'What about... Kim Novak? Or... Gina Lollo-- Lollobrigida, however you say it. She's gorgeous. Those fuckin' tits, eh?!'

It didn't matter which way George turned, it hurt. Lying on his side made his hip hurt with a weirdly sharp pain. On his back was marginally better, but the cold hardness of the stone still seeped into his spine and echoed all around his body until he ached with it.

'Gina, George. Wouldn't you love to shag her?'

But at least on his back he could watch the sky. It was a deep, dark navy scattered with bright pinpricks of stars that stretched on into eternity. It was startling how much you could see out in the countryside compared to the city. Back in Liverpool, the night sky was just a solid black expanse. It was hypnotic, in a way. If he stared deep into it, it eventually gave him a sensation of vertigo, like he was moving towards it.

'George? Are you listening?'

'Hmm?'

'I said Gina Lollo-- Have you already..?'

'What?'

'You haven't... finished already, have you?'

George shifted and took his hand from inside the waistband of his jeans. 'No,' he said. 'It's not working. It's too bloody cold.'

And add to that, his jeans were too tight to get a proper hold on anything down there. No room to get a grip, never mind a stroke, but he's not taking them off. Not even undoing the button on the waistband. It's August, but it's freezing. It's been like this the last couple of nights. Warm and sunny during the day, but like December when the sun goes down. George is still wearing his jeans beneath his rag of a blanket in an attempt to stave off hyperthermia. Jeans, and his shoes, toes cramped in there because he's got two pairs of socks on, as well as a vest, a shirt and two jumpers under his jacket, but still the cold invades every ounce of him.

'It's so fucking cold, Paul. I think we're going to die out here.'

Lying somewhere behind him, with his head near George's, Paul sighed. 'We should have saved some money.'

'Well, we didn't.'

'We could have got a B and B. At least a hostel or something.' Paul shifted and raised his head but George refused to look at him. 'Salvation Army mission maybe.'

'But we didn't.'

'Salvation Army, George.'

'We didn't save enough money for there either,' George said, deliberately ignoring Paul's meaning.

'I know we didn't. I'm just saying we should have.' Paul lay down again.

'So what's the point in that? We didn't. We spent it at that pub last night and now it's gone. You can't... wish it back.'

'We should have been more careful.'

George huffed, annoyed. 'If you'd got up earlier this morning, we might have made it home today.'

'That's nothing to do with it, an' you know it.'

'I don't.'

'No one was picking up today. They took one look at your ugly mug and drove on by. Standing on the hard shoulder half an hour earlier wouldn't have made any difference.'

'It might have. I'll be late now.'

'Late for what?'

'Gig. Tomorrow night. I'm supposed to be playing with Les Stewart.'

'We'll be back in time for that.'

'Not if it's anything like today. Besides, I'm not getting to sleep out here. I'll be too fucking knackered by the time we get home to play a fucking note.'

Fucking.

Fuck.

There was a sense of liberation, being away from home. No one told him what to do. No one nagged him about getting a job or sitting an exam. He could do what he wanted, when he wanted. He could swear as much as he liked. He could say fuckin' knackered and fuck that and no one would tut and say, Language, George. He can drink in pubs til closing time - so long as they find one willing to serve them - and he can stay up all night if he wants.

Except that's not what he wants. He wants to go to sleep but there's fat chance of that. And right now, George would trade all of his new found liberation for his old bed and warm blankets in the narrow bedroom that he shares with his brother, Pete.

'I'm not gonna sleep a fucking wink tonight.'

'Ahh, have a wank and shut the hell up,' Paul snapped and a resentful silence settled over them.

It wasn't Paul's fault. George kept making out like it was, but it wasn't. They'd spent the money together. They knew they should have saved some, but the plan was to get home today, so it shouldn't have mattered. Last night they'd stayed in a room over a pub. It was squalid and dirty, but the Ritz compared to this. The pub was cheap and willing to serve two underage lads so long as they kept paying. They'd spent the last of the money Paul's cousin had given them to get back home with the intention of cadging a lift to Liverpool today. It hadn't worked out. Maybe because they looked rough as fuck with the first proper hangover George ever remembered having, but no one would pick them up.

Eventually a lorry driver took them as far as Uttoxeter and they'd walked a little further after, but there wasn't a hope of them reaching Liverpool by nightfall. When they'd tired of walking, hungry and cold, Paul had suggested they ask at a police station if they could sleep in one of the cells. That was met with a resounding no, but the desk sergeant had told them to go to a nearby football ground and sleep there. Which they'd done, and found a choice of wooden benches too narrow to lie down on, or stone terraces under the grandstand for a bed.

'I can't sleep,' George said, arching his back and turning onto his side. 'I can't sleep here. It's too uncomfortable.'

'Where do you want to go then?'

Home to Liverpool, obviously, but George sensed that was a rhetorical question. 'Maybe we should look for somewhere else?'

His was a serious question but Paul ignored it, pissed off with George now. They lay in silence again for ten minutes and George closed his eyes in a sincere attempt to fall asleep. Even if he could manage to drift off for just a little while, it would pass some time until they could get up and get on their way again.

But it was no use. He was as no closer to falling asleep than he was when they first lay down in their makeshift camp beds on the football terraces. He rolled onto his back again.

'It's too fucking cold,' he said, loudly.

No reply. George listened but he couldn't tell if Paul was actually asleep or if he was pretending. However, if George couldn't sleep, he was damned if he was going to let Paul.

'Paul?'

Nothing.

'Paul.'

'What?' he snapped.

'It's too fucking cold.'

'Well, I've told you what to do.'

'I can't do it. Not like this.'

'So what? Do you want me to do it for you or somethin'?'

'Fuck off. Queer.'

Paul laughed and although he couldn't see him, George smiled.

'Honest, George, it works. Have a tug and then you'll be able to fall asleep.'

'It's too cold to get it... hard, that.'

'It'll warm you up too.'

George sighed and squeezed his hand back into the front of his jeans and into his underpants. 'Go 'ed then.'

'What?'

'Carry on.'

Paul sniggered. 'I went last. You go.'

'Who'd you say?'

'Gina Lollobrigida. Great tits.'

'Yeah.'

'What do you think they feel like? Her tits.'

'Nice.'

'Just nice?!'

'Soft, like.'

'They look kinda pointy...'

'They're not pointy. Tits aren't pointy. That's just her bra.'

'Expert on bras, are you?'

'More expert than you are, clearly.'

'Shame you're not so much of an expert on tits then. You felt a real one yet?'

'Course I have,' George said sharply, and it was only half a lie. He had. Kind of. Under a shirt, over the bra.

'Not done it yet though, have you?' Paul said, gloating, because he knows George has never done it. Paul has, last year, and he never misses a chance to remind George, like it's some sort of achievement. He had a girlfriend, briefly, who'd let him shag her when she was babysitting, but that ended and George didn't think he'd done it since. Paul would have let him know about it if he had.

'Are we talking about the birds or about me?' George replied.

'It's your turn.'

George sighed and tightened his grip on himself because it still wasn't working. He wasn't even halfway hard. He couldn't get into the mood, especially if Paul was going to rib him about what he had or hadn't done.

Della did that sometimes, or at least she used to.

She didn't do it to gloat and brag like Paul though. She asked like she was measuring something. Comparing. Although, since she got a boyfriend, she didn't talk to George about that sort of thing anymore. Maybe she doesn't need to. Maybe she's doing it herself now. Doing it, regularly. She was always with Boris and maybe that was why. They'd have to go to Jim's house. George didn't know where Jim lived, but there's no way they'd be able to do it at Della's with Alan hanging around all the time.

He frowned. Surely she wouldn't have sex with that moron, would she?

'George?'

'I can't think of anyone.'

'No one? In the whole world?'

'I can't picture them. It's too cold to concentrate.'

Paul sighed. 'Okay, what about real girls then?'

'They're all real girls, aren't they?'

'I mean like ones we know.'

'Like... Salvation Army girls?'

'Yes,' Paul said, gleefully. 'Like them.'

A few nights ago, they'd met two girls in Salvation Army uniforms; long skirts and funny little bonnets that tied under their chins with a bow, but they'd looked sexy in them, just the same.

They'd been older than George and Paul, but Paul had lied and said he was nineteen and for once didn't reveal George's age, saying he was eighteen too. They were called Eileen and Betty, although George couldn't quite remember which was which. He thought his girl was Eileen, but Paul said Eileen was his. In any case, they'd chatted them up and the girls seemed to like them.

They'd shared some of the canned spag bol, warmed up over their little meths fueled camp stove and then the girls had stayed with them, cuddled under their respective blankets. They shared a couple of kisses and then George had lain behind his bird, hugging his arm around her stomach like when he used to share a bed with Della, but he hadn't dared do anything else. He didn't dare to touch her. Paul and his girl were under a blanket a short distance away. They seemed to be moving around a lot more than George and Eileen ...Or had she been Betty?

'Did you get anywhere with yours?' Paul asked.

'Not really. Did you?'

'Nah, she kept saying it was too cold. Bit like you.'

George laughed.

They'd been camping on a beach that night, but it turned out that sand was as hard as concrete when you'd lain on it for long enough and the girls had eventually given it up and left. They'd looked for them the next day but hadn't been able to find them again, which was a pity. George wouldn't mind if they were here now. At least it'd be another warm body to lie next to, even if he didn't dare do anything else.

'Who else?' Paul asked.

'What?'

'What other girls do you like?'

'Doreen is alright.'

'Who's Doreen?'

'I don't know her surname. Pretty and quite tall. Blonde, but she dyes it. She's a barmaid at the Black Bull pub.'

'Oh yeah, I know the one you mean. She's not a girl, George. She's a woman...'

George chuckled and Paul went on talking about some other girls, but George had his eyes closed, still thinking about Doreen and the plunging V-neck dresses she always wore and it was finally working...

'Cathy Dobbs, you know her?' Paul said.

'Mmm...'

'She's beautiful.'

'Yeah...'

'What's Ruth like?'

George opened his eyes. 'Not Ruth.'

'Alright. Sorry. Sylvia, then.'

'Yeah. Sylvia's fucking gorgeous.'

'I'd give anything to shag her.'

'Judith Thompson.'

'Ooh, yeah... What about Suzie?'

'Suzie Collins or Suzie McCarthy?'

'Fuck, does it matter?'

George laughed.

'Della,' Paul said.

'Not... Not Della.'

'Why not Della? Don't you fancy her? She's got a good rack. As good as Gina's...'

'What?'

'Tits, George. Della's got great tits. You can't say you've never looked.'

'Shut up about Della.'

'Shit, George. Not Ruth, not Della. How many girlfriends have you got?'

'Della's not my girlfriend.'

'What is she then?'

'What?'

'To you, I mean. Is she your cousin or something?'

'No.'

'What then?'

'Just a... She's my neighbour. She lives on Upton Green. You know that.'

'That's all? We can talk about neighbours!'

'No. She's my...'

'What?'

'I don't know. She's a friend of mine.'

'Why does that mean we can't talk about her?'

'She has a boyfriend.'

'So what? Sylvia has a boyfriend. Or two. Doreen's probably married.'

George didn't reply. Talking about Della gave him a funny feeling.

'Della's different.'

'Have you done anything with her?' Paul persisted.

'Ruth is my girlfriend.'

'Yeah, but you've known Della longer. Hasn't there ever been... anything... over the years?'

George paused. 'No.'

'Never kissed her or..?'

'No.'

'Nothing?'

'Nothing.'

'So you were lying before then.'

George pulled his hand out and sat up to twist around to Paul. Paul was lying in his camp bed, covered by the better of their two blankets, with that argumentative look on his face that he got sometimes.

'What are you talking about?' George said. 'I've never said I've done anything with Della.'

'You told John you'd slept with her, but I knew that was a lie, Hazza, because you've never done it at all, have you?'

'I never said I'd...'

George stopped as he remembered the conversation Paul was referring to. It was a while ago. Paul must have been storing up that one. Over a year, before John's mum. They hadn't seen as much of John since his mum had died. There hadn't been many gigs. They used to bunk off school and go to Julia's house on an afternoon to play records and talk about girls and mess around with guitars, until George plugged the pickup of his guitar through the radiogram and blew the speaker.

It was during one of those afternoons that John had been quizzing George about his relationship with Della in a similar manner to Paul, and yeah, George may have been vague and misleading in his answers, but they'd been pissing him off with it. Why was it so hard to understand that George and Della were friends? Couldn't a lad be friends with a girl without there being anything else to it? Or were they just sounding him out? Did they all fancy Della and they were trying to suss out if George would object if one of them tried to pull her?

Did he care if one of them pulled her?

'I said I'd shared a bed with her. I didn't say I'd shagged her,' George said dismissively, and lay down again.

'So you've slept in the same bed?'

'Yes.'

'You just said she wasn't your girlfriend'

'She's not.'

'So when then?' Paul asked, skeptically. 'When have you shared a bed with a girl like that?'

'Hundreds of times.'

'Bollocks.'

'When we were kids,' George eventually clarified.

'Oh, well, that's hardly the same thing. I've shared a bed with Mike. So what?'

'Della's not my sister though.'

Paul pffft-ed, disdainful, disbelieving, and for some reason that annoyed George more than anything.

'I still do now,' he said, belligerently.

'Now?'

'Yeah.'

'You still sleep in the same bed now?'

'That's what I just said, wasn't it? Della's mam works nights sometimes and Della doesn't like being in the house alone with her mam's boyfriend, so she stays at ours instead and... she sleeps in my bed with me.'

Apart from that was only a half-truth. He'd not shared a bed or much else with Della recently. Probably only a couple of times in the last year, since Alan started complaining to George's mother about how close George and Della were, now they were getting older. Even he didn't think George and Della could just be friends.

'Why?'

'Why what?'

'Why does she sleep in your bed? Why wouldn't she sleep somewhere else?'

'I don't know. We've just always done it, since we were little kids.'

Paul seemed to accept that. He went quiet. George watched the sky and wondered where Della was. Friday night. No idea of the time but probably after midnight. She'd be at home then. Her mam would probably be working and it'd just be Della and Alan in the house. She wouldn't go round to theirs if George wasn't home.

He wondered if Della wished she was with George right now. He wished he was with her. He wished she was lying next to him.

'So, what's... What's it like?' Paul asked, a little meekly. 'Sharing a bed with a girl.'

George smiled to himself. Finally there was subject that he was more of an authority on than Paul. 'It's alright,' he said, coolly.

'Only alright?'

'It's better than sharing with your brother. Girls are... They smell nice and they feel soft. Their skin is all soft and warm.' He said girls, but he only had a frame of reference of one. Just Della.

'Don't you ever get tempted to... you know.'

'What?'

'Take it further.'

He considered lying and saying they had done stuff, like he suspected Paul would if it was the shoe was on the other foot, but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

'Not really. It's not like that.'

'Do you... What if you get a throbber? Don't you ever get one, lying next to her like that?'

George hesitated. 'Sometimes...'

'What do you do then?'

'Well, I just kinda... move away from her so she won't notice.'

Paul laughed. 'Shit, George, you would!' he said, a little meanly and George regretted telling him. 'I don't know how you can stand it. Fuck, I wouldn't get a minutes sleep, being in bed with her.'

'Change the subject,' George said dully, and perhaps Paul felt bad for that last comment because he didn't reply.

In the distance, there was a rumble of traffic on the main road which ran past the town; late night lorry drivers delivering things like newspapers or milk or fruit and veg that would need to be on sale first thing in the morning. Maybe they should have kept walking. Perhaps they could have hitched through the night.

'Paul, are you still...'

What?'

'You know.'

'No. Like you said, it's too cold.'

'Why don't you come and lie here then?'

'Next to you?'

'Yeah. For warmth, that. Otherwise neither of us are going to get any sleep.'

'Now who's the queer?' Paul said, but he was already getting up and dragging his things over to him.

He brought his blanket and the pillow that Paul had thought to bring with him on holiday. George had been using his lumpy kitbag for a pillow all week. They spread the two blankets over them both and without it being spoken aloud, Paul let George share his pillow as they lay on their sides, close to each other.

Paul was warm and to a degree, it was comforting to have something living and breathing next to you, but he wasn't Della. It wasn't that same as when George slept next to Della, though it did confirm one thing. After spending the night huddled against Paul's back, George knew he definitely wasn't queer.

George whistled to himself as he crossed the oval expanse of grass that lay in between his and Della's houses. The Green of Upton Green with its three spindles of young Ash trees in the centre. Two council workers were sprawled on the grass trying to fix an old fashioned lawn mower; one of them poked inside it with his finger, swore when he cut it on the blade there and shouted at the other one for not helping him. As they started to argue, George tried not to laugh.

That could have been George if he'd passed the Liverpool Corporations exam, though he would have been fixing buses and trucks and probably not lawn mowers. It would have been a prison sentence. If he'd passed, he would have been rewarded with a five year apprenticeship, due to graduate fully qualified in the summer of 1964. That seemed an impossibly long time in the future.

It'd been a lucky escape, albeit a humiliating one. George's dad had given him a look like he suspected George of flunking it on purpose when he told him of his disgraceful result. 'And you an Institute lad,' he'd said. George hadn't failed on purpose. There had been a lot of maths on there. Maths had never been his strong suite.

When George's parents had given George a spanner and tool set for Christmas last year, his heart had sunk with the realisation - Oh God, Dad really wants me to do this. He wanted George to "get a trade". Pete had "a trade". So did Harry, and no son of Harold Hargreaves Harrison was going to be a layabout all his life.

Currently it was a battle of wills. His dad's will that George find himself a vocation and George's assertion that he didn't. He'd thought about emigrating to Malta briefly. He'd seen pictures of it in a travel brochure; hot and sunny and about as far removed from Liverpool as it was possible to be. He'd even gone as far as getting the papers to apply, but he would have needed parental permission to do it. He didn't bother asking.

He'd managed to swerve doing anything while he was making a couple of bob playing with the Les Stewart Quartet. He'd dutifully handed a portion of his earnings over to his mother for his 'keep', even though he'd had to borrow it back a couple of days later. But as the band had fallen apart now, George's argument was growing weaker by the day.

Still, there was a job at hand today. George had to agree with his dad on one thing. He did prefer it when he was busy, when he had something to do with his day. They had less than a week to put a band together and get the Casbah looking right for opening night. The Les Stewart Quartet had been arranged to play, until Les Stewart of the Les Stewart Quartet objected. Or, George suspected, his girlfriend did. There had been a row. Ken had missed a rehearsal because he was painting the Casbah walls. George had missed a gig when he and Paul arrived back in Liverpool late last Saturday night, just in time for the end of it. It was more about Ken and Les, but George thought he was being an idiot. They were promised a - paid - residency if the band went down well. He'd sided with Ken and the band had split.

But Ken and George couldn't do the gig as a duo. Neither would George want to. He knew Ken through the band but they weren't really mates. They could do a couple of songs each, but they'd need help to put a show on. George had called John and Paul last night. They were keen. They'd come and help paint today and George was on his way to ask Della if she'd lend a hand too. With a group of them, they might just get it ready in time.

George slipped down the narrow passage that ran along the side of number seven and let himself through the tall wooden gate into Della's back garden. As he'd done every time since he'd grown tall enough to reach the handle, he gave a cursory rap of his knuckle against the glass pane in the kitchen door and opened it without waiting for an invitation.

He expected to find Della's mother in there, doing her weekly cook. Monday's were her day off and she'd always cook food for Della and Alan to see them through the rest of the week when she was working nights. He expected Della's mother to be stood by the stove, two or three pots on the go, and maybe he'd expect Alan to be sitting at the table, currently "in between" jobs again and checking the trade ads in the Liverpool Echo.

He didn't expect to find Alan holding Della's mother against the kitchen sink, his face in her ample bosom, the skirt of her dress hitched up to her waist and his hand down - well, never mind where that was.

They separated like they'd been scalded with boiling water and Alan barked, 'Can't you bleedin' knock?!' as George stood there, hand still on the door handle, frozen by surprise.

'Sorry,' George mumbled. 'I, uh... I did...'

'You're supposed to wait for a bloody reply,' Alan said.

He released Della's mother and sat down heavily at the kitchen table, opening a newspaper, dropping his head down. George thought he could see his cheeks reddening.

'Don't mind him, love,' Della's mother said as she straightened her skirt. 'Are you looking for Della? You've just missed her. She went out with Jim two minutes ago. They're going to get the bus into town. If you hurry, you might be able to catch her.' Despite telling him this, she crossed behind him, took his hand off the door and gave him a small push into the middle of the kitchen so she could close it behind him.

Della's mother wasn't like any of his other friends mothers. She was a lot younger than any of them. Della was an only child and her mother had been eighteen when Della was born. Alan was younger again. George wasn't sure how old he was. A little younger than Della's mother. Maybe a couple of years or so older than Harry, George's eldest brother.

'Right, uh, ta, Mrs Milton,' George said, finding his voice again. 'I'll see if I can.' He took a step forward, towards the door, but she didn't move to let him past.

'Look at you, Georgie. Look how tall you are now,' she cooed and moved into him, putting her hand palm flat on his chest. George stiffened. 'I can't believe you and my little girl are sixteen already! Nearly full grown adults! Makes you feel old, doesn't it, Al?'

Alan ignored her, his eyes never leaving the newspaper.

'You're a young man now, George. Not a boy anymore.' She patted his chest and smiled up at him. She was shorter than George, shorter than Della too.

'Um, yeah, suppose... I'd better go, see if I can find Della.' George looked down at her and then his eyes drifted a little further. The top buttons of her blouse had been left undone.

'You shouldn't call me Mrs Milton. You're old enough now to call me Evelyn.' She took a sideways glance at Alan, still ignoring her. 'For one thing, I'm not married.'

George smiled, bashfully. 'Okay.'

'Go on then.'

'What?'

'Call me Evelyn.'

He blinked at her. 'Evelyn.'

She laughed.

'Let the poor lad go, Evie,' Alan said.

'We're just talking. That's alright, isn't it, Georgie?'

'Um, yeah. Of course.'

'I can talk to George if I want to.'

Alan glanced up at George. 'Ignore her, la. She's in a stupid mood today.' He dodged as Evelyn moved to swat his ear with the back of her hand and caught her by her wrist instead.

'Ow,' said Evelyn as she tried to pull her hand from his grip.

'Della went out the back. She might still be at bus stop if you're quick,' Alan said and put his other hand over Evelyn's.

'Righty-ho, thanks,' George said, and took the opportunity to escape as Evelyn continued to try to wrestle herself free.

He pulled the door closed behind him and clamped his hand over his mouth to keep himself from bursting into laughter until he got out of the yard. He wasn't too sure whether he should tell Della about walking in on that. He wasn't sure how she'd take it.

The passage that ran past Della's went all the way through to Upton Close, a triangle of houses behind Upton Green. There was a short cut down the jigger that brought you out on Little Heath Road and directly beside the bus stop. It was the route Della would have taken, so it was the route George took too. George turned the corner and stopped.

They must be putting something in the water lately, because Della and Jim were at it back here as well. Not quite like Evelyn and Alan, Della and Jim were just kissing. Snogging, with him holding her against the back wall of someone's garden. George couldn't see Della's face for the bulk of Jim's body. It didn't really look all that enjoyable; it looked like he was trying to smother her with his mouth while he mauled her breasts with his pudgy fingers through the fabric of her top.

Bloody hell, mate, let the girl up for air.

They hadn't noticed him arrive. He thought about interrupting but it was a little awkward to do so. Should he say something? Cough subtly? Tap Jim on the shoulder and say, 'Excuse me, may I cut in?'

That was a weird thought.

But he didn't think Della would like George to interrupt them. She'd probably be embarrassed and then she might get angry with him, so George waited instead. He loitered on the corner of the jigger, so he could make it look like he'd just arrived when there was a suitable break in their activities. Which didn't appear likely anytime soon. In fact, it seemed to be getting worse. Jim pushed Della back against the wall, keeping her there with his body and rolling his hips against her.

As George watched, his curiosity and amusement changed into something else. Jim moved and George could see Della's face; her eyes closed, her hair tousled, her lips full and flushed from the kissing. She gasped sharply and made a small sound that George had never heard from Della before. Jim started inching the skirt of Della's dress upwards, and George knew he should leave. He should look away at least, but he seemed unable to.

Jim got his hand underneath the hem of her skirt, caressing her thigh and reaching upwards when Della snatched herself away from him.

'I said no,' she snapped.

'Come on...' Jim whined.

'No!' Della reiterated and shoved him away from her roughly, nearly stumbling as she freed herself from where he had her trapped against the wall. She righted herself and marched off in the direction of the main road and the bus stop.

'Della, come... For fuck's sake! Della--!' Jim shouted after her and then followed.

George stood ambivalent. Should he have done something then? Should he have helped Della somehow? She didn't look like she needed his help particularly.

He took a step to follow them, then changed his mind and doubled back the way he came, headed back to his own house. He felt odd about what he'd just witnessed. He couldn't name the emotion, but it was bringing on an irrational anger with it, bubbling up inside him, hot and bitter. He had only come over to tell her he was home and to ask if she wanted to lend a hand with painting the Casbah. She must have known he'd be back by now. She could have come to find him instead and then he wouldn't have had to see that. Why were they doing that in the jigger? He shouldn't feel guilty for watching because if Della did that in the bloody street then what else did she expect?

He wouldn't ask her to come and paint. He wouldn't even tell her about the gig. It seemed pathetic now. Childish and silly to think she'd be interested. No wonder he'd hardly seen her in weeks. It appeared Della was busy with her own life. She had much better things to do than hang around with George these days.

'No,' John said, still bent over his guitar case, struggling with the zip. 'The beers are for after.'

'It's not for me,' George said, leaning over with him, keeping his voice low, although it was so packed in here now, there was no way anyone would hear them talking over the din.

'Who for then?'

'For Della.' George's guitar hung heavy around his neck. He put his hands over it's sleek body and lifted it up.

'Della can buy her bleedin' own.'

'Not here she can't. It's for her to give to Jim so she can stay and watch us play. Otherwise he'll want to leave.'

John turned his head to him. 'Who the hell is Jim?'

'Her fella.'

John straightened up. 'No, George. I've only got four. That's one each.'

George shrugged and John huffed.

'That's yours then. You won't have one. Me, Paul and whatsizname will be having a beer after the gig. You won't.'

'Fine.'

Pursing his lips, John went into the bag he brought along with his guitar and produced a brown bottle, knocking the cap off on the back of the chair. He passed it to George. It was warm already.

George took it back to where Della waited by the side of the stage. 'Give him that,' he said. 'That's all we've got.'

'Give it to Jim?' she said, taking the beer bottle and looking at it like she didn't know what it was.

'Who'd you think? Then he'll stay, won't he? And... so can you.'

He turned his back on her. That's all he was going to do. He wasn't going to ask her to stay and watch him play. He wasn't going to appear like he cared if she did or she didn't. It was up to Della, wasn't it?

George took his guitar over to Ken's amp, plugging it in. Paul appeared next to him. He looked around furtively, then turned down Ken's guitar and turned George's up. He gave him a wink and George laughed.

The Rainbow Room, named for the multicoloured stripes Paul had painted across the ceiling, was filling up alarmingly quickly, with people squeezing into any available inch of space now the band were about to begin. When George turned around again, Della had moved to the back of the room. She looked back, as if she knew George was watching her, and George gave her a smile before she disappeared into the corridor beyond.

Della had never even been to one of his shows, and frankly the fact she was here now was slightly unbelieveable. He'd played guitar in front of her before, but only on his own, and tootling around with it never gave a true impression of his musicianship. But he wanted her to see him play. He wanted her to know that he was good at it. It was one of the few things he truly was good at.

Although he knew she was joking when she teased him, it still irked George when Della undermined his guitar playing. He was usually the youngest in the bands he played with and she took the piss, but the reason he had ended up playing with older lads was because he was good.

'What else are we going to call ourselves?' John said, as he and Ken joined Paul and George. 'We can hardly go on as the Les Stewart Quartet, can we?'

Ken sat down on the wooden chair in the corner, lifting his guitar onto his lap. 'I never went to Quarrybank.'

'Neither did George. Neither did Paul.'

Ken pursed his lips, head bowed over the strings of his guitar, not happy but, George knew, with little other choice. What did it matter anyway? Lack of inspiration for a new band name had led them back to The Quarrymen. A while ago they'd briefly been "Japage 3" - a combination of John and Paul and George, but they didn't fancy calling themselves Japageken. Besides, Ken was an alright bloke, but it didn't feel like he was one of them. Not really.

Ken sucked in a lungful of air and let it out slowly. 'Fine,' he said, defeated. 'Call it that.'

Paul and John ignored him anyway. They were already discussing, or arguing over, the running order. They had no proper PA and no drummer. Just the four of them, all on guitars. They'd had only one rehearsal - yesterday afternoon - and other than that, they hadn't played together properly since January. This could sound a mess.

'George!' Ruth called and George turned to find her shoving her way through the front line. It was so crowded now, she had to stand on the stage next to him.

'You got done in time then,' George said and idly strummed a chord, jumping in surprise when it reverberated from the amp behind him unexpectedly loud.

He laughed. 'That was a bit--'

Before he could finish, Ruth grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him to her and pressed her lips against his. She kissed him, passionately, wantonly and sloppily, as George hadn't been expecting it, and their mouths had met at awkward position, not quite full on. Ruth had been his girlfriend for six months; the longest he'd ever had an official girlfriend. They went to places together, they held hands and their kisses were usually chaste, sweet and unadventurous, so it took him a good ten seconds to come to his senses and kiss her back.

The kiss ended as abruptly as it started and she let him go, glancing around her as if she was searching for something.

'What was that?' George asked, his voice low.

'What?' she replied, brusquely. 'Can't I kiss my own boyfriend when I want to?'

She seemed to want an answer so George nodded.

'There's a lot of people here,' she said, scanning the crowd again. 'Lots of... people. Even Della is here.'

'Uh, yeah, I've seen her already...'

Ruth turned her head to him, frowning, but then forced herself to straightened her expression and smile. 'Right, well, good luck. Break a leg, isn't that what they say?'

'I don't know,' George replied, but Ruth had already stepped off the stage and was trying to fit into a gap by the wood panel wall.

George looked around to find Paul and John watching them with mocking, dopey grins on their faces.

'Ready, Casanova?' Paul asked, his Zenith guitar in his hands - upside down as it'd been restrung to play left-handed.

'Yeah,' George said, gruffly, and cursed himself silently because he could feel a heat glowing in his cheeks, which was more embarrassing than them all watching Ruth kiss him like that. What had she done that for?

John stepped up to the front. 'Hi everyone. Welcome to the Casbah. We're The Quarrymen and we're gonna play you some rock and roll..!'

This was the only part they'd rehearsed to their satisfaction. The intro. John introduced them and Paul launched into Long Tall Sally. A little cheer went up, and even a few whistles. John and George exchanged a look; a sly, knowing smile on John's lips. They both looked for Paul too, but he had his eyes screwed tightly shut in concentration as he delivered his best Little Richard.

They raced through Long Tall Sally, encouraged by the crowd clapping and singing along. Perhaps it didn't matter if they didn't have a drummer. The rhythm really was in the guitars.

Emboldened, they went straight into Three Cool Cats without a pause. It was a Quarrymen classic. They were ropey to start with, but they got into the swing of it by the middle, hamming it up, and the crowd seemed to love it until some bloke standing near to John started laughing raucously at him and John stopped singing to say, 'Belt up, la!' The song broke down after that.

No matter though, because they were onto their next tune, and another couple after that. The audience clapped and cheered at the end of each song and it was going well. Ken, still on his chair in the corner, frowned at George and mouthed something he didn't understand, shaking his head. George sat on a chair opposite him, his back to the audience and attempted to guide him. George's guitar was louder, so it wasn't that noticeable if Ken wasn't as good, for the audience at least. George couldn't tell if Ken noticed.

Mid way through the set, Ken stood up to sing his song; one he'd performed previously with Les Stewart, and the only one he knew all the words to - so he said. I'll Be With You In Apple Blossom Time. It was an old Andrews Sisters song; rather slow for a rock and roll set, but while Ken stood at the front to sing it, George, John and Paul sat on the chairs behind him and added little riffs to rock it up.

After Ken, it was George's number, Roll Over Beethoven. As he stepped to the front of the stage, he found Della in the audience. She'd squeezed into a tiny space at the side of the room. George dropped his head to play the opening riff.

'Well I'm-a write a little letter, I'm gonna mail it to my local DJ--'

He stole a peek at Della. She noticed him looking and waved at him, grinning. George gave her a wink. He hadn't told her he sang one or two as well.

He nearly told her she looked nice earlier, but had stopped himself. She'd have only laughed if he said something like that to her. She wore a knee length triangle of a skirt with a black, high neck jumper tucked into it. It fit her well. Paul was right, Della did have a good rack.

She was alone but still had the beer bottle grasped in both hands in front of her chest. Maybe Jim had left. She took tiny, tentative sips from it every now and then, glancing around her like she expected someone to scold her for it.

The song ended and Della cheered for him. He gave her a short nod but Ruth appeared in front of him, putting herself in between Della and George. Was Ruth jealous? If she was, George didn't know why. Della had a 20 year old boyfriend and a full time job. She took the piss out of George's terrible exam results and ribbed him about his guitar playing. She'd never bothered coming to any of his shows before. It was quite obvious that Della couldn't be less interested in George.

Ruth spoke, but George didn't catch what she said. John had already started the next song. He gave her a small smile and dropped his head down, looking over his guitar like he was concentrating.

Ruth was appreciative of his guitar skills. Maybe too much so. She was undoubtedly his number one fan and that was probably the reason he'd asked her out. Ruth was always telling him how good he was, to the point that it embarrassed George, especially if she said it in front of the other guitarists.

Somewhere in between Della and Ruth, that would be perfect.

'Now, for our last song, of this, uh, half of the show,' Paul told the audience at the end of the song, his words and sentences coming in short bursts. Winging it. Trying to sound professional and failing, but the audience actually gave a small groan of disappointment when he said it. Paul glanced around his bandmates, eyes alive with excitement.

'We'll be back in half an hour,' Paul promised.

'And every Saturday night,' John added, confidently. Overly confident as they'd not been offered the regular gig yet. But they'd gone down a storm, surely it had to be in the bag?

'So, we'd uh, like to do a Buddy Holly number--'

That was met with a little applause. It was still raw about Buddy. George lifted his head to see what expression Della had on her face. Buddy Holly was her favourite. He'd died three days after her sixteenth birthday, eight months ago, and Della had cried for days, inconsolable. Even now she got a little tearful if it came up in conversation.

But George can't see Della's expression for Jim's wide back, blocking his view as he stood in front of her. That idiot is still here then.

'That'll Be The Day!' Paul announced and stepped back.

George played the opening and John took the vocal. The song didn't sound a hundred percent correct on his new Futurama, but it was a good lookalike, if not soundalike, for a Fender guitar. It was the closest he was getting to one this side of the Atlantic. They were so expensive, the music shops in Liverpool didn't bother to stock them. Buddy Holly had played a Fender Stratocaster. It'd been a country music guitar before then, but now it was one of - if not the - Rock and Roll guitars. The Futurama wasn't bad - it sounded better than his Hofner - but the sound still wasn't quite right. Not quite the American sound George was searching for.

As the song reached the middle, George went to the front of the stage for the solo. He played an extra long version he'd been practicing, ignoring the questioning looks from his bandmates. They didn't rehearse it like that and he hadn't told them he was going to do it, but that was because the idea had only just occurred to him. That would show Della, wouldn't it? Her favourite song. It would show her that he could play and he could play well.

At the end he lifted his head and some of the audience clapped, but Della and Jim had gone. George stifled a sigh and looked for Ruth. She was still there, being jostled for space, but not giving an inch. George gave her another tight smile, stepped back again and felt a pang of guilt for wishing Della would behave a little more like her.

There was a shout - unintelligible, but loud enough to be heard over the music and loud enough to be recognised as Della's voice. Distracted, George missed a couple of notes as he searched for the source. Della and Jim were at the back of the room having a heated argument. Paul caught George's eye and laughed, but George frowned. There was another girl with them that Jim was holding back with one arm while he tried to shove Della away with his other. Their argument was starting to draw the audience's attention now. That'll Be The Day ended and half clapped and cheered, but the other half of the audience were watching the fight.

Della reached for the other girl, but Jim still had hold of her arm. He twisted it to pull her back and Della yelped.

'Hey!' George shouted, but his voice was lost in the noise of the room.

'What's going on there?' Paul asked, beside him.

George swept his guitar off. Ruth was beside him again, saying something he wasn't listening to. He pushed the Futurama into her arms, surprising her so that she nearly dropped it, and shoved his way through the crowd. By the time he reached them, Della had freed herself of Jim. He was trying to make her leave but Della was standing her ground, eyes brimming with tears and her breath coming in short, ragged pants as she tried not to cry.

'What are you doing to her?' George demanded of Jim.

'Oh, fuck off, mate,' Jim said, dismissively. 'Nothin' to do with you.'

'Don't speak to George like that,' Della said, tears escaping down her cheeks. 'Why don't you tell him what you just said to me?'

'We're leaving.'

'Who are you talking to, Jim? Me or this slut here?'

The blonde girl on the other side of Jim, shrank back. 'Jim, who is this girl?' she asked, a tremor in her voice.

'I'm his girlfriend, love,' Della said.

'I'm his girlfriend!' the girl cried and Della sloshed whatever remained of the bottle of beer that George hadn't even seen was still in her hand, all over her.

The girl shrieked like she'd been burned and Jim lunged towards Della. Della tried to dodge backwards, the wall stopping her, but George put himself in between them so he couldn't reach her anyway. Jim nearly fell over George, his arms flailing, pathetically.

Della bolted. George shoved Jim off and tried to follow her, but the room had filled up even more with rubberneckers since the girl screamed.

'Della!' George shouted after her. He forced his way through into the corridor, just in time to see her disappear up the stairs to the house above. He chased up the narrow staircase, choking a little on the strong fumes from the freshly black painted walls and found Della at the top, outside the girls toilet, staring at the formidable Chinese Dragon that had been painted on the wall there by Mona Best.

She spun round to him. 'This place is bloody maze. Where's the way out?'

George spread his arms, blocking her exit. 'Wait, hold on. What's happened? What did he do?'

'Where is the fucking way out?!' she shouted back at him and tried to shove past him, tears she couldn't suppress anymore falling from her eyes.

George caught her, wrapping his hands around her wrists, keeping her in front of him. 'Del, tell me what he did. Who was the girl?'

'The girl--' she said, and stopped fighting him. 'That girl is his bloody girlfriend. His real bloody girlfriend because she's the one who puts out and this one doesn't.'

'Oh,' George said, an odd sensation of relief flooding him.

'I saw her kiss him. No wonder he didn't want to come here. He knew there was a chance she'd turn up. He's been seeing her on the evenings when I work at the chip shop. He's been... shagging her.'

'Oh,' George said, again. 'So you... You and Jim haven't...?'

She stared at him. 'Is that really what's important now?'

'No, but, um... That's good, isn't it? Because he doesn't... uh,' He tripped over his words, feeling hot and a little breathless suddenly. 'He doesn't deserve you, you know, and I think, Del, I think you're... you're... uh...' He stopped. He knew what he wanted to say. He just couldn't find the words.

'Oh, Georgie,' Della sighed and George became aware he was still holding her wrists. 'What can I do?'

'Well, you can stop bloody crying for a start,' he said, bluntly and smiled.

Della laughed quietly, through her tears. 'You always know how to make me laugh,' she said. 'Ruth is lucky to have you, George. You're sweet and kind and funny. Why can't Jim be more like you are?'

As soon as the idea entered his head he did it, because to hesitate, even for a beat, would mean he didn't do it at all.

It wasn't really a kiss. It was George brushing his lips against Della's and Della hardly having time to react to what he was doing before it ended.

He drew his head back and she stared up at him, not moving, and for a moment George thought he'd made a terrible mistake.

'George--' she started.

'Don't cry over him, Della,' he said, quickly. 'I think you're... Well, you're great, you are. Don't go out with a guy like that. You should go out with... with, um... someone better.'

George loosened his grip on her wrists but Della wasn't trying to get away from him anymore. He moved his hands to take hers properly and leaned to kiss her again. Tentatively, his lips met hers and George opened his mouth. He felt her hesitate but then she kissed him back, a hint of the beer still on her tongue. It wasn't like when he'd kissed any other girl. This felt different. This was warm and tender and electrifying. This was... wonderful.

Without breaking the kiss, he took a small step closer to Della, when in the corner of his eye he became aware of someone else being there. Someone standing next to them.

He pulled back. Ruth.

It could only have been a couple of seconds but it felt a lot longer. They stared at each other.

'They want to start playing again,' Ruth said finally, then whipped round and ran back down the stairs.

George turned back to Della. At some point he'd let go of her hands.

'Well, go after her,' she said.

George shook his head.

Della widened her eyes at him. 'George! She's your girlfriend! Go!'

And George did as he was told.