She said: ‘You used to be this cute little kid I liked to talk to. None of the girls even wanted to kiss you. Then you joined a group and turned into the coolest boy in school, and they all envied me. Now you’ll be famous and I’ll lose you.’
He thought she wanted him to say that he would be faithful to her, no matter what, and he was tempted to swear undying love; but he held back. He really liked her, but he was not yet sixteen, and he knew he was too young to be tied down. However, he did not want to hurt her feelings, so he said: ‘Let’s just see what happens, okay?’
He saw the disappointment on her face, though she covered it up quickly. ‘Good idea,’ she said. She dried her tears, then they went down to the kitchen and had tea and chocolate biscuits until her mother came home.
When he got back to Great Peter Street, there was no sign of anything unusual, so he deduced that the school had not telephoned his parents. No doubt None Above would prefer to write a letter. That gave Dave a day of grace.
He said nothing to his parents until the following morning. His father left at eight. Then Dave spoke to his mother. ‘I’m not going to school,’ he said.
She did not fly off the handle. ‘Try to understand the journey that your father has made,’ she said. ‘He was illegitimate, as you know. His mother worked in a sweat shop in the East End, before she went into politics. His grandfather was a coal miner. Yet your father went to one of the world’s great universities, and by the time he was thirty-one he was a minister in the British government.’
‘But I’m different!’
‘Of course you are, but to him it looks as if you just want to throw away everything he and his parents and grandparents have achieved.’
‘I have to live my own life.’
‘I know.’
‘I’ve left school. I had a row with old None Above. You’ll probably get a letter from him today.’
‘Oh, dear. Your father will find that hard to forgive.’
‘I know. I’m leaving home, too.’
She began to cry. ‘Where will you go?’
Dave felt tearful, too, but he kept control. ‘I’ll stay at the YMCA for a few days then get a flat with Walli.’
She put a hand on his arm. ‘Just don’t be angry with your father. He loves you so much.’
‘I’m not angry,’ said Dave, though he was, really. ‘I’m just not going to be held back by him, that’s all.’
‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘You’re as wild as I was, and just as pig-headed.’
Dave was surprised. He knew she had made an unhappy first marriage, but all the same, he could not imagine his mother being wild.
She added: ‘I hope your mistakes won’t be as bad as mine.’
As he was leaving, she gave him all the money in her purse.
Walli was waiting in the hall. They left the house carrying their guitars. As soon as they were outside in the street all feelings of regret vanished, and Dave began to feel both excited and apprehensive. He was going to be on television! But he had gambled everything. He felt a little dizzy every time he remembered that he had left home and school.
They got the Tube to Euston. Dave had to ensure the television appearance was a success. This was paramount. If the record did not sell, he thought fearfully, and Plum Nellie was a failure, what then? He might have to wash glasses at the Jump Club, like Walli.
What could he do that would make people buy the record?
He had no idea.
Eric Chapman was waiting at the railway station in a pinstriped suit. Buzz, Lew and Lenny were already there. They loaded their guitars on to the train. The drums were going separately, being driven in a van to Birmingham by Larry Grant; but no one would trust him with the precious guitars.
On the train, Dave said to Eric: ‘Thanks for buying our tickets.’
‘Don’t thank me. The cost will be deducted from your fee.’
‘So . . . the television company will pay our fee to you?’
‘Yes, and I’ll deduct twenty-five per cent, plus expenses, and pay you the rest.’
‘Why?’ said Dave.
‘Because I’m your manager, that’s why.’
‘Are you? I didn’t know.’
‘Well, you signed the contract.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes. I wouldn’t have recorded you otherwise. Do I look like a charity worker?’
‘Oh – that piece of paper we signed before the audition?’
‘Yes.’
‘She said it was for insurance.’
‘Among other things.’
Dave had a feeling that he had been tricked.
Lenny said: ‘The show’s on Saturday, Eric. How come we’re going on a Thursday?’
‘Most of it’s pre-recorded. Just one or two of the acts perform live on the day.’
Dave was surprised. The show gave the impression of a fun party full of kids dancing and having a great time. He said: ‘Will there be an audience?’
‘Not today. You’ve got to pretend you’re singing to a thousand screaming girls all wetting their knickers for you.’
Buzz, the bass player, said: ‘That’s easy. I’ve been performing for imaginary girls since I was thirteen.’
It was a joke, but Eric said: ‘No, he’s right. Look at the camera and picture the prettiest girl you know standing right there taking her bra off. I promise you, it will put just the right sort of smile on your face.’
Dave realized he was smiling already. Maybe Eric’s trick worked.
They reached the studio at one. It was not very smart. Much of it was dingy, like a factory. The parts that appeared on camera had a tawdry glamour, but everything out of shot was scuffed and grubby. Busy people walked around ignoring Plum Nellie. Dave felt as though everyone knew he was a beginner.
A group called Billy and the Kids was on stage when they arrived. A record was playing loudly, and they were singing and playing along, but they had no microphones and their guitars were not plugged in. Dave knew, from his friends, that most viewers did not realize the acts were miming, and he wondered how people could be so dumb.
Lenny was scornful of the jolly Billy and the Kids record, but Dave was impressed. They smiled and gestured to the non-existent audience, and when the song came to an end, they bowed and waved as if acknowledging gales of applause. Then they did the whole thing all over again, with no less energy and charm. That was the professional way, Dave realized.
Plum Nellie’s dressing room was large and clean, with big mirrors surrounded by Hollywood lights, and a fridge full of soft drinks. ‘This is better than what we’re used to,’ said Lenny. ‘There’s even toilet roll in the bog!’
Dave put on his red shirt, then went back to watch the filming. Mickie McFee was performing now. She had had a string of hits in the fifties and was making a comeback. She was at least thirty, Dave guessed, but she looked sexy in a pink sweater stretched tight across her breasts. She had a great voice. She did a soul ballad called ‘It Hurts too Much’, and she sounded like a black girl. What must it be like, Dave wondered, to have so much confidence? He was so anxious he felt as if his stomach was full of worms.
The cameramen and technicians liked Mickie – they were mostly the older generation – and they clapped when she finished.
She came down off the stage and saw Dave. ‘Hello, kid,’ she said.
‘You were great,’ Dave said, and introduced himself.
She asked him about the group. He was telling her about Hamburg when they were interrupted by a man in an Argyle sweater. ‘Plum Nellie on stage, please,’ the man said in a soft voice. ‘Sorry to butt in, Mickie, darling.’ He turned to Dave. ‘I’m Kelly Jones, producer.’ He looked Dave up and down. ‘You look fab. Get your guitar.’ He turned back to Mickie. ‘You can eat him up later.’
She protested: ‘Give a girl a chance to play hard to get.’
‘That’ll be the day, duckie.’
Mickie waved a goodbye and disappeared.
Dave wondered whether they had meant a single word they had said.
He had little time to think about it. The group got on stage and were shown their places. As usual, Lenny turned up his shirt collar, the way Elvis did. Dave told himself not to be nervous: he would be miming, so he didn’t even have to play the song right! Then they were into it and Walli was fingering the introduction as the record began.
Dave looked at the rows of empty seats and imagined Mickie McFee pulling the pink sweater off over her head to reveal a black brassiere. He grinned happily into the camera and sang the harmony.
The record was two minutes long, but it seemed to be over in five seconds.
He expected to be asked to do it again. They all waited on stage. Kelly Jones was talking earnestly to Eric. After a minute they both came over to the group. Eric said: ‘Technical problem, lads.’
Dave feared there was something wrong with their performance, and the television appearance might be cancelled.
Lenny said: ‘What technical problem?’
Eric said: ‘It’s you, Lenny, I’m sorry.’
‘What are you talking about?’