Lime Street Blues (15 page)

Gig! It all sounded very strange and foreign. Mrs Lucas boasted endlessly to her fellow cleaners about the exciting life her Benedicta led, off every week to the Cavern with the daughter of a doctor and a very polite girl from around Ormskirk way who played the piano.

‘I’ll just take a last look at meself in the upstairs mirror.’

The low-wattage bulb in her mother’s bedroom, together with the heavily spotted wardrobe mirror, combined to produce a somewhat ghostly apparition, but Benny was more or less satisfied with her appearance. Despite what her mother said, she knew she wasn’t even faintly lovely, but managed to make herself noticed by twisting her hair into unusual styles and drawing around her eyes with black crayon – her mother didn’t know about the crayon, which she did on the train. Loads of girls did it, but it suited Benny Lucas, with her long narrow face and perfectly round eyes, more than most. It made her look outlandish, though perhaps ‘exotic’ would be a better word. She attracted the boys just as much as Jeannie, who genuinely
was
lovely, and Elaine, with her long dark hair and Venus de Milo figure. Neither wore make-up, apart from a little smear of the lipstick they shared.

They were such goody-goodies, Benny thought contemptuously. She’d be glad when she went to work, made friends of her own, and didn’t need Jeannie or Elaine any more. They were useful at school, particularly Elaine, who helped explain the subjects that Benny found difficult, so that her position in class improved with each term.

She gave her blurred reflection an approving nod and ran downstairs. ‘Will you be all right?’ she asked her mother.

‘Of course, luv. Have you got enough money?’

‘Yes, Mam.’ They went through the same ritual every time Benny went out. ‘Shall I throw another lump of coal on the fire before I go?’

‘No, ta, luv. I’ll do it in a minute.’

‘Don’t wait up.’

‘I always wait up, don’t I? I’d never sleep until I knew you were home.’

Benny paused at the door. ‘I love you, Mam.’

‘I know you do, girl. Off you go now, and have a good time. Be careful crossing the road, won’t you?’

The door slammed. Mrs Lucas listened to her daughter’s footsteps hurry along the street. She waited until the sound had stopped altogether, before fetching down a blanket from upstairs, which she wrapped around her tiny figure, including her feet. It saved the coal. She’d keep the fire going for as long as she could with bits of wood until Benedicta came home. Then, she’d add more coal, and they’d both sit warming themselves over a cup of tea, while Benedicta described the events of the evening in detail.

There probably wasn’t a happier mother in the whole of Bootle, thought Mrs Lucas as she snuggled into the chair inside her blanket. She closed her eyes and imagined Benedicta just approaching Marsh Lane Station. The mother waited with her daughter, sat beside her on the train, walked with her to the club, which she thought would look something like Buckingham Palace.

Everyone gasped when Benedicta went in because she was so beautiful. At this point, the mother’s imagination faltered. Instead, she contented herself with the knowledge that Benedicta was having a lovely time. It was with this thought in her mind that Mrs Lucas fell asleep.

They all decided that the Taj Mahal wasn’t a patch on the Cavern. Firstly, it wasn’t in a basement, a black mark against it straight away, but over a furniture shop in Upper Parliament Street. The interior walls had been knocked down to make a large room that had been painted purple. The purple didn’t go with the ceiling that was dark blue and scattered with silver stars. Mirrors had been fitted over the windows, so it appeared as if half a dozen similarly coloured rooms led from the main one.

Jeannie thought the effect very ominous, but Elaine preferred tawdry.

‘At least it’s warm.’ Benny was still shivering in her thin coat. ‘I think I’ll keep it on till I thaw out,’ she said when the others went up to the cloakroom on the second floor. ‘I’ll save you both a speck till you come back.’ The rows of chairs were gradually being filled with people much older than the crowd that frequented the Cavern.

Jeannie and Elaine came back to say the Merseysiders were in the bar – the group had arrived earlier to set up their equipment, which was already on a small stage at the end of the long room, their name on the big drum in black and gold.

‘There’s a licensed bar up there,’ Jeannie said tersely, ‘and no one noticed Ronnie Connors getting as drunk as a lord. He said he only did it to calm his nerves, but Lachlan’s worried he’ll make a mess of things.’

A few minutes later, the lights went out, leaving the only illumination over the stage. A small plump man in evening dress appeared and introduced himself as George Kidd, the club’s owner, ‘But folks calls me Billy – Billy the Kid, geddit!’

A few people groaned, ‘Come on, Billy. We’ve heard all that before.’ Tonight, Billy announced in an accent
that was half Scouse, half American, was the debut performance of an exciting new group, five talented Liverpool lads, who were about to set the world on fire. ‘Put your hands together for the Merseysiders,’ he cried.

There was only a smattering of applause from the crowd. The girls and a few others in the audience made up for the lack of enthusiasm by clapping as hard as they could. A good-looking man in the row in front, dressed like a gangster in a pale suit, black shirt, and white tie, whooped loudly when Lachlan led the group into the room, Ronnie Connors following unsteadily at the rear.

The last time Jeannie had heard the boys play together was in their garden shed, long before they’d acquired a drummer and a keyboard player. She remembered thinking it a bit of a joke, that they’d merely been fooling about, although the boys had taken themselves very seriously.

And it had paid off, she thought proudly, when the Merseysiders let rip with ‘Jailhouse Rock’, followed by ‘Wake up Little Susie’ and ‘Great Balls of Fire’, the sound booming from the amplifiers, rolling round the walls, making the room vibrate.

That was her brother, Max, strumming his new electric guitar, and singing away, a microphone to himself on the side of the stage. This was the end result of the battles he’d had with their father, his fixation with the Cavern, his abandonment of school at the most crucial point in his education. Jeannie felt tears come to her eyes and wished her dad was there to see his happy, shiny-eyed son fulfil his most cherished ambition. Max was a real musician at last, showing a face to the world that was rarely seen at home.

Lachlan and Sean shared a microphone centre stage, their heads almost touching. Lachlan stood with his feet
wide apart, his entire body twisting and turning as he flung his hands over the strings of his red guitar, unlike the tightly controlled Sean McDowd, who hardly moved, apart from the slight sway of his slim hips.

After a while, she realised that Lachlan was playing for the audience, but Sean was playing for himself. Lachlan wanted to entertain; Sean didn’t care if he entertained or not. But he
must
care, Jeannie reasoned, otherwise he wouldn’t be here, playing to a crowded room.

Fly Fleming was having a great time on the drums. He was a bulky, tough-looking young man, with laughing eyes, a mountain of red hair, and an infectious sense of humour. Everyone liked Fly. Even the inscrutable Sean had been known to double up with laughter at one of Fly’s dry, off the cuff remarks. Now Fly beamed happily at everyone from the back of the stage.

After a while, Jeannie became aware that Fly and the others were covering for Ronnie Connors whose fingers seemed to have lost their way on the keyboard. What should have been Ronnie’s solo pieces were buried beneath some inspired but unexpected drum-playing or the thunderous twang of three guitars. She hoped she was the only one to notice, because otherwise the group’s performance was electrifying. Not that Jeannie enjoyed it. She was too concerned that something might go wrong – Ronnie might fall off his stool, for instance, or off the stage altogether.

By the time the group’s allotted hour was nearing its end, Jeannie had become aware of something else, something far more worrying than Ronnie’s fumbling antics on the keyboard. Compared with Lachlan and Sean, Max wasn’t a great performer. He played in a plodding, mechanical way, and his voice was slightly harsh, whereas Lachlan’s was a lilting baritone and Sean’s
husky whisper, with its slight Irish accent, was very appealing, even sexy, though she’d never considered Sean McDowd remotely sexy. Sean and Lachlan carried the group, they were the stars, over-shadowing the others.

Perhaps, because she was Max’s sister, she was being over-critical. To everyone else, he might seem perfectly all right – and he could always improve with time. Jeannie prayed this would be the case. Playing the guitar meant everything in the world to Max. It was his life.

The applause at the end of the final number was light to say the least, with only a few showing their appreciation of an hour of spectacular rock ’n’ roll. The man who’d whooped earlier jumped to his feet, gave a standing ovation, then hurried out of the room after the group – except for Fly, who stayed behind to dismantle the drums.

‘I’ve never heard such a tuneless racket,’ a voice behind said disdainfully. ‘It’ll never catch on, that rock ’n’ roll.’

‘Give me jazz, any day,’ said someone else. ‘Preferably traditional or New Orleans.’

‘I prefer modern meself, but any sort’s better than that rubbish.’

‘They could do without that keyboard player. He was pissed out of his mind.’

‘Never mind, mate. There’s jazz after the interval. I’d have come just for that, but I’d never have got a seat.’

Jeannie had nothing against jazz, but she wasn’t in the mood for it right now. ‘I don’t know about you,’ she said to Elaine, ‘but I’d sooner not stay for the second half.’

‘Me, neither. Let’s find the boys. C’mon, Benny.’

Benny got up, her face impassive, and followed them.
She also preferred not to stay, but it would have been nice to be asked.

The Merseysiders looked pale and exhausted. They were in the bar where they were being delivered a stern lecture by Billy Kidd. ‘They’re a backward lot out there.’ Billy waved a dismissive arm. ‘They still wipe their arses on the
Liverpool Echo
. I hope they didn’t put you off, kids, ’cos you’re booked for five more weeks. Rock ’n’ roll is gonna be the biggest phenomenon ever to hit the music industry in this country, and I wanna be part of it. It’s already taken off in America and before long it’ll take off here. I’ve got some press adverts lined up for next week, and word’ll soon get around that the Merseysiders are a great group. There’s just one thing.’ Billy’s plump, smiling face grew hard. ‘You’d probably do even better without having to cover for a screwed-up keyboard player. Three guitars and a drummer, that’s a great combination. I’d drop the keyboard if I were you.’

‘He’s not screwed up, he’s drunk, the idiot.’ The man in the pale suit had been eavesdropping on the lecture. To the girls’ surprise, he leapt forward, seized Ronnie’s ear, and twisted it. Ronnie yelped.

‘Lay off, Dad. Me nerves were in tatters. I needed a drink.’

Jeannie and Elaine looked at each other, impressed; fancy having such an attractive dad!

‘You nearly spoiled everything.’ Mr Connors twisted his son’s ear even harder. ‘I feel like kicking you from here to Timbuctoo for letting the other lads down.’

‘I won’t do it again, Dad. Promise.’ Ronnie didn’t look nearly as ashamed as he should.

‘I should hope not,’ Mr Connors snorted. ‘When you lads are ready, I’ll take you and your stuff home in the van and come back later for my car. This idiot can’t be
trusted behind the wheel, not in his condition. He’s been given every encouragement,’ he said complainingly to Billy. ‘When I was a lad, I’d have given anything for a career in music, but my dad wouldn’t hear of it. According to him, the best job in the world was plumbing. “A plumber’s never out of work,” he used to say. So that’s what I became, a plumber. Did well, too, like my dad said. But I wanted better than that for my own son, yet this is how he repays me.’

Four middle-aged men in identical loud check suits had come into the bar. ‘See them,’ Billy Kidd hissed. ‘That’s the Clive Merry Jazz Quartet, a dying breed. They’re on next, but by this time next year, they’ll have a job finding anyone to listen to them. Well, lads, I’ll see you all next week.’ He fixed a false smile on his face and went over to effusively greet the men he’d just pronounced a dying breed.

‘I think he’s what you’d call “two-faced”,’ Mr Connors said with a wry grin.

As Billy Kidd had predicted, the group’s reputation grew by dint of advertising and word of mouth. The weeks passed and the audiences became younger and less inhibited, cheering wildly after every number. The Merseysiders were booked for six more weeks and were offered twenty-five pounds, a monumental figure, so they thought. From now on, Billy decreed Friday would be rock ’n’ roll night at the Taj Mahal. He suggested the group acquire a manager.

‘You kids have got a great career ahead of you and you’ll need your interests looking after. A manager can arrange gigs, make sure you’re paid and receive any expenses you’re entitled to.’