Meet Me at the Pier Head by Ruth Hamilton Page A

to skifflers.’
    ‘Is he, now?’
    ‘Two Johns, a Benny and a Steve. And a few more, including a chap called Corkscrew. He can bite the tops off beer and wine bottles, apparently, though he has lost teeth when opening
champagne.’ She sidled up to her older sister. ‘I told Theo you can sing.’
    Tia was unpacking a heavy-bottomed frying pan while Delia delivered that sentence. ‘And?’
    ‘And that you know Lonnie Donegan’s work.’
    ‘No, you didn’t.’
    ‘Yes, I did.’
    Tia raised the weighty pan.
This is like pantomime again, no you didn’t, yes I did . . .
‘Have you any idea of the damage I might inflict on you with this cast-iron
pan?’
    Delia shrugged. ‘Do your worst, then. I’m prepared to die for my art.’
    ‘Art? Two washboards, a tea chest, a set of false teeth and a whistle?’
    ‘Listen, your royal bloody highness, we take everyday things and make them musical. We even twang one of Ma’s garters – we call it the B-E-S-O – the Bellamy Elastophonic
String Orchestra. We had it fine-tuned especially. With the right tension in a cool room, we can hit top C.’
    Tia sank onto a stool and began to laugh. Having a mad sister could be trying, but it was also fun. ‘OK, OK, I give up.’ She was going to be embarrassed; singing in the presence of
her boss with a skiffle band whose members she had never met wouldn’t be easy. She knew Delia, of course. And him. Him.
He won’t mind if I mess it up; he likes me, I know he likes
me.
    After all her labours, Tia took a second bath. She washed her sun-streaked hair, dried it, brushed it and left it hanging like a shining waterfall almost to her waist. Right – clothes. She
found three-quarter-length blue jeans with striped turn-ups that hugged her shins, some white socks, blue canvas shoes and a crisp, sleeveless, blue-and-white striped blouse. Skiffle was casual, so
she would be casual.
    At seven o’clock, she was applying makeup so skilfully that it appeared not to be there at all. Delia had already gone downstairs after washing dishes used during their
evening meal. People were arriving; Tia heard them talking and laughing as they carried their instruments into the ground-floor flat.
    She descended the stairs, locked her outer door and walked down the side of the house. Nervousness was new to her. She knew about stage fright; it was an essential part of theatre. Anyone who
felt nothing before stepping onto a lighted stage was not an actor, but this was different. A practice with Delia’s band was fun, no more and no less, so why did she feel so edgy?
Because, Portia, you’ve been window-shopping, and he may not be for sale. Yes, he’s easy on the eye, but you don’t know him, and he’s too old for you. Go inside and get
this over with.
    Furniture had been pushed against the walls. Delia was keeping company with her new drums, while Theo tuned his guitar. He stopped to introduce Tia to the rest. There were the two Johns, one
with washboard and metal thimbles, the other carrying a banjo. Corkscrew sat with an autoharp on his knee; he was clearly going to hold it like a zither, as this position probably made it easier
for him to disable strings he wasn’t using. A Pete had a twelve-string guitar, while a Steve with severe acne held a kazoo in his right hand. Everyone seemed friendly.
    ‘Here’s our singer,’ Theo announced. ‘It seems I’ve been demoted.’
    ‘You sing if you want to,’ she said. ‘I’m quite happy to listen.’
    Banjo John thrust a microphone at Tia. ‘Stand near him,’ he said, pointing to Theo. ‘Then you can both sing.’
    Washboard John joined Delia and discussed rhythm, then all the musicians played through ‘Puttin’ on the Style’. They worked at it until some semblance of cohesion was achieved,
after which miracle Tia began to sing. She had a voice that covered two octaves, and while the upper eight were delivered clear, the lower end of her range was husky. After the first verse, her