Peter Guttridge - The Last King of Brighton

She stopped by the breakfast table and put a big brown envelope on it.

‘Now don’t spend it all at once,’ she said, without turning. She was looking down at the newspaper.

‘My paper is saying that the mastermind is somebody in Brighton,’ she said. ‘A miser who lives alone in one room and works with infinite care and patience to come up with criminal plans that he takes to a master criminal well known in the Harrow Road area of London.’

She turned and laughed.

‘Such nonsense,’ she said. She glanced from his burning face to the front of his trousers and then around the room. ‘Have you heard from your parents yet?’

Hathaway’s parents had gone on a touring holiday in the Morris Oxford down through France and into Spain. They were going for three weeks, possibly longer. ‘Let’s see how it goes,’ his father had said. His mother was calling it a second honeymoon.

Hathaway shook his head.

‘They only went yesterday.’

‘Away for your birthday – that’s a shame.’ She took a step towards him. ‘How old will you be tomorrow?’

‘Seventeen,’ Hathaway said, trying to focus on her face rather than her cleavage.

‘Seventeen and this house all to yourself. I expect you’ll be having a party. Probably more than one.’ She took another step. ‘I hope you’re going to behave.’

Hathaway shrugged, feeling his face burn even more, thrown by the look in her eyes. It was both nervous and calculating. He saw her glance down at the front of his trousers again.

‘I’m not much for parties.’

‘What about birthday presents?’ she said, only a yard or so from him now. Her perfume enveloped him. ‘You must like them.’

‘Who doesn’t?’ he said. His throat was dry. She was so close he could smell her soft breath. She reached up and touched the corner of his mouth with a crimson fingernail.

‘Would you like an early one?’

When The Avalons finished their set to desultory applause the landlord came over, a sour look on his face.

‘Didn’t think much of the audience,’ Hathaway said as the landlord handed him a well-stuffed envelope. ‘Didn’t get in the spirit of it at all.’

The landlord looked at him but didn’t respond. Instead he said: ‘Hope your dad’s having a good holiday.’

‘From what I hear,’ Hathaway said, slipping the envelope into his jacket pocket. He was nattily dressed in a dark suit with narrow lapels and trousers, white shirt and slim black tie. The other three in the group – Dan, Bill and Charlie – were dressed in the same way and all had their hair Brylcreemed back.

‘Same time next week, then,’ Hathaway said.

The landlord gave a faint smile.

‘Looking forward to it,’ he said.

Once they’d loaded the gear into the back of Charlie’s van, they went across the road to another pub, ordered halves and Hathaway divided out the money between the band members.

‘He’s a miserable sod that landlord,’ Hathaway said.

‘It must be something in the beer,’ Dan, the lead singer, said. ‘Everybody in the place looked like they were at a wake.’

‘Well, it is a Sunday and they were all ancient,’ Hathaway said. ‘Not one of them under thirty.’

‘What did that woman think she was doing asking if we could do any Frank Ifield?’ Dan said. ‘Do I look like I can yodel?’

‘Well,’ Hathaway said. ‘In those trousers…’

‘Bugger off,’ Dan said, taking a swipe at him. ‘Now if she’d meant yodelling in the canyon…’

‘Hark at him,’ Charlie, the drummer, said. He was a couple of years older than the others. He had his comb out, peeling his thick lick of greased hair straight back into a high pompadour.

‘Good gig, though,’ he said. ‘And you almost got the intro right on “Wonderful Land” tonight, Johnny.’

‘I’m getting there,’ Hathaway said. He watched Charlie patting his hair into place. The drummer saw him watching.

‘Learn from the master,’ he said.

Charlie Laker had been a Teddy boy since he was about thirteen. When not in his stage gear, he lived in a drape jacket and brothel creepers, and thought Duane Eddy was God and Gene Vincent sat at his right hand. He was a car mechanic but he rode a motorbike. The van was his father’s. Charlie gave Hathaway grief about the Vespa he scooted around on.

‘I’m thinking we might need to change our look,’ Hathaway said. ‘All these mop-tops in the charts.’

‘I am not having a bloody mop-top,’ Charlie said vehemently. ‘Those Liverpool queers can do what they like.’

‘It’s catching on,’ Hathaway said, and Dan and Bill, the rhythm guitarist, nodded.

‘Having girl’s hair or being a fairy?’ Charlie said. They all laughed.

‘We should be learning some of their songs, though,’ Bill said. ‘I’ve got that new Billy J. Kramer and the new Gerry and the Pacemakers. I can figure out the chords.’

Three out of four in the group could read music, but the simplest way to keep the act up-to-date was not to wait for the sheet music – which could be a long time coming – but to figure out the chords from listening to the singles again and again. That sometimes meant the lyrics weren’t exactly accurate.

‘Just something to think about,’ Hathaway said, standing.

‘Where are you off to?’ Dan said. ‘It’s your round.’

‘Got someone coming round the house,’ Hathaway said.

‘Oh hello,’ Dan said. ‘Whilst the cats are away. Want us to come back, help you with the cheese?’

‘I can manage, thanks.’

‘Who is she?’ Charlie said. ‘Do we know her?’

‘Not that fat girl who lives at the end of your street?’ Dan said.

‘Bugger off,’ Hathaway said. ‘See you Friday.’

‘Make sure you wear a johnny, Johnny,’ Dan called after him. ‘And for God’s sake don’t let her get on top of you or you’re done for.’

Hathaway ignored the calls as he went out into the street and climbed on his scooter. Barbara’s car was already in the drive when he got back to the house.

On Monday evening there were radio reports that the police had found the farmhouse where the Great Train Robbers had holed up. It was splashed all over Tuesday morning’s papers. Leatherslade farmhouse, somewhere in Oxfordshire. On Friday two men called Roger Cordrey and Bill Boal were arrested. Hathaway recognized Cordrey’s name. His dad knew him. He ran a flower shop in town.

That evening The Avalons were playing in a new pub on the edge of Hove. Hathaway had time to watch the new pop show, Ready Steady Go, and ogle its short-skirted presenter, Cathy McGowan, before he went off on his Vespa. He liked the theme tune, ‘5-4-3-2-1’.

The evening started well but quickly went downhill thanks to the six Teddy boys who were out for trouble. Even before they were three rounds of Newcastle Brown in, they’d been catcalling and jeering. They were sitting to the right of the stage, pinched faces, big rings on their fingers that would cut as they punched.

They’d been OK at first but then The Avalons always started with Gene Vincent and Roy Orbison. It was when they moved on to some of the Liverpool Sound songs that the Teds got uppity.

The pub was only half full. Hathaway looked over at the landlord but he was deep in conversation with someone sitting at the bar.

The first coins were thrown at Hathaway part-way through the group’s second Shadows’ cover, ‘Apache’.

‘Get yourself some guitar lessons,’ the biggest of the Teds called, and the others cackled.

The first bottle of Newcastle Brown hit Dan in the chest a few moments later. When the second hit Charlie’s bass drum, he was out from behind his kit and jumping off the shallow stage before any of the Teds had got to their feet.