Mothers and Daughters

by Fleming, Leah

  He was just another Lancashire lad hoping to make his name and fortune in the big bad city where hundreds of others were after the same crock of gold. The Beatles had raised the bar with their hit songs and own special brand of music and lyrics. If only you could bottle that sort of success, he sighed. Bands had relied so long on covering American hits and climbing the charts. Now it was time to write your own or buy the best of British song-writing talent. They would need a top-brass manager and a good agent.

  How could he match some of the instrumental stuff, Karl Denver’s version of ‘Wimoweh’ or the Shadows’ hits? There were no easy routes to success, but coming to London might just give them the edge and some professional criticism. The guys in the trade would assess his chances of success or send them back home to plaster walls for his dad.

  Tony said he had talent and could go far, given the right songs and image. They’d all chucked in jobs and studies to come this far. He just hoped when the time came they wouldn’t let each other down and make a Horlicks of their bid for stardom.

  Des was sound, Jacko was iffy and Lorne a piss artist at times, always humping some tart while they were setting up stage.

  The only kid he could trust was Connie. She’d been the first serious girl he’d ever gone round with. She’d lost her mam and had no dad, and was so bright it scared him. She hung on his every word and that scared him too. Those intense blue eyes, like a bottle of Quink, and that magnificent mane of coppery gold hair. She was striking in an odd sort of way. Yet she brought out the brother in him more than the lover, and that worried him. They’d made out a few times now but something stopped him when it came to full sex. Was it his mother’s voice warning, ‘What do you want with a half-Greek heathen? Be wary of those Winstanleys. I’ve heard some funny tales about them. She’s the sort to eat you alive, suck you dry and then spit you out.’

  ‘Mam, she’s a great kid and she’s clever.’

  ‘Then she’ll run rings round you. Clever girls are the worst. They’re not natural. They jump before you know you’ve shouted.’

  ‘Con’s not like that.’

  ‘All girls are like that when they’ve got their eye fixed in your direction. She’s not the one for you, Martin.’

  ‘I’m not looking for a wife. We just want to have some fun.’

  ‘That was not what you were brought up to believe. We mate for life, not here and there like some dog and bitch on heat. The Church is wiser than you.’

  ‘You’re so old-fashioned. This is the sixties, not the Victorian age,’ he argued, but his mother just shook her head.

  ‘You’ll learn, son … you’ll learn, and so’ll she. There’s a price to pay for everything. Promise me one thing, pet.’

  Marty had paused from his packing. ‘Now what?’

  ‘Take your chance. Yer only young once. If a chance’s offered to you, go for it but don’t tie yourself down yet. You young ones have chances we never got. Plenty of time for girls. Don’t get side-tracked from your goal by a pretty face.’

  Marty smiled, knowing his mam was behind him in this quest. What chances had she forfeited to bring up the Gorman brood?

  They found some waste ground to park up and wandered down the Kings Road, star struck, trying to look cool, yet feeling like country bumpkins. Marty sensed the creative energy of the place and the wealth; the clothes shops, the designer windows, girls sashaying down the street. Sandy and Connie stared in admiration at the fashions in the boutiques. If he made it, this is what he could expect too, Marty smiled to himself. This was where he belonged.

  They dined on bacon butties and Coca-Cola. Everyone had to stay sober for the interview. He’d kill Lorne if he skived off and blew it.

  The studio was in an old workshop in a backstreet, up some wooden steps. It was like a barn, divided up into sound booths and little units. There was a room for them to rehearse and set up their gear.

  No one bothered with them or fussed over them, just took their particulars and checked their appointment. There was a group of folk singers doing their recording, and lights were flashing, warning everyone to keep out of the way. There was so much more than strumming a tune in front of a mike to make a good tape: sound engineers, studio producers, assistants, session artists and background vocalists, managers, agents, a whole bevy of background boys were involved, and the Rollercoasters had none of them to hand. Marty felt small beer in this set-up.

  They assembled their stall in silence, no one looking at the others much, tired from the journey, and hung over, and not a little overawed by the professionals around them.

  ‘I thought this was going to be some smart outfit. We could do this in Manchester for half the price,’ Lorne sneered staring round at the décor.

  ‘Tony said this was kosher … some fancy studios rip you off with promises. Their demo tapes are rubbish. We’ll get a decent tape out of this lot.’ Marty tried to sound confident.

  ‘What does that poofter know? We’ve been had!’ Lorne snapped.

  ‘Tony’s not like that,’ Marty argued.

  ‘What planet did you drop off? Tony Amos is out for all he can get – a bit of leg over, bit of a blow job, I saw the way he looks at you.’ Lorne laughed and then coughed on his cigarette. ‘You can be a right altar boy at times. He didn’t get anything from us so he’s just sent us on this wild-goose chase. He’s having you on.’

  Marty felt sick. Why was Lorne winding him up? Getting him rattled so he’d belt out numbers with a bit more aggression, letting the fury out on the guitar, or what? Now he was confused.

  ‘You’re a bowl of shit, Dobsy!’

  ‘Belt up, you two.’ Des jumped forward. ‘Lorne, give us a hand.’

  ‘Take no notice of him.’ Connie moved in. ‘He’s no room to talk. He’d have it off with half the audience, given a chance.’

  ‘I didn’t know Tony Amos was a powder puff.’

  ‘So what if he is?’ she replied. ‘It doesn’t stop him spotting talent.’

  ‘But to use boys for—’

  ‘Oh, come on. Half the film stars in Hollywood would never have made it to the screen … even I know about casting couches,’ Connie laughed.

  ‘I hate queers,’ Marty said.

  ‘No you don’t. They’re just the same as we are but love differently, that’s all.’

  ‘What do you know about queers in your grammar school?’

  ‘Enough to know they’re human beings. They eat, wash, pee. Work for a living … We all share the same planet.’

  ‘If he’d come on to me, I’d have battered him.’

  ‘And he sensed it so he leaves you alone.’

  ‘For a kid you know a bit more than you let on,’ he smiled, hugging her.

  ‘Let’s just say there’d be a few masterpieces, ballets, operas, sonatas, plays and ballads and hits that wouldn’t be here but for “queers”, as you call them. I hate that word.’

  ‘So who do you know in that sort of world, then?’

  ‘My lips are sealed but they’re no better or worse than we are, so shut up!’

  Mam was right, Connie was a bright button and generous with it. He was intrigued at her spirited defence of pervs. His own experience at the Salesian had put him off men like that for life.

  Then it was time to warm up, rehearse and do their takes. One bit took five shots when Lorne kept fluffing his entry. They listened to the roughs. That was agony enough. In his heart Marty knew that although they were on beat, it was an ordinary song and a so-so sound. What they were missing was a killer song with a good riff. They were better than most, but not unique. Four men banging drums and guitars might be the fashion right now but they would never be the Beatles. But there were other groups doing well in the charts: the Springfields, the Seekers. Connie’s voice was ringing in the back of Marty’s head. What they needed was a girl on stage to brighten up the act.

  ‘No, I can’t … I can’t sing up front.’ Connie leaned away from him, against the wall of the van. The others had gone window-s
hopping.

  ‘But you’ve been a Silkie. You can do it,’ Marty insisted.

  ‘That was different. It was just me and my best friends …’

  ‘Give it a try. We can rehearse some numbers and do something at the gig. What do you play?’

  ‘The piano, a bit, a few guitar chords and the recorder,’ she said, hoping that might squash this stupid notion. Much as she adored him, she was no Rosa.

  ‘With your hair down and a long skirt, you’ll look folksy. We can do a few Springfield numbers.’ Marty wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

  ‘But it’s all other people’s songs. Have you written anything yourself?’ she asked, hoping to knock him off course.

  ‘Bits and pieces … nothing that would stand up. I’m more a tunes man than lyrics,’ he offered.

  ‘I have some words. We could see if they matched up,’ she said. ‘But what will the lads say to me coming on board?’

  ‘They’ll do as they’re told. I’m the gaffer,’ he winked. ‘Lorne will be too stoned to care.’

  ‘He scares me. Why is he never sober?’

  ‘Dunno. It’s his life. I guess underneath he’s not so laid-back as he’d like to think.’

  ‘You mean he’s scared?’

  ‘Aren’t we all before we go on stage? I could piss for England before a show. It takes guts to put yourself out there. But you’ve got a good voice. It’s got a rich timbre.’

  ‘What’s timbre?’ she asked, losing herself in those dark eyes.

  ‘Depth and richness, a throatiness, like Judith Durham. It must be the Greek in you. Have you seen Nana Mouskouri, the one with the glasses? We could pass you off for Greek if it wasn’t for that red hair.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong. This mop is part Cretan. They’re famous for their special red hair. It’s the Minoan goddess in me,’ she laughed, tossing it into his face.

  ‘I stand corrected. Mam said you were a clever one.’

  ‘What else did she say?’

  ‘Nothing much, but told me to look after you.’

  ‘That was kind but I’m not your little sister, am I?’

  She stared him out with all the love she felt for him. ‘Come here, my black-eyed gypsy rover!’ She opened her arms to him and he fell into them. For once the van was empty and they fell back kissing, deeper and deeper. This time there was no holding back on either side and Connie felt the wonder of making love among the rumpled sleeping bags with the sounds of traffic hooting past. This was what she’d wanted the first time she’d ever met him. If it meant singing in front of some student gig, she’d give it a go. What was there to lose?

  ‘That was your first time,’ Marty sighed as they dozed and lay content, sharing a cigarette like they did in films.

  Connie nodded. ‘And I hope it won’t be the last. Come here, I like it.’

  ‘You know that folk song, “The Gypsy Rover” – why don’t we try that out?’ She set him thinking … try a new angle. They’d got a few weeks’ travelling to get the harmonies right and try it out on students too.

  ‘Oh, do shut up! The others will be back soon,’ Connie laughed, and he did as he was told.

  15

  Colours of Love

  Joy had never felt so sick, ill or drained of energy. It was a struggle to get out of bed to go to work, get Denny’s breakfast of bacon and eggs, without heaving and retching in the bathroom. No matter what she was feeling he demanded the same routine each morning, one that made her nauseous with just the smell.

  All those months she’d starved herself and now she’d give anything to enjoy a square meal, especially one she hadn’t cooked herself.

  ‘Can’t we go out for tea?’ she’d asked one evening.

  ‘Not with you looking like a dog’s dinner, all fat and frumpy,’ Denny snorted in her direction. Why did he sneer because she had a little tummy bulge? The pregnancy news had not gone down well at all.

  ‘Are you sure this sprog is mine?’ he asked when she told him.

  It had taken all her strength to stay calm and reply, ‘You took me on our wedding night. I bled … isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Well, with you orientals you can never be sure.’ He turned over and started to snore, leaving her gasping at his insults.

  What had happened to the charming Denny Gregson who wooed her like a princess and married her in such style? Even on their honeymoon in Paris he’d taken her so roughly with no thought for her soreness. She got terrible cramps when she peed and he’d laughed, left her alone in the bedroom, coming back hours later smelling of Gauloise and brandy and someone else’s perfume.

  Then came the disastrous mistake on the pitch at the Cup Final. One minute he was King of the Grasshoppers and then … Her heart bled for him as he stared down at his feet, forlorn and lost in the agony of his blunder. She’d wanted to run down onto the pitch and console him, but of course she had to stay put and try to shrug it off when the other wives looked at him with scorn. No wonder he was down in the dumps. She thought her good news would cheer him up but all he could think of was that match.

  ‘Look, love, it’s only a game. Think of all the times you came good for them and scored in the last five minutes,’ she offered, to no avail.

  ‘You’re only as good as your last match. Coach was furious, the lads didn’t speak to me and Dad was shamed in the director’s box. I’ll never live it down.’

  She’d tried to comfort him but he preferred his mother’s arms to hers, staying out and drinking late, then coming home foul-mouthed and tetchy. Now he said she must stop work and stay at home. She wasn’t allowed to mix with the other footballers’ wives either.

  ‘I want you in the house, keeping it spick and span where I can see you. I don’t want them seeing you blowing up like a balloon. It’s bad enough the baby having wog blood in its veins. If it comes out black … it’ll have to go. I’m not having no darkie in my house.’

  ‘Denny! Why are you saying such things?’ Joy cried, but he just shoved her away roughly. ‘You cheated me. You should’ve told me you were foreign. I knew your mother was a bit iffy but she is a Winstanley.’

  ‘And so am I! I have a British passport and only a quarter of me is Burmese. My father fought for his country, and my grandfather … You should be proud. Don’t worry, the baby will be white.’

  ‘I’d better be or else …’

  It was like living with a stranger. If she gave up her part-time work, she would be a prisoner in this neat and tidy house with nothing to do but knit matinée coats and bootees.

  How she ached for the old days with the Silkies and the bustle of the Waverley. She missed Rosa, who was appearing in Butlins in Yorkshire for the season. She missed naughty Connie, running off with a rock band. There was one postcard from her in London, saying she was fine and going on to Dover and the Continent. Her departure had left a gap too. There was no one to share her worries with but Mummy, and she didn’t want to get her upset. Mummy thought things were hunky-dory. Even Neville wasn’t around much now. She’d like to learn to drive but Denny said no wife of his was going to bump his Ford Consul.

  Here she was, stuck in a cul-de-sac with older couples who kept themselves to themselves. All she had to look forward to was trips to the shops, the doctor’s and the library.

  She did listen to the wireless a lot, to Woman’s Hour in the afternoon with her feet up, knitting, and to the afternoon plays. In the off season, Denny was driving for his dad and training part time. She had to be sure his dinner was on the table or there was trouble. He once threw a fish pie across the room because it was lukewarm.

  Now she lay in the darkness, feeling the bump growing, the baby snug and warm inside, and she felt such love and pride. She was the first of her gang to be a mother and this baby would have a mummy and daddy, properly married, safe and comfortable. This was what she had always dreamed of and yet … Was this it? Is this what marriage was all about? At eighteen it was feeling more like being in prison, a life sentence. Where had
her nice Denny gone? When would he return? She sighed. Why was nothing ever how you dreamed it would be?

  Neville read Connie’s postcard with envy. There she was, sampling the bright lights of London with her gorgeous hunk, making records, hitting the town, and here was he, stuck on the market stall while his dad was at a cricket match for the afternoon. He was bearing the brunt of Grandma’s fury and Mother gloating that she knew that girl would come to a sticky end one day.

  ‘Mum, she’s lost her mother, she’s all mixed up, have a heart.’

  Ivy sniffed and ignored him. ‘That’ll teach Esme to take sides. Now who’s got egg on her face?’

  He didn’t understand his mother’s hatred of Su and Ana. It all went back to that B.F.O. with Maria when they were little. His dad was much more reasonable, but then he had secrets of his own. Nev couldn’t wait to find a place of his own away from their bickering and fussing

  He’d marked out some possible venues to rent in the Mercury, and was reading them when he became aware of a customer hovering. Neville looked up to see an Adonis in blue jeans, smallish, with a mop of brown hair quiffed up, just like the American film star Fabian It was lust at first sight!

  Neville felt himself blushing, trying not to stare as the lad pointed to some embrocation ointment, smiling, raising one eyebrow. ‘It’s not for me, it’s for my nana. She’s got a bad back.’

  ‘She ought to try the osteopath in Silvergate. I can give you his name.’ Neville was trying to sound professional, but feeling a wally in his white coat.

  ‘She won’t go. Doesn’t leave the house, not since Grandpa passed away, but thanks.’ He paused. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ The boy eyed him again.