The weeks of practicing were now behind me. My drum was packed and ready to go. All I had to do now was to await Graham’s familiar knock on the door, and I would be off to school as usual. But today would be far from usual. I was about to perform my first public “gig” in front of my classmates at Archers Court Secondary School; and my stomach was performing somersaults!

Nervously tapping my rhythm brushes on my knees while I waited, I reflected on how this situation had come about.

Each week our class endured a boring music lesson as our teacher tried in vain to teach us about crotchets, quavers, scales and keys; and the classical works of Beethoven. It all went over my head, as it did for most of the class. We were only interested in who was number one in the “Top Twenty”, and who preferred The Beatles to The Rolling Stones.

Because of this collective interest in pop music, we persuaded the reluctant music teacher to allow one pupil a week to bring in a pop record that would be played to the class at the end of each lesson.

As the weeks passed, word got around that Graham played the harmonica and I could play a snare drum; and so it came about that the besieged music teacher reluctantly agreed to allow us to perform in front of the class. “Anything would be better than all those crotchets and quavers”, one my classmates remarked in the playground upon hearing the news.

“You ready Chas?”

I was startled out of my pondering by the voice of my friend who I had nicknamed Larry Adler.

“Ready as I”ll ever be’, I replied, trying to sound confident. “Got your mouth-organ?”

Pulling it from the top pocket of his school blazer, he smiled.

“We this is it” I said, grabbing the flimsy cardboard box containing my snare drum. “It”s time to reach for the stars!’

The walk to school seemed much shorter than usual and soon we had passed through the school gates. Now there was no going back.

The Maths and Science lessons that normally passed excruciatingly slowly seemed to fly by that day. I was in a world of my own; dreaming that one day school would be over forever. I would then buy the chrome, snare drum that I had drooled over many times in the Premier Drum catalogue. But for now the cheap amber-coloured plastic drum, with its autographed picture of Ringo Starr printed on the top “skin” purchased for £4 from a News of the World advertisement, would have to suffice.

At 3 o’clock the “change of lesson” bell rang and the time had arrived for the music lesson. Whatever the subject of the lesson was that day I have no recollection. I can only remember the final fifteen minutes.

“Charles…Graham”, the teacher called out, as the weekly pop record began to play on the bulky, school record player. “Please bring your instruments to the front of the class”.

My heart leapt into my mouth. Rising from my desk my legs turned to jelly, the gaze of the whole class turned my face red with embarrassment, and I was certain that I could see my heart pounding against my shirt!

After fumbling with fingers that refused to do what I asked of them, I eventually set up my snare drum on its rickety tripod legs. Graham simply took his harmonica from his pocket, tapped it against the palm of his hand and waited.

“So? What are you going to play for us”?

Opening my mouth I attempted to reply but the words refused to come out. I looked at the sea of expectant faces before us and was gripped by sheer panic. All I wanted to do was run.

“We”d like to play ‘Telstar’ by The Sputnicks sir’, Graham replied as cool as a cucumber. He had no nerves at all!

Against a background of applause I nervously picked up the rhythm brushes as Graham put his harmonica to his lips. My hands shook so much that they could have played the tune on their own. Somehow or other, I pulled myself together a little, nodded at Graham, mumbled shyly 1…2…3…4 and we launched into the tune.

For the first few bars my hands felt like lead, moving as if in slow-motion. I was certain they would seize up at any moment, or the brushes would slip from my hands and fly across the room. But, as the number progressed, my nervousness eased and by the time we had reached the end I was almost enjoying myself. “More, more, more” the class called out, clapping there hands in time with their words.

We both looked at the teacher in hopeful anticipation.

“Do you know another tune” he asked?

Fortunately we had rehearsed a number by Johnnie and the Hurricanes called ‘Beatnik Fly’, just in case we were given a chance to play more than one tune.

“Go ahead” he said wearily, sitting down upon his piano stool. He was obviously not a fan of pop music.

From somewhere I found the courage to announce this one myself.

Twenty eight children who obviously were fans yelled, clapped and stamped their feet. I imagined the “French” teacher cringing in the classroom below, expecting the ceiling to crash down on top of her and her class at any moment.

Throughout this number I felt as though all my Christmas’s and birthday’s had arrived on one day. Rocking from side to side I put everything I had into my playing while Graham jigged about, the notes from his silver harmonica echoing around the sunlit classroom.

All too quickly the tune ended and, despite requests for more, the music lesson was over. I breathed a sigh of relief…we didn’t know anymore tunes.

As the class headed for the door I put my drum back into its box feeling exhilarated; I had successfully completed my first actual public performance. However, I didn’t expect to receive the cruel rebuke that the music teacher was about to give me.

Handing a “1 Point” slip of paper as a reward for extra effort, Graham was congratulated on his performance. Now it would be my time, I thought. But, it didn’t happen.

Graham and I looked at each other.

“Where is Charlie”s house point, sir’? Graham asked.

“Playing the harmonica takes a lot of practice and skill, while virtually anyone can play a rhythm on a drum” he replied. “So in this instance I don”t feel I can award Charles a house point’.

Offering the slip to the teacher Graham amazed me by what he said next. “Well in that case, sir, I don”t want mine either. We are a team!’

Making our way home we talked endlessly about how good the day had been, and how good we had been. How we now needed a singer, and someone who could play a guitar, because it was obvious that we were “really going somewhere”!

But, for now at least, we had other tunes to learn. That evening we would start on a new one…the theme from the television series Z Cars.

One night many years later, I wished that I could have shown that music teacher just how wrong he was. I was playing in a band supporting a popular star of the 1960’s…Billy J. Kramer!

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Other stories in the ‘White Cliffs Boy’ collection include: A Double-Decker Mystery That Lasted Nearly 40 Years….And The Tears Trickled Down The Little Boy’s Face….One Meat Pie and Two Forks….And The White Cotton Sheets Were Freezing….Less of a School – More of a Prison….Santa Claus Is Hiding Behind The Curtain….The Bread Roll Lady….

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Further articles by Charles Moorhen:

The Grisly Murder of ‘Sweet Fanny Adams’.
Britain’s First Railway Murder.
15 Fascinating Historical Railway Facts You Possibly Never Knew.
London’s Unique Funeral Railway.

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