by Maureen Lee
‘It’s not fair,’ she muttered aloud. Poor Benedicta would be torn in two, wondering which to choose, not wanting to let her friends down, yet knowing her job was more important.
‘I’ll save her the bother of picking one or the other.’ Mrs Lucas felt quite virtuous as she tore the paper into several pieces, took it into the yard, and flushed it down the lavatory.
By nine o’clock that night, it became obvious Benny wasn’t coming. Having heard the rest of Kevin’s news, the girls were too manic with excitement to care. Marcia flitted to and fro behind Rita, pretending to be two people and making a desperate show of herself. ‘We’ll have to get someone else,’ she told Kevin.
‘Do you think I don’t already know that!’ There were theatrical agencies in Liverpool. Tomorrow, early, he’d ring one and ask for a fourth girl straight away. Someone tall and skinny, at least five feet eight, pretty, and an experienced dancer who’d learn the moves in a jiffy.
The girl arrived at midday, having caught a taxi all the way from Allerton to Ailsham, she explained breathlessly. ‘I saw that programme last night on the telly, and I said to me ma just before I left, “I’m going to be a Flower Girl, Ma.” So she emptied the gas and electricity meters in order to scrape the fare together for a taxi. “You’ll melt on public transport,” she said. “It’s like an oven out there.” Me name’s Zoe Streeter, by the way. Well, it’s not really Zoe. I was christened Doris, but Zoe is me stage name.’ She was even more breathless now than when she’d begun. ‘Here I am, ready, willing and able, as they say,’ she added slightly belligerently in view of the four faces that regarded her with more than a little astonishment.
Zoe Streeter was more beautiful than pretty. Tall and slender, with a dancer’s grace, her perfectly shaped head was supported by a long, stem-like neck, and her skin had a marble sheen. Great dark eyes glistened above the elegantly moulded cheekbones that Jeannie, for one, would have given her eye-teeth for.
‘You’re black!’ exclaimed Marcia.
‘Thanks for telling me.’ Zoe tossed her head. ‘I’d already noticed that meself.’
At first, Kevin had wondered how to get rid of the girl and do it kindly, but then he decided a black Flower Girl could only enhance the group, making an attractive, if not startling, contrast to the fair-haired, light-skinned Marcia. ‘Have you done much in the way of professional dancing, luv?’ he enquired.
‘I’ve danced at the Moulin Rouge in Paris, the London Palladium, the Windmill, only in the chorus up to now.’
As she only looked about eighteen, Kevin was inclined to take this with a pinch of salt. He didn’t bother to ask what such an experienced dancer was doing in Liverpool. ‘I’ll show you what to do in a minute. What I want is someone who can learn fast. Did the agency explain we’ve got half a dozen gigs lined up, as well as an audition with M&M on Monday? Can you sing?’
‘She doesn’t have to sing, only hum,’ said Marcia.
‘I’m great at humming,’ the girl said stoutly. ‘I’m not too bad at singing, either.’
She picked up the moves in no time, adding a few suggestions of her own. Kevin was relieved that Marcia, normally an awkward customer, didn’t seem to mind being taught some fresh steps by the sparkling newcomer, who had a great sense of rhythm and genuine stage presence. When it was time to leave, he rubbed his hands together gleefully, glad Benny hadn’t turned up. Until now, he’d considered Rita and Jeannie the only vital members of the group. The two other girls weren’t really necessary, just a bit of decoration. Zoe had only been there a few hours, but already he couldn’t imagine the group without her. She was the final piece of the jigsaw puzzle, fitting in perfectly, bringing out the best in Marcia.
Now the Flower Girls really were a group of four.
The Manchester gig went like a dream, despite a few catcalls amongst the cheers when the Flower Girls first appeared on the tiny stage. There were tears in Kevin’s eyes as he watched his wee girls perform. He’d made it at last, though not quite in the way he’d always imagined. The group were his creation. He knew in his bones that they would become stars and he could stop borrowing off Sadie. The same red sequinned dresses they’d worn at the Taj Mahal had been hired again and it was Sadie, bless her, who’d paid. They’d need proper transport to get them around. Marcia, who could drive, had borrowed her dad’s car to bring them to Manchester and Kevin wasn’t too sure if she’d asked permission. He just hoped Dr Bailey wasn’t called out urgently.
Soon, they’d have a whole wardrobe full of costumes, and one of them vans with seats to cart them around. Kevin would never buy a Burton’s suit again. Instead, he’d have them made in Savile Row, shirts an’ all, silk ones. As for his darlin’ wife, she’d have the biggest, fluffiest, most expensive fur coat money could buy, and the owner of number one Disraeli Terrace could have his disgusting property back. The McDowds would live in a mansion, two mansions – one in Liverpool, the other in London – and he’d buy a pretty cottage somewhere in Ireland. Oh, and he’d start going to Mass again, thank the Lord for his good fortune.
On the way home, he gave the exultant girls ten pounds each. ‘It’s your share of the fifty-quid performance fee. I’ve kept ten for meself, twenty per cent, for being your manager.’
‘Max said Billy only gives them a pound whenever they play a gig,’ Jeannie remarked.
Kevin was outraged. ‘Our Sean never said anything. It’s time the lads had a word with Billy Kidd,’ he snorted. ‘He spends too much money on the horsies.’ He told the girls to be at the barn by ten o’clock sharp next morning to prepare for Monday’s audition. ‘How you sound will matter more than the way you look. We’ll concentrate on the vocals and the music. I want more input from Marcia and Zoe.’
Zoe gave an ecstatic sigh. ‘I’m not half glad I lost me digs in London and came back to Liverpool, completely skint. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.’
The car that waited for them at Euston station was long, black, and luxurious, and the leather seats squeaked expensively. The peaked-capped driver leapt out and carefully placed Jeannie’s folding piano in the boot. Rita preferred to hold on to her guitar. They glided through streets that Zoe knew well. She pointed out the various sights – the British Museum, Covent Garden, the Strand. Kevin’s relationship with London hadn’t covered the West End.
They eventually stopped in a quiet side street off the Embankment. The driver helped them out and showed them into a tall plain building with a vast reception area and a female receptionist, dwarfed behind her big, curved desk. Their footsteps were muffled in the velvety thickness of the grey carpet. The doors of a lift opened, a man entered, and the doors closed with scarcely a sound.
‘I’ve an appointment with Murray Stubbs.’ Kevin’s normally loud, chirpy voice had been reduced to a whisper. ‘Please,’ he added unnecessarily.
‘Sit down,’ the receptionist told them in a voice like cut glass, ‘and I’ll let him know you’re here.’
No one spoke while they waited. Although the heat outside remained oppressive, inside it was unnaturally cool – and unnaturally quiet. Jeannie shivered. She’d been looking forward to the audition, but suddenly felt very nervous. Marcia seemed subdued, Zoe less so. Rita, as ever, showed no emotion. She wore one of her little girl frocks and her eyes were hidden behind a fringe of thick brown hair.
Murray Stubbs arrived, a smooth young man with owlish spectacles, wearing a smart draped suit.
‘Did you have a good journey?’ he asked, but didn’t wait for a reply. ‘The studio’s on the third floor.’
They followed him towards one of the soundless lifts. Jeannie felt as if she was entering a coffin. The lift soared upwards and her stomach did a sickly somersault.
‘Bloody hell!’ Marcia gasped, when they emerged into a long grey corridor. ‘I’ve left me insides on the ground floor.’
The studio was as quiet as a grave. Murray Stubbs went away and a young man in shirtsleeves came and plugged in Jeannie’s piano, then attached R
ita’s guitar to an amplifier. Rita, Marcia, and Zoe stationed themselves behind the microphones, and the young man said, ‘Whenever you’re ready!’ He went through a door and reappeared behind a glass panel from where he made a thumbs up sign.
Kevin had managed to take a few steps inside the studio, but ever since had remained frozen to the spot. ‘Well, girls, you know what to do,’ he mumbled. ‘ “Walk On By”, then “Rock A Hula Baby”.’
‘I think you’re supposed to leave, Dad,’ Rita told him.
‘Oh, yes!’ He still didn’t move.
‘In there.’ Rita pointed to the door the young man had used, and seconds later, Kevin’s white face was watching them through the glass.
Jeannie stared fixedly at the keyboard and felt total panic. She couldn’t remember where to put her hands! Which note was C? Where was A? Had she played ‘Walk On By’ before?
Suddenly, the door was flung open and Kevin stormed in. His sparse hair stood on end and his eyes blazed with feverish excitement. ‘I’ve been in a daze,’ he roared. ‘But now I’m all right again. You’re me wee girls and you’re going to take the world by storm. You’re going to perform like you’ve never performed before. In a minute, this whole building’s going to rock. The lifts will stop. That Murray boyo’s glasses will shatter into a million little pieces. The whole of London will grind to a halt, all due to you four girls. Now, I’m going back in there,’ he pointed to the door he’d just sprung out of, ‘and I’m going to clap me hands like a maniac.’ He clapped his hands three times and everyone jumped. ‘You won’t hear, but you’ll see. When I clap a third time, it’s a signal to begin. And remember this, me wee girlies, me body might be behind that piece of old glass, but I’m leaving me heart and soul with youse lot.’ He made a quick Sign of the Cross. ‘So, good luck to all o’yis. I know you’ll do your best.’
And they did!
Chapter 9
‘It’s not fair,’ Max said sulkily. ‘It’s five years since the Merseysiders first got together. The Flower Girls haven’t been around five minutes, yet you’ve already got a recording contract and do gigs all over the place. Trust you to fall on your feet.’
‘Does Lachlan think it’s unfair?’ Jeannie asked. It was show business, not unfairness, but she didn’t bother to point this out when Max was in one of his dark moods.
‘He hasn’t said anything.’ Max kicked the chair with his heels, something he’d done since he was a little boy. They were having breakfast in Disraeli Terrace. Gerald had gone to school, their parents to work. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad,’ Max continued plaintively, ‘if it was something you’d really wanted to do. You used to think it was all a joke. If I hadn’t asked you to play that night in the Cavern, it’d never have happened.’
‘How would you know what I wanted to do? Unlike you, I didn’t shout it from the rooftops. Perhaps you’d have done better with a manager like Kevin,’ she said smugly. ‘By the way, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say for ages.’ She told him it was Kevin’s opinion Billy Kidd wasn’t paying them nearly enough. ‘I’d have it out with him if I were you.’
The Post Office was particularly busy that morning. A couple wanted forty-eight-hour passports and it took Rose ages to fill in the details. She did her utmost to keep her mind on her work. It was necessary to concentrate to the exclusion of all else when dealing with money. Twice she’d given the wrong change. Fortunately, no one had noticed apart from the customers concerned. She was thankful when the small queue at her cubicle came to a temporary end and it became one of those rare times when the entire shop was empty. Mrs Harker announced she was going to make them a cup of tea and Rose relaxed. But not for long. She drew the envelope that had come that morning out of her pocket. It was postmarked Ailsham, and her name and address had been printed in big, bold letters with a black felt pen, as had the four-word message the envelope held.
CLARA BAKER IS DEAD.
Tom was the only person who could have sent it. On the days she met ‘Clara’ he would bombard her with questions when she got home. ‘How was Clara today?’
‘Does Clara work?’ ‘Has she got children?’ ‘And what did Clara eat?’ he’d ask when she’d say they’d had a meal. She’d found it very odd, almost sinister.
Was Clara dead? How could she find out? Months ago, she’d looked in the telephone book and there’d been two P. Bakers in Hoylake. She had no idea if the ‘P’ stood for Peter. Should she ring both numbers and ask to speak to Clara? And if she was there, was Clara supposed to write a statement saying they’d been meeting every Thursday for the last six months – or even come to Ailsham and tell Tom this to his face? She couldn’t possibly do either.
Did it matter if Clara was dead? It would be terrible, of course, but Rose felt confused. If Clara was dead and somehow Tom had found out – through Mrs Denning, for instance – then he’d have known all along she was meeting someone else and the someone could only be a man. He’d been playing with her. Now he’d decided to terrorise her as well.
She comforted herself with the thought that she was meeting Alex later, though when she showed him the note he’d insist it really was time she left home and came to live with him. Rose put the letter back in her pocket. The idea of spending the rest of her life with Tom when there was an alternative life to be had with Alex hardly bore contemplating. But could she bring herself to leave? Despite the note, Rose still wasn’t sure.
Benny was rushing across Clayton Square when she saw Jeannie’s mother walking towards her. She’d always thought Mrs Flowers extremely nice, but she didn’t fancy them coming face to face right now, not when she was in such a desperate hurry to get back to work. To her relieved surprise, Mrs Flowers turned abruptly left and went into the Stork Hotel, which Benny thought slightly odd. She’d never seemed the sort of person to frequent Liverpool hotels on her own. She must be meeting someone, though it was a bit late for lunch.
She wished her own mam would get out more, but she was too nervous to set foot outside Bootle. Benny was sick to death of being dispatched all the way up London Road to T. J. Hughes in her lunch hour to purchase the bargains advertised in the Liverpool Echo the night before. Mam didn’t realise that London Road was a good mile from Water Street and Benny didn’t have the heart to tell her. She got so much pleasure out of the Irish linen pillowcases, tablecloths, the crockery and cutlery, all bought for a song, running her red, swollen hands over them as if they were gold. Today, it was two pairs of flannelette sheets that Benny had never dreamt would be so heavy. She changed the carrier bag to her left hand before the right lost all feeling.
Seeing Mrs Flowers had made her think about Jeannie and Elaine, something she tried to avoid. Benny had realised months ago that she’d cut off her nose to spite her face by parting so acrimoniously with her old friends. She hadn’t made any new ones at the Inland Revenue. As far as she knew, no one went to the Cavern or any of the Liverpool beat clubs. She hadn’t tied her hair in bunches, drawn lines around her eyes, or worn her slacks since the last time she’d seen Jeannie and Elaine in the Taj Mahal. Life these days was very ordinary and numbingly dull. She couldn’t recall when anything even faintly interesting had happened. She felt so utterly wretched, it was hard to appear normal and act pleasantly at work.
Benny arrived at Whitechapel, cursing the sheets, which must weigh a ton. Her shoes had started to hurt and perspiration was running down her arms. She’d have caught a bus back to work, but it was safer to walk in case one didn’t arrive on time and she’d be late. Employees who were late received a severe ticking off from the supervisor.
She had a brainwave. If she got a move on, she could go down Matthew Street, only slightly out of her way, and pass the Cavern where there’d be a poster listing future gigs. Next time the Merseysiders were on, Jeannie and Elaine would almost certainly be there, and she’d go and beg them to forgive her. ‘I was a pig,’ she’d say. ‘I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps it was starting that horrible job when I’d so much been looki
ng forward to being a Flower Girl.’ They were a soppy pair and she had no doubt that forgiveness would be instantly forthcoming.
She experienced a whiff of aching nostalgia when she walked down the narrow street lined with tall, crumbling warehouses, remembering the marvellous times they’d had in the innocuous little building that was the Cavern. As she drew nearer, she saw people emerging from a lunchtime session. ‘That was super,’ a girl remarked as she linked her boyfriend’s arm. ‘Don’t you dare claim rock ’n’ roll is the prerogative of males again.’
The Cavern door was open and a programme had been pasted on the wall just inside. Benny looked for Monday lunchtime, interested to know which group the girl had been talking about.
The Flower Girls!
The bag with the sheets fell from her hand. Her head started to buzz and she felt dizzy. It couldn’t possibly be the Flower Girls. They wouldn’t have started up again without her. Some other group must have stolen the name.
More people were coming out. The session must be over. Benny had to wait for ages before the flow of people stopped and she was able to go downstairs. She forgot about work, about being late, about everything except the need to establish that these Flower Girls weren’t her Flower Girls, that she hadn’t been comprehensively and unbelievably betrayed.
No one took any notice of her. Perhaps they thought she’d forgotten something and had come back to collect it. The stage was empty, but there were still a few stragglers left, including a couple of girls leisurely eating sandwiches. Voices could be heard coming from the middle section. Benny stood perfectly still until, one by one, the owners of the voices appeared through one of the arches – Kevin McDowd first, then Jeannie, Marcia, Rita, and a tall black girl she’d never seen before.
With a feeling of sick horror, Benny realised the black girl had taken her place. For a few seconds, she knew what it must be like to die. People died of shock. Something happened, so awful that their mind couldn’t accept it. They preferred to be dead.
