Stories We Could Tell. Tony Parsons
for someone, anyone, to tell him what to do next. He stared helplessly at the useless tape machine and he realised that he knew this feeling. This feeling of being completely and totally alone.
He was eleven years old and standing in front of a classroom full of children who had already had time to make friends, form alliances and learn how to grin knowingly when they saw a new kid who was trying not to cry.
Too late. Always too late.
It was easy for his two brothers. John was four years older, tough, athletic, afraid of nothing. And his younger brother, Robbie, was only five and just starting school. He wouldn’t know anything but this strange new place.
But Ray was at that awkward age. He looked different to the other boys and girls. His hair was still cut in a brutal short back and sides, he was wearing grey flannel short trousers and a short-sleeve white nylon shirt, and he was still sporting the tie and blazer of his old school.
It was the summer of 1969, and Ray Keeley was dressed like Harold Macmillan.
Although his new classmates also wore a nominal school uniform, compared to Ray they were Carnaby Street peacocks.
Long hair curled dangerously over the collars of paisley shirts, or it was cropped to the point of baldness. School ties had knots thick enough for Roger Moore. Many of the girls had hiked their regulation skirts up to just below their knickers of regulation navy blue. And lounging right at the back of the class, there were boys in pink shirts.
Pink shirts! On boys! Flipping heck!
Ray had been in England for a month. Nowhere had ever felt less like home.
‘Ray is from Hong Kong where his father was in the police force,’ announced the teacher. She picked up a ruler and slapped it twice against a map of the world. ‘Now, who knows what Hong Kong is?’
The class chanted as one, making Ray jump. ‘One of the pink bits, miss!’ ‘And what are the pink bits?’ ‘The pink bits are ours, miss!’
But Ray felt that nothing belonged to him – not the Chinese place they had left behind, or the army bases in Cyprus and Germany where his family had lived before that, and certainly not this strange suburban town where the boys and girls were dolled up as if they were going to a fancy-dress party.
A skinhead child was assigned to look after Ray but deserted him as soon as the bell went for morning playtime.
On the far side of the playground Ray could see his big brother John kicking a ball around with some of the lads. His kid brother Robbie was running in circles with a pack of little fellows, giggling like crazy. Ray stood there, not knowing where to go, what to do, or even where to put his hands. But then something happened that changed everything.
Someone started singing.
It was the chorus from ‘Hey Jude’. On and on. Voices joined in. And then there was another chant – the opening bars of ‘All You Need Is Love’.
The children kept on playing. The football and gossip didn’t stop, did not even pause for breath. The conkers and hopscotch continued. But they sang as they played.
There were more tunes, more chants – yeah, yeah, yeah – ‘She Loves You’ – and more children raising their voices in these songs that they all knew better than any hymn, better than the National Anthem.
Songs they had grown up singing, the soundtrack to all those Sixties childhoods. It was only the Beatles. Always the Beatles. As if the times that these children grew up in began and ended with John, Paul, George and Ringo. And soon the entire playground was singing and Ray Keeley stepped out among them, his senses reeling, surrounded by the music, and a world unlike any he had known before. A world of shared feelings.
Years later he wondered if he had imagined it all – the first day at the strange school, the desperate attempt to hold back the tears, the sight of his big brother playing football with his new friends somehow underlining Ray’s loneliness, and then out of nowhere the playground full of children singing Beatles songs. Certainly he never saw it happen again.
But he knew that it was real. He knew that it had really happened. He had felt it. The magic that can set you free.
And sometimes Ray felt like his entire life was about trying to get back to that moment, to recover that day when suddenly it didn’t matter that he knew no one and his clothes were all wrong, that schoolyard in 1969 where the children sang, na-na-na, yeah-yeah-yeah and love-love-love, love is all you need.
The office wasn’t empty. Ray should have known. Their office was never quite empty.
Music thundered from inside the review room, making the panel of glass in the door rattle. Ray pressed his face against the glass and saw that Skip Jones was in there. He would probably be in there all night, writing the lead album review for next week’s issue. By hand.
Despite all the modern red plastic Olivettis in the office, Skip Jones always chose to write by hand. You would see him in odd empty corners of the office, or in the review room, his long giraffe like limbs hunched over a tatty notebook, and the fact that he was left-handed and had to wrap his hand around his leaky Biro made the process seem all the more awkward and tortured and strange.
Yet Skip Jones still wrote the pants off everyone else at The Paper, effortlessly constructing this cool, pristine, sceptical prose that seemed perfect for the age, and he was the closest thing The Paper had to a legend.
Ray hated to disturb Skip Jones. But if anyone knew where Lennon would be tonight, it was Skip. He paused, working up the courage. Then Ray let himself into the review room with a diffident smile, his hair falling forward.
Skip didn’t notice him at first. He was lost in the music, consumed by his writing, surrounded by a forest of dead cigarettes that he had half-smoked and then carefully stood on their filter tips, allowing them to burn down to a bendy cone of ash.
Ray watched him work, wondering what the music was – twin lead guitars, a world-weary nasal vocal that was completely contemporary, but with a dreamy quality that was out of step with what was going on.
Ray loved to watch Skip work. It restored his faith, it made him feel that they were doing something worthwhile and important. Watching Skip made Ray feel that the music hadn’t died.
Skip leaned back in his chair, lit a cigarette and noticed Ray. He grinned and motioned him further into the room, not quite making eye contact for, while Skip Jones was the best writer at The Paper, he was the shyest man in the world. Looking you in the eye was Skip’s personal Kryptonite. Ray smiled gratefully and pulled up the room’s other chair.
‘Ray Keeley,’ Skip said. ‘Wild.’
Skip handed him the cover of the album he was reviewing. Marquee Moon by Television. Ray shook his head – never heard of it. Skip closed his eyes and nodded emphatically, indicating that this was the real deal.
‘Man, what’s the biggest selling album of the year?’ Skip said.
‘Don’t know,’ Ray said. ‘I guess it’s still Hotel California.’
‘Wild,’ Skip smiled, carefully standing his newly lit cigarette on its filter tip. ‘Laurel Canyon cowboys – cod country that the Byrds did first and harmonies that the Beach Boys did better.’ He chuckled, and Ray laughed along with Skip, even though he had always been quite fond of the Eagles, and it felt like a bit of a betrayal. ‘Well, sorry, boys – Television are going to kick your LA arses all the way back to the dude ranch.’
Ray’s eyes shone with admiration. He thought that Skip Jones looked like a buccaneer. A buccaneer who had been shipwrecked with Keith Richards and a big bag of drugs.
Skip was freakishly tall, alarmingly thin, deathbed white, and if you had seen him loping by, a stack of albums stickered with the words Promotional Copy Only: Not For Sale under his arm and about to be sold, you might have thought he was a homeless person, or a genius who could not live as mere mortals did. You would have been right on both counts.