The Wrong Boy

by Willy Russell

  With all my love,

  Raymond

  23 June 1991

  Swallowbrook,

  Heaton Wold,

  N. Lincs

  Dear Morrissey,

  I know that I said I wasn’t going to write to you any more. But when I said that, Morrissey, it was just because of all the pressure and me trying to fit in and everything stupid like that. I know that I owe you an apology over all that because it must have seemed like I was trying to turn my back on you. And in a way I was trying to do that. But Morrissey, I was trying to do it for the wrong reasons and in the wrong way. The fact of the matter is, Morrissey, that wherever I go and whatever I do and wherever I end up and no matter what happens and how long I live, you will always be a part of my life. I know that whenever I catch a snatch of a song leaking out from beneath somebody’s door or blasting out from behind a bar, wherever I am and whoever I’m with, there’ll always be that rush inside of me; a small rush of love and an inward tear for all the times we shared. And it doesn’t even matter and it won’t ever matter that you don’t even know that we shared anything at all. Because even though you don’t know it, Morrissey, you did, you shared it all with me.

  And that’s why I’m writing you this last letter, Morrissey – to say thank you.

  And to tell you, Morrissey, about the incredible thing that happened; the thing that even Ralph doesn’t know about – and Ralph’s even read the lyric book!

  You see, she wasn’t just here in my imagination, the Girl with the Chestnut Eyes. She was really here, Morrissey, here on this writers’ course. She’s trying to be a poet, you see. That’s why she came here, to try and learn how she could be a better writer. Jo says that more than anything else in the world, that’s what she wants to be.

  And that’s why she said she might not even bother going back to school after the summer and finishing her ‘A’ levels.

  I think Ralph got a bit upset when he heard that. He tried to persuade Jo that she should take her exams and then go on to university. Ralph said that being a poet wasn’t an occupation and even though Jo’s work was really impressive, the chances of her being able to support herself through her writing were extremely slim. But Jo just shrugged and said, ‘Ralph, I know that. I’ve always known that. But why should I spend my time doing “A” levels and going to university when I don’t feel the need to?’

  Ralph argued and tried to tell her that scholarship and study were not necessarily the enemies of creativity.

  But Jo said, ‘I do study, Ralph. I study really really hard. I’m studying here; I’ll always study.’

  Ralph kept arguing though, trying to come up with arguments as to why Jo really should go back and do her ‘A’ levels.

  But in the end Jo just interrupted him and said, ‘All right then, Ralph, what about you? Did you do your “A” levels, or whatever they’re called in America? Did you go to university? And don’t say you did because I read it on the dust-jacket of your book where it said you didn’t have a formal education.’

  Ralph had to admit that Jo was right. And Jo started laughing then, telling him not to be a hypocrite.

  But Ralph kept trying to wriggle out of it, saying, ‘No … look, listen, for Christ sakes stop laughing … listen … I was … I was lucky, OK? Even though I didn’t do it formally I really did get myself an education. People I met and worked with, I learned so much from them. But it could’ve gone the other way. I just happened to be lucky.’

  Jo just looked at him. And then she nodded as this smile broke out across her face and she said, ‘I know! That’s what I’m going to be: lucky!’

  Ralph gave up after that. He said to me that with the sort of will Jo had it probably wouldn’t matter if she didn’t do her ‘A’ levels.

  But even so, he said to me, ‘Maybe she’ll pay more attention to you, Ray. Try and make her see some sense, huh? She should go back.’

  I sort of nodded. Only I never ever did anything about it. Because I knew that Jo would make up her own mind and it was nothing to do with me really.

  The first time I’d ever seen her, Morrissey, at the bus stop by the bottle bank on the boulevard, she’d been back in Failsworth to visit her mother. She’d had to come all the way from the Wirral, where she was living with her sister now. That’s why I never saw her around Failsworth after that one time at the bus stop; because she didn’t come back there very often.

  But I didn’t know that, not then. The only thing I knew was that she was a Morrissey fan; and that she was the girl whose eyes were the colour of chestnuts.

  She’s not that now though; she isn’t the Girl with the Chestnut Eyes any more; she’s just Jo.

  All the people here think that we’re an item. Ralph says that always happens when there’s two young people on the course; all the old ones always like to believe that the two youngsters have fallen in love with each other. Ralph says that’s why it happens so much in stories; because it’s one of the things that we need to happen.

  So me and Jo just let them all think what they want. I suppose, in a way, you can’t blame them really; with the two of us being together so much of the time. Some of them like to tease us and make these jokes about us being salt and pepper pots or joined at the hip or if you want to find where Jo is look for Raymond – and vice versa.

  As you can see, Morrissey, their jokes aren’t very witty at all. But like Ralph said, they’re very nice people really. And that’s why me and Jo just smile. And let them think what they want to think. We just like being together. Like sometimes we even stay up all night together, working side by side in the barn or talking till we fall asleep on one of the big settees in the lounge. Ralph came down to breakfast one morning and found us both curled up there. He didn’t wake us up though. He just put a blanket over us.

  I said before, Morrissey, that Ralph didn’t know. But I sometimes wonder if he put two and two together and just never let on. I don’t know. You see, I never even twigged it myself.

  When I saw her, that first afternoon after Ralph had told me I could stay, I wasn’t shy or anything like that because Ralph had asked me to team up with her and so I told myself I was just doing what Ralph had asked me, doing him a favour.

  Even though it was almost evening, I was keeping out of the sun, sitting beneath the beech tree, trying to write something in my lyric book. And when I looked up she was crossing the lawn, walking towards the arch that leads out of the garden and onto the track.

  I don’t think she’d seen me, not till I stood up. And I said, ‘What was the accessory she had, St Joan, when the flames began to melt it?’

  She looked up. She almost frowned, hesitating, unsure. But then she smiled and she said, ‘A Walkman of course!’

  I shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘it was too easy.’ Then smiling back at her, I said, ‘You still into him?’

  She nodded but with a so-so expression on her face as she said, ‘Yeah. Sort of.’

  We just stood there, both of us nodding. And then it was funny because she didn’t ask me if I wanted to go for a walk with her and I didn’t ask her if I could come along but we were suddenly just walking along together through the arch and down the track and I was asking her about what sort of writing she did and which writers she liked.

  She said she was into all sorts of people but she particularly liked Kit Wright and Liz Lochhead and Carol Ann Duffy.

  I just nodded. I’d never heard of them.

  And then she said, ‘But I’m trying not to read any of them at the moment because their voices are so strong.’

  I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  She shrugged. We were walking past the dried-up marshes where I’d walked with Ralph the night before.

  ‘I mean,’ she said, ‘well … what I think I mean is that I’m trying to … sort of … find my own voice at the moment. But I know it’s not strong enough yet. So when I read the likes of Kit Wright or Duffy, I just seem to get drowned out by the strength and power of their voices …
and I don’t mean to but instead of speaking in a voice of my own, I end up speaking in a parody of theirs.’

  She nodded. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m probably not making much sense.’

  ‘No!’ I said. ‘You are. You’re making perfect sense. I know exactly what you mean. Because I’ve been writing songs,’ I said, ‘and it’s taken me ages and ages to realise it but every single one I ever wrote was just crap because every one of them was just second-hand Morrissey. In the end they were all just worthless.’

  She looked doubtful. ‘Not all of them,’ she said, ‘not every single song you’ve written.’

  I nodded.

  ‘Don’t you think you might be in danger of being a bit too self-critical?’ she said.

  I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I even got a second opinion. I played some of my songs to Ralph last night, in the barn. He said they were some of the most pedestrian tunes and execrable lyrics that it had ever been his misfortune to endure!’

  She was frowning. But then she suddenly laughed and said, ‘He didn’t! You’re winding me up. Ralph doesn’t give criticism in that sort of way. He doesn’t even talk like that.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘he was quite polite really. But that’s what he meant! And anyway, I didn’t even need Ralph to tell me because I’d come to the same conclusion myself.’

  We were crossing the cattle grid, carefully stepping on the iron bits to make sure our feet didn’t slip through. She was wearing red sandals. They were brilliant. And I’ve never really given much thought to sandals before.

  ‘So are you just going to pack it in?’ she said. ‘Aren’t you going to write any more songs?’

  I thought about it. Then I sighed and said, ‘No, I don’t think so. At least not for a while; not until I can try and do it without hearing Morrissey in my head all the time.’

  She looked at me. And she said, ‘Aren’t you into him any more?’

  I sighed and I frowned as I thought about it and told her the terrible sort of truth, told her, ‘I don’t know.’

  But it was like she understood because she said, ‘It’s terrible, isn’t it? When you’re into someone as much as you were into Morrissey and then suddenly it’s not there, not in the same sort of way; the feeling’s gone and no matter how much you want it to come back, it won’t.’

  I nodded. We were walking up the side of the dried-up marshy field. It was lovely, having someone who understood. That’s what I wanted to tell her. But I didn’t get the chance, not then, because as we moved down the bank towards the river she said, ‘I always thought you were the biggest Morrissey fan of them all. Everyone always says that. The last time I was at a Smiths night I heard someone saying that that kid from Failsworth, that Raymond Marks, he’s probably the most dedicated Morrissey maniac there is.’

  We were walking along the river bed itself, where it was so dried up that it was almost like walking along a track. I thought maybe I hadn’t heard her right.

  ‘How did they know my name?’ I said.

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘I probably told them.’

  I just carried on walking. And hoping that the sun wasn’t making me go funny again.

  ‘But how did you know it?’ I said.

  She shrugged again. ‘Because I do,’ she said. ‘Because I used to live in Failsworth. I’ve known it for ages. I’ve known your name for ages.’

  She was staring at me, looking straight into my eyes almost as if – as if she was challenging me.

  And then she said it, Morrissey, her voice controlled and firm as she said, ‘You don’t know who I am, do you?’

  I frowned. And shrugged. ‘Just … Jo,’ I said. ‘That’s all I know … that you’re called Jo.’

  Her gaze never flinching, eyes locked on mine, she nodded as she said, ‘Yeah. But I used to be someone else. I used to be Paulette Patterson.’

  They say, don’t they, Morrissey, people who’ve survived explosions or had to face a terrible shock, they say it’s the small, often unrelated detail that they remember most; like the fact that her eyes weren’t really chestnut coloured at all, not when you could see them properly. Perhaps it was the sunlight making them appear much lighter, more amber than I’d remembered; but certainly the image of dark chestnuts was quite wrong, especially now that I was looking at eyes that were wide with a sort of fierce defiance; eyes that were moist and swimmy from the tears that were welling up and spilling out, slowly rolling down her face.

  I shrugged. And I said to her, ‘Well, that doesn’t matter.’

  Then I shrugged again and said, ‘I used to be the Wrong Boy.’

  THE END

  About the Author

  Willy Russell was born in Whiston, near Liverpool, and left school at fifteen. He worked as a ladies’ hairdresser for six years, stacked stockings at Bear Brand and cleaned girders at Ford, before getting into writing, first as a songwriter then as a playwright. He is the author of, amongst others, the multi-award-winning plays – later made into films – Educating Rita and Shirley Valentine, and the award-winning West End musical hits Blood Brothers and John, Paul, George, Ringo and Bert. He and his family live in Liverpool.

  Also by Willy Russell

  STAGE PLAYS

  Breezeblock Park

  Stags and Hens

  One for the Road

  Educating Rita

  Shirley Valentine

  TV PLAYS

  Death of a Young Young Man

  Break In

  Lies

  Our Day Out

  Daughters of Albion

  One Summer

  Terraces

  MUSICALS

  John, Paul, George, Ringo and Bert

  Our Day Out

  Blood Brothers