‘I should think you’d be glad – the government disapproves of my music.’
‘But why do you want to play decadent American pop songs?’
‘Rock and roll was invented by American Negroes. It’s the music of oppressed people. It’s revolutionary. That’s why it’s so strange to me that Comrade Ulbricht hates rock and roll.’
When Hans was defeated by an argument he always just ignored it. ‘But Germany has such a wealth of beautiful traditional music,’ he said.
‘I love traditional German songs. I’m sure I know more than you do. But music is international.’
Grandmother Maud leaned forward and said waspishly: ‘Like socialism, comrade.’
Hans ignored her.
Karolin said: ‘And my parents threw me out of the house.’
‘Because of your immoral way of life.’
Lili was outraged. ‘They threw her out because you, Hans, threatened her father!’
‘Not at all,’ he said blandly. ‘What are respectable parents to do when their daughter becomes antisocial and promiscuous?’
Angry tears came to Karolin’s eyes. ‘I have never been promiscuous.’
‘But you have an illegitimate child.’
Maud spoke again. ‘You seem a little confused about biology, Hans. Only one man is required to make a baby, legitimate or otherwise. Promiscuity has nothing to do with it.’
Hans looked stung, but once again he refused to rise to the bait. Still addressing Karolin, he said: ‘The man you wish to marry is wanted for murder. He killed a border guard and fled to the West.’
‘I love him.’
‘So, Karolin, you beg the General Secretary to grant you the privilege of emigration.’
Carla said: ‘It’s not a privilege, it’s a right. Free people may go where they like.’
That got to Hans. ‘You people think you can do anything! You don’t realize that you belong to a society that has to act as one. Even fish in the sea know enough to swim in schools!’
‘We’re not fish.’
Hans ignored that and turned back to Karolin. ‘You are an immoral woman who has been rejected by her family because of outrageous behaviour. You have taken refuge in a family with known antisocial tendencies. And you wish to marry a murderer.’
‘He’s not a murderer,’ Karolin whispered.
‘When people write to Ulbricht, their letters are passed to the Stasi for evaluation,’ Hans said. ‘Yours, Karolin, was given to a junior officer. Being young and inexperienced, he took pity on an unmarried mother, and recommended that permission be granted.’ This sounded like good news, Lili thought, but she felt sure there would be a twist in the tail. She was right. Hans went on: ‘Fortunately, his superior passed his report to me, recalling that I have had previous dealings with this –’ he looked around with an expression of disgust – ‘with this undisciplined, nonconformist, troublemaking group.’
Lili knew what he was going to say now. It was heartbreaking. Hans had come here to tell them that he had been responsible for the rejection of Karolin’s application – and to rub it in personally.
‘You will receive a formal reply – everyone does,’ he said. ‘But I can tell you now that you will not be permitted to emigrate.’
‘Can I visit Walli?’ Karolin begged. ‘Just for a few days? Alice has never even seen her father!’
‘No,’ said Hans with a tight smile. ‘People who have applied for emigration are never subsequently allowed to take holidays abroad.’ His hatred showed through momentarily as he added: ‘What do you think we are, stupid?’
‘I will apply again in a year’s time,’ said Karolin.
Hans stood up, a smile of triumphant superiority playing around his lips. ‘The answer will be the same next year, and the year after, and always.’ He looked around at all of them. ‘None of you will be given permission to leave. Ever. I promise you.’
With that he left.
* * *
Dave Williams phoned Classic Records. ‘Hello, Cherry, this is Dave,’ he said. ‘Can I speak to Eric?’
‘He’s out at the moment,’ she said.
Dave was disappointed and indignant. ‘This is the third time I’ve phoned!’
‘Unlucky.’
‘He could phone me back.’
‘I’ll ask him.’
Dave hung up.
He was not unlucky. Something was wrong.
Plum Nellie had had a great 1964. ‘Love Is It’ had gone to Number One on the hit parade, and the group – without Lenny – had done a tour of Britain with a package of pop stars including the legendary Chuck Berry. Dave and Walli had moved into a two-bedroom apartment in the theatre district.
But things had now cooled right down. It was frustrating.
Plum Nellie had a second record out. Classic had released ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’, with ‘Hoochie Coochie Man’ on the B-side, rushing it out for Christmas. Eric had not consulted the group, and Dave would have preferred to record a new song.
Dave had been proved right. ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’ had flopped. Now it was January 1965, and as Dave thought about the year ahead he had a sense of panic. At night he had dreams about falling – from a roof, out of a plane, off a ladder – and woke up feeling that his life was about to end. The same sensation came over him when he contemplated his future.
He had allowed himself to believe that he was going to be a musician. He had left his parents’ home and his school. He was sixteen, old enough to get married and pay taxes. He had thought he had a career. And suddenly it was all falling apart. He did not know what to do. He was no good at anything other than music. He could not face the humiliation of going back to live in his parents’ house. In old-fashioned stories the boy hero would ‘run away to sea’. Dave loved the idea of disappearing then returning five years later, bronzed and bearded and telling tales of faraway places. But in his heart he knew he would hate the discipline of the navy. It would be worse than school.
He did not even have a girlfriend. When he left school he had ended his romance with Linda Robertson. She said she had been expecting it, though she cried all the same. When he received the money from Plum Nellie’s appearance on
It’s Fab!
, he had got Mickie McFee’s phone number from Eric and asked her if she wanted to go out with him, maybe to dinner and a movie. She had thought for a long moment, then said: ‘No. You’re really sweet, but I can’t be seen out with a sixteen-year-old. I already have a bad reputation, but I don’t want to look quite such a fool.’ Dave had been hurt.
Walli was sitting next to Dave now, guitar in hand as usual. He was playing with a metal tube fitted over the middle finger of his left hand, and singing: ‘Woke up this morning, believe I’ll dust my broom.’
Dave frowned. ‘That’s the Elmore James sound!’ he said after a minute.
‘It’s called bottleneck guitar,’ Walli said. ‘They used to do it with the neck of a broken bottle, but now someone makes these metal things.’
‘It sounds great.’
‘Why do you keep phoning Eric?’
‘I want to know how many copies we sold of “Shake, Rattle and Roll”, what’s happening about the American release of “Love Is It”, and whether we’ve got any tour dates coming up – and our manager won’t speak to me!’
‘Fire him,’ said Walli. ‘He is a breast.’
Walli’s English was almost perfect now. ‘A tit, you mean,’ Dave said. ‘We say he’s a tit, not a breast.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How can I fire him if I can’t get him on the phone?’ Dave said gloomily.
‘Go round to his office.’
Dave looked at Walli. ‘You know, you’re not as dumb as you sound.’ Dave began to feel better. ‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do.’
The downhearted feeling left him as he stepped outside. Something about the streets of London always cheered him. This was one of the world’s great cities: anything could happen.
Denmark Street was less than a mile away. Dave was there in fifteen minutes. He went up the stairs to the office of Classic Records. ‘Eric is out,’ Cherry said.
‘Are you sure?’ said Dave. Feeling bold, he opened Eric’s door.
Eric was there, behind the desk. He looked a bit foolish, having been caught out in deceit. Then his expression changed to anger and he said: ‘What do you want?’
Dave did not say anything immediately. His father sometimes said: ‘Just because someone asks you a question, don’t think you have to answer. I’ve learned that in politics.’ Dave just stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
If he remained standing, he thought, it would look as if he expected to be told to leave at any moment. So he sat on the chair in front of Eric’s desk and crossed his legs.
Then he said: ‘Why are you avoiding me?’
‘I’ve been busy, you arrogant little sod. What is it?’
‘Oh, all kinds of things,’ Dave said expansively. ‘What’s happening to “Shake, Rattle and Roll”? What are we doing in the New Year? What news from America?’
‘Nothing, nothing and nothing,’ said Eric. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Why would I be satisfied with that?’
‘Look.’ Eric put his hand in his pocket and took out a roll of bills. ‘Here’s twenty quid. That’s what you’ve got coming for “Shake, Rattle and Roll”.’ He threw four five-pound notes on the desk. ‘Now are you satisfied?’
‘I’d like to see the figures.’
Eric laughed. ‘The figures? Who do you think you are?’
‘I’m your client, and you’re my manager.’
‘Manager? There’s nothing to manage, you twerp. You were a one-hit wonder. We have them all the time in our business. You had a stroke of luck, Hank Remington gave you a song, but you never had real talent. It’s over, forget it, go back to school.’
‘I can’t go back to school.’
‘Why ever not? What are you, sixteen, seventeen?’
‘I failed every exam I ever took.’
‘Then get a job.’
‘Plum Nellie is going to be one of the most successful acts in the world, and I’m going to be a musician for the rest of my life.’
‘Keep dreaming, son.’
‘I will.’ Dave stood up. He was about to leave when he thought of a snag. He had signed a contract with Eric. If the group really did do well, Eric might claim a percentage. He said: ‘So, Eric, you’re not Plum Nellie’s manager any more, is that what you’re telling me?’
‘Hallelujah! He’s got the message at last.’
‘I’ll take back that contract, then.’
Eric suddenly looked suspicious. ‘What? Why?’
‘The contract we signed, the day we recorded “Love Is It”. You don’t want to keep it, do you?’
Eric hesitated. ‘Why do you want it back?’
‘You’ve just told me I have no talent. Of course, if you see a great future for the group—’
‘Don’t make me laugh.’ Eric picked up the phone. ‘Cherry, my love, get the Plum Nellie contract out of the file and give it to young Dave on his way out.’ He cradled the handset.
Dave picked up the money from the desk. ‘One of us is a fool, Eric,’ he said. ‘I wonder which?’
* * *
Walli loved London. There was music everywhere: folk clubs, beat clubs, theatres, concert halls and opera houses. Every night Plum Nellie was not playing he went out to hear music, sometimes with Dave, sometimes alone. Every now and again he went to a classical recital, where he would hear new chords.
The English were strange. When he said he was German, they always started talking about the Second World War. They thought they had won the war, and they got offended if he pointed out that it was actually the Soviets who had defeated the Germans. Sometimes he said he was Polish, just to avoid having the same boring conversation again.
But half the people in London were not English anyway: they were Irish, Scottish, Welsh, Caribbean, Indian and Chinese. All the drug dealers came from islands: Maltese men sold pep pills, heroin pushers were from Hong Kong, and you could buy marijuana from Jamaicans. Walli liked to go to Caribbean clubs, where they played music with a different beat. He was approached by lots of girls at all these places, but he always told them he was engaged.
One day the phone rang, while Dave was out, and the caller said: ‘May I speak to Walter Franck?’
Walli almost replied that his grandfather had been dead for more than twenty years. ‘I am Walli,’ he said after a hesitation.
The caller switched to German. ‘This is Enok Andersen calling from West Berlin.’
Andersen was the Danish accountant who managed Walli’s father’s factory. Walli recalled a bald man with glasses and a ballpoint pen in the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘All your family are well, but I am the bringer of disappointing news. Karolin and Alice have been refused permission to emigrate.’
Walli felt as if he had been punched. He sat down heavily. ‘Why?’ he said. ‘What reason?’
‘The government of East Germany do not give reasons for their decisions. However, a Stasi man visited the house – Hans Hoffmann, whom you know.’
‘A jackal.’
‘He told the family that none of them would ever get permission to emigrate or travel to the West.’
Walli covered his eyes with his hand. ‘Never?’
‘That’s what he said. Your father asked me to convey this to you. I’m very sorry.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Is there any message I can give your family? I cross to East Berlin once a week still.’
‘Say I love them all, please.’ Walli choked up.
‘Very well.’
Walli swallowed. ‘And say that I
will
see them all again one day. I feel sure of it.’
‘I’ll tell them that. Goodbye.’
‘Goodbye.’ Walli hung up, feeling desolate.
After a minute he picked up his guitar and played a minor chord. Music was consoling. It was abstract, just notes and their relationships. There were no spies, no traitors, no policemen, no walls. He sang: ‘
I miss you, Alice
. . .’
* * *
Dave was glad to see his sister again. He met her outside the office of her agency, International Stars. Evie was wearing a purple bowler hat. She said: ‘Home is pretty dull without you.’
‘Nobody has rows with Dad?’ said Dave with a grin.
‘He’s so busy, since Labour won the election. He’s in the Cabinet now.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m doing a new film.’
‘Congratulations!’
‘But you fired your manager.’
‘Eric felt Plum Nellie was a one-hit wonder. But we haven’t given up. However, we must get some more gigs. All we’ve got in the diary is a few nights at the Jump Club, and that won’t even pay the rent.’