Trio - [37]

She sorted more pictures out for Alicia and Bernard. It would be nice for them to have some. She posted them first-class with a short note saying how she was missing him and how they must be too. She heard nothing.

She put the house on the market but interest was slow. A lot of people wanted something more modern – split level or at least with the living room and dining room knocked through. Then she got an offer. She began to look for places that they could afford. She hoped they could stay in the area and Pamela could continue at St John’s, but it might not be possible. Then the buyer pulled out and it was back to square one. There was nothing in the bank and the Family Allowance went nowhere. Pamela needed new shoes. She began to feel panicky. She had to manage. She had to. There was no one else now.

She dressed as neatly as she could, aware of the aura of disapproval that always seemed to emanate from Peter’s parents. She walked there. It was half an hour or so and it was a fine day, wind fluttering the first autumn leaves and the smell of wood smoke in the air. She was thirsty by the time she arrived and too warm from the walk.

She rang the front doorbell and after a moment saw the curtains in the bay window twitch. Then the door opened.

‘Lilian.’ Alicia had a tiny puzzled frown. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I wanted to have a word with you, if…’ She was tongue-tied. She had practised what she would say so often but it all ran away from her now.

‘Oh.’ Alicia stepped back and let her in. They went into the sitting room.

Alicia sat down, her feet together side by side. Lilian glanced down at her own feet, shoes dusty from the walk.

‘Things have been difficult since Peter died. Financially…’ It sounded too blunt, too direct. ‘I’m trying to sell the house, of course, but there have been holdups. I’ve come to ask whether you and Bernard might be able to help us out.’

Alicia blinked, colour flushed her neck and she patted nervously at her lip with the knuckle of one forefinger. There was an appalling silence. Lilian could smell her own body odour. She cleared her throat.

‘I’ll have to speak to Bernard,’ Alicia said.

‘Yes, thank you. I’m sorry, if there’d been any other way… It’s just these next few weeks till I sell the house and then…’ she trailed off. ‘Thank you.’

Alicia stood up and Lilian copied her. She had an urge to grab the woman, to get hold of her and shake her, shout at her. Did she mourn her son, did she cry for him in the night, did he walk through her dreams and call her name? Could she bear the thought of him in the cold ground, knowing she’d never hear his voice, watch him eat or smile?

‘Did you get the photographs?’

‘Yes,’ Alicia said, betraying nothing. And turned to show her out.0

She walked home feeling hot and humiliated. What, what had she done to deserve such… She struggled for words. She felt sick and parched. She stopped at a corner shop and bought a bottle of Coca-Cola. She drank it as she walked, trying to burp discretely when the bubbles repeated on her. It’s for Pamela, she told herself, you had to do it.

Two days later a postal order for twenty pounds arrived and a note.

Dear Lilian,

We do hope this will assist you at this difficult time.

Yours sincerely,

Alicia Gough

It would buy groceries for a few weeks and new shoes for Pamela. It was the last time she ever heard from either of them.

Joan

Lena’s version of ‘Walk My Way’ had been a monumental flop. Roger blamed everyone but himself. The discs were late being pressed, the distributors messed him about, it was the wrong time of year, the trend was for Americans or for male singers. Everyone wanted more Elvis Presley and Cliff. He ignored the fact that Helen Shapiro and Petula Clarke had each topped the charts. The fact that Roger had cut corners on studio time and session musicians and then had been late in liaising with all the other people involved and even had a design commissioned with the wrong title – ‘Walk This Way’ – might have had more than a little to do with it. Joan was bitterly disappointed but she didn’t bother trying to tackle him about it.

Not long after that Roger shut down the company and Joan was out of work. He wanted to move into fashion, he said. More opportunities. Lena caught flu and was very ill. Joan nursed her. Joan worked for a temping agency, typing. Late in 1962 she sent ‘Walk My Way’ and everything else she had written since round to all the record companies. A week later, on her day off, she visited six of them. Two refused to let her past the receptionist. One told her they had a stable of writers and didn’t take unsolicited work.

‘You might want to add me to your stable,’ she tried with a bravado she didn’t feel inside.

‘No room. Sorry.’

At the next place she met George Boyd – half-drunk and ill-tempered, wearing a ridiculous porkpie hat and a disreputable suit. He claimed not to have received her work.

‘It’s there,’ she told him, ‘that one.’ She could see it on his desk.

‘Let’s hear it then,’ he slung back at her.

‘I don’t…’ She hated her voice but she couldn’t miss the chance. Emulating Lena she launched into it.