Rita began to sing with him, the words soaring up to the sky and disappearing into the deepening blueness.
. . . Where the girls are so pretty,
I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone,
As she wheeled her wheelbarrow,
Through streets broad and narrow,
Crying cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o
.
Sean turned to face his sister, threw back his head, and laughed. He had never felt this happy before.
They finished the song together.
Alive, alive-o-o,
Alive, alive-o-o,
Crying cockles, and mussels,
Alive, alive-o
.
Sadie stopped washing the dishes to listen to the sound of her children singing in the distance, accompanied by the faint strum of a guitar. ‘What a voice our Rita’s got,’ she marvelled. ‘I never realised it was quite so powerful. If only their dad was around, he’d be desperately proud.’
In September, the Merseysiders played their first gig and were paid five pounds. They now had five members: Lachlan Bailey, Sean McDowd and Max Flowers on guitar – having worn his father down, Max had been bought a bass guitar for Christmas two years before – Frank– known as ‘Fly’ – Fleming on drums, and Ronnie Connors on keyboard. Elaine and Jeannie had dropped out. They had better things to do with their time.
It had been no one’s idea to have a keyboard player until Ronnie Connors’ dad heard about the group and asked if his son could join. Mr Connors owned a factory making sanitary ware on Kirkby Industrial Estate. A keen music fan himself, he was willing to let the Merseysiders practise in his factory once the workers had gone home. Not only that, Ronnie was eighteen and could drive. His father was equally willing to let him use the firm’s van. The group were not only being offered a place to play where there would be no neighbours to complain, but transport for them and their equipment. Under the circumstances, a keyboard player seemed an excellent idea. The instrument was called a Rickenbacker, and had been imported from America. It was electric, easily carried, and made a sound that was half piano, half organ.
The morning after their first gig – Fly Fleming’s sister had got married and they played at the reception –
Jeannie, anxious to know how they’d got on, woke her brother early, simply by dragging the clothes off his bed. ‘How did it go?’ she demanded.
‘Flippin’ hell, Jeannie,’ Max growled. ‘I didn’t get in till all hours. I’m exhausted.’
‘Did people clap and cheer? Or did they boo and jeer?’
‘Huh! Very funny. The young ones liked us; the old ones didn’t. The old ones wanted war songs like “We’ll Meet Again”, not “Great Balls of Fire”.’ Max gave a nonchalant yawn. ‘We’ve got another gig.’
‘You haven’t!’
‘It’s a wedding again. One of the bridesmaids is getting married next month.’
Rose popped her head around the door. ‘How did it go, son?’
‘They got another booking, Mum,’ Jeannie told her.
‘That’s marvellous, Max.’ Rose flushed with pleasure. ‘I’ll go and tell your dad. He’ll be pleased.’
‘Will he hell,’ Max said cynically when their mother had gone. ‘As far as Dad’s concerned, rock ’n’ roll is the music of the devil.’ For the first time, he noticed the empty bed on the other side of the room. ‘Where’s our Gerald? He’s up early.’
‘Gone out to escape the frosty atmosphere. You’ve been too wrapped up in other things to notice, but he’s still in Dad’s bad books for failing the eleven-plus. Tomorrow, he’s starting at Philip Wallace.’ Jeannie picked up the bedclothes and threw them back. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Or would you prefer to go back to sleep?’
‘Both, please, the tea first.’
‘I’ll bring it up in a minute.’
Jeannie left, and Max sat up and tucked the clothes
around him. Last night had been fantastically exciting. He’d never known a night like it before, the way the girls had yelled and screamed and the boys had roared their approval, demanding more. It was the first time most had heard rock ’n’ roll, and they’d loved it. Over the last few months, similar groups had started to play at the Cavern in place of jazz and skiffle; Rory Storm and the Hurricanes, Cass and the Cassanovas.
Closing his eyes, Max lived through the night again, visualising the eager, manic faces, feeling the same sensation of power.
He
was one of the people responsible for this frenzy of emotion. He felt exactly the same when he listened to rock ’n’ roll.
Remembering, Max gave a blissful sigh, though the more he thought about it, he couldn’t recall many of the faces being directed at
him
. At least half were watching Lachlan, and the other half Sean McDowd; soppy, stupid, idolising faces. He wondered if there’d been
anyone
looking at Max Flowers?
Perhaps it was because he didn’t stand centre stage, but over to one side so the difference in height between him and the other guitarists wasn’t so apparent – Lachlan was six foot, Sean slightly more, but Max had stopped growing at five and a half feet and, now that he was seventeen, was likely to stay that way for ever.
How could God have been so cruel? Everyone remarked how like his father he was, with his thick brown hair, brown eyes, evenly spaced features. He even had the same broad shoulders. In fact, he had everything except his father’s height. Yet Jeannie, who was so much like their mother, was already inches taller than her. Any day now, she’d be taller than
him
.
Jeannie came in with the tea and Max said bitterly, ‘Is Dad dancing for joy because we’ve got another gig?’
‘He’s in the garden. He might be dancing for joy out there.’
‘Oh yeah!’
Tom wasn’t dancing, but staring moodily, hands in pockets, at a tub of begonias coming to the end of their lives, wondering whether to pull them up or leave them for another week or two – they still provided a patch of colour. It was a decision that would have normally taken him a mere second, but today Tom had an unaccustomed feeling of lethargy.
To tell the truth, he didn’t give a damn about the begonias. He was concerned only with the fact that his sons were letting him down. Jeannie had never given him a moment of concern. She studied hard and was doing well with her lessons, which was ironic in a way, for what point was there in a girl getting O levels? It was nothing but a waste of time and taxpayers’ money. He’d soon put Rose right when she suggested letting their daughter stay at school till eighteen like her friend Elaine, take A levels, possibly go to university.
‘You finished learning at thirteen, love,’ he pointed out. ‘And it hasn’t done you any harm. What need have you ever had for education?’
‘None,’ Rose had agreed. ‘None whatsoever.’
From anyone else, the ‘none whatsoever’ might have sounded cynical, but not when it came from his dear Rose.
The world was becoming a difficult place for Tom to understand. He felt left behind. Animals were being sent into space, Ireland was erupting, H-bombs were being exploded all over the place and, perhaps the worst thing of all, sons no longer respected their fathers. They went their own way; hang the opinion of their elders and
betters. No matter how many times he impressed upon Max the importance of education and the futility of spending so much time on that damn guitar, Max refused to listen. He came and went whenever he pleased, shutting his ears to anything his father might have to say.
Now, according to Rose, who seemed quite pleased about it, he’d got another ‘gig’, which meant that instead of studying for his A levels, his final year at school would be overshadowed by this group he belonged to. It didn’t matter with the other lads, they were all at work. The McDowd lad worked in the local garage, and Lachlan was a dispatch clerk in some factory. The situation would have been just as intolerable had the music been even vaguely decent, but the jarring, discordant sounds only set Tom’s teeth on edge.
Then Gerald, despite the headmistress insisting confidently that he was bound to pass the eleven-plus, had failed. What’s more, he didn’t seem to care he’d let his dad down. Tom even had the strangest feeling that Gerald had failed deliberately, that he set more store by sticking with his friends than attending a decent school.
‘Breakfast’s ready, Tom,’ Rose called.
‘Coming, love.’ Sniffling disconsolately – all he’d ever wanted was for his lads to do better than himself – he went into the kitchen where bacon, eggs, and tomatoes awaited him. There was a rack of toast and a dish of home-made marmalade. He noticed the table was only set for two. ‘Where is everyone?’ he asked.
‘Our Jeannie’s just left for Elaine’s. She decided to walk to the station rather than ask for a lift. It’s a lovely morning.’
‘She’s off early.’
‘Dr Bailey and his wife are spending the day in
Chester. They’re taking Jeannie and Elaine and the three little boys. I thought I told you, Tom.’
He remembered that she had. Nowadays, he was told what his children were up to. They didn’t ask, not even Jeannie. ‘What about Gerald?’
‘He had breakfast early and went to Holly Brook. Max is still in bed. He didn’t get in till past midnight.’
‘Sundays, we always had breakfast together,’ Tom mumbled, aware there was a tremor in his voice.
Rose put a cup of tea in front of him. ‘Things change, Tom. The children are growing up. They’d sooner be with their friends than us.’
It seemed all wrong to Tom. Surely, he should be the one to decide when to let his children go, not the other way round? He didn’t like the way his wife had spoken to him, either, as if he was a confused old man.
Gerald came in. ‘I found a frog, a lovely mottled one. I’ve put it in the pond.’
‘That’s just what we needed, Gerald, another frog.’ Rose fondly ruffled her baby’s hair. ‘Are you looking forward to your new school tomorrow?’
‘Oh,
yes
, Mum.’ The boy’s eyes shone. ‘The first thing I’m going to do is put my name down for the orchestra. Sam Hughes said they give you lessons. I want to learn to play the guitar like our Max.’
Tom stifled a groan.
Marcia Bailey had refused to countenance university. She left school in July, aged eighteen, and went to work behind the counter in Woolworth’s. Even Dr and Mrs Bailey, who didn’t believe in interfering in their children’s lives, considered this an extraordinary thing for a girl with numerous O and A levels to do.
‘She says she wants to experience all aspects of life,’
Elaine told Jeannie on Sunday morning as they strolled, arm in arm, through the heart of Chester with its Tudor streets and expensive shops. The others had gone to the zoo, but the girls had decided they’d sooner window shop and meet up later for lunch. They’d discovered an interest in fashion and pestered their mothers for new clothes. ‘After a few months, she’s going to work in a factory, then an office, then on the trams, and after that a hospital. Then she might join the forces or become a policewoman.’
‘Or she might get married,’ Jeannie suggested. ‘It seems serious with that Graham chap.’
‘
He
thinks it’s serious, but Marcia’s only playing with him.’
‘That’s cruel.’
‘Yes, but you know our Marcia. She never does things by halves.’ Marcia was all over Graham when they were together. ‘What do you think of that nightie, the black one?’ Elaine stopped and pointed to a window displaying glamorous nightwear. ‘You can see right through it.’
Jeannie contemplated the black, diaphanous garment. ‘It’s pretty, but what are you supposed to wear underneath?’
‘Nothing, least I don’t think so.’
‘It can’t possibly be nothing,’ Jeannie said practically. ‘It would never keep you warm. Perhaps it’s worn over pyjamas.’
They decided that, or some other explanation, must be the case, as the nightie couldn’t possibly be worn as it was.
‘Look at those brassieres,’ Elaine gasped. ‘They’re all pink lace. All Mum ever buys me is plain white cotton.’
‘Same here. See, there’s blue and yellow ones too. I never knew you could get yellow brassieres.’
‘And yellow knickers to match.’
For some reason, at the very same time, the girls felt the urge to laugh. They staggered along the pavement, holding each other up, until they reached a café and decided a cup of tea would calm them down. They went inside and ordered a pot for two and buttered scones.
After a few moments, feeling calmer, Jeannie said, ‘That nightdress would look daft over pyjamas.’
They contemplated the shocking, hardly credible notion, of wearing the sheer black nightie and nothing else.
‘It wouldn’t hide a single inch. Everything you’ve got would be on show.’ Elaine wrinkled her nose. She was only fourteen, but had developed what she considered was an enormous and grossly obscene bust. ‘I mean, you couldn’t let a man see you in it, not even if he was your husband.’
‘What point is there letting a woman see you?’
Elaine sighed. ‘Or wearing it by yourself ?’
‘So, it can only be a man,’ Jeannie deduced. Both girls shivered delicately. ‘I think,’ Jeannie said slowly, ‘only think, mind, that when I got older, I might possibly wear it in front of Steve McQueen.’
Elaine thought hard for a long time. ‘I might with Jack Lemmon,’ she said eventually. ‘But I’d have to be awfully old, at least twenty-one, and I’d still wear a bra and pants. What about our Lachlan? Would you wear it in front of him?’
‘Good Lord, no!’ Jeannie had told Elaine some time ago that she had feelings for her brother. She was unable to describe exactly what the feelings were, just that she wished Lachlan would pay her some attention from time
to time. More than that, and she would have felt embarrassed.
‘Actually,’ Elaine said, dropping a bombshell, ‘Lachlan said we can go to the Cavern with them a week on Wednesday. There’s a rock ’n’ roll group playing – Vince McLoughlin and the Vulcans.’
‘My dad will never let me.’
‘Ronnie Connors will pick everyone up in the van. We’ll have to ask Benny, but she can make her own way from Bootle.’
‘He still won’t let me,’ Jeannie said gloomily.
‘Doesn’t your mum ever have a say in what you do?’
‘Dad wouldn’t let
her
go to the Cavern if she wanted.’
‘No,’ Tom said firmly that night. ‘Absolutely not. No daughter of mine is going to set foot inside the Cavern, I’ll tell you that for nothing. It’s not a place for young girls.’