She's Leaving Home (21 page)

‘Fame and money. Doesn’t buy happiness.’

Since Sylvia’s assessment of her customers turned more often on their financial strengths than their beauty she felt bound to disagree. ‘Don’t be silly. Money can buy you anything.’

‘Talking of the kids,’ Rita moved on, ‘have you heard any more about those American boys at Harold House?’

‘What about them?’

‘Well –’ Rita glanced around furtively as if expecting eavesdroppers ‘– one or two have got quite keen. Roseanne says they take girls out to clubs and the like. I think she’s a bit miffed that nobody’s asked her.’

‘She’s got her Jerry, hasn’t she?’

‘Sure, but she wouldn’t mind playing hard to get with him, if you know what I mean. And those GIs have plenty to splash around.’

‘Your Roseanne’s probably just jealous.’

Rita sniffed loudly. The sisters were not as one in their judgements on the remarkable qualities of her daughter.

‘That Helen Majinsky,’ Rita persisted. ‘Roseanne says she’s stuck up – home’s not good enough for her, she wants to leave and go away. Bit of a smarty-pants. Anyhow, she’s been seeing one of the GIs. Keeps missing Harold House with no explanation. That means my Roseanne has to do the till all night and she gets fed up with it.’

‘Won’t do her any harm to learn a bit of business,’ Sylvia commented. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter, as long as they’re Jewish. Drink your tea, it’s going cold.’ She turned a page. ‘Oh, good. Lord Beveridge has died. Remember him? Welfare state and stuff. Cost us a fortune.’ She read out a few lines of the obituary.

‘I heard him speak once at Liverpool Town Hall. He said if we could afford fifteen million a day to fight the war, we could afford the peace and his grandiose schemes.’

Sylvia snorted. ‘We can’t afford them. The Americans paid for the war. We were skint.’

‘But it’s nice to know the Health Service’s there if you need it.’ The tablets on the bedside table were not paid for in full; the doctor who had prescribed them had come free. Only Sylvia’s richest clients could afford private health care and they made sure everyone knew it. The two sisters briefly contemplated a life without socialised medicine and were silent.

Sylvia rose. ‘I’ll make a fresh pot before I go. Tea’s the best remedy. Anything else? Right, then I’ll pop by tomorrow.’

‘My God.’

Michael paused in the darkened street and sniffed. From the gaping yellow hole of the Cavern stairs rose a powerful draught of sweat, urine, disinfectant and setting lotion, mingled with rotting fruit from the nearby market. Up too came voices and the twang of guitar chords and drums. ‘You want us to go down there, Helen? It’s like the gates of Hades.’

‘Sure. It’s the only way in – or out. But don’t be surprised if people stare. I did warn you that most boys wear jackets and ties. But you knew better. In that lumberjack shirt and jeans you have
American
written on every inch.’

‘Maybe they’ll think I’m some kinda talent scout.’

‘Not a bad idea, though in that case you’d be in an Italian suit. In this place that’d count more than money.’ The burly figure of the bouncer loomed. ‘You two members?’

Helen produced her card. ‘I am. And this – gentleman – is my guest.’

Doorman Paddy Delaney, huge and curly-haired, was guardian of the club’s reputation. He checked Michael over suspiciously. ‘No jeans,’ he grunted. ‘We don’t have no teddy boys here.’

Michael spoke easily. His nose was on a par with the doorman’s eyes. ‘I’m in the Armed Forces, sir. Would you like to see my ID?’

Around them girls twittered and nudged. A US accent would lend tremendous authenticity to their activities. Michael calmly reached inside his tee shirt and showed his dog-tags, displayed on the palm of his hand: his manners and charm were not in question. One girl pulled Delaney’s sleeve. ‘Go on, Paddy. Let ’em in.’ The doorman shifted reluctantly and motioned them inside.

Helen was excited. A session in the evening was rare for her. At lunchtime she could conceal her visits in the guise of shopping or going to her father’s. But to attend at night with a boyfriend required an elaborate tissue of lies about Harold House with an enhanced risk of discovery. That gave added bite. She reached for Michael’s hand and led him firmly down the packed staircase into the noisy cellar beneath.

Under spotlights the band on the tiny podium were belting out a rhythm and blues number. The atmosphere was smoky and acrid. Sweat dripped from brows, guitars thrummed frenetically. The drummer, a cigarette stuck to his lower lip, had a glazed wide-eyed expression as if hypnotised. The effect was overpowering.

‘We’re a long way from Memphis.’ Michael had to bend and shout into Helen’s ear.

She shook her head. ‘We’re not. This is Liverpool.’

The packed mass of youngsters were not jiving – there was no room for that. Instead they bounced vigorously up and down, heads  bobbing, mostly without physical contact with their partners.

‘What kind of dance is that?’ Michael pointed.

‘We call it the Cavern stomp. Come on, it’s dead easy.’ And Helen pulled him into a small space and proceeded to bop along with the rest.

The guitar riff pulsed around the low curved roof and set his teeth  a-tingle. He had to bend to avoid
bumping his head. The flip-joints of Chuck Berry’s poor southern towns were beyond Helen’s imagination, Michael realised, though similar filthy dives existed not half a mile away near the docks. Not that he wished to explore any, though some GIs, drawn to the low life, had done so and invariably returned with more than they bargained for.

‘That’s a cop-out, that song,’ commented Helen breathlessly as the last drum roll crashed. ‘He’s talking about his daughter, for heaven’s sake. Should be his girlfriend.’

‘Don’t you think it’s sadder, though? His kid’s trying to contact him and he’s frantic to return the call – and doesn’t have her number? It’s quite sophisticated stuff.’

‘They play it because it was always the Beatles’ opener,’ Helen explained. ‘The Cavern was a jazz club originally, then skiffle. That’s sort of rock and roll, but amateurish. The Beatles are different – ambitious. “Besame Mucho” and “Till there was you”, which none of the others would tackle. Most groups aped Cliff Richard and the Shadows or Shane Fenton, sanitised
yuk
. But the Beatles are explosive: they go straight for raw stuff, then mix it with romance but in black leather and Cuban boots. Or at least, that’s what they wore till Brian Epstein got at them. Paul sings like a choirboy – he
was
a choirboy once – and John like a demented chainsaw. Mesmeric, I tell you.’

‘I’d love to hear them live. When are they on next?’

‘Dunno. Bob Wooller the DJ would know. Been around the joint for years. He’s over there.’

Wooller was short and dapper, with a white shirt, dark suit and tie, the exact opposite of the more flamboyant versions of Michael’s experience. It was as if the focus were so strongly on the music, with its evocative accompaniment of that distinctive Cavern odour, that everything else could be exactly as in the offices and streets above them. Or perhaps Wooller’s respectable dress was a peculiar form of camouflage: the unobjectionable face of a revolution.

‘Him?’ Michael chuckled. ‘He looks like a bank clerk.’

‘Part of his talent,’ Helen riposted. ‘He used to be a clerical worker, but for the railways, not a bank. Perfect for keeping everything running smoothly in here, if you think about it.’

Wooller took the microphone as the band scrambled to remove their kit. Beside them fidgeted the next bunch of gawky youths, new Fender instruments in hand, fifteen-watt amplifiers stacked behind them, anxious to set up.

‘Hang on,’ he told Helen and Michael. ‘They’ve got exactly the time of two records to change over. Move outa the way.’ He raised the mike and consulted a scrap of paper. ‘And this record’s been requested for Val, Sue and Rosie. Brenda Lee, “All Alone am I”. Where are you, girls? Wave. There you are, fellahs. Three luverly Liverpool lasses, all alone and waitin’ for you.’

Good-natured whoops greeted this sally as the vocalist’s high warble rose. The entire audience joined in and swayed.

‘Now then. What can I do for you?’

‘When are the Beatles on again?’ Helen asked quickly. Wooller’s attention could be held only for a split second.

‘Oh, you’ve missed ’em. They were here 12 April, Good Friday, big event, from four in the afternoon till well after midnight. With the Foremost, Faron’s Flamingos, the Panthers. Nine groups in all. Fantastic night. But we had to lay it on specially. They’re off to London.’ His expression became dreamy. ‘God, I can remember when the Beatles got a fiver a session and a quid for the driver. Even last autumn it were only fifty nicker. This time it was three hundred quid, and the fire service only let us sell five hundred tickets at ten bob each and we still had to fork out for the other groups. Bloody nerve – we got nine hundred in ’ere last August when they came back from Hamburg. Outa pocket, the Club was. They’ve got beyond us.’

‘But you’ll get them at the Cavern again, surely?’

Wooller shrugged but looked distressed. ‘We’ll try. Maybe August Bank Holiday. Look, kid, they can fill the Liverpool Empire. By themselves. Two number ones so far and even their LP’s in the charts. They’re going to be big, we both know it. Plans for a film. And America next spring if the records go well – Brian’s talking about a baseball stadium in New York.’

‘Shea Stadium? But that’s huge.’ Michael’s eyes widened. ‘And they don’t have concerts. I’m sure that’s wrong.’

Wooller checked over the quartet of youths in close-cut suits, shirts and ties who had succeeded in plugging their equipment into the amplifiers as the second disc spun to silence. ‘Cilla’s gonna sing. Stick around.’ He moved away.

‘Who’s Cilla?’ Michael was mystified.

Helen pointed. ‘Priscilla White. Calls herself Cilla Black now. She works here – she helps with the bands, takes your coat in the cloakroom. If you’ve left anything in your pockets, you have to take it out, get what you need then pay a second time. She’s a bit fierce, is Cilla.
Her
voice is like a foghorn. Here we go.’

The skinny red-headed girl with buck teeth and a tiny mini-dress took the microphone and with total aplomb began to belt out the Peggy Lee torch song she had made her own.

‘I’ve never heard of any of these names,’ Michael confessed as he examined the poster of future attractions in the dim red light. ‘The Swinging Blue Genes – Rory Storm and the Hurricanes – the Four Just Men – Wayne Gibson and the Dynamic Souls – Freddie Starr and the Midnighters…’

‘We’ve about three hundred and fifty bands in the ’Pool at the moment,’ Helen preened. ‘The Blue Genes are about to be Swinging Blue Jeans with a J: they have a deal with Lybro, our local overalls factory. Freddie Starr is fun. Mad, rather. Ringo was with the Hurricanes till last summer when he joined the Beatles. Jimmy Powell and the Fifth Dimension, who are on next month, have a crazy harmonica player called Rod Stewart with the tightest bum you’ve ever seen.’ She swaggered away from him. ‘Don’t you realise that right now, here in the Cavern, you’re at the very epicentre of the known world? There is no better place. Come on.’

The new band had started up an old Emile Ford number, familiar to the customers who again joined in the riff.

‘He was the first black British pop star.’ Helen seemed determined to give him a guided tour of both the club’s geography and recent history. They found themselves at the hatch and bought two Cokes. ‘And the first big pop name to appear here. Three years ago. Before Kennedy was President. Seems like another century, doesn’t it? Soon they’ll all be famous.’

The ill-lit corner was hardly quiet and, since the gents’ toilet was nearby, suffered even more grossly from its assorted odours. Helen slipped her arm through Michael’s.

‘Look at them,’ she motioned at the stompers, at the band. ‘They believe to the letter what I’ve just said.
You make me wanna lotta things that I never had
– and they think they’re about to have it all. This is no mere music. This is claimed as our renaissance – the revival of this great city. Yet in the end it’s utterly insubstantial. We have no Tin Pan Alley. That’s in Soho. The moment the guys sign a contract they’re off to London, and beyond.’

She squeezed Michael’s arm. ‘You’re much more real, I think. You and what you represent. What we see here are the last throes – the city is dying. Real life is elsewhere. But let’s enjoy it while we can, shall we?’