16
It was good stuff, but after only half an hour, and mindful of Elizabeth’s promptings, she began to steer the general conversation in the direction she wanted.
‘I’ve listened to all the Lucky Cuckoos’ music, as you can imagine, and the one thing that strikes me the most is the quality of the song’s lyrics,’ she began artlessly. ‘I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but some of the hit songs from that period could be a bit . . .’
She hesitated deliberately, and Caroline, with a laugh, obligingly stepped in to save her blushes.
‘Basic, should we say? Formulaic? Na?ve and maybe lacking in finesse? Yes, I know what you mean – but there was a lot of good stuff written as well, and you’re right, the Lucky Cuckoos’ songs all have something, in their different way, don’t they? ’
She paused and saw that Caroline was watching her with a rather impressed smile. ‘Go on,’ she urged.
Lyssa nodded. ‘All right. “Lying Lips” was their next hit and was all about the lies lovers told to one another to make their relationship work. And again, that struck me as a rather sophisticated theme for a catchy pop song. And seemed almost too sensitive to have been written by a man. But it was their third hit, and their only number one, that began to really make me wonder. “The Frightened Heart” was a cry from the soul, wasn’t it?
The fear of losing love – no wonder it was their biggest hit.
It goes straight for the jugular, doesn’t it?
It really gets to you. And Glen’s haunting melody just gives it that extra punch. ’
Caroline smiled. ‘Of course, you’re a writer yourself, and have a degree in Literature, I take it?’
Lyssa nodded.
‘So, you would see it whereas others might not.’ The older woman nodded her head and gave a slightly sad, wry smile. ‘None of their fans did latch on to it, you know. That Monty wrote all their lyrics, I mean,’ she stated boldly.
Lyssa felt a small wave of exultation sweep over her. So, Elizabeth was right.
‘And the other hits, as you say, were just extensions of Monty and Glen’s feelings for each other,’ Caroline went on.
‘“Where It Hurts” and the next one, “Going Nowhere”, mirrored the times when their love affair hit rough patches. “Rocks that Roll” was a reference to Monty’s growing disillusionment with the drug scene, and it barely squeaked into the top twenty.
And their final hit, “Take it All”, was bitter and sad in equal measure.
I often wonder, when I listen to that song, if she might not have had some premonition that things weren’t going to end well for them.
And they didn’t, did they? For Glen, for her, for any of them. ’
She sighed heavily. ‘It really hit Uncle hard, how things turned out, but it was Monty’s death that really broke him.’
‘Yes, I gather they were close,’ Lyssa said sympathetically. ‘She brought him and the band together, didn’t she?’
‘Yes. They were great friends – oh, not in any way romantically, I mean. He was older and just a very nice man, and I don’t think Monty really knew many properly nice, decent men. He was like a father figure to her, or a favourite uncle, you know?’
Mentally crossing her fingers, Lyssa said casually, ‘How do you know Monty wrote the songs? Did your uncle tell you as much?’
‘Sure – it was no real secret – not between the few of us who were closest to the band anyway.’
‘But on the record label, it lists only Glen as the songwriter. I’m surprised she didn’t demand equal billing.’
Caroline laughed. ‘Well, back then, women never got the credit for anything, did they? And Uncle said Monty didn’t really care – she didn’t need the royalties, did she, being so wealthy already.
And she really did love Glen with a passion and was happy for him to get the kudos.
And as things stood, with the press being so anti-Monty, it wouldn’t have been in anyone’s interests to come out with the truth, would it? ’ she added, a shade cynically.
‘They were afraid it might affect the record sales, you mean?’ Lyssa said, sadly shaking her head.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘So there’s no written evidence that proves Monty actually wrote the lyrics?’ Lyssa asked, already beginning to feel sad and disappointed for her client.
‘Nothing official, no,’ Caroline said. ‘No contracts, or copyright papers or anything like that. But there are the letters. I know it was mentioned in quite a few of them, because I remember reading them after Uncle died, and I had to go through his papers.’
‘Letters?’ Lyssa asked, her heart beginning to bang in her chest. ‘What letters?’
‘Between Monty and Uncle. She was a great letter-writer, was Monty. Whenever she was away on holiday (and they holidayed a lot!) she would write Uncle these long, chatty letters. All about where they were, and the people, and the exotic wildlife and all that kind of thing. And I know that she would also mention stuff about how well – or otherwise – a particular song was shaping up, and how she’d just thought of this perfect line for something or was struggling to find a rhyme with something else. ’
Lyssa felt her throat go dry. ‘Did you keep these letters?’ she asked, half fearfully, half hopefully.
‘Oh yes. I have them, and all sorts of other stuff of Uncle’s lodged with my solicitor.
I know those glory days are long gone, but I’ve never quite been able to bring myself to throw them away.
I kept thinking I should donate them to a rock ’n’ roll museum or private collection, or something.
And now, from the look on your face, it looks as if my hopeless sentimentality is going to pay off! ’ she said, with another happy laugh.
‘You have no idea how . . . Oh blast, I thought I’d turned that off,’ Lyssa said, as her mobile phone trilled annoyingly in her bag. ‘Sorry about this, I’ll call whoever it is back later.’
‘Oh, go ahead and answer it. It might be important,’ Caroline said. ‘I’ll make some fresh coffee – my throat is getting rather dry anyway.’
As she got up to head to the kitchen, Lyssa checked the caller ID and saw that it was Monica Farley, Ron ‘Racey’ Joiner’s widow, and answered it. ‘Hello, Monica. How are things?’
She heard Monica’s familiar and slightly boozy laugh echo back down the line at her. ‘Funny, that’s just what I was about to ask you. How’s the book going? Making any progress?’
‘Yes, actually, and I have to thank you for some of that,’ Lyssa said, imagining Monica leaning back on her sofa and drinking wine spritzers or whatever was her tipple of the moment.
‘That tip you gave me about Luke Raines’ niece has just paid off in spades.
I tracked her down to Woodstock of all places, almost right on my doorstep, and what she’s been telling me is pure gold! ’
‘I’m so glad to hear it. You’ll have to buy a bottle of champagne to celebrate.’
Lyssa, who wouldn’t be buying any champagne soon (but could maybe stretch to a bottle of Prosecco) grinned. ‘I might just do that,’ she fibbed. ‘It turns out that it was Monty who wrote the lyrics for the Lucky Cuckoos, which is going to make my client’s day.’
‘I bet it will,’ Monica agreed. ‘You know, I’m not all that surprised, now I come to think of it. None of the lads were really poets, if you know what I mean?’
‘I’m sorry, but I can’t talk for long. I’m in the middle of the interview now,’ Lyssa apologised.
‘Say no more – and good luck!’ Monica said and rang off.
As, over in Woodstock, Caroline returned with fresh coffee, in her own home Monica hung up and looked across at the woman lounging opposite her.
Jennifer eyed her mother balefully. ‘So? What’s she up to, then?’
‘Don’t be such a drama queen, Jen. I told you – she’s writing a book, which we already know.’
‘Yes, but what is it that she’s writing, Mother? That’s what matters. But obviously you couldn’t care less about it, which is typical of you. Just tell me the latest.’
Monica sighed heavily, but her eyes as she regarded her only child were wary and unhappy. ‘She’s talking to the niece of Luke Raines, in a place called Woodstock – which isn’t far from Oxford, apparently.’
‘Why?’ Jennifer demanded. ‘Luke Raines died ages ago.’
Monica shrugged. ‘He was the band’s manager, so I daresay she’s after any memorabilia she might have kept or titbits that she might be willing to share.’
‘Such as what?’
Monica shook her head wearily. ‘Jen, I do wish you’d let all this go.
It’s not healthy, this obsession that you have with your father’s memory and his so-called legacy.
I keep telling you that. You live your life in the past, and it wasn’t even your past, not really. Why can’t you make the most of—’
‘I don’t want any book coming out that bad-mouths Daddy, that’s all.’ Jennifer ruthlessly cut across the lecture that she’d heard from her mother many times before. ‘Now what were you saying she needed to celebrate?’
‘Apparently, it turns out that Monty helped write the songs. It wasn’t all down to Glen, even though . . .’
‘What?’ Jennifer spat out, launching herself abruptly on to her feet. ‘That’s a damned lie – it was Daddy who helped Glen write the songs. He always said so,’ she hissed.
Monica’s temper flashed as her patience finally ran out.
‘Oh, Jen, do grow up! Do you really think your father was capable of writing anything, let alone a hit song? He could barely put a sentence together. And even if that wasn’t the case, and he had managed to cobble together a line or two, do you really think your father wouldn’t have demanded his share of the royalties and made sure that he got all the credit coming to him?
Because if so, you didn’t know him, like I did.
He was as vain as a peacock. Oh Jen,’ she said, on seeing the stricken look on her face.
‘Your father wasn’t the saint you’ve made him out to be in your head. Don’t you see . . . ?’