Georgia
Page 41
‘So who is this Georgia? I thought it was only the Beatles who got this kind of scene?’ Sam laughed as he saw one girl trip another and she landed on her face, her short skirt flying up, revealing a pert bottom in white panties. ‘I’d like to thank the person who’s giving me this free show.’
‘Georgia James. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of her?’ Clive’s face registered surprise. ‘She’s had five or six top twenty hits.’
‘I don’t listen to that pop shit,’ Sam grinned. ‘Is she any good?’
‘Brilliant,’ Clive’s pale face took on that look of worship he’d once kept for giants like Duke Ellington. ‘Beautiful girl with a voice that makes your toes curl up. She’s one of the greats, buddy. Pop star or not.’
They sensed the arrival of the limousine even before they caught a glimpse of the gleaming black car. It started with a roar, a surging forward that made Sam leap to his feet despite his natural inclination to stay where he was. With long strides he made it to the window, forgetting even his kitbag and instrument left lying by the bar.
He was tall enough at six feet three to see over the heads of the fans, but even so he jumped up on a chair to see better.
The police had made a chain along each side of the car. More police were holding open the doors, and still more waited inside the departure lounge.
By now there were thousands of fans, elbowing each other, fighting to get to the front. Screaming at the top of their lungs, waving autograph books, handkerchiefs, scarves, even hats.
A policeman rushed forward to open the car door. Sam saw first a long, slim, brown leg in white boots snake out of the car, then the other, and his eyes travelled upwards.
She was beautiful! Coffee coloured like the mulattos in New Orleans. Long black curly hair with a white fur pill box hat perched at a rakish angle that matched her short white fur coat.
She said something to the crowd. Dark eyes dancing with pleasure at seeing them, but a hefty man with shoulders like a barn door was grabbing her arm and urging her to get inside the airport.
Georgia looked up and Sam caught her eye, just for the briefest moment. Her hand flickered at him, and she was gone, dragged inside to the comparative safety of the airport.
‘Wow,’ Sam jumped down, Clive had joined him, but his short stature had stopped him from seeing anything. ‘She was something else, man.’
‘If you’d been here two weeks earlier you might have got to play with her,’ Clive laughed at the animated expression on Sam’s dark face. ‘She often pops into Ronnie Scott’s. She used to live in Soho and from what I hear there isn’t one musician who wouldn’t cut off his balls to play for her.’
‘I sure wouldn’t go that far,’ Sam smiled. ‘But I’ll have to check her out.’
‘I’ve found you a pad,’ Clive said later in the taxi. ‘I’d have liked you to stay with me and the wife, but Surbiton’s too far out of London.’
Was Anne, Clive’s wife as enthusiastic about this Yank arriving in England? Clive had come to the States that time because his marriage was on the rocks. Maybe Sam was the man who sent her husband back, but as he remembered, sometimes women’s minds worked differently to men’s.
‘That’s swell of you,’ Sam sighed with relief. He didn’t want to impose on Clive anymore than he had to. ‘How much does it cost?’
‘Just a fiver a week will do,’ Clive said. ‘It belongs to a mate of mine. He’s away on business right now. It’s just a place he takes his chicks to. But don’t have any wild parties there and upset anyone.’
Sam was too immersed in looking at London to reply.
There was nothing he could pinpoint to reassure himself this really was England. Somehow he hadn’t expected streams of traffic, or tower blocks of apartments and offices. The only real point of reference was the biting cold.
Funny little houses in rows. Millions of them as far as he could see. The big red double-decker buses and all those small chunky cars. The England Sam had imprinted on his mind was full of small green fields, thatched cottages and gardens full of flowers. Bars where old men played darts and dominoes. Women with scarves tied round their heads queueing up for rations. Little boys who asked the Americans for chewing gum and chocolate.
London had meant Katy. Begging a lift in a jeep, or jumping on a train, barely noticing the bombed houses, or the narrow streets. Leave, to most of his friends had meant drinking, dancing and parties. To Sam it had been his girl in his arms.
‘Has it changed much?’ Clive asked. It was strange to be with Sam again. Perhaps he’d built up the friendship to more than it really was. Maybe it was a mistake encouraging him to come over. Was that coldness on the other man’s face, or just memories of something he’d never opened up about?
‘I guess so,’ Sam looked round at Clive, his mouth straight and severe. ‘But then I didn’t know this part of London. Bayswater was one bit I knew. Soho and Whitechapel. But most of the time I was out at Lakenheath. Ask me again when I’ve seen them.’
‘I expect you went to the service men’s club in Bayswater?’ Clive needed to find some common ground. ‘The Douglas House?’
‘That’s right!’ Sam grinned suddenly, happier memories chasing away the blues. ‘Is it still there?’
‘Still there,’ Clive chuckled, pulling out some cigarettes and offering Sam one. ‘Packed with G.I.s on paydays. Maybe we can get up there one night. Georgie Fame and the Blue Flames play there.’
‘Mockingbird Hill!’ Sam’s eyes twinkled. ‘I thought they were black guys when I first heard that song. Couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw he was a little white guy.’
‘I think Georgie Fame would take that as a compliment,’ Clive laughed.
Clive had been on the verge of cracking up when he went to the States. He was successful, he had a lovely wife, home and three kids, but he wasn’t happy. It was like he had a self-destruct button attached to his chest. He wanted some excuse to push it, and blast away all the shit in his life. Sales managers, targets, social climbing, he’d had enough of all that. He wanted something more, something meaningful. He wanted to listen to music, fall in love with a wild woman, break out and be different.
If he hadn’t met Sam he probably would never have got home again. His idealistic dream was already tarnished. He heard all the great jazz he hungered for. Yet the free spirits he’d expected were as trapped as himself. They had problems too, drugs, drink and poverty.
Sam put it all into perspective for him. Showed him the real America you didn’t get on package holidays. The hospitality, the hypocrisy. Scenery he’d only ever dreamed of, poverty he wished he could forget. A country that had so much richness and beauty, but with an underlying core of greed and corruption.
‘You’ve already got the things that are important man,’ Sam said. ‘Go home to your wife and kids, learn to be happy with what you’ve got. Don’t go crying for the moon.’
Clive knew when he said goodbye to Sam at New Orleans airport that if he couldn’t break away from his own life, then he would make sure Sam got his just reward. No one in England could play the sax like him. Somehow he was going to make the breaks for this big-hearted black man. He had the connections in London, and he was going to use them.
‘Say, man,’ Sam turned to Clive as the taxi came near to Piccadilly Circus. ‘Hell, I don’t know how to say this,’ he paused suddenly embarrassed. ‘I mean, I appreciate you setting this up. Finding me a place to stay an’ all. But I don’t want you to think you’ve gotta wet-nurse me. Okay?’
Colour had never been an issue in their friendship. But now looking out of the taxi window and seeing people who were predominantly white, Sam felt a pang of the old fear.
Clive was a true friend, but he had a white wife and kids, an important job. He didn’t want to stretch that friendship so far it broke. In the States things were clearly defined. There was some sort of rough honesty in the prejudice. Here he didn’t know how things stood, and he wouldn’t find out for certain leaning on a white jazz buff.
‘Thanks man,’ Sam really smiled at last. ‘Say, can you imagine how great it is to see all this again?’
He knew this bit of London. Eros had been boarded up then. The shops hadn’t looked so gawdy. But there was the White Bear he used sometimes and down this road was surely the theatre he’d taken little Katy to?
The taxi turned outside the Dominion, swung round to the right and stopped.
‘I remember this bit.’ Sam got out, looking around like a kid on a Sunday school treat. ‘Used to be a musical instrument shop here.’
‘Over there.’ Clive paid the driver and slammed the door. ‘Some things don’t change. They call this bit Tin Pan Alley still. ‘Cept now it’s all electric guitars and organs. Back in the ‘fifties there were men playing pianos in some shops to sell sheet music. Now it’s record shops and coffee bars.’
It was still only nine in the morning. Clive had gone to work and Sam’s body clock was so mixed up he didn’t know whether he wanted to eat, sleep or get drunk.
His kitbag sat on the double bed. His saxophone on a settee and this tiny place was his for the next few weeks.
One room, a tiny kitchen and bathroom off the small hall. It had that quality he remembered about England, a sturdy, comfortable feel. Smart enough with its plain dove-grey walls and dark red curtains. The oak table and chairs scratched enough for it to feel homely. Clean but not antiseptic. A place where a loner like himself could be inconspicuous. Was it Clive who stocked up that icebox with eggs, bacon and beer? Enough coffee for a month and a cupboard full of tins?
It was on the third floor above a coffee bar. The window looked out over Charing Cross Road and there was that theatre almost winking at him.
What was the show he’d taken her to see? Darned if he could remember now. All he could see was her face shining up at him.
Such a pretty face. Small and heart-shaped, with big brown eyes under those shiny bangs. He could still feel that shiny straight hair as he ran his fingers through it, thick, sweet-smelling and so silky it drew his fingers back to it again and again.
It had been her hair he noticed first that night in Lakenheath. He was playing with the band when he saw her walk through the crowd with her friend.
All the other girls had theirs curled. Weird styles rolled up round scarves and God knows what. She was just natural in a green and white print dress, her waist so small she looked about fourteen and that thick dark hair just touching her shoulders.
She didn’t exactly dance. She just stood there jigging up and down and clapping her hands. As she moved her hair swayed like a heavy silk curtain, gleaming under the mirrored ball.
He shouldn’t have even looked at a white girl. He wouldn’t have dared back home. But it was different then, a feeling in the air that nothing was permanent. You had to take chances, because tomorrow you might just be dead.
‘Well Katy,’ he said aloud as he watched the endless stream of traffic forcing itself down the narrow streets. ‘What happened baby? Did you lose your nerve?’
Suddenly he couldn’t stay in. London was beckoning him. He had only his tuxedo and shirt to hang up, everything else could wait.
Once out on the street he stopped to get his bearings. It was all so familiar, yet so strange. It was usually night when he came here before. Yet surely that was the tube station he’d run to once when the sirens went off?
Leicester Square. He knew where he was now. They went dancing here sometimes and she wore that little red costume he bought her with some sort of frill round the waist.
‘Wouldn’t navy blue be more sensible?’ she asked, giggling as she stood there in the dress shop. ‘What about the points Sam? I haven’t got enough.’
The Brits were funny about their ration coupons. He’d done a deal with the woman who owned the shop. Katy wasn’t so worried about the money it cost, more about not handing over the damn points.
He was into Piccadilly without even being aware he was still walking. It was smaller than he remembered. What was that song they used to sing? Something about lights going on again in Piccadilly. They didn’t look much, he’d expected it more like Vegas. Perhaps it was more spectacular at night?
Regent Street. This was where the rich folks bought their clothes, wasn’t it? Kind of like Fifth Avenue in New York. The girls were different to ones in the States. Kind of bolder, all that long flowing hair and big dark-ringed eyes. The short skirts were kinda neat though, women wouldn’t go for those back home.
He didn’t know why he got on the tube at Oxford Circus. One moment he was standing by the subway, the next walking down the stairs.
That dry, warm wind coming up from the platforms took him back. Strange dank smells that made him feel safe. No one felt safe on the New York subways. But he could remember everyone in London running to them when there was an air raid.
Platforms crowded with people. Women with picnics and knitting in baskets, small boys with a puppy or a kitten under their coat. A man with only one leg who played an accordian. Old ladies wrapped in blankets, babies crying, young girls giggling together and men who had to start work early trying hard to catch some sleep. Someone would start to sing and before long it was a party.
Perhaps that was why Sam still liked Brits so much. That ability to hold on to what was important, no matter what life chucked at them. He was sure they would have licked the Germans even without the Yanks to help them.
Sam stood holding the strap, his body swaying with the motion of the train. The stations were all so familiar as he looked at the map. Lancaster Gate, that was the station he used from the Douglas House. Marble Arch, Bond Street, then Oxford Circus. He must have taken that ride forty or fifty times. Back then, the train had been packed with servicemen. Americans and Canadians in their blue uniforms. British soldiers in khaki, Royal marines in navy blue and a smattering of sailors in bellbottoms. There was always an atmosphere of comradeship, mixed with rivalry. Showing off for the shy girls with fresh faces, passing round cigarettes and telling jokes.
Not a uniform in sight now. No conversation or jokes. Men in dark suits hugged their briefcases. Middle-aged ladies with bags bulging with shopping. Boys with their hair cut like the Beatles. Office girls with their knees neatly tucked together, eyes glued to magazines. What had happened in London that people avoided any human contact?
It was then he knew where he was going. He knew nobody else in London apart from Clive. He couldn’t call into Ronnie Scott’s until late tonight. What else could he do but make the trip to Whitechapel and get it out of his system?
Outside Whitechapel Station he stood helplessly. It had changed, yet he couldn’t say how.
There was the old hospital across the street, blackened by smoke, as forbidding as he remembered. Surely the main road was never that wide? Where were all the tiny shops he remembered and that Yiddish theatre on the corner?
It ought to smell the same. Smoke was still coming out of chimneys, the little market was still there. But now there was spice in the air instead of fish, the roar of traffic instead of the shouts of costermongers.
Sam stood for a moment watching the scene at the small market.
Dark faces outnumbered white. Indians in turbans behind the stalls, women in saris queueing next to plump West Indians. Girls in their late teens pushed strollers, pale, harassed, with untidy hair. A heavily pregnant young woman bent over to spank a small boy, his screams unnoticed by anyone but Sam. A big white Ford drew up at the kerb, disgorging four young black men in leather jackets. An old woman in a red woolly hat was sorting through some fruit left out for the garbage men, and a burly man hopped along on crutches, one trouser leg pinned up with a safety pin.
It was good to see there were no ragged urchins standing listlessly outside the
pub on the corner. None of these people looked hungry or pinched. Rosy-faced children in bright, warm clothes hung on to their mothers’ hands. There was food aplenty and money to spare.
But what had happened to the cheery greetings Sam remembered? There was isolation, just the way he noticed on the tube. Men in cloth caps, their jacket shoulders worn shiny with unloading ships down at the docks, were replaced by menacing looking youths, hair cut short like convicts. Car horns instead of the jangle of trolley bus bells.
Sam sighed. It had lost something more than its slums. Despondency had taken the place of character. Maybe there was less dirt and disease, but Whitechapel as he knew it was gone.
Across the street he saw a young black man holding a white girl’s arm. In the Southern States that would be asking for trouble, yet here they passed unnoticed.
The Black Bull on the corner looked the same. White painted with black beams, the lattice windows twinkling invitingly. He had thought it was really old until Katy told him differently.
‘It’s just mock Tudor,’ she explained as he gawped at it. When Henry the Eighth was on the throne this was all fields.’
Well fake or not, Sam liked it. Besides it stood on the corner of her street and back in ’44 it had meant he was nearly there.
If it hadn’t been for the Black Bull he might have thought he was mistaken. Valance Road had once been filled with tiny houses. A few gaps like broken teeth where bombs had dropped. Windows boarded up, shrapnel holes in some of the doors but it had been alive with people.
Now it was quiet. New apartment blocks in the place of all the rows of old tiny houses he remembered. Scrubby grass stretched round them. Swings for the children, seats for the elderly. Those old houses were dark, damp places, infested with rats, overcrowded as his own childhood home, yet they had a quality of welcome which was lacking now.
To his right was another empty site, this one still not cleared. Stumpy grass grew over uneven ground, but behind it he could see that creepy railway arch.
‘Jack the Ripper got one of his victims here.’ He could see Katy’s eyes full of horror as they ran through that road one night soon after she moved here. It had been foggy, that evil yellow fog London was famous for, the kind that made every face look sinister.