by Maureen Lee
‘That’ll be nice.’ Rose had never thought she’d be envious of Sadie McDowd.
Ailsham was expanding. The Ribble Bus Company had altered the route of its Liverpool–Ormskirk service so that it passed through the village to accommodate the growing number of residents. Behind the school, a large housing estate was in the course of construction and already half occupied. On the outskirts of the village, not far from Holly Lane, an engineering factory was nearing completion on what would eventually become a trading estate. And in Holly Lane itself, two new bungalows had appeared and building plots were being advertised for sale. There was talk of a supermarket, another pub.
Tom Flowers regarded all this as an abomination, but Rose couldn’t wait for the outside world to swallow up Ailsham whole.
Jeannie wasn’t due to leave school for another year. The day they broke up, she got her end of year report. It was good, but not as good as Elaine’s, who was top of the class, as usual. Jeannie was fifth. Last year, she’d been second, but didn’t care she’d dropped three places. She’d had more interesting things on her mind than lessons, like the Cavern and the Taj Mahal. And rock ’n’ roll.
Benny was pleased to discover she was fourteenth in the class of thirty. ‘At least I’m in the top half,’ she crowed.
‘Are you going to show it to your mother this time?’ enquired Elaine.
‘Not likely! She doesn’t know we get reports. If she did, she’d expect me to be top in every single thing.’
That night, Rose suggested Jeannie remain at school till eighteen and take A levels, possibly go to university. Jeannie declined with a shudder and said it was the last thing she wanted. She would take her O levels – it would be silly to waste the last four years and it would mean she’d get a better job – but then she’d like to start work so she could earn money, buy clothes, and go out whenever she felt like it.
‘There’s just one thing, Mum. Can I stop having piano lessons? Miss Pritchard doesn’t approve of music written in the twentieth century. She won’t let me play anything modern.’
‘In that case, I’ll drop a note in Miss Pritchard’s on my way to work tomorrow and tell her you won’t be coming any more.’
‘Shouldn’t we ask Dad first?’ Jeannie had been wanting to broach the subject for ages, but was worried she would upset people, never dreaming it would be so easy.
‘There’s no need to ask your father. You’re fifteen. You can’t be made to have piano lessons if you don’t want them. It would be a shame though, love, if you gave it up altogether. You’re very talented.’
‘I’ll never give up, Mum.’ She still practised every day and had no intention of stopping. Whenever the Merseysiders played a new number, she learnt to play it herself, picking out the melody with her right hand, adding the bass with her left, sedately at first, then, if the neighbours were out, and with a devil-may-care expression on her normally cautious face, she would press her foot on the loud pedal, and number ten Disraeli Terrace would jump to the stirring beat of rock ’n’ roll. She thoroughly enjoyed letting herself go and only wished she could do it in public in front of an audience. She’d never told a soul, not even Elaine, how much she’d like to be part of a group, just like the boys. But female rock groups were unheard of and all Jeannie could do was dream.
The Merseysiders had got used to seeing badly printed posters pasted on the windows of empty shops and on abandoned buildings announcing their next performance at a town hall somewhere, or some other location, like a community or church hall, even a scout hut. Sometimes they had main billing. Other times their name was at the bottom of the poster when they supported a better known act, such as Acker Bilk’s Paramount Jazz Band or Humphrey Lyttelton. They still played every Friday at the Taj Mahal.
Lachlan was anxious for them to play at the Cavern where four guys who called themselves the Beatles now appeared regularly, along with Gerry and the Pacemakers, Johnny Sandon and the Searchers, and other beat groups, gradually squeezing out jazz. The place was packed to the gills every night with fans.
The Taj Mahal didn’t have the same loyal following, nor as good an atmosphere. It could accommodate an audience of a hundred and fifty at the most, whereas the Cavern could take a thousand – and it opened lunchtimes. There was nowhere to dance in the Taj Mahal, and the bar served alcohol, so a few people came for the drink, not the music, and often fights were only narrowly avoided.
Although Lachlan’s sole reason for living was to play the guitar, he wanted to do it in the best place, in front of as big an audience as possible. It was his belief that the Merseysiders were just as good as the Beatles and the other groups that reigned supreme at the Cavern. He demanded, on more than one occasion, that Billy, their manager, book them a gig.
‘I’m trying, kid, I’m trying,’ Billy would cry, spreading his fat arms and shrugging. ‘But no one’s interested over there.’
Whenever they played a gig, Billy gave them a pound each. More often than not, they did two gigs a week, sometimes more. The extra money was a bonus, though their ultimate goal was to earn enough to give up their day jobs so they could concentrate on music to the exclusion of everything else.
Sean, the youngest member of the group, wasn’t as naive as the others. According to their contract, Billy was entitled to just twenty per cent of the performance fee, yet he never doled out more than a quid each. It seemed unlikely that the organisers of the various gigs they played paid out exactly the same paltry sum. Sean didn’t say anything. He couldn’t see himself sticking with Billy Kidd for five years and, if he was breaking the contract, it meant he could walk out whenever he pleased.
‘It’s lovely, Sean. Can I try it on?’ Sadie lifted the gold pendant on a slender chain out of its velvet box.
‘It’s your birthday present, Mam. You can do whatever you like with it.’
‘Oh, would you just look at me now!’ Sadie was admiring her reflection in the mirror. ‘You’re a good lad, Sean McDowd.’ She stroked her son’s lean cheek and Sean shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He didn’t like shows of emotion, yet had enjoyed his mother’s pleasure at the gift.
‘Would you like something to eat, son?’
‘I wouldn’t mind egg and chips.’ He couldn’t imagine enjoying anything as much as he did egg and chips. ‘Is there any tea on the go?’
‘I’ll make some before I start on the spuds.’
Sadie sang while she peeled the potatoes. She felt so happy, yet wouldn’t have minded a little weep, so touched had she been by Sean’s present. He was the best son a mother could have, and Rita was the best daughter. She was ashamed of the way she’d neglected them during the years when they’d been little, but she’d been sunk in misery and despair, pining for Kevin.
She didn’t need Kevin any more, not now she had such a good job. Sadie virtually ran a small hotel in Hawke Street in the centre of Liverpool. It had just twelve bedrooms and catered mainly for travelling salesmen. The couple who owned it, Mr and Mrs Lunn, lived in the basement. They were getting on, no longer up to running the place on their own. They could manage weekends when there were only a few guests, or sometimes none at all. Sadie saw to the laundry, answered the phone, bought the groceries, even attended to the post, answering letters in her careful, schoolgirlish handwriting. She was gradually improving the place, buying new curtains, and flowers for the reception area. A woman called Bridget did the cleaning and came in early to make the breakfasts. In effect, Sadie actually had her own staff of one!
The man in the labour exchange who’d sent her after the job had said, ‘You look the sort of person who could handle responsibility.’ Sadie’s head had been swollen ever since. She’d bought a couple of new frocks with her first week’s wages and had her hair set once a fortnight. She was beginning to resemble the pretty teenage girl who’d left County Clare in search of fame and fortune with Kevin McDowd – the louse, Sadie added as an afterthought.
‘What’s that you’re singing, Mam?’
Sadie had
n’t realised she’d been singing. She hummed a few more notes to see if she could recognise the tune. ‘It’s one of your dad’s,’ she shouted. ‘It’s one he wrote himself.’
To her surprise, Sean came to the kitchen door. ‘What’s it called?’
It took a few seconds to remember. ‘ “Moon Under Water”.’
‘Do you know all the words?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ll have a go.’
‘Like the moon under water,’ Sadie half-sang, half-spoke. ‘I can’t touch you.
Like stars in a mirror, you’re not there.
Like a rainbow in the sky,
A shadow flitting by,
A cobweb in the wind,
A promise unfulfilled.
Like a dream that’s gone by morning,
The mist when day is dawning.
You’re my love,
You’re my life,
But you’re not there.
‘What do you think?’ she enquired when she’d finished.
‘I like it, Mam.’
‘It wouldn’t do for your lot, would it, son? It’s not your sort of music.’
‘It might be. Perhaps you could write the words down. Lachlan wants to include a ballad instead of us doing a whole hour of rock ’n’ roll when we play at the Cavern.’
It’d be great if they could do a ballad of their own. Under pressure, Billy had at last booked them a date in December.
The date, a Saturday, happened to coincide with Jeannie’s sixteenth birthday. Dr and Mrs Bailey offered to arrange a special birthday-cum-Christmas-cum-celebratory tea party for Jeannie, the Merseysiders, and their relatives, and Benny’s mother, of course, if she cared to come.
‘It’ll only be a buffet meal,’ said Elaine. ‘There wouldn’t be room for everyone to sit down.’
‘That doesn’t matter,’ Jeannie said blissfully. She couldn’t think of a better, more satisfactory way of spending her birthday than at the Cavern with a party beforehand.
‘It’s not my sort of thing,’ Tom Flowers growled when Jeannie told him about it.
‘But Dad, it’s only a party.’ She didn’t like the idea of him being left out.
‘I told you, it’s not my sort of thing,’ he said stubbornly.
‘Everyone else’s dad will be there.’ As far as she knew, there’d only be Dr Bailey, but it didn’t hurt to exaggerate.
‘I’m sorry, Jeannie.’
Jeannie gave up. ‘You don’t mind if Mum comes, do you?’
‘These days, your mother does as she pleases. She’s not likely to ask my permission.’ He turned away and went into the garden shed where Mum said his own father had gone to smoke a pipe and where his son now went to sulk.
Rose Flowers conferred with Sadie McDowd next time she came into the Post Office. ‘D’you mind if I go with you and your Rita to this tea party thing? To tell the truth, I’ve hardly been out of Ailsham in the dark. I’d feel odd on the bus on my own.’
‘Of course I don’t mind, Rose.’ Sadie spoke with the confident air of someone who travelled on buses all the time when it was dark. ‘I’ll be glad of the company. Rita’s going straight to the party from work, then she’s off to the Cavern with your Jeannie and the others. Are you buying a new frock?’
‘Yes,’ Rose said impulsively, although, until then, it hadn’t crossed her mind.
Mrs Lucas was another who turned the invitation down. ‘I’ve got nothing to wear,’ she told Benedicta. ‘Anyroad, luv, I don’t talk posh enough and I might use the wrong knife and fork.’
‘Don’t be daft, Mam. It’s a buffet meal and there won’t be knives and forks. I’d love you to come.’
‘I know you would, luv, but I’d feel much happier staying at home and thinking about you enjoying yourself.’ And other things, such as that by this time next year, Benedicta would be working for the Civil Service and Mrs Lucas would have given up her cleaning jobs altogether. She couldn’t wait.
‘Sweet sixteen!’ Lachlan remarked when he met Jeannie on the stairs. She was on her way up from the kitchen where she’d been getting something to eat and he was on his way down. ‘Old enough to be kissed.’ He smiled and kissed Jeannie chastely on her left cheek, stopped smiling and looked at her seriously for a minute, then kissed the other cheek, not quite so chastely this time. Then he groaned and his face seemed to collapse. ‘Jeannie! I’ve been longing to do this for years, but you seemed so young.’
He slid his arms around Jeannie’s waist and the plate of miniature sausage rolls and vol-au-vents fell with a clatter and everything rolled to the bottom of the stairs while Jeannie Flowers and Lachlan Bailey enjoyed their first proper kiss.
It was a long, soft, sweet kiss, full of youthful exuberance and delight. Halfway through, Jeannie felt the urge to put her arms around Lachlan. Her hands came to rest on the back of his lean neck, his hair threaded through her fingers, and she could feel his heart beating rapidly against her own. A dozen emotions swirled crazily in her breast. She could hardly breathe.
Then a door opened upstairs, there were voices downstairs. The two young people broke away.
‘Who’s been throwing food all over the place?’ Marcia demanded in her piercing voice.
‘Jeannie and I bumped into each other and she dropped the plate,’ Lachlan explained. He gave Jeannie a shy smile. ‘Sit down and I’ll bring you something else to eat.’
‘Oh, dearie me!’ Rose Flowers merely whispered the words to herself when her daughter came into the Baileys’ parlour. ‘Something’s happened. Something extraordinarily nice.’
If the truth be known, Jeannie looked a touch simple, smiling crookedly at nothing at all. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes star-bright. Rose had an inkling of what the reason might be, a feeling confirmed when Lachlan came in with two plates of food, and more or less threw himself at her daughter’s feet. She felt like crying. He was a lovely young man who would make Jeannie very happy.
Mrs Bailey nudged her husband and dipped her head in the direction of their son. Dr Bailey followed her gaze and they both smiled. Observing this, Rose wished she had a husband with whom she could do the same, but had Tom been there, the young couple would have been subjected to a thunderous look instead. She was even more glad he hadn’t come.
Relations between her and Tom had reached rock bottom. Rose resented being made to feel guilty for going to a party – their own daughter’s sixteenth birthday party – to which they’d both been invited. Did he expect her not to go either? Didn’t he feel guilty for staying at home?
He hadn’t said anything, but she could tell he didn’t like her new frock. It was a perfectly ordinary, entirely respectable frock. But it was grey. Until recently, he’d always chosen her clothes and preferred her in light, pastel colours – flowery colours, because she was his flower, his very own rose. Well, now she was a grey flower and he’d just have to like it or lump it. It was up to him.
‘You know,’ said Mr Connors, the keyboard player’s father, ‘if Max hadn’t told me otherwise, I’d have taken you for his big sister, not his mum.’
Rose had no idea how to answer. She’d never flirted in her life and had no small talk. ‘I had Max when I was eighteen,’ she said eventually. It seemed a very dull, too sensible reply. She was probably supposed to tell him he looked young enough to be Ronnie’s brother, which wouldn’t exactly have been a lie. He was a handsome man, clean cut, with boyish good looks. His eyes were brown and she thought they looked a trifle sad. He was oddly dressed in a tan shirt and trousers with a yellow tie. She wondered what it would be like to be married to a man the same age as herself.
‘Are you going to the Cavern later to see Max play?’ he enquired.
‘Oh, no,’ Rose stammered. ‘I don’t think Max would like that. He’d feel embarrassed. And my husband will be expecting me home long before then.’
Mr Connors gave an impertinent grin. ‘I don’t blame him. So would I, if I was married to you.’ This was an awful thing to say when the rather nice Mrs Connors
was only across the room, deep in conversation with Sadie McDowd.
‘Are you going, to the Cavern, that is?’ she asked.
‘Yes. Our Ronnie’s dead nervous, playing there for the first time. If he’s not watched, he’ll have too much to drink. They don’t sell alcohol, but he can always buy his own and take it with him.’ They both glanced at Ronnie, who was innocently drinking orange squash.
‘Oh,’ Rose said inadequately. ‘I hope my Max doesn’t drink too much.’
‘I’ve never seen anything other than Coca Cola pass your son’s lips, Mrs Flowers – can I call you Rose? I’m Alex, by the way.’
Rose gulped. ‘Er, yes.’
‘They’re very well-behaved, the group, considering all the temptations that come their way.’
‘What sort of temptations?’ Rose asked, alarmed.
‘Well, drink’s one, the other’s girls. Girls by the dozen, throwing themselves at the lads whenever they play, hanging round afterwards offering – well, you know.’ He winked.
‘Excuse me.’ Rose stumbled out of the room and made her way to the big, old-fashioned bathroom. She sat on the edge of the bath, breathing deeply. Why, it seemed only yesterday that she’d led Max by the hand to school on his first day. Coupled with the sight of Jeannie, clearly in the throes of first love, it almost made her wish she hadn’t come to the party and had stayed at home with Tom.
Almost.
The Merseysiders left at half past six in the van, followed not long afterwards by the girls, who caught the bus, accompanied by Marcia and her boyfriend, Graham. As it was Saturday, there’d be a queue and they wanted to be sure they’d get in. Alex Connors took his wife home, then drove into town.
Rose and Sadie stayed at the Baileys’ for another hour. ‘So we can drink to our sons’ success,’ said Dr Bailey, producing a bottle of wine. ‘I didn’t want to get it out while the boys were here. I understand Ronnie has a weakness for drink.’
‘Only because he’s scared, poor boy,’ Mrs Bailey remarked. ‘Did you see the way his hands were shaking? I think his father pushes him too hard.’
