The crowds were cheerful and always ready to laugh. They dressed up to come to the market: it was a social event. Dave learned a whole range of new slang for money: a sixpenny piece was a Tilbury, five shillings were a dollar, and a ten-shilling note was half a knicker.
The time passed quickly. A waitress from a nearby café brought two sandwiches of thick white bread with fried bacon and ketchup, and Lenny paid her and gave one of the sandwiches to Dave, who was surprised to learn that it was lunchtime. The pockets of his drainpipe jeans grew heavy with coins, and he recalled with pleasure that 10 per cent of the money was his. At mid-afternoon he noticed that there were hardly any men on the streets, and Lenny explained that they had all gone to a football match.
Towards the end of the afternoon, business slowed to almost nothing. Dave thought the money in his pockets might amount to as much as five pounds, in which case he had made ten shillings, the amount of his normal allowance – and he could go to the Jump Club.
At five o’clock, Lenny began to dismantle the stall, and Dave helped to put the unsold goods in cardboard boxes, then they loaded everything into Lenny’s yellow Bedford van.
When they counted Dave’s money, he had taken just over nine pounds. Lenny gave him a pound, a little more than the agreed 10 per cent, ‘because you helped me pack up’. Dave was delighted: he had made twice the amount his father should have given him that morning. He would gladly do this every Saturday, he thought, especially if it meant he did not have to listen to his father’s preaching.
They went to the nearest pub and got pint glasses of beer. ‘You play the guitar a bit, don’t you?’ Lenny said as they sat at a grimy table with a full ashtray.
‘Yes.’
‘What sort of instrument have you got?’
‘An Eko. It’s a cheap copy of a Gibson.’
‘Electric?’
‘It’s semi-hollow.’
Lenny looked impatient: perhaps he did not know much about guitars. ‘Can you plug it in, is what I’m asking.’
‘Yes – why?’
‘Because I need a rhythm guitarist for my group.’
That was exciting. Dave had not thought of joining a group, but the idea appealed to him instantly. ‘I didn’t know you had a group,’ he said.
‘The Guardsmen. I play piano and do most of the singing.’
‘What kind of music?’
‘Rock and roll – the only kind.’
‘By which you mean . . .’
‘Elvis, Chuck Berry, Johnny Cash . . . All the greats.’
Dave could play three-chord songs without difficulty. ‘What about the Beatles?’ Their chords were more difficult.
Lenny said: ‘Who?’
‘A new group. They’re fab.’
‘Never heard of them.’
‘Well, anyway, I can play rhythm guitar on old rock songs.’
Lenny looked mildly offended at the phrase, but he said: ‘So, do you want to audition for the Guardsmen?’
‘I’d love to!’
Lenny looked at his watch. ‘How long will it take you to go home and get your guitar?’
‘Half an hour, and half an hour to get back.’
‘Meet me at the Aldgate Workingmen’s Club at seven. We’ll be setting up. We can audition you before we play. Have you got an amplifier?’
‘Small one.’
‘It’ll have to do.’
Dave got the Tube. His success as a salesman, and the beer he had drunk, gave him an inner glow. He smoked a cigarette on the train, rejoicing at his victory over his father. He imagined saying casually to Linda Robertson: ‘I play guitar in a beat group.’ That could hardly fail to impress her.
He arrived home and entered the house by the back door. He managed to slip up to his room without seeing either of his parents. It took him only a few moments to put his guitar in its carrying case and pick up his amplifier.
He was about to leave when his sister Evie came into his room, dressed up for Saturday night. She wore a short skirt and knee boots, and her hair was back-combed in a beehive. She had heavy eye make-up in the panda style made fashionable by Dusty Springfield. She looked older than seventeen. ‘Where are you going?’ Dave asked her.
‘To a party. Hank Remington is supposed to be there.’
Remington, lead singer of the Kords, sympathized with some of Evie’s causes, and had said so in interviews.
‘You’ve caused a stir today,’ Evie said. She was not accusing him: she always took his side in arguments with the parents, and he did the same for her.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Dad’s really upset.’
‘Upset?’ Dave was not sure what to make of that. His father could be angry, disappointed, stern, authoritarian, or tyrannical, and he knew how to react; but upset? ‘Why?’
‘I gather you and he had a row.’
‘He wouldn’t give me my allowance because I failed all my exams.’
‘What did you do?’
‘Nothing. I walked out. I probably slammed the door.’
‘Where have you been all day?’
‘I worked on Lenny Avery’s market stall and earned a pound.’
‘Good for you! Where are you off to now, with your guitar?’
‘Lenny has a beat group. He wants me to play rhythm guitar.’ That was an exaggeration: Dave did not have the job yet.
‘Good luck!’
‘I suppose you’ll tell Mum and Dad where I’ve gone.’
‘Only if you want me to.’
‘I don’t care.’ Dave went to the door, then hesitated. ‘He’s upset?’
‘Yes.’
Dave shrugged and left.
He got out of the house without being seen.
He was looking forward to the audition. He played and sang a lot with his sister, but he had never sat in with a real group that had a drummer. He hoped he was good enough – though rhythm guitar was not difficult.
On the Tube his thoughts kept wandering back to his father. He was a bit shocked to learn that he could upset Dad. Fathers were supposed to be invulnerable – but that attitude was childish, he now saw. Irritatingly, he might have to change his outlook. He could no longer be merely indignant and resentful. He was not the only sufferer. Dad had hurt him, but he had hurt Dad as well, and they were both responsible. Feeling responsible was not as comfortable as feeling outraged.
He found the Aldgate Workingmen’s Club and carried his guitar and amplifier inside. It was a drab place, with bright neon strips throwing a harsh light on Formica tables and tubular chairs lined up in rows that made him think of a factory canteen: hardly the place for rock and roll.
The Guardsmen were on stage, tuning up. As well as Lenny on piano there was Lew on drums, Buzz on bass and Geoffrey on lead guitar. Geoffrey had a microphone in front of him, so presumably he also did some singing. All three were older than Dave, in their early twenties, and he feared they might be much better musicians than he was. Suddenly, playing rhythm did not seem so easy.
He tuned his guitar to the piano and plugged into his amplifier. Lenny said: ‘Do you know “Mess of Blues”?’
Dave did, and he felt relieved. It was a rock-steady number in the key of C, led by a rolling piano part, easy to accompany on the guitar. He strummed along with it effortlessly and found a special kick in playing with others that he had never experienced on his own.
Lenny sang well, Dave thought. Buzz and Lew made a solid rhythm section, very steady. Geoff had some fancy licks on lead guitar. The group was competent, if a bit unimaginative.
At the end of the song, Lenny said: ‘The chords round out the sound of the group nicely, but can you play more rhythmically?’
Dave was surprised to be criticized. He thought he had done well. ‘Okay,’ he said.
The next number was ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’, a Jerry Lee Lewis hit that was also piano-led. Geoffrey sang in unison with Lenny on the chorus. Dave played choppy chords on the off-beat, and Lenny seemed to like that better.
Lenny announced ‘Johnny B. Goode’, and without being asked, Dave enthusiastically played the Chuck Berry introduction. When he got to the fifth bar he expected the group to join in, as on the record, but the Guardsmen remained silent. Dave stopped, and Lenny said: ‘I usually play the intro on the piano.’
‘Sorry,’ Dave said, and Lenny restarted the number.
Dave felt dispirited. He was not doing well.
The next number was ‘Wake Up, Little Susie’. To Dave’s surprise, Geoffrey did not sing the Everly Brothers’ harmony. After the first verse, Dave moved to Geoffrey’s microphone and began to sing with Lenny. A minute later, two young waitresses who were putting ashtrays out on the tables stopped their work to listen. At the end of the song they clapped. Dave grinned with pleasure. It was the first time he had been applauded by anyone outside his family.
One of the girls said to Dave: ‘What’s your group called?’
Dave pointed at Lenny. ‘It’s his group, and they’re called the Guardsmen.’
‘Oh.’ She seemed mildly disappointed.
Lenny’s last choice was ‘Take Good Care of My Baby’, and again Dave sang the harmony. The waitresses danced along the aisles between the rows of tables.
Afterwards, Lenny got up from the piano. ‘Well, you’re not much of a guitarist,’ he said to Dave. ‘But you sing nicely, and those girls really went for it.’
‘So am I in or out?’
‘Can you play tonight?’
‘Tonight!’ Dave was pleased, but he had not expected to start immediately. He was looking forward to seeing Linda Robertson later.
‘You got something better to do?’ Lenny looked a bit offended that Dave had not accepted instantly.
‘Well, I was going to see a girl, but she’ll just have to wait. What time will we be through?’
‘This is a workingmen’s club. They don’t stay up late. We come off stage at half past ten.’
Dave calculated that he could be at the Jump Club by eleven. ‘That’s okay,’ he said.
‘Good,’ said Lenny. ‘Welcome to the group.’
* * *
Jasper Murray still could not afford to go to America. At St Julian’s College, London, there was a group called the North America Club that chartered flights and sold cheap tickets. Late one afternoon he went to their little office in the student union and enquired about prices. He learned that he could go to New York for ninety pounds. It was too much, and he left disconsolate.
He spotted Sam Cakebread in the coffee bar. For several days he had been looking for a chance to speak to Sam outside the office of the student newspaper,
St Julian’s News.
Sam was the paper’s editor, Jasper its news editor.
With Sam was his younger sister, Valerie, also a student at St Julian’s, wearing a tweed cap and a minidress. She wrote articles about fashion for the paper. She was attractive: in other circumstances Jasper would have flirted with her, but today he had other matters on his mind. He would have preferred to talk to Sam on his own, but he decided that Valerie’s presence was no real problem.
He carried his coffee to Sam’s table. ‘I want your advice,’ he said. He wanted information, not advice, but people were sometimes reluctant to share information, whereas they were always flattered to be asked for advice.
Sam was wearing a herringbone jacket with a tie and smoking a pipe: perhaps he wanted to look older. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, folding the paper he had been reading.
Jasper sat down. His relationship with Sam was awkward. They had been rivals for the post of editor, and Sam had won. Jasper had concealed his resentment, and Sam had made him news editor. They had become colleagues, but not friends. ‘I want to be next year’s editor,’ Jasper said. He hoped that Sam would help him, either because he was the right man for the job – which he was – or out of guilt.
‘That’s up to Lord Jane,’ said Sam evasively. Jane was Provost of the college.
‘Lord Jane will ask your opinion.’
‘There’s a whole appointment committee.’
‘But you and the Provost are the members who count.’
Sam did not argue with that. ‘So you want my advice.’
‘Who else is in the running?’
‘Toby, obviously.’
‘Really?’ Toby Jenkins was the features editor, a plodder who had commissioned a dull series of worthy articles about the work of university officials such as the registrar and the treasurer.
‘He will apply.’
Sam himself had got the job partly because of the distinguished journalists among his relations. Lord Jane was impressed by such connections. This irritated Jasper, but he did not mention it.
Jasper said: ‘Toby’s stuff is pedestrian.’
‘He’s an accurate reporter, if unimaginative.’
Jasper recognized this remark as a dig at himself. He was the opposite of Toby. He prized sensation over accuracy. In his reports a scuffle always became a fight, a plan was a conspiracy, and a slip of the tongue was never less than a blatant lie. He knew that people read newspapers for excitement, not information.
Cakebread added: ‘And he did write that piece about rats in the refectory.’
‘So he did.’ Jasper had forgotten. The article had caused uproar. It had been luck, really: Toby’s father worked for the local council and knew about the efforts of the pest control department to eradicate vermin in the eighteenth-century cellars of St Julian’s College. Nevertheless, the article had secured the job of features editor for Toby, who had written nothing half as good since. ‘So I need a scoop,’ Jasper said thoughtfully.
‘Perhaps.’
‘You mean, like, revealing that the Provost is skimming off university funds to pay his gambling debts.’
‘I doubt that Lord Jane gambles.’ Sam did not have a great sense of humour.
Jasper thought about Lloyd Williams. Might he provide some kind of tip-off? Lloyd was frightfully discreet, unfortunately.
Then he thought of Evie. She had applied to attend the Irving School of Drama, which was part of St Julian’s College, so she was of interest to the student newspaper. She had just got her first acting job, in a film called
All Around Miranda.
And she was going out with Hank Remington, of the Kords. Perhaps . . .
Jasper stood up. ‘Thanks for your help, Sam. I really appreciate it.’
‘Any time,’ said Sam.
Jasper caught the Tube home. The more he thought about interviewing Evie, the more excited he became.
Jasper knew the truth about Evie and Hank. They were not just dating, they were having a passionate affair. Her parents knew she went out with Hank two or three evenings a week, and came home at midnight on Saturdays. But Jasper and Dave also knew that most days after school Evie went to Hank’s flat in Chelsea and had sex with him. Hank had already written a song about her, ‘Too Young to Smoke’.