‘I’m sorry,’ said Sylvio. ‘I should carry spare. You should have gone on the bus.’
‘Never mind,’ said Mamma, looking sad for her. ‘Next time, perhaps.’ But there would be no next time. She would be too old and too developed to get a place.
‘Never mind, you did your best,’ smiled Miss Liptrot, patting her on the shoulder. ‘It was always a long shot, Rosa.’
‘Hard cheese, Rosie,’ whispered Connie, and gave her a gobstopper that changed colour. ‘It’s their loss not to choose you.’
‘Poor you,’ said Joy, looking at her with tears in her eyes. ‘It’s not fair.’
No, it wasn’t a bit fair. How could she tell them that she had done her absolute worst and had not shown off Miss Liptrot’s good teaching one iota? Given the right start she would have danced the competition out of the door but nerves had got to her and the real Fonteyns of this world never showed nerves.
Perhaps she was not good enough for the classical ballet schools? Perhaps her legs were too short and her turn-out was too poor. It was time to lay it all at the foot of Our Lady in supplication and contrition.
‘I have let everyone down,’ Rosa wept, ‘especially myself.’
Comfort came from an unexpected source when she went to spend the night with Nonna Valentina, who slept in the back bedroom of Angelo’s house. The old lady was sitting at her dressing table pulling the jet-black hairs out of her brush and winding them very carefully over her bun pad, which was pinned onto her long thin hair, while Rosa was telling her an edited version of this sad disappointment.
Nonna looked up and smiled as she secured the pad tighter to the nape of her neck with long grips. ‘Old age is not for the faint-hearted, little one. Once I could scarce grasp my plait in one fist. Now it is a pitiable little scrap. Do not fret. There are lots of ways to skin a rabbit. Lots of dancing to try, I think. I see you tap-dancing and making beautiful movements across the stage. There must be operas and musicals that need good dancers and singers. I once had the voice and looks of an angel but good looks are only lent for a season. Your talent is your gift for ever. It will never fade. It runs in the family. You are a beautiful Santini and we are proud people. We do not fail when we set our hearts on something. How else would Pepe and I have made such a great business? Never forget your dada in heaven is looking over you,’ she jabbered in rapid Italian.
Rosa was struggling to keep up. They spoke only English at home. Mamma had never spoken a word of Italian since the Big Fall-out.
‘You are English now … no more peasant talk,’ Mamma had said when they went to live with the Winstanleys in Division Street all those years ago. Rosa now depended on her nonna to hear the old tongue.
Perhaps Nonna was right and she could try another way. She was going to learn rock and roll and jive for the next charity show. There was the silver medal tap exam coming up soon. Perhaps there was another way to get on a stage.
They were practising her jive routine in the playground, Maureen, Celia and a group of older girls who were trying to copy the moves, when Sister Gilberte and Sister Monica caught her doing the split jump and throwing her legs around Bernardette Dumphy with her brown knickers bared for all to see.
‘Santini, put your legs down this minute and get back into the form room! The devil is in your drawers already and you’re not above twelve years old. We shall have to knock some sense into you before you shame the good name of the Sorrows.’
She took the full force of the beating without a sound. It was only what she deserved for all her devilment, lies and deceit. Sin would always be punished, they were told often enough, so she would offer this pain for the starving orphans of Hungary. She winced at each stroke but bit back her pain, swallowed her tears. No one was going to thrash out her determination. Do your worst, she thought, you can’t touch me. I’m a Santini.
Now she could start over with a clean slate to make her dreams come true. This time she would not fail.
4
Neville
It was Neville’s big idea to start a skiffle band. Everyone wanted to be Lonnie Donegan in the youth clubs and coffee bars around the town in 1957. There were enough lads around the Green Lane Club to form a group, and once Neville got an idea in his head there was no stopping him. Connie’s Youth Club at Zion Chapel was getting a bit tame, with its ping pong table and weekly Brains Trusts. All the best boys were chucked out for smoking, swearing and wearing drainpipes. She and Joy just hung around to see the talent that was getting thinner by the week and so they soon drifted over in Neville’s direction.
He’d got a tea chest with strings to make a bass, a real washboard that they could thrash with thimbles and a biscuit-tin drum, banging away for all they were worth, even though their rendition of ‘Rock Island Line’ was so awful that the rest of the club backed off to make tea in the kitchen of the tennis clubhouse, away from the racket.
Neville had a guitar for Christmas and was still learning chords from his Bert Weedon tutor book but he could only manage a decent E chord. All the band had bought trousers that Auntie Su had taken in at the sides.
However loyal the girls were to their cousin, Connie thought his group tuneless and wooden.
‘You need someone up front to sing in tune,’ she suggested, but Nev took the hump.
‘Well, none of you are up for it,’ he snapped.
This snub was just the call to arms Connie needed and she was round to Rosa’s in a flash, along with Joy.
Sometimes she didn’t know what to make of Neville. He mooned around Division Street with them, chatting and gossiping with Su and the lodgers. He was very up to date with the hit parade but when he was crossed he sulked like a schoolgirl.
His parents gave him everything he wanted, even when he failed his eleven-plus twice, and he got his bike and a posh new uniform for the Lawns School for Boys in the west end of town.
Going to Rosa’s was always fun. It was generally chaos in the Bertorelli flat above the salon, smelling of rotten eggs and ammonia and nappy buckets – Maria had produced another son, Luca – but Rosa was fed up of baby-minding and glad to get out of the house.
‘We’re going to form our own skiffle band,’ Connie announced. ‘If Nev’s lot are all that’s going then we three can do better. You can sing up front, Rosa, you can do percussion, Joy, and I’ll do tambourine.’
‘That’s not a proper skiffle,’ Rosa said. ‘We need instruments and a guitar.’
‘Have you seen the prices of kit? Even a Junior Skiffle set is twenty-three and six. Where will we get a hooter, cowbells or a tap box?’
‘Auntie Lee has cowbells from Austria. I’ve seen them,’ Joy suggested. ‘But who will play guitar?’
‘Don’t need one yet. We can all sing in tune; we’re in school choirs.’ Connie was not going to let a little thing like string instruments get in the way of her big idea.
‘Not me. I got chucked out months ago,’ quipped Rosa.
‘I know, but you can sing when you want to, and in tune. We’ll practise in Mama’s allotment shed so we won’t disturb the guests. We can show Neville he’s not the cock of the midden.’
‘We’ll have to have a name,’ Joy added. ‘Something pretty to go with our outfits.’
‘That’s just a detail. What we need is to sing in tune, play a few percussion bits and look “with it”, like beatniks.’ Connie was full of ideas now, not outfits.
‘Mummy will want us to look smart on stage,’ Joy argued. She was so plump, thought Connie, she’d look like a sack of potatoes in the full skirts and petticoats that were all the rage.
‘We’ll wear black, with scarves round our necks and cut-off trews like Audrey Hepburn,’ added Rosa who was heavily into the beat scene. ‘And ponytails, lots of black eye make-up and mascara.’
‘Mummy says we’re too young for eye make-up,’ Joy persisted, and they each gave her one of their stares.
‘Mummy says, Mummy says … We’re practically teenagers now, not babies. We do what w
e like.’ Rosa wouldn’t budge. ‘I’m not dressing like Shirley Temple.’
‘Oh, shut up, both of you. Let’s find a good song and learn it and see how we can dance and jig a bit. But don’t tell Nev. He’ll have a hissy fit if he’s not the boss of the show.’
‘But he is very good-looking,’ Joy offered.
‘Mamma says he’s a big soft quilt,’ Rosa replied.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ the Winstanley girls asked as one.
‘You know, a mummy’s boy … She never lets him do anything.’
‘Nev’s all right,’ Joy defended.
‘In small doses,’ Rosa replied.
‘Stop bitching, you two. Let’s get our act together. This is going to be fun.’
Soon they were all dashing from school to do their prep before changing into their trews and carrying the Dansette up the field to the shed for rehearsals. Connie was listening under the bedclothes to Radio Luxembourg into the small hours to find a good skiffle hit number, something a bit folksy that suited girls’ voices.
‘What about “Last Train to San Fernando”? We can do that with comb and paper, hooter and a tambourine. It has a swing to it, don’t you think?’
They practised for weeks, and Neville noticed their absence at the club.
‘What’s up?’
‘We’re doing something with Rosa, and she can’t come to our club ’cos she’s Catholic.’
‘They’ve plenty of clubs of their own without gatecrashing ours. So what’s so important that keeps you from listening to the Railroaders?’
‘Nothing,’ Connie smiled, seeing his lips purse just like his mother’s when she was thwarted.
‘You can tell me,’ he grinned, waiting for the gossip to unfold. ‘You’ve got a boyfriend at long last?’
‘Buzz off, I’m busy.’
‘Suit yourself,’ he snapped ‘But don’t forget the Youth Club Skiffle comp next week. We’re doing “Freight Train”.’
‘Better you than me; it’s fast,’ Connie replied.
‘So? Since when has your cousin ever been afraid of a challenge?’
‘Good luck,’ she waved, smiling sweetly. Now they had something to aim for too. May the best one win.
On the night of the competition, the girls tucked themselves in a corner of the Drill Hall out of sight. They’d painted their faces as if for the stage, with lashings of black mascara, eyeliner, and lips with ‘Gone Lilac’ lipstick from Woolworths. Their hair was scraped back into ponytails wrapped with gold and black scarves made from one of Auntie Su’s silk offcuts. They’d borrowed long droopy sweaters, worn over their black ballet tights and pumps. This was their Juliette Greco look.
They’d begged and borrowed enough instruments to qualify as a skiffle band but there was no guitar, only Rosa up front and Joy on the beat at the back.
‘Which one are you lot?’ shouted an official with his list. ‘I’ve got two Winstanleys. Are you the Railroaders?’
‘No,’ Connie blushed. In all their rehearsing they’d never agreed on a name.
‘Hurry up, I’ve not got all day.’
‘We’re the Silkies,’ Joy said, looking to them both and pointing to their scarves.
‘So we are,’ smiled Connie. She liked the name. It rolled off the tongue.
‘You’re number twenty … God help the poor judges. We’ve got a right load of rubbish here tonight. The rules is on the sheet: no swearing, no smoking on stage, nothing smutty or you’re off. Miss your turn and you’re out, so no sneaking off for a pint.’
Neville spotted them and came rushing across, his quifflacquered into a Tony Curtis do, his black shirt neatly pressed. ‘What’s all this? Come to lend your support? Dig the get-up!’ he exclaimed, taking in the girls’ outfits.
‘You’ve got competition. You’re not the only Winstanley who can sing!’ Connie replied with more bravado than she was feeling.
‘You dark horses! And behind my back too … lambs to the slaughter,’ he laughed. ‘Skiffle’s for guys, not girls. What are you going to attempt then?’
‘Wait and see.’ Rosa batted her thick black lashes at him.
‘Still, the outfit should cause a sensation, all that black leg on show. Gives our Joy a bit of shape too, very sensible.’ He eyed them up and down with a sly smile. ‘Break a leg then!’
‘And you too … both of them,’ muttered Rosa.
Neville paused. ‘I heard that. Any road, the trophy’s as good as ours from the lot I’ve seen so far. I don’t think you Winstanley Warblers are going to rattle my maracas.’
‘Just you wait and see …’ they all replied.
Sitting on the floor of the back room, waiting their turn, Connie felt stupid, trying to stay calm. After all, this was her idea. What if they died on stage and made fools of themselves? Neville would tease the life out of them. Her face was ashen under the panstick. ‘Oh heck, ifI go to the lav one more time …’
It was Rosa who steadied them. ‘This is no different from going on stage with the Liptrot Lovelies. Look how many godforsaken outfits we’ve had to dance in – prefabs, cold church halls, rickety platforms on top of pews – but we smiled and did the routines. Stare to the back and look up, don’t search out faces. We’ll be great.’
Then they stood on the side of the stage shaking as the compere announced them.
‘Give a hand to the Silkies, brave lasses come to challenge the lads. Rosa, Connie and Joy Winstans …’
They had a minute to set the microphones to their heights, to rearrange the stage, and all Connie could think about was how much leg they must be showing. Rosa was right: this was no different from any other performance. Turn, smile, take a deep breath and look as if you were born to it.
Connie shook the tambourine, Joy kept them to the beat with her makeshift drum and hooter, and Rosa sang her heart out. To her surprise they got more than a polite clap at the end. Bowing, scuttling off stage in a daze, all she could think of was that it was over. They twittered like starlings, unaware that the clapping continued.
‘Go back and do an encore … back on,’ yelled Neville from the wings.
‘But we haven’t rehearsed anything else to sing,’ Connie shouted.
‘Just go and do a reprise.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Do the last bit and chorus all over again, and enjoy your moment!’
Back they went, smiling, tripping over the wires in shock. Was ‘Last Train to San Fernando’ going to be the first train on the Silkies’ route to fame?
Sadly not. The Silkies got a special commendation but they didn’t make the last six. Neither did the Railroaders. Neville was looking at his cousins’ act with fresh eyes.
‘You need to polish this act – more instruments, more songs, a little more pizzazz – but you were good on stage.’ Then he whispered to Connie, ‘If only Joy wasn’t so dumpy; she spoils the look of you.’
‘She can’t help her puppy fat,’ Connie replied.
‘It’s Auntie Su who stuffs her with chips and puddings. She could be a real looker.’
‘Don’t you dare say anything. She’s very sensitive about her size,’ Connie warned, making sure Joy was out of earshot.
‘I think you could do with a mixed group – boys on drums and bass. I like the name though: smooth as silk … Let me think about it.’
And somehow after that Neville took them over as if they were his idea; introduced them to his own group, Barry, Stan and Roger, all spotty herberts in flannel shirts, who were not that keen on mixing with them either. After a few dismal rehearsals when everyone sat round listening to Neville sounding forth, his gang walked away to found yet another skiffle group, leaving him in the lurch.
‘You’re much better than them. I’ll try to get you some gigs,’ he smiled. And soon the Silkies were entertaining round the district for little more than a round of Vimto and crisps. Neville somehow pushed his way up front. He appointed himself as their manager on the strength of the fact that he had more acc
ess to a private telephone than they did. They even returned to Zion Youth Club to do a gig, but the minister was not keen on devil’s music so they had to tone it down to Negro spirituals, ‘Michael, Row the Boat Ashore’, and Rosa belting out a rendition of ‘I Believe’, the big hit that was almost a hymn.
They’d packed the schoolroom with friends and family. Even Auntie Ivy turned up, with Uncle Levi on her arm for once, looking like Shirley Bassey in her big fur stole. Nev was so embarrassed.
‘Mother, this is only a youth club gig, not the London Palladium.’
‘Darling, it’s the beginning of big things for you, but I’d get rid of the little dumpling on the back row. She spoils the act,’ said Ivy, in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, including Joy.
Connie saw Joy’s face crumple. ‘Take no notice, she’s only jealous. We’re young and she’s lost her figure and her face.’
‘But it’s true. Look at me – I’m fat and horrible,’ Joy cried, and tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘You’ll grow out of it … Any road, who cares? You keep the beat better than anyone else. You’re one of us, one of the team.’ It was the best Connie could say to comfort her cousin. Why did Ivy always spoil their fun? Why did she hate them so?
5
Joy
There was a window in the form room on the top storey of Moor Bank County Grammar School that looked out over the centre of the town, over the roof tiles and chimneys and the steeple of the Our Lady of Sorrows and the railway sidings, across to the great chimney of Standard’s Cotton Mill and Magellan’s Foundry. In a gap Joy could see the turrets of Connie’s school as it nestled in the foot of the hillside before the moors stretched far into the distance. She knew they would be finishing the last two periods of art. She knew Connie’s timetable better than her own.
She sometimes sneaked back up into this form just to catch a glimpse of Connie’s world because it seemed better than her scruffy building sandwiched in the middle of town; its red brick blackened with soot. She was supposed to be finishing off her chemistry, wrapped in her blue cotton overall that barely stretched across her tummy. They were doing experiments mixing chemicals over a Bunsen burner while Mr Kopek droned on about safety and not larking about. Joy hated her figure. She was the plumpest girl in her class when they undressed to do PE. They had to wear these bright blue romper suits for gym with knickers attached to a bodice that showed every curve.
Mothers and Daughters Page 4
