Georgia (40 page)

Even if you have no further interest in me, please write back and tell me if Celia managed to find you? I kept in touch with her up till last Christmas, then gradually she stopped writing. She went to Africa to nurse, moving on several times. I guessed she stopped because she felt it was unhealthy for us both, but it has occurred to me she may now be reunited with you and you stopped her.

Please let me know how things are with you. I won’t pester you, or bring back unwelcome reminders. I just need to know you are happy. Of course I’d like to think that you still hold a small torch for me, but I’m realistic if nothing else. I’m so sorry about your friends, it was a terrible tragedy. God bless you.

My love Peter’

There was a depth of passion in this letter that disturbed Max. Whoever this man was he came from a time before Georgia joined the band.

‘A childhood sweetheart?’ he mused. ‘And who is this Celia?’

Georgia had always been evasive about her past. The way she spoke, her education all hinted at a good home. Yet girls who came from good homes didn’t normally turn their backs on them.

‘After what happened!’ Max skimmed through the letter again. ‘What could have happened?’

Could she have been in trouble for seeing this boy? But if so who was Celia? An older sister? An aunt?

Max pondered for some time. If he showed this to Georgia now, in her already disturbed state she might do anything. If she’d hidden from this young man once, she might have good reason to bolt again. Just a glance at the content of the letter and the bold handwriting was enough to know this wasn’t some dim, uneducated lout. She was getting ideas above her station already; aided and abetted by intelligent friends she could break away from Max altogether.

He got up and went over to a typewriter on a small table. Taking a plain sheet of paper out of the drawer he inserted it, sat down and began to type.

‘Dear Mr Radcliffe,

Miss James thanks you for your letter and has asked me to reply for her.

Although she appreciates your concern, she feels she has nothing further to say to you. Her career as a singer is all important to her and leaves no time for socializing. She wishes me to assure you she is well and happy in her chosen career, and sincerely hopes you are too.

Yours sincerely,

Deirdre Richards.

P.P. Georgia James.

Max pulled the letter out of the machine, signed it with a flourish, folded it and put it in an envelope.

‘Maybe that will dent his pride enough to leave her alone,’ he said to himself. He picked up Peter’s letter, screwed it up and tossed it into the bin.

The Marquee club seen by daylight had little to recommend it. A tiny stage, a plain wooden floor, the only seating further back in a cavern-like room by the bar. But then the people who flocked to the Marquee came to hear music, and they knew this club could be relied on to have the best.

Norman played ‘No time’ through alone.

Georgia stood back in the shadows by the bar listening. She and Norman were alone now. The equipment was ready on the stage for tonight’s gig, the rest of the boys were out getting sandwiches. A tingle ran down her spine, a rush of affection for Norman as she watched him crouched over his keyboard. This wasn’t something he was playing under duress. He was putting his heart and soul into it, and it was good.

It cried out for strings, a full orchestra, but already it was a powerful melody, the kind that lingered in the mind long after it was finished. It could be a classic in the making.

Norman just sat on his stool as he finished, he looked like a small elf with his red hair and sharp features, chin stuck forward, deep in thought.

‘It’s brilliant,’ Georgia clapped and ran over to him.

‘I’m pleased with it,’ he blushed, for once less cocky. ‘But wait till we get Speedy on bass and Les’s throbbing lead. Up till now I’ve only been able to play it through on piano, but I know they are going to amaze you too.’

‘Oh Norman.’ Impulsively she jumped up on the stage and threw her arms round him. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Ian helped me,’ his head drooped as if embarrassed at saying such a thing. ‘I felt his presence, almost as if he were humming it to me. You remember the way he used to?’

Georgia nodded. It had been odd that Ian who could play nothing more than ‘chopsticks’ on a piano had been able to invent melodies in his head.

‘God, I miss him,’ Norman’s eyes filled up with tears. ‘I wish I could take back all the snidy things I said to him over the years.’

‘He wouldn’t have had you any other way.’ Georgia leaned over Norman and kissed his cheek. ‘Now play it again and I’ll sing.’

After several false starts they got it together. Georgia’s voice soared out across the empty club, lost in the beauty of Norman’s melody.

A loud clapping came from the front door as they finished. Georgia spun round to see Jack Fellows, the club owner, leaning against the wall.

Tall, stringy and untidy, Jack looked more like a struggling artist than the successful businessman he really was. His hair hung well past his ears, thinning on top. He had a long, pointed nose and a wide, smiling mouth that gave an indication to his inner nature. The Marquee was more than just a money spinner to him. He would rather have talented unknown bands playing than compromise an inch. But his high ideals had paid off, for his customers knew that any night in his club would be memorable, and the bands knew if Jack booked them, they were worth something.

‘That’s a beautiful song,’ he said, his thin face alight with enthusiasm. ‘Did you write it?’

‘A joint effort,’ Norman grinned. ‘We’re hoping Georgia might be able to record it.’

‘If Max approves?’ He raised one bushy eyebrow. ‘The man’s a complete Philistine if he doesn’t.’

Georgia bounced down Wardour Street just before nine. For the first time since Ian’s death she felt the cloud hanging over her was moving back. In tight white jeans, a red T-shirt and boots she felt right. The Marquee was home ground, she didn’t have to squeeze into the changing room and pour herself into something swish. She could just turn up, sing her heart out, then go home. No one dressed up for the Marquee, students, beatniks, office people and manual workers flocked there for music, and tonight she was going to give them something special.

‘Remember, we’re not warming up for another band tonight,’ she reminded the boys as they waited off stage for Jack to turn off the records and introduce them. She could see John standing alone, twiddling the valves of his trumpet, the first time he had ever played publicly without Alan beside him. ‘You can do it John,’ she reached out her arms to hug him. ‘I feel the same about walking on without Ian, but we’ll get through it.’

She could hear Jack out there on the stage. A joke with the audience about the price of beer, a word or two to remind them of Samson’s recent loss of two members. She didn’t have to look behind the worn curtains to know the club was packed to capacity, every face upturned, waiting for them.

Rod leapt on first, going straight to his stool and performing a dramatic drum roll. Norman was next, quickly followed by Les and Speedy and they launched into the opening number ‘Soul Train’.

Georgia took John’s hand in hers, leading him just as Ian had once led her, out into the spotlights.

She had to be better than her best tonight. She missed Ian’s close harmonies, and Alan’s sax, but putting that aside she sang first for the band. She put a new wildness in her dancing, strutting, teasing, bending to the audience till she knew the boys were on form again.

John surprised her. He and Alan had tended to fall back on one another, staying together to play, never taking a lead. Now he moved forward, legs apart, blowing like she’d never heard him before, eyes closed, chest fully expanded, bringing out notes of such passion and sweetness, it was as if Alan’s spirit had entered him.

When the first set ended to wild applause Georgia was drenched in sweat.

‘You were something else tonight,’ Rod grinned as she stripped off her T-shirt in the changing room and mopped at herself with a towel. ‘When are we going to do the new number?’

‘Last,’ Speedy said pulling open a can of coke and resting it for one moment on his sweat-covered forehead. ‘If we do it too early it might kill the mood. Keep to our usual routine, then “He’s no good” followed by “No time”, and let’s hope we all remember our parts.’

Max came in just after the second set started. He stood by the side of the stage speaking to Jack Fellows giving the band no more than a cursory glance.

Georgia had relaxed sufficiently to notice there were fans in the audience from back when they played in London roadhouses and clubs a year before. She rewarded their loyalty by singing for them rather than Max, bending to touch outstretched hands, blowing kisses and finding the strength she thought she had lost in their smiling faces.

‘He’s no good, he’s no good, baby he’s no good,’ she sang cheekily to Max. Pulling off her hair ribbon and throwing it into the audience and tossing her mane of hair round her shoulders.

‘Finally,’ Georgia mopped her brow to thunderous applause. ‘We’re going to do a totally new number we wrote ourselves. It’s a breakaway from our usual stuff, but we hope you like it.’

The introduction started. She saw Max turn to look in surprise as Norman played the haunting first few bars. Tingles went down her spine, she tapped her feet to the beat and filled her lungs.

As the song went on, so Georgia drowned in it. She was singing to Ian all the things she wished she’d said while he was with her. And to Max too, to remind him she was her own person.

She knew without a shadow of a doubt it was the finest singing she’d ever done. Even if the audience walked out, her own ears had told her the truth.

The applause was simply deafening. On and on it went with calls for more. They left the stage once but had to go back and do another number.

When it was finally over Max came forward.

‘So that’s it?’ He had the oddest expression, surprise, delight, mixed with a tiny amount of pique.

‘Yes,’ Georgia smiled up at him. ‘What do you think?’

Her heart was in her mouth. If he turned her down now she had nothing more to offer.

‘A gold record,’ he said, a smile stretching from ear to ear. ‘You wrote it?’

‘I did the words, the boys did the rest,’ she said simply, surprised that for once he wasn’t hiding his enthusiasm behind criticism.

‘I’ll get the studio booked for next week,’ he said, putting one big hand on her shoulder and gripping it. ‘This is it baby. I feel it in my water.’

Chapter 15

‘That’s it then!’ Max’s voice crackled abrasively in their ear phones. Through the glass screen they could see him gesticulating wildly, as if he didn’t believe his voice could really reach them. ‘As they say on the movies, “that’s a wrap”.’

Georgia took off her head phones and wiped the perspiration from her forehead.

She was too tired to even think of celebrating. Nine hours of being stuck in a soundproof room, technicians staring at her through the glass as if she were a goldfish. This was an entirely new ball game to playing live.

Mixing, loop tapes and umpteen different tracks. Session men who’d filed in, played their parts then left. She had imagined they would just perform together over and over until it was perfect. She hadn’t expected the separate instruments to be added, or harmonies put on afterwards. It was confusing, frustrating, and the constant stopping and starting irritating. But then Max had insisted they produced master tapes perfect enough for the disc to be cut from, a half-hearted demo tape just wasn’t good enough.

The boys had come to the studio that morning dressed as if it were another gig. Rod in velvet trousers and a flowered shirt. Norman in a smart new green jacket. But now they looked like wilted flowers, hot and sweaty, hair sticking damply to their heads.

Steven Albright, the producer was waiting for her, the boys grouped round him in the ante-room, waiting for his opinion.

Steven had the look of an overgrown schoolboy. Not what they expected from a man in his thirties with four gold records already under his belt. Six foot tall, painfully thin, with greasy hair dangling over his thick specs. Even his clothes had a charity shop look about them. A city shirt with stiff collar, an old, stained school tie and suit jacket, then in contrast a faded pair of jeans and desert boots.

It was difficult to have confidence in someone who blinked owlishly behind his glasses and silently chewed a pencil. But he surprised them, not only was he alert to every last note, he had imagination, flair and a complete knowledge of many instruments.

‘Time to play the finished article,’ he smiled warmly, his plummy, Old Etonian accent somehow reassuring. ‘You look tired Georgia, but you did very well.’

He sat down at the controls and the introduction started.

The finished result was perfect. It was the sort of song that would be played last at every dance up and down the country. Bodies entwined, arms round each other’s necks. A song for lovers everywhere.

‘It’s good,’ Steven turned off the tape as the last notes faded away. Like Max he was sparing with his praise. All day he had pushed them. They had seen him angry, frustrated, disinterested, even bored on occasions, but now at last his dark eyes shone with excitement and exhilaration. ‘You can all be very proud of it. I’d say it will make it.’

Somehow that simple statement meant more than gushing praise and for the first time all day, not one of them came back with a flippant remark.

‘You can all clear off now.’ To Max it was business as usual. He had come in and out several times during the day, listening half-heartedly, flashing his gold watch and leaving again just as quickly.