‘What’s the name of the band?’ The manager’s demeanour is changing.
‘Plain Truth.’
‘Wait there a minute there boys.’
The manager disappears back into the main auditorium. We go and listen at the exit door and hear him talking to the audience.
‘I’m sorry to inform you, ladies and gentlemen; that the projection equipment has developed a fault, and whilst we are doing everything we can to correct it, this may take some time.’
The jeering increases in volume, until he is able to get the message across to the disgruntled punters that anyone that wants a refund is entitled to their money back. However, for those who stay, he has an unscheduled musical treat.
‘In a short while, the greatest rock and roll band in the North West of England, Plain Truth, will perform a special concert just for you. I urge everyone to stay seated in readiness for this show of a lifetime.'
He is overselling the whole thing, but it helps turn the booing into cheers, and most people stay put. The manager returns to the foyer.
'Come on lads; let's get your equipment on to the stage.'
Joan, now dealing with a growing queue of customers for refreshments, does not seem too happy. It appears she will have to wait to read about Doctor Savage shagging Nurse Humble senseless in the Hospital Laundry Room.
*
A frantic fifteen minutes later, and we are waiting in the wings of the cinema’s stage with its safety curtain down, ready to perform before an audience of a few hundred people. We hear the squeal of metal on metal followed by the cheers of the audience as the curtain is raised. The manager walks on to a round of applause. A sort of Dunkirk spirit has overtaken the crowd, which augurs well for our performance. The hope is that they will be eager to please and easily pleased at the same time. When the noise has died down, the manager speaks.
‘Ladies & Gentlemen, it’s time to put your hands together for the greatest rock and roll band in the world, Plain Truth!’
In a very short space of time, we have gone from the best in the region to the best on the planet. However, we are not considering such overstatement. We simply run onto the stage to the acclaim, preparing to perform. The days of groups playing cinemas have long since gone, but such concerts by music acts were commonplace in the early to mid sixties. In many ways, we are emulating The Beatles tonight; the Cavern Club followed by the ABC Cinema.
Ged grabs the microphone.
‘Right, this f…’
He remembers just in time to tailor his language.
‘...flaming Poseidon ship may have sunk without trace, but the Good Ship Plain Truth is about to set sail for the High Seas and you’re invited along for the trip.’
There is an almost American reaction to Ged’s invitation; the normal British reserve giving way to whistles and hoots. When we start with a brief, improvised rendition of the ‘ABC Minor’s Song’, the audience is putty in our hands.
We launch straight into ‘Rock Around The Clock’, and as I watch the crowd swaying along to the music, the view from my drums is reminiscent of one of those old corny Cliff Richard films. Next up is ‘Chantilly Lace’, and I notice a familiar face at the end of the second row in the audience. It is Joan’s son George, the Down Syndrome.
Before 'Good Golly Miss Molly', I shout to the lads, 'hang on a minute.'
I jump up from my drums and rush down to help George on to the stage, giving him a tambourine to play along with the band. For one night only, Plain Truth is a five piece, and its newest member has a smile wider than Zippy’s from Rainbow.
The goodwill of the event is infectious, so much so, that by the time we are playing ‘Tutti Frutti', there is dancing in the aisles. We have to drop plans to play Fleetwood Mac, Free or any of our own songs. Tonight is about good time rock and roll, and we go down a storm. After forty minutes of playing and dancing, the manager indicates that the projector is working again. The next song is to be our last. George is a bit exhausted so returns to his seat to thunderous applause. It is a real heart warming moment. We decide to finish with ‘Keep a Knockin’, but for the second time in a week, our last song is about to be cut short, though this time it has nothing to do with a power cut.
About two bars in, and out of the corner of my eye, I see George slump forward in his seat. His body appears to be rigid. It strikes me immediately that he may be having another fit. I cannot see his mother and there is no one else alert to what is happening. I stop drumming and hurdle across the stage, jumping down in front of the first row. The others then stop playing as I run to the aisle, where I shout for people to make space for George. Although his body is now making jerking motions, I manage to pull him from his seat and lie him down on the carpeted gangway. I have never had first aid instruction in my life, yet I know to place him on his side and to grab his winter coat to use as a cushion to protect his head from any damage caused by the violent spasms he is experiencing.
A crowd of concerned onlookers has now gathered around. George seems to be on his own, so Ged goes to fetch his mum from the sweet counter. She is soon on the scene. After two or three more minutes, his body movements become less severe, before the fitting ceases, and he comes round, obviously very confused and exhausted. I feel so sorry for him. He is bighearted guy with a lovely sunny nature, and it seems almost obscenely unjust that he has to suffer the indignities that go hand in hand with this ailment. His mum escorts him away to recuperate. I return to the stage with the band for our final bow. Inevitably, things are somewhat more subdued than they were, though the audience is still able to show their appreciation for our unexpected stint on stage.
The safety curtain comes down, and we have the ball ache of a job to move our equipment off stage back upstairs. It is the last thing we feel like doing, but we are not The Rolling Stones and do not have an army of roadies lugging for us.
Back in the function room, the events of the preceding hour are already starting to seem surreal. There was my Dr Kildare stint with George, and as for the music, it is as though we have just been on a trip in the Tardis back to the early 1960s, and therein lays a problem. At both the Cavern and the ABC Cinema, the audience reacted brilliantly to us playing old rock and roll standards. Now this is timeless stuff and remains a credible genre to perform, but I am starting to wonder if this is the only music for which we will ever get the recognition and response we crave. The songs that mean the most to us, the ones we have written ourselves, are largely ignored... nobody has yet to hear my own compositions, most notably Sofia written on holiday in that oil stained leaking tent. It appears that once again, I am experiencing the lows after the highs, though the others seem a little less unsettled.
We decide that we have had enough playing for the night and leave to have a curry at the Taj Mahal. On the way out, we bump into Joan.
‘Excuse me; are you the young man who came to the aid of my son this evening?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I say, trying to play it down.
'Don't I know you?' she says.
I remind her of our meeting outside the hospital.
‘Of course... Well, I want to take this opportunity to thank you with all my heart for your help this evening?’
‘That’s OK, but it was nothing really, I was just able to see what was happening from my position on stage.’
‘On the contrary young man, there are so many people who are cruel to people like George, calling them ‘mongs’ and generally abusing them. I want to thank you, not just for what you did tonight, but for the kindness and consideration, you and your friends here have showed my son on more than one occasion now. It means an awful lot to me that you treat him like any other human being.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but it was me that dragged him on to the stage in the first place and that might have caused him to, you know...’
‘Nonsense, the two things are totally unrelated. I can’t tell you how much he loved being up there with you boys. So thank you again.’
&nbs
p; I am not expecting this level of appreciation, and her testimony is gratifying though also a little embarrassing.
She turns to leave but then looks back as if remembering something. 'Just one thing... I'm sure it's not right, but a woman in there told me that you’re the same boy who exposed himself on the bus going to Moreton.’ She is bracing herself to knock me off the pedestal.
I hear Ged sniggering in the background as I respond. 'No, I can assure you that was somebody else.
'That's good, that's good.'
It seems I am still a potential Dr Savage.
We head off for our curry. It has been quite a night.
17. Singing and the Rain
As soon as the key opens the front door, the sound of my dad’s voice and the smell of roast lamb accost me.
‘Your tea’s going cold son,’ he shouts. He is obviously about to dish it out. ‘I’ve got a nice piece of shank.’
Caroline is going to her in-laws for dinner on Christmas Day, so she has come round for an early festive meal with her husband Pete, the man of fewer words than the screenplay of One Hundred Million Years BC and harder work than building a Bridge over the River Kwai. I am just back from my Saturday shift at Strathconas. Being the final shopping day before Christmas, it has been hectic. Predictably, at about four o’clock, the store was full of men buying last minute presents for their partners... romantic purchases such as a steam iron or a vacuum that floats on a cushion of air and spontaneously combusts.
‘Here’s the worker, bringing home the bacon,’ says Mum, displaying the pride of someone whose son is back from fighting on the Western Front.
‘Bringing home the pittance more like.’
I hang up my coat and walk into the back room. Caroline is sitting at the dining room table between Pete and Stephen with an Eduardo nude hidden behind her by red and blue tinsel. Dad is carving the meat at the head of the table, while Mum is passing around plates with potatoes, carrots, and cabbage, boiled within an inch of their lives. Pete is picking up the remnants of the recently opened Christmas crackers.
‘How’s the job going then?’ says Caroline.
‘It’s a bit crap really,’ I say. ‘The manager’s a real whinger.’
‘Don’t you think now you should have stayed on at school?’
‘Give it a rest Caroline.’
I take my seat at the opposite end to the old man and offer my cracker to Stephen. He pulls it and true to form wins the sewing thimble. I get the paper hat, two sizes too small for me, which rips in two as soon as I place it over my head. I also get the joke.
Q. 'What is the name of Father Christmas' dog?
A. Santa Paws
I think I would have preferred the thimble.
We pass our plates one by one to the old man for a portion of the lamb. Compared with the recent standard of cuisine in this house, this dinner is worthy of the Galloping Gourmet himself.
‘How’s the band getting on?’ says Pete.
Everyone looks at one another, shocked that Caroline’s husband has engaged in conversation. Moreover, he has initiated it.
‘Fine thanks Pete. In fact we’ve got a gig tonight in Liscard.’
‘Are you still playing for nothing?’ says Caroline.
‘I’ll have you know we’re earning £100 tonight.’
‘£100!’ Dad wakes up to the conversation and almost chokes on a piece of gristle.
‘Yes, £100.’ My response is a little indignant.
‘Bloody hell, who wants to pay you lot £100?’
‘Leave off Ted; I’m sure they’re worth every penny.’ My mum proves that mothers always show unswerving loyalty to their children.
‘If they’re worth £100….’
‘Ted!’ Mum puts an uncharacteristic foot down.
The rest of the meal passes by without too much chatter, and I decide to give the pudding a miss. Brian is calling round soon in the van, and I want to freshen up for tonight’s performance.
*
About half an hour later, I am ready and dressed for the part, wearing a white shirt with a silver emblem that sparkles in the light. David Bowie would be proud of me. My mum is just putting the phone down and has a slight look of shock on her face. Surely, it is not Great Aunt Edith again.
‘What’s this about you saving someone’s life last night?’ she says.
‘Who’s told you that?’
‘Val’s sister works on the sweet counter at the ABC and... well you know how it is.’
‘I didn’t save his life.’
‘According to Val you did.’
‘He was an epileptic having a fit. I just made him comfortable. He was never going to die.’
‘Well that’s as maybe, the point is I’m very proud of you Tom. Well done.’
The sound of Concorde landing in our road tells me that Brian has arrived in the Bedford.
‘I’m off now Mum. I’ll catch you later.’
‘OK love, bye.’
'Tom!' It is my dad shouting.
'Yeah?'
He comes into the hall, his posture crouched like a pensioner with arthritis, and he grimaces as though moving certain muscles for the first time. ‘Listen son. Good luck with your beat group tonight. You're not a bad lad, you know.'
'Cheers dad.'
It is his way of apologising for having a go earlier. He may be feeling remorseful because it is the season of goodwill. On the other hand, it may have something to do with our £100 fee. However, I choose to believe he has said it because he means it.
I shout through to the back room. ‘‘Bye everyone! And Happy Christmas!’
‘Happy Christmas mate.’
Unbelievably, Pete has spoken again.
*
I leave the house to find Amanda's mini in the road behind the Caravanette. Julian and his girlfriend greet me from the front while Ged and Brenda do likewise from the back. I climb into the van next to Brian and am glad to see that for once he is not smoking anything. The convoy moves off. It is only a short drive to the cinema, and I am just fiddling with the heater controls when I hear a voice from behind me.
‘Trouzers on fire! Funny guy!’
I turn around to see Ludmilla sitting in the back. I acknowledge her. This is one 'working girl' that will evidently not be working this Saturday night. She continues to laugh and point at me. Perhaps I should get some paraffin and a box of Swan Vestas to recreate the Talent Aplenty fiasco. It will certainly keep this lady smiling.
It seems I am the only one not bringing a female companion to the gig tonight, a thought that induces a stab of regret at losing any hope of being with Sofia, though I remind myself that it is going to take more than two days to get her out of my system.
It starts raining, and my hippy chauffeur struggles to see the road ahead, the dog-eared windscreen wipers of the van patently near the end of their useful life. The inside is now steaming up like a Turkish baths, and I try to help by wiping the glass with a cuff.
'Art'ur?'
It is Ludmilla behind us, talking Russian by the sound of things.
'Yes my sweet,' says Brian.
'Tell him our newz Art'ur.'
It dawns on me that she is calling Brian by his real name, Arthur.
'No, erm... not yet dear.' Brian is a trifle tongue-tied and embarrassed.
'Zen I vill tell him.'
'No, no dear, I'll do it.'
'What news?' I ask.
'It's a bit difficult man.' Brian clunks the gears as he speaks.
There is a gap of a few moments where the only sound is the noise of the Caravanette’s engine, during which time I muse for some reason that they might be getting married. They met less than a week ago. She is a prostitute. Other than that, it is perfect. And I am proved right.
Ludmilla says, 'Vell in zat case, I vill zpeak. Ve are leawing toget'er tomorrow to get married and join ze circuz.'
'The Circus?'
'Yez.'
Brian looks sheepish but nods his head to confirm.<
br />
'Would you mind not telling the other lads yet?' He pleads.
I agree to keep his news secret; though it is not me he should be worried about. Ludmilla seems keen to tell all and sundry. I have only known Brian about six months, but I have become very fond of him. He is one of life's nice people. Yes, he has his foibles, but he is incredibly good-natured without an ounce of aggression. For these reasons, and given the abruptness of his bride-to-be, I am worried he is making a massive mistake. I may try to find the time later to speak to him, but now is not that time, especially with Ludmilla glowering in the back of the van. I think I need to set my pants alight to get her smiling again.
It is interesting that my initial reaction does not consider the implications for the band. Brian is our lead singer, and although we proved at the Cavern we can get by without him, something would definitely be missing. I wonder what the other lads will think.
When we arrive at the cinema, it seems far more than twenty-four hours ago that we were climbing out of the Bedford to get the equipment ready for what turned out to be a memorable live concert. We pass Joan who is on the sweet counter again, reading another Mills & Boon and climb the concrete stairs to the function room.
There are already a few people on the floor dancing to ‘Crazy Horses’ by The Osmonds and the place is almost full. The tables are occupied except for one at the side of the stage, which we head towards. The birthday decorations appear low-key in comparison with the multi-coloured Christmas tat back home, but there are a few balloons and one ‘Happy 21st Daniel’ banner.
While Julian and Amanda set off in search of the birthday boy to collect our fee, I go to the bar with Ged and give him the money to buy the first round... something I am more than happy to do, particularly at 12p a pint. We are all drinking beer tonight except Amanda and Julian who are on the Martinis, and Ludmilla who is having vodka. I am not the world’s most prolific drinker, so back at the table, I am careful to take small sips from my bitter, though not so Brenda. She almost downs her pint in one. Ged looks on in sheer admiration and awe. On seeing this, she pulls his face towards hers to enjoy a tongue-probing kiss.
Julian returns with some bad news, ‘Excuse me chaps, it seems we have a bit of a problem. We are only getting £30 for the evening.’