Georgia

by Lesley Pearse

  Georgia nodded. It had been odd that Ian who could play nothing more than ‘chopsticks’ on a piano had been able to invent melodies in his head.

  ‘God, I miss him,’ Norman’s eyes filled up with tears. ‘I wish I could take back all the snidy things I said to him over the years.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have had you any other way.’ Georgia leaned over Norman and kissed his cheek. ‘Now play it again and I’ll sing.’

  After several false starts they got it together. Georgia’s voice soared out across the empty club, lost in the beauty of Norman’s melody.

  A loud clapping came from the front door as they finished. Georgia spun round to see Jack Fellows, the club owner, leaning against the wall.

  Tall, stringy and untidy, Jack looked more like a struggling artist than the successful businessman he really was. His hair hung well past his ears, thinning on top. He had a long, pointed nose and a wide, smiling mouth that gave an indication to his inner nature. The Marquee was more than just a money spinner to him. He would rather have talented unknown bands playing than compromise an inch. But his high ideals had paid off, for his customers knew that any night in his club would be memorable, and the bands knew if Jack booked them, they were worth something.

  ‘That’s a beautiful song,’ he said, his thin face alight with enthusiasm. ‘Did you write it?’

  ‘A joint effort,’ Norman grinned. ‘We’re hoping Georgia might be able to record it.’

  ‘If Max approves?’ He raised one bushy eyebrow. ‘The man’s a complete Philistine if he doesn’t.’

  Georgia bounced down Wardour Street just before nine. For the first time since Ian’s death she felt the cloud hanging over her was moving back. In tight white jeans, a red T-shirt and boots she felt right. The Marquee was home ground, she didn’t have to squeeze into the changing room and pour herself into something swish. She could just turn up, sing her heart out, then go home. No one dressed up for the Marquee, students, beatniks, office people and manual workers flocked there for music, and tonight she was going to give them something special.

  ‘Remember, we’re not warming up for another band tonight,’ she reminded the boys as they waited off stage for Jack to turn off the records and introduce them. She could see John standing alone, twiddling the valves of his trumpet, the first time he had ever played publicly without Alan beside him. ‘You can do it John,’ she reached out her arms to hug him. ‘I feel the same about walking on without Ian, but we’ll get through it.’

  She could hear Jack out there on the stage. A joke with the audience about the price of beer, a word or two to remind them of Samson’s recent loss of two members. She didn’t have to look behind the worn curtains to know the club was packed to capacity, every face upturned, waiting for them.

  Rod leapt on first, going straight to his stool and performing a dramatic drum roll. Norman was next, quickly followed by Les and Speedy and they launched into the opening number ‘Soul Train’.

  Georgia took John’s hand in hers, leading him just as Ian had once led her, out into the spotlights.

  She had to be better than her best tonight. She missed Ian’s close harmonies, and Alan’s sax, but putting that aside she sang first for the band. She put a new wildness in her dancing, strutting, teasing, bending to the audience till she knew the boys were on form again.

  John surprised her. He and Alan had tended to fall back on one another, staying together to play, never taking a lead. Now he moved forward, legs apart, blowing like she’d never heard him before, eyes closed, chest fully expanded, bringing out notes of such passion and sweetness, it was as if Alan’s spirit had entered him.

  When the first set ended to wild applause Georgia was drenched in sweat.

  ‘You were something else tonight,’ Rod grinned as she stripped off her T-shirt in the changing room and mopped at herself with a towel. ‘When are we going to do the new number?’

  ‘Last,’ Speedy said pulling open a can of coke and resting it for one moment on his sweat-covered forehead. ‘If we do it too early it might kill the mood. Keep to our usual routine, then “He’s no good” followed by “No time”, and let’s hope we all remember our parts.’

  Max came in just after the second set started. He stood by the side of the stage speaking to Jack Fellows giving the band no more than a cursory glance.

  Georgia had relaxed sufficiently to notice there were fans in the audience from back when they played in London roadhouses and clubs a year before. She rewarded their loyalty by singing for them rather than Max, bending to touch outstretched hands, blowing kisses and finding the strength she thought she had lost in their smiling faces.

  ‘He’s no good, he’s no good, baby he’s no good,’ she sang cheekily to Max. Pulling off her hair ribbon and throwing it into the audience and tossing her mane of hair round her shoulders.

  ‘Finally,’ Georgia mopped her brow to thunderous applause. ‘We’re going to do a totally new number we wrote ourselves. It’s a breakaway from our usual stuff, but we hope you like it.’

  The introduction started. She saw Max turn to look in surprise as Norman played the haunting first few bars. Tingles went down her spine, she tapped her feet to the beat and filled her lungs.

  As the song went on, so Georgia drowned in it. She was singing to Ian all the things she wished she’d said while he was with her. And to Max too, to remind him she was her own person.

  She knew without a shadow of a doubt it was the finest singing she’d ever done. Even if the audience walked out, her own ears had told her the truth.

  The applause was simply deafening. On and on it went with calls for more. They left the stage once but had to go back and do another number.

  When it was finally over Max came forward.

  ‘So that’s it?’ He had the oddest expression, surprise, delight, mixed with a tiny amount of pique.

  ‘Yes,’ Georgia smiled up at him. ‘What do you think?’

  Her heart was in her mouth. If he turned her down now she had nothing more to offer.

  ‘A gold record,’ he said, a smile stretching from ear to ear. ‘You wrote it?’

  ‘I did the words, the boys did the rest,’ she said simply, surprised that for once he wasn’t hiding his enthusiasm behind criticism.

  ‘I’ll get the studio booked for next week,’ he said, putting one big hand on her shoulder and gripping it. ‘This is it baby. I feel it in my water.’

  Chapter 15

  ‘That’s it then!’ Max’s voice crackled abrasively in their ear phones. Through the glass screen they could see him gesticulating wildly, as if he didn’t believe his voice could really reach them. ‘As they say on the movies, “that’s a wrap”.’

  Georgia took off her head phones and wiped the perspiration from her forehead.

  She was too tired to even think of celebrating. Nine hours of being stuck in a soundproof room, technicians staring at her through the glass as if she were a goldfish. This was an entirely new ball game to playing live.

  Mixing, loop tapes and umpteen different tracks. Session men who’d filed in, played their parts then left. She had imagined they would just perform together over and over until it was perfect. She hadn’t expected the separate instruments to be added, or harmonies put on afterwards. It was confusing, frustrating, and the constant stopping and starting irritating. But then Max had insisted they produced master tapes perfect enough for the disc to be cut from, a half-hearted demo tape just wasn’t good enough.

  The boys had come to the studio that morning dressed as if it were another gig. Rod in velvet trousers and a flowered shirt. Norman in a smart new green jacket. But now they looked like wilted flowers, hot and sweaty, hair sticking damply to their heads.

  Steven Albright, the producer was waiting for her, the boys grouped round him in the ante-room, waiting for his opinion.

  Steven had the look of an overgrown schoolboy. Not what they expected from a man in his thirties with four gold records already under his belt. Six foot tall,
painfully thin, with greasy hair dangling over his thick specs. Even his clothes had a charity shop look about them. A city shirt with stiff collar, an old, stained school tie and suit jacket, then in contrast a faded pair of jeans and desert boots.

  It was difficult to have confidence in someone who blinked owlishly behind his glasses and silently chewed a pencil. But he surprised them, not only was he alert to every last note, he had imagination, flair and a complete knowledge of many instruments.

  ‘Time to play the finished article,’ he smiled warmly, his plummy, Old Etonian accent somehow reassuring. ‘You look tired Georgia, but you did very well.’

  He sat down at the controls and the introduction started.

  The finished result was perfect. It was the sort of song that would be played last at every dance up and down the country. Bodies entwined, arms round each other’s necks. A song for lovers everywhere.

  ‘It’s good,’ Steven turned off the tape as the last notes faded away. Like Max he was sparing with his praise. All day he had pushed them. They had seen him angry, frustrated, disinterested, even bored on occasions, but now at last his dark eyes shone with excitement and exhilaration. ‘You can all be very proud of it. I’d say it will make it.’

  Somehow that simple statement meant more than gushing praise and for the first time all day, not one of them came back with a flippant remark.

  ‘You can all clear off now.’ To Max it was business as usual. He had come in and out several times during the day, listening half-heartedly, flashing his gold watch and leaving again just as quickly.

  ‘You’ve got gigs in the Midlands for the next week. Put all this out of your minds and get on with playing.’

  Max had seemed preoccupied since the funeral. Georgia couldn’t help wondering if he’d found another band who excited him more than Samson. She’d spotted brochures for new vans on his desk and receipts for band suits which she was sure weren’t for them. Also there were three new girls in the office who barely acknowledged her. Was she being paranoid? Or was Max about to pull another stroke?

  The next week or two was as if they’d gone back in time. If it hadn’t been for the pressure of wondering what was happening in Decca’s offices, and Ian and Alan’s absence, they could have been back to the carefree days before Max put them on the cinema tours. Their re-appearance at dancehalls was enthusiastically received, old fans coming forward to show their pleasure at seeing them again.

  But Georgia hadn’t reckoned with all the old memories. She could handle it by day, wandering around town with John or Rod, even performing in places she associated with Ian. But by night when she crept into a cold, often damp bed, Ian’s face came back to her.

  She missed his jokes and chatter, all the little things he helped her with. The other boys were clumsy at zipping up dresses and putting make-up on her when there was no mirror handy. She missed him singing with her, complimenting her, spurring each other on. But it was making love that dominated her thoughts at night. She would torment herself remembering the way he stroked her. The thought of his kisses made her hot and damp. She longed for the blissful glow that followed making love, and waking early to find him aroused and holding her.

  When she lost Peter there had always been the hope he would return. Even when Helen died she had been able to comfort herself with the thought that she had left pain and poverty behind. But there was no sense to Ian’s death. It wasn’t right that he missed by just a few weeks the one thing he had aimed at all his life. And neither was it fair that everyone she loved was snatched from her so cruelly.

  ‘You can always count on me,’ Rod said one evening as they made their way up the staircase to their rooms. ‘My body’s free anytime.’

  Georgia stopped and turned to look at him. Two years ago she would have found his arrogance insulting. But now she saw it as a gesture of comfort and perception.

  The boarding house was just like all the countless others they stayed in. Shabby, flowered wallpaper, worn at shoulder height with the hundreds of people that had gone up and down rubbing against it. Candlewick bedspreads, nylon sheets and plastic flowers.

  She saw Rod then as other women saw him. His strange dark slanty eyes, high cheek-bones and thin, almost cruel lips. Raw sexuality seeped out of him, his height, coupled with wide shoulders, narrow hips and his shiny blue black straight hair gave the picture of a primitive savage.

  ‘Things aren’t that bad,’ she grinned.

  ‘No?’ his eyes laughed at her.

  ‘I miss him so much it hurts,’ she said softly. ‘But it isn’t just sex I miss.’

  ‘I didn’t think it was,’ he said, his hand reaching out and stroking her cheek. ‘But sometimes another body can be very comforting.’

  With one finger he traced round her lips. She felt goosebumps come up all over her and she couldn’t move away.

  ‘I could make you forget at least for tonight,’ he whispered. ‘It doesn’t have to be forever.’

  She felt a tug in her stomach, a tingle of desire.

  ‘I’m not brave enough to chance it,’ she took a step back from him and hesitated, looking down at him two steps beneath her. His eyes were half closed, narrow lips apart showing white teeth. For a moment she almost went back to him.

  ‘One day,’ he smiled. ‘Just for laughs!’

  That night she thought of Rod’s hands on her breasts. His tanned chest above her, skilful fingers playing with her and it was all she could do not to cry out.

  As she let herself into her flat on their return to London, she found a note from Max summoning her to his office the next morning.

  There was little hope of falling asleep after the note. Could this be the stroke she suspected? Or could it be that her dreams were finally about to be realized?

  ‘Go on in,’ Deirdre on reception smiled a welcome as Georgia leapt up the stairs on the stroke of ten. ‘He’s waiting for you.’

  This in itself was a good sign. Max frequently kept her waiting for hours.

  Max looked relaxed as she walked in the door. A pale lemon shirt open at the neck, sleeves rolled up revealing thick, brown arms. His chair was tilted back and he puffed on a cigar as if day-dreaming.

  ‘Hallo darling,’ he stubbed out the cigar, leaping to his feet, reaching her in two giant strides and pecking her cheek. ‘Sorry I couldn’t give you more warning. I’ve been rushed off my feet.’

  ‘How are things going?’ she asked, taking a seat by his desk, noticing many changes in the room.

  Two years earlier Max had perhaps ten or so bands on his books. Now it looked as if he had expanded overnight. A new filing cabinet stood with drawers open. Stacks of contracts lay on his desk, glossy photographs of groups unknown to her scattered everywhere.

  ‘I’ve got some excellent news for you,’ he returned to his desk, picking up a gold fountain pen from his blotter, shaking it, then signing a letter in front of him with a flourish.

  ‘They want it?’ Georgia felt a rush of adrenalin to her head.

  ‘Yup. They are anxious to get the disc cut and released for the first week in September.’

  ‘I can’t wait to tell the boys,’ Georgia felt a bubble of glee rise up inside her.

  ‘The contract is just for you.’

  She stared at him, mouth agape. He had that cold look in his eyes she knew so well. Had he actually managed to outmanoeuvre her despite everything?

  ‘Don’t look like that,’ he snapped at her. ‘Their names will be on the recording as backing and co-writers, they’ll get their royalties.’

  ‘You’ve got something up your sleeve.’ She stood up, leaning towards him over the desk, dark eyes blazing. ‘Are you trying to tell me this is the end of the line for us together?’

  ‘Georgia, darling,’ he shrugged his shoulders, spreading his hands wide. ‘I’m only thinking of you. The Palladium, the Albert Hall, that’s where you’re heading. You’ll need an orchestra, not a bunch of dance hall musicians.’

  ‘But before we get there we
’ll still be playing in clubs and stuff,’ she said desperately. ‘I need them Max!’

  ‘Of course you do, for now.’ He moved round the desk and caught hold of her arms. ‘As from tomorrow when you sign with Decca you pay them just as you would a session musician.’

  ‘Whaaat!’ Georgia stared at Max in horror. ‘You mean I’ve got to tell them I’m their boss now?’

  ‘Just a re-arrangement of finances. I’ll still be the one organizing everything. Financially this is far better for you. When you give interviews, television game shows etc, it means that money is all yours, and rightly so, you’ll be the one working your butt off.’

  ‘But –’

  Max interrupted her. ‘Look here Georgia, I’m getting a little tired of this game. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you the boys might want a change of direction? I’ll get them a new singer. If they deserve it they’ll get their own recording contract. Stop bloody well harping on about them.’

  ‘What time is it tomorrow?’ she asked weakly. ‘We’ve got to leave for the gig at twelve.’

  ‘Ten thirty. You can catch the train afterwards,’ he grinned as if he was giving her a treat. ‘The boys left this morning to pick up some new speakers. Soon you won’t be travelling with them anyway. It will be limousines for you. Gold stars on the door of the changing room. Now clear off and buy yourself a smart outfit for tomorrow.’

  He had sent them away from town on purpose to avoid any last minute rebellion, now he was opening his wallet and pulling out fifty pounds.

  ‘Something outstanding,’ he said. ‘I don’t want them to think I kept you short.’

  Georgia knew how Judas felt as he pocketed his thirty pieces of silver.

  Decca’s offices were only a stone’s throw from her room in Berwick Street.

  For the last two years Georgia had looked through the big glass doors every time she passed by, dreaming of this very day.

  The dream had come true, but why did she feel so empty?