Chapter 1

The train pulled out of Aberdeen and the four ‘lovable moptops from Caledonia’ settled into their first class compartment. It was 1965, The Kilts were ‘the new Beatles’. Every year there was another ‘new Beatles’, and every year The Beatles seemed to manage to still be the new Beatles themselves.

They were big, no mistaking that. Their last single had outsold The Beatles in Scotland, and matched it in England. This trip to get them on Top Of The Pops was to cement their success in the UK; there was talk of cracking the USA. They were appearing at the Albert Hall on Friday too to present their new LP ‘Independence’. They were determined to move from being a lovable, ephemeral group to being one of the stayers.

People didn’t fly so much then. Somehow Chase Manhatten, their manager, had justified himself flying, but they had to go by train. Chase’s real name was Vernon Pinkup, but he didn’t think that was a music industry name; he had heard the name Chase Manhattan somewhere and liked it. It was only when people started calling him Barclay that he realised. What the heck? All publicity is good, people remembered him and his groups.

They had actually thought of taking the group bus South, but it was too obvious and it would be mobbed at each petrol station. Instead, they were filmed getting onto the bus (and not seen leaving by the emergency exit at the back). The bus set off and the driver was followed by press and chased by girls. Simon Perkins, the handsome lead singer and second guitarist, regretted not being on the bus when girls were throwing their knickers at it. Gerry McAdam was the brooding, dark haired bassist. He wrote the darker songs on the album – Dying and Amethyst Dog – and was popular with girls who liked to think the world was a depressing place full of disappointments. To hear his B-side blasting from a daughter’s bedroom was a parent’s nightmare. Laclan was the lead guitarist, a blonde haired god (with the singing voice of a scratched blackboard), who made grannies and their daughters and their children’s daughters all yearn for him in their own way. Grannies wanted to clutch his tousled head to their flaccid bosom, young girls wanted him but didn’t yet really know why, and mothers remembered when their husbands had looked like that and wished to turn back time. Laclan didn’t have a second name; well, he did, it was Smith. Laclan as a mononym was sexier. Bear was the drummer, Bear was what everybody called him, for clear reasons. He had a mass of red hair (and, undressed, he was just as hairy on his chest and back too). He had his own fans, not all big beefy girls; there were some slighter girls who lusted after a large bear of a man like Hamish MacIntyre, girls who fancied the idea of being overwhelmed by him.

Chase had told them to stay in the compartment, pull down the blinds. He had booked tickets for all six seats in the compartment and got the guard to check the tickets in Aberdeen, a couple of quid passed over meant that they would not be further disturbed. A ‘RESERVED’ notice on the door emphasised that extra passengers were not welcome. He told them that if they were seen it could cause problems with young fans onboard. He told them, fully expecting that they would get bored and they would go out and be seen and that would create a mini-riot, and that would be great publicity for his challengers to the role of clean-cut group that your parents wouldn’t be so dismayed that you liked (as compared to the Rolling Stones).

Sure enough, before they got to Edinburgh, they were getting restless. “Maybe we could go an’ get some beers?” suggested Simon. Bear agreed. Gerry, who was not nearly so brooding and taciturn in real life as his stage presence suggested, immediately piped up that he’d go with Simon to help. He had read the magazine he had bought – Practical Camping; it was boring. He’d swapped with Bear, but found Practical Photography uninteresting too. Laclan suggested they wait until after Edinburgh, in case they were outside and seen when the train stopped. This made some sense, so they watched the train slide in to Waverley Station; watched a girl in an impractically short skirt try to mount the step without showing her pants (trying and failing to the cheers of the boys); watched an old lady clamber on, helped by two teenage girls in some sort of school uniform. The two slid out of the compartment, feeling like two schoolboys playing hookie, and wobbled their way to the buffet car as the train rolled and shook along the tracks.

There, they waited patiently and politely, not wishing to draw attention to themselves. In Glasgow, the previous week, they had escaped with barely enough clothing to preserve decency when they had gone to a cafe in the afternoon, after a rehearsal. It was that that finally convinced them that Chase’s promises were not just flannel, they really were the Next Big Thing. They had seen the two girls helping the old lady on, they had not noticed the other two in the same uniform at the other end of the carriage just beyond the buffet car. Now all four arrived and started to twitter. “It is you, isn’t it?”

“No, I think I’m him. I’m only me on Sundays.”

“No, but it is! You are! Are you on our train?”

“No, we are an experiment in auto-suggestion. I’m actually a fifty year old black female midget.”

Nothing would put them off. These were pupils of St Amelia Clare School; one of the more successful aspects of the school ethos was to teach self-confidence, and these girls had that and strength in numbers. These were pupils whose parents had concluded that they would get a better education, make more contacts, if they went to one of the better schools in England. St Amelia Clare, founded in 1789 as a school for Catholic girls, closed in 1856, reopened in 1862, closed in 1911 and reopened on 29th July 1914. It stayed open right through the First War, evacuated in the Second, and had gone from strength to strength since. They had caught the atmosphere of the times, girls should not just aim to marry and be housewives; they could be professional typists or clerical workers; there were even one or two MPs and doctors now, and why not? Mothers liked the idea of their daughters getting away from the drudgery of having to tell the cook what to make for dinner, Fathers liked the idea of their daughters not being a drain on their finances for ever. St Amelia Clare was a good investment.

The lime green and purple tie with the crest indicated that these were fifth former girls. Their grey felt blazers and hats with white blouse exactly matched their grey cotton pleated skirts, below which the white knee length socks and black Girls’ Oxfords finished the ensemble perfectly.

All of which was entirely lost on the two band members who had known each other through six years of attendance at John Knox Grammar. They had given up on the sixth form when they obtained a recording contract from Intergalactic Records, Dundee. That record had not done well, Tery Ibeson had left the band, and Keith Michell had been kicked out. Bear and Laclan had been persuaded that Middle European Literature and Theoretical Physics were not as exciting as playing in small sweaty clubs to a couple of girls dancing round their handbags. It had, financially at least, been a risk, but a worthwhile one.

“Where are you going?” “Are you playing somewhere?” “Can we have your autographs?” “Can we come to your gig?” “Where is dreamy Laclan?” “Is Bear as big as he looks?” “Can you really open bottles with your teeth?” “I think you’re lovely.” “Yes mate?” said a grumpy voice. The term mate was not a term of endearment.

“Eh? Oh, yeah.” They had reached the head of the queue – there was always a queue, this was Britain. “Four, no eight beers.”

“Uhh-uhh. No beer. Supplies didn’t come.”

“Cider?”

“Nope.”

“Red wine?”

“Nope.”

“Any wine? Rum? Whisky? What have you got?”

“Tea, coffee, coke.”

“Four coffees please. Four packets of crisps. Four of your finest sandwiches.”

“What type of crisps you want?”

“What have you got?”

“Plain.”

“We’ll have plain.”

“Sandwiches.”

“Yes please.”

“What sort?”

“What have you got?”

“Cheese, cheese and pickle, cheese and tomato, cheese and ham, cheese and cucumber.”

“Cheese and tomato please.”

“Only got two of them.”

“TWO cheese and tomato and two cheese and pickle.”

“Sold the last cheese and pickle five minutes ago.”

“THEN Why? ... Nevermind. Cheese, Four cheese sandwiches.”

He was one of the members of British Rail who did not regard service as an essential element of their job description. Just as he was about to pay, the on-stage silent Gerry said “Excuse us, girls, where are our manners? What will you have?” The train was pulling in to Berwick and two girls waved furiously as the buffet car stopped opposite them, they leapt on and hugs and kisses followed. The buffet man sighed and said “Are you ordering or what? I haven’t got all day.”