‘And which one of you sporty boys won the game?’
Julian edges one to the slips. ‘I’m afraid he beat me. I had no answer to his delicate touch.’
‘He 'beat you' and he had a 'delicate touch'. My word, that’s what I call the best of both worlds.’ Roger sounds more like Dick Emery by the second. ‘Are you going to 'come' again tomorrow?’
The £1 lifetime membership has turned out to be daylight robbery.
*
I have said my goodbyes to Julian and am heading back to Strathconas for the afternoon shift. Beneath my feet, I see an empty Park Drive cigarette packet and start to kick it as I walk along Liscard Road. In my head, I am Brian Hall passing the ball out wide to Steve Heighway who shimmies past the defender and sends a wonderful ball across into the penalty box where John Toshack is running in to blast the ball into the back of the net.
'Pick that up lad.'
I glance up to see a police officer with a big helmet and stern expression. I do as I am told and walk sheepishly away to place it in a bin by the zebra crossing. As I discard the make-do football, I see the back of a green MG sports car driving away from the town centre. Sofia? I curse. Has she just been to the shop? Roddy has been covering for me during the lunch hour, and so I quicken my step, anxious to discover the answer to my question.
Inside the store there are no customers in the record department, only Roddy tidying some of the album sleeve racks. He sees me approaching.
'Hey Tom, someone has just been in here asking for you... very pretty girl.' He has volunteered the information in his softly spoken tones before I even ask.
My pace drops but my heartbeat increases and spirits lift. 'Did she leave a message?'
'No... she bought that 'Crocodile Rock' single and ordered the album due out next month.'
'What exactly did she say?' I am doing my best to hide any hint of hysteria in my voice.
'You seem pretty keen on this girl.'
'Well, erm, I...'
'I don't blame you for a minute. She's a very attractive young woman.' Roddy delivers his verdict like a maiden aunt to her favourite nephew. 'Anyway, I was just serving her and she asked where you were... that's all.'
'Oh.'
Roddy senses a little anti-climax on my part. 'But she was very disappointed that you were out.'
'Was she?'
'Very much so.'
This buoys me up, and I join him behind the counter. 'Where's the order?' I am breathless as I talk.
The quiet Scot raises both eyebrows and smirks as he passes the buff coloured book to me. I quickly thumb through its pink pages, until I get to the latest entry. It reads:
TITLE: Don't Shoot Me I'm Only the Piano Player
ARTIST: Elton John
LABEL: DJM Records
RELEASE DATE: 26th January 1973
CUSTOMER NAME: Sofia Moretti
CUSTOMER ADDRESS n/a
PHONE NO: West Kirby 6841
I have her contact number but not her address. There is a telephone directory under the counter, which I grab. I search frantically for the surname Moretti. There are two entries. The first is 22 Seabourne Road, Wallasey, and the other, 12 Leas Hay, West Kirby. There is no excuse now. The ball is in my court.
A few seconds later, there is an explosion... not exactly Hiroshima but an explosion nonetheless. The fire alarm immediately starts ringing, and we exit the building along with the rest of the staff and the few customers in the store. Jack from Home Electricals appears wearing a devastated expression, the type you see on the face of locals in a news bulletin when an earthquake measuring 8.0 on the Richter scale has just wreaked devastation in their area. Jack’s trauma is less newsworthy. He explains that his favourite product, the vacuum cleaner that floats on a cushion of air, has spontaneously combusted. He is bereft, with the air of a man whose belief systems have collapsed around him. I want to tell him that it is only a vacuum cleaner, but I do not think he will be listening.
The Fire Brigade soon arrives to contain the small fire that has ensued. The geriatric looks a relieved man at the outcome. He is heard thanking God that very little stock is affected. It does not go unnoticed that he has given no thought as to the staff’s welfare. I see an image in my head of him punching the air with joy that a Sony Trinitron TV is undamaged, while Betty from the Cash Office burns to a crisp.
The good news for me is that the shop is to remain closed for the rest of the day. I now have a free afternoon, and I quickly decide what to do.
I race to the number 10 stop just in time to catch the bus to Birkenhead Park Station. After a five minute wait on the platform, I am on the train to West Kirby, a trip of about twenty-five minutes. I try to put thoughts of Sofia out of my mind. I want this afternoon to remain spontaneous. I therefore spend the journey gazing out of the window at the houses, the trees and the fields, listening to the metronomic rhythm of the wheels on the railway tracks... I wish my drumming was as efficient.
I emerge from West Kirby Station into the frostiness of this December day, biting even with its bright sunshine and clear blue sky. I stroll past a tearoom and almost expect to see Trevor Howard and Celia Johnson enjoying a Brief Encounter. I buy a street map from a local newsagent who oddly resembles Adolf Hitler without the moustache and search for Leas Hay. It is located at the Hoylake end of Meols Drive, and I realise that I should have alighted at the station before West Kirby. I now have a long walk. The adrenaline that has driven me here is beginning to subside, feeding doubts as to the wisdom of my actions. Nonetheless, I press on.
I pass my first landmark on the right, St Andrew’s Church, and I glance across to see the increasingly grand properties on the opposite side of the road. Built from red brick, terracotta and timber framing, they are set well back from the main road, their fronts hidden by shrubs and trees flourishing in the spacious front gardens. It is more than evident that Sofia lives in a locale somewhat more prosperous than my own. If the analogy was a car, this is Jaguar territory, and mine is a homemade go-kart with the wheels hanging off and the rope steering mechanism frayed to within an inch of snapping.
I eventually turn into Leas Hay, a small lane off Meols Drive, and I tentatively approach number 12. There is a long, crescent-shaped gravel driveway that splits in two, in one direction towards the front of the house and in the other towards a large garage, outside of which is parked Sofia's MG in front of a maroon coloured Jaguar Mk II. I was right about the car analogy. I have butterflies in my stomach when I walk past the gate and hear the crunch of my desert boots on the red stones. What am I doing here? What am I going to say? What if Danny is in the house? There are countless doubts now flashing through my mind, and I am very close to running back to the station. However, a little voice tells me to go on, and for once, I hear and obey its command.
The Jaguar Mk II is my favourite motor car of all time, mainly because I used to pass one every morning on my way to primary school, after dodging the dog poo and streams of wee in the entry. I would be awestruck, gazing at the dials and markings of the speedometer. Speeds of 130 or 140 mph were the stuff of dreams as a child. If my dad’s car ever reached 35 mph, it was enough for me to imagine I was an astronaut re-entering the earth’s atmosphere. I find myself taking a quick detour to stop and stare at the walnut fascia and the sumptuous leather upholstery of the luxury vehicle. It takes a familiar voice to shock me into the here and now.
‘Hello, can I help you?’
'Sofia.'
She is next to me with a cardboard box on the floor by her side.
'Hello Tom.'
‘I’m erm...'
'Trying to steal my dad's car?'
'No...'
She laughs and affectionately touches my upper arm with her gloved hand. I relax. She is happy to see me.
'I'm off to set up a stall for a Craft Fair tonight. Would you like to join me?'
Sofia looks fantastic in a red smock coat with white fur edging, not a million miles away from Father Christmas but three
billion times more captivating. A chorus the size of Westminster Choir screams for me to accept the invitation.
'Brilliant. I'd love to.' At the age of eighteen, I never expected to feel such elation at the prospect of involvement in the world of lace doilies, knitted toilet roll covers, and hedgehogs dressed in candy-striped dungarees.
‘Shouldn’t you be in work?’ she asks.
‘Well thanks to an exploding Hoover, I’ve got the afternoon off.’ I explain about the minor 999 emergency from earlier.
‘And so you thought you’d come here to double-check that order for Elton John’s new album?’
‘Sort of...’
‘I must remember to be more careful with my contact details in the future.’
‘Right...’
She sees a slight flicker of alarm in my reaction. ‘I’m joking stupid. I’m glad you came.’ She again touches my arm and the world feels good. ‘Come on, we best get going.' She unlocks the boot of the MG and lifts the box inside. 'How's your toe by the way?’
'Much better thank you.'
Elton John is playing on the car's cassette player. We talk about the meaning of ‘Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters’ for the duration of the journey, to some a waste of five minutes, but today it seems a very natural and the right thing to do. Sofia parks the car on Hoylake Promenade in sight of the vast expanse of sand dunes that stretch out some distance towards Liverpool Bay on the horizon. We cross the road to the community hall with me carrying the box. The premises appear to be a converted school. It has a corridor that threads its way through the building with a number of glass-fronted rooms on either side. I am seven again and can almost smell the chalk, the stale milk, and Miss Goldfield’s perfume. Sofia guides us into the last room on the left. Inside there are three trestle tables set out in a U-shape. Two have assorted craft goods on display while the third is empty, and so I place the box on this one.
'Gee whizz, it's cold in here,' says Sofia.
'I know.' I blow into my cupped hands to generate some warmth. 'Here, let me turn this on.'
The three-bar electrical fire with its artificial glowing coals looks incongruous against the background of the green-varnished bricks climbing up the lower reaches of the wall behind. I try the switch, but it fails to heat up. Sofia has a word with someone who promises to get help. In the meantime, we load the tabletop with a variety of hand-painted woodland creature figurines, from foxes to badgers, red squirrels to owls, and rabbits to deer, all dressed to the nines.
'Where are these little fellas from?' I ask.
'My aunt makes the figures and I do the clothes.'
'You must have a small sewing machine.'
'Hand sewn, if you don't mind.'
The adjacent table has goods on display that appear to be paying homage to Ancient Greece. There are painted plates with images of Greek soldiers, a few mini Acropolis models, and a selection of gargoyles.
'Bloody hell.'
'What's up?' says Sofia.
'Look at the gargoyles.'
'Oh my God!'
I have notice that each of these grotesque monsters has an erect penis the size of a cooling tower at Battersea Power Station. 'Who the hell's going to buy one of them?'
'God knows,’ she replies, ‘and what on earth will the vicar's wife say?'
'I'll have one of those please. I'll use it as a seat.'
She squeals a high pitch squeal. ‘Oh Tom!’
Our laughter is interrupted by an electrician who comes in to check the fire.
'Christ, you haven't wasted any time have you?' he says.
I simply cannot believe it. Sofia’s ex Danny is addressing me directly with a Mafiosi-style expression, full of false bonhomie and menace. 'Sniffing 'round my girl.' He turns to Sofia. 'What's it been? About a week?'
'He's just a friend,' she replies.
My mood lifts and sinks simultaneously. The incident has confirmed that Danny and Sofia are no longer a couple but ‘just a friend’? I am not expecting her to say 'he's the love of my life' but I would have preferred her to demonstrate a little less conviction in downplaying my presence.
'I bet.' Danny shakes his head and proceeds to change the fuse on the appliance.
It is clear that her former partner is an electrician who happens to be working in this building, driving a train through the first meeting with Sofia that I have initiated. This is more than bad luck. There is silence as we finish the stall, and he fixes the fire.
'Right, that's working. It was the fuse.' He gathers up his tool bag and goes to leave but then stops to face Sofia. He is hesitant and seems to be struggling to find the right words. 'It's not too late you know Sofe.' There is a plaintive edge to his voice.
'Please go Danny,' she replies, busying herself with the placement of the figurines on the table.
'Right, see you soon then.'
The bravado and aggression has gone, replaced by melancholy and undertones of yearning. I do not feel sorry for him, but at least he is showing a softer side. He whispers something in her ear before leaving without making any further eye contact.
The room might be getting warmer but the atmosphere has chilled in the last few minutes. I know Sofia is not angry with me, but the exchanges with Danny have upset her, and she is not saying anything.
'Do you want a lift to the station?' she finally asks.
'Yes, that would be great.' I do not mean a word it.
We are soon back in the MG. Elton is still playing, but this time there is no discourse on the meaning of the song. I quietly sing along to myself, gently patting my legs to the beat until the car swings into the railway car park, which I observe is shaped like a comma written with a flourish. Sofia stops outside the ticket office and keeps the engine running. She is gazing out of the front windscreen. Half an hour ago, I had visions of inviting her out for a drink, but my confidence has all but drained away.
'The band is playing at the Cavern on Sunday?' It is the best I can manage.
'That's nice.'
'We're only on for half an hour, but it should be fun.'
'Yes, it should be.'
She is distracted, though I pluck up the courage to ask, 'Sofia? Would you like to come to the gig?'
She turns around and looks at me. Her eyes are a little moist. We are now staring at one another. This feels very different from when we first met. I would be so tongue-tied that I would be rude and abrupt, yet not today. We both instinctively lean towards one another and kiss. It is the gentlest of kisses, our lips barely touching and lasting just a few seconds. Our senses revive on hearing a dog bark, and we sit back upright in our car seats. Then I hear a sob. Sofia is gently crying. I move my right arm around her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. Her upper body slightly shakes, though a few seconds later; she is composing herself again.
'Are you OK?'
'Yes, I'll be fine. I'm just being silly.' She reaches for a tissue from her handbag and dabs around her eyes.
I realise that my train is due.
'If you can make it next Sunday, we'll be in the Grapes on Mathew Street at 7 o'clock. Perhaps your cousin could come with you.'
'Thanks for the visit today Tom. I’ve enjoyed it.'
'My pleasure. And good luck at the Craft Fair.'
'Thank you.'
I get out of the car, close the door, and wave to her as she drives off. Maybe this has been our own Brief Encounter moment. My emotions are a compound of love, joy, and sorrow. Outside Hoylake Station, I glance up above and see the beginnings of dusk and the stars that will soon be shining brightly in the clear sky. Ironic really, that it’s cloudless. I am now walking on cloud nine from kissing Sofia, while paradoxically a dark cloud is beginning to gather in my head.
14. The Grapes of Wrath
Tonight’s Cavern gig is the first big chance for Plain Truth. The 'Battle of the Bands' is a cheap way of promoters filling a venue. None of us are being paid a penny, but the exposure is great and a million miles from the amateurism of Talent Aplenty
. It may be only two months since our re-launch, yet we have had tons of practice and a fair number of live gigs under our belt at St John's. As soon as we got the slot, we knew the correct set list was vital, immediately discarding anything pop. The Cavern may have been home to Merseybeat, thereby shaping the whole genre of pop music, but it is now a venue for rock, and heavy rock at that. We also recognise the importance of our own material, so the band has written two of our five numbers. The song list is:
‘Walkin’ with a Mountain’
‘Revelation’
‘Across the Water’
‘Whole Lotta Love’
‘Johnny B Goode' / 'Great Balls of Fire' / 'Lucille’
We do not think any other band will play 1950s rock and roll, precisely the type of material The Beatles performed in the historic cellar a decade earlier. The hope is that our closing tribute to Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, and Little Richard will resonate with the crowd and impress any visiting would be manager or record label man.
One of the best things about the gig is the use of the equipment provided by the organisers. I am delighted to be playing on a Ludwig drum kit. The place itself is a bit of a seedy hole and reeks of decline, but nothing can diminish the excitement we are all feeling this evening... well all except Brian, who is as laid back as ever.
We are in the Grapes pub, and I am reflecting on my invite to Sofia. It was always likely that she would not come, but a small part of me is still hanging on to a hope that she will walk in through the door. There is quite a crowd in tonight, and our small round wooden table is surrounded by chairs and a strong smell of Higson's beer. Behind us there are dark wood panels, above which a framed photograph of The Beatles hangs on faded wallpaper with a thistle and heather pattern. As well as the band, Amanda, Brenda, and Brian’s mate Pothead are here enjoying a pre-gig drink. For probably the first time in my life, I am in a pub not caring about looking under age. I may now be eighteen and carrying a copy of my birth certificate wherever I go, but I still tend to feel self-conscious in such situations, though not tonight.
It is my turn to go to the bar and get the drinks, alcoholic for the girls and Pothead, but Coca-Cola for the boys. I struggle to get served, seemingly restricted by my innate English politeness and an unwillingness to push myself forward to the front of the queue. It seems ‘after you’ has no place in a Liverpool pub in 1972. Eventually a barmaid takes pity on me and holding up my birth certificate, I give her my order. By the time I am manoeuvring a full tray of glasses back to our table, the place has become even busier. I notice that our group seems to have lost Brian and Pothead.