‘Hang on a minute, I thought you’d agreed a hundred,’ says Ged.
‘I did, but he is reneging on the agreement.’
‘Surely he can’t do that?’ I ask.
‘I am afraid he’s denying all knowledge of the £100. He maintains it was always thirty.’
‘What does Amanda say?’
Julian’s girlfriend is nowhere to be seen.
‘She’s a bit vague about the whole thing,’ he replies.
Ged thinks we should go home now, but both Julian and I contend that the gig is still easy work for £30. Brian does not have an opinion. He only has eyes for Ludmilla. Ged ultimately concedes, and we decide to play for the reduced fee and put it down to experience.
‘Where is the twat?’ says Ged, his malevolent streak surfacing.
Julian points to the other side of the room. ‘He’s over there, that tall chap with the leather trousers.’
In an instant, I am transfixed. The tall chap with the leather trousers is none other than Danny, Sofia's husband to be. It is his 21st birthday party. My stomach lurches at the thought that Sofia must be coming tonight. Already, some ridiculous conspiracy theory is taking shape in my mind. He has lured us here with an offer of £100 despite never intending to pay it. His plan is to belittle me this evening. Ever since our first meeting, he has always displayed an antipathy towards me. I check myself.
The notion of some act of vengeance on his part is fanciful to the extreme. You can almost count on one hand the number of times I have spoken with Sofia, and the kiss in Hoylake apart, the liaison has been as innocent as a playground crush. It is probably all a co-incidence. He went to the Cavern, heard our band, liked us, and thought we would be a great addition to his party night. The £100 offer would have been a bit of naivety on his part, which he subsequently regretted but decided to play the ignorance card instead of cancelling. It all makes sense.
I am vaguely aware of Julian calming down Ged, when the door opens and in walks Sofia. She looks around the room, sees me, and immediately averts her gaze, walking away in the opposite direction towards Danny’s table to take a seat with her back to the stage. He ignores her, and I notice that he is engaged in some spirited conversation with Amanda. I vow to concentrate on just playing the gig.
The rest of us are all sitting around the table. Brian introduces Ludmilla to Brenda.
'Tell zem our newz, Art'ur.'
I glance at Brian. He winces.
'What news Bri?' says Ged.
I try a diversion.
'I've got some news myself.' I dredge my mind to think of something.
'What's that soft lad?'
'I won £50 on the horses today, Wee Willie Winkie at Wolverhampton.'
'Fucking hell, I didn't know you liked a bet.'
'Oh yeah, love it. In fact, the drinks are on me tonight.'
I am no Scrooge, but neither am I rich and philanthropic. I am already regretting my intervention and white lie. However, it has worked, because the conversation has steered itself somewhere else and, for now, Brian's secret is safe.
About five minutes later, we are behind our instruments on stage. The DJ makes it known that Plain Truth are ready to play, though there is nothing show business about the announcement. All the signs are that this is going to be a meat and vegetables kind of performance, and this proves to be as accurate as an Alan Ball pass. We play a workaday set that the party guests enjoy a lot more than we do. I sit behind my drums in full view of Sofia's back.
It is the first time she has seen the band live, and I really wish she was not here, ironic when I think of all those occasions at the Social Club and then at the Cavern where I yearned for her to turn up. She remains in her seat facing away from the stage for the whole performance. It’s as though she does not want to look at me. What makes matters worse is that nobody is talking to her. She just seems to be staring into her drink. Danny is treating her very shabbily, not least because he has spent nearly all the evening so far in very close contact with Amanda. God knows what Julian is thinking. They are now dancing, close to one another, a matter of yards away from him. Danny sees me and smirks. Perhaps my conspiracy theory does have some merit after all, though his plan may be more about humiliating Sofia rather than me. If the latter, I have to say that he is making a damn good fist of it.
A few songs from the end of our set, I watch as the shameless birthday boy leads Amanda out of the room by the hand. They return ten minutes later during our last number, adjusting their clothes in a completely brazen way, as they move across the dance floor. I glance across at Julian who is seemingly oblivious to it all. Danny takes his new conquest to the bar. Sofia is still sat there in her own world. This is dreadful.
We finish the set to generous applause and leave the stage. There is no encore. It has been easy money yet strangely dissatisfying. As if polarised by this deflation, my emotions take over from the rational part of my mind. When I have felt at my most miserable over Sofia, I have picked up the guitar and written songs. It has been my way of dealing with things. I have composed a few, but the best to date is the original 'Sofia', now finished but unheard. I decide that tonight is the night to change that.
‘Listen guys, I want to sing a solo song.’
‘A song?’ says Ged, incredulous.
‘I’ve written a song that I want to perform.’
Julian asks, ‘What about accompaniment?’
‘If I could use Ged’s acoustic, I won’t need any backing.’
‘Sure lad, go for it.’ The prospect of my performance intrigues Ged.
I can see the boys are not too sure what to expect. They have seen me mess about with the guitar when practising, but they have never seen me sing and play. In fact, nobody has, and maybe that is a good thing. Yet I am finding that my confidence - usually so incapacitating - is unpredictably sky high. I suppose the guys are feeding off this and therefore are having a natural confidence in me.
My heart is now thudding as the adrenaline pumps around my body, and when the DJ gives me the nod, I feel a butterfly farm of butterflies in my stomach. I climb on to the small stage and walk to its centre. The first thing I notice is how few people are taking any interest in me. Even around our table, Brian and Ludmilla are more concerned with one another, and Brenda is trying to elicit another French kiss from the tiring Ged. Amanda is still with Danny, but at least good old Julian gives me a McCartney thumbs up gesture. At the table furthest away from the stage, Sofia remains steadfastly with her back to me.
I take a deep breath, exhale slowly, and then announce. ‘Good evening everyone. This is a song, which for one night only is called ‘Maria’.’ I might be riding high on emotion, but I am clear headed enough to realise that I have to change the song's title for this performance.
A few more heads turn towards the stage, but for the most part, the audience continue to chat amongst themselves. I strum the guitar. Its amplification is on the quiet side, but Julian gets the message and increases the volume on the amp. I then close my eyes and start singing, careful to replace the word Sofia with the improvised Maria. The song is about three minutes long, and I am completely lost during this time. I just sing my heart out. If I ever perform this song again, I know I could do an improved technical version, but it will never be bettered. I will not be able to replicate the feelings that underpin tonight’s effort.
Is love the songbird whose sweet sound I once heard
When walking one beautiful day
Is love the flower that grows by the hour
That's destined to wither away
Is this called romantic, some fool who is frantically
Searching for you everyday
If you know the answers Maria tell me please
For I am inexperienced, I have no expertise
In matters of the heart where I am always ill at ease
Maria, let me know if I must let you go.
Is love this feeling I find so appealing
That’s stronger because
it’s all new
Is love this heartache, the soon to be heartbreak
Which time paints the colour of blue
Will love be elusive, remain unobtrusive
In spite of these feelings for you
If you know the answers Maria tell me please
For I am inexperienced, I have no expertise
In matters of the heart where I am always ill at ease
Maria, let me know if I must let you go.
Sofia, Sofia, Sofia, Sofia.
The song ends with a strum of a chord and the deadening of the strings. I finish to total silence, aside from the minor buzz of the P.A. system. I stand there, aware that I sang Sofia instead of Maria in the final section and am therefore reluctant to open my eyes to view the consequences. When I do open them, I realise there are tears, hardly pouring down in a torrent, but I have to blink a couple of times to clear my vision. In stark contrast to the beginning of the performance, I now have the attention of the audience, all except Sofia who is still facing away from the stage. I am relieved to see that Danny has been too occupied with Amanda to respond in any way to my mistake. Then the applause starts, followed by some cheers. I glance to my left where our table is situated and the boys in the band and the girlfriends are all standing and clapping their hands with their arms up in the air above their heads. I experience a range of emotions, full of euphoria yet full of despondency.
Sofia suddenly gets up from her seat, grabs her handbag, and heads towards the exit. She appears on the verge of tears, but nobody else takes any notice. I want to chase after her, but I stop myself. The applause dies down and I leave the stage, returning to the lads who are effusive in their acclaim.
‘Where the fucking hell did that come from soft lad? I thought it was going to be a load of bollocks, and it turns out to be the fucking dog’s bollocks.’ Ged is impressed enough to take his hat off for a moment, though is quick to put it back on.
‘Congratulations old chap, remarkable stuff. You have a real talent.’
‘Mellow man, that was real mellow.’
Even Brenda lavishes praise upon me. ‘That was almost as good as a portion of chips from my chippy.’
'You are more than juzt funny guy wit' trouzers on fire.'
Despite the praise, there is no chance that my ego is about to spiral out of control. My mind is on other things. The DJ resumes playing his records and soon there are people dancing to 'Suspicious Minds' by Elvis. I feel a tap on my shoulder. It is Julian.
He whispers in my ear. 'Tom, I remember your reservations about Amanda, the time we played table tennis. You’ve been proven right my dear chap. Thank you for the advice.’
My friend has seen everything, and in truth, I am rather thankful that his relationship with the troublesome hairdresser is coming to an end. At least I can now forget about the seduction at her salon.
Brenda sees a forsaken look on Julian's face and joins us to say, ‘Listen Lord Snooty; you’re better off without her. I said to your mate here a month or so back, that girl needs a bastard.’ She glances across towards Danny, ‘and it looks like she’s found one.’
‘Hey man! That’s the cat who sold me the bad shit at the Cavern,’ says Brian, Ludmilla draped on his arm.
He is a bloody drug dealer as well. Sofia cannot marry a person like this.
I make my excuses. ‘I’m just going for a bit of fresh air.’
'Hey soft lad, what about the fucking drinks?'
My imaginary winning bet is costing me. 'Take them out of my share of tonight's fee.'
I cross the floor to where Sofia has been sitting and collect the coat hanging on the back of her chair. I pass Danny and Amanda as they dance. They seem unaware of anything or anyone around them. At least this has cleared up the mystery of him booking the band. He obviously wanted Amanda, and at £30, he has got her cheap.
I walk out of the function room just as Sofia did a few minutes ago. I head down the stairs to the cinema foyer and pass a man that I recognise. He has a ponytail and is dressed in jacket and jeans. It is the A&R man from the Cavern, and he has a colleague in tow. They go up the stairs to the party. Brian or no Brian, we may have had our big break after all; but there is no elation or euphoria at the thought. I just want to find Sofia. I cannot see her anywhere, and so I walk out into the cold, wet night, hoping in vain to find her hailing a taxi or something. There is still no sign of her. I return to the foyer where Joan is on the sweet counter. She is tidying up, tonight's cinema performance seemingly over.
She greets me warmly. 'Hello love,'
‘Hi, sorry to bother you, but have you seen a girl about this tall, brown hair, wearing a blue dress?’
‘I haven’t love. Is she your girlfriend?’
‘No.’
‘You’d have thought so, the look on your face.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Is it that girl with you at Victoria Hospital the other week?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ah...’
I think Joan may have been reading too many Doctor Savage and Nurse Humble love stories, yet she is not far from the truth. I want to be with Sofia. I know I am only eighteen and most guys of my age have the emotional depth of a guinea pig in a coma, but I am not ‘most guys’. I may lack confidence with girls that the majority of my peers seem to have in abundance, but maybe there is a sensitivity pay-off. Who knows? Anyway, I think this is love, at least on my part. Whether she thinks the same, well that is a different question.
‘Never mind...’ My words trail away.
Deflated, I decide to return to the party, but as I take the first step back up the concrete stairs, I hear a sob just discernible above the noise of the splattering rain. There is a fire door to my left, which I carefully open, revealing a passageway running the length of the picture house. Sofia is outside, sitting on a step that has a small, overhanging canopy giving her minimal protection from the elements. In the freezing air and in a thin dress, she is holding on to herself, gently sobbing, and shivering with the cold. She looks up at me. Her mascara is smudged, and the moisture on her cheeks, glistening with the reflection of a single halogen lamp above the exit door, appears to be a mixture of rain and tears. Her anguish and her natural beauty compete for my attention.
‘Are you alright?’
‘Please leave me alone.’
‘I’ve brought your coat.’
She takes it from me, wordlessly.
‘Don’t you think you should come in from the rain?’
‘What?’ she snaps, her tone changing in an instant.
‘I said, don’t you think you should come inside? It’s so cold out here.’
‘I heard what you said the first time. I mean, what the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘I just thought...’
She stands up. ‘You just thought what? You’d come and wallow in my misery? You’d come out here and tell me what you think's right for me? Or have you come here to sing that fucking song again?’
I am riled. ‘Listen Sofia, all I know is that for some reason you persist on sticking with that arrogant shit in there, and he is not bloody worth it.'
'Isn't he?'
'No, you can do so much better than that.’
‘I can, can I Mr. Matchmaker? Like who? Like you?’
‘I’m not talking about me.’
‘Of course you are; that’s why you’re here. You don’t give a shit about what’s going on in my head. It’s what’s going on in your head that matters.’
‘That’s not fair.’
'Not fair? I'll tell you what's not fair.' She stabs me in the chest with a pointed finger. 'You, you dickhead, standing up in front of the people in there and humiliating me with your guitar and singing your fucking song.'
'I humiliated you! What about Danny with his hands all over that bloody girl?'
‘And don’t you think I know that. Are you telling me something that I don’t know? Is this a fucking Road to Damascus moment for me?’
/> ‘Then why don’t you just tell him to piss off?’
‘Why?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘Yeah, I really want to know!’
‘Right! Because I’m pregnant and he’s the father!’
There is silence, other than the pitter-patter of the rain and the distant noise of a car driving past the cinema. She sits down again. I am not sure how much time passes before she speaks.
‘That’s taken the wind out of your sails hasn’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’ I join her on the step.
Our anger has dissipated. I am lost for words, unsure what to say, think or do. I hear the sound of ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ at the party upstairs, and its upbeat mood has never appeared so out of place. The rain is now light, but the wind is getting up.
‘When did you find out?’ I ask.
‘A couple of weeks ago, just after the Craft Fair.' She is staring at the reflection of a street lamp in a puddle of water. 'I remember Danny saying something about morning sickness and I thought Oh God. I knew I was late, and I had been before. But I had a test the following day and...' Her mind drifts off.
I recall the Church Hall when Danny had whispered in Sofia's ear before he left the room. In hindsight, I can now see how everything changed at this moment.
'I don't mind you know, about the erm...' I am struggling to express myself, but I mean what I say.
‘I wish it was as simple as that, but it’s not.'
I know she is right. The wind blows a discarded fish and chip wrapper past our feet. My eyes follow it, but Sofia is in a trance, her thoughts lost in some deep, impenetrable place. I take the coat she has been holding and drape it over her shoulders. Then she starts to cry again, and so I take her in my arms, holding on to her tightly.
She tilts her head so that it rests on my chest, and as she sobs, she repeats ‘what am I going to do Tom, what am I going to do?’
‘I think you need to go home.’
A few further moments pass, after which I help her up from the step and lead her through the fire door back to the foyer. I look to see if Joan is still around though can’t find her. Sofia is distracted and not taking anything in, but I am astonished to see the A&R man emerge from the party upstairs with his colleague guiding Danny out in handcuffs. It seems that the pony-tailed one has nothing to do with the music industry. He is a copper, and it does not take Hercule Poirot's little grey cells to deduce that he has arrested Danny for drug offences. The thought that the band is back where it started means nothing.