Georgia

by Lesley Pearse

  During the prayers her thoughts were all with Ian and Alan. She could see them squabbling in the changing rooms over a bar of chocolate. Jumping fully clothed in the river at Oxford, sleepy in the back of the van. Laughing over a book of corny jokes. Alan was the one she knew least about. He hadn’t been flashy like Rod, or even famous for his dry humour like John. He had none of Norman’s know-all tendencies, Les’s dimness, or Speedy’s sloth to make him exceptional. Just a bright little cockney, happy to be privileged enough to play in a band, and his saxophone spoke for him.

  But Ian. There were a million memories there. The way he wrapped his arms around her when he went to sleep, the kisses first thing in the morning. Day after day of love-filled hours. He’d taught her how to trust again. How to project her voice and wring the last emotion out of a song. One day she’d replace the lover, but her friend would always be in her head and heart.

  When Rod got up to speak on behalf of all of them, Georgia found it hard to hold back the tears. She wasn’t used to seeing him in a formal dark suit, his hair slicked back from his face, and neither was she accustomed to seeing pain in his eyes.

  As he left the altar steps he put his hands over his eyes, his shoulders bowed with the weight of his sorrow. His red peeling face, his bandaged hands were a testimony of his courage. At that moment Georgia understood why Ian had stood by Rod even when he was arrogant, selfish and sarcastic. Had he always known that Rod would be prepared to give his own life to try and save a friend?

  It was late that evening, alone in her room that Georgia’s grief and guilt finally surfaced and spilled out. She had been trying to write down her thoughts in a poem, but nothing came to her.

  All she could see was the boys, standing in a group by the gates of the crematorium. They were lost without Ian to tell them what to do. Home, belongings and two of their members, gone. Broken by grief, tormented by the guilty feeling that they could have prevented the accident. Lost like a ship without a rudder.

  Norman’s carroty hair caught the sunshine as he bowed it towards John to comfort him. Speedy had been in control earlier, talking to both Ian and Alan’s mothers, but even he now seemed to have lost several inches in height, his shoulders hunched up in his borrowed suit. Les was deathly pale, his dark hair had lost its shine, his hooked nose almost like a beak, eyes glued to the path beneath him. Rod towered above them, straight-backed, but red-eyed, trying in vain to take Ian’s place.

  ‘Why didn’t you insist I came to the party? If you’d just stood up to me for once I might not have been so angry.’ She put her hands over her eyes and wept. ‘I almost went away with Max and now we’ve run out of time.’

  She didn’t know how long she sat by her window crying, but once it was all spent it was dark and Berwick Street was coming to life again as the neon lights were switched on.

  As she undressed, words started to come. ‘There’s no time baby. It’s all slipped away.’ She could almost feel Ian’s presence in the room, forcing her to pick up her pencil and write it down.

  ‘Do you know what sort of first record Max wants me to make?’ she asked the boys a few days after her talk with Max. She had asked them all round for a meal, hoping that by bringing them together again, a little of the old spirit might return.

  She had cooked enough spaghetti for an army and a saucepan full of sauce, there were four bottles of wine and a bowl of trifle in the fridge, but none of them seemed interested in either food or drink.

  John was staying with his parents in Dagenham. Les with his girlfriend in Wapping. Norman with his granny and Rod and Speedy had found one room together in Fulham. Their equipment was in the van and unless someone pulled them together it would stay there.

  ‘Some big, powerful ballad,’ Rod said gloomily, he sat on the floor his back against her bed. His jeans had a hole in the knee and his dark hair needed washing.

  ‘That’s right,’ Georgia frowned. She wanted to provoke an argument, even at the risk of seeming uncaring. Anything was worth a try rather than this apathy. ‘Of course, that’s one of Max’s objections to you. He thinks you are incapable of writing that type of song.’

  ‘He’s never given us a chance,’ Norman, sprawled on her bed, lifted his head, eyes sharp with indignation.

  ‘Well get to it,’ Georgia snapped. ‘Prove him wrong.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ Speedy sighed. He at least had managed to buy a new pair of trousers and a black polo neck sweater, but his auburn hair needed washing too. ‘He won’t let us get near the studio with you.’

  ‘He will you know,’ Georgia smiled round at them. ‘He said I could use you as backing. He even said he would listen to anything we wrote. If we could come up with the right song, written by us. You would all get royalties and publicity.’

  Speedy’s eyes lit up, his mouth curled up at the corners. ‘Not a bad idea, but it’d have to be good.’

  Georgia looked round at each of them. Five sad faces. Boys who once thought only of the next gig, or the girl in the next town. What would it take to get them all back in one flat again, and bring back their sparkle?

  ‘I’ve written some words,’ she spoke casually, careful not to be too forceful. ‘Shall I read them to you?’

  Rod nodded. He was sitting up again now. His face had turned from red to brown at last. He still had one bandage on his right hand, but the rest of his burns were healing well.

  ‘Go on then.’

  She reached up to a shelf and pulled down a notebook.

  ‘It’s called “No time”,’ she said softly.

  There’s no time baby.

  It’s all slipped away,

  I thought we had forever,

  Now there’s only a day.

  I dream of your kisses,

  I see only your eyes,

  We have no tomorrows,

  Only goodbyes.

  There’s no time baby.

  All we have is now.

  There’s no time baby,

  This is the last bow.

  ‘It’s a bit morbid.’ John spoke up, the first remark he’d made all evening. ‘I mean I could just see Ian and you together.’

  ‘We can’t forget what’s happened,’ she said gently. John troubled her the most, his dark eyes had lost their lustre, he was thinner than ever, his skin a putty colour. For years he had shared everything with Alan and now memories haunted him. ‘All dramatic songs are sad. Don’t you think we need that memory for us to write something worthwhile?’

  ‘It’s not bad Georgia,’ Norman surprised her. ‘I can sort of make out a melody.’

  ‘Let’s thrash it out together,’ Rod’s deep voice seemed to fill the room. ‘If nothing else it’s a challenge.’

  Georgia hardly dared breathe while they thought it over. The notebook was passed from one to the other, already they looked brighter. She could somehow imagine her words padded out. Speedy and Norman had the ability to find a strong, beautiful melody. John could write the arrangements for brass. Les could be trusted to play a fantastic lead guitar, it only needed Rod to step forward and take command.

  ‘Let’s open the wine,’ Rod said, getting up and stretching. ‘We’ll have to find somewhere to rehearse and while we’re at it, we’d better look for a new pad.’

  *

  ‘Where have you been?’ Max was red with anger when Georgia walked into his office a fortnight later.

  ‘Resting, rehearsing, helping the boys get themselves organized again,’ she sat down without being asked. ‘You should have helped them with a flat.’

  ‘Don’t come all that holier than thou crap with me,’ Max stood up and took a threatening step towards her. ‘I paid for the funeral. They’ve been on full wages. I even gave them extra money for new clothes.’

  ‘Where’s the money from the “Benefit” gone?’ she asked.

  Some of the musicians at the funeral had played a gig to raise money for the boys. A cheque for over two hundred pounds had been handed over to Max, but he hadn’t passed it on.
>
  ‘I’ve got it here,’ Max’s lip was curling back, but she knew his anger was because he had been caught out. ‘I was intending to give it to them today.’

  ‘Don’t forget,’ her pointed chin stuck out defiantly. ‘Because I know you got an insurance payout to cover everything else you’ve spent.’

  She had been into the office during the week while Max was out. Deirdre on reception had slipped out for a sandwich and Georgia used the time to snoop. Max had been doodling on his blotter. An insurance policy lay next to it and it hadn’t taken her more than two minutes to read it, then slip back out before Deirdre even knew she’d been there. Max wasn’t out of pocket at all. He was making claims for broken engagements, equipment and possibly claims on the boys’ lives.

  ‘Now look here,’ he blustered.

  ‘No, you look here,’ she said more bravely than she felt. ‘You owe the boys. I want you to come and listen to something we’ve written. Can you arrange a gig at the Marquee so we can try it out on an appreciative audience too?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he shook his head. ‘I’ve got a song lined up myself, you don’t need the boys. I’ll get them a singer and sort them out.’

  ‘Do as I say or I’ll start talking too loudly,’ she spoke softly, yet with enough menace to make him understand she meant it. ‘The boys need to feel wanted right now. I need them too. Or have you forgotten my feelings?’

  He hesitated.

  She could see a rope-like vein quivering on his forehead. She really didn’t know why she liked him. He was slippery and heartless. Yet there was something strong about him that was attractive and compelling, neither could she forget his gentleness on that awful day at the hospital.

  ‘Okay,’ he sighed deeply. ‘I’ll arrange it. But don’t think you can hold a gun to my head, young lady. If the song’s no good, that’s it.’

  Georgia got up and walked round his desk. She dropped a kiss on his surprised face.

  ‘That’s for saying yes,’ she smiled down at him. ‘And this is to make sure you listen when you come.’ She bent over and kissed his lips gently, just lingering long enough so his hands came up to hold her, then jumped nimbly away out of reach.

  As she backed towards the door, she glanced up at the gold spider’s web. More and more she felt like that poor fly. Another year and she would probably be in the spider’s jaws.

  Max folded his arms on his desk and lay his head down on them. He could never quite analyse his feelings about Georgia. If he wasn’t such a cynic he could call it love. Any other girl singer who had worked for him had been in his bed before her first week was up. Yet somehow he’d never fathomed out a way to get Georgia. She couldn’t be persuaded by flattery. Presents would merely be laughed at. She certainly wouldn’t respond to just grabbing her. Yet she’d nearly agreed to come away with him.

  He couldn’t admit, even to himself that his first reaction to hearing about Ian’s death had been almost pleasure. With Ian out of the running Georgia could be his, he could run her life the way he had always intended to.

  But the pleasure had been hollow. Even he, tough as he was, cared for Ian, and Georgia’s stricken face those first few days had cut him to the quick.

  ‘I should never have put her with that band,’ he murmured, sitting up again, tipping back his chair and putting his feet up on his desk. ‘I should have dangled her the carrot of a recording contract. Bought her new clothes and set her up in a flat.’

  Yet Ian and the other boys had produced something in her he couldn’t have managed alone. She kept her girlish breathless charm, while learning poise and timing. Her voice had gone from good to incredible and maybe Ian was responsible for adding that extra emotion. Everything was right for launching her. The tragedy of the boys’ deaths was still in the public’s mind.

  Like the phoenix she could soar out of the flames into stardom, and all he had to do was sit back and watch the money come rolling in.

  Reminded of something, Max frowned and opened his desk drawer. The letter had come for her this morning, yet something had stopped him from giving it to her.

  He turned it around thoughtfully in his hands. A blue envelope. Postmarked Manchester. The writing bold and masculine. It was probably only a fan letter, but there was no harm in checking.

  Taking a small silver dagger from his desk tray, he slid it under the flap carefully, in case he had to stick it down again later. He drew out the single sheet of paper and spread it out on his desk.

  ‘Dearest Georgia,

  I had almost given up hope of finding you. When you didn’t contact me on your birthday three years ago I drew the conclusion that you didn’t want me to. I understand after what happened that you wanted to sever all connections with your past. But just when I’d finally reconciled myself to a life without you, I read the story about the fire and the two boys burned to death.

  I might never have given it a second thought, but one of my friends up here had seen the band, and went on to tell me about the girl singer. He didn’t remember her name, just how she looked, and of course I began to wonder. Then in the story about the funeral I saw the name Georgia. I’ve never heard of anyone else called that. Could there really be another Georgia who sings like an angel, dark-skinned with long curly hair and eyes like giant pansies? I doubt it somehow! It didn’t require much detective work to find your manager’s address and here I am writing with my heart thumping wondering how you’ll receive this letter.

  Even if you have no further interest in me, please write back and tell me if Celia managed to find you? I kept in touch with her up till last Christmas, then gradually she stopped writing. She went to Africa to nurse, moving on several times. I guessed she stopped because she felt it was unhealthy for us both, but it has occurred to me she may now be reunited with you and you stopped her.

  Please let me know how things are with you. I won’t pester you, or bring back unwelcome reminders. I just need to know you are happy. Of course I’d like to think that you still hold a small torch for me, but I’m realistic if nothing else. I’m so sorry about your friends, it was a terrible tragedy. God bless you.

  My love Peter’

  There was a depth of passion in this letter that disturbed Max. Whoever this man was he came from a time before Georgia joined the band.

  ‘A childhood sweetheart?’ he mused. ‘And who is this Celia?’

  Georgia had always been evasive about her past. The way she spoke, her education all hinted at a good home. Yet girls who came from good homes didn’t normally turn their backs on them.

  ‘After what happened!’ Max skimmed through the letter again. ‘What could have happened?’

  Could she have been in trouble for seeing this boy? But if so who was Celia? An older sister? An aunt?

  Max pondered for some time. If he showed this to Georgia now, in her already disturbed state she might do anything. If she’d hidden from this young man once, she might have good reason to bolt again. Just a glance at the content of the letter and the bold handwriting was enough to know this wasn’t some dim, uneducated lout. She was getting ideas above her station already; aided and abetted by intelligent friends she could break away from Max altogether.

  He got up and went over to a typewriter on a small table. Taking a plain sheet of paper out of the drawer he inserted it, sat down and began to type.

  ‘Dear Mr Radcliffe,

  Miss James thanks you for your letter and has asked me to reply for her.

  Although she appreciates your concern, she feels she has nothing further to say to you. Her career as a singer is all important to her and leaves no time for socializing. She wishes me to assure you she is well and happy in her chosen career, and sincerely hopes you are too.

  Yours sincerely,

  Deirdre Richards.

  P.P. Georgia James.

  Max pulled the letter out of the machine, signed it with a flourish, folded it and put it in an envelope.

  ‘Maybe that will dent his pride enough to leave her al
one,’ he said to himself. He picked up Peter’s letter, screwed it up and tossed it into the bin.

  The Marquee club seen by daylight had little to recommend it. A tiny stage, a plain wooden floor, the only seating further back in a cavern-like room by the bar. But then the people who flocked to the Marquee came to hear music, and they knew this club could be relied on to have the best.

  Norman played ‘No time’ through alone.

  Georgia stood back in the shadows by the bar listening. She and Norman were alone now. The equipment was ready on the stage for tonight’s gig, the rest of the boys were out getting sandwiches. A tingle ran down her spine, a rush of affection for Norman as she watched him crouched over his keyboard. This wasn’t something he was playing under duress. He was putting his heart and soul into it, and it was good.

  It cried out for strings, a full orchestra, but already it was a powerful melody, the kind that lingered in the mind long after it was finished. It could be a classic in the making.

  Norman just sat on his stool as he finished, he looked like a small elf with his red hair and sharp features, chin stuck forward, deep in thought.

  ‘It’s brilliant,’ Georgia clapped and ran over to him.

  ‘I’m pleased with it,’ he blushed, for once less cocky. ‘But wait till we get Speedy on bass and Les’s throbbing lead. Up till now I’ve only been able to play it through on piano, but I know they are going to amaze you too.’

  ‘Oh Norman.’ Impulsively she jumped up on the stage and threw her arms round him. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Ian helped me,’ his head drooped as if embarrassed at saying such a thing. ‘I felt his presence, almost as if he were humming it to me. You remember the way he used to?’