Page 35 of The Last Love Song
With a small wave, he disappeared down the steps.
It was fifteen minutes before Helen was composed enough to leave the Baker Street school and make her way to Harley Street.
The address that Tony had given her turned out to be one of the many white stucco-fronted houses in Harley Street. She rang the bell by the door several times to no reply, then saw a notice that Dr Allen’s surgery was closed at five every evening. It was now twenty past. Helen scribbled down the telephone number on the front of one of her exercise books, walked backdown the steps and made her way into Oxford Street. Christmas lights had been erected in the past few days and there were shoppers scurrying in and out of the big department stores. She found the right bus stop to take her home to Wimbledon and walked to the end of a very long queue.
Forty-five minutes later Helen let herself in to number seven Wimbledon Park Grove. The building was a double-fronted Victorian house which had been divided into flatlets some years ago. Helen’s was on the top floor. She checked on the table to see if there had been any post. Aunt Betty wrote every two weeks and Seamus O’Donovan kept in contact about her finances.
Today there was nothing. She looked at the mail for the other residents, none of whom she had managed more than a brief ‘hello’ with.
As she climbed the stairs, Helen mused how different people here were from those in Ballymore. Four of them all living under the same roof, sharing the same front door, and yet knowing nothing about each other. At home, you could live five miles up the road from someone but they would still know your business before you did.
She turned the key in the lock and switched on the light in the tiny corridor, before hanging up her coat and making her way into her sitting room-cum-bedroom.
The room was cold. Helen went across to the electric fire and plugged it in. Then she closed the curtains around the big bay window.
Although she had seen several larger flats when she’d been looking for somewhere to live, Helen had chosen this one for two reasons. First, there was a beautiful cherry-blossom tree outside her window. She knew in the spring it would bloom into a riot of pinky-white. And secondly, the flat included that most rare of private modern conveniences, her own bathroom.
An hour later, Helen emerged from the en suite wrapped in her cosy new velour dressing gown. She emptied some baked beans into a saucepan and put two pieces of bread underneath the grill, then switched on her prize possession: a new black-and-white television.
‘Timed perfectly,’ she smiled, as the theme music toThe Avengersplayed from the small speaker. This was Helen’s favourite programme. Emma Peel was her heroine and she thought Diana Rigg the most beautiful girl she’d ever seen.
After sitting glued to the screen, Helen looked down as the credits rolled and realised she’d forgotten to eat her beans on toast. Hungry, but without the energy to make herself anything else, she tipped her congealed supper into the bin, brushed her teeth, then threw back the candlewick bedspread and climbed into bed.
It was only half past eight, but it didn’t matter. She was tired and, besides, she wanted to think about Tony Bryant. Tony...Helen shuddered involuntarily at the thought of his name. He’d been so kind...and the way he’d looked at her with his big brown eyes...
11
‘Okay, guys, let’s try it. On the count of four.’
The four members of Todd Bradley and the Blackspots began to play. The draughty, deserted warehouse with its magnificent view of Tower Bridge echoed to the sound of Todd’s latest composition. Con plucked along on his bass, coming in with Ian the drummer and Derek for the harmonies as Todd provided the lead vocal.
‘Stop!’ Todd put his hand up. ‘You’re all coming in a beat too late on theah, ahs. And soften it a little. You’re drowning me, boys. Let’s go again.’
An hour and a half later, Ian lit a joint and offered it around.
‘So,’ Todd said as he took a drag and passed it to Derek, who inhaled too much and began to cough. ‘Are we all fit for tomorrow night?’
‘Sure, yeah.’ There was a general nodding of heads.
‘Good. We’ll meet at seven to set up.’
‘I’ve called the A and R guy at Pirate Records,’ interjected Derek. ‘You never know, he might show.’
‘Hey, man, you always call him before our gigs and he never turns up,’ smiled Ian affably.
‘One day he might. You never know who’s in the audience,’ Derek answered defensively. ‘I do my best, you know.’
‘We know you do.’ Todd checked his watch. ‘I’ve got to fly. I’m meeting Lulu in half an hour. See you guys tomorrow.’
Con and Derek helped Ian pack up his drum kit and carry it to the ancient van used as the band’s ‘wheels’.
‘Man, I wish we had a permanent base. Shifting this stuff is wearing me out.’
‘One day we’ll have our own studio, Ian. You wait and see,’ said Derek.
‘And Harold Wilson will be stoned in the Houses of Parliament,’ quipped Ian. ‘I’m off. There’s a party in Soho tonight. You guys want to come? There’ll be chicks and a lot of good gear.’
Con and Derek shook their heads. Ian shrugged. ‘Suit yourselves. I’d give you a lift but there’s no room. See you tomorrow.’
