Chapter 52

I squeezed Julie’s waist, disengaged the arm that had been around her, and stood up from the low bed the two of us were sitting on. While the others debated what to sing next, I picked up the bottle of Mateus Rose, opened it, poured out four glasses, and handed them round.

“Fred kindly brought us a bottle as well as the guitar, so here’s to Fred!”

“Cheers!”

While I had been distracted pouring the wine, they had decided that we’d try ‘You’ll never get to Heaven’ next.

I had heard variations of this sung several times before, and was aware that there were an almost infinite number of verses - it was very popular with the Boy Scouts and Girl Guides all over the English-speaking world.

We quickly settled that Fred would sing the first line, Vee would repeat it, and Julie and I would sing the chorus. Fred strummed a few chords, nodded to Vee, and we started.

“You’ll never get to Heaven
(Oh you’ll never get to Heaven)
In an old Ford car
(in an old Ford car)
‘Cos an old Ford car
(‘cos an old Ford car)
Won’t get that far
(won’t get that far)”

“Oh you’ll never get to Heaven in an old Ford car,
‘Cos an old Ford car won’t get that far,
I ain’t gonna grieve ... my Lord no more”

“Okay, Jon and Julie, the chorus now!”

“I ain’t gonna grieve my Lord, I ain’t gonna grieve my Lord, I ain’t gonna grieve my Lord no more!”

With Vee and Fred taking turns at starting each line, we went through many more verses; I can remember some of them still:

“Oh you’ll never get to Heaven ... on a ping pong ball ‘Cos a ping pong ball ... is much too small
Oh you’ll never get to Heaven ... in a baked bean tin, ‘Cos a baked bean tin’s ... got baked beans in
Oh you’ll never get to Heaven ... in a Jumbo Jet ‘Cos the Lord aint built ... no runways yet
Oh you’ll never get to Heaven ... in a rocking chair ‘Cos the Lord don’t want ... no rockers there
Oh you’ll never get to heaven ... in a sardine tin ‘Cos the Lord don’t let ... no fishy ones in
Oh you’ll never get to Heaven ... in an apple tree ‘Cos an apple tree... ‘s got roots you see
Oh you’ll never get to Heaven ... on roller skates ‘Cos you’d roll right past ... them Pearly Gates
Oh you’ll l never get to Heaven ... in a Playtex bra ‘Cos a Playtex bra ... won’t stretch that far
Oh you’ll never get to Heaven ... with a bottle of gin ‘Cos St Peter won’t let ... no spirits in
Oh you’ll never get to Heaven ... on water skis ‘Cos the angels don’t ... like those hairy knees
Oh you’ll never get to Heaven ... with powder and paint ‘Cos it makes you look ... like what you ain’t
Oh you’ll never get to Heaven ... in a strapless gown ‘Cos a strapless gown ... might fall right down”

There were many more verses than I’ve listed here. Eventually, Fred strummed a final chord, and rested the guitar.

Once we had got our own breath back, we praised him, asking him how the heck he remembered quite so many of the verses.

“Partly practice, partly having that sort of memory, and partly cheating - why do you think I got Vee to start a few? I’m not quite as green as I am cabbage looking!”

We laughed. The lad had a real sense of humour, and didn’t take himself too seriously. I could get to like him!

Fred was the lucky owner of a very pleasant singing voice, but it was Vee who had really surprised me.

I suppose that I had always known that she could sing pretty well; she quite often sang to herself when she was happy, but I hadn’t the slightest idea that she could so easily combine her voice with Fred’s and sing harmonies around the tune.

I complimented her on her voice. She smiled shyly; still a little unused to receiving praise. I had long had a feeling that she’d had more kicks than pence from her family, and so I tried to take every opportunity I had to make her feel better about herself.

“It’s my Chapel upbringing! I could sing hymns before I could talk, or so Mam told me. They weren’t too keen on having girls in the choir, but we sang a lot at Sunday School, and of course at normal school as well.”

It seemed to be a peculiarly Welsh passion, the Male Voice Choir. I learned later that it was a 19^th Century Non-Conformist tradition, the tenor-bass choir that led the congregation in the hymns, that developed into an important mode of expressing the Welsh political and language identity. And, of course, if you’ve ever heard the Arms Park in full throat, you’ll know the almost magical power of communal singing.

I decided it was time for a request. “Do you know ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane’, Fred?”

“Yeah, of course. Everyone does! John Denver.”

John Denver? “I thought it was by Peter, Paul and Mary?”

“Nah, mate, they did a later cover.”

As Vee and Fred both agreed that the song was first performed by John Denver, I capitulated, sat back and enjoyed hearing it again.

“All my bags are packed, I’m ready to go, I’m standing here outside your door,
I hate to wake you up to say good-bye.
But the dawn is breaking, it’s early morn, the taxi’s waiting, he’s blowing his horn.
Already I’m so lonesome I could die.
So kiss me and smile for me, tell me that you’ll wait for me, hold me like you’ll never let me go.
‘Cause I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again. Oh, babe, I hate to go.”

“There’s so many times I’ve let you down, so many times I’ve played around,
I tell you now they don’t mean a thing.
Every place I go I’ll think of you, every song I sing I’ll sing for you, when I come back, I’ll bring your wedding ring.
So kiss me and smile for me, tell me that you’ll wait for me, hold me like you’ll never let me go.
‘Cause I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again. Oh, babe, I hate to go.”

“Now the time has come to leave you, one more time let me kiss you, then close your eyes, and I’ll be on my way.
Dream about the days to come when I won’t have to leave alone, about the times I won’t have to say:
Kiss me and smile for me, tell me that you’ll wait for me, hold me like you’ll never let me go.
‘Cause I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again. Oh, babe, I hate to go.
I’m leaving on a jet plane, don’t know when I’ll be back again. Oh, babe, I hate to go.”

We were all quiet for a moment, and then I thanked Fred.

That song summed up what I felt every time I had to leave Julie. I’d been really reluctant to be away from her for most of the previous summer, even though we could talk on the telephone and write, and now, a year later, I’d got so used to being with her that I wouldn’t have taken the summer job if she couldn’t have been with me. For the same reason, I had promised myself that whenever I went home for a weekend to see my parents, I’d take Julie with me. I didn’t want any separation; I was at my happiest when I was with her.

A few days earlier, I’d been walking home from the laboratory when I’d seen a huge flight of geese overhead, heading for the shallow waters and feeding grounds of the Severn Estuary. Do you know, I was more disappointed that Julie hadn’t seen them, than I was delighted to have enjoyed the spectacle myself? That’s how I felt about her.