Sarah felt the pain in her thumb and fingers from the cutter. ‘Trouble is,’ she said, ‘all work and no play makes you wretched, makes you want to go home.’
Tim stopped in the street, swung her round, arched his eyebrows, grabbed Davy’s arm. ‘Oh, we thought that’s what you wanted. Always together, always serious. Didn’t know you wanted to play too, that’s why we left you alone. Can’t have you going home, come along, see what London can tempt you with.’
He dragged them past French, Italian and Greek bars, restaurants, snack bars and delicatessens, and the smells mixed, the languages too. They heard the sounds of laughter, of conversation, of singing, of living and Sarah turned to Davy. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘I bet your mam would laugh at that.’ Davy nodded to a strip club. ‘Probably try to sell them her knickers.’
They laughed, told Tim why, and he grinned, pointing out the prostitutes in dingy doorways, the teachers of French in the second-storey bedsits and Sarah felt that her world was being cracked wide open.
‘Don’t bother to write to your mam about them,’ Tim warned, ‘The last thing they need is knickers.’
He led them into a coffee bar which oozed steamy warmth. The hiss and spurt of an espresso coffee machine was drowned again and again by laughter and talk. They sank into chairs which nudged others, slipping off their coats, their scarves, while Tim bought the coffees.
‘Not bad, bonny lad,’ Sarah murmured, looking round at the garlic and onion strings which hung around the room, at the students who crammed round the tables. One of them looked up and smiled. She was on Sarah’s foundation course and had never acknowledged her before. Sarah smiled back, blushing, pleased, and she held Davy’s arm. ‘I didn’t know any of this was here.’
He nodded. ‘Makes you feel better, doesn’t it?’
They spooned sugar on to the top of the froth, watching it sink through to the coffee, drinking it, wiping away moustaches, talking of their courses, their homes and Tim nodded when they spoke of Wassingham.
‘Knew you were from the north east. My uncle worked there for a while. Long way to come, long way to run away home too.’
Sarah looked down, scraping the froth from the inside of the cup with her spoon. ‘Where’s your home then?’ she said, because she didn’t want to talk of running away. It wouldn’t be running away, it would just be not returning after Christmas, that was all.
Tim came from Guildford and told them of the cobbled North Street, the second-hand bookshop run by the Thorpes, one younger, one older, the younger being as old as Methuselah.
Davy said, ‘What group do you play with?’
‘I don’t, not any more. They eh, got sent down, shall we say. Got too heavily into drugs so it’s just me and my guitar now, looking for a home.’
Davy bought more coffees and more people came in, squeezed past, slapping Tim on the shoulder, telling Davy and Sarah that this man had to do some work this year or he’d never cast himself upon the world.
‘We play,’ Sarah said. ‘We had a group at home.’
Tim looked at them both, his face serious now. ‘What d’you play?’
‘Most things, we’ve been trying to broaden our scope, covering the Beatles, the Stones, Cliff Richard, the ballads but now we’re trying to write our own too.’ Sarah stopped because they hadn’t tried, not for the last week, everything had stopped, sucked into the long dark tunnel of loneliness.
‘Fine, let’s get together. We’ll need a fourth but Arnie’s free,’ Tim shouted across the room, waving Sarah’s scarf in the air. ‘Arnie, over here a minute.’
Arnie shambled across, dressed in a long sweater with holes in the elbows, his hair long and unkempt and Sarah knew that her da would love to get his hands on it, cut it, slick it down with Brylcreem.
He sat with them, playing the drums on the table, listening. ‘Great idea, we can audition for the Christmas gig, where’ll we practise?’ He spoke with a drawl.
‘Mid-Atlantic,’ Tim said, grinning. ‘The furthest this man’s been is Watford.’
But where would they practise? It could only be back at the digs and then only when Ma Tucker was out and she was always out on a Monday, Wednesday and Friday but returned at varying times. They drank more coffee and devised a system whereby they would take it in turns to keep watch at the window while still playing.
‘But what about the room next to Sarah’s? Doesn’t anyone rent that – will they complain?’
Tim shook his head. ‘Someone called Carl has taken that. Arnie knows him, he was in his house last year. Didn’t say he was going to move, but here he is. He drifted in and out of Arnie’s place – didn’t turn up until halfway through last term. He’s at the LSE but isn’t there much, he’s got his fingers in the pop pie and God knows what else. He was in Morocco this summer so he’s probably still there – bet he brings back some good pot. Anyway, don’t worry about him, we can square it if he turns up. If being the operative word.’
‘Mm, sounds great,’ Arnie said, rising. ‘We can fix up some gigs for next term, still a few clubs who’ll give groups a chance and we can try and talk Carl into helping.’ He shambled away again and Sarah finished her coffee.
Next term was another matter, she thought as she lay in bed that night, because now that the lights and the warmth of the coffee bar were gone, the room seemed darker, colder, and Wassingham even further away.
In November she read her mother’s letter and laughed gently when Annie told her that her father had nearly had apoplexy at the Beatles’ MBE.
He wanted to take my scissors to their hair, and plaster it with Brylcreem. He still aches for Vera Lynn and the White Cliffs of Dover you know but he’ll make do with Alma Cogan or Donald Peers! I’m glad to hear that you are practising again and just hope your system of signals works. I’m sure the packing room misses its nightly vibrations, I know we do.
Business is good, and getting better. It’s all a great relief and Bet spends more and more time in the creche – I’m sure it’s because all you birds have fled the nest. We’re so looking forward to Christmas, my darling. Incidentally, Prue sent you over this sandalwood box, thought it might bring some sun into your bedsit. Are you happy? I do so hope so.
Sarah held the box, smelt it, ran her fingers in the carved grooves and wanted to write back that the lavatory was horrid, a bath possible only once a week, the gas fire gobbled shillings, that she was sick of baked beans and wanted to come home.
She put the box on the table near to the designs she had been drawing and passed the letter to Davy. She washed the dishes. Tomorrow Davy would cook – and it would be beans – and she wanted to be a child again, leaning into Bet’s arms, into her mother’s, her da’s.
‘It’s better now, isn’t it?’ Davy said, pulling the table to one side, stacking up her designs. ‘It’s better now we’ve got the music, now we know Tim.’
Sarah nodded. Yes, it was better but only while Tim and Arnie were here, the rest of the time they were still too far away from home, from friends and family.
That evening they played the music that they would perform at the audition, playing the riffs again and again, drinking instant coffee and then beer which Arnie had brought, taking turns to stand at the window peering left and right. Taking a break, talking themselves through the score, picking out the chords.
‘We’re getting better. Sarah’s got a good voice,’ Arnie said, drawing on his cigarette.
Tim tossed him his cigarettes back. ‘Yes, and we’re getting better as a group, what d’you two think?’
Sarah and Davy nodded. They were getting better but they weren’t as good as they had been with Paul and Geoff, there wasn’t the understanding, the years behind them. They played again, practising the vocals, the breaks, the repeats, the riffs until her throat and fingers were sore.
She sipped water and they played again practising the descending introduction over and over. ‘Louder,’ Davy said. ‘Louder.’
The a
ir was thick with smoke, their fingers strained on the strings, Sarah’s voice cracked, she cleared her throat, caught up with them, sang again, and then there was a knocking on the door and they fell silent – utterly silent.
Then Tim whispered, ‘Oh God, Ma Tucker.’
They’d forgotten to watch for her. They looked at one another, then the knocking started again.
‘Somebody died in there?’ It was a man’s voice, cultured, creamy.
Tim laughed, dumping his guitar, opening the door.
‘Nearly, Carl, thank you very much.’
He was tall with blond, sun-streaked hair and his skin was tanned against his cuff as he shook Sarah’s hand. ‘We’re neighbours I believe. I hope I won’t disturb you when I turn over in the night.’
Sarah could think of nothing to say. He moved along to Arnie, slapping his arm. ‘Got a new group then, you old reprobate.’
Arnie just nodded, fingering his guitar and smiling, the smoke from his cigarette drifting up, mingling with the hazy cloud which hung above them. Davy grinned. ‘Good to meet you. We thought it was Ma Tucker.’
‘So, a little northern laddie – and how d’you like the big city?’
Carl was bringing out two bottles of wine from the bag he carried. ‘Thought we’d have a welcome home party for Carl.’
Sarah said, ‘We were practising.’ And her voice was hard and more Geordie than usual because this man had made Davy flush.
Carl looked at her, smiling slowly. ‘A little northern lassie. Good. The Animals are quite something and so are you. I was talking to them just the other day. Have you a corkscrew?’
‘Of course,’ Sarah took it from the drawer, blessing her mother for giving her one, ‘just in case’. Her voice was cold.
Davy was smiling now, because what had seemed to be an insult now seemed to have been a compliment and Sarah felt confused. Tim brought glasses from his room, Davy one from his and they drank to the new group, to Carl’s return, and his eyes met Sarah’s, deep brown, almost black and his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. ‘Cheers,’ he said, raising his glass to them all, and again to her. ‘Cheers.’
They drank and he put another shilling in the gas fire, it spluttered, hissed and then burnt steadily as he told them of the heat of Morocco, the yacht his mother had bought for the holiday and then sold at a profit, the flight he had taken to India with friends, the boat they had taken down the Ganges.
‘You’d have been interested in the designs, Tim,’ Carl said, blowing smoke into the air.
‘These two as well,’ Tim said, pouring more wine for them all.
Carl smiled at Sarah. ‘Textile designer too?’
She shook her head. ‘No, dress design, and I agree with you about the designs of India.’
Carl looked at her more closely. ‘Oh you’ve been?’
‘No, I’m just a wee Geordie lassie, aren’t I? My parents have lived there and have told me all they know about the place.’ Sarah heard the anger in her voice and didn’t care. How dare this man come into their room and flash his tan, his accent, his wine at them like this?
Davy was grinning at her, Tim too and now Carl nodded. ‘Touché, I feel.’ He sipped his wine, looked away at Arnie. ‘So how’s it going? You licking them into shape?’
Arnie sucked on his cigarette. ‘More like these two licking us into shape. They’re good.’
Carl looked at Sarah again, surprise in his face. She looked not at him, but Davy. ‘We’d better practise harder on Friday, we’ve lost an hour tonight.’ Her voice was cold.
Carl smiled at her. ‘Please, do go on. I shall be the audience.’
‘We’re not ready for an audience,’ Sarah snapped, covering her glass as he moved the bottle towards her.
Tim asked Carl, ‘So, who’ve you been mixing with then, apart from The Animals?’ He was lounging back on the bed, whilst Davy and Arnie sat on the floor, their glasses between their legs. Sarah sat on the chair and thanked God that the legs were balanced or she’d be wobbling about and my God, wouldn’t this prat enjoy that? She looked at him as he answered Tim, sitting across from her, facing sideways, his face thin, his lips so perfectly formed, his shirt so clean, his neck as tanned as his hands.
‘Talking to a guy at a party the other night. The Stones were there of course.’
Of course, Sarah thought.
‘A couple of new female singers too, but I don’t know, their managers just seem set on pushing them towards Blandsville, they’re just copying and magnifying the fifties ballad singers. I mean, just look at Kathy Kirby and Pet Clark, Sandy Shaw – we’ve seen them all before. They’re just jumping on a bandwagon that’s gone before.’
Arnie murmured now, lighting up another cigarette. ‘Bob Dylan’s just done that too. Gone electric, for God’s sake, what’s the matter with the guy?’
Carl laughed, scratching his neck. His nails were short, clean, his fingers long and thin, an artist’s fingers, Sarah thought, hiding her own which were swollen and scored from cutting and sewing.
‘Got a good head on him, that’s what’s the matter. He’s going for the money and what’s wrong with that? He could get a new sound, who knows.’
Davy said quietly, his words slurred, glass at his mouth, ‘It’s a betrayal.’
‘No way – I’m telling you, these guys are in it for the money, nothing else. That’s the bottom line, for you lot too.’
Sarah spoke now, her voice cool. ‘These “guys” are where they are courtesy of the kids and they couldn’t produce the music they do if it was only for the money. It’s got to come out of the core of the group. They’re got to have a commitment.’
Tim and Davy nodded and she looked only at them, not at this man whose blond hair was too long and rested well below his collar.
‘So, Sarah. Perhaps you’re right, who knows. Perhaps you are.’ Carl’s voice was soft now, serious and he nodded at her as she turned to look at him, at those brown eyes which caught and held hers.
Arnie drawled. ‘So, what’s the demo about this week at the LSE, still the Vietnam war?’ He held out his glass for more wine but Carl turned from Sarah and shook the empty bottle, putting it down, taking out a silver cigarette case.
Davy said loudly, ‘For God’s sake, not politics. I thought I’d got away from that.’
Sarah looked at him then said quickly, ‘What music do you prefer then, Carl?’
He passed the cigarette case to her. She looked at the three large joints. ‘No thanks.’
He smiled. ‘What’s up, hasn’t pot reached Newcastle? Is it still just beer and pigeons?’
She stiffened, turned from him again. ‘Of course it’s reached us but I don’t want one, not tonight.’
She watched as he offered them to Arnie, Tim and Davy, all of whom took one, Davy avoiding her eyes because he had never smoked before.
Arnie lit the joints and Sarah watched Davy draw in too deeply, cough, choke, his eyes watering, the others laughing, but not unkindly. Carl was bringing out a pouch and papers, laying them on the table, saying over his shoulder to Arnie, ‘Open the window or Ma Tucker will have hysterics.’
As he pulled out the pot and laid it on the paper she smelt the heavy sweet scent of the marijuana – Davy was coughing no longer, but taking more shallow draughts, his lids heavy, his smile relaxed. He looked happy, he looked as he had done in Wassingham. Sarah looked around the room at the people they played music with but didn’t know. Strangers. So many strangers.
Carl held out the reefer to her. She shook her head again. He shrugged, lit it, sucked deeply, leaning back in his chair, watching her with kind, brown eyes and there was silence in the room. Sarah looked at her hands, so tense in her lap. She looked at Davy, sprawled and happy, at Tim and Arnie, who were strumming imaginary guitars, beating imaginary drums, and felt alone.
Carl leant forward, tapped her arm. She looked at the reefer he held out to her, damp from his mouth. ‘Sure?’ he said. ‘Alcohol does your throat far more harm and you sh
ould look after your voice, it’s good, I heard it through the door. Trust me, I wouldn’t hurt you.’
She hesitated, then put out her hand but he placed the reefer in her mouth, his fingers brushing her lips.
‘Just draw lightly,’ he said gently.
She did, and felt the heat, the taste enter her. He took the reefer from her mouth and she breathed smoke on to his hands. The tension left her body, her shoulders dropped, she leaned back in her chair.
‘I came in because I wanted to see if the body was as lovely as the voice. It is.’ She watched him reach forward and pull the velvet band out of her hair, she felt him touch her cheek, her neck, pull her hair forward over her shoulder so that it fell on her breast. He brushed it away, touching her. She felt a flare of heat shafting down, taking her breath from her, the strength from her fingers, and now her hands lay limp on her lap.
‘Play for me,’ he said but how could she, her lips felt too full, her fingers too weak. All she wanted to do was to lay her head in the hand which still held her hair.
‘Come on then,’ Tim said, heaving himself to his feet. ‘Check for Ma Tucker then, Sarah.’
Sarah turned. Everything seemed so slow, so easy. She checked the window. ‘All clear,’ she said and her voice seemed distant.
She held her guitar, easing the strap over her head, tapping her foot. ‘One, two, three.’
Then they played their own songs for him and she sang, and all she could think of were his fingers brushing her lips, her breasts, and all she could see were his eyes watching her, then Davy, then the others, but always back to her. Her shoulders felt loose, warm, and for the first time since leaving Wassingham she felt secure.
They stopped and there was silence. ‘Very good. Very, very good, but you need more muscle, the songs are anaemic. Let me know if I can ever help you. Good luck with the audition – see you at your Christmas gig.’
He was standing, moving to the door, leaving them. The door closed but the others were talking, laughing, joking, they hadn’t really heard, they were too drunk on wine, on pot and he was gone, he hadn’t even looked back. She looked at the ashtrays, full of ash. She sat down, so tired, so empty and then so full of anger. How dare he say their songs were anaemic, how dare he say they needed more muscle? And now she felt cold again and slammed the window shut.
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