A Song for Joey (33 page)

From that day, I began contacting everyone I had met since leaving Great Yarmouth:
publicans, groups, singers, agents, anyone I counted as more than a casual acquaintance.
Each one I asked the same question: "If I can arrange a date when everyone is available,
will you do it for me?"

The response, of course, was mixed. Some people who I had thought of as friends were
dismissive, while others surprised me with their warmth and enthusiasm. With the help of
Jenny and Hugh White, I also contacted performers who I had never met. By the end of
two months, I had spoken, or written, to nearly six hundred people - of whom four
hundred had agreed to sign up - and I had an idea of several possible dates when most of
them would be available.

My heart was fluttering like a caged bird when Leroy and I arrived on the outskirts of
Great Yarmouth. It was the first time I had returned since the day I escaped from
Burroughs. Oliver had to stay in London, supervising a big operation in which his
company was providing the security for a top American star's visit to the UK, and, for
once, I didn't mind making this pilgrimage alone.

As we drove across the bridge, with the red-brick Town Hall on our right and the grey
river rushing below us, I was swamped with memories. They leapt at me from the doors
of every building, taunted me with every sound, overwhelmed me with every smell. I tried
not to look out, but my eyes were dragged back to the windows to stare at the past as it
floated by.

We booked into a large hotel overlooking the river, then took the short walk to the town
centre. It had changed enormously, though not completely. New shops had sprung up
around the market, but the shape and feel of the place was much the same. At the far end
of the square, however, one new landmark stood out and grabbed my attention. The
steeple of a church rose where none existed in my memory.

Drawn, as though by a Pied Piper's mesmerising melody, I led Leroy to the great iron
gates at the entrance, and stood gazing in amazement at the huge, beautiful building. It
looked as though it had always been there, yet I knew I had never seen it before. I walked,
wide-eyed, down the path to the big oak doors, turned the wrought-iron handle and
pushed - the door glided open - I entered.

Stiletto heels clicking, embarrassingly, inappropriately, on the stone floor, bringing back
echoes from the distant walls like the crackling of twigs underfoot, I entered the nave.
Stone and oak pillars climbed each wall between pointed windows of coloured glass, to
meet far overhead, like God's fingertips arching in contemplation.

Seeing no-one, and in awe of the place I had entered unbidden, I sat in a pew and
opened my mind. Never before had I prayed in earnest, but, as I sat under that roof,
between those walls, I felt part of something I didn't understand. I closed my eyes and
silently asked the question that had always nagged me: "
Are you real?
"

In the silence that followed, I tried to tune my mind in to the cosmic frequency, reaching
out, searching for a response, but all I heard was the hiss of my own static.
"I expect you're on holiday somewhere warm," I said out loud, smirking at my wit.
There was a soft sound, like a dove stretching its wings, and a voice beside me
answered: "One can always dream."
I sprang to my feet, a cold shiver passing across my shoulders, and clutched the back of
the chair in front of me, breathing hard. Looking up again towards the ceiling, I
stammered: "You answered me. Who are you?"
The quiet voice, with a hint of humour to it, replied: "I'm the verger here at St Nicholas.
Sorry if I startled you."
I turned, my mouth hanging open, to find a man sitting on the pew next to me, dressed
in a black robe. He smiled. "You should close that before something flies into it."
"So you're not ....? No, of course not! That would be ... impossible, wouldn't it?" I
remembered to close my mouth, but I knew I was babbling.
"God?" He gave a little laugh. "No, just one of His servants." His voice was gentle and
warm; hearing it was like floating in a relaxing bath, a totally inappropriate image
forming at once in my mind, and I felt my face turn red at the thought.
Quickly clearing the picture from my mind, I said: "Last time I was in Great Yarmouth,
there was nothing here but a pile of rubble. This is beautiful."
"Thank you," he replied. "It took years of fund raising, and then painstaking work to
restore him to his former glory. Are you from around here?"
I told him my story. Somehow, although he was a stranger, he was easy to talk to. I
explained about Joey and my mission, and asked if I would be able to have the service at
St Nicholas.
"I would have to check with the trustees," he said, thoughtfully, "and consult the Bishop,
but as long as it's an orderly service, in keeping with our tradition, I expect we could help
you."

The cemetery was not as I remembered it. There had been trees in those days, and an
open grave, Reverend Potter and a hearse. All so clear in my memory, so different now.
Far off to the east, through the serried iron railings, I could see the pink of my Caddy,
where Leroy was waiting. Piercing the skyline in the opposite direction rose the restored
spire of St Nicholas church. In between, stretching away from me on all sides, rows of
gravestones that seemed to go on forever. Finding Joey's plot, with no stone to read,
looked impossible.
Thank goodness the snow had held off. I looked up at the towering banks of heavy, grey
cloud marching in from the north, feeling a chill wind against my cheek; it would not be
long arriving. I was glad I had my winter coat and gloves, but it was not a day for
loitering.
Casting my eyes around at ground level again, I searched for a clue, something familiar.
I remembered that there had been a grave beside Joey's, belonging to "Samuel Raines,
1897-1941." I studied the stones near me, but Samuel's was not one of them.
The first stinging spots of sleet began to hit my face. It would be madness to prolong
this fruitless search; I would have to return another day. I was not despondent; Joey had
taught me to '
keep trying until you succeed.
' So I turned back to the path.
Something touched my hand, as softly as though it had brushed against a flower. I
looked down. There was nothing to be seen but my glove; yet the touch remained, like a
hand taking mine and tugging me back to where I had been standing. I allowed him to
lead me until we stopped at a bare, overgrown patch, then his hand withdrew. I could
sense him waiting, expectantly.
I poked about with my foot at the nettles and long grass covering the plot, pushing them
aside, unsure what I was hoping to find. I guessed that the little wooden cross would not
have survived, and without that, there was no way of telling for sure that this was Joey's.
Which end was the head? I tried to remember the landmarks as they had been, five years
earlier. I scanned the rooftops on the skyline, which were now swiftly disappearing in the
swirling deluge of sleet. There! A large white house stood out among the red-brick and
concrete; I remembered it. As I had stood beside the grave, with the head of Joey's coffin
to my right, that house had been directly in front of me. Taking my lead from that, I knelt
on the wet ground where the cross would have been, and began to pull at the weeds with
my gloved hands.
At soil level, my fingers felt a rough stump, and I scraped away the dirt until it was
revealed. I was sure it was the broken base of the wooden cross I had placed there, and
with a surge of excitement, I began tearing at the coarse foliage around it. A few seconds
later, there on the ground, lay the cross. I knew it at once, could still see the words etched
on it "Joey - 14th November 1960."
I snatched it up and held it to my heart, looking up into the curtain of snow, which by
then was filling the sky, and shouted: "Thank you darlin'."

May is an unpredictable month - I've known it to be as cold as January, as wet as
September, or as hot as July; I can even remember snow, one year - so as I arrived at the
church on the day of the funeral, I looked up anxiously at the busy sky. Small, fluffy,
white clouds - bright against the deep blue background - were rushing through on a flighty
breeze, not pausing to share the time of day, while a bank of tall, menacing thunder heads
rose like a range of mountains on the horizon to the east.

To say I was tense would be like saying the North Sea is a bit cold and wet; understating
the obvious. I was there early - two hours early, such was my state of agitation. I checked
out Joey's plot. The stone was in position, covered with a tarpaulin, and an enormous area
around it had been protected against being trampled by my army of guests by a vast area
of raised wooden decking. A piano, an upright, borrowed from the small hall, stood to
one side, a man at work making sure it was in perfect pitch.

As I strolled slowly back to the church, I saw the Caddy arrive and deposit Oliver and
Paolo at the main doors. I entered by the side door, and walked up the aisle to meet them.
The first guests had also started to arrive, and I welcomed them at the door. As the
numbers increased, Oliver and Paolo shared the load. More famous people were gathered
for Joey that day than I had met in my whole life before. Whether it was the tension inside
me, the lack of food, the stars who were shaking my hand, or the atmosphere created
within that awesome building, I don't know, but I began to feel as though I was watching
a movie.
Brian Poole was there, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, Cilla Black, Russ Conway, all
passed before me. But I swear that I also saw Buddy Holly and Eddie Cochran, both of
whom had died many years before. They were there, in the crowd, then I lost sight of
them. Brenda Lee arrived, taking time from her UK tour, Lonnie Donegan, Marty Wilde,
the best and greatest entertainers in the world were congregating in Great Yarmouth to
honour my beloved Joey. My heart was filled with pride.

Who said show-business is a cynical industry? As I took my place at the lectern at the
end of the service, and looked around the huge church, packed as it was from front to
back with some of the most famous people in the world, I felt a surge of gratitude.

"Oh, Joey would have loved you!" I said, departing from my prepared notes before I
even started to read them. I smiled at them, and there was a soft flutter of laughter. "How
can this be a sad occasion when I have so many wonderful friends?

"I didn't know what to expect when I started planning this, but in my wildest dreams I
could not have dared to hope that so many of you would come. I know many of you have
flown in from all around the world, and all of you have gone to a great deal of trouble to
make a space in your busy schedules, just to be here. Thank you, from me and from Joey.

"You never knew Joey, but you know me, and I am what I am because of him. Joey was
a little man I met when my world had fallen apart. He taught me how to be strong, brave,
determined, self-confident, and yet to never lose sight of the things that matter. To Joey,
the things that matter stretch from helping others to helping yourself.

"We were homeless together for six months before he died from ......" my voice caught,
and I stared up at the roof, blinking away the tears that had leapt into my eyes. Oliver,
who had been standing just out of my sight behind me, put an arm around my waist and
thrust a glass of water into my hand. I looked at it blankly for a moment, then took a sip.
The action, and the cold water, helped to steady me. After a deep breath, I was able to
resume.

"He had a tough life: abused as a small child and homeless for eight years. In the end, it
killed him. When he died, I made a promise, and today is the fulfilment of that promise. I
couldn't even afford to give him a gravestone, but I swore I would come back and put that
right. You have all helped to make that dream come true. God bless you."

Outside, when all the shuffling and creaking of boards had settled, I stood beside the
piano and nodded to the two men who were waiting to remove the tarpaulin from the
grave. As it slid back, the marble stone was revealed. It lay flat, the size of the grave, with
a granite border, highlighted at each corner with a little square block containing flowers.
During the service in the church, the wreaths and floral displays brought by the guests had
been laid out around the grave, stretching right out to the edge of the decking.

Joseph Bellini
Died 14th November 1960
aged about 13
-
"I looked away and you were gone"
-
All my love, Belinda
23rd May 1966

The lilting sound of a piano melody drifted across the graveyard, as Paolo played the
introduction we had prepared for the day.
I had serious fears that my voice would fail me as, surrounded by my guests, I began to
sing my song to Joey, but somehow I held it together for the first verse.
But the chorus stole my equanimity. Despite weeks of preparation, days of rehearsal and
my most steely determination, I stood before my peers and dried up; my mouth was open,
but no words would form in my lips. Blinking away the tears that cascaded down my
cheeks, I looked from one face to another, begging them to forgive me for being so
unprofessional.
Then, a miracle occurred. From the congregation of battle-hardened pop stars came, first
one or two, then two hundred, then three hundred, four hundred voices singing the words
of my song in sweet harmony. They carried me right through to the end, then stood and
applauded me - me! It was they who had saved the day, I didn't deserve anything. I
applauded them right back, thanking them with my tearful smile.
Oliver stood beside me on my right, his arm about my shoulder, Paolo on my left and
Connor beside him. I gazed adoringly up at each of them, but still could not speak. Paolo
took the microphone and spoke for me.
"Ladies and gen'men. My little girl has lost her voice."
He smiled at the concerned faces around us, and there was a gentle rumble of polite
laughter. "She has come so far on her own - I am very proud of her - but today she needed
her friends to share this moment. Thank you for coming. Prego che Dio vi benedica tutti."