The outside air washed over me and I was able to breathe after the stifling heat and smoke of the club, but it didn’t wash away my anger. I’d be taking a taxi again. I stood in front of the building until one came.
“Take me to the Ascott Hotel, please,” I said.
The driver dropped me at the hotel. I ventured through the entrance, traipsed across to the lift, before finally sticking my key in the door.
I couldn’t relax. Keith sure wasn’t concerned enough to come after me. Even after half an hour, there wasn’t even a phone call to see if I was safe.
I was almost asleep when Keith stumbled in, one guitar across his back and one in each hand. “There you fucking are! Ryan went looking for you. I was worried something happened. What the fuck were you thinking running off like that?”
“What was I thinking? You treat me like some toy and think I won’t be upset?”
“I was trying to get you to relax so you’d hang about.”
“Right now I’m so angry I’m close to taking the train back to London. I’m not some trophy for you to show off.”
“But you’re so beautiful I want to show you off.”
I glared at him. “Do that again and I’m on the next train.”
Keith actually rolled his eyes slightly. “Whatever.”
It must have been four before we got to sleep, but it was another restless night. There was definitely a seedy part to touring.
Like a human alarm clock, Ryan pounded on the door at ten the next morning. “You have one hour to eat and load everything,” he yelled. I also hoped no one within earshot wanted to sleep later.
Liverpool was next and I hoped we’d squeeze in a Beatles tour between sound check and show time.
As we cruised the motorway, Jimmy complained about the American punk blasting.
“It’s the Ramones,” I yelled back. “They’re every bit as good as The Sex Pistols.”
“That’s sacrilege. We only listen to British punk,” Billy concurred.
I was about to counter when there was a huge bang and the van swerved out of control.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Whoa!” Keith said, careening the van to a side lane, and coming to an abrupt halt on the shoulder. “I think we blew a tire! Bloody hell!”
“Fuck!” was Ryan’s response. “What the hell else will go wrong? We’d better hurry and get out the spare. Everyone out!”
We stumbled from the van and stood on the shoulder while Ryan and Keith lugged the spare off the back and rolled it over. It seemed to take forever while Keith installed the new tire and Ryan placed the flat where the spare had been.
“We’ll have to buy a new tire in Liverpool,” Ryan said. “We’ll hopefully recoup the cost with tonight’s sales. I wish we were doing two nights in Liverpool now.”
We climbed back into the van and were soon on our way. I popped in The Buzzcocks’ Singles Going Steady tape, which made everyone happy.
“There’s one hour before sound check,” Ryan said as we pulled into Liverpool. “I’m stopping here to see about a new tire.”
We must have looked like a motley lot, staggering into the tire store. Jimmy made kissy faces at an elderly woman staring at us. I was a bit horrified, but also stifled a giggle. When someone inspected the van, we got told all the tires needed replacing at a cost of nearly three hundred pounds.
“I don’t have that much!” Ryan fumed.
“I wouldn’t recommend you travel much longer on these tires. The other front one should get replaced, plus you need a working spare. That’s the law. I can get you set up for seventy five quid.”
“Bloody hell! Let me call my parents.” He pulled a phone card from his wallet and used a phone in the waiting area. “Yeah, Dad, it’s me. We’ve run into trouble.” He explained the situation, then brought an employee over to take down Frank’s credit card information. That problem solved, another arose. It would take nearly two hours
“We don’t have two hours,” Ryan yelled. “We have a gig at the Cavern tonight. We’re due in an hour for a sound check
“There are four cars ahead of you and I only have two chaps working today. We have a shuttle due in about twenty to thirty minutes,” the employee offered. “We could get the lot of you in if no one else needs a ride.
“Do you have room for a drum kit, a stand up bass, two bass guitars, four electric guitars and an acoustic?”
“We’ll try. Just hang about.”
I returned to the van for my art supplies while the rest went outside to smoke. The only available seat was next to the woman Jimmy made faces at and I felt a bit embarrassed. I took out some blank postcards and pencils.
“Tell me, what’s a lovely girl like you doing with this lot?” the woman asked.
“They look worse than they are, I assure you,” I responded. “They’re a band on tour.” I began the outline for the first postcard.
“And what do you play in this band?”
“Oh, I don’t,” I replied. “I help sell t-shirts and tapes.” I continued drawing.
“How did you get involved with a rock band?”
I shrugged without looking up. “I’m married to the lead singer.”
“Married? Why you’re just a girl.”
“I was eighteen last February.” I took a colored marker from my satchel.
“Is one of those your sweetheart?”
I pointed at the picture of Keith, now nearly finished.
“He’s very handsome,” the woman stated.
“I agree.” This time I smiled at her before returning to my drawing.
The shuttle pulled up and as luck would have it, no one else needed a ride. I went out to see if they needed help.
“You’ll be more help if you keep making postcards,” Ryan said. “We need to recoup as much as we can.”
“I thought Frank put it on his credit card,” I said.
“He’s only paying half. He thinks he’s teaching me responsibility.” He rolled his eyes. “It’s better than nothing. How many postcards do you have?”
“About six,” I said.
“That’s all?”
“I can only make four or five an hour.”
“Well, get back to work. We’ll call you when we’re ready.”
I returned and resumed my drawing. The woman I’d talked to was gone so I had no distractions. I finished each card with The Cavern, Liverpool eighteen June, 1990.
In half an hour Keith came for me.
“I say, I’ve never transported a rock band and all their equipment before,” the driver said with an expression of amusement. “This is one for the books.”
The Cavern wasn’t far and the driver helped unload. Ryan told me to get inside and make more postcards. It was a fine line between doing a careful job and getting more cards made, but I had six more completed an hour later.
Ryan left to retrieve the van while Billy and Jimmy took off with a couple girls. I seized the opportunity and grabbed Keith. “I’ve been dying to have you to myself. Let’s check into the hotel and find something to eat.”
Keith grabbed his acoustic guitar, wrapped one arm around me, and we left.
We were in the same hotel as before, but a different room. A new room and a new start, I thought. This year nothing will go wrong.
I had my bag so I could change into my punk rock attire. I dug out the same mini skirt I wore the night before, adorned it with my Union Jack tank top, my pink and black striped stockings and black ballet flats.
I was disappointed there was no time for a Beatles tour. All I saw lately were endless motorways and seedy nightclubs. We settled into another chips shop and I kept drawing when I suddenly heard squealing. I looked up to find Keith surrounded by three girls, giggling and falling all over each other to impress him.
“I saw your band play here last year,” one of them said. “I’m so excited you’re back. I bought my ticket the minute they went on sale.”
Bully for you, I wanted to yell
“Can’t get enough of our ugly mugs, eh?” Keith said
“Oh, you’re not ugly, you’re beautiful!” another girl said.
Gag me, I thought. Her thick makeup looked like someone sneezed it on her.
Our order came up and I hoped the girls would leave. No such luck. They followed Keith to our table. “We could show you around Liverpool.”
“That’s lovely of you to offer, but I have no time for sightseeing.”
Sneeze-Face did most the talking for her two companions who looked normal in comparison.
“Oh please. I can show you where The Beatles lived.”
What part of no does this girl not understand?
I wrote on a napkin and slipped it to Keith, Let’s leave!
Keith nodded and we gathered what was left of our fish and chips.
“Good day, Ladies. I’ll look for you tonight.” Keith grabbed his guitar, wrapped an arm around me, and we bolted so fast the girls couldn’t follow.
“Thank heavens they’re gone,” I exclaimed half a block away. They spread it on so thick I’d need a chisel to cut through they’re phoniness.”
“Remember, luv, don’t worry about me running off with them. I have the real thing with you.”
I felt better hearing him say that, but they still nauseated me.
Back at the club, Ryan hadn’t returned. I hoped nothing more went wrong. I settled onto an old sofa backstage and pulled out my drawing again. Keith stood close by and plugged his guitar into an amp. Besides club personnel coming in and out, we were alone. After half an hour listening to Keith’s quips and one-liners and laughing every time he opened his mouth, the room began filling up. I noticed the backstage guard wasn’t the same sleaze from the year before. Hopefully he got sacked.
After nearly an hour I wondered where Ryan was. All the merchandise was still in the van. As if he heard my thoughts, Ryan came in lugging a tee shirt box. “The van’s unlocked. Hurry and get a box of tapes. We need to set up.”
I barely got set up before the doors opened and some very colorful individuals streamed in. My first customers were the three girls we’d encountered earlier.
“I remember you.” It was Miss Sneeze-Face. I wondered if her companions were mute. “Are you Keith’s bodyguard?”
I wanted to write her an award for the stupidest question. “I’m five foot nothing and barely weigh one hundred pounds. Do I look like a bodyguard?”
She looked only slightly embarrassed. “Oh, then how come you’re traveling with the band? Just to sell stuff? How come you follow Keith everywhere?”
“I’m married to him,” I blurted.
She stared at me, her mouth hanging open. She looked like a fish. “You are not. He’s not old enough to be married.”
“He’s over eighteen. So am I. Now is there anything you want? Others are waiting.”
She gave me one more stare before pulling money from a gaudy looking purse to buy a t-shirt, then disappeared with her friends. How revolting.
The opening act came on and I managed to make three more postcards while they played. They weren’t bad, but failed to get the audience moving and got no encore.
After twenty minutes, the audience began chanting, “Piss Ants! Piss Ants! Piss Ants!” They were getting louder by the minute and stomped their feet in time to their chants.
Ryan rushed back to me. “The staff are afraid of rioting if we don’t go on now. Do you want your place in front again?”
“Definitely,” I said. “This is Liverpool.” I gathered my postcards and followed Ryan to the band area. I stashed my cards into my satchel and stowed them in a corner.
At six foot six and solid muscle, Ryan could seem intimidating, so no one protested as he helped me off the stage into my coveted spot.
The Piss Ants hit the stage, charging into their usual openers before coming up for air. “Good evening, Liverpool,” Keith yelled. “It’s an honor to be back playing here and on Paul McCartney’s forty-eighth birthday. Since this club is packed like proverbial sardines, I guess no one forgot us from last year. This next song is called All You Punk Rockers. Hit it!”
Keith ran all over the stage, trading places with Billy, then jumping onto the drum riser and leaping off.
Some girl leaped on stage, grabbed Keith, giving him a huge kiss, before a burly stagehand hauled her off.
I got jostled a lot but wouldn’t relinquish my coveted spot.
After more than an hour of playing, the band finally bid goodnight and left the stage. Within seconds chants of Piss Ants! Piss Ants thundered loudly enough to shake the roof off.
“It’s so lovely to be wanted,” Keith quipped as the band returned and ripped into the Clash’s Janie Jones. This was followed by The Sex Pistols’ Anarchy in the UK and finally The Buzzcocks’ Why Can’t I Touch It.
“Goodnight, Liverpool. We’ll play here again soon. We love you!” Jimmy repeated his previous night’s antics by jumping over his drum kit, then tossing his banged up drumsticks into the crowd. Keith grabbed a towel, wiped his face and tossed the towel into the crowd. I watched a battle ensue to retrieve the coveted souvenir, resulting in it being ripped in half with two people leaving with hard earned memorabilia.
Backstage everyone was in a celebratory mood. Keith grabbed me for a long kiss.
“Break it up, you two,” Ryan said. “We need Brigitte selling. The ferry to Dublin tomorrow isn’t cheap and I’m already down several quid from the tire.”
Keith saluted him and stood at attention. It made me laugh. I quickly grabbed my satchel and headed back. I set out my postcards and noticed some missing. I was bombarded with customers and couldn’t count. Who would take them? No one but those associated with the bands or club were allowed backstage.
When the band came out, everyone congregated around them. I quickly counted my postcards. Five were missing! My satchel had been closed tight. Someone had to deliberately rifle through it. But who? I continued selling but mentioned my dilemma to Ryan.
“Are you sure you just didn’t miscount or mis-tally?”
“Of course. I noticed right off some were missing. I give each a serial number and write the number on the tally sheet.”
“Shit!. What the fuck else will go wrong?”
“Don’t say that. You’ll jinx it!” I yelled back.
“I’ll cover for you. Go back and look,” Ryan offered.
I ran backstage and searched where I’d left my satchel. There was no sign of any postcards. No one was about, so I peeked into bags. I spotted a rather large ugly purse and opened it. There were the missing postcards! I compared the numbers and they were definitely the missing ones. The owner of that purse stole them! It struck me odd someone would leave her purse backstage, but I was glad to have my cards back. I looked them over. There were three of Keith and two of the entire band. I tucked them inside my shirt, ran back and told Ryan.
“You’re fucking kidding me?”
“I wish I was,” I responded.
“I don’t know who she is or who she’s with, but I intend to find out.”
“Don’t start anything,” I said. “I got my cards and she’ll have a surprise when she finds them gone.” I smiled at the thought.
“From now on we’re keeping your cards locked with the money.”
I glanced at the opening band’s sales table and noticed Miss Sneeze-Face hanging all over the singer. Then I remembered why that purse was familiar. She used it to buy a shirt.
When the night was over, I counted the money and stuffed my share into my bra. I carried two boxes and the lock box backstage.
“Load up right away,” Ryan announced. “We’re up by 6:00 for an 8:00 ferry.”
“Six o’clock,” we all groaned simultaneously. It was already past two.
As we headed outside, Ryan nudged me and pointed. “Is that the purse?”
I looked and saw Sneeze-Face clutching her gaudy purse, still hanging off the singer. “Forget it. She probably doesn’t know they’re gone.”
“She’s been coming on to us all tonight. Billy and Jimmy rejected her and she came on to me. I have higher standards. I’ll deal with this.”
Bugger! I thought to myself. I wished he’d leave it alone.
Ryan strode over. “Tell your fucking girlfriend to stop stealing and we got our things back so she’s shit out of luck!”
He went back into the club and emerged carrying a shirt box. “There’s still another tape box someone needs to get.”
No one volunteered. “I’ll get it,” I groaned. I understood everyone was exhausted, but to make the five-foot nothing, ninety-eight-pound girl do the grunt work, was inconsiderate
I headed back down the stairs, spotted said box and went to retrieve it. Suddenly I felt the presence of someone behind me, turned and found myself confronted with Sneeze-Face
“You went through my purse, didn’t you, bitch?” She looked livid and a little scary.
“Only to retrieve what you stole,” I replied.
“I bought them. Give them back.”“Pay me ten quid. I draw these postcards and ended up missing five and found them in your purse.
“I’m calling security,” she said. “You stole those from me.”
“I have proof they were stolen so you’ll look pretty silly.”
“I’ll take a free tape, then.”
“They’re two pounds fifty.”
She tried knocking the box from me, but I held tight. She was as daft as a marshmallow.
Ryan burst in. “How long does it fucking take you. . . is there a problem?”
“Yes, this girl thinks she’s entitled to a free tape since I took back my stolen cards.” Ryan got in her face. “You heard me tell your boyfriend we don’t fucking like people stealing from us. Now get the fuck out or I’ll call the coppers.”
She quickly left the room without saying another word.
Ryan took the box. “Sorry, I guess I put you in a bad position.”
“From now on, I don’t go anywhere alone.” I hoped I looked angry to Ryan. Inside I was shaking.
Ryan stashed the box and got into the back while I hopped in the front.
Suddenly Sneeze-Face rushed out, boyfriend in tow, and stood in front of the van.
“What the fuck?” Keith yelled.
“Go around,” Ryan said. “I’ll explain later.”
Keith revved the engine and zoomed towards them. They darted out of the way and Sneeze-Face fell down. I laughed, watching her get what she deserved.
Quick on the up-take boyfriend grabbed a large rock, hurling it at the van. It hit with a loud thud.
“Bloody hell!” Ryan screamed. “If they put a dent in the van there’s hell to pay!”
“Well, don’t stop now,” I yelled back.
We got to the hotel in one piece but it was nearly three. We had to be up in three hours.
As we piled out of the van, Ryan surveyed the damage. With nothing more than a torch and street lamps for illumination, there didn’t appear to be damage. We took what we could from the van and locked it.
I’m unsure how long I was asleep before Ryan banged on our door. I threw on my dressing gown and opened the door before Keith even stirred.
“I just caught that wanker and his daft girlfriend vandalizing our van. The cunt was about to slash the tires. I had to physically haul him off and he ran away. I’ve called the coppers. Bloody hell!”
[To be continued… Click here to view all chapters.]
