Sandra stomped off in a huff.
‘If only she knew he’s been trying to ditch her for weeks, but she clings like a limpet,’ Marty confided. ‘We suggested she got herself a job as a waitress but Sandy’s here for the ride and miffed that you get to sing.’
Connie felt a million dollars after this back-handed compliment.
It was Lorne Dobson who voiced everyone’s frustration later in the evening. ‘I thought we were going abroad, not camping up in some back alley with rats sniffing round our rubbish.’
‘Patience, mate. We’ve plenty of time, yet. The gig’s not for ages. We’ve got to make our mark down here,’ Marty argued. They were all feeling hot and dusty, hungry and disappointed, and the cracks were showing. No one was eager to snatch them up to make records. This coffee bar was not exactly big time, but it was all there was.
Connie plucked up courage to ask if she could sing ‘Colours of My Love’ when they were busking. ‘It’s just a little thing that came to me.’ Strumming a few chords, she was shaking as she started to sing the melody. Marty listened, and the other boys, then joined in when she repeated it.
‘You have something there, the words … very romantic. Nice one, Con!’
‘I wrote it for you,’ she whispered, gazing at him.
‘Great, we can use it as a breather between the fast numbers. Play it again.’
‘It’s not exactly our style,’ said Des, breaking the spell.
‘Sure thing, but it’s a gentle ballad … Connie will sing it well.’
This is how she got to rehearsing and it made its debut the following evening to a smoky half-empty café in a heat wave.
‘You should write them down, music score, everything,’ Marty suggested afterwards, when they were alone. ‘Have you any others?’
‘Not really, just ideas, lines … They appear first thing in the morning or in the middle of the night.’
‘Keep a jotter by your sleeping bag and wake me up if you have a good tune. We could do with some fresh stuff to take to Switzerland.’
‘When are we going?’
‘I got the dates wrong – not until the end of August, so we’ll just have to busk our way through the summer for food and petrol. This getting discovered is taking longer than I thought,’ Marty sighed.
‘But it’s great being together … living over the brush,’ she laughed, thinking about the nights they shared in the sleeping bag.
Marty flushed. ‘I’d better do something about that. We don’t want any accidents, do we?’
‘Sandra says there’s a pill you can take to stop the chance of conceiving. You have to take it every night … I know you’re not allowed to take precautions,’ Connie said, trying not to burn up, ‘but I’m not a Catholic so it’s OK what I do. Shall I find out more?’
‘You’re a doll! What would we do without you to organise us?’
What she didn’t tell him was that Diana had taken her aside in the kitchen and told her if she was old enough to be living with her boyfriend then she was old enough to prevent pregnancy and to get herself to a special clinic where they would kit her out with a device she must put inside her, covered with cream, and she’d be safe. ‘Just tell them you’ll be getting married soon, no names, no pack drill. They’ll fit you up properly. Better safe than sorry. You owe that to your family.’
She’d gone with Sandra, but the whole business was messy and it needed a toilet or washroom to set herself up. Every time she squeezed the cap ready to insert it, it shot across the dirty floor and she had to start all over again. A pill would be so much better, but they were expensive and beyond her budget. How unromantic it was to have to guess if they were going to have sex, but better than the alternative. Then she sang a little ditty to the tune of ‘The Big Ship Sails on the Alley Alley Oh’ to relax herself: ‘My dutch cap sails on the bathroom floor, the toilet floor, the washroom floor. My dutch cap sails all over the floor till the first day of September!’
But she’d taken herself in hand and got control. Now she really felt a responsible woman, not a love-struck teenager. Marty could love her more frequently if he knew they were protected. She thought of Mama and Su, who’d not any control over their bodies. If they had, she and Joy wouldn’t exist. What would Mama have thought of all this? It was so painful to know she’d never see her again, that she wasn’t at home waiting for news. If Mama was still alive, would she have dared to do this?
Perhaps it was time to write home and make her peace with Granny. She didn’t want them to think her ungrateful for all they’d done for her, but now she was free of constraints, she was going to make the most of it.
Marty was feeling more and more anxious as the summer rolled on. Their dreams were just not happening. No one was interested in the group. At least there were three coffee bars that gave them food and drinks in return for some numbers, but their reception was lukewarm. Everyone was raving about the R and B sessions at the Marquee Club in Oxford Street. There were new West London boys on the block called the Rolling Stones, London’s answer to the Beatles. He’d gone to see them and they were wild. Beside them, the Rollercoasters were tame, yesterday’s men. No wonder they weren’t getting signed up.
He’d asked Tony Amos to watch their act to give him some encouragement, but his words had only made things worse.
‘To be brutal, Marty, on last night’s performance, it’s never going to work. You’ve gone too samey … no distinctive sound or beat and no sex appeal. Sorry, but I don’t see it happening. You’ve seen the Stones. The girls love wild and raunchy, not Ready, Steady, Go! safe stuff. That girl’s got to go for a start.’
‘Who, Connie?’
‘The girls out there want to know you’re available, you see what I’m getting at?’
Marty wasn’t going to let Tony dismiss her like that. ‘She’s singing her own stuff. Her voice is another Judith Durham.’
‘But she’s no looker. Leggy and wild-haired, fine for a folk singer but not if you want to hit the big time. I want you more wild gypsy rover, sex on legs. Whatever happened to the tight leathers? Snake-hipped and scruffy is the next big thing, and what’s with all this ballad stuff? No one wants ballads. Smoochy fifties crooners are dead in the water for this generation. Give them sex, lots of bump and grind. “Colours of My Love” is fine for the likes of Dickie Valentine and folk songs are two a penny.’
‘Connie wrote that for us,’ Marty replied, sick to the stomach at Tony’s attack.
‘Ditch it, let her go sell her itsy-bitsy tunes. They won’t cut in this market. To be honest, it’s time you went solo. I can do far more with Ricky Romero than with the whole shebang. Go with the times, leave the no-hopers behind, get off your lazy butt and go solo.’
Marty stepped back in shock. Was Tony giving him the come-on, getting his hands on his real investment? ‘But they’re my mates,’ he argued.
‘So? Friends will want the best for you.’
‘We have a gig on the Continent.’
‘Do it and then walk away. Go solo and build up another sound. Everyone’s doing it, shedding the slack, ditching the birds in favour of a better image. If you want to make it in this business, ditch the steady chick, ditch the group and stay close to the London scene. You’ve got the looks. You’re carrying the rest of them but you don’t need personal trappings at this stage in your career. You’ll get plenty of that when you’re famous. Make a sacrifice now. I’m telling you for your own good … Well, you did ask me for my opinion. It wasn’t what you wanted to hear but what you needed to hear. That’s what I’m paid for.’
They had a beer and a smoke in a backstreet pub, then Tony left. Marty was stunned. What was being asked of him was unthinkable: to ditch his friends, walk away, tell Con to go home. He wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. And yet he wanted to be a big star, make his name and prove homespun Grimbleton lads could break into the big time. What was worse was that in his heart he knew Tony’s cruel words had the ring of truth in them. That was why the doors
of the recording studios were shutting in their faces.
He thought about the gossip. Loads of bands split, reshaped. Even the Beatles hadn’t been without their ruthless shake-ups. Guys reinvented themselves with new names and new acts and new musicians, but loyalty was something he couldn’t ditch lightly. The tour must go on and he would have to distance himself somehow, make the separation as painless as possible. Fat chance! The others would hate him for what he was contemplating now, and then there was Connie. Oh hell! What was he going to do about her?
They were halfway to Dover in the van when Connie sensed something wasn’t right. Was it back home? She wanted to stop right there to find a call box, but they were late. There had been this niggling feeling in the pit of her stomach all week, some sixth sense, a butterfly flutter that wouldn’t go away. Marty had taken to walking off by himself, and when she offered to come, he’d waved her away. ‘Need to think.’
His lovemaking was rushed and most nights he turned his back on her. Was it something in Grimbleton, bad news from home?
Des drove, cursing. They were late for the evening ferry. Connie felt a surge of excitement when she saw the Channel port in the distance. At last she was going abroad. At last she was going to leave England for another adventure.
There was a deafening silence from home. She’d given them all Diana’s address but none of them was writing. What did she expect after running away? She thought about Joy and how she was settling for so little: a Grimbleton suburb, hubby and baby in pram with a dribbling nose. Joy was fast becoming a stranger. Connie still had that vision of her enveloped in a white veil on her wedding day like some virgin sacrifice, and she experienced again that flutter of unease. Had Joy had an accident? Was their friendship really at an end now she was married? At least Rosa wrote back to say she was touring with a backup group and it was hard work, and not to tell Maria it was a rubbish job.
Now the band was on its way to some international student convention on the Swiss border. It was going to be so exciting except that Sandra talked non-stop until Connie’s ears were aching. Then the exhaust began to roar and the van spluttered, drawing attention from passing cars.
‘I thought you said they’d changed the exhaust for us?’ Marty yelled at Jack, watching his black eyebrows knitting together into a frown.
‘There wasn’t the cash It’ll do later. What’s a puff of smoke between friends?’ he shouted, but Marty was not amused.
There wasn’t time to phone home before they embarked, and soon Connie watched the waves crashing against the ship in the darkness while some of the others rushed to the loos to be sick. Only then she felt again the instinct to call home. She watched Marty on the top deck, pacing the boards, lost in his own world. His face was stern and he kept shaking his head as he talked to himself.
‘Can I help?’ she offered. ‘You look worried.’
‘Just lay off, give me some peace, Con. Don’t follow me around like a lap dog.’
His words slapped her across the cheeks more than any blow.
At Calais she went in search of a telephone. It took an age to get through and there were only a few minutes to speak to Auntie Su.
‘Thank God, Connie, where are you? I rang Diana and she said you’d disappeared again. What is going on? I can hear ship horns.’ Su sounded anxious and far away. ‘Come home, we need you. Grandma Esme has broken her hip in her garden.’
‘I can’t. I’m in France. When did this happen?’ Connie asked. How could that instinct be so accurate? ‘Is she OK?’
‘She’s not taking it very well. I need you to help me.’ Su was shouting, but the line was weak. There was a pause. ‘Why are you in France? Time to come home.’
‘I can’t. I have a commitment here with the band. Can’t Joy help?’
‘Joy is on bed rest, doctor’s orders.’
‘I’ll send a card … I’ll come back at the end of the month,’ Connie shouted. ‘Look, I’m on my way to Switzerland for a student gathering. I can’t come home now.’ She was crying down the phone.
‘Grandma Esme is more important than some student party. This is family. There is still time. Do not shame us,’ Su was pleading.
‘I can’t. I will write to her.’
‘Don’t bother!’ The line went dead. Connie felt terrible. Perhaps she ought to go back on the return ferry.
‘What’s up? Trouble’t Mill?’ Marty came up behind her.
‘My gran’s had a fall,’ she said flatly. ‘Auntie Su says I ought to go home now.’
‘Then you’d better go,’ Marty jumped in.
‘No, I have a song to sing.’
‘We can manage without you. Catch the return ferry back.’
Why was he trying to get shut of her?
‘We’re here now and my French is better than yours, I expect. I’ve never been abroad before. I’m not turning back now. Gran’s tough; she’ll recover. I can help out when we go back.’ No Winstanley was going to ruin her big holiday.
‘Suit yourself, but I still think you’d be better off going home.’
Connie wished she hadn’t rung. Now she felt mean and the uneasy feeling was just getting worse.
They drove through the night down moonlit roads lined with poplars, sleeping in a ditch by a cabbage patch in sleeping bags lined up for warmth. There was no time for any romantic trysts as they woke, stiff as boards and ravenous. They breakfasted by the roadside, sharing batons of white crusty bread and fruit. It was enough to be on foreign soil listening to the bustle of French villages coming to life, the toot of horns and the smell of smoky cafés where they stopped for bowls of hot chocolate.
They whizzed through the battlefields of the Great War without stopping, past those sad gardens full of white crosses. Connie’s head was reeling with Auntie Su hanging up on her. She had shamed the family in not respecting tradition, after all they had done for her, but Gran had sent her away empty-handed and she felt she owed the old lady nothing. They rattled on through the countryside, miles and miles of lonely straight roads, and she fell asleep with exhaustion to escape everyone’s moaning and barking at each other. They arrived late at the camp, hidden on the slopes near Interlaken on the second night, tired, hungry and dishevelled. Connie fell into her allotted bunk without a murmur.
It was like being at Guide camp, segregated into bunkhouses, taking turns to do washing-up and setting tables, preparing meals by rote. The campsite was damp and cold at night, with thin blankets. Connie and Sandy were sharing with two other students, who stared at their dirty clothes with disapproval. It was then that they realised this was no jolly students’ shindig but a political convention of international student action groups, a hotbed of left-wing socialist groups, who had come to be lectured and talked at, preparing for political action.
Eva was one of the leading German students, with ripples of white-gold hair rolling down her back. She wore jeans and a leather waistcoat. Her English was perfect, her ice-blue eyes discerning. Marty and Des seemed to be consulting her at every turn.
‘Trust us to land in some hotbed of socialist action. Wait until we get hold of Billy Froggatt! Does this look like one long party to you? The aim of this lot is to stir up student unrest, prepare them for battle,’ Marty said, sifting through all the leaflets on display in the meeting hall.
The lectures were in German and English in a barrack-like dining hall, which also served as a bar. There were small discussion groups and splinter groups for the leaders to muster enthusiasm and swap ideas. There were German documentaries with subtitles, which lulled Connie to sleep with boredom.
Why were they here? Was this what they’d busked for, given up normal lives? Connie tried not to think of Gran, struggling in plaster on her own. Neville would do his bit, she knew, but she couldn’t help feeling guilty. The best part of her day was drinking beer and attending gatherings in the evening after supper.
None of them had ever tasted this sort of Continental food: bowls of yoghurt and chopped fruit bitter to the tong
ue, plates of cold meats, sausages and deep cauldrons of vegetables served up like a stew with sauerkraut and pickles, vast cheese boards. Breakfast was just bread and hot milky coffee substitute, and for packed lunch on walking days there was a lump of holey cheese, a hunk of bread and an apple.
Eva’s group were friendly and walked alongside Marty and the boys on the hike. She drew them like a magnet. Connie struggled in tight black leather boots that rubbed her heels after a mile and pinched her toes, giving blisters the size of eggs.
On the evening after their first walk, Marty gathered them together. ‘We’ve got a problem. They don’t want rock’ n’roll, they want folk and protest. We’re supposed to be some subversive cell from Leeds Uni, not singing Western capitalist music. Eva says we must fit in or not sing at all. I don’t believe it. All this way for nothing! He’s lead us up a gumtree. Wait till I get my hands on your friend Billy!’ He was pointing at Jack and Sandy. Then he disappeared to continue his talk with Eva.
Connie felt dumped like heavy baggage. She was left to her own devices, sitting under a tree with a guitar trying not to feel sick. Marty hadn’t been near her for days. What had she done wrong? It was as if she was just one of the group and no one special, and that hurt. Perhaps if she could write them a song they might be able to perform and everything would be all right again? She’d taken his advice and written down the bits and pieces that popped into her head. What they needed now was a folksy number, something like Joan Baez sang, but tunes didn’t come so easily to her.
Connie shut her eyes, wondering if this was her punishment for not going home, then drifted off into a daydream and woke up with a line: ‘I’ve got the war baby blues.’ All of them were war babies, born when their countries were enemies. Now they were children of peace, a peace proving so fragile, threatened by nuclear war: Berlin, Russia, Hungary, America, Cuba, the Bay of Pigs invasion fiasco. Had nothing been learned after two World Wars?
Mothers and Daughters Page 19