‘Can’t you ring your husband and tell him you’ll be late?’
‘I suppose I could. What time is it?’ She noticed the shops had closed. People were making their way home.
‘Almost six.’
‘Tom doesn’t get home till ten past. I’ll ring then.’ He wouldn’t answer, having refused to have anything to do with the phone, but at least she could claim she tried. ‘Shouldn’t you call your wife?’
‘Iris never expects me till she sees me. I often stay late at work, after everyone’s gone. It’s nice and quiet, and I can think.’ He sighed and looked rather sad. ‘Mind you, saying that, it’s even better the nights the Merseysiders rehearse in the store room.’
‘It was awfully nice of you to let them stay when Ronnie’s no longer a member.’
‘It would have been dead mean to have made them stop.’
‘What do you think about when it’s quiet?’ Rose asked.
‘The opportunities I never had, the dreams that didn’t come true, why I’m there, and not somewhere else entirely different. I’m a discontented sod, Rose.’ He laughed shortly. ‘Do you like Chinese food?’
‘I’ve never had it before.’
‘Well, there’s a first time for everything. There’s a place in London Road. If we cut through Lime Street station, you can call your husband from a phone box.’
To her surprise, when Rose dialled, the receiver at the other end was picked up. It was Gerald.
‘Mum!’ He sounded hurt. ‘You’re not here and Dad’s really angry. The table hasn’t been cleared and there’s no tea made.’
‘I thought you were having tea at your friend’s?’
‘His mum’s ill. I left early without anything to eat.’
‘I’m sorry, love.’ She wanted to cry for some reason. ‘Tell Dad I’ve been unavoidably detained. You’ll find a casserole in the fridge. It just needs heating up, and there’s fruit cake in the larder. Just heap the dirty dishes in the sink and I’ll do them when I get home.’
‘All right, Mum. What time will that be?’
‘I’m not sure, love. As soon as I can.’
Alex was waiting for her outside the phone box. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked when she came out. ‘You seem a bit upset. Look, if you like, I’ll drive you straight home. My car’s not far away. I don’t want you getting into trouble with your husband.’
‘I’ve never done anything like this before but, no, I don’t want to go home, thanks. I’d rather have a meal with you.’
They looked into each other’s eyes and Rose saw straight away that he was as lonely and unhappy as she was, and that the afternoon had been as magical for him as it had been for her. She also knew her words had moved their short relationship on to a different plane that he might not find acceptable. She almost hoped he wouldn’t, so she could return to the dull safety of Disraeli Terrace and never see him again. But Alex said in a soft voice, ‘Come on, Rose. Let’s go.’
He held out his hand and Rose took it.
Gerald was still up watching television when she got home – Alex dropped her off at the end of Holly Lane. There was no sign of Tom.
‘Where’s your dad?’ she asked.
‘Gone for a drink,’ Gerald sniffed. ‘He said I was to go to bed.’ Tom occasionally went to the Oak Tree for a pint. ‘Jeannie rang to say she’s staying with Elaine. I’ve no idea where our Max is. Hardly anybody’s in these days, Mum,’ he said sulkily, ‘not even you.’
‘Oh, come off it, Gerald. Today’s the first time I haven’t been here when you’ve come home from school.’
‘Where have you been?’
‘You’ll never believe this, but I’ve been to the pictures!’
‘Who with?’ he asked suspiciously. He was worse than Tom.
‘A woman called Clara Baker,’ Rose said promptly, having prepared an explanation on the way home. ‘I bumped into her in Liverpool. We used to be friends. She was in the Women’s Institute and we used to do the cake stall together at the Midsummer Fête. She and her husband moved away, ages ago, to Hoylake.’
Gerald blinked. ‘What were you doing in Liverpool?’
‘Shopping. Honestly, love. I think you’re turning into Inspector Maigret.’ Rose laughed, hoping he didn’t notice how false it sounded. ‘Liverpool’s only a few miles away, not the other side of the world.’
‘You usually go shopping in Ormskirk on Saturdays.’
‘Well, today I decided to shop on Thursday and go further afield.’ She clapped her hands. ‘Bedtime, Gerald, otherwise your dad’ll be cross when he gets home and finds you’re still up.’
‘He’s already cross. ’Fact, I’ve never known him in such a bad temper. I hope you’re not going to the pictures again.’
‘It so happens that I am. I’m meeting Clara Baker on
Thursday next week. And there’s no need to pull a face, Gerald Flowers, because you can’t exactly claim you’ve been neglected. Next time, I’ll leave the tea on the table, something cold. And I’ll tidy up before I go, so you and your dad will have nothing to complain about.’ He was thirteen and well old enough to look after himself, while she was thirty-seven and still young enough to . . .
She daren’t even
think
of the things she’d like to do.
Tom came home, his face like thunder. He obviously felt that this time he had a genuine grievance. She told him the same story. His face hadn’t changed by the time she’d finished.
‘I might have known you wouldn’t understand,’ she cried. ‘You’d think I’d committed murder, not been to the pictures.’
‘It’s not the sort of thing you’ve ever done before.’
‘More’s the pity. But it’s the sort of thing I’m going to do again. I’m entitled to something out of life, Tom. I’m bored out of my mind, staying in night after night.’
‘You’ve got the W.I.,’ he argued.
‘Do you really think that’s enough?’
‘It is for some women.’
‘How would you know?’
He didn’t know. How could he? He mumbled something incomprehensible and went to bed. Rose curled herself up in a chair, revelling in the solitude and the silence. Her mysterious, imaginary lover now had a face, and the face was that of Alex Connors.
Tom was still angry with Rose next day, but he’d believed her when she claimed to have met someone called Clara Baker in Liverpool. Hard as he tried, he couldn’t remember the woman who’d left Ailsham with
her husband to live in Hoylake. He was worried what sort of person she was. Rose had had little experience of the world and the woman might be a bad influence.
‘Do you recall a Clara Baker who used to be in the Women’s Institute?’ he asked Mrs Denning when he went for his midday meal.
‘Yes, I do, Tom. Nice young woman, very pretty, as I recall. Wasn’t she friendly with your Rose? She and her husband went to live in Hoylake.’
‘I can’t quite bring her to mind.’
‘She walked with a slight limp. I understand she’d had polio as a child.’
‘Ah, I remember now. Yes, she did seem nice.’ He felt relieved and was about to mention that Rose had bumped into Clara Baker the day before, but Mrs Denning got in first. ‘It was terribly sad that she died.’
‘Who died?’
‘Why, Clara Baker, of course. She died in childbirth. Oh, it must have been a good five years back. It’s not the sort of thing that happens much nowadays, but she was always in poor health. Are you all right, Tom? You’ve gone awfully pale.’
There’d been a time when Liverpool was the richest city in the country outside London and its docks the second biggest in Europe. It had supplied the world with an abundance of fine actors and comedians, and its people were famous for their wit and good humour. But now Liverpool was on the verge of becoming famous for something else – rock ’n’ roll.
The Cavern was already a beacon for everyone who wanted to listen to beat live and they came from all over the British Isles. The Merseysiders played regularly, always to an enthusiastic crowd, though they still appeared every Friday at the Taj Mahal. For the first time, Lachlan regretted signing a contract with Billy Kidd when the Beatles acquired a young, enterprising manager, Brian Epstein, who put the four untidy young men through a startling transformation. They had their hair cut, wore suits, tidied up their act, and emerged more charismatic than they’d been before.
‘Billy hasn’t a clue about presentation or promotion,’ Lachlan complained to the others.
They all agreed that Billy wasn’t up to handling a rock ’n’ roll group. He was lazy, had no imagination, and wouldn’t know how to get them on the wireless, as Brian Epstein had done with the Beatles. They also agreed, ruefully, that it was a bit late to realise that now.
In May, a Granada television crew descended on the city to make a programme,
Outside the Cavern
, about the other Liverpool beat clubs. An excited Billy broke the news that the Taj Mahal would be included and the Merseysiders, one of the most popular local groups, would play on the night.
When Kevin McDowd heard, he immediately paid Billy Kidd a visit.
‘Not you again!’ Billy groaned when Kevin captured him in the bar of the Taj Mahal, his head buried in the
Racing Times
. ‘If you’ve come about your bloody girl group, then you’ve had it. They’re not going on and that’s final. Me club would become a laughing stock.’
Kevin glanced at the newspaper. ‘Y’know, Billy, I’d never have taken you for a gambling man. It requires nerve and more than a bit of courage to have a wee flutter on the horsies now’n again.’
‘I’ve got nerve, I’ve got courage,’ Billy blustered. ‘I have a flutter most days, not a wee one, either.’
‘In that case, I bet you twenty-five quid that the Flower Girls won’t raise even the suggestion of a giggle if they play at your lovely club.’ Kevin’s face almost cracked in two as he gave his most charming, ruthlessly persuasive smile. ‘And this is a wager you can’t lose, Billy, because if some rude, heartless soul dares to take a breath that sounds remotely like a titter, then you’ll be up twenty-five quid. And if no one does? Well, I won’t want a penny off you. So, you see, Billy, you can’t lose, and it shows how much confidence I have in my four wee girls.’
Billy considered this. The mad Irishman was right. He couldn’t lose. He was getting an act for free, and all he had to do was persuade one of his regulars to emit a little laugh during the girls’ performance and he would be in
receipt of twenty-five smackeroos. The club’s reputation wouldn’t be harmed by a duff act. There’d been duff acts before, all clubs had them occasionally, including the Cavern.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘How about a week on Monday?’
‘That won’t do, Billy boy. I’d prefer me wee girls went on two weeks on Tuesday.’
‘But that’s the night the television’s coming!’
‘I know that, Billy, but they’re coming for the lads, not the girls. What difference will it make?’
Billy gnawed his fat lips. ‘Make it fifty, and you can come two weeks Tuesday.’
‘Done!’ If someone laughed, and Kevin didn’t doubt Billy would make sure someone did, he didn’t have fifty bob, let alone fifty quid, to settle the bet. But he’d cross that bridge when he came to it.
The Flower Girls worked themselves up into a state of desperate hysteria when he informed them they had a gig at last, even Rita, usually so calm about everything.
‘And isn’t it what we’ve been working towards all these last months?’ Kevin said impatiently.
‘Yes, but the television will be there,’ Marcia cried.
‘Don’t worry, they won’t be interested in youse lot,’ Kevin lied. They would if he had anything to do with it.
The Merseysiders couldn’t afford to buy suits, but on the night Granada television came to the Taj Mahal, they had their hair cut and wore black trousers and identical dark blue shirts. At the start of the evening, they hung around at the back of the room beside the camera that had been set up earlier – the Granada guys were in the bar having a drink. Normally, they too would have
waited in the bar until the first act had finished, but they wouldn’t have missed tonight’s first act for anything.
Apart from Sean, whose trust in his father’s judgement was implicit, the others had little faith that the Flower Girls would do well, if only because they were girls. Rock ’n’ roll and women didn’t go together.
‘The world isn’t ready for this yet,’ Lachlan muttered. He was worried for Jeannie, who would be devastated if she made a show of herself. He wasn’t bothered for his sister. Marcia made a show of herself almost every day.
‘The world never will be.’ Max chewed his nails and wished Kevin McDowd hadn’t come back from wherever he’d been and involved Jeannie in a stupid group that was bound to fail.
Fly Fleming expressed the wish he would faint. ‘If I do, just leave me on the floor until it’s all over.’
Others in the audience were on tenterhooks as they waited for the girls to appear; Elaine, a few pupils from Orrell Park Grammar, Alex Connors, and Marcia’s boyfriend, Graham, who rather hoped they’d be dead hopeless and Marcia would at last agree to marry him. All the parents, apart from Kevin McDowd, had been strictly banned and left to worry at home.
The atmosphere in the Taj Mahal was already electric with excitement when the lights went out, and for a while the room was in total darkness, until the rotund figure of Billy Kidd appeared under a single spotlight. Tonight, Billy announced, his club, not for the first time, was at the forefront of the entertainment scene. Not only was there a television camera present, but the audience was in for a rare treat. ‘One of these days you’ll tell your grandkids you were there the night this group first played in public. Ladies and gentlemen . . .’ He paused dramatically. ‘. . . the Flower Girls.’
The spotlight went out and from the darkness came the sound of a piano, just single notes, playing the first lines of an Elvis Presley number, ‘Don’t Be Cruel’.
Then the piano stopped and the lights over the stage came on. For a few seconds, the Flower Girls, in their dazzling red frocks, remained perfectly still; Rita centre stage, holding her guitar, Benny and Marcia behind, heads bent, legs slightly apart, and Jeannie at the side poised over the piano. Then all four looked up, smiled, and the stage exploded into sound.
‘Don’t be cruel, to the one you love,’ Rita sang, while Jeannie’s hands danced over the keys, and the other girls moved together with precise, hypnotic symmetry.