Edge of Eternity (50 page)

Evie said: “Me, too.”

It was to take place in August, during the university vacation, so Jasper would be free. But he could not afford ninety pounds for the fare to the USA.

Daisy Williams opened an envelope and said: “My goodness! Lloyd, here's a letter from your German cousin Rebecca!”

Dave, the youngest, swallowed a mouthful of Sugar Puffs and said: “Who the heck is Rebecca?”

His father had been leafing through newspapers with the speed of a professional politician. Now he looked up and said: “Not really a cousin. She was adopted by some distant relations of mine after her parents died in the war.”

“I'd forgotten we had German relatives,” Dave said. “
Gott im Himmel!
”

Jasper had noticed that Lloyd was suspiciously vague about his relatives. The late Bernie Leckwith had been his stepfather, but no one ever mentioned his real father. Jasper felt sure Lloyd had been illegitimate.
It was not quite a tabloid story: bastardy was not as much of a disgrace as formerly. All the same, Lloyd never gave details.

Lloyd went on: “Last time I saw Rebecca was in 1948. She was about seventeen. By then she had been adopted by my relation Carla Franck. They lived in Berlin-Mitte, so now their house must be on the wrong side of the Wall. What's become of her?”

Daisy answered: “She's obviously got out of East Germany, somehow, and moved to Hamburg. Oh . . . her husband was injured escaping, and he's in a wheelchair.”

“What prompted her to write to us?”

“She's trying to trace Hannelore Rothmann.” Daisy looked at Jasper. “She was your grandmother. Apparently she was kind to Rebecca in the war, the day Rebecca's real parents were killed.”

Jasper had never met his mother's family. “We don't know exactly what happened to my German grandparents, but Mother is sure they're dead,” he said.

Daisy said: “I'll show this letter to your mother. She should write to Rebecca.”

Lloyd opened the
Daily Echo
and said: “Bloody hell, what's this?”

Jasper had been waiting for this moment. He clasped his hands together in his lap to stop them shaking.

Lloyd spread the newspaper on the table. On page three was a photograph of Evie coming out of a nightclub with Hank Remington, and the headline:

Kords Star Hank & Labour MP's Nudie Daughter, 17

By Barry Pugh and Jasper Murray

“I didn't write that!” Jasper lied. His indignation sounded forced, to him; what he really felt was elation at the sight of his own name over a report in a national newspaper. The others did not seem to notice his mixed emotions.

Lloyd read aloud: “‘Pop star Hank Remington's latest flame is the just-seventeen daughter of Lloyd Williams, member of Parliament for Hoxton. Movie starlet Evie Williams is famous for appearing nude
onstage at Lambeth Grammar, the posh school for top people's children.'”

Daisy said: “Oh, dear, how embarrassing.”

Lloyd read on: “‘Evie said: “Hank is the most courageous and dedicated person I have ever known.” Both Evie and Hank support the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, despite the disapproval of her father, who is Labour spokesman on military affairs.'” Lloyd looked at Evie severely. “You know a lot of courageous and dedicated people, including your mother, who drove an ambulance during the Blitz, and your great-uncle Billy Williams, who fought at the Somme. Hank must be remarkable, to overshadow them.”

“Never mind that,” said Daisy. “I thought you weren't supposed to do interviews without asking the studio, Evie.”

“Oh, God, this is my fault,” Jasper said. They all looked at him. He had known there would be a scene like this, and he was ready for it. He had no difficulty looking distraught: he felt horribly guilty. “I interviewed Evie for the student paper. The
Echo
must have lifted my story—and rewritten it to make it sensational.” He had prepared this fiction in advance.

“First lesson of public life,” Lloyd said. “Journalists are treacherous.”

That's me, Jasper thought—treacherous. But the Williams family seemed to accept that he had not intended the
Echo
to run the story.

Evie was close to tears. “I might lose the part.”

Daisy said: “I can't imagine this will do the movie any damage—quite the reverse.”

“I hope you're right,” said Evie.

“I'm so sorry, Evie,” said Jasper, with all the sincerity he could muster. “I feel I've really let you down.”

“You didn't mean to,” Evie said.

Jasper had got away with it. Around the table, no one was looking accusingly at him. They saw the
Echo
report as nobody's fault. The only one he was not sure of was Daisy, who wore a slight frown and avoided his eye. But she loved Jasper for his mother's sake, and she would not accuse him of duplicity.

Jasper stood up. “I'm going to the
Daily Echo
office,” he said. “I want to meet this Pugh bastard and see what explanation he can offer.”

He was glad to get out of the house. He had successfully lied his way through a difficult scene, and the release of tension was enormous.

An hour later he was in the newsroom of the
Echo.
He was thrilled to be there. This was what he wanted: the news desk, the typewriters, the ringing phones, the pneumatic tubes carrying copy across the room, the air of excitement.

Barry Pugh was about twenty-five, a small man with a squint, wearing a rumpled suit and scuffed suede shoes. “You did well,” he said.

“Evie still doesn't know I gave the story to you.”

Pugh had little time for Jasper's scruples. “Bloody few stories would ever be published if we asked permission every time.”

“She was supposed to refuse all interviews except those arranged by the studio publicist.”

“Publicists are your enemies. Be proud you outwitted one.”

“I am.”

Pugh handed him an envelope. Jasper tore it open. It contained a check. “Your payment,” Pugh said. “That's what you get for a page three lead.”

Jasper looked at the amount. It was ninety pounds.

He remembered the march on Washington. Ninety pounds was the fare to the USA. Now he could go to America.

His heart lifted.

He put the check in his pocket. “Thank you very much,” he said.

Barry nodded. “Let us know if you have any more stories like that.”

•   •   •

Dave Williams was nervous about playing the Jump Club. It was a deeply cool central London venue, just off Oxford Street. It had a reputation for breaking new stars, and had launched several groups now in the hit parade. Famous musicians went there to listen to new talent.

Not that it looked special. There was a small stage at one end and a bar at the other. In between was room for a couple of hundred people to dance buttock-to-buttock. The floor was an ashtray. The only decoration consisted of a few tattered posters of famous acts that had played there in the past—except in the dressing room, where the walls bore the most obscene graffiti Dave had ever come across.

Dave's performance with the Guardsmen had improved, thanks in part to helpful advice from his cousin. Lenny had a soft spot for Dave, and talked like an uncle to him, although he was only eight years older. “Listen to the drummer,” Lenny had told him. “Then you'll always be on the beat.” And: “Learn to play without looking at your guitar, so that you can meet the eyes of people in the audience.” Dave was grateful for any tips he could get, but he knew he was still far short of seeming professional. All the same he felt wonderful onstage. There was nothing to read or write, so he was no longer a dunce; in fact, he was competent, and getting better. He had even fantasized about becoming a musician, and never having to study, ever again; but he knew the chances were small.

The group was improving, however. When Dave sang in harmony with Lenny they sounded modern, more like the Beatles. And Dave had persuaded Lenny to try some different material, authentic Chicago blues and danceable Detroit soul, the kind of thing the younger groups were playing. As a result they were getting more dates. Instead of once a fortnight, they were now booked every Friday and Saturday night.

But Dave had another reason for anxiety. He had got this gig by asking Evie's boyfriend, Hank Remington, to recommend the group. But Hank had turned his nose up at their name. “The Guardsmen sounds old-fashioned, like the Four Aces, and the Jordanaires,” he had said.

“We might change it,” Dave had said, willing to do anything for a booking at the Jump Club.

“The latest vogue is a name from an old blues, like the Rolling Stones.”

Dave recalled a track by Booker T. and the MGs that he had heard a few days earlier. He had been struck by its oddball name. “How about Plum Nellie?” he had said.

Hank had liked that, and told the club they should try out a new group called Plum Nellie. A suggestion from someone as famous as Hank was like a command, and the group got the gig.

But when Dave had proposed the name change, Lenny had turned it down flat. “The Guardsmen we are, and the Guardsmen we stay,” he had said mulishly, and started talking about something else. Dave had not
dared to tell him the Jump Club already thought they were called Plum Nellie.

Now the crisis was approaching.

At the sound check they played “Lucille.” After the first verse, Dave stopped and turned to the lead guitarist, Geoffrey. “What the fuck was that?” Dave said.

“What?”

“You played something weird halfway through.”

Geoffrey gave a knowing smile. “Nothing. It's just a passing chord.”

“It's not on the record.”

“What's the matter, can't you play C sharp diminished?”

Dave knew exactly what was going on. Geoffrey was trying to show him up as a beginner. But unfortunately Dave had never heard of a diminished chord.

Lenny said: “Known to pub pianists as a double minor, Dave.”

Swallowing his pride, Dave said to Geoffrey: “Show me.”

Geoffrey rolled up his eyes and sighed, but he demonstrated the chord shape. “Like that, all right?” he said wearily, as if tired of dealing with amateurs.

Dave copied the chord. It was not difficult. “Next time, tell me before we play the fucking song,” he said.

After that it went well. Phil Burleigh, the owner of the club, entered in the middle and listened. Being prematurely bald, he was naturally known as Curly Burleigh. At the end he nodded approval. “Thank you, Plum Nellie,” he said.

Lenny shot a filthy look at Dave. “The group is called the Guardsmen,” he said firmly.

Dave said: “We discussed changing it.”

“You discussed it. I said no.”

Curly said: “The Guardsmen is a terrible name, mate.”

“It's what we're called.”

“Listen, Byron Chesterfield is coming in tonight,” Curly said with a note of desperation. “He's the most important promoter in London—in Europe, probably. You might get work from him—but not with that name.”

“Byron Chesterfield?” said Lenny, laughing. “I've known him all my
life. His real name is Brian Chesnowitz. His brother's got a stall in Aldgate Market.”

Curly said: “It's your name I'm worried about, not his.”

“Our name is fine.”

“I can't put on a group called the Guardsmen. I've got a reputation.” Curly stood up. “I'm sorry, lads,” he said. “Pack up your gear.”

Dave said: “Come on, Curly, you don't want to piss off Hank Remington.”

“Hank's an old mate,” said Curly. “We played skiffle together at the 2i's Coffee Bar in the fifties. But he recommended me a group called Plum Nellie, not the Guardsmen.”

Dave was distraught. “All my friends are coming!” he said. He was thinking of Linda Robertson in particular.

Curly said: “I'm sorry about that.”

Dave turned to Lenny. “Be reasonable,” he said. “What's in a name?”

“It's my group, not yours,” said Lenny stubbornly.

So that was the issue. “Of course it's your group,” said Dave. “But you taught me that the customer is always right.” He was struck by inspiration. “And you can change the name back to the Guardsmen tomorrow morning, if you want.”

Lenny said: “Naah,” but he was weakening.

“Better than not playing,” said Dave, pressing his advantage. “It would be a real comedown to go home now.”

“Oh, fuck it, all right,” said Lenny.

And the crisis was over, to Dave's intense relief and pleasure.

They stood at the bar drinking beer while the first customers trickled in. Dave limited himself to one pint: enough to relax him, not enough to make him fumble the chords. Lenny had two pints, Geoffrey three.

Linda Robertson showed up, to Dave's delight, in a short purple dress and white knee boots. She and all Dave's friends were legally too young to drink alcohol in bars, but they went to great lengths to look older, and anyway the law was not enforced strictly.

Linda's attitude to Dave had changed. In the past she had treated him like a bright kid brother, even though they were the same age. The fact that he was playing at the Jump Club turned him into a different person in her eyes. Now she saw him as a sophisticated grown-up, and asked him excited questions about the group. If this was what he got for
being in Lenny's crummy outfit, Dave thought, what must it be like to be a real pop star?

With the others he returned to the dressing room to change. Professional groups usually appeared wearing identical suits, but that was expensive. Lenny compromised with red shirts for everyone. Dave thought that group uniforms were going out of fashion: the anarchic Rolling Stones dressed individually.

Plum Nellie were bottom of the bill, and played first. Lenny, as leader of the group, introduced the songs. He was seated at the side of the stage, with the upright piano angled so that he could look at the audience. Dave stood in the middle, playing and singing, and most eyes were on him. Now that the worry about the group's name was out of the way—at least for the moment—he could relax. He moved as he played, swinging the guitar as if it were his dance partner; and when he sang he imagined he was speaking to the audience, emphasizing the words with his facial expressions and the movements of his head. As always, the girls responded to that, watching him and smiling as they danced to the beat.