“Life is just a bowl of All Bran”.

It came out at Billy, loudly, from the speakers. It made him grin, the cheeky, irreverent strutting of it all. Laughing in the face of everyone and everything. Only they could have got a way with it, those Small Faces boys. Swaggering their way through the sixties. Combining American soul with British music hall. Not giving a damn what anyone thought or where then next penny was coming from. As long as they were living the dream.

Billy pushed his hand through his thick black hair and strummed his acoustic guitar. The song finished and he flicked it on to “Lazy Sunday”, with its tongue in cheek two fingered salute about not getting on “with the neighbours”. He couldn’t imagine most people - the silent majority some called them - having the slightest clue what he was on about if he played this music to them. They were all into boy bands. Manufactured pop. Safe and unthreatening performances. They would see his music as past its time. The relics of another era, nothing to do with them.

His mates, on the other hand, were a different matter.

The record finished and he played a tune. “Tin Soldier” by the very band he had been listening to. You couldn’t beat the original. Marriott’s spot on delivery. The perfection of the rest of the band’s playing. And P P Arnold. The woman with the voice of an angel, coming through to him from forty years ago by the miracles of recorded sound. His version was not a touch near the original. But that didn’t matter. He loved making the tunes and that was enough. He was going to get a band together. One day - not too far away. He told himself that every morning he woke up.

He strummed the guitar again and planned the day ahead. A trip into town beckoned, though that wasn’t his first choice. His mind had been elsewhere for a few days now. There was a number sitting inside his mobile phone. It belonged to Chrissie and had been there since Woody’s party. He was itching to get together with her again. But he didn’t want to make it too obvious.

Time to decide what to do. He didn’t want to sit around for the whole day. Become a recluse. He must get out. He got up and wandered upstairs and opened his wardrobe. That was key, not what to do but what to wear. There was a quality polo in front of him, black with yellow trim. Fred Perry. It jumped out at him and he wasn’t going to argue. He took it out of the wardrobe, lifted it off the hanger, and put it on. Perfection. He stood by the mirror and smiled. Now for the jeans. Levis 501. Had to be. Finished off with a pair of brilliant white plimsouls. That would do a treat.

He picked up his wallet and put it in his back pocket. Then his bunch of keys and he was out of the door, striding up the street. There was a woman at work in a garden a few doors away. He looked the other way and tried to blank her. He wasn’t being rude, it was just that every time she saw him the conversation followed the same direction. But his efforts were without immediate success.

“Afternoon”, she called. “How’s the job hunting going?”.

What job hunting is that?, he thought to himself.

“Not bad Mrs Reilly. A couple of interviews in the pipeline”.

“Ooh that is good”.

“So we’ll see how it goes”.

“You going to sign on then?”.

“Perhaps. Anyway, I’d better go”.

He strode off, burning with irritation. That was the way people like Mrs Reilly saw things. You had a duty to look for work. Anything less was not playing the game. Their game. There was no escape clause in the suburbia tenancy agreement.

He walked quickly to the bus stop. He wasn’t in the mood for waiting and he lit a ciggy as he stood there. The bus shelter was no more than a metal frame, having been vandalised yet again the previous evening. Billy laughed when he saw it. It would be the lads from the estate. He didn’t care anyway. It was a warm afternoon and his mind was on other things.

In a few moments, he was sitting upstairs on the double decker watching the world go by. He was getting over his anger now, as a jaunt round town beckoned. But he still felt a sting of annoyance. He hated some peoples'attitudes, the way they saw the world through Acacia Avenue spectacles, putting on everyone else their own hangups and prejudices. What if he was a doleite? Who cared?

He put the introspection out of his mind as the bus pulled up. Town was busy. Everyone was out doing their shopping, or hanging around. The weather was making a difference. It was a perfect Summer day, the sort when it seemed the sun would last forever. Tomorrow’s tabloids would have one headline. “Phew what a scorcher”. That made him smile. But he loved days like this. When you could dream and believe. And there would be holidays as well. Ibiza. He had said he would be out of this town by then. He would have to hurry along.

He knew where he was off to. One place.


The record shop was playing Tamla Motown. “Heatwave” by Martha And The Vandellas. That went down well with Billy. He’d always loved the danceable grooves of “the sound of young America” and this was one of the finest tunes. He strutted to the rhythm as he walked into the shop. He went over to the northern soul section, flicked through some cds. The entire “Talcum Soul” collection was there, along with a raft of quality compilations. This is where a job would have made a difference. All he could now was look. If he had income, he would be able to buy the lot.

But, however much his soulboy appetite was whetted, this was not his purpose in coming. He left the cds behind and wandered over to a spot he checked every time he came in. A notice board. It was here that prospective beat combos put adverts for musicians wanted. The problem was that very few of them were the type of band he was interested in. He wasn’t into thrash or metal or anything involving musos.

This was on his mind as he looked down the pieces of paper that people had placed on the board. Some were typed, others were scribbled. As he scrutinised all of them from top to bottom he didn’t see any that jumped out at him.

But his checking of flyers was interrupted.

“Billy” came a voice from next to the door. He was so engrossed that he hadn’t spotted anyone come in. It was a girl’s voice. A sweet voice. A soft voice. One he recognised. It was Chrissie. She looked at him with her big blue, puppy dog eyes. “Allright Billy”, she said, smiling.

“How you doing?”, he asked, walking over to her. He hadn’t planned for this and his heart was in his mouth.

“I’m fine”, she said. “You?”.

“Yeah. I’m fine”. A sense of anticipation shot through his body. “I like the look”, he said, trying to find his words. Her blonde hair had been cropped that afternoon. She was now sporting a very cool sleek cut. “It suits you”.

“Mm. Ever the charmer. Thank you. You’re not looking so bad yourself. Love the shirt”.

“You on your own?”.

“Yeah, Shell was with me a while back. But she had to go. Some lad she was meeting. So its just little me”.

He grinned. “Nice one“.

“So what are your plans”.

“Not sure. What about you?”.

“Nothing planned”.

“Well, if you fancy….”.

“….if I fancy what”.

“Well, you know, we could go for a drink or something”.

“Mm. Sounds fun. But lets not go for a drink. It’s a lovely day. Take me somewhere different”.

They left the shop and started to walk up the street. Straight ahead were two figures Billy knew only too well. He liked them, at the right time. But now his heart sunk. Woody was standing with Mitch.

“Allright Billy“, said Woody.

“All right lads”.

“You up for it this afternoon? Skateboarding“.

“Nah leave me out”.

“Or are you goin soft on us?“.

“Don’t think so lads”, he said, winking. “I’ve got other things on”.

“Yeah we can see that”, said Woody. “We’ll let you off”.

They left the two lads and carried on walking. The dying sound of “Helpless” by Kim Weston floated out of the record shop and across the warm Summer afternoon.

He wondered if she remembered the last time they met. He needn’t worry. She remembered all right. It hadn’t been out of her mind since it had happened, a week ago tonight. There she was, at Woody’s party, having a girlie chat with Michelle in the bedroom, when he had wandered in. Him. Billy. Billy James. The boy with the fringe and the cheekbones she had seen around town. He had seemed a little on the shy side, less sure of himself than some of the other lads she knew. But she liked it that way, gave him a mystery, something to go after. And then there was the way he looked at her. She couldn’t ever remember anyone looking at her quite like that.

For his part, he had been entranced from the start, ever since he had seen her in the café all those months ago. But he never dared imagine anything would happen between them. As soon as he’d seen her, sitting there, drinking a cappuccino, he felt an immediate rush of excitement inside him. She was cute, with that shock of blonde hair, those eyes that melted into you and the most bewitching smile. He knew instinctively that if the chance arose he would take it.

Then came Woody’s party.

They turned the corner as the music became faint. They walked for a few minutes and were there. He pushed open the rusty gate and led Chrissie into the small, quiet park. He had been there before. First as a child on long, languid days and more recently on other afternoons like this. He was worried that some killjoy at the Council may have decided to lock the gate but his fears were allayed. They walked across the grass to a bench and sat down.

“So this is where you had in mind?”, she said.

“This is the place”.

“Not many people here are there”.

“No one at all”.

“Looks like its just me and you then”,

“Looks like it is”. She smiled that delicious smile.

“Billy you are very naughty boy”.

This was his cue. He leaned over and their lips met and he kissed her long and slow. Her shoulders relaxed and he felt her arms wrap around his back. Then she suddenly pulled away.

“Billy”, she said. “If anyone did come in they would see us here”.

“I suppose you’re right. Come on”.

He got up off the bench and took her hand. She stood up and followed as he led her deeper into the park, to a secluded area at the back, behind some bushes. He stopped and turned towards her, holding her waist, pulling her close to him.

“Are you sure we’re all right here? In the open. Should we go back to my house. There’s no one in. My Mum‘s in Tenerife for a fortnight”.

It was a tempting proposal. But there would be a bus journey, waiting, hanging about. Having to make small talk with her. Awkward silences.

“We’ll be fine”, he said. “You’re thinking again. I thought I‘d cured you of that. Life has many opportunities you wouldn’t take if you think too much”.

“Mm you’re right”, she said. “You’re a bad one Billy James”.

“Of course I am. Would you want it any other way?“.

The faint noises of the afternoon wafted across the park. There was traffic, music, from time to time some shouting. But each was oblivious.

He tossed away the condom, stood relieving his bladder into the undergrowth and pulled on a filter tip. She was pulling up her skirt and rearranging her hair. He looked over at her and smiled. This afternoon had been perfection. His only regret was that he hadn’t tried to pull Chrissie earlier. But you couldn’t think like that - it was better late than never and he planned for it to carry on.

He buttoned up his flies and returned to her, sitting down on the ground and putting on his shirt. He held her close to him again.