by Paul Charles
The big decision, and an easy one to make, was that I had to break up with Jean Kerr. It had to be done, and quickly. Apart from which, I certainly didn’t want to see a repeat performance of her freaking out.
I’d like to say that I acted properly and I went round to see her, to tell her that it had to stop, that what we were doing was unfair, particularly to her. Tell her that I was sorry if I hurt her. All very honourable I’m sure you’ll agree. But that’s not the way it happened.
No, that’s not the way it happened at all, because she dumped me!
And not only that, she sent Jean Simpson to tell me it was all over. That she’d caught me trying to chat up Mary Skeffington and that I’d saved Mary from getting a good hiding. A hiding she’d deserved.
And she didn’t wait long, either – Jean Simpson was round the following afternoon. Sundays for me are a day for lazing around, and when Jean called on me at about three o’clock I was listening to a couple of new albums I’d bought the previous morning.
I find it a bit frustrating with new albums. I mean, I can’t really listen to them properly until I know them, and I can’t get to know them until I’ve listened to them a few times. So there I was, trying to get to know Bob Dylan’s Nashville Skyline and Esther & Abi Ofarim’s Ofarim Concert – Live 1969.
Nashville Skyline was particularly intriguing. Dylan had come off his motorbike in Woodstock, Upstate New York, and had supposedly broken his neck. In the space of the several months’ recuperation, he’d gone from lean, mean and punky, to filled out, bearded and appearing to age into the father of the younger version of himself.
The Ofarim album shows just how shallow I can be at times. I bought it not because I was particularly a fan of the duo but because I was a fan of Esther’s great legs. Jean Kerr kept telling me that it wasn’t exactly a case of Mrs Ofarim having great legs, no, it was just more a case that she wasn’t scared of showing a lot, if not all, of them in her micro skirts! On reflection, Miss Kerr may not have been wrong.
Anyway, there I was, slumming it on a lazy Sunday afternoon, listening over and over to a song called ‘Lay Lady Lay’ and enjoying Zimmerman-inspired thoughts when Jean Simpson turned up. ‘I’ll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours’ – Dylan said that. ‘The devil always sends the prettiest messengers’ – Dylan never said that, I did, because the devil had a habit of doing just that. For Jean was wearing a plaited Black Watch Tartan miniskirt, dense white stockings, ankle-length black boots, a white polo neck jumper and her trusted duffle coat, which she flamboyantly threw across my sofa. As she did so she gave a little twirl which umbrella’d her skirt, exposing the thigh that had been on show to great effect the previous night. Was this a bit of a performance for my sole benefit, or merely an accident? I couldn’t figure out which.
‘Listen,’ she started, immediately taking a seat on the sofa beside her duffle coat and smoothing out her skirt in the direction of her knees, ‘you’re in big trouble, David Buchanan.’
‘What, all because I saved a wee girl from sure massacre at the hand, or should that be foot, of Jean’s boot?’
She looked at me with a kind of quizzical look that implied, ‘Are you alright in the head?’
Instead she said, ‘Well that, plus the fact that we all saw you trying to chat her up.’
‘I was only talking to the wee girl!’ I gasped in desperation.
‘Well,’ Jean continued, breaking into a semi-smile for the first time since she’d arrived, ‘you’ll still get hung for stealing no matter if it’s a sheep or a lamb, so for goodness sake, why don’t you take Mary Skeffington and give her a good ride and get her off my, and John’s, back?’
‘Thank you very much. So, it’s a case of, as I’m already in the dog house, why don’t I do you a favour while I’m there and keep you out of trouble?’ I snapped, only half in jest. ‘And what’s in it for me?’
‘Oh,’ she replied coyly, and swept some hair from her face and put it behind her ear, ‘if you’re very good I might give you another little twirl.’
So her little display earlier hadn’t been an accident after all.
‘With that particular enticement I’d love to take you up on your offer, but I’m afraid we might find that Mary Skeffington doesn’t want to participate in our little scheme. She’s got her own little scheme.’
‘She can’t possibly believe that she’s going to get back with John?’ Jean said, faking a huff.
‘Look, I hate to take sides here – and I’m not – but have you ever considered it from her point of view? Eh?’
Jean rose from the sofa and inadvertently gave me a little twirl, and thrill, as she went over to my record player to turn down Bob Dylan.
‘God, I can’t abide his voice, David!’ she said. I realised that she would never have been that rude, bordering on insulting one of my particular musical preferences, if I hadn’t – in her eyes – taken Mary Skeffington’s side in the fight at Tiger’s Saturday night party. Though I tried not to betray the hurt I was experiencing.
‘How do you bear to listen to him whining away all the time?’ she continued, amplifying her revenge.
She didn’t wait for a reply; music lowered, she returned to her sofa once more, affording me a quick flash again. It was a bittersweet signal, perhaps to reveal that she wasn’t totally annoyed at me. If this was what she did by accident, I was beginning to wonder how she’d repay a real debt. My little mystery was quickly solved when she continued talking, following some staged clearing of the throat.
‘I hope you enjoyed your little show, David, but that’s all for now. Look, of course I’ve thought of how she must feel, but do you really think I should let that get in the way of how I feel?’
‘Well, I guess I’m a little biased here but if he can fall out of love once, don’t you think it could happen again, only next time you’d be on the receiving end?’
‘But this time it’s different!’ she protested.
‘How’s it different, Jean? If you were sitting there telling me that you couldn’t keep your hands off each other, that you were consumed with love for each other, I might look at it differently, you know. But you’re going to see each other twice a week for the next two years until you’ve saved enough money to marry? I mean, come on Jean! Please don’t forget John has already slept with Mary; he has experienced the magic. Are you sure he can wait two years? What if he starts to look elsewhere?’
‘Well, you’ve been to the magical well too, and I don’t see you bursting down any doors for more. Besides…’ she replied coyly.
‘Besides what?’ I pushed.
‘Well, girls learn to, you know…’
‘I don’t know, tell me,’ I persisted.
‘Well,’ she said staring me right in the eyes, ‘they… I mean … we, we learn to look after ourselves.’
‘Oh,’ I replied, feeling that I’d been firmly put in my place.
‘Oh indeed, David Buchanan, and what’s more, young man, I’m here to tell you that you won’t be getting up to any more of your naughtiness with Jean Kerr. In fact, she sent me here to tell you that it’s over between you two. And she says that you’re not to come around to our new flat, trying to change her mind because she won’t be home. She’s going to her parents’ for a few days to recharge her batteries.’
They’d recently moved into a flat together, still on the SW19 manor, not too far away from me, around in Alexandra Road. No. 18 Alexandra Road in fact. Jean Kerr had picked the location because of the security value of: a) having a lamp post just outside their front door; and b) being at near the start of Alexandra Road where there were houses on both side of the road. A little further up the road the houses stopped, affording the residents a perfect view of the railway tracks.
‘I’m not surprised,’ I offered, ‘after last night I would’ve thought she needed a whole new set of batteries altogether.’
‘So that’s all you have to say?’
‘Let’s just say that I’m not unhappy with
the situation.’
‘Very polite David, very polite indeed, I’m sure,’ she smirked, half mocking me. On reflection, perhaps you should make that a full mock.
‘It makes it a lot easier this way, doesn’t it? It resolves it all without anyone’s feelings getting hurt.’
‘And what about me?’ she gushed, ‘what about my feelings?’
‘Sorry?’ I thought I’d heard her wrong. I thought she’d said ‘What about me and my feelings?’
‘Well, if you and our Jean split up then what am I going to do?’
‘Marry John and live happily ever after.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I know all of that, but I thought you and I were going to become good friends. I mean, I really enjoyed going to the Marquee Club – that was so exciting to me. I’d never been to a proper club before. It’s like being part of a secret society – there’s a whole new language, a new world full of wonderful things, things like: the NME; gig; set; admission; the PA being crap; sticky floor; smelly toilets; support band; main band; interval; guitar solos; boring drum solos; amplifiers; microphones; encores, and club membership. I mean, I find it incredible that six hundred people all congregate in the one tiny place on the same night, at the same time, to hear brilliant music being made by someone I’ve never heard of before in my life. I mean, Taste have never been on the television, I’ve never heard them on the radio, I’ve never read about them in the papers but yet the place was packed to overflowing with people who knew all of their songs. Every time I go up the West End from now on, I’ll keep wondering if there are other magical clubs hiding behind other closed doors and whether they’re all packed with people listening to class music. Until our night at the Marquee Club I used to think that underground music was music performed by buskers in the tube stations.’
Jean paused for a moment; she looked like she was collecting her thoughts. So I kept quiet. After a few seconds she spoke again.
‘And the other thing, the other important thing is that we can talk about things I’d never talk to John about.’
‘Me too,’ I admitted, ‘I enjoy our frank discussions.’
It was true. I found it remarkable how easy it was to talk to this girl. I mean, I’d hardly spent any time with her but the time we did spend together we seemed to have a rapport that, personally speaking, I shared with no one else. There was no pretence in our relationship. I mean, there couldn’t be, could there? Jean Simpson had made it perfectly clear to me that she intended to marry John Harrison. That was a fact, the fact. But there was something happening to her physically and… well, I don’t really know, but there was certainly something going on I couldn’t quite put my finger on. However any kind of relationship we would enjoy would have to be based around that fact she was going to get married in a few years. Yet, at the same time… Hey, I wasn’t complaining. Bottom line was that she was great company, a bit of a hoot and she loved her music and, call me a cad if you want to, but I would also admit to enjoying the titillation involved in our candid conversations. I’d never made a connection before like the one I’d made with Jean Simpson, male or female. If I’m being perfectly honest I haven’t made such a candid connection since either. So, again from a purely selfish standpoint, I didn’t want to lose it.
‘But look,’ I continued, mustering up as much enthusiasm as possible, ‘I don’t see any reason why we should stop being friends, you know, why should we stop our chats. Or why we shouldn’t go and see groups together. In fact, Bob Dylan’s in town next week and I could probably get us a couple of tickets.’
‘Very funny, I don’t think.’
‘No, but seriously – surely it’s okay for us to be mates, I mean why on Earth shouldn’t we?’
‘Great!’ she said springing up on to her feet, her sulk apparently over, ‘that’s what I was hoping you’d say. Yes, let’s be friends, I’d like that. We’ll have to keep it a secret from our Jean for a while. But leave that to me to look after.’
‘Sure,’ I replied. I couldn’t think of what else to say; I was still replaying some of the conversation over in my head. The more I got to know this Jean the more she surprised me. I was finding it hard to believe this was the same apparently timid girl who had appeared from behind Jean’s Kerr’s coat-tails at the hostel not so long before.
She didn’t give me the final twirl I’d been half expecting, but her words from earlier repeated over and over in my mind as I closed the door behind her. ‘That’s all for now,’ were the words she had used as she’d flashed me a brief glimpse of her perfect legs.
Chapter Ten .
After a few months had passed, Jean Kerr was back in London, apparently recovered from whatever she needed to recover from. She’d taken to wearing loose-fitting clothes and looked strained about the eyes. I saw her occasionally, as in when passing her on the streets of Wimbledon; as I said, the two Jeans had moved into a flat in Alexandra Road. She was polite, as she’d be polite to someone she didn’t know, which was somewhat appropriate since she kind of pretended that she didn’t know me. I mean she’d blink her eyes twice and nod her head ever so slightly as a small sign of acknowledgement, but that was that.
Hey, I’m certainly not complaining. Jean Simpson would make a point of speaking to me whenever we met and she’d stop and ask me how I was doing and, when Jean Kerr would drift away from us, pretending to be window shopping, Jean Simpson would always whisper under her breath something like, ‘We should go out together sometime soon. You’re just going to have to give me a bit more time with our Jean,’ or words to that effect.
I could see what she was trying to do; she was obviously letting time pass, but at the same time she was insisting on being seen by Jean Kerr to be making a connection with me so that when she announced (I hoped) that we were going to see a group together, it would seem natural. Seemed to me like a good plan.
In the meantime, I was settling down now to see what the next chapter in my exciting adventure would reveal. I mean, let’s pause to consider it please: I’d been in London less than a year; I’d met and had been seduced by a glamorous blonde; I was having intimate conversations with both Mary Skeffington and Jean Simpson; I was in the city where all the great music was being created and performed. Every time I went into the Marquee Club to see one of these groups you could actually feel the beginning of something special starting to happen. (I hesitated from using the word ‘big’ there, mainly because at the time we didn’t realise just how big underground music was going to become. And then by virtue of the definition, the minute it became popular and broke the surface of commercial success it ceased to be underground. But all that was in the future.)
For the time being, we would all distract ourselves with our favourite pastime: coming up with Top Five lists of this and that and every other thing.
Take for instance my Top Five underground groups, purely from my perspective, of course:
1. The Taste
2. Peter Green’s Fleetwood Mac
3. Chicken Shack
4. Bakerloo Blues Band
5. Spirit of John Morgan
If I were still in Ireland I probably would have included The Interns; they’d possibly even be at the top of the list. I saw them a few times, and I’d rarely witnessed a band so powerful. Speaking of which, I saw The Moody Blues at Eel Pie Island; they were termed ‘a progressive group’ because they played ‘progressive music’. That’s what the NME and the Melody Maker said, so it must have been true. And so we move on to my Top Five progressive bands, which were:
1. Spooky Tooth
2. Traffic
3. The Moody Blues
4. Skid Row
5. Grannies Intentions
I feel it’s worth noting here that the Skid Row I’m referring to above is the Irish trio of Brush Shiels, Gary Moore and Nollaig Bridgeman and not the American bunch of… pretenders who nicked the name a few decades later.
Hey, and while we’re at it, and it will become clear in a moment why I’d lots of time to consider both
lists and my navel, my Top Five albums of the time were:
1. Dylan Highway 61 Revisited
2. Dylan Another Side of Bob Dylan
3. Dylan Bringing it All Back Home
4. Beatles Rubber Soul
5. Dylan The Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan
Van Morrison’s Blowin’ Your Mind! nearly made the Top Five – there’s some amazing music on that album – but there can only be five in the Top Five, can’t there? The other interesting thing, to me at least that is, is that the only entry apart from Dylan is the Beatles and that particular album (Rubber Soul) is the most overtly Dylan-influenced album the Fabs ever made.
So, as you can see from all these lists, my homesickness really was a very big issue with me in those days and distracting myself with music – in stereo, of course – and writing out lists was the best cure for it. In fact, I’d a list for everything. I eventually stopped making lists when I started to compile a list of my Top Five favourite lists – is that sad or what?
One of the final Top Fives I came up with was a list of my favourite women, and they were:
1. Barbara Parkins
2. Jean Simpson
3. Ann Burgess
4. Linda Cristal
5. Mary Skeffington
Barbara Parkins could be nowhere else but number one, and I scoured the papers for news of her and what she’d been doing since she’d left Peyton Place. Jean Simpson you know and I suppose, because she was committed to marry another, it really was a waste of a spot having her in the list at all. But then if one was intent on being that cruel, they could also say ‘Well, it’s also a waste having Barbara Parkins and Linda Cristal there.’ Barbara was somewhere in America, probably fighting off Ryan O’Neal, while Linda Cristal was most likely way out west working on another movie with John Wayne or Jimmy Stewart. Who’s Ann Burgess? Well that’s another story, if not an entire book.