I have a song.
7. Nothing but the Plain Truth
As the summer months prepare to fade into autumn, I am on the upper deck of the Seacombe Ferry heading across the River Mersey towards the Pier Head. It is a beautiful day. A criss-cross of aeroplane vapour trails daub the clear blue sky, and the bright afternoon sunshine is accompanied by a light breeze that is blowing in my face as I fidget on the polished wooden slats of the boat’s bench seat. When the vessel is close to the Liverpool waterfront, I move to the lower deck. It triggers the memory of the last time I took this journey, a recent trip to see Mott The Hoople in concert, which leads on to the thought of the lost Liverpool Stadium dream.
Caroline has been proved right. The whole band thing was a pipe dream, and I am now living in ‘Dead End Street’, having given up on my education. Strathconas may be fine for the time being, but I do not want to make a career out of the place. The one positive is that I am earning cash. This has enabled me to save fifty quid over the last few months, and I am now on my way to Rushforths to come clean about the whole Paul McCartney guarantor thing. I want to avoid a criminal record at my tender age.
The ferry docks at the Pier Head, and I leave the boat to head up the landing stage, past the Liverpool Echo vendor with his flat cap and flaccid cigarette, emerging to a view of the soot-blackened stone of the Liver Building and the green liveried buses at the terminus. I am uneasy about today and adopt a leisurely pace on my journey, strolling past James Street Station towards the main shopping area. I delay things a little further by visiting the Wimpy, where I treat myself to the Special Grill of Burger, Bender, Egg, and Chips, finishing it off with a Peach Melba and Banana Milk Shake. When I leave, I then take a necessary detour to Boot’s. I need some Rennies.
I am soon outside Rushforths, the grill now burning a hole in my stomach with the impact of an asteroid crashing into the plains of the Nevada desert. I remain apprehensive and so my insides are having a tough time at the moment. I follow a sign to the basement where the guitars and drums are on sale. The instruments here put Strathconas to shame. There are rows and rows of electric and acoustic guitars, and I stop to admire an especially stunning sky blue Telecaster hanging on the wall to my right. At the far end of the shop floor, just beyond a beautifully laid out silver Ludwig kit, I see a middle aged sales assistant. He is wearing a white shirt and bright orange tie, his unkempt greyish hair and slightly puzzled expression giving him the appearance of Stan Laurel. I walk up to the walnut counter he is standing behind and take a deep breath.
‘Excuse me.’
‘Yes?’ He scratches his head and pulls up his hair.
I am expecting Oliver Hardy to appear and say something about another nice mess.
'I’m Paul McCartney’s cousin... well not actually his cousin... in fact I don't know if he's got one.' I am gabbling. 'He might have... but even if he does, it’s not me.’
‘I’m sorry, but is there something you want to buy?’
‘No, I'm here to come clean.'
He screws up his face. 'You want a wash?'
'No, no, I want to pay you £50.’
‘I beg your pardon.’
He is fiddling with his tie. This man is both Laurel and Hardy rolled into one.
‘I want to pay £50 towards the balance owed on the Olympic drum kit that was bought a few months ago. Paul acted as guarantor on the HP agreement, and I’m here to apologise. I always planned to…’
'What on earth are you talking about?' Stan is a picture of confusion.
I explain everything from the Seacombe Ferry Hotel rendezvous with the ex-Beatle to the Ship Inn and the greasers.
‘I remember reading about that in the Liverpool Echo.’
‘Yes, I was the drummer.’
He stares at me with a disbelieving air. ‘But... but...’
‘But what?’
‘You’ve been cured...’
I recall the photo of George the Down syndrome playing the drums. ‘Yes, that’s right. I’ve been cured.’ I do not have the inclination to correct him.
I have a head for dates, so I tell him to check his sales records for Thursday 6th April. He bends down and groans. I hear his muffled voice.
'Bloody shrapnel up the backside... kills me every time I crouch.'
He gets back up, grimaces, and puts a brown leather ledger with fraying edges on to the counter. He reveals bitten fingernails thumbing back through the yellowing pages until he finds something.
'Ah yes, here it is. An Olympic by Premier kit sold to a Mr. Julian Lord on the 6th.'
'I think you'll find there's a HP document in the name of Tom Kellaway.'
Stan shakes his head. 'There's no reference to HP here.'
'There must be... with Paul McCartney as guarantor.'
'Look...' Stan has turned into Ollie and is showing signs of irritation, twiddling with his tie furiously. 'There is no HP on these drums and certainly no Mr. McCartney involved.
'I don't understand.'
'You don't understand? Mr. Lord bought the drums and paid £200 cash. For the last time young man, there is no hire purchase.'
'He paid cash?'
'Yes.'
It finally dawns on me that the McCartney guarantor scheme was a cover for Julian's generosity. He had used £200 of his own money to buy me a drum kit. I cannot quite believe it.
Stan has recovered from his war wound whimper and his scepticism about the Beatles connection. He is ready to move seamlessly into salesman mode.
'Now if you have £50, I think I can help you out with a replacement kit. We don't sell second hand equipment here, but I have a friend who does.'
I assume his ‘friend’ is Stan himself.
I am still somewhat distracted but murmur, 'The group have disbanded. I'm not playing anymore.'
'You're not playing?'
'No.'
‘Hang on a minute; you can't give up on your dreams. You’ll regret it later in life. And I should know. I was the 1939 Childwall Parish Banjo Association player of the year, and I let the Second World War get in the way of fulfilling my potential.’
I feel it would be churlish to argue that the fight against Nazi tyranny might have been more important than playing a banjo in the local church hall.
'Maybe, but I owe my friend this money, so I'll have to say no thanks. Sorry for the mix up.'
I say goodbye and am about to leave when Stan shouts after me. His right hand is pulling the hair on his crown towards the ceiling, but his left hand is holding a pair of drumsticks.
'Here you are, take these... just to keep your hand in.'
He passes me the sticks. I do not put up for a fight, even though I have no plans to drum again. Then again, who knows, I might sit by the edge of the settee tonight for a bit of a bash.
*
It is later that same day, and I have decided to call upon Julian. I want to pay him the £50. I walk up the long drive with its rather striking J-Reg Polar White Mini 1000 and press the doorbell on the gleaming mahogany door. A rich fruity tone is heard, a stark contrast to the chimes at my house that sound more like a chorus of farting cats.
‘Hello old chap,’ says Julian, greeting me warmly, ‘come on in.’
He has not long left his teenage years behind, but Julian's demeanour remains that of a mature, chivalrous gentleman. He is also dressed like one, smart trousers, waistcoat and gold pocket watch with chain, although he does look a little dishevelled this evening. I wipe my feet on the doormat and hang my jacket on the coat stand in the corner, submerging under the luxury of the shag pile in the vast hallway. Wading my way through this jungle of sumptuousness, I see an array of expensive looking ornaments and artefacts in expensive looking, glass fronted cabinets and can hear James Taylor's 'Sweet Baby James' playing in the distance. Julian guides me to the lounge where I discover the gorgeous Amanda, James Taylor fan and Brenda’s stepsister, sitting on the settee. Her appearance immediately distracts me. She is sporting a short skirt and low-necked,
frilly blouse, the buttons of which are partly undone. I quickly surmise that the unbuttoning is the work of the charmer himself and conclude that my timing is as appalling as my Auntie Joan telling a joke. I am ready to make my apologies and leave when Julian and Amanda both show their magnanimity.
‘Hi Tom, how lovely to see you again. Please come and sit down.’
‘That’s right old chap, take a seat, and I’ll make coffee.’
‘I’m not sure Jules…’
‘I insist.’
He heads off to the kitchen to make real filter coffee, unlike that chicory rubbish, the only option back home. I slide on to the polished leather of the armchair, and there is a brief, uncomfortable moment as we sit there in silence. I gaze at the oil paintings on the walls, good old English landscapes as opposed to grotesque females with deformed breasts. When I do find something to say, Amanda starts speaking at the same time, and in keeping with British custom, I apologise with the vehemence of having mistakenly hit her over the head with a golf club. Amanda wraps one side of her blond hair behind an ear and eventually is able to speak first.
‘I think I should apologise for what happened at the 99 club. Brenda had far too much to drink that night.’
It is about four months since my blind date with her stepsister, but the memories remain vivid. I resolve to switch the attention to Amanda.
‘No need to apologise. How’s the hairdressing going?’
Her eyes intensify to a bluer shade of blue, and she appears pleased and impressed that I have remembered her profession.
‘Fine thank you, in fact I’ve just opened my own salon on Hoylake Road.’
‘Your own salon! Wow, you’re very young to have your own shop.’
‘It was a present off daddy for my twenty-first.’
I muse that I would be lucky to get a hairbrush, never mind a hair salon, for mine.
She continues. ‘It’s unisex, so why don’t you come and have your hair done some time. I’ll make sure you get a good discount!’ She leans across from the edge of the settee to assess the texture of my hair, and I feel her chest press lightly against my shoulder and then my back. ‘You could definitely have a feather-cut,’ she says.
I am ready to embrace the dawn of unisex hairdressing with the enthusiasm of a dog chasing the butcher’s best sausages. To date, haircuts for me have been the stuff of nightmares. My earliest recollections involve my dad using the bluntest pair of clippers in the world to give me a short back and sides, a consistently painful experience that always felt like he was chopping away at the back of my head with a knife and fork. At the age of seven, I graduated to Ron the local barber who knew one style, the ‘Tony Curtis’, rather dated even in the 1960s. On my last visit to Ron, I asked him to leave my sideboards alone, having carefully cultivated longer strands of hair in front of my ears in lieu of real sideburns that would have to wait until puberty had run its course.
'How old are you son?'
'Fourteen.'
'Then you’re too young to have sideboards.' He cut them off and left me looking like a USA army recruit from Bilko.
Since then I have let my hair grow, now shoulder length though not styled. I acknowledge and accept Amanda’s offer in the same breath. I am not sure what Julian thinks when he comes back in with the coffee and biscuits on the hostess trolley to find Amanda draped over me and stroking my hair, but unflappable as ever, he merely enquires about milk and sugar. It strikes me that serving refreshments is unbecoming of my friend. He really ought to have a butler or some kind of maid.
As Amanda unfurls herself from the chair, my eyes involuntarily follow her. Her skirt is slightly hitched up and revealing more than it should. I sip my coffee, only for the burning hot beverage to miss my mouth and pour down the front of my Rock and Roll Circus tee shirt, scalding my chest.
‘Shit... shit,’ I jump up and exclaim.
‘Upstairs, first on your right,’ says Julian, quick as a flash, not realising my accident.
‘No, I’ve spilt flaming coffee down my front.’
Before I know it, Amanda has raced towards me and is drying me with a tea towel from Julian’s trolley.
‘How did you do that you silly thing?’ She is rubbing my chest a little too vigorously.
‘He was distracted staring at your heavenly bottom,’ suggests Julian, with unwitting razor sharp precision.
My laugh has an edge of hysteria to it, as though the suggestion is as ridiculous as a proclamation that Joe Gormley and Anthony Barber are secret lovers.
‘Here... you should take your shirt off to dry.’
Amanda attempts to pull my garment up from the bottom edges. I immediately restrain her hands.
‘No.’
The vehemence of my reply is from having the body of an undernourished pigeon, something I want to keep covered up in front of someone as physically perfect as Amanda. We reach a compromise. I agree to wear one of Julian shirts, minus the cravat and am soon comfortable and dry in my seat again. The conversation switches to jobs and careers.
It is clear I am in the least enviable position when it comes to the world of work and future employment prospects. Amanda has her salon, and Julian is about to start the third year of his English degree at Liverpool University, with plans to become a journalist. Even when we talk about the other band members, there is no respite. Ged is now training to be a Quantity Surveyor, and Brian has a steady job as a civil servant.
‘Are you working Tom?’ asks Amanda.
‘Yes, I work on the record department at Strathconas.’
My words are as shallow as the amount of hot bath water our immersion heater at home will allow at the time of a power cut. Somewhat feebly, I try to make the job sound better than it is by overstating my involvement with the musical instruments section. I am relieved when Amanda goes into the hall to make a phone call, ending this uncomfortable subject and giving me the chance to speak to Julian on his own.
'Jules.' My voice is a whisper.
'Yes old man?' He reciprocates in a soft tone.
'I went to Rushforths today.'
'Oh yes.'
'To pay some money off the HP.'
'I see.' Julian's eyebrows arch upwards. He knows I know. He needlessly checks the time on his pocket watch.
'You should never have the bought those drums out of your own money.'
'Perhaps not Tom, but that's all in the past now.'
'Not quite Jules, you lost £200, which I owe you.'
'No you don't.'
'Yes I do, which is why I want you to take this £50 as part payment.'
I stretch out my hand with ten five pound notes. I feel like Michael Miles on Take Your Pick. Julian waves them away.
'My dad's insurance paid up. You don't own me a thing.'
‘They paid up?’
‘Yes.’
‘The whole £200?’
‘A bit more, if I remember right. I made money on the deal... so forget about it.’
'Are you sure?'
'I'm positive.'
'Well I definitely owe you a big thank you.'
'Don't mention it.'
Amanda returns and looks quizzically at us. 'What are you two boys whispering about?' she says, smiling.
'Old times, Amanda, old times about the band,' says Julian, not quite grasping that it was only just less than three months ago when the band split... hardly old times.
She encourages further reminiscence about Junkie's Fudge, and we fondly recall our front room incarnation and run of gigs up to the fateful night at the Ship Inn. We again carefully whitewash any memories of the Talent Aplenty shambles.
‘I know we had a few troublesome experiences, but they were good times, weren’t they Jules?’
‘They certainly were old man, they certainly were.’
We stare into space, lost in our thoughts, a portrait of missed opportunity.
'Look at the pair of you,' says Amanda. 'You'd think you were OAPs, the way you are talking. If it was so much
fun, why don’t you get back together again? Why let one setback stop you?’
It was quite a setback, having our equipment smashed to smithereens, but she has a point. With my £50 savings, I could take up the offer of drums from the man in Rushforths. Access to funds never seems to be an issue for Jules, while Ged and Brian are in well-paid jobs. Julian agrees, and we do not waste any time. After a few telephone calls, we are all to meet next Monday evening at the Seacombe Ferry Hotel. Even at this early stage, I feel that I am in a band again, and when I explain to Julian and Amanda about the free drumsticks given to me by Stan Laurel, we all agree it may be an omen. Energised by the speed at which things are happening, I remember I have the sticks on me and quickly retrieve them from my jacket in the vestibule. I am soon deeply regretting the act.
I had brought them tonight to play Julian’s settee for a laugh but had aborted the idea when I saw his girlfriend was here. Just as well really... this furniture is from the upmarket George Henry Lee’s and not MFI. Amanda asks to hold the sticks, so I pass them to her. She starts drumming the air and finishes her drum roll with a mighty crash of an imaginary cymbal. I only wish my testicles were imaginary. She has clobbered my bollocks with the might of a sadistic headmaster administering corporal punishment to a pupil who, during morning assembly, has dared to question the modern day relevance of the gospel according to John.
She is almost apoplectic with remorse as I roll about in agony. The old cliché is true. Such a blow really does bring tears to your eyes, and they are certainly not tears of joy. In between gasps, I am doing my best to pretend nothing has happened, calling upon an instinctive British stiff upper lip that clearly runs deep within my psyche, confirming that all those black and white British films starring John Mills have left an indelible mark. It takes a few minutes for me to recover some composure. In my efforts to reassure Amanda that there is no lasting damage, I overcompensate and effectively thank her for battering my manhood to a pulp, inviting her to do it again at any future date of her choosing.