He explained the situation and pretended there had not been time to get a note from his father.
"It seems to me you have to choose between getting a decent education and becoming a pop singer," said Mr. Furbelow, pronouncing the words pop singer with a grimace of distaste. He looked as if he had been asked to eat a can of cold dog food.
Dave thought of saying: Actually, my ambition is to become a prostitute's minder, but Furbelow's sense of humor was as scant as his hair. "You told my father I'm going to fail all my exams and be thrown out of the school."
"If your work does not improve rapidly, and if you consequently fail to gain any O-level qualifications, you will not be admitted to the sixth form," the head said with prissy exactness. "All the more reason why you may not take days off school to appear on trashy television programs."
Dave thought of arguing about "trashy" and decided it was a lost cause. "I thought you might regard a trip to a television studio as an educational experience," he said reasonably.
"No. There is far too much talk nowadays about educational 'experiences.' Education takes place in the classroom."
Despite Furbelow's mulish obstinacy, Dave continued to try to reason with him. "I'd like to have a career in music."
"But you don't even belong to the school orchestra."
"They don't use any instruments invented in the last hundred years."
"And all the better for it."
Dave was finding it harder and harder to keep his temper. "I play the electric guitar quite well."
"I don't call that a musical instrument."
Against his better judgment, Dave allowed his voice to rise in a challenge. "What is it, then?"
Furbelow's chin lifted and he looked superior. "More a sort of nigger noisemaker."
For a moment, Dave was silenced. Then he lost his cool. "This is just willful ignorance!" he said.
"Don't you dare speak to me like that."
"Not only are you ignorant, you're a racist!"
Furbelow stood up. "Get out this instant."
"You think it's all right for you to come out with your crude prejudices, just because you're the burned-out head of a school for rich kids!"
"Be silent!"
"Never," said Dave, and he left the room.
In the corridor outside the head's study, it occurred to him that he could not now go to class.
A moment later he realized he could not stay in the school.
He had not planned this, but in a moment of madness he had, in fact, left school.
So be it, he thought; and he left the building.
He went to a cafe nearby and ordered egg and chips. He had burned his boats. After he had called the head ignorant and burned-out and a racist they would not have him back, no matter what. He felt scared as well as liberated.
But he did not regret what he had done. He had a chance of becoming a pop star--and the school had wanted him to let it slip by!
Ironically, he was at a loss to know what to do with his newfound freedom. He wandered around the streets for a couple of hours, then returned to the school gates to wait for Linda Robertson.
He walked her home after school. Naturally the whole class had noticed his absence, but the teachers had said nothing. When Dave told her what had happened, she was awestruck. "So you're going to Birmingham anyway?"
"You bet."
"You'll have to leave school."
"I've left."
"What will you do?"
"If the record is a hit, I'll be able to afford to get a flat with Walli."
"Wow. And if it's not?"
"Then I'm in trouble."
She invited him in. Her parents were out, so they went to her bedroom, as they had done before. They kissed, and she let him feel her breasts; but he could tell she was troubled. "What's the matter?" he said.
"You're going to be a star," she said. "I know it."
"Aren't you glad?"
"You'll be mobbed by dolly birds who will let you go all the way."
"I hope so!"
She burst into tears.
"I was kidding," he said. "I'm sorry!"
She said: "You used to be this cute little kid I liked to talk to. None of the girls even wanted to kiss you. Then you joined a group and turned into the coolest boy in school, and they all envied me. Now you'll be famous and I'll lose you."
He thought she wanted him to say that he would be faithful to her, no matter what, and he was tempted to swear undying love; but he held back. He really liked her, but he was not yet sixteen, and he knew he was too young to be tied down. However, he did not want to hurt her feelings, so he said: "Let's just see what happens, okay?"
He saw the disappointment on her face, though she covered it up quickly. "Good idea," she said. She dried her tears, then they went down to the kitchen and had tea and chocolate biscuits until her mother came home.
When he got back to Great Peter Street there was no sign of anything unusual, so he deduced that the school had not telephoned his parents. No doubt None Above would prefer to write a letter. That gave Dave a day of grace.
He said nothing to his parents until the following morning. His father left at eight. Then Dave spoke to his mother. "I'm not going to school," he said.
She did not fly off the handle. "Try to understand the journey that your father has made," she said. "He was illegitimate, as you know. His mother worked in a sweatshop in the East End, before she went into politics. His grandfather was a coal miner. Yet your father went to one of the world's great universities, and by the time he was thirty-one he was a minister in the British government."
"But I'm different!"
"Of course you are, but to him it looks as if you just want to throw away everything he and his parents and grandparents have achieved."
"I have to live my own life."
"I know."
"I've left school. I had a row with old None Above. You'll probably get a letter from him today."
"Oh, dear. Your father will find that hard to forgive."
"I know. I'm leaving home, too."
She began to cry. "Where will you go?"
Dave felt tearful, too, but he kept control. "I'll stay at the YMCA for a few days, then get a flat with Walli."
She put a hand on his arm. "Just don't be angry with your father. He loves you so much."
"I'm not angry," said Dave, though he was, really. "I'm just not going to be held back by him, that's all."
"Oh, God," she said. "You're as wild as I was, and just as pigheaded."
Dave was surprised. He knew she had made an unhappy first marriage, but all the same he could not imagine his mother being wild.
She added: "I hope your mistakes won't be as bad as mine."
As he was leaving, she gave him all the money in her purse.
Walli was waiting in the hall. They left the house carrying their guitars. As soon as they were outside in the street all feelings of regret vanished, and Dave began to feel both excited and apprehensive. He was going to be on television! But he had gambled everything. He felt a little dizzy every time he remembered that he had left home and school.
They got the Tube to Euston. Dave had to ensure the television appearance was a success. This was paramount. If the record did not sell, he thought fearfully, and Plum Nellie was a failure, what then? He might have to wash glasses at the Jump Club, like Walli.
What could he do that would make people buy the record?
He had no idea.
Eric Chapman was waiting at the railway station in a pin-striped suit. Buzz, Lew, and Lenny were already there. They loaded their guitars onto the train. The drums and amplifiers were going separately, being driven in a van to Birmingham by Larry Grant; but no one would trust him with the precious guitars.
On the train, Dave said to Eric: "Thanks for buying our tickets."
"Don't thank me. The cost will be deducted from your fee."
"So . . . the television company will pay our fee to you?"
&nb
sp; "Yes, and I'll deduct twenty-five percent, plus expenses, and pay you the rest."
"Why?" said Dave.
"Because I'm your manager, that's why."
"Are you? I didn't know."
"Well, you signed the contract."
"Did I?"
"Yes. I wouldn't have recorded you otherwise. Do I look like a charity worker?"
"Oh--that piece of paper we signed before the audition?"
"Yes."
"She said it was for insurance."
"Among other things."
Dave had a feeling he had been tricked.
Lenny said: "The show's on Saturday, Eric. How come we're going on a Thursday?"
"Most of it's prerecorded. Just one or two of the acts perform live on the day."
Dave was surprised. The show gave the impression of a fun party full of kids dancing and having a great time. He said: "Will there be an audience?"
"Not today. You've got to pretend you're singing to a thousand screaming girls all wetting their knickers for you."
Buzz, the bass player, said: "That's easy. I've been performing for imaginary girls since I was thirteen."
It was a joke, but Eric said: "No, he's right. Look at the camera and picture the prettiest girl you know standing right there taking her bra off. I promise you, it will put just the right sort of smile on your face."
Dave realized he was smiling already. Maybe Eric's trick worked.
They reached the studio at one. It was not very smart. Much of it was dingy, like a factory. The parts that appeared on camera had a tawdry glamour, but everything out of shot was scuffed and grubby. Busy people walked around ignoring Plum Nellie. Dave felt as though everyone knew he was a beginner.
A group called Billy and the Kids was onstage when they arrived. A record was playing loudly, and they were singing and playing along, but they had no microphones and their guitars were not plugged in. Dave knew, from his friends, that most viewers did not realize the acts were miming, and he wondered how people could be so dumb.
Lenny was scornful of the jolly Billy and the Kids record, but Dave was impressed. They smiled and gestured to the nonexistent audience, and when the song came to an end they bowed and waved as if acknowledging gales of applause. Then they did the whole thing all over again, with no less energy and charm. That was the professional way, Dave realized.
Plum Nellie's dressing room was large and clean, with big mirrors surrounded by Hollywood lights, and a fridge full of soft drinks. "This is better than what we're used to," said Lenny. "There's even toilet roll in the bog!"
Dave put on his red shirt, then went back to watch the filming. Mickie McFee was performing now. She had had a string of hits in the fifties and was making a comeback. She was at least thirty, Dave guessed, but she looked sexy in a pink sweater stretched tight across her breasts. She had a great voice. She did a soul ballad called "It Hurts Too Much," and she sounded like a black girl. What must it be like, Dave wondered, to have so much confidence? He was so anxious he felt as if his stomach was full of worms.
The cameramen and technicians liked Mickie--they were mostly the older generation--and they clapped when she finished.
She came down off the stage and saw Dave. "Hello, kid," she said.
"You were great," Dave said, and introduced himself.
She asked him about the group. He was telling her about Hamburg when they were interrupted by a man in an Argyle sweater. "Plum Nellie onstage, please," the man said in a soft voice. "Sorry to butt in, Mickie, darling." He turned to Dave. "I'm Kelly Jones, producer." He looked Dave up and down. "You look fab. Get your guitar." He turned back to Mickie. "You can eat him up later."
She protested: "Give a girl a chance to play hard to get."
"That'll be the day, duckie."
Mickie waved a good-bye and disappeared.
Dave wondered whether they had meant a single word they had said.
He had little time to think about it. The group got onstage and were shown their places. As usual, Lenny turned up his shirt collar, the way Elvis did. Dave told himself not to be nervous: he would be miming, so he didn't even have to play the song right! Then they were into it and Walli was fingering the introduction as the record began.
Dave looked at the rows of empty seats and imagined Mickie McFee pulling the pink sweater off over her head to reveal a black brassiere. He grinned happily into the camera and sang the harmony.
The record was two minutes long, but it seemed to be over in five seconds.
He expected to be asked to do it again. They all waited onstage. Kelly Jones was talking earnestly to Eric. After a minute they both came over to the group. Eric said: "Technical problem, lads."
Dave feared there was something wrong with their performance, and the television appearance might be canceled.
Lenny said: "What technical problem?"
Eric said: "It's you, Lenny, I'm sorry."
"What are you talking about?"
Eric looked at Kelly, who said: "This show is about kids with groovy clothes and Beatle haircuts raving to the latest hits. I'm sorry, Lenny, but you're not a kid, and your haircut is five years out of date."
Lenny said angrily: "Well, I'm very sorry."
Eric said: "They want the group to appear without you, Lenny."
"Forget it," said Lenny. "It's my group."
Dave was terrified. He had sacrificed everything for this! He said: "Listen, what if Lenny combs his hair forward and turns down the collar of his shirt?"
Lenny said: "I'm not doing it."
Kelly said: "And he would still look too old."
"I don't care," said Lenny. "It's all of us or none of us." He looked around the group. "Right, lads?"
No one said anything.
"Right?" Lenny repeated.
Dave felt scared, but forced himself to speak. "I'm sorry, Lenny, but we can't miss this chance."
"You bastards," Lenny said furiously. "I should never have let you change the name. The Guardsmen were a great little rock-and-roll combo. Now it's a schoolboy group called Plum fucking Nellie."
"So," Kelly said impatiently. "You'll go back onstage without Lenny and do the number again."
Lenny said: "Am I being fired from my own group?"
Dave felt like a traitor. He said: "It's only for today."
"No, it's not," said Lenny. "How can I tell my friends that my group is on telly but I'm not in it? Fuck that. It's all or nothing. If I leave now, I leave forever."
No one said anything.
"Right, then," said Lenny, and he walked out of the studio.
They all looked shamefaced.
Buzz said: "That was brutal."
Eric said: "That's show business."
Kelly said: "Let's go for another take, please."
Dave feared he would not be able to jig about merrily, after such a traumatic row, but to his surprise he managed fine.
They went through the song twice, and Kelly said he loved their performance. He thanked them for their understanding, and hoped they would come back on the show soon.
When the group returned to the dressing room, Dave hung back in the studio and sat in the empty audience section for a few minutes. He was emotionally exhausted. He had made his television debut, and he had betrayed his cousin. He could not help remembering all the helpful advice Lenny had given him. I'm an ungrateful rotter, he thought.
Heading back to join the others, he looked in at an open door and saw Mickie McFee in her dressing room, holding a glass in her hand. "Do you like vodka?" she said.
"I don't know what it tastes like," said Dave.
"I'll show you." She kicked the door shut, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him with her mouth open. Her tongue had a booze taste a bit like gin. Dave kissed her back enthusiastically.
She broke the embrace and poured more vodka into her glass, then offered it to him.
"No, you drink it," he said. "I prefer it that way."
She emptied the glass, then kissed him
again. After a minute she said: "Oh, boy, you are a living doll."
She stepped back, then, to Dave's astonishment and delight, she pulled her tight pink sweater over her head and threw it aside.
She was wearing a black bra.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Dimka's grandmother, Katerina, died of a heart attack at the age of seventy. She was buried in Novodevichy Cemetery, a small park full of monuments and little chapels. The tombstones were prettily topped with snow, like slices of iced cake.
This prestigious resting place was reserved for leading citizens: Katerina was here because one day Grandfather Grigori, a hero of the October Revolution, would be buried in the same grave. They had been married almost fifty years. Dimka's grandfather seemed dazed and uncomprehending as his lifelong companion was lowered into the frozen ground.
Dimka wondered what it must be like, to love a woman for half a century and then lose her, suddenly, between one beat of the heart and the next. Grigori kept saying: "I was so lucky to have her. I was so lucky."
A marriage such as that was probably the best thing in the world, Dimka thought. They had loved one another and had been happy together. Their love had survived two world wars and a revolution. They had had children and grandchildren.
What would people say about Dimka's marriage, he wondered, when he was lowered into the Moscow earth, perhaps fifty years from now? "Call no man happy until he is dead," said the playwright Aeschylus: Dimka had heard that quote at university and always remembered it. Youthful promise could be blighted by later tragedy; suffering was often rewarded by wisdom. According to family legend, the young Katerina had preferred Grigori's gangster brother, Lev, who had fled to America, leaving her pregnant. Grigori had married her and raised Volodya as his son. Their happiness had had an inauspicious beginning, proving Aeschylus's point.
Another surprise pregnancy had triggered Dimka's own marriage. Perhaps he and Nina could end up as happy as Grigori and Katerina. It was what he longed for, despite his feelings for Natalya. He wished he could forget her.
He looked across the grave at his uncle Volodya and aunt Zoya and their two teenagers. Zoya at fifty was serenely beautiful. There was another marriage that seemed to have brought lasting happiness.
He was not sure about his own parents. His late father had been a cold man. Perhaps that was a consequence of being in the secret police: how could people who did such cruel work be loving and sympathetic? Dimka looked at his mother, Anya, weeping for the loss of her own mother. She had seemed happier since his father died.