Mothers and Daughters (14 page)

Rosa was smoking a cigarette in the kitchen, trying not to smudge her lipstick.

Then the bedroom door opened and Joy came down the stairs enveloped in a mist of veiling, looking achingly beautiful.

Connie shivered, wanting to hug her but that would only crush her dress. A voice in her heart whispered, tell her you will always be there for her. Ask her not to shut you out of her life. You’ll be there when she needs you … Don’t be so morbid, she thought, shaking off this silly feeling with a flurry of train-straightening, making for the door as the snowflakes began to flutter like confetti on the pavement. It was time to leave the bride and Uncle Levi, who to everyone’s surprise was doing the giving-away, and head for the church.

Things were never going to be the same.

Connie had to hand it to the Gregsons, they knew how to give a good party. Most weddings were finished at three with the triumphant exit of the bride and groom, dressed to the nines, and their taxi splattered with lard and confetti, tin cans trailing to the station. Not this wedding. The couple were off to Paris for a short break between training, and
the flight wasn’t until the morrow so they were spending their first night in the Midland Hotel, Manchester, a red brick palace famed for its celebrity guests.

Tonight they’d hired the Civic Hall for the bash to end all bashes: fairy lights twinkling, a buffet of rolls, vol-au-vents, pastries, Black Forest gateaux and a free bar.

On stage were the usual Starlighters combo, but a new rock singer was hired for later, who’d appeared on
Thank Your Lucky Stars
, it was rumoured.

Connie hoped it might be the Beatles but they were far too famous now, even for Gregson’s pocket.

The ballroom was crowded with the corset-and-brocade friends of Irene Gregson. The great and the good of Grimbleton gathered was an awesome sight: the Chamber of Trade, the Masonic Brotherhood, the footballers and wives under the strict eye of Uncle Pete, and the Olive Oil Club, dressed like Jackie Kennedys. Maria was wearing her usual purple, Queenie in a floral number and Diana in a smart suit. It was good to see them laughing together but there was one missing – her beautiful mama – and the ache Connie felt for her not being there was unbearable.

Rosa linked arms with her, groaning at the band’s attempts at pop music. She was heavily into John Leyton and his record ‘Wild Wind’. Joy wanted Frankie Vaughan and Adam Faith numbers, but
Connie loved Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, and the Beatles, especially George.

Suddenly pop music was on the news, television, and everyone was talking about the Liverpool groups, the Mersey Beat. But now in Grimbleton it was still just waltzs, cha-cha-chas and quicksteps for the oldies.

The bride and groom did a twirl round the floor. Joy did look happy in her long silk dress, her hair coiled into an enormous chignon dotted with stephanotis. Eighteen did seem so young to make such a commitment, but Joy was sure of herself. She had made her mother’s dreams come true in marrying well. Su looked so proud. Connie knew when her turn came there’d be no parents to fuss over her. Better not to marry then, it was only a formality, after all. Who needed all this fuss?

Rosa sensed her retreating away from the dance floor and pulled her back in. ‘Come on, we’ll do the skip jive and get something going, liven them up.’

Connie held back. ‘Wait for the group. We can do it then.’

Neville was prowling round the edge of the floor. ‘There you are …’ He was dressed in the latest Mod suit style, though try as he might he couldn’t get his hair to fall forward into a mop top. ‘Come on, let’s polish the floor. No wallflowers, please. Silkie routines to the fore.’

‘Not in this tight dress. My legs haven’t seen
daylight for what feels like years,’ shouted Connie, ‘and my winkle-pickers hurt.’

‘And a nice pair they are too so stop moaning! Wait till you hear the group. They’re something else! I saw them on
Oh Boy
.’

‘Right then, let’s get this hair pulled down and kick off our shoes,’ Rosa smiled. ‘Time to shake a leg.’

There was a roll of drums and the toastmaster announced the arrival of Mr Rick Romero and the Rollercoasters. Onto the stage jumped a bunch of boys with quiffs, setting out their drums and kit, all in tight jeans and T-shirts, not the usual dinner jacket and dicky bow crooners. Most of the oldies retreated to the bar and buffet, leaving the room half empty, but all the young Olive Oils hovered and lingered, hoping they’d be as good as everyone said.

The lights flickered, the spots came on, and onto the stage jumped a wild young man with long hair, a shirt slashed to the waist and the tightest leather pants.

Neville smirked and pursed his lips. ‘Dig the tube down his pants … is that for real or what?’

Connie nudged him to shut up.

Rosa sniggered. ‘I know him … That’s Martin Gorman or my name’s Lita Roza … I’m sure he is. He got chucked out of the Salesian college for thumping one of the fathers … It’s him … Rick Romero.’

There was an explosion of electric guitars and
drum beat that got everyone’s toes tapping, hips swaying and they were off at the double: ‘Shake your body to the rhythm of my quaking heart’. Everyone was soon twisting and jiving and jumping about.

‘He does his own songs,’ shouted Neville, at the twist.

The dancers were going wild and all the young ones drifted back from the bars to listen. Denny and Vinnie Gratton were acting the fool and some of the girls bopped in a big circle. Connie felt the music from her toes to her fingertips; something deep inside was released by the beat. She joined the circle, swaying, gyrating like a savage in a jungle, Gran would say, but she didn’t care. Her hair shook itself out of its bun, falling over her face, cascading in a curly mass down her back. The tight shoes were kicked off and she raised her skirt to undo her suspenders to a load of cheers. They were all lost in the beat.

Then Rick changed the tempo to one big ballad on everyone’s lips, ‘Tell Laura, I Love Her’, the Ricky Valance hit.

Neville made a request and they sang ‘Whole Lotta Woman’. The Silkies edged to the front, bride as well, and did their routine as before, miming the song and dancing so everyone could see and cheer them on.

When Connie looked up, Rick was staring down at her with interest. No one had ever looked at her
like that except Paul Jerviss once, when she refused to go out with him. She was feeling hot and cold and scared all at the same time, not wanting the dancing to end. Soon the band’s turn would wind up and she couldn’t bear not to hear them again. She kept clapping and whistling with her fingers. ‘Encore!’ the dancers all yelled.

‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ chuckled Nev in her ear. ‘He can beat my drum anytime … long legs in leathers … tasty!’

‘You’ll have to beat me off first!’ Connie laughed. She stood there transfixed.

‘Connie? Wake up, love. Everyone’s staring at you.’ She was standing in the middle of the ballroom, unable to move. ‘Fetch her a Babycham or something,’ Rosa shouted. ‘The girl’s been “sent”.’

‘I have to see him, speak to him, Rosa. I have to hear that music again.’ There’d been a flashbulb going off in her head … This was what it was all about, love at first sight, the Romeo and Juliet moment, the Maria and Tony moment, the Lieutenant Cable and Liat moment in
South Pacific
. ‘I have to see him again.’

Rosa was pulling her back to their table. ‘It’s all right, he’s not going anywhere. His mam lives in Roper Avenue. He’s a good Catholic boy, though I doubt she’d be happy with you on his arm …’

Once they’d done their gig, the band rushed their gear to the side of the stage.

‘They’ll be doing the second half somewhere else,’ Nev pronounced, knowing how all these groups worked. ‘The van’ll be outside waiting for them.’

‘We can follow them,’ Connie replied. She wasn’t going to let Rick Romero out of her sights.

‘Steady on, love. How?’

‘In your mother’s car …’

‘Do you think she’d let me take the Triumph Herald open top out of the garage at this time of night?’

‘We’ll get a taxi …’

‘But it’s Joy’s big day. We can’t just rush out. We’ve got to see the bride and groom off and catch the bouquet,’ Rosa argued.

‘Look, I’ve dressed up like a kewpie doll all day. I’ve flown the Winstanley flag, now it’s my turn to have some fun. You do the honours for both of us. I’m off.’

‘Constance, come right back here!’ Rosa yelled. ‘Oh, Nev, follow her. She’s off her head!’

Connie was shooting off down the marble steps of the entrance hall to where a line of hopeful cabbies was parked, waiting to collect guests. She was just in time to see the old Bedford van, its funny exhaust smoking, coming out the side lane.

‘Follow that van!’ she yelled, and she and Neville jumped in.

She turned to Neville. ‘Have you got any cash? I’ve got ten bob somewhere in this stupid Dorothy bag. I hope they’re not going far.’

‘If it’s Manchester, you owe me big time,’ her cousin snapped. ‘The things I do for my cousins …’

‘I’ll remember you in my will,’ she smiled.

‘You will hell! You’ll pay me back next Saturday and do my stint in the Market Hall.’

‘Yer on!’

They were driving towards the Preston bypass where bikers could do a ton without being stopped. The Bedford was belching out smoke and coughing; sparks were flying.

‘It’s going to blow up, is that,’ warned the taxi driver. ‘Have they robbed you or summat?’

‘No, it’s Rick Romero and the Rollercoasters … off to their next gig.’

‘I don’t think so, love. Their back end’s just dropped off.’

The band was standing by the roadside, looking at the rear in disgust. Someone was kicking the wheels.

‘Stop! Stop!’ Connie ordered. ‘We’ve got to help them.’ She wound down the window. ‘What’s up?’

‘Back end, exhaust … it’s died on us,’ said her hero, his big Celtic-brown eyes flashing in her direction. ‘It’s you, Miss Ginger-Nut in the Civic, and your—’

‘My cousin Neville. We were coming to hear you again.’ She kicked Neville’s shin.

‘’Fraid not. This is as far as we go. Shame, we’d got a great gig in Preston.’

‘You can still make it. Take our taxi,’ Connie offered.
Nev was opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water.

‘But we’ve got all our gear.’

‘Nev will ring the AA. They can tow the van back.’ Neville’s face was a picture of pained fury. For a second she thought he’d turned into his mother in one of her strops.

‘If you’re sure … Thanks. I owe you. What’s your name?’

‘Constandina Winstanley,’ Neville shouted, ‘so no funny business.’

‘Blimey, that’s a mouthful,’ Rick smiled. ‘We’ll pay your taxi fare. Van belongs to Jack Southern, Plover Street.’

‘Call me Connie,’ she shouted as they piled everything into the taxi, in the boot, on their knees. Then they shot off while Nev stood holding the keys.

‘Never again … Another fine mess you’ve got me into. Where’s the nearest phone box?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ Connie muttered, shivering in her brocade and mohair stole. It was going to be a long wait. ‘Let’s walk this way and hope for the best.’

Nothing mattered but that Rick Romero had smiled at her, knew her name and owed her one.

And that’s how it began, with a clapped-out old van. Connie’s life turned upside down, turned round into a whirl of gigs, parties and living for each precious
weekend. So what if her prep was late or her revision for A levels put on hold? Life was for living now, in the shadow of Rick’s growing success.

He’d called at the market stall to repay their kindness in helping them out. He looked quite ordinary in civvies – jeans and a cord jacket – his curly black hair falling onto his collar. Connie could hardly breathe when she saw him standing in the aisle while she closed over the curtains with Uncle Levi breathing down her neck with curiosity. She’d paid her due to Neville as promised.

‘Did the gig go well?’ she asked, feeling awkward at first.

‘It did, thanks to you. Here …’ He shoved a record sleeve into her hands, signed on the cover. ‘Thanks to you we might have a record deal with Tony Amos, the impresario. He’d come especially to look us over that night. If we’d not turned up … who knows, we might have blown it? Thank God for you, my St Concertina, turning up like that … Fancy a coffee?

‘I’m Marty Gorman,’ he said.

‘Yes, I know, Rosa, told me.’

‘She’s a cool chick, and on the stage.’

‘She’s doing a summer season at Butlins, a Red Coat. She’s waiting to be discovered too.’

‘I’m a student, art college, sort of … This is our chance to make the big time so I’m letting things slide. How about you?’

‘A levels, a year early … not sure what next. If I pass I’ll do scholarship papers, I suppose.’

‘You must be clever.’

‘Not at all,’ she blushed, brushing the compliment aside. Rock stars didn’t go for blue stockings.

‘Did your cousin forgive you for dumping him with our old jalopy? It has finally gone to the knacker’s yard, but Jack’s dad’s lent us his fish van for weekends. You have to have wheels in this job.’

Connie wanted this moment to go on for ever. Here she was, striding through the town to the Casablanca with its dim lights, stuccoed white walls, posters and candles in bottles. She felt six feet tall, tossing her flame hair, wrapping her trusty duffel coat around her, for it was still cold.

‘So you like our sound? You and your friends were certainly adding to the floor show.’

Connie blushed again. ‘We had a little group – Rosa, the bride and me – called the Silkies. Skiffle, folk and a bit of pop, just local stuff.’

‘So I’ve some competition then. Do you still …?’ He paused, leaning forward, and her heart nearly flipped.

‘Joy’s married now, of course; Rosa’s left and I have exams,’ Connie explained. ‘The parting of the ways.’

‘I bet your parents are relieved. Mam worries that I’ll never make a living. My dad’s a builder.’

Gormans, of course, Connie mused. They built Sutter’s Fold. ‘Doesn’t he want you in the business?’

‘Not sure. I have three brothers. They’ll be more
likely to go in than me. And you? Family businesses are a bit of a tightrope. Do your parents want you to follow on?’