We are in the back room of my mum and dad’s house, a room dominated by a selection of Eduardo nudes hanging on the walls, and they are not a pretty sight. My dad’s birth certificate might state Edward Sidney Kellaway, but for his artist’s persona, he has applied a little continental licence to his name. His current phase is particularly distressing. Eduardo’s early work involved harmless oil paintings of trees, stately homes and the Liverpool Waterfront, but he has now turned his hand to the female form. The naked specimen I am looking at now has the face of Ted Heath, two different sized breasts, and legs like a Rugby League prop. This may be helping his personal mid-life crisis, but it is doing nothing for my own journey towards sexual maturity.
I fidget in the chair, and there is a loud farting noise from my jeans as they rub against the shiny plastic of the upholstery. Caroline is brushing her Rapunzel-like, brunette hair in the fake gold, ornate mirror.
‘So what’s this big news then?’ she says.
I struggle to avert my eyes from Eduardo’s big-bosomed African woman with Delamere Forest sprouting from her groin. I bite the bullet and answer the question.
‘I’ve left school. I’m not going back after the holidays.’
Caroline turns away from the mirror and looks at me. 'What?'
‘My mock A-level results were crap. It’s all a waste of time.’
‘It’s not a waste of time! You’ll need A-levels to get a decent job.’
‘What? Like a shorthand typist?’
‘Shut up Tom. This is not about me.’
‘Listen, I’m fed up of going to lessons, listening to some stupid old, eccentric, chain-smoking pensioner droning on about Albert Camus or Regan and Cordelia. It’s just a load of shit.’
‘It's not a load of shit, and even if it is, it doesn’t matter. Exams are a means to an end.’ Caroline pauses, straightens out the final split ends with a combination of the hairbrush and her fingers, and then adds, ‘It irks me to say this, but you’re too bright to throw away your education on a whim.’
'It's not a whim. I've thought about this long and hard.'
'But you've only got a few months to go. Get cramming now. I'm sure you can get some decent grades.'
Her argument is drenched typically in common sense, but she will not persuade me to change my mind. If this chat had taken place twelve months ago, the outcome might have been different, but I know in my heart of hearts that it is too late to turn things around. I do not want to leave school in three months time branded as an official failure. This option at least puts me more in control.
After a brief time staring at the tits of the Prime Minister and then the floor, I lift my head to speak. ‘Sorry Caroline, I appreciate what you’re saying, but I’m not going back.’
She puts down the hairbrush, turning on me with an accusing index finger. ‘Right, so when you’re doing some crappy job like working on the bins in five years time don’t come back to me and say I didn’t warn you.’
‘I won’t be doing some crappy job in five years’ time.’ I am defiant but remain calm.
‘No? So what job will you have? Astronaut? Brain Surgeon? Nuclear Physicist?'
'Don't be soft.'
'More like dishwasher at the Wimpy Bar or bingo caller at the old Gaumont.’
‘If you really want to know what I'll be doing in five years' time Caroline, Junkie’s Fudge will be playing The Liverpool Stadium.’
‘Oh come on Tom, that’s a pipe dream. You have to be realistic. For every group of lads that make it big, there’s a Liverpool Stadium full of losers who don’t. Can’t you see?’
My calm is broken. ‘Thanks for the support Caroline, I thought you might understand.’
I jump up from the chair, which emits another rasping fart, and storm out of the house, though not before my sister has the last word.
‘And don’t expect me to tell Mum and Dad.’
To be fair, I am certain they will not be too bothered. Their idea of a significant qualification is a cycling proficiency certificate. I take a left turn and meander down the back entry, past the bins, dog turds, and discarded Mivvi wrappers. I emerge into a street where all front doors are painted dark maroon and all the parked Ford Prefects are black, a depressing journey that emphasises the need for a way to escape. My plan, regardless of what Caroline thinks, is all about Junkie’s Fudge.
The band is getting better with a tighter sound and a repertoire of about half a dozen songs. We have managed to get a decent Carlsbro PA system with a couple of microphones and stands. Ged is proving to have real talent as a guitarist, Julian is already an accomplished bass player, and although I remain the weak link, this is something I should be able to address now that I have more time on my hands.
I turn into Central Park and see my twelve-year-old brother Stephen playing football with his mates. I join in for a brief kick around... kick being the operative word as I limp away and head for Strathconas. I intend to seek out Roddy for a closer look at the latest musical instruments on display. However, when I arrive at the store, a small typed postcard stuck to the window grabs my attention.
SHOP ASSISTANT REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY
- APPLY WITHIN -
Roddy finds the manager for me. He is a tall, sour-faced elderly chap with a grey complexion and bloodshot eyes, a piercing shade of light blue. He may be clean shaven, but there are tufts of grey hair under his chin that disappear behind his off-white shirt and old school tie to presumably join up with a hairy chest. He looks me up and down disapprovingly.
‘Come this way young man.’
He leads me through to his office and instructs me to sit down on a short-legged chair whose stuffing is bursting out of one side. There is a 1968 calendar on the wall behind the desk, four years past its useful life, and I can see a faded notice detailing the rules and regulations of the Factory and Shops Act 1952. He is dressed in what appears to be an ill-fitting, double-breasted demob suit, a drab light brown with a sprinkling of dandruff applied to the shoulder pads... either that or the woman at the chip shop pours the vinegar on his chips and the salt on his jacket. Then I see the stain around his crotch in the shape of the South American continent and start to think she must shake the vinegar on his trousers. I check myself. Staring at the manager's crotch is not going to help me get the job. I take a deep breath for my inaugural interview and ponder what question he will ask first. He doesn’t.
‘You start on Monday.’ His face is expressionless.
After a few seconds of taking in the news, I respond with a reasonable question. ‘Can I ask about the wages?’
He reacts as though I have accused him of bestiality before pulling himself together to say, ‘How much do you earn at the moment son?’
‘£1 a week.’
‘Congratulations, you’ve just had a pay increase.’
*
I am delighted to be on the record department for my first day of proper work, filling the vacancy left by the departed Harold, and the fact that I do not carry the odour of my grandfather’s soiled underpants gives me a definite advantage over the previous incumbent. The geriatric - as the manager is not so fondly known - has insisted on formal dress, which is why I am wearing my Burton’s made-to-measure brown pinstripe suit and pink flowered, matching penny round shirt and tie, remnants from my sister’s wedding last year, a time when I was five foot five. Today, I am nearly six foot. My bright blue socks are vividly on display for anyone caring to glance down and view the chasm between the hem on my trousers and my shoes.
As I expected, there has been little fallout from Mum and Dad about me packing in school. In fact, the old man seems genuinely pleased at the idea of another wage coming in to the household, though when he heard how shit my wages are, we nearly had another Great Aunt Edith moment. Mind you, I have to admit to understating my real earnings. I need to save some money to pay the HP on the drum kit.
I spend most of the day selling 'Metal Guru', the latest T-Rex single, and being ribbed by customers about
my 'half-mast' trousers, there for all to see thanks to the generous space behind the counter. However, I forget the teasing in an instant when Sofia walks in the shop and heads toward this section. I experience a mixture of elation and dread in equal measure. She is wearing a self-patterned, white cotton smock top over black jeans, and looks so lovely, I just gawp. However, when my mind races back to the humiliation of the Alderhouse Sports Hall ejection and the fiasco with Brenda at the 99 club, staring at my own feet seems the preferable option.
‘Hello,’ she says, as if greeting an old friend.
I anticipated either animosity or ambivalence and am so surprised at her welcoming tone that I croak my response like a sick frog. ‘Hello there.’
‘I didn’t know you worked here.’
I glance up to see a slight frown. She is staring at my shoes. I yearn for my trousers to grow an extra few inches.
‘I don’t. I mean I didn’t, but I do now.’
‘Well, that’s nice. Can I listen to 'Honky Chateau' by Elton John please?’
I stand there motionless. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Elton John’s 'Honky Chateau'?’
For a few brief seconds, I forget everything the geriatric taught me in the ten minutes of intensive training he gave me earlier. ‘Elton…?’
‘This is a record shop, isn’t it?’ she smiles.
She is pretty when she is not smiling, but when she is, oh God... I pull myself together and manage to mumble, ‘Yes, of course it is. Elton John’s latest. I’m sure we’ve got it, just hold on. Ah yes, here it is on the DJM label.’ Christ, I am turning into Tony Blackburn. I place the disc on the turntable and mutter, ‘Booth number two.’
I cannot believe how uncommunicative I have been, given how much my every instinct wants her approval. I continue to serve other customers, all the time trying to steal a glance at her as she listens in the booth. When the counter goes quiet, I am at last able to admire her exquisite lines and contours. Unfortunately, the pleasure is short-lived. To the left of the booth, a mirror hangs on the wall, and I catch my reflection. It is not Robert Redford staring back at me; it is his inbred cousin who has spent too much time camped outside a nuclear reactor. A sinking feeling comes over me, because I do not stand a chance with this girl. She truly belongs in an entirely different league.
I am lost in introspection for a few moments, so much so that my next customer has to raise his voice to get my attention. I regain my sensibilities but am dismayed to find that a long thread of slobber is now hanging from the left side of my gaping mouth. I try to preserve as much dignity as possible but fail miserably when I discover that the saliva has a will of its own, and I resort to massaging it into my hair.
The man standing in front of me is tall and muscular. Dressed in a white suit, a bit like John Lennon from a year or two back, he has handsome chiselled looks and bright blue eyes. The man is evidently not too pleased with my welcome and speaks with the hint of an Irish accent and the intimidation of a Chicago gangster from the era of prohibition.
‘Keep your eyes off the merchandise you can’t afford.’
‘Pardon?’
I am genuinely puzzled. Does he mean the guitars on the opposite side of the sales floor? I experience a flash of fear that this is a heavy sent by Rushforths in pursuit of some cash for the HP.
‘She’s my property, so leave well alone,’ he barks.
He nods his head in the general direction of the listening booth, and it clicks. He is with Sofia. He has entered the shop to find me ogling his girlfriend and slobbering in the process. My misery is complete. He walks across, taps her on the shoulder, and indicates that it is time to go. There is no hiding place from this dejection, but just as she is about to leave, she turns to me, smiles and says, ‘Thanks very much for your help Tom. I’ll come back another time and listen to the rest.’
The strange feeling of melancholy that is swilling around the pit of my stomach disappears in a flash. How does she know my name? I offer a lifeless wave in return, as her unsmiling chaperone guides her away by the arm.
‘Bloody hell pal, those pants have shrunk in the wash.’
It is my next customer.
‘Metal Guru?’
5. The Ship
It is audition time in Julian’s garage, the band’s latest practising venue. Our bass player lives with his parents in Seabourne Road, an area that includes an exclusive development of individually designed properties. They cost a packet, somewhere in the region of £20,000 each, and the garage is no ordinary box of bricks attached to a pebble-dashed semi. There is enough space to house a couple of cars, and we are not talking Hillman Imps or Morris Minis. There is a large, sleek Jaguar parked at one end next to the deep freeze, yet there is still plenty of room at the other end for my drums, the amps, and the PA.
We are waiting for Brian’s guitarist pal to turn up, but he is already nearly an hour late. It is not a good sign.
I air my unease. ‘I don't want to be the prophet of doom guys, but why would anyone decent want to play with a bunch of beginners?’
‘Have faith Tom.’ Julian is unperturbed. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here soon, and he’ll be just fine.’
‘If he’s got a new Strat, he can fuck off,’ says Ged, eyeing up his Watkins with a degree of disdain.
‘Come on Ged,’ says Julian, ‘the criterion has to be musical excellence and nothing else.’
‘Hey Jules,' I ask, 'what's this guy’s name?’
‘Arthur.’
‘Fuck me,’ says Ged, ‘who is he, the Home Secretary?’
We hear footsteps and then somebody knocking. It seems Arthur has turned up after all. Julian manoeuvres past the lawn mower and garden spades to press the green button enclosed in a small metal box on the wall. The garage door opens automatically. I should be getting used to this technology by now, but it still seems like something from Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons.
‘It’s only Brian,’ shouts Julian.
Our roadie enters, wearing the same clothes as before.
He utters another hippy cliché, ‘Peace man.’
There is a mumbled response from us.
‘Hey guys, I’m sensing negative vibrations.’
Julian explains Arthur’s non-appearance. He shakes his head in sympathy. There is a moment’s hesitation, before we watch bewildered as Brian walks out of the garage, returning a minute or so later carrying a guitar case. He trundles across sheepishly, dithering before he speaks directly to Julian.
‘I’ve a confession man.’
Julian places a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘Brian, that incident with you at the donkey sanctuary is all in the past.’
‘No, it’s not that Jules.’ He turns around to address us all. ‘You see cats; my real name is Arthur, even though everyone calls me Brian.’
We look at one another in surprise.
I speak first. ‘So you’re the Arthur who can play guitar?’
‘That’s right man. You see, I had an ulterior motive when I offered to be your roadie.’ He pauses, itching his right armpit as though infested.
‘What motive was that Arthur?’ says Julian, already dropping the pseudonym.
‘Brian please, if you don’t mind. I want to join the band. I think it would be a gas.’
‘What? Like fucking methane?’ says Ged, flicking a crumpled piece of paper across the garage. He is clearly unimpressed with this turn of events.
Brian gabbles nervously, ‘I can play any chord man. I learnt to play in the circus. I think it was Claude Balls the Lion Tamer who taught me, or it might have been one of the clowns.’ He frowns in his attempts to remember.
‘No chance, you can fuck off,’ says Ged.
I jump to the defence of Brian. ‘Come off it grumpy arse, we’ve got to give him a chance.’
I feel sorry for our hippy, now displaying deep regret for his proposal. He finds some personal solace in a concentrated piece of nose picking.
‘Look at him,’ Ged argues, ‘h
e’ll never make a rock and roll star in a month of Sundays.’
‘Bloody hell Ged, and who do you think you are? Marc Bolan?’
‘Listen soft lad, you’re the one always banging on about The Beatles? Imagine if they had recruited one ugly bastard…’ Ged goes quiet, as the cul-de-sac of his argument dawns on him. Ringo was hardly Elvis.
‘Leave Brian alone. He’s not an ugly bastard.’
If my words lack conviction, it is because this rhythm guitarist is far from Hollywood leading man material, unless the film is about an overweight hippy with the face of someone who has had their head in the gas oven for the last few days. Nonetheless, I feel compelled to defend him in front of Ged’s insensitivity. Anyway, we are forming a band not making a film.
‘Look guys,’ says Brian as he picks up his guitar. ‘I’m causing a bad gas, and I never wanted to do that. I’ll just take my gear and go. I’m sorry to have messed you about. Peace...’
With these words, he adopts the persona of Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh, an impression reinforced when he ambles away dejectedly. We all look at one another.
Julian speaks up. ‘Hey Brian, what guitar do you have?’
He stops and stands still, turning his head to the side so that he can see the three of us. ‘It’s a Gibson SG copy man.’ His reply is coy.
‘Are you alright with that Ged?’ says Julian.
Ged nods his acceptance, and so Brian is invited back to audition, much to his delight. Eeyore becomes Piglet, and I find his gratitude heart-warming. He asks if we can play Led Zeppelin’s ‘Whole Lotta Love’ with him singing, and we shrug our shoulders in a ‘what have we got to lose’ kind of way. It is fair to say that our expectations are minimal. However, we are in for a real shock.
It is not his solid, yet unexceptional guitar playing that takes us by complete surprise. It is his singing voice, which is powerful and melodious, a complete contrast to the dull monotone delivery of his spoken words. We are truly mesmerised. When we finish the song, we all stare at one another, smiling. Brian gazes at the floor, modestly fiddling with the volume and tone controls on his guitar. Ged finally says something.