California Girls
Another dip into the world of ENGRAVITATION
[Yes, I should be working on the novel proper, not writing unnecessary way-after-the-action scenes. Characters are people too. Why shouldn’t they have some fun?
As before, anyone you think you recognise is acting.]
In the novel:
Christine squeezed my arm, looking at her feet. Then she looked up at me again. “You got anyone else in your life? I mean, serious? Not like all those, what do they call ’em, groupies?”
I snorted. “There are fewer groupies around than the papers would have you believe,” I said. “Rocky gets some, but he goes looking. I don’t.”
“You should,” she advised. “Don’t look, won’t find.”
The year is 1966. The date is July 30th. The time is 3 p.m. Now read on…
“Afternoon tea at the Rainbow Room,” Amy had said on the phone. “You’re paying. And smarten up. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
Fair enough. I was ten weeks late for her birthday, as The Knights had been working in Germany since before Easter. I was also a comparative stranger in London, but I knew how to find Derry & Toms’ department store. I called in briefly to the rundown splendour of Amy’s flat in Vicarage Gate, dropped my overnight bag on the untidy daybed in its living room, and ran down Kensington Church Street. For once I was almost unimpeded. The World Cup Final had just kicked off, and most of the country was glued to its tiny black-and-white TV sets. The few taxis on the High Street were making much better progress than usual.
The store too was quiet for a Saturday, aside from a knot of nail-biters in the television showroom. As I ran up the escalators to the fifth floor, the ubiquitous Yellow Submarine was playing in the background. Even here, I thought. Oh well, people will soon tire of it.
Amy and a stranger were seated together near the far end of the ballroom, already tucking into tea, cakes and tiny sandwiches. Amy glared and shook her wrist at me, the one with her watch on it. Her companion, a girl of about Amy’s age with a mass of dark hair and a bright smile, stood up to be introduced.
“Ronnie, this is my brother who calls himself Danny. Man-child, say hello to Ronnie.”
“Hello to Ronnie.” I can’t resist those.
Amy’s glare deepened as Ronnie’s smile dimpled. “Pleased to meet you.” American, I heard, although to look at, she had an oriental cast that was somehow familiar.
“Likewise,” I said as we shook hands. “Is Ronnie short for something? All the Ronnies I know are boys. Apart from Ronnie Bennett, of course.”
“Who’s Ronnie Bennett?” Amy asked. The Ronettes, I mouthed at her. It didn’t help. Amy doesn’t know much about music.
Ronnie knew. “That’s how,” she said, “short for Veronique. French, after my French grandmother.”
“Oh, French, of course,” I said, “I thought you looked a bit French.”
This did not get the reaction I’d hoped for. Ronnie’s smile froze, all the emotion draining out of it. “And how do French people look?”
“Well, you know,” I said, hoping to escape from whatever trap I’d fallen into, “poised, elegant, and beautifully dressed.” Which she was, in a soft velvet jacket of deep reds and ochres, and a matching hat that perched atop her coiffure. “With a natural air of insouciant superiority. Gauloise optional.”
Ronnie’s expression eased. “I’m not tall enough to be poised and elegant.”
“Sometimes it skips a generation.”
“Hello?” Amy interjected. “I’m still here, everyone.”
Ronnie didn’t seem to notice. “And Danny, uh-huh. Real name, if it’s not impolite to ask?”
“Most people call me Danny.” Most people that knew me didn’t know I’d ever had any other name. In a way, I’d reinvented myself. “Our Mum still calls me George, and Amy calls me when she wants something.”
“George to Danny? I don’t get it.”
I was well used to this question by now, and had the explanation down to a few words. “It’s my professional name, after Danny Barcelona, if you know who he is.” Few did. Fame is fleeting.
“Drummer, right? I do know who he is. He’s one of our people. Lives in my town.”
“You’re from Hawaii?” I knew from an album sleeve that Mr Barcelona was Hawaiian. Ronnie’s face had that same look. Most of it was the smile.
Ronnie took her time about putting me right on details. “I’m from San Francisco. I’m Filipino by descent, just like your Danny Barcelona.”
“But it says on — ” I stopped. I had to presume that she knew more than I did. “OK,” I said, “that’s me, what are you doing in England?”
Ronnie laughed. “Not much, now. I’m going to Lord’s tomorrow.”
“Really?” I asked. “I didn’t think Americans knew about cricket. Do they play on Sunday?” I’m no fan myself, but I was pretty sure they didn’t.
Amy grabbed the opportunity to insert herself back into our conversation.
“Loor — D — Z,” she pronounced carefully, “Lourdes. In France. Not Lord’s Cricket Ground. Honestly, some brothers.” She let Ronnie’s sounding of the silent final S stand, I noticed. She must want something from the girl.
“Oh, I see, a pilgrimage?”
The cascade of curls shook for a second. “I just want to see what the place is like. Grammère hasn’t been back since she left, before the wars.”
“I thought you should meet,” Amy said, sounding a little desperate, “because Ronnie knows about music.” It was unusual for her not to be dominating the conversation. “And not the rubbish you play now, this is like the jazz you started on. Improvisation, long solos and people actually listening. That’s what you like, isn’t it?”
It would be hard to say which was more unlikely: Amy’s suggestion, or the fact that Amy was the one suggesting it. I’d spent the preceding five years making music that was, at best, drowned out by screaming. I had some ideas about that, which would evolve into Merlin Sound, but not yet; meanwhile, long solos were a guaranteed turnoff. “And this happens in California?” I asked, pleased that watching Wells Fargo in dressing-rooms up and down the land had taught me which state to name.
I was asking Ronnie, but Amy had the floor and wasn’t going to give it up. “Yes, where I’m going!”
So that was it. The brain drain was real. “You’ve landed a job in California? Congratulations!”
Amy preened. “Research Fellow. No more biding my time in A&E, splinting kids’ sprains and stomach-pumping drunks. I’ll be off to Berkeley Campus in September.” She pointed a regal finger at me. “And you may come to visit, if you’re good. Be the making of you.”
“How?”
Preening is never enough with Amy, she has to show off to everyone present. “How, he asks?” she said to Ronnie, rolling her eyes. She sighed theatrically. “Oh dear, we can’t all be geniuses or pop stars. My brother, case in point.” She turned back to me. “You’re English, numbskull. They’ll all think you’ve met the Queen and know the Beatles.”
“I do know the Beatles,” I pointed out. “They know me. Well, three of them do, I sat in for Pete Best once.” They’d remember. Probably. It was a long time ago.
“Who was that tall useless drummer? they ask each other. No, listen, it would be a way in for you. You could be playing with The Grateful Society, or Geoff Aeroplane.”
Ronnie appeared to choke on her éclair, and I knew why. Names are Amy’s blind spot. I caught Ronnie’s eye and tried to signal Let it pass. The smile quivered. I smiled a little back.
A waiter approached our table and caught my eye. “Excuse me, Dr Porter? There’s a telephone call for you.”
Before I could put him right, Amy was on her feet, with a face like thunder. “Would you like me to take that for you, Doctor Porter?” I nodded, trying not to laugh. Amy snatched a petit-four from the stand and followed him.
Ronnie waited until Amy was out of sight before she spoke. “What’s her problem with you?” she asked. “Is it different from her problem with everyone else?”
“Height,” I said. “She doesn’t like it that she can’t look down on me the way she looks down on the rest of the world.” Only half an inch, but she’ll never overtake me without surgery.
“I wouldn’t want to be as tall as her,” said Ronnie. “Down here I’m closer to the action.”
I was still wondering about that when Amy returned. “The trouble with being on call is, sometimes they call.” She plucked the remaining sandwiches from the cake-stand and wrapped them in a napkin. “Look, I’m sorry, I might be all night. Bloody football! Don’t waste any of this” — pointing at the squishy cakes that were left — “and leave a good tip for the girls. Not for him,” inclining her head towards the waiter. She focused hard on me. “You’re in Michael’s room.”
“Groovy,” I said. On top of being Amy’s landlord and the friend-of-a-friend responsible for Ronnie’s temporary accommodation, Michael was that most convenient of flatmates, one who was hardly ever there. He used the place mostly for storage of sports gear. “Clean sheets?”
“Yes, if you wash some. I’ll see you before you go,” she said, addressing Ronnie, “and if he touches you, scream.” Ronnie nodded, her amusement threatening to spill into laughter. “He’s on first-name terms at the fornicatology clinic.”
“They know you much better than they know me.” Ronnie stared at both of us in mock shock. “They’re Amy’s friends, she used to work there. I’ve met some of them. Socially.”
Amy put the napkin food-parcel in her bag and departed. Ronnie watched her leave, still smiling. “Touch me.”
“Hmm?”
“C’mon, touch me.” I placed one finger gently on the back of Ronnie’s nearer hand. She emitted a scream that might have been loud enough to disturb a very small and nervous mouse, if it was close by, then grinned up at me. “And that’s done. Now, you’re a musician. Where do musicians go in this town for a good time?”
It would have been vain to point out that I was almost as much a foreigner as herself here, two hundred miles from home. I dredged my memory for the names of nightclubs and other dancing-and-drinking establishments I’d never been to. “There’s Blaises, the Flamingo — by the way, have you seen the flamingos here?”
“What flamingos?”
At last, something that I knew and she didn’t. “Upstairs, in the Roof Gardens, sorry, the World-Famous Roof Gardens.”
“I saw the sign for it. Flamingos, really?”
“Really,” I confirmed. “We could have had our tea up there, but Amy would never take the chance that they’d pinch her sandwiches.”
“I don’t think flamingos eat sandwiches,” Ronnie said, as if we were being serious.
“They do, but only the prawn ones.” Well, it was possible. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
We finished the cakes, declined a refill of the teapot, and paid the extra to go up to the Roof Gardens. Ronnie was underwhelmed. The exotic architecture only reminded her of home. “It’s a garden, on a roof. It’s not even a very high roof. What are we, six storeys?” I nodded. “Is there supposed to be a view?”
If you liked looking at rooftops, there was a view. “You can see Earl’s Court from that corner — ”
“Yeah. When you’re in the States, you take a trip to the Grand Canyon.” Ronnie faced me, reaching up to pull the lapels of my jacket together, frowning slightly as if considering something. “Where did you say we were we going tonight?”
I hadn’t said. “We could try Tiles, not the Flamingo, since you don’t like flamingos, maybe the Speakeasy, although that’s not really — ”
“There. Any of those. All of them. But first, you’re not dressed right.”
Outside the store, Ronnie led me the few yards along to the novelty of Kensington Market. We passed several stalls selling bright-to-garish clothing — “Here’s where I got this. See?” She wafted a hand downwards, and the stallholder waved to her in recognition — before her eyes alighted on what she was looking for. “There.” She pointed at a multicoloured jacket made of leather patches. “That’s you. Try it on.”
It was another unlikely proposition, but I tried it as instructed. Unusually for me, the coat was long enough in the arms. I flexed my elbows. It fitted all round. It was impossibly bright, but — “How do I look?” That was the important question.
“Good enough to go places with me,” Ronnie affirmed. There was a sudden shout from behind her, simultaneous with another behind me and some more off to our sides, and above, and below. It was like the whole building had shouted with joy. “What’s happening?”
Someone was yelling “Four-two! Four-two!” over and over. I guessed it wasn’t a time signature. I glanced at my watch. Right.
“Football,” I said. “Soccer, to you.” I looked around at the grinning faces. “I think we won.”
“We?”
There was a mood of celebration in the air. Tonight, London really was Swinging. We, or our boys, England, had beaten Germany 4–2. The inane and inaccurate chant Two World Wars and one World Cup was born that afternoon. It would live on among the English faithful, ever more remote from the real world, for thirty or forty years.
We danced around the West End, in clubs and between them. Ronnie’s looks and sinuous way of moving got us to the head of every queue, and her line of misleading patter — “He’s the drummer, the band can’t go on without him” — delivered in her authoritative Stateside tone, did the rest. In the Speakeasy someone recognised me, and we talked briefly about amplification — “the design isn’t copyrighted!” — until the noise became too much and Ronnie got me dancing again.
We left late, or rather early: dawn’s rosy fingers etc. The Tube had long since stopped running, and no night buses came our way, so by the time we reached Amy’s flat, on foot, it was 4 a.m. “The airing cupboard,” I said, half to myself, “is … this door.” And it was, although its contents were nothing to be showy about.
Ronnie was either very unimpressed or very practical. “You are not changing bedsheets at this time of night. Stay here.” She swung her feet up on the daybed. “Come on.”
“Amy will kill me.”
“It’ll be worth it.”
“If you say so.”
“So.”
And that settled that.
I woke with an arm that had gone numb, pins-and-needles, from being trapped underneath me. It was Ronnie’s arm. She extricated herself, giggling, and scooted off towards the bathroom. Seconds later, Amy came in through the door from the hall.
She sized up the situation at once, in her usual way. “Broken your duck, then? What did I warn you?” She made a threatening gesture.
“I haven’t broken anything,” I said. “You’re ten years behind the times.” All of which was true, regardless of what Amy might believe.
“Well, I’m going to my own bed now,” Amy said, loud and clear towards the closed bathroom door. She paused, as if listening. “No, I don’t need the bathroom, thanks.”
Ronnie waited to be sure Amy had disappeared before she emerged. When she did, she wore a look of agitation. “What’s the time? I have to be at Victoria Coach Station by eleven-fifteen. I don’t even know where it is.”
“We’ve got an hour,” I said. “I’ll get you there.”
And I did, just. There were hugs and kisses, and then Ronnie’s coach took her out of the station, out of London, and out of my life.
Amy phoned me a couple of weeks later. “Guess what, man fail?” She never lets me guess. “You’ve got some fan mail. There’s no accounting for taste.”
“Fan mail?” If she was telling the truth, I’d be as surprised as she sounded. The Knights were on our last legs. Even Rocky couldn’t get arrested, try as he might.
“A postcard from Ronnie. Remember your conquest, Ronnie? No, of course you won’t, that was a fortnight ago, you’ll have had dozens more since then.” She laughed her don’t-take-me-seriously laugh.
“I remember Ronnie. What is it, Lourdes Cathedral?”
“No, it’s a souvenir from Derry & Toms.” You can never be sure whether Amy’s being serious or sarcastic. Well, I can’t.
“What’s it say?”
“It just says Love from Ronnie, with a big smile,” Amy told me. “And here’s a thing, she spells her name wrong.” In Amy’s world, anything worth mention is either Unknown or The Way I See It. Anything else is, by definition, Wrong.
“Wrong how?”
“R-O-N-I.” She snickered. “Americans.” Another whole category of people to denigrate, I thought. You’re going to love the USA.
I retrieved the card when Mum and I went down to wave off Amy’s flight, and smiled myself at the smile that Ronnie — sorry, Roni — had drawn for me, on the back of, yes, a postcard from Derry & Toms. I closed my eyes and imagined her smiling as she did it.
I bet she’s smiling now.
