by Paul Charles
‘Oh,’ I replied.
‘Yes. Mary Skeffington is causing problems again. She’s been on to John parents and guess what?’
‘What?’
‘She told them that she and John had been sleeping together, for heaven’s sake, and that she might be pregnant and she’s devastated because John’s dating someone else.’
‘Oh!’ I replied. You might think I’m a man (perhaps boy) of little words but it’s really hard to talk and read the NME at the same time.
‘So now John has to go to his parents this weekend as well, and he’s very worried as poor Jean is going to be in London all by herself because I’m not going to be here with her. So, I want you to be a pet, Pet, and take her to the cinema on Saturday and then out for a nice meal somewhere, cheer her up like, yes?’
‘Well,’ I replied, folding up my NME and dumping it on the floor, ‘I had planned to go to the Marquee to see Taste but I could maybe scrap that. Have you mentioned your idea to Jean?’
‘Yes, and she said you wouldn’t want to take her out, and I told her you definitely would want to see her. I know it’ll be terribly boring for you, Pet, but she’s my best friend and I’d like you to do it for me.’
‘Okay.’
‘Okay?’ she said as she got up from the sofa, for it was a sofa on that particular night. She picked up my discarded NME and folded it in two before placing it neatly with numerous other publications under the dead television set. ‘I thought you’d take some persuading and I hadn’t even got going yet.’
That’s exactly what I’d been worried about, and I was fast developing a preference to practising by myself.
‘Well,’ I began, rising from the sofa and making my escape, ‘she’s probably gutted about John, the marriage and all of that, so don’t worry, I’ll be happy to take her out for the night.’
‘Not too happy I hope,’ she shouted at me over her shoulder, as she took a couple of dirty cups out to the sink. She shot me a look, which would curl milk even before it had a chance to leave the udder.
Saturday night came sooner than expected, with Jean Simpson arriving at my flat two hours early.
‘What’s this I hear about you ditching the Marquee Club to take me to the ABC cinema?’ she said, before I could even get a ‘hello’ in. Then she smiled, showing off the finest set of white teeth I’d ever seen. Jean Kerr had obviously relished informing her of my plans for the evening – no doubt with a little of the ‘Look how I’ve got this boy to put himself out for you!’ kind of vibe.
‘If it isn’t too late, I’d love to see that group over an evening at the flicks.’
Well, this was going far better than expected.
‘Your wish is my command,’ I replied, as I invited her inside.
She seemed slightly hesitant, possibly something to do with the potential dangers of being alone with an unknown boy, in an unknown flat. The danger seemed to pass when she heard my flatmate rattling about from deep within. Now, if you were to ask me I would have to say that it was potentially more dangerous for a girl to be alone in a flat with two boys. But I needn’t have worried about that – when he eventually appeared, my flatmate, being my flatmate, gave me one of those ‘you dirty old dog!’ looks, made his excuses and left. I thought this would have made Jean nervous, due to her previous doorstep performance, but no. Not at all in fact, because by now she was perfectly relaxed and comfortable browsing her way through my record collection, her wine-coloured duffle coat (the one that Jean Kerr hoped her friend would give up to a jumble sale) thrown across the bed (sorry, make that sofa). Beneath the duffle coat, she was wearing a black miniskirt over black stockings, and a black cardigan over a black blouse. She appeared to have just washed her hair; it was smooth and looked silky, very silky. All in all, she gave the impression that she was far from perturbed about the recently reported ongoing problems between her and John Harrison.
‘Goodness, Jean told me you’d a lot of records but I never imagined it was this many!’ she began and a few seconds later continued with, ‘Traffic – Mr. Fantasy! Augh, I just love this record; would you put it on for me please? Stevie Winwood – he’s got such a sexy voice. I adored his singing with the Spencer Davis Group; ‘I’m A Man’, ah, that just gets me every time. I can’t believe that someone can sing that good and then play such great Hammond Organ, and then on top of that make his guitar sing so sweetly. I love his guitar work on ‘Dear Mr. Fantasy’.’
Now, why couldn’t Jean Kerr have ever said something like that? That was my first thought – do you know what my second thought was? I’ll tell you. I bet myself that anyone as passionate about music as Jean Simpson clearly would never lie on my sofa (bed) like a sack of potatoes. Yes, I know that probably sounds a bit cruel, not to mention ungallant, but that was my second thought and I did tell you I would reveal it.
Two hours and three albums later (the aforementioned Traffic, Joe Cocker and Abbey Road) and we were hastily making our departure into the chilly night. The journey to the Marquee Club – a walk down to Wimbledon tube station, tube to Piccadilly Circus, changing at Earls Court, and another walk through Soho to Wardour Street – had never passed so quickly, so engrossed were we in our conversation about music and movies. We didn’t exactly agree about everything, mind; whereas she was into Tamla Motown, I was more into the Atlantic Records type of soul. And whereas I was into the Beatles, she was more of a Rolling Stones fan. But she knew her (green) onions. So much so that I started to wonder how she’d ever become a friend of Jean Kerr’s. Not that this was a subject I wanted to raise – I didn’t want to endure any ‘Well at least I’ve never slept with her’ retorts.
Weirdly enough, I remember a lot about that night. I particularly remember that Taste were absolutely amazing. I remember that Jean Simpson was totally mesmerised by the three musicians on stage: John Wilson – the one-man orchestra – on drums; the lanky Charlie McCracken on bass guitar; and Rory Gallagher on guitar and vocals. Rory was always such an exciting musician on stage, at times looking like he was connected directly into the mains himself. Jean – not to mention the rest of the audience – was blown away by Rory’s guitar playing. You see the band were just hitting their peak and were about to come over-ground, if you know what I mean. They were packing out clubs up and down the country and this group of people – fans, by another name – had all tuned into them via word of mouth. Pretty soon Taste would get a proper record deal and the rest of their meteoric rise would be history, but on that particular night in the Marquee Club it was simply a case of a band at their musical best, turning on a packed house.
I hope that doesn’t sound too elitist because it’s definitely not meant to. But everyone in the Marquee Club that night – with the sweat dripping down the black walls, like indoor rain, and the floor so caked in beer you had to continuously move your feet for fear of sticking to a spot for eternity – yes, every single one of the six hundred and fifty people packed into that room (which was meant to hold four hundred at most) felt they were witnessing something very special.
When we left the club at about eleven o’clock, Jean Simpson was literally on cloud nine.
‘I don’t want to go back to Wimbledon just yet,’ she began breathlessly, as we automatically headed in the direction of the tube station.
‘That’s fine, I’m in no hurry,’ I replied, knowing that when we did return to Wimbledon she’d go her way and I’d go mine, and that would be the end of my little plan to find out more about the mysterious past of her best friend Jean Kerr.
‘Is this what it’s like every night?’ she asked, linking her arm with mine. I knew it wasn’t a sign of anything remotely intimate – it was more for security.
‘Pretty much, although that was a wee bit special,’ I replied, slowing down our pace a little.
‘Goodness David, and we thought you were a bit weird, always heading up the West End to these clubs. Jean and I used to joke about it.’
‘You did?’
‘Yeah. We wondered w
hat you were really up to. We thought maybe strip clubs, sex clubs and suchlike.’ She paused to laugh for a few seconds. ‘Mind you, what you were in fact up to is, in its own way, quite exotic, isn’t it?’
‘Absolutely,’ I confirmed emphatically.
‘But how did you find out about this secret world?’
‘Well, if I was to trace it back I suppose, for me, it would’ve started with a neighbour of mine back in Magherafelt. His name was Martin McClelland but his stage name was Martin Dean…’
‘Stage name?’ she quizzed me in amusement.
‘He was in a wee local group, The Blues by Five and he wrote a few songs and anyway he got picked up by a showband–’
‘A showband?’
‘You know, like an eight-piece group that acted like a human juke box in the Irish ballrooms,’ I continued, speeding up my reply in the hope there would be no more interruptions; I was struggling to find a way to describe the legendary Irish showbands. ‘So Martin McClelland joined this local outfit called The Playboys and changed his name to Martin Dean–’
‘After Dean Martin?’ she interrupted enthusiastically, seeming very happy to finally recognise one of the names.
‘After his favourite singer Dean Martin,’ I smiled, ‘and Martin was always playing his record player, and I’d pick up bits and pieces, not really that fussed about it at the time, to be honest. But I did register how keen he was on his music. Then I heard The Beatles on Radio Luxembourg. That was the first time in my life I can remember music stopping me in my tracks. I can still hear it vividly: I was in our house. My mum was ironing with the radio on in the background. I was busy, very busy, doing nothing and ‘Love Me Do’ came on, and it was so raw it grabbed me by the throat. The thing I couldn’t really come to terms with was that although it was this raw sound, it was also extremely pleasing to the ear. God, I’m beginning to sound like the NME.’
‘Sorry, whose enemy?’
‘No, no sorry! A music paper called the New Musical Express, NME for short,’ I explained, feeling a little self-conscious. I’d heard my own voice just then and it had thrown me.
‘Goodness no, not at all! I’m totally intrigued by whatever it is that has made you so single-minded. Tell me more,’ she said, rubbing her hands gleefully and pulling me even closer to her in the process.
‘Okay,’ I said, ‘well, up to then I’d always listened to what my mother and Martin Dean were listening to. My mum’s favourites were anything, and I do mean anything, by Frank Sinatra or ‘What Do You Want To Make Those Eyes at Me For?’
‘Emile Ford?’
‘That’s the one. But whatever it was, whether it was my mum’s or Martin’s music, it was always in the background for me while I was doing something else. But the Beatles compelled me to stop and listen to them, they demanded my attention.’
‘And they certainly got it,’ Jean added, breaking into another of her awkward smiles.
‘So they did. As you can imagine in the wilds of Ulster, there wasn’t much of an outlet for this kind of music and after that moment in the kitchen, ‘Love Me Do’ and my first taste of The Beatles, I was hungry for it. I started listening to Radio Luxembourg and I remember they had this introduction offer on the NME.’
‘The New Musical… don’t tell me, don’t tell me! I want to get to know all this stuff… The New Musical… Express, yes, that’s it! The New Musical Express,’ she concluded proudly, using our interlinked arms to pull us tighter again.
‘That’s it. So the NME took me into the weird and wonderful world of all these new bands, and for as long as I can remember I’ve been reading about all the exciting comings and goings at the Marquee Club. So when I came over here I nearly tripped over myself in my haste to get to the club, and ever since it’s been an amazing voyage of discovery,’ I said, no longer hearing my voice. I was about to stop at that point but suddenly a flash came into my mind. ‘But Stevie Winwood and Traffic and Mr. Fantasy and The Spencer Davis Group – you knew all about them. How come?’
‘Well, I know this’ll sound rather shallow,’ she started, pulling us so close I could no longer see her face, ‘but Stevie is just so cute looking, and so I joined the Spencer Davis Group Fan Club and that’s kept me in touch a bit about him. But the rest of this, I mean, I’ve never heard about Taste before in my life, yet that was one of the most exciting night’s entertainment I’ve ever experienced!’
I couldn’t help but think ‘What about your time with John Harrison?’ but I didn’t say it. We were walking in the direction of the only thing I knew would be open at that time, The Golden Spoon in Leicester Square.
‘We’ll go Dutch,’ she announced, as we walked across the square towards it. ‘Okay?’
‘Sounds fine to me,’ I said, and meant it; I was happy she felt that way and happy she had insisted on buying her own ticket to the Marquee Club. That’s not me being sexist or anything. I was – in fact, we both were – Jean Kerr’s friends, and no matter how much I was beginning to like Jean Simpson, I’d no time for doing to someone else what I wouldn’t like done to me. It was as simple as that. Not that I’m suggesting that if I had bought her a ticket to the concert and then a bite of supper we’d have… ‘Wishful thinking,’ I hear you say, before you start shouting at me to ‘Shut up and get on with it.’ Okay, that sounds fine to me, but if I’m to shut up, how am I to get on with it?
‘Have you ever brought Jean to one of these concerts?’ Jean asked.
‘Gigs, they’re called gigs, and no I haven’t. I think she thinks they’re a waste of money–’
‘And that you’ll grow out of them.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh goodness, I’ve been frightfully disloyal – please don’t tell her I told you that!’
How many times in civilisation have those exact words ‘Please don’t tell her (or him) I told you that’ signalled the end of a relationship? Or, perhaps more importantly, the beginning of another?
The Golden Spoon turned out to be a convenient place to take a break in the conversation because it allowed me to pick my next question carefully. ‘Opportunist,’ I hear you say. Hey, so what? They also say that there’s a war of the sexes going on out there.
‘Did Jean tell you any of her other plans for me?’ We were now reading the menus and I could have gone for a bigger question, but I wanted to start small, work my way in. Jean Simpson probably felt she should answer because of her earlier indiscretion, but at the same time if I’d gone for the kill too soon – say, for instance ‘Does she tell you everything about us?’ – well, she could very easily have laughed that one off with a ‘Wouldn’t you like to know’.
As it happened, Jean was blushing, and I couldn’t quite figure out whether that was because my plan had worked and she knew she had to tell me something of substance or whether she was stalling for time in order to come up with a bit of fancy footwork.
‘Well now, this could get interesting,’ she began with a sigh. ‘You must have an inkling that our Jean has got most of her life mapped out? And I think it would be safe to say that you’re a part of it.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Oh come on,’ Jean teased, as she repeatedly hit the menu against her chin.
I kept getting myself into these situations where I thought I was missing a few chapters in what was going on around me. A wee bit like Dylan’s, ‘meanwhile, life goes on all around without you’. A lot like it, in fact.
Yes okay, so I wasn’t so naive that I was completely shocked that Jean Kerr’s plans involved me. But the words ‘most of her life mapped out’ and ‘you’re part of it’ clawed desperately in my throat on the way down, making them impossible to swallow.
‘We never really discuss much of anything, it’s not really that kind of a relationship,’ I admitted, not really appreciating exactly what I was saying.
But Jean did.
‘I know, I know, I’ve heard that you don’t really have much time for the small stuff.’
I looked her straight
in her baby-blue eyes. She started to blush again – she had a habit of blushing, did our Jean Simpson.
‘So you do discuss everything,’ I said, rather pleased that my little trap had worked.
‘Goodness, she’s doing it again!’ Jean said, choosing to ignore my last question.
‘She’s doing what again?’ I asked innocently.
‘Jean… she has this habit of going ahead and making plans, making these great plans for her life, and then when they don’t fall into place for her, she goes off the rails. Since we met – we were both around five at the time, she moved into the house next to ours – she’s always been “making plans”,’ she said, doing a fairly passable imitation of Jean’s strong accent which was in fact quite close to her own but slightly more sterilised. ‘You know, in our very first chat – and I’ll remind you she was five years old! – she told me everything she wanted to do with her life. Be beautiful; have a very successful career – I had to ask her what a career was; get married and have two beautiful children – both girls; have a house and two cars; and all of it before she was twenty-seven.’
‘Why twenty-seven for heaven’s sake?’ I asked, innocent of the real issue.
What was the real issue? Well, it seemed to be that I was the man who fitted into Jean’s master plan. I was to marry, father two girls and have a career so successful that a) I could keep up with my wife’s equally successful career and b) we could jointly afford to buy a house and two cars. I didn’t even like cars. I had no intention of ever learning to drive. Particularly now that it just might be the one great way to disqualify myself from Jean’s dream.
‘Oh apparently it’s got something to do with one of the Brontë Sisters.’
‘Right. That figures. Tell me… ahm… you kind of implied that this had already happened with someone else… who?’
‘Ah, now that’s really very sad as well,’ Jean said, just as the waitress came over to the table.
Again something was left hanging in the air.
Thankfully I had the menu to use as a pretend distraction. You see, the thing I found about The Golden Spoon was that the food was pretty average, but they were always open late and, most importantly, their milkshakes and pancakes were brilliant. I’d known before I sat down exactly what I wanted; I was going to have my regular order of a pineapple milkshake and a round of pancakes with butterscotch sauce. Oh so delicious – just the thought of it made me forget, albeit temporarily, about Jean Kerr.
