Authors: Elizabeth Audrey Mills
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Historical, #Romance
"Are you with anyone? I mean, do you have a ... a ..."
"Boyfriend?" He grinned. "You can say it." He leaned over and poked me with a finger.
"Sorry I didn't know what to say; I never knew anyone ... like you ... before."
"You probably do, but didn't realise it. It's not something we tell folks as a rule, for fear
I was shocked. This was something I was completely ignorant about. "Does that really
happen?"
"Oh yes, me darlin', all the time. I've not suffered violence yet, though I live in fear of it
every day, but get a lot of verbal abuse."
"I don't understand why people have a problem with it."
"Well, me neither, but while the Church is against us we don't stand a chance."
I looked at him. As far as I could tell, he wasn't any different from any other man. Oh,
he was definitely in the 'handsome' category, tall and muscular, every girl's dream, in fact,
but I couldn't see any clues that set him apart. He looked around us before leaning closer
to me to speak.
"To answer your question, yes, I do have a regular feller, Sigi - Seigfried. He's from
Germany, dances with the Royal Ballet. Oh, he's not a star, but he's trying hard. We don't
see each other much - he's always rehearsing or performing or touring. He is so beautiful,
and graceful."
"Tell me about him."
"Ah, well now." He leaned back on the steps, arms and legs stretched out in a star shape,
like that drawing by Michaelangelo (but clothed, of course - though the thought
immediately sent my imagination ricocheting off into an amazing, and completely
inappropriate, vision of Connor laid out naked on the steps).
Unaware of my thoughts, and missing the grin I was trying to hide, he gazed up into the
blue sky, and continued, with a smile of nostalgia. "He came to the hotel with a whole
gang of dancers from The Ballet; they had a table booked. It was like a flock of
flamingoes landing, so it was; all noise and colour. I knew he had seen me; I could feel
his eyes on me as I worked, following me from table to table - every time I looked his way
he was staring at me. And when I was serving at their table, he kept speaking to me,
calling me over. I was getting all flustered, and they laughed at me, but I didn't care, I
laughed with them. The next day, he met me after breakfast and we went walking. That
night we slept together."
His eyes had a dreamy look when he turned his head to meet my eyes. "I love him like I
never loved anyone, Belinda darlin'. He's The One for me."
I hugged him. "I'm really happy for you, Connor, my lovely brother."
"Today is my last day of freedom," I announced to Connor the next morning. "Jenny
phoned to say she will be back from her travels this afternoon."
He and I were walking along the embankment. The summer of 1963 had seemed to go
on forever, but now the temperature was dropping and winter was well established. I was
feeling relaxed, happy and excited, all at the same time. London, always a vibrant place,
was alive with the new mood of the sixties. Fashions had become brighter and more
daring, businesses were thriving, and radios everywhere brightly proclaimed the new
music - which was often crass, sometimes challenging, but always loud, and I rode on the
sound like a pillion passenger on a motor-cycle.
"She'll be crackin' the whip then?"
Not for the first time I studied my handsome companion. Away from his work, Connor
followed the latest styles - his hair was long, his suit trousers tight, his shoes pointed; he
looked great. Once again I wished he was not gay - he could have talked me into bed
without any trouble. I giggled at the thought, and he looked at me, puzzled.
Hastily, to cover my embarrassment, I said "Yes, Jenny wants to book a studio for
rehearsals. And we need new songs. She says it's no good rehashing old ones, audiences
these days want novelty, and she's right, of course. At a push, we can cover new records
from America, but then you have two versions of the same song competing for chart
position - the best you can hope for is to get a bit more than half the sales, it's never
good."
"I can see what you mean. I always thought you must have hundreds to choose from."
"In a way we do, but if I record a song, it has to be right for me. For instance, most are
written for male singers, with words or sentiments that wouldn't fit with a female
performer. And anyway, there are not many 'good' songs coming along, I've discovered
recently that most of the stuff churned out by the so-called 'professional' writers is
rubbish. Some artists settle for what they can get, but it can be a bad decision that could
ruin their career."
We stopped and sat on one of the stone seats set into the embankment. Behind us was
the Thames, twinkling in the late morning sunlight, before us the busy street, with streams
of red buses and black taxis, cars and motorcycles. A short way off, a busker, wearing a
worn, military greatcoat with patched sleeves and tattered edges, had laid out a cushion to
sit on and was unpacking his guitar.
"You could end up like him," Connor said, indicating the busker with a nod of his head.
I turned and looked. The man was in his thirties, and though shabbily dressed, somehow
still managed to convey a sense of dignity in his bearing that suggested he had once
known better times.
I nodded, sadly. "Exactly."
In the silence that followed, the busker began his first song. His voice was clear, with a
huskiness that hinted at a hard life, and the words he sang were new to me, like poetry set
to music. I watched the people walking past. Most ignored the man, some sneered with
disgust at the state of his clothes or the fact that he was, effectively, begging. But many
others paused, drawn by the sound of his music, and dropped coins into his cap, set on the
pavement at his feet. He thanked each one with a smile.
"Not yet, Connor love, can we stay for a while?" I said. The man's singing had moved
me, and I wanted to hear more.
"Sure, I was enjoying the music meself," he smiled, sitting down again.
After two more songs, I stood, followed by Connor. But instead of moving on, I took the
few steps that carried me to where the busker sat. It is hard to describe how I was feeling
at that moment. The word I want to use is 'trance', but that sounds too dramatic. So does
'hypnotised', yet both words are true. There was no choice in my actions, I had to talk to
him.
He looked up at me, and smiled. "Hello," he said in that same husky voice, now with a
hint of an accent.
I smiled back, unsure what to do next. "Do you mind if I sit with you for a moment
please?" I asked, nervously.
"Course you can, pet, I don't often have a pretty girl wanting to sit beside me these
days." He laughed. "Most of them run a mile when they get downwind."
I sat on the pavement at his side and, looking confused, Connor sat next to me.
"I know a lot of songs, but I never before heard any of those you sang this morning," I
began.
"Ah well," he said, smiling again, "you wouldn't. Them's my own creation. I make them
up."
No wonder I didn't recognise them. "They are very moving, yet beautiful." It was all I
could say.
"Well, thank you, pet. Aye, they're bonny enough." He grinned. "Nearly as bonny as
you, my dear. What's your name?" His gaze was direct and confident, despite his
circumstances. It was like being scanned by an x-ray machine, my innermost feelings
exposed.
"Belinda," I stammered.
He extended a hand. It was surprisingly clean. "Bill Argent, fallen star. Pleased to meet
you, Belinda."
I accepted the offered hand, and held it for a moment. "This is my friend Connor."
He shook Connor's hand, then turned back to me. "Well, Belinda my dear, you wanted
to talk to me. Are you from one of them churches, come to save me from my sins?"
The question was so unexpected that I laughed out loud. "Oh no, certainly not. Mind
you, my Gran would have loved to hear you say that, Bill. She was always making me go
to Sunday School in the hope I would get religion. It never worked, though."
Unsure of myself, I hesitated. I knew what I wanted, but didn't know if it was possible.
Eventually I opened my handbag and took a pound note from my purse. As I gave it to
him I asked: "Are you here every day?"
He accepted the note gratefully. "Thank you my dear, that is very generous. Yes, I'm
here at the same time every day, unless it's raining or snowing. Will you be coming
back?"
"Oh yes, you can be sure you will see me again." I leaned over and kissed him on the
cheek, then stood up. Connor shook his hand again and we left. As we walked away, Bill
began another beautiful song and Connor gave me a puzzled look.
It was late afternoon, and I was back in my hotel room, relaxing with a magazine, when
Jenny called around. After welcoming hugs, we sat down with a bottle of wine and I
asked her about about her trip. She described the painful details of another fruitless
journey across the country to hear music being murdered by talentless hopefuls.
"But enough about me, how have you been settling in?"
"Oh fine, thanks. John Parkin and I have met a few times. He is sorting out my tax
affairs at the moment, which is tricky, considering I don't exist as far as the tax office is
concerned. I also made a new friend."
"Tell me more," she smiled. "Is romance in the air?"
"In my dreams, yeah," I replied, wryly. "I fancy him like mad, but he's gay. Still, we are
good friends, and that's nice too."
"It is, for sure," she said. "Now, I have work for you. Tomorrow I am taking you to a
studio to look at the rehearsal facilities. I want you to make yourself comfortable with the
team there and way things are done. In the meantime, I need you to give me a list of a
dozen or so songs you want to work on, with a view to an album. For the time being these
can be any standards or cover songs you like, but if you have any of your own songs, I'd
like to hear those too."
She paused, waiting for my response.
"Ok," I said, marshalling my thoughts. "I can easily let you have a list of my favourite
existing songs, but ... "
It was my turn to pause, not sure how to introduce my idea. Would she laugh, or think I
was mad? "Jenny, I haven't written anything much myself, but I want to run something
past you. I have found a good songwriter, but he's not with any of the established outfits.
Would you be prepared to listen to him?"
"Where did you find him?"
I hesitated, unsure how it would go down. "Busking on the embankment," I blurted.
She grinned. "Honestly? You're not kidding me, are you?"
"No, straight up. I heard him today. His songs are all original, and they are unbelievably
good. Can you come to the embankment with me tomorrow morning at ten to listen?"
She laughed. "This is a first for me, Belinda honey. Sure, why not. Meet you in
reception at nine thirty."
So it is that a momentous decision was made that launched, not one but two careers.
We found a perfect spot near to where Bill would soon be setting up. It was a pavement
café, serving breakfasts and coffee to the crowds on their way to work. We bought
ourselves coffees and took seats where we could observe Bill and hear him, but where I
was hidden from his view.
It wasn't long before he had taken his pitch and unpacked his guitar. I watched jenny
carefully as he began to sing. If anyone had been observing me when I first heard him, I
suspect they would have seen the same reaction as I saw. Her eyes opened a little wider, a
small smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. After a few bars, she turned to me and
raised her eyebrows, then returned her gaze to the man who occupied our thoughts.
She listened to two full songs, then, while he was still singing the third, she indicated
with her hand for me to stay, while she rose and walked the few steps to where Bill was
performing. He gave a little nod to acknowledge her presence when she stopped in front
of him.
When the song was done, they talked, and I saw her take one of her business cards from
her handbag and write something on the back before passing it to him. They shook hands
and she returned to me.
"I've told him to bring some songs suitable for a female singer to the studios this
afternoon. If he comes, and if the songs are any good, he could earn himself a lot of
money. I like what I've heard today, Belinda, I'm glad to brought me here."
I was pleased, both for Bill and to have my judgement accepted and validated.
"Now, my friend," she continued, "we have work to do."
We left the café and she hailed a black cab. "Lancaster Road, West Eleven," she said to
The cab dropped us outside an elegant, white-painted, three-storey house in Notting
Hill. The sky was darkening, and I heard a distant rumble of thunder from the west. I
imagined Bill, sitting on the embankment with his guitar, looking over his shoulder to
judge how long he had before the rain arrived. In my opinion, it would not be long.
Jenny and I climbed the flight of stone steps that rose to a polished mahogany front
door, inset with panels of stained glass. On the wall to the left of the door a neat, brass
sign indicated that this was the address of "Hugo L. White, Record Producer." Beneath it
was another, saying, simply: "The White Studios."
Next to the signs was an antique bell-pull, which Jenny yanked, producing a melodic
tinkling somewhere indoors. A box, tucked into a corner, squawked something
incomprehensible, and Jenny spoke her name into it. There was a click, and the door
opened.
I followed her into an entrance hall that looked to me like a palace ballroom. The floor
was tiled in a beautiful mosaic picture of a peacock, with tail spread in magnificent
colours. Fine, mahogany furniture was spaced along the walls; velvet curtains hung
languidly, drawn into slim waists by golden ropes; and a flight of thickly-carpeted stairs
carried the eye up to a balustraded gallery.
It was along this gallery that a man appeared, casually dressed in a smart creamcoloured jacket and maroon trousers. His face was tanned, setting off his bushy, blonde
hair and, when he smiled, highlighting his impossibly white teeth.