Chapter 13
‘Bye, sweetheart. I’ll meet you tonight at the Victoria. I might be a little late as the dragon’s called a floor meeting.’ Sorcha kissed Con on the cheek.
He grabbed her and pulled her down on top of him.
‘Con! Let me go! It took me hours to style my hair!’
‘Be off with you then to your myriad of smells,’ he said, releasing her. She smiled down at him as she straightened her hair.
‘Don’t forget to buy some milk. I’m late. I’ll have to run all the way down Fitzjohns Avenue.’
‘It’ll keep you fit, Sorcha-porcha.’
‘The cheek from a man still lazing in bed!’ Sorcha headed for the door and opened it. ‘Bye-bye.’
‘Bye, sweetheart.’
The door shut behind Sorcha and Con sat up, crossed his arms behind his head and gazed out of the window. It was a lovely, bright March morning. All around the city daffodils were starting to peep through hedgerows, forcing their golden heads through the dead detritus of winter.
Con reached for his old guitar, which lay on the chair next to the bed. Sitting further upright, he began to strum it.
‘And I have loved you more than . . .’
He played a loud discord and put the guitar back on the chair.
There was no doubt about it, his days with the Blackspots were coming to an end. Sorcha had been right. With Todd Bradley in charge, there was no way he was ever going to get a look-in. He’d presented the man with a number of songs he thought might be suitable for the band to try.
‘Great, Con, I’ll look at them,’ was the usual response. And then, inevitably, they would never be mentioned again.
Con jumped out of bed and began to search for his tin of tobacco. The Blackspots were going nowhere, and the lead singer had a serious case of megalomania.
He could do better. He’d tell them at the gig tonight.
‘God, Con, looks like you’re going to have to help me out this evening.’
Todd was very pale and a scarf was wrapped tightly round his neck. He was knocking back port and lemon in large gulps.
‘Is it the flu?’
‘Yes. Lulu had it last week. I wish I’d given her a bit more sympathy now. It’s painful to talk. I’ll introduce us as usual, then you come forward and sing with me.’
‘Okay.’
‘Derek, can you and Ian put more welly into those backing harmonies? You won’t have Con to rely on tonight.’
‘Sure, man, no hassle,’ Ian said, and nodded in their general direction.
‘What the hell is he on tonight? He looks completely out of it,’ croaked Todd.
Con shrugged. ‘Maybe you should have a word. He’s getting worse. The other night he fell asleep halfway through a number.’
Todd held up his hand. ‘Sure, Con, when I’m up to it. Will you test the sound level on the amps, please?’
‘Yes, Todd. Anything you say, Todd,’ mumbled Con.
Freddy Martin was driving home to his comfortable flat in Belsize Park when he was suddenly beset by the urge for a pint. He pulled off Camden High Street, parked his car up a side alley, bought an evening paper and went into the Victoria Arms.
He ordered his pint, drew up a stool and sat by the bar.
‘Good evening, ladies and gents. Nice to see you here again. Apologies for my cold. Luckily for you, Con has promised to help me out.’
Glancing up at the dais in the corner, Freddy saw it was the regular band, a foursome with a dreadful name whom he remembered as fairly uninspiring. As they began to play their first song, he opened his newspaper and began to read.
‘Con, you’re going to have to take over, mate. I can’t hack it, there’s nothing left,’ stage-whispered Todd dramatically after the third number.
Con nodded.
‘Do you know the words well enough?’
‘Yes, sure I do.’
‘Okay.’ Todd nodded. ‘Begin with “Fields of Glory”.’
‘Good evening, folks. I’ll be taking Todd’s place for the rest of the evening. Our man’s gone down with flu.’
An ‘ah’ came up from the audience. Con nodded at the band. ‘Right, let’s go.’
Freddy was reading that the Cavern Club in Liverpool, the venue where the Beatles had begun, was in danger of being taken over by the Official Receiver. He had played there in the early days and felt a surge of nostalgia for what used to be.
‘Fields of glory, as they march on . . .’
He looked up at the dais as the voice drifted into his consciousness. He was struck by what he saw.
Now that’s what I call a good-looking bloke, thought Freddy, and he can sing.
‘One day we’ll win, oh yes, oh yes, we will.’
‘Sack the lyricist,’ muttered Freddy under his breath. But he was interested enough to put down his paper for the next number.
‘You’re good,’ mumbled Freddy, ‘very good.’
The band had doubtlessly improved since he’d last seen them. This new member seemed to have finally brought some cohesion to the group. The sound was much more polished.
Freddy ordered another pint as the band climbed off the dais at the end of the first set. He was tempted to go over and introduce himself, but decided against it. He was interested, but needed to hear more.
Freddy watched for another half an hour, mulling over the band’s look. He concluded that the boys were all attractive in their own ways. At the end of the day, sex appeal was what sold records in their truckloads.
‘What the hell,’ sighed Freddy. He’d been bored out of his mind in the past six months. He needed a challenge.
Slipping off the bar stool, he went over to say hello.
‘Hi, chaps, caught the act. Enjoyed it.’
‘Thanks,’ croaked Todd, bent over an amplifier with his back to Freddy. ‘Not the best night to catch us, though. I’ve got the flu and—’ Todd stood up and turned around, his face flushed with exertion. Before him was a tall man with a chiselled jaw and a blond side parting. His suit was immaculate.
‘I . . . er . . . Good evening, Mr Martin,’ he stuttered.
‘Listen, Todd, isn’t it?’
‘I . . . yes.’
‘Here’s my card. Give me a bell and let’s meet up. I’d like to have a chat with you. Don’t leave it too long, okay.’
‘Okay, Mr Martin.’
‘Right. See you, lads. Thanks for the music.’
Freddy Martin waved a hand in their general direction and made his way out of the pub. All four band members stared after him.
‘Bloody hell.’
‘Bugger me.’
‘I’ll be blowed.’
‘Would someone tell me who your man was?’ said Con in confusion.
‘That, Con, was Freddy Martin. He was a huge rock-and-roller in the fifties, always at number one. I mean, his music’s gone out of fashion nowadays, but blimey, I have his entire single collection up in the attic.’ Derek was awed.
‘So, he was a well-known singer.’ Con glanced at Ian and Todd, who were looking as impressed as Derek.
‘Con, he’s now a manager. He was the guy who discovered The Tin Men. He launched them.’
‘Apparently there was some heavy disagreement and they disbanded six months ago,’ Derek continued.
Todd sneezed and pulled out a well-used hanky. ‘Excuse me. Anyway, maybe Freddy is looking for a new group to manage. I tell you, that guy knows everybody in the music business.’
Derek had begun hopping up and down with excitement.
‘Hey, chaps, this could be it, this could be the big one. Who’s for a drink?’
‘Todd, I need to go home.’ Lulu’s voice cut into the excitement. ‘I’m shooting at Elstree tomorrow and I have to be there for six.’ She rose imperiously from her seat.
‘Sure, Lulu. Listen, chaps, I’ll love you and leave you. I’ve got to go home and nurse this flu. I’ll call Freddy Martin tomorrow morning. I’ll be in touch with you all when I’ve spoken to him.’
Todd and Lulu left and Derek went to get some drinks from the bar. Sorcha squeezed Con’s hand as he sat down next to her.
‘You were grand up there,’ she whispered. ‘No wonder Freddy Martin thought the band was good.’
‘Thanks.’ Con kissed her. ‘Back into the ranks tomorrow, of course. Ah, Derek, good man yourself.’ Con looked up as his bandmate put the drinks on the table.
‘Well, here’s to Todd Bradley and the Blackspots. Let’s hope this time next year that name will be on everybody’s tongue.’ Derek raised his glass.
‘I’ll drink to that.’
‘The first thing that has to go is the band name. It’s awful. Coffee, anyone?’
Freddy looked around at the four young men sitting nervously in his spacious sitting room. They all nodded. Freddy poured the steaming black liquid into four china cups.
‘Help yourself to milk and sugar. The point is, you have to have a short, sharp name that’s easily remembered. Anyway, that’s something we can put our thinking caps on about if we decide we’re going to work together. Who writes the songs?’
‘I do.’ Todd sat up, ready for praise.
‘I’m going to be brutally honest with you, Todd, from what I heard a couple of evenings ago, they’re not quite hitting the mark. The melody lines are unusual, which I think is a positive . . . but your lyrics stink. Does anyone else in the band write?’
‘I do,’ Derek put in.
‘Fine. Let me have a look at your stuff.’
‘And I do,’ said Con quietly.
‘Great. Ditto for you, Con. Ideally, you’ll write your own material. It makes life much simpler and gives you a definitive sound. We can employ a songwriter if needs be, but let me see what you can come up with first.’
Con shot a glance at Todd. His face was red with humiliation.
‘Now, as for your image . . . or rather lack of it . . .’ chuckled Freddy. ‘You’re all good-looking boys but you’re not doing yourselves justice. I’d consider new haircuts and fresh wardrobes an absolute essential before we let you out in public again.’
The four boys silently sipped their coffee. Eventually, Con spoke.
‘Mr Martin, I’m not wishing to be rude, but you don’t like our name, our music, our hair or our clothes. Would you be so kind as to tell us what you do like?’