'Hey, and another thing baby face,' says Brenda. 'I was also told you grabbed some old woman's tit outside your shop.'
'What?'
The lads are enjoying this a bit too much. Only Amanda is not joining in, perhaps for obvious reasons.
'You dirty get,' laughs Ged.
I remember the old dear who bought the Teasmade. 'Oh that!'
'So it's true soft lad?'
'Yes it's true but...'
'No buts... bloody hell.'
The continuing mirth reaffirms that nobody really thinks I am a pervert, so I just wave away the accusations.
It is time to join the others to make our way to the back of the stage in readiness for our entrance. We have been through the set-list and made one or two compromises for the social club members, no more so than our opening number, the Vanity Fare song ‘Hitchin a Ride’. Ged had called it shite but accepted the importance of getting the middle-of-the-road audience on our side in order to throw in a few obscure numbers from our repertoire.
‘Let’s give a big St John's Club welcome to Plain Truth.’
Harry has given us our correct name. It is a heartening start. We manoeuvre the way to our positions and it is Ged, our most natural front man, who engages the people. Fortunately, he has toned down his normal over the top greetings, replacing it with a more sober and appropriate line for a social club.
‘Evening all! This is a hit from a couple of years ago, 'Hitchin’ a Ride'.’
Ged counts in and we’re off. The sound is tight, and things are going well until the vocal kicks in and a drumstick slips out of my right hand. The others carry on gamely as I lean across to retrieve it. Unfortunately, I trip over my floor tom and fall towards the front of the stage. I am saved from rolling off on to the polished wood dance floor by the quick reactions of Julian and Ged, but in doing so; they collide with Brian who ends up flat on his arse. The audience is laughing heartily, and as I remember the Talent Aplenty fire extinguisher incident, it really does appear that lightning can strike twice in the same place. Harry Carlton rescues the situation for us. The social club host comes on stage.
‘Let’s have a big round of applause for these jokers. I bet them a quid they wouldn’t have the nerve to start the act like this, and bugger me, I’ve just lost £1!’
Bless him.
As we get ready to start again, he turns and winks. Harry has just gone top of my Christmas card list.
Julian calls Brian and Ged to gather by my drums for a rallying call. ‘Listen chaps; I interpret that mishap as a sign. I suggest we drop the cabaret numbers.’
'See, I told you they were fucking crap.' Ged feels vindicated.
We all agree, and it proves to be an inspired move. There is a fair sprinkling of younger people in the audience and their reaction to our new opening number of ‘All the Young Dudes’ sets the tone. They love it, and we play the song better than we have before. The rest of the crowd seems quite happy. By the time we play ‘Johnny B Goode’ and ‘Chantilly Lace’, the dance floor is full to busting with people all having a great time. The performance is a triumph. We leave to an ovation, the members cheering until we return for an encore of ‘Rock Around the Clock’. I take my seat again behind the drums and have a sip on my coke only to let the glass slip through my fingers and fall to the floor. Fortunately, the gods are on my side again because it does not smash and we are able to maintain the momentum of our performance. I take this as a good sign.
The performance over, we take our final bow in front of the crowd. After a dodgy start, the gig has gone without a hitch, though before we leave, I have to endure one almost customary indignity. I am not aware that the spilt drink has produced a wet patch the size of a football around my crotch. I wave to acknowledge the cheers and applause of the audience looking like some imbecile who has pissed himself at the excitement of it all.
The manager of the club is delighted and offers us a regular Friday night residency for a fee of £25. It does not take us long to agree. We all see it as a chance to fine-tune our act for the future. As they say, practice makes perfect.
About an hour later, we have packed all the gear into the van and are ready to head home, when Julian says he is going in Amanda’s Mini with Ged and Brenda. There is a minor sense of anti-climax, sharing a somewhat lonely journey back with the less than talkative, pot-smoking Brian as the driver. However, nothing can undo my good mood this evening. After one or two false starts, this really does feel like the beginning, and the beginning of something special. I am sure the others agree with me on that one, Julian on two counts. I think he is falling in love. I just hope he knows what he is doing.
*
I am currently enjoying a real busman’s holiday. Roddy is off for a fortnight, and the geriatric has asked me to look after the musical instruments section in his absence. To spend the working day surrounded by guitars, keyboards, and drums is fantastic, though I am not having any real success with sales. So far this week, I have shifted a mouth organ, two sets of guitar strings and a few recorders. The geriatric expects improved results in the next few days; not that I feel under any pressure. I am still buzzing from last weekend’s St John's club gig and looking forward to this coming Friday’s turn.
‘Are you there Tom?’
I am tidying under the counter and immediately recognise the soft tones of Sofia's voice. The question shocks me so much that I whack my head on the mahogany frame as I straighten up. If this were Tom & Jerry, I would now be seeing stars.
'Are you OK?' she says.
I feel for a lump on my head that is not there yet.
‘Yes.’ My response is as brief as the drum roll and cymbal theme tune to the consumer affairs programme on Granada, This Is Your Right.
We stand there, waiting for one of us to say something. I suppose the onus is on me to break the silence. I am the salesman and should be enquiring as to how I may help. My question, when it arrives, is rather brusque.
‘How do you know my name is Tom?’
‘To be honest, your badge is a bit of a help.’
‘Oh God.’
I had completely forgotten about the 'Tom Kellaway - Sales Assistant' attached to my kipper tie. It really should say 'Tom Kellaway - Dickhead'. I gaze at her beautiful, sympathetic face and realise straight away that I am right back where I started. Following the heated exchange in the car park of the Jockey & Horse, I have enjoyed a few days respite from my debilitating fixation with her. Until this moment, I genuinely thought I had moved on, but not so. I am as smitten as ever, my heart sinking fast.
'Actually,' she looks over her shoulder, checking to see if anyone is listening, 'I've come here to say sorry for my outburst last week.' She maintains eye contact with me as she speaks.
‘Sofia, I think I'm the one who should be...'
She grips my arm, and electricity jolts me. 'Tom, I know you meant well.'
I hear a deliberate cough and see the geriatric in the distance standing next to the televisions. He sends me a less than subtle signal to sell.
‘Why don’t you just fuck off,’ I say under my breath.
‘Oh....’ Sofia removes her hand from my arm.
‘God not you... the manager. Christ, here he comes.'
The store’s chief is heading in my direction, and the look on that face with more wrinkles than an elephant's scrotum is far from pleased.
‘Excuse me Mr. Kellaway.’
‘Yes?’
‘Did I hear you mouth an offensive expletive in front of one of our customers?’ His tone is dripping in righteous indignation.
Sofia rescues me from my hesitancy. ‘I’m sorry, but I think you must have misheard. Your assistant here has been extremely courteous and polite in his dealings with me.’
'Has he?' The geriatric is both sceptical and disappointed with this alibi. He really is a miserable old get.
'Yes, I am interested in buying a guitar.'
'Oh I see.' His demeanour is transformed to that of Uriah Heap. 'Please accept my sincere a
pologies for the misunderstanding madam. I will leave you in the capable hands of Mr. Kellaway.'
He wrings his hands and makes his way back to the main shop floor, though not before he shoots a glance in my direction that has one clear message. 'Sell'.
I lift down a Fender ‘F’ Series Dreadnought.
‘Can you play?’ she asks.
‘A little.’
She interprets my reply as false modesty. In reality, it is the truth.
‘Go on then.’
‘What?’
‘Play me a song.’
‘I can’t... not in the shop.’
‘Tom, I’m not asking you to play Alice Cooper.'
I am acutely aware that I do not have any songs to perform. I cannot for a number of reasons countenance the idea of playing the song Sofia, though just holding the guitar is giving me a confidence that has previously been absent. Perhaps having a six-string slung permanently over my shoulder is the answer. My thoughts jump to the fantasy of a desert island getaway with a love triangle of me, Sofia and a Gibson Hummingbird. I gently strum without a plectrum. It is nothing fancy, but in the reflection from the scratch plate of the guitar, I can see a smile on her face. Then we start talking.
Sofia tells me that she has just turned nineteen, that she left school in the summer after getting three ‘A’ levels, and that she is currently working part-time for her father while she decides what to do with her life. One option is to go and live with her grandmother for a while in Tuscany. Her father is an Italian immigrant who went from selling ice creams to owning a chain of jewellery shops in the North West. Her mother is a local but makes wonderful homemade spaghetti. They all live in a house that backs on to the Royal Liverpool Golf Club in between Hoylake and West Kirby. She does, however, spend a fair amount of time staying at her cousin's in Wallasey, which is why she shops occasionally in Liscard, and why she sometimes attends a local event such as the 99 club disco. I really want to ask her about Danny, but there is no mention of him. Her words provide no clue, but I lack the courage to probe further.
It is now my turn to talk, and after Sofia’s references to an impressive home near West Kirby, Italy, jewellery shops and academic success, my back story of a terraced house, a fitter, a cake factory worker and a dead-end job at Strathconas is as empty as a vagrant’s bottle of methylated spirits. As for our culinary cross-references, her mother’s authentic Italian spaghetti versus my dad’s baked bean pie is a mismatch on par with Mohammed Ali fighting Charles Hawtrey. Nevertheless, she listens politely, and I do not pick up any signs of disapproval. She may be from a well-to-do background, but she is clearly no snob.
'Will all customers make their way to the exits? The store is about to close. Hurry up now.'
The monotone Wirral accent of the geriatric’s wife comes over the tannoy, her words spoken at the pace of a snail with heatstroke. The approach adopted to empty the store at the end of the day is modelled on closing time at the local pub, where a bit of rudeness is necessary because the customers are pissed. It always strikes me as inappropriate for this shop to embrace the same method. Today, just as I am getting to know more about Sofia, it is particularly galling.
'I repeat; will all customers make their way to the exits. The store is about to close. Come on, we all have homes to go to you know.'
Just before she leaves, Sofia buys a recorder for her nephew. I tell her about our Friday night residency at the St John's Social Club, and she says she will try to make it. I am not too sure if that will happen; a social club does not seem her bag, but I hold on to the hope.
When we have said our goodbyes, the geriatric comes up to me to discuss sales. He gives me a contemptuous glare of condemnation, when I tell him I have sold a recorder. However, I am on such a high from my time with Sofia that I really could not give a shit.
‘You’d do better lad to concentrate more on your job and less on the ladies.’
Well, he should know I suppose.
'The store is now closed. Right Gerald, time to go home. I’ve got pans to scrub.'
11. Villanova
I am walking up Seabourne Road with a spring in my step, enjoying the week off work. I have arranged to meet the boys at Julian’s to watch England’s qualifying game against Wales for the 1974 World Cup. This is a rare night off from the band. We have practised regularly during the last few weeks and played the Social Club gig for the last three Fridays. It is gratifying to see that we are getting better with every performance, and we are now looking out for bigger venues to play. The only downside for me has been the absence of Sofia from any of our dates. Even though I never really expected her to turn up, it has not stopped me glancing periodically across to the club entrance in the vain hope that she makes an appearance.
The far end of Seabourne Road is like something from the Ideal Homes Exhibition. The normal convention within house building is identikit standardisation, as evidenced by the terraced properties in my mum and dad’s street that are almost militaristic in their uniformity. The dwellings here have as many different shapes and sizes as a row of twelve year-old boys lining up for a cross-country run. Each architect has gone out of his way to produce something more daring and avant-garde than his competitor. I walk past a split-level house with shuttered windows, balcony, and wide apex roof. Adjacent to a couple of flourishing palm trees in the front garden, there is an American style post box, attached to which is a wood-grained plate displaying the name 'Villanova'. An immaculate bottle green MG sports car is taking pride of place on the coloured stone driveway, which slopes away at a steep gradient to an underground double garage. Hang on... a bottle green MG sports car?
My mind races back to the car park in the Jockey & Horse. I look at the registration plate, CCW 736K, and I know it is the same car. I might forget a name or a face, but I never forget a car reg. It appears that my nemesis, Danny the Irish charmer, lives in the same road as Julian. I have walked past this house countless times, and yet strangely, I have never seen him. A clandestine glimpse through the large front window of the split-level property provides no insight, and I am soon further down the road approaching Julian’s.
It is the first question I ask my friend when he answers the door. ‘Jules, do you know that house over there called Villanova?’
‘The split level?’
‘Yeah… does a guy called Danny live there? Big lad, good looking bastard, about nine feet tall’
Julian looks perplexed. ‘No... it’s Mrs. Moretti, the teacher from Alderhouse.'
Perhaps the MG is a different car, but I am not convinced. Then just as Jules is about to guide me inside, I see Sofia come out of Villanova to retrieve something from the vehicle. Something clicks in my mind. I hesitate.
‘Jules, remember the two girls on the tuck shop at the youth club that night when Dracula threw me out?’
‘I think so.’
‘Well, was one of them Mrs. Moretti’s daughter?’
‘Let me see.’ He scratches his head before he remembers. ‘Yes, yes, I do believe you’re right old chap.’
Wearing an imaginary deerstalker and puffing on an imaginary pipe, I deduce that Mrs. Moretti's daughter is the cousin with whom Sofia stays when she visits the area. My heart sinks again. Danny is still in Sofia’s life. Why else would his car be there?
Julian senses the sudden change in my mood. ‘What’s up Tom? Why all the questions?’
‘Do you have a few moments?’ I feel that now is Father Confessor time. I lower my voice. ‘It’s about the other girl on the tuck stall that night.’
In a whisper, Julian speaks conspiratorially. 'Certainly old man, come through here.'
He leads me along the hall, past the drawing room and through to the conservatory. In contrast to our house, the rooms here mirror those in Cluedo... I do not recall anyone asking if it was Professor Plum with the stale pickled onion in the front room. I hear the ever-boisterous Ged with Brian in the lounge but ignore the background noise.
I tell Julian abou
t my encounters with Sofia. There was the first meeting in the listening booth and her knack for being on hand to witness my humiliations at the Youth Club and on the blind date with Brenda. Then I speak of her visits to Strathconas on my first morning of work and a few months later when we discovered a mutual admiration for Mott the Hoople. There was the argument in the Jockey & Horse car park, and then the discussion in the music department with me playing guitar, when we finally discovered a few things about one another. I also tell him about Danny, concluding with the misery of seeing the MG parked outside his neighbour's house.
Julian strokes his chin with an arched forefinger, absorbing the information. After a short pause, he delivers his verdict. He does not look like a wizened sage, but he certainly acts like one. ‘First things first my man, Sofia clearly likes you; that’s quite apparent from the things she has said. But it may well be that you’re just the light relief, an uncomplicated, no attachments sort of liaison. You make her feel better about herself because of the unconditional attention you subconsciously or otherwise lavish upon her. I have to say my friend that her real passion is probably this Danny because he’s dangerous and rougher at the edges, which she finds exciting and exhilarating, despite the arguments and the emotional ups and downs. It's very likely their disputes are about Danny’s infidelity or flirtations with the opposite sex. Yet Sofia is young and will think he will change with her guidance.’ Julian discerns a jaded and dejected air about me as I listen to this damning prognosis. He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m sorry Tom. Of course, I might be wrong but...'
‘'No, no, I'm sure you're right.'
My friend's insight is astonishing. He has analysed everything with remarkable clarity. He really ought to have his own agony column in Woman’s Own, though there is the paradox. The besotted Julian remains blind to his own situation with Amanda. Perhaps her wandering hands have scarred me, but it is hard for me to believe she warrants his devotion.
I am hardly the most tactile person and so offer my right hand for Julian to shake. 'Cheers pal, let's go and watch some football.'
'Good idea... that’s the spirit.'
I walk through to the lounge with Jules and remember the last time I was here when Amanda was draped beguilingly across the cream leather of the settee. Tonight's view is rather different. Brian is slumped back on a chair with his legs so wide apart; he appears to be in the early stages of a breech delivery. The fact he is dressed like a Red Indian further confuses my sensibilities. Ged has a pint of bitter in his hand and is morphing by the second into a football partisan.