*
‘Are you ready for some good news?’ said Eric Chapman over the phone to Dave Williams a month later. ‘You’re going to Birmingham.’
At first Dave did not know what he meant. ‘Why?’ he said. Birmingham was an industrial city 120 miles north of London. ‘What’s in Birmingham?’
‘The television studio where they make It’s Fab!, you idiot.’
‘Oh!’ Dave suddenly felt breathless with excitement. Eric was talking about a popular show that featured pop groups miming to their records. ‘Are we on it?’
‘Of course you are! “Love Is It” will be their Hot Tip for the week.’
The record had been out five days. It had been played on the BBC Light Programme once, and several times on Radio Luxembourg. To Dave’s surprise, Eric did not know how many copies had actually been bought: the record business was not that good at tracking sales.
Eric had released the version with Paulo on the piano. Lenny had pretended not to notice.
Eric treated Dave as the leader of the group, despite what Lenny had told him. Now he said: ‘Have you got decent outfits to wear?’
‘We normally wear red shirts and black jeans.’
‘It’s black-and-white television, so that’ll probably look fine. Make sure you all wash your hair.’
‘When are we going?’
‘Day after tomorrow.’
‘I’ll have to get off school,’ Dave said worriedly. ‘There might be trouble about that.’
‘You may have to leave school, Dave.’
Dave gulped. He wondered if that was true.
Eric finished: ‘Meet me at Euston Station at ten in the morning. I’ll have your tickets.’
Dave hung up the phone and stared at it. He was going to be on It’s Fab!.
It was beginning to look as if he might actually make a living by singing and playing the guitar. As that prospect came to seem more real, his dread of the alternatives grew. What a comedown it would be now, if he had to get a regular job after all.
He called the rest of the group immediately, but he decided not to tell his family until afterwards. There was too much risk that his father would try to stop him going.
He kept the exciting secret to himself all evening. Next day at lunchtime, he asked to see the head teacher, old None Above.
Dave felt intimidated in the headmaster’s study. In his early days at school he had been caned in this office several times for such offences as running in the corridor.
He explained the situation and pretended that there had not been time to get a note from his father.
‘It seems to me you have to choose between getting a decent education and becoming a pop singer,’ said Mr Furbelow, pronouncing the words ‘pop singer’ with a grimace of distaste. He looked as if he had been asked to eat a can of cold dog food.
Dave thought of saying Actually, my ambition is to become a prostitute’s minder, but Furbelow’s sense of humour was as scant as his hair. ‘You told my father I’m going to fail all my exams and be thrown out of the school.’
‘If your work does not improve rapidly, and if you consequently fail to gain any O-level qualifications, you will not be admitted to the sixth form,’ the head said with prissy exactness. ‘All the more reason why you may not take days off school to appear on trashy television programmes.’
Dave thought of arguing about ‘trashy’ and decided it was a lost cause. ‘I thought you might regard a trip to a television studio as an educational experience,’ he said reasonably.
‘No. There is far too much talk nowadays about educational “experiences”. Education takes place in the classroom.’
Despite Furbelow’s mulish obstinacy, Dave continued to try to reason with him. ‘I’d like to have a career in music.’
‘But you don’t even belong to the school orchestra.’
‘They don’t use any instruments invented in the last hundred years.’
‘And all the better for it.’
Dave was finding it harder and harder to keep his temper. ‘I play the electric guitar quite well.’
‘I don’t call that a musical instrument.’
Against his better judgement, Dave allowed his voice to rise in a challenge. ‘What is it, then?’
Furbelow’s chin lifted and he looked superior. ‘More a sort of nigger noise-maker.’
For a moment, Dave was silenced. Then he lost his cool. ‘This is just wilful ignorance!’ he said.
‘Don’t you dare speak to me like that.’
‘Not only are you ignorant, you’re racist!’
Furbelow stood up. ‘Get out this instant.’
‘You think it’s all right for you to come out with your crude prejudices, just because you’re the burned-out head of a school for rich kids!’
‘Be silent!’
‘Never,’ said Dave, and he left the room.
In the corridor outside the head’s study, it occurred to him that he could not now go to class.
A moment later, he realized he could not stay in the school.
He had not planned this, but in a moment of madness he had, in fact, left school.
So be it, he thought; and he left the building.
He went to a café nearby and ordered egg and chips. He had burned his boats. After he had called the head ignorant, burned-out and racist, they would not have him back, no matter what. He felt scared as well as liberated.
But he did not regret what he had done. He had a chance of becoming a pop star – and the school had wanted him to let it slip by!
Ironically, he was at a loss to know what to do with his new-found freedom. He wandered around the streets for a couple of hours then returned to the school gates to wait for Linda Robertson.
He walked her home after school. Naturally, the whole class had noticed his absence, but the teachers had said nothing. When Dave told her what had happened, she was awestruck. ‘So you’re going to Birmingham anyway?’
‘You bet.’
‘You’ll have to leave school.’
‘I’ve left.’
‘What will you do?’
‘If the record is a hit, I’ll be able to afford to get a flat with Walli.’
‘Wow. And if it’s not?’
‘Then I’m in trouble.’
She invited him in. Her parents were out, so they went to her bedroom, as they had done before. They kissed, and she let him feel her breasts; but he could tell she was troubled. ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.
‘You’re going to be a star,’ she said. ‘I know it.’
‘Aren’t you glad?’
‘You’ll be mobbed by dolly-birds who will let you go all the way.’
‘I hope so!’
She burst into tears.
‘I was kidding,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry!’