He had called their number and said: ‘This is British Railways Lost Property. We have a tape in a box marked: “Head of Artists and Recording, Classic Records.” Who should we send it to?’ The girl who answered the phone had given him a name and this address in Denmark Street.
At the top of the stairs he found a receptionist, probably the one he had spoken to on the phone. Assuming a confident air, he used the name she had given him. ‘I’m here to see Eric Chapman,’ he said.
‘What name shall I say?’
‘Dave Williams. Tell him Byron Chesterfield sent me.’
This was a lie, but Dave had nothing to lose.
The receptionist disappeared through a door. Dave looked around. The lobby was decorated with framed gold and silver discs. A photograph of Percy Marquand, the Negro Bing Crosby, was inscribed: ‘To Eric, with thanks for everything.’ Dave noticed that all the discs were at least five years old. Eric needed fresh talent.
Dave felt nervous. He was not accustomed to deception. He told himself not to be timid. He was not breaking the law. If he were found out, the worst that could happen was that he would be told to get out and stop wasting people’s time. It was worth risking that.
The secretary came out, and a middle-aged man stood in the doorway. He wore a green cardigan over a white shirt and a nondescript tie. He had thinning grey hair. He leaned on the doorpost, looking Dave up and down. After a moment he said: ‘So Byron sent you to me, did he?’
His tone was sceptical: obviously he did not believe the story. Dave avoided repeating the lie by telling another. ‘Byron said: “EMI has the Beatles, Decca has the Rolling Stones, Classic needs Plum Nellie.” ’ Byron had said nothing of the kind. Dave had figured it out for himself, reading the music press.
‘Plum what?’
Dave handed Chapman a photo of the group. ‘We’ve done a stint at The Dive in Hamburg, as the Beatles did, and we’ve played the Jump Club in London, like the Stones.’ He was surprised he had not yet been thrown out, and he wondered how much longer his luck would hold.
‘How do you know Byron?’
‘He’s our manager.’ Another lie.
‘What sort of music?’
‘Rock and roll, but with a lot of vocal harmonies.’
‘Just like every other pop group at the moment.’
‘But we’re better.’
There was a long pause. Dave was pleased that Chapman was even talking to him. Lenny had said: ‘You can’t get through the door.’ Dave had proved him wrong there.
Then Chapman said: ‘You’re a bloody liar.’
Dave opened his mouth to protest, but Chapman held up a hand to silence him. ‘Don’t tell me any more whoppers. Byron isn’t your manager and he didn’t send you here. You might have met him, but he didn’t say Classic Records needs Plum Nellie.’
Dave said nothing. He had been caught out. This was humiliating. He had tried to bluff his way into a record company and he had failed.
Chapman said: ‘What’s your name, again?’
‘Dave Williams.’
‘What do you want from me, Dave?’
‘A recording contract.’
‘There’s a surprise.’
‘Give us an audition. I promise you won’t regret it.’
‘I’ll tell you a secret, Dave. When I was eighteen, I got my first job in a recording studio by saying I was a qualified electrician. I lied. The only qualification I had was grade seven piano.’
Dave’s heart leaped in hope.
‘I like your cheek,’ Chapman said. A little sadly, he added: ‘If I could turn back the clock, I wouldn’t mind being a young chancer all over again.’
Dave held his breath.
‘I’ll audition you.’
‘Thanks!’
‘Come into the recording studio after Christmas.’ He jerked a thumb at the receptionist. ‘Cherry will give you an appointment.’ He went back into his room and closed the door.
Dave could hardly believe his luck. He had been caught out in his silly lies – but he had got an audition just the same!
He made a provisional appointment with Cherry, and said he would phone to confirm when he had checked with the rest of the group. Then he went home, walking on air.
As soon as he got back to the house in Great Peter Street, he picked up the phone in the hall and called Lenny. ‘I got us an audition with Classic Records!’ he said triumphantly.
Lenny was not as enthusiastic as Dave had expected. ‘Who told you to do that?’ He was miffed because Dave had taken the initiative.
Dave refused to be deflated. ‘What have we got to lose?’
‘How did you manage it?’
‘Bluffed my way in. I saw Eric Chapman, and he said okay.’
‘Blind luck,’ said Lenny. ‘It happens sometimes.’
‘Yeah,’ said Dave, though he was thinking: I wouldn’t have got lucky if I’d stayed home sitting on my arse.
‘Classic isn’t really a pop label,’ Lenny said.
‘That’s why they need us.’ Dave was running out of patience. ‘Lenny, how can this be bad?’
‘No, it’s fine; we’ll see if it comes to anything.’
‘Now we have to decide what to play at the audition. The secretary told me we’ll get to record two songs.’
‘Well, we should do “Shake, Rattle and Roll”, obviously.’
Dave’s heart sank. ‘Why?’
‘It’s our best number. Always goes down well.’
‘You don’t think it’s a bit old-fashioned?’
‘It’s a classic.’
Dave knew he could not fight Lenny about this, not right now. Lenny had already swallowed his pride once. He could be pushed, but not too far. However, they could do two songs: perhaps the second could be more distinctive. ‘How about a blues?’ Dave said desperately. ‘For a contrast. Show our range.’
‘Yeah. “Hoochie Coochie Man”.’
That was a bit better, more like the material the Rolling Stones were doing. ‘Okay,’ said Dave.
He went into the drawing room. Walli was there with a guitar on his knee. He had been living with the Williams family ever since coming from Hamburg with the group. He and Dave often sat in this room, playing and singing, between school and dinner.
Dave told him the news. Walli was pleased, but worried about Lenny’s choice of material. ‘Two songs that were hits in the fifties,’ he said. His English was improving fast.
‘It’s Lenny’s group,’ said Dave helplessly. ‘If you think you can change his mind, please try.’
Walli shrugged. He was a great musician but a bit passive, Dave found. Evie said everyone was passive by comparison with the Williams family.
They were pondering Lenny’s taste when Evie came in with Hank Remington.
A Woman’s Trial
was a hit, despite the catastrophic opening on the day President Kennedy was killed. Hank was recording a new album with the Kords. They spent their afternoons together then went off to their separate jobs.
Hank was wearing crushed-velvet hipster trousers and a polka-dot shirt. He sat with Dave and Walli while Evie went upstairs to change. As always he was charming and amusing, telling stories about the Kords on tour.
He picked up Walli’s guitar and strummed some chords absentmindedly, then said: ‘Do you want to hear a new song?’
They did, of course.
It was a sentimental ballad called ‘Love Is It’. The appeal was instant. It was a lovely melody with a little shuffle in the beat. They asked him to play it again, and he did.
Walli said: ‘What was that chord at the start of the bridge?’
‘C sharp minor.’ Hank showed him, then passed him the guitar.
Walli played the chords, and Hank sang it a third time. Dave improvised a harmony.
‘That sounded nice,’ Hank said. ‘Such a pity we’re not going to record it.’
‘What?’ Dave was incredulous. ‘It’s beautiful!’
‘The Kords think it’s soppy. We’re a rock outfit, they say; we don’t want to sound like Peter, Paul and Mary.’
‘I think it’s a Number One hit,’ said Dave.
His mother put her head around the door. ‘Walli,’ she said. ‘Phone call for you – from Germany.’
It would be Walli’s sister Rebecca in Hamburg, Dave guessed. Walli’s family in East Berlin could not phone him: the regime there did not allow phone calls to the West.
While Walli was out of the room, Evie reappeared. She had put her hair up and wore jeans and a T-shirt, ready for make-up and wardrobe artists to go to work on her. Hank was going to drop her at the theatre on his way to the recording studio.
Dave was distracted, thinking about ‘Love Is It’, a great song that the Kords did not want.
Walli came back in, followed by Daisy. He said: ‘That was Rebecca.’
‘I like Rebecca,’ said Dave, remembering pork chops and fried potatoes.
‘She just received a letter, very delayed, from Karolin in East Berlin.’ Walli paused. He seemed to be in the grip of some emotion. At last he managed to say: ‘Karolin had the baby. It’s a girl.’
Everyone jumped up and congratulated him. Daisy and Evie kissed him. Daisy said: ‘When did this happen?’
‘The twenty-second of November. Easy to remember: it was the day Kennedy was shot.’
‘How much did she weigh?’ Daisy asked.
‘Weigh?’ said Walli, as if that was an incomprehensible question.
Daisy laughed. ‘It’s something people always tell you about new babies.’
‘I didn’t ask what she weighed.’
‘Never mind. What about her name?’
‘Karolin suggests Alice.’
‘That’s lovely,’ said Daisy.
‘Karolin will send me a photograph,’ said Walli. ‘Of my daughter,’ he added dazedly. ‘But she sends it via Rebecca, because letters to England are even more held up in the censor’s office.’
Daisy said: ‘I can’t wait to see the picture!’
Hank rattled his car keys impatiently. Maybe he found baby talk boring. Or, Dave thought, perhaps he did not like the baby taking the spotlight away from him.
Evie said: ‘Oh, my God, look at the time. Bye, everyone. Congratulations again, Walli.’
As they were leaving, Dave said: ‘Hank, are the Kords really not going to record “Love Is It”?’
‘Really. When they take against something, they’re a stubborn lot.’
‘In that case, could Walli and I have the song for Plum Nellie? We’ve got an audition in January with Classic Records.’
‘Sure,’ said Hank with a shrug. ‘Why not?’
* * *
Lloyd Williams asked Dave to step into his study on Saturday morning.
Dave was about to go out. He was wearing a horizontally striped blue-and-white sweater, jeans and a leather jacket. ‘Why?’ he said pugnaciously. ‘You’re no longer giving me an allowance.’ The money he earned playing with Plum Nellie was not much, but it was enough for Tube fares, drinks and, occasionally, a shirt or a new pair of boots.
‘Is money the only reason for speaking to your father?’
Dave shrugged and followed him into the room. It had an antique desk and some leather chairs. A fire smouldered in the grate. On the wall was a picture of Lloyd at Cambridge in the thirties. The room was a shrine to everything that was out of date. It seemed to smell of obsolescence.
Lloyd said: ‘I ran into Will Furbelow at the Reform Club yesterday.’
Will Furbelow was the head of Dave’s school. Being bald, he was inevitably known as None Above.
‘He says you’re in danger of failing all your exams.’
‘He’s never been my biggest fan.’
‘If you fail, you will not be allowed to continue at the school. That will be the end of your formal education.’
‘Thank God for that.’
Lloyd was not going to be riled. ‘Every profession will be closed to you, from accountant to zoologist. They all require you to pass exams. The next possibility, for you, is an apprenticeship. You could learn to do something useful, and you should think about what you might like: bricklaying, cooking, motor mechanics . . .’
Dave wondered whether Dad was out of his mind. ‘Bricklaying?’ he said. ‘Do you even
know
me? I’m Dave.’
‘Don’t sound incredulous. These are the jobs people do if they can’t pass exams. Below that level, you could be a shop assistant or a factory hand.’
‘I can’t believe I’m hearing this.’
‘I was afraid you would do this, close your eyes to reality.’
Dad was the one closing his eyes, Dave thought.
‘I realize you’re getting beyond the age where I can expect you to obey me.’
Dave was startled. This was a new approach. He said nothing.
‘But I want you to be clear about where we stand. When you leave school, I expect you to work.’
‘I am working, quite hard. I play three or four nights a week, and Walli and I have started trying to write songs.’
‘I mean that I expect you to support yourself. Although your mother has inherited wealth, we agreed long ago that we would never support our children in idleness.’
‘I’m not idle.’
‘You think that what you do is work, but the world may not see it that way. In any event, if you want to continue living here, you’ll have to pay your share.’
‘You mean rent?’
‘If you want to call it that, yes.’
‘Jasper’s never paid rent, and he’s lived here for years!’
‘He’s still a student. And he passes his exams.’
‘What about Walli?’
‘A special case, because of his background; but sooner or later he must pay his share, too.’
Dave was working out the implications. ‘So, if I don’t become a bricklayer or a shop assistant, and I don’t make enough money with the group to pay your rent, then . . .’
‘Then you will have to look for alternative accommodation.’
‘You’ll throw me out.’
Lloyd looked pained. ‘All your life, you’ve had the best of everything handed to you on a plate: a lovely home, a great school, the best food, toys and books, piano lessons, skiing holidays. But that was when you were a child. Now you’re almost an adult, and you have to face reality.’
‘My reality, not yours.’
‘You scorn the kind of work that ordinary people do. You’re different, you’re a rebel. Fine. Rebels pay a price. Sooner or later, you have to learn that. That’s all.’
Dave sat thoughtful for a minute. Then he stood up. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I get the message.’ He went to the door.
As he left, he glanced back, and saw his father watching him with an odd expression.
He thought about that as he went out of the house and slammed the front door. What was that look? What did it mean?