The Modfather: My Life with Paul Weller

by David Lines

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good boy.’

  Lizzie was also in our play. She had the part of Dulcie, a pupil at Madame Dubonnet’s finishing school. Lizzie had such great presence; she was so full of electricity on stage. She and Kath worked really well together and became friends. As an ensemble we were all good, but it was Kath who really stood out. She was so serious about her part. Kath had been treading the boards for more than four years and was so much more experienced than the rest of us. Having her on board was almost like having a Hollywood star walk amongst us. Kath was resolute in the knowledge that she would be an actor. Her unshakeable belief and steadfast trust in herself, her ambition and ability were nothing short of intoxicating. Just being in the same room as her was enough to inspire me tenfold. If Kath could be an actor – as I truly believed she would be – then maybe I could make my living as a writer. In our school, if you aspired to anything more than a miner or a milkman then people looked at you like you were insane. This is the thing that I learned from Kath above all: to have the courage of my convictions and to find the strength of my nature. That and how to hit my mark.

  The character I played, Percival Browne, was Madame Dubonnet’s long-lost love, and our rekindled relationship formed the backstory to the musical’s central theme. We had a duet together and we had to meet up often, outside regular school hours, outside normal rehearsal time, to get it spot on. Kath was a consummate professional even then, and when she started to sing it sounded as if somehow there was a lark lodged deep within her larynx. I, however, sounded more like a tit.

  ‘I’m sorry, Kath. Can we try that again, please?’

  ‘That’s all right, David. Just take your time and try to relax, yeah?’

  Relax? How on earth could I possibly relax? That just wasn’t going to happen when I was about to sing a song to Katherine Blyton about how much I loved her in the past and how could I possibly forget the love that we knew and now that we’ve found each other all these years later all the emotions keep on flooding back and … and … just calm down, man. Take. Deep. Breaths. I asked myself, what would Paul do in a situation like this? What would Paul do? I’ll tell you what Paul would do, he’d just get on with it and sing to her. That’s it! I’d got it! I’d sing the duet with Kath just the same way that Paul would sing it, I’d sing my bits and sound like Paul would. That was it, that’d help me get through it. I took a glug of water and launched into it.

  I was halfway through my verse when Kath waved at me. I waved back at her and then she waved like she was trying to flag down a police car in a terrible emergency. Oh, hold on – it dawned on me that maybe she wanted me to stop. ‘David, I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it, but why on earth are you doing an impersonation of Tommy Steele?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Where did all these estuary vowels come from all of a sudden? This isn’t “Half A Sixpence”, darling …’

  Oh my God – she called me darling! ‘Tommy Steele? Christ, I’m sorry, Kath – I don’t know what happened there. I’m just a bit nervous, that’s all.’

  She batted her eyelashes and said, ‘Just be yourself, honey, and it’ll all come together. Just be yourself …’

  Me? Be myself? That was pretty difficult when I spent so much time trying to be anything but me. ‘Thanks, Kath. Thanks for the advice. Shall we try it again from the top?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Let’s wrap it up here. I’ve had more than enough for one day.’

  Oh, all right. I was just getting into it. ‘Can I walk home with you, please then?’ Why had my voice suddenly gone all high?

  Kath laughed a little bit and said, ‘You can if you like.’ Then she slung her Chelsea Girl bag over her shoulder, flicked her hair back and turned to me. The late autumn light crept in through the music-room window and she smiled and said, ‘It’s a lovely evening for it.’ It most certainly was.

  We walked through the sunny, empty streets of the Grange estate, which was where Katherine lived. Our house was on the Wimpey estate, and it had been the show home for when our estate was built, about twenty years ago.

  The houses on the Grange estate were bigger, more like the houses on Rik’s street. The front lawns were longer, wider and some of them even had three cars parked in the drive. Lots of houses on our street were pebble-dashed but there weren’t any of those to be found around Kath’s estate; instead the pebbles were on the drives, not stuck to the front of the houses. Faded laburnum dripped down onto the pavement, neat lawns were marked out with crisp edges. It’s lovely, I thought to myself – this is exactly the sort of place where Katherine should live. She looked like she lived there, she was comfortable there and she was such a star that I half expected to look down at the pavement and see her handprint in a flagstone with her name signed underneath it. This was Garforth’s Walk of Fame. I wondered how she’d feel if I asked her to autograph my copy of the play?

  We had made small talk to begin with, but we were soon talking about serious stuff, things that I had wanted to discuss with Rik but had bottled out at the last minute.

  ‘Did you always know that you wanted to be an actor?’

  ‘David, I knew from the moment that I could first think for myself. There was nothing else in my life and there never will be. Once I lifted the lid on that dressing-up box there was no turning back, not for one moment. It was a calling, and I know this sounds all arty and pretentious, but it was just that – an almighty calling.’

  There was an edge to her voice. An urgency that came with conviction, like she’d been bursting to tell someone – anyone – this. She spoke with such intensity I was slightly shaken by it, and then I wondered if she’d been rehearsing her answer, practising for when she’s famous and giving interviews in Cannes.

  ‘Your mum and dad must be very proud of you.’

  She blew her fringe out of her face with an upwardly directed exhalation of Silk Cut and sighed a big sigh. ‘They are, but I do feel a bit fucking guilty some of the time. Well, most of the time.’ She took a can of Lilt out of her bag, lifted the ring pull, swigged and passed it over. This act of intimacy wasn’t lost on me and I savoured the moment much more than I did the drink.

  ‘Thanks. Why d’you feel guilty? What have you got to feel guilty about?’

  ‘Oh, David, it’s just positively awful. Well, the thing is, my mum’s a nurse, my big sister’s a nurse and my little sister’s probably going to be a nurse as well. They’re all doing really, you know …’

  She looked at me as if I should know what she meant, and she raised her eyebrows and nodded at me, but I just shook my head back at her. I was suddenly struck by the thought that this is the first grown-up conversation I’d probably had with anyone. I’d never had a conversation like this before. Kath seemed so … well, she was a proper woman. I bet she’s even got a cheque book, I thought. ‘Go on,’ I said. I had an idea where her house was and it wasn’t far from where we were, just around the next bend. I didn’t want our time together to end so I deliberately started walking slowly to draw it out, nonchalantly strolling along with my hands in my pockets and staring up at the sky, considering the clouds.

  Kath continued. ‘Well, they’re all doing incredibly selfless jobs. They’re all being ungrudgingly benevolent and they do so much for so many poorly people every single day of the week and the money’s not exactly brilliant, you know?’

  ‘Isn’t it? I didn’t know that.’

  ‘No, it’s rubbish, and they’re bringing such a lot of good into the world and they work so hard, and never once do they complain when they come home, not even after a terrible day, and what they do is just, you know, so worthy and so vital.’

  I could see her point, but there was another side to it. ‘But don’t you think that what you’ll do for a living, the way you’ll lift people out of their lives and carry them off and away from their problems, their drudgery, will be just as vital? To entertain people, to make them laugh, to bring some light into their lives – I’d say that was p
retty fucking worthy and vital, Kath.’

  We were outside her house and she looked at me with a big, beaming smile. I had said the right thing. Her arms were crossed and her head was tilted on one side and the curve of her left breast under that Lonsdale t-shirt started to draw my gaze just a little bit too much. ‘That’s beautiful. That’s a fucking lovely thing to say.’

  I didn’t know what to say then, so I decided not to screw it up by opening my mouth so instead I just smiled back and kind of shrugged my shoulders like some kind of an idiot. Better to let her think I was a moron than open my mouth and prove her right.

  ‘Why don’t you come in for a cup of tea?’

  Right then there was nothing in this world I wanted more.

  I sat in Kath Blyton’s kitchen with a pot of tea on the table between us. She sat opposite me. Milk in a jug, sugar in a matching bowl and a plate of digestives completed the scene. It was like a dream. I shouldn’t have been there, but I was.

  ‘Shall I be mother?’

  There’s a thought.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. You carry on – you be mother.’

  ‘I meant what about you, David. Have you any idea what you want to do with your life?’

  ‘Oh, I’m very clear now. I’ve just made up my mind what I want to do with it.’

  ‘What? Tell me – no, let me guess! I think you might very well want to … be in a pop group!’

  ‘Why on earth would I want to be in a pop group?’

  ‘Because it’s the sort of thing you’d be brilliant at. You’ll need to learn how to sing properly, mind, but you’ve certainly got the look.’

  Kath poured the tea. There were freckles on her arms and, underneath the wide, pine table, our toes were touching. I didn’t move my foot away; it liked it down there. ‘So tell me, David Lines, what are you going to do with your life?’

  ‘Me? Oh, I’m just going to be a writer.’

  Kath’s eyes widened, and then it hit me who she reminded me of – Kath Blyton was the living spit of Liza Minnelli. It was the eyes. The eyes and the hair. Strike me down now as I live and breathe, she was Judy Garland’s tortured daughter and she’s just poured me a cup of Typhoo. She was a superstar in our school and this felt like spending time with an Oscar winner. ‘Well, good for you! Fucking hell – a writer! God, how romantic. What sort of things will you write?’

  In my head I heard myself speaking, but these words stayed firmly locked inside my mouth. One day I’ll write a book, and you’ll be in it and it will be about how you, you and Paul Weller, inspired me to become a writer. ‘Um … spy novels. And maybe some thrillers,’ I said.

  Kath raised her mug at me across the polished table and we clinked cups, like at a wedding. She looked me in the eye, stood up, held her tea aloft and said, ‘To the arts – for there is no higher calling!’

  I got up as well, raised my brew and repeated, ‘To the arts!’ It felt like we’d made a pact with each other there, a special deal. I thought about trying to give her a hug, because, let’s face it, that’s what arty people do, when the kitchen door opened and in walked a man who was clearly Kath’s father. He moved just like her, sort of gliding inside, like a secret note being pushed under a door at midnight.

  ‘Hello, Kate. Good day? Who’s this, then?’ He had a Geordie accent and a big, happy smile.

  ‘Dad, this is David Lines and we’re both in the play together. David, I’m happy to say, is my seventy-year-old love interest … David – this is my dad.’

  We shook hands. I instantly liked this man.

  ‘Dad, David here’s going to be a writer.’

  ‘Are you now?’

  ‘Well, I’m going to give it a go, Mr Blyton.’

  ‘Then make sure that you do. Good luck, then. Pleased to meet you …’

  And then I ran home. I literally ran all of the way home. I ran through the front door and into the hall and up the stairs. I ran into my room and I put All Mod Cons on and I listened to Paul sing ‘Fly’. ‘Fly’ is the most exquisite love song. It’s tender and harsh and modern and touching. It’s as personal as a prayer and there’s an intimacy that comes through from hearing Paul’s fingertips squeak as he moves them up and down the frets if you listen closely enough. ‘Fly’ was recorded on 16 August, 1978, at RAK Studios, deep in the leafy heart of St John’s Wood in London. It swings between gentle, touching parts and then raises its game to become more brutal in the bridge as well as the chorus and this, quite clearly, heralded their new-found sound.

  At that moment, ‘Fly’ was everything to me. It was the theme tune to which, in my mind, Kate and I danced till daybreak. Her dad called her Kate, and now I would, too.

  After ‘Fly’, I listened to ‘English Rose’. I sat on the edge of my bed and thought about her. Paul not only described this girl in the song, he described the way that I felt about Kate. We had made a deal that day, a pledge to be true to ourselves and I knew that we’d never break it. I replayed the last few hours, minute by minute in my head. I couldn’t believe it – I didn’t do anything wrong, I didn’t make a proper prat of myself – not once. That afternoon had been a potential personal warzone for me, a minefield in the making, and somehow I managed to pick my way through it and avoid making any idiot comments.

  There was a knock on my door and Mum stuck her head round. She looked surprised to see me doing nothing, just sitting there and not having a wank.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing, just thinking about things.’

  Mum came and sat down next to me, put her arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze.

  ‘Anything I can help you with?’

  I wanted to tell her about Kate, about the promise we made, about how lucky I felt when we accidentally touched toes under the table. I wanted to tell her about the ember from Kate’s cigarette and how, as she sucked slowly on it, the orange glow was reflected in her eyes. But I didn’t tell her any of that. ‘It’s just nerves,’ I said.

  ‘You’re bound to be nervous, it’s opening night soon – Friday, right?’

  ‘Yes. And you’re all coming?’

  ‘Of course we are. We’re all very excited. I’m having my hair done in the afternoon, especially for the occasion.’

  ‘Is Dad excited?’

  Mum smiled and patted my knee. ‘He’s not really one for musicals …’

  8

  Music For The Last Couple

  AGAIN, RECORDED AT the Townhouse Studios. This album track was the result of a studio jam session and contains only the one line of lyric. It’s dead arty: there’s a load of sound effects at the beginning, a bluebottle buzzing, the squirt of an aerosol can, some cowbells, tom-toms, then quiet followed by a jangly guitar riff. As Percival Browne, I had many more lines than just the one in this but its title always rings clear as meaning something special to me. In my mind, Kate and I were that last couple.

  Before I knew it, it was Friday. Opening night. Nerves had been gnawing away at my intestines all week, feasting on my fears and starving me of sleep. It didn’t matter then, because I couldn’t feel more awake, electricity fizzed through my veins and my eyes stung as I held back tears that bristled with excitement and nervous energy. Was that how Grampa Lines felt when he went on stage? Was that how Paul felt? Did nerves get to him, too?

  They must have. The feeling filled my eyes, ears, nose and mouth – it felt like it might even drown me. In an attempt to hold onto the glorious feeling of the first time I went on stage in front of an audience, I wrote a detailed diary after the performance, describing what happened from moment to moment and I deliberately wrote it in the present tense as I thought it added to the dramatic effect. It’s a mark of how deeply it affected me that I tried to get down almost every second. Here’s what I wrote more than twenty years ago:

  Time: 4.32 p.m. and we’re all standing centre-stage having a big group hug. There’s so many of us, it reminds me of country dancing back at junior school. Cast, crew, costume, musi
cians, make-up, lighting and scenery people standing in a semicircle with our arms around each other’s shoulders and waists, waiting till curtain-up and propping each other up in the final few hours till kick-off. We’re nearly there – can we get through this together? I’m not sure, but I do know that we’re going to have a bloody good go!

  4.45 p.m. I’m in Kate’s dressing room. None of us have a dressing room, but Kate’s decided to move into the pottery workshop which backs onto the stage and she’s managed to make this her own. It’s incredibly impressive, a real dressing room for a real star.

  A huge great mirror in a golden frame stands on top of the potter’s wheel and rests against the back wall. Golden Christmas fairy lights, lit up and draped around the frame sparkle and twinkle against dozens of good luck cards of all shapes and sizes. There are so many bouquets, it’s like a florist’s shop in here. The air is heady with the scent of lilies and a pair of pink teddy bears hold hands next to her make-up bag which is, in fact, a holdall. Kate’s not here, so I leave the card which I’ve made for her, and prop it up against the bears. It’s a piece of white, A4 cartridge paper folded in half with a black and white picture of Audrey Hepburn smoking a cigarette in a holder stuck to the front. I cut it out of the Radio Times with a pair of Mum’s pinking shears to give the edges a fancy finish. Inside, I’ve written ‘Thanks for everything – good luck, and let’s have fun! Love, David.’ I stand back, peering at myself in Kate’s mirror and the halo of gold thrown out from the fairy lights illuminates my face like a hundred thousand buttercups held up under my chin. It’s dazzling, I take a mental snapshot and quietly walk away.

  4.56 p.m. Neil Harding’s throwing up into the fire bucket. That’s a good place to spew up, in all that sand. Nerves? Could be. Smells more like Pernod. And judging by the vivid colour of the vomit it looks like he’s been mixing it with blackcurrant. Idiot. Thank Christ he’s only got a very minor role. What a prize wanker, he doesn’t deserve to share the same stage as Kate and I’m considering dropping him in it to Sapherson. We can’t afford to be let down by some joker like that pube-head.