Winterbrook won.
Despite being a small country market town, Winterbrook, after Hazy Hassocks, seemed like being in the centre of Manchester
again. People teemed and traffic snarled. And as Hazy Hassocks, after Fiddlesticks, had seemed like a cosmopolitan city, Amber
was slightly overwhelmed. How quickly she’d forgotten what it was like to be choked by fumes and noise on a scorching summer
day. How quickly had the pastoral silence and gentle air of Fiddlesticks become the norm.
She found the constant roar an assault on her senses and wondered how she’d ever been able to cope with this on a daily basis.
It was scary how much Fiddlesticks now seemed like home. The occasional letters from Jemma and Emma and Kelly and Bex might
as well have been sent from outer space. Their mutual points of contact were
growing ever farther apart. Amber realised she was so busy with other stuff that she had no idea about the music charts, or
the latest celeb gossip, the must-have fashions, or even which films or books were currently hot.
And, more to the point, she simply didn’t care.
Retro Music and Theatre was, as Freddo had said, next to the bank. The name plate, along with several others, indicated that
it was the world’s superior entertainment’s agency.
Although she was a little early, she knocked on the door.
‘Yup?’ A cheery voice echoed from the intercom beside her.
Amber jumped. She hadn’t expected anything quite so advanced.
‘It’s Amber Parslowe. I rang earlier. About soul bands
‘Ah, yes. The chick with the Boddington’s accent. Come on up, chuck.’
Hoping that the last bit of the remark had been jocular rather than mocking, Amber puffed her way up several dark, wooden
staircases, past dingy doors announcing that they were fronting the establishments of debt collectors, private investigators,
recruitment consultants, and financial advisors.
Retro Music and Theatre was right at the top.
‘Come in, duck,’ Freddo chuckled as she tapped once more on the door – painted badly in silver and covered with stick-on gold
stars. ‘’Come straight in, the receptionist is at lunch. Still. Lazy cow.’
Closing the door behind her, Amber blinked. The walls of the small and airless room were covered, floor to ceiling, with ancient
posters and faded photos. Thousands and thousands of them. Freddo, it appeared, had contact with Cary Grant, Humphrey Bogart,
John Wayne, Elvis, Katherine
and
Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, The Beatles, Hendrix, Clark Gable.
‘Through here, duck.’ Freddo’s voice echoed from an
archway into the next room. ‘Like I said, the receptionist is still at lunch.’
Dazed, Amber crossed the room in three strides into an office decorated in much the same way with posters from cinemas and
dance and music halls, the flyers promising a lot of be-bop-a-lula with Bill Haley, Gene Vincent and Little Neddy Small among
starry others.
Two massive ceiling fans were working overtime. The crowded room was deliciously cool.
‘By ’eck!’ Freddo broke into theatrical northern once more. ‘You’re a right bobby-dazzler and no mistake!’
Amber laughed.
Freddo, a sort of leathery, tanned, wrinkled 60s throwback with Peter Stringfellow hair and a matching grin, was lolling behind
a desk piled high with higgledy-piggledy paperwork, three phones, a fax machine, two computers, an overflowing ashtray and
several very dirty mugs.
Her mother, she realised, would have thought he was groovy.
‘Sit down, duck – and I apologise for the piss-taking. The accent – it’s lovely, really – but I used to do a bit of impressionist
stuff in my heyday …’
Clearing a lot of ancient NMEs from the chair, Amber sat. ‘It’s fine. I’m reet proud of being from ooop north. And your client
list –’ she indicated the reception area and the wall behind her ‘– is very impressive.’
‘Now who’s taking the piss? OK, they’re all for show – but it impresses the hell out of the punters, duck.’ Freddo roared
with laughter. ‘Touché!’
They grinned at each other, friends already.
‘Now.’ Freddo rocked dangerously on the two back legs of his chair. ‘You tell me exactly what you’re looking for and when
and why, and I’ll come up with the goods. Just like that.’
Amber frowned. ‘Was that an impression? I know – someone really, really ancient? Eric Morecambe?’
‘Tommy Cooper,’ Freddo sighed. ‘Bless you, you’re such a
child
…’
Amber went through the details again. All of them. And how she’d come by them and why she needed them and Harvest Moon, and
Freddo leaned forward and listened, not interrupting.
‘Sounds to me,’ he said, ‘that what you need is a sort of tribute soul band – no, don’t stop me. You’ve probably already been
offered dozens of tribute bands asking ludicrous amounts of money. They’re all the rage these days, duck. But what I was thinking
of was more along the lines of…’
He steadied the chair and delved into the piles of paper on his desk. Amber knew that he wasn’t going to come up with anything
useful at all, but she liked him, and she liked this room, and it was so nice to be sitting down.
‘… this!’ Freddo flourished a dog-eared piece of paper under her nose. ‘These boys have been on my books for a long time.
Always in work. Excellent musicians. All the boys played in original UK soul bands years ago when the genre was at its height.
All defunct now, of course. Not really your top-notch chart acts, but some of them made records and they all had a massive
following on the club and festival circuit. Real stars. They got together about ten years ago and haven’t looked back. Been
growing all the time. They do all the stuff you mentioned in their act. Bring the house down every time, they do.’
Amber sat forward, intrigued. ‘And they’re – er – affordable, are they?’ She hadn’t wanted to offend Freddo or his boys by
saying cheap. ‘And available for the last weekend in September?’
Freddo scrabbled through the piles of paper again and emerged with a diary. ‘Bloody receptionist,’ he muttered. ‘Never here
when you need her. My secretarial stuff needs a good seeing to too.’
‘Maybe when she gets back from lunch?’ Amber ventured, thinking it would take an entire Brook Street
army to bring about some semblance of order.
‘She went to lunch in November 98,’ Freddo said mournfully. ‘I haven’t seen her since.’
Amber blinked.
‘Oh, she’s not gone missing, duck. She ran off with a magician who could pull budgies from up his sleeve and rabbits from
his hat and – well, you get the picture … Affordable, did you say? Well, I’m sure we can negotiate a mutually agreeable fee
if they’re what you’re looking for. Ah, right now, the boys are pretty booked up through the summer, but yes, it looks as
if they’ll be OK for your Harvest Moon thing. Shall I pencil it in?’
Amber nodded, deciding not to say that she hadn’t actually mentioned paying for live music to anyone else in Fiddlesticks
yet.
‘Yes, please – thanks … er, that is – look, I don’t want to be rude, but they must be pretty old and – well, I mean what guarantee
would we have that they can actually stand unaided – let alone sing and play at the same time?’
Freddo chuckled hugely. ‘Clever girl! Always test the merchandise before purchasing! You wouldn’t be looking for a job, would
you?’
‘Not at the moment, no. Thanks, all the same. So, do you have a video of – er – the boys or something?’
‘I can do better than that, duck. I can give you a couple of agency passes to their next gig. Then you can go along incognito
like, see if you like them and if they’re suitable, and I’ll arrange for you to go backstage and meet them afterwards too
if you like, so you can get up close and personal. How’s that sound?’
The up close and personal sounded a bit scary, Amber thought, but the rest was great. ‘Sounds brilliant. Thanks. Is the gig
at a big concert hall? Theatre? In London? Soon?’
‘Winterbrook Masonic Hall. Saturday week. Ruby Wedding Anniversary for Joyce and Brian Nixon.’
Amber tried not to let her disappointment show.
‘If they’re that good – er – how come they’re still doing local parties and stuff?’
‘They’re a working band, duck. They’ll do anything, go anywhere – no gig too big or too small. You can’t afford to turn down
a booking in this game. Some other bugger’ll be in there like a shot. All good PR. See – Winterbrook Masonic today – and maybe,
just maybe, a slot on the nationwide Soul Survivors tour tomorrow.’
‘OK – yes, that makes sense. And – er – what are they called?’
‘The JB Roadshow. They bursts on stage to “Sock It To ‘Em, JB”. Sensational stuff. It makes the hairs on the hairs on the
back of your neck stand up and take notice, duck, believe me.’ Freddo had a further rummage on the desk. ‘Here – I’ve got
their presenter here somewhere. Photos and all that. Prices. It’s got all my contact details on too. And here’s your passes
for the Masonic Hall gig. Being a private party it’s by invite only, of course – but you’ll get in no trouble with these.’
Thanking him, Amber glanced at the glossy presenter with some trepidation. ‘Er – they’ve been airbrushed, haven’t they?’
‘No. God’s truth. These boys have worn really well. No rehab for them. They’ve got high on nothing but their music over the
years, duck. The elixir of eternal youth. Not bad, eh?’
Not bad at all, Amber thought. Not that she believed they hadn’t been touched up. For their age they all looked in reasonable
shape. ‘Er – there’s an awful lot of them …’
‘The usual soul band line-up,’ Freddo assured her. ‘Singer, two guitarists – lead and bass, couple of saxophonists, trumpeter,
drummer, keyboards … Gives the real gutsy big soul band sound.’
Amber nodded. She assumed it might. And the JB Roadshow, photographed on stage, looked very impressive in their tight black
flared velvet trousers and rainbow satin frilly shirts. Authentic, she guessed. Retro chic. Lovely.
If they could play as well as they looked, Fiddlesticks would adore them.
Freddo leaned across the messy desk and held out his hand. ‘Nice doing business with you, Amber, duck. Shall we leave it that
you’ll contact me to firm up or otherwise after the Winterbrook gig?’
Amber agreed that they would, shook Freddo’s hand again, and reluctantly hauled herself out of the world’s foremost entertainment
agency and down the stairs into the frazzling heat of Winterbrook’s town centre.
Pushing the JB Roadshow’s presenter into her bag, she buffeted her way through the crowds towards the car park. It had been
a really good day. Cassiopeia might not have had anything to do with it, but then she’d never expected her too. Hell – but
it was hot! Hopefully Fern would be Win-free tonight and they could sit in The Weasel and Bucket’s garden and drink long cold
glasses of … ‘Oooouf! Sorry!’ Amber cannoned into someone in the crush on the pavement. ‘Oh, bugger …’
‘And great to see you too.’ Lewis glared down at her.
Amber, still on a high from Freddo, laughed. ‘You look really, really hacked off. Had a fallout with Sukie?’
Lewis growled something she didn’t catch.
‘Look – tell me to sod off if you like, but if you’re not in a rush, do you want to talk about it?’
‘Talking won’t help. What I want is something cold,’ Lewis sighed. ‘Very cold.’
‘Like a paddling pool and an ice cream when you were a kid? Ah, yes – bliss. So – why don’t you? There must be a park near
here, surely? And an ice cream van. I’m not in a hurry to get back to Fiddlesticks either.’
‘Amber, go away, please.’ Lewis said gently. ‘I just want to be on my own, OK? I’ve got an hour to kill before I collect Jem
from the joinery. I’m still a bit hungover from last night. And dog tired. I’ve spent most of this blistering day in the Social
Services offices at Reading completing paperwork, sitting in on meetings, listening to more
gobbledegook than any sane person needs in a lifetime, and I’ve had a row with my mother for about the first time in my life.
What I don’t want is to scamper about in a bloody park with a Mivvi pretending I don’t have a care in the sodding world.’
‘I’ll take that as a no, then.’
‘Yeah, sorry. As I said, it’s not been a good day.’
‘It sounds pants, you poor thing.’ Amber smiled kindly, starting to walk away. ‘I won’t make it worse by going all waggy-tailed
on you. Far too irritating. Anyway, if you really don’t want to talk about it, I hope things get better really soon. See ya.’
‘Amber … oh, bugger it. There’s a park across the road. If you really don’t have to dash off, actually I wouldn’t mind unburdening.’
Amber nodded, hoping the unburdening wasn’t going to involve details of bedroom acrobatics with Sukie. The row with Zillah
sounded a bit worrying though. Lewis and Zil seemed very close. As someone who could count the number of times she’d fallen
out with her own mother on the fingers of one hand and still have some left over, Amber had every sympathy with that one.
The park, municipally cloned, was noisy with children; older people sat on the wrought-iron seats in the shade of municipal
limes; lovers lay entwined on the parched cropped grass, blissfully unaware of anything or anyone else.
The paddling pool had standing room only, and was filled with shrieking kiddies in neon bathing costumes, but the ice-cream
van was there, and after queuing for ages while Lewis found a reasonably quiet, reasonably shady spot, Amber emerged triumphant
with two 99 cones.
She smiled to herself, watching the young mums lusting over Lewis with their doe-eyes. He, bless him, was so lost in introspection
that he had no idea at all.
‘Thanks,’ he took the ice cream. ‘And sorry for being a grumpy bastard.’
‘Sounds as if you had every reason.’ Amber sat beside him on the edge of a municipally-cloned rockery and tried to lick the
melting ice cream from her fingers without it looking too suggestive. ‘So, go on – I’m all ears.’
She listened. She really listened. She loved his voice, the soft rise and fall was musical. Magical. She wanted to cuddle
him, but of course resisted the temptation.