A Song for Joey (23 page)

The following day was Monday, and we both had the the day off. We started walking
towards Trafalgar Square, with a vague notion of wandering around the National Gallery,
or maybe Theatre-land. I was trying to think of a way to lift his spirits a bit.

The weather was edgy - sunny, but cold, with an unpredictable wind that took the heat
from the air and ran off with it, and clouds that swirled as though the gods were about to
burst through. There was a feeling that it could rain at any moment.

He cocked his head and turned to face me. He knew that when I said his name like that,
with a question mark after it, I was going to ask a favour. Despite his low state of mind,
he could still manage a little smile for his sister.

"What is it, Belinda, my little angel?"
"Where do you get your clothes?"
"Oh, Carnaby Street, sometimes, Oxford Street. Why?"
"You always look so good, so ... cool and trendy. Will you take me shopping?"
"Sure, I'd love to. Will we walk?"
I frowned. "How far is it?"
"Oh, about half an hour." He glanced at my face and grinned. "Ok, taxi it is, then."
We hailed a black cab that dropped us in Regent Street, just as the clouds gave up their

contents. Rain pounded down on our heads so hard it was like being beaten with a rolledup newspaper; within seconds our clothes were soaked through to our skin. We ran to the
nearest clothes shop and bought some dry clothes and a raincoat each. Then we spent four
wonderful hours diving into and out of the most amazing shops I have ever seen, on a
buying spree that only stopped because we couldn't carry any more. We were festooned
with carrier bags from San Trop, Nabertackle, Jake's, Sunrise and The End.

After another cab ride, back to the hotel, we dashed to my room and spent the afternoon
trying everything on. It didn't matter who's clothes they were, we both wore them. I
couldn't believe the outrageous outfits he and I had chosen - short skirts, fantastic flares,
knee-length boots and clashing colours - it was as though all the rules about style had
been thrown away and anything was possible. And it was.

I woke a few hours later, enjoying the warmth and softness of his body against mine, the
gentle rhythm of his breathing. It wasn't the wild passion I had first hoped for, but it was
good, a safe bond of friendship.
'Joey,'
I thought,
'You don't mind, do you?'

With the Tony Fortinelli tour fast approaching, I found myself busier than ever.
For our rehearsals, the band and I had moved from the recording studios to the Star
Theatre, a once-grand home of music hall. The last show there had been in the fifties, and
it was sadly neglected by the time we arrived. We were using the stage to work out the
routines for our set - where each of us would stand, any interactions between us, where
the microphones needed to be, and so on. The years of experience that the guys brought
with them was a huge help. Performance is only half about the music, the rest is the show
you put on for the audience, and we wanted to give them a show they would remember.
We had decided between us that I would walk or run all over the stage while singing,
and for this we had to buy the smallest hand-held microphones available at the time. I
would also play up to all the guys during the performance - put my hand inside the front
of Andy's shirt while he played a guitar solo, rub my leg against Nick's, blow in Marco's
ear, and so on. The idea was to create a kind of sexual tension on stage, an innuendo that
'something' was going on between us. It was very tiring, but we felt it was effective.

About mid-morning, Jenny arrived with a tall, smart man in tow. She waved her arms
above her head to attract our attention: "Hold up, guys. Conference," she shouted above
the clicks, hums and feedback of electronic amplification. With a pop, I switched off my
mic, and joined the lads sitting on the edge of the stage, looking down upon Jenny and the
stranger.

"This is Roger Trelawney," she said. "He's a professional photographer; I asked him to
come and meet you. If you like each other, he will follow you around for a while, taking
pictures for publicity, album covers, posters and so on."

Roger waved a greeting as she spoke. "I'd like to start right now," he declared in a
smooth, deep voice, "unless you have any reason not to."
Jenny looked at me. "It's your call, Belinda."
"Yeah, go for it," I said.
"Great. Well, if you will all just carry on as if I'm not here, and I'll wander around, get
the feel of things, maybe fire off a few shots."
He started rummaging in the big bag he had on the floor beside him, and produced two
cameras and several other pieces of equipment. Jenny gave me a 'thumbs up' and
departed, and the guys returned to their instruments. As we played through our set again, I
watched Roger as he watched us. At first he did no more than observe, then he started to
hold up a camera and fiddle with lenses. Not taking pictures at first, as far as I could tell,
just playing with angles and lighting. After a while, I forgot he was there, until an
occasional flash reminded me, as he began to shoot away at us.
The next day he had some ideas to try, and asked us to pose for some group shots. He
wanted close-ups of my face from all angles, and he had brought some special lights and
reflectors to get the effects he wanted. He also took a lot of casual pictures of us lounging
around and talking.

At mid-day, we took a break and all piled out of the theatre for some lunch, splashing
through the slush from a recent snow shower, and bursting into the small café we had
discovered a few doors down, like a steaming invading army.

We seemed to have so much to talk about, and usually all at once - when I think about
it, the other patrons must have hated us for the din we made. With six chairs pushed
around one table, we ate our soup, bacon butties, cakes and, in Nick's case, roast beef
dinner, with hardly a pause in the chatter.

Joe's was a popular café, and the dinging of the little bell on the door was part of the
ambient noise as people arrived and left. We were so engrossed in our exchanges that we
ignored all the comings and goings. One person, however, wanted to to be noticed, and
came straight to our table. It was John Parkin, my manager.

"So this is where you're hiding," he shouted above the general hubub.
"Hi John!" I cried, jumping up. "Bring a chair. Guys, make room for another body."
"No," he said quickly, holding up a hand. "I can't stay, and nor can you. I need you to

come with me."
"Why, what's up?"
"Miss Bellini," he said, failing to suppress a smug smile, "you have a recording

With a scraping of chairs, the boys were suddenly all on their feet and gathered around
him. "That's fantastic! Who with?"
"Barleycorn Records. It's an amazing coup. They have some of the biggest stars; we
have never managed to place any unknown acts with them before, but they loved your
demo. 'Paddington Nights' will be the 'A' side, with 'Gotta Larf' as the 'B' - Hugh White
called me to get you and Bill to meet him down there now to sign a contract. I need you to
break away from rehearsals for an hour to come with me to clinch the deal. Now. Ok?"
As if I was going to say 'no'! I looked around at the guys, who were beaming and giving
me assorted thumbs up signals. "You bet," I grinned, giving him a big hug.

Even though I had handed over all my affairs to John to deal with on my behalf, there
was one thing I was determined to keep for myself. At the end of October, I put ten
pounds into an envelope and posted it to The Reverend Potter, to pay for Joey's grave.

Aware of the impending tour, Barleycorn pulled out all the stops, and had 'Paddington
Nights' coming off the presses before the end of the week. Hugh, John and Jenny then set
about nailing everyone who might play it on air - the disc jockeys on the pirate radio
stations and the few producers on British radio and television who had any interest in pop
music.

For my own part, I was involved in what seemed like endless preparations for the tour signing contracts, more studio work with Daylight Robbery, more stage rehearsals, photo
sessions, and receiving lessons in stage make-up, because I would be doing it all myself
once the tour was under way.

Just a few days before we set off to Blackpool for our first night of the tour, Jenny
phoned me. I was relaxing in my hotel room; standing at the window, looking out at the
hailstorm that was pounding London.

"Watch BBC television tonight at six o'clock," she instructed. I could hear the
excitement in her voice.
"What will I see?" I asked.
"A special edition of Juke Box Jury," came the crackly reply.
"Are they playing my record?" I exclaimed, trying not to let my hopes get too high.
"Oh yes. But not only that. This week they have a special panel ... The Beatles are
making a guest appearance. You are going to be judged by the most influential people in
pop music today."
I felt my stomach lurch. There was no doubt in my mind that, whether they loved me or
hated me, they could decide my future.
Jenny hung up, and the rest of the afternoon passed in slow motion. I tried sleeping, but
my mind was flowing with wild thoughts. I eventually went down to the restaurant, where
Connor was on duty, and told him the news. He went wild with enthusiasm and gave me a
hug that lifted me off my feet and swung me around. When he put me down, we were
both laughing.
He looked at his watch. "Only an hour to go, I must away to spread the word. Meet me
in the lounge at six and we'll watch it together."
"Oh Mr O'Connell, you can be so assertive sometimes."
At five to six, when I wandered into the lounge, it was packed. A cheer greeted me from
the assembled staff and guests who were crowded into the room. There was not a seat to
be had, except the one Connor had kept for me, right in front of the television. Shyly, I
thanked them and took my seat.
The show started, with the distinctive theme music 'Hit or Miss', by the John Barry
Orchestra, and David Jacobs introduced the Fab Four, as the Beatles had become known.
Then the first record was played - not mine. Then the next.
As each one was imminent, my nerves became more stretched, made worse by the boys'
blunt comments about some of the tracks, and their irreverent banter.
Then, suddenly, I heard the compère say my name and the room erupted with a huge
cheer, followed by silence as the record was played. I was disappointed to note that they
only played about half of it, but then became absorbed as my fate was sealed by the
number one pop icons of the age. I need not have worried, not only were they very
enthusiastic about Bill's song, but they were also generous about my singing, and
unanimously voted it a 'Hit.'
There was wild applause from the room, and Connor gave me another big hug. We
didn't hear the end of the programme as everyone wanted to congratulate me, but over all
the noise I heard a familiar voice in my head say “
Well done, Bell.”
“Thanks Joey
,” I smiled.

A new television programme called "Top of the Pops" began broadcasting on the first of
January 1964. It was the BBC's response to the growing demand for more popular music,
and the success of "Ready Steady Go" which had started the year before on the other
channel, ITV (in those days, we had only two channels on British television).

It had an exciting format - singers and bands performed their latest hits live in a studio
full of young people, introduced by respected presenters such as Pete Murray and Jimmy
Saville. In the first edition, the Beatles were at number one, and closed the show with 'I
Want To Hold Your Hand'. In the same chart, 'Paddington Nights' arrived at number
thirty-two - we weren't invited on the show. I was simultaneously excited and
disappointed - excited to see my name on the list, but disappointed that it was at such a
low place.

Our first night on the Fortinelli tour was three days later, in the Opera House at the
Winter Gardens, in Blackpool.
We travelled up on the day, leaving London at six o'clock in the morning in a special
coach, which Oberon had extensively modified for the purpose. All the original seats had
been stripped out and the interior replaced to make a temporary home for travelling
minstrels. The centre section had been fitted with racks and bays to store all the
equipment, accessible by removable panels on the outside of the coach, and in the rear
was a dormitory, with four tiny bedrooms, a shower and a lavatory. In the area at the
front, between the driver's compartment and the hold, was a lounge, with comfortable
seating and a galley kitchen.
The streets of London, busy even at that early hour, floated past our misted windows in
snapshots, as the sleepy glow from street lamps fell upon small patches of tarmac and was
reflected, twinkling, in puddles. The steady rain that had washed away the remaining
snow and slush continued to fall. Dawn did not arrive until we were speeding along the
new M1 motorway, heading north, and then barely perceptibly in shades of grey.
At first we dozed, but as the day emerged, we did what we always did, what we loved to
do, we made music. Andy pulled out his twelve-string acoustic guitar and we jammed the
journey away.
We pulled up at the side doors of the Opera House, eight hours later, and our driver
honked the horn. Within moments, the doors were flung open and a gang of sturdy men
materialised, who began unloading the amplifiers, drums and other gear from the coach.
Moments later, a short, rotund man in an ill-fitting suit arrived, puffing and sweating,
and introduced himself, in a squeaky voice with a strong American accent, as Mort
Winkler, assistant manager of the Opera House.
"Where have you been?" he demanded. "I was expecting you this morning."
Benny opened his mouth and made a sound that was intended to be the start of one of
his wisecracks, but he was pulled aside by Andy, and an uncomfortable silence ensued. I
broke it by introducing myself. "Hello Mr Winkler, I'm Belinda," I said, ignoring his silly
question, looking straight into his eyes and holding out my hand.
His onslaught parried, he absently accepted my handshake. "I'm a very busy man, you
know," he grumbled.
"Of course you are," I replied sweetly. "So if you wouldn't mind just showing us our
dressing rooms, and we'll let you get on without any further interruption."
"Dressing rooms?" he snorted. "You have one room, that's all."
"One room? For five men and a girl?" I said carefully.
The man's manner and voice were irritating, and I saw Andy step forward, his face
angry. But this was not the time for male ego to be asserted. "Very well, Mr Winkler," I
said evenly, shaking my head quickly to beg Andy not to speak. "Would you please be so
kind as to show us where our dressing room is?"
He led us through corridors to a room about the size of my bedroom at the Jolly
Butchers. It was ridiculously small - when the six of us stepped through the door, there
was hardly room to move - but it would have to do; we would have to make it work.
"Thank you, Mr Winkler," I said, turning to face him. "Goodbye for now," and shut the
door quickly to prevent any more exchanges.