A Song for Joey Read Online Free PDF Page B

lessons, I avoided speaking to anyone, and at playtime, I found a spot
where I could be alone. But it did not save me from the attentions of a gang from the 'big'
school, on the opposite side of the playground wall, led by a stocky, red haired boy named
Thomas O'Reilly.
    Every day, he and his chums shouted abuse at me over the wall from their part of the
school. "Dirty Wop! Smelly Eyetie! Your mother was a whore!"
If I managed to evade them in school, they waited for me afterwards ... then it was
worse. They jostled me and pushed me to the ground, they took my satchel and threw it
into nearby gardens (where I then had to beg the people to return it to me), and sometimes
they punched me or hit me with sticks.
Teachers became frustrated with me as I slipped further behind in the classroom, and
couldn't tell them why. I began to pretend to be ill in the mornings, so Gran would keep
me at home, but she soon became suspicious.
"What's up, pet?" she asked me one day when I complained of a headache. "I know
there's nothing really wrong with you, so why don't you want to go to school?"
Silently, I hung my head, unable to answer, afraid that, if I started to tell her, I would
cry.
"Belinda, darling, we don't have secrets, do we?"
I shook my head.
"Well then, you can tell me, that's what I'm here for."
I tried to think how to tell her.
"Gran, tell me about my Mum. Some kids say she was a whore! What is a 'whore'
Gran?"
"Oh my lovely, is that what's happening at school?"
I nodded again.
"Right, let's get this straight, your Mum was not a whore, she was a respectable married
woman. Those kids have no business saying bad things about you or your family, tell me
their names and I will go round to see their parents and give them a piece of my mind!"
"Oh no, Gran, that will make them hate me even more! Please don't."
"Well they can't get away with it, Belinda dear. I simply will not stand for them making
you afraid to go to school. I'll take you there now, and then I'll have a quiet word with
their headmaster. All right?"
"Ok, Gran."
She walked to the school with me and delivered me into my class, explaining quietly to
the teacher why I was late. Then she left me and went to find the headmaster of the Junior
School.
-♪-♫-♪
    In our living room we had a 'radiogram', a beautiful piece of furniture the size of a
sideboard. It was made of light brown, almost orange-coloured, wood, with a dense,
swirling grain. Gran polished it lovingly, and it was often admired by guests.
    But it was the inside that captivated me. Behind its elegant, curved doors hid a radio and
a gramophone - wonderful technology that opened up a whole world of excitement.
In cupboards at each end were stacked Gran's collection of records, and I played them
whenever I could, dancing around the living room, singing along with Vera Lynn or Glen
Miller and his orchestra.
Whenever the world outside started to hurt me, I would turn on the radiogram, listening
to the humming and fizzing of the valves and smelling that unique blend of wood oil and
and hot electronic components, then hearing voices and music as though by magic.
The radio stations tended to be mostly talk, with sometimes a comedy show, but
occasionally they had music programmes. Then I might have a special treat, because every
so often there would be a new recording to thrill me. I loved the steady beat and complex
rhythms of the jazz records, and soon became able to pick out the distinctive sounds of
different bands and the voices of the singers. Many of the records came from America, a
mystical land, far away across the ocean, where music seemed to be a living thing,
constantly growing and changing.
When I first heard the exciting sound of Les Paul exploring the amazing sounds he
could achieve with an electric guitar, blended with the sweet tones of Mary Ford's voice, I
was ecstatic. They created a complex sound by recording and re-recording themselves,
playing one tape back while adding fresh harmonies,