Chapter 11
‘Okay, guys, let’s try it. On the count of four.’
The four members of Todd Bradley and the Blackspots began to play.
The draughty, deserted warehouse with its magnificent view of Tower Bridge echoed to the sound of Todd’s latest composition.
Con plucked along on his bass, coming in with Ian the drummer and Derek for the harmonies as Todd provided the lead vocal.
‘Stop!’ Todd put his hand up. ‘You’re all coming in a beat too late on the ah, ahs. And soften it a little. You’re drowning me, boys. Let’s go again.’
An hour and a half later, Ian lit a joint and offered it around.
‘So,’ Todd said as he took a drag and passed it to Derek, who inhaled too much and began to cough. ‘Are we all fit for tomorrow night?’
‘Sure, yeah.’ There was a general nodding of heads.
‘Good. We’ll meet at seven to set up.’
‘I’ve called the A and R guy at Pirate Records,’ interjected Derek. ‘You never know, he might show.’
‘Hey, man, you always call him before our gigs and he never turns up,’ smiled Ian affably.
‘One day he might. You never know who’s in the audience,’ Derek answered defensively. ‘I do my best, you know.’
‘We know you do.’ Todd checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to fly. I’m meeting Lulu in half an hour. See you guys tomorrow.’
Con and Derek helped Ian pack up his drum kit and carry it to the ancient van used as the band’s ‘wheels’.
‘Man, I wish we had a permanent base. Shifting this stuff is wearing me out.’
‘One day we’ll have our own studio, Ian. You wait and see,’ said Derek.
‘And Harold Wilson will be stoned in the Houses of Parliament,’ quipped Ian. ‘I’m off. There’s a party in Soho tonight. You guys want to come? There’ll be chicks and a lot of good gear.’
Con and Derek shook their heads. Ian shrugged. ‘Suit yourselves. I’d give you a lift but there’s no room. See you tomorrow.’
‘Yeah, and this time don’t forget where, Ian.’
After several attempts to start the van, Ian waved and chugged off down the street. Con and Derek followed him and turned right to walk over Tower Bridge.
‘Smoke?’ Derek offered a packet.
‘Cheers.’ Con took an Embassy out of the packet and both men lit up.
‘What are you doing for Christmas?’
‘Staying at home with Sorcha. You?’
‘Oh, I have to keep my mum happy and spend it with her,’ said Derek with a shrug. ‘I’m all she has. You know what families are like.’
Con didn’t reply.
‘So, you’ve been with the band almost a month now. What do you think of us?’
‘I think you’re all grand,’ said Con generously.
‘I’m not asking about personnel. I want to know what you think of the sound.’
‘Well now, I think Ian’s a fierce good drummer when he’s not whacked out of his head. Todd can write . . . interesting songs, and you’re more than a bit nifty on the rhythm guitar. How’s that?’
‘It’s a cop-out, Con, that’s what it is. I know the problems we have. We don’t have a strong enough identity. We’re like a thousand other groups all trying to be the Beatles or the Stones. Yet the reason those two bands are doing so bloody well is that they are different.’
The pair reached the other side of Tower Bridge.
‘Listen, fancy a bevvy, Con?’ asked Derek.
‘Ah, sure, I’d love to but I can’t. I have to meet Sorcha from work in twenty minutes and Piccadilly’s a fair walk from here, so it is.’
‘Okay.’ Derek shrugged. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow evening. Bye.’
Con watched him as he walked off. There was something sad about Derek, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was. Con turned and began to walk quickly in the direction of Piccadilly Circus.
She was already waiting for him in their usual coffee place in Archer Street.
‘Hello, beautiful.’ He kissed her and sat up at the bar next to her. ‘Good day?’
‘Not bad. It’s fierce busy with all the Christmas shoppers. We’ve had to employ two extra girls to help out. What about you?’
Con took out his tobacco tin and began to roll up a cigarette.
‘Ah, ’tis fine.’
‘Did you play Todd your new song? You said you were going to?’
Con took a drag of his cigarette. ‘I know I did, but I feel like I’m treading on his toes. He writes the songs for the band and that’s the way he wants it to stay.’
Sorcha brushed a piece of lint off Con’s collar. ‘Well, did you at least ask if you could have a number to sing? He couldn’t begrudge you one song, surely?’
‘Thanks,’ Con said as the waitress passed him his cappuccino.
‘Well now, I reckon he might. He has a mighty big ego. Ah, Sorcha, let’s leave it until after the festive season.
We have ten gigs in the next two weeks. That’ll mean some extra money to see us through for a while.
I don’t want to jeopardise that by stirring things up.
Besides’ – he kissed her on the nose – ‘’tis the season of goodwill to all men, and that includes egotistical singers, stoned drummers and short rhythm guitarists. ’
‘Fine, I’ll let it be. As a matter of fact, I have some good news of my own.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘One of the girls who works in gloves and handbags knows of a bedsit in her house in Hampstead that’s empty. ’Twould be a fair bit more than we’re paying, but the roof doesn’t leak and Bridget says it’s quite spacious.’
‘How much more?’
Sorcha pursed her lips. ‘With my Christmas bonus, we could afford the deposit. Okay, it’ll mean having to cut back on extras, but can you imagine having a nice comfortable room? Could we at least go and see it, Con, please?’
Con kissed her cheek. ‘Of course, Sorcha-porcha, whatever you say.’
They moved into the bedsit in Arkwright Road three days before Christmas. It consisted of a large, newly decorated airy room which opened onto a small kitchenette.
Sorcha had four days’ leave from work, and they spent the Christmas break settling in.
On Christmas Eve, Sorcha received a Christmas card with three pounds in it from her mother.
With that, she went shopping in Berwick Street market just as the stallholders were packing up, and managed to buy a small tree, a turkey and a big spray of holly.
While Con was out at his gig, Sorcha busied herself making the room festive.
She stuffed the turkey and peeled the vegetables ready for the following day, then hummed along to the carols on the radio as she wrapped Con’s present: an expensive aftershave she’d bought at Swan and Edgar’s with her staff discount.
‘Silent night, holy night.’ Sorcha placed Con’s present under the tree, then went to the window and opened the curtains. The night was still and crisp, with hardly a breeze blowing.
The bells on the radio rang out to herald the arrival of midnight.
‘Merry Christmas, Mammy,’ she murmured.
The following morning, Con and Sorcha exchanged their presents. Sorcha opened a velvet box. Inside was a ring. Sorcha held it up to the light and saw how the small emerald sparkled in its cluster of diamonds.
‘Con, ’tis beautiful,’ she breathed. ‘However did you afford it?’
‘You’re not to concern yourself with that. I’ve been well paid in the last week.’ Con knelt beside her, reaching for the ring and the third finger of her left hand. He slid it on. ‘There. It’s a little large, but the man in the jeweller’s said he could alter it.’
She looked up at him, her eyes shining. ‘Is this meant to be . . .?’
‘Yes. An engagement ring. I only wish ’twas a wedding ring I was placing there. As soon as I’ve earned enough money to give you the day you deserve, I promise I’ll be meeting you in front of the altar.’
Sorcha kissed him. ‘I love you, Con. And this ring means the world to me.’
Later, after a good dinner, a few too many whiskeys and a walk over the heath, Sorcha snuggled up to Con contentedly.
‘It’s been a grand Christmas Day, just the two of us in our new home,’ she said.
‘You didn’t think back to Christmases in Ballymore?’
‘A little. Did you?’
‘No, Sorcha, I didn’t. My daddy would get so wrecked on whiskey on Christmas Eve that most times he’d not be out of bed until the afternoon and then he’d sulk because the bars were shut on Christmas night,’ Con chuckled.
‘Well, now you have me, and I’m your family. And I promise I’ll never leave you or hurt you, ever.’
He stroked her hair gently. ‘And I promise that one day I’ll make you proud of me.’
‘I know you will, Con, I know it.’