I did glimpse her briefly once more, years later. It was the early summer of 1974 and I was on my way to play with Wild Turkey at the Marquee Club. I waited for a tube, dressed in my four-inch, wooden-heeled platform boots – black-and-white stars and stripes all over the leather – orange-and-yellow loon pants with twelve-inch flared hems, a psychedelic tie-dye shirt, accessorised with long necklaces, rings and my hair long and very curly. I also had a long, off-white Afghan coat – well, it was 1974. I spotted an attractive woman in her thirties, reading a book. She smiled back at me and as the train pulled out, she mouthed, ‘Bernard?’ Liz! But she was gone, and I have never seen or heard anything of her since. I thought again about those long discussions we had – not for the last time.
After that brief summer of love, the guitar always came first. I was dumped by girls many times, but I never gave it a second thought. In any case, I struggled with girls my own age, having discovered older women. A lot of the venues the Originals played had female managers who would ask the guys to ‘send that young one that plays the guitar for the cash’. The band would giggle as I would often be met by a buxom, mid-thirties stunner in seamed stockings, black underwear and high heels. The rest of the Originals would be waiting for my reaction.
I vividly remember a lunchtime bowling alley gig in Bedford; the manager was a miserable old sod of about 40, but his more than attractive wife was the lady with the money. She was a wonderful tease, running her hands along her legs, smiling at me, saying how young I was to play so well, flattering me and watching my reaction. Giggling and flirting outrageously, she gave me a sexy look and put the two ten-pound notes in her very considerable cleavage. She added that if I could retrieve the cash without using my hands she would add another five-pound note. I played along, burying my head in her bosom and using my teeth to get the notes. I was young, naive and, of course, enjoyed the whole thing very much. She told me she was bored in Bedford since moving from London where she had been an exotic dancer, whatever that meant.
‘Check these out,’ she said. ‘I was a bit of a catch when I was younger.’
She passed me a few photos of her naked or wearing very little. I was shocked, really, holding full-frontal pics with the very lady in them standing next to me. Her husband arrived at that point. He grabbed the pics from my hands, threw them in the corner and told me to fuck off. She laughed and gave me a cheeky wave. I had the gig money though, safely in the back pocket of my Levi’s. The band asked whether I’d gotten the £25. The extra fiver had been a ruse.
4.
I finally left school in 1967, without any qualifications, but also without any misgivings. I did feel a little sorry for myself though and found myself kicking my heels around the town. School done, Liz Rees gone – I supposed I’d have to go to work, then.
To my folks’ relief I found a job, at a ladies’ hairdressing salon in Bletchley, about ten miles from Buckingham. I commuted on my scooter, on which I had painted bright coloured flowers – 1967 was, after all, the year of the hippie and of having flowers in your hair (or painted on your Vespa). My treasured Hofner guitar was similarly adorned. What a sight I must have been, a long-haired kid zooming down the A421 Buckingham to Bletchley road every morning. I got a lot of stick for it but all I cared about was making enough money to buy a Fender Strat and eventually, in my dream of dreams, using that Strat to earn me enough money to buy a white MGA sports car.
The reality of my first proper job soon hit home. Adam of York was in Brooklands Road and the owner was a small bald man, certainly not Adam, but maybe he had come from York. His wife was a first-class battleaxe, a Margaret Thatcher lookalike who called her husband ‘Mr Derek’, and I disliked her from the start, though she was fascinating. She was prim, very self-assured and loudly northern, but affected a posh speaking voice, accented by her heavy Lancashire twang: ‘Madam’s ’air lewks loovly – very classy ’air,’ she would say. ‘That’ll be two-poun’ ten, please, lady.’
‘Mrs Derek’ seemed incredibly old but was probably only forty. She was a tyrant and treated all the staff like shit. She obviously believed that she owned people if she paid their wages. I heard ‘I pay the wages around ’ere!’ many times. I should thank the sad old bird, really, because she cemented my desire to be my own boss.
I washed around fifty heads a week. My hands were in and out of hot and cold water every day, sores and splits began to appear and they even bled. I applied tins of Atrixo cream, but the pain was still excruciating. The final straw for me came with Mrs Derek’s point-blank refusal to let me watch Chelsea and Spurs in the FA cup final of 1967. This was the only live football game of the year. I snuck out of the salon at three in the afternoon and watched a bit of it in a local TV shop, before moving next door, to the Jim Marshall music shop but my northern ogre knew where to find me.
‘Get back to work, you little sod!’ she screamed from the doorway, her face contorted.
I was making three pounds and a few shillings a week from this waste of time. It had been my folks who, understandably, thought I should have a real job. But I hated it so much. I returned to the salon one last time. ‘Just stick your job Mr Derek, and your awful wife. I’ve got a gig to go to,’ I said, feeling rather good about myself.
Mrs Derek was furious because she had wanted to sack me first. What a sight she was – eyes bulging, tongue out, spitting out words and looking at Mr Derek for support. He gave none. The older girls laughed, loving the fact that the old bag was getting it from the youngest and lowliest employee.
I walked out, never to return. My folks took it well but were keen to see me employed somewhere. It was not to be with the Originals. I had been feeling very stuck with them, sucked into music I didn’t really want to play. I was a lot younger and had younger ideas. Time to find another band but, as it turned out, they found me.
The Daystroms were the biggest local group in the area, even touring outside Buckingham with their own vehicle – a Ford Thames van. I’d heard a lot about them. They took their name from a Swedish company that produced home kits to make amplifiers. Mac Stevens was their bassist and Tony Saunders was on drums. Singer Dougie Eggleton called the shots and, most importantly, owned the van and PA system. Dougie had seen me with the Originals and decided I would be better off in the Daystroms. I didn’t argue – I wanted to be in the biggest group in the area.
Lead guitarist Alan Rogers was Nipper’s cousin. He was a cool guy; tall, slim and, I noticed, he had very long fingers. I thought this was essential for a guitarist – I looked at my own fingers and inwardly frowned. But even with longer fingers it became obvious in those early rehearsals that ‘the kid’ was already some way ahead of Alan as a lead guitarist.
The group practised in the drivers’ room at Buckingham’s milk factory. It was small, stank of smoke, and was not at all suited for the job but it was free and I loved it. I didn’t love the material much. Even at this very early stage I knew I couldn’t play ‘Silence is Golden’ by the Tremeloes for very long. I was still super-keen to be playing, though, and endeavoured to learn all the rhythm parts. I also knew most of the lead guitar parts, and Alan Rogers was very aware of this as he struggled to play them.
My first performance with the Daystroms was at Whitchurch youth club. Alan Rogers didn’t show up and Dougie Eggleton was panicking. ‘Bernard, you will have to play lead and rhythm guitar, I know you can do it.’
I knew that I could do it, too, and even if I was a little over-confident everything went well. Afterwards, in the dressing room, Dougie announced that I was to take over on lead. Nobody uttered a word in protest, and I breathed the rarefied air of the lead guitarist.
Over summer we changed our name to the more modern-sounding the Clockwork Mousetrap, and the Ford