Janey and the Band

Chapter 1

Janey was lying in the bath gloomily watching a trickle of condensation run slowly down the crack in the wall above the tiling. When it reached the broken bit that looked like the map of Australia, she would get out of the cold bath water and get ready.

Her stomach twisted and she felt sick again. She had done the deep breathing exercises that Mrs. Sachs said were essential for all good singing and relaxation, but the terrible stage sickness was still gripping her. Her muscles were rigid with tension and her insides were sloshing about like a full wash in the washing machine.

Why had she said she'd sing in Ronnie's musical? There must be some insanity in her family.

The trickle reached the hole, sank into the plaster darkly and disappeared. Another started downwards, but Janey did not move.

It wasn't that she disliked music. She was good at it. In fact it came to her so easily it was as though she was re-learning something she had always known. She had taught herself to read music and play the piano at her junior school, and lying on Mike's bed, watching him find the chords on his guitar, she had learned to play that as well. She liked playing the guitar, even the piano. It was the Voice that bothered her.

As she got older her singing voice had grown stronger and more remarkable. She had tried to hide it at first. It alarmed and embarrassed her, this strong golden sound coming through her mouth. It was almost as though it belonged to someone else.

It would have been all right if she had the right kind of extrovert temperament to go with it. She should have been one of those cheerful, carefree, confident people, who enjoyed having everyone's attention. But she was shy and reserved. It was agonizing to be singled out, red and shaking, and be made to sing solo in front of the whole school. She had stopped going to choir, tried not to sing at all, tried to melt into the crowd.

But when she had moved into the Upper School at James Bryden, Mrs. Sachs, the Head of Music, had spotted her at once in the music lessons and from then on there had been no chance of escape: Piano lessons, guitar lessons, the school choir again, with the detested solos, then after school singing lessons, twice weekly, with Mrs. Sachs to learn phrasing and breath control. Then they had discovered she had something called perfect pitch and all the music staff had got excited about it.Without even asking her, music had been added to her list of exam subjects, and there was extra homework on the theory of music.

Somehow Mrs. Sachs had made her go along with it.And the more music she did, the more it seemed to take her over. It was getting too important, like a great wave driving her forward. Sometimes she felt that one day it would crash down and drown her. But Mrs. Sachs was always there, pushing her in deeper.

'Janey? Janey!' There was a explosive banging on the bathroom door.

Dear brother Mike. Interfering again. 'Go away.'

'You'll be so thin, you'll slide down the plug hole.'

'Very funny.'

'You'll be late.'

'Leave me alone.'

'Get out of there. Food's on the table.'

She heard him thundering down the stairs. One day the woodworm would get their own back and he'd go right through.

Food. It would be cheese salad, or sausage, egg and mash or fish fingers, tomatoes and chips. It was always one of them.

She felt queasy.

No good putting it off any longer.

She got out of the bath reluctantly, and dried herself. She wiped the mirror with her wet towel and peered at herself.

She looked like a pink prune. Well, she wasn't going to be a beauty, but she wasn't looking as awful as she had last term. At last she was beginning to fill out well in the right places, and now she had stopped needing to stuff herself with chocolate and fried foods all the time, the spots had gone away, leaving her skin smooth and creamy.  Her long, heavy black hair looked all right too. It was clean and shining from its prolonged washing.

Last term she had noticed that some of the boys were looking at her in a peculiar way, and she had taken a long, critical look at herself.  Scruffy, grubby, spotty, untidy - just as her father said. She had decided that something had to be done. She had begun by trying to get rid of her spots. Stopped the chocolate.  Got cleansing pads for her skin. Washed her hair more often.  Stopped biting her nails. Pressed her school skirt and washed her blouse every evening.

The boys were still looking at her peculiarly, but nowadays she did not take any notice, because she knew she looked and felt better. More in control.

For a moment she pondered the mystery of John Edge, the best looking boy in Year 13, who had asked her last night to go out with him, when everybody knew he had been dating Linda Moore for nearly a year. She shrugged. It was probably the Voice again, together with Ronnie's romantic song. Her part in the show was glamorous, making her seem something she certainly wasn't.

She pulled on her thick towelling robe and padded downstairs.

Fish Finger night.

There was silence in the kitchen. Mike was wolfing down his meal, and her mother was reading the evening newspaper. She was tall, her thick dark hair drawn back elegantly into a french pleat. She was dressed in her usual well cut black dress, ready for work.  

Janey sat down and poked at the cooling fish fingers.'I don't feel well. I can't eat these.'

'Give them here,' said Mike. 'I'll eat them.'

'Pig.'

'I've gotta lot of space to fill up, haven't I?'

Phyl Adams said, 'Try and get something down, Janey. You'll feel better.'

Janey nibbled a piece of bread and forced down a fish finger.

Mike used his bread to sponge up his fried tomatoes. 'By the way, did I tell you we're getting a band together?'

There was silence around the kitchen table.

'Some more chips, Janey?'

Janey's stomach heaved and she sat miserably staring at her plate. 'No thanks.'

'I said, we're starting a band!'

His mother raised her eyebrows, bored. 'We heard.'

'Oh, how exciting, Mike!' said Mike.

'Not another one.'

He stared at his sister Janey, hunched and sullen, opposite.  'What's the matter with you, then?'

'Don't start on her,' said Phyl Adams. 'You know it's that school show tonight. Janey, it'll all be over in a few hours.'

Janey groaned. 'It's the bit in between. I know I'm going to make a terrible fool of myself. Why on earth did I say I'd do it?'

'No choice,' said Mike, 'If we're talking about Mrs. Sachs.'

A picture of Mrs. Sachs conducting the Schools' Music Festival at the Town Hall, came into Janey's mind. Tall, dramatic, head thrown back, eyes glittering, as she stabbed her finger directly at Janey to bring her in on cue. Janey shivered. She felt like a butterfly being pinned to a board. As well try to stand against a typhoon as against Mrs. Sachs.

'This band,' said Phyl, 'Who's 'we'?'

'Me on bass, Ronnie Craig on drums, and Ronnie's friend on lead guitar.'

'The old band didn't last long.' Janey cut her fish fingers into little pieces and hid them under the tomatoes.  

'Safety Rule was just a school band. And then Cliff had to go to Jamaica.' Mike dismissed it.

Phyl said, 'Why's Ronnie getting mixed up with it? I thought he was doing clarinet at the Royal College of Music now.'

'Right. But we're all skint. We thought we might make a bit of cash to help out. Parties, weddings, a few pubs, that kind of thing.'

Mike was in his first year at the local college of technology, doing electrical engineering. He was always short of money because his joint passions, electronics and guitars, were expensive. And he was restless. Electrical engineering as a career had lost a lot of its attraction in one year.

Janey thought about the new band to take her mind off her stomach.  

It might work. Mike was good. He'd been playing bass guitar seriously since he was fourteen, when he had saved up his paper-round money to buy his first second-hand guitar. And his friend, Ronnie Craig, was an outstanding musician. He could play any number of instruments well - including guitar and drums.

'Ronnie's friend is doing lead guitar?'

'He's got this great Gibson. He was in the States last year with some sort of jazz and R and B outfit. Ronnie says he's a really good musician. Big reputation at the College. He's doing piano and orchestral conducting. Lives in Hampstead.'

Janey was sarcastic. 'How frightfully posh! Doesn't sound like a rock man to me.'

Mike was annoyed. 'I've met him. The bloke's all right.'  

Janey shrugged. 'In that case, all you've got to worry about is the PA, decent amps, lighting, a van big enough to carry everything...' She was ticking them off on her fingers. 'Some place you can practice where the neighbours won't call the cops, a manager, publicity, posters...'

'You're in a right mood this evening. Okay, so we need some things, but it's not as bad as you make out. We're not aiming to play Glastonbury! We just want to have some fun and make a bit of money. Ronnie and Dave want to try out some of their own stuff. They've got some new ideas they want to experiment with.'

'The PA...'

He speared a chip on his fork and waved it at her.

'I know where I can get hold of a second-hand PA very cheap. It only needs to be fixed and I can do that easily. We can cram everything into my old van.'

'Just the three of you, the sound will be a bit thin,' Janey said grudgingly. 'Who's doing the singing?'

'Yeah, well, that's a weakness. We need a bloke with a strong voice who can play rhythm guitar. I'm meeting Dave and Ronnie tonight. Ronnie's heard of someone. There's a group breaking up.'

'But Ronnie's got to be at our show! He's the producer, with Mrs. Sachs.'

Mike grinned. 'Oh don't worry. He wouldn't miss the performance of his masterpiece. We're picking him up at the school afterwards.'

Janey groaned and the terrible nausea gripped her again.

'You don't mean you're coming to Dreamgirl as well!'

'Got to support my little sister, haven't I?'

Phyl began to collect the plates. 'You know your father won't like this new pop group, don't you?.'

'Rock band. So what's new? He doesn't like anything we do.'

'He's not coming home this week is he?' Janey asked anxiously.

'Not that I've heard.'

Janey heaved a sign of relief. 'Last time he said I looked like something the cat had dragged out of the dustbin. And the time before that he said my legs looked like Minnie Mouse, and the time before that he said I had the brains of a flea. He's never once, in the whole of my life said that I've done something well, or that I look nice.'

  'You're all right, Janey,' her mother said impatiently. 'What does it matter what he thinks? God knows, he's no judge. Fat blonde barmaids are his mark.'  

'He hates me.'

'That's ridiculous. Don't be so dramatic.'

'He hates all of us. You should stand up to him more, Janey,' said Mike.

'Like you, I suppose.'

'He doesn't use his belt on me now,' said Mike.

'Of course he doesn't,' said Janey. 'He's a bully, and you're bigger than he is. It's just me now. I can't stand up to him. My knees just go to water when he starts shouting and pushing me. He's sick.'

'You're supposed to respect your parents,' said Phyl.

'There's nothing to respect, is there? I don't know what you saw in him.'

'Neither do I, now,' said her mother, sardonically. 'Have another slice of bread. It'll settle your stomach.'

'No thanks. I think I'm going to be sick again.' She dived out of the room.

'Green as a lettuce,' Mike said, grinning.

Phyl sighed. 'Frightened of her own shadow. No guts. I don't know who she takes after. She'll have to toughen up. Life's no picnic.'

Mike's grin disappeared. 'She's got plenty of guts!  She just lacks confidence. And whose fault is that? He puts her down all the time. And you weren't here to help were you?'

His mother looked away. 'Just wait till he finds out about this band.'

'I've got to get some money from somewhere. I've hardly got enough to take a girl out for a drink. He must be making a bomb on that power station construction in Germany, but he doesn't even top up my loan as he should.'

'Well, he doesn't give me much either, so it's no use going on at me. Once the mortgage is paid each month there's no spare cash.  Why do you think I do two jobs? Anyway,' she got up, 'Some of us have got to get to work.'  She worked in the afternoons, and again in the evenings until three in the morning, as a waitress in a West End casino.

'If you're going up to that school, you can give Janey a lift home in your van after the show. I don't like her wandering about alone at night in this neighbourhood.'

'I know how to look after Janey. Better than some.' He glowered at her, and she turned away.

'I'd like to see the show myself, but Saturday night is too busy.  I might lose the job, and the money's good.'

'Have you heard about Janey's voice?'

'Janey's voice?'

'Ronnie says Janey's got this extraordinary voice.This song she's singing - he wrote it for her specially. I don't remember her singing much when I was at James Bryden.'

His mother shrugged. 'Ronnie must be exaggerating.Nobody in  our family has ever been able to sing. She never sings a note here.'

Janey felt a little better. She cleaned her teeth, put on clean underwear, her school skirt, and a new teeshirt and stepped into her best sandals with the nearly high heels which, were to be part of her stage costume. She went back into the bathroom sprayed herself liberally with her mother's expensive perfume, and went downstairs, just as Mike came out of the kitchen.

'You smell like Harrods!'

'Shusssssh!'

'If you wait while I get changed I'll give you a lift.'

'No thanks. I've got to be there early.'

'See you later then. Listen, good luck, Janey. Knock 'em dead.'

She smiled shakily. 'Thanks, Mike.'

She grabbed her best jacket and made sure her keys and a comb were in the pocket. She opened the street door and paused on the crumbling top step. It was a beautiful summer evening. The sky was clear and peach coloured over the grimy north London roofs.  

It wasn't just stage fright, she admitted to herself at last, there was this frightening premonition too, a feeling that something important or terrible was about to happen. It had been with her all day.

Chapter 2

Copyright Liz Berry 2002. All rights reserved.