by Maureen Lee
Although Colonel Corbett regarded his gardener as a friend, he wouldn’t have dreamed of inviting Tom Flowers to eat in his dining room. It was nothing to do with class. He just didn’t want the food ruined by visions of his mother turning in her grave. It meant that when Tom came indoors for something to eat at midday, as he had done for almost fifty years, the colonel dined in the kitchen, though even that was something he could never have done when his mother was alive.
On the Monday after his son had made his first triumphant appearance at the Cavern – so far, no one at home had dared tell him that his daughter had also played a part in the triumph – Tom slouched disconsolately into the kitchen to be met by his employer and a beaming Mrs Denning, now a widow, who’d returned to The Limes some years before to become the colonel’s housekeeper.
‘You old sly boots,’ the colonel cried. ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’
‘Tell you what?’ enquired a bewildered Tom.
‘That Max belongs to a group that played at the Cavern on Saturday night. I only found out when Mrs Denning here told me.’
‘I didn’t think you’d be interested.’ He hadn’t expected the colonel to have even heard of the Cavern. As for Max, he was too ashamed to tell a soul about the lad’s infatuation with the guitar. It would have been different had he played anything that could be identified as music, instead of a raucous jumble of sounds.
‘It was my nephew told me.’ Mrs Denning put two large bowls of soup on the table. ‘Martin went to the village school with Max. He’s thrilled to bits that one of his old classmates has done so well for himself.’
‘What’s the group called, Tom?’
Tom couldn’t for the life of him remember. It was left to Mrs Denning to supply the answer. ‘The Merseysiders.’
‘Did Martin say what they were like?’ Tom asked cautiously.
‘I didn’t see him over the weekend, but they must have been good. They’ve played all over Liverpool, so Martin says. He’s only just found out your Max belongs.’
‘You should have told us before, Tom,’ the colonel chided. ‘You know how much I like music.’
‘But a very different sort of music,’ Tom reminded him. He had the uncomfortable feeling he was being subtly told off.
‘Rock ’n’ roll’s only a hop, skip, and jump away from swing, Tom.’
Tom gulped. The colonel saying ‘rock ’n’ roll’ was akin to hearing him utter the worst sort of blasphemy.
‘Anyway, Tom,’ Mrs Denning brought her own soup to the table and sat down, ‘you must be feeling very proud.’
He tried very hard to feel proud, but it was impossible.
Chapter 7
‘So,’ Lachlan grinned, ‘what’s all this about a girlie group?’
‘Don’t be so patronising!’ Jeannie tapped his nose reprovingly. ‘It’s a girl group. I didn’t know, but there’s loads in America – the Supremes, the Ronettes, Martha and the Vandellas, to name a few.’
It was Boxing Day afternoon, ten days since the Merseysiders had played at the Cavern. Jeannie and Lachlan were squashed together in an armchair in Dr Bailey’s waiting room, which appeared to be the only place on earth where they could be alone. The rather dull room had a tiny paper Christmas tree on the table in the middle of some old magazines. The mantelpiece was crammed with cards from the doctor’s patients. Elsewhere, the house throbbed with life. Dishes were being washed, the television was on upstairs, the younger Baileys were playing football in the yard despite the freezing weather, and on the top floor Marcia was singing ‘Moon Under Water’ in a sickly, sugary voice.
Lachlan was still grinning. ‘And soon we’ll have our own girl group on this side of the Atlantic – the Flower Girls.’
‘Mr McDowd – Kevin – got the idea for the name from mine.’ She glared at him. ‘You’re not taking this seriously, are you?’
‘Are you?’ Lachlan raised his perfect, utterly adorable eyebrows.
‘Hardly a week goes by without another new group turning up at the Cavern, always boys,’ she reasoned, ‘so I don’t see anything funny about a group of girls.’
‘It’s not funny, it’s just . . . weird! Somehow, I can’t see you taking off.’
‘The world won’t end if we don’t.’ Jeannie shrugged philosophically, unwilling to admit she was desperately hoping the Flower Girls would succeed. ‘Me and Benny aren’t giving up school or anything. We’re staying for O levels. Rita McDowd will still be a waitress and Marcia will continue doing whatever it is she’s doing at the moment.’
‘Working in Jacob’s biscuit factory.’ He was grinning again. ‘Seriously though, Jeannie – Benny Lucas and our Marcia! It’s got to be a joke.’
‘I used to think the Merseysiders were a joke at the beginning,’ she tartly pointed out. Had she not loved him quite so whole-heartedly, she might have punched him. ‘Mr McDowd – I mean, Kevin – just wants two girls to move around a bit, sort of hum in the background, and occasionally shake a tambourine, while I play the piano and Rita sings.’
‘I seem to remember our Elaine was an expert tambourine shaker when we first played in your garden shed.’
‘Elaine’s not interested. She’d sooner study. When Marcia found out, she only drove your dad’s car to our house, didn’t she, knocking us up in the middle of the night to demand she be a Flower Girl. She was worried Mr – Kevin – might have got someone else by morning. In fact, he’s quite pleased, because she’s the same type as Benny – tall, fair, and slim.’
‘Marcia can’t sing,’ Lachlan pointed out, suppressing a giggle. He jerked his head skywards, to where his sister was now offering a soulful rendition of ‘Strangers in the Night’. ‘She sounds like a dying cat.’
‘Oh, Lachlan! Don’t exaggerate. Marcia and Benny are just decoration. Kevin doesn’t want them to sing. It would detract from Rita.’
‘I must admit, Rita’s got a fantastic voice.’
‘I’m glad you think the Flower Girls have got one thing going for them,’ Jeannie sniffed.
‘They also have a fantastic keyboard player.’
‘Lachlan!’
‘Jeannie!’
They sank further into the chair, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms, and began to kiss. So far, Jeannie had done nothing in her life that remotely compared with kissing Lachlan Bailey, not even playing the piano. A sweetness rose in her breast and in her throat, there was a ringing in her ears, and she was overcome with a heady sensation of dizziness.
‘I love you,’ Lachlan said thickly when they came up for air.
Jeannie cradled his face in her hands. She could feel bristles under her thumbs. He needed a shave. This simple evidence of manhood sent a thrill through her body. She recalled the first time they’d met in the upstairs parlour. She’d been playing Minuet in G. He’d been wearing a school uniform, only a boy. She’d fallen in love with him then. Now he was a man and she loved him even more.
‘And I love you, Lachlan,’ she said, clearly and distinctly, so he would have no doubts.
There was a knock on the door. ‘Tea’s ready,’ Mrs Bailey shouted.
‘Coming,’ they cried together.
Elaine was in the kitchen when Jeannie went in. She’d been helping her mother make the tea. Weeks ago, when Jeannie had been invited to the Baileys’ on Boxing Day, she had envisaged helping too; comparing presents with Elaine and laughing together at the television when it wasn’t remotely funny. Instead, she’d spent all her time with Lachlan, entirely neglecting her friend.
‘Elaine!’ She put a contrite hand on her arm.
‘Oh, Jeannie!’ Elaine understood straight away. ‘It doesn’t matter. This was bound to happen one day. One of us had to be first and it happened to be you.’
‘But we’ll always be friends?’
‘Always,’ Elaine assured her with a smile.
At the same time, in number one Disraeli Terrace, Kevin McDowd was also sitting down to tea with his family. He’d been there since Christmas Eve. The Pho
enix Hotel closed over the festive season and he’d scarcely a penny in his pocket, he pathetically informed Sadie. It looked as if he’d be spending Christmas with the Salvation Army.
‘That’s if there’s room,’ he added darkly. ‘Otherwise, I can see meself on the streets.’
‘You can stay with us,’ Sadie said ungraciously. ‘But you’re sleeping in the parlour, on the couch. And while you’re there, you can keep your hands and your other bits and pieces to yourself. You’ll be there as a guest, not me husband.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of laying a finger on you, Sadie.’
‘You’d better not.’
On Christmas Day, after dinner, Sadie burst into involuntary song while she washed the dishes, thrilled to bits that she had her darling Kevin back. She had no intention of letting him have the slightest inkling of how happy she was until he’d been sufficiently punished.
‘I’ve been a wild rover for many a year,’ she warbled loudly, thinking this was the best Christmas in a long time, when Kevin gave a whoop, ran into the parlour to fetch his fiddle and began to play. The bow skimmed like wildfire over the strings; he’d lost none of his skill. Sean gave one of his rare smiles and fetched his guitar from upstairs, then Rita brought the old acoustic one on which she’d learnt to play. One Irish tune followed another. Kevin knew them all and his children quickly picked them up.
After an hour, or it might have been two, everyone laid down their instruments, exhausted, and began to talk instead. Kevin told them about his adventures in Hollywood, how he’d once been on the set when Fred Astaire had danced with Judy Garland, and had been an extra in an Alan Ladd film. ‘I was a policeman,’ he explained. In Australia, he’d merely wandered around, playing in one dusty pub after another. By the end of the day, as far as Sadie was concerned, he might never have been away.
They say it’s money that makes the world go round, but it’s not, it’s music, she reckoned. It was something of a miracle when you thought about it. All the operas, concertos, symphonies, the ballads and the folk songs, jazz, blues, ragtime, swing, and now rock ’n’ roll, all from eight little notes.
Sean told his dad he wouldn’t stick with the Merseysiders for long. ‘The manager’s a crook. I don’t trust him as far as I could throw him.’
‘You mustn’t think of leaving yet,’ Kevin advised. ‘You and that Lachlan lad make a good team. You complement each other. He plays from the heart and you from the soul. He’s an extrovert; you’re the opposite. Between the pair o’yis, the audience’s emotions are wrung dry. That drummer’s good, he’s got a great personality, pleasing. The other guitarist’s just OK. He doesn’t turn people off, but he doesn’t turn them on, either. That’s all right, it means the attention’s centred on you and Lachlan. Two stars are better than three, makes life easier.’
‘Max is a shit player,’ Sean agreed.
‘He’s not shit, just average. Stick with the group, son, until you’ve made a name for yourselves. Then leave, if you still feel like it.’
‘I’d like to go solo.’
‘Do it when you’re someone and the record companies will come running. If you did it now, there wouldn’t be a flicker of interest.’
At this point, Sadie felt bound to point out that he’d used to boast about himself in the same way. ‘You were forever on the brink of signing a contract with this company or that. Success, stardom, was always just round the corner. Yet look at you now, Kevin McDowd! You’re a failure. You said so yourself. Now you’re doing the same with our Sean, raising his expectations beyond all reason. Not only that, you’re doing it with Rita and Jeannie and them other two girls, promising them heaven and earth, yet you haven’t got a penny to your name. How will they get off the ground? That’s what I’d like to know.’
‘I don’t know either, not yet. You know, Sadie darlin’, we all need to have dreams.’
‘I don’t have dreams,’ Sean informed them. ‘I have plans.’ He afforded his father one of his infrequent smiles. ‘I’m dead pleased you’re back, Dad,’ he said warmly.
Alex Connors presented Jeannie with the electric piano that she’d played in a way his son never had and never would.
‘You were brilliant, girl. Our Ronnie was never cut out to be a musician, I realise that now. I just wish my father had done for me what I tried to do for my own lad, encouraged me to take up music as a career. But, there you go. I was foisting me own thwarted ambitions on our poor Ronnie. Anyroad,’ he sighed, ‘he’s coming into the business with me, so the piano’s surplus to requirements. You may as well have it. Max says you might be starting a group of your own, so good luck, girl. I’m glad the piano’s going to a good home.’
‘Ah, well, that’s something!’ Kevin McDowd rubbed his hands together excitedly when informed of this generous act. ‘The Flower Girls have got their own wee piano.’
‘Now all you need is an electric guitar for Rita,’ his wife sneered, ‘a place to rehearse, a dozen or so properly arranged numbers – not just the songs, but the music. And will they be wearing costumes or any old rags? Once you’ve sorted that lot out, where will they play I’d like to know? Or have you already got the gigs lined up? I’m sure every club in Liverpool is panting for a girl group.’
‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. Sean’s buying Rita a guitar, and aren’t I already working on the arrangements? You’re a real put-downer, Sadie McDowd,’ Kevin complained. ‘No wonder I left home when I wasn’t offered a breath of encouragement.’
‘You were offered every encouragement. But that was then; this is now, when you’re a self-confessed has-been. Anyroad, aren’t I offering the encouragement of the sofa in me parlour and not asking a penny for board and lodgings?’
It was February and Kevin was still living in Disraeli Terrace, not doing a stroke of work apart from poring over scraps of paper, charts and lists and sheets of music, scribbling here and scribbling there, his hair standing on end – what was left of it.
Once or twice a week, without Sadie’s knowledge, Kevin slipped along to the Oak Tree at dinner time for a pint of Guinness to stretch his legs and enjoy an hour or so of adult male company for a change.
So far, no one had recognised him as the curly-haired young Irishman who’d left Ailsham almost sixteen years before, not that Kevin would have cared if they had. He still retained the ability to charm the birds off the trees and quite a few of the Oak Tree customers were pleased to see him whenever he breezed in. One was Colonel Corbett, who sometimes treated himself to a couple of whiskies after lunch. As a regular soldier, the colonel had spent much of his youth abroad, in Africa and India. Kevin had also done his share of travelling and they swapped tales of their adventures overseas.
It wasn’t until their fourth meeting in March that they discovered a mutual interest in music. The colonel liked swing, big bands such as Stan Kenton, Duke Ellington, Tommy and Jimmy Dorsey. Kevin liked more or less everything, big bands included.
‘My gardener’s lad belongs to one of these new pop groups; the Merseysiders,’ the colonel boasted.
Kevin smiled delightedly. ‘And doesn’t me own son, Sean, belong to the very same group?’
‘Does he now!’
‘He does indeed. And aren’t I in the very process of setting up another group, the Flower Girls, that includes your gardener’s daughter, Jeannie, and me own darlin’ girl, our Rita?’
The colonel looked annoyed. ‘You’d think Tom would let me know what’s happening on my very own doorstep. If they were my children, I’d shout it from the rooftops.’
‘Meself, I’m dead proud,’ Kevin declared smugly. He went on to explain he already had a programme worked out for his group. ‘Twelve numbers in all. I wrote a couple of them meself. Rita’s already started practising, Jeannie too. Now all we need is somewhere to rehearse where the neighbours won’t be sent berserk. You can hire rooms in town, but they cost an arm and a leg.’
‘You can use my barn,’ the colonel said instantly.
‘Yo
ur barn!’ Kevin had visions of sharing the barn with half a dozen cows and assorted rats. An imaginative man, he could already smell the manure.
The colonel must have sensed his dismay. ‘It hasn’t been used as a barn since the turn of the century,’ he reassured his new friend. ‘My father had it renovated and my brother and I used it as a games room when we were young. It’s where we held our regimental dinner a few years back. It has electricity, a lavatory, even a tiny kitchen.’
‘It sounds ideal,’ Kevin enthused.
Tom Flowers felt even more like a stranger in his own home when he learnt from Miss Pritchard that Jeannie had given up piano lessons. No one had bothered to tell him. The music teacher was understandably annoyed.
‘After all these years, Mr Flowers, I would have expected more than a brief note informing me my services were no longer required.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Pritchard.’
‘I didn’t say anything because I knew you’d make a fuss,’ Rose said when he broached the subject. ‘She wouldn’t let Jeannie play the sort of music she likes.’
How anybody could like the music Jeannie played these days was beyond him. She didn’t even use the family piano, but some tenth-rate miniature instrument she’d been given. The thing had been set up in her bedroom and didn’t sound remotely like a proper piano. His ears were regularly assaulted by a noise that bore little resemblance to music as he’d always known it. Now Jeannie was getting involved with some group or other, and Tom daren’t say a word, not even the mildest of criticism, otherwise Rose would claim he was being unreasonable. It was all the idea of that McDowd chap from the other end of the terrace. Tom vaguely remembered him walking out years ago and leaving his family in the lurch. Now he was back and interfering in other people’s lives.
If it wasn’t Jeannie on her perverted piano, Gerald could be heard in the garden shed playing Max’s old guitar. He wanted proper lessons, Rose informed him. ‘There isn’t a teacher in Ailsham. The nearest one I can find is in Spellow Lane. You’ll take him in the car, won’t you, Tom?’
