Public Secrets (7 page)

Emma looked up and smiled beautifully. “He was crying, but he’s happy now. He smiled at me.” She leaned over to kiss his cheek as he gurgled. “He loves me, don’t you, Darren?”

“Yes, he loves you.” Brian moved over to kneel in front of the rocker and wrap his arms around both of them. “Thank God for all of you,” he said as he held out a hand for Bev. “I think I’d go mad without you.”

B
RIAN KEPT HIS
family closer during the next weeks. Whenever possible, he worked at home, and even toyed with the idea of adding a recording studio onto the house. The war in Southeast Asia preyed on his mind. The horrible and useless fighting in his homeland of Ireland tore at him. His records soared up the chart, but the satisfaction that had rushed through him in the early days paled. He used his music both as a projection of his feelings and a buffer against the worst of them. His need for family kept him level.

They were sanity, he was certain.

It was Bev who gave him the idea to take Emma to the recording studio. They were about to lay the first tracks for their third album. An album Brian considered even more important than their debut. This time, he had to prove that Devastation wasn’t a fluke, nor a pale imitation that was clinging to the coattails of groups like the Beatles and Rolling Stones. He had to prove to himself that the magic, which had dimmed so during that last year, would still be there.

He wanted something unique, a sound distinctively their own. He’d shuffled aside a dozen solid rock numbers he and Johnno had written. They could wait. Despite Pete’s objections, the rest of the group was behind him in his decision to pepper the cuts with political statements, down-and-dirty rebel rock, and Irish folk songs. Electric guitars and penny whistles.

When Emma walked into the studio, she had no notion she
was being allowed to witness the making of music history. To her, she was spending the day with her da and his mates. It seemed like an enormous game to her, the equipment, the instruments, the tall glass room. She sat in a big swivel chair, sipping a Coke straight from the bottle.

“Don’t you think the tyke’s going to get a bit bored?” Johnno asked as he fiddled with the electric organ. He wore two rings now, the diamond on one pinky and a fat sapphire on the other.

“If we can’t entertain one little girl, we’d best pack it in.” Brian adjusted the strap of his guitar. “Anyway, I want to keep her close awhile. Jane’s making noise again.”

“Bitch,” Johnno said mildly, then picked up a glass of Coke liberally laced with rum.

“She won’t get anywhere this time either, but it’s a nuisance.” He cast a quick look at Emma and saw she was occupied with talking to Charlie. “She’s trying to say she was tricked into signing the papers. Pete’s handling it.”

“She just wants more money.”

With a grim smile, Brian nodded. “She won’t get more out of Pete. Or out of me. Let’s have a sound check here.”

“Hello there, Emmy luv.” Stevie stopped beside her to poke a finger into her belly. “You auditioning for the band?”

“I’m going to watch.” She stared up at him, fascinated by the gold hoop he now wore in his ear.

“That’s fine, then. We always do better with an audience. Tell me something, Emmy.” He bent down close, whispering. “Truth and nothing but. Who’s the best of this lot here?”

It had become a standard game by this time. Knowing the rules, Emma looked up, then down, then side to side. Hunching her shoulders, she bellowed, “Da!”

It earned her a snort of disgust and a lot of tickled ribs. Struggling not to wet her pants, she squirmed to the back of the chair.

“It’s illegal in this country to brainwash children,” Stevie said as he joined Brian.

“The kid has taste.”

“Right, all bad.” He took his Martin out of its case and ran loving fingers down the neck. “What’s on first?”

“We’ll lay down the instrumentals on ‘Outcry.’”

“Saving the best for first.” With a nod, Stevie sped through some experimental chords. “Let’s get to work, mates.”

Of the four, Stevie was the only one who had grown up with real money, in a true house with a garden and two live-in servants. He was used to the finer things, expected them and was easily bored with them. He’d fallen in love with the guitar, and had made his proper parents rue the day they had given it to him.

At fifteen, he’d formed his own band. Stevie and the Rousers. It had lasted six months before bitter infighting had broken it up. Undaunted, he’d formed another, then another. His natural, flashy talent with the guitar had drawn many hopefuls to him. But then they’d looked to him for leadership that he’d been innately incapable of providing.

He’d come across Brian and Johnno at a party in Soho, one of those candlelit, smoke-and-incense-choked gatherings his parents were terrified of. He’d been attracted immediately to Brian’s intensity about music, and Johnno’s caustic, careless wit. For the first time in his life, Stevie had joined instead of formed. He’d followed Brian’s lead with relief.

There had been lean days, grubbing in pubs begging for a chance to play. There had been heady days spent writing songs and creating music. There had been women, gloriously sweaty acres of them ready to fall on their backs for a fair-haired man with a guitar in his hand.

There had been Sylvie, the girl he had met on their first gig in Amsterdam. Pretty, round-cheeked Sylvie with her broken English and guileless eyes. They’d made love like maniacs in a filthy little room where the roof leaked and the windows were coated with grime. He’d fallen in love, as much as he believed himself capable. He’d even entertained ideas about bringing her back to London with him, setting up house in some cramped cold-water flat.

But Sylvie had gotten pregnant.

He remembered when she’d told him, her face pale and her eyes full of hope and fear. He hadn’t wanted children. Good Christ, he’d only been twenty. His music had come first, had had to. And if his parents had discovered he’d fathered a child with a Dutch cocktail waitress … It had been lowering to realize that no matter how far he’d run, how much he’d protested, what his parents thought had still mattered so much.

Pete had arranged for an abortion, discreetly, expensively. Sylvie, with the tears flowing down her cheeks, had done what he’d asked. Once she had, she had walked out of his life. Until she had gone, Stevie hadn’t realized he’d loved her even more than he’d believed himself capable.

He didn’t want to think of it, hated to remember it, and her. But just lately it had begun preying on his mind. It probably had to do with Emma, he thought as he glanced over and saw her sitting flushed and delighted in her swivel chair. His child, whatever it had been, would have been about her age now.

The day in the studio was fun for Emma. So much fun her only regret was that Darren wasn’t there to share it. Watching her father and his friends play now was different from seeing them in the theaters and auditoriums across America. There was a different energy here. She didn’t understand it, but she felt it.

On tour, Emma had begun to see them as a unit, like a body with four heads. The picture that made in her mind made her laugh to herself, but it seemed a true one. Today, they argued, and swore, joked or just sat silently during playbacks. She didn’t know the meaning of the technical terms being tossed back and forth—didn’t need to. She amused herself when they huddled together, or was amused by them when they took a moment to tease her. She ate gobs of greasy chips and bloated her belly with Cokes.

During a break she sat on P.M.’s lap and bashed away at the drums. She said her name into one of the mikes and heard her voice echo through the room. With a spare drumstick in her hand, she dozed in the swivel chair, her head pillowed on the faithful Charlie. And she awoke to her father’s voice, soaring in a ballad of tragic love.

Spellbound she watched, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and yawning into Charlie’s fur. Her heart was too young to be touched by the lyrics. But the sound reached her. She would never hear the song again without remembering the moment when she’d awakened to hear his voice filling her head. Filling the world.

When he had finished, she forgot that she was supposed to be quiet. Bouncing on the chair, she clapped her hands together. “Da!”

In the engineering booth, Pete swore, but Brian held up a hand. “Leave that on.” With a laugh, he turned to Emma. “Leave it on,” he repeated as he held out his arms to her. When she reached them, he tossed her into the air. “What do you think, Emma? I’ve just made you a star.”

I
F BRIAN’S FAITH
in man had been shaken in 1968 with the assassination of Martin Luther King, then Robert Kennedy, it was expanded during the summer of 1969 with Woodstock. It was a celebration for him of youth and music, of love and brotherhood. It symbolized the chance to turn around the year of bloodshed and war, of riots and discontent. He knew, as he stood onstage and looked out at the sea of bodies, that he would never do anything so huge or so memorable again.

Even as it thrilled him to be there, to leave his mark, it left him by turns depressed and terrified that the decade, and its spirit, were ending.

He rushed through his three days in upstate New York at a fever pitch of emotional and creative energy, fueled by the atmosphere, heightened by the drugs that were as handy as popcorn at a Saturday matinee, and pushed by his own fears about where success had taken him. He spent an entire night alone in the trailer the band used, composing for a marathon fourteen-hour stint while cocaine stormed through his system. On one illuminating afternoon he sat in the woods with Stevie, listening to the music and the cheers of four hundred thousand. With the help of LSD he saw whole universes created in a maple leaf.

Brian embraced Woodstock, the concept of it, the reality of it. His only regret was that nothing he had said had persuaded Bev to come with them. She was, once again, waiting for him. This time she waited in the house they had bought in the Hollywood hills. Brian’s love affair with America was just beginning,
and his second American tour felt like a homecoming. It was the year of the rock festival, a phenomenon Brian saw as demonstrating the strength of rock culture.

He wanted, needed, to recapture that towering high of excitement when success had been new, when the band, the unit of them, had been like one electric force smashing through the world of music and public recognition. Over the past year, he had sensed that electricity, that unity, slipping away like the sixties themselves. He’d felt it forge again at Woodstock.

When they boarded the plane, leaving the faithful at Woodstock behind, Brian fell into an exhausted sleep. Beside him, Stevie carelessly popped a couple of barbiturates and zoned out. Johnno settled back to play poker with some of the road crew. Only P.M. sat restlessly by the window.

He wanted to remember everything. It annoyed him that unlike Brian, he saw beneath the symbolism and statement of the festival to the miserable conditions. The mud, the garbage, the lack of proper sanitary facilities. The music, good Christ, the music had been wonderful, almost unbearably so, but often, too often, he’d felt the audience had been too blissed out to notice.

Still, even someone as pragmatic and simple as P.M. had felt the sense of commitment and unity. Of peace—a peaceful trio of days with four hundred thousand living as family. But there had also been dirt, prolific and heedless sex, and a careless abundance of drugs.

Drugs frightened him. He couldn’t admit it, not even to the men he considered his brothers. Drugs made him sick or silly or put him to sleep. He took them only when he saw no graceful way not to. He was in turn amazed and appalled at the cheerfulness with which Brian and Stevie experimented with whatever came their way. And he was more than a little frightened by the ease with which Stevie was quietly, and consistently, shooting smack into his veins.

Johnno was more particular about what he pumped into his system, but Johnno’s personality was so strong no one would laugh at him for refusing to indulge in acid or speed or snow.

P.M. knew personality wasn’t his strong point. He wasn’t even a musician, not like the others. Oh, he knew he could hold his own with any drummer out there. He was good, damn good. But he couldn’t write music, couldn’t read it. His mind didn’t run to poetry or political statements.

He wasn’t handsome. Even now, at twenty-three, he was plagued by occasional outbreaks of pimples.

Despite what he considered his many disadvantages, he was part of one of the biggest, most successful rock groups in the world. He had friends, good and true ones, who would stand for him. In two years, he had earned more money than he had ever expected to make in the whole of his life.

And he was careful with it. P.M.’s father ran a small repair shop in London. He knew about business and books. Of the four he was the only one who ever asked Pete questions about expenses and profits. He was certainly the only one who bothered to read any of the forms or contracts they signed.

Having money pleased him, not only because he could send checks home—a kind of tangible proof to his doubting parents that he could succeed. It pleased him to have it jingling in his pocket.

He hadn’t grown up as poor as Johnno and Brian, but he’d been a long way from knowing the comforts of Stevie’s childhood.

Now they were on their way to Texas. Another festival in a year crammed with them. He didn’t mind really. After that, it would be another performance in another city. They were all blurring together, the months, the stages. Yet he didn’t want it to stop. When it did, he was desperately afraid he would sink back to obscurity.

He knew that when the summer was well and truly over, they would head to California, to Hollywood. For a few weeks, they would live among the movie stars. And for a few weeks, he thought with twinges of guilt and pleasure, he would be close to Bev. The only person P.M. loved more than Brian was Brian’s wife.

E
MMA SET UP
the lettered blocks. She was very proud of the fact that she was learning to read and spell, and was determined to teach Darren. “E-M-M-A,” she said, tapping each block in turn. “Emma. Say ’Emma.’”

“Ma!” Laughing, Darren pushed the blocks into a jumbled pile. “Ma Ma.”

“Em-ma.” But she leaned over to kiss him. “Here’s an easy one.” She set up two blocks. “D-A. Da.”

“Da. Da, Da, Da!” Delighted with himself, Darren climbed onto his sturdy legs to race to the doorway and look for Brian.

“No, Da’s not there now, but Mum’s in the kitchen. We’re having a big party tonight, to celebrate the new album being finished. We’ll be going home to England soon.”

She was looking forward to it, though she liked the house in America just as much as the castle outside of London. For more than a year she and her family had flown back and forth over the ocean as casually as other families drove across town.

She had turned six in the autumn of 1970, and had a proper British tutor, at Bev’s insistence. When they settled back in England again, she knew she would go to school with others her age. The idea was both frightening and wonderful.

“When we get back home, I’m going to learn lots more, and teach you everything.” As she spoke, she piled the blocks into a neat tower. “Look, here’s your name. The best name. Darren.”

On a cry of glee, he pranced back to crouch and study the letters.
“D, A, Z, L, Mt N
, O,
P
. “After sending Emma a wicked smile, he swooped his arm through it. Blocks crashed and tumbled. “Darren!” he shouted. “Darren McAvoy.”

“You can say that well enough, can’t you, boy-o?” In three years, the flow and cadence of her voice had come to mirror Brian’s. She smiled as she began to build something a little more intricate for him to demolish.

He was the light of her life, her little brother with his dark thick hair and laughing sea-green eyes. At two, he had the face of a Botticelli cherub and the energy of a demon. He’d done everything early, crawling weeks before the baby books had warned Bev to expect it.

His face had been on the cover of
Newsweek, Photoplay
, and
Rolling Stone
. The world had an ongoing love affair with Darren McAvoy. He had the blood of Irish peasants and staunch British conservatives in his veins, but he was a prince. No matter how careful Bev was, the paparazzi managed to snap new pictures of him on a weekly basis. And the fans clamored for more.

They sent him truckloads of toys which Bev meticulously shipped off to hospitals and orphanages. Offers poured in for endorsements. Baby food, a line of children’s clothing, a chain of toy stores. They were unilaterally refused. Through all the attention and adulation, Darren remained a happy, healthy toddler, who was currently enjoying, with relish, his terrible twos. If he
had known about the attention, no doubt he would have cheerfully agreed he deserved it.

“This is the castle,” Emma told him as she arranged blocks. “And you’re the king.”

“I’m the king.” He plopped down to bounce on his padded bottom.

“Yes. King Darren the First.”

“First,” he repeated. He knew very well the meaning of that word, and enjoyed being put there. “Darren’s first.”

“You’re a very good king and kind to all the animals.” She pulled the ever faithful Charlie closer. Dutifully, Darren bent to give him a wet kiss. “And here are all your good and courageous knights.” Meticulously she set up dolls and stuffed toys. “There’s Da and Johnno, Stevie and P.M. And here’s Pete. He’s, ah … prime minister. This is the beautiful Lady Beverly.” Pleased, Emma posed her favored ballerina doll.

“Mum.” Darren kissed the doll in turn. “Mum’s pretty.”

“She’s the prettiest lady in the world. There’s a horrible witch after her, who locked her in a tower.” Emma had a vague image of her own mother, but it passed quickly. “All the knights go out to save her.” Making galloping noises, she pushed the toys toward the doll. “But only Sir Da can break the spell.”

“Sir Da.” The combination of words struck Darren as so funny he rolled and smashed the castle.

“Well, if you’re going to go around knocking down your own castle, I give up.”

“Ma.” Darren wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. “My Ma Ma. Let’s play farm.”

“All right, but we have to pick up the blocks or prissy Miss Wallingsford will come in and say we’re noisy, messy children.”

“Pissy. Pissy. Pissy.”

“Darren.” Emma clapped both hands over her mouth and giggled. “Don’t say that.”

Because it made her laugh, he said it again, at the top of his voice.

“What a word to come out of a nursery.” Not sure if she should be amused or stern, Bev stopped in the doorway.

“He means prissy,” Emma explained.

“I see.” Bev held out her arms as Darren ran to her. “That’s a very important r, my lad. And what are you two up to?”

“We were playing castle, but Darren liked knocking it down better.”

“Darren the Destructor.” Bev nuzzled against his neck until he squealed with laughter. His little legs locked around her so that she could hold him in his favorite position. Upside down.

She hadn’t known it was possible to love so much. Even the passion she felt for Brian paled beside the love she felt for her son. He gave back without even knowing he was giving. It was simply there, a hug, a kiss, or a smile. Always at the right time. He was the best and brightest part of her lire.

“Here now, go help your sister tidy up the blocks.”

“I can do it.”

After setting Darren down, Bev smiled at Emma. “He has to learn to pick up his own messes, Emma. However much you and I would like to do for him always.”

She watched them together, the delicate, fair-headed girl and the dark, sturdy boy. Emma was a neat, well-mannered child who no longer hid in closets. Brian had made a difference for her. And Bev hoped she herself had had a hand in forming Emma into the bright, cheerful child she was today. But it was Darren, she knew, who had truly tipped the scales. In her devotion to him, Emma forgot to be frightened, she forgot to be shy. In turn, Darren loved her completely.

Even as a baby, he had stopped crying more quickly if Emma soothed him. Each day the bond between them only strengthened.

Bev had been pleased the day a few months before when Emma had begun to call her Mum. It was a rare thing for her to look at Emma and think of her as Jane’s child now. She didn’t, couldn’t, feel for Emma the fierce almost desperate love she felt for Darren, but the love she did feel was warm and steady.

Because he liked the clattering they made, Darren dropped the blocks back in their box. “D,” he said, holding his favorite letter over the opening. “Dog, drum, Darren!” He let it fly, satisfied when his letter made the most noise. Certain he’d done his duty, he hopped on his red and white rocking horse and headed west.