Stephen Baxter - Starring the Woodbines

In an early draft of my novel 'The H-Bomb Girl', my fictitious Merseybeat band Nick O'Teen and the Woodbines played a gig at my old school, Saint Edward's College in West Derby, Liverpool, in 1962. In fact the Beatles really did play at Saint Edward's, but in October 1961, not 1962. Apparently the highlight was Paul McCartney singing 'Besame Mucho'. Sadly the passage got cut from the final version of the novel - but here it is.

Laura remembered the newspaper Nick had given her. She dug it out of her inside blazer pocket. MERSEY BEAT - Merseyside's Own Entertainments Paper - Price Threepence. It was a fan thing, cheap and flimsy and the ink came away on her hands. She flicked through it until she found a small boxed ad:

LIVE ON STAGE

DIRECT FROM BOOTLE

JOHN SMITH AND THE COMMON MEN

&

NICK O'TEEN AND THE WOODBINES

Saint Edward's College, West Derby, Liverpool 12.

Sunday 14th October 1962. 6:30 p.m.

Admission One Shilling. No Bopping or Jiving.

She was impressed that Nick's 'group' actually existed.

She wasn't much interested in music, though. Back in Wycombe she'd been taken to a few concerts by Mum and Dad. But they had been folk music, which was old men in woolly hats with their fingers in their ears, or trad jazz, which was old men in bowler hats belting out show tunes on trumpets. Everybody said trad jazz was the next big thing in popular music. The sixties would be the trad decade.

As for pop music, she had dutifully listened to scratchy 45s by Cliff Richard and Tommy Roe on her friends' gramophones, and had tried to do the Twist to 'Let's Dance' by Chris Montez. In February, one of her friends had gone in for a record Twist in Harlow. Twenty thousand women, thirty thousand men. Part of it was just being different. Even your older brother or sister hadn't bought pop singles, just a few years ago, it was all that new.

Music was fun, but it didn't mean much to Laura. In fact the lilting tunes and the popstar boys' high-pitched voices mooning over their 'sweet angels' just annoyed her.

So going to this concert wasn't all that appealing. But at the end of the school day Bernadette had off-handedly told her about a coffee bar where they could meet on Sunday, and they could go see Nick together. After Mort and his Barbie doll, it sounded a good idea. Even if the groups were rubbish, it would be an excuse to get out of the house.

And a chance to make better friends with Bernadette. Bernadette had struggled in lessons, but she had strength, confidence, as if she was somehow a bit more grown-up than the other kids around her. With that cold whiff of strangeness about Miss Wells, Laura was glad to have Bernadette's solid company in school.

She folded the newspaper up again. On the front page was a grainy photo of four skinny young men in suits, and half of the rest of the page was taken up by a huge ad:

MONDAY OCTOBER 22ND

BACK AT THE CAVERN AT LAST

DIRECT FROM HAMBURG

THE SAVAGE

YOUNG

!! BEATLES !!

Beatles? She'd never heard of them. Stupid name. She folded up the paper and put it in the rubbish bin.

Of course the big question was what to wear on Sunday. She started to go through her suitcase.

The Woodbines' gig was at Saint Edward's College, a big Catholic boys' school set in leafy grounds in the middle of West Derby.

They had to walk up a cut from the main road. They came to a queue of teenagers lining up before the gate, girls in tottering heels and strappy dresses and boys with towering quiffs. Laura felt her own pulse quicken, in the glittering dark of the Sunday evening.

Nick, as a band member, had a letter that got them past the queue, past a boy collecting money at the college gate, and past a stern old man in a black cassock who circled, restless and suspicious, like a vulture. This was a Christian Brother, one of the Irish order of monks who ran this place.

Nick was all for going on to the assembly hall where the bands would be setting up, but Bernadette pulled Laura back into the shadows.

'Business first. Normally I'd take an hour getting ready. But today's an emergency, I suppose. Want a ciggie?'

'No, thanks.'

'Let's see what we've got to work with.' Bernadette briskly opened Laura's coat and inspected her dress. It was black, cut below the knee, with a white cotton panel buttoned up at the throat. Bernadette snickered. 'Who buys your clothes? Your mother?'

'Well, yes.'

'You need to get some money of your own, kid. In the meantime it's an emergency.' She undid the buttons at Laura's throat and tucked the white cotton panel inside the black main body of the dress. 'In all black you'll look like a beat girl. In the dark, anyhow. You need to lose this.' Bernadette fingered the Key on its chain.

Laura couldn't quite bear to take it off. She tucked it out of sight. She glanced down at her chest, embarrassed. 'Aren't I showing too much?'

'No. Not that you've got anything to show. Here.' Bernadette dug into her bag and pulled out a handful of tissues. 'Give nature a helping hand.'

Laura goggled. 'Are you joking?'

Bernadette cupped her own chest proudly. 'How do you think I came by these? They won't let you in if you look too young.'

'All right.' Laura took the tissues and, turning her back, stuffed them inside her Marks and Spencers bra. When she was done, she let Bernadette put lipstick on her mouth and mascara around her eyes.

Bernadette said, 'We'll do a better job next time. But nobody will notice in the dark, nothing but the lippie.'

Friendless Laura was warmed to hear that casual phrase, next time. But she thought it was odd that Bernadette, who made such a fuss about her looks, stuck to her school uniform.

The school assembly hall was a big box of a room, all ink-stained wood, with a stage at one end. Musicians were setting up on the stage, a drummer with his kit, guitarists plugging in amps. The big bass drum had WOODBINES written on its skin. Nick was already up there on stage, blowing into a microphone. 'One two one two.'

The hall smelled of school, all ink and chalk dust. But tonight there was an odour of Brylcreem and makeup, ciggie smoke and after-shave and perfume, and hundreds of kids ran and bopped and wrestled like chimps, their voices echoing from the panelled walls. More Christian Brothers stalked about like prison warders.

'The Brothers don't know what they're letting themselves in for,' Joel said.

Bernadette shrugged. 'They should do. The Beatles played here last week.'

Laura asked, 'Who?'

'Come on. Let's get a good speck.' She lowered her shoulders and shoved her way through a gathering crush to the front.

There were a lot of bikers in the crowd, in leather coats with metal studs, and greasy slicked-back hair. Laura's head filled with the stink of ciggie smoke, and there was booze on a lot of breaths. She had never been anywhere like this in her life. She felt a thrill of danger.

Somebody twanged a guitar, a single electrical chord that crashed out of the loudspeakers stacked up on the stage. A shock ran through the crowd. Everybody roared, and pushed forward. Laura had to struggle to stay with Bernadette and Joel.

Nick, holding his microphone stand, was stalking about the front of the stage, grinning at the girls in the crowd. Aside from Nick the group had two guitarists, a bass player and a drummer. The drummer, a plump, good-looking boy with a sullen mouth, did a brief roll on his snare drum. A couple of girls screamed.

'That's him,' Bernadette said. She looked more animated than she had since Laura had met her. She waved. 'Billy! Billy Waddle!'

The drummer saw Bernadette waving. But he looked away, and grinned at a girl a bit closer to the front.

Bernadette was furious. 'You don't half irk my shingles, Billy Waddle,' she shrieked. 'Leave those scrubbers alone!' Some of the girls laughed, and Billy looked furious.

Nick watched from the stage, his expression complicated. And Joel looked at the floor.

Laura saw all this. There was a lot going on here, she thought. A lot of ties between these people, whose lives she had just walked into. In a way, it was just like at home. And she wasn't a part of any of it.

Nick pulled his microphone to his face. 'Good evening!' His voice echoed from the speaker stacks, and there was a howl of feedback. 'John Smith and the Common Men will be playing for you later.' Another roar. 'But first you'll have to put up with us. I'm Nick O'Teen, and we are the Woodbines.'

Close to Laura, some of the bikers had noticed Joel. They closed in.

Nick looked straight at Laura. 'We'll kick off with a song that was playing in the Jive-O-Rama a bit earlier, but we didn't all know what we were listening to, did we? You know who you are, H-Bomb Girl.'

The bikers were poking Joel. One of them grabbed his hat, but Joel held on to it. Laura could hear what they were saying. 'Niggy, niggy. Niggy nigritta.'

Bernadette moved in, tall, commanding. 'Hey, face ache. Leave him alone.'

'It's a concert favourite by the Beatles.' Just the name got the loudest whoop of the night. 'It's by Mister Chuck Berry, and it's called "Roll Over Beethoven". You might want to jig about a bit. Or not, it's up to you, it's all the same to us, we get paid anyway. OK Billy, lads? A one, two, three -'

A wave of noise came crashing down from the stage, a tremendous pulsing guitar riff. Then a hammering drum beat and punching rhythm guitar joined in. Suddenly everybody was jumping and screaming.

Laura had never heard anything like this before. It was music transformed into a battering ram. She was electrified.

Nick started dancing with his mike stand, playing it like a guitar, jigging back and forth across the stage to the music. He had seemed out of place to Laura since she had met him. Now he looked as if he fit right in.

And then the fight started. Laura couldn't see what it was about. Maybe Joel threw the first punch, or Bernadette, or one of the bikers. It just exploded all around her, a riot out of nothing, with fists flying, people screaming.

She heard a yelp.

She turned to see a fat Ted who must have been thirty, with black sunglasses and sideburns like strips of carpet. He had taken the chance to grab a double handful of Bernadette's backside. 'Come on, darling. How about a bit of finger pie?'

'Get your hands off me, you coffin dodger!' She was pop-eyed furious, but, hemmed in by the fighting, she couldn't beat him off.

Laura didn't stop to think. She bunched her right fist, swung it at the end of her arm, and slammed it into the big Ted's nose. Blood splashed over his mouth, and he fell back out of sight.

Bernadette stared, amazed. She mouthed, 'Ta.'

But Joel was buried somewhere under the brawling bikers. Bernadette yelled, 'Get off him, you hard-faced gets!' She jumped back in.

As the fight swirled, the song belted on. Nick didn't want to see the fighting. He just wanted to sing. But at last he broke off, dumped his mike, and yelled, 'Geronimo!' He dived into the crowd, arms and legs outspread. He landed in the middle of the bikers and knocked the whole lot to the ground.

With a flash and a pop, the music stopped in mid-chord. The crowd's fighting stopped as if a switch had been pulled, and there was a collective groan. A black-robed Christian Brother marched up and down the stage, haranguing the crowd in a powerful Irish accent. 'That's got to stop! It's just not good enough! It's all too much!'

Bernadette pulled Joel out from the mass of bikers. Joel had his hat in his hand. He looked furious, but none the worse for wear.

Nick clambered back onto the stage, his carefully assembled Ted gear messed up, his hair a tangle. But his voice, unamplified now, carried over the crowd. 'Oh, well. What shall we do while we wait for Uncle Albert to change the fuse on the Vox? How about a singalong? She'll be coming round the mountain when she comes. Honk! Honk!'

The crowd joined in, Mods and Rockers, bikers and schoolkids alike.

They're all mad, Laura thought. I must be mad to be here.

But for now, sweating, breathless, dirt-streaked, her fist aching from the punch, she stood with her arms around Bernadette and Joel and sang as lustily as the rest.