‘I can’t promise that International Stars will take you on,’ Evie said. ‘They agreed to talk to you, that’s all.’
‘I know.’ But agents did not meet people just to blow them off, Dave figured. And clearly the agency wanted to be nice to Evie Williams, the hottest young actress in London. So he had high hopes.
They went inside. The place was different from Eric Chapman’s office. The receptionist was not chewing gum. There were no trophies on the lobby walls, just some tasteful watercolours. It was classy, though not very rock and roll.
They did not have to wait. The receptionist took them into the office of Mark Batchelor, a tall man in his twenties wearing a shirt with a fashionable tab collar and a knitted tie. His secretary brought coffee on a tray. ‘We love Evie, and we’d like to help her brother,’ Batchelor said when the initial pleasantries were out of the way. ‘But I’m not sure we can. “Shake, Rattle and Roll” has damaged Plum Nellie.’
Dave said: ‘I don’t disagree, but tell me exactly what you mean.’
‘If I may be frank . . .’
‘Of course,’ said Dave, thinking how different this was from a conversation with Eric Chapman.
‘You look like an average pop group who had the good luck to get your hands on a Hank Remington song. People think the song was great, not you. We live in a small world – a few record companies, a handful of tour promoters, two television shows – and everyone thinks the same. I can’t sell you to any of them.’
Dave swallowed. He had not expected Batchelor to be this candid. He tried not to show his disappointment. ‘We
were
lucky to get a Hank Remington song,’ he admitted. ‘But we’re not an average pop group. We have a first-class rhythm section and a virtuoso lead guitarist, and we look good, too.’
‘Then you have to prove to people that you’re not one-hit wonders.’
‘I know. But with no recording contract and no big gigs I’m not sure how we do that.’
‘You need another great song. Can you get another from Hank Remington?’
Dave shook his head. ‘Hank doesn’t write songs for other people. “Love Is It” was a one-off, a ballad that the Kords didn’t want to record.’
‘Perhaps he could write another ballad.’ Batchelor spread his hands in a who-knows gesture. ‘I’m not creative, that’s why I’m an agent, but I know enough to realize that Hank is a prodigy.’
‘Well . . .’ Dave looked at Evie. ‘I suppose I could ask him.’
Batchelor said breezily: ‘What harm could it do?’
Evie shrugged. ‘I don’t mind,’ she said.
‘All right, then,’ said Dave.
Batchelor stood up and put out his hand to shake. ‘Good luck,’ he said.
As they left the building, Dave said to Evie: ‘Can we go and see Hank now?’
‘I’ve got some shopping to do,’ Evie said. ‘I told him I’d see him tonight.’
‘This is really important, Evie. My whole life is in ruins.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘My car’s around the corner.’
They drove to Chelsea in Evie’s Sunbeam Alpine. Dave chewed his lip. Batchelor had done him the favour of being brutally honest. But Batchelor did not believe in Plum Nellie’s talent – just Hank Remington’s. All the same, if Dave could get just one more good song from Hank, the group would be back on course.
What was he going to say?
Hi, Hank, got any more ballads?
That was too casual.
Hank, I’m in a fix
. Too needy.
Our record company made a real mistake releasing ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’. But we could rescue the situation – with a little help from you.
Dave did not like any of these approaches, mainly because he hated to beg.
But he would do it.
Hank had an apartment by the river. Evie led the way into a big old house and up in a creaking elevator. She spent most nights here now. She opened the apartment door with her own key. ‘Hank!’ she called out. ‘It’s only me.’
Dave walked in behind her. There was a hallway with a splashy modern painting. They passed a gleaming kitchen and looked into a living room with a grand piano. No one was there.
‘He’s out,’ Dave said despondently.
Evie said: ‘He might be taking an afternoon nap.’
Another door opened, and Hank emerged from what was obviously the bedroom, pulling his jeans on. He closed the door behind him. ‘Hello, love,’ he said. ‘I was in bed. Hello, Dave, what are you doing here?’
‘Evie brought me to ask you a really big favour,’ said Dave.
‘Yeah,’ said Hank, looking at Evie. ‘I was expecting you later.’
‘Dave couldn’t wait.’
Dave said: ‘We need a new song.’
‘It’s not a good time, Dave,’ said Hank. Dave expected him to explain, but he did not.
Evie said: ‘Hank, is something wrong?’
‘Yeah, actually,’ said Hank.
Dave was startled. No one ever answered ‘Yes’ to that question.
Evie’s feminine intuition was far ahead of Dave. ‘Is there someone in the bedroom?’
‘I’m sorry, love,’ said Hank. ‘I wasn’t expecting you back.’
At that point the bedroom door opened and Anna Murray came out.
Dave’s mouth fell open in shock. Jasper’s sister had been in bed with Evie’s boyfriend!
Anna was fully dressed in business clothes, including stockings and high heels, but her hair was mussed and her jacket buttons were misaligned. She did not speak and avoided meeting anyone’s eye. She went into the living room and came back out carrying a briefcase. She went to the apartment door, lifted a coat off the hook, and went out without speaking a word.
Hank said: ‘She came round to talk about my autobiography, and one thing led to another . . .’
Evie was crying. ‘Hank, how could you?’
‘I didn’t plan it,’ he said. ‘It just happened.’
‘I thought you loved me.’
‘I did. I do. This was just . . .’
‘Just what?’
Hank looked to Dave for support. ‘There are some temptations a man can’t resist.’
Dave thought of Mickie McFee, and nodded.
Evie said angrily: ‘Dave’s a boy. I thought you were a man, Hank.’
‘Now,’ he said, suddenly looking aggressive. ‘Watch your mouth.’
Evie was incredulous. ‘Watch my mouth? I’ve just caught you in bed with another girl, and you’re telling me to watch my mouth?’
‘I mean it,’ he said threateningly. ‘Don’t go too far.’
Dave was suddenly scared. Hank looked as if he might punch Evie. Was that what working-class Irish people did? And what was Dave supposed to do – protect his sister from her lover? Would Dave be expected to fight the greatest musical genius since Elvis Presley?
‘Too far?’ Evie said angrily. ‘I’m going too far now – right out of the fucking door. How’s that?’ She turned and marched away.
Dave looked at Hank. ‘Erm . . . about that song . . .’
Hank shook his head silently.
‘Okay,’ said Dave. ‘Right.’ He could not think of a way to continue the conversation.
Hank held the door for him and he went out.
Evie cried in the car for five minutes, then dried her eyes. ‘I’ll drive you home,’ she said.
When they got back to the West End Dave said: ‘Come up to the flat. I’ll make you a cup of coffee.’
‘Thanks,’ she said.
Walli was on the couch, playing the guitar. ‘Evie’s a bit upset,’ Dave told him. ‘She broke up with Hank.’ He went into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
Walli said: ‘In English, the phrase “a bit upset” means very unhappy. If you were only a little unhappy, say, because I forgot your birthday, you would say you were “terribly upset”, wouldn’t you?’
Evie smiled. ‘Bless you, Walli, you’re so logical.’
‘Creative, too,’ said Walli. ‘I’ll cheer you up. Listen to this.’ He started to play, then he sang: ‘
I miss ya, Alicia.
’
Dave came in from the kitchen to listen. Walli sang a sad ballad in D minor, with a couple of chords Dave did not recognize.
When it ended, Dave said: ‘It’s a beautiful song. Did you hear it on the radio? Who’s it by?’
‘It’s by me,’ Walli said. ‘I made it up.’
‘Wow,’ said Dave. ‘Play it again.’
This time, Dave improvised a harmony.
Evie said: ‘You two are great. You didn’t need that bastard Hank.’
Dave said: ‘I want to sing this song to Mark Batchelor.’ He looked at his watch. It was half past five. He picked up the phone and called International Stars. Batchelor was still at his desk. ‘We have a song,’ Dave said. ‘Can we come to your office and play it to you?’
‘I’d love to hear it, but I was just leaving for the day.’
‘Can you drop in at Henrietta Street on your way home?’
There was a hesitation, then Batchelor said: ‘Yes, I could, it’s near my train station.’
‘What’s your drink?’
‘Gin and tonic, please.’
Twenty minutes later, Batchelor was on the sofa with a glass in his hand, and Dave and Walli were playing the song on two guitars and singing in harmony, with Evie joining in on the chorus.
When the song ended he said: ‘Play it again.’
After the second time they looked at him expectantly. There was a pause. Then he said: ‘I wouldn’t be in this business if I didn’t know a hit when I heard it. This is a hit.’
Dave and Walli grinned. Dave said: ‘That’s what I thought.’
‘I love it,’ Batchelor said. ‘With this, I can get you a recording contract.’
Dave put down his guitar, stood up, and shook hands with Batchelor to seal the deal. ‘We’re in business,’ he said.
Mark took a long sip of his drink. ‘Did Hank just write the song on the spot, or did he have it in a drawer somewhere?’
Dave grinned. Now that they had shaken hands, he could level with Batchelor. ‘It’s not a Hank Remington song,’ he said.
Batchelor raised his eyebrows.
Dave said: ‘You assumed it was, and I apologize for not correcting you, but I wanted you to have an open mind.’
‘It’s a good song, and that’s all that matters. But where did you get it?’
‘Walli wrote it,’ said Dave. ‘This afternoon, while I was in your office.’
‘Great,’ said Batchelor. He turned to Walli. ‘What have you got for the B-side?’
* * *
‘You ought to go out,’ Lili Franck said to Karolin.
This was not Lili’s own idea. In fact, it was her mother’s. Carla was worried about Karolin’s health. Since Hans Hoffmann’s visit, Karolin had lost weight. She looked pale and listless. Carla had said: ‘Karolin is only twenty years old. She can’t shut herself up like a nun for the rest of her life. Can’t you take her out somewhere?’
They were in Karolin’s room now, playing their guitars and singing to Alice, who was sitting on the floor surrounded by toys. Occasionally she clapped her hands enthusiastically, but mostly she ignored them. The song she liked best was ‘Love Is It’.
Karolin said: ‘I can’t go out, I’ve got Alice to look after.’
Lili was prepared to deal with objections. ‘My mother can watch her,’ she said. ‘Or even Grandmother Maud. Alice’s not much trouble in the evenings.’ Alice was now fourteen months and sleeping all night.
‘I don’t know. It wouldn’t feel right.’
‘You haven’t had a night out for years – literally.’
‘But what would Walli think?’
‘He doesn’t expect you to hide away and never enjoy yourself, does he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’m going to the St Gertrud Youth Club tonight. Why don’t you come with me? There’s music and dancing and usually a discussion – I don’t think Walli would mind.’
The East German leader, Walter Ulbricht, knew that young people needed entertainment, but he had a problem. Everything they liked – pop music, fashion, comics, Hollywood movies – was either unavailable or banned. Sports were approved of, but usually involved separating the boys from the girls.
Lili knew that most people of her age hated the government. Teenagers did not care much about Communism or capitalism, but they were passionate about haircuts, fashion, and pop music. Ulbricht’s puritan dislike of everything they held dear had alienated Lili’s generation. Worse, they had developed a fantasy, probably wholly unrealistic, about the lives of their contemporaries in the West, whom they imagined to have record players in their bedrooms and cupboards full of hip new clothes and ice cream every day.
Church youth clubs were permitted as a feeble attempt to fill the gap in the lives of adolescents. Such clubs were safely uncontroversial, but not as suffocatingly righteous as the Communist party youth organization, the Young Pioneers.
Karolin looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said. ‘I can’t spend my life being a victim. I’ve had bad luck, but I mustn’t let that define me. The Stasi think I’m just the girl whose boyfriend killed a border guard, but I don’t have to accept what they say.’
‘Exactly!’ Lili was pleased.
‘I’m going to write to Walli and tell him all about it. But I’ll go with you.’
‘Then let’s get changed.’
Lili went to her own room and put on a short skirt – not quite a miniskirt, as worn by girls on the Western television shows watched by everyone in East Germany, but above the knee. Now that Karolin had agreed, Lili asked herself whether this was the right course. Karolin certainly needed a life of her own: she had been dead right in what she said about not letting the Stasi define her. But what would Walli think, when he found out? Would he worry that Karolin was forgetting him? Lili had not seen her brother for almost two years. He was nineteen now, and a pop star. She did not know what he might think.
Karolin borrowed Lili’s blue jeans, then they made up their faces together. Lili’s older sister, Rebecca, had sent them black eyeliner and blue eyeshadow from Hamburg, and by a miracle the Stasi had not stolen it.
They went to the kitchen to take their leave. Carla was feeding Alice, who waved goodbye to her mother so cheerfully that Karolin was a little put out.
They walked to a Protestant church a few streets away. Only Grandmother Maud was a regular churchgoer, but Lili had been twice previously to the youth club held in the crypt. It was run by a new young pastor called Odo Vossler who wore his hair like the Beatles. He was dishy, though he was too old for Lili, at least twenty-five.
For music Odo had a piano, two guitars and a record player. They started with a folk dance, something the government could not possibly disapprove of. Lili was paired with Berthold, a boy of about her own age, sixteen. He was nice but not sexy. Lili had her eye on Thorsten, who was a bit older and looked like Paul McCartney.