‘Go ahead, Jasper,’ said Herb.
‘What fucking planet are you living on?’
There was a moment of shocked silence at his rudeness. Then Herb said mildly: ‘A lot of people are sceptical about this, Jasper, but explain why – maybe without the profanity?’
‘Sam has just given us President Johnson’s line on Tet. Since when did this programme become a propaganda agency for the White House? Shouldn’t we be challenging the government’s view?’
Herb did not disagree. ‘How would you challenge it?’
‘First, documents found on captured troops cannot be taken at face value. The written orders given to soldiers are not a reliable guide to the enemy’s strategic objectives. I have a translation here: “Display to the utmost your revolutionary heroism by surmounting all hardships and difficulties.” This is not strategy, it’s a pep talk.’
Herb said: ‘So what
was
their objective?’
‘To demonstrate their power and reach, and thereby to demoralize the South Vietnam regime, our troops, and the American people. And they have succeeded.’
Sam said: ‘They still didn’t take any cities.’
‘They don’t need to hold cities – they’re already there. How do you think they got to the American Embassy in Saigon? They didn’t parachute in, they walked around the corner! They were probably living on the next block. They don’t
take
cities because they already
have
them.’
Herb said: ‘What about Sam’s third point – their casualties?’
‘No Pentagon figures on enemy casualties are trustworthy,’ Jasper said.
‘It would be a big step, for our show to tell the American people that the government lies to us about this.’
‘Everyone from Lyndon Johnson to the grunt on patrol in the jungle is lying about this, because they all need high kill figures to justify what they’re doing. But I know the truth because I was there. In Vietnam, any dead person counts as an enemy casualty. Throw a grenade into a bomb shelter, kill everyone inside – two young men, four women, an old man and a baby – that’s eight Vietcong dead, in the official report.’
Herb was dubious. ‘How can we be sure this is true?’
‘Ask any veteran,’ said Jasper.
‘It’s hard to credit.’
Jasper was right and Herb knew it, but Herb was anxious about taking such a strong line. However, Jasper judged he was ready to be talked round. ‘Look,’ said Jasper. ‘It’s now four years since we sent the first ground combat troops to South Vietnam. Throughout that period, the Pentagon has been reporting one victory after another, and
This Day
has been repeating their statements to the American people. If we’ve had four years of victory, how come the enemy can penetrate to the heart of the capital city and surround the US Embassy? Open your eyes, will you?’
Herb was thoughtful. ‘So, Jasper, if you’re right, and Sam’s wrong, what’s our story?’
‘That’s easy,’ said Jasper. ‘The story is the administration’s credibility after the Tet Offensive. Last November Vice-President Humphrey told us we’re winning. In December, General Palmer said the Vietcong had been defeated. In January, Secretary of Defense McNamara told us the North Vietnamese were losing their will to fight. General Westmoreland himself told reporters the Communists were unable to mount a major offensive. Then one morning the Vietcong attacked almost every major city and town in South Vietnam.’
Sam said: ‘We’ve never questioned the President’s honesty. No television show ever has.’
Jasper said: ‘Now’s the time. Is the President lying? Half America is asking that.’
Everyone looked at Herb. It was his decision. He was silent for a long moment. Then he said: ‘All right. That’s the title of our report. “Is the President lying?” Let’s do it.’
* * *
Dave Williams got an early flight from New York to San Francisco and ate an American breakfast of pancakes with bacon in first class.
Life was good. Plum Nellie was successful and he would never have to take another exam for the rest of his life. He loved Beep and he was going to marry her as soon as he could find the time.
He was the only member of the group who had not yet bought a house, but he hoped to do so today. It would be more than a house, though. His idea was to buy a place in the country, with some land, and build a recording studio. The whole group could live there while they were making an album, which took several months nowadays. Dave often recalled with a smile how they had recorded their first album in one day.
Dave was excited: he had never bought a house before. He was looking forward eagerly to seeing Beep, but he had decided to take care of business first, so that his time with her would be uninterrupted. He was met at the airport by his business manager, Mortimer Schulman. Dave had hired Morty to take care of his personal finances separately from those of the group. Morty was a middle-aged man in relaxed California clothes, a navy blazer with a blue shirt open at the neck. Because Dave was only twenty he often found that lawyers and accountants condescended to him and tried to give him instructions rather than information. Morty treated him as the boss, which he was, and laid out options, knowing that it was up to Dave himself to make the decisions.
They got into Morty’s Cadillac, drove across the Bay Bridge, and headed north, passing the university town of Berkeley where Beep was a student. As he drove, Morty said: ‘I received a proposition for you. It’s not really my role, but I guess they thought I was the nearest thing to your personal agent.’
‘What proposition?’
‘A television producer called Charlie Lacklow wants to talk to you about doing your own TV show.’
Dave was surprised: he had not seen that one coming. ‘What kind of show?’
‘You know, like
The Danny Kaye Show
or
The Dean Martin Show
.’
‘No kidding?’ This was big news. Sometimes it seemed to Dave that success was falling on him like rain: hit songs, platinum albums, sell-out tours, successful movies – and now this.
There were a dozen or more variety shows on American television every week, most of them headlined by a movie star or a comic. The host would introduce a guest and chat for a minute, then the guest would sing his or her latest hit, or do a comedy routine. The group had appeared as guests on many such programmes, but Dave did not see how they could fit into that format as hosts. ‘So it would be
The Plum Nellie Show
?’
‘No.
Dave Williams and Friends
. They don’t want the group, just you.’
Dave was dubious. ‘That’s flattering, but . . .’
‘It’s a major opportunity, if you ask me. Pop groups generally have a short life, but this is your chance to become an all-round family entertainer – which is a role you can play until you’re seventy.’
That struck a chord. Dave had thought about what he might do when Plum Nellie were no longer popular. It happened to most pop acts, though there were exceptions – Elvis was still big. Dave was planning to marry Beep and have children, a prospect he found daunting. The time might come when he needed another way to earn a living. He had thought about becoming a record producer and artist manager: he had done well in both roles for Plum Nellie.
But this was too soon. The group was hugely popular and now, at last, making real money. ‘I can’t do it,’ he said to Morty. ‘It might break up the group, and I can’t risk that while we’re doing so well.’
‘Shall I tell Charlie Lacklow you’re not interested?’
‘Yeah. With regrets.’
They crossed another long bridge and entered hilly country with orchards on the lower slopes, the plum and almond trees frothing pink and white blossom. ‘We’re in the valley of the river Napa,’ said Morty. He turned on to a dusty side road that wound upwards. After a mile he drove through an open gate and pulled up outside a big ranch house.
‘This is the first one on my list, and the nearest to San Francisco,’ Morty said. ‘I don’t know if it’s the kind of thing you had in mind.’
They got out of the car. The place was a rambling timber-framed building that went on forever. It looked as if two or three outbuildings had been joined to the main residence at different times. Walking around to the far side, they came upon a spectacular view across the valley. ‘Wow,’ said Dave. ‘Beep is going to love this.’
Cultivated fields fell away from the grounds of the house. ‘What do they grow here?’ said Dave.
‘Grapes.’
‘I don’t want to be a farmer.’
‘You’d be a landlord. Thirty acres are rented out.’
They went inside. The place was barely furnished with ill-assorted tables and chairs. There were no beds. ‘Does anyone live here?’ Dave asked.
‘No. For a few weeks every fall the grape pickers use it as a dormitory.’
‘And if I move in . . .’
‘The farmer will find other accommodation for his seasonal workers.’
Dave looked around. The place was ramshackle and derelict, but beautiful. The woodwork seemed solid. The main house had high ceilings and an elegant staircase. ‘I can’t wait for Beep to see it,’ he said.
The main bedroom had the same spectacular view over the valley. He pictured himself and Beep getting up in the morning and looking out together, making coffee, and having breakfast with two or three barefoot children. It was perfect.
There was space for half a dozen guest rooms. The large detached barn, currently full of agricultural machinery, was the right size for a recording studio.
Dave wanted to buy it immediately. He told himself not to get enthusiastic too soon. He said: ‘What’s the asking price?’
‘Sixty thousand dollars.’
‘That’s a lot.’
‘Two thousand dollars an acre is about the market price for a producing vineyard,’ Morty said. ‘They’ll throw in the house for free.’
‘Plus it wants a lot of work.’
‘You said it. Central heating, electrical rewiring, insulation, new bathrooms . . . You could spend almost as much again fixing it up.’
‘Say a hundred thousand dollars, not including recording equipment.’
‘It’s a lot of money.’
Dave grinned. ‘Fortunately, I can afford it.’
‘You certainly can.’
When they went outside, a pickup truck was parking. The man who got out had broad shoulders and a weathered face. He looked Mexican but he spoke without an accent. ‘I’m Danny Medina, the farmer here,’ he said. He wiped his hands on his dungarees before shaking.
‘I’m thinking of buying the place,’ Dave said.
‘Good. It will be nice to have a neighbour.’
‘Where do you live, Mr Medina?’
‘I have a cottage at the other end of the vineyard, just out of sight over the lip of the ridge. Are you European?’
‘Yes, British.’
‘Europeans usually like wine.’
‘Do you make wine here?’
‘A little. We sell most of the grapes. Americans don’t like wine, except for Italian-Americans, and they import it. Most people prefer cocktails or beer. But our wine is good.’
‘White or red?’
‘Red. Would you like a couple of bottles to try?’
‘Sure.’
Danny reached into the cab of the pickup, pulled out two bottles, and handed them to Dave.
Dave looked at the label. ‘Daisy Farm Red?’ he said.
Morty said: ‘That’s the name of the place, didn’t I tell you? Daisy Farm.’
‘Daisy is my mother’s name.’
Danny said: ‘Maybe it’s an omen.’ He climbed back into the vehicle. ‘Good luck!’
As Danny drove away, Dave said: ‘I like this place. Let’s buy it.’
Morty protested: ‘I have five more to show you!’
‘I’m in a hurry to see my fiancée.’
‘You might like one of the other places even more than this.’
Dave gestured over the vine fields. ‘Do any of them have this view?’
‘No.’
‘Let’s go back to San Francisco.’
‘You’re the boss.’
On the way back, Dave began to feel daunted by the project he had embarked on. ‘I guess I need to find a builder,’ he said.
‘Or an architect,’ said Morty.
‘Really? Just to fix a place up?’
‘An architect would talk to you about what you want, draw up plans, then put the job out to tender with a number of builders. He would also supervise the work, in theory – though in my experience they tend to lose interest.’
‘Okay,’ said Dave. ‘Do you know anyone?’
‘Do you want an old-established firm, or someone young and hip?’
Dave considered. ‘How about someone young and hip who works for an old-established firm?’
Morty laughed. ‘I’ll ask around.’
They drove back to San Francisco and, shortly after midday, Morty dropped Dave off at the Dewar family house on Nob Hill.
Beep’s mother let Dave in. ‘Welcome!’ she said. ‘You’re early – which is great, except that Beep’s not here.’
Dave was disappointed, but not surprised. He had anticipated spending the whole day looking at properties with Morty, and had told Beep to expect him at the end of the afternoon. ‘I guess she’s gone to school,’ Dave said. She was a sophomore at Berkeley. Dave knew – though her parents did not – that she studied very little, and was in danger of failing her exams and getting expelled.
He went to the bedroom they shared and put down his suitcase. Beep’s contraceptive pills were on the bedside table. She was careless, and sometimes forgot to take the tablet, but Dave did not mind. If she got pregnant, they would just get married in a hurry.
He returned downstairs and sat in the kitchen with Bella, telling her all about Daisy Farm. She was infected by his enthusiasm and eager to view the place.
‘Would you like some lunch?’ she offered. ‘I was about to make soup and a sandwich.’
‘No, thanks, I had a huge breakfast on the plane.’ Dave was hyped up. ‘I’ll go and tell Walli about Daisy Farm.’
‘Your car’s in the garage.’
Dave got in his red Dodge Charger and zigzagged across San Francisco from its wealthiest neighbourhood to its poorest.
Walli was going to love the idea of a farmhouse where they could all live and make music, Dave thought. They would have all the time they wanted to perfect their recordings. Walli was itching to work with one of the new eight-track tape recorders – and people were already talking about even bigger sixteen-track machines – but today’s more complex music took longer to make. Studio time was costly, and musicians sometimes felt rushed. Dave believed he had found the solution.