Johnny and The USed Wonz

Wichita, Kansas: Saturday 02nd June 1984

The USed Wonz had plenty to feel confident about. Two months earlier the band’s Million Memories promo video had found its way into the countless American homes now subscribing to MTV. That had helped reactivate their debut album’s sales. With the video in heavy rotation the band hardly needed commercial radio stations’ help spreading their music.

Currently midway through their second US tour, The USed Wonz now found their own gigs selling out along with the shows they opened for larger acts with larger crowds.

But, backstage this Saturday night Johnny didn’t feel good. He felt caged.

In a crate-sized dressing room his three bandmates sensed his anxiety. This close to show time he should be revving everyone up. Instead his mind bounced thoughts like pinballs; none of them hitting home.

‘What’s up Johnny?’ Stu asked.

I’m screwed and so are all of you, he thought looking at the drummer’s knowing expression.

‘Nothing’s up, I’m fine,’ he said; like Stu would believe him.

Nevertheless Stu, the trendiest band member turned back to the mirror and spiked his hair.

Both orphaned girls, Christine and Mazz had witnessed the exchange and Johnny saw them stiffen. He glared at the back of Stu’s head with a frustration he’d not felt for his best friend since their vehement introduction years earlier.

‘I need some air,’ Johnny said checking the clock above the mirror and re-buttoning his silk shirt.

He left the shabby dressing room and squelched in leather pants still not dry from their daily soaping. He left the cool of the venue’s backstage area and headed into Wichita’s heat, still radiating from the tarmac.

Despite having lived in the States for eight months he still had to think which way to look before crossing roads.

On South Webb Road, he found a pay phone and dialled an office number from memory.

After three rings a woman’s voice came through America’s west coast lines. Only then did he realise how stressed he’d become.

‘Linda,’ he said flopping against the booth’s casing.

* * *

In her newly rented office Linda only half recognised the caller. ‘Johnny?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Can’t be, you’ve not asked what I’m wearing.’

That didn’t actually surprise her. Things had been different between them since they’d returned from The USed Wonz’ video shoot in London months earlier.

‘I expected the answering machine. What you doing there?’ he asked.

‘It’s not so late this far west.’

‘Linda, it’s Saturday, you should be elsewhere enjoying yourself.’

He had a point but she sat back and twirled a lock of chemically lightened hair whilst gratefully avoiding home. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I didn’t know who else to phone.’

Never tiring of Johnny’s English accent, Linda rested her feet on the desk and her eyes on his Stetson. He’d left it in her old owner occupied office. When she sold it and moved into her rented office his hat came too.

‘You talk, I’ll listen,’ she told him.

Johnny talked.

Linda listened; then her eyes shot open.

With feet back on the floor she sat forwards and slapped her hand into her desk. ‘What?’

‘I said—’

‘Never mind, I heard you.’

She stood up, then sat down. Neither spoke. Linda’s mind raced.

Her feet searched for her shoes under her desk. ‘I’ll sort it.’

‘What – you can’t.’

‘Which gig’s this one?’

‘Port of Wichita.’

She pulled a drawer and opened a file. ‘Got it, Kansas City tomorrow right?’

She faced the map of the States behind her and checked her watch. ‘It’ll take me at least until 2am your time to reach you.’

‘Linda, you know how I feel—’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re about to say but I need you off the phone. I’ll meet you in your motel’s reception.’

‘Okay.’

‘Johnny?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Have a good gig.’

Alone in her office Linda screamed but without sincerity. Looking at the phone she pondered where to start knowing she shouldn’t be starting at all.

She booked a Wichita flight then rang her apartment.

‘Hi Dwight, it’s me,’ she said surprised to get the answering machine. ‘Mom’s not well again. I’ll stay with her and see you tomorrow, okay?’

She could have told the truth but choose to lie having not seen her boyfriend since their first proper argument the previous morning.

Then she dialled her mother and apologised for not being able to visit that night.

Two minutes later she buried her foot on the gas of her burgundy Lotus Esprit. The turbo-charged two-seater roared the airport’s thirty minute journey in twenty.

* * *

Having seen a group of girls outside the venue Johnny turned to avoid being recognised before stepping into the road. A blaring Cadillac horn soon saw him checking left and right properly.

Minutes later back in the dressing room Christine asked, ‘Why d’you phone Linda?’

Ignoring her Johnny unbuttoned his shirt and recomposed himself following the micro-mobbing he’d received after the Cadillac’s horn had blown his cover.

Not having fathomed his feelings for Linda himself, he didn’t appreciate Christine exaggerating about her being old enough to be his mum no matter how well-meaning the intention. And he didn’t know why since their trip to London, Christine’s feelings towards their agent had downturned whilst his had gone stratospheric.

He scowled at the twenty-three year old Christine but couldn’t blame her for his bad mood.

Like Mazz, Christine wore a black figure hugging dress with heels. With the effort she made before gigs, Johnny found her as attractive as any woman he’d ever known. The same went for the eighteen year old Mazz who, since America re-raised its legal drinking age, pretended nightly to be twenty-one.

While Johnny and the brawny but pretty-boy Stu brought masculinity to the stage, the girls gave their audiences something else to remember The USed Wonz by.

‘Are you going to answer the question?’ Christine asked in her adopted American accent.

‘What?’

‘Why d’you phone Linda?’

‘I thought that was rhetorical.’

The door swung open. Dane stuck his spherical head in the room. ‘Showtime guys; place is rammed.’

Christine thanked their pudgy tour manger then to Johnny said, ‘Why?’

‘Look, I phoned Linda because I felt like it. Do I have to explain everything?’

Dane sniffed and pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘Johnny, how many times, Linda is our agent and a thousand miles away? I am the manager. Any problems; bring them to me.’

Weeks earlier much to Johnny’s annoyance, Christine had seen Howie, their last tour manager sacked. Johnny felt no warmth for their newly positioned manager. Competent in only the most trivial of matters, Dane had been an office jockey dumped on them against his will by their record company.

As leader of the band Johnny snapped to it. ‘Let’s take the roof off this place. Everyone out.’

Christine knowing she’d already pressed too far turned her attention to Mazz giving her an encouraging hug.

Dane retreated and the girls past Johnny who held the door.

Finally Stu stood up from the counter he’d been leaning on. He walked but stopped in the doorway. With his face inches away he searched for clues in Johnny’s expression.

‘I know you too well,’ the drummer said gripping his shoulder with compassion.

Johnny said nothing but followed him out to where his troubles evaporated in the heat of approaching cheers welcoming the USed girls to the stage. The nearing lights then silhouetted Stu’s lean frame.

In the wings Jack, the guitar tech, handed Johnny his unique dark dusty-blue and grey Stratocaster. Johnny took it and felt a million bucks again.

‘Small in size massive in spirit,’ Jack said about the venue. Then about the guitar, ‘She’s good to go.’

Striding on stage Johnny gave the strings a chop and received confirmation from his amplifier.

‘People of America,’ he declared into the mic whilst swigging cold tea from a Jack Daniels bottle, ‘thank you for welcoming us to Wichita.’

The USed Wonz had enough UK and US experience to know what needed doing. If English audiences didn’t like you they might face front wearing miserably bored faces. In America they’d look happy enough but plain ignore bands who failed to grab them early. With singles, video and album, The USed Wonz had their feet under the table but Johnny didn’t take chances at the start of gigs in the country they hoped soon to call home. Everything had to please the rabble.

‘You guys invented Rock ‘n’ Roll,’ Johnny said. Stu’s drums kicked in from behind. ‘You gonna show us Brits how to make noise?’

Long before they’d left England, Johnny wrote lyrics praising the US correctly trusting Americans would love it.

Into the first song he sang, as usual making them wait for the guitar. When it came the proud Americans joined the whole band singing the chorus, Let’s get to the heart of this right now, You with us we are go, go, go.

To his right, Johnny heard fumbled bass notes. The audience didn’t notice so he didn’t look over but knew Mazz would be kicking herself. He kicked himself too knowing his bad mood had stressed her into the mistake.

At the back, now overly familiar with the songs Stu’s limbs automatically beat out rhythm after rhythm. Stu loved America and had been grateful when none of the band objected to starting the second US tour right off the back of their first. Linda had booked them into fresh towns, placing them into America’s seemingly endless supply of venues. But his mind had grown musically bored of their songs. He thanked God they’d be back in the studio soon working on new material – even if that meant temporarily returning to England.

The few years he’d known Johnny had been intense. Of course, Johnny’s whole life had been intense. Stu believed only he understood Johnny’s stoicism but as songs passed he tried but couldn’t guess what had spooked his pal so badly.

* * *

Wichita had sent so much love on stage that back in the dressing room the band felt like their normal selves and wanted to hit the nearby bars.

After the venue emptied of fans they mucked in with their punitive crew packing their equipment away.

Shortly afterwards they jumped off the bus that dragged them town to town, state to state and headed into a bar where none of the middle-aged patrons cared to recognise them.

Johnny gave the waitress their order whilst Dane prepared to pay.

‘It still amazes me how important we are to those who see us on stage and how irrelevant we are to everyone else,’ Mazz said.

She wondered if that would still be true of Little Spirit over the Atlantic. She’d kept an eye on the UK charts so knew of Little Spirit’s extraordinary debut single achievement.

Though The USed Wonz gigged tirelessly they’d chosen America, a far bigger animal than Britain to slay. So far they hadn’t made the same dent Little Spirit had in Britain.

She looked at Christine who, having washed her face of makeup and hidden her curves beneath T-shirt and jeans looked but a memory of the voluptuous stage goddess she’d been earlier; holding chords and twisting knobs on her synths.

Mazz herself had also stripped of the dress and heels that kept musos attention on her body and off her left hand. She never relaxed sensing people scrutinising her bass technique.

Though Johnny looked good, only Stu maintained his impeccable image. Mazz figured it made sense nobody would pay them heed after their performance.

‘Go easy guys,’ Dane said, ‘Kansas is only three hours away but you’ve got radio interviews and I’ve booked a rehearsal.’

‘Right,’ Johnny said. ‘That’s good. I wanna try some new lyrics.’

‘What time we up?’ Christine asked.

‘Eight too early?’ Dane looked at Johnny.

‘Eight’s great,’ Johnny said. Then, thinking of Linda flying to see him added, ‘But you drinkers will have to drink twice as fast. Can’t stay out too long.’

* * *

Two hours later back in a cheap motel’s family room the ever sober Johnny readied the pull-out mattress whist Stu converted the lounge seats. The girls flopped into the double bed; a routine so well practiced it didn’t require discussion.

Nearest the door Johnny put the light out lay and down to wait for Stu’s beer and the girls’ cocktails to send the band to sleep.

He’d never normally encourage them to drink before, or after shows but tonight required an exception. Soon breathing patterns changed.

Checking his watch around 2am Johnny crept out the room and pulled his jeans on in the corridor before heading to the lobby.

The dozing night porter jumped at his arrival. ‘Can I help you?’

‘It’s okay, I’m expecting someone. I’ll wait.’

When the porter looked suspicious Johnny said, ‘It’s alright she’s a woman. I mean she’s a friend; she won’t be staying.’

Johnny lay on the blue furniture that clashed with the grungy wooden floor and suddenly doubted Linda would show. The thought depressed yet focused him. He felt himself descending into a familiar sensation but, resting his head lost himself to sleep.

* * *

Sometime before 3am Linda found Johnny. He murmured and wrapped his hand around her fingers when she touched his shoulder.

‘You came,’ he said retrieving Tic Tacs from his pocket.

‘Of course.’

She sat and resting his head in her lap looked down at the young man rubbing sleepy eyes. She stroked his blondy-brown hair whilst he chewed mints.

‘I’m extremely cross with you,’ she said. And then asked, ‘Are you smiling?’

‘You’re cross, but you came.’

‘I came because this isn’t just about you,’ she said with irritation but knew she would have anyway. ‘The USed Wonz are …’

‘What?’ Johnny said becoming more lucid.

‘I’m losing acts.’ She continued stroking his hair as his smile faded to concern. ‘I’m glad I moved to the smaller office but I can’t afford to have you guys go down.’

Johnny sat up and fluffed his hair. ‘Hang on, if The USed Wonz are keeping you afloat how can you afford to bail us out?’

‘Because, I owned the other office. I bought it for a song years ago with money I inherited from my stepdad. It was too big and because its value rocketed I figured time to sell. I’ve still got the proceeds.’

‘Any money you give me you’ll get back plus expenses.’

‘I believe you,’ she said. But the statement hung as the pair looked at each other.

‘You’re wondering how I could lose so much money,’ he said. ‘Linda, I’m a damn good poker player. I know what’s what at the table and I know for damn sure I had the best hand.’

She looked away. ‘Johnny.’

‘What?’

‘When you turned the cards over the other guy had the better hand.’

‘Not before the cards went over.’ His raised voice startled the porter.

Linda smiled towards reception. The porter closed his eyes.

‘So you’re telling me you’ve never lost money?’

‘At the poker table? Of course but I know how to minimise losses. I never would have bet that much against someone like that unless I was sure I had the strongest hand.’

‘But it was still a gamble.’

‘Not when you know the odds. I even know about cheating. One of the first proper games I played was an elaborate scam.’

Linda’s expression dropped. ‘I’m not impressed.’

‘Look, even if I misread the game, and I assure you I didn’t, the whole thing was a setup. The second the cards went over the door opened and in walked two heavies – right on cue.’

‘Sounds like rough justice but it’s senseless that you were gambling that sort of money.’

‘Yeah well, desperate times and that.’

Linda knew she must look incredulous. ‘What are you on about, you’re doing great?’

‘Are we? You won’t want to hear this given you’ve just told me your companies losing acts but, Vanquar are shuffling bigwigs at the top. Apparently someone up for promotion doesn’t like us. Whispers in the corridors say if he gets the position he’ll cut the live feed.’

‘Stop you touring – why – how d’you know?’

‘Dane told me on the quiet.’

‘That’s crazy.’

‘Can’t escape the fact that every day with the bus costs money.’

‘Smaller gigs like tonight’s are brilliant earners.’

‘But Vanquar control the initial outlay and want their share of the returns before we get ours.’

‘And they’re getting them aren’t they – you’re still turning over plenty of money?’

‘Not compared to bigger bands, but we making some because there’s an album to promote.’

‘So what’s Vanquar’s problem?’

‘That this is the second US tour on that record. We need album two in order to justify carrying on.

‘But as far as Vanquar are concerned you’ll record album two the minute this tour’s over. They don’t know that GMD already advanced you its funding; and you blew the lot at the poker table.’ Linda stopped herself saying more.

Johnny took a deep breath. ‘So GMD pay for album two, but Vanquar still have to fork out to market and distribute it. Without album two there’s no tour investment and no point anyway.’

That didn’t explain why anyone at Vanquar would want The USed Wonz off their books. To lighten the mood Linda said, ‘We always knew GMD giving you the advance early was risky.’

‘Well now I wish they’d kept it too,’ Johnny said sulkily. ‘Look, the point is Vanquar aren’t contractually obliged to do anything with future USed albums. If the fella that doesn’t like us gets promoted, he’ll ditch any future involvement with us. If I hadn’t lost GMD’s funding we’d still get a second album but we’d have to find another record company to get it in the shops and advertise it through tours. And, even though it’d be in GMD’s interest we can’t rely on their help to find us another major record company because they’re so wrapped up in England with Little Spirit. Can you see how useful some extra cash would be?’

Linda finally saw his point. It didn’t seem fair, none of it did. She thought of her British friend Trudie who worked for Vanquar-UK. Seconded to Vanquar-USA Trudie had temporarily relocated to America and generated a heap of useful business for Linda’s booking agency.

Trudie had brought her The USed Wonz and if it hadn’t have been for their success and Trudie’s help, Little Spirit would probably still be stuck with GMD and no Vanquar-UK or any other major label to make them as massive as it seemed they’d become.

‘And Trudie’s too wrapped up with Little Spirit, as GMD are right now,’ Johnny said as if reading her mind.

Thinking of anything Linda said, ‘Can’t Dane get someone down from Vanquar’s head office to see how you’ve grown?’

‘You don’t need me to tell you how useless Dane is,’ Johnny said. ‘I just wanted to keep the USed account plump and for a moment back there I thought I’d be leaving the poker table happy. I never meant to risk the next album’s advance. Things got out of hand.’

‘I’ll say.’

Johnny stayed quiet a beat. ‘Some guy came in halfway through the game. The atmosphere frosted.’

‘Some guy?’

‘The other players might’ve known him. I don’t know if they expected him though.’

‘How come you were there at all?’

‘It was after the Bottleneck gig in Lawrence last night. Three guys found us in a bar. I recognised them from the gig. I’d even signed their T-shirts.’

‘What, and they said, d’you wanna play poker?’

‘Nah, they said they were off to play in some room above a business. When you don’t drink and you’re in a bar with the same people you’ve spent every moment with for weeks on end you fancy a change. I invited myself.’

‘Doesn’t sound like a setup.’

‘Not yet. But they must have known something. It’s no coincidence they were in the same bar as us.’

‘Did you trust them?’

‘Initially. We got to playing and everything was fine till the next guy arrived; some silver-haired fella; old before his time. He sat down and the stakes went up.’

‘So he intimidated you?’

‘I wouldn’t have said so though he had that bad tempered Yul Bryner look about him.’

‘And you couldn’t just leave?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Psychological reasons partly. But by the time my instinct started scratching we were well into a round of no-limit Hold’em. If I’d have folded I’d have lost what I’d put in, which was plenty, and by that time I knew I had the strongest hand.’

‘So you say.’

‘Linda, you’d be amazed how I know what players are holding and the only way that guy could beat me is if the pack had three black aces. He had one, the table had one facing. But, I’d seen one in the deck.’

‘Then heavies appeared?’ Linda said not knowing how he came to be sure about the third ace.

‘Immediately the cards went over. But weirdly the game stopped right when we reached my limit. GMD gave us a recording advance of seven-thousand pounds. That’s just under ten-thousand dollars. The guy knew when to stop. He didn’t give me the chance to raise. He just said, Let’s see.’

‘So why didn’t his heavies just beat the money out of you?’

‘Because they knew I didn’t have it on me. I’d written an IOU. Plus if they’d kicked my head in I’d have gone to the police and done them for assault.’

‘Can’t you go to the police now?’

‘And say what – I’ve been cheated?’

Linda looked away. ‘Good point. I’m still not convinced.’

Johnny let the remark pass. ‘Well, the convincer for me was when one of the heavies pulled out our tour schedule.’

‘Tour schedule?’

‘Pulled it from an inside pocket. I mean why? He must have known I’d be there.’

‘I see.’ Linda thought for a moment picturing the towns she’d booked for the period. ‘Maybe it is suspicious. The geography is perfect.’

‘It’s been planned and from our schedule they gave me till Monday to get the cash. I’m to meet them in Kansas City.’

‘You think they’ll come back for more?’

‘Doubt it. They know we’ve nothing left.’

Linda reached into her handbag. ‘Who do I write the cheque to?’

‘He wants cash, which just makes things sound dodgier. I’ll put it through my personal account.’

She looked up. ‘That won’t work. You haven’t funds to cover this size of un-cleared cheque.’

‘Dammit.’ Resignedly Johnny said, ‘It’ll have to be The USed account. The advance is still there ready to pay the studio.’

Linda watched him slump. ‘How bad would it be to tell Dane?’

‘Well I’ll have to now. I really didn’t want him of all people to know. Dane could be part of the whole scam; he’s only been tour manager a few weeks. I mean, who else knows we’ve been given the advance?’

Linda thought for a moment. ‘Richard at GMD knows.’

‘He gave us the money and he’s in England so that rules him out.’

‘I know about it.’

‘You’re bailing us out so it can’t be you.’

‘Vanquar?’

‘No. The advance is from GMD so it’s none of their business. Plus we make them cash. Killing us would kill the income we produce.’

‘Unless, as you say they want rid of you.’

‘But that’s the future. Ending us mid-tour wouldn’t make sense.’

‘None of the band have told your road crew?’

‘Jack and Quinn shouldn’t know. I’ll check though. I can only think it’s Dane. He’s got access to the accounts.’

Linda nodded but didn’t know what to think. Obviously she wanted The USed Wonz safely on her books but for Johnny she’d do anything.

He went on. ‘I never imagined you’d come through for me. Your being here is …’

She broke eye contact seeing his expression change. ‘Don’t say it.’

‘Fine, but I’m not joking around. You must feel something of what I do otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Who else would you’ve done this for; especially given the trouble your own company faces?’

‘Stop it Johnny.’

‘Stop what? You reckon I’m nuts because you think I gambled the band’s future but we were just discussing you handing over seven-thousand quid only to watch me leave the country for weeks to record another album. How d’you even know I’ll be back?’

‘You love America.’

‘That’s you assurance?’

Linda held up her hands. ‘Alright, let’s just leave it there shall we?’

‘Yeah, well I’m just saying. Anyway I’ll speak to Dane in the morning.’

Though Linda found Johnny sexually delectable she hadn’t a magic wand to narrow their age gap. She did however feel responsible for him well beyond any normal agent/client relationship.

‘I’ve had a brilliant idea,’ she said. Getting up she took a piece of paper from the dosing porter’s desk. ‘If you can stall the band a couple of hours on Monday morning you can avoid telling Dane.’

Johnny perked up.

‘I’ll get to the bank first thing Monday and see the funds are in my account.’

She took a fountain pen from her bag and wrote.

Handing him the signed paper she said, ‘Get to Citibank in Kansas City with this letter of entitlement and your passport. Be there at 11am – 9am Pacific Time.’

Johnny carefully folded the letter feeling alive again. He held out his hand and she put hers in it.

He smiled. ‘You always wear ruby-red nail polish; I love it.’

She smiled too but pulled her hand free and looked at her watch. ‘I need a cab.’

* * *

Soon a Crown Vic seesawed on ineffective dampers over the motel’s bumpy parking lot.

The driver got out. ‘No luggage?’

‘Just me,’ Linda said.

Johnny held the back door for her. ‘Linda, how can I ever thank you for this?’

‘Just get me my money back quick smart. And for God’s sake keep me in a job.’

‘Leave it with me. You’ll get your money. I swear we’ll record the best album and you’ll have no time to work on other acts.’

He shut the door and she wound the window down to speak. Johnny jumped back when suddenly she got out and hugged him.

Linda’s petite body clamped against his. His arms only had time to find her before she released him. With a kiss to the cheek she got in the car and slammed the door deserting him by the curb.

Carlisle, Cumbria, UK: Friday 26th April 1974

Ten years earlier near the Scottish border, Barry Peters sat alone in his bedroom. Despite only being fourteen he felt like the man he’d grow, or perhaps shrivel into.

He’d been out-developing his school schoolmates for two years since his mother died leaving him with his older brother Frank and violently abusive father.

The official report said his mother died of natural causes. But both Barry and Frank knew the stress their father, Les Peters, had savagely inflicted had caused her to weaken to the point where her other ailments became insurmountable.

Barry’s then seventeen year old brother mercifully tried protecting him from Les who, ruined with guilty remorse and insoluble rage, would return from the pub howling and lashing with backhands should Frank get too close when trying to moderate him.

Having beaten his wife and two sons more times than anyone could have guessed, Barry didn’t believe his dad deserved comfort from the misery of his own doing.

Nevertheless he admired Frank’s ability to dig deep and find love for someone so worthless.

Barry hadn’t turned twelve when his mother died. Since then he believed everyone except his beloved Frank had written him off as a lost cause.

Alone in the Carlisle council house, surrounded by darkness and too shocked to cry, Barry shivered fully aware that Frank’s support and protection had come to an end.

Wednesday 21st June 1972

Two and a half years earlier, Barry might have caught the young, Miss Wilkinson rolling her eyes when he’d first turned up for her afterschool guitar lessons but, whatever she’d thought, he’d kept at them.

Like other eleven year olds his hands struggled to stretch and grip chords on the school’s classical guitars. Sometime later, shortly before his mam’s death in March, a neighbour lent him an electric guitar.

Though the electrics no longer worked the instrument had enough ambient volume to satisfy Barry. Practising on the slimmer neck he mastered the chords Miss Wilkinson showed the group.

After his mam died Barry practiced harder. Whist most in the group concentrated on their left hand fingering, Barry found he could look away from the guitar neck and listen to the ensemble.

One lesson in June he looked over to Miss Wilkinson and found her smiling at him. He looked away sheepishly.

‘Can I have a quick word?’ she asked afterwards whilst everyone replaced borrowed instruments.

‘Okay Miss,’ he said not knowing what he could have done wrong.

Once the class had left he sat behind a desk waiting admonishment.

Miss Wilkinson drew a chair beside him.

He faced forwards not looking at her.

‘Your guitar playing’s improved so much these past weeks I’m sure you could be a superb guitarist.’

Unable to believe his ears Barry turned to face her. Besides his mam and occasionally Frank he’d never received compliments least of all from teachers.

He didn’t speak. His mam had told him he could be anything he wanted but without her he felt like nothing.

Miss Wilkinson swished her curly mid-brown hair behind her.

He faced forwards again and closed his eyes having caught trace of perfume similar to his mam’s.

Miss Wilkinson said, ‘I hope you don’t mind, but I mentioned you to Mr Martin. He says when you’re left to your own devices you work the metal with natural artist flare. He believes there’s skill in your hands that’s beyond what he’s taught you.’

Another compliment. Barry hardly knew how to respond. ‘I like metalwork.’

When Miss Wilkinson didn’t say more he looked at her again.

She said, ‘I heard about your mum.’

He looked forwards scrunching his eyes. Why had she said that?

Her hand laid on his shoulder. When emotions started bubbling he wanted to run, but where; not to a house with a horrible dad and no mam.

‘With the skills you’re learning on guitar …’

He heard words but couldn’t process them. His lips quivered and he drew a deep breath which came out sobbing.

He cried out.

Without warning Miss Wilkinson’s arms wrapped so tightly around him he couldn’t move. Nor could he avoid saliva, tears and running nose flooding into her striped nylon blouse.

He wanted to stop but knew at once he couldn’t and so gave in.

Eventually though, he did stop shaking and with no more tears he relaxed. He’d nearly lost his breath but his breathing returned to normal.

Miss Wilkinson’s embrace eased and he looked up to her face seeing tears of her own.

Suddenly his senses returned. He smelt her perfume and felt the texture of her blouse. The fingertips of one hand pressed into her bra strap. He let go.

‘Did you cry at the funeral?’

Barry shook his head. ‘Dad doesn’t like to see us cry. Can I go now?’

Miss Wilkinson nodded and handed him his school jumper. ‘What I was going to say was, someone who can play guitar as well as you could make up songs to help them through a time of grieving or anything else they wanted to feel better about.’

Barry looked at her and sniffed. ‘You think I should write songs?’

‘That’s what I’m suggesting.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Sure you can. You, Barry, can write songs.’ When he shook his head she picked up a guitar. ‘The first songs people create are usually rubbish but if they stick at them they’ll get better and better. Listen.’

She strummed E, A and D chords. ‘You know these chords; we’ve played them over and over. But you can play them in any order and they’ll sound good.’

To his surprise she began singing over the top of the guitar. ‘You can sing anything you want, anything you want.’ She repeated the line then said, ‘When you’re ready change the sequence.’ She played C# minor and D chords singing, ‘Why do people think writing songs ain’t easy, when that just ain’t the truth.’

She repeated that line then returned to the first chords and sang her first line again.

‘Wow,’ Barry said.

‘You just make it up as you go along. Go ahead and,’ she paused for thought, ‘break some rules.’

Barry couldn’t believe his ears. ‘Break rules?’

‘Yes, be your creative self. Mix up the chords and sing what feels right.’

‘And, will the words have to rhyme?’

‘Only if you want them to. Bring me a song that says what you want to say and I don’t mind how rubbish it is or how rubbish you think it is. You never know it might even be good. Just make sure you do your other homework first.’

Despite Miss Wilkinson’s last piece of advice Barry ran home and picked up his electric guitar deciding homework could wait.

He looked at the chords for House of the Rising Sun and played the progression backwards. He soon discovered, just like she’d said, chords could be played in different sequences and sound good.

Wednesday 28th June 1972

The following Wednesday Barry headed into his after-school guitar lesson with the rest of the group. Miss Wilkinson barely acknowledged him so he sat down without a word.

After an hour of singing and strumming the group packed up.

His teacher still hadn’t said anything to him. Dithering, worried she’d changed her mind about their appointment, Barry returned the school guitar to the store.

‘Have you forgotten about me?’ Miss Wilkinson said when the last kid left.

‘No Miss,’ he said with relief until nerves took hold as he picked a guitar back up.

‘Thank goodness. I’ve been looking forward to this,’ she said kindly. ‘How’ve you been this week?’

‘Fine, I wrote a song.’ His voice trembled a touch.

‘Great, tell me about it before you play it.’

Barry handed her a sheet with the lyrics he’d written before explaining how he’d created his song’s chord progressions.

‘I discovered that playing chords wrong sometimes sounded better,’ he said.

Before his nerves could worsen he strummed a C minor chord with a high F in it to sweeten the sound. He checked Miss Wilkinson’s reaction wondering if she’d tell him off for playing the chord differently from how she’d taught.

When the young teacher nodded her approval he carried on; distracted only momentarily when she crossed her legs inside a long blue skirt ending at tall medium-heeled black boots.

Opening his mouth he felt exposed hearing his voice without the chorus of the group.

Ploughing on he sang, ‘How can he say there’s no faith, when you give me faith with your words? How can he say there’s no hope, when you give me hope with your thoughts? How can he say there’s no love, when you give me love with your touch … ?’

‘Astonishing,’ Miss Wilkinson said when he wrapped up the two minute piece.

He explained that he’d discovered faith, hope and love from hearing the end of Songs of Praise on the TV whilst waiting for Robin Hood to begin.

Miss Wilkinson looked over her lyric sheet again. Is she’d fully understood his words she didn’t let on.

‘You can keep them,’ Barry said indicating the lyrics. ‘I made that copy for you.’

Friday 15th September 1972

The Border city’s secondary school had two music teachers, Miss Wilkinson and Mrs Rice. Barry returned after the summer holiday to discover Mrs Rice had left.

Rumour had it she’d suffered a nervous breakdown – a common problem amongst the staff at his school.

Mr Evans, as young as Miss Wilkinson, arrived as her replacement. Barry heard he had an extensive personal history of Rock ‘n’ Roll.

Mr Evans would teach in accordance with the school’s curriculum by day and on Wednesdays (same night as Miss Wilkinson’s guitar group) hold an after-hours class for rock bands.

The school only had one drum kit and one bass amp but somehow Mr Evans had managed to get enough money from the school to buy more used amps and a practice drum kit. He asked only that guitarists and bass players bring their own electric instruments and approach his Wednesday sessions as bands; not individuals seeking to join bands.

By October Mr Evans would have three bands to coach; the youngest member being fifteen.

With neither a band nor a working electric instrument, Barry had turned up at Miss Wilkinson’s after-hours lesson as per usual on her first Wednesday.

The following Friday however, Miss Wilkinson kept him back after his class music lesson. He had no idea what she’d want.

‘D’you remember I said you would outgrow my guitar lessons?’ she said.

‘Yes Miss.’ He couldn’t remember her saying that specifically but didn’t want to sound daft.

‘Well I’m sure you’ll agree that’s happened.’

He nodded and looked down.

‘Don’t look sad.’ She pinched his chin. ‘Mr Evans’ Wednesday sessions are what you need now; something where you can progress at your own rate. I’ve spoken to him and I’m pleased to say he’s expecting you next time.’

As much as he didn’t feel ready for the big boys of rock he didn’t want to stop seeing Miss Wilkinson. ‘I can’t, you have to have an electric guitar.’

‘I thought you did?’

‘Doesn’t work.’

‘That’s fine, he’ll get it going again.’

‘Will he?’

‘If he can, yes.’

He liked the sound of that.

‘Miss,’ he stood before her awkwardly, ‘you’re so nice to me. The thing is I’m facing expulsion for fighting.’

She shook her head. ‘I know. News travels fast round the staffroom.’

‘Oh.’

Her voice softened. ‘Between you and me pupils don’t get expelled for one incident.’

‘It’s not the first time.’ When she only gave him a surprised look he said, ‘Guess you were out the staffroom that day Miss.’

‘You’re unbelievable.’

‘Sorry. I didn’t start the fights.’

‘Okay, I’m not here to judge. The latest incident happened after the final bell right?’

‘Yeah, I was attacked outside the gates.’ He sighed. ‘It was only one punch. He started it and there was a gang of them.’

‘Alright, try not to worry.’ She held up calming hands. ‘Can you remember to bring your guitar in next Wednesday morning?’

‘Yes Miss.’

‘Good lad. Bring it to the music department and Mr Evans will lock it in the cupboard. What’s your next lesson?’

‘Double maths.’

‘Crikey, best you get going.’

‘Thanks. And, thanks for not being cross.’

Barry hovered on the spot then acting on impulse hugged her.

‘Go on, get out of here,’ she said patting his back.

Wednesday 20th September 1972

Barry stood in the middle of the school hall clutching his electric guitar amidst more noise than he’d ever heard. His untrained ears couldn’t make sense of the racket the first band on stage made. The older fifth year lads looked like grownups to Barry making him feel insignificant and shy.

‘Sir,’ one of them said, ‘What’s he doing here?’

Mr Evans looked from the stage where he’d been trying to stop the exhausted Olympic drum kit from wobbling away. ‘Oh, thanks Nicolas.’

‘I’d prefer you called me Tocky.’

Mr Evans ignored that and jumped off the front of the stage. ‘Hi, you’re …’

‘Barry, Sir.’

‘Of course. Miss Wilkinson sent you.’

‘Yeah, but I can go if you like.’

‘It’ll be alright,’ he said fluffing Barry’s hair. ‘Let’s have a look at this guitar of yours. Miss Wilkinson says it doesn’t work?’

‘Yes Sir.’

Mr Evans faced the stage and shouted, ‘You lot’ll be alright a minute?’

The band’s lack of response seemed sufficient.

In the music room Mr Evans unscrewed the guitar’s scratchplate and found his way to the instrument’s workings.

‘There’s usually a simple explanation. You might need to get a new pot or something.’ They both peered inside. ‘Messy. You got a plectrum?’

‘No Sir.’

‘You’ll need one. Here.’ He handed him an inch long piece of plastic.