Searching for a Silver Lining

by Miranda Dickinson

  ‘Is this you talking now? I get it, Mattie. I’m sorry for your loss. But I’m not the magic bullet that makes it all go away.’

  Totally wrong-footed, Mattie tumbled over her words. ‘I – I didn’t mean . . . That’s not why I said . . . I’m not asking you to make things right for me. All I know is that I wouldn’t wish the hurt and anger and loss I’ve felt since my grandpa died on anyone. I’ve carried it for just over six months. I can’t imagine bearing that for sixty years.’

  Reenie set her jaw firm and pulled her handbag onto her lap. ‘I’m ready to go home now. Thanks for the tea.’

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Softly, Softly’ – Ruby Murray

  Mattie was still kicking herself the following day. By six p.m. she realised she’d spent all day thinking of alternative ways she could have asked Reenie. Knowing Joanna and the children were having tea with her mum, Mattie decided to sort stock for a couple of hours instead of heading straight home. Since Grandpa Joe’s death, Mattie had cherished spending time in her shop. She could keep busy, play music she remembered sharing with her grandfather and escape to a time filled with glamour and optimism.

  Spending time with Reenie had challenged her rose-tinted view somewhat, but the wistfulness with which her friend spoke of the 1950s fired Mattie’s imagination.

  ‘Tell me about the glamour,’ she’d asked Reenie once. ‘I imagine it to be a really glamorous time.’

  ‘Not always. Not for most of the time. But we dreamed of glamour and that kind of made it seem possible, if you see what I mean. Me and the girls in The Silver Five spent most of our time in hired dresses we were forever having to mend in dingy dressing rooms with only one working light bulb. But when we were on stage, we were the glamour. Some of the music halls we played in Europe hadn’t long been open after the war. Some of them were little more than a shell. But the people wanted music, you see. Music heals the heart the way nothing else can. Berlin was the best for that. We were doing our set, and beneath the spotlights I could see men and women on the front row in tears. That’s when you realise what you’re doing isn’t just “entertaining”. You’re helping people escape – and the Good Lord knows, after that war there were plenty that needed rescuing.’

  ‘What about after you went solo?’ Mattie had asked, careful to avoid the subject that Reenie had so far resisted broaching.

  ‘Oh-ho, that’s when the glamour really started!’ Reenie’s smile had been pure pride. ‘Talk about wining and dining! Rico took me to all the parties – bought me dresses straight from Paris, had me going to the best hairstylists in London, the works. He said he was investing in me. He wanted me to look like a star already.’

  Since that conversation, Mattie had searched the web for details of the enigmatic impresario ‘Rico’. Ten years before Brian Epstein began to mastermind the careers of the Beatles and Cilla Black, Rico was one of a clutch of up-and-coming music moguls, determined to find the brightest stars in the British music scene. While his trademark silver silk suits, diamond cufflinks and sweep of perfectly waved black hair hinted at Latin roots, in reality Rico had begun life in the far less exotic surrounds of Castle Bromwich, Birmingham, as plain old Harry Slack. Reinventing himself following his relocation to London in the early 1950s, Slack spent a year blagging entry to the best parties, schmoozing the influential executives from fledgling music labels and, by all accounts, outright lying his way into their good books. The Silver Five had been his first real success, formed by a combination of covert talent-scouting missions among the music clubs of Soho and Chelsea and adverts placed in The Stage newspaper, seeking ‘young, good-looking male and female singers for a standalone group’. He had discovered Reenie when she was singing for Ted Farnsworth’s Orchestra and had been so taken by her voice and presence that his idea to form the group had been birthed.

  Reenie talked about Rico with fondness, but Mattie always felt that there was something else in the practised lightness of her voice whenever he was mentioned. It was more than flippant, the kind of response she had heard her mum give when talking about people at her Women’s Institute meetings that she didn’t really like. One thing was certain: Rico had definitely gone all out to charm young Irene Silverman.

  ‘Oh kid, the parties he took us to – honestly, you’d’ve died! Champagne towers, diamonds everywhere, the best in the business schmoozin’ and carousing, and there’s little old me from Woodbine Street, Liverpool, slap bang in the middle of it all! They said I was going to be the British Brenda Lee – the female Elvis Presley. Bigger than Alma Cogan, they said, bigger than Connie Francis . . . I once had a turn around the dance floor with Tommy Steele, you know, who back then was the handsome, snarlin’ boy of the moment. He blanked Petula Clark for me! I think we might have had a thing for a bit. Or maybe just a snog and a fumble in a back room . . . good days, Mattie. Good old days . . .’

  Mattie hung the last garment on the rail and broke up the cardboard storage box, adding it to the pile beside her. Stretching the stiffness from her legs, she chided herself again for not persuading Reenie to reunite with her former group. She shouldn’t have mentioned it. Or at least, she should have thought more carefully about how to present the idea. How was she ever going to fulfil her promise to Grandpa Joe now? If only Reenie had agreed to the plan . . .

  She stopped herself. Reenie had every right to refuse Mattie’s meddling in her private affairs. It was selfish of her to expect otherwise. Laurie and Jack had been right: she was banking on the old lady to be the solution to her problems. It didn’t matter if The Silver Five were never reconciled. That was Reenie’s decision, and if Mattie considered herself a friend to her, she had to respect it.

  ‘It’s just that it would have made him so happy,’ she said aloud to the vintage items. ‘But I’m an idiot for thinking it could work.’

  The Blue Lady portrait on the wall opposite gave her a wistfully sympathetic look. Over in the corner, the tea chest stacked with old 78 rpm vinyl seemed to glow through the dust that lined its sides. Grandpa Joe’s old tawny-brown Bakelite radio on the shelf above the till had its soothing half-smile still, as if to say that nothing had really changed. I’ll find a way through this, she promised herself. I will be happy again.

  The sound of The Platters’ ‘Only You’ from her mobile sent Mattie scrambling to her feet to fetch it from the counter. She had chosen the ringtone when planning her new future with Asher, but hadn’t changed it because she remembered being twirled around the farmhouse kitchen by Grandpa Joe to the song.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Mattie. It’s me.’

  Suddenly Mattie felt sick. Sinking heavily onto the chair beside the counter, she closed her eyes. She had been dreading this moment for weeks. ‘I don’t have anything to say to you.’

  She heard Asher cough on the other end of the call, something he always did when he was nervous. Too right he should be nervous! This was the first time he’d attempted to talk to her after she’d discovered him with Debs the DIY cashier. ‘We have to talk. It’s about the house. And – things . . .’

  Things? By ‘things’ did he mean trifling details such as breaking her heart, betraying her trust and not even pretending to be sorry when he was found out?

  ‘I’m busy. You’ll have to talk to my solicitor.’

  ‘And what if I want to talk to you? Come on, Mattie – whatever’s happened between us, we can still be friends.’

  The suggestion jarred her heart. ‘No. No we can’t, Asher.’

  ‘You say that now. But we still need to talk. I owe you an explanation . . .’

  ‘I’m not interested in your excuses. Goodbye.’

  Ending the call, she took a deep breath that shuddered out into the quietness of the shop. She hadn’t been ready to talk to him, and wished she’d checked the number before answering. The sudden re-emergence of his voice served only to remind her of how much she had lost because of him.

  Just then, her phone rang again. Was Asher really so thick-skin
ned? Snatching up her phone, she growled into it, ‘What is it now?’

  ‘Bleedin’ hell, Mattie, who rocked your cage?’

  Mattie quickly stood, like a naughty child found out. ‘Hi, Reenie. I’m sorry. Are you all right? It’s past ten o’clock.’

  ‘The night is young, Matilda! Matter of fact, it’s Rave Night here at Beauvale. Our Trev’s just spiked the punch with Advocaat . . . No, I’m kidding. I wanted to talk to you and it couldn’t wait. Thing is, I’m in.’

  What was that supposed to mean? ‘In Beauvale?’

  ‘Well yes, obviously I’m in Beauvale. I mean, I’m in. For the trip. For the gig.’

  Mattie couldn’t breathe. She began to walk across the shop floor to the bay window, which was speckled with streetlamp-illuminated raindrops.

  ‘Mattie? Kid? You still there?’

  ‘Yes – I’m here. I don’t know what to say. What made you change your mind?’

  ‘I talked it over with – well, a few people, actually. And you’re right. I owe that lot an apology. While I’m still breathing, not after I’m gone. And I might not get another chance. I –’ the smallest crack sounded in her voice, and the suddenness of it made Mattie’s skin prickle. ‘I had a bit of a turn this afternoon. Nothin’ to worry yourself about, mind; it’ll take a lot more than a bit of a wobbly old head to bump me off . . . But it got me thinking. Turns out I’m not as invincible as I thought I was.’ There was a pause, and Mattie could hear Reenie’s breath coming in short, sharp bursts. ‘You’ve gone very quiet, love. Am I too late to be asking now?’

  Mattie fought back tears as she shook her head. ‘No, you’re not too late. This is the best news I’ve had in a really long time.’

  ‘Okay, good. Excellent, Mattie. We’re going to have the best time!’

  Ending the call and bursting into long-held-back tears of relief, Mattie suspected Reenie was right . . .

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘The Things That I Used to Do’ – Guitar Slim and his Band

  Mattie arranged to take Reenie to visit Kendrick’s the following week. The first part of their plan was straightforward: they would have lunch at the club and ask to see the owner. Reenie would explain who she was, and try to blag a tour of the venue for her to reminisce. Then the tricky part would come.

  ‘Butter him up, then wham! Hit him with our dastardly scheme!’ Reenie exclaimed as they sat opposite each other on the train heading to London. ‘It can’t fail.’

  Mattie crossed her fingers beneath the table in first class that Reenie had insisted on booking for their journey. ‘Let’s hope not.’

  An hour later she helped Reenie out of a black cab, and the pair faced the club. It was a brick building at one corner of a small square – unremarkable from the outside, except for a row of lights around a curved porch entrance and three sets of brass-edged double doors.

  ‘This is odd.’ Reenie was staring up at the building as if seeing a world around it that no longer existed.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Mattie had spent so long being excited about her idea that she hadn’t fully considered she was playing with someone else’s memories.

  ‘Long time ago, kid. Lots happened since. Let’s get inside, eh?’

  A young man dressed in a white shirt, black waistcoat and jeans met them as they entered the former nightclub.

  ‘How can I help, ladies?’ he asked in a strong Northern Irish brogue.

  ‘We have a reservation for lunch, under Bell,’ Mattie said. ‘I’m afraid we’re a little early.’

  ‘Not a problem,’ he beamed, shaking both their hands. ‘We have plenty of tables. Come in and I’ll get you both settled.’ He pushed open a set of black doors and held them open for Mattie and Reenie to pass into the heart of the club.

  Mattie heard a sharp intake of breath beside her. She kept her eyes ahead, but gave Reenie’s hand a firm squeeze.

  The interior of the club was painted almost completely black, with the exception of a pair of dusky red stage curtains that appeared to have hung there for many years. In the former circle near the entrance, round wooden tables and black leather curved benches formed little bays where a few people were eating. Soft jazz played from concealed speakers, and behind the long black bar a barman was polishing glasses and gazing into space. Mattie tried to mentally superimpose the image of the Palm Grove in its heyday over this mostly monochrome venue. It seemed a little sad, as if draped in mourning garments for its former life.

  Reenie was very quiet as they walked to their table, and Mattie didn’t want to intrude on her thoughts. But what must it be like to see a place from your past looking so different? She remembered once going back to Cheltenham, where she had been a student, and the numb shock she’d felt on discovering her former digs were now boarded up and abandoned. It had felt like losing a friend.

  ‘I’m Derry, bar manager here. Pleased to meet you both,’ the man said, offering his arm to steady Reenie as she sat down. ‘I’ll get your menus. Make yourselves comfy and if you’d like drinks, you can order them from the bar.’

  Reenie’s knuckles were white as she clutched her handbag on her lap, her eyes haunted by a thousand ghosts Mattie couldn’t see. She waited a few minutes to give her friend space, but soon her concern was growing.

  ‘Do you still want to be here, Reenie? Because we can leave if you want.’

  ‘Don’t be daft. I’m just – taking it all in.’ She gave a weak smile. ‘Gaynor said a shock might be bad for my heart. Just give me a minute.’

  It was suddenly horribly clear to Mattie what her idea actually meant for Reenie. This wasn’t just a rose-tinted trip down Memory Lane – it was revisiting the place where she’d inflicted a wound that hadn’t healed in sixty years. ‘Why don’t I get us a drink?’ she offered, glad that they had come by train and taxi today. Alcohol was definitely in order to combat her nerves.

  ‘Brandy and pep. Double.’

  As she hurried to the empty bar, Mattie weighed up the wisdom of Reenie drinking, considering all the medication she was taking. But when the alternative was a shock-induced coronary, perhaps a glass of stabilising alcohol was allowed.

  The barman looked up from the crate of bottles he was unpacking and stood quickly. ‘Sorry. Didn’t see you there.’

  ‘White wine, and a brandy and peppermint, please.’

  He nodded and pulled glasses from above the bar. ‘Are you here for lunch?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I can recommend the salmon.’ His eyes were sharp against the open friendliness of his face. Since arriving in London Mattie had already become acclimatised to being ignored by strangers, and the contrast here was a shock.

  ‘Oh. Thanks.’ She dug in her purse to escape the pressure of finding another conversation topic. Back in Kings Sunbury most of the barmen didn’t even know what was on the pub’s menu without looking, let alone be able to offer a personal recommendation.

  She wondered how Joe Bell had found his first visit here in 1956. He had talked of seeing some famous acts at the club – one of the few details from that year he would share. Standing at the bar, Mattie could almost feel the footprints of her grandfather worn into the wooden floor beneath her own feet.

  ‘Miss?’

  The past dissipated like smoke as Mattie realised the barman was talking to her. ‘Sorry – I was miles away.’

  He smiled. ‘Wherever it was, it looked nice. Is there anything else?’

  ‘No thanks – oh, wait a minute, I don’t suppose you have one of those old-fashioned paper cocktail umbrellas, do you?’

  The barman rubbed a hand to his chin, pin-sharp green eyes filled with amusement. ‘Do you know, I think we might. Hang on . . .’ He ducked through a velvet-curtained doorway and Mattie could hear the clack-clack of his shoes on old parquet flooring. Grandpa Joe’s farmhouse had a small snug with a very old parquet floor, the wooden tiles of which had been lifted and bent by time. As children Mattie, Joanna and Jack had spent hours on Sunday afternoons dancing across it pre
tending to be Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire, the loose wooden pieces turning their steps into tap-shoe beats.

  The wooden taps sounded again as the barman returned, holding aloft a pale pink paper cocktail umbrella as if it was a sporting trophy. ‘There you go,’ he grinned. ‘I don’t think the box it was in has been opened since 1986, so it’s definitely retro.’

  Mattie’s smile rested comfortably on her lips all the way back to Reenie.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I got you a present.’ Mattie gave Reenie her glass, and popped the umbrella in with a flourish.

  Her friend’s porcelain cheeks flushed. ‘Nice touch, kid. Although when I used to come here, I never got one of these. It was more a cheeky swig from a smuggled-in whisky bottle.’

  Mattie lifted her glass. ‘Well, here’s to making different memories in this club.’

  ‘Too right.’

  ‘You never said you’d been here before – apart from the night of the concert. Did you know it well?’ Had Reenie been at the club at the same time as Grandpa Joe?

  ‘My mate Marcie used to be one of the dancers for the crooners, and we’d sneak back to the dressing rooms for a quick ciggie and a slug of booze before she finished her shift. Sometimes we’d sneak into the club when the door manager wasn’t looking. Marcie had her admirers, you see. That’s why it was a shock – seeing it today. Thing is, I’d wanted to play on that stage for years before The Silver Five. So, how are we going to do this? You seemed chummy with the barman.’

  ‘I think he was amused by me asking for this,’ Mattie replied, twirling the cocktail umbrella. ‘I think we wait for the other guy to come back, and then ask if the owner is in.’

  ‘And if he isn’t?’

  ‘Let’s just hope he is.’ Should she have asked when she called to book the table? Mattie had been so caught up in bringing Reenie to the former Palm Grove that she hadn’t even considered the owner might not be there during lunch service. It was an age until the friendly bar manager returned, by which time the corner of Mattie’s menu bore apprehensive creases.