Edge of Eternity (63 page)

“It's going to be tough, but I think we can win it,” said Johnson. “Do your best, George.”

“Yes, sir,” said George. “I will.”

•   •   •

George explained President Johnson's strategy to Verena Marquand shortly before Martin Luther King went to the Oval Office. She looked stunning in a bright red PVC raincoat but, for once, George was not distracted by her beauty. “We have to put everything we've got into this effort,” he said urgently. “If the petition fails, the bill fails, and Southern Negroes will be back where they started.”

He gave Verena a list of Republican congressmen who had not yet signed the petition.

She was impressed. “President Kennedy talked to us about votes, but he never had a list like this,” she said.

“That's Lyndon,” said George. “If the whips tell him how many votes they think they've got, he says: ‘Thinking isn't good enough—I need to know!' He has to have the names. And he's right. This is too important for guesswork.”

He told her that civil rights leaders had to put pressure on liberal Republicans. “Every one of these men must get a call from someone whose approval he cares about.”

“Is that what the president is going to tell Dr. King this morning?”

“Precisely.” Johnson had seen all the most important civil rights leaders one by one. Jack Kennedy would have had them all in a room together, but Lyndon could not work his magic so well in large groups.

“Does Johnson think the civil rights leaders can turn all these Republicans around?” Verena said skeptically.

“Not on their own, but he's enlisting others. He's seeing all the union leaders. He had breakfast with George Meany this morning.”

Verena shook her beautiful head in wonder. “You have to give him credit for energy.” She looked thoughtful. “Why couldn't President Kennedy do this?”

“Same reason Lyndon can't sail a yacht—he doesn't know how.”

Johnson's meeting with King went well. But next morning George's optimism was punctured by a segregationist backlash.

Leading Republicans denounced the petition. McCulloch of Ohio said it had irritated people who might otherwise have supported the civil rights bill. Gerald Ford told reporters that the rules committee should be allowed time to hold hearings, which was rubbish: everyone knew that Smith wanted to kill the bill, not debate it. All the same, reporters were briefed that the petition had failed.

But Johnson was not discouraged. Wednesday morning he spoke to the Business Advisory Council, eighty-nine of the most important American businessmen, and he said: “I am the only president you have; if you would have me fail, then you fail, for the country fails.”

Then he addressed the executive council of the AFL-CIO, the largest federation of unions, and said: “I need you, I want you, and I believe you should be at my side.” He got a standing ovation, and the Steelworkers' thirty-three lobbyists stormed Capitol Hill.

George was sitting down to dinner with Verena in one of the restaurants there when Skip Dickerson passed their table and hissed: “Clarence Brown has gone to see Howard Smith.”

George explained to Verena: “Brown is the senior Republican on Smith's committee. Either he's telling Smith to tough it out, and ignore the lobbying . . . or he's saying that Republicans can't take this pressure much longer. If two people on the committee turn against Smith, his decisions can be overturned by a majority vote.”

“Could it all be over so quickly?” Verena marveled.

“Smith may jump before he's pushed. It looks more dignified.” George moved his plate away. Tension had ruined his appetite.

Half an hour later Dickerson came by again. “Smith caved,” he
crowed. “There will be a formal statement tomorrow.” He walked on, spreading the news.

George and Verena grinned at one another. Verena said: “Well, God bless Lyndon Johnson.”

“Amen,” said George. “We have to celebrate.”

“What shall we do?”

“Come to my apartment,” said George. “I'll think of something.”

T
here was no uniform at Dave's school, but boys were mocked for being overdressed. Dave took some ribbing on the day he showed up in a four-button jacket, a white shirt with long collar points, a paisley tie, and blue hipster trousers with a white plastic belt. He did not care about the teasing. He had a mission.

Lenny's group had been on the fringes of show business for years. As things stood, they could spend another decade playing rock and roll in clubs and pubs. Dave wanted more than that in 1964. And the way forward was to make a record.

After school he took the Tube to Tottenham Court Road and walked from there to an address in Denmark Street. On the ground floor of the building was a guitar shop, but beside it was a door leading to an office above, and a nameplate that said
CLASSIC RECORDS
.

Dave had spoken to Lenny about getting a recording contract, but Lenny had been discouraging. “I've tried that,” he had said. “You can't get through the door. It's a closed circle.”

That made no sense. There had to be a way in, otherwise no one would ever make records. But Dave knew better than to chop logic with Lenny. So he decided to do it on his own.

He had begun by studying the names of the record companies in the hit parade. It was a complicated exercise, because there were many labels, all owned by a few companies. The phone book had helped him sort them out, and he had picked Classic as his target.

He had called their number and said: “This is British Railways Lost Property. We have a tape in a box marked: ‘Head of Artists and Recording, Classic Records.' Who should we send it to?” The girl who answered the phone had given him a name and this address in Denmark Street.

At the top of the stairs he found a receptionist, probably the one he had spoken to on the phone. Assuming a confident air, he used the name she had given him. “I'm here to see Eric Chapman,” he said.

“What name shall I say?”

“Dave Williams. Tell him Byron Chesterfield sent me.”

This was a lie, but Dave had nothing to lose.

The receptionist disappeared through a door. Dave looked around. The lobby was decorated with framed gold and silver discs. A photograph of Percy Marquand, the Negro Bing Crosby, was inscribed: “To Eric, with thanks for everything.” Dave noticed that all the discs were at least five years old. Eric needed fresh talent.

Dave felt nervous. He was not accustomed to deception. He told himself not to be timid. He was not breaking the law. If he were found out, the worst that could happen was that he would be told to get out and stop wasting people's time. It was worth risking that.

The secretary came out, and a middle-aged man stood in the doorway. He wore a green cardigan over a white shirt and a nondescript tie. He had thinning gray hair. He leaned on the doorpost, looking Dave up and down. After a moment he said: “So Byron sent you to me, did he?”

His tone was skeptical: obviously he did not believe the story. Dave avoided repeating the lie by telling another. “Byron said: ‘EMI has the Beatles, Decca has the Rolling Stones, Classic needs Plum Nellie.'” Byron had said nothing of the kind. Dave had figured it out for himself, reading the music press.

“Plum what?”

Dave handed Chapman a photo of the group. “We've done a stint at the Dive in Hamburg, as the Beatles did, and we've played the Jump Club in London, like the Stones.” He was surprised he had not yet been thrown out, and he wondered how much longer his luck would hold.

“How do you know Byron?”

“He's our manager.” Another lie.

“What sort of music?”

“Rock and roll, but with a lot of vocal harmonies.”

“Just like every other pop group at the moment.”

“But we're better.”

There was a long pause. Dave was pleased that Chapman was even
talking to him. Lenny had said: “You can't get through the door.” Dave had proved him wrong there.

Then Chapman said: “You're a bloody liar.”

Dave opened his mouth to protest, but Chapman held up a hand to silence him. “Don't tell me any more whoppers. Byron isn't your manager and he didn't send you here. You might have met him, but he didn't say Classic Records needs Plum Nellie.”

Dave said nothing. He had been caught out. This was humiliating. He had tried to bluff his way into a record company and he had failed.

Chapman said: “What's your name, again?”

“Dave Williams.”

“What do you want from me, Dave?”

“A recording contract.”

“There's a surprise.”

“Give us an audition. I promise you won't regret it.”

“I'll tell you a secret, Dave. When I was eighteen, I got my first job in a recording studio by saying I was a qualified electrician. I lied. The only qualification I had was grade seven piano.”

Dave's heart leaped in hope.

“I like your cheek,” Chapman said. A little sadly, he added: “If I could turn back the clock, I wouldn't mind being a young chancer all over again.”

Dave held his breath.

“I'll audition you.”

“Thanks!”

“Come into the recording studio after Christmas.” He jerked a thumb at the receptionist. “Cherry will give you an appointment.” He went back into his room and closed the door.

Dave could hardly believe his luck. He had been caught out in his silly lies—but he had got an audition just the same!

He made a provisional appointment with Cherry, and said he would phone to confirm when he had checked with the rest of the group. Then he went home, walking on air.

As soon as he got back to the house in Great Peter Street he picked up the phone in the hall and called Lenny. “I got us an audition with Classic Records!” he said triumphantly.

Lenny was not as enthusiastic as Dave expected. “Who told you to do that?” He was miffed because Dave had taken the initiative.

Dave refused to be deflated. “What have we got to lose?”

“How did you manage it?”

“Bluffed my way in. I saw Eric Chapman, and he said okay.”

“Blind luck,” said Lenny. “It happens sometimes.”

“Yeah,” said Dave, though he was thinking: I wouldn't have got lucky if I'd stayed home sitting on my arse.

“Classic isn't really a pop label,” Lenny said.

“That's why they need us.” Dave was running out of patience. “Lenny, how can this be bad?”

“No, it's fine, we'll see if it comes to anything.”

“Now we have to decide what to play at the audition. The secretary told me we'll get to record two songs.”

“Well, we should do ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll,' obviously.”

Dave's heart sank. “Why?”

“It's our best number. Always goes down well.”

“You don't think it's a bit old-fashioned?”

“It's a classic.”

Dave knew he could not fight Lenny about this, not right now. Lenny had already swallowed his pride once. He could be pushed, but not too far. However, they could do two songs: perhaps the second could be more distinctive. “How about a blues?” Dave said desperately. “For a contrast. Show our range.”

“Yeah. ‘Hoochie Coochie Man.'”

That was a bit better, more like the material the Rolling Stones were doing. “Okay,” said Dave.

He went into the drawing room. Walli was there with a guitar on his knee. He had been living with the Williams family ever since coming from Hamburg with the group. He and Dave often sat in this room, playing and singing, between school and dinner.

Dave told him the news. Walli was pleased, but worried about Lenny's choice of material. “Two songs that were hits in the fifties,” he said. His English was improving fast.

“It's Lenny's group,” said Dave helplessly. “If you think you can change his mind, please try.”

Walli shrugged. He was a great musician but a bit passive, Dave found. Evie said everyone was passive by comparison with the Williams family.

They were pondering Lenny's taste when Evie came in with Hank Remington.
A Woman's Trial
was a hit, despite the catastrophic opening on the day President Kennedy was killed. Hank was recording a new album with the Kords. They spent their afternoons together, then went off to their separate jobs.

Hank was wearing crushed-velvet hipster trousers and a polka-dot shirt. He sat with Dave and Walli while Evie went upstairs to change. As always he was charming and amusing, telling stories about the Kords on tour.

He picked up Walli's guitar and strummed some chords absentmindedly, then said: “Do you want to hear a new song?”

They did, of course.

It was a sentimental ballad called “Love Is It.” The appeal was instant. It was a lovely melody with a little shuffle in the beat. They asked him to play it again, and he did.

Walli said: “What was that chord at the start of the bridge?”

“C sharp minor.” Hank showed him, then passed him the guitar.

Walli played the chords, and Hank sang it a third time. Dave improvised a harmony.

“That sounded nice,” Hank said. “Such a pity we're not going to record it.”

“What?” Dave was incredulous. “It's beautiful!”

“The Kords think it's soppy. We're a rock outfit, they say; we don't want to sound like Peter, Paul and Mary.”

“I think it's a number one hit,” said Dave.

His mother put her head around the door. “Walli,” she said. “Phone call for you—from Germany.”

It would be Walli's sister Rebecca in Hamburg, Dave guessed. Walli's family in East Berlin could not phone him: the regime there did not allow phone calls to the West.

While Walli was out of the room, Evie reappeared. She had put her hair up and wore jeans and a T-shirt, ready for makeup and wardrobe artists to go to work on her. Hank was going to drop her at the theater on his way to the recording studio.

Dave was distracted, thinking about “Love Is It,” a great song that the Kords did not want.

Walli came back in, followed by Daisy. He said: “That was Rebecca.”

“I like Rebecca,” said Dave, remembering pork chops and fried potatoes.

“She just received a letter, very delayed, from Karolin in East Berlin.” Walli paused. He seemed to be in the grip of some emotion. At last he managed to say: “Karolin had the baby. It's a girl.”

Everyone jumped up and congratulated him. Daisy and Evie kissed him. Daisy said: “When did this happen?”

“The twenty-second of November. Easy to remember: it was the day Kennedy was shot.”

“How much did she weigh?” Daisy asked.

“Weigh?” said Walli as if that was an incomprehensible question.

Daisy laughed. “It's something people always tell you about new babies.”

“I didn't ask what she weighed.”

“Never mind. What about her name?”

“Karolin suggests Alice.”

“That's lovely,” said Daisy.

“Karolin will send me a photograph,” said Walli. “Of my daughter,” he added dazedly. “But she sends it via Rebecca, because letters to England are even more held up in the censor's office.”

Daisy said: “I can't wait to see the picture!”

Hank rattled his car keys impatiently. Maybe he found baby talk boring. Or, Dave thought, perhaps he did not like the baby taking the spotlight away from him.

Evie said: “Oh, my God, look at the time. Bye, everyone. Congratulations again, Walli.”

As they were leaving, Dave said: “Hank, are the Kords really not going to record ‘Love Is It'?”

“Really. When they take against something, they're a stubborn lot.”

“In that case . . . could Walli and I have the song for Plum Nellie? We've got an audition in January with Classic Records.”

“Sure,” said Hank with a shrug. “Why not?”

•   •   •

Lloyd Williams asked Dave to step into his study on Saturday morning.

Dave was about to go out. He was wearing a horizontally striped blue-and-white sweater, jeans, and a leather jacket. “Why?” he said pugnaciously. “You're no longer giving me an allowance.” The money he earned playing with Plum Nellie was not much, but it was enough for Tube fares, drinks, and occasionally a shirt or a new pair of boots.

“Is money the only reason for speaking to your father?”

Dave shrugged and followed him into the room. It had an antique desk and some leather chairs. A fire smoldered in the grate. On the wall was a picture of Lloyd at Cambridge in the thirties. The room was a shrine to everything that was out of date. It seemed to smell of obsolescence.

Lloyd said: “I ran into Will Furbelow at the Reform Club yesterday.”

Will Furbelow was the head of Dave's school. Being bald, he was inevitably known as None Above.

“He says you're in danger of failing all your exams.”

“He's never been my biggest fan.”

“If you fail, you will not be allowed to continue at the school. That will be the end of your formal education.”

“Thank God for that.”

Lloyd was not going to be riled. “Every profession will be closed to you, from accountant to zoologist. They all require you to pass exams. The next possibility, for you, is an apprenticeship. You could learn to do something useful, and you should think about what you might like: bricklaying, cooking, motor mechanics . . .”

Dave wondered whether Dad was out of his mind. “Bricklaying?” he said. “Do you even
know
me? I'm Dave.”

“Don't sound incredulous. These are the jobs people do if they can't pass exams. Below that level, you could be a shop assistant or a factory hand.”

“I can't believe I'm hearing this.”

“I was afraid you would do this, close your eyes to reality.”

Dad was the one closing his eyes, Dave thought.

“I realize you're getting beyond the age where I can expect you to obey me.”