And James Turned Right

‘Hope it goes well tonight’, thought the young man, as he regarded himself in the hall mirror. ‘Handsome devil.’

‘You’ll wear that mirror out you will’, said his dad as he passed through the hallway.

‘Got to look my best for the dance, dad. I'm going to a meeting, see?’ He drew a comb through his sleek, black hair which had been shaped in the style worn by his favourite rock ‘n’ roller. If only I needed glasses, he thought. Then I’d really look like Buddy Holly.

‘Is that so James?, said his dad. More rock ‘n’ roll, I suppose?’

‘Rock ‘n’ roll’s the truth, dad’, his son replied with a wink. ‘You should know that by now.’ And with that he threw on his jacket, grabbed the guitar case propped by the stairs and headed for the door.

‘Don’t stay up, dad’, he shouted over his shoulder.

‘Don’t be late then. 9pm and not a minute later’. The door slammed shut, and James’ dad shook his head. ‘Gets his looks from his mother’, he thought. ‘And his modesty too’, and with a smile he turned towards the kitchen for another cup of tea.

‘I hate it when he calls me James’

‘I hate it when he calls me James’, the young man thought as he swaggered down the street, flipping a cigarette between his lips. His dad had the same first name, but everyone called him ‘Jim’, which was cooler than James.

‘God, I hate Liverpool’, the boy thought to himself for the thousandth time. Wish I lived somewhere cool, like Texas.’ He didn’t really know where Texas was, America somewhere. What he did know, is that Texas was cool, because that’s where Buddy Holly came from. Lubbock, Texas, Yeah, man.

James had resolved to change his name when he left school, like Buddy had. ‘Charles Hardin Holley’, was never going to be a rock ‘n’ roll star with a name like that, but ‘Buddy Holly’ was.

‘Jimmy Paul’ – an adaptation of his first two names – was the young man’s current favourite option, but that changed every day. Last week it was ‘Zack Charles’, and ‘Buddy King’ the day before. Another thing he was working on, was the introductory billing that every entertainer needed to break big in show business.

Frankie Vaughan was a local singer made good, and been Number 1 in the Hit Parade with his song, Kisses Sweeter than Wine. He’d billed himself as, ‘Mersey’s Mr. Moonlight’, until he had his first big hit that is, and then he’d dropped that bit completely. ‘What a dick’, said James at the time. His dad had scoffed at him.

‘You shouldn’t knock show people. It’s a hard life breaking into the business, mark my words. A real pro knows how hard it is to get a break. You need discipline and a good dose of luck too.’

Albeit reluctantly, James did listen to his father’s advice, for he’d been a professional musician himself, well respected in his way. Secretly, he was proud of his dad but he never seemed to get round to telling him.

If you’re going to make it in show business, his dad had warned him, 'you need two things: discipline and luck

‘And talent dad? I don’t suppose that counts for anything?’ James shot back with a smirk.

‘Talent’, his father had said firmly, 'is useless if you haven’t got the other two.’

‘But how do you get luck?’ his son had asked.

‘You make it yourself. Or not’, his dad replied, disappearing behind his newspaper, a screen against his son’s constant questions about fame, music and show business.

Away with his thoughts about fame and rock ‘n‘ roll, James stopped walking looked around the street and suddenly realised he was lost. His family were new to the area, and hadn’t paid much attention to street names ‘Which way for the bus stop?’ he thought. Daydreaming again. Left or right? I think it’s left…no right. Yeah, I’m pretty sure.’ The thought occurred to ask someone, but he was a shy lad at heart.’

And James turned right.

James was due to meet this weird guy about a new band he was getting together. The guy called himself 'Johnny Moondog', which at least had a bit of showbiz about it. A friend of Johnny Moondog's had overheard James boasting about his guitar playing down the rec one evening, and given James a phone number.

'Eh, big head. Me mate Johnny Moondog is putting a band together. He's looking for a guitar player. If you're half as good as you think you are, he might be interested. Give him a call, you never know.'

James had looked at the note for a little too long, before taking it from the guy's hand. 'Yeah, well, I might do that someday. Y’know, kind of busy at the moment.'

The guy shot James a funny look. 'Right. Well, see you around then', and he started to walk away. James couldn't contain himself further.

'Eh mate. This Johnny Moondog fellow. Thinks he’s a bit special, does he? Only you get a lot of them in show business, me dad told me. He used to be a professional musician.'

Johnny Moondog's friend stopped walking, and thought for a second before turning round and walking back a few steps towards James, who edged away instinctively.

'Listen pal, Johnny Moondog's a bit eccentric, anyone round here'll tell you that. But he's a bloke with a bit of talent trying to do something different. And I’ll tell you what he's not.'

'What’s that?' said James, nervously.

'He's not a dick head, like you.' And with that the man left.

James's mates had all burst out laughing, but James quickly slipped the paper with the phone number into his coat pocket.

The piece of paper stayed in James's pocket for a couple of days before he swallowed his pride sufficiently to look at it. What had the guy said was wrong with Johnny Moondog? He searched his mind for the word, what was it? 'Eccentric', that was it. That’s another word for loony. Johnny Loondog, more like. He wasn't sure he wanted to get involved with loonies.

But James badly wanted to be in a band, and so he resolved to call this Moondog character. There was no telephone at his home, so he had to walk to a box. But when he called, the phone had rung for ages, and he was about to hang up when suddenly a male voice answered.

'Who's this?' said a Scouse accent in harsh, nasal tones, the abruptness of it catching James on the hop.

'It's erm, it's James..erm…Paul, Jimmy Pau…'

'Paul who? I don't know any Paul. Wrong number mate.'

'Wait, no', said James in a panic. 'I'm calling about the band. Your band. You need a guitar player, I heard.' A thought occurred to James. 'Erm, that is, you are Johnny Moondog aren't you?'

'Too fucking right I am pal, and don't you forget it. Johnny Moondog. The next big thing, the name on everybody's lips. You heard it here first.'

'Too fucking right I am pal'

Johnny Moondog spoke his words rapid-fire, and with the utmost self-assurance.

'Great', said James. This guy was a bit odd. There was silence from the other end, so he blabbered on:

'About your band. I play the guitar, the drums, the bass and the piano, all pretty well.'

'I see', said the voice, after a while.

'Me dad says I'm good, and I know it's me dad and everything, but he's a professional musician so he should know. He wouldn't just say that.'

'A professional musician?', said the voice. 'I see.'

'Me dad is, yeah.'

There was another too-long pause, before the voice spoke again.

'Answer the following three questions, and I might try you out for the band.'

‘This is bloody weird’, thought James. But he badly wanted to be in a band. 'Okay,' he said. 'Fire away then'.

'Who is the greatest musical genius of all time? Warning: Do not answer Beethoven or the line will immediately go dead.'

But James knew that one. 'Buddy Holly', he cried.

There was a long pause, and James had to jam some more coins into the slot.

'Is the correct answer', said the voice. 'Next question. What was the title of Elvis Presley's first record?'.

'His first Number 1, or his…?'

'…first record', repeated the voice. James felt his heart jump. These were easy for a rock and roller like him.

'Mystery Train!’

What was the title of Elvis Presley's first record?

'Is the correct answer', said the voice. ‘Next question. At what studio was Mystery Train recorded?'’

James smiled into the speaker. Got him, he thought. Smart arse. He answered, as if it were the easiest question he'd ever heard.

'Sun Studios in Memphis, of course. Why, didn't you know the answer to that yourself?'

There was a much longer pause.

'I see', said the voice, which was starting to wind James up.

'Next question.'

'Hang on!’ protested James. ‘That's four questions. You said there were only three…'

The voice continued regardless.

'What is the name of my new band?'

James's heart sank. How could he know the answer to that? He racked his mind, but nothing occurred.

'I don't know', he admitted. 'Sorry, I just…don't know.'

'Have a guess', said the voice immediately.

James thought. ‘What would a Buddy Holly fan call his band? What would I call my band. Buddy's band were called the Crickets, which were some kind of bug. Maybe that was it.

'The Insects!' he cried. 'Johnny Moondog and his Insects!'

The pauses turned into a silence. 'Is the wrong answer', said the voice, 'Very wrong.'

'Sorry', said James. 'What is the name of your new band then?.'

'I haven't decided yet', said the voice.

'Johnny Moondog and his Insects!'

'Hey that’s not fair', James protested. 'Look mate, first you say three questions, then ask me four, and one of them doesn't even have an answer yet, just to catch me out because I got the others right.’

'It's better when you make the rules up yourself, I find', said the voice dryly.

'Be at the Woolton Church Fete and Dance, on the 27 July at 7 o'clock. That's next Saturday, genius. Bring your guitar, obviously

‘I'll be in then’, thought James and in his gratitude and eagerness to please, he blurted out,

'I’ll tell you something you don’t know. That Cliff Richard, yeah? Me dad says he's a nancy boy. What do you think of that then?'

'I would have thought that was fucking obvious mate', said the voice. 'See you on Saturday, Paul'.

'Yeah, but me names's not Paul it's Ja…', but the line had gone dead.

That was weird, thought James on his way home. He'd never spoken to anyone like that before. The guy had even said the word 'fuck' like it was the most natural thing in the world, which it certainly wasn't at James's house.

‘Maybe that's what being an eccentric does to your mind?’, he wondered. But anyway, he didn't care if Johnny Loondog was a nutter or not. James was going to be in a band, and that was all that mattered.

He was going to be in a band, and that was all that mattered

Walking more quickly now, James spotted the bus stop ahead from where he could catch the Number 50 that ran through Woolton stopping right outside the Church Hall where the dance was being held. Also waiting at the stop was a small group of girls, a similar age to himself. ‘I bet they’re going to the dance as well’.

But as he got closer he could see, with a sinking feeling, that the girls were a little older than he’d first thought. They started to giggle as he approached, and he slowed his pace, stuck his free hand in his pocket and made sure he was wearing his best couldn’t-care-less James Dean frown. He arrived at the stop, and stood scowling around at anything except the girls, who continued their tittering and smirking

After a few minutes there was still no bus. ‘Should have been here a while ago’, James thought. Finally, he plucked up the courage to ask. ‘Scuse me love’, he said to the girls, with as much disinterest as he could muster, ‘I don’t suppose you saw the Number 50 go by already did you?’

Blank looks greeted his question until one of them, the prettiest, said:

‘The 50 doesn’t go from here, love. This is Speke Hall Avenue. 43, 43a and 45. You've got the wrong stop.’

‘Oh right’, James said, in his most bored tone of voice, as he felt the dreaded blush start to spread across his face.

‘Yeah, well, I might catch the 45 anyway, as it happens. Need to head that way eventually.’

The girls giggled. The one who had spoken before looked at him directly. She was really pretty and it wasn't helping.

‘Where you going love?', she asked.

‘Oh nowhere special. Doesn’t matter, y’know but I was thinking of heading out Woolton way, see what’s happening. Hadn’t really decided. Maybe, I could head some other place though.’

The girls giggled.

‘So you thought you’d take your guitar with you, just in case like’, said the girl nodding at the instrument case James was carrying. The others giggled again. James felt his face and ears burning.

‘Well, you know, I dig Buddy Holly and that’, he said lamely.

‘Buddy Holly? He’s rubbish isn’t he’, said his tormentor, who James was now beginning to seriously dislike and fancy, both at the same time. ‘We like Cliff Richard, don’t we girls? He’s a real rock and roller’, she said, twisting her hips suggestively, to a background of giggles.

‘Yeah, well, Cliff Richard’s a dick and Buddy Holly’s a great musician, so there', James blurted the words out, and then looked around for any means of dignified escape. The girls stared at him.

‘Well anyway, there’s not much happening in Woolton on a Saturday night love, you can take it from me.’

‘I heard there was a church dance on’, one of the other girls piped up. James's heart sank.

‘Oh yeah, that’ll be for children though’, said the pretty girl with a sly grin. 'Rock and rollers don't go in for that kind of thing, eh love?’

‘No yeah, that's right. No, I’m, erm…' James could hear his words, already feeble, trailing off into nothing. Oh God, someone help me, he thought. ‘Anything to get me away from this lot.’

The thought occurred to him to just run for all he was worth, not look back, and never again walk past the Speke Hall Avenue bus stop. But for some reason he couldn't explain he kept talking, his voice faltering on:

‘I’m not from here, you see. I just moved here with me dad and me brother. We’re from Bootle originally.’

‘Right’, said the head girl with a tone of utter disinterest. ‘Well, I’ve got news for you. You forgot to bring your Mam.’ The girls descended into fits of giggles.

James looked at his shoes. ‘Well, me Mam died, you see', he mumbled. ‘Me Mother Mary. Last year, in hospital. That’s why we moved. You know, me dad wanted a fresh start and that.'

The girls stopped laughing. 'Oh', said the leader after a while. 'Well. That is sad.'

'Yeah', said James quietly and then didn't know what else to say, for he was only 15.

‘Hale Road’, said the girl, breaking the silence. James looked at her confused, but then looked away again quickly. She had an unsettling way of looking at him directly in the eye, but her sarcastic smirk had gone.

'The number 50 bus. It goes from Hale Road. Do you know it?' James shook his head mutely.

‘Where did you come from to catch the bus, just now. Where's your house, genius?’

‘Oh, sorry. Forthlin Road. Number 20’.

The giggling began again. 'I'm not coming round for a cup of tea love', the girl said. James blushed.

'You turned right', the girl said.

'Sorry?' said James.

'At the top of Forthlin Road. You must have turned right, that's how you ended up here. You should have turned left, onto Hale Road for the number 50. It stops near the Co-op. If you’d turned left you'd be at your church dance by now.'

'I'm not going to any church dance', said James, to more giggles, 'But, er look, thanks anyway. Maybe I'll go and find the stop, you know for next time, like'.

'There might not be a next time, love', she said

But a strange look had crossed the girl's face, a sort of knowing expression. 'There might not be a next time, love', she said, staring at him.

James blushed again. 'Right thanks for that love, see ya girls', and he said quickly and turned and walked away.

The pretty with the knowing look girl shouted after him. 'If you hurry you might just make the last dance', James ignored her and kept walking, to the fading sound of giggles.

But then, turning onto Hale Road, he saw the stop with the number 50 just about to pull away. Starting to sprint, he made the bus in seconds flat.

He made the bus in seconds flat

Collapsing into a seat on the top of the bus, right up front, the same place where he always used to ride with his Mam, James looked at his watch. ‘Crap, I’m late’, he thought. But soon, the sound of the bus stop bell dinging, told him pulling up outside St. Peter's Church. 'James barrelled off the bus, through the doors of the church, and into the hall out back.

Inside, he was confronted by a desultory group of kids, girls mostly, and a janitor sweeping the floor. 'Excuse me, mate’, James said, 'I'm looking for a guy I'm supposed to be meeting. Young, Elvis haircut maybe.' The janitor looked blank.

'He probably had a guitar with him.'

The janitor gave James a wry look. 'Oh him. Him and his mates. They called themselves 'the entertainment'. Bloody hooligans, more like.'

James smiled. 'Yeah, that'll probably be them. Do you know where they are?'

'Gone mate, cleared out a while back. They played a few songs, if that's what you call them, hung around a bit, like they were waiting for someone - you I take it - and then cleared off. Bloody racket they made. Still they must have been doing something right. Had all the girls up dancing.'

'I'm a musician too, I'm a rock 'n' roller, y'know.'

'Right. Well the rock 'n' rolling's finished for tonight son, and your mates have long gone.'

They called themselves 'the entertainment'

'Oh, I'll catch up with them another time. Thanks mate', but the janitor had already turned his back and was sweeping the floor again.

James found himself standing in the doorway of the old church, when a blast of chill wind made him look up at a grey sky. 'Rain', he thought, and he started to walk slowly up the church path. But as he did so, his eye caught the gravestones that lay in the yard to the left of the church.

'Pretty graveyard', he thought, and so it was, overhung with old trees which rustled and swayed gently in the rising wind. He had never looked twice at a graveyard when he was younger, but ever since his Mam died he found himself drawn to them. He liked the peace and quiet, the chance to reflect. He walked through the yard, looking at the names inscribed on the stones. He read them out loud.

'Albert Henry Huggins, beloved husband of Elsie, father to Jemima. With Angels Rest.'

'Isabella and George Wilkie, Together in Death'.

But then James's eye caught another stone, much smaller and set well away from the others in the corner of the yard, overhung with an old oak and covered in green moss. He went over and looked down at it. 'Lonely out here on your own', he said, kneeling down. He brushed at the moss to see the name better, and looked at it for a while.

'Funny name', he thought to himself, and he said it out loud.

'Eleanor Rigby'.

And as he said the words James felt a sense of unspeakable sadness pass over him, as if something precious and unknown was passing from his life. His eyes filled with tears, 'Must be Mam', he said quietly.

With that he stood and the rain came, to which he turned his collar, and walked quickly out of the churchyard to the bus stop that would take him home.

On the bus ride back to Forthlin Road, James banished his blue mood by deciding on his new stage name. He remembered with a smirk how, the other night his little brother Mike had got fed up with the constant suggestions that James was coming up with, and had suggested one of his own.

'If the problem is with your first name', said his brother, 'then why not just drop it and use your second name, Paul. Paul McCartney. What's wrong with that as a stage name?'

'Paul McCartney?' James had said with a sneer. That's hardly rock 'n' roll is it'. No one with a name like that is gonna make it big.'

No, he had decided on his name and it was a sure fire, showbiz winner. He wasn't going to be Paul McCartney, no way. He was gonna be ‘Buddy Charles, The Mersey Kid’, and he was gonna be a star.

THE END

Nick Jordan

Author's note: The headstone inscribed with the name 'Eleanor Rigby', can be found in the graveyard of St. Peter’s Church, Woolton in Liverpool where, on the evening of Saturday, 6th July 1957 Paul McCartney did, in reality, first meet John Lennon.