“The flowers are a nice touch,” I said.
“Thank you. I wouldn’t want it to seem like I’d given the garden over entirely to my collection.”
He led us to a shed and opened the door. Inside it was cool but dry—ideal conditions for storing records. Leo clicked a switch, and a glaring fluorescent ceiling light flickered on, providing ample illumination. Except for a shallow entrance area, the entire shed was filled with shelves. And on every shelf were stacked boxes. Squat, cylindrical boxes like a stack of film cans or biscuit tins. Most of them were tattered and faded but they had clearly once been cheerfully coloured in a variety of designs, floral or geometric.
“Are they hat boxes?” said Nevada. Then, half to herself, “They’d have to be damned small hats.”
“No,” said Leo. He took one and opened it. Resting snugly inside was a stack of dusty, brownish-black 78s. “They were purpose-built to hold these.”
I said, “Where did you get those boxes, Leo?”
He closed the box again. “They’re jolly hard to find. But luckily I’ve managed to secure enough of them to store my overflow collection in while I’m cataloguing it. Of course, once I move the records indoors they’ll all have square cardboard sleeves and they won’t fit into these boxes anymore.”
“Because you can’t square the circle,” said Nevada. “Or circle the square.”
He hooted with laughter, rather overdoing it, I thought. “Precisely! It’s a shame, but it can’t be avoided.” He turned to the wall beside the door where a fat red book was sitting on a small purpose-built shelf. He picked up the book and leafed through it. There were alphabetical tabs on the edges of the pages. Each page was densely crammed with handwriting in blue ballpoint pen. He flipped to F and studied each page carefully. “No. Sorry. Nothing by the Flare Path Orchestra.” He put the book back and switched off the light. We stepped out of the shed, back into the garden. It was a mild spring day and the flowers seemed to be glowing in the soft light.
If we hadn’t been crammed into a small space by tall looming sheds that hemmed us in on every side, it would have been quite pleasant.
Leo closed the shed behind him and said, “I’m going to do a recursive clockwise cataloguing project. By recursive I mean I work my way in a clockwise fashion through the four blocks of sheds, but also through the four sheds in each block. Thus, starting with North West Zero One I will work my way through to North West Zero Four, then on to the next block with North East Zero One and so on until I reach South West Zero Four.”
I liked the way each shed had a zero in its designation, in case he needed to add ten more. “That sounds like quite the project, Leo,” I said. “Where are you at with it at the moment?”
He frowned thoughtfully. “By the summer I estimate I’ll have completed the cataloguing of NW Zero One.” He nodded at the shed we had just been in.
“So you haven’t even done the first shed?”
“I’ve made a start. I’ve made a very good start.” There was the sound of a telephone ringing—an old-fashioned landline, of course—from within the house. Leo turned his head eagerly towards the sound. “You’ll have to excuse me for just a moment. I’ve got some bids in at an auction in Scotland, and that’s probably news of them now. I’ll be right back.” He turned and scampered towards the house.
When he was gone, Nevada said, “Auction?”
“Of 78s.”
“Of course.” She looked around at the sheds surrounding us. “Because he doesn’t have enough already.”
“Leo has a bit of a problem. Unkind outsiders might call it an obsession.”
“No kidding. Has he ever had a girlfriend?”
“Oh sure,” I said.
“No, really?”
“A few years ago he was with this Dutch girl he picked up on a train.”
“You’re joking,” said Nevada.
“No, it was quite a passionate affair. They were banging each other’s brains out.”
“You’re joking!”
“She wasn’t bad looking, either.”
Nevada glanced towards the house to make sure our gossip was secure, then eagerly back at me. “What happened?”
“They split up after a couple of months.”
“The passion just burned itself out?”
“No, actually. What happened was he was wearing his cricket gear when he met her on the train—all this stuff that he inherited from his dad.”
“He looks quite natty in it,” said Nevada. “One can see how it might turn a girl’s head, especially if she’s sporty.”
“Well, she was sporty. That was the problem. She took one look at Leo and thought he must at the very least be an extremely keen amateur cricket player, if not a full-blown professional. But then she found out that he didn’t even know which end of the bat to hold.”
“It took her a couple of months to find that out?”
“Apparently whenever the conversation turned to cricket he’d just nod sagely. And that worked pretty well, as far as it went.”
Nevada glanced back towards the house and sighed. “What a shame. If he’d just taken the trouble to learn a bit about the game, things might have turned out differently. He might still be with her. I mean, all he had to do was spend a little time looking up cricket online.”
I said, “As far as Leo is concerned, any time not spent listening to 78s is time wasted.”
“With the honourable exception of banging Dutch girls.”
“With that honourable exception.” The back door opened and Leo came back into the garden. He looked pleased with himself.
I said, “How did the auction go?”
“Rather well. Very well in fact. I managed to get both the lots I was bidding on.”
“So there will be more 78s arriving?” said Nevada.
“Yes, a couple of large crates.” Leo didn’t actually rub his hands together or anything like that, but he did grin happily at the prospect.
“Where will you put them?”
“I think there’s some room in South East Zero Three.”
Inside the house, the phone started ringing again. “Will you excuse me? That will be the auction house again, to arrange shipping.” Leo hurried towards the house, calling over his shoulder. “Feel free to start looking.”
“Start looking?” said Nevada.
I gestured towards the sheds. “These aren’t catalogued. That means we can’t just look in a little book. We’d have to sort through every record in them. And Leo thinks we’re going to.”
“Well, aren’t we?”
I said, “Oh, come on.”
“Oh, come on what? You don’t mean to suggest that we’ve come all the way out here and we’re not even going to try and look?”
I shrugged. “Okay. Be my guest.”
Nevada stared at me for a minute, then turned to the nearest shed and opened the door. I joined her as she switched on the light and stood staring at the shelves.
“Right,” she said. “Let’s get started.”
We each chose a box, opened it, and started looking through the records inside. This involved laboriously taking them all out and then putting them carefully back in. I found a recording of ‘Two Tiny Finchs’ (sic) on the Bel Canto label and Miss Florrie Forde singing ‘It’s a Different Girl Again’ on the Zonophone label. But no Flare Path Orchestra. By the time we’d each started on our third box, Nevada sighed and looked at me.
“It’s hopeless, isn’t it?” she said. I shrugged again. She put the records back in her box and put the lid on it. I did the same. We switched off the light and stepped out of the shed, back into the daylight, which was just beginning to fade towards evening. Nevada stared at the grid of sheds, standing all around us.
“That’s all!” she said.
* * *
With nowhere else to turn, I tried the Internet. And I came up with quite a promising website devoted to the wartime bands. It featured a link to an enthusiast who specialised in none other than the Flare
Path Orchestra, or FPO as it was unhelpfully abbreviated. I clicked the link and it led me to a website page that was under construction.
But there was an email address.
And a list of records for sale.
My initial spasm of excitement subsided when I realised that the ‘records’ in question were actually CDs, but by this time I was just about ready to settle for anything. I thought if I could give Miss Honeyland some CD transfers of her father’s recordings, that at least would be a start.
So I sent a message saying I would like to buy copies of all the CDs. Then, as an afterthought, I included an enquiry.
These are the original recordings by the Flare Path Orchestra, aren’t they?
I got a prompt reply.
Sorry, all modern re-recording by a local big band. Original FPO records are as scarce as hen’s teeth!
I wrote back that I was becoming painfully aware of this. But I asked if he might have any of the original 78s in his personal collection that he might be willing to sell, or to have copied.
Again, a swift reply.
I wish. Sorry. All I have are the modern CDs and a photograph.
Well, that was that. I sent him a thank you message, then I went into the kitchen, intending to make some coffee. But instead I went back to my computer and opened up my emails again. I typed another message.
What photograph?
5. GROUP PORTRAIT
“So that photo,” said Tinkler. “It’s a picture of the orchestra? The whole orchestra?”
“Yes,” I said. “It’s like one of those photographs you get of an entire football team.”
“Or an entire class in a school photograph,” said Nevada. “Don’t we have to turn off the motorway here?” She shifted in the back seat, looking anxiously out the window.
Tinkler glanced at her in the mirror. “If I wanted a woman to tell me where to turn, I’d switch on the satnav.”
“And they all had their names written neatly there,” I said, to forestall what I saw as being a long and fruitless discussion or, to be frank, a quarrel. “Beside all those tiny faces in the photograph.” They had looked terribly young, staring up at us in black and white from the lethal depths of a war in another century.
Tinkler began to signal a left turn, and we eased across the lanes to the approaching motorway exit. He wasn’t a bad driver, surprisingly.
“So you just took those names that were written there and looked them up on Google or Facebook or something,” said Tinkler. “And found the members of the Flare Path Orchestra who were still alive. As simple as that.”
“There was nothing simple about it,” I said. “When you consider that most of the names were things like ‘Leading Aircraftman J. Smith’.”
“I can see how that might be a problem,” said Tinkler. “What does a leading aircraftman do, by the way? Is he the man who leads the aircraft?”
I said, “Or like, ‘Sergeant H. Brown’.”
“Yes, yes, don’t labour the point. I get the picture.”
“Which is why,” said Nevada, “we’re on our way to visit one Gerald Wuggins.”
* * *
The Wuggins house was located on the outskirts of Sevenoaks. I’d never been in this part of Kent before and it was intriguing. We drove past ancient stone walls and then a futuristic-looking children’s school made of what looked like giant blue pipes. We drove up and down hills, skirted the centre of town, and then all at once we were there, at the end of a long tree-lined street that was densely crowded with parked cars.
There was absolutely nowhere to park. We had to leave Tinkler’s little blue Volvo a fair distance from the house and walk it. This was no hardship. It was a warm, pleasant afternoon and the air smelled good. Somewhere birds were singing like they meant it. There were low stone walls on either side of us, and high hedges. The cars were all expensive models. BMWs, Jaguars, a couple of Rolls Royces and a Bentley. “There’s no shortage of money around here,” said Nevada with approval. The Wuggins place had a large ranch-style gate of red metal.
“So are they expecting us?” said Tinkler, as we approached.
“I don’t see how they could be. Every time I rang his number it was either busy or I got the answer machine.”
“Tell me you at least left a message.”
I shook my head. Nevada said, “He’s become very paranoid about these things.”
I said, “I thought we could just drive down here and take a chance.”
He said, “You mean you thought that poor old Tinkler could just drive you down here and take a chance.”
“Oh shit.” Nevada suddenly stopped walking. “I left something in the car. Give me the keys, Poor Old Tinkler.” He handed her the keys and she trotted off, back the way we’d come. Tinkler and I kept going, through the ranch-style gate and onto a gravel driveway.
It was only once we were inside that I realised how big the place was. Shielded from the street by tall dense hedges, it must have been three or four acres at least. The house, too, was large. We could see its roof looming over a cluster of evergreens. We followed the driveway, which was on a gentle hill and gradually sloped upward as it curved, towards the trees and the house. The gate disappeared behind us and we passed flower beds, a small pond, and a cluster of gnomes with fishing rods.
“Gnomes; good,” said Tinkler. “Always a promising sign. I’m being sarcastic by the way.” And then suddenly, standing in front of us was a little girl in a white dress with flowers in her hair.
As soon as she saw us her face turned bright red and she pointed at us and screamed, “Here they are!” There was the sound of feet crunching urgently on gravel. A young man came running around the curve towards us. He glanced at Tinkler and me, then at the little girl, and grinned fiercely.
“Well done, Janine,” he said. There were more footsteps and another four young men came running. They stopped in front of us with the first guy and the little girl.
“Nice one, Maxie,” said one of them to the first guy.
My initial impression was that they all looked enough alike to be brothers. But this was mostly the result of the way they were dressed. They were all wearing highly polished shoes and smart dark trousers, black or navy blue. All had white dress shirts worn open at the neck and one of them had an untied black bow tie hanging floppily from his collar. All wore their hair short or carefully styled with gel.
A waft of sweat, aftershave and hair gel emanated towards us from them. Their faces were flushed from recent exertion. They were all big, muscular and athletic and had a look of ugly excitement about them. They stared at us and grinned.
I had no idea what was going on but I immediately began to get that ‘Oh, shit’ feeling.
“I found the wedding crashers,” said the little girl proudly.
“Yeah, Janine, sweet.”
“Nice one.”
“Good girl.”
Janine basked in the praise from the young men.
“We’re not wedding crashers,” I said.
Maxie sneered at this obvious canard. “We just chucked out a couple of your mates.”
“Yeah,” said one of the other guys. “We gave them a thump and sent them on their way.”
Maxie looked at us with satisfaction. “They said you might be turning up.”
“Well, that was very good of them,” I said. “But we don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“We aren’t wedding crashers,” said Tinkler.
“Yes you are,” said little Janine in her piping high-pitched voice. “You’re just a couple of losers who sneak into other people’s weddings trying to get off with gorgeous single girls.”
There was the sound of footsteps in the gravel coming uphill, behind us. Nevada appeared at my side and took my hand. She smiled her most charming smile. “He’s not allowed to get off with gorgeous girls. He has to settle for me.”
Janine stared at us and then turned to the first guy. “You moron, Maxie. He’s not a wedding crasher. Why would
he be, when he’s going out with someone like her?” The little quisling had made a rapid volte-face.
It was impressive how instantly the situation defused. The five beefy lads literally seemed to wilt and deflate. They suddenly looked younger and smaller and much less formidable. Their demeanour had changed from uniform hostility and a blunt readiness for instant aggression. They now looked variously drunk, dazed, bored, disappointed and mildly annoyed.
“I might still be a loser trying to get off with gorgeous girls,” said Tinkler hopefully. “Where are they, exactly?”
Everybody ignored him.
“We’re here to see Mr Wuggins,” said Nevada.
“Which one?” said Maxie.
“Gerald,” I said. “Gerald Wuggins.”
“They want to see granddad,” piped Janine.
“Someone go get him,” said Maxie, looking at the other four. But they seemed much less inclined to follow his lead, now that the prospect of trouble had receded.
I said, “Tell him we’re here to ask him about the Flare Path Orchestra.”
Maxie shrugged impatiently. “Somebody tell Granddad somebody wants to see him about the Fair Trade Something.”
I could see this was going nowhere fast. Nevada stepped forward and smiled and said, “Just show him this.”
It was the photograph. One of the lads took it and trotted off uphill. He seemed glad of an excuse to leave.
“That’s what I went back to the car for,” said Nevada.
“Good thinking.”
“Where are the gorgeous single girls?”
“Shut up, Tinkler.”
* * *
“We didn’t mean to interrupt a wedding,” said Nevada.
“That’s all right,” said Gerry Wuggins. Within ten seconds of meeting us he’d clearly established that we had to call him Gerry. He was a big man with a smooth plump red face and hands like bunches of bananas. He was wearing a silver-grey silk suit that had been tailored to fit his bulk and a cricket sweater and a cricket club tie. Not another one, I thought. Though with hands that size, it would make sense. He’d be good at throwing and catching. “It’s just the reception,” he said. “For one of my granddaughters. Don’t ask me which one. I’ve got about three dozen.”
Victory Disc Page 5