by Paul Charles
At number six – if I’d allowed myself a number six, which I didn’t, as we were all very strict with our Top Five lists – would have been Judy Geeson, who’d not long since crashed onto the scene as the main female interest in the hit movie Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush, but she was hardly going to walk into my local and start to chat me up either.
But that was part of the problem for me anyway. I hated the whole ‘chatting-up girls’ thing. To me it was so false, so unnatural, and after you’d successfully chatted someone up it took ages to undo the falseness of the original encounter so that you could really get to know the person. The problem was, once you did get to know the real person, there was a good chance that either she or you wouldn’t really want to proceed any further!
You see, that’s why I much prefer the way my friendships with both Mary Skeffington and Jean Simpson had developed. We all kind of drifted into each other’s company, as it were, but they were natural relationships. Does that make sense? Of course, if I own up here and be completely honest there was as much a chance of a man landing on the Moon as there was of me having a proper relationship with Jean Simpson or Mary Skeffington. Jean Simpson was about to get married and her best friend hated me. Mary Skeffington, on the other hand, was still chasing her ex, Jean Simpson’s future husband, the totally implausible ladies’ man John Harrison. Obviously it was going to take a lot of time for Mary to accept that it was finally over between her and John and then, when she eventually reached, and accepted, that conclusion it was going to take an even greater amount of time before she would get over him. Yeah, you’re absolutely right; I’d no chance at all. But both the relationships were natural – I’ll happily concede they weren’t much, but at least they were that.
Well, now that I really think about it, the reality was that I’d only seen Mary on one occasion, and that had been a few months previous. And I’ve already told you about my brief encounters with Jean Simpson.
Then you know what happened?
Well, bugger me if Neil Armstrong didn’t go and have a wee walk on the Moon! That was on July 21, 1969 – I remember the date clearly because first thing in the morning I received a postcard from Mary Skeffington (it had actually arrived the day before and I’d walked over it a few times in the hallway before realising it was for me). And then, just after lunchtime on the very same day, I received a phone call from Jean Simpson.
Mary’s card was belated thanks, a very belated thanks, for looking after her on the fateful evening of the party. In an effort to show her appreciation, she had invited me out for dinner or a drink (my choice). It didn’t take long for me to make a decision: I rang her immediately, as you do, and arranged to see her the following Saturday.
Jean’s Simpson’s contact was slightly more complicated than that. As I froze my whatsits off in the draughty hallway on the communal phone, she explained that she’d now got Jean to the point where she didn’t mind her going out with me to see, in Jean Kerr’s words, ‘some smelly groups’. The next part of the plan was for Jean Simpson to persuade her boyfriend to feel okay about it as well. The secret was he wasn’t to know that he was being persuaded.
We were to meet in the Alexandra pub on the Wimbledon Hill Road, Wimbledon, on Wednesday evening, just so that John could see what a nice, unthreatening kind of chap I was. I assume she meant unthreatening in a sexual way and I’m not sure I could stomach that as a compliment.
Her passing shot was, ‘It would be good if you just drifted in by accident, around eight thirty. Oh and by the way, our Jean’s going to be there; she’s part of the plan. Byeeeeeeeeeee.’
I was left talking to the electronic static of the phone – known as Wim 7440 – in the freezing cold before I realised she’d already disconnected.
Later that evening, as I’ve already said, someone took a step forward; the major difference was that his step was a giant leap for mankind.
Chapter Eleven .
I am trying to deal with this chronologically and the meeting with Jean Simpson was the first of the two, coming as it did the following Wednesday, as planned. In an effort to make the plan appear even more natural I arranged to go to the movies. I was going to watch Seventeen for the third time, but I thought it might not be the appropriate thing to do before our little charade, so instead I went to see Alfie, with Michael Caine strutting his stuff like he’d never done before, nor since for that matter. Alfie finished at 8.10 p.m., which meant that at a leisurely stroll I could be in the Alex pub around 8.30 p.m.
At 8.29 p.m. exactly, I ambled across St Mark’s Place, leaving the stunning red bricked 1880s library building behind me, and straight into the pub and there sat the gang, to my extreme right, around a table in the corner window where Jean Kerr was noisily holding court. They didn’t notice me enter – that was to my advantage, I felt, because I could then wander directly over to the bar while avoiding eye contact with them.
And my plan worked. After a few minutes I felt a tap on my shoulder – they’d strange plumbers in the Alex – no, seriously, I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned around, doing my best impression of being surprised. Well, I did a fairly good impression because I was genuinely surprised, as I turned around to find neither of the Jeans, but one John Harrison.
‘Hey man, how are you doing?’
I shook my head a few times in shock. He obviously took this as a sign that I didn’t recognise him.
‘It’s John, John Harrison – Jean Simpson’s betrothed. I met you at Tiger’s party?’ he said, spelling it out for me.
‘Oh yeah! Oh hello,’ I said, as I struggled to believe that he’d just told me he was someone’s betrothed. Even my grandmother was hipper than that.
‘I just wanted to thank you for stepping in and saving the day. Someone could’ve gotten hurt if you hadn’t defused the situation.’
So that’s what I’d done: I’d defused a situation.
‘Nagh it’s okay, really,’ I said, as I examined this man.
He wasn’t tall, he wasn’t small, he wasn’t fat, he wasn’t thin, he wasn’t dark, he wasn’t light; he was an absolute middleman. He’d short, curly, brown hair and dark, bushy eyebrows, which almost met in the middle. Either it was just me, or John Harrison seemed to have trouble looking a person straight in the eye. Every time I looked straight at him, he’d look over one of my shoulders or even over my head. His ears looked just like the handles of the FA Cup and he’d a few moles on his face. He was dressed very Civil Serpenty, white shirt (top button undone), a yellow patterned tie, Fair Isle sleeveless sweater, grey flannels with lots of creases around the knees and upper legs, and black leather unpolished shoes. He looked like his mother had dressed him straight out of the Great Universal Stores (GUS to those in the know) catalogue. He smelled like a smoker to me. He was… cuddly. Yes, that’s what he was, he was cuddly. How come one so cuddly could have two of the girls in my all-time Top Five fighting over him?
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘why don’t you go on over and join the girls and I’ll get you a drink in? It’s the least I can do. They’re over there, in the corner.’
As I turned to look at the girls he added quickly in very conspiratorial tones, ‘Oh and by the way, we’re not allowed to discuss the fight in front of our Jean, Jean Kerr that is. That’s on my Jean’s instructions, okay?’
‘Sure,’ I said over my shoulder, as I made my way over to them thinking this should be interesting.
As I arrived, I could hear Jean Simpson conspiring with Jean Kerr to take advantage of her boyfriend, John Harrison. And the very same conspirator was also conspiring with her boyfriend behind her supposed best friend’s back. A poor boy from Castlemartin didn’t stand a chance in the middle of all of that conspiring now, did he?
While Jean Kerr was frosty, Jean Simpson was friendly, but not overly so. We small-chatted until John brought my drink across and then we small-chatted some more. Jean Kerr talked enthusiastically to only Jean and John, never once addressing me. In fact, she barely even looked
at me the whole time. By her flawless performance, however, she was proving to at least two people at the table just how good a friend to Jean she really was.
John Harrison, as it turned out, was extremely sociable. That has to be said. He was very relaxed and brilliant at keeping the conversation going. He seemed interested in everything – everything that is apart from going to a sweaty club to see a group, a topic that Jean Simpson wasted no time in introducing. A topic that I felt she’d introduced just a wee bit too quickly. Apart from anything else, I was interested in John’s main pastime, drawing. He doodled the whole time we were there, producing caricatures of all of us. I particularly loved the one he did of Jean Simpson; he seemed to be as fascinated with her miniskirt and her perfect legs as I was. Mind you, the main difference was he’d every right to be – he was going to be her husband. Nonetheless, I still found myself stealing a glance at her caricature every chance I could.
‘I just wouldn’t be interested, Jean,’ he hissed, rolling his eyes and pausing to light up a Player.
‘But it was such great fun the night I went there with David,’ Jean protested.
‘Yeah, I forgot to thank you for taking our Jean to the Marquee,’ he said, addressing me as he eyed me up and down, working on another drawing. ‘Whereabouts in Soho is this tent?’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, John, it’s not a tent, it’s a club! It’s only called the Marquee Club!’ Jean Kerr said.
‘He knows that, our Jean, he’s only having us on,’ Jean Simpson added.
John Harrison clearly enjoyed a wee private laugh to himself, as he continued studying me and drawing away. It kind of made me feel funny, you know, being aware that he was observing me so intently and intensely.
‘No, it was fine, I always enjoy going,’ I replied, trying to be as casual as possible, ‘and it was good to have company, the company of someone who loves music so much.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, appearing to be studying the parting in my hair, ‘but I also heard you behaved like a perfect gentleman. Not many of my friends would have done that. They’d all have tried to ravish her, and who’d blame them, eh?’ John stopped his drawing, swapped the pencil from his left to his right – holding it between the same fingers as his ciggy – tickled Jean Simpson with his left, giggled for a few seconds and then put the pencil back in his left hand, put his ciggy back in between his lips, and continued to draw on both his ciggy and his page as his giggles subsided.
‘Quite,’ was the only word I could find to say as I felt my forehead and neck start to perspire.
‘Let’s just try it once, John Boy,’ Jean pleaded.
‘I’m sorry; I’d rather go to a football match.’
‘But you don’t even like football!’ his future wife replied, puzzled.
‘Exactly!’ John crowed and rolled his eyes again, ‘I would really rather go and stand with a bunch of loud-mouths watching twenty-two men with hairy knees and shorts, kick a pig’s bladder around a field. We need to save our money, not waste it. Take our Jean with you.’
‘But our Jean doesn’t want to go either,’ Jean Simpson said in exasperation.
‘You’ve got to be kidding, our Jean; I’d have to bathe for a week afterwards,’ Jean Kerr replied, dusting off some imaginary hair from her powder-blue, baggy dress and using her other hand to fan John’s exhaled smoke away from her eyes.
Just when I thought Jean Simpson was about to retire defeated she winked at me before taking a sip of her red wine.
‘I’ve just had a super idea,’ Jean Kerr announced, looking like she’d just discovered the secret of Dylan’s genius. She looked first to Jean Simpson and then to me before continuing, ‘As you two love going to the Marquee Club so much, why don’t you go together?’
Jean Simpson froze, waiting for a reaction from someone else. But John Harrison kept staring at me, then working on his sketch. It looked like it was being left to me to react first.
‘That would be perfectly fine with me,’ I offered, nonchalantly.
‘She wouldn’t cramp your style or anything like that?’
‘Oh please John!’ his Jean said, breaking her silence at last, ‘David doesn’t go out to these clubs to pull dolly birds; he goes to listen to his music. Don’t you David?’
How do you answer a question like that? I decided in this case, as always, honestly was the best policy.
‘Well now,’ I started shakily enough, ‘of course I go to listen to the music. However, were I to meet someone there, well, I don’t think I’d say “Leave me alone, I’m listening to the music”.’ I shrugged my shoulders, hoping to imply ‘I’m a man, after all, aren’t I?’ It was a difficult gesture because I was also trying to put into the gesture a bit of ‘Of course, I’d never go with someone else’s girlfriend!’
‘Men!’ Jean Kerr said and tutted, as Jean Simpson and John Harrison giggled at my attempt at bravado.
Jean Kerr was implying she’d expected no better. I think she was quite enjoying her role as the wronged woman – in fact, I bet if I hadn’t been there she’d have had quite a bit extra to say.
‘You’ve got a good point, David,’ John said, pausing in his sketching for a few seconds in order to rub something out. He stubbed out the meagre remains of his ciggy butt in the crowded ashtray before he brushed the rubber waste from his book. Then he tilted his head to the left and looked proudly at his work. ‘I mean, having someone like our Jean with you means you’re never going to come across as a threatening solo male, so maybe you might even find it works to your advantage.’
He saw the frown appear on Jean Kerr’s face about the same time I did.
‘No offence, Jean, of course,’ he continued after the pregnant pause, ‘I mean, I thought you and David… oh gosh, help me here Jean,’ and he looked at Miss Simpson, who seemed to be enjoying the exchange and happy to let him get on with cooking his own goose.
Poor John stuttered. ‘I mean, if I thought that for one minute you and David… well, of course, I’d never suggest.’
Jean Kerr cast me a quick look, her head tilted back so that she could view me down the full length of her nose. ‘Oh,’ she smirked, ‘they’re welcome to him; just as long as he doesn’t forget all about our Jean and doesn’t let her fall into trouble.’
Now it was the turn of Jean Simpson to shoot Jean Kerr a killing look.
Goodness, this was great fun, and I would have enjoyed it a lot more if I hadn’t been one of the participants.
Jean Simpson now saw the opportunity to fire off a few rounds of her own.
‘Oh, you never know though, if John doesn’t manage to shake off Mary Skeffington I might need to make a few connections of my own. I’m sure David wouldn’t mind introducing me to a few of his long-haired friends at the Marquee Club.’
‘Agh now Jean, I thought we’d put all that behind us! I told you I spoke to her mum and I put her mind at rest.’
‘Really?’ Jean Kerr chipped in, ‘I didn’t realise you’d discussed all this with Mary’s mother! Isn’t that just a wee bit over-familiar?’
‘God, if it’s not one of our Jeans on my case it’s the other,’ John said, before sighing and pushing hair that didn’t exist out of his eyes. ‘I mean, she’d been bad-mouthing me, saying I’d got her pregnant, which now, surprise, surprise, turns out to have been a false alarm. But in doing so she’d made her point that we’d been sleeping together–’
‘John!’ Jean Simpson hissed, ‘I’m not sure it’s absolutely necessary to be going over all of this now!’
‘You started it,’ he replied, just about returning the ball over the net.
Me? Well I was sitting there thinking here is a couple who were never going to make it long term. If you’d pushed me on the subject I’d have said that Jean Kerr and John Harrison were more the perfect couple. They both seemed to want to be in relationships where you didn’t have to bother entirely about your partners. You know, you just got on with your own life and they – your betrothed, as John had referred to Jean S
impson – fell into step.
Then, Jean Kerr, the one who I’d assumed had been dropping hints about not mentioning the war before I arrived, was the one who actually brought the war into the conversation.
‘If it hadn’t been for him,’ she said, looking directly at me, with such obvious utter contempt, ‘I’d have given her a good hiding at Tiger’s party and we’d have never heard from her again.’
‘Yes, our Jean,’ Jean Simpson lectured, ‘and we’d have all ended up in jail. I get so depressed over how much of our lives are wasted discussing Mary Skeffington. Is there nothing else we can talk about?’
Jean Kerr seemed disappointed as John said, ‘So tell me, David, which band are you going to take our Jean to see?’
‘To hear John,’ Jean corrected her boyfriend, ‘we go to listen to bands not to look at them.’
‘Right,’ John replied, as he did a bit more correcting on his sketch, ‘and which band would it be that you’re going to go and listen to?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t mind hearing Jethro Tull. Personally speaking their music’s a wee bit too much amplified-English-folk-music for me but they’re an exciting live band, a bit wild and I hear that their guitarist, Mick Abrahams, is about to leave to form his own band, so I’d quite like to see them one more time before he does.’
‘Jethro Tull, right, well, great I suppose. And when does all this take place?’ John inquired, politely rolling his eyes again as he smiled. That was obviously one of his favourite gestures – he did it quite a lot.
‘They’re playing the Toby Jug in Tolworth, Wednesday night,’ I said, as Jean Simpson looked on like a penguin waiting for the trainer to toss her a fish.
‘Good, that’s settled,’ John announced happily, ‘at least it doesn’t interfere with our nights, Jean. We see each other every Tuesday and Thursday, you know.’
Jean Kerr now rolled her eyes the whole way to the heavens.
‘So how much will all of this cost?’ John asked, as he searched his back pocket for what I assumed would be a wallet.