sing, warming up as always with ‘Just Like A Woman’ by Bob Dylan. Milly loved the way Graham put the little croak into his voice even though she knew he only did it to cover up the inadequacies in his pitching. It was Milly who had the stronger. voice. Graham’s real passion was his instruments.
After ‘Just Like A Woman’ they did Woody Guthrie’s ‘This Land Is My Land’, and after that Graham suggested a cup of tea.
‘We’ve only sung two songs, Graham. You’re not concentrating.’
It was true, Graham did not seem to feel much like singing. He had something on his mind.
‘Milly?’
‘Yes?’
There was a pause. Whatever it was that Graham wanted to say was not coming easily.
‘What do I look like?’ he said finally.
Millicent was quite taken aback. She had known Graham for many years and yet he had never asked her that question before.
‘What do you look like?’ she repeated, feeling foolish.
‘Yes. I mean I know I have brown hair and Mum says I’m handsome . . . whatever that means, because mums always think their sons are handsome.’
‘Well . . . you are handsome.’
‘No, come on. What do I look like?’
Millicent was bright red. She wondered if Graham could sense it; she felt suddenly so hot that she imagined he must be able to feel the throbbing heat rising off her.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Why are you asking now? We’re supposed to be rehearsing.’
‘Well, if we do well at our audition, millions of people will end up seeing me, won’t they? And yet I’ve never seen myself. That’s kind of weird, isn’t it? I want to know what they’ll see.’
‘Graham, it’s only an audition.’
‘I know what you look like, Milly.’
‘Oh, do you? And what do I look like then?’
‘You look beautiful.’
And Graham reached up, found her face and drew it towards his. The kiss lasted a very long time, as first kisses often do.
And for Graham it really was his first kiss. Not just between him and Millicent but between him and anyone, and as he lashed about with his tongue inside her mouth he never wanted it to end. Millicent also entered wholeheartedly into the spirit of things. She was not entirely without experience but she was hardly practised and the two of them made up in pressure and energy for what they lacked in style and finesse.
Eventually they parted, Millicent having declined for the time being to allow Graham to put his hand up her jumper.
‘Your mum’s downstairs,’ she whispered.
‘Who cares?’
‘I do, Graham. Besides, this is all, well . . . I just want to get my breath, that’s all.’
‘What do I look like, Milly?’ he asked.
His sunglasses had been knocked off during the lengthy face-wrestling in which they had indulged and now Graham was sitting there with those strange, dark unseeing hollows that she so rarely saw and which when she did she felt she would never get used to. Except now, suddenly she felt that she was used to them. Perhaps interpreting her silence for embarrassment or even revulsion, Graham began to feel about for his shades.
‘Don’t put them back on, Graham. Nobody except rock stars is allowed to wear sunglasses indoors. And you’re not a rock star yet. Oh, by the way . . . you look beautiful too.’
The Four-Z
After Graham and Millicent, Emma had opened another thirty or so envelopes before deciding upon The Four-Z.
Michael, the leader of The Four-Z, had written down his full name as instructed. Michael Robert Harley. Age nineteen.
Next Michael was asked for an address. Michael had considered applying for a PO box number because the postman did not always venture all the way along the corridor on the vast low-rise development in Birmingham where he lived with his mother and sisters. The name of Michael’s estate had at one point been Aneurin Bevan, then briefly Nelson Mandela. Now it was Collingbrook, so called because of the stream that had once bubbled and gurgled across the land upon which the
After ‘Just Like A Woman’ they did Woody Guthrie’s ‘This Land Is My Land’, and after that Graham suggested a cup of tea.
‘We’ve only sung two songs, Graham. You’re not concentrating.’
It was true, Graham did not seem to feel much like singing. He had something on his mind.
‘Milly?’
‘Yes?’
There was a pause. Whatever it was that Graham wanted to say was not coming easily.
‘What do I look like?’ he said finally.
Millicent was quite taken aback. She had known Graham for many years and yet he had never asked her that question before.
‘What do you look like?’ she repeated, feeling foolish.
‘Yes. I mean I know I have brown hair and Mum says I’m handsome . . . whatever that means, because mums always think their sons are handsome.’
‘Well . . . you are handsome.’
‘No, come on. What do I look like?’
Millicent was bright red. She wondered if Graham could sense it; she felt suddenly so hot that she imagined he must be able to feel the throbbing heat rising off her.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Why are you asking now? We’re supposed to be rehearsing.’
‘Well, if we do well at our audition, millions of people will end up seeing me, won’t they? And yet I’ve never seen myself. That’s kind of weird, isn’t it? I want to know what they’ll see.’
‘Graham, it’s only an audition.’
‘I know what you look like, Milly.’
‘Oh, do you? And what do I look like then?’
‘You look beautiful.’
And Graham reached up, found her face and drew it towards his. The kiss lasted a very long time, as first kisses often do.
And for Graham it really was his first kiss. Not just between him and Millicent but between him and anyone, and as he lashed about with his tongue inside her mouth he never wanted it to end. Millicent also entered wholeheartedly into the spirit of things. She was not entirely without experience but she was hardly practised and the two of them made up in pressure and energy for what they lacked in style and finesse.
Eventually they parted, Millicent having declined for the time being to allow Graham to put his hand up her jumper.
‘Your mum’s downstairs,’ she whispered.
‘Who cares?’
‘I do, Graham. Besides, this is all, well . . . I just want to get my breath, that’s all.’
‘What do I look like, Milly?’ he asked.
His sunglasses had been knocked off during the lengthy face-wrestling in which they had indulged and now Graham was sitting there with those strange, dark unseeing hollows that she so rarely saw and which when she did she felt she would never get used to. Except now, suddenly she felt that she was used to them. Perhaps interpreting her silence for embarrassment or even revulsion, Graham began to feel about for his shades.
‘Don’t put them back on, Graham. Nobody except rock stars is allowed to wear sunglasses indoors. And you’re not a rock star yet. Oh, by the way . . . you look beautiful too.’
The Four-Z
After Graham and Millicent, Emma had opened another thirty or so envelopes before deciding upon The Four-Z.
Michael, the leader of The Four-Z, had written down his full name as instructed. Michael Robert Harley. Age nineteen.
Next Michael was asked for an address. Michael had considered applying for a PO box number because the postman did not always venture all the way along the corridor on the vast low-rise development in Birmingham where he lived with his mother and sisters. The name of Michael’s estate had at one point been Aneurin Bevan, then briefly Nelson Mandela. Now it was Collingbrook, so called because of the stream that had once bubbled and gurgled across the land upon which the
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