Edge of Eternity (71 page)

He had allowed himself to believe that he was going to be a musician. He had left his parents' home and his school. He was sixteen, old enough to get married and pay taxes. He had thought he had a career. And suddenly it was all falling apart. He did not know what to do. He was no good at anything other than music. He could not face the humiliation of going back to live in his parents' house. In old-fashioned stories the boy hero would “run away to sea.” Dave loved the idea of disappearing, then returning five years later, bronzed and bearded and telling tales of faraway places. But in his heart he knew he would hate the discipline of the navy. It would be worse than school.

He did not even have a girlfriend. When he left school he had ended his romance with Linda Robertson. She said she had been expecting it, though she cried all the same. When he received the money from Plum Nellie's appearance on
It's Fab!
he had got Mickie McFee's phone number from Eric and asked her if she wanted to go out with him, maybe to dinner and a movie. She had thought for a long moment, then said: “No. You're really sweet, but I can't be seen out with a sixteen-year-old. I already have a bad reputation, but I don't want to look quite such a fool.” Dave had been hurt.

Walli was sitting next to Dave now, guitar in hand as usual. He was playing with a metal tube fitted over the middle finger of his left hand, and singing: “Woke up this morning, believe I'll dust my broom.”

Dave frowned. “That's the Elmore James sound!” he said after a minute.

“It's called bottleneck guitar,” Walli said. “They used to do it with the neck of a broken bottle, but now someone makes these metal things.”

“It sounds great.”

“Why do you keep phoning Eric?”

“I want to know how many copies we sold of ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll,' what's happening about the American release of ‘Love Is It,' and whether
we've got any tour dates coming up—and our manager won't speak to me!”

“Fire him,” said Walli. “He is a breast.”

Walli's English was almost perfect now. “A tit, you mean,” Dave said. “We say he's a tit, not a breast.”

“Thank you.”

“How can I fire him if I can't get him on the phone?” Dave said gloomily.

“Go round to his office.”

Dave looked at Walli. “You know, you're not as dumb as you sound.” Dave began to feel better. “That's exactly what I'm going to do.”

The downhearted feeling left him as he stepped outside. Something about the streets of London always cheered him. This was one of the world's great cities: anything could happen.

Denmark Street was less than a mile away. Dave was there in fifteen minutes. He went up the stairs to the office of Classic Records. “Eric is out,” Cherry said.

“Are you sure?” said Dave. Feeling bold, he opened Eric's door.

Eric was there, behind the desk. He looked a bit foolish, having been caught out in deceit. Then his expression changed to anger and he said: “What do you want?”

Dave did not say anything immediately. His father sometimes said: “Just because someone asks you a question, don't think you have to answer. I've learned that in politics.” Dave just stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

If he remained standing, he thought, it would look as if he expected to be told to leave at any moment. So he sat on the chair in front of Eric's desk and crossed his legs.

Then he said: “Why are you avoiding me?”

“I've been busy, you arrogant little sod. What is it?”

“Oh, all kinds of things,” Dave said expansively. “What's happening to ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll'? What are we doing in the New Year? What news from America?”

“Nothing, nothing, and nothing,” said Eric. “Satisfied?”

“Why would I be satisfied with that?”

“Look.” Eric put his hand in his pocket and took out a roll of bills. “Here's twenty quid. That's what you've got coming for ‘Shake, Rattle
and Roll.'” He threw four five-pound notes on the desk. “Now are you satisfied?”

“I'd like to see the figures.”

Eric laughed. “The figures? Who do you think you are?”

“I'm your client, and you're my manager.”

“Manager? There's nothing to manage, you twerp. You were a one-hit wonder. We have them all the time in our business. You had a stroke of luck, Hank Remington gave you a song, but you never had real talent. It's over, forget it, go back to school.”

“I can't go back to school.”

“Why ever not? What are you, sixteen, seventeen?”

“I failed every exam I ever took.”

“Then get a job.”

“Plum Nellie is going to be one of the most successful acts in the world, and I'm going to be a musician for the rest of my life.”

“Keep dreaming, son.”

“I will.” Dave stood up. He was about to leave when he thought of a snag. He had signed a contract with Eric. If the group really did do well, Eric might claim a percentage. He said: “So, Eric, you're not Plum Nellie's manager anymore, is that what you're telling me?”

“Hallelujah! He's got the message at last.”

“I'll take back that contract, then.”

Eric suddenly looked suspicious. “What? Why?”

“The contract we signed, the day we recorded ‘Love Is It.' You don't want to keep it, do you?”

Eric hesitated. “Why do you want it back?”

“You've just told me I have no talent. Of course, if you see a great future for the group—”

“Don't make me laugh.” Eric picked up the phone. “Cherry, my love, get the Plum Nellie contract out of the file and give it to young Dave on his way out.” He cradled the handset.

Dave picked up the money from the desk. “One of us is a fool, Eric,” he said. “I wonder which?”

•   •   •

Walli loved London. There was music everywhere: folk clubs, beat clubs, theaters, concert halls, and opera houses. Every night Plum Nellie was
not playing he went out to hear music, sometimes with Dave, sometimes alone. Every now and again he went to a classical recital, where he would hear new chords.

The English were strange. When he said he was German, they always started talking about the Second World War. They thought they had won the war, and they got offended if he pointed out that it was actually the Soviets who had defeated the Germans. Sometimes he said he was Polish, just to avoid having the same boring conversation again.

But half the people in London were not English anyway: they were Irish, Scottish, Welsh, Caribbean, Indian, and Chinese. All the drug dealers came from islands: Maltese men sold pep pills, heroin pushers were from Hong Kong, and you could buy marijuana from Jamaicans. Walli liked to go to Caribbean clubs, where they played music with a different beat. He was approached by lots of girls at all these places, but he always told them he was engaged.

One day the phone rang, while Dave was out, and the caller said: “May I speak to Walter Franck?”

Walli almost replied that his grandfather had been dead for more than twenty years. “I am Walli,” he said after a hesitation.

The caller switched to German. “This is Enok Andersen calling from West Berlin.”

Andersen was the Danish accountant who managed Walli's father's factory. Walli recalled a bald man with glasses and a ballpoint pen in the breast pocket of his jacket. “Is something wrong?”

“All your family are well, but I am the bringer of disappointing news. Karolin and Alice have been refused permission to emigrate.”

Walli felt as if he had been punched. He sat down heavily. “Why?” he said. “What reason?”

“The government of East Germany do not give reasons for their decisions. However, a Stasi man visited the house—Hans Hoffmann, whom you know.”

“A jackal.”

“He told the family that none of them would ever get permission to emigrate or travel to the West.”

Walli covered his eyes with his hand. “Never?”

“That's what he said. Your father asked me to convey this to you. I'm very sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“Is there any message I can give your family? I cross to East Berlin once a week still.”

“Say I love them all, please.” Walli choked up.

“Very well.”

Walli swallowed. “And say that I
will
see them all again one day. I feel sure of it.”

“I'll tell them that. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.” Walli hung up, feeling desolate.

After a minute he picked up his guitar and played a minor chord. Music was consoling. It was abstract, just notes and their relationships. There were no spies, no traitors, no policemen, no walls. He sang: “I miss you, Alice . . .”

•   •   •

Dave was glad to see his sister again. He met her outside the office of her agency, International Stars. Evie was wearing a purple derby hat. She said: “Home is pretty dull without you.”

“Nobody has rows with Dad?” said Dave with a grin.

“He's so busy, since Labour won the election. He's in the cabinet now.”

“And you?”

“I'm doing a new film.”

“Congratulations!”

“But you fired your manager.”

“Eric felt Plum Nellie was a one-hit wonder. But we haven't given up. However, we must get some more gigs. All we've got in the diary is a few nights at the Jump Club, and that won't even pay the rent.”

“I can't promise that International Stars will take you on,” Evie said. “They agreed to talk to you, that's all.”

“I know.” But agents did not meet people just to blow them off, Dave figured. And clearly the agency wanted to be nice to Evie Williams, the hottest young actress in London. So he had high hopes.

They went inside. The place was different from Eric Chapman's office. The receptionist was not chewing gum. There were no trophies on the lobby walls, just some tasteful watercolors. It was classy, though not very rock-and-roll.

They did not have to wait. The receptionist took them into the office of Mark Batchelor, a tall man in his twenties wearing a shirt with a fashionable tab collar and a knitted tie. His secretary brought coffee on a tray. “We love Evie, and we'd like to help her brother,” Batchelor said when the initial pleasantries were out of the way. “But I'm not sure we can. ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll' has damaged Plum Nellie.”

Dave said: “I don't disagree, but tell me exactly what you mean.”

“If I may be frank . . .”

“Of course,” said Dave, thinking how different this was from a conversation with Eric Chapman.

“You look like an average pop group who had the good luck to get your hands on a Hank Remington song. People think the song was great, not you. We live in a small world—a few record companies, a handful of tour promoters, two television shows—and everyone thinks the same. I can't sell you to any of them.”

Dave swallowed. He had not expected Batchelor to be this candid. He tried not to show his disappointment. “We
were
lucky to get a Hank Remington song,” he admitted. “But we're not an average pop group. We have a first-class rhythm section and a virtuoso lead guitarist, and we look good, too.”

“Then you have to prove to people that you're not one-hit wonders.”

“I know. But with no recording contract and no big gigs I'm not sure how we do that.”

“You need another great song. Can you get another from Hank Remington?”

Dave shook his head. “Hank doesn't write songs for other people. ‘Love Is It' was a one-off, a ballad that the Kords didn't want to record.”

“Perhaps he could write another ballad.” Batchelor spread his hands in a who-knows gesture. “I'm not creative, that's why I'm an agent, but I know enough to realize that Hank is a prodigy.”

“Well . . .” Dave looked at Evie. “I suppose I could ask him.”

Batchelor said breezily: “What harm could it do?”

Evie shrugged. “I don't mind,” she said.

“All right, then,” said Dave.

Batchelor stood up and put out his hand to shake. “Good luck,” he said.

As they left the building, Dave said to Evie: “Can we go and see Hank now?”

“I've got some shopping to do,” Evie said. “I told him I'd see him tonight.”

“This is really important, Evie. My whole life is in ruins.”

“All right,” she said. “My car's around the corner.”

They drove to Chelsea in Evie's Sunbeam Alpine. Dave chewed his lip. Batchelor had done him the favor of being brutally honest. But Batchelor did not believe in Plum Nellie's talent—just Hank Remington's. All the same, if Dave could get just one more good song from Hank, the group would be back on course.

What was he going to say?

Hi, Hank, got any more ballads?
That was too casual.

Hank, I'm in a fix.
Too needy.

Our record company made a real mistake releasing ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll.' But we could rescue the situation—with a little help from you.
Dave did not like any of these approaches, mainly because he hated to beg.

But he would do it.

Hank had an apartment by the river. Evie led the way into a big old house and up in a creaking elevator. She spent most nights here now. She opened the apartment door with her own key. “Hank!” she called out. “It's only me.”

Dave walked in behind her. There was a hallway with a splashy modern painting. They passed a gleaming kitchen and looked into a living room with a grand piano. No one was there.

“He's out,” Dave said despondently.

Evie said: “He might be taking an afternoon nap.”

Another door opened, and Hank emerged from what was obviously the bedroom, pulling his jeans on. He closed the door behind him. “Hello, love,” he said. “I was in bed. Hello, Dave, what are you doing here?”