by CL Skelton
They rested a moment, and Paul caught Albert’s eye. He went to step down from the stage, suddenly cast down into a world of family and duty, but Albert made a curt little nod and a small smile, said something to his companion, a stranger in a trench coat and hat, and after another few moments, they quietly went away.
‘Hey, who’s the gear old guy?’ a girl asked suddenly.
‘He’s Albert Chandler,’ said Paul stiffly, knowing that would mean nothing, and suddenly resenting it. Then he said, ‘He’s my uncle.’
‘Hey, keep cool, man,’ she said shyly. ‘I like him. He’s,’ she paused, ‘he’s, you know, sort of real.’
Paul was sorry that Albert had left without speaking to him, but he was not too surprised. The Club was pretty grotty, in its way. He really hadn’t expected Albert’s London friend to like it much. Still, it was nice of them to come. He ran his fingers down the strings of his guitar, fretting lightly, with an imaginative left hand, teasing out the next song, and a soft moan went about the room.
Paul didn’t see Albert until the next day. He had not expected to see him at all. But Albert rang him, unexpectedly, at the crash-pad of a flat off the harbour side that he shared with three of the Guttie Boys when he wasn’t at Hardacres or, rarely, at Kilham. They’d only recently put a telephone in, and done so because the need to be available and reachable for gigs had become important. Albert asked to meet him at a café down on the Promenade and, yet surprised, he agreed.
He dressed hurriedly, washing sleep from his face in the ghastly bathroom of the flat. Greg was asleep in his own room and Geordie was tucked up in a corner of the sitting-room, if you can call a bare floor with three cushions and an Indian durry a sitting-room, with a young lady with knee-length red hair. Geordie woke, blinking, as Paul stepped over them.
‘Sorry,’ he said, trying not to wake the sleeping girl as well, ‘I need my jacket.’
He lifted it, a heap of worn denim, from the floor by Geordie’s head. Geordie stretched, his hands under the blanket exploring the unexpected pleasure of his companion’s young body beside him. ‘Hey, look, you’re not going home, or anything?’ he said.
‘I’m going to meet Albert. He just rang.’
Geordie was silent. He looked through squinting eyes about the morning light of the flat, staring at the peeling wallpaper.
‘You’re not bringing him here, are you?’ he said, with sudden concern.
‘Of course not.’ Geordie looked relieved and closed his eyes. ‘Hey, look, mate, don’t, you know, say anything, okay?’
‘Jesus Christ, do you think I’m an idiot?’
‘Maybe. You’ve an awful big mouth sometimes. I mean,’ Geordie hoisted himself up on one bare elbow, suddenly serious, ‘I really don’t want anyone …’ he paused, ‘I don’t want my dad to know about this, you understand. I really don’t want him to know.’
‘You must think I’m a total ass,’ said Paul. ‘Relax, the last person I’d tell would be Sam.’
He went out into the misty, salty air. The day was grey, but would clear. He knew the type. After he saw Albert he’d maybe go down to the beach and lie in the sun. It had been a hard night, with another ahead. He could use the rest. Maybe he’d go down to the harbour and cadge a lift on someone’s boat. He liked the sea.
Albert was waiting for him at the café. He was sitting, inappropriate and dignified as always, at a little Formica table, on a little tubular metal and plastic-padded chair. Paul wished in his heart he could somehow create the world anew, or again, rather, for Albert, and surround him always with oak panelled walls, brocade upholstery, velvet draperies. Like at Hardacres, he thought suddenly, wishing Albert would just move in with Sam and Mavis and knowing, though welcome, he never would. Paul smiled as he entered, and saw to his surprise that the trench-coated gentleman was sitting by Albert’s side.
They stood up as Paul entered. Albert said, ‘I’d like you to meet an old friend, Paul. Matt Goldman. Matt, this is my nephew, Paul Barton.’ The man shook his hand and smiled and they all sat down. He was Albert’s age at least, but he didn’t dress like Albert. Under the trench-coat he wore denim jeans and a roll-neck sweater and a silver medallion hung around his neck. His glasses were the old rimless kind that were suddenly fashionable again, and shaded faintly green. ‘Matt’s in the music business,’ said Albert then. He smiled and said, ‘Coffee? Breakfast maybe?’ He looked understanding, as well he might have been. Musicians, like all stage people, worked late, and rose with some difficulty.
‘Just coffee, please, sir. Let me get it. And for you.’ He always hated taking anything from Albert. He knew how broke he was.
‘You paid last time,’ Albert said, and Paul knew he had to let it rest.
‘Albert tells me you’ve not signed with anyone yet,’ said Matt Goldman.
‘Signed?’
‘Your recording rights. You’ve not signed …’
‘I don’t record, sir,’ said Paul, with something of the ingenuous modesty that had always marked his uncle’s career.
Matt Goldman grinned, amused. ‘Yet,’ he said. ‘The word is “yet”.’
‘Sir?’
‘I think, Paul, that we have here the East Riding’s answer to the Beatles.’ Paul laughed and shook his head, but he wasn’t modest about his ability; he knew he was good.
He said, ‘Give me time,’ laughing again.
‘All the time in the world, son. Come to London on Monday. I’ll meet you off the train. Bring all your gear, and be ready to stay a while.’ Paul blinked. The man drew a card from his pocket, and handed it across the coffee-stained Formica table.
‘United Studios, Shepherd’s Bush,’ he said.
Paul just looked at the card. His eyes came up slowly as he understood. He said in a whisper, half-looking at Albert, ‘Did you come all this way just to hear us, sir?’
‘Every step of it.’ The man leaned back, sliding his shaded glasses up on to his forehead. ‘To tell the truth, son, I came because your uncle asked me. Your uncle gave me my first job, when I was the worst damned trombone player in London. He had no taste, but a big heart,’ he grinned at Albert, a grin of their own generation that passed metaphorically over Paul’s head. ‘I came up to say thank you. But I don’t offer recording contracts out of sentiment, you can be sure. And I’m damned glad I came.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Albert, I have to go. I’ve a train to catch.’ They stood, shook hands again, once more in their own adult world and Matt Goldman, with a brief nod to Paul, went out of the door.
Paul turned to his uncle, his eyes filled with amazed gratitude, but before he could speak, Albert said, ‘Now, you’re sure this is what you want? Not Italy, and Puccini?’
Paul smiled and shook his head. ‘Puccini’s been around a while, Uncle Albert. He’ll wait for me. Just now, this is my way.’
After he parted with his uncle, Paul Barton walked, as he had planned, down to the strip of yellow stony sand facing the summer blue waters of Bridlington bay. He walked along Beaconsfield Promenade, and went down on to the sand below the Victoria Terraces, and sat in the sun leaning against the seaweed-smelling stone wall, looking out at the yachts on the sea. Then he got up, stretching, went and bought himself a hot dog and ate it as he wandered along to the Harbour. He went out on the North Pier, to its end, and then made his way back, looking at the boats, passing Sam Hardacre’s Dainty Girl moored in her usual place. He smiled. He’d had fun out on her, over the years. He made his way to the Harbour Top, where the fishermen gathered in the early mornings, walked round to the South Pier and went out along that. He was basking, not just in the sunshine, but in his sudden, extraordinary fortune. He knew, for certain, that he was on the edge of a momentous step in his life. He felt he should go and tell Geordie, but he didn’t, not yet. Anyhow, Geordie was happy enough with his redhead, and besides, Paul wanted just a little time alone, to savour in solitude a moment that would come but once.
He sat on a bench in the sun, aware of two young girls looking at h
im, pointing and giggling. He smiled, but did not invite their company. It always amazed him that they sought him, and watched him, and treated him as some odd sort of hero. He knew he was none of those things. He was just Paul Barton who, by the grace of God, could sing. That was all.
Across the Harbour he saw a familiar long grey open car arrive, its driver waving to someone as he brought it to a halt, his grey hair, silvery in the strong sun, matching the motor car rather pleasantly. The man got out, lifted a small dark-haired child out of the car and carried her on his arm as he walked up the Pier. He stopped every few feet to point to one or another of the boats in the water. As he got closer, Paul smiled. But the man stopped then, meeting an old fisherman in a worn cotton smock, who extended his one good arm to the little girl, and took her from her father, grinning and making faces. The two stood together, the child between them. Paul got up suddenly to wave, but heard a voice behind say with sour envy, ‘Eh, look. There’s bluidy Sam Hardacre, takin’ time off from countin’ his money.’
‘Aye,’ said an invisible companion. ‘Bluidy great house in t’ country. Drives a bluidy Jaguar. Some folk have all the luck.’
Paul froze. If it had been Geordie, there would have been a fist fight. Geordie had pasted a good few for remarks about his stepfather. That was Geordie’s way. But not Paul. He just rose, straight-backed and stiff, like Albert Chandler, and walked with dignity away towards Sam. But as he went, his eyes on his cousin yet, he heard behind him words that chilled him more.
‘Oh aye, true enough. But yon’s the one to really watch. Aye. There. Young Paul Barton. T’ bluidy songbird. He’s the one with a fortune at his feet, a’reeght. Yon’s the one with the real Hardacre luck.’
THE END
The Maclarens by CL Skelton
From the international bestselling author of the Hardacre Family Saga
A powerful tale about wealthy nineteenth century Scottish Highlanders, and their family regiment. War, secrets and betrayal cast a shadow over the Maclarens from the battlefield to the drawing-room.
Young Andrew Maclaren, a brave yet sensitive soldier, faces the danger of conflicts in India and China. He must choose between the regiment he serves and the woman he loves.
Willie Bruce, Andrew's childhood friend and fellow soldier, discovers loyalty is not always rewarded.
Maud Westburn, beautiful but damaged, is the woman who loves them both. Will this love tear a family, and a regiment, apart?
A sweeping saga about passion and honour, and the senseless brutality of war.
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A Shaft of Light by John Finch
From the acclaimed creator and writer of the classic television family sagas A Family at War and Sam. Previously published as Cuddon Return.
The poignant story of four young people as they emerge into the glaring shaft of light presented by the onset of the Second World War. In a Yorkshire mining village of the 1930’s Depression, families struggle to survive the harsh deprivations of working class life, and to keep hope, spirit and dignity alive.
Shopkeeper’s son Denis questions what the future may hold for him. The advent of war shows him the possibilities of a life far from all he knows. But his best friend, Ted, from the poorest part of the village, dreams only of becoming a man and starting to work down the pit, like his father before him. Both boys are drawn to Jean, a bold young woman who already has a ‘reputation’ among the villagers. Meanwhile, Jessie, Ted’s sister, lives her life through books, and gains a scholarship to High School. Will that be enough to escape a life of drudgery?
The four youngsters must deal with the challenges and responsibilities of growing up, as they experience death, love, desire and their consequences. As their lives change forever, the seeds are sown for the conflicts that their generation will face once peace finally comes.
John Finch was creator and writer of many classic television series transmitted in the UK and internationally, including A Family At War, Sam, This Year Next Year, The Spoils of War and Flesh and Blood, and many others, with audiences exceeding 25 million. He was the first trainee writer on Coronation Street, starting with episode 24, and later became editor and producer. He also wrote and adapted many plays for ITV and the BBC, and was a drama consultant in the UK and abroad. He edited the Granada Television history, The First Generation.
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Sara Dane by Catherine Gaskin
The international bestseller available as an ebook for the first time
Sara Dane is the story of an eighteenth-century young Englishwoman who is sentenced for a crime she did not commit and transported to Australia. The novel follows Sara’s struggle to raise herself from the status of a convict to a position of wealth and power. She faces many challenges, from the savage voyage aboard a convict ship to the corruption and prejudice rife in New South Wales. Life in the Colony is harsh, and Sara has to contend with natural disasters and convict outbreaks, as well as the snobbery of the high society she wishes to enter.
Sara’s life is also influenced in often surprising ways by the men who love her, childhood sweetheart Richard Barwell, ship’s officer-turned-landowner Andrew Maclay, Frenchman Louis de Bourget and the Irish political prisoner Jeremy Hogan. Sara Dane is a sweeping historical novel full of adventure, romance, rivalries, double-dealing and murder.
During her lifetime Catherine Gaskin’s books sold over 40 million copies worldwide, and she was known as ‘The Queen of Storytellers’. Sara Dane is arguably her best known work, an international bestseller, it was also made into a popular TV mini-series. This is the first digital edition of Sara Dane, published to coincide with the 60th anniversary of the novel’s début.
‘A fine sweep of urgent vitality.’ The Times
‘Most readable. A big book with a sustained dramatic power.’ London Evening Standard
‘A grand story.’ Yorkshire Evening Post
‘A magnificent piece of evocative writing.’ Glasgow Herald
‘Rarely a story of the lands down under has this quality.’ Kirkus Reviews
‘An extremely readable novel.’ Argus (Melbourne)
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Chasing Shadows by J Carmen Smith
Chasing Shadows: A family saga from Spain to Liverpool. The Number 1 bestseller.
Part family saga, part memoir, this compelling book tells the true story of Micaela, a Spanish immigrant to Liverpool at the turn of the last century. It is also the story of her granddaughter’s search, one hundred years later, for her own lost heritage and the truth about Micaela’s early life.
Chasing Shadows is Micaela’s story, from her birth in Santiago de Compostela in the late 1870s, to her death in Liverpool in 1950. The story unfolds as tragic events alter the course of Micaela’s life, taking her from a comfortable life in nineteenth century Spain to a poor, working class environment in early twentieth century Liverpool.
In Liverpool, she meets the Spanish seaman whom she marries in 1907. Chasing Shadows tells of their life together, the difficulties they face in a foreign land, their hopes and disappointments. It tells of Micaela’s failure to fully
adapt to her new environment and how this affects her eldest daughter’s life as Pilar is torn between two cultures, two languages and two religions after making a hasty marriage.
Chasing Shadows is also the story of Micaela’s granddaughter. It tells of her travels through northern Spain in search of her lost heritage, as she explores the culture and the landscape that Micaela left behind. Seemingly chance meetings influence her search, helping her, after many false leads and dead ends, to unearth the secrets of past generations.
From nineteenth century Spain to Liverpool during the Second World War, this moving family story is for fans of Ruth Hamilton, Helen Forrester and TV show Who Do You Think You Are?
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