Candy and the Firestorm I might not quite be ‘blue eyed murder in a size five dress’, but I'd definitely ‘hit the ground running’.

1981 was a great year to be in a heavy metal band, but not in our town. Every local lad seemed to be wearing an Iron Maiden or Saxon T-shirt, and sporting the beginnings of a mullet to match, so the audience was there. Unfortunately, every venue that wasn’t tied up by cabaret acts, catered for university students who were trying to convince themselves that our provincial high street was the King’s Road circa 1976. The sole exception was the ‘Coach and Horses’, a biker dive where flares were making their last hurrah. If you could convince its legendarily terse landlord, your band was good enough to grace his basement, you still had to fight your way into the regulars’ affections; tough venue, tough crowd, and for most bands tough luck.

My first guitar came via my older sister, who in 1978 decided she wanted to be a rock star. That notion lasted about six months, after which I became the de facto owner of a truly awful guitar — a Kay Strat’ copy with an action you could limbo under. After a few weeks of Burt Wheedon, I gave up on black dots and turned elsewhere for inspiration. My Friday nights were spent propping up a tape recorder in front of the radio, and it wasn’t long before I lost my heart to Eddie Van Halen. Emulating his every note became my grail quest, each tap, each squeal painstakingly tracked down and replicated. The onset of puberty was nothing compared to the day I cracked ‘Eruption’. Today I’d be called a ‘shredder’, but back then the names for someone who spent all their free time in their room with a guitar were far less complimentary.

Christmas 1979 found me the owner of an Aria Flying-V, and an amplifier that had once been a Vox AC-10. After that I was banished to the garage, unless no one else was home, but those times were special for another reason. When I wasn’t throwing shapes I was rummaging around in my sister’s closet, or playing with her make-up; as Bethany considered the world to be her dressing up box, there was always something new to try on when an opportunity arose. The names for boys who did that were even less complimentary, so it goes without saying that secrecy vied with guilt as the main emotion of my early teens. Worse still, we got on really well; Bethany began to join me in the garage, singing along to my guitar. I loved her voice, it was quite deep for a girl, but she could shriek when she needed to — the Carpenters had nothing on us. My sister decided we should form a band.

By then Bethany had moved to the local tech where there was a ready supply of wannabe musicians, and a few drummers too. She coaxed a couple of boys to our garage to hear her little brother play, neither of whom looked terribly impressed at first. Understandably, at thirteen I wasn’t impressive, I’d just starting my growth spurt, not too spotty but skinny, and weighed down by a mop of unruly curls. No one outside the family had watched me play - the neighbours had merely heard me — so shyly I picked up the guitar, dropping a few notes at first, but when I finally looked up I realised I was in a band.

Big Sis kept us hard at work — no one had any illusions about whose band it was - until she told us Firestorm was ready to appear in public. We started with a fundraiser at the tech, just three songs, but they seemed to go down well. After that we played wherever we could, a few more gigs at the tech, scout huts, school halls, and pretty much anywhere that would have us. We even picked up a few fans, although our sound was more American than the fashion, and quite soft when you compared to most British metal; the solemn warnings given at school gigs that headbanging would result in brain haemorrhages didn’t really apply to us. After a few months of this the time had come to try booking a slot at the ‘Coach and Horses’, as intimidating a prospect as that was.

Mike Price’s ‘office’ was the space behind the bar not filled with kegs, and boxes of crisps. Few of his regulars had paid us any attention as we trooped in with our tape, and asked to see the manager, which was fine by us as they looked a rum bunch. Rummest of all was Mike, whose tattoos held a hypnotic fascination for me, or at least something else to look at besides his grizzled face.

“How old are you son?” it took a while to realise he was talking to me, “are you in the band?”

“Nah,” Bethany butted in while I was untying my tongue, “my little brother just helps move the gear.”

“He’s the smallest roadie I’ve ever seen,” Mike shook his head, “but he can’t come in here, I’m on my arse with the licensing board as it is.”

“I’m sure we can manage, so does that mean we can play here?”

It did, we were booked in for the next Thursday. Outside we all looked at my sister, wondering just how the band would manage without a guitarist. “I’ve got an idea,” she said cryptically, and neither Dave, Phil nor I was going to press her any further.

“You want me to do what?” my voice echoed around the garage, “you’re not serious.”

“Oh come on you little perv,” Bethany poked me in the chest, “you’ve been in my closet often enough.”

“You know?” I managed to squeak.

“It was either you, Mum or Dad,” she laughed, “and I couldn’t see either of them in my tartan mini, so it had to be you.”

“But you never said anything,” I wanted to curl up and die, “you’ve not told them have you?”

“And spoil the fun?” she punched my arm, “I was just waiting for a chance to see you all dolled up!”

“Who’s your friend?” Dave asked as I clambered into the back of his van.

“Bloody Hell, it’s Martin,” Phil said watching me pull down the hem of the skirt with one hand while taking my guitar from Bethany with the other.

“Good innit, told you I had an idea, “it certainly was better than my fumbling attempts, though I was worried how we’d get the heavy eye make-up off. I had enough problems in school already without turning up in the morning looking like Dusty Springfield. Not that Dusty would ever have appeared on stage in fishnets, a denim mini and a pair of heels that would have been a challenge to anyone who hadn’t previously spent hours mincing around in front of a mirror.

“Well we can’t call her Martin,” Dave said, torn by the problem of whether to stare at me, or watch my sister get into the front seat, “ant ideas?”

“Candy innit?” Phil smiled, “Candy Rhoads.”

Keeping my balance was a problem, the Aria was a big old lump of a guitar and came close to pulling me over. That at least stopped me from dwelling on the fact that our handful of regular fans were staring at me. Bethany was milling around, quietly answering questions and asking everyone who knew us not to spill the beans.

We kicked off with Pat Benatar’s ‘Hit Me With Your Best Shot’, playing it pretty straight and letting Bethany take charge of the stage. People were wandering in from the bar to check us over, but quite a few of them were wandering out, it was time to step it up a notch. Good as she was on girls’ songs, my sister really excelled singing male numbers. For our second number we launched into Sammy Hagar’s ‘This Planet’s On Fire’; it had a killer riff that showed off my guitar playing, but the highlight was Bethany’s aggressive ‘burn in hell!’ during the chorus. The wanderers started hanging around, or bringing others in from the bar.

Mid way through ‘Eruption’ I glanced over at my sister to check she was ready to switch into ‘Unchained’, she winked and slid up to whisper in my ear.

“Someone’s having fun,” and I was. All the other times we’d played I’d stood rooted to the spot, but that night I was moving, grooving even. Terrified as I was that everyone would start pointing and laughing, stepping into someone else’s heels seems to liberate me. Skinny fourteen year old boys didn’t belong on the stage, they were there on sufferance, but a babe with an axe was so rock and roll. I might not quite be ‘blue eyed murder in a size five dress’, but I had ‘hit the ground running’.

For an encore — an encore! — we did ‘Devil Gate Drive’ with as many slides, taps, squeals and harmonics as I could coax out of my guitar. We had never played it live before, it was just one of the songs we would jam in the garage, but it went down a storm. We played on until the landlord pulled the plug on us — none too soon as we were running out of material.
Packing up a hand landed on my shoulder, the tattooed forearm announcing its owner.

“Cute trick kid,” Mike growled, “I should break your fucking legs for that.” Bethany dropped what she was holding and rushed to my defence, but he waved her away. “Best act we’ve had in for years,” he continued, “fancy a regular Friday night slot?”

We all nodded, wondering just how we could play there when he knew I was under age.

“Just make sure you bring the girl guitarist,” he barked over his shoulder, and left us to finish up.

author's note:

It's a bit autobiographical this one. I was in a band called Firestorm in 1981, but singing as I'd only recently taken up guitar. I still have the Aria, but not the amp which was sold on after it nearly electrocuted me. I was no shredder however, and didn't learn to play 'Eruption' until 1987. Back then my main aim was to start and finish a song in the same key :)

We wouldn't have been caught dead playing Pat Benetar, and couldn't have played Van Halen (though I was a huge fan of the latter - still am really, and my fingers are crossed for British dates in 2008). We stuck to Diamond Head, Iron Maiden and Black Sabbath in the main, and even wrote a few of our own.

Sadly I never got to take the stage in a skirt, but there was eye liner...

Candy and the Firestorm 'You're rock candy baby, hot, sweet and sticky'

“Here I come again now baby I’m like a bitch in heat.”

OK, it’s not the sort of thing you expect to hear from your sister, but she had half the audience panting like corgis chasing a milk float. For my part I was trying to keep in time with Dave and Phil, and trying not to reflect too much on a busy week.

Monday evening we’d had our usual practice session in the garage, half of which had been talking about my transformation into Candy. I had reservations about repeating it, not least because I feared being found out — not just for a boy, but a boy who was thoroughly enjoying it.

“You heard the man Martin,” Dave was getting hot under the collar, “if Candy doesn’t play, we don’t play!”

“It’s alright for you two, you’re not the ones standing there in a skirt,” I hoped I wasn’t protesting too much. In truth, a shiver ran down my spine every time I thought about the gig.

“You’ll be fine Martin,” Bethany put an arm around my shoulder, “everyone who knew kept their gob shut didn’t they?” I nodded, and she continued, “We’ll have more time to get ready on Friday night, I can really fix you up, so good Mum and Dad wouldn’t recognise you.”

Mum and Dad were another problem. I’d just about reconciled myself to my sister knowing about my ‘dirty little secret’, the thought of what my parents would do scared me more than a little. The best thing about playing on Fridays was that they both went out early to the bingo; Mum to play, Dad to call the numbers — we have showbiz in our blood.

“But wear something a bit longer this time please,” Phil quipped, “Dave dropped his sticks twice letching at your legs.”

We finally got down to practicing. Friday’s set would be longer, and we didn’t want to run out of material again. I was itching to put some Randy Rhoads into the set, and had been for while, hence Phil’s suggesting for my name. As much as I loved Eddie Van Halen, Randy had something extra; he sounded like Eddie, until you tried to play his stuff. After a few months I was just about figuring out exactly what he was doing. By then I’d seen his picture in ‘Kerrang!’, and spent an afternoon painting white polka dots on my Flying-V to look like his. Besotted is probably the best word, although it cut no ice with our leader who applied her veto, telling us she wasn’t going to sing ‘any fucking Ozzy Osbourne songs’.

My sister didn’t wait until Friday to start work on me. Our parents left us alone in the house while they visited my aunt. Bethany dragged me away from the garage to her room the minute the car left the drive.

“Catch,” she said, throwing a Marks and Spencer bag at me, “this’ll stop you wearing mine.” Inside were two bras, and two pairs of knickers, nothing as fancy as she — and I —wore, but pretty all the same. Suitably knickered I returned to her room, blushing furiously, where she was already laying clothes out on the bed.

“That’s a bit too short, isn’t it?” I pointed at a dress she had laid on top of the pile.

“Rubbish, now lift your arms up,” knowing my sister of old, I complied. “You’ve got no hips Candy sweetie, so we’re going to show off your legs.

“Is this why you bought me new panties,” I said, pulling at the hem, “cos they’ll be on show to everyone?”

My sister can be frighteningly organised, and I was quickly sat at her dresser having my face painted — two coats, plus gloss. I looked like one of my own wet dreams, big, smoky eyes competed with a full on pout that was only slightly redder than the streaks of blusher, slashed across my cheeks. I suggested that she had overdone it a bit.

“How would you feel about going blonde?” was her answer, “hmm we’d better ask Mum first.”

Our biggest problem was my bust. I’d got by on the night with a few pairs of tights stuffed in each cup, but they left a lot to be desired. We tried balloons, without success, and finally hit on the idea of filling pop socks with pudding rice. They looked about right, but felt awkward. Bethany suggested I tried them with the guitar.

“They don’t move with you like real boobs,” Bethany observed, “try not moving your upper body so much, work your hips more.”

“I thought you said I didn’t have any,” I sniped.

“All the more reason to get wiggling then.”

We spent the next hour working on how I should move on stage. The way I was shaking my bum I was sure Phil wouldn’t be able to play for laughing. Watching myself in the mirror, I had to admit I looked pretty good, and began to relax, which looked even better. Still, it was difficult to come to terms with how quickly everything had happened.
Friday night, dressed to kill, I sauntered — read tottered — into the Coach and Horses, back-combed and fabulous. My sister hadn’t had her wish to make me blonde fulfilled, but her friend from tech had feathered my hair, giving it a lot more shape; hairspray had given it about as much additional shape as my neck could support. Heads turned, wolves whistled, and women seethed. However, I resisted blushing until I heard ‘jail bait’.

Playing on a Friday night was a big step up. Thirty or so people were already in the basement when we arrived, and more trickled in as we set up. My new knickers had an airing when I bent to plug in my overdrive pedal — damn dress — earning an appreciative ‘phwoar’ from the bar. I blushed again, but those cheeks weren’t on show. There were more than sixty watching as we kicked off our act, and for a moment I thought Bethany looked nervous. I may have been mistaken, Bethany didn’t look nervous very often.

We’d added Ted Nugent’s ‘Stranglehold’ that week. It had a fairly simple, slinky riff, and an overtly sexual lyric for Bethany to grapple with. The two boys were in clover as the middle section was practically all bass and drums, to which I added short guitar fills standing at Bethany’s shoulder as she wrapped herself around the mic stand. The ‘stage’ was only two feet high, so we were at eye level with the taller guys in the audience. Suddenly, my sister pulled one of the better looking ones towards and frenched him. She lingered a little before pushing him away, obviously unsatisfied he caught my neck and gave me the rest of the kiss, or as much as he could before big sis shoved him again. As he stepped back she had a good look at my tongue on its way out past his lips.

“You didn’t?” her back was turned to the audience, who couldn’t see quite how wide her eyes were.

“He took me by surprise,” the look she shot back made it plain she didn’t believe that.

“We’re going to have to talk about that later,” my big sister hissed.

“OK,” I had to keep my eyes on my hands as I played, it had surprised me too. “Do you want your chewing gum back?” I knew I’d regret that grin before the night was out.

Quite a few blokes must have fancied their chances with us after that, and I had to step back a couple of feet to avoid craning necks for the rest of the show. Wiggling probably didn’t help much either, but I’d made it into a groove and couldn’t seem to climb out, especially when we played ‘Rock Candy’.

It was an old Montrose number we’d picked up from Sammy Hagar. The ‘Red Rocker’ wasn’t all that well known in those days, but he toured the UK every year, stopping off to play at our Town Hall. Its riff was a strut, and my stuff was strutted right across the stage - at least until I caught the lead with my heel. Fortunately, I didn’t go down, not all the way, and barely enough to show I was wearing clean knickers. I recovered in time to play the solo, for which I had a little surprise for the rest of the band. Even if Bethany wouldn’t sing an Ozzy song, I could still squeeze in a bit of a Randy Rhodes. Making sure the boys knew to follow me, I launched into a series of rapid arpeggios, and trills, I’d lifted from one of his solos that happened to fit in with the song. My eyes closed, and I just let it flow, kicking on the pedal to give it a bit more oomph. When I opened them again at the end of the solo, I realised that for the first time that evening, more eyes were on the fret board than my legs.

“She’s rock candy baby,” Bethany was singing, “hot, sweet and sticky”. If only she’d known how true that was, but I was already in enough trouble.

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.”