Bobby March Will Live Forever

Welcome to our regular feature showcasing the talents of the nation’s best writers.

Glasgow, 16 February 1964 The train was freezing but he didn’t care. The 6.15 to King’s Cross. He was really going. Tom had brought a bag of cans with him, handed them out as they left Central. They were drinking them now. Him, Scott, Barry and Jamie. All of them feet up on the seats, full of chips, smoking away. Telling jokes. Pretending they weren’t nervous.

Bobby sat forward and checked his pocket again. It was there, just like every other time he’d checked. The contract he’d had to beg his dad to sign. Couldn’t sign it himself, too young, only seventeen. His dad said he should become an apprentice, steady money, but no way was he doing that. Two weeks of sulking and begging and eventually his dad gave in.

He couldn’t believe it when he saw it. Parlophone written at the top of it. Just like The Beatles. Exclusive rights to the music of The Beatkickers. Wee Bobby March from Arden, him, in a train going to London to do a recording session for the same label as The Beatles. Tom said it would be fine, told him not to worry about it, that he was the only one of them that could actually bloody play.

He looked round the carriage. Tom wasn’t wrong. Jamie was a half-decent drummer when he tried. Scott couldn’t play the bass to save his life and Barry could hold a tune. Just. But that wasn’t all that mattered, Tom said. What mattered was that Barry was goodlooking, very good-looking. And he knew it. Steel comb was never out his hand, fixing his hair, wee backcomb to give it height, then a perfect blond fringe. Clothes always right, whitest teeth Bobby had ever seen.

The carriage door slid back and Tom was standing there. Polo neck and a pair of denims. Was a big guy, Tom, six foot odds, strong. Used to work on the furniture vans. Now he was the Beatkickers’ manager, had bought them the suits and everything. And they were going places. He clapped his hands.

‘All good, boys?’ he asked.

They nodded, held up the cans in cheers.

Scott dropped his chin to his chest, burped loudly. They all started laughing.

‘Dirty bugger,’ said Tom, pretended to give him a clout over the ear. Scott swerved, almost fell off the seat.

‘That’ll teach you,’ said Tom. Then he pointed at Barry. ‘You, son, you come wi’ me for a minute.’

Bobby took a swig of his warm beer, wondered why it was always Barry Tom needed to talk to. Maybe he was giving him tips about tomorrow, microphones, that sort of stuff. Barry stood up, followed Tom out the door. Scott burped again. They laughed again.