Candy and the Firestorm 'Knock down the old grey wall and be a part of it all'

After the events of Friday night, my return to school on Monday morning, was an almost surreal experience. Rock Candy had been left behind in the bathroom; nothing remaining after Bethany scrubbed ‘the slut’ away. Inevitably perhaps, she blamed herself for the latest manifestation of her little brother’s kinky secret; dressing up was harmless enough, especially when it helped out the band, but watching me tongue wrestle a stranger was a whole new magnitude of disturbing behaviour. I don’t think, however, that sis was as surprised as I was. Kissing men had never crossed my mind before, but then tarting around in frocks aside, I didn’t think overmuch about anything that didn’t have six strings and a pickup. We had a long chat, which left me with twice as many questions as I had answered.

I wasn’t blessed with a surfeit of school friends, which isn’t to say that I was despised, just overlooked, which threw Candy’s popularity into sharp relief. Ian and I were friends by default, having sat next to each other on the first day of comprehensive school, neither of us getting any better offer in the following three years. We had enough in common to get along, we were both fairly short, about the same scholastic level, and slightly different shade of music geek. Ian’s parents had sat him down at the piano when he was still toddling, and it showed. I could play well enough, better than most maybe, but I was a mimic; Ian lived music, he could read as well as listen, and I’m pretty sure he would have eaten it if that was possible. For all that, my friend knew nothing about rock music until I gave him a cassette of my favourites. The Phrygian Mode was a mystery to me, but apparently Randy Rhoads played in it — Ian had it all written down, and spent several lunch hours on the explanation.

First lesson on Monday should have been metalwork, which I much preferred to woodwork — it would be years before I was really comfortable handling wood — 1981 however, was the year my school discovered sexual equality. After Easter we had swapped the workshops for kitchen and sewing room, finding them almost completely alien. Boys had been able to study ‘home economics’ before, though the few that did were labelled sissies. To my later shame I wasn’t above name calling, even when my secret activities elevated it to the heights of hypocrisy. Three weeks into the term we had made little progress, partly in protest at being made to take ‘girls’ lessons’, but mostly because none of us had ever thought to pick up pan or needle. Strange as it may seem after three years of band saws and lathes, I approached the sewing machines with terror, thanks to Miss Mumford’s, allegedly well meant, advice about the best way to remove needles from fingers. The Singer held little in the way of danger for me that morning; nimble as my fingers were on the fretboard, I simply couldn’t thread a needle.

“You spaz Rhodes,” Mark Hopkins’s voice grated as never before. There was no love lost between us since he’d been suspended for hitting me in the head with a hockey stick in P.E. Usually, I tried to keep away from him as best I could, but Miss Mumford, intent on splitting up the normal classroom friendships, seated us together. “You mong, ha ha ha, you really are useless.”

“Shut your fucking mouth!” His laughter had slipped easily under my skin as I struggled with the unaccustomed task, anger mixing freely with my growing frustration, and before I knew what I was doing I was on my feet and was screaming in his face. In the brief moment of silence that followed I glanced around the shocked faces, and faced with the enormity of what I had done I bolted for the door, barging past the middle-aged needlework mistress, whose every prejudice against teenage boys I had just proved.

Fifty or so yards later I began to wonder where I was running. Leaving school grounds meant a month of detentions, on top of whatever punishment my outburst earned. At one corner of the playground were a pair of fives courts, and I took refuge behind their concrete walls. It was hardly safety, but it would put off any pursuers for a short time while I collected myself. Hopkins had done much worse to goad me in the past — much worse — yet I had always walked away without giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’d rattled me, so why did I react so strongly this time? At fourteen I wasn’t given to self examination — who is — but even then I knew something significant had happened to me.

The Boulton twins appeared around the corner — they would be the ones sent to find me, teachers’ pets both of them, “Mr Hughes wants to see you,” they said, almost in unison. With anyone else from the class I could have joked about the fate that now awaited me, and I felt like joking. My ten year run of avoiding any form of corporal punishment was surely at an end, having someone to bounce my bravado off would have helped immeasurably. Still, old Fred wasn’t too free with his cane; I could expect six but with my trousers on — which given what I was wearing underneath was a blessed relief.

“So tell me what happened.” Mr Hughes’s demeanour was avuncular, and I found myself sat in front of his desk, rather than bent over it. I managed to mumble a few words about losing my temper, which he silenced with a wave of his hand. “You shouldn’t let people get a rise out of you Martin; you’re a bigger man than that.” He wasn’t to know how those last words stung me worse than any slap. I doubted his opinion of my masculinity would survive seeing the ever—so-pretty pink panties I was wearing. Part of me wanted to show him, to own up for the freak I was.

“Nobody wants things the way they are Martin,” Mr Hughes’s tone was almost apologetic, “if I had my way you’d be back banging around in the workshop. Equality’s fine for the girls, I just wish they’d do it without bringing the boys down,” and with that I was dismissed. It was time by then for morning break, so I didn’t have to return to the needlework room. The playground was buzzing with what I’d done - my first taste of celebrity notoriety — and my stock had risen several notches. Even teachers crept around me for the rest of the day, as I moved in a world of whispers and pointed fingers. It was all too easy to imagine this reaction amplified by the discovery of Candy, and yet it never occurred to me - not for an instant — to abandon ‘her’.

Bethany had us rehearsing twice a week; she thought there was a danger of our audience growing bored with us if we played the same set week on week, so we had to find new material. None of us were confident writers, so the search was limited to songs we could cover, and while we all had songs we’d like to play, it was big sis who had the final say. Which is not to say that we gave in without a struggle.

“Not another golden oldie,” Dave struck hard at a snare drum, “we may as well throw in the towel and play wedding receptions.”

“You know how the Coach and Horses loves us to rock up these old songs,” Bethany glowered at each of us in turn, “just listen to it, the riff could have been written for you Martin.” I’d never heard of Badfinger before, but she was right about the guitar part; it had a strong rhythm and plenty of space for improvisation — just the way I liked them. With all the rehearsal, not to mention a regular gig, we were pretty tight and learnt the song quickly. My attention was focussed on making the riff my own, and as usual I just allowed the words to roll over me. The song was more melodic than the rest of our repertoire, but with a driving bass line from Phil, hard stick work from Dave, and screechy guitar pyrotechnics from me, it fitted right in.

Bethany had no problem letting us know how smug she felt, laying on ‘I-told-you-so’s’ all around, and the two boys home at the end with a self-satisfied smirk. As Dave’s van disappeared down the street, my sister’s full attention fell on me.

“You were quiet tonight,” she laid an arm around my shoulder.

“I didn’t bother hooking the overdrive up.”

“Not the guitar silly,” even when Bethany gave you a soft punch it still hurt, “we hardly heard a peep from you. What’s up?”

“Oh just school stuff, you know.” I filled her in on the needlework brouhaha, expecting her to burst into laughter at any moment.

“Is it that important to you to be able to sew?” I shot her a quizzical look, “you think it’s a girlie thing, so you should be able to do it. Isn’t that why you lost your temper and ran?”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” I turned to unplug my guitar. Could she be right?

“It’s not very rock and roll is it?” Bethany had dressed me in a yellow sundress with cap sleeves, and a hemline ending a demure three inches above the knee. To heighten the effect she’d tied my hair in bunches.

“Last week was rock and roll, look where that got you!” Granted, she had a point, but I felt I was being dressed for a Sunday school picnic. “We could put you in school uniform if you want, like Angus Young,” a grin spread over my sister’s face which I knew spelt trouble, “I know you’ve been quite fond of trying on my old one.” Beetroots could have blushed no redder, I’d spent a great many evenings running around the empty house in Bethany’s school skirt and blouse, hair bunched as it was now, and pretending to get ready for a day’s lessons. Keeping quiet seemed the best option. At least she allowed me to wear heels.

Mike the landlord, rolled his eyes and groaned when we arrived in the Coach and Horses. Giving him a wink probably wasn’t the wisest move, but Candy was in charge by then, and she just didn’t care. Neither did Mike, it seemed, as he answered with a raucous laugh.

Feeling a little like Shirley Temple, I took the stage with the rest of the band, strapping on my Flying-V and hitting a chunky power chord to test its open tuning. Going into our third week we were building a fan base, with familiar faces crowding the stage, including the chewing gum donor from the week before. Feeling that such loyalty deserved reward I gave him a wriggle of my hips, which he appreciated a lot more than Bethany, whose icy glare made me cringe behind my guitar.

The lights going down was my cue to fire up ‘Unchained’, a fitting song for the way I felt. Even after a few minutes the pub’s basement was incredibly oppressive, heavy with cigarette smoke, and the combined musk of a hundred or so bodies. A cotton sundress was the perfect attire, I felt so free, almost as if it wasn’t there. Later I would find out, that for the audience it looked as if it wasn’t, due to a spotlight shining through the seersucker from behind. Candy thrived on attention, however, and took the extra interest as her due.

Our audience fell into two categories; there were the Coach and Horses’ regulars, older long hairs in ragged denim and Deep Purple or Led Zeppelin t-shirts, and older teens, whose jeans were artfully distressed, and whose t-shirts proclaimed allegiance to a new generation of bands. It was impossible, therefore, to miss one lad who looked like he’d wandered in by mistake. Not only was his hair trimmed short, and neatly parted, he was wearing the type of casual clothes of which my mother would approve. If that wasn’t enough, he stood head and shoulders above everyone else, like a nicely brought up Snow White among greaser dwarves. When the rest of the band stepped down for the interval, he made his way through the press to the stage, stopping in front of me.

“Hi, my name’s Adam, I’m with Ents in the university,” even with a boost from the stage my eyes were barely level with his chest, forcing me to look up to answer.

“You’re tall enough to be a tree,” I giggled. That’s right, I giggled.

“Not ents,” his accent was strange, posh like a newsreader’s, “ENTS, the university entertainment committee. I’d like to book your band for the Senior XV’s ball.”

“Oh,” the university crowd seldom troubled the Coach and Horses, “we don’t really play music students like, we’re more heavy rock to be honest.”

“Just the thing,” Adam grinned, “the chaps in the rugger team don’t give a stuff for all that punk nonsense, and New Romance thing. We just like a bit of rock, and a couple of pretty girls to look at.”

“Well,” every drop of blood in my body seemed to have made its way to my cheeks, “you’d best talk to my sister, she does all that sort of thing.”

“Tell her to give me a call,” Adam pressed a piece of paper into my hand, “anyway, must dash. See you again.”

“Collecting phone numbers now?” Bethany handed me a glass of Coke from the bar, her eyebrow doing its best to climb all the way up to her forehead, “I just can’t keep you away from the boys, can I?”

“It’s not like that; he wants to book the band for a ball or something.”

“Really?” the eyebrow still hadn’t come down, “why are you blushing like a Belisha beacon then?”

“It’s true! Here,” I gave her the scrap of paper with his number on, “and I’m not blushing, it’s just hot in here.”

“And getting hotter it seems,” she flashed me a wry smile, “let's do the Badfinger song next.”

The lights went down again, leaving me blinking for a second or two, and struggling to find the correct fret. I looked back at Dave, who nodded, and stole a glance at Phil and Big Sis who looked as ready as they’d ever be. Pausing only for a final knob twiddled, I launched into the song, everyone else taking their cue from my guitar.

Bethany crossed the few feet between us, her arm winding around my shoulder as she sang.

“No matter what you are, I will always be with you, doesn’t matter what you do girl.”

It was the first time I’d really listened to the words, and my eyes began to tear up.

“No matter where you go, there will always be a place, don’t you see it in my face?”

I did, it was written plainly in Bethany’s smile, better than any words could ever say it; a single tear trickled down my cheek, running into my own smile. It had been a long week, so many questions, and so few I could answer.

“I’ve been singing this to you all week, dumbo” she said in my ear, “no matter what, Martin or Candy, I’m always going to be here.”