In view of what happened a few weeks later, Max was right to have felt uneasy when he saw Sean McDowd in the Cavern – he’d been there several times since and
he
didn’t have to leave early to catch a train so his father could pick him up from the station.
The Flowers and the Baileys had formed their own group, the Merseysiders, with Lachlan on guitar, Jeannie on piano, Elaine wielding a tambourine, and Max playing the mouth organ. At first, Max had thought this dead pathetic, but having practised every spare minute, he’d become quite capable – and it was only till he got a guitar.
They played in the Baileys’ parlour until the neighbours complained, then in the Flowers’ until
their
neighbours complained, and transferred to the Flowers’ garden shed, where they were surrounded by seed boxes, tins of paint, and garden tools. Tom’s bike had to be removed to make room. Deprived of a piano, Jeannie lost interest in the music side of things, but not the close proximity of Lachlan Bailey, who was growing taller, broader, and more attractive by the minute. She made do with an old toy xylophone and stayed with the group in the hope that Lachlan would continue to throw her the odd smile, though both girls considered the whole thing a huge joke, while the boys took it very seriously indeed.
Lachlan often sang while he played. ‘I ain’t nothing but a hound dog,’ he would holler, doing his best to sound like Elvis Presley, or ‘Love me tender, love me do,’ making odd faces and swivelling his hips around like his idol. The girls found it hard to keep their faces straight, particularly when Lachlan’s voice began to
break, covering several octaves, or they were ordered to join in with a ‘tra, la, la’.
Rose said she thought they sounded very professional. She liked Saturday mornings when Elaine and Lachlan arrived early so they could ‘rehearse’ – for what, she had no idea. She toiled away in the kitchen, a smile on her face, wishing she’d had the opportunity to have such fun when she’d been young.
Tom Flowers listened while he worked in the garden, wincing every now and then. Still, the youngsters weren’t doing any harm, except to his ears. Spencer, the cat, kept well out of the way.
It was on such a Saturday morning in May, the Merseysiders were playing and Lachlan was singing ‘Rock Around the Clock’ when the shed door opened and Sean McDowd stepped inside, dressed from head to toe in sinister black.
‘Greetings, scholarship boy.’ He nodded at Max. ‘I was passing and wondered what was going on.’
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ Max spluttered, but Sean ignored him and addressed Lachlan. ‘You play that thing dead good,’ he said.
‘It’s a guitar,’ Lachlan explained, adding, though he wasn’t sure why, ‘I’m not a scholarship boy.’
‘I know it’s a guitar. Meself, I play the drums in the school orchestra.’
‘Do you now!’ Lachlan looked excited. ‘We could do with a drummer, except we haven’t got a drum kit.’
‘Drums are shit to play. All that comes out is a noise. It’s not proper music. Can I have a go on your guitar?’
‘If you like.’ Again, Lachlan wasn’t sure why he so willingly handed the instrument over. Normally a generous, good-natured boy, he was reluctant to let even Max, his friend, touch his precious guitar. But there was
something magnetic about this young man that made Lachlan want to please him. ‘Have you ever played before?’
‘No.’ Sean held the guitar against his thin chest and looked down at it tenderly, as if a beautiful woman was clasped in his arms.
‘What you do,’ Lachlan explained, ‘is press the strings against the fret . . .’
‘I know what you do.’ Sean’s long fingers plucked nimbly at the guitar, moving them quickly up and down the fret, gauging the tone, playing one note over and over, then another, and another, watched by an astonished Lachlan and an outraged Max.
Jeannie, still reeling from the swear word, realised Sean was finding the scale. Within five minutes he had found all eight notes. He played them an octave higher, an octave lower. It wasn’t long before he was able to strum a passable version of ‘Jerusalem’, which they used to sing at Friday assembly in Ailsham Junior School.
When he’d finished, he handed the guitar back to Lachlan. ‘How much did it cost?’ he enquired.
‘Five pounds or thereabouts. It was a Christmas present, so I’m not exactly sure. This is an acoustic guitar; electric ones are much dearer. My dad got it from Crane’s in Hanover Street.’
‘If I get one, can I come and play too?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Lachlan said eagerly. ‘You’re a natural. I can’t believe you’ve never played before. I used to play the violin, but it still took a while to get as far on the guitar as you just did.’
‘What sort of music were you playing when I came in?’
‘Rock ’n’ roll. It’s the best music in the world.’
‘I think so too. See you in a few weeks’ time then.’ Sean disappeared as quickly as he’d come.
‘Who was that?’ Lachlan asked excitedly. ‘Whoever he is, he’s a genius.’
‘His name’s Sean McDowd,’ Jeannie supplied.
‘He’s the chap our Marcia fancied,’ said Elaine. ‘She’ll be sorry she didn’t join the group when I tell her.’ Marcia had refused to have anything to do with the Merseysiders, a decision everyone had greeted with relief. Elaine decided aloud not to mention Sean McDowd in case Marcia changed her mind.
Max didn’t speak. He thought it best not to, because all that would have come out was a stream of invective. He never thought he could hate Lachlan, but he did now for saying Sean McDowd could come back. And when he returned – Max had no doubt that he would – he’d have a guitar and be able to play as well as Lachlan, possibly better. Max would be left behind, with only a stupid mouth organ. He knew he was jealous, but didn’t care. He recalled his friend’s face as he’d watched Sean find the notes so easily and naturally, as if he’d been born to play. Lachlan had been full of admiration. When Max tried, his fingers were everywhere, stumbling and awkward. Perhaps he would never be able to play. Perhaps he would never grow any taller. Max let out a groan. He was doomed.
‘I wonder,’ Jeannie said, ‘where Sean expects to get the money from for a guitar? They’re awfully poor, the McDowds,’ she explained to Lachlan and Elaine.
Max glowered and wondered too.
Sean rang Peter Beggerow, the owner of the fruit and veg stall in Ormskirk market, from the phone box at the
end of Holly Lane. ‘Will you be needing a hand over the next few weeks, Pete?’ he enquired.
‘I wouldn’t mind some help with shifting crates and stuff on Sat’days, mate. By the way,’ he added slyly, ‘is there any veg going?’
Vegetables were hardly worth the trouble stealing – bulky and you got only a pittance for them. Sean wasn’t interested. ‘How about chickens?’ he asked.
‘Chickens are always welcome.’
‘How much will I get each?’
‘Sixpence, mate.’
‘What about a bob?’
‘What about eightpence?
‘Let’s say ten.’
‘Let’s say ninepence each. That’s me limit, Sean.’
‘Ninepence, then. I’ll take them round your Frank’s house.’
‘Give us a call when you do.’
Over the next few weeks, a few farmers noticed their stock of poultry had been reduced by two or three the night before. They kept a careful look-out, but it didn’t happen again. Sean was careful never to hit the same farm twice, otherwise he’d find the owner lying in wait, ready to give the thief a good hiding.
He went to school two days a week in the hope of keeping officialdom off his back; the rest of the time he went round the village, knocking on doors, asking if there were any odd jobs he could do. For sixpence or a shilling a time, he cleared gardens, cut down trees, mowed lawns, cleaned windows, washed cars, all the time listening to the in-built wireless in his head, hearing himself playing the guitar.
Saturdays, he worked on Pete’s stall in Ormskirk,
where several fat chickens were usually for sale as a result of Sean’s night work.
Two months later, he had acquired five pounds, eight and sixpence, not all of it come by honestly, and early one glorious July morning, with a brilliant sun shining out of a perfectly blue sky, he caught the train to Liverpool and presented himself at Crane’s in Hanover Street, with the intention of purchasing a guitar.
The assistant was a middle-aged man with tired eyes behind a pair of thick glasses. ‘So, you’re after one of the lowest range models?’ he remarked, curling his lip.
‘I’m just after a guitar,’ Sean said in a surly voice.
‘You won’t get an electric one for that much.’
‘I don’t want an electric one, thanks.’
‘We only have three in that price range. They’re on the wall over there.’
The cheap guitars looked the same as those costing ten times as much, but Sean knew the expensive ones would be made from superior materials, have a better tone, be the product of a more skilled craftsman. But the time for such an instrument had not yet come.
A five-pound guitar – four pounds, nineteen and elevenpence, to be exact – was taken off the wall and laid on the counter. It made an echoey, booming sound that was music in itself to Sean’s ears. He caught his breath, picked it up, and cradled it in his arms, then ran his hand over the hard curves. All he had to do was hand over the money and it would be his.
He looks as if he’s just been given a million quid, the assistant marvelled, watching Sean’s face as he nursed the five-pound guitar. ‘Do you want to look at the others?’ he asked, more kindly now.
‘No, this one’ll do.’
‘Would you like a tutor?’
‘What’s that?’
‘A book with instructions on how to play.’
‘I’ll be teaching meself, thanks.’
‘How about a plectrum? Some people use a plectrum rather than their fingers. They’re only a penny ha’penny each.’
‘I prefer me fingers.’ Sean plucked a few strings. He couldn’t imagine using anything else. He stood the guitar carefully on the floor, took a paper bag out of his jacket pocket, and emptied the contents – hundreds of coins, both copper and silver – on to the counter.
‘Have you been robbing the collection box?’ the assistant joked, as he began the painstaking task of counting the coins. Initially, he hadn’t taken to the taciturn, arrogant young man, but he’d looked at the guitar in the same daft way as he himself had once looked upon a clarinet.
His
talent had been such, he’d ended up selling them, rather than playing them. But he had a feeling it would be different with this customer.
‘All present and correct,’ he asserted when the money had been counted. ‘I suggest you buy a spare set of strings. It’d be a nuisance if one broke when you weren’t in a position to buy another.’ He hoped the lad had enough money.
‘OK, I’ll have a set.’ Sean gave an abrupt nod. He still had eight and sixpence in his pocket.
‘Will you be wanting a strap?’
‘I’ll have the cheapest. How much is that?’
‘Webbing’s one and six; blue, red or black.’
‘Give us the black.’ He was getting the strap in return for a couple of chickens.
‘Well, good luck,’ the assistant said when business had been completed and his customer was ready to leave. ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Sean McDowd. Why?’
‘I just wondered. I’ll keep me eye open for your first concert.’ He watched the lad walk out into the dazzling sunshine and felt sure that one day he would hear the name of Sean McDowd again.
‘Is that you, Sean?’ his mother screamed when he opened the back door.
‘Yes, Mam.’ He was halfway upstairs when she appeared, hands poised angrily on her hips.
‘There’s been a man here today from school, Mr Something-or-other. He said you’ve hardly been in for weeks . . .’ Sadie gasped. ‘What’s that you’re holding, Sean, lad?’
‘A guitar, Mam,’ he said proudly.
‘Oh, son! You haven’t pinched it!’
‘No, Mam. I earned the money to buy it. That’s why I haven’t been at school. I’ve been working, doing odd jobs like.’
She was probably the only mother in the world who understood that owning a musical instrument was more important than school. Her visitor had already been forgotten. ‘Let’s have a look?’
Sean returned downstairs and Sadie ran her hands over the polished wood. ‘It’s lovely,’ she breathed. ‘Can you play anything yet?’
‘Not yet,’ Sean conceded. ‘Not properly. I was just going up to me room to practise.’
‘Go ahead, luv. I’ll bring you up a cup of tea in a minute.’
When Sadie went up with the tea, Sean was holding the guitar, softly strumming the strings. He had his back to her and, for a moment, she had a feeling of déjà vu.
He looked so much like his father. Kevin McDowd will never be dead while his son’s alive, she told herself.
Rita insisted on nursing the guitar while Sean ate his tea, though it meant her own got cold. ‘I like the feel of it,’ she commented. ‘It’s so big, yet it’s not heavy.’
‘That’s because it’s hollow,’ Sean said good-naturedly. He had rarely felt in such a good mood.
‘I’m not stupid, Sean. I can see it’s hollow. Does this mean you won’t be playing the drums no more in the school orchestra? They’ve asked me twice this week where you were. You were needed for a rehearsal or something.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘That I didn’t know, which is the truth. Elsa Graham on the coach said you’d pruned their oak tree and got sixpence for it, but I didn’t know that till later. Not that I’d have told them at school,’ she added hastily, ‘if I’d known before.’
She hadn’t bothered to tell her mother, either, Sadie noted, but didn’t complain. She’d rather the children stuck together than told tales.
‘Can I have me guitar back now, Rita? I’m going up to practise in me room.’
Not long afterwards, Sean was interrupted by a ferocious banging on the wall that adjoined the next door house. ‘Will you stop that bloody racket,’ their neighbour yelled. So, he took his guitar outside into what was now a perfect evening to end a perfect day.
He wandered along the edge of the cornfield at the back of Disraeli Terrace, the small, waif-like figure of his sister following a few steps behind, picking out all the Irish songs he knew. ‘In Dublin’s fair city . . .’ He whispered the words as he played, disturbing the birds
that rustled impatiently in the hedge, and the small creatures that lived close to the roots.