A Song for Joey (19 page)

"How old are you, Belinda, really?" Dolly propped another plate on the draining board. I
picked up a mug and began to dry it.
I didn't answer at once, concentrating on wiping the mug carefully before putting it
away in the wall cupboard. She looked over her shoulder at me, and raised her eyebrows,
smiling. I knew Dolly would never say or do anything to hurt me, she was special, and I
wanted to be honest, but ....
"Eighteen," I lied.
"So, which year were you born?"
I did a quick calculation. "Nineteen forty-four," I said.
"Too slow, my love," she laughed. "I could see you working it out. Let me guess ...
nineteen forty-six?
Sheepishly, I nodded.
"So you're sixteen? When was your birthday, really?"
"Oh, it truly was May eleventh. I'm sorry for lying to you, Dolly. It's just that ... I
figured, if I keep up the story, everyone will accept it."
"Don't you have your birth certificate?"
I hadn't thought about it. Casting my mind back, I realised I had never seen it. I shook
my head.
"Well, if you ever need it, we can always apply for a copy," she said. "Now, no more
secrets between us, okay madame?" She looked sternly at me over her shoulder.
I put my arms around her waist from behind and hugged her. "You are just like a mum
to me. I love you very much."
She turned in my arms and crossed her own behind my neck, so as to hold me without
using her wet hands. "I hope you know how much I love you, too. You are like the
daughter I never had."
We stood together like that for a minute, then she kissed my forehead before returning
to the dishes.

When November approached, I again sent ten pounds to The Reverend Potter. As I
stood at the postbox, with my hand in the slot, my fingers still holding the letter, I thought
again of that day, when I had looked down at the tiny plot with its wooden cross, and
promised Joey a headstone and a proper funeral.

Dolly wanted me to meet some friends who owned a pub near Pottergate, a lovely, old
part of Norwich, so we caught a bus from the top of Finklegate, heading for the town
centre. I was glad, because it also gave me a good opportunity to visit the music shops in
Saint Benedict's Street, which I always enjoyed.

We scrambled onto the top deck - well, I scrambled, Dolly followed at her own pace -
and we occupied the front seats.
"His name is Emesto Conti," she resumed when we were seated. "His family has been in
Norwich for generations. Avril, his wife, is English, but she can swear in Italian like a
native." She stopped as the conductor came to take our fares, then continued: "They have
music in the pub every night: popular music, jazz, rock and roll, folk music. They want
you to do some sessions."
The bus stopped at the top of Saint Stephen's Street, by the Catholic Cathedral, and most
of the passengers on the top deck filed down the stairs. I opened a window to let some of
the cigarette smoke out, but froze when I saw a familiar and unwelcome face in the crowd
below. Quickly, I sat down again, and slid lower in my seat, peering over the edge of the
window.
"What are you doing?" Dolly asked, her voice tinged with amusement. I realised that my
action must have looked strange.
"Down there," I replied, pointing. "See that man in the duffel coat, waiting to cross the
road?"
She leaned across in front of me to look.
"Yes, what about him?"
I was still staring at him, and when he looked in my direction, I knew I was right.
Although I was sure he couldn't possibly see me, sitting on the top deck of the bus, it felt
as though he was staring straight at me. It sent a shiver down my spine.
"It's Gary Burroughs," I declared, simply. I heard her inhale sharply.
At that moment, a gap in the traffic allowed him to start crossing, and I noticed two
things simultaneously.
The first was that he walked with a limp; gone was the arrogant swagger that typified
the man who had abused me so terribly. The second was that he was accompanied by
someone I recognised, but couldn't place at first. The face was familiar, but not associated
with Burroughs.
"Graham!" I exclaimed, quietly, when I made the connection. Maggie Fisher's
boyfriend. But what was he doing, walking with Burroughs?

Under Dolly's guidance, I found constant work in and around Norwich. It was exciting
for me, to be recognised wherever I went and to receive warm welcomes at all the venues
at which I appeared. As a result, I had become reasonably well off, and could afford not
only good clothes for day wear, but also dramatic outfits for performing. With Barry's
help, I made backing tapes for all my songs, and now employed a 'roadie' to drive me to
gigs and set up the complex equipment that now formed part of my act.

But
The Lion In Winter
was still my home, and my little room-at-the-top still my refuge.
Each morning when I woke I would stand at my window, dreamily looking across the
river to the tree-covered hills beyond; it was the perfect way to start each day. Every time
I looked, the view was different. Sometimes a mist would lay on the river, so that only the
tops of a few masts, their wet flags hanging limply, were visible above the grey blanket.
Other mornings might be crisp with frost or smothered with snow. In the spring of 1963,
the valley was thick with every shade of green and peppered with flecks of colour in the
gardens and parks.

The weather was balmy that year, and life was good. It had been good for so long that I
had almost convinced myself that, this time, it would stay good, that the gods had relented
and were allowing me to be happy. Almost.

Even so, when I heard a knock on my door that July morning, and Dolly's voice called
my name, I felt my heart jump and my breath catch in my chest. At the back of my mind, I
had a constant fear that someone would work out that I was too young to work in the bar,
and remained unregistered with the Inland Revenue, so was earning money illegally.

I opened my door. With a tense expression on her face, Dolly asked me to go with her to
her flat. Wordlessly we descended the stairs, and when we reached her kitchen, my
concern seemed to be well-founded, for there sat two smartly dressed people at her table.

One was a man, about thirty-five or so, plump, but not fat, with neat, receding blonde
hair. His companion was a slightly younger woman, also blonde. They stood as I walked
in.

"Belinda," Dolly said quietly, "this is Dan Fleet, of Oberon, in London, and his assistant,
Jenny Macarthur."
I nodded, nervously, and accepted the offered handshakes. Who was Oberon?
"Hello, Belinda," Dan said in a smooth voice with a faint Scottish accent, as we sat
down on the four sides of the wooden table, "Jenny and I have been watching you
working."
So I was right. They were from the police, I was a criminal.
"Have you heard of Oberon?" he continued, failing to note the look of panic on my face.
He looked more like a banker than a policeman, with his little round spectacles and
expensive suit. When I nervously shook my head, he smiled. "Don't look so glum, we
have come to make you a proposition that we hope you will like. Oberon is one of the
largest entertainment agencies in London. We have many of the top singers and groups on
our books, and we want to add you to our stable."
The reversal of events to my expectations was more than my mind could accept, and I
sat silently shaking my head in disbelief. Dan misinterpreted the action, thinking I was
turning down the offer. He spoke quickly. "I promise you, Belinda, we are a legitimate
agency, and you will have a proper contract. Jenny and I have been impressed by your
performances and we believe we can help you to build a successful career."
"Belinda," Jenny chipped in as I sat in stunned silence, "you have a rare and special
talent. I haven't heard anyone as good as you since I joined the agency last year." She
stopped, aware that she was gushing. "Sorry, I bet that sounds false. Honestly, it's not.
When Dan sent me out to check out Dolly's claims about you, I expected to be as
disappointed as I have been on every other trip. But I was so amazed by your voice that I
called Dan and asked him to come and hear you."
Dan was nodding. "I trust Jenny's judgement completely, and she is right. You could go
right to the top, Belinda, if you want to."
I could feel tears pricking the backs of my eyes; this was totally unexpected, too good to
be true. I looked at Dolly; she grinned and nodded.
Finally I found my voice. "You phoned them for me?"
"Barry and I agreed. You have what it takes to be a star, if you want it, my darling. Dan
and I are old friends, I can promise you he is genuine, and what's more he is a nice guy, he
won't try to screw you, in any sense of the word." She grinned, impishly.
I turned back to Dan and Jenny. "Then the answer is 'Yes, please make me a star'."
"Oh, I can't do that, Belinda," Dan said, seriously. "Only you can make it happen. But if
you have the talent, and I believe you have it in spades, and if you are prepared to work
really hard, then we can help you succeed."
Jenny was beaming. "I'm really glad we found you, and I'm looking forward to working
with you."
"So, what happens next?" I asked.
"We will take you to London with us and fix you up with somewhere to stay. Do you
have a manager?"
I shook my head. "Should I have one?"
"Well, it will make life much easier for you, especially at the start. But it's good that you
don't have anyone right now, because inexperienced managers are one of the curses in our
line of work. If you like, I can introduce you to a good man who will steer you safely
through."
"What will all this cost me? I know you folks aren't doing this for me out of the
goodness of your hearts."
He grinned. "Good girl. Always ask that question. This is a tough business, and it's
filled with sharks. Never sign anything without someone you trust watching. And never
pay anyone up front, ever. The agency charges you fifteen percent of whatever you earn in
a year, and we get you on your feet before we take anything. That means that, in your first
year, we pay out for recording studios, advertising agencies, all your tour arrangements,
even the clothes you buy, and we don't get a penny until you start to earn. We could pay
out half a million pounds in a year and not get anything back. That's why we need to make
sure we only pick winners."
"And I'm a winner?"
"Oh yes, my dear, you most certainly are. You could be the best bet we ever made."

So, after tearful farewells, I left Dolly and Steve and all my friends and travelled to
London with Dan and Jenny in their chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. I could not bear to
think of leaving my little room, so I drew out some cash from the Post Office and paid
Steve a whole year's rent to keep it for me.

On the long drive south, Dan and Jenny went through their plan for the first part of my
career - songwriters, studios, record companies, publicity, and a tour supporting one of
their established stars. By the time we reached the city that they referred to as 'The
Smoke', I felt almost like a star already.

If I had thought Norwich huge, there were not words of a scale to describe London.
When Jenny said "This is London, Belinda", I looked out at seemingly endless rows of
similar shops and houses on identical roads on both sides of us, dotted with parks and
pubs, monuments, railway stations, tube stations and, every few yards, sets of traffic
lights.

They laughed. "Oh, you get used to it," Jenny smiled. "When we get near the river, it
becomes much more interesting."
And so it did. About half an hour after entering the outskirts, we passed the Thames on
our left, wide and grey and busy in its own way, with ships and boats of all sizes and a
bridge every half mile. I saw places that had only been pictures in books before that day:
our driver, Paul, took us past Saint Paul's Cathedral, Tower Bridge, the Tower of London,
the Houses of Parliament, and Trafalgar Square, just so I could see them.
Eventually, we pulled up outside an elegant building with the words '
Imperial Hotel
'
suspended in large golden letters above the entrance. Paul took my suitcase from the boot
and carried it into the building, while I followed with my two new friends.

The next morning, I enjoyed my first ever hotel breakfast, in the dining room of the
Imperial
. When I arrived, I found it large and busy, and I stood bemused in the doorway,
uncertain of protocol. A young waiter rescued me.

"You are miss Bellini?" he asked softly. Surprised, I nodded.
"Miss MacArthur of your agency told me to look for you and make sure you have
everything you need. My name is Connor." This introduction was delivered in a pleasant
Irish lilt, and he had an open smile.
"Thank you, Connor. I'm pleased to see you. I don't know my way around and I'm afraid
of making myself look silly."
"Ah, don't you worry about a little ting, I'll take good care of you." Somehow I felt he
would.
He guided me through the breakfast routines, and soon I felt relaxed as I tucked into my
scrambled eggs.
I was just enjoying a cup of coffee when Connor returned, followed by a plump, balding
man in a pinstripe suit and shoes that gleamed in the light from the chandeliers.
"Miss Bellini, this is Mr Parkin, he is also from the agency."
"Good morning Belinda," the man said in a mellow, almost theatrical baritone. "Call me
John, please. Dan has asked me to offer my services as your manager."
"Hello John." I waved to the empty seat opposite me. "Would you like a coffee, or
anything to eat?"
He nodded to Connor as he took the proffered chair. "A coffee will be fine, thank you."
Connor gave a little bow and departed, returning in a flash with a fresh pot of coffee and
another cup and saucer.
"So, John Parkin," I began, trying to sound assured, "I have an agent, why do I need a
manager as well?"
He smiled. "Forthright, I like that. I think we will get along really well." He paused,
resting his elbows on the table and steepling his hands, with his index fingers raised to his
lips. "Well, your agent takes care of the work side of things, arranging tours, recording
studios and so on. Incidentally, you will find Oberon is one of the best, and Jenny really
knows her stuff. What a manager does is to look after you personally, taking care of your
accounts, advising you on contracts, making sure you get paid, paying your bills, keeping
the press off your back. Ah, you are smiling. You haven't had the pleasure of meeting
reporters yet?"
I shook my head. "I'm just a girl from the country, John, they won't be interested in me."
"Maybe not yet. But it won't be long before you become newsworthy - then they will
descend like a plague of locusts."
I studied him over my second cup of coffee. He was handsome enough, but a
comfortable life had rounded all his edges and made him look like a turkey ready for the
oven. Still, he had steely blue eyes under soft brown brows, and he seemed relaxed and
confident. I liked him.
"And what does a manger cost me? I'm already down fifteen percent of my earnings to
Oberon, soon I'll be working for nothing."
Again that wry smile. "You could think of it the other way round. A good agent and
manager can bring in ten times what you pay them, Belinda, and I am a good manager.
Most of my clients pay me ten percent; some like me so much they pay more." He grinned
broadly. "But that's voluntary."
I returned his smile. "Well, Mr Parkin, you sold it to me. I don't know a manager from a
milkman, but if Dan recommends you, I'm happy to accept his judgement. I guess I just
got myself a manager."