Mothers and Daughters (17 page)

‘Give it a try. We can rehearse some numbers and do something at the gig. What do you play?’

‘The piano, a bit, a few guitar chords and the recorder,’ she said, hoping that might squash this stupid notion. Much as she adored him, she was no Rosa.

‘With your hair down and a long skirt, you’ll look folksy. We can do a few Springfield numbers.’ Marty wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

‘But it’s all other people’s songs. Have you written anything yourself?’ she asked, hoping to knock him off course.

‘Bits and pieces … nothing that would stand up. I’m more a tunes man than lyrics,’ he offered.

‘I have some words. We could see if they matched up,’ she said. ‘But what will the lads say to me coming on board?’

‘They’ll do as they’re told. I’m the gaffer,’ he winked. ‘Lorne will be too stoned to care.’

‘He scares me. Why is he never sober?’

‘Dunno. It’s his life. I guess underneath he’s not so laid-back as he’d like to think.’

‘You mean he’s scared?’

‘Aren’t we all before we go on stage? I could piss for England before a show. It takes guts to put yourself out there. But you’ve got a good voice. It’s got a rich timbre.’

‘What’s timbre?’ she asked, losing herself in those dark eyes.

‘Depth and richness, a throatiness, like Judith Durham. It must be the Greek in you. Have you seen Nana Mouskouri, the one with the glasses? We could pass you off for Greek if it wasn’t for that red hair.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong. This mop is part Cretan. They’re famous for their special red hair. It’s the Minoan goddess in me,’ she laughed, tossing it into his face.

‘I stand corrected. Mam said you were a clever one.’

‘What else did she say?’

‘Nothing much, but told me to look after you.’

‘That was kind but I’m not your little sister, am I?’

She stared him out with all the love she felt for him. ‘Come here, my black-eyed gypsy rover!’ She opened her arms to him and he fell into them. For once the van was empty and they fell back kissing, deeper and deeper. This time there was no holding back on either side and Connie felt the wonder of making love among the rumpled sleeping bags with the sounds of traffic hooting past. This was what she’d wanted the first time she’d ever met him. If it meant singing in front of some student gig, she’d give it a go. What was there to lose?

‘That was your first time,’ Marty sighed as they dozed and lay content, sharing a cigarette like they did in films.

Connie nodded. ‘And I hope it won’t be the last. Come here, I like it.’

‘You know that folk song, “The Gypsy Rover” – why don’t we try that out?’ She set him thinking … try a new angle. They’d got a few weeks’ travelling to get the harmonies right and try it out on students too.

‘Oh, do shut up! The others will be back soon,’ Connie laughed, and he did as he was told.

Joy had never felt so sick, ill or drained of energy. It was a struggle to get out of bed to go to work, get Denny’s breakfast of bacon and eggs, without heaving and retching in the bathroom. No matter what she was feeling he demanded the same routine each morning, one that made her nauseous with just the smell.

All those months she’d starved herself and now she’d give anything to enjoy a square meal, especially one she hadn’t cooked herself.

‘Can’t we go out for tea?’ she’d asked one evening.

‘Not with you looking like a dog’s dinner, all fat and frumpy,’ Denny snorted in her direction. Why did he sneer because she had a little tummy bulge? The pregnancy news had not gone down well at all.

‘Are you sure this sprog is mine?’ he asked when she told him.

It had taken all her strength to stay calm and reply, ‘You took me on our wedding night. I bled … isn’t that enough?’

‘Well, with you orientals you can never be sure.’ He turned over and started to snore, leaving her gasping at his insults.

What had happened to the charming Denny Gregson who wooed her like a princess and married her in such style? Even on their honeymoon in Paris he’d taken her so roughly with no thought for her soreness. She got terrible cramps when she peed and he’d laughed, left her alone in the bedroom, coming back hours later smelling of Gauloise and brandy and someone else’s perfume.

Then came the disastrous mistake on the pitch at the Cup Final. One minute he was King of the Grasshoppers and then … Her heart bled for him as he stared down at his feet, forlorn and lost in the agony of his blunder. She’d wanted to run down onto the pitch and console him, but of course she had to stay put and try to shrug it off when the other wives looked at him with scorn. No wonder he was down in the dumps. She thought her good news would cheer him up but all he could think of was that match.

‘Look, love, it’s only a game. Think of all the times you came good for them and scored in the last five minutes,’ she offered, to no avail.

‘You’re only as good as your last match. Coach was
furious, the lads didn’t speak to me and Dad was shamed in the director’s box. I’ll never live it down.’

She’d tried to comfort him but he preferred his mother’s arms to hers, staying out and drinking late, then coming home foul-mouthed and tetchy. Now he said she must stop work and stay at home. She wasn’t allowed to mix with the other footballers’ wives either.

‘I want you in the house, keeping it spick and span where I can see you. I don’t want them seeing you blowing up like a balloon. It’s bad enough the baby having wog blood in its veins. If it comes out black … it’ll have to go. I’m not having no darkie in my house.’

‘Denny! Why are you saying such things?’ Joy cried, but he just shoved her away roughly. ‘You cheated me. You should’ve told me you were foreign. I knew your mother was a bit iffy but she is a Winstanley.’

‘And so am I! I have a British passport and only a quarter of me is Burmese. My father fought for his country, and my grandfather … You should be proud. Don’t worry, the baby will be white.’

‘I’d better be or else …’

It was like living with a stranger. If she gave up her part-time work, she would be a prisoner in this neat and tidy house with nothing to do but knit matinée coats and bootees.

How she ached for the old days with the Silkies and the bustle of the Waverley. She missed Rosa, who was appearing in Butlins in Yorkshire for the season.
She missed naughty Connie, running off with a rock band. There was one postcard from her in London, saying she was fine and going on to Dover and the Continent. Her departure had left a gap too. There was no one to share her worries with but Mummy, and she didn’t want to get her upset. Mummy thought things were hunky-dory. Even Neville wasn’t around much now. She’d like to learn to drive but Denny said no wife of his was going to bump his Ford Consul.

Here she was, stuck in a cul-de-sac with older couples who kept themselves to themselves. All she had to look forward to was trips to the shops, the doctor’s and the library.

She did listen to the wireless a lot, to
Woman’s
Hour
in the afternoon with her feet up, knitting, and to the afternoon plays. In the off season, Denny was driving for his dad and training part time. She had to be sure his dinner was on the table or there was trouble. He once threw a fish pie across the room because it was lukewarm.

Now she lay in the darkness, feeling the bump growing, the baby snug and warm inside, and she felt such love and pride. She was the first of her gang to be a mother and this baby would have a mummy and daddy, properly married, safe and comfortable. This was what she had always dreamed of and yet … Was this it? Is this what marriage was all about? At eighteen it was feeling more like being in prison, a
life sentence. Where had her nice Denny gone? When would he return? She sighed. Why was nothing ever how you dreamed it would be?

Neville read Connie’s postcard with envy. There she was, sampling the bright lights of London with her gorgeous hunk, making records, hitting the town, and here was he, stuck on the market stall while his dad was at a cricket match for the afternoon. He was bearing the brunt of Grandma’s fury and Mother gloating that she knew that girl would come to a sticky end one day.

‘Mum, she’s lost her mother, she’s all mixed up, have a heart.’

Ivy sniffed and ignored him. ‘That’ll teach Esme to take sides. Now who’s got egg on her face?’

He didn’t understand his mother’s hatred of Su and Ana. It all went back to that B.F.O. with Maria when they were little. His dad was much more reasonable, but then he had secrets of his own. Nev couldn’t wait to find a place of his own away from their bickering and fussing

He’d marked out some possible venues to rent in the
Mercury
, and was reading them when he became aware of a customer hovering. Neville looked up to see an Adonis in blue jeans, smallish, with a mop of brown hair quiffed up, just like the American film star Fabian It was lust at first sight!

Neville felt himself blushing, trying not to stare as
the lad pointed to some embrocation ointment, smiling, raising one eyebrow. ‘It’s not for me, it’s for my nana. She’s got a bad back.’

‘She ought to try the osteopath in Silvergate. I can give you his name.’ Neville was trying to sound professional, but feeling a wally in his white coat.

‘She won’t go. Doesn’t leave the house, not since Grandpa passed away, but thanks.’ He paused. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ The boy eyed him again.

Was that a stare or not? Neville was confused.

‘Not like my gran then. Never in. Gallivanting all over town, given half a chance, and me her chauffeur.’

‘You’ve got a car?’

‘I share it with my Mum: a Triumph Herald.’

‘Nice … Skiffle, that’s where I saw you. You were in a skiffle band that came to our youth club once. It was you, wasn’t it? You were good.’

Neville flushed. ‘That was ages ago and then I managed a girl group – the Silkies, my cousins. It was hard work. They can bitch each other hairless.’

‘Don’t I know it. I’ve got three sisters, yap, yap, yap … So what’re you doing here?’

‘Minding the family fortune until teatime. Dad’s at the cricket club or down at the football. My uncle is the coach there. Not my cup of tea, is sport.’

‘Mine neither. I’m into dramatics.’ The boy paused. ‘We’ve got a big show coming soon:
Annie Get Your
Gun
.’

‘Funny, I did a bit myself. I was in
Romeo and
Juliet
over at the town hall. Did you see it? We did a bit at the Lawns School too.’ He dropped that in to impress.

‘Lucky you. I was at St Vincent’s Secondary and they did nothing like that. I’m junior lead in Annie. You should come and see us. They need young ones in the chorus.’

‘I might well do that but who’ll I be getting an autograph from then?’ He flashed a octane smile in the boy’s direction. ‘I’m Neville Winstanley.’

‘Trevor … Trevor Gilligan.’ Their hands touched briefly as Neville gave him the change.

‘See you around then?’ Was that a promise or an invitation? How could Nev be sure? As Trevor turned to leave, he shouted after him, ‘Get us some tickets then – two, for me and my gran, for the Saturday night. If I’m not here my dad will settle up with you. He owes me big time.’

‘Not your girlfriend then?’

‘You’re a cheeky one.’ Neville couldn’t resist winking.

‘It takes one to know one,’ came the quick riposte from Trevor, whose back view was as good as the front.

Cheeky tart, Neville smiled. Things in Grimbleton had suddenly taken a turn for the better.

After the musical finished, Neville went backstage to see Trevor in his war paint. In his eyes, the boy lit up the stage every time he came on. He was a natural comic with a fine voice, coquettish and confident, and sang in tune, which was more than some of the old souls in the chorus could, creaking cowboys with phoney accents. But it was fun and Gran had enjoyed it too.

‘Fancy a drink somewhere?’ he offered. ‘I can take Gran back while you change.’

‘Sorry, there’s an after-show party so I’ll have to stay on.’

‘That’s OK then,’ Neville replied, disappointed.

‘Wait … look. I’d love to meet up. Tuesday night?’ Trevor offered.

‘You’re on. I’ll borrow the car. We can nip into Manchester. I know a few clubs …’

‘I bet you do.’ Trevor winked. ‘Nothing pervy, though. I’m a good boy.’

‘I’m sure you are but I’m not.’ Neville looked him straight in the eye.

‘That’s what I like to hear. Be seeing you Tuesday then. Can’t wait.’

Neither can I, thought Neville. Wasn’t lust a wonderful thing?

Rosa sat on the hard chair of the agent’s office in Manchester, staring up at the pictures of theatrical stars, now fading from the light of the window: cheeky chappies in funny suits, busty blondes, and
matinée idols with slicked-back hair and David Niven smiles. She had to get herself fixed up for when her stint at Butlins finished: panto, variety acts. The season was short and she didn’t intend going home.

Holiday camps were not like boarding schools, more like POW camps, especially one on the northeast coast of England. It was hard work entertaining babies and grannies, but it got her an equity card and some good experience. There were so many hopefuls wanting work – dancers, singers, comedians, resting actors and a bunch of handsome Red Coats, who took her to see the bright lights of Scarborough and tried to get her into their chalets after lights out. It was hilarious, the tricks they got up to in the dark, but rules were rules and she was Miss Free and Fancy. It was a contract she was after, and the name of a good agent.

Now she was waiting for an appointment in Manchester to see Dilly Sherman of Strauss, Black and Sherman Associates, to whom she’d written years ago. Miss Sherman dealt with stage. Rosa hoped she’d make a good impression.

She pulled out the postcard from Connie with the picture of the Tower of London. She was up for the chop with the Winstanleys since her runaway act. Mamma and Susan were full of her midnight elopement as if it was something terrible.

Good luck to her for taking her chance. Exams weren’t everything, following your dream was, and
at least Maria was keen for her to get into showbusiness. Going off with Marty Gorman and his band was a bit risky, though. She hoped it worked out.

‘Miss Santini?’ A little woman with a frizz of orange hair stared at her sharply. ‘Come inside.’ There was hardly room to squeeze through the pile of files and typewriters to a tiny chair. The room was thick with smoke.

‘I read your letter … bits of this and that … Butlins is a good training ground for working an audience … So what are you after? I can’t promise much up north. Variety is dying on its feet and panto with it. Television is king now. Musicals pull in girls from the stage schools in London. Hmm …’ She puffed on her cigarette. ‘You have classical … jazz and tap, I see … amateur acting. Your voice … can you give me something, a tape?’

Rosa shook her head.

‘What are you, eighteen? … Is this your real name? That explains the Italian looks. Just give me a few lines of a song.’

What on earth could she sing? Rosa felt her throat close over. Deep breaths. She sang the first few lines from an aria from
West Side Story
, giving it as much soul and volume as she could.

‘Fine, in tune, good control … you’ll do.’ Dilly paused and rustled through some papers. ‘Look, to be honest, I’ve nothing for you except Sadie Lane is looking for a new backing group.’

‘Shady who?’ Rosa misheard, and Dilly roared with laughter.

‘Sadie Lane, the band singer.’

‘I thought she was dead,’ Rosa replied.

‘Hardly, dearie. Large as life and twice as big. She did well in the late forties with Anne Shelton, Tessie O’Shea and Dorothy Squires. She’s trying to revive her career in the current climate so it means younger voices and a decent song.’

‘Where would I fit in?’

‘An audition first. She’s very particular – a bit too particular – that’s why the last lot walked out mid-tour. You have to understand she was once near the top of the bill on the variety circuit. Others might retire but not our Sadie. I have her requirements here. You’ll see what I mean.’

She shoved a letter across for Rosa to look at.

‘It’ll be no rose garden but you’ll get some good shows and make contacts. Would you be willing to pad up for the audition? You’re on the petite side. Scrape the curls back and put on fake glasses. She’s as blind as a bat but too vain to wear specs. Sadie is well past her prime but she’s clinging on with the claws of a tiger.