The Loner, page 12
“Come on, Sally,” the girl shouted, and snapped the long circus whip in the direction of the horse.
Sally was a sensible animal. Learner riders bored her, but she knew when she was beaten. She broke into a canter for the final few paces before she joined the end of the ride.
And now it was Bob’s turn. He set off at the given command, walked, trotted, and cantered exactly to order.
Then the jumping began. They started with small jumps, and after they had each completed one circuit of the course, Fiona and Susan raised the height of the jumps a notch at a time. At length, the height of most of the fences was raised to about three and a half feet. The course was a simple one with only three jumps. Mark’s turn came. Sally started at a trot, but refused to canter.
Fiona’s face assumed a ferocious expression, and she ran behind the horse with all the fury of a hungry lion. “Get on, Sally! Gee up, Sally!” she cried, with an anger that reflected her innermost exasperation with the rider rather than the horse. “Why can’t this lad get his aids right?” she thought.
It was as though Sally sensed that the tip of the whip would not be far behind her, and accordingly decided that obstinacy was not the best policy. She changed stride two paces before the first jump..
“Now!” called Fiona with a crack of the whip.
Mark squeezed but the horse hardly noticed. He fell forward as Sally jumped, and backwards, as she landed.
“Now!” roared the instructor for the second time.
Mark was thrown forwards, as Sally took off as energetically as if there was a swarm of hornets after her. Mark clung onto the mane as if his life depended on it. The horse landed, and the jolt threw him further forwards. He lost his balance and rolled off.
The instructor did not sound displeased. “That’s not too bad,” she said. “You can go round and do it again.”
Mark picked himself up rather painfully, remounted, and set off a second time. By this time, Sally had rediscovered her enthusiasm for jumps. She sailed over all three jumps, while Mark held on to her mane, barely directing her with the reins or any other aid, with a look of sheer terror in his eyes.
“Brilliant,” cried Fiona. “And now you, Bob.”
Bob made his horse trot, then change into a canter, and easily guided the animal over all three jumps. His posture and movement were as correct and graceful as any Fiona had seen.
“I think you’ve done this before,” she said. Then she thought of her friend’s recent encounter with Bob at the Royal Iris ball. “I think you’re looking for a challenge,” she added.
“By all means,” he replied without looking at her; his eyes were on Susan.
“Well then,” said Fiona. “Do you think you could manage a four and a half foot fence?”
Bob showed no hesitation. “Aye, make it a five,” he said.
“You’re on,” said Fiona, and the two girls raised the height of the last gate to five feet. “When you’re ready,” she said.
Bob gathered his reins and set off at a trot. He eased the horse into a canter just before the first fence, and the horse took it in her stride, as she did the next one. The horse hesitated as she saw the last fence. Bob squeezed, pushed and used his whip. The horse had no choice. They rose gracefully into the air together and sailed over. The landing was perfect. The performance was perfect. Bob had made his point. Fiona could see her friend was impressed.
Mark was one of the last to pay his fee after the lesson. He peered shyly at Fiona’s long dark hair and pretty smiling face. “A-m I-I doing er all right,” he asked nervously.
Fiona grinned wickedly. “Yes, you’re one of the best in the class,” she replied.
“W-was I r-really?”
“Yes, of course, Mark. You could practice on your own, though. Have you thought of buying your own horse? We do sell horses, you know, and we are a livery stable as well as a riding school.”
Mark thought about his meagre grant, and wondered if he looked rich. He shook his head. “I-I’d like to. S-some day perhaps. I-I’ll stick to lessons for now.”
She nodded and smiled. “See you next week then,” she said.
He returned the smile, and was about to walk away when Bob arrived to pay his fee.
“Is Sue here?” he asked, after paying.
“Yes she is,” Sue was right behind him, her arms folded, a crop in one hand. “So what brings you here, Bob? Was it just the horses?”
“It’s sport, Sue,” he replied slowly. “I love all sport – particularly adventure sports – I’ve always thought of riding as an adventure sport.”
“And dancing?”
“Aye! Anything that’s energetic, Sue!”
She smiled slyly. “Yes – I can believe that,” she said, “especially after Saturday night!”
Bob reddened, and then asked to speak to her in private. They left the room and came back a few minutes later. There was nobody else there except Mark and Fiona.
“Fiona,” said Sue. “Bob’s just asked me out. What do you think?”
Fiona laughed. “Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” she said. “Do you think you could trust him?”
“Exactly!” said Susan. She crossed her arms, gave the crop a flick, and looked at him with an air of defiance.
Bob lowered his eyes and began to plead with her. “Sue, please believe me. I’m sorry about Saturday night. I really am. I would love to see you again. I didn’t mean to...”
Sue turned to Fiona before he could finish. “I’d be more comfortable if we’re not on our own,” she said.
Fiona asked her what she meant.
“Fiona, can’t you find another lad, and make up a foursome?”
Fiona sighed. “Sue, you know my boyfriend is at university in Scotland...”
While Fiona hesitated, Bob saw his opportunity and interrupted before she could finish making her excuse. “I have a suggestion,” he said. “Fiona, why don’t you come along with us – and bring Mark?”
Mark was completely taken by surprise. He stood still as a statue, his mouth wide open in astonishment, not knowing what to say. All his birthdays had come at once!
“Mark’s perfectly harmless,” Bob continued. “He’s not going to be a threat to your boyfriend – are you Mark?”
Mark started to say something, but could not quite get it out.
Fiona thought about it. She could do with some free entertainment. “Okay then – if you’re paying, Bob.”
“Aye, that I will. Now, there’s a folk club in Liverpool on London Road. I’m well known there. How about spending an evening together there?”
CHAPTER 8
The Folksinger
And so, the next Saturday evening, Fiona waited with Sue for Bob and Mark in a licensed restaurant in London Road, not far from St. George’s Hall. Bob had offered to collect the two girls from their homes, but Susan had politely declined. She and Fiona had preferred to meet on neutral ground.
Fiona wore a smart grey mini-skirt, which came to well above her knees, and a grey blouse and woollen cardigan. Her long dark curly hair looked immaculate after a visit to a hairdresser, and she wore pearl earrings and a gold necklace. Susan’s mini skirt was even shorter than Fiona’s. Her long blonde hair was swept back to reveal two small diamonds sparkling in her ears.
The two men arrived. Bob was first, with a very smart light grey leather jacket, red shirt and neatly pressed grey cord jeans. He had a guitar in an instrument case with him. Mark was not so smart. He wore a white roll necked sweater over a blue tee-shirt and blue jeans.
The girls welcomed the men. Bob bought drinks, and then showed them all down a flight of stairs to the basement.
They watched and listened to the performers, and tried to join in the refrains. Fiona sat next to Mark and noticed he could hardly sing in tune, but made up for that by shouting loudly in the most rousing choruses.
“Have you always liked folk music?” she asked politely during the interval.
“I-I was in the S-scouts at school,” Mark replied. “Didn’t like s-school much, b-but I liked the Scouts. Singing round the camp f-fire. Songs like folk songs.”
Fiona did not pursue the conversation. Mark was difficult to understand at the best of times – even when he had had nothing to drink – and he had only had one pint that evening.
The show resumed after the interval. There was a resident group of three singers. Two played the Spanish guitar, and, the other, the Banjo. They wore blue open-necked shirts and grey trousers. Their hair was short and they had short beards. In their early twenties, folk music was, for them, a way of life rather than a hobby. Their leader introduced them as “The Sea Folk.”
“You all look very serious tonight, folk,” he continued. “So let’s warm up with a song you all know well.” He began to strum his guitar, and soon the basement was reverberating with the lively strains of “South Australia.”
The song over, the leader introduced the next items, which were an assortment of Negro Spirituals and songs from the Appalachian mountains, ending with “The Banks of the Ohio.”
“I see you’ve enjoyed that one,” the leader continued. “Isn’t it a grand one, one of the saddest songs I know and with such a haunting chorus!
“And now we’re going to do something different! Folk music does not belong to the past. New songs are being written all the time. Here’s a song composed by a modern writer. It’s a pity he doesn’t write folk music any more – not since he changed from the Spanish to the Electric guitar. But that’s another story. If it’s a change for the worst, he’s certainly left us with some beautiful songs. Here’s one of them; it’s called ‘With God on Our Side’.”
“My name, it is nothing, my age means much less;
The country I come from is called the mid-west;
I’s taught and brought up there the laws to abide;
And that the country I come from has God on its side”1
Fiona listened to the words and tried to understand the cynicism which was directed at every conflict which was generally accepted as a just war. She wondered what this challenge to the established order could mean, and where it would lead. Whether she agreed with the words or not, she could not deny that the song was superb poetry. What wonderful exciting new ideas, she thought.
The musicians paused for a moment after this song.
“And now this is the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” said the leader of the band. “This is your club. This is your chance. You’ve heard enough from us. Now you can sing and we will listen. Now who’s going to go first?”
Bob did not hesitate. He took the guitar out of its case, picked it up and strode to the centre of the room.
The leader recognised him at once. “Ah, it’s our very own Bob Smith,” he cried. “Welcome back, Bob. Now tell us what you have for us.”
“You know something?” Bob asked with an open gesture. “We’ve been singing so many American songs, that I’d almost forgot we’ve got a folk tradition of our own! Liverpool’s in Lancashire, and where do all t’best songs come from? Not so long ago, Lancashire was hub of the world’s textile industry, and famous for its music halls. Have any of you heard about Rawtenstal Fair?”
Some nodded and some shook their heads. So he sang the song and the audience applauded loudly his rendering of the verses on the Fat Lady and the Mermaid. Sue looked on, as though entranced.
“Were’nt we all delighted when we heard the showman shout:
Roll up! Roll up!
Come and see the Fat Girl,
Forty stone of loveliness and every inch her own.
Ee she were a big ‘un
Wi’ accent on the big,
And all the fellers wi’ walking sticks kept giving her a dig.
She were a greet big lassie,
Who didn’t know her chasis was blown up with air – I do declare.
Well, everything were champion until some silly clown
¬Stabbed her with a pin.
Said the showman with a frown:
“All hands to the pumps, lads: me vessel’s going down,”
At the Rawtenstall annual fair.
“Roll up! Roll up! Come and see the mermaid:
See the lovely lady: half a woman: half a fish.”
In went the lads to show it wasn’t swank,
When little Tommy Higgins put some whisky in the tank.
Well, she got frisky:
Swimming in the whisky,
And, when she come up for air,
She bowed to the audience and gave her tail a swish.
Her tail it come off, and she really looked delish.
She said: “What do you want, lads: a bit of meat or fish?
At the Rawtenstall annual Fair?”2
Bob let his instrument hang by its cord. “I want to share a secret with you,” he said. “Do you know where the best musicians in Lancashire come from – or in the World for that matter?”
There was a pause – a silence of expectation. “That’s right. They come from Liverpool. Look at Beatles and see how famous they are! They’re not so good now as they used to be, are they? That’s because they beetled off to London! We’ve some of the best folk-singers too.
“We’re all good people in this city, you know. We may be tough and hard. Don’t forget some of Montgomery’s best soldiers came from Liverpool! But we’re not a bad lot really. Ford motors are the best employers round here, and if we could all get a job there, most of us would be happy. So join me in singing about our Liverpool home:
“I was born in Liverpool down by the docks;
Me religion was catholic: occupation, hard knocks.
At stealing from lorries, I was adept,
And under old overcoats, each night I slept.”
“Now then, let’s raise the roof with the chorus:
In my Liverpool home, In my Liverpool Home,
We Speak with an accent exceedingly rare,
Meet under a statue exceedingly bare;
If you want a cathedral, we have two to spare,
In my Liverpool home.
Way back in the forties, the world it went mad;
Mr. Hitler threw at us everything that he had.
But, when the smoke and the dust had all cleared from the air,
“Thank God, “said the old man,"the pier head’s still here.”
The Orange and Green have battled for years.
They’ve given us some laughs, and they’ve given us some tears.
But whackers don’t want no heavenly rewards;
We just want a green card to get into Ford’s.”3
After this song and the repeated refrain, the leader of the group began to upbraid Bob: “Look, Bob, you’ve got it all wrong. All this talk about wars and the orange and the green isn’t what people remember Liverpool for now. We’re not violent people. Our football fans are the best behaved in the country. Liverpool hasn’t heard of the Orange and the Green for years. Why don’t you tell the audience about our sense of humour? Isn’t that what Liverpool is famous for today?”
“Why yes, I almost forgot,” Bob replied. “I had taken that for granted.” Then he turned to address the audience. “You all know of the romance of the countryside, the courting that goes on down Lovers’ Lane – how many streets have that name? The scent of flowers in Spring, and the sun glowing over golden fields of corn in Summer? Well, our city has something like that, but only if you laugh and use your imagination. Let me tell you about our Dirty Old Town:
“I found my girl by the gasworks’ croft;
Dreamed a dream by the old canal;
Kissed my girl by the factory wall;
Dirty old town! Dirty old town!
I heard a siren from the docks;
Saw a train set the night on fire;
Smelled the Spring on the sulphured wind;
Dirty old town! Dirty old town!”4
Fiona could see that Sue was more than just a little impressed. “Be careful,” she whispered to her friend. “This could get out of hand!”
Bob had not brought his bike, and Mark had no transport of his own. So, after the show, they walked the girls back to James Street Station near the Pier Head. Bob and Sue were busy chatting as they walked, but Mark seemed strangely aloof and silent. Fiona was surprised to find he did not seem to want to talk, replying in monosyllables with a worried, startled look, whenever she tried to speak to him. Eventually she gave up, and reflected on the music and the songs instead.
There was the satire on the Salvation Army. The singers had been quite complimentary about this dedicated band of churchmen, who had assumed the role of caring for those whom no other charity would even consider helping: the tramps, the dropouts, the alcoholics. In so doing they had done so much good work, particularly in Liverpool, that they had received universal praise and admiration. But, in earlier days, the Salvation Army had been notorious for its crusade against the Demon Drink, and its insistence that everyone should sign the pledge. So, it was not strange that an organisation, which had aspired to such lofty ideals, should have attracted some good-humoured banter and satyrical verse.
Fiona mentioned this to Mark.
“Away away with rum, by gum! With rum, by gum!” Mark murmured as if this was the a thought that kept running through his mind, as they walked through the city centre. “Away away with rum! What a great melody!”
Then, to her utter consternation and dismay, he burst into song.
She turned bright red with embarrassment, as her companion began to shout rather than sing:
“You must not eat fruitcake,
Because fruitcake has yeast;
And yeast in a man turns a man into a beast!
Can you imagine what a terrible disgrace:
A man in the gutter with crumbs on his face!
Away away with rum, by gum! With rum, by gum!
Away away with rum, by gum!
That’s the song of the Salvation Army!”5
Fiona could see that Mark was not drunk! What student existing on his meagre grant could afford to get drunk? Besides she had only seen him with one pint that evening. No! Mark was enjoying himself, and he wanted the whole world to know it – but if that was what he wanted, she did not want to be seen with him!
