David Charters: Some said it was the first true British rock and roll record

Aug 19 2008 by David Charters, Liverpool Daily Post

THEY were never what you would call close friends, but the circumstances of life had drawn them together on many occasions – starting on the school playground.

Enid had always been the more dominant personality and this was expressed in the nasty, spiteful way that she tugged at the pink ribbons on Maud’s plaits and cruelly mocked her posh voice, particularly her ability to sound "aitches", as in "Holly hopes Harry has a happy holiday".

Sometimes Maud cried and the other children pointed at her and called her names.

But she claimed her revenge in the school’s regular activities. Many badges for effort and achievement decorated her pale blue blouse, though they were almost lost beneath the dazzle from her dental braces.

Never a brilliant pupil, Maud was, nonetheless, diligent about both her classwork and her homework, always recalling her mother’s inspiring motto – "practice makes perfect". Her adherence to this sentiment was also evident on the hockey field, where she was a competent, if unexciting, central defender, whose name would always feature near the end of the team list on the school notice board.

By contrast, Enid’s chest was never decorated with badges, though she was one of the first to wear a bra. She also demonstrated an early interest in cigarettes, Coca-Cola, perfume and lipstick. It was even said boys would pay sixpence to see her stockings and suspenders, while Maud stuck to her trusty ankle socks and was, therefore, never so rewarded.

Life after their school days followed the same pattern. Maud married a young man, who had been a senior colleague in the bank, and they had three sensible children together. Enid, by contrast, ignored the counsel of colleagues and friends in the pub and ran off with a Persian magician from a circus, who gave her a baby boy and then vanished in a puff of smoke.

Rather uncharacteristically, Maud told this story with considerable gusto in the cafe of the department store, where the school’s old girls met, leaving just the right pause before delivering the punchline.

"How everyone laughed," she told her husband at their dinner, celebrating his elevation onto the golf club’s subscriptions’ committee. "As mother used to day, ‘practice makes perfect’."

But the most important difference between the two had come in their early 20s, when the nation was gripped by the first wave of rock and roll. Enid was an Elvis fan. Maud favoured Cliff.

These memories roared back a couple of weeks ago when two black cabs pulled up outside the gates to the Falling Leaves Residential Home for the Retired.

From one emerged Maud, her spry step a testament to all those February afternoons on the hockey field.

From the other hobbled the more gnarled Enid, who was, perhaps, wearing a little too much make-up.

As a cloud passed under the sun, they looked at each other, open-mouthed with incredulity.

It was infant school, all over again. Their greetings, it has to be said, were less than warm. But, together, they crunched up the gravel drive to the creeper-coated, red- bricked Victorian building – each carrying a suitcase in one hand and a carrier bag in the other.

The smiling matron opened the double-doors to the lounge, where, at once, Maud and Enid saw the old gramophone. They jostled towards it, elbows jutting out. Digging in her bag, Enid triumphantly plucked her favourite Elvis record, Heartbreak Hotel, which seemed appropriate enough. From her bag, Maud pulled Cliff’s Living Doll, which seemed less appropriate.

"Me first," screamed Enid.

"No, me," cried Maud, as they struggled to put their respective choices on the turntable. Within seconds, years of pent-up hate exploded over that gramophone. The two old rivals started kicking each other’s ankles as a prelude to some serious hair-pulling.

Well, this is just a little fable really, as we approach September’s 50th anniversary of Cliff’s "Move It" being released. Some said it was the first true British rock and roll record, carrying the extraordinarily prophetic line, "They say it (the music) is gonna die, but honey please let’s face it, well we just don’t know what’s gonna replace it".

From then on, it seemed that all the young people had split into two camps – those who supported Elvis Presley and those devoted to Cliff Richard, though their surnames were never used. To some extent, among the real fans, those passions have survived. But there was a third camp, to which I have remained a loyal member. I am referring to the young men and women, who admired Lonnie Donegan, King of Skiffle.

So, many years hence, if you enter Falling Leaves and hear the Rock Island Line, you’ll know I got there first.

* LISTEN to David Charters on his picture podcast at www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk