Trio - [40]

She bent down to write. My ambition is to be a world-famous chess player. A grand master, because no woman has done that yet.

Joan

‘Mind you, the Kinks have a huge following, and ‘Hard Day’s Night’ is still selling well.’

‘Bugger off, George,’ said Joan.

He grinned, poured more pale ale into his glass and tilted back in his leather chair. The room was stifling, the windows painted shut years ago. A small, cream fan made a whining noise but barely shifted the smoky air.

‘He will ring?’ Joan slouched on the sofa. She was drinking Pernod and water, smoking Gauloise. Her Francophile phase. The taste of the drink reminded her of aniseed balls, of the weekly trip to the sweet shop with her threepenny bit. Choosing between flying saucers and sherbet fountains, Spanish and Kay-lie, gumdrops and sour apples.

There was a racket from outside. She went and peered down. Ban the Bombers. She couldn’t open the window to shout her support but she raised her glass and blew a kiss to a guy dressed up like a clown. Most of them looked so ordinary she thought. She watched them pass. The atmosphere was good-natured. Strains of singing drifted up and the twanging sound of a skiffle band playing ‘When When The Saints Go Marching In’.

She slumped back on the sofa, adjusted her mini skirt. George had wandering eyes. He liked to look but he never tried anything else.

He peered across at her, narrowing his eyes against the smoke from his cigar.

‘What?’

‘You knew it was a winner…’

‘We don’t know yet.’

He used one hand to wave away her protest. ‘Any other virgin, if you get my meaning, wouldn’t have had all that stuff about royalties in their contract. But you knew.’

‘Hoped, George. Not knew.’

He blew smoke rings. ‘You’ll need an agent.’ He took a draught of beer, foam rimmed his upper lip. He wiped it with the back of his hand.

‘You reckon?’

‘You’ve copyright to watch, cover versions. Rights for this, that and the other. S’pose Sacha wants to release a French version, different tax laws and all that. What if the television wants it for a theme tune? You don’t want to be bothering with all that. You need to keep churning them out.’

She balked at his description of her writing, pulled a face.

‘You need someone to take care of the business side.’

‘You?!’ She beamed at him.

‘Could do worse.’ He cleared his throat.

‘I’ll think about it.’

The phone shrilled. Joan sat bolt upright, slopping some of the drink on her bare arm.

George winked. She’d never seen him move quickly for anything. He had all the ponderous calm of an old camel and a similar face.

He picked up the receiver and grunted his name. He listened intently, nodding, his mouth pursed in concentration. ‘Tara, Bill.’ He replaced the receiver.

‘George?’ It was bad news, she could see. Maybe they hadn’t even broken into the top twenty never mind the top three. It had all looked so promising. Candy had sung it on Thank Your Lucky Stars. There’d been a rash of features about Candy too, all over the papers, linking her to a guitarist from Gerry and the Pacemakers. Every time she turned the radio on she heard it.

‘Sorry, Joan.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘I was going to take you out for a drink, bit of grub, but I don’t know if I’m fit company…’

She felt sick.

‘… not with you being the writer of this week’s number one top of the pops.’

Number one! She screamed and leapt to her feet. ‘You bugger, George! You rotten old pig! I thought we’d lost it. Number one. Oh, George!’

He raised his can. ‘“Walk My Way” by Candy, music and lyrics by Joan Hawes.’

She clinked her glass against his.

‘Endless success,’ he said.

‘Endless success.’

‘You, my dear, are going to make us both rich.’

She put her glass down. Hugged herself. Feeling childish but unable to contain herself.

‘So what do you reckon? Bite to eat? Bottle of bubbly?’

‘Definitely.’

He patted his pockets. ‘You any money?’

‘George!’

‘Only joking. You can pay me back.’

‘When hell freezes over.’

She wanted to run from excitement, turn cartwheels down the King’s Road and shout her news from the rooftops. But she couldn’t run in her heels and she’d never turned a cartwheel in her life. She contented herself with swinging her handbag and humming loudly as they went through the streets, her arms linked with George’s. What a strange sight they must make. George with his rumpled, shiny suit, his porkpie hat and rolling gait and she with her thick, black hair cut short like Rita Tushingham in A Taste Of Honey and latest make-up, red beret and knee-high boots. Dolly bird and sugar Daddy? If only they knew, she laughed, and swung her bag higher.

Pamela

They got the ferry at Hull. The coach drove on and then Mrs Whetton told them all to bring their coats and any valuables with them. The crossing would take three hours. Thirteen, and Pamela had never been abroad before. Everything fascinated her: the great metal structures in the boat, the excitement of setting off, watching the harbour side and all the men scurrying about with ropes. Then the launch. And the ship slowly turning, blasting its fog horn before they headed out to sea. She watched for a while. The buildings shrank and then disappeared from view and soon there was only the seagulls following in their wake and swooping down into the petrol-blue water.