'So you say,' Dougie smiled, as if to suggest that he too had his doubts.
'I did, and played with them a couple of times. That was all, just the once or twice, but it’s something. You ask around, try Alan Williams or Bob Wooller, they’ll tell you. I played drums for them when they were stuck. It was over the river, New Brighton way. I could have done better than I did, if only I’d been younger and hadn’t had a job.'
Dougie laughed. 'Over-qualified, were you? You can’t be a superstar unless you’re out of work, is that it?'
The two young men grinned at each other, smirking in that way that is intended to hurt old men and their dreams. Regretting having spoken, Billy drained his glass and stood.
'No, Billy, don’t go,' said Dougie. 'Tell us some more.'
'Fuck off. You don’t want to listen, you just want to laugh.'
'Rubbish. Come on, have a drink with us.'
It was the offer of a free drink which persuaded Billy; pride was all very well, but there were times when it was a luxury which could be sacrificed. Dougie passed some money to his friend, who went to the bar and returned with three beers.
'Go on, Billy, tell us,' said Dougie. 'Was Lennon really as nasty as people say?'
'He had a spark of genius, did John,' Billy replied, sipping at his beer, not answering the question directly but saying what he always did, as though his part was now so familiar. 'A wicked wit, but a spark of genius.'
'Which you were the first to recognize?'
'I wouldn’t say that,' said Billy, this time missing the sarcasm, 'though I did sense it, the first time we met.'
'Where was that? The Cavern? The Blue Angel?'
Billy sniffed derisively at the mention of the names. 'You youngsters, you only know the places you’ve read about, the places the tourists visit that are part of history. They were dives, those places, but there were ones even less glamorous. No, the first time I came across John Lennon was in Litherland Town Hall.'
'Where?'
'Litherland?'
'Just north of the city,' he told them, and they laughed with him as he told them of trips to Bootle and Garston and other pre-historic places, never touching on the glory of venues such as Shea Stadium or the Hollywood Bowl for he had missed out on those later times. They laughed with him, too, as he recalled reeling drunk from the door of the Jacaranda, not allowed in there with his bottle of cheap wine because the place was unlicensed, and as he related arguing with George Harrison, who was still no more than a schoolboy at the time and too young to know what was what.
'He had to end up a sodding mystic,' said Billy, with a shake of the head. 'He was always the naive one.'
'He didn't have your experience of life? Is that what you’re saying?' asked Dougie.
'Right.'
'But you didn't have his luck,' Mac ventured, and they laughed again, Billy a little more sadly this time.
'You know what, Billy? You ought to write all this down, or get someone to do it for you. There’s still money to be made from the Beatles.'
Billy smiled.
'Really, I mean it,' said Dougie.
'Well, it just so happens…'
'He’s going to tell us he’s writing a bloody book!' said Mac scornfully.
'No, not exactly…'
'For Christ’s sake, everyone and his sister knows somebody who knew the Beatles!' Mac continued. 'Half this bloody city’s writing a book about it!'
Dougie gave his friend a dig in the ribs to silence him. 'Hush, let him speak,' he said, then turned to Billy. 'You’ve got something lined up then, eh, Billy?'
Billy half inclined his head, as if reluctant to say. 'There’s a newspaper reporter I met last night.'
'He’s writing up your story, is he?'
'He bought me drinks while he pumped my brain. Slipped me ten pounds before he left, too. I’m waiting to meet him now.'
'Hey,' said Dougie, with a bright sparkle in his eye. 'He wouldn’t be about my height, would he, wears a sports jacket and suede shoes?'
'Yes, that sounds like him.'
'And a card tucked in his hat-band that says ‘Press’?' asked Mac, facetiously.
'Stop messing around,' Dougie told him. 'Don’t you remember the bloke we saw earlier, asking around the hotel bar? It must have been him.'
'Where?' asked Billy excitedly, getting to his feet. 'Which bar? What hotel?'
Dougie caught his arm before he could leave. 'Steady on, Billy, calm down. He left. Said he’d be back, though, at about half two. It's the new hotel on Hope Street. Just round the corner from the 'Cracke'. The |Beatles drank there, didn't they?'
'That they did!' Billy agreed.
'Sounds propitious, then?'
'That it does!'
'So you hang on here, Billy, you’ve got time to finish your drink.'
Billy nodded eagerly, said thanks for the information.
'That’s okay, that’s what friends are for,' Dougie replied, as he and Mac rose. 'We’ll see you again, Billy. Buy us a drink when you’ve made your fortune.'
'Yes! You'll get by with a little help from your friends, Billy!' Mac laughed.
As they crossed the room Billy saw them look over their shoulders at him, their smiles amused and slightly pitying, and again he regretted having joined in conversation with them. It was always the same, a little drink was enough encouragement and he would start to ramble on, dwelling on the silly insignificant memories of just one or two nights so many years ago. Annoyed that he had fallen victim again, been unable to hold his tongue, disgusted with himself because he knew it would not be the last time, he gulped at his drink and then set the glass down on the table. The table upset him, it dipped towards him on uneven legs and then bowed away when he picked up his glass; it seemed almost subservient and it annoyed him, for he thought that even a table should behave with more dignity, a little more pride. He tried the glass in different positions -to the left, to the right, fore and aft, over each of the legs in turn- but every time the stupid altar dipped and rolled and all but genuflected, bobbing crazily on its four uneven legs like a cork on an ocean. He cursed it -'stupid bloody table!'- and slammed his glass down hard, telling it to be still. The table paid no heed, merely dipped meekly, dazzling with broken glass; the landlord heard, came across and suggested that Billy leave.
'It’s your idiot table,' said Billy, and pushed it gently to demonstrate.
'Why didn’t you put a beer mat under the leg?' the landlord asked, and Billy picked up the coaster his glass had been on, read the legend on it as he began to fold it in two; it was too late, though, the beer had been spilt and he was led to the door.
He had little money left now, just a few coins jangling among the other treasures in his pocket; he still had the promise of some cash to come, though, and too excited to wait until two-thirty he hurried up the hill to the hotel bar on Hope Street.
The cries and jeers came as soon as he walked through the door, he had been expected, Dougie and Mac and others burst into raucous fits of laughter; there was one among the crowd who wore a sports jacket and suede shoes, carried in the band of his trilby -like the Mad Hatter- a grotesquely oversize card which read ‘Press’.
'It’s mean Mr Mustard!' they all laughed.
'The fool on the hill!'
'Sergeant Pepper himself!'
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