Chapter Text
Monday, 1st May 1972;
Their rehearsal stretches long into the evening, before that itch to find bookings gets too hard to ignore.
“We should go out,” Freddie declares. “Do it in person.”
“Really?”
Glancing at Roger, Freddie raises an eyebrow. “Don’t you think so?”
“S’a bank holiday, innit,” Roger points out, curled on the sofa with a glass of water and his small towel, mopping up his hard work. “Ain’t everything shut?”
“Pubs remain open,” Brian smiles, watching the usually sociable, inexhaustible drummer groan sourly. He glances at Freddie. “Haven’t been to the Oak and Acorn for a bit.”
“Nor have we intruded upon our good friend Roy recently,” Freddie agrees, settling beside Roger to nudge him gently. “Hop into the shower, darling, and we’ll go searching for venues, shall we?”
There’s a slight pause, where Roger tries to both duck down and hide behind his hair and peer at them all at the same time.
“What is it?” John smiles, eyebrow raised in amusement.
“Can we have tea first?”
“Oh, fuck me,” Freddie exclaims in alarm. He darts a guilty look towards Brian. “We forgot to feed the small child.”
“Forgot to feed all of us,” Brian winces, his stomach rumbling now food’s been mentioned. “Right. Deacs, give me a hand, yeah? Rog, shower, and Freddie … go do whatever it is you do before we nip out.”
“Charming,” Freddie complains, but stands all the same. Lifting Rex off the table, he lightly bops Roger on the nose with the purple lion. “Come along, then. We’ve our marching orders, it seems.”
Batting the toy away, Roger sets his water down and tosses his towel vaguely in the direction of his drums. Grimacing, Brian tries not to think about picking it up out of the way and instead turns to the small kitchen area, John slipping in beside him.
“What’re we doing?”
“Pancakes,” Brian decides. Quick, and with very little work required, they’ll fill the gap easily and sop up any beer they pause to drink. As he reaches for the flour, stuffed in the back of the cupboard and pretending to be more used than it is, John heads towards their small ‘fridge.
“Cheese, then?”
“Cheese, then.”
Pulling the milk out with the block of cheese, John hands the bottle over and busies himself with slicing the cheddar while Brian grabs the egg to mix into the flour. Judging the other two will be some time yet, Brian and John get to eat the first pancakes made, stood at the counter watching the next one cook.
“Don’t let him flip anything,” Freddie warns behind them.
“I’ve been flipping,” John replies, reaching for the handle of the frying pan. Demonstrating, he gets an impressive height on the pancake, before easily catching it again. Setting the pan back on the hob, he raises an eyebrow at Freddie. “Brian won’t tell me why he doesn’t do it.”
“Last time he flipped, we were picking half cooked pancake out of the sink.”
“Smashing.”
“It really did,” Freddie mutters, giving Brian a dark look. “All over the place.”
Adding the cheese and folding the pancake, Brian shrugs.
“My hand eye coordination’s never been great – warned you, didn’t I?”
“I thought you were being self-deprecating.”
“See, that was your first mistake.”
“I was giving you the benefit of the doubt.”
“That was your second mistake.”
“My biggest mistake was listening when you told me the mess wasn’t an issue.”
“Took a while, did it?” John wonders.
“We didn’t have Roger then,” Brian smiles as John turns an amused glance on him and turns the pancake. “Or we’d just have let him eat it and save us the trouble of a cleanup.”
Shuddering theatrically, Freddie groans softly. “That’s horrible, Bri.”
“He’d have done it,” Brian snorts.
“Waste not, want not,” John nods, managing not to look too entertained and causing Freddie to study him for a moment. He extends the nod towards the frying pan. “Think that’s done, mate.”
“Think you’re right. Here, Fred. Eat.”
“Thank you, darlings.”
Roger wolfs his down so fast Brian’s a bit worried he’s going to choke, but it turns out that now he’s getting dinner, the boy’s just eager to get moving and go out.
“Where first?” he asks, bouncing in place as he waits for Freddie to lock the door.
“Let’s go along to The Thatcher’s Arms,” Brian suggests. While in Kensington and therefore in walking distance, it’s the furthest away from their flat and would be the best place to start, optimally.
“Wonderful,” Freddie trills, tugging Roger to his side as they begin down the hallway. “I’m convinced poor Roy’s been pining for our company, you know.”
“’Course he has,” Roger giggles.
“Why wouldn’t he?” John agrees serenely, holding the door of the house open for Brian.
“Cheers,” Brian nods, exiting the house. He snorts a little, glancing at Freddie and Roger. “Roy’s a good bloke, he’ll have been keeping an eye on the door for us surely.”
Giggling again, Roger sets them all moving down the road. “Think Tim still says that?”
“Undoubtedly,” Freddie tells him. “Although, perhaps not about Roy anymore. What with him moving on to greater and grander things.”
“Poor Roy,” Brian snorts again.
“Good bloke,” Roger sniggers while John, looking mildly confused, stays well out of it. “Don’t deserve it.”
Sauntering into the evening, their conversation turns to music and Freddie’s new jacket, keeping them occupied on the long walk. By the time the warm glow of The Thatcher’s Arms finally hoves into view, they’ve decided on Roger needing to add Lindisfarne’s Meet Me on the Corner and A Whiter Shade of Pale from Procul Harum to his busking repertoire and that Freddie needs to search out the bright trousers he keeps harping on about.
“Just not orange, sadly,” the frontman laments. “I’ve never truly been able to pull off that colour.”
“Shame.”
“A tragedy, Deacy, darling,” Freddie agrees mournfully, slipping to the bassist’s side to grip his forearm for emphasis.
A slight smile lifting the corner of his mouth, John puts up with the manhandling the way the rest of them accept Freddie’s tactile nature. Biting his cheek on the smile threatening to break free, Brian reaches the door of the pub and pulls it open for his friends.
“Here,” he tells Freddie. “Cheer yourself up with a pint, why don’t you?”
“Marvellous idea,” the singer beams, tugging John along behind him into the building. “Your round, isn’t it?”
“Don’t recall that,” Brian considers dubiously, but leads them up to the bar all the same.
“Aye, aye, look what the cat dragged in.”
Glancing down the busy bar, Brian’s surprised to see a familiar figure in black and bright studs smiling warmly at their appearance. They haven’t seen the pearly since just before Christmas and Brian was beginning to think the old drummer had retreated to his own end of London, never to venture into Kensington again.
“Bill!” Roger calls excitedly and Brian’s glad he does. For the life of him, names just don’t stick and at least this time he’s spared the embarrassment of knowing who the man is, without knowing precisely who the man is while carrying on a conversation with him.
“’Ello, lads. Been a while, ain’t it?”
“We’ve been playing ‘round the country,” Roger beams, which sounds a tad more impressive than it actually was.
“’Ave ya now?” Bill whistles. He looks suitably fascinated. “Should have liked to ‘ave seen that.”
“Was brilliant,” Roger enthuses and leaves Freddie’s side to better chat with the older man.
Shaking his head, Brian joins the rest of his band in leaving the teenager to it. Roger and the old Pearly King natter away in the background as Freddie finally secures Roy’s attention.
“Got timing, boys,” Roy grunts as he moves closer behind his bar.
“Naturally,” Freddie smiles, brushing a hand over his hair.
Snorting, Roy gets swiftly down to business, never one for small talk. “How about mid month? You available for the thirteenth?”
“Ready and willing,” Freddie nods pleasantly.
“Good.” Staring with a stern eye, Roy includes the others into his glare. “Last band who said that let me down.”
There’s a bit of a threat inherent in his tone. Countering with a smile, Brian assures the landlord.
“No need to worry about that sort of thing with us.”
“Not that we’re desperate or anything,” John adds under his breath and earns a swift glance from Freddie.
Either not hearing or not caring, Roy nods. “Good. Usual time, then. See you Saturday next.”
“Actually,” Brian says, digging into his pocket for coins. “We were looking for a pint, too.”
With a long look at Roger, Roy reaches for glasses. “And him?”
“An orange, please.”
Expression shifting from suspicion to approval, Roy settles into his task, long years of the work showing in the rhythm of his movements. Unlike most other publicans, he doesn’t indulge in small talk with them, and Brian suspects that’s only because he knows them first and foremost as the band, rather than customers. Unsociable landlords don’t tend to last long, after all.
Gathering with their drinks, they seek out a little corner to call their own. Placing Roger’s unclaimed glass on the table, Brian waits for the boy to return to them, but it appears the little drummer’s distracted by the dizzying patterns on the Pearly King’s outfit, or with catching up with the old drummer, more likely. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him however and the teenager nips back to ask if they got a gig.
“Cheers,” he adds, swiping up his orange and pushing his fringe out of his eyes.
“We’re playing the thirteenth,” John tells him as Freddie leans across to settle the teenager’s hair the way he wants it.
“Bugger off,” Roger tells the frontman pleasantly. “Bill said he’d be around, give us a hand setting up again.”
“Nice of him,” Brian smiles, watching Freddie return to Roger’s hair.
“Think he’s looking to get involved, like he used to be when he was playing.” Without another word, he knocks Freddie’s hand away with a giggle and departs back to Bill.
“Bit lonely, you think?” John muses, following Roger’s progress towards the outlandishly dressed former drummer. “The old boy, I mean.”
“He’s surely got much to do with the pearlies,” Freddie replies. Pursing his lips, he watches as Roger and Bill laugh together. “Perhaps not enough in the musical fashion, however.”
“Stays with you, I suppose,” Brian speculates, also watching their youngest bandmate. “Being in a band, gigging.”
“How can it not?”
“Well, if he wants to help Rog set the drums up, I’m not complaining,” Brian decides, settling comfortably back with his pint. Not a bad place, The Thatcher’s Arms as it turns out. Having never drunk in the pub before, Brian takes the opportunity to savour the building from this side of the stage.
The premises fairly buzz with the hum of conversation, and glows with the assorted bright clothing of the younger crowd the pub draws, in part thanks to acts like Smile appearing several times during the week. The older generation, those that’ve sat in The Thatcher’s Arms for decades, keep to sporadic pockets, occasionally calling out to a younger person they might know.
It's a nice mix, Brian muses. No one appears out of place, or unwanted within the pub. Roy’s got a good thing going here, able to please all sections of his customers. No, Brian thinks, taking another mouthful of his beer. Not too shabby at all.
They only stop for one, though. Time’s pressing on and they’ve yet to see about any of their other usuals for another booking. When they call Roger over to leave, the boy nods happily, turning to Bill.
“I’ll see you later,” the little drummer tells him. “You can show me that trick you were telling me ‘bout.”
“Ta-ra, Roger. Mind yourself.”
“What trick?” Freddie enquires as the group heads back outside.
“Was telling me how he’d chuck a stick up and catch it – with a bit of flair, I mean,” Roger replies, pushing a hand through his hair and peering up at the singer with shining eyes. “He was telling all ‘bout how he used to play, and where.”
“Bit popular were they?” Brian wonders. “His lot?”
“Sometimes,” Roger giggles.
Smiling softly, John glances the teenager’s way. “Up for a spot of mischief, then?”
When Roger simply smiles wide at him, Freddie groans. “As if you require any ideas in that department.”
“Oi,” Roger snorts.
“I’ll have to request he keep his stories toned down,” Freddie continues, lightly tugging on a lock of the boy’s hair. “Rascal.”
“M’not.”
“Are.” Turning to Brian Freddie brushes his hair over his shoulder. “We’ll have to have words with Bill.”
“Stern words, I’d imagine.”
“Stern words with some forceful gesticulating,” John adds, amusement raising an eyebrow slightly.
“Precisely,” Freddie nods. “Make it clear he’s to keep Blondie’s age in mind.”
Looking horrified, Roger stops walking. “Don’t you dare.”
“Hardly need encouraging, do you?” Brian teases.
“I been good,” Roger scoffs as Freddie reaches back for the small drummer and tugs him to his side. “Recently.”
“Very well, angel. But if you start up, we’ll know who to blame.”
“Piss off,” Roger tells him airily and doesn’t, Brian notes, pull away from Freddie’s presumptuous managing of him.
As ever, the fifteen-year-old’s liking the attention, enjoys being a part of something and to have his friends’ joke with him. Slowing slightly, Brian wonders how often Roger felt separate from those around him, judged and kept at arm’s length for all his sociability and sweet, mischievous playfulness. That gregarious nature would – does – draw people to him, flame like as it is, yet the circumstance of his life appears to have set a barrier around him for some.
Contemplating his youngest bandmate as he walks with Freddie, John to his other side, Brian smiles to himself. The easy acceptance Roger’s found here with them allows that aspect of him that feels he has to keep fighting to calm somewhat, and Brian’s glad of it. Roger was made for smiles and laughter, to his mind. That he’s managed to keep so much of that side of himself intact against all his hardships is both impressive and heartwarming in equal measure.
Although, Brian muses with a check on his widening smile, to tell Roger would only earn a scowl. Little firebrand.
Arm wrapped securely about Roger’s shoulders, Freddie takes no offence of the teenager’s words, simply smiling and giving him a light shake. “Scamp. Right, Oak and Acorn, was it?”
“Suppose we should chance our arm,” Brian agrees, catching them up swiftly. “See if our luck holds out tonight and all that.”
“Why not?” John nods, amusement dancing in his grey-green eyes, washed muddy with the night when he turns to Brian.
“Ain’t played there for yonks,” Roger shrugs, careful not to dislodge Freddie. “Gotta want us again, ain’t he?”
“Here’s hoping,” Brian snorts, shaking his head at the boy’s assurance.
All the same, Roger’s overwhelming confidence isn’t misplaced. As they enter the pub, the twitchy, fretful man behind the counter brightens almost noticeably and beckons them forwards hastily.
“Wasn’t planning on booking anyone,” Les tells them, fussily neatening the stack of coasters on the bar before him. “But since you’re here …”
“Stroke of luck, that,” Roger tells him eagerly. “When d’ya want us?”
Blinking in surprise at the teenager’s forceful enthusiasm, the man reels back slightly. “Uh,” he pauses. “Saturday?”
“Marvellous,” Freddie trills, gripping Brian’s arm in his passion.
Carefully easing his limb out of those long, possessive fingers, Brian agrees. “Perfect.”
“Right,” Les says, one shoulder lifting more tellingly than his agreement might convey.
“We’ve missed this venue,” John tells the man calmly and this time Brian’s as unsure as Freddie if the bassist’s pulling legs or utterly serious.
“Ah. Good.” Finding himself in demand further down the bar, the landlord quickly sets a time for their gig and hastily departs, one hand lifting in farewell to them and greeting to his next customer.
“Shit,” Freddie sighs, although his dark eyes sparkle. “You don’t suppose we’ve put Les off, do you?”
“S’good for ‘im,” Roger shrugs. “We ain’t sticking around here, are we?”
“No,” Freddie replies, eyeing the comedian just coming onto the stage. “Not tonight.”
“Not keen on comedy?” Brian snorts, also glancing at the already sweating man glistening up on the small stage as he bellows his first comments into the mic.
“Not his, I think.”
“Fancy The Crown?” John suggests, leading them out the pub. “Could go for one more pint before I head for bed.”
“Uni looming in the distance?” Brian wonders, remembering that oppressive feeling of coming coursework.
“Inching ever closer,” John answers, a little smile twitching at his lips. “But for tonight, I’m free.”
“All right, we’ll celebrate darling,” Freddie chirps. “Off home we go, to the ever lovely Trish and her wonderful little pub. Freedom is calling, boys.”
“Mmm,” Roger hums, leering at Brian. “Trish might too.”
“Sod off.”
“Can’t wait to watch you go ga-ga over her.”
Feeling the heat of his blush sweep across his cheeks, Brian keeps to the shadows in an effort not to show it. “I just –”
“We know what you ‘just’, darling,” Freddie laughs.
“Oh, fuck off.”
“The reply of a man who knows he’s lost the argument.”
Knowing Freddie’s right, Brian says nothing else. Except, “Your favourite phrase, isn’t it?”
Laughing again, Freddie nudges him. “Poor Bri. Always pining.”
“And happy to,” Brian tells him with a smile. “Safer that way.”
“Coward.”
“Absolutely.”
“Onwards, then,” John smirks. “To pints and pining.”
“Not me,” Roger points out. “I ain’t doing either of them things.”
“I’ll get you a pint of water,” Freddie promises warmly. “Then you can join in.”
“Great,” Roger giggles. “Cheers.”
It comes as no surprise that Trish, flittering about in sweet pink tonight, hair pulled into a ponytail and appearing more ginger at present, is in high demand. It also comes as no surprise to find the members of The Crowd already settled about a table and upon noticing Smile’s entrance, shouting out to them.
“Here they come,” Terry, the loudmouth that he is, bellows happily. “London’s own Beatles, gracing our little local.”
“Hello Ter,” Brian nods with a smile. “Been on the sauce a while, have you?”
“Only since opening,” Cliff snorts, nudging his brother. “Here, make a space would you? The boys wanna sit down.”
“Do they?” Rich mutters, taking care, Brian’s sure, to pitch his voice loud enough to be heard.
“Thank you, darling,” Freddie smiles sharply and plops himself down beside the other singer as Dennis goes for more stools. “How very kind. It’s been an age since we chatted.”
Lazily lighting a cigarette, Rich’s mouth twists around the object into a smile. “Tell us your news, in that case,” he invites. Taking a lungful of smoke, he breathes slowly out. “Raymond Hughes, right?”
“Looks like you already have the latest,” Brian replies, carefully nabbing the stool opposite the two frontmen. Best to keep an eye on the pair, after all.
Snorting, Rich dismisses him quickly. “Everyone knows about Raymond, don’t they?”
“Hang about, do they?” John asks Dennis, laughter dancing in his eyes as he glances at his old friend. “Made himself into an urban myth or something, has he?”
“More like he’s made himself a name,” Dennis tells him.
“Wonderful,” Freddie preens. “The better to promote Smile.”
“Right,” Rich snorts again. “Promote.”
There’s a bit of a chill in the air for a moment before Francis leans across the table to address Roger.
“Word’s got around about your part in The Dagenham Town Show,” he smiles genially, as ever friendly and still quite possibly the nicest man in showbusiness.
“Really? Here?” Roger asks, large blue eyes shining.
“Ain’t like we don’t talk to them in Criminally Underrated, old son,” Cliff shrugs, attempting casual and failing miserably as his self-satisfaction shines through at rubbing shoulders with the popular band.
“Oh?” Freddie inquires politely. “I wasn’t aware you were acquainted.”
“You know this town, Fred me ol’ mucker,” Terry booms with a laugh. “Everyone knows everyone and all their goings on.”
Dipping his head in acknowledgement, Freddie concedes the point. Roger, meanwhile, appears more interested in what Criminally Underrated had to say about them.
“Full of praise, don’t you worry,” Dennis tells the small drummer indulgently.
“How flattering,” Freddie smiles demurely and Brian bites his cheek to stop himself from laughing at his best friend’s attempts at modesty.
“Amazing what money can buy you, isn’t it?” Rich adds, watching Freddie keenly for his reaction. He pauses to take another pull on his ciggie. “If you’re in for that sort of thing.”