Dave pointed at Lenny. "It's his group, and they're called the Guardsmen."
"Oh." She seemed mildly disappointed.
Lenny's last choice was "Take Good Care of My Baby," and again Dave sang the harmony. The waitresses danced along the aisles between the rows of tables.
Afterward, Lenny got up from the piano. "Well, you're not much of a guitarist," he said to Dave. "But you sing nicely, and those girls really went for it."
"So am I in, or out?"
"Can you play tonight?"
"Tonight!" Dave was pleased, but he had not expected to start immediately. He was looking forward to seeing Linda Robertson later.
"You got something better to do?" Lenny looked a bit offended that Dave had not accepted instantly.
"Well, I was going to see a girl, but she'll just have to wait. What time will we be through?"
"This is a workingmen's club. They don't stay up late. We come offstage at half past ten."
Dave calculated that he could be at the Jump Club by eleven. "That's okay," he said.
"Good," said Lenny. "Welcome to the group."
*
Jasper Murray still could not afford to go to America. At St. Julian's College, London, there was a group called the North America Club that chartered flights and sold cheap tickets. Late one afternoon he went to their little office in the student union and inquired about prices. He learned that he could go to New York for ninety pounds. It was too much, and he left disconsolate.
He spotted Sam Cakebread in the coffee bar. For several days he had been looking for a chance to speak to Sam outside the office of the student newspaper, St. Julian's News. Sam was the paper's editor, Jasper its news editor.
With Sam was his younger sister, Valerie, also a student at St. Julian's, wearing a tweed cap and a minidress. She wrote articles about fashion for the paper. She was attractive: in other circumstances Jasper would have flirted with her, but today he had other matters on his mind. He would have preferred to talk to Sam on his own, but he decided that Valerie's presence was no real problem.
He carried his coffee to Sam's table. "I want your advice," he said. He wanted information, not advice, but people were sometimes reluctant to share information, whereas they were always flattered to be asked for advice.
Sam was wearing a herringbone jacket with a tie and smoking a pipe: perhaps he wanted to look older. "Take a seat," he said, folding the paper he had been reading.
Jasper sat down. His relationship with Sam was awkward. They had been rivals for the post of editor, and Sam had won. Jasper had concealed his resentment, and Sam had made him news editor. They had become colleagues, but not friends. "I want to be next year's editor," Jasper said. He hoped that Sam would help him, either because he was the right man for the job--which he was--or out of guilt.
"That's up to Lord Jane," said Sam evasively. Jane was provost of the college.
"Lord Jane will ask your opinion."
"There's a whole appointment committee."
"But you and the provost are the members who count."
Sam did not argue with that. "So you want my advice."
"Who else is in the running?"
"Toby, obviously."
"Really?" Toby Jenkins was the features editor, a plodder who had commissioned a dull series of worthy articles about the work of university officials such as the registrar and the treasurer.
"He will apply."
Sam himself had got the job partly because of the distinguished journalists among his relations. Lord Jane was impressed by such connections. This irritated Jasper, but he did not mention it.
Jasper said: "Toby's stuff is pedestrian."
"He's an accurate reporter, if unimaginative."
Jasper recognized this remark as a dig at himself. He was the opposite of Toby. He prized sensation over accuracy. In his reports a scuffle always became a fight, a plan was a conspiracy, and a slip of the tongue was never less than a blatant lie. He knew that people read newspapers for excitement, not information.
Cakebread added: "And he did write that piece about rats in the refectory."
"So he did." Jasper had forgotten. The article had caused uproar. It had been luck, really: Toby's father worked for the local council and knew about the efforts of the pest control department to eradicate vermin in the eighteenth-century cellars of St. Julian's College. Nevertheless the article had secured the job of features editor for Toby, who had written nothing half as good since. "So I need a scoop," Jasper said thoughtfully.
"Perhaps."
"You mean, like, revealing that the provost is skimming off university funds to pay his gambling debts."
"I doubt that Lord Jane gambles." Sam did not have a great sense of humor.
Jasper thought about Lloyd Williams. Might he provide some kind of tip-off? Lloyd was frightfully discreet, unfortunately.
Then he thought of Evie. She had applied to attend the Irving School of Drama, which was part of St. Julian's College, so she was of interest to the student newspaper. She had just got her first acting job, in a film called All Around Miranda. And she was going out with Hank Remington, of the Kords. Perhaps . . .
Jasper stood up. "Thanks for your help, Sam. I really appreciate it."
"Anytime," said Sam.
Jasper caught the Tube home. The more he thought about interviewing Evie, the more excited he became.
Jasper knew the truth about Evie and Hank. They were not just dating, they were having a passionate affair. Her parents knew she went out with Hank two or three evenings a week, and came home at midnight on Saturdays. But Jasper and Dave also knew that most days after school Evie went to Hank's flat in Chelsea and had sex with him. Hank had already written a song about her, "Too Young to Smoke."
But would she give Jasper an interview?
When he got home to the house in Great Peter Street, Evie was in the red-tiled kitchen, learning lines. Her hair was pinned up untidily, and she wore a faded old shirt, but she still looked fabulous. Jasper's relationship with her was warm. Throughout her girlish crush on him, he had always been kind, though never encouraging. His motive for being so careful was that he did not want a crisis that would cause a rift between him and her generously hospitable parents. Now he was even more glad he had kept her goodwill. "How's it going?" he said with a nod at her script.
She shrugged. "The part isn't difficult, but film will be a new challenge."
"Maybe I should interview you."
She looked troubled. "I'm supposed to do only the publicity arranged by the studio."
Jasper felt a mild panic. What kind of journalist would he make if he failed to secure an interview with Evie even though he lived in her house? "It's only for the student paper," he said.
"I suppose that doesn't really count."
His hopes rose. "I'm sure not. And it might help you get accepted by the Irving drama school."
She put down the script. "All right. What do you want to know?"
Jasper suppressed his feeling of triumph. Coolly he said: "How did you get the part in All Around Miranda?"
"I went to an audition."
"Tell me about that." Jasper took out a notebook and started writing.
He was careful not to mention her nude scene in Hamlet. He feared she would tell him not to mention it. Fortunately he did not need to question her about it, for he had seen it himself. Instead he asked her about the stars of the movie, and other famous people she had met, and gradually worked around to Hank Remington.
When Jasper mentioned Hank, Evie's eyes lit up with a characteristic intensity of feeling. "Hank is the most courageous and dedicated person I know," she said. "I admire him so much."
"But you don't just admire him."
"I adore him."
"And you are dating."
"Yes, but I don't want to say too much about that."
"Of course, no problem." She had said "Yes," and that was enough.
Dave came in from school and made instant coffee with boilin
g milk. "I thought you weren't supposed to do publicity," he said to Evie.
Jasper thought: Shut your mouth, you overprivileged little shit.
Evie replied to Dave. "This is only for St. Julian's News," she said.
Jasper wrote the article that evening.
As soon as he saw it typed out, he realized it could be more than just a piece for the student paper. Hank was a star, Evie was a minor actress, and Lloyd was a member of Parliament: this could be a big story, he thought with mounting excitement. If he could get something published in a national newspaper it would give his career prospects a major boost.
It could also get him in trouble with the Williams family.
He gave his article to Sam Cakebread the next day.
Then, with trepidation, he phoned the tabloid Daily Echo.
He asked for the news editor. He did not get the news editor, but he was put through to a reporter called Barry Pugh. "I'm a student journalist, and I've got a story for you," he said.
"Okay, go ahead," said Pugh.
Jasper hesitated only a moment. He was betraying Evie and the entire Williams family, he knew; but he plunged on anyway. "It's about the daughter of a member of Parliament who is sleeping with a pop star."
"Good," said Pugh. "Who are they?"
"Could we meet?"
"I suppose you want some money?"
"Yes, but that's not all."
"What else?"
"I want my name on the article when it appears."
"Let's get the story down first, then we'll see."
Pugh was trying to employ the kind of blandishments Jasper had used on Evie. "No, thanks," Jasper said firmly. "If you don't like the story, you don't have to print it, but if you do use it you must put my name on it."
"All right," said Pugh. "When can we meet?"
*
Two days later, at breakfast in Great Peter Street, Jasper read in the Guardian that Martin Luther King was planning a massive demonstration of civil disobedience in Washington in support of a civil rights bill. King was forecasting that there would be one hundred thousand people. "Boy, I'd love to see that," said Jasper.
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 nin
ety 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."