wet through. I hoped Richard had been sitting far enough back in the stands to avoid a soaking. I had a quick shower to warm me up, then I stood in front of the wardrobe wondering which outfit would be the key that would get me across Maggie Rossiter’s doorstep.
I settled on my favourite Levis and a cream lambswool cowl-necked sweater. Thoroughly inoffensive, making no statement that a lesbian social worker could disagree with, I hoped. I went through to the kitchen to fix myself a plate of snacks from my supermarket blitz, and washed it down with a small vodka and grapefruit juice. I was in no real hurry. I was aiming to get to Maggie’s home in Bradford between six thirty and seven. With any luck I’d catch them before they went out for the evening.
As it turned out, my timing was diabolical. I found Maggie’s house easily enough, a neat brick terrace in a quiet street only a mile away from the motorway. I parked outside with a sinking heart as I registered that the house was in darkness. I walked up the crazy paved path and knocked on the stripped pine front door anyway. There was, of course, no response.
As I walked back down the path, a small calico cat rubbed itself against my legs. I crouched down to stroke it. ‘Don’t suppose you know where they’ve gone, do you?’ I asked softly.
‘Darsett Trades and Labour Club,’ a deep male voice said from behind me. I nearly fell over in shock.
I stood up hastily and stared in the direction of the voice. A tall dark hunk was standing by the gate with a box of groceries. ‘I’m sorry?’ I asked inadequately.
‘I’m the one who should be sorry, startling you like that,’ he apologized with a smile that lit up twinkling eyes. I shrugged. Eyes like that I’d forgive most things. ‘If you’re looking for Maggie and Moira, they’ve gone to Darsett Trades and Labour Club,’ he said.
‘Oh, right,’ I hedged. ‘I didn’t realize they were out tonight. I’ll catch up with them later.’
‘You a friend of theirs?’ the hunk asked.
‘Friend of a friend, really,’ I replied, walking down the path towards him. ‘I know Maggie from Seagull.’
‘I’m Gavin,’ he said. ‘I live next door. We would have been going with them tonight except that we’ve got people coming for dinner. Still, I’m sure there will be plenty more chances to hear Moira sing in public.’
My heart jolted. Moira was singing? I swallowed hard and spoke before Gavin’s helpful garrulity gave out. ‘I didn’t know it was tonight,’ I improvised.
‘Oh yeah, the big night. Her first engagement. She’s going to be a big success. I should know, I hear her rehearsing enough!’
I smiled politely and thanked him for his help. ‘I’ll catch them another time,’ I said, getting back into my car. Gavin sketched a half-wave from under his box and turned into the next house. I pulled out my atlas. I groaned. Darsett was a good twenty miles away. With a sigh, I headed back towards the motorway.
Within three minutes of entering Darsett Trades and Labour Club, I knew that not even double rates could compensate me for spending Saturday night there. I don’t know enough about the northern club circuit to know if it’s typical, but if it is, then my heartfelt sympathy goes out to the poor sods who make their living performing there. The building itself was a 1960s concrete box with all the charm of a dead dog. I parked among an assortment of old Cortinas and Datsuns and headed for the brightly lit entrance.
Being a woman, I already had problems on my hands. In their infinite wisdom, working men’s clubs don’t allow women to be members in their own right. Strange women trying to get in alone are a complete no-no. The doorman, face marked with the blue hairline scars of a miner, wasn’t impressed with my story that I was an agent there to see Moira perform, not even when I produced the business card that carefully doesn’t specify what Mortensen and Brannigan are. Eventually, he grudgingly called the club secretary, who finally agreed to let me in, after informing me at great length that I would not be able to purchase alcoholic beverages.
I regretted this rule and the fact that I was driving as soon as I crossed the threshold. The only way to make an evening at Darsett Trades and Labour Club tolerable was to be so pissed I wouldn’t notice it. The bar, on my left, was brightly lit, packed and already blue with smoke. It sounded like a riot was in progress, an impression increased by the rugby scrum at the bar.
I carried on through double doors under a blue neon sign that said Cabaret Room. Like the bar, the room shimmered under the glare of lights and the haze of cigarette smoke. It was crammed with small, round tables, two-thirds of which were occupied with chattering groups of men and women. Their gaiety was infectious, and I mentally ticked myself off for my patronizing response to the club.
At the far end of the room was a small stage. A trio of electronic organ, drums and bass were listlessly playing ‘The Girl From Ipanema’. No one was listening. I looked around intently, trying to pick out Maggie in the crowd. At first, I couldn’t see any woman on her own, but on the second sweep of the room, I spotted her.
She was standing in the shadows right at the edge of the room about halfway back. Her clothes as much as her isolation marked her out. Unlike the other women in the room apart from me, she wasn’t dressed up to the nines in teetering heels and a bright dress. Maggie wore jeans, a chambray shirt and a pair of trainers. From where I was standing, it looked like she had also avoided the cosmetic excesses of the rest of the room. She was about my height, with curly, shoulder-length pepper and salt hair. She was carrying about ten pounds overweight, but she looked sturdy rather than flabby.
For a moment, I toyed with the idea of making the first approach to her, but decided against it. I suspected she’d leap immediately to Moira’s defence and give me the elbow without actually weighing up what I had to say, and I couldn’t blame her for that. Even if I’d been going to approach her, I was cut off at the pass. The organist finished the Stan Getz piece with a flourish and played a fanfare. A burly man leapt on to the stage and peppered the audience with a few risqué jokes, then announced, ‘Ladies and animals, put your hands together for tonight’s star attraction, a young lady who’s going all the way to the top. Let’s hear it for Moira Moore!’
With another fanfare on the organ, he vanished into the wings. The band played the opening chords of ‘To Be With You Tonight’ and Moira walked out on to the stage. As she moved forward into the fixed spotlight, she looked nervously from side to side, as if searching for an escape route that wasn’t there. She was wearing a tight blue lurex dress which came to just above her knees. She looked painfully thin.
As the band finished the intro, Moira leaned forward to the mike and began to sing. To say I was astonished would be putting it mildly. Could this really be the woman who’d been happy to take a back-seat, lyricist’s role because her voice wasn’t up to scratch? OK, she didn’t have the silky richness of Jett, but by any other standards Moira’s was quite a voice. Slightly husky, almost bluesy, she hit the notes perfectly, and the nerves that were obvious in her body language didn’t transmit themselves into her singing. Even the louts in the audience shut up to listen to Moira sing.
She followed Jett’s first hit with an unadventurous selection of torch songs, ending up with a version of ‘Who Will I Turn To’ that almost had tough old Brannigan in tears. The audience loved it, clapping and cheering and demanding more. Moira looked dazed and surprised by her reception, and after a few minutes of applause, she turned and asked the organist something inaudible. He nodded and she launched into Tina Turner’s whore’s
