Photoplay (Jul-Dec 1959)

slender, tall, brown-haired. Her dark eyes looked kind; and although she appeared calm I knew she must be nervous because she was at a loss for words. “I just can’t understand it,” she said in a soft voice. “Bronwyn’s such a good girl. Why, she’s one of the honor students in ' her class.” “Why don’t I make another appeal?” I I suggested. “On the rock ’n’ roll program I this afternoon.” I’d been scheduled for an interview with the disc jockey who’d been playing more and more of my songs (because of Bronwyn’s strong fan-club campa gn in my behalf) . Everyone, by the way, told me how influential Bronwyn’s club had become with the disc jockeys. Shaking her head, Mrs. King said something under her breath. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t hear you.” “I wish,” she said, “my husband had met you. I think he’d change his mind about all you rock ’n’ roll singers if he did!” I felt a little funny for a minute. Then wo left for the radio station where I was to make my appeal. “Hi,” I said over the table mike. I sat next to the red-haired disc jockey who had met me at the airport. “This is Tommy Sands. I want to say hello to Bronwyn King, the president of my fan club here in Australia. If you’re out there, Bronwyn, listening to me, I want to meet you, and I hope you’ll call me up after the broadcast. I’m at the Hotel Chevron. Just ask the telephone operator to connect you with my room.” “Bronwyn,” I continued, “we’re all anxious about you. Please get in touch with vs. We’re all praying that you’re well!” I returned to stare out the big baywindow in my hotel room. Newspaper reporters and photographers kept coming into the room, asking me if I’d had any news from Bronwyn after my appeal. I told them we were waiting. One of the reporters asked me how I’d feel if Bronwyn were never heard from again, and I just couldn’t answer him. I paced my room at least a hundred times, and waited for Bronwyn’s call, but the telephone didn’t ring. I stared at the hard black instrument over and over again. You just don’t realize how important the ring of a telephone can be until you’re desperate for news or information. I paced my room again. “It’s all because of me,” I thought, my hands sunk deep in my pockets, “all because of me.” Ted, my manager, tried to get me to take a nap, but I couldn’t. I was too jumpy to think of sleeping. For a moment I thought I was imagining it. But one of the reporters in the room said, “Hey, didn’t that sound like a knock?” The reporter and the photographer and Ted and I listened. There it was again. A feeble knock-knock-knock. Timid. Like a frightened child’s knocking. I looked into Ted’s eyes, then I ran to the doorway. I unhooked the latch, opened the door, and there, in front of me, stood two teenaged girls. One of them was bawling, tears rolling down her rosy cheeks. She was tall and pretty with dark blond hair fluffed softly around her heart-shaped face. I could barely see her warm brown eyes for the tears. Her girlfriend was shorter. She had long black hair and a dimple. “Are . . . are you Bronwyn?” I heard my voice asking. My heart skipped a beat. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t speak through her tears. But she nodded her head to say yes, and I took her in my arms and hugged her. “Thank God,” I said, “thank God.” The photographer started to snap pictures with his flash camera, but I asked him for the film. I didn’t want any of these pictures published. Bronwyn had come back . . that was what was important, and I didn’t think it was fair for the photographer to'’^ake pictures of her in tears. I asked her if I could call her mother, who was waiting anxiously for news of her at her aunt’s in Melbourne, and Bronwyn nodded yes. Ted offered to call Mrs. King, and I ordered hot tea and toast for Bronwyn, and her girlfriend. “Oh, Tommy,” she cried, her eyes brimming with tears. “I never, never thought I’d meet you.” She swallowed hard, then sat down in a chintz-covered armchair and she sobbed loudly. “But what have I done. Tommy? I ... I ran away, and I’ve made my parents look so awful in front of everybody.” She sobbed so loudly it was hard to understand everything she was saying. “This is my girlfriend,” she said. “I’ve . . . I’ve been staying with her. I didn’t tell her folks I’d run away. I ... I just told them I came for a visit.” Ted was on the telephone now talking to Bronwyn’s mother. “Bronwyn,” I said, “would you mind if we asked your mother to come over? She’s so worried, and she wants to see you.” “I don’t mind,” Bronwyn sobbed, dabbing her eyes with a wrinkled ball of a handkerchief. “I ... I miss her so much. But she’ll never forgive me! And my father . . .” Bronwyn never finished the sentence. “She’s afraid her father will hate her,” her girlfriend explained. “No, he won’t,” I said quickly. “He probably feels just like all of us. We’re so glad to know you’re alive and well!” “But he’ll hate me for running away,” Bronwyn cried. “He’ll forgive you,” I said. “He won’t,” she told me through her tears. “You just wait and see!” Mrs. King arrived, and both Bronwyn and her mother cried as they embraced each other. “Oh, Mom,” Bi'onwyn sobbed. “I’m sorry, but I ... I just couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stand Dad saying all those terrible things about Tommy and rock ’n’ roll.” “Bronwyn,” her mother said quietly, “don’t let’s talk about that now. What matters is that you’re safe.” “Mom,” Bronwyn said, her dark eyes glimmering from crying, “what’s Dad going to say?” Her mother patted Bronwyn’s arm. “Don’t worry about that now.” I interrupted — 1 couMn’t help myself. “Mrs. King,” I said, “when I get back to Sydney next week, can I sit down and talk to Mr. King?” “Oh, Tommy,” she said softly. “I don’t know if that’ll do any good. Mr. King’s a man with a strong mind and will.” And suddenly Bronwyn started to cry all over again. The first thing I did when we got to Sydney that next week was to pick up the telephone. Mrs. King was at home. “Last night,” I told her, “I had an idea. I was wondering if you and Mr. King and Bronwyn would be my guests tonight at the Sydney Stadium where I’m singing.” “Tomm.y, that’s so thoughtful of you,” Mrs. King said. “But I’m afraid you don’t know my husband. I doubt if he’ll want to come.” “But will you tell him I called and extended a personal invitation? 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