by DaNeo Duran
‘Vanquar?’
‘No. The advance is from GMD so it’s none of their business. Plus we make them cash. Killing us would kill the income we produce.’
‘Unless, as you say they want rid of you.’
‘But that’s the future. Ending us mid-tour wouldn’t make sense.’
‘None of the band have told your road crew?’
‘Jack and Quinn shouldn’t know. I’ll check though. I can only think it’s Dane. He’s got access to the accounts.’
Linda nodded but didn’t know what to think. Obviously she wanted The USed Wonz safely on her books but for Johnny she’d do anything.
He went on. ‘I never imagined you’d come through for me. Your being here is …’
She broke eye contact seeing his expression change. ‘Don’t say it.’
‘Fine, but I’m not joking around. You must feel something of what I do otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Who else would you’ve done this for; especially given the trouble your own company faces?’
‘Stop it Johnny.’
‘Stop what? You reckon I’m nuts because you think I gambled the band’s future but we were just discussing you handing over seven-thousand quid only to watch me leave the country for weeks to record another album. How d’you even know I’ll be back?’
‘You love America.’
‘That’s you assurance?’
Linda held up her hands. ‘Alright, let’s just leave it there shall we?’
‘Yeah, well I’m just saying. Anyway I’ll speak to Dane in the morning.’
Though Linda found Johnny sexually delectable she hadn’t a magic wand to narrow their age gap. She did however feel responsible for him well beyond any normal agent/client relationship.
‘I’ve had a brilliant idea,’ she said. Getting up she took a piece of paper from the dosing porter’s desk. ‘If you can stall the band a couple of hours on Monday morning you can avoid telling Dane.’
Johnny perked up.
‘I’ll get to the bank first thing Monday and see the funds are in my account.’
She took a fountain pen from her bag and wrote.
Handing him the signed paper she said, ‘Get to Citibank in Kansas City with this letter of entitlement and your passport. Be there at 11am – 9am Pacific Time.’
Johnny carefully folded the letter feeling alive again. He held out his hand and she put hers in it.
He smiled. ‘You always wear ruby-red nail polish; I love it.’
She smiled too but pulled her hand free and looked at her watch. ‘I need a cab.’
* * *
Soon a Crown Vic seesawed on ineffective dampers over the motel’s bumpy parking lot.
The driver got out. ‘No luggage?’
‘Just me,’ Linda said.
Johnny held the back door for her. ‘Linda, how can I ever thank you for this?’
‘Just get me my money back quick smart. And for God’s sake keep me in a job.’
‘Leave it with me. You’ll get your money. I swear we’ll record the best album and you’ll have no time to work on other acts.’
He shut the door and she wound the window down to speak. Johnny jumped back when suddenly she got out and hugged him.
Linda’s petite body clamped against his. His arms only had time to find her before she released him. With a kiss to the cheek she got in the car and slammed the door deserting him by the curb.
Carlisle, Cumbria, UK: Friday 26th April 1974
Ten years earlier near the Scottish border, Barry Peters sat alone in his bedroom. Despite only being fourteen he felt like the man he’d grow, or perhaps shrivel into.
He’d been out-developing his school schoolmates for two years since his mother died leaving him with his older brother Frank and violently abusive father.
The official report said his mother died of natural causes. But both Barry and Frank knew the stress their father, Les Peters, had savagely inflicted had caused her to weaken to the point where her other ailments became insurmountable.
Barry’s then seventeen year old brother mercifully tried protecting him from Les who, ruined with guilty remorse and insoluble rage, would return from the pub howling and lashing with backhands should Frank get too close when trying to moderate him.
Having beaten his wife and two sons more times than anyone could have guessed, Barry didn’t believe his dad deserved comfort from the misery of his own doing.
Nevertheless he admired Frank’s ability to dig deep and find love for someone so worthless.
Barry hadn’t turned twelve when his mother died. Since then he believed everyone except his beloved Frank had written him off as a lost cause.
Alone in the Carlisle council house, surrounded by darkness and too shocked to cry, Barry shivered fully aware that Frank’s support and protection had come to an end.
Wednesday 21st June 1972
Two and a half years earlier, Barry might have caught the young, Miss Wilkinson rolling her eyes when he’d first turned up for her afterschool guitar lessons but, whatever she’d thought, he’d kept at them.
Like other eleven year olds his hands struggled to stretch and grip chords on the school’s classical guitars. Sometime later, shortly before his mam’s death in March, a neighbour lent him an electric guitar.
Though the electrics no longer worked the instrument had enough ambient volume to satisfy Barry. Practising on the slimmer neck he mastered the chords Miss Wilkinson showed the group.
After his mam died Barry practiced harder. Whist most in the group concentrated on their left hand fingering, Barry found he could look away from the guitar neck and listen to the ensemble.
One lesson in June he looked over to Miss Wilkinson and found her smiling at him. He looked away sheepishly.
‘Can I have a quick word?’ she asked afterwards whilst everyone replaced borrowed instruments.
‘Okay Miss,’ he said not knowing what he could have done wrong.
Once the class had left he sat behind a desk waiting admonishment.
Miss Wilkinson drew a chair beside him.
He faced forwards not looking at her.
‘Your guitar playing’s improved so much these past weeks I’m sure you could be a superb guitarist.’
Unable to believe his ears Barry turned to face her. Besides his mam and occasionally Frank he’d never received compliments least of all from teachers.
He didn’t speak. His mam had told him he could be anything he wanted but without her he felt like nothing.
Miss Wilkinson swished her curly mid-brown hair behind her.
He faced forwards again and closed his eyes having caught trace of perfume similar to his mam’s.
Miss Wilkinson said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I mentioned you to Mr Martin. He says when you’re left to your own devices you work the metal with natural artist flare. He believes there’s skill in your hands that’s beyond what he’s taught you.’
Another compliment. Barry hardly knew how to respond. ‘I like metalwork.’
When Miss Wilkinson didn’t say more he looked at her again.
She said, ‘I heard about your mum.’
He looked forwards scrunching his eyes. Why had she said that?
Her hand laid on his shoulder. When emotions started bubbling he wanted to run, but where; not to a house with a horrible dad and no mam.
‘With the skills you’re learning on guitar …’
He heard words but couldn’t process them. His lips quivered and he drew a deep breath which came out sobbing.
He cried out.
Without warning Miss Wilkinson’s arms wrapped so tightly around him he couldn’t move. Nor could he avoid saliva, tears and running nose flooding into her striped nylon blouse.
He wanted to stop but knew at once he couldn’t and so gave in.
Eventually though, he did stop shaking and with no more tears he relaxed. He’d nearly lost his breath but his breathing returned to normal.
Miss Wilkinson’s embrace eased a
nd he looked up to her face seeing tears of her own.
Suddenly his senses returned. He smelt her perfume and felt the texture of her blouse. The fingertips of one hand pressed into her bra strap. He let go.
‘Did you cry at the funeral?’
Barry shook his head. ‘Dad doesn’t like to see us cry. Can I go now?’
Miss Wilkinson nodded and handed him his school jumper. ‘What I was going to say was, someone who can play guitar as well as you could make up songs to help them through a time of grieving or anything else they wanted to feel better about.’
Barry looked at her and sniffed. ‘You think I should write songs?’
‘That’s what I’m suggesting.’
‘I can’t.’
‘Sure you can. You, Barry, can write songs.’ When he shook his head she picked up a guitar. ‘The first songs people create are usually rubbish but if they stick at them they’ll get better and better. Listen.’
She strummed E, A and D chords. ‘You know these chords; we’ve played them over and over. But you can play them in any order and they’ll sound good.’
To his surprise she began singing over the top of the guitar. ‘You can sing anything you want, anything you want.’ She repeated the line then said, ‘When you’re ready change the sequence.’ She played C# minor and D chords singing, ‘Why do people think writing songs ain’t easy, when that just ain’t the truth.’
She repeated that line then returned to the first chords and sang her first line again.
‘Wow,’ Barry said.
‘You just make it up as you go along. Go ahead and,’ she paused for thought, ‘break some rules.’
Barry couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Break rules?’
‘Yes, be your creative self. Mix up the chords and sing what feels right.’
‘And, will the words have to rhyme?’
‘Only if you want them to. Bring me a song that says what you want to say and I don’t mind how rubbish it is or how rubbish you think it is. You never know it might even be good. Just make sure you do your other homework first.’
Despite Miss Wilkinson’s last piece of advice Barry ran home and picked up his electric guitar deciding homework could wait.
He looked at the chords for House of the Rising Sun and played the progression backwards. He soon discovered, just like she’d said, chords could be played in different sequences and sound good.
Wednesday 28th June 1972
The following Wednesday Barry headed into his after-school guitar lesson with the rest of the group. Miss Wilkinson barely acknowledged him so he sat down without a word.
After an hour of singing and strumming the group packed up.
His teacher still hadn’t said anything to him. Dithering, worried she’d changed her mind about their appointment, Barry returned the school guitar to the store.
‘Have you forgotten about me?’ Miss Wilkinson said when the last kid left.
‘No Miss,’ he said with relief until nerves took hold as he picked a guitar back up.
‘Thank goodness. I’ve been looking forward to this,’ she said kindly. ‘How’ve you been this week?’
‘Fine, I wrote a song.’ His voice trembled a touch.
‘Great, tell me about it before you play it.’
Barry handed her a sheet with the lyrics he’d written before explaining how he’d created his song’s chord progressions.
‘I discovered that playing chords wrong sometimes sounded better,’ he said.
Before his nerves could worsen he strummed a C minor chord with a high F in it to sweeten the sound. He checked Miss Wilkinson’s reaction wondering if she’d tell him off for playing the chord differently from how she’d taught.
When the young teacher nodded her approval he carried on; distracted only momentarily when she crossed her legs inside a long blue skirt ending at tall medium-heeled black boots.
Opening his mouth he felt exposed hearing his voice without the chorus of the group.
Ploughing on he sang, ‘How can he say there’s no faith, when you give me faith with your words? How can he say there’s no hope, when you give me hope with your thoughts? How can he say there’s no love, when you give me love with your touch … ?’
‘Astonishing,’ Miss Wilkinson said when he wrapped up the two minute piece.
He explained that he’d discovered faith, hope and love from hearing the end of Songs of Praise on the TV whilst waiting for Robin Hood to begin.
Miss Wilkinson looked over her lyric sheet again. Is she’d fully understood his words she didn’t let on.
‘You can keep them,’ Barry said indicating the lyrics. ‘I made that copy for you.’