by David Lines
It was the end of February, and Rik was getting brilliant at snooker. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he told me he was thinking of turning pro. He could perform all sorts of trickery like swerve shots and jumps and he could even stop the ball in its tracks and kind of reverse it back up the table. I don’t know how he could calculate all those elaborate angles in his head in lightning-quick time like he did; I don’t think I could have worked them out with a calculator. It was like playing snooker against someone half human and half protractor. After twenty minutes the score stood at a very impressive seventy-four points to eight. I couldn’t believe it. I was seriously proud of my score as I’m normally worse than crap at snooker. I wanted to call a temporary halt to proceedings just so I could sit back and relish my points. I’d never potted a red and a black consecutively before and those two balls were responsible for my eight magnificent points.
I put down my cue and showed Rik my copy of Smash Hits. ‘Look at the new poster that comes with it.’
Rik looked like he was weighing up an Old Master. He tilted it from side to side, studying it, holding it at arm’s length, then brought it up to his face whilst all the time nodding approvingly and saying ‘Mmmm’ to himself. He held it up to the light and then passed it back to me. ‘It’s brilliant. I’ve got to get one for my room. I’ll get a copy tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, Paul looks dead cool. But listen, right, why do you think they’ve all started wearing this Lonsdale boxing gear? I mean, look at Rick Buckler, he’s even wearing Lonsdale boxing boots.’
‘I dunno, but I’m not keen on those boots. They’re red, Linesy.’
‘Yeah. Hey, I was wondering if maybe Paul had taken up boxing as a hobby.’
‘Possibly, but then again he might just like the look.’
‘It is a good look, isn’t it?’
‘It’s a very good look. Very original …’
‘Can you imagine Paul in a boxing ring having, you know, a real-life proper boxing match against someone? That would be just pure skill, right?’
Rik looked at me very seriously. Like I might have needed some sort of mental treatment. ‘Um, I’m not sure that I can picture it. No, Dave. Anyway, who’s his opponent?’
‘I dunno … anyone. Let’s have a think. How about Boy George?’
Rik slowly backed away whilst chalking the end of his snooker cue. He was giving it more attention than it deserved. Then again, that’s probably why he was so excellent at it. ‘You want me to imagine Boy George, in a boxing ring, with Paul Weller as his opponent?’
‘Yeah. I can see it now. Boy George in his floaty white dress and his leggings underneath, with his make-up and that big, floppy hat and he’s wearing this enormous pair of bright red boxing gloves. And he’s sitting in his corner, right, and all his seconds would be attending to his make-up and doing his hair and checking his lippy. It’d be hilarious!’
‘Right, Dave. Are you feeling OK?’
‘Yeah, fine. Why?’
‘No reason. So, what’s Weller doing in the other corner whilst George’s getting his eyebrows plucked?’
‘Oh, he’s just sitting there smoking a cigarette and having a drink.’
‘What sort of drink do you think he likes?’
‘God, Rik. I’ve never thought about that before. That is a good question. I think he probably likes a lager. Yes, he’d have a nice refreshing pint of lager before the fight started. And then the bell goes and Boy George starts prancing around the ring, waving his arms around like a big fairy and Paul’s running around trying to catch him and then the theme tune to Benny Hill starts playing and it’d just be piss funny!’
Rik just stared at me, slowly shaking his spiky head. ‘It’s your shot, Linesy.’
‘Oh, right.’ I picked up my cue and took careful aim at the red ball closest to the near pocket. The red went in, followed by the black next to it and they were joined by my cue ball.
‘Hard luck.’
I looked at Rik as he lined up his next shot and wondered quietly to myself if Paul played snooker.
At the back of my mind, though, were thoughts of Katherine. The way she moved, the smell of her hair … a new feeling bubbled up inside of me whenever I thought of her, and I could not keep that feeling pushed down any longer. I needed to tell someone about what happened to me the evening before and it seemed as good a time as any. I could tell Rik stuff like this, surely, he was my friend and I wanted to share it with him. Anyway, he was going out with Louise – he should be cool with talking about feelings and affairs of the heart and emotions. I thought I should give it a go. ‘Look, I want to tell you about what happened last night.’
‘Why, what did happen last night?’
‘Everything happened. I sat next to a girl at the theatre and everything’s been different since.’
‘You sat next to a girl? That’s brave of you.’
‘Very amusing. Seriously, man, she was lovely. Just completely lovely.’
Rik sniffed and screwed his nose up at the same time. ‘So, who is she? Whose form is she in?’
He drew back his cue, squinted down it and I replied, ‘I’ve no idea whose form she’s in – the thing is, I think she’s in the sixth form.’
Rik’s cue almost tore a hole in the baize when he heard this. That’s four points to me, I thought. ‘She’s in the sixth? Then she must be maybe three years older than you. Forget about it – put her out of your head right now, because you’ve got about as much chance with her than you have of winning this frame.’
‘Cheers, mate. Nice of you to say so.’
Rick scooted off to check on the progress in installing his stereo and came back a couple of minutes later with his portable cassette player. ‘There’s a hiccup with the speakers. This’ll do for now.’ He plugged it in and pressed play and ‘Precious’ filled the snooker room.
I heard this song with fresh, new ears. Listening then, after my revelation of the night before it sounded like a different tune entirely. The words had new meaning and as I sang along, it became as clear as can be that Paul was singing about me and the way that I felt about Katherine. Once again, he had got under my skin, understanding me more than I understood myself, feeling my feelings before I even knew about them. I was overcome and had to sit down for a minute.
‘Fancy another frame, Dave?’ Rik, of course, was oblivious.
‘I’m OK, mate. I should be getting back. Actually, I’m not feeling too good …’
It was almost two weeks before I saw Katherine again. I was walking down the main corridor between lessons with Rik and a guy from my art class called Robin Parker. I couldn’t stop looking at my new burgundy loafers which we got from Timpson’s at the weekend. The leather looked cool against the white of my Tesco’s terry towelling socks and in contrast with the silvery grey trousers I was wearing. I didn’t think it got better than this.
‘What are you looking at, Linesy?’
Rik blurts out, ‘Don’t interrupt him, Robin. He’s staring at his shoes …’
I looked up and there she was. Katherine came towards me, maybe fifty feet away. My blood ran cold and I was instantly drenched in a hot sweat while my mouth felt like it was full of cotton wool. My heart was thumping out beats like Bruce’s bass and in my head it was tapping out Morse. I looked away, looked back again and Katherine looked my way and smiled. Her eyes were even bigger and more beautiful than before. And, added bonus, she was only wearing a grey Lonsdale t-shirt!
‘Hello.’
I was about to say hello back but didn’t because someone had stapled my tongue to the roof of my mouth.
‘Hi there,’ replied Robin.
Wait a minute. This wasn’t in the script. The smile hadn’t been for me after all. I waited till she had passed down the corridor before pouncing on Robin. ‘You know her?’
‘Sure I know her. She’s in my brother’s form. That’s Kath Blyton …’
And that was it, really. The rest of the day just faded away and when I went to bed
that night I actually got down on my knees and prayed to Paul to help me find a way to get close to Katherine. This was what I wanted more than anything else in the world, so much so that every time I blinked I saw her face. I spent most of the next day staring into space and the most productive thing I did was to write the first verse of my ode to Katherine on the inside cover of my history book:
You’re my very own personal drama queen,
And in my head we play out a scene,
Where we become lovers,
End up under the covers,
Lost in each other’s charms.
Reading it now it doesn’t just stink, it leaves a trail on its way to the toilet. But back then it meant a lot to me. Youth, eh?
The next day I met up with Rik outside the library. We needed to get some books out about trees and leaves to help us with our biology project. Rik had got hold of a thunderous tome on photosynthesis and we almost had to carry the thing between the two of us because it was so massive. It would have been perfect for pressing flowers as it weighed roughly the same as I did. We were walking up the steps from the library, past the office where matron famously dished out her horse pills when Rik stopped to bend down and tie the shoelace on one of his brogues. I’d never seen the top of his head from that angle before and it looked very much like there was a bald spot developing inside that fluffy nest of his, almost as if someone had taken a pair of nail scissors to the top of a busby and cut out a circle the size of a ten-pence piece. I decided it was best not to mention it to him, so I distracted myself by reading the notice board. I couldn’t ignore the bald spot for too long, though. It was staring up from his head like a great, white eyeball and I swear it winked at me.
The desire to prod it with my finger became almost too much, but, luckily, it was then I spotted the poster up on the board. The drama department were planning on putting on a production of Sandy Wilson’s The Boy Friend in three months’ time, and were inviting pupils to audition. There was a list of characters from the play in one column and then an adjacent column where you wrote your name down against that of the part which you’d like. I turned back to Rik but as I did so, two words made me catch my breath. I looked back at the poster, and there, at the foot of the list written in red biro, was the name Katherine Blyton next to the part of Madame Dubonnet. Paul had answered my prayers, I just knew it. ‘Rik, I want you to listen to me.’
‘What about?’
‘I want you to do something for me. I want you to stand here in front of this poster and look menacing for ten minutes. OK?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It doesn’t matter, man. Just guard this thing with your life and don’t you dare let anyone near it, understand?’
‘No, Dave. I absolutely do not understand. What’s going on?’
‘It’s just incredibly important, man. If anyone comes near this poster wave your hair at them. Keep them away at all costs and I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
I ran down the corridor the wrong way, through the masses, sprinted into the library through the double swing doors and crashed into the Plays section and there, on the bottom shelf was a single copy of the script for The Boy Friend. My fingers scrambled through the pages, my eyes scanning every line till I found what I was looking for. Madame Dubonnet had a love interest and come hell or high water I was going to be it. I tore out of the library back to the notice board and there, next to the character of Percival Browne, I wrote my own name.
I got the part. Not out of any great dramatic performance at the audition, but more due to nobody else wanting to play the part of a seventy-year-old man in a musical full of pretty young things. It didn’t matter to me that I was the only one who went up for it – what mattered was that I got it.
The day I found out I skipped home on a cloud, my heart full of love and hope and achievement and just bursting with excitement. I did that all by myself, I told myself. I can’t have been that bad or they would have got someone else in. I can’t remember ever feeling so proud of myself; it was like someone had walked into a room, opened the windows and filled it with fresh, springtime air. ‘Hi, Mum – I’m home!’
‘You’re full of the joys. What happened to you today?’
Mum was staring at some sort of computer manual. From the expression on her face you’d think she’d been asked to rewire the house. ‘I’ve only got the best news in the world. I got the part in the musical! I’m going to play the part of Percival Browne and I get to be the boyfriend of Kath Blyton who’s absolutely gorgeous and the world is so lovely and things couldn’t get any better if they tried and if I don’t shut up right now and stop talking about it then I’ll probably start crying!’
My mother stared at me and said, ‘You’ll love it. You were made to be someone else …’ She gave me a hug. ‘I’m so pleased for you. Well done, you big, clever boy.’
‘Thanks. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, you know.’
‘What?’
‘For you to be proud of me.’
Mum sniffed and wiped her eyes, ‘Well, I am. Would you like me to help you learn your lines?’
‘No, thanks. But there is something you might be able to help me with.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Can you charleston?’
‘Can I what?’
‘Charleston. It’s a dance, and Mr Hinkley said that I’m far from brilliant at it, which was nice of him because I’m actually rather crap at it. He said I should practise like mad. If I can’t learn it then they won’t let me in the show.’
‘Oh right. I’m not sure. Go on, you show me and we’ll learn it together.’
‘No way. It’s far too embarrassing. I’m going to my room now to have a crack at it – but I might show you later.’
Up in my room I put my twelve inch single version of ‘Town Called Malice’ on the turntable. I was wearing my two-tone bowling shoes and my mauve and lavender boating blazer and the record started and opened with the Motowney bass bit which goes dum-dum-dum, der-der dum-dum-dum-der-dum and then there are these real close-up echoey finger clicks over Bruce’s bass and I just knew that that’s Paul clicking his fingers and then this lovely Hammond organ sweeps in and there I was, doing the charleston to ‘Town Called Malice’ in my bedroom. It turned out to be a great tune to charleston along to, it’s absolutely perfect. You had to kind of place both your hands close to your chest, palms away from you, fingers pointing upwards, and then you made these jerky, circular motions first one way, then the next, whilst kicking your heels out, backwards, at the same time. I was really into it in just seconds! The tempo could not be better to charleston to and I was conscious of how absurd I must have looked and I was laughing whilst dancing, because honestly, I knew how much of a prize wanker I must have appeared but it just didn’t matter to me because I was enjoying myself so much.
It occurred to me then how apt a musical it was for me. The only thing it left out was Lambrettas. There were boating blazers and penguin shoes stage left, right and centre.
When the song slowed down, I slowed my dance down, too and just skipped along to it when it dawned upon me that this was almost exactly the same style of dance that the skins and the rude boys in their braces and their Doc Martens and their pork pie hats did when they got up at Youthy and danced around in a circle to The Specials and The Beat and The Selector and Bad Manners. How could anyone like Bad Manners with that fat idiot with the tongue? He was disgusting, nothing more than a pantomime dame in Doc’s. Tears of laughter ran down my face and like a fool, I was doubled over in hysterics at what a tit end I must have seemed but I kept dancing because I just didn’t care.
I’d never be able to keep a straight face when I next saw them on the dance floor. I may well have looked like a complete fairy doing that dance, but I was truly connected with the music and then I began to bob my head out in time to the bass, just like Bruce did when he was playing. The crescendo came, and in the bit where I’d normally leap up in the air like Paul wo
uld with a scissor-kick, instead, I instinctively performed a sort of charleston leap and where before I’d pretend to play guitar I just did this big, circular, hand-motion thing. I’d cracked it!
I’d learned to charleston and had also made it mine, individual, special to me. Thanks to Paul Weller, my part in the production was secure. I read the script more than thirty times and, along with keeping up with my private poetry, I had developed a sneaking suspicion of where I wanted to go in this world.
I was as certain as I could be at almost fifteen what I wanted to do with my life – and the fact of the matter is, I wanted to be a writer. I’d read The Boy Friend till I was blue in the face, and it was good, but I began to believe that I could have done better. I could see where it works and where it doesn’t work, where it lifts itself up and which parts flag and drag it down and I’d have cut a couple of numbers which, frankly, got in the way of the momentum of the story. I decided to write a play of my own, just to prove to myself that I could do it. I wasn’t sure what it was going to be about, so went downstairs for some inspiration and a Findus French Bread Pizza. The topping scalded the roof of my mouth and skin hung down inside like wet socks off a radiator.
What I was really aware of while I was rehearsing, and it’s something I often think about even now, was whether theatre was in my blood. Did I dig it so much because of Grampa Lines’s thwarted ambition? He had been a song and dance man until his friend and partner died in an accident. Maybe I was reliving his lost dream? It was obvious that this love of theatre had skipped a generation; Dad didn’t seem to understand. While Mum helped me with my lines, Dad talked about my crazy ideas and writers and actors all being ‘a bit dodgy’ and at my age I should have been thinking about a trade instead of poncing around like a big fairy. Mum told him it was just a stage I was going through and Dad said that if I didn’t snap out of it soon he’d gladly help put me through it …
One week until opening night. I was nervous, we all were. But there was a growing sense of confidence, too; both cast and crew were nearly there, it was within our grasp. As a team, we weren’t bad at all. My singing voice was benefiting from David Hinkley’s extracurricular attentions. ‘When you open your mouth, I want to hear it, listen to it come from deep within you.’