Speedy and Norman went on the rampage it could happen.
‘How’s it going?’ Rod said quite casually, leaning nonchalantly against the wall blowing kisses at her. ‘What are we doing? Nothing much, just going down to the beach. When are you coming back?’
Silence while he listened.
‘Do we want to go to a party tonight?’ Rod shouted out to Georgia. She could see him shaking his head, not quite tough enough to admit to his friends he didn’t want to go. ‘The usual stuff, loads of crumpet, booze and loose living.’ Georgia shook her head. Rod grinned cheerfully.
‘No I don’t think we’ll bother. It’s nice doing nothing. No, we don’t care about the car. We’ll get a taxi if we want to go anywhere.’
Again a silence as Rod listened.
‘Okay we’ll meet you at the airport. We can pack your stuff for you and call a cab. Just don’t miss the plane, blockhead or Max will castrate you.’
He put the phone down and leapt out to where Georgia sat in the courtyard.
‘Our prayers were answered. They don’t want to come back here. They were feeling guilty because I was missing all the fun.’
She had never seen this side of Rod before. The boy in him that had been stamped out perhaps by his own mother. His eyes sparkled, his thin lips fuller. Once Rod would have refused to even make tea he was so full of arrogant chauvinistic ideas. Yet since they’d been alone he had cooked, washed up, even washed her hair and dried it. Now he was choosing to be alone with her, instead of rushing off to join more hedonistic pursuits.
‘So what’s going on?’ Georgia smiled. ‘Let me guess. They’ve pulled some birds?’
‘Partly. Speedy got chatted up by an older woman with pots of money. She’s a French film star, living in a fabulous Hollywood-style place along the coast from Lloret. Anyway they all went back there with her for drinks and she invited a bunch of English people she knows round, and it’s turned into a mini orgy of sex, drugs and rock and roll.’
‘Drugs!’ Georgia’s eyes flew open.
‘Only cannabis I think,’ Rod said airily. ‘Anyway they want to stay there. Speedy said this place was too isolated and the road so awful he didn’t fancy driving back to pick us up. I think he was relieved when I said we didn’t want to join them, perhaps he was scared I’d nick his tart.’
‘Would you?’ she laughed.
‘I’d be too frightened someone might nick you.’
Three days more of loving and being loved. An unspoken knowledge that maybe once they got back on the plane everything could change. Long hours walking along the beach, swimming, lazing and talking. No dressing up, nor fans interrupting the peace. In a capsule where gigs, money and other people couldn’t touch them.
Again and again Georgia looked for signs of his boredom. She had never known him able to even stay in one room for longer than an hour, he liked noise and confusion.
But there were no signs. When he flopped down on the beach he was totally relaxed, reaching out for her hand as if to reassure himself she was still with him. He told her more stories about his early youth, of meeting Ian and the others. Yet he never spoke of the future.
Hours and hours of lovemaking, made sweeter with the ending being so uncertain. But finally the last morning came and Georgia woke to find Rod standing by the bed with a cup of tea in his hand.
‘Time to go,’ he said. ‘I packed the boys’ things and booked a cab. We’ve got just an hour to say goodbye.’
‘Is that it then?’ she asked. His face was full of something she couldn’t quite define. Sadness certainly, but something more.
‘You know how it will be when we get back,’ he sat down beside her and put the tea into her hand. ‘The fans will be there, the press. We’ll revert to our usual ways.’
‘My usual ways would include you,’ she whispered. ‘Do you think I’ll change with the click of a camera?’
‘No girl, you won’t, but I will. The old flash Harry bit will come back. I’ll be chatting up birds because it’s the way I am. You’ll get pissy and before we know it will turn ugly.’
Somehow she knew he wasn’t telling her he didn’t care, rather that he cared too much to hurt her.
‘Are you always going to run from everything?’ she asked. ‘Because that’s what it is Rod, running.’
‘No my sweet,’ he turned and took her by the shoulders. ‘I could try and trap you now, get a commitment from you and you’d stick to it whatever happened. But I know I’m not the one for you, not deep down where it counts.’
‘Was all this for nothing then?’ She reached up and traced his tanned cheek-bones, ran one finger round his thin lips.
‘I wouldn’t call it nothing,’ he said looking right into her eyes. ‘We’ve given each other something special in these few days, not just our bodies. You’ve made me realize I can feel love. I’ve freed you from that bogey man of a father. Perhaps you don’t know it yet, but I have.’
He took her down to the beach later, kissed her again in the same spot where it all started and together they looked back up at the villa.
It was just nine in the morning, the sun barely rising above the palm tree. Through the iron gates they could see the cool courtyard with its splashes of purple, red and orange flowers. The white walls of the house almost a symbol of the peace they felt. The bedroom where they’d done so much of their lovemaking had the shutters wide open. The sheets white against the dark wood of the heavy oak bed.
‘We’re too much alike,’ he said softly. ‘We could get lost in a power struggle. We both need gentler people to complement us.’
She knew he was right, but it hurt so much. Here alone they could be everything to each other, but once the real world stepped in between them, with jealousy, greed and vanity it couldn’t be the same.
‘So we leave it here?’ she whispered.
‘Yes baby,’ his lips were against her hair, she felt his shoulders quiver and knew he was crying.
Chapter 19
January 1966
‘Fasten your seat belt sir,’ the red-haired stewardess leaned over to touch the black man’s hand lightly. He had slept for almost the entire flight from New York and now they were landing.
‘Sure was fast,’ he opened his eyes and sat up sleepily. ‘Don’t seem mor’an hour since I got on. I hope that’s England down there?’
‘It is,’ she smiled, more at his delightful Southern drawl than his little joke. ‘Good old wet, cold London. Is it your first visit?’
‘First time in such comfort, ma’am,’ he smiled showing gleaming white teeth. ‘I was here last during the War.’
‘Well you’re gonna find a few changes,’ she said. ‘The only thing the same is the weather.’
‘Sleeping Beauty’s awake at last.’ Sonia buckled herself into her own seat and smirked at Muriel her dark-haired friend on the seat next to her. ‘If only they all slept like that our job would be easier.’
‘Did you find out about him?’ Muriel enquired. It had been an uneventful flight and they had spent much of the time playing guessing games with each other about the passengers. The sleeping black man was the most intriguing because he’d given nothing away about himself.
‘I reckon he’s going to see a woman. But I could hardly ask him, could I?’
Most of the passengers were business men. Smart, seasoned travellers who either drank themselves into a stupor to relieve the boredom of the long flight, or put on their glasses and studied files and papers as if they were still in their office. No mystery with any of them, some of them flew backwards and forwards across the Atlantic like commuters.
There was a young couple near the rear of the plane who they guessed were newly married. The way they held hands, dozed on each other’s shoulders and wrapped themselves up in each other was a sure sign. There were three younger men, travelling alone. Students, judging by their desert b
oots, jeans and thick sweaters, presumably running short of money as they only accepted free drinks.
Two blue-rinsed American ladies visiting their offspring in England. Five middle-aged couples who’d spent Christmas in New York. But it was the odd balls on the flight who gained the girls’ real interest.
Could that nasty little weed from Dallas be a dealer in pornography? Was the woman in a shabby coat with the huge frightened eyes a runaway nun? And was the group of couples from Philadelphia really on a church mission? Wasn’t it more likely they had heard about swinging London and they just wanted a slice of the action?
The black man had a magnetic presence. Something that invited curious glances. Although he had spoken to no one, they sensed this was from being caught up in his own thoughts rather than unfriendliness. His clothes were old, but they had style. A leather officer’s flying jacket with a fur collar, dark green cord trousers and a checked, warm-looking shirt, faded around the collar. Just the confident way he moved, looked and spoke gave a feeling that he was someone special, even if he had no money.
They knew from his passport that he was from New Orleans, that he was forty-three, a musician and his name was Samuel Cameron. If he hadn’t fallen asleep they would have got to the bottom of it.
‘Such a good-looking man,’ Muriel leaned closer to Sonia, dark eyes full of mischief. ‘Just look at that face!’
He was sitting in an aisle seat, his head lolling over to one side as if he was about to go back to sleep. Rich goldeny-brown skin with high cheek-bones and long curling eyelashes. His nose was straight, almost Roman, lips wide and fleshy as might be expected with his dark skin, yet shapely and well defined. Even his ears were perfect, like two small shells flat against his beautifully shaped head.
‘I could go for him,’ Sonia said. ‘That black treacle voice gives me goose pimples.’
‘I’m more interested in his body,’ Muriel giggled. She loved the way his hair was cut in a close crop, his broad shoulders and his muscular thighs. ‘You know what they say about black men!’
‘Well it’s too late now,’ Sonia sighed. ‘We should have kept him awake right from the start.’
Samuel Cameron wasn’t just tired. He was exhausted. Greyhound bus from New Orleans to New York, then two days of partying with old friends before catching the plane. It had seemed a good idea to avoid the expense of a New York hotel. But now he wasn’t so sure. Men he hadn’t seen since his de-mob, musicians he’d promised he’d look up when he was in town. Twenty years of catching up, packed into forty-eight hours.
They all believed landing a six week residence in Ronnie Scott’s club in London was the big break he hoped for. But now in the early morning, tired and needing a bath and a shave, Sam had misgivings.
The money was little better than back home. By the time he’d sent something back for the kids and found himself somewhere to live there would be precious little left.
Yet he had to take a gamble. The war had changed nothing in the South. Still the same old prejudices. The whites got the good jobs, the decent homes. Which was worse, to leave his kids with his sister to chase a dream? Or to let those kids see him stay for their sakes and grow old and embittered?
‘Damn you Ellie for taking off,’ he thought as through a gap in the clouds he caught a glimpse of London. ‘If you’d been a proper mother we could have worked something out between us. But then you never cared for the kids.’
He ought to have known a barfly like Eleanor wouldn’t settle for diapers and strollers instead of dancing all night and pretty clothes. Yet he managed to turn a blind eye to the way she neglected Jasmine and Junior, put up with her sulking, and worked longer hours to bring in more money. He didn’t guess she was running off to meet this white guy. If it hadn’t been for that freak storm and a cancelled gig, he wouldn’t have found out his kids were alone at home, night after night.
‘I have to get out,’ that was her explanation. ‘The kids drive me crazy and you don’t love me enough.’
That was the last night he spent with her. He could see her now as she threw herself into his arms begging forgiveness. The red satin dress she said her sister had lent her, damp from the rain, clinging to her curvy little body, her black hair a shower of tiny tight curls glistening with water. He’d believed her that night, loved her hard and long, promising to try harder to make her happy.
But the next evening when he got back from work, she was gone, taking everything worth selling and the savings from the box under the bed. She didn’t even leave a note for her children.
It was left to the neighbours to fill him in about the man from Vegas who promised her a job as a dancer. And he had to tell his children Ellie wouldn’t be coming back.
Five years of trying to be mother and father. Finding babysitters so he could work. But Jasmine was ten now, Junior twelve, old enough to understand he wasn’t deserting them for ever as Ellie had done. Just trying something new which might make a whole new life for all of them.
There were far more people in the arrivals lounge than he expected so early in the morning. Women rushing forward to hug their husbands. Children’s faces alight with expectation. A feeling of pent up excitement in the air, shrieks of laughter, questions, perhaps the inevitble row brewing.
Sam stood still for a moment, his kitbag on one shoulder, his tenor saxophone in his right hand. Everyone had someone, except him.
‘Sam, over here.’
He could hear Clive’s voice yet he couldn’t see him. His eyes prickled with affection for the man who had not only arranged his contract, but also made the time to meet his flight.
‘Sam! Good to see you.’
Clive was pushing through the crowd, a wide grin spread over his small face. ‘I thought you’d missed the flight, everyone else got off ages ago. What kept you?’
Sam’s friend was smaller, paler than he remembered. His dark hair thinner, the moustache tinged with grey. But the grin was the same, pale brown eyes dancing with excitement, his mouth stretching from ear to ear.
‘Customs, what else!’ Sam shrugged his shoulders. ‘Only black guy on the flight. So it goes without saying they’d pull me.’
For a moment Sam felt unsure of himself. He had remembered Clive in old jeans and a sweat-soaked T-shirt. He hadn’t expected the dapper grey pin-striped suit and neat polished shoes. Was this really the man who had dared to penetrate Harlem just to see and hear his jazz idols play?
‘Did they find anything interesting?’ Clive took his sax from him, and squeezed his arm, the nearest thing he could get to hugging the man.
‘Just a pair of smelly socks I’d forgotten about under the sax,’ Sam laughed. ‘It sure is good to see you Clive. I’ve been havin’ more than a touch of the collywobbles.’
It was strange to find their roles reversed. Three years earlier in the Ghetto club in Harlem, Sam had been the big man who saved the drunken Englishman from being rolled if not murdered. He had seen the raised eyebrows as the white fool flashed a wad of notes, and he found himself suddenly protective, just because the man had an accent that plucked at some forgotten chord.
Pulling a knife and bundling Clive out the club could have backfired on him badly, but fortunately by the time Clive sobered up, with his money still in his pocket, he was astute enough to understand Sam’s motives.
Now it was Clive’s turn to be protective, leading Sam to his world.
That night in Harlem he thought Clive was a jerk. A white man who wished he was black, hung up on all the old jazz legends. But that was before he found out the guy was sincere, knew about music even if he did play the shittiest trombone he’d ever heard. And the guy had a big heart.
‘You got collywobbles?’ Clive laughed heartily. ‘You’ve got a contract, your air fare paid. You’ll be knockin’ em dead in Soho tomorrow.’
It hadn’t seemed much to take Clive back to New Orleans with him. What else could he do with such a likeable jerk, hell bent on his own destruction? The man had a wife and kids at h
ome in England. Someone had to straighten him out, let him hear some good music and get him on the plane home.
He didn’t expect the guy to keep in touch. Clive was from the white middle classes with a high-flying job in the motor trade. He had money, good connections and education. Why would a man like that want to befriend an itinerant musician who lived in a cold water, one bedroom apartment with two kids to slow him down?
Perhaps it was music that sowed the seeds of real friendship, but an understanding of each other made it grow. Clive had his problems. Sam had his and somehow as they shared them, they began to care.
‘What the heck!’ Sam stopped and stared. Just outside the doors of the arrivals lounge was a vast crowd of kids, shouting and hollering, pushing and shoving. For a moment it reminded him of a riot scene he’d witnessed in Alabama, except most of these kids were white.
Policemen stood by, forty or fifty of them. The helmets and blue serge uniforms just the same as he remembered all those years before. Around twenty of them had linked arms to form a human fence, but the kids were still pushing to get through.
‘Georgia! Georgia!’ they chanted. Girls, some no older than thirteen or fourteen, in white socks and school scarves, faces contorted in their screaming.
‘What’s goin’ on Clive?’
‘Shit.’ Clive caught hold of Sam’s arm, blushing furiously. ‘I’d forgotten.’
‘Forgotten what? Is it a riot?’
‘Georgia, the singer. She’s leaving with her band for the States. We may as well go back and get a drink at the bar, we won’t get a taxi now.’
It was impossible to talk over the babble of noise from outside. Each time they started to speak, the doors would burst open and fans would rush in looking for another vantage point to get closer to their idol.
There was something hysterical about so many youngsters waiting for a celebrity Sam had never heard of. A sad reminder that he was too old and cynical now for such foolishness. A whole generation born and raised since he was last in England.
Georgia Page 40
