A Song for Joey (25 page)

The next morning, after a short but deep sleep in the first comfortable bed I had spent
the night in for five weeks, I had to present myself at the Oberon offices to explain to Dan
and Jenny why I had been thrown off the tour. Timidly I entered the lavish boardroom
where they were waiting for me, expecting them to be angry, but they seemed to be in
high spirits.

"Don't worry about it," Jenny chipped in as I started to tell them what had happened.
"The guy is a first-class prick."
"But he's one of your stars," I cried.
Dan cut in: "Maybe, but not for much longer. He has outstayed his welcome, and my
solicitor is looking at his contract right now to find the easiest, cleanest way of ending it."
"And anyway, we have better things planned for you," Jenny added.
"Yes," said Dan, pushing a sheet of paper towards me, "we have nearly finished putting
together a headline tour for you."
I looked at the page before me. It was a list of about twenty venues, some of which I
recognised from the Fortinelli tour.
"I just have to tie up the dates and fees for five or six more, and we will have you back
on the road again, this time with your name on the bus."
"Bill has some new songs he's written especially for you," Jenny continued. "You need
to go through them with him - you have about six weeks to put down twelve tracks for an
album, AND I want to get another single out in good time for the tour."
"And you are on Top of the Pops this Thursday," Dan added.
"Sheesh! Don't I get any rest?"
"Not in this business, matey," laughed Dan. "Success isn't waiting for you to saunter by,
you have to chase it and grab it with both hands."

On my way to the studios, I noticed that there were more homeless people than ever in
the alleyways and doorways on my route. Ever since my own life had improved, I kept
thinking about my time on the streets of Great Yarmouth with Joey, and had been trying
to think of some way to improve the lives of those with no way out, no hope.

I was in subdued mood when I arrived, but Bill was already at work in one of the
rehearsal rooms, and he soon lifted my spirits. "Belinda!" he chimed, putting down his
guitar and giving me a big hug. "It's good to see you."

"It's good to be back," I said. "I could have wished for a better ending to the tour, but to
be honest, I'd had enough of Fortinelli's ego trip."
"Aye, I heard from the boys. What an arsehole that guy is."
"I was more worried that I had let everyone down, but no-one seems to mind. Anyway,
we had a top ten single, thanks to you."
"Not me, pet. I just gave you the clay, you turned it into a work of art. Speaking of
which, I've got some new songs I wrote just for you, shall we go through them?"
He handed me the lyric sheets, eight of them, and we sat down while he sang each one
through for me. They were all good, but one shone out as likely for the new single. It was
a rhythmic rock song called 'All The Time' - very different from the haunting sound of
'Paddington Nights' - with an unusual broken tempo and meaningful lyrics that spoke to
the heart. I ran through it a few times, experimenting with different tones and pitches,
playing with ideas. We agreed it was a strong contender for the next A-side.
During a coffee break, my mind wandered back to the plight of the young homeless
people I seemed to be seeing increasingly in London. I asked Bill about life for him on the
streets, and told him about my nine months with Joey in Great Yarmouth, and about my
wish to do something.
He was thoughtful for a minute. "The thing is, if you give cash to anyone, they will most
likely use it to buy alcohol or drugs. That's how most of them ended up where they are in
the first place. I don't think there's much anyone can do for the older folks, apart from
giving them a hot meal or a blanket. I mean, I was lucky, I wasn't addicted to anything,
and I always had a way to earn a quid or two, but most of those poor sods don't even have
the will to live. What you need to do is find a way to catch the youngsters when they
arrive in the city, before the dealers and pimps get to them. Most of those kids are running
away from something, and very often that's a violent parent. It makes them vulnerable to
the first person who offers them independence and a new life."
I nodded, thinking about Joey's parents and how he ended up living rough. "It's not
something I can set up on my own, is it?"
"Heavens no, girl. It will take a sizeable organisation, just to stand any chance of
meeting the kids as they arrive at Liverpool Street or Victoria or any of the dozens of
other places."
We sat in silence for a while, my mind whirling with the immensity of the problem.
Eventually, by mutual, unspoken consent, we returned to the songs.

With scarcely time to catch our breath, the boys and I were back on the road, touring the
UK and Europe. But I found several big differences from my previous tour. For one thing,
the performers with whom I shared the bill were friendly - their route to fame had been
more like mine, most could have been the boy next door. As a result, we all had a great
time.

Also, Jenny and Dan had put together a smooth operation that gave us all the support we
needed. They had engaged a Road Manager, Stan 'The Man' Bancroft. He checked out the
theatres, made sure we had dressing rooms, booked us into Bed-and-Breakfast
accommodation, if possible (so we didn't have to use the bus every night for sleeping). At
the venues, he supervised the set-up of our equipment, dealt with autograph requests from
fans, and controlled a constant stream of dressing room visitors, from the daughter of the
theatre manager to the niece/wife/mistress of some local dignitary.

There was no way of guessing who would drop in next. We might be sitting in our
dressing room and Roy Orbisson could pop his head around the door, or Tab Hunter, or
Chuck Berry. One day, Judy Garland called in while we were doing our sound check, and
another time we bumped into the Rolling Stones. Of course, I realised that these great
artists weren't there to see me, but it was wonderful to feel part of the living entity that
was the world of entertainment.

The realities of touring remained the same; town after town, theatre after theatre - we
arrive, we perform, we leave. That's life on the road. But this was the sixties, there was a
fever in the air. Every venue was filled with girls screaming - not for me, of course (well,
mostly not for me), but for the boy bands. It was sometimes quite scary, they were so
hysterical, working themselves up into a sexual frenzy that often resulted in them passing
out. And when the boys were on stage, they could not hear themselves performing for the
noise of the fans.

I'm sitting in the lounge of the luxurious Imperial Hotel, in London's fashionable
Russell Square, with Belinda Bellini, the girl everyone is talking about. Her second single
is at number three in our chart, she has just returned from a sell-out European tour, and
is about to head off again around the UK.

P.W. "So, Belinda, a whirlwind success."
B.B. (laughs) "You could say that."
P.W. "What are you working on at the moment?"
B.B. "Well, as you said, I'm getting ready for my next tour. That starts in Birmingham

on the eighteenth. I love performing live, so I'm really looking forward to it. Currently,
the boys and I are in the studio, recording an album, which we hope to have in the shops
by October, and there's a new single, which is due for release next week."

P.W. "What's it called?"
B.B. "It's called 'Back Again', another brilliant song from Bill Argent."
P.W. "He wrote your first two hits, didn't he?"
B.B. "Yes, that's right, 'Paddington Nights' and the current one, 'All The Time.' And he

is working with me on the album. We are writing songs together, now, which is a
fantastic experience for me."
P.W. "Tell me a bit about Belinda Bellini; when did you start singing?"
B.B. "The day I was born. My Gran said I never cried as a baby, I just looked at
everyone and said 'la la la'." (She giggles, and I am reminded that she is only eighteen.)
P.W. "You were brought up by your grandmother?"
B.B. "Yes, my mum died giving birth to me."
P.W. "Any brothers and sisters?"
B.B. "No. But I had a special friend, who was like a brother. His name was Joey. He
died, too." (She is suddenly sad, preoccupied.)
P.W. "What happened?"
B.B. "We were very young; he got TB." (After a short silence, she says:) "Talk about
something else."
P.W. "Ok. How did you break into the Big Time?"
B.B. "Ah, that was thanks to my friend Dolly. I was staying with her and Steve, her
husband, at their pub in Norwich, The Lion In Winter. I used to sing with her sometimes,
and had also started to get work around Norwich, performing in jazz and folk clubs. She
contacted the agency, they came to see me in action, and the rest, as they say, is history."
P.W. "What do you enjoy most, performing live or recording?"
B.B. (Laughs.) "It depends what I'm doing when you ask me. If I've been on the road
for a couple of weeks, I'll probably be dying to get back in the studio, working with Bill
and the boys on new material. Don't get me wrong, I love being close to the audience,
there's nothing to beat the thrill when you hear your name announced and you step onto
the stage with the crowd cheering and clapping. But studio work has its own buzz, when
a brand new song is filling out and taking on its own life; I love it. Then, a few weeks or
months on and I will find myself longing for the immediacy of a live audience joining in
with the songs they know. I am so lucky to be able to spend my time doing something I
enjoy."

I'm just about to ask another question when Belinda looks at her watch. "I'm sorry,
Penny, I have to go. A car is picking me up in ten minutes, and I have to get ready."
We shake hands, and she winds her way through the tables and chairs towards the
lobby, looking for all the world like little schoolgirl; a tiny figure for one with so much
talent.

In the staff room of La Scuola di Musica di Settignano, a man lowers his tired body into
a leather armchair. He is tall, but the stoop he has acquired over the years makes him look
shorter, older, an effect emphasised by his prematurely greying, thinning hair. He wears
an old, patched jacket over an off-white shirt, which is pulled in at the neck by a badlyknotted, yellow-spotted, blue tie. His trousers are clean but un-ironed. All these are
indications that he lives alone, that there is no woman in his life, to check his appearance
when he leaves for work each morning.

He takes a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and transfers one methodically to
his lips, lighting it with a match which he discards in the ashtray on the small table beside
him. Inhaling deeply, he settles back into the chair, and , as the cloud of smoke envelopes
him, he closes his eyes wearily. Life is tiresome for Paolo Bellini. He teaches ...
tries
to
teach ... pianoforte to talentless students with delusions that they might, one day, be
concert pianists. This day has been the same as yesterday, and the day before that, and the
future holds an endless chain of similar days, fading numbingly into the distance. There is
no purpose to Paolo's life.

How different it all is from the dreams he and Caterina had when they married in 1936,
when Josepe was born, and a year later, when his little sister Helena arrived. He had a
promising career himself, then. From glittering beginnings here at La Scuola as a star
pupil, he won a place in L'Accademia Nazionale di Santa Cecilia. If not for the war, who
knows what might have happened. His mind drifts off into memories, ending, as they
inevitably must, with replays of the fights and recriminations when he returned from
England after the war, and the image, playing in his head again and again, of his wife and
children in the car that took them away from him forever.

Shaking his head, he stubs out the cigarette in the ashtray and raises himself from the
chair. He shuffles to the door, along the echoing corridor with its polished wooden floor,
down the stairs and through the double, oak, front doors into the afternoon sunshine. It
has been another dry summer, and dust rises at his feet as he walks purposefully down the
driveway, unaware, these days, of the beautiful view of the elegant city of Florence laid
out below like a bowl of fruit.

At the Piazza Niccolò Tommaseo, he takes a table outside the Café Rudolfo. He looks,
unseeing, across the square towards the fountain of Meo del Caprina while he waits for
the waitress, Margo, to bring his usual bottle of wine. There is a newspaper on the table,
La Nazione, and when she arrives, Margo picks it up to make room for his drink.
Laughing, she points to his name in print at the top of the page. It is an article about a
young English singing sensation, Belinda Bellini, touring Europe.

-♪-♫-♪From that day, Paolo's acquaintances begin to notice major changes in him.
He orders a daily newspaper - not La Nazione, but an English newspaper - and reads it

avidly. He can be seen, sitting in the sun outside Cafe Rudolfo with a cup of coffee, the
newspaper spread out over the table, his finger following the lines of print, his lips
moving as he forms unfamiliar words. Often, he refers to an Italian-English dictionary
that has taken up residence on the table beside him, becoming fat and brown with
constant use. Sometimes he carefully cuts out an article or photograph, adding it to a
growing collection of clippings; all, of course, about the new English pop star, Belinda
Bellini.

He takes a trip into Florence on the bus, and returns laden with carrier bags. The next
day, he arrives at work wearing new clothes - jeans, even, and trendy shirts.
With his friends, he becomes brighter, more talkative, laughs more easily. Those who
have known him longest say he is like the old Paolo, the man they knew before the war.
His colleagues discover a new, sharper, guest in the staff room. Accustomed for so long
to his surly silences, they are astounded when he begins to take an interest in the cut and
slash of intellectual discussion (as, for instance, whether the local football team should
dispose of its manager) and proves easily able to parry their lazy verbal lunges with
unexpected wit.
Perhaps, though, it is his students who suffer most at the hands of this new master, when
he realises that he has been letting them down, brooding too long, ignoring the pricking of
his conscience that he could do much more for them.