A Song for Joey (10 page)

Over the following weeks and months of summer, Joey and I were almost inseparable.
We scampered for shelter together when an unexpected shower caught us unawares,
huddled together for warmth when the north wind turned chilly, shared our food, and
swam naked together in the sea on sultry summer nights. We talked as I had never been
able to talk before, and I learned to admire and respect that little man more than I had
never felt about any adult.

Joey's father was a disturbed, violent man, who regularly beat his wife and child after
bouts of heavy drinking. Without a hint of emotion, Joey described a pattern of dreadful
abuse; of nights when he hid in a cupboard to escape his father's rampages, hearing the
horrifying sounds of his mother being beaten senseless.

Eventually, she could take no more - she stabbed her husband forty-eight times with a
carving knife. The young Joey, only six years old at the time, emerged from his hiding
place when silence fell, and found her sitting in a lake of blood on the kitchen floor beside
his father's body, singing softly to herself.

A court found her not guilty of murder, but had her confined in a mental institution.
Joey was placed in an orphanage. He hated it so much he escaped after only a month, and
had lived on the streets ever since.

He passed on all his survival experience to me, showing me how to find food, how to
stay dry, and who to watch out for. He also introduced me to some of the other drop-outs
in the town.

Until then, I had not realised how many people were sleeping on the streets of Great
Yarmouth. People like "Blinker", a man of uncertain years, but definitely over sixty, who
drank wine from the bottle to try to drown out the sounds of gunfire in his head. Or
Gertie, an apparently sweet old lady who could, in a second, change into a cobra, spitting
venom at anyone within sight.

They all knew Joey, and despite the fact that he was younger than any of them, they
treated him as an equal, showing respect that at first seemed odd, but that I soon came to
understand.

It all seemed so easy, almost idyllic. The long, warm days were spent at leisure on the
beach or in a park. If it rained, we dived into one of the amusement arcades, roaming up
and down the aisles, dipping our fingers into the payout troughs on the front of the
machines. Quite often we found a penny or two, and fed it straight into the machine in the
hope of winning the jackpot. Once, we did, winning the top prize of one pound. We dined
well that day, in a restaurant - fish and chips with peas and a cup of tea - a lovely dinner
that was like a banquet to us. We were so bloated afterwards that we slept on the beach
for an hour in the gorgeous sunshine.

I felt at one with the world, part of the great wash of humanity going about their lives.
But it was an illusion; this was summer, and life would become much tougher when the
cold weather arrived.
-♪-♫-♪

I expect you've noticed, haven't you, that my education has not been mentioned for a
while? Well, the simple fact is that I never returned to school after I was thrown out of
The Nest
(how appropriate that sounds now - thrown out of the nest by a cuckoo - I must
write that down). Somehow, the life I was living on the streets seemed to be in a different
world, a kind of extra dimension, tagged onto the place I knew before, and my mind
found it hard to contemplate returning to what, by then, was an alien environment - so I
didn't. I assume that the authorities noticed my absence and checked the last address they
had for me, Gran's guest house. I also presume that my dear uncle told them some lie to
explain why I wasn't living there.

Actually, what with the bullying, Gran's illness and then my displacement, all my
childhood education was skimpy. Of course, living rough I learnt a lot of things that are
not on the curriculum - how to keep warm, where to get free food, how hide from the
rozzers, who to trust (no-one) - but as for maths and English, history and geography, I
knew very little. And what use would it have been to me? A knowledge of quadratic
equations would be great if you happened to be a physicist, but useless when figuring out
the best place to sleep, and erudition is fine for politicians, but doesn't cut any ice when
trying to explain to the local bobby where the bottle of milk in your coat pocket came
from.

So how is it that I am now able to write in good style, explain myself using reasonably
good grammar and complex sentences? Money, that's how. When you are as rich as I have
now become you can buy anything - fine food, a big house, a good education, even
popularity, if you're clever enough and pay the right journalists.

As my wealth grew, so I began to indulge myself. Not in booze and drugs, or orgies of
sex, as so many did - I had seen what they could do to a person, and had no intention of
ever letting that happen to me again. No, I wanted - needed - to give myself some dignity.
I wasn't seeking to replace the things that gave me confidence, such as the self-reliance I
had learned from living rough, but to subdue the ghosts that constantly reminded me of
what I had lost. Education, the formal kind that is considered to be the foundation of a
civilised society, became an obsession, and occupied much of my middle life.

Now I can converse with the best of them in English, French and, of course, Italian. I
can speak in public with assurance, comfortably debate science and history at dinner
parties, or argue politics on television. These days I am well respected; I write articles,
dine with the elite, sit on committees and support charities, although I fear that the
revelations in this book will prove to be a shock to many of the good people I now mix
with, and may dislodge me from my current comfortable perch. So be it. I seem to be
unable to cope with being safe for too long - I need danger to keep me alive, challenges to
prevent me from withering like a neglected potted plant.

A favourite haunt for me in that summer of 1960 was the music shop, Robinson's - just
off the market - where they sold the latest records. It was the only place I went without
Joey, who said he found music boring. We used to separate at the door, he to wander
around the market, looking for a pocket to pick, or a trinket to slip under his jacket, I to
saunter into Robinsons, pretending I was interested in buying a record, and taking it to the
booth to play it. In those days, recordings had not long shifted from the big old 78s that
were played on mechanical gramophones - producing strange tinny sounds from a twisted,
conical trumpet - to 45s, neat vinyl discs that faithfully reproduced the original music
electronically through loudspeakers or headphones.

Of course, I had no money - well, not enough for such luxuries - but it didn't matter, I
only had to hear a song once to have it locked in my memory, then I would spend the rest
of the day happily singing it. The staff knew I could not afford to buy anything, but they
didn't seem to mind; I never caused any trouble, and always returned the records
undamaged in their little paper sleeves, so they were happy enough for me to listen to the
music. The manager, on the other hand, was less accommodating. The first time I met him
he refused to allow me to try a record, and told me to leave, calling me a 'vagabond' and
threatening to throw me out. I smiled sweetly at him and did as he said, then simply
waited for him to leave the shop before going inside again.

The sixties was a time of almost magical transformation in England, as the hardships of
the early post-war years were gradually being replaced with better standards of living.
There was a new optimism, a confidence that the world could be changed, and the drive
for this was coming from young people. We had seen the mess made of things by the
previous generations, now it was time for us to build something different. The term
'teenager' was still quite new, but it was teenagers that held the future, and we knew it. We
showed our rejection of the past in the clothes we wore and the music we played.

Unlike me, many people of my age had money in their pockets and spent it on whatever
they liked. For some, that meant alcohol and excess - there was an undercurrent of sex
and violence that I found disturbing, but for many of us it was an opportunity for
creativity. Music and fashions were moving in new directions, and the biggest force in
this quest for novelty was in the popular music world. Influenced by the trends arriving
from America, new bands were springing up in England, copying what they heard, then
adding to it, blending sounds, experimenting with their own styles.

Even though I had no money, I felt part of this culture switch, because I could sing. The
music shop had started to sell guitars, drums and amplification for those new musicians
keen to display their talents on stage, and there were often small groups of them, trying
out the equipment. Many were laughably bad - though most of them were blissfully
unaware of it - but occasionally I would meet someone with a real gift. It was wonderful
to hear the guitar played well, or singers who could sing.

A musician who came regularly to Robinson's was Bruce Green, a talented guitarist who
fronted a group called The Beacons. I loved to watch and listen as he showed off his
skills. One day, he was playing a song I had just learnt, and I was standing to one side,
singing along. He stopped playing and called me over. "You sound ok," he said, tilting his
head to study me. "Start again, from the top, and let's really hear what you can do."

I grinned, always happy to sing. He played the introduction, and I came in at the right
moment, singing out loud and clear.
Partway through, though, the manager came over and grabbed my arm. "I told you to
stay away, kid," he hissed. "Now get out!"
Bruce stood up. "If you don't want her, then you can manage without my business, too,"
he said, calmly, putting down the guitar and looking sternly and confidently into the man's
eyes.
I was amazed to see the manager's expression change. He released my arm and was
suddenly apologetic. "Sorry, Mr Green sir, I didn't realise she's a friend of yours."
"That's ok, Hubert, you just leave her with me; I promise you won't have any trouble."
The manager hurried away, embarrassed, and I turned to Bruce. "Hubert?" I giggled.
He smiled. "Don't laugh, it's not his fault. Blame the parents."
"He seemed to respect you."
"Yeah, well, I spend a lot of money here. All the band's gear came from Robinson's,
some of it imported directly from The States. I reckon I earned him more commission in
the first three months of this year than he had in the whole of last year." He studied me
carefully. "You ever sung with a band?"
I laughed. "Nah! I just love music, sing whenever I can."
"Do you fancy coming to The Beacon's next rehearsal? I think the guys would enjoy
having you along."
I was stunned, and delighted. "Sure, I'd love that."
"Ok, Wednesday at seven o'clock at Saint Luke's hall. You know it?"

I was nervous when I turned up for my first band practice; it's one thing to sing along
with a record, another to work with musicians. I was sure they would be very technical,
and talk about what key a song was in, or semitones or metres, words I had heard but
knew little about.

When I walked in the hall, they were bustling about setting up amplifiers and the drum
kit. Guitar cases were open, leads trailed like snakes across the floor. Two of the band, a
man and a woman, were singing at a microphone; he was good, but she was awful - I
suppressed a smile as she missed almost every note she aimed at.

Bruce saw me and called the others over. "This is little Belinda, folks; she's the singer I
told you about. Belinda, meet The Beacons."
He waved a hand first towards the nearest person to him, a tall and well-muscled man of
about eighteen. "This is Bob, our drummer. Next to him is Paul, who blows a mean
saxophone. Filo, here, plays rhythm guitar and sings, and that's Alan, our bass player, with
Ruby, his girlfriend."
I smiled at each one as he introduced them, and they responded with a wave or a word,
all except Ruby, who just glared at me.
After a little more setting up, we were ready for the first song.
"What key do you sing in?" Filo asked, as I had feared.
I shrugged. "Whatever key you play in," I said. It was obvious to me, I adapted my voice
to suit the song.
He looked at Bruce and grinned.
"What?" I said, puzzled.
"Nothing, love," smiled Filo. "It's just that most singers we've tried out can only sing in
one key, so we have to transpose everything, and that can be bloody difficult sometimes.
It's a treat to meet someone who fits in."
I took my place at the microphone. This was the first time I had ever used one, and I was
unsure what to expect from it, but I had seen many artists using them, so I stood as I had
seen them.
Bob counted us in, and the band launched into the introduction. They sounded great - it
was just like listening to the record in Robinson's, and when it was time to sing, I did
what came naturally. It felt fantastic.
The music I was hearing was made right there in that hall, with those guys playing and
me singing; it was just like the record, but we were doing it.
They worked through a couple of dozen songs from their repertoire. When I wasn't
taking the lead role, for songs that needed a male singer, Charlie took over and I sang
harmonies and "whoot ... whoot" and "doo-wah-didit" in the background. I even found
myself doing those little dance steps and hand-waving that the American girl groups did,
and I was aware that had a huge smile on my face all the while. I couldn't remember a
time when I had felt such a part of something so creative.
When our time for using the hall was up, I helped them dismantle and carry the gear out
to Bruce's van, then we all went round the corner to a pub, the Plough, to talk about how
the evening had gone. Apart from Alan, the band was enthusiastic about my contribution.
I wondered at first why Alan was so negative, looking for faults in my singing, but I saw
that Ruby was prompting him, and realised that she was put out because no-one had been
as encouraging about her efforts.
We talked about the songs we had done, others in their set that they felt would suit me,
and even some new ones that they had considered before, but rejected because no-one
could sing them.
It was a dream night for me, and as I made my way back to the station to rejoin Joey, I
was floating on a silver cloud, singing again the songs of the evening.