He was still thinking about it as he bought his Tube ticket. Going down on the escalator, he saw an advertisement for a play called
Heartbreak House
. That was it, he thought. That was his father’s facial expression.
He had looked heartbroken.
* * *
A small colour photograph of Alice arrived in the post, and Walli studied it eagerly. It showed a baby like any other: a tiny pink face with alert blue eyes, a cap of thin dark-brown hair, a blotchy throat. The rest of her was tightly wrapped in a sky-blue blanket. All the same, Walli felt an upsurge of love and a sudden need to protect and care for the helpless creature he had made.
He wondered if he would ever see her.
With the picture was a note from Karolin. She said that she loved Walli and missed him, and she was going to apply to the East German government for permission to emigrate to the West.
In the picture, Karolin was holding Alice and looking at the camera. Karolin had put on weight, and her face was more round. Her hair was pulled back, instead of framing her face like curtains. She no longer resembled all the other pretty girls in the Minnesänger folk club. She was a mother now. It made her even more desirable in Walli’s eyes.
He showed the photograph to Dave’s mother, Daisy. ‘Well, now, what a beautiful baby!’ she said.
Walli smiled, though in his opinion no babies were beautiful, not even his own.
‘I think she has your eyes, Walli,’ Daisy went on.
Walli’s eyes had a slight Oriental look. He figured some long-ago ancestor must have been Chinese. He could not tell whether or not Alice’s eyes were similar.
Daisy continued to gush. ‘And this is Karolin.’ Daisy had not seen her before: Walli had no photos. ‘What a pretty young woman.’
‘Wait till you see her dressed up,’ Walli said proudly. ‘People stop and stare.’
‘I hope we will see her, some time.’
A shadow fell over Walli’s happiness, as if a cloud had hidden the sun. ‘So do I,’ he said.
He followed the news from East Berlin, reading the German newspapers in the public library, and he often questioned Lloyd Williams, whose speciality as a politician was foreign affairs. Walli knew that getting out of East Germany was ever more difficult: the Wall was being made larger and more formidable, with more guards and more towers. Karolin would never try to escape, especially now that she had a child. However, there might be another way. Officially, the East German government would not say whether legal emigration was possible; indeed, they would not even say which department dealt with applications. But Lloyd had learned, from the British Embassy in Bonn, that about ten thousand people a year were given permission. Perhaps Karolin would be one of them.
‘One day, I feel certain,’ said Daisy; but she was just being nice.
Walli showed the picture to Evie and Hank Remington, who were sitting in the drawing room, reading a script. The Kords were hoping to make a movie, and Hank wanted Evie to be in it. They put down their papers to coo over the baby.
‘We have our audition with Classic Records today,’ Walli told Hank. ‘I’m meeting Dave after school.’
‘Hey, good luck with that,’ Hank said. ‘Are you going to do “Love Is It”?’
‘I hope so. Lenny wants to do “Shake, Rattle and Roll”.’
Hank shook his head, making his long red hair swirl in a way that had caused a million adolescent girls to scream for joy. ‘Too old-fashioned.’
‘I know.’
People were constantly coming and going at the house in Great Peter Street, and now Jasper came in with a woman Walli had not seen before. ‘This is my sister Anna,’ he said.
Anna was a dark-eyed beauty in her middle twenties. Jasper was good-looking, too: they must be a handsome family, Walli thought. Anna had a generously rounded figure, unfashionable now that all models were flat-chested like Jean ‘the Shrimp’ Shrimpton.
Jasper introduced everyone. Hank stood up to shake hands with Anna and said: ‘I’ve been hoping to meet you. Jasper tells me you’re a book editor.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’m thinking of writing my life story.’
Walli thought Hank was a bit young, at twenty, to be writing his autobiography; but Anna had a different view. ‘What a wonderful idea,’ she said. ‘Millions of people would want to read it.’
‘Oh, do you think so?’
‘I know it, even though biography isn’t my field – I specialize in translations of German and East European literature.’
‘I had a Polish uncle, would that help?’
Anna laughed, a rich chuckle, and Walli warmed to her. So did Hank, and they sat down to discuss the book.
Carrying two guitars, Walli left the house.
He had found Hamburg a startling contrast to East Germany, but London was unnervingly different, an anarchic riot. People wore all styles of clothing from bowler hats to miniskirts. Boys with long hair were too commonplace even to be stared at. Political commentary was not just free, it was outrageous: Walli had been shocked to see a man on television impersonating Prime Minister Harold Macmillan, talking in his voice and wearing a little silver moustache and making idiotic pronouncements; though the Williams family had laughed heartily.
Walli was also struck by the number of dark faces. Germany had a few coffee-coloured Turkish immigrants, but London had thousands of people from the Caribbean islands and the Indian subcontinent. They came to work in hospitals and factories and on the buses and trains. Walli noticed that the Caribbean girls were very stylishly dressed and sexy.
He met Dave at the school gates and they took the Tube to North London.
Dave was nervous, Walli could tell. Walli was not nervous. He knew he was a good musician. Working at the Jump Club every night he heard dozens of guitarists, and it was rare to come across one who was more accomplished than he. Most got by with a few chords and a lot of enthusiasm. When he did hear someone good, he would stop washing glasses and watch the group, studying the guitarist’s technique, until the boss told him to get back to work; then, when he got home, he would sit in his room and imitate what he had heard until he could play it perfectly.
Unfortunately, virtuosity did not make you a pop star. There was more to it than that: charm, good looks, the right clothes, publicity, clever management, and, most of all, good songs.
And Plum Nellie had a good song. Walli and Dave had played ‘Love Is It’ to the rest of the group, and they had performed it at several gigs over the busy Christmas season. It went down well, although – as Lenny pointed out – you could not dance to it.
But Lenny did not want to audition it. ‘Not our type of material,’ he had said. He felt the same as the Kords: it was too pretty and sentimental for a rock group.
From the Tube station, Walli and Dave walked to a big old house that had been soundproofed and converted into recording studios. They waited in the hall. The others turned up a few minutes later. A receptionist asked them all to sign a piece of paper that she said was ‘for insurance’. To Walli it looked more like a contract. Dave frowned as he read it, but they all signed.
After a few minutes, an inner door opened and an unprepossessing young man slouched out. He wore a V-neck sweater with a shirt and tie, and he was smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. ‘Right,’ he said by way of introduction, and pushed his hair out of his eyes. ‘We’re almost ready for you. Is this your first time in a recording studio?’
They admitted that it was.
‘Well, our job is to make you sound your best, so just follow our guidance, okay?’ He seemed to feel he was granting them a great favour. ‘Come into the studio and plug in, and we’ll take it from there.’
Dave said: ‘What’s your name?’
‘Laurence Grant.’ He did not say exactly what his role was, and Walli guessed he was a lowly assistant trying to make himself seem important.
Dave introduced himself and the group, which made Laurence fidget impatiently; then they went in.
The studio was a large room with low lighting. At one side was a full-size Steinway piano, very like the one in Walli’s home in East Berlin. It had a padded cover and was partly hidden by a screen draped in blankets. Lenny sat at it and played a series of chords all the way up the keyboard. It had the warm tone characteristic of Steinways. Lenny looked impressed.
A drum kit was set up ready. Lew had brought his own snare drum, and he set about making the change.
Laurence said: ‘Something wrong with our drums?’
‘No, it’s just that I’m used to the feel of my own snare.’
‘Ours is more suitable for recording.’
‘Oh, okay.’ Lew removed his own drum and put the studio snare back on its stand.
Three amplifiers stood on the floor, their lights showing that they were on and ready. Walli and Dave plugged into the two Vox AC-30 models and Buzz took the larger Ampeg bass amp. They tuned to the piano.
Lenny said: ‘I can’t see the rest of the group. Do we have to have this screen?’
‘Yeah, we do,’ said Laurence.
‘What’s it for?’
‘It’s a baffle.’
Walli could tell, from Lenny’s expression, that he was none the wiser; but he let it drop.
A middle-aged man in a cardigan entered through a different door. He was smoking. He shook hands with Dave, who obviously had met him before, then introduced himself to the rest of the group. ‘I’m Eric Chapman, and I’ll be producing your audition,’ he said.
This is the man who holds our future in his hands, Walli thought. If he thinks we’re good, we’ll make records. If not, there’s no court of appeal. I wonder what he likes? He doesn’t look like a rock-and-roller. More the Frank Sinatra type.
‘I gather you haven’t done this before,’ Eric said. ‘But there’s really not much to it. At first it’s best to ignore the equipment, and try to relax and play as if this was a regular gig. If you make a minor mistake, just play through.’ He pointed at Laurence. ‘Larry here is our general dogsbody, so ask him for anything you need: tea, coffee, extra leads, whatever.’
Walli had not heard the English word ‘dogsbody’ before, but he could guess what it meant.
Dave said: ‘There is one thing, Eric. Our drummer, Lew, brought his own snare, because he’s more comfortable with it.’
‘What type is it?’
Lew answered. ‘Ludwig Oyster Black Pearl.’
‘Should be fine,’ Eric said. ‘Go ahead and switch.’
Lenny said: ‘Do we have to have this baffle here?’
‘I’m afraid we do,’ Eric said. ‘It keeps the piano mike from picking up too much drum sound.’
So, Walli thought, Eric knows what he’s talking about, and Larry is full of shit.
Eric said: ‘If I like you, we’ll talk about what to do next. If not, I won’t beat about the bush: I’ll tell you straight that you’re not what I’m looking for. Is that okay with everybody?’
They all said it was.
‘All right, let’s give it a whirl.’
Eric and Larry retreated through a soundproofed door and reappeared behind an internal window. Eric put on headphones and spoke into a microphone, and the group heard his voice coming from a small speaker on the wall. ‘Are you ready?’
They were ready.
‘Tape is rolling. Plum Nellie audition, take one. In your own time, lads.’
Lenny started to play boogie-woogie piano. It sounded wonderful on the Steinway. After four bars the group came in like clockwork. They played this number at every gig: they could do it in their sleep. Lenny went all out, doing the Jerry Lee Lewis vocal flourishes. When they had finished, Eric played back the recording without comment.
Walli thought it sounded good. But what did Eric think?
‘You play that well,’ he said over the intercom when they had finished. ‘Now, have you got something more modern?’
They played ‘Hoochie Coochie Man’. Once again the piano sounded marvellous to Walli, the minor chords thundering out.
Eric asked them to play both songs again, and they did so. Then he came out of the control booth. He sat on an amplifier and lit a cigarette. ‘I said I would tell you straight, and I will,’ he said, and Walli knew then that he was going to reject them. ‘You play well, but you’re old-fashioned. The world doesn’t need another Jerry Lee Lewis or Muddy Waters. I’m looking for the next greatest thing, and you’re not it. I’m sorry.’ He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew out smoke. ‘You can have the tape, and do what you like with it. Thanks for coming in.’ He stood up.
They all looked at one another. Disappointment was written on every face.
Eric went back into the control room, and Walli saw him, through the glass, taking the reel-to-reel tape off the machine.
Walli stood up, about to pack his guitar away.
Dave blew on his microphone, and the sound was amplified: everything was still on. He strummed a chord. Walli hesitated. What was Dave up to?
Dave began to sing ‘Love Is It’.
Walli joined in immediately, and they sang in harmony. Lew came in with a quiet drum pattern, and Buzz played a simple walking bass. Finally Lenny joined in on the piano.
They played for two minutes, then Larry switched everything off, and the group was silenced.
It was all over, and they had failed. Walli was more disappointed than he would have expected. He was so sure the group was good. Why could Eric not see it? He undid the strap of his guitar.
Then Eric came back. ‘What the fuck was that?’ he said.
Dave said: ‘A new song we’ve just learned. Did you like it?’
‘It’s completely different,’ Eric said. ‘Why did you stop?’
‘Larry turned us off.’
‘Turn them on again, Larry, you prick,’ said Eric. He turned back to Dave. ‘Where did you get the song?’
‘Hank Remington wrote it for us,’ said Dave.
‘Of the Kords?’ Eric was frankly sceptical. ‘Why would he write a song for you?’
Dave was equally candid. ‘Because he’s going out with my sister.’
‘Oh. That explains it.’
Before going back into the booth, Eric spoke quietly to Larry. ‘Go and phone Paulo Conti,’ he said. ‘He only lives around the corner. If he’s at home, ask him to pop in right away.’
Larry left the studio.
Eric went back into the booth. ‘Tape rolling,’ he said over the intercom. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’