Chapter Text
Saturday, 13th May 1972;
“Come on, then,” Brian urges, himself and John now stood waiting by entrance to the house their flat is in as Freddie simultaneously fusses with Roger’s hair and his own outfit, combing his fingers through the teenager’s fringe and the dangling white, glittery tassels from his outstretched arm. “Do that later, let’s get going.”
“Are we late?” Freddie wonders blithely.
“Nearly.” Waving his friends out the building, Brian shuts the door firmly behind them. “Don’t want to start off on a bad foot, do we?”
“Should ask Deacy,” Roger sniggers. “How’d he manage it during the tour.”
“Wasn’t broken,” John calls from further down the hallway.
Considering the bassist sounds far too serene for Brian’s liking, he decides he’d like to be the master of his own fate for the night and insists on driving. While he doubts John would let them be late, Brian thinks the younger man’s current easy-going attitude would leave far too many missed opportunities to get through junctions in a timely manner. As such, Brian gets them to the pub in decent time, although Freddie complains he’s becoming one of ‘those’ London drivers.
“S’a serious business, mate,” Brian cheerfully defends himself, as they begin to set up. “London driving.”
“Not for the faint of heart,” John agrees, fiddling with his amp.
“How’d you manage it, then?” Freddie tsks in the younger man’s direction.
“Nerves of steel, remember,” Brian prompts and gets a tut in reply. Smiling, Brian shakes his head. Apparently, John’s iron core only suits Freddie at certain moments.
“Wotcha, lads.”
“Bill,” Roger greets happily, standing up from the beginnings of the drum kit. “Here, you want to get it set up? I’ll go grab some more of it.”
“So long as you don’t mind an old pot and pan like me cramping your style.” So saying, Bill kneels by the work Roger’s already done.
“Nah, you ain’t old,” the boy insists. “’Sides, reckon you can have first go on ‘em when they’re done.” He nudges the pearlie with a big smile. “So if you muck it up, I won’t be the one coming a cropper.”
“Smart lad you got here,” Bill tells the rest of them.
“You just make sure you don’t take any cheek from him,” Freddie advises, tugging on a lock of Roger’s hair. “Come on, then, Blondie. Let’s get Bill the rest of his kit.”
As it happens, Roger seems to spend more time nattering with Bill than actually bringing anything in, but no one stops him. It’s nice to hear that loud, belting laugh ring out and Bill appears to get a kick out of having an appreciative audience.
“Right, let’s have a butcher’s,” Bill announces, standing slowly and contemplating his and Roger’s work.
“Here,” the teenager offers, handing across his sticks. “Give her a belt.”
There’s no hiding the joy in the old drummer as the band stands about him to watch an old master at work. And he is a master, Brian realises. Different in style to Roger, with a flare of his own, Bill announces Jailhouse Rock and goes through the old hit in decent fashion. Adding in a little trick Roger clearly wants to try for himself, Bill finds a moment of pause where he tosses his right hand stick into the air, throws his left into the empty hand and catches the first stick in his now waiting left as he spins the newly received right and brings the left into play on its corresponding tom, the high tom.
“That’s the one he told me about,” Roger points out, as if anyone could have missed it.
Finishing with a flourish that rolls across the kit, Bill beams up at them, nodding acceptance to their applause. “Cheers, lads. Ah, don’t go on.”
“M’gonna try that trick,” Roger informs him as the old Pearly King, studs shimmering in the pub’s light, stands from the stool. Beyond the band, members of the public have given him a cheer also, and he lifts a hand to let them know he’s noticed them.
“Blimey, wakes up the old Dick Emery, this.”
“The what?” Freddie hisses at Brian, somewhat alarmed.
“Memory, you numpty.”
“Stay close, darling. I fear I shall need a translator.”
“You and me both,” John whispers as Roger is returned his sticks.
“You need subtitles,” Brian tells him. “At the best of times.”
“I’m only from the midlands,” the bassist points out. “Not Outer Mongolia.”
“Much difference?”
“Few less deserts, for a start.”
“Right, best let you get cracking or old Roy’ll have me barred,” Bill says, turning from his fellow drummer and back to the rest of them. “Have a belter.”
Nodding, Brian smiles. “Cheers, Bill. Know who to turn to if Rog is ever off sick, eh?”
“You just let me know,” Bill chuckles.
“We’ve a moment yet, let me get you a pint. For your help,” Freddie offers, which Bill looks delighted with.
“Won’t say no. Just a baby giraffe, though, eh?”
As Bill leads the way to the bar, Freddie turns desperately to Brian.
“A half,” he tells his old friend.
“Thank fuck for that.”
“Brilliant, wasn’t he?” Roger asks as Freddie follows the old man.
“Hasn’t lost it,” John agrees. “You’re not going to mimic that stick thing tonight, are you?”
Giggling, Roger undoes Freddie’s hard work on his hair as he scruffs a hand through his shaggy mane. “Nah, suppose I’d better have a practise first.”
“Doubt it’ll take you long to figure out,” Brian remarks, well used to watching his small drummer perform feats of dexterity.
“Get Bill settled in with the menagerie?” John asks Freddie as the singer returns.
“Hush, you,” Freddie tuts, before once again straightening his sleeves, making sure his tassels dangle pleasingly. “Shall we proceed?”
“By all means,” Brian snorts. “After you.”
Tossing him a dirty look as he passes, Freddie moves towards his mic stand, the rest of them filtering out to their own positions. With a final glance at his bandmates to ensure they’re ready, Freddie sends a swift nod to the bar, and the lights through the pub dim, while the spots aiming at the band brighten.
“Here we go,” Brian murmurs to himself as sudden nerves tingle through him. Chiding himself for an idiot, he only half listens to Freddie’s announcing them. They’ve played The Thatcher’s Arms plenty of times, he reminds himself. Never having a bad gig there and always with their own songs front and centre, they’ve always been well received. There’s no reason tonight should be any different.
Peering past the stage lights, he looks around the pub. Fairly full, it should be a rollicking night; a decent percentage of the patrons are the usual young bunch looking for a show, the same as has always turned up for a Smile gig. Relaxing somewhat, Brian starts a little as Roger calls them in for the first song, not having heard Freddie announce it. Thank fuck for rehearsals, Brian reflects, where they make sure they know the run of songs.
They’ve returned Freddie’s old favourite back to opening status and this time, as he goes through his part, Brian scans the crowd anxiously. All previous peace has fled with the first bars as he desperately searches for dislike, for confusion, for anything negative within the audience. All he can see past the lights is dark shapes of people, however he can hear their noise. There’s the usual hum of chatter as people comment amongst themselves, background noise he never normally pays attention to. This time he tries to discern something above the sound of his own playing, of the drums rattling in his right ear and almost instantly gives it up as a lost cause.
Fool, he tells himself and gives his guitarwork the attention it deserves. Just play. They’ll soon know if things are going tits up. For the next thirty minutes Brian simply plays. Beyond the swell of music surrounding him, he notices the cheering crowd, peering into the closest faces to ensure it is cheering and not jeering, reassuring himself each time Smile bring out one of their own songs. They get a decent reception, he realises and every time an original piece is performed, there’s a growing sense of confidence among the band as time and again, they’re neither laughed off stage nor sent derision and scorn.
Brian wonders what he expected, really. The Thatcher’s Arms has always proven to be a good night. Perhaps, he reflects as he nods an acknowledgement to the appreciative audience once Doing All Right’s come to an end, the chat with his mum rattled him. Or perhaps it was just…
Raymond. Blinking, Brian pauses a moment as he stares at the ill-fitting man at the bar. Turning to Freddie, he doesn’t think the frontman’s noticed their manager as he merrily calls out their next song. Once into it, Brian waits for Freddie to take a turn close to him during a pause in singing.
“He’s here,” he hisses, tilting his head away from their mics.
Freddie scowls momentarily, not asking for any clarification, before clearly shoving Raymond’s presence from his mind and going about his business as before. Twirling about, letting his tassels fly in long, glittering strips, Freddie simply performs. Lifting his mic to his mouth, the singer calls out to the crowd before them, easily gaining a response before he goes into the lyrics once more. So it goes through the rest of the gig. Again and again, Freddie engages with the audience, whipping them into a frenzy as he encourages them on, spinning about the small area to share moments with each of his bandmates. He presses in close to John, mimes playing guitar along to Brian’s solos, stands before the drums in poses to connect with Roger, himself barely seen behind the paraphernalia of his instrument. They’d kept the teenager’s spotlight pieces out of the line up of songs, adhering to that bit of advice simply because it suited them with the shorter run time of the show, but Freddie obviously wants the crowd to recognise the drummer and his part in their music.
Despite enjoying the gig and the response the crowd’s given them, they don’t hang about afterwards. For a start, Roy’s never been keen on letting the band linger once their job’s done. Secondly, Raymond’s made his way to the back exit and is stood waiting for them to depart the performance area.
“How’s he fucking doing it?” Roger grumbles as they leave the pub after the man. “How’d he know we were here?”
“He pays attention,” Freddie retorts. Unlike their young drummer, he doesn’t appear too put out that Raymond’s paid them another visit.
“Suppose it’s his job,” John offers quietly as they draw near to where Raymond awaits. “To turn up.”
“Raymond,” Freddie greets cheerfully and Brian bites his lip. There’s a certain strut to his old friend’s stride tonight, the gait of a man who’s done well and knows it, is filled with the confidence of his own hard work. “We didn’t expect to see you.”
“No.” Raymond’s a stark contrast to Freddie; quiet and cold. “I don’t suppose you did.”
“S’a regular,” Roger defends, as ever swinging into belligerent defiance.
“You noticed our reception?” Freddie asks, a certain smugness to his tone.
Raymond says nothing, but his expression shifts marginally. Less cold and composed and a tad bitter, Brian would judge. It’s a fleeting moment, however, as the man dips his head in acknowledgement.
“Noticed the setlist,” he mentions.
“We wanted to give it a try, see how it got on,” Brian explains.
“Was brilliant,” Roger adds, chin tilting upwards and tone husky with warning.
“Indeed it was,” Freddie declares, slinging an elbow to rest upon Roger’s shoulder, a hint for the boy to calm down. “I think we can put our discussion to bed now, don’t you?”
“That so?”
“Tonight’s shown us we’ve got nothing to hide in terms of original songs. They’re well received.”
“In a piddling little pub at the arse end of nowhere,” Raymond responds grimly.
“We’re in the middle of London –”
“You’re in no man’s land,” Raymond cuts Freddie off sharply. “And if you’re happy to stay there, just let me know.”
“We’ve pushed for more,” John reminds him. “Just waiting to get there, aren’t we?”
“Want Sally Lane,” Roger announces darkly. “Whatever it takes.”
“Whatever it takes?” their manager repeats coldly. “Does that include taking my advice, then?”
Body practically rigid, Freddie meets the man eye to eye. “We’re keeping our own songs.”
“You’re not ready for pushing your own stuff.”
“We’ll never be ready unless we get them out there,” Brian insists. “Listen, we do know what we’re doing.”
“Not from what I’ve seen.” Glasses shining in the light of the nearest streetlamp, Raymond looks as stern as Brian’s ever seen him. “You’re rushing things, and you’ve no idea of what these places are looking for.”
“Northern fucking Freight,” Roger snarls.
It makes Raymond pause, turning slightly to consider the teenager.
“They played Sally Lane the other night,” Brian explains.
“Well known band,” Raymond tells them.
“Old, sagging, and past their prime,” Freddie counters firmly. Brushing his hair over his shoulder, he eyes the small, older man. “We want the gig. We’re prepared to pay a … booking fee. But we’ll set our own song list, if you don’t mind.”
After a moment of meeting the singer’s gaze, Raymond looks away, shaking his head. “You’re a stubborn bunch, aren’t you?”
“What do you expect? We’re hungry young musicians, ready to set the world alight.”
“All right. We’ll do it your way for a spell. See how you get on.”
“Wonderful,” Freddie trills, sending the rest of the band a pleased smile.
“I still don’t want to see the boy out front, however.”
“Why the fuck not?” Roger demands, although they’d gone through the gig without putting Moby Dick and Gasoline Alley back in without him making a fuss.
“You make people nervous.”
“Fuck’s sake.”
“Won’t be forever. You’ve a decent voice, no reason you shouldn’t have a song later on.”
“In ten year’s time,” Roger huffs.
“Maybe not quite that long.” Raymond’s smile, as ever, is cold but there’s a promise in the words all the same. “Chin up, lads. I’m bending over backwards for you. Least you could do is take on board what I’m telling you.”
“Right, you know best,” Brian mutters.
“I do, as it happens.” Lifting a hand in Roger’s direction, Raymond persists. “Not a lot of people are going to look at him and put their faith in having a decent band gig for them.”
“Had a lot of experience, then?” John wonders. “Of youngsters in bands.”
“It’s a first for me,” Raymond admits. “But I know how minds work. Been in the business long enough to get some idea of what goes through them.”
Going to protest, Freddie looking as if he’s about to do the same, Brian’s halted by Roger’s reply.
“Get us Sally Lane and all them good places Bri showed you,” the fifteen-year-old grunts. “And I’ll hide in the back behind the kit for as long as you like.”
Smiling thinly, Raymond bobs his head. “Looks like I’ve work to do. I’ll be in touch, lads. Let you know how I get on.”
“You think you can get us in?” John stops him.
Taking a moment to look over the group, Raymond nods. “I do. Leave it with me.”
Sunday, 14th May 1972;
Wrapping his dressing gown around himself, Brian opens his bedroom door. Lifting a hand to rub at an eye, he comes to a stop just before the sofa. Roger’s still asleep, amazingly.
Or perhaps not. He’d been up half the night asserting his preference for Smile getting Sally Lane above all other venues. There’s apparently a seething vengeance the teenager’s been harbouring for months against Harry Briggs that’s only now finding an outlet.
“Fucking wanker took my guitar for half its value,” the young drummer had insisted, brushing aside the fact the man had raised his hand to him as unimportant. “Knew how much it meant to me, and he fucking took it.”
Freddie pointing out Roger had sold the instrument fair and square hadn’t exactly improved the boy’s mood.
“Sod off. Was desperate, wasn’t I?” Before either Brian or Freddie could reply, Roger had gone back to Sally Lane and their prospects of getting the spot. “Raymond can pay whatever he needs to, right? He knows that, doesn’t he?”
“I’m nearly positive he got the gist of what you were telling him,” Freddie had smiled, to which Roger had only scowled. Teasing, apparently, had been off limits for the night.
“We’ll get it,” Brian had attempted to soothe, for all the good it did.
“Better bloody get it,” he’d snarled. “Fuck letting Northern sodding Freight have it.”
And so it’d gone for a while longer, until finally Roger had wound down and they’d all gone to bed, promises made to ensure Raymond knew just how much they wanted Sally bleeding Lane. Pronto.
“I’m going to murder Tim.”
Turning from his sleeping flatmate, Brian smiles wanly at Freddie. “Make sure it hurts first, would you?”
“What was he thinking, bringing us to where Briggs was playing?”
“Not entirely convinced he knew they were the band. Cuppa?”
“Please. Thank goodness it’s Sunday.”
“Don’t be too grateful,” Brian yawns. “Fashion show tonight. Where everyone’s going to look beautiful but us.”
Following him into the small kitchen area, Freddie rummages in the cupboard for their bread. “And Roger. I’m sure the little rotter in there will wake up fresh and eager, just to annoy us.”
“Dear little thing, remember?” Brian teases, starting to feel a bit more awake now there’s tea and breakfast on the way. “Isn’t that what you tell me?”
“Did I say that? You must be thinking of someone else.”
“Right.”
“I can’t imagine ever being fond of the blighter.”
“Rubbish,” Brian laughs. “Got you wrapped about his little finger, that one.”
“Never,” Freddie declares and Brian laughs again.
“Go over and wake him up, it’ll come back to you.” Handing the man two mugs of tea, Brian waits with his own for the toast to pop. Leaning back on the counter as he cradles his mug, he watches as Freddie kneels beside the sofa.
Instead of waking him, however, the frontman tuts softly.
“It really is unfair, isn’t it?”
“How’s that?”
“Such a gorgeous personality all wrapped up in this lovely bundle of good looks. Ridiculous creature. Got it all, hasn’t he?”
“Doubt he sees it that way.”
“Nonsense. Got it made, the jammy devil.” Shaking his head, Freddie continues to study the sleeping drummer.
“Yep. Sofa all to himself. What more could he ask for?” Brian counters, briefly thinking of Lawrence and his seeming resentment of Roger’s features and confidence.
Tsking, Freddie glances at Brian. “It’s really rather unfair of him to be so marvellous when he looks like this as well. He should at least have made sure to have flaw somewhere. It’s only polite.”
“There’s the temper, if it makes you happy to know he’s not perfect.”
“That little bit of spice only serves to make him interesting,” Freddie retorts, before gently touching an exposed arm. “Roger? Wake up, sweetheart.”
Neither of them are much surprised when their small drummer wakes with a bit of a start and a random swipe at the man next to him. After his furious snarling and growling last night, there’s little wonder he’s woken tense and disorientated. Well used to their youngest flatmate’s habits, Freddie calmly sways backwards out of the way without a fuss, waiting for large blue eyes to settle upon him.
“Freddie?”
“Morning, darling. Sit up, Bri’s made us tea.”
Doing as he’s asked, the swing at his friend forgotten, Roger takes the mug from Freddie. Settling against the armrest, scuffing a hand through his messy hair, he makes himself comfortable. “Cheers, Bri.”
“Feeling all right this morning?” Claiming the space Roger makes for him by pulling his knees to his chest, Freddie warmly brushes his fingers through the teenager’s fringe.
“Yeah, why?”
“You went to bed in a bit of a storm last night,” Freddie chuckles, while Brian makes himself busy with the jam jar.
His mum, he realises with a start as he observes the contents, hadn’t dropped off her customary gift the day before and for a moment he pauses, knife halfway into the remaining jam. It almost feels as if he’s scraping away the relationship he had with his parents, using up a now limited supply of their love and support. With a sharp shake of his head, Brian continues with his task. Love, he firmly tells himself, isn’t found in a jam jar. You don’t nip down to the shops to buy parental affection along with a pound of butter. Spreading the jam over two pieces of toast, he listens to his friends once more.
“Put it out of your mind,” Freddie’s advising. “Whatever Harry Briggs gets up to is no skin off your nose, Blondie.”
“Suppose not,” the boy sighs. “Fucking annoying, though.”
“Another month or so and we’ll have far surpassed ‘Freight. People will have forgotten they’d even seen them.”
Dropping off a couple of plates to the others, Brian raises an eyebrow. “That right?”
“We surpass them in all things, darling,” Freddie asserts with a smile. “We’re bound to replace them in people’s affections too.”
“Can’t see why not,” Brian smirks towards Roger, who giggles in reply with a little darting glance up through his eyelashes at him. He really is, Brian considers as he returns to the kitchen and his own toast, a good-looking lad. Freddie’s right, he decides. Utterly unfair of the bastard to turn up with those features and put the rest of them to shame.
“What?” Roger wonders, catching the glance as Brian turns to him once more.
“Nothing,” Brian smiles. “Eat up. We can take a crack at a rehearsal when we’re done.”
Stuffing the last of his toast in his mouth, Roger asks, “What time is Deacy getting here?”
“The usual, I’d imagine,” Freddie replies, standing. “About two.”
Checking his watch, Brian finishes his own breakfast hurriedly. “Which gives us several hours to have a go through things, maybe go into a muck around for a bit too.”
“It’d be a good chance to compile a few options to put in amongst our usuals, ready to present to Deacy,” Freddie muses, on his way back to his bedroom. “Since we’ve a few hours to get through tonight.”
“Thought we did that,” Roger replies, crawling out of Mrs Bulsara’s homemade blanket and making for the bathroom. “Back when we were filling gaps for Morrigan’s.”
“No reason we shouldn’t look at some other pieces,” Freddie chirps. “Go on, get ready and we’ll see what’s what.”