by Maureen Lee
‘I know it’s a guitar. Meself, I play the drums in the school orchestra.’
‘Do you now!’ Lachlan looked excited. ‘We could do with a drummer, except we haven’t got a drum kit.’
‘Drums are shit to play. All that comes out is a noise. It’s not proper music. Can I have a go on your guitar?’
‘If you like.’ Again, Lachlan wasn’t sure why he so willingly handed the instrument over. Normally a generous, good-natured boy, he was reluctant to let even Max, his friend, touch his precious guitar. But there was something magnetic about this young man that made Lachlan want to please him. ‘Have you ever played before?’
‘No.’ Sean held the guitar against his thin chest and looked down at it tenderly, as if a beautiful woman was clasped in his arms.
‘What you do,’ Lachlan explained, ‘is press the strings against the fret . . .’
‘I know what you do.’ Sean’s long fingers plucked nimbly at the guitar, moving them quickly up and down the fret, gauging the tone, playing one note over and over, then another, and another, watched by an astonished Lachlan and an outraged Max.
Jeannie, still reeling from the swear word, realised Sean was finding the scale. Within five minutes he had found all eight notes. He played them an octave higher, an octave lower. It wasn’t long before he was able to strum a passable version of ‘Jerusalem’, which they used to sing at Friday assembly in Ailsham Junior School.
When he’d finished, he handed the guitar back to Lachlan. ‘How much did it cost?’ he enquired.
‘Five pounds or thereabouts. It was a Christmas present, so I’m not exactly sure. This is an acoustic guitar; electric ones are much dearer. My dad got it from Crane’s in Hanover Street.’
‘If I get one, can I come and play too?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Lachlan said eagerly. ‘You’re a natural. I can’t believe you’ve never played before. I used to play the violin, but it still took a while to get as far on the guitar as you just did.’
‘What sort of music were you playing when I came in?’
‘Rock ’n’ roll. It’s the best music in the world.’
‘I think so too. See you in a few weeks’ time then.’ Sean disappeared as quickly as he’d come.
‘Who was that?’ Lachlan asked excitedly. ‘Whoever he is, he’s a genius.’
‘His name’s Sean McDowd,’ Jeannie supplied.
‘He’s the chap our Marcia fancied,’ said Elaine. ‘She’ll be sorry she didn’t join the group when I tell her.’ Marcia had refused to have anything to do with the Merseysiders, a decision everyone had greeted with relief. Elaine decided aloud not to mention Sean McDowd in case Marcia changed her mind.
Max didn’t speak. He thought it best not to, because all that would have come out was a stream of invective. He never thought he could hate Lachlan, but he did now for saying Sean McDowd could come back. And when he returned – Max had no doubt that he would – he’d have a guitar and be able to play as well as Lachlan, possibly better. Max would be left behind, with only a stupid mouth organ. He knew he was jealous, but didn’t care. He recalled his friend’s face as he’d watched Sean find the notes so easily and naturally, as if he’d been born to play. Lachlan had been full of admiration. When Max tried, his fingers were everywhere, stumbling and awkward. Perhaps he would never be able to play. Perhaps he would never grow any taller. Max let out a groan. He was doomed.
‘I wonder,’ Jeannie said, ‘where Sean expects to get the money from for a guitar? They’re awfully poor, the McDowds,’ she explained to Lachlan and Elaine.
Max glowered and wondered too.
Sean rang Peter Beggerow, the owner of the fruit and veg stall in Ormskirk market, from the phone box at the end of Holly Lane. ‘Will you be needing a hand over the next few weeks, Pete?’ he enquired.
‘I wouldn’t mind some help with shifting crates and stuff on Sat’days, mate. By the way,’ he added slyly, ‘is there any veg going?’
Vegetables were hardly worth the trouble stealing – bulky and you got only a pittance for them. Sean wasn’t interested. ‘How about chickens?’ he asked.
‘Chickens are always welcome.’
‘How much will I get each?’
‘Sixpence, mate.’
‘What about a bob?’
‘What about eightpence?
‘Let’s say ten.’
‘Let’s say ninepence each. That’s me limit, Sean.’
‘Ninepence, then. I’ll take them round your Frank’s house.’
‘Give us a call when you do.’
Over the next few weeks, a few farmers noticed their stock of poultry had been reduced by two or three the night before. They kept a careful look-out, but it didn’t happen again. Sean was careful never to hit the same farm twice, otherwise he’d find the owner lying in wait, ready to give the thief a good hiding.
He went to school two days a week in the hope of keeping officialdom off his back; the rest of the time he went round the village, knocking on doors, asking if there were any odd jobs he could do. For sixpence or a shilling a time, he cleared gardens, cut down trees, mowed lawns, cleaned windows, washed cars, all the time listening to the in-built wireless in his head, hearing himself playing the guitar.
Saturdays, he worked on Pete’s stall in Ormskirk, where several fat chickens were usually for sale as a result of Sean’s night work.
Two months later, he had acquired five pounds, eight and sixpence, not all of it come by honestly, and early one glorious July morning, with a brilliant sun shining out of a perfectly blue sky, he caught the train to Liverpool and presented himself at Crane’s in Hanover Street, with the intention of purchasing a guitar.
The assistant was a middle-aged man with tired eyes behind a pair of thick glasses. ‘So, you’re after one of the lowest range models?’ he remarked, curling his lip.
‘I’m just after a guitar,’ Sean said in a surly voice.
‘You won’t get an electric one for that much.’
‘I don’t want an electric one, thanks.’
‘We only have three in that price range. They’re on the wall over there.’
The cheap guitars looked the same as those costing ten times as much, but Sean knew the expensive ones would be made from superior materials, have a better tone, be the product of a more skilled craftsman. But the time for such an instrument had not yet come.
A five-pound guitar – four pounds, nineteen and elevenpence, to be exact – was taken off the wall and laid on the counter. It made an echoey, booming sound that was music in itself to Sean’s ears. He caught his breath, picked it up, and cradled it in his arms, then ran his hand over the hard curves. All he had to do was hand over the money and it would be his.
He looks as if he’s just been given a million quid, the assistant marvelled, watching Sean’s face as he nursed the five-pound guitar. ‘Do you want to look at the others?’ he asked, more kindly now.
‘No, this one’ll do.’
‘Would you like a tutor?’
‘What’s that?’
‘A book with instructions on how to play.’
‘I’ll be teaching meself, thanks.’
‘How about a plectrum? Some people use a plectrum rather than their fingers. They’re only a penny ha’penny each.’
‘I prefer me fingers.’ Sean plucked a few strings. He couldn’t imagine using anything else. He stood the guitar carefully on the floor, took a paper bag out of his jacket pocket, and emptied the contents – hundreds of coins, both copper and silver – on to the counter.
‘Have you been robbing the collection box?’ the assistant joked, as he began the painstaking task of counting the coins. Initially, he hadn’t taken to the taciturn, arrogant young man, but he’d looked at the guitar in the same daft way as he himself had once looked upon a clarinet. His talent had been such, he’d ended up selling them, rather than playing them. But he had a feeling it would be different with this customer.
‘All present and correct,�
� he asserted when the money had been counted. ‘I suggest you buy a spare set of strings. It’d be a nuisance if one broke when you weren’t in a position to buy another.’ He hoped the lad had enough money.
‘OK, I’ll have a set.’ Sean gave an abrupt nod. He still had eight and sixpence in his pocket.
‘Will you be wanting a strap?’
‘I’ll have the cheapest. How much is that?’
‘Webbing’s one and six; blue, red or black.’
‘Give us the black.’ He was getting the strap in return for a couple of chickens.
‘Well, good luck,’ the assistant said when business had been completed and his customer was ready to leave. ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Sean McDowd. Why?’
‘I just wondered. I’ll keep me eye open for your first concert.’ He watched the lad walk out into the dazzling sunshine and felt sure that one day he would hear the name of Sean McDowd again.
‘Is that you, Sean?’ his mother screamed when he opened the back door.
‘Yes, Mam.’ He was halfway upstairs when she appeared, hands poised angrily on her hips.
‘There’s been a man here today from school, Mr Something-or-other. He said you’ve hardly been in for weeks . . .’ Sadie gasped. ‘What’s that you’re holding, Sean, lad?’
‘A guitar, Mam,’ he said proudly.
‘Oh, son! You haven’t pinched it!’
‘No, Mam. I earned the money to buy it. That’s why I haven’t been at school. I’ve been working, doing odd jobs like.’
She was probably the only mother in the world who understood that owning a musical instrument was more important than school. Her visitor had already been forgotten. ‘Let’s have a look?’
Sean returned downstairs and Sadie ran her hands over the polished wood. ‘It’s lovely,’ she breathed. ‘Can you play anything yet?’
‘Not yet,’ Sean conceded. ‘Not properly. I was just going up to me room to practise.’
‘Go ahead, luv. I’ll bring you up a cup of tea in a minute.’
When Sadie went up with the tea, Sean was holding the guitar, softly strumming the strings. He had his back to her and, for a moment, she had a feeling of déjà vu. He looked so much like his father. Kevin McDowd will never be dead while his son’s alive, she told herself.
Rita insisted on nursing the guitar while Sean ate his tea, though it meant her own got cold. ‘I like the feel of it,’ she commented. ‘It’s so big, yet it’s not heavy.’
‘That’s because it’s hollow,’ Sean said good-naturedly. He had rarely felt in such a good mood.
‘I’m not stupid, Sean. I can see it’s hollow. Does this mean you won’t be playing the drums no more in the school orchestra? They’ve asked me twice this week where you were. You were needed for a rehearsal or something.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘That I didn’t know, which is the truth. Elsa Graham on the coach said you’d pruned their oak tree and got sixpence for it, but I didn’t know that till later. Not that I’d have told them at school,’ she added hastily, ‘if I’d known before.’
She hadn’t bothered to tell her mother, either, Sadie noted, but didn’t complain. She’d rather the children stuck together than told tales.
‘Can I have me guitar back now, Rita? I’m going up to practise in me room.’
Not long afterwards, Sean was interrupted by a ferocious banging on the wall that adjoined the next door house. ‘Will you stop that bloody racket,’ their neighbour yelled. So, he took his guitar outside into what was now a perfect evening to end a perfect day.
He wandered along the edge of the cornfield at the back of Disraeli Terrace, the small, waif-like figure of his sister following a few steps behind, picking out all the Irish songs he knew. ‘In Dublin’s fair city . . .’ He whispered the words as he played, disturbing the birds that rustled impatiently in the hedge, and the small creatures that lived close to the roots.
Rita began to sing with him, the words soaring up to the sky and disappearing into the deepening blueness.
. . . Where the girls are so pretty,
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone,
As she wheeled her wheelbarrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o.
Sean turned to face his sister, threw back his head, and laughed. He had never felt this happy before.
They finished the song together.
Alive, alive-o-o,
Alive, alive-o-o,
Crying cockles, and mussels,
Alive, alive-o.
Sadie stopped washing the dishes to listen to the sound of her children singing in the distance, accompanied by the faint strum of a guitar. ‘What a voice our Rita’s got,’ she marvelled. ‘I never realised it was quite so powerful. If only their dad was around, he’d be desperately proud.’
Chapter 5
1960
In September, the Merseysiders played their first gig and were paid five pounds. They now had five members: Lachlan Bailey, Sean McDowd and Max Flowers on guitar – having worn his father down, Max had been bought a bass guitar for Christmas two years before – Frank– known as ‘Fly’ – Fleming on drums, and Ronnie Connors on keyboard. Elaine and Jeannie had dropped out. They had better things to do with their time.
It had been no one’s idea to have a keyboard player until Ronnie Connors’ dad heard about the group and asked if his son could join. Mr Connors owned a factory making sanitary ware on Kirkby Industrial Estate. A keen music fan himself, he was willing to let the Merseysiders practise in his factory once the workers had gone home. Not only that, Ronnie was eighteen and could drive. His father was equally willing to let him use the firm’s van. The group were not only being offered a place to play where there would be no neighbours to complain, but transport for them and their equipment. Under the circumstances, a keyboard player seemed an excellent idea. The instrument was called a Rickenbacker, and had been imported from America. It was electric, easily carried, and made a sound that was half piano, half organ.
The morning after their first gig – Fly Fleming’s sister had got married and they played at the reception – Jeannie, anxious to know how they’d got on, woke her brother early, simply by dragging the clothes off his bed. ‘How did it go?’ she demanded.
‘Flippin’ hell, Jeannie,’ Max growled. ‘I didn’t get in till all hours. I’m exhausted.’
‘Did people clap and cheer? Or did they boo and jeer?’
‘Huh! Very funny. The young ones liked us; the old ones didn’t. The old ones wanted war songs like “We’ll Meet Again”, not “Great Balls of Fire”.’ Max gave a nonchalant yawn. ‘We’ve got another gig.’
‘You haven’t!’
‘It’s a wedding again. One of the bridesmaids is getting married next month.’
Rose popped her head around the door. ‘How did it go, son?’
‘They got another booking, Mum,’ Jeannie told her.
‘That’s marvellous, Max.’ Rose flushed with pleasure. ‘I’ll go and tell your dad. He’ll be pleased.’
‘Will he hell,’ Max said cynically when their mother had gone. ‘As far as Dad’s concerned, rock ’n’ roll is the music of the devil.’ For the first time, he noticed the empty bed on the other side of the room. ‘Where’s our Gerald? He’s up early.’
‘Gone out to escape the frosty atmosphere. You’ve been too wrapped up in other things to notice, but he’s still in Dad’s bad books for failing the eleven-plus. Tomorrow, he’s starting at Philip Wallace.’ Jeannie picked up the bedclothes and threw them back. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or would you prefer to go back to sleep?’
‘Both, please, the tea first.’
‘I’ll bring it up in a minute.’
Jeannie left, and Max sat up and tucked the clothes around him. Last night had been fantastically exciting. He’d never known a night like it before, the way the girls had yelled and screamed and the boys had ro
ared their approval, demanding more. It was the first time most had heard rock ’n’ roll, and they’d loved it. Over the last few months, similar groups had started to play at the Cavern in place of jazz and skiffle; Rory Storm and the Hurricanes, Cass and the Cassanovas.
Closing his eyes, Max lived through the night again, visualising the eager, manic faces, feeling the same sensation of power. He was one of the people responsible for this frenzy of emotion. He felt exactly the same when he listened to rock ’n’ roll.
Remembering, Max gave a blissful sigh, though the more he thought about it, he couldn’t recall many of the faces being directed at him. At least half were watching Lachlan, and the other half Sean McDowd; soppy, stupid, idolising faces. He wondered if there’d been anyone looking at Max Flowers?
Perhaps it was because he didn’t stand centre stage, but over to one side so the difference in height between him and the other guitarists wasn’t so apparent – Lachlan was six foot, Sean slightly more, but Max had stopped growing at five and a half feet and, now that he was seventeen, was likely to stay that way for ever.
How could God have been so cruel? Everyone remarked how like his father he was, with his thick brown hair, brown eyes, evenly spaced features. He even had the same broad shoulders. In fact, he had everything except his father’s height. Yet Jeannie, who was so much like their mother, was already inches taller than her. Any day now, she’d be taller than him.
Jeannie came in with the tea and Max said bitterly, ‘Is Dad dancing for joy because we’ve got another gig?’
‘He’s in the garden. He might be dancing for joy out there.’
‘Oh yeah!’
Tom wasn’t dancing, but staring moodily, hands in pockets, at a tub of begonias coming to the end of their lives, wondering whether to pull them up or leave them for another week or two – they still provided a patch of colour. It was a decision that would have normally taken him a mere second, but today Tom had an unaccustomed feeling of lethargy.
To tell the truth, he didn’t give a damn about the begonias. He was concerned only with the fact that his sons were letting him down. Jeannie had never given him a moment of concern. She studied hard and was doing well with her lessons, which was ironic in a way, for what point was there in a girl getting O levels? It was nothing but a waste of time and taxpayers’ money. He’d soon put Rose right when she suggested letting their daughter stay at school till eighteen like her friend Elaine, take A levels, possibly go to university.