The Red

 Newcastle, 1966. A young musician from Trenchtown knocks on a stranger's door with a guitar and a name carved on his heart. At The Red's talent night, an unlikely friendship — and a landlady not to be trifled with — might just help him find what he's searching for. Some songs need finding. 

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The Red

A short story by Jeff Price

Jay knocked at the door of number 6. He pushed a few loose dreadlocks into his multicoloured hat, placed his holdall on the ground and slung his guitar over his back.

A small formidable woman opened the door. "Can I help you?" Jay stood there and wondered what she would make of him. The landlady did not see a young Black man on her highly polished doorstep or notice his denim jeans and floral patterned shirt or even the jacket that was at least two sizes too big for him. She saw a desperately needed tenant for one of her spare rooms.

"Hello, do you have a room for rent?"

"Of course pet, come away in. I'm the landlady Mrs Chapman but everyone calls me Mrs C."

They went into a small living room at the front of the house.

"Thank you Mrs C. I've called at a lot of places today but everywhere seemed to be full despite the fact they had a vacancy notice in the window."

"And what's your name, pet?"

"My name is James Campbell but everyone calls me Jay. I'm from Trenchtown in Jamaica."

"Nice to meet you James. I'll make us a nice cup of tea and you can tell me what brings a nice young man like yourself all the way from Trenchtown Jamaica to Newcastle."

A few moments later Mrs C reappeared with a tray.

"First things first James, it's a pound a night in advance and it includes breakfast and an evening meal. Is that OK?"

"Yes, that's OK. Thank you."

"So what brings you to Newcastle James?"

"I came to London a couple of years ago, working in a factory. I've been playing around the clubs and bars there. I've got a couple of weeks off work and I heard from a friend there was a good scene here."

"I don't know much about those sort of places pet but there is a talent night at the Red tomorrow. You might like that, there will be other musicians there, maybe they can help you."

Jay thought to himself that maybe the girl with the saffron hair he met at the Troubadour might also be there. She wrote her name on the back of his guitar and carved her initials on his heart.

Geordie made his way down Raby Street. It was a warm summer night in 1966 and for once the shabby back-to-back terrace houses looked bright and cheerful. Suddenly a ball bounced off the back of his head.

"Owww." He turned around to see a small group of children, all of them giggling.

"Haway, ya daft buggers, you could have killed me."

"Sorry mister." replied a kid in grey shorts and grubby knees. "Gis us me ball back?"

Geordie, in an attempt to impress them, took a big swing at the ball with his left foot, missing it entirely and spinning around before teetering over and slumping onto the pavement.

The tallest of the children grabbed the ball and then stopped laughing just long enough to shout "Tosser" before running up a side street past some newly demolished houses.

Geordie quickly glanced around to make sure no one had seen what happened, brushed the dust off his jeans and continued on his way to the Green Tree Inn.

What brought Geordie to the pub was the weekly "Go as you Please" — singers, comics and even a few vent acts would take their turn trying to get noticed by the talent spotters who were touring cities like Newcastle looking for the next Cliff Richard or Dusty Springfield. Geordie had been practising a few of his jokes that he thought were hilarious, despite the fact that everyone he tried them out on groaned. Even Geordie's Mam, who thought the sun shone out of his backside, could only manage a grimace.

As he came around the corner of Lawrence Street he could already hear the sound of someone playing the guitar and singing. The style was odd, a bit like a Harry Belafonte calypso record but with more of an edge. He loved the pace of it, it was so relaxed that it made him want to lie down and dance at the same time.

On a low wall outside the Green Tree was a young man strumming a tattered old acoustic guitar, his dreadlocks spilling out from under his hat.

Geordie sat down beside him. "That's a grand song you are playing. What's it all about then?"

"Home, I guess, my mother used to sing it to me when I was a kid. I was laying a few Rasta vibes on it."

"Cool." Geordie said, trying to pretend he understood what a Rasta vibe was.

"You here for the Go?"

"Go?"

"Yeah, you know, Go as you please. Talent night!"

"Ah, yes, the name's Jay."

Geordie couldn't place the accent but it definitely wasn't local. "You're not from round here then."

"No, Trenchtown. Just trying to get noticed."

"Trenchtown? Is that down South then?"

"It's in the Caribbean."

"Never heard of that either. What's it like then?"

"Trenchtown? Hot most of the time, wet sometimes. The beach is good, lots of fishing."

"Why did you come here then? The wind around here is baltic cold and summer lasts about a week, if you're lucky."

"I've been in London a couple of years. Plenty of work there and not many jobs in Trenchtown. A friend told me about Newcastle. She was heading this way, Siobhan Murphy. You heard of her?"

"Can't say I have. She your girlfriend?"

"We met a couple of times."

"Sorry I can't help. OK, I'm going to put my name down and get a pint of courage. See ya later."

Geordie looked around the bar to see if there was anyone he knew who might buy him a drink but his luck was out. The only ones he knew were Alan Jenkins and his two mates, so he ordered a pint of Bass and made his way over to a small table near the lounge door. As he walked past, Alan nudged him with his arm causing him to spill some of his beer.

"Whoops. Sorry." Alan said in a voice that didn't mean sorry at all. His two companions laughed at the joke.

Geordie scowled. "Get lost Alan."

At that same moment Jay walked in, stopping off at the bar to get a drink before making his way towards Geordie.

"Can I sit here?"

"Yup."

"What was that about? I saw that guy push you."

"We have history, he's just being rude, thinks he's fun."

"Him ain't no rudeboy."

"Rude boy?"

"In Jamaica the Rude Boys are sharp dressers, cool suits and porkpie hats. Him dress like a tramp."

Geordie laughed and looked over at the bar at the same time. Alan locked eyes with Geordie and he could see they were making a joke about him.

"Are you a singer then Geordie?"

"No, comic. You can make big money in the working men's clubs. Bobby Thompson, you kna him? He's geet famous."

"No, never heard of him."

Geordie stared at him in disbelief. "You've never heard of the Little Waster?"

"No. Can I ask you a question?"

"Fill your boots."

"This is the Green Tree, right?"

"Yup."

"Then why does everyone call it The Red?"

"Not sure, the union meetings are upstairs and you can get the Daily Worker here."

The door of the pub clattered open and a large lady wearing a pinny came barrelling in, fixing her eye on Jay and Geordie.

"Hello, James, pet. I thought I'd pop in and have a stout before our tea. Can I get you a drink?"

"That's very kind, Mrs C, a beer but just a small one."

"Mine's a pint of Bass." Geordie said, seizing the moment.

"Mrs C, this is Geordie."

Geordie held out his hand. "Mrs C, pleased to meet ya."

"Oh, lovely, you've made a friend. Mr C is keeping an eye on the pie and he'll pop in and tell us when it's ready. Have you got your name down yet James?"

"Yes, the MC said he would let me know when I'm on."

"Are you a singer as well?" Mrs C said, looking at Geordie.

"Comic."

"Tell us one of your jokes then."

"What's the difference between an Italian and a piece of toast?"

"I don't know, what is the difference between an Italian and a piece of toast?"

"You can make soldiers out of a piece of toast."

Mrs C and Jay looked at each other.

Jay was bemused. "I don't get it."

Mrs C eyed Geordie with narrowed eyes. "Mr Esposito who runs the chip shop is Italian, he lost his son in the war. I don't think he would think that was funny at all and to be honest neither do I. Is that the best you can do? Being nasty about Mr Esposito's dead son?"

"OK, maybe not that one then."

A man with chubby cheeks pushed through the door.

"Oh it's Mr C. Over here Bryan." said Mrs C.

"Hiya lads."

"Is me pie ready, Bryan pet?"

"Nearly, but" He shrugged. "We've got time. Always time for a pint eh lads."

The door to the lounge opened and John Reed the concert chairman shouted across the bar. "Five minutes until we start the second half. Jay, you and Geordie are on first."

The bar began to empty as people made their way into the lounge. Alan Jenkins and his cronies pushed their way past Geordie.

"What was that all about?" Mrs C asked.

"What?"

"That Alan Jenkins pushing you."

"He was the school bully, he made my life a misery."

"OK boys, let's go." Jay, Geordie and Bryan all followed Mrs C into the room.

As Jay made his way to the small stage at the front, the room fell quiet. Mrs C, sensing the tension, shouted "Go on, Jay, knock 'em dead."

John took the mic. "OK settle down. Welcome back, folks. Next up we have Jay who has come all the way from Trenchtown to be here tonight so let's give him a big Newcastle welcome."

A young man from the side of the room shouted "He should go back there then." His two companions laughed.

John looked sternly across at the direction of the heckler. "Now, let's have no more of that sort of nonsense. Jay, away you go."

As Jay strummed out the first chord a few boos could be heard.

It was all Mrs C could stand. She was not a tall woman, barely five foot in her stocking feet, but she was a woman who during the war had worked in a munitions factory and could carry 25-pounder shells under each arm. She jumped to her feet.

"Alan Jenkins, I know that's you mouthing off. I'll be telling your mother on Monday at the wash house what a dick you've been tonight. Now shut up or you and your grubby little friends can get out."

John Reed took the mic again. "Well said, Mrs C. This is the Red. We welcome all here."

As John spoke Jay scanned the room to see if the girl with the saffron hair was there, but a ripple of applause pulled him back and once again he strummed his opening chords. Mrs C closed her eyes and in the music she could almost hear the rhythm of the waves at Cullercoates Bay, but as the melody kicked in, she imagined the palm trees Jay had talked about last night over supper waving gently in the breeze and she wondered what it must be like to live in such a paradise.

Then Jay began to sing, his voice heavy with an accent, and all she could hear were snatches of words, but she could tell this was a young man missing his home and his family. It was also a song of hope and new journeys.

When the song finished Mrs C jumped to her feet, clapping her hands like a demented seal, and others joined in. Jay bowed, thanked the audience for listening and stepped off the stage. He went across to Mrs C who took him into her arms and hugged him like a long-lost child. "Oh Jay, that was proper grand. Wonderful."

John Reed took the mic. "Thanks Jay, that was memorable. Really memorable. Can you give us another?"

Jay returned to the stage and while he tuned his guitar Geordie turned to Mrs C. "I think I might not be cut out to be a comic."

"Geordie cut the jokes, just get up and talk to the audience. What was it like being bullied but do it in a jokey sort of way. You might be good at that."

As Jay finished his second song the audience once again erupted in applause.

"Another blinder Jay, well done." Mrs C said as he sat down.

"I thought they were going to hate me but they got it, didn't they?"

"Yes they did. Oh look, Geordie's on now."

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome a comic who's performing tonight for the very first time."

"And the last." shouted Alan Jenkins.

"Put your hands together for Geordie."

Geordie made his way up to the little stage.

"Thanks John, what a great couple of songs from my mate Jay, ladies and gentlemen." Geordie looked around the room, he could see Alan and his two mates muttering to each other. He took a deep breath.

"I'm going to let you into a secret. My name isn't Geordie. When I finished my apprenticeship in the yards I was laid off. I went to work in Middlesbrough and they nicknamed me Geordie and it stuck. My real name is Cyril. To be honest I was glad to get rid of the name Cyril. It made me sound like a right prat." Suddenly the audience that so far had been either indifferent or bemused laughed.

Geordie went on to talk about the other nicknames in the yard. He told them how Oily Arthur and Three Fingered Harry got their names. Every man in the audience who had worked in the yards knew similar tales and lapped up Geordie's anecdotes. Ten minutes later he thanked the audience for listening, he stood in the spotlight soaking up the applause. Geordie could even see one of Alan Jenkins's mates clapping despite Alan's frosty face.

"Well," Mrs C said, "you boys were amazing tonight. Let's grab a few bottles of Bass from the offy and go home and celebrate with a steak and kidney pie."

"Before we go, Mrs C," Jay said, "I just want a word with John." Jay picked up his guitar and went over to the side of the stage where John was sitting.

"Hi John, can you help me? Do you know a singer called—" Jay turned his guitar around and showed him the signature. It read Siobhan Murphy.

"That's a grand Irish name but I don't know it. How do you know her?"

"I met her in London, she said she was heading up this way."

"It's Saturday tomorrow, head down to the Handyside Arcade in town and ask around there. That's where a lot of the younguns hang out these days. And Jay, you've got a great voice and a unique style. When you're at the Handyside check out the Club a'GoGo nearby, ask for Jenny or Ray, tell them John Reed sent you."

"Thanks John. Walk good man."