That Reilly should know puzzled Hathaway.
‘That housekeeper working out all right?’ Reilly continued.
Because Hathaway wasn’t exactly house-trained, Reilly had arranged for a woman off the estate to clean and cook for him. Hathaway wasn’t always in at regular mealtimes so she left stuff in the fridge to be heated up. She was wary at first – she’d never seen a fridge before.
Sometimes Hathaway couldn’t be bothered. Her cheese and onion pie eaten cold was fine but the steak and kidney got a bit congealed.
‘How do you know the pubs that aren’t booking us?’
Reilly stood and walked over to the window. He watched the turgid water.
‘Some of the pubs we look after have chosen to go with our competitors in your father’s absence.’
‘Look after? You mean with the one-armed bandits and that?’
Reilly nodded without turning.
‘And they happen to be the ones that aren’t booking us any more?’
Reilly turned and nodded again.
‘Probably.’
Hathaway left a few minutes later. As he made his way through the noisy amusement arcade next door – The Beatles’ ‘I Want To Hold Your Hand’ blared out above the cacophony of pings and bells – he saw Charlie over by one of the old slot machines.
It was called The Miser’s Dream. There was a little puppet of a miser with white hair and spectacles sitting at a table in the middle of a spooky old room. Charlie put a penny in the slot, and as Hathaway approached, the scene came to life. A door opened and a skeleton shot out; a picture slid back to reveal an ogre lurking behind it. A trunk opened of its own accord and a hooded creature started to climb out. All of this behind the miser’s back whilst he continued, oblivious, looking at his piles of money on the table.
‘You can keep your rigged one-armed bandits,’ Charlie said, by way of acknowledging Hathaway. ‘This is the one for me.’
‘Rigged?’
Charlie glanced at Hathaway.
‘No offence to your dad but every one-armed bandit in town is rigged so the odds are in the arcade’s favour. Always have been.’
Hathaway nodded. He was wary of Charlie, who had quite a short fuse. He liked him but he hadn’t known him as long as the other two in the group.
‘So we’re still on for the gig at the Snowdrop tonight?’ Charlie said. The Snowdrop was a pub on the edge of Lewes, down the end of the Cliffe High Street.
‘I said we’d be there for seven. Money’s not bad, and if it works out, it could become a regular.’
‘You know I’m from Lewes?’ Charlie said, looking at a worn penny that had a faded image of Queen Victoria on one side, which he’d fished out of his pocket to put into the slot.
Hathaway looked at the side of Charlie’s face, at the knotted jaw.
‘I remember you saying,’ he said.
‘Bloody hate the place. Bad memories. So excuse me in advance if I’m in a foul mood tonight.’
‘Would we know the difference?’ Hathaway said, stepping back quickly when Charlie mock-lunged at him.
The two had first met when Hathaway had advertised a few months earlier for a drummer for the group he wanted to start.
Charlie had turned up in Hathaway’s dad’s office on the end of the West Pier in full Teddy boy mode: the drape jacket with velvet lapels, the string tie, the brothel creepers.
‘What kind of music you going to be playing?’ he said, looking Hathaway up and down. ‘I ain’t doing any Cliff Richard or Pete Seeger.’
‘We’ll mix it up – Gene Vincent, Chuck Berry, Orbison, The Shads – whatever else is around that’s good.’
‘How old are you?’ Charlie said.
‘Nearly seventeen. You?’
‘Nineteen. That’s a good age for a drummer. Drummer has to hold it all together. Keep the beat. It takes maturity to do that.’
Charlie looked round.
‘What is this place?’
‘My dad’s. He owns this end of the pier. The firing range, the amusement arcade and the dodgems.’
Charlie nodded slowly.
‘It smells.’
Hathaway pointed down at the gaps between the floorboards to the water churning below.
‘It’s the sea.’
Charlie tilted his head.
‘You got a van?’
Hathaway shook his head. Charlie smirked.
‘I have. You’re going to need a van.’ He took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, patted the other one for matches. ‘What do you think about the Springfields?’
‘Mum and dad music.’
‘Acker Bilk?’
Charlie lit up.
‘The same. I hate trad jazz.’
‘I hate skiffle,’ Charlie said, blowing out smoke. ‘You haven’t got Joe Brown or Lonnie Donnegan lurking somewhere in the background, have you?’
Hathaway smiled again.
‘Are you from Brighton?’
Charlie shook his head.
‘Lewes originally. We’ve just moved down to Moulscombe.’
Hathaway waved an arm around.
‘We’ll rehearse here out of hours.’
‘I assume I can bring the van on to the pier – don’t fancy carting the drum kit from the pleasure gardens.’
‘You can.’
‘And is that just the two of us?’
‘I’ve got a couple of friends from school. A bass player and a vocalist. They couldn’t be here today.’
‘In detention?’
Hathaway grinned and after a moment so did Charlie.
‘Are they any good?’
Hathaway nodded.
‘Are you?’
Hathaway nodded again. Charlie pointed over at Hathaway’s guitar and amp.
‘Play us a tune, then.’
The Snowdrop was packed that evening, and Charlie, though quiet, seemed OK. At the first break an old friend of his came over, an unreconstructed Teddy boy.
‘This is Kevin,’ Charlie said. ‘We used to pal out until I moved to Brighton.’
Kevin looked awkward. He stared at his shoes as he said:
‘And turned into a mop-top.’
Charlie and Kevin went off to the corner of the bar for a drink, but Hathaway could tell by the way they were standing that the conversation was awkward.
It was snowing by the time they finished the gig so progress back into Brighton was slow. Once they’d dipped down off the Downs, Hathaway said:
‘Kevin an old friend, is he?’
