Georgia

by Lesley Pearse

  ‘Max didn’t tell you it was only an audition?’ Rod’s lip curled back aggressively.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She could have died of shame. Max had put her in an impossible position. Why couldn’t he have told her the truth?

  She turned and ran to the toilet, tears springing into her eyes.

  ‘Fuck Max,’ Rod said as the door banged behind her. ‘He’s so bloody –’ he paused, unable to find the right word.

  ‘Right?’ Speedy grinned. ‘Let’s face it Rod, for once he’s got his head screwed on.’

  ‘She’s perfect,’ John said quietly, staring at the door Georgia had rushed into. ‘She’s got the voice, the looks, everything.’

  ‘She’ll be trouble,’ Norman’s face was sharp, as if searching for an alternative argument. ‘What happens when she has to share a room with us? How can we change with her around?’

  ‘What do you think Rod?’ Ian turned his lazy blue eyes on to his friend.

  ‘I think she’s brilliant.’

  Ian’s mouth fell open. He had expected fierce opposition, at best a bet that he could get her into bed first.

  ‘I think she could be trouble,’ Rod added quickly. ‘I agree with Norman there. But more from Max than anyone. He fancies her, I saw it in his face. What we need to get straight is how she thinks of Max.’

  ‘Let’s have a vote on her anyway?’ Ian scanned the boys grouped around him. He could see Rod wanted her in, John too. Alan and Les would go along with the majority.

  ‘Hold on,’ Speedy’s slow voice halted them. ‘I like her too, but what we’ve all got to think of is Ian’s position. We’ve been together too long to split up now. If she stays we’ve got to integrate her right into the band, never allow her to think she’s the important one. You’ve got to put more beef into it Ian, don’t let her take over. Anyway you haven’t said a word yourself.’

  ‘I think she’s our saviour,’ Ian blushed. ‘She’s just what we need. Did you hear all of you come alive in there? She’s got that magic touch to make us all reach new heights. I don’t care if it’s going to cause trouble. I say we take her on.’

  When Georgia returned from the toilets she knew immediately they had reached a decision.

  ‘Give us two quid,’ Rod said, holding out the brown envelope. ‘That’ll be your contribution until pay day. We’ll work out your permanent share next week.’

  ‘You mean?’ Georgia’s eyes opened wide, her lips curving into a dimpled smile.

  ‘It means you’re in now baby,’ Speedy drawled. ‘Welcome to Samson.’

  Chapter 11

  ‘Is this it?’ Georgia turned surprised eyes on Ian as he banged on a door between a Wimpy bar and a betting shop in Tottenham High Street.

  ‘Wait till you get inside,’ he grinned, eyes full of mischief. ‘Welcome to de shit-house!’

  The door creaked open and a small, scrawny man in a dirty collarless shirt peered out, behind him was a flight of steep stairs, up which came a warm, fetid smell of dustbins.

  ‘You’re early,’ the man said. ‘I haven’t finished cleaning up yet.’

  Georgia clutched the dress Miriam had given her to her chest, her legs turning to jelly.

  ‘You know we like to set up early to get a balance,’ Ian prodded the old man in the chest playfully. ‘Now come on Sid, don’t be awkward.’

  Grumbling under his breath the old man tottered off down the stairs on bowed legs. Ian turned to the boys sitting in the van and waved for them to follow.

  ‘You’ll soon get used to clubs by daylight,’ Ian grinned at Georgia’s horrified face and putting one hand in the small of her back, pushed her gently towards the stairs. ‘By the time we get back here at half nine tonight it will look different. By two thirty when we leave it will seem wonderful. That’s a promise.’

  An hour later Georgia sat huddled on the edge of the stage watching the boys still putting the final touches to their equipment. All they had allowed her to carry down were the small items while they sweated profusely carting the heavy organ, speakers and amplifiers.

  The basement club was a huge clammy cellar, the only seating consisted of rows of school-type benches lining the whitewashed walls. Two long strip lights lit the place, making it as inviting as a morgue. Sid was still washing the floor, or rather pushing the dirt round further with an ancient mop.

  ‘Which one do you belong to?’

  Georgia assumed Sid was talking to her, although his eyes stayed glued to the mop in his hand.

  ‘I don’t belong to anyone,’ she said. ‘I’m the new singer.’

  ‘Bit young for that aren’t you?’ He shuffled nearer her, pushing the full bucket with one foot. ‘Did they tell you what a rough-house it is?’

  ‘Yes.’ In fact it had only been mentioned on the way here when Ian gave her instructions to make for the dressing-room and stay there if trouble broke out. Georgia was more concerned with changing in a filthy, tiny hole with one forty watt bulb overhead and a mirror barely big enough to see her mouth in, than it being her sanctuary.

  Now that the boys’ band suits hung in there too, there was barely room for any of them. How was she going to change into that awful dress Miriam had given her, without the entire band seeing her almost naked?

  ‘Some nights they pelt the band with glasses,’ Sid said cheerfully. ‘Course, they’ve never done it to this lot, because they like them. But you get on your toes if anything happens.’

  Georgia’s heart sank. She was frightened enough by just singing here, without the threat of violence too.

  ‘Nearly there now,’ Rod called down from the stage. ‘We’ll run through a couple of numbers, then go and find something to eat.’

  Georgia couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to come and spend an evening here, even though the boys insisted it was always packed to capacity. They said it was one of their favourite venues, so what must the worst ones be like? The toilets were old and grubby with no hot water. Not one glass on the bar sparkled. The seating was almost non-existent and if fire broke out they’d all be trampled to death trying to get out that one narrow staircase.

  Norman began to play on the organ. A haunting little tune she remembered hearing on Radio Luxembourg while still at school.

  ‘I’m Mr Blue, when you say you’re sorry,’ she forgot for a moment her anxiety and joined in, turning round to face him. ‘Then show it by going out on the sly, proving your love isn’t true.’

  Les and Speedy immediately picked it up, leaning to the microphone and doing exaggerated backing vocals.

  ‘Do Wah doo, Call me Mr Blue.’

  Ian stood back against a speaker, his mouth twitching with mirth, as Georgia, and the three boys aped the fifties song.

  ‘The balance seems fine,’ Ian laughed aloud as they finished. ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you.’

  The pub on the corner had been empty when they went in at seven. Now at half past eight it was getting crowded, just another reminder soon they would have to leave the comfortable bar and get back to the club.

  Ian shot a glance at Georgia as though reading her mind.

  ‘I’ll go back with Georgia, you lot stay on for a bit,’ he said to the others, standing up and beckoning for her to come too. Georgia flashed a look of gratitude at him. She had been dwelling on the best way to get into her dress in that dressing-room without them seeing her underwear and she still hadn’t found a way of removing her bra and zipping up the hated dress without revealing something.

  To Georgia with only the scantiest real knowledge of men, it seemed the boys were obsessed about sex. They described breasts in detail, the size of a girl’s nipples, the weight and feel of them. Rod claimed they all masturbated at least twice a day and insisted she would get used to it. They spoke of a mysterious thing called ‘muff diving’ which she knew was something rude but hadn’t a clue what it was. No woman under fifty was safe from their bawdy banter and not once had she heard a tender or romantic suggestion.

  Only Ian was different. He too
laughed along with them, even pointed out women they passed in the van, but in Georgia’s presence at least he didn’t swear or say anything to make her blush, and now he was intuitive enough to know she was frightened of changing with them.

  ‘They aren’t as bad as they seem,’ he said as they crossed the High Street. Flynn’s had bright lights over the door now and a big flashing neon sign had been switched on. It was dusk, and the street was full of groups of young people, giving the road a feeling of excitement that had been lacking earlier in the day. ‘Believe it or not Georgia, they are merely trying to get you to open up. Until you do they’ll keep it up.’

  ‘What do they want me to say?’ she asked as they reached the club door. A small desk had been set up at the top of the stairs, but as yet there was no one manning it. ‘Do they want me to say I had five men last night?’

  ‘No.’ Ian laughed. He turned to her, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. ‘They just want to know if there’s a man in your life. Has Max come on to you. Where you come from and why you say so little.’

  Silence hadn’t been intentional. She had been so busy listening to them she hadn’t considered they might want to know about her. But even if she wanted to open up, how could she? One bit would lead to other bits she wanted left buried.

  ‘There isn’t a man,’ she hung her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean about Max. I’ll tell you about my past when I feel safe, and I don’t talk much because you lot all do it for me!’

  Ian’s hand came up, with one finger he lifted her chin, leaned forward and kissed her on the nose.

  ‘That’s enough for me.’

  He had the prettiest eyes she’d ever seen on a man. Saxe blue with tiny flecks of grey. Despite his blond hair, his eyelashes were thick and dark. But then there was a great deal to like about Ian. He was gentle, sensitive and his face held all the purity of a child. He was too thin, too pale. In a teeshirt and jeans he was like a rasher of bacon. Yet he had an adult quality which the other boys didn’t share.

  Together they went downstairs. The club looked completely different now. The strip lighting replaced by coloured spots on the walls, and the bar lit up. Only now did she appreciate that the rough wood on the bar was intentional, intended to look rustic. Even the floor didn’t look dirty any longer, the smell of dustbins replaced by some kind of lavender smell.

  ‘Sid’s been spraying the place for cockroaches,’ Ian sniggered.

  Georgia stood up on tip-toe, peering into the gloom suspiciously.

  ‘Not really, chump,’ Ian laughed. ‘It’s just some kind of air freshener. Now get changed before the others get back.’

  The dress was gold lurex. The top, boned and strapless, the skirt a full circle with layers of net underneath which scratched her legs unmercifully.

  Georgia tried to see herself in the cracked mirror, holding the dress closed with one hand. She had been struggling to zip it up for five minutes, and now music was playing out in the club she could hardly go out and search for Ian to help her.

  The shape of the dress was quite nice, but any yellow or brown tones didn’t bring out the right colour in her face. She looked brassy. More suited to ballroom dancing than a soul band.

  ‘Can we come in now?’ Rod’s voice came through the door. ‘Are you decent?’

  ‘Yes,’ she backed up against the wall holding the dress closed behind her.

  ‘Blimey,’ Rod whistled. ‘Where on earth did Miriam dig that one up?’

  Georgia could feel her lips quivering. She had hoped they would insist it was nice. Speedy and Alan pushed by Rod, pulling off their shirts as they went. Ian came in next.

  ‘I can’t do up the zip,’ she whispered to him, turning her back to him while clutching at the top.

  Ian smiled. Her small narrow back reminded him of his younger sister’s, little shoulder blades sticking out like tiny wings, skin so smooth and silky he was tempted to stroke it.

  ‘Zip it, don’t kiss it,’ John said behind him. ‘You’re supposed to be the gentleman.’

  ‘It’s horrible isn’t it?’ Georgia turned back to Ian once he had fastened the hook and eye on the top. ‘Do I really have to wear it?’

  ‘I can only suppose she thought it would contrast with our red suits,’ Rod’s deep voice chimed in. Georgia looked round and found him wearing only the scantiest of underpants barely covering a terrifying bulge. Undressed he looked like a man, broad shoulders and a sprinkling of dark hair on his chest. She blushed furiously.

  ‘It will have to do for tonight,’ Ian realized her discomfort and distracted her. ‘You’ll look fine on stage.’

  ‘You can’t wear stockings,’ Speedy said in his slow, almost dreamy way, gazing at her legs with a slight leer as he too removed his jeans. ‘They’ll all be peering up your dress all night. Take them off.’

  Georgia wanted to die. Nothing had prepared her for being cooped up in this tiny airless room with seven men only half dressed. Now they expected her to remove her stockings in front of them.

  ‘Speedy’s right,’ Ian said quietly. ‘He could have been more tactful, but that’s Speedy for you. Do your hair and stop worrying.’

  ‘You’d have been better in red,’ John had already dressed, he was putting on a black shoe-string tie. ‘That colour makes you sallow.’

  Georgia was on the point of tears.

  ‘What shall I do?’ she whispered.

  ‘Put plenty of rouge on your cheeks,’ Ian said. ‘And finish your hair, then we’ll see.’

  Surreptitiously she tried to remove her stockings and suspender belt without anyone seeing.

  It was a horrible feeling. If she bent forward her breasts popped out, her bare shoulders felt chilly. Suppose when she moved on stage the audience could see her knickers?

  Somehow she managed to wriggle into the corner, bent over and scooped her hair up into a top knot. Miriam had suggested she wore a ‘beehive’, but she’d tried that already at home and all she succeeded in doing was making herself look like a tart.

  ‘To hell with everyone,’ she muttered to herself. ‘I’ll be me and if they don’t like it, too bad.’

  She stood up, pulling up the front of her dress, then turned.

  Ian’s face broke into a wide smile.

  He could see the defiant look in her eyes. Her hair showered over her head in a mass of bubbly little curls. He stepped forward, and with one finger released a few tiny strands by her ears, curling them round his finger.

  He was already in his suit. He looked bigger, the red contrasting well with his blond hair. His black shoes gleamed with polish, shirt dazzling white and a faint whiff of woody aftershave. Georgia could see now why he had such a big following of girls.

  ‘You need something in your hair,’ he said thoughtfully. He was standing so close to her she was sure he could see right down her dress.

  Georgia shamefacedly got out a gold feather plume that was with the dress and held it out.

  ‘Who did she think she was dressing?’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘That makes you look like something out of the Moulin Rouge!’

  ‘What about a flower?’ Rod said, his arrogant face for once alight with interest. ‘There’s a vase full on the bar.’

  ‘Go and whip a couple, red ones,’ Ian said.

  Rod returned in minutes with two roses.

  Ian came close to Georgia and pushed them into the band holding her hair.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said, standing back and smiling. ‘Now put a bit more colour on your face, you might look like a clown in here, but up on the stage you’ll look fine. Do you want me to do it for you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, by now so nervous she couldn’t do anything.

  Ian stood in front of her carefully applying the rouge. He picked up a small eyeliner brush and added a little more.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now use a lipstick brush and outline your lips in a darker colour.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked. She was surprised by his kno
wledge, and the way he handled her like a sister was very comforting.

  ‘Quite sure,’ he said gently.

  ‘I’m in a bit of a state,’ she whispered, not wanting the others to overhear.

  ‘Let me give you a cuddle?’ he smiled. ‘The best remedy for the collywobbles.’ He put his arms round her and held her tightly, his lips close to her ear. ‘I’m still nervous and I’ve been doing it for years. But it goes as soon as we get up there.’

  ‘Break it up,’ Rod shouted. ‘I thought Max said no passes were to be made?’

  ‘Not a pass,’ Ian laughed, looking round at the others without letting go of her. ‘Just a cuddle to banish nerves.’

  ‘You nervous?’ Rod sounded amazed. ‘If you can come along to rehearsals when you don’t know anyone, you’ll sail through this.’

  ‘Will I?’ she said, still clinging to Ian.

  ‘Of course you will,’ the boys all chimed in together.

  ‘Besides, we can get John to blast out on his horn if you can’t reach the high notes,’ added Norman.

  Their faces touched something inside Georgia.

  They were all seasoned professionals and she had been thrust on them whether they liked it or not. She was young, green as grass and she was holding them all up. Yet here they were being brotherly and kind, grouping around her offering her their support.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said simply. ‘I hope I don’t let you down.’

  ‘You’ve got five minutes to have a pee,’ Ian said with a lop-sided grin. ‘Don’t drop that net skirt in the bog.’

  Flynn’s was filling up.

  Georgia couldn’t bear to peer through the door as the boys were doing. She could hear raucous laughter, shouting and stamping feet, it was frightening enough just to listen, without gawping at them too. Hard, pale-faced girls with beehives and heavily made-up eyes in tight sheath dresses and stilettos. The men tough and broad-shouldered in Italian boxy jackets and winkle-pickers. They seemed an unlikely bunch to appreciate a band who didn’t play top twenty hits.

  Bobby Vee’s song ‘Rubber Ball’ was playing so loudly the speakers crackled, a smell of cigarettes, beer and cheap scent taking away all the oxygen she needed.