FOUR
One day in August 1974 I met Jean Webb, walking down Espedair Street, in Paisley.
Jean and I had gone out together, and we'd been almost-lovers, semi-intimate, on the very verge of seriousness, for a while. It had started with the usual, awkward, youthful dates, hiding in the shadows of pubs because we were under-age and fumbling kisses under railway bridges; classic behaviour. I'd been attracted to her originally because she had a nice smile and was five foot nine, reducing the difference in height between heads and mouths by three or four inches compared to the average Ferguslie girl. It had all been rather embarrassing; one or other of us always seemed to be tongue-tied, or just not in a mood to talk, though we got on with each other well enough when we didn't talk.
For some reason, too, I was especially gormless and clumsy in her company; I spilled drinks onto her lap, stepped on her feet, tripped her up accidentally in the street, clouted her head with my elbow when I got up to go to the bar or the gents, got her long brown hair caught in my jacket cuff buttons, bruised her lip with my teeth and once — when we were having a carry-coal-bag fight in the park with another couple — tripped, fell, and threw her over my head into a bush; she was bruised and grazed.
Another time in the same park I was waiting for her, sitting on a bench humming tunes in my head and staring vacantly into space; she came up from the side and was leaning over to say 'Boo!' when I realised she was there; I jumped up to give her a kiss and cracked her on the chin with my head; knocked the poor kid unconscious.
She was all right, a bit dizzy for a few minutes, wouldn't let me take her to hospital, and insisted we went to the disco we'd planned on going to, but she had a bad bruise under her chin, and her father apparently took a lot of calming down and convincing that I hadn't been beating up his wee lassie; he'd been all set to come round to our flat with her two elder brothers, both of whom gave me menacing looks for months afterwards.
I think it was that episode that defined our relationship for me, and — despite what happened later, despite our equivocal consummation — signified the beginning of the end; a combination of your standard adolescent embarrassment and a despair that I just wasn't clumsy-compatible with this particular female.
We persevered. She took the accidental knocks and I put a brave face on the foolishness I felt when I did something stupid. I started to think about being rich and famous not by myself, but with Jean by my side; would she just restrict my freedom, or provide a stable base, somebody to come home to? I wondered what would be best, and also how you could tell when you were in love.
I told her about my dreams. She listened, smiled, did not make fun of them. I gibbered and stuttered away for hours at a time, telling her how famous I was going to be, how much money I was going to make. She kissed me and let me feel her breasts through jumper and blouse and sometimes allowed my hand up her skirt, lying on the floor of her bedroom while the television sounded from the living room. A few times she stroked the bulge in my trousers, but there wasn't much else we could have done even if I had convinced her it was a good idea, not while the telly blared and we waited for the next knock on the door and her mum asking her if we wanted another cup of tea. I told her I'd take her away from all this; London, Paris, New York, Munich...
I'd left school and gone to Dinwoodie's, proud of my new status as an earner, but still living at home. She'd stayed on, studying for Art College. She baby-sat for a friend of her mum's sometimes, and I went round there too, a few times. And once, almost, nearly, only just or not quite...
On another floor in a darkened room under the flickering blue glow of another television, sound turned down so we'd hear the people coming back, the baby quiet in a room above us; lots of rolling about and bruising deep kisses and heavy breathing, and finally, me thinking
Clumsiness and sweat and disjointed adolescent times; you wait for years and then it's over in seconds. And class-inversions. Girls I knew later who'd screw at the drop of a cap but absolutely not with the lights on; who'd always risk pregnancy but never suck you off. And odd local fashions, like the Ferguslie schoolgirl who'd been stopped fighting in the playground and wouldn't tell the teacher what terrible thing she'd been called that had started the battle. Eventually persuaded to spell the ghastly insult out through her tears, she said, 'Miss, she called ine a fucking C-O-W!'
So when Jean felt that first spasm in her hand, and took me in her mouth, she left me amazed, because on the scoring scale I knew the other lads talked about, this was
There was too little time after that. Anyway, we didn't have any contraceptives. Sometimes I felt we were the only two responsible teenagers in Paisley, and — in my most frustrated moments wished we'd just gone ahead anyway, the way everybody else seemed to.
I only found out the next evening, sitting in the pub, that technically, if you like — I'd deflowered her then. I didn't believe her at first, even though I did recall something giving; I didn't think it was possible like that, with just a hand, a finger, but she was sure, and quite easy with it, and laughed.
But.
Maybe I was embarrassed about it and felt I always would be. Maybe I couldn't understand why she still wanted to wait, why she never again asked me round when she was baby-sitting, or why she wouldn't come to the flat when I moved in there, even when the others were out. I don't know. But I let her slip away.
That spring, she fell while she was helping her mum clean the windows of their flat; she broke an arm and collar bone and cut her head; they were worried about concussion. I'd tried to see her in the hospital that same evening, but they would only let in family; I attempted to explain I was a close friend and I was going away on holiday the next day... but got all tongue-tied. I left the hot, chemical-scented corridors of the bright hospital blushing and covered in sweat.
I really was going on holiday the next day; I and a couple of pals had arranged to go camping on Arran. We left, it rained a lot and I had atrocious hangovers for five consecutive days. We came back damp, broke and early, and I felt so bad about not having seen Jean before I'd left it took me three weeks to pluck up the courage to try and see her again... only to find that by then her family had gone on holiday.
While she was away I set off in pursuit of a girl called Lindy from Erskine, who was nearly five-eleven, and whose dad ran a bar where bands played sometimes... but nothing came of that, either.
When I met her in Espedair Street that summer's day, it felt like I'd never been away from Jean Webb.
God, I was happy that day; I felt like the proverbial million dollars, like I'd won the pools, been granted immortality and swapped bodies with David Bowie all at the same time. President of the World; Emperor of the Universe!
We had a recording contract; an outrageously large advance was lumbering its way northwards even as I walked down Espedair Street; a satisfyingly large whole number for an engine and a string of zeros for carriages, all singing their way up whatever telephone lines Telegraphic Transfers used to get between banks in London and Glasgow.
I saw Jean coming down the street, yelled out, waved my arms over my head, then ran up to her and whirled her round several times without dropping her once. I laughed maniacally, told her I was going to be famous, and gave her no choice whatsoever about coming for a drink to celebrate. She smiled, agreed.
I'd gone along to the band's practice session the night after I saw them at the Union, feeling much more nervous than I'd expected. It was worse than when I'd sat exams, almost as bad as waiting outside the headmaster's room for the belt. Nothing like as bad as it used to be when I was just a kid, though, waiting for my da to get home on a Friday or a Saturday night, in the bad days... but that hadn't been nervousness, that had been terror. Slight difference.
117 St Ninian's Terrace was a large detached villa in a street full of them. There were trees between the road and the pavement and no writing on the low walls. The hedges behind the walls looked as though they'd never had a schoolkid pushed through them or a satchel thrown over them. Attached to the side of the house was a double garage about the same size as our flat, and in much better condition. Light edged the long doors and I could hear the Les Paul playing casual phrases. I adjusted the set of my shoulders, checked my adam's apple was still working, walked past a big estate car parked in the gravel drive, and went in through a side door, carrying my ancient, anonymous bass guitar wrapped in a couple of large Woolworth's bags.
