Grant switched to the test card on BBC2. ‘That better for ye, Mam?’ he said sarcastically.
‘She’s pretty, that wee lassie,’ said Senga in a whisper.
‘Aye, but she’s probably older than you noo,’ he said.
‘Cheeky wee get, ye!’ Senga got up and gently cuffed her son’s ear on the way past.
‘Actually, ah’ve got somethin’ for you, Grant,’ said Maggie moving closer to him.
‘Ach, bollocks. Yer determined tae make me feel shite, aren’t ye?’
She laughed. ‘C’mon outside a minute,’ she said. They stood up.
‘Jist nippin’ out a minute, Mam,’ shouted Grant.
‘But she’s just got here, Grant.’
‘A minute, Mam … we’re stayin’ for dinner.’ The door shut behind them. It had just started snowing again. Grant put his black Harrington jacket over Maggie’s bare shoulders. Contrasted against the pristine snow, Maggie’s skin seemed darker than it was. Grant caught her gaze as she reached the end of the path. She looked like a blonde Donna Summer. He couldn’t believe the way his fortune had turned around in these last six months or so. From constant rucks with his aggressive father, and taking the pocket-book money away from the weak-willed and infirm on behalf of that fat fuck Franny Duncan, to having a new name and being in a band – albeit one that hadn’t played a gig yet and had a delusional manager – and having regular sex with its beautiful drummer. Quite a turnaround, indeed!
Maggie walked him to the end of the cul-de-sac and put her hands over his eyes before they reached the corner.
‘Right, are ye ready?’ she asked him.
‘Eh, aye. Ah think so,’ he replied nervously.
Maggie drew her hands back and Grant opened his eyes. Parked at the back of the turning-head was a pale-blue Volkswagen Campervan. It was in decent condition, with gleaming chrome and no obvious rusting. It had been decorated with CND logos and slogans, such as ‘Anti-Complacency League, Baby’. It looked very cool.
‘Holy fuck, Mags!’
‘Dae ye like it?’ she said, with child-like exuberance.
‘Aye … but fuckin’ hell, ah wis thinkin’ of gettin’ you a bottle ae Rive Gauche!’
‘Ha ha, it’s cool. This is for you and me,’ she said. ‘It can be a joint present.’
Grant was stunned. Although he still had most of his secret Fat Franny stash, officially they were both on the dole, and it would have taken her about a decade to have saved enough from what was left out of her weekly government allowance.
‘Look, ah dinnae want this tae come oot wrang, but where did ye get the money for it?’
She looked instantly hurt.
‘Fuck, Mags … ah’m sorry. It’s great, really. Please jist forget ah asked that, eh?’
‘It didnae cost me anythin’. Ah won it in a poker game,’ she said.
That prompted even more questions in Grant’s mind, given Maggie’s prior history with the gypsy Quinns of Galston. But he decided to hold onto them for now. He could inquire more after Ne’erday. They had only been going out for about two months. This initially seemed like a big step, but Maggie hadn’t exactly asked him to move into it. And she wasn’t giving him a set of keys. It was just a convenient – and mobile – place for them to go, for them to get hammered and high, and listen to John Peel, and for them to shag each other. He decided it was nice for her to make such a commitment.
In a few days, he would be off to Austria with his mother. Part of the money her late husband had sent her was paying for her to fulfil her dream of seeing the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra play the traditional New Year’s Day concert. She had asked Grant to go with her, while her mother looked after her other two children. What the future held for Grant and Maggie could wait until 1983; after the fat Austrian lady had sung.
13
18th January 1983
7.33 pm
‘Happy birthday, darlin’,’ said Fat Franny Duncan.
He didn’t routinely dine out in Kilmarnock. Not for fear of a rival hit against him while he was eating and at his most vulnerable. No, it was because he wouldn’t dream of dining out with other men. So he only ate out with Theresa, his girlfriend, whose twentieth birthday they were celebrating.
Fat Franny was a big man. Theresa was slim, good-looking and had big breasts. Guys her own age looked twice at her. Three times when they realised who she was with. Their age gap would’ve suggested they might be father and daughter, and Fat Franny was acutely aware of this. But the Coffee Club in Bank Street had a downstairs basement section and it was relatively discreet. It was also mid-January, when the restaurants of Kilmarnock had their toughest – and emptiest – times of the year. The tables were arranged in three small zones and the lighting was always dimmed in the evenings. Despite everything, Fat Franny Duncan still cared what people thought about him, but principally because if they thought ill, then Theresa might leave him.
‘Thanks Francis,’ said Theresa.
Fat Franny held out his right hand. Theresa extended her left. Fat Franny took it and raised it to his lips. He kissed it gingerly, and with his left, brought up a small package from under the table.
‘Aw, Fran … that’s no whit ah think it is, is it?’
‘Open it an’ see,’ said Fat Franny. Theresa carefully peeled back the shiny gold paper around the small, square parcel. Fat Franny watched the moisture develop in her eyes.
‘Aye, Francis … aye, ah will.’ Theresa knew that Fat Franny hadn’t actually asked her to marry him, but they’d talked about it recently, and the ring that she was now holding was exactly the clustered diamond with the yellow gold band that she’d seen in Henderson’s window in King Street. She’d told him about it, but hadn’t really held out a strong hope that he had been paying enough attention to have acted on the information. Again, he had surprised her. He was doing that more and more often, lately. She liked the new, different Fat Franny. People who looked at them and regarded them as an odd couple didn’t know these transformative things about him.
They had met at a function Fat Franny was DJ-ing at almost two years before. Theresa Morgan was there with two of her friends, Janice Fallon and Lizzie King. Janice and Lizzie had left early when Danny Keachie – Theresa’s then boyfriend – had turned up uninvited. At the end of the night, Fat Franny had encountered the resultant argument between Theresa and Danny Keachie after she’d broken it off with him. Danny Keachie had punched Theresa in the face. Fat Franny – or rather Hobnail acting on instruction – had ensured that he spent the next two weeks with his jaw wired shut in Crosshouse Hospital. In the days that followed, Fat Franny sent Theresa flowers and chocolates, and a month after that first, brief encounter, Fat Franny Duncan and Theresa Morgan went for a drink together at the remote Craigie Inn.
Theresa, Janice and Lizzie had been inseparable back then, but only Janice said hello when their paths now infrequently crossed. The fallout with Lizzie was public and painful, and also irretrievable. Lizzie was now pregnant with Bobby Cassidy’s baby, and since Bobby had been a major DJ rival of the Fat Franny empire, the die had been well and truly cast.
The waitress brought their food over to the table in the darkest corner of the Coffee Club’s basement. They had both ordered gammon steaks and pineapple, with chips: their usual.
‘Ach, that’s beautiful, hen. Congratulations.’ She’d seen enough strange-looking relationships in her time working there to avoid making assumptions. She waited to see Fat Franny’s reaction and then added, ‘…to both ae ye’se.’
Fat Franny said thanks. A decent tip was assured, thought the waitress as she returned to the kitchen.
‘Well, there’s a coincidence,’ said Theresa, as Earth, Wind & Fire came through the Coffee Club’s speakers. ‘Whit aboot September, then?’ said Theresa. Fat Franny spluttered his drink.
‘Aye, eh … plenty ae time, like? Ah’m that excited, Tre. Really. Ah’d want tae dae it right. Nae rush like, darlin’.’
‘Ach, ah suppose,’
said Theresa. Fat Franny felt like he had dodged a bullet on the timing.
‘Is it jist aboot the money an’ that? Ah ken losin’ aw that cash wis a big blow.’
‘Hey, don’t you worry aboot aw that. Whatever you want … ah’ve got it covered.’
Fat Franny took Theresa’s hand; the one with the new ring.
‘Tre … there’s somethin’ else ah wanted tae talk aboot.’
‘Whit is it?’
‘It’s Mam. She’s gettin’ worse. She forgot ma name the other day, thought ah’d fuckin’ broke in tae the hoose. She wis aw agitated. Ah burst oot greetin’.’
‘Aw, Francis. Ye’ve done aw ye can for her. Ye maybe need tae think aboot…’ Theresa hesistated. ‘…gettin’ her looked after. Properly, ken?’
‘Whit dae ye mean … properly?’ said Fat Franny, with more aggression than he’d intended.
‘Hey, ah didnae mean anythin’ by it. She’s jist … a worry.’
‘Well, ah wondered how ye’d maybe feel aboot maybe movin’ in? Helpin’ us wi’ her, ken?’ Fat Franny navigated the minefield he was in skilfully. A miscalculated step and Theresa would have cause to suspect his motivation. But he did love her, in so far as Fat Franny loved anything beyond himself, and his old mum. He genuinely wanted her to be around him, to be around for him. But he wasn’t prepared for what she said next.
‘Whit aboot a bigger move? Maybe tae the coast … Troon, Prestwick? Bigger hoose. Somewhere fur us aw tae … y’know?’
Fat Franny wasn’t good in these circumstances. He was a reactive man, and one who normally reacted in a way that maintained the status quo. Proactivity was a much harder leap into the unknown for him. He’d rehearsed the now-unneccesary engagement speech in the mirror, just as he’d imagined Don Corleone might, in a similar situation. But her unexpected suggestion now made him feel vulnerable. He didn’t like it.
‘Ach … eat yer dinner, an’ let’s talk aboot it efter, eh?’ Fat Franny now wished he hadn’t raised the subject of his mum. He could have taken this a step at a time, like the Don would’ve. But his fragile old mum’s shorter-term future was becoming interlinked with their longer-term one, and he couldn’t separate them in his own mind.
‘Christ, Fran … ah’d love us tae move away. Whit’s actually here? Things’ll jist go back tae normal when ma dad gets oot. Ah cannae watch that again. Ah’ve gied up wi’ ma mam. If she wants tae be an emotional punchbag the rest ae her life then that’s up tae her.’ Theresa lit up a cigarette. She drew it in and a third of it turned to ash. She blew the smoke out the side of her mouth to avoid it going across their food. ‘Ah’m no’ movin’ in wi’ ye. God, ye live jist aroon’ the corner fae me as it is.’ Theresa hated the Ponderosie. It smelt of piss and stew and old people. And as a house clubbed together crudely with its neighbour, it was as appealing as Siamese twins created in Dr Frankenstein’s laboratory. ‘Troon sounds magic, d’ye no’ think?’ she said.
Despite the generation gap, Fat Franny Duncan and Theresa Morgan had much in common. Both were only children in a community where that was unusual. Both had grown up witnessing their mothers suffering domestic abuse, although that, sadly, wasn’t so unusual. The legacy it had left them was different for each, though. Theresa was desperate to escape from the memories of a father addicted to gambling, returning nightly from a place of high spirits to the realisation of the paucity of his domestic life. He had never taken out his inability to control his frustrations directly on his family. Instead he represented mental torture for Theresa and her mother. His imprisonment for assault and handling stolen goods had given them eighteen months of unexpected respite, but her mother had apparently already forgiven his past transgressions. She was willing to forget the psychological torment of repeated visits from bailiffs, the stress of paying bills out of unpredictable pay packets – although with a criminal record, paid employment of any kind was going to be a new challenge – and was ready to take him back in a few months when his time was served. Theresa wasn’t going to be around to see it; she was planning to be long gone. And therefore the conversations with Fat Franny about getting engaged had been instigated by her.
For his part, in the days and weeks that followed, when he considered it more fully, the idea of moving away and making a fresh start began actually to appeal to Fat Franny. He’d long wanted to become legitimised in business. The original idea of a roster of entertainment acts had fallen on its arse due to the lack of available talent. The follow-up initiative – a residency at the new Metropolis, with Fat Franny Duncan as DJ – also now looked out of touch, following the fall-out with Doc Martin the day before the place went up in smoke. So Fat Franny was now pinning everything on his new venture. He’d told no one about it, apart, obviously, from Terry Connolly, who had the initial connections, and even to him only the barest minimum. It was a risky business, but as one that tapped into the basest male instincts, it was a potential grower. A few years of that and a big fuck-off hoose in Troon became a distinct possiblity.
14
8th February 1983
2.56 pm
Max burst into the church hall, all profane excitement and anticipation of what he was about to reveal.
His enthusiasm evaporated quickly. The band was ploughing through a half-arsed jam of the Velvet Underground’s ‘Run, Run, Run’. The Sylvester brothers looked bored but, harangued and marshalled by Grant, they were methodically falling into line.
‘Hey, fuckin’ listen up,’ shouted Max Mojo for the third time, annoyed that none of the foursome had taken particular notice when he’d come in, even though Maggie was looking straight at him. He was doubly aggravated because he explicitly told them to work on two of the three new songs Grant had written. Immortality wouldn’t fall at the feet of a fucking covers band, especially one with such stereotypically limited tastes.
‘Gie’s fuckin’ peace wi’ that Lou Reed shite, eh?’ The lifeless jam ground to a halt. ‘Ah’ve got news … great news. Ah’ve got us a gig. Next week. At the Metropolis.’
‘Aye?’ said Grant, sounding more surprised than he’d intended.
‘Aye, smart arse,’ said Max. ‘A gig. Yer a fuckin’ band. Gigs are whit yer supposed tae dae.’
‘Ah jist didnae expect … well, ken…’ Grant tailed off.
‘He jist didnae expect a useless pale-faced prick like you tae get us one,’ said Maggie. The Sylvester brothers laughed in unison. Various phrases ran through Max Mojo’s head at this point, almost all of which would’ve been considered by Alf Garnett’s scriptwriters as going too far. He managed to hold them all inside, though. Maybe the anti-depressants did work, after all!
‘So, ye’se up for it? It’s decent money, an’ it’ll help pay for a bit ae studio time.’
‘Aye Max. It’s good, man,’ said Grant. ‘Really, it is.’
‘Man? You some kinda fuckin’ hippy throwback noo?’ said Max.
‘How long we gonnae be on for then?’ asked Simon, leaning over to light a cigarette for Maggie.
‘Hey, where the fuck did you get that?’ Max shouted.
‘It’s a fuckin’ lighter, mate. Calm doon,’ said Simon calmly.
‘It’s ma fuckin’ lighter, ya thievin’ bastart!’
Simon examined the lighter as if he had never seen it before, and then lobbed it at Max. ‘Well, if yer gonnae act like a wee wean ower it…’ he said.
‘Max, for fuck sake … tell us aboot the gig,’ said Grant.
‘Two sets, aboot four or five songs each … either side ae The Heid.’
‘The Heid?’ said Maggie. ‘Who the fuck are they?’
‘He … no’ they,’ said Max. ‘Who the fuck is he?’
‘Dinnae be so pedantic,’ she replied. ‘Jist tell us.’
Max drew in breath and puffed his chest out with pride. ‘The Heid is the foremost proponent of the mystical art ae … hypnosis.’
Simon Sylvester laughed loudly. ‘Ye’ve got us supportin’ a bastart hypnotist? Fuck sake, man, that’s hardly The Cl
ash oan before The Who at Shea Stadium, is it?’
‘Well, at least the second half ’ll be a piece ae piss. Every cunt’ll be fuckin’ zonked,’ said Grant.
‘Yer a bunch ae ungrateful wankers, so ye’se are!’ Max was irritated. This was a breakthrough. It was the first Miraculous Vespas gig beyond Washer’s coterie hanging about the church hall waiting for increasingly sparse work details and listening to their rehearsals. The band should’ve been more excited. The local press would be there as The Heid was still a reasonably big draw on the Ayrshire club circuit, by all the accounts Max had checked. He didn’t normally work with a band. DJ Bobby Cassidy had been earmarked but had had to pull out unexpectedly. Bobby had called Max that morning at the house and they had met up in town that morning. He said he had some daft evening pregnancy breathing class thing to go to and he couldn’t get out of it. Things had been going reasonably well for Bobby at the Metropolis and he didn’t want Mickey Martin to have any reason to consider calling in Fat Franny Duncan as a late ‘second-half substitute’. He’d pitched the idea to Mickey’s bar manager, and he’d simply shrugged his shoulders and told him that any fuck-ups would be totally down to Bobby. That was enough for him and he’d thought of Max. In a previous existence, Max had given Bobby’s fledgling Heatwave Disco some paid gigs supporting the original Vespas, and Bobby Cassidy still felt a tiny bit of responsibility for the Henderson Church fiasco, so – reciprocity being the substance that oiled the gears of the black economy – a big, long-standing favour could now be returned.
15
9th February 1983
10.17 am
The following morning the band members assembled as usual at the Crosshouse parish hall. But, as Max watched them walk up the path – Grant and Maggie arrived as if joined at the hip in the peace-loving Campervan, but Simon and Eddie had travelled on separate buses even though they still lived in the same house – he detected a definite spring in their steps. Gradually, the dream that Max had painted for them all had been adopted by them all. They were a decent outfit, no doubt. He had them rehearsing for four hours a day, four days a week. Eddie was a potentially brilliant guitar player. Ugly bastard, Max acknowledged, but then Keith Richards was no oil painting. Grant Delgado had developed into an interesting singer. He was still shy and the vocals were a bit frail, but with the right songs he could sound like Jonathan Richman, which in Max Mojo’s opinion would be no bad thing. His movement and confidence with the guitar and the mic stand was also improving. Maggie – it would clearly take a long time for her to accept Max’s suggested name-change – was a competent drummer. She’d never be a female Ginger Baker, but Max figured she was already better than Moe Tucker. She was undeniably captivating into the bargain. With Maggie, they would have the Smash Hits teenage wanker market cornered, should they ever get that far. Only Simon Sylvester remained a constant concern. He was uncontrollably volatile, particularly when drunk, and a compulsive thief when sober. These could have otherwise been attributes, but Simon was a poor bass player, even by the standards set by the likes of Sid Vicious. In the absence of anyone better, Max resorted to hoping that an equally mental future groupie simply stabbed the cunt, bringing fame to The Miraculous Vespas through a more well-trodden rock ‘n’ roll route.
The Rise & Fall of the Miraculous Vespas Page 9
